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Chapter Text

Eddard

Eddard Stark could not believe it. Robert Baratheon, his friend, couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be. But yet shouts kept coming from the center.

“The Stag is dead! The Stag is dead!”

Robert could not have fallen. He was too strong, too kind, too good. He was supposed to be his King, his friend. Nothing could take down such a force of nature. Not even Rhaegar Targaryen. No. He was likely playing dead. Waiting for them to turn the tide of the battle.

Already, Hoster Tully was rallying his troops, trying to contain the rebel surge. On the left, Jon Arryn had pushed through the Dornish troops, and Ser Lewyn Martell was slain. So, there was still a chance. It would be here that the battle would be decided. If his Northmen could shatter Ser Barristan and Ser Ryam Florent’s force, they could just pincer Rhaegar’s center and annihilate his force.

“Northmen!” Eddard shouted, raising his sword high in the air. “The battle is not yet over! Charge!”

This seemed to have had an effect on his troops. Those already waning found a second breath. Hesitating cavalrymen suddenly raised their own swords and pointed forwards.

“Death to the Mad King! Winter is coming!”

Hundreds of voices rose up, and, as if one man, the Northern flank charged like a wave crashing into a beach, with tremendous force. The Reachers facing them, which had already thought they would be running down a spent force, were shocked.

Eddard ran through one knight with his sword, charging into the melee. With each breath, he kept his hopes up. Robert was not dead. And then, even then, if the unthinkable happened, there would be Stannis, and then Renly. And Lyanna.

Lyanna.

Flashes of his sister sprung up in his mind. His defiant sister, barely four and ten when he had last seen her. Gone in the night, without a word. And then, Brandon…father.

Rage boiled in his veins, and Eddard let out an ungodly scream. He kicked his horse forward, charging ever forward into the melee. Still ahorse, he noticed Lord Wyman Manderly struggling with a knight of House Cordwayner, in the distance. Taking no time to hesitate, he ran to his vassal’s aid, running through the Reacher knight with his sword without a second thought.

Lord Wyman nodded in thanks, but quickly screamed.

“My lord, watch out!”

Eddard instinctively turned his horse around, with Lord Wyman’s steel clashing with Eddard’s would-be opponent. When he turned around, he saw the unmistakable figure of Ser Barristan the Bold, clad in his white armor. Wyman Manderly clearly struggled against the Kingsguard knight, barely holding his own. Was this how Maelys the Monstruous felt? Eddard did not take long to think about it.

Instead, when Wyman was unhorsed, he ran towards Ser Barristan. Of course, the Kingsguard easily parried. Their steel clashed with each other, and for a moment, time seemed to have stopped. The chaos of the battle behind them had seemingly gone away, leaving only them.

Eddard looked at Ser Barristan through his visor. He tried to imagine what his opponent’s eyes were like. Were they cold, unfeeling, just like when he watched his father burn and his brother choke himself to death? Were they filled with rage, at the news that Eddard had dishonored Ashara Dayne, whom the knight had affection for? Or were they just filled with sorrow, at the loss of Lord Artys Selmy, Ser Barristan’s nephew, who chose Robert’s side in the Rebellion and had died at the Battle of the Bells?

“It’s over, Stark.” Barristan yelled. “The usurper is dead. The rebellion is over.”

“As long as the Mad King breathes, nothing is over.” Eddard simply replied.

Their swords clashed with one another. Youth against Old, White against Grey, Lord against Kingsguard.

“Robert is dead, Stark!” Barristan kept yelling. “Yield, and I promise that Prince Rhaegar will be merciful!”

Merciful? Eddard didn’t want to know what Rhaegar’s mercy was like. He thought about his father, Brandon and Lyanna. Of all the companions who joined Brandon and had died in King’s Landing. The thought of having to bend the knee to their murderers…no. Never again.

“I choose to fight.” Eddard just said, raising his sword.

Their steel clashed again and again, with neither party managing to get a true hit. Some glanced off the armor, and some just fell short. Eddard knew that, even with all his training, he could not really hope to defeat Ser Barristan. But today, something inside of him broke. The thought of Robert, bleeding out face first into the muddy waters of the Trident, awakened something in him. Something which he never knew he had.

He found himself parrying every blow, forcing the old knight on the defensive. His shield took the brunt of Ser Barristan’s attacks, as he repeatedly struck him. Finally, with a roar, he slammed his sword into the gap in his opponent’s armor, at the level of the shoulder.

Ser Barristan burst out in pain, clutching his arm. Eddard did not think. Usually, he would call to yield. But not today, not right now.

“For Robert!” Eddard cried out, before sticking his sword in the gap between Ser Barristan’s helm and breastplate.

The knight fell to the ground, limp. Perhaps not a dead man, not yet. But if he did not get any help soon, he was just as good as one.

Instead, Eddard kept pushing. He struck down three more knights, before someone came yelling to him.

“Lord Stark! Lord Stark!”

He turned around, and saw faithful Theo Wull, the giant mountain man on his equally gigantic horse.

“Seven hells, Theo!” Eddard cussed. “You look pale, what has happened to you?”

“It’s the Freys, my lord, they’ve betrayed us!”

“What?” Eddard exclaimed. It can’t be!

“It’s true! Old Lord Walder’s forces struck our back!” Theo cried out. “Ser Walton Frey ran to us as friends and then proceeded to cut our men down! Lord Bolton is slain, and Lord Mormont is injured.

Eddard pondered the decision for a moment. He could push forwards…but his troop would rout, and with the Freys in his rear, it wouldn’t be long until Rhaegar’s forces could gradually turn him and annihilate him.

No. If he wanted the Rebellion to live, he needed to get his forces out and soon. Even if it meant conceding the battlefield.

“Theo, order everyone to retreat foot to foot and crush the Freys!” Eddard ordered. “Send a messenger to Lord Hoster and Lord Jon to warn them of our movement. We must pull back.”

Theo Wull nodded and kicked his horse forward. Eddard, meanwhile, rallied his men.

“To me, brave Northmen! The battle was won, but traitors have decided to steal our victory. Let’s make them pay for this treachery!”

With that, he heard a roar behind him, as well as several trumpets. His troops followed him, slowly but surely. Eddard had no intention of this turning into a rout, especially as he did not wish for the Reachmen to turn around and destroy his force. But, as he looked behind him, Eddard could see that they were not pursuing.

The lord of Winterfell clenched his fists. He was close, so close to victory, if not for those damn Freys. Rage in his heart, he ran forwards, charging into the battle. The traitors clearly had not expected this, as they found themselves submerged by the numbers. Three thousand against seven, and with many more coming.

With blood rushing through his veins, Eddard rushed to the front, where the fighting was thickest. He couldn’t stand the weasly little faces of his opponents, who had thought they had just stumbled on an easy kill, and left no mercy. He must have slain at least five Frey knights, until, finally, the last of them surrendered.

Once the dust had settled, Hoster Tully came riding to him, having seemingly managed to disengage his own forces.

“Lord Tully!” Eddard nodded. “It pleases me to see you here.”

“Not as much as I, Stark.” Hoster replied. “I was worried that the treacherous Freys had your forces beat.”

“They caught us as we were pushing for victory, I fear.” Eddard clenched his fists. “The Reachers were on their last legs. Ser Barristan fell, and so did Florent, or so I heard.”

“Aye,” Hoster nodded grimly. “The Vale knights similarly conducted themselves well. Lord Arryn tells me of many lords dead or captured, including Ser Lewyn Martell.”

“And for you?”

“It wasn’t easy to rally after King Robert fell…” Hoster sighed. “But most of the momentum of Prince Rhaegar’s charge had gone in the crossing of the river. King Robert leading the van, I managed to rally most forces to fight the Crownlanders at a standstill. They lost many good men today.”

“As have we,” Eddard sighed, “and with Robert gone, it will not be long until Rhaegar trumpets this as a victory.”

“Whatever Rhaegar says, it is no victory.” Hoster scoffed. “Half his army lay dead, wounded, or in tatters. Our force fared better. And the traitors have been dealt with…though I heard Lord Walder escaped.”

“Not for long, I must say.” Eddard frowned. “With the Riverlands under our control, he won’t be able to get far.”

“Unless he tries to reach his Lannister kin.” Hoster’s frown deepened. “Naturally, I will deal with this. And I will have his head for this. But for now, we must regroup.”

“Aye.” Eddard agreed. “Let us regroup at the Crossroads, and see how to plan this campaign further.”

Ser Barristan may have been right, Robert was dead. But he was surely wrong on one account: the Rebellion was not over. In fact, Eddard believed it had only started.

Chapter Text

Gerion

The Lannister name was synonymous with wealth, and that was the case everywhere, even on the war path. As such, the gigantic command tent pitched in the middle of the Lannister camp, facing the capital’s walls, was so luxurious it could be mistaken for some minor lordling’s holdfast. Expensive silks adorned the tent walls, along with several paintings, golden lion statues, and even several baths and beautiful beds to accommodate the Lannister family. All of this, of course, followed by a small army of servants. Any of the Westerlander lords present at this war council would usually be gasping in awe at the sight.

However, this was no moment to lose oneself in the wealth freely shown by the patriarch of House Lannister. No, for even Gerion, known as the “Laughing Lannister”, did not dare raise a quip. To say that his older brother, Tywin, was furious, was an understatement. The aging Lord of Casterly Rock, Gerion knew, had secretly hoped for Rhaegar to lose on the Trident, and for the Rebels to come marching down to the capital. There, Tywin could finally let out years of pent-up frustration at Aerys, and all his slights over the years. Gerion had no doubt that this frustration would extend to the city itself, or worse…

Thank the gods, however, Rhaegar won. Robert Baratheon was slain, and the Rebel armies had withdrawn to Lord Harroway’s Town. It was by no means a beautiful victory, but a victory nonetheless, and one that had severely countered Tywin’s plans. Especially since scouts had reported that a host of ten thousand Reachers was on the move through the Kingswood, led by Mathis Rowan.

Ten thousand Reachers, plus over twenty thousand survivors of the Trident…Gerion knew how to count, and the odds were not good. The Lannister host could only count twelve thousand men, most of them mounted since they had dashed through the Gold Road to the capital. Tywin had hoped that Pycelle could get the Mad King to open the gates, but the plan was now in jeopardy. Rhaegar had ordered Tywin to wait for Rhaegar to arrive before doing anything.

Ordered.

That was not something Tywin was accustomed to. And the worst part? He could hardly disobey those orders. Not with that many men coming to them.

Tywin thus paced around the table, like a caged lion, with no one daring to speak a word. Gerion could hear him mumbling insults under his breath. To Aerys, to Rhaegar, to Robert and all the rebels, to the Dornish, to the Reachers and the fat oaf Tyrell…

Finally, someone dared to break the silence.

“So, what now?”

It was Kevan, the younger brother. Possibly the only one Tywin respected in this room, or even trusted.

Tywin flinched, turning around to face his brother.

“Well, since the Rebels are obviously too incompetent to beat a ragtag host of Dornishmen, Reachmen and Crownlanders who have never fought a war before, what can we do, Kevan?” Tywin’s voice was full of venom.

“Prince Rhaegar’s host is due to arrive soon.” Gerion chimed in. “We need to know what we are going to do. If Pycelle opens the gates for us and Prince Rhaegar finds our soldiers putting the city to the torch, he will get the wrong impression…”

“We could just reign in the men.” Tygett suggested. “Enter the city, and secure it in the name of Prince Rhaegar, to secure our loyalty.”

“You would have me do like that oaf Tyrell, sitting in front of the city and taking it right after we knew who would win?” Tywin growled.

“With respect, my lord,” Leo Lefford interjected, “King’s Landing is not Storm’s End, and as…oafish as Lord Tyrell may be, he still sent a sizeable force to the Trident. We have not. It would take more than a city to profess our loyalty.”

Tywin frowned, earning a small smile from Gerion. His elder brother was angry because Lord Lefford was right. Even if Mace Tyrell was an oaf, Storm’s End was much more formidable a fortress than King’s Landing, and the Reach’s forces had bled. On the other hand, the only blood the Westerlanders had drawn were a few accidents with hot-blooded youths which tried to spar with real steel.

“Should I remind everyone here of Prince Rhaegar’s raven?” Gerion sighed, interrupting the discourse. “He specifically ordered us to stay put and wait for his forces and those of Lord Rowan to join us. If we entered the city, even peacefully, this could be interpreted as a sign of treason on our part.”

“We could have ‘rogue elements’ open the doors for us, and who would we be to refuse?” Kevan countered.

“They would have no way of knowing whether or not Prince Rhaegar intends to usurp his father or not. And we all know the kind of justice the Mad King serves…” Harys Swyft left the words hanging.

“Which would mean we would need to…secure the Mad King?” Leo Lefford gulped. “I just…don’t see a situation in which it would be beneficial for us. Even if we could have the gates opened for us by rogue elements, we would need to eliminate all witnesses in the Red Keep.”

Gerion knew that Lord Lefford had no qualms doing this. However, the elimination of every one who heard the order was a tall task. Someone would talk, and Tywin could not afford losing face with Rhaegar, even if it meant no open confrontation.

“In short, we are stuck.” Tygett sighed. “If we wait, we’ll be second fiddle, and if we don’t, Prince Rhaegar will consider us traitors at worse and unreliable at best.”

“And this is unacceptable.” Tywin growled. “Rhaegar may not be his father, but he has never liked me. Anything I do against his orders would just further his distrust towards me and interfere with my plans. No!”

“Then I am afraid we are content with sitting here like ducks in a pond.” Gerion shook his head.

Tywin clenched his fists. To be reduced to impotence like this was a supreme humiliation. Gerion did not know what his elder brother had planned for the city in exact terms, but it would not have been pretty. And now, all his great plans were stopped and his frustrations started again.

Finally, Tywin had enough and slammed his fist on the table.

“I see only one way to profess our loyalty and push aside these petulant Reachers.” The Lord of Casterly Rock pointed to the map. “We must take over the Riverlands, and destroy the rebels when they are down.”

Everyone looked at each other with some surprise.

“My lord, we do not know how many men the rebels lost,” Leo Lefford coughed, “it would be unwise…”

“You mean to tell me that the Rebels did not commit their full force to crush Rhaegar when they had the chance?” Tywin stared Lefford down, who wisely looked down. “No, the North and Vale are spent. It will be months before they can bring down more troops. As for the Riverlanders, we can stop them raising more troops.”

Tywin turned towards Tygett.

“I need you to order Stafford to raise a host of twenty thousand men and march through the Golden Tooth towards Riverrun.”

“Tywin, Riverrun is impregnable…”

“But it will force the Riverlanders to face us or see their lands destroyed. That, or they stay put in their castles, and let us run the length of the Red Fork and burn down their lands.” Tywin put his fingers on the large map laid out on the table. “Then, I will order Lorch and Clegane to take two thousand men and march on Harrenhal.”

“Harrenhal?” Gerion questioned. “Has the keep fallen and Lord Whent surrendered to the rebels? I had thought it to be in safe hands, as with Darry and Willow Wood.”

“Lord Whent is holding well. No, their objective is not to reinforce the garrison. They’ll have to run wild from Pinkmaiden to the God’s Eye. Burn anything they can, and make sure to leave nothing in their path. The rebels won’t be able to oppose us.” Tywin slammed his hand on the table.

“It will be done.” Kevan nodded.

“And it will be a great victory for our forces.” Tygett smiled. “You are right brother; we may yet be able to salvage this campaign.”

Gerion nodded, uneasy. Tywin was right, the North and Vale seemed to be broken, and it would take months for them to bring more forces to bear. But surely, the Tullys didn’t leave Riverrun undefended? That said, twenty thousand men was more than enough, and Gerion wasn’t much of a military man. The Riverlander host would no doubt not match that number, and, as Tywin pointed out, if they had more men, they’d have committed them to the Battle on the Trident…

Gerion did not pay much attention to the next few details, instead being much more interested in his wine, a Westerlander vintage from Cornfield, but drinkable nonetheless. Once all this was done, a page ran into the tent, and stood at attention.

“My lord Lannister, Prince Rhaegar has arrived.”

Chapter Text

Eddard

The mood at Lord Harroway’s Town was a sour one. The town itself was grey, with hardly a soul passing by. The soldiers, for their part, had mostly abandoned it once they had seized anything useful to sate their hunger. Instead, they established camps on both sides of the Trident.

Ned was fortunate enough to thank the gods for this. Rhaegar’s host was in such a state that it had gone south, to the capital, where Tywin seemingly had laid siege to the city. Ned hardly knew the intentions of the Lannister lord, especially after the Frey betrayal, and hardly cared anymore. If Tywin was on their side, let him and Rhaegar kill each other. If not…well it would whittle down Rhaegar’s numbers and add a Kingdom to their cause.

This hasty retreat allowed the Rebel host to move up the Trident and find a lightly defended crossing upriver. After defeating the hundred or so Darry men protecting it, they had established a beachhead south of Lord Harroway’s Town, allowing to seize the riverine city. This allowed them to extend an arm towards the lands of House Lychester, whose lord granted the Rebels a thousand additional swords.

But as strong as the rebels were, they still had lost many good men. The Stormlanders in the host had lost heart, and Ned knew that there were many who only stayed loyal to the rebel cause due to the sheer fear of what Aerys might do to them if they’d turned their cloak again. Furthermore, there still had been consequent losses, and in addition to Robert, no less than five lords had lost their lives, including Lord Bolton.

Another affair that Ned would have to treat, probably by appointing a castellan until his heir was of age…

And despite the crossing of the Trident, their situation was not exactly great. There was no way of getting to Stannis and Renly in Storm’s End, and thus no way of propping up another kingly figure, like they had prior to the Battle of the Trident.

Oh Robert, why did you have to charge in, like a headstrong youth? Did you think you could defeat Prince Rhaegar on your own, purely out of rage?

Even if Ned thought Robert to be the best fighter he ever knew, a prince who had Arthur Dayne as his master was certainly a great foe. Nevertheless, now, without any figures, the rebellion was just fighting to survive. To cause as many losses as possible and to bring Aerys to the table. Bring the Mad King to a negotiating table…you’d sooner find snow in Dorne…

But they had no choice. Ned knew that the alternative to fighting was death. And even with Robert dead, they still had an objective: to end the tyranny of the Mad King and bring back Lyanna. Lyanna…and poor Ethan Glover, whose fate was still unknown. Ned knew that the others had been killed, but Glover was kept alive. Did Aerys kill him yet? Had he been tortured? By the old gods, Ned preferred not to think about it.

“My lord?” Black Donnel Flint, his squire, marched into the tent, “Lord Hoster is waiting for the war council.”

Ned gave a gesture of appreciation and got underway. He fastened his horse, and along with an escort, rode into the southern part of the town, south of the ferry. It was in this place that Lord Tully had established what was effectively the rebel host headquarters, in the old belfry which was adjacent to a now ruined town hall.

Ned was the last to arrive, allowing him to see the other participants. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully were both there, of course, along with three senior commanders of all forces. Lords Jon Umber, Wyman Manderly and Rickard Karstark for the North; Jason Mallister, Jonos Bracken and Tytos Blackwood for the Riverlands, and Yohn Royce, Horton Redfort and Lyonel Corbray for the Vale. The latter’s presence was unexpected, but Lyonel’s father, Merrick, usually present at these councils, was still being treated for wounds received at the Trident.

“My lords,” Hoster Tully nodded as Ned took a seat, “I believe everyone is here. Let us begin.”

The Lord of Riverrun coughed and placed his hands on the map in front of them.

“My scouts have discovered that a large host is currently amassing at the Golden Tooth. Between fifteen to five-and-twenty thousand, reports vary.” Hoster pointed to the Lefford keep. “It seems Tywin Lannister has no wish to join us.”

“Ever the opportunist…” Tytos Blackwood sighed. “Disappointing, but not unexpected.”

“Do we have any forces to counter this thrust? This clearly aims at Riverrun and marching to meet up with the survivors of the Trident and Tywin’s host.” Jon Arryn cut in.

“I had eight thousand men man this pass, under the command of Lord Medger Cerwyn.” Ned pointed out.

“They’ve been reinforced by seven thousand men under my brother Brynden’s command.” Hoster sighed. “And if I trust my brother with anything, it is his cunning in the way of warfare. This host may very well be infantry-heavy, and the terrain between the Tooth and Wayfarer’s Rest is very uneven.”

“You mean to say that these fifteen thousand men could take on the Lannister force?” Horton Redfort asked.

“We do not have any more men to spare.” Ned sighed. “It’s either that, or we just let them siege Wayfarer’s Rest and reach Riverrun. We cannot let it happen.”

“I agree with Lord Stark!” Jonos Bracken stood up. “We cannot let these men run to Stone Hedge and burn the lands.”

“Not to mention the reports of a Lannister host around Harrenhal. It seems Lords Whent and Darry have received reinforcements.” Hoster Tully added.

“There’s little to do about that.” Lyonel Corbray winced. “Even five thousand men could hold Harrenhal for months.”

“We do not need to.” Lord Karstark spoke up. “Our scouts have reported that the Lannister men have taken a liking to burning down lands and fields around the God’s Eye. Hardly an army and more like a band of raiders.”

“What is your plan?” Jon Arryn asked.

“It is simple, my lord.” Rickard Karstark smiled. “We catch them unaware, with a host of mounted riders, infantry following, striking from west to east.”

The Lord of Karhold made a hand gesture over the map.

“Then, we push their meager host back. If they do not react immediately, they will be crushed against the banks of the God’s Eye.” Karstark continued.

“Forcing Lords Whent and Ryger to sally or see their reinforcements destroyed…” Manderly completed the sentence. “But what if they do not sally?”

“Then we will have destroyed a mounted host at a low cost.” Rickard shrugged.

“I like this plan.” Hoster Tully nodded. “Especially since it would buy us time. Tywin is sending his forces piecemeal into our arms, it would be inappropriate not to take advantage of the situation, especially as there is still no movement from the various hosts in the capital. We could spare maybe six thousand mounted troops, and as much infantry.”

“Once the Mad King’s forces have united however, the situation will not look good whatsoever.” Lyonel Corbray cringed.

“Which is why we must take advantage of the brief moment of initiative we have!” Rickard declared. “We cannot sit and watch our enemies move against us as one man. Our numbers do not allow it.”

“I do agree with Lord Corbray that we will need to take a defensive stance eventually.” Ned nodded. “But we also cannot abandon the lands south of the Red Fork, nor can we not take advantage of a favourable situation. I do not see us taking Harrenhal, or even Darry. But we need to secure our own lands: Pinkmaiden, Acorn Hall, Atranta and the approaches to Hornvale must be secured.”

“If the worst comes to pass, we could always abandon these lands and move north of the Red Fork…” Tytos Blackwood suggested.

“And abandon my lands while you conveniently fortify yours?” Jonos Bracken immediately retorted.

Ned made a face. This was exactly why they could not abandon the southern bank. The Riverlords who had stayed steadfast and loyal until then would see it as an ultimate betrayal. Even if it would cost them in the end, they had no choice but to defend these lands.

“One last attack, on the forces around the God’s Eye.” Hoster Tully agreed. “Then, we will need to pass on the defensive, and let the Mad King’s armies come to us. We thus need to prepare.”

“I will make Stone Hedge an impregnable fortress!” Jonos Bracken boasted.

“And you will have our help.” Hoster Tully agreed.

“What about the Freys?” Lord Redfort asked in turn.

“I’ve sent two thousand men under my command, and Lord Stark has sent me Lord Reed and three thousand more swords to add to it, including siege engines.” Lord Mallister smiled. “Not to mention that the castle is commanded by one of the many ambitious weasels…we may not have to even siege it for long.”

“And Old Walder?” Jon Arryn asked.

“Still at large, unfortunately. He may have been able to escape to Hornvale.” Hoster sighed. “But I suppose it could have been worse. The Twins are isolated, and will pass under our control soon enough. Now, everyone, I suggest a toast to complete this meeting.”

Lord Tully thus took a glass of wine and held it high, all of the participants answering in kind.

“To the end of the Mad King! To justice!”

“To the end of the Mad King! To justice!” A chorus of voices answered.

A few moments later, the meeting was adjourned, with everyone running to their occupations.

Ned smiled. He had expected the mood to be much sourer, but it seemed that everyone, Riverlords included, were still in high spirits. It was with a lightened mood in which Ned approached Hoster with a more personal request.

“Lord Tully, may I speak to you for a moment?” Ned asked the Lord of Riverrun.

“Of course, Lord Stark.” Hoster nodded. “What is the matter.”

“It is your daughter, Catelyn. How does she fare?”

“Well enough, Lord Stark. She is taking her pregnancy well, and I hope she will father you a healthy child.”

“I thank you, Lord Tully, but, with the events underway…”

“You thought it best to send her North?” Hoster asked, combing his auburn beard. “Aye, I had thought of it as well. She would be safer there than here.”

“And if, by the greatest misfortune, Riverrun fell…”

“They would hold your wife, my daughter, and the heir to Winterfell. I understand. However, this cannot happen until the Twins have been secured.”

“Of course, Lord Tully, but by your leave?”

“I’ll give the orders on the morrow. Now go and rest, Lord Stark, there are many things that await our attention, and we will need you to be completely rested to address them.”

Chapter Text

Elia

Elia gently tucked Rhaenys under the canopy bed’s sheets, whispering for her to go to sleep. Despite maester Pycelle’s best efforts, she was terrified and refused to leave her mother’s side.

“I’m scared, mother…” she whispered between tears, clutching Balerion, the black cat, with her right arm. The feline just meowed and licked her cheek, as if he were trying to comfort her too.

“It’s alright, my sweet.” Elia kissed her cheek. “No one will hurt you. Father is back; he will protect us.”

“Father will leave us again, and the bad men will come back.” Rhaenys protested, her eyes fluttering a little.

“No one will touch you.” Elia promised, holding her hand as she finally drifted into a deep slumber.

Behind them, Pycelle just stammered.

“I…I am sorry, Your Grace, I do not know what happened. Usually, sweetsleep is quick to act. However…”

Elia flicked a hand at the maester, indicating him to cease talking.

“I appreciate your efforts, maester. Let my daughter sleep.”

“As Your Grace commands.”

Elia frowned as Pycelle slowly exited the room. Another rat which had only left its hiding place recently, just like the Spider. Elia had been worried, seeing Tywin’s forces sieging the city, but relieved when she heard the news that Rhaegar had slain Robert on the Trident and his army marched south.

A relief for her, but not for the Mad King. He had gone deeper into his paranoia, thinking that Rhaegar’s only reason for coming was to usurp him. Someone – Pycelle or the Spider, she did not know – managed to convince him to open the gates to the city regardless. She watched as troops of all corners of the Kingdom quietly marched into the streets, with Rhaegar at their head. When they approached the Red Keep, however, she could hear screams.

“Burn them all!” the voices left no doubt as to whom pronounced them. “Burn them all!”

She could her the laughter in the Mad King’s voice echoing around the halls. Her first thoughts went to Aegon, whom she shielded. She tucked Rhaenys under the bed and told her not to open for anyone, unless it was her. She prayed that Queen Rhaella had done the same for the young Viserys, hiding him in a secret chamber somewhere, despite her pregnancy. Then, she waited with anguish. The voices continued for some time, then stopped.

There was a lull, and other voices could be heard, coming from a multiple of sources.

“Traitor!”

“You killed the King!”

She heard steps outside her room, then knocks. A voice which she did not recognize. Elia stayed silent.

“Elia!” another voice cried. “It’s Ser Willem, open!”

Trembling, she came to the door, and opened it. To her immense relief, it was old Ser Willem, with his brown cloak and white-grey beard, who came accompanied by two Reach knights which she didn’t recognize. Elia then let out a breath she was holding and threw herself into Ser Willem’s arms, almost crying.

“There, there…” Ser Willem whispered. “It’s over. The Mad King is slain, and you are Queen.”

“Slain?” she had asked. “By whom?”

Ser Willem dared not say more. Instead, he just comforted her, and told her that good men would be assigned to guard her rooms. There were no more Kingsguard, he said. Her uncle had been slain, she had known, but Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor also had fallen, to Ned Stark and Jason Mallister’s swords.

She did not weep for them. Not for those who stood by King Aerys’ rooms as he raped poor Rhaella half to death. Elia could not spare a tear for men like these. Only, perhaps, Arthur. Her old flame, the only Kingsguard she could truly look in the eyes and find some sense of honour. That was perhaps why he was never posted during these…nights.

Nonetheless, Elia quickly asked for Rhaella and Viserys’ health. Viserys was fine, if not a little rattled, while Rhaella was in bad shape. The abuse and the pregnancies had taken a sickly toll on her, and the maesters had severe concerns for her health.

Ser Willem stayed with her for a moment, helping little Rhaenys and even smaller Aegon. Whilst Elia comforted Rhaenys, Ser Willem helped to silence Aegon’s wails as he gently rocked the bed.

“Pr…King Rhaegar will come soon, Your Grace,” Willem finally knelt in front of her. “If you need anything, please. Do not hesitate.”

Elia had thanked him. Willem Darry, the old master-at-arms, was one of the few trustworthy people here. Someone who was loyal to a fault. Not to Aerys, but the entire royal family. Something that was becoming rarer in these times…

Elia checked on Rhaenys again and, finding out that she was fast asleep, walked back to her own rooms through the small door which connected both. She noticed that Aegon was also fast asleep, and fell on the nearest chair, her strength slowly leaving her.

The door creaking had her jolt up in an instant, however. Especially as she could recognize who had just entered through it. She could see him: Rhaegar, in all his glory. Except…it did not look like him. At least, not as she knew him. His silver hair was dishevelled, his face full of cuts and bruises, and his usual smile had faded towards something more melancholic.

“Elia, my love…” Rhaegar began, “how are…”

Elia did not let him finish and ran up to him. He opened his arms, expecting her to hug him tightly, but instead raised her arms and hit him, straight on the cheek.

Rhaegar flinched, his expression completely bewildered. For a moment, he did not say anything, so Elia jumped into the breach.

“How could you?” she screamed. “How could you leave me here, alone with the Mad King, with your two children! All the while, you went galivanting in Dorne with your paramour. You shame me, you dishonor me, and now you abandon me?”

“Elia, it needed to be done…” Rhaegar attempted to calm her down.

“What needed to be done?” Elia clenched her fists. “What do you think would have happened if you got yourself killed? Do you truly think that the Rebels would have kept me alive? Kept your children alive?”

“They would not dare hurt you.” Rhaegar calmly stated. “Never.”

“Foolish man.” Elia felt tears running down her face. “And the Stark girl? What of her?”

“She is safe.” Rhaegar reassured her.

“Safe?” Elia laughed. “Do you think I care about her safety? I care about what you did to her. With her.”

“She will be my Queen.”

Elia almost strangled on these words. Her Queen?

“And you will be my Queen.” Rhaegar stated simply. “I will take you both as my wives.”

“Have you gone insane?” Elia let out. “Do you remember the last time a Targaryen king took multiple wives? The realm bled for it.”

“It will not. Not anymore.” Rhaegar stepped forward. “I will take no other wives. My child with Lyanna will be the last I father. The three heads of the dragon…”

“You…put a babe in her.”

“The song of ice and fire…” Rhaegar smiled, “it is needed to save the world…”

“So, you have gone mad.” Elia gasped, “You put a babe in a girl half your age, just a child. And you call yourself a hero.”

“The dragon must have three heads. Rhaenys, Aegon, and Visenya.” Rhaegar’s smile widened. “You could not give me my Visenya. Thus, I needed a third. And the Stark girl, she filled the prophecy perfectly. Elia, it is the song of ice and fire. The last piece of the prophecy…”

It was at this moment Elia finally figured it out. Rhaegar never loved her, to be certain, but she at least hoped, or deluded herself, into thinking he cared for her. Now, she understood that behind this veil was a somber individual. Mad like his father, but another form of madness. Not an evil one, no, just one of a man who had completely given himself to some prophecy. A man who only used others as a way of fulfilling it, with no concern for their well-being.

Elia rose a hand to slap him again. However, this time, Rhaegar caught it. Elia’s gaze met his violet eyes, but she did not budge. He brought her towards her in one swift motion, their bodies pressing against each other.

“I could have your hand for that.”

Rhaegar’s smile had disappeared completely. The only thing that was left was a dark gaze, which scared Elia to the core. But she couldn’t break down. Not now.

“Then do it.” Elia instead said. “Cut your own wife’s hand. In front of the realm.”

“You are my wife,” Rhaegar frowned. “I can tolerate certain excesses. But not these.”

Rhaegar’s grip on her wrist tightened, hurting her. Elia tried to keep her composure, but the pain started to get to her, and she groaned.

“Do you understand?” Rhaegar’s voice continued to darken.

“I understand.” Elia meekly nodded.

With that, Rhaegar let go off her wrist. She stumbled a few feet backwards, holding her arm. A red mark covered where he’d held her.

“Do you expect the rebels to just fold?” she asked him. “After all that’s happened?”

“I do.” Rhaegar nodded. “They cannot keep this forever. Storm’s End will fall, and Stannis and Renly will be captured. I will offer generous terms. Ned Stark will see his sister be Queen.”

Elia frowned at this statement. Two Queens. What madness had taken him? Did he think that the Faith would accept this? That anyone in the Seven Kingdoms would accept this? She knew that Doran would not stand for it. And the Stark girl – that poor, foolish girl – would find herself dead sooner rather than later.

“I would ask a seat at your Small Council.” Elia finally let out.

“A seat?” Rhaegar’s eyes flashed with surprise. “Why would you want that?”

“As you said.” Elia tried to put on the most serious pose she could. “I am to be your Queen. But the realm, Rhaegar, will not stand for what you wish to be done. Give me a seat on your council and we can appear united. That this is willed by both of us.”

“I do not need the Realm to think that it is right. They will have no choice but to accept it.”

“Rhaegar.” Elia sighed. “There will be a lot more blood spilled if we do not show it. What do you think my brother will say if Lyanna Stark births a boy?”

I even wonder what he will say when he learns of this masquerade.

“She will not.” Rhaegar shook her head. “It will be a girl. Visenya. And I will betroth her to Aegon.”

“Rhaegar, you don’t know…”

“It will be!” he said, sternly, making her step back.

“Alright.” Elia sighed, her tone softer, “But you will need me, as your Queen, to rule by your side.”

And, considering how things are going, to stop this realm from tearing itself asunder.

Rhaegar pondered on the thought for a moment. She could sense him think about it. A show of unity, a show that she had accepted this.

Let him think it. Let him think that I have accepted this grave insult. It will not go unpunished, I swear to you.

“You can’t trust them.” Elia continued. “Tywin Lannister hated Aerys, and he’s hated me. Mace Tyrell, he feasted under the ramparts of Storm’s End, waiting to see how the wind blew. You can only trust me.”

Elia tried to push her luck. She knew Rhaegar distrusted Tywin, but he seemed to hold the Reachmen in high esteem. But, if there was any doubt, she needed to press it.

“Fine.” Rhaegar assented. “You will have a place on my council. On several conditions.”

“What are they?” Elia asked.

“Your voice can only be advisory. You cannot make comments going against my will in public, do you understand?”

“I do.”

“You will address Lyanna Stark as Queen. She is to be your equal. And you will treat my daughter as your own.”

Swine. Bastard. Adulterer. Oathbreaker.

“I will.”

“Good. Then, I’ll let you sit on my council. Our first meeting is in an hour.”

Rhaegar then turned and left, without another word, for the door.

“Rhaegar!” she softly let out.

He put a head over his shoulder.

“Will you not take a look at your children?”

“They are well. That is all that matters, no?”

“Rhaenys was scared. You should go see her.”

“She is asleep. I’ll see her when she wakes, if I am not busy.”

With that, he was gone. And Elia could finally just slump back into her chair. However, she could not enter a deep slumber. Certainly not when her first council meeting was in an hour. Instead, she stood up with difficulty, and began to prepare. She’d sent her handmaidens back to Dorne at the start of the conflict, and as such help was in short supply. Most servants, seeing the armies at the gates, had run to find hiding places…

Nevertheless, she straightened her hair, picked out a regal dress, and made sure to hide the dark rings under her eyes with some skin-colored powder. Finally, she had some servants rallied from the dark corners of the keep to braid her hair and choose some jewellery.

With all of this done, she sent for Ser Willem Darry, who showed up quite quickly.

“Ser, if you will, I’d rather you escort me to the Small Council rooms.” Elia said, her tone ever defiant. “I fear that this castle has many people who would wish harm to me. Have ten of your best men guard my children’s rooms.”

“It shall be done, Your Grace, but you have nothing to fear.” Ser Willem replied. “There are no traitors in our midst.”

It’s not the traitors I’m worried about.

Once she was sure her children were in safe hands, Elia descended from her rooms, down a staircase towards the Small Council chamber. As she arrived, all rose except for Rhaegar, who just nodded with a hint of surprise.

Did you think I was not serious?

The Small Council had not been officially re-formed, especially considering the lords present far outnumbered the number required for a Council meeting. Though, only two former councillors were present: Pycelle and Varys.

Another rat who emerges out of its hole.

In addition to Rhaegar, there was Tywin Lannister, who stared at her with slight anger. The Reachmen were more proper: Lords Mathis Rowan and Ser Luthor Tyrell, who both greeted her with a bow. Old Walter Whent managed to give a small bow, which was still appreciated due to his advanced age. Finally, Lord Monford Velaryon also gave a small curtsy, though his expression was one of thinly-veiled surprise.

Indeed, as she sat down, Tywin Lannister immediately spoke up.

“Your Grace, is the Queen’s presence for this council…necessary?”

“It is.” Rhaegar’s voice was rigid. “Now, let’s begin.”

That seemed to have caught the Lannister lord by surprise, and he did not deign speak up again.

“The first order of the day is the exile of Lord Jon Connington. It is to be repealed and he is ordered to come join this Small Council at once.” Rhaegar stated.

“It will take time to find him in Essos, Your Grace.” Varys spoke up.

“I trust that your web shall locate him quickly, Spider.” Rhaegar smiled.

“If I may,” Tywin coughed, “what exactly will Lord Jon serve as?”

“As my Hand.” Rhaegar stated again. “I know no man more competent to handling the tasks of the Kingdom than Lord Connington.”

“And for the other seats?” Ser Luthor asked.

“Lord Tywin will become my Master of Coin. A Reachman will become Master of Laws, though I still need to see whom I will appoint to this role.” Rhaegar smiled. “I suppose it will depend on how…efficiently Storm’s End is taken.”

Luthor Tyrell did not need more explanation. No doubt that the great fortress will soon fall, even if it costs more Reacher blood at the end of it.

“And, finally, Lord Velaryon will serve as my Master of Ships.”

This one was never in doubt, even if Lord Redwyne was efficient in his blockade of the Stormlands.

“The second order of the day is the repatriation of Queen Lyanna.”

Elia could see everyone wince. At least, she wasn’t alone in thinking that this double marriage was a foolish idea.

“Your Grace, in…Queen Lyanna’s state, it is unwise to transport her.” Lord Velaryon pointed out.

“I’ve sent word to Nightsong. A runner will tell Ser Arthur to bring the Queen to Skyreach, and once her daughter is born, both she and the child will immediately come to King’s Landing.” Rhaegar calmly stated, as more lords exchanged silent looks.

“Now, once that this is taken care of. Let’s talk military matters. What is the situation?”

“The rebels are routed and have fled to Lord Harroway’s Town.” Lord Tywin loudly proclaimed. “I have taken the liberty of sending a host to burn down the southern bank of the Red Fork. It should arrive around the God’s Eye soon. Furthermore, a twenty-thousand strong host will attack the rebels from the rear and take Wayfarer’s Rest, besiege Riverrun, and join up with our forces at Harrenhal.”

“Excellent.” Rhaegar approved, earning a smile from Tywin. “With this, and the upcoming fall of Storm’s End, the rebels will soon be defeated. Especially with the formation of a great host consisting of Lord Tyrell, my own, and Lord Tywin’s forces.”

“What of the Iron Islands?” Lord Velaryon asked. “They’ve certainly been quiet.”

“Another one who seeks to wait to see where the wind blows.” Old Lord Whent frowned, earning a smile from Elia.

“And once the rebels are defeated, what is to happen to them?” Lord Rowan asked.

“I shall grant them mercy.” Rhaegar waved him off. “It would be unwise to have them put to death. My father’s actions have given them reason. However, they must be punished if they continue their rebellion despite this.”

“You mean to give them an amnesty?” Lord Tywin frowned.

“Of course.” Rhaegar turned to him with a smile. “After all, my father’s actions were unacceptable. I see no reason why their rebellion should continue with him dead. The time is for peace at last.”

“And if they reject your peace?” Ser Luthor asked.

“Why would they do that?” Rhaegar chuckled. “That would certainly be unwise. If they do not lay down their arms, we shall deal with it in due time. But we outnumber them and the Mad King is dead. They must know that this is their best chance and bend the knee.”

Look at them. Speaking of how they mean to sell the bear’s hide before they’ve even killed it. Will Ned Stark and Jon Arryn be so quick to forgive, after what your family has done to their kin?

“Speaking of the Mad King…” Tywin coughed. “My son is still in the Black cells.”

“Ser Jaime?” Elia spoke up for the first time. “What has he done?”

Everyone looked at her with sad eyes, allowing a short moment of silence. Rhaegar quickly broke it, in a soft voice.

“He killed my father.”

“He saved the city!” Tywin roared. “If he didn’t kill the Mad King, he would’ve set the caches of wildfire alight!”

“Wildfire?” Elia looked in shock. “The Mad King put wildfire caches in the city?”

“He did.” Lord Rowan nodded. “He meant to blow up the city, with us in it. He ordered Rossart to do so. Ser Jaime killed him. As such, the King tried to run out of the throne room, but Ser Jaime put a sword in his back.”

“Ser Jaime has saved us all.” Rhaegar nodded. “But he has done an act that is worse than unbecoming of the Kingsguard. He killed the man he was supposed to protect. And I cannot have such a man in my Kingsguard.”

“Then free him of his vows.” Tywin asked, if not ordered.

“No.” Rhaegar shook his head. “As mad as my father was, he deserved to be deposed, brought to trial. Ser Jaime may have saved us, but I cannot forgive his killing. He saved us, and he will live.”

“What, then?” Lord Velaryon asked.

“Ser Jaime will be exiled. He is not to return to Westeros under pain of death. And if anyone offers him shelter…” Rhaegar’s eyes drifted towards Tywin, “the penalty will extend to them as well.”

Tywin slumped into his seat, fists clenched.

“Your Grace, this is unfair…”

“He killed his King!” Rhaegar roared, standing up. “It is only because he slew Rossart that I am letting him live! You should be thankful that his head is not on a pike!”

Elia enjoyed the pain in Tywin Lannister’s eyes. His son, the man who he wished to be his heir, never to land on the shores of Westeros again. Oh, she could have laughed then. But she maintained composure. She said nothing as Rhaegar concluded the meeting. Nothing as she returned to her rooms, finding Aegon fast asleep. Nothing as she dropped onto the bed.

Finally, right before falling asleep, she let a small laugh.

Oh, let it all burn.

Chapter Text

The Lord of Seashells

The Westerlander host stretched through the hills, carefully navigating the unwinding terrain. Lord Gawen Westerling was in the center of the host, accompanying its commander, Ser Stafford Lannister. With him, he brought about two-and-twenty thousand men, including about five thousand mounted. This would be largely enough to defeat the scattered Riverlander troops when they reached the valley.

Indeed, Gawen had been initially sceptical of the decision to march their host down the series of mountain passes from the Golden Tooth. He reasoned that there was no better place for an ambush, and surely Lord Vance would set a trap for them along the way. But reconnaissance yielded nothing, and all that the Westerlanders found were scattered parties of a few dozen men waiting in ambush, and many traps left along their way.

These were annoyances, and always took a toll, certainly, but Gawen had expected much worse during the first days of their journey. Now, he felt more at ease upon his horse, though still not completely safe. One loose arrow was all that was needed to fell him, and the scouts had reported that there were archers on the hill ridges, ready to fire at the opportune moment. Gawen wished to pursue, but Stafford was not of his opinion. He reasoned that if they pursued, they would leave the wide River Road and enter dense forests, where it would be much easier for the Riverlanders to pick them apart. Gawen had no objections to this logic.

“Something troubling you, Lord Westerling?”

Speaking of, the Lannister knight, proudly wearing his golden armor, appeared ahorse, beside him.

“Just uneasy, Ser Stafford.” Gawen responded, “I’ll feel better when we leave these hills and enter the valley.”

“We’ll reach it on the morrow.” Stafford smiled. “Then it will be half a day to Wayfarer’s Rest. Gods be good, it shouldn’t be much of a siege, considering the men we’ve encountered along the way.”

“Our scouts have not discovered anything?” he asked.

“Just a few traps laid along the roadside,” Stafford shrugged, “it will make us lose time, but not much else.”

“Good.” Gawen exhaled. “I had thought we were going to get ambushed here.”

“No use.” Stafford shook his head. “Even if Lord Vance ambushed us here, he would lose many men, and his castle would be more vulnerable. He is doing the right thing, hunkering down for a siege. But his walls won't be much use when we come battering his walls with our engines.”

Gawen nodded. The advance had been unbearably slow because of them. The massive machines made it so that they’d reach Wayfarer’s Rest in six days instead of the usual three. Not to mention the usual baggage train which the Lannisters always travelled with, and which was the target of the most raids by groups of Riverlanders seeking gold.

“Ready to get your share of the glory?” Stafford asked again.

Gawen chuckled slightly.

“Aye,” he answered, “I had thought that I’d miss out on the fighting. My brother, Ellis, is with Lord Tywin’s host, and entered the capital alongside Prince Rhaegar.”

“And you didn’t decide to ride?”

“My wife expected a child any day, I couldn’t leave her.” Gawen shook his head. “Her birth went well, thank the gods. When I assured myself that my daughter was healthy, I immediately sought to join your host with all the men I could spare.”

“My congratulations.” Stafford smiled. “What is your daughter’s name?”

“Jeyne.” Gawen answered. “After my grandmother. My wife is in good health and recovering well. She wished me good fortune, and to come back alive.”

“You’ll come out alive, and with great glory to boot!” Stafford smiled widely. “House Lannister will not forget that House Westerling greatly contributed to the formation of this host.”

“Us northerners may not be the richest, but we know how to fight.” Gawen continued, thinking of House Banefort as well as his own. “Our house words represent this well, I think.”

“Honor, not honors.” Stafford nodded. “Words to live by.”

Gawen agreed. House Westerling was always poorer than its other neighbours, having no gold or silver mines. But it always had defended the gateway to the Westerlands, notably from Ironborn attacks, and this for centuries.

“The sun is disappearing.” Stafford noticed. “It will be dark soon. Let us halt here for the night. Send word to all the men, and do not forget to double the guard. We do not want to be set upon by another group of raiders, like last time…”

Gawen nodded. On the second day of their march, during the night, a group of bold Riverlanders had set fire to several tents, causing the death of a few dozens. Lord Selmond Stackspear had been badly burned and had to be carried back to the Golden Tooth. Since then, the Westerlanders took a lot more precautions, which had paid off. There were no more attacks of this magnitude, just the occasional flying arrow or murdered sentry.

His tent pitched, Gawen went to bed, smiling as he thought of his wife carrying their newborn babe. Sleep took him, falling into a slumber, with strange dreams of Northmen besieging his castle. An auburn king led them, married Jeyne, and then died.

Gawen rustled in his bed.

“My lord, wake up!” he heard a voice say.

Thinking it was the same dream, reliving the siege of the Crag again, he just rustled in his bed unmoved.

“Cousin, wake up!” This time, he opened his eyes, only to see his cousin Alan, eyes panicked.

“Is it already dawn?” Gawen yawned.

“Dawn?” Alan looked at him wide-eyed. “Gawen, we are under attack! The Riverlanders, the Northmen…they’re everywhere?”

Gawen stood up with a jolt and immediately snatched his sword, hastily putting a doublet, some mail and a helm. He did not bother putting much more on, hearing louder noises as he already struggled with his chainmail.

When he stepped outside alongside his cousin, he realised the full-scale of the disaster. There were tents burning, and riders charging through his men.

Cavalry? How in the seven hells did they get here?

No matter, he had to make sense of the chaos. The Westerlander host was spread out far and wide, it was just impossible to know if the ambush was localized or if the entire army was under attack. As such, Gawen tried to rally as many men with him as possible. Setting his tent as a rallying point, he could not get his hand on a horse, so attracting attention with shouts was the only way to move forward.

Of course, this did not only affect Westerlander soldiers. Several enemies rushed to him, but these were not very well-trained, or armoured. Gawen easily dispatched them, all the while still trying to rally more Westerlanders to his side.

“Westerlanders! To me! To me!” he cried.

The cacophony was unbearable. The sounds of clashing steels, cries and horses filled the air. Gawen doubted that many heard his call. But he needed just a few. A few could turn into a dozen and a dozen to thousands.

Where was Stafford? If he had his red and gold armour, he could be a rallying point. But Gawen only saw shadows in the night, and no sign of the Lannister knight. He was alone, and it was alone that he’d need to fight his way out.

Having assembled a group of about a hundred men, he sought out to fight his way out of this situation. All around him, men fell, and staying here would be a death sentence. It was obvious that they had lost here, and reinforcements were clearly not coming.

Gawen’s heart sank. If there were no reinforcements, despite the chaos, it meant other camps were under attack. And this meant…

How many enemies were there? It seems like a whole army…

He couldn’t dwell on it longer. Seizing his chance, he pushed his men where the fighting seemed to be thinnest. A small window of opportunity that would not be given to him again.

Gawen’s group fought their way like mad dogs, fighting off scores of enemies as they descended from the hilltops. Being an organised force helped them, as the enemy just picked off the lone men who were left to fend for themselves. A few moments later, he found himself near what was left of the vanguard, fighting against a lesser tide of enemies, where he was met by a familiar face.

“Lord Westerling!” a golden-armoured knight welcomed him.

Gawen felt hope coursing back into him, but it was soon dashed. Instead of gold, it was revealed that it was just a yellow doubled with mail on it. No Stafford Lannister, but Lord Philip Plumm, the vanguard’s commander.

“We had thought you dead!” Lord Plumm let out, relief and emotion in his voice. “What of Ser Stafford, and the others?”

“I don’t know!” Gawen shouted back. “It’s chaos over there. The enemy came on us like a wave, we couldn’t hold them back.”

Gawen pointed to those behind him: “this is all that is left!”

“Seven hells damn Brynden Tully!” Lord Plumm let out. “That bastard was on top of that rock, taunting us, saying we’d all be dead by sunrise!”

Gawen looked afar, seeing a rock beyond the fighting.

“They struck the center, to kill all the commanders, I expect. Then more came to us. Northmen, including a madman wielding a double-edged axe.” Lord Plumm shook his head. “Our losses are severe. We held as long as we could in hope of reinforcements…”

“This is all you’ll get, Plumm!” Gawen shouted. “We need to get out, now!”

“This way?” Philip Plumm looked shocked. “We’re heading straight towards Wayfarer’s Rest!”

“We’ll find our way to Hornvale.” Gawen replied. “But there’s only death behind us, we can only push forward.”

Lord Plumm looked at him in the eyes for a moment in silence. Then, his shoulders dropped and he turned to his men.

“Westerlanders, charge east!”

The group, now more than five hundred strong, charged forward, cutting down several Northerners who tried to put themselves in their way. Gawen smiled. The enemy’s line was melting under their assault. In a few moments, they’d be past all the fighting, and they could regroup and flee. Less and less opponents came to face them…until Gawen’s heart sank again.

In front of them was a huge palisade, forming a great rampart, perhaps twelve feet tall, in front of them.

“Climb!” Gawen ordered. “Climb it!”

The men had no choice. It was either stand here and be destroyed, run into the woods and risk getting lost or falling prey to the Northmen…or climb and face whatever was on the other side. The Lord of the Crag got rid of his helm, and started climbing the wooden behemoth, alongside a dozen men. Several men cried as their feet or hands got caught on pikes or thorny roots which were placed inside the palisade. Gawen thanked the gods he had the foresight to wear gloves. However, each push was becoming increasingly difficult. Until, finally, he could see the ridge of the great obstacle.

One more push.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man, possibly a common footman, pushed him aside.

“Out of my way!”

Only Gawen’s reflexes saved him from a twelve-foot fall, as he barely recovered on a hanging branch, lifting himself up. He could hear the man who pushed him laughing.

“I’m free…AAAAAHHHHH!”

Gawen heard a blood-curdling scream, and then a crunch. Several men also jumped and screamed as they fell, with some begging for mercy in the distance. Gawen hoisted himself up, on top of the palisade, where he looked down. The enemy had dug a ditch behind the palisade and lined it with spikes and mud.

“Plumm!” he shouted from above. “It’s a trap.”

“Get down here!” Plumm shouted back. “Burn down this thing!”

Gawen did his best to climb back down. Some men, refusing to do so, took their chances with the ditch. Some made it, some not, as their cries added to the others.

At the foot of the obstacle, Gawen saw several men carrying torches, ready to burn down the behemoth standing before them. The fire soon took hold thanks to the large quantities of wood invested in the barrier, but soon spread to the surrounding woods.

There, Gawen could see the silhouettes in the distance.

Men, shadows, coming to finish them off. 

He looked back in front, where his cousin Alan was becoming more unnerved.

“Our men can’t hold the enemy back forever; we need to go!”

Gawen shared a look with Plumm. Both knew what they had to do. There was only one option. Fight and be slaughtered. Or…

Philip Plumm nodded towards Gawen. He understood.

In one swift motion, Gawen got rid of his sword, instead ripping a doublet off of a fallen soldier. Then, he faced the wall of fire in front of him. Putting the doublet over his head, he ran, into the fire.

The heat took him almost immediately. He could feel it burning his flesh, cooking him, but he endured the pain.

I must do it for Raynald. For Jeyne. I want to see them again.

The heat became stronger, but he pushed on. He felt numb, the pain of the burns going away as he continued through the inferno.

Then, nothing.

Was he dead? No, there was silence, but he could still hear the fighting in the distance. He was alone, in the middle of the pine trees, nothing around him. Gawen threw away the doublet, half-burned, and looked behind him. Some men collapsed, exhausted. Others just lay there, motionless. In the distance, the fire burned, slowly chipping away at some bushes. Further away, Gawen could notice the sun rising, bright red, as the fire and blood of the slain fed its color. It was almost beautiful.

Gawen let himself fall to the ground. Had Alan made it? Had Philip Plumm? In his mind, the only thing that mattered at the moment was that he made it. He was alive. He could live to see his daughter again.

His head found a small branch. His chest heaved, exhausted from the fighting. He could almost sleep here, if it were not for the inferno which risked to catch up with him. He could feel the cold wind on his throat. It was almost real.

Gawen opened his eyes in shock. This was no wind. This was…

He looked up, not moving a limb. There, he found a large bearded man with a large double-sided axe.

“Well fought, lordling,” he grinned from ear to ear. “You’ve earned yourself a place in the dungeons of Riverrun.”

Gawen did not answer. At this moment, even a cold cell would seem like the seven heavens compared to what he had just endured. For him, there was only one question on his mind. How many were as lucky as him?

Chapter Text

Davos

The gates of the castle opened, letting Stannis Baratheon and his retinue enter into the thick walls of the castle. The commander of the Storm's End garrison, of course, was expressionless, as usual. His retinue, however, betrayed the signs of being greatly disturbed, or discouraged. Ser Aemon Estermont, the young knight of Greenstone, who was usually calm even during the usual Reacher displays of feasting before the starving garrison, or the regular rounds of jests or parlays, was unusually unnerved. The brown-haired knight’s hands twitched slightly, while his chestnut-colored eyes were slightly teary.

Stannis let nothing show. Instead, the commander of Storm’s End’s garrison rushed to Davos, who was flanked by the old maester, Cressen. The mood was stormy, the sky overcast, and it was likely to rain soon. A storm usually accompanies a great battle. Could it be that of King Robert’s army, coming to finally relieve the siege? Davos doubted it. He never was a man of numbers, but by his estimations, their armies should have been here some time ago. And getting news from Riverrun was impossible: the last ravens had been eaten several days prior.

“Did Lord Tyrell feast in front of you once more?” Maester Cressen asked.

It was a usual thing. Lord Tyrell would invite Stannis to parley, in which he asked for his capitulation, in exchange for honorable terms. During these parlays, he would gorge himself on food and offer some to Stannis and his retinue. While most of his men ate, Stannis never took but a single bite, according to those whom he spoke to.

Stannis did not answer anything to Cressen, but Ser Aemon, by his side, nodded.

Davos sighed. This was never a good sign. Stannis took each humiliation without so much as raising an eyebrow, but he always had his teeth and fists clenched whenever he returned. It also made his mood…variable. As such, this added to an already tense atmosphere, one may even say unbreathable, as the clouds above the castle grew darker.

“Cressen, Seaworth, with me.” Stannis ordered, his voice cold. “Estermont, prepare a war council.”

“When for, my lord?” Ser Aemon answered.

“Immediately.”

The young knight bowed and left. Another war council to discuss the food situation, certainly. Davos’ rations of onions and salted fish had run lower and lower. Even rationed, he doubted they could last more than three days. Then…well, as Cressen had suggested, they’d have to start eating the dead.

The thought made his stomach turn. Tonight, he promised himself, he’d ask Stannis to force the blockade again. The overcast skies made it so that he could certainly pierce the grape lord’s fleet, as he had done before. In five days, he could be back with more supplies, if only to keep hope going.

“How is Renly?” Stannis asked the maester.

“Well enough,” Cressen nodded, “he asked for you on the morning.”

Stannis blinked, but let no emotion show.

“Has he eaten?”

“Yes, my lord, but…”

“No, Cressen, I will not lower his rations.” Stannis frowned. “The boy is growing; he needs to eat.”

“Certainly, my lord, but taking from your own rations is unwise. You will fall ill.” Cressen protested.

“No.” Stannis shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Davos did not speak, but took in everything. Stannis’ tone was darker than usual, there was something on his mind, but he dared not ask what. He’d know, in time, and there was no use pressing Stannis Baratheon when he was in such a foul mood.

The three of them made their way to the council chamber, where each lord or knight was scrambling to take a seat. Ser Aemon Estermont led them, alongside his uncle, Ser Lomas, and nephew, the newly-knighted Ser Andrew. Besides them sat old Lord Erwen Penrose, an old man to whom the siege had done no favors, but whose body still refused to succumb. Also in attendance were Ser Jaclyn Peasebury, Lord Alesander Staedmon, Ser Drys Mertyns, Ser Alester Brownhill, Ser Mychel Rogers, Ser Marq Wensington and Ser Gerald Gower. All men who withstood the harshness of the siege, and who, unlike Ser Gawen Wylde, had all demonstrated their willingness to see the siege to its end. At least, for now…

Stannis had told him that amongst them, Rogers, Peasebury and Gower were the most loyal to him. Penrose was slowly losing faith, whilst Staedmon was only here because he’d not dared to accompany Robert in battle, preferring to hunker down within the walls. As for Mertyns and Wensington, they were Robert’s men more than Stannis’, having spent some time in the Vale with him. As such, while they did not have much loyalty to Stannis himself, Robert’s word that Stannis was the master of the castle until he returned was enough for their loyalties. Finally, Brownhill only stayed loyal out of fear of what Aerys might to do him if they capitulated, and preferred a slow death by starvation to a painful death by fire.

Cressen, of course, completed the assembly, along with Davos. The other lords and knights had disagreed with this decision, but Stannis had shut them down.

“Show me a man more deserving than Ser Davos, and who has done more for this garrison, and I shall replace him on the spot.” Stannis had said. None had dared to give a name.

There was a slow rumble as Stannis took a seat, beckoning the rest of the men in attendance to do the same.

“My lords.” Stannis placed his hands on the table. “I have deeply disturbing news to share.”

Stannis paused for a moment. His eyes flickered for barely a moment, before resting upon the assembly.

“My brother, Lord Robert Baratheon, is dead.” Stannis let out.

Several people gasped. Davos felt his heart sank.

No! It couldn’t be.

“How?” Ser Marq Wensington blurted out.

“Prince Rhaegar slew him in battle. The rebel forces were forced to withdraw behind the river.” Stannis calmly stated.

There was another rumble in the crowd, larger this time. Ser Alester had gone pale, whilst Ser Dryn shed a small tear.

“It could be a deception.” Ser Jaclyn surmised, stroking his white beard. “Lord Tyrell could be leading us astray, to force us to capitulate.”

“Alas.” Ser Aemon shook his head. “It is true. The letter Lord Tyrell presented us was from Ser Carl Herston, the knight of Roosterfield. He was captured during this battle and wrote to us, swearing on his honor, that this was true.

“There is more.” Stannis continued. “The Mad King is dead. He was slain by Ser Jaime Lannister as Prince Rhaegar marched into the city.”

Now, most people were simply indignant. Even those who wished death to the Mad King were shocked that his own Kingsguard had turned on him. How was it possible? How could a man who had sworn his own life to protect his King be the one to drive his sword through his heart? In Davos’ opinion, however, it was a miracle that none of them chose to do this sooner…

“Rhaegar is thus King.” Stannis continued. “As Lord commander of this fortress, it is also my duty to inform you all that he has offered terms. A full pardon. For all of us. In exchange for our capitulation.”

The room went silent at this. Davos knew that most of the knights would choose to run out the gates of the castle and throw their swords at Tyrell’s feet that instant. But all knew what happened to Wylde when he tried to do just that.

“However, King Rhaegar’s letter, which I hold here…” Stannis passed it to Ser Aemon, who then circulated it between all the men present. “Stipulates that all of your lands will see pieces given away to loyal men. The paramountcy will go to Lord Connington, and all of Rhaegar’s lackeys will be rewarded. You will give coin and hostages. Those are his terms.”

There were indignant stares, and looks of resignation. Davos still did not speak, but his face had fallen.

“This is not a capitulation, it’s a full humiliation!” Ser Andrew let out.

A few nods of agreement were seen.

“What of you, my lord?” Davos finally dared to speak.

“King Rhaegar would have me hand over my brother.” Stannis spat. “Hand him over to them. To Tyrell or Targaryen, or one of their ilk. If I do as he asks, and pay a handsome price for “my rebellion”!”

Stannis’ fist hit the table. Just once, silencing all present.

“If I do all of that, then he will let me keep Storm’s End.”

“What do you intend to do?” Cressen asked. “We could try to hold longer. Try to…”

“I will not have the men eat the dead.” Stannis shook his head. “I will surrender.”

“My lord, we can fight!” Ser Jaclyn Peasebury immediately stood up.

Stannis raised a hand at him.

“I will capitulate, because our effort is now futile. With Robert dead and the rebel armies defeated, we cannot hold on forever. But…” Stannis glared at everyone. “I swear to you, this will not go unpunished. I swear to you, that when the time is right, we will take back what they took from us.”

There were a lot of nods in attendance.

“We will prepare. My brother’s death will not go unanswered. Nor will Prince Rhaegar’s humiliating terms, for having dared to oppose his father’s madness.” Stannis declared. “We may have lost a battle, my lords, but we will win the war.”

Several men stood up and raised their swords.

“Stannis! Stannis! Stannis!” They chanted.

Davos smiled, and joined them, crying out Stannis Baratheon’s name. Only Penrose did not stand, but he raised his fists and smiled at the young lord for the first time since the start of the siege.

“I will begin preparations for our surrender.” Stannis said, once the crowd had calmed down. “It will occur in three days’ time. This will leave us enough time to destroy whatever can be useful to the Tyrells. Anything which you think can help them in taking the fight north, throw into the sea or burn it. Keep only your swords, for we will be allowed to walk out with them.”

There was another rumble of agreement, before Stannis adjourned the meeting. Before Davos could leave, however, Stannis caught up to him and dragged him aside.

“I have a mission for you, smuggler.” Stannis whispered. “Come with me.”

The new lord of Storm’s End turned around and called out to maester Cressen to follow. Ser Andrew Estermont, the young knight who had first opposed the terms of the surrender, soon followed. All three of them went towards Renly’s rooms, which Stannis opened. He dismissed the nurse, and came to sit alongside him, on the bed.

“How have you been doing?” he asked.

“Well.” Renly nodded. “How long until Robert arrives?”

“Ah…” Stannis coughed. “A long time, I am afraid. But I have something for you.”

“Really?” Renly’s eyes lit up.

“Yes.” Stannis searched inside his doublet and produced a peach. Davos and Ser Andrew looked at each other in shock. He must’ve stolen it at the parlay, while no one was looking.

“Thank you.” Renly eagerly accepted the treat. “But…brother, aren’t you hungry?”

“I already ate.” Stannis lied. “Eat.”

Renly eagerly devoured the fruit, savouring the sweet flavor, and getting juice all over his mouth. When he was finished, Stannis wiped his little brother’s mouth, and took the pit which was left, without so much as a shred of fruit left around it.

“Renly…” Stannis took a breath. “Do you remember when you told me you’d like to visit what’s beyond the sea.”

“Yes.” Renly nodded.

“Would you like to go?”

“Yes!” Renly eagerly nodded. “Are you coming as well?”

“Nothing would bring me greater joy. But…I have things to do here.” Stannis calmly stated. “You can go with uncle Andrew, and Ser Davos.”

“Oh…” Renly’s smile faded. “I wanted you to come.”

“Think of it as a great adventure.”

“Oh, I love adventures!” Renly nodded eagerly.

Stannis nodded at him, then took him in his arms and hugged him tight.

“I’ll be back tonight. You’ll leave in Ser Davos’ boat. You’ll feel like a corsair.”

“Sure thing!” Renly laughed.

“Say nothing to anyone.” Stannis ordered, his voice stern.

“Of course.” Renly nodded. “I promise.”

“I’ll leave uncle Andrew with you. He will help you gather your things.”

Stannis gestured to Ser Andrew, who sat next to Renly. He whispered something in the boy’s ear, which he giggled at, with Renly telling him one of his nurse’s stories. In the meantime, Stannis got and left, with Davos and Cressen following behind him.

“My lord, you cannot be serious.” Cressen protested, having understood the meaning of this. “You cannot send Renly to Essos! In this smuggler’s care!”

Davos took no offense to it, but also had his reservations.

“My lord…if I may, even if I manage to run the blockade. I have no coin nor house in Essos. I am only a smuggler from Flea Bottom.” Davos let out.

“I’d rather have Renly under Ser Davos’ care than that of a Tyrell or Targaryen.” Stannis frowned. “Fear not, smuggler. Ser Andrew and I have an extensive network of contacts in Essos, thanks to my parents’ travels. Renly will be safe, and I will provide for you at every step. But he cannot fall into enemy hands.”

“This is a dangerous endeavor, Stannis.” Cressen warned. “The Redwyne fleet…”

“The weather is overcast, but not stormy. The moon will be blocked by the clouds tonight. If you did it once, you can do it again, smuggler?” Stannis asked.

“I suppose so, your grace.” Davos nodded. “But I cannot reach Essos.”

“Tarth will do.” Stannis replied. “Lord Selwyn is a leal man, he will find you a sturdier vessel to reach Myr, or Tyrosh.

“Lord Stannis, the rocks of the bay…” Cressen continued.

“Ser Davos has navigated them once; he can do it again.” Stannis reached inside his doublet, giving Davos a piece of paper. “You cannot read, but you know what a map looks like?”

“I do.”

“Good, then this is the map of the approaches to the bay. Your ship is small, but there are still some reefs to be aware of. This map should help you.”

“Stannis.” Cressen begged. “I am pleading. Do not do this.”

“I’ve made my decision.” Stannis frowned. “My brother will have every care in the world. I will ensure he has a lordly education, and I will ensure he lacks for nothing. But I cannot let him be used as a pawn to divide the Stormlands!”

Stannis’ voice was firm as the walls surrounding him.

“Ser Davos,” Stannis turned to him again, “I have your word, that you’ll obey my every command?”

“My lord, my family…”

“I’ll seek them out and send them to you.” Stannis nodded. “I swear it.”

“Then I swear that I’ll do whatever you ask of me, my lord.”

“I expected nothing less. Prepare your ship and take whatever you may need. You leave tonight, while the storm is still afar…”

Chapter Text

Elia

The man facing Elia Martell in her private solar this morning was not a broken one, but certainly a changed one. Jon Connington used to be a dashing young knight, with a smile that would make any maiden blush, and blue eyes which would pierce through your very soul. His red hair and beard were well-kept and well-trimmed. However, Jon Connington had now cut his beard entirely, and his hair was mostly dishevelled. His blue eyes did not look bright, but heavy, and his smile was completely gone.

“Good morning, Lord Connington,” Elia welcomed him. “Welcome back to Westeros.”

“Your Grace.” Jon Connington simply nodded.

Elia and Connington never had the best of relationships. He and Rhaegar were very close. So close, in fact, that rumors had circulated of what truly happened between the two. Elia knew better than those, but also did think that Connington was in love with Rhaegar. After all, he sometimes referred to him as his prince. And that affection, of course, put him and her at odds with each other. Connington was cold to her, thinking that no woman would truly be worthy of marrying his Rhaegar. What was his reaction when he learned that Rhaegar had married the Stark girl? Elia would have loved to be a fly on the wall when the news broke.

But if Connington was one thing, is that he was loyal to Rhaegar. Blindly loyal. And in these times, men like these were desperately needed at court. Between Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell’s plans, Pycelle’s dealings and Varys’ weaving, there was hardly a man on the council she could trust. And the Kingsguard? Better not to think about them. The loyal ones died on the Trident. And Ser Jaime, well… No, to hold the realm together, she would need Connington just as much as he needed her.

Does he already know this?

“Congratulations on your new position, Lord Hand,” Elia gestured Jon to take a seat, “and on your raising to Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Connington gruffly took a seat. “I heard that pr…King Rhaegar has taken ill.”

“Not quite.” Elia shook her head.

Jon Connington raised an eyebrow.

“You know of the marriage between Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark?” she asked.

Jon Connington grit his teeth, trying not to let any emotion transpire.

“I do.” Jon nodded. “Absolutely preposterous. Surely, the High Septon will annul this farce?”

“The Faith is absolutely scandalised,” Elia admitted. “I have told the High Septon and his faithful that I openly disagreed with my husband’s decision. And I fear that this will only bring problems.”

“In the city, with the faithful you mean?” Connington asked.

“Yes.” Elia nodded. “Which is why I need your support.”

“Support?” Connington asked. “What for?”

“Because if we are going to hold this realm together, Lord Jon, we can only rely on each other.” Elia put it simply. “Or do you prefer to deal with Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell?”

“Lord Darry is a good man.”

“But he is not to be on Rhaegar’s small council.” Elia countered. “A Tyrell, Velaryon, Tywin Lannister, Pycelle, Varys, you and me. That will be it.”

“I am loyal to the King.” Connington simply stated. “And will do as he commands.”

“So am I.” Elia agreed. “But these men, Lannister, Tyrell, Velaryon, they’ll all fight for influence. For control over the King.”

Had Connington understood what she was getting at? Or was he still stuck in his own delusions?

“Speak freely, Your Grace.” Connington frowned. “If you are loyal to his grace, you should hide no secrets.”

“I am not.” Elia shook her head. “But make no mistake, once this rebellion is dealt with, one way or another, the realm will be more fractured than ever. Half the realm will hate Rhaegar, and the other will be trying to reap the spoils by fracturing what little unity we still have.”

“And this city will be the first step.” Elia added. “Because who controls the Gold Cloaks and the City Watch controls the city, like it or not. And if we let the commanders be men who are under Lannister or Tyrell thumb…”

“You wish for me to support the appointment of your supporters.” Connington frowned.

“Willem Darry, for once.” Elia pointed out. A non-Dornish to start with, this should be easy for Connington to agree to. “He is assigned to my personal guard, but he is also loyal to the King. Then, Dagos Manwoody. He is just as loyal and fought on the Trident alongside Rhaegar.”

Connington thought for a moment, and nodded.

“I believe we should discuss these postings later, once the war is won.”

Why wait? Elia asked herself. But she did not wish to press him further. If she did, Connington may react adversely. No, she needed to show herself as acting in good faith and out of pure loyalty for Rhaegar.

“But, Your Grace,” Connington’s frown returned. “You have not told me about the King’s illness. Only that the Faith disagrees with his taking of the Stark girl as second wife, which is common knowledge.”

“But you know that Lyanna Stark was pregnant?”

“I did.”

“She gave birth six days ago, in Skyreach.” Elia’s voice turned somber.

“The child…did it…”

“No.” Elia shook her head. “Both the mother and child are well.”

Fortunately for them, but unfortunately for the realm.

“Rhaegar was convinced it was a girl. He even had ordered girl clothes and had asked for a new girl’s crib to be made especially for the new princess, which he had already named Visenya.” Elia continued. “However, six days ago, a raven reached us and congratulated the King on the birth of his new son.”

“A son?” Connington gasped. “That is…a disaster. The rebels may just declare him King!”

“I doubt that the rebels would declare anything with Targaryen blood King,” Elia shook her head, “but the fact remains. Lyanna Stark named him Torrhen. And at this news, it was as if Rhaegar broke. He asked for confirmation, mumbled things about how it was impossible. Then…nothing.”

“Nothing?” Connington questioned.

“Nothing.” Elia nodded. “Rhaegar just mumbled, ‘his name will be Aemon’, and left for his chambers, and has been splitting his time between this and the library.”

“And he has not interested himself in the affairs of the realm at all?”

“No.” Elia shook her head. “I have led the war council meetings in his absence, and while waiting for you. Speaking of…”

She rose, walking towards a small cabinet placed above her desk. She opened the oaken chest, and took out a golden chain.

“I believe this is yours.” Elia said as she handed Jon the trinket.

Connington nodded as a response, not even thanking her. Still, he acknowledged her. In that, there was progress.

“Have you been informed of the latest…developments, concerning the war?” Elia asked.

“I have.” Connington’s gaze darkened. “I suppose we will discuss it at the Council?”

Elia nodded back, and gave him leave. Jon Connington bowed respectfully as he left, the golden chain hanging around his neck, like a sort of noose. She did not wish to be in his position at the moment. Hand of the King when said King had barricaded himself in a library like Aerys the first, and the realm faced its greatest crisis since the Dance of Dragons.

Once he had left, she got ready for the next war council, a smile on her lips. Tywin Lannister had been beaten and humbled. Tyrell was growing strong, like his house words, and would certainly take the upper hand after his feat at Storm’s End, though this one needed a few explanations.

Let them bicker and argue. If they fight each other, as long as they stay loyal, they will pose no threat. At least, not right now.

Elia moved down the stairs, escorted, as usual, by Ser Willem. The Darry knight had made good on his vow to keep her children safe, pending the appointment of new Kingsguard. Ser Barristan, Ser Jonothor, Ser Lewyn and Ser Jaime all needed replacing, and the presence of Ser Oswell Whent, recalled from Skyreach, will surely not suffice. Not to mention that with whatever happened in the Dornish mountains, Elia found herself quick to distrust the three Kingsguard present there.

As she entered the small council rooms, she could see that the mood was largely somber. Tywin Lannister was no longer the proud lion, his shoulders slumped and eyes heavy. Lords Velaryon and Whent were more of the same, though their expressions were hard to read. As for Ser Luthor Tyrell, he was smiling from ear to ear. Elia no doubt expected that she would hear a tirade about the great fall of Storm’s End later on.

Connington was the last to arrive, though greeted with some suspicious glares. After all, no one knew how his quick exile had changed him, if at all. But from disgraced one day to Hand of the King and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands the next, it was quite a leap, and she didn’t blame any lords for having some suspicions over this appointment.

The war council had also slightly expanded. Lord Garrison Prester had joined Leo Lefford in representing the Westerlands, Lord Lyman Bar Emmon flanked Lord Velaryon, and Lord Jon Bulwer, who joined Ser Luthor and Lord Rowan in representing the Reach.

The council grows…with lackeys ready to agree with their liege.

“As you all know, his Grace is still unwell,” Connington coughed, “as such it is my duty as Hand of the King to start this war council. Lord Whent, let us start with you, what is our position in the Riverlands?”

“I’m afraid it is quite bleak, my lord,” the old bat shuffled uneasily in his seat. “Lord Tywin’s army of two-and-twenty thousand was annihilated by Ser Brynden Tully a day out of Wayfarer’s Rest…”

“Only two thousand made it back to the Golden Tooth.” Lord Leo Lefford cut him off. “Ser Stafford Lannister, Lord Antario Jast, Lord Robin Moreland and twelve more knights were slain. Lords Plumm, Westerling, Hawthorne and Lantell were captured and are being held in various castles of the Riverlands, along with sixteen more knights and thousands of Westerlanders.”

“Not to mention the baggage train, siege engines and other valuables that were lost.” Lord Garrison Prester, his neighbor, added.

“And added to this disaster, another Westerlander host was cut down on the banks of the God’s Eye by a Northern cavalry force,” Lord Whent spat, “more occupied with burning my lands, they did not see the Northerners coming and were trapped against the waters of the God’s Eye. Many died, and an even larger number drowned while trying to escape the onslaught. Lord Amory Lorch was captured and Ser Gregor Clegane drowned in the mud as his armor dragged him in.”

“And it would not have happened if you did not sally out from Harrrenhal to help them!” Tywin Lannister slammed his fist on the table. “You, Darry and Ryger let my men die!”

“I was ordered by the King to stay in my castle!” Lord Whent protested, outraged. “If I had sallied out and another host approached Harrenhal, the castle would have fallen and our situation would be much worse. Not to mention, it would not have happened if your murderers did not pillage my lands!”

“I had orders to deny as many resources to the enemy as possible.” Lord Tywin objected.

“By burning lands whom the enemy would never be in a position to exploit?” Lord Whent snapped back, “Do not take me for a fool, boy, I’ve fought wars when you were still sucking at your mother’s teat!”

“That’s enough!” Lord Connington appealed to calm down everyone’s spirits. “Lord Tywin, I do not know what personal orders you received, but burning down our Allies’ lands was certainly not in them. And if your men were more disciplined and sent scouts, they would not have been taken by surprise. Lord Whent’s decision to hold Harrenhal was a smart one, considering the forces we have.”

“Thank you, Lord Hand.” Lord Whent nodded.

Tywin looked around to attempt to find any allies, but found none. He eyed Lord Leo Lefford, who raised his mouth to speak. However, he was immediately stopped by Ser Luthor, who took this opportunity to bring the Lannister down.

“On the other hand,” the Tyrell knight coughed, “Our forces have scored a splendid victory and captured Storm’s End. Their garrison was on their last legs, and many had succumbed to hunger. Lord Stannis had no choice but to surrender the fortress to us. The entire garrison was captured, though we gave them the honors of war for their valiant defence.”

“This puts Stannis and Renly Baratheon as hostages.” Elia smiled. “With them in our hands, the Stormlords will likely lose heart. Well done.”

“Not quite, Your Grace.” Lord Rowan shifted uncomfortably. “Renly Baratheon died during the siege, or so it is said.”

“What?” Elia raised an eyebrow.

“According to Lord Stannis,” Ser Luthor coughed, “there was an attempted mutiny in the castle. Ser Gawen Wylde wished to surrender the castle, and took the boy hostage in order to do so. There was a fight, and Renly Baratheon was slain. Ser Gawen was left to die of hunger in the Black Cells, and we can attest to that, as we’ve recovered his corpse.”

“But not that of Renly Baratheon.” Lord Bulwer added. “Stannis Baratheon had his body given to the sea, as to deny him from ‘desecrating his body’, as he put it.”

Elia did not believe this story for a moment. If the Stormlanders had given Renly’s body to the sea, surely the sea would have washed it ashore by now. And this did not make sense. Why not bury it in the Storm’s End crypts? This begged the question, however, where had Renly gone? The Redwynes had the fortress blockaded and the Tyrells sieged it from land. It was impossible to enter it. Unless…

She weighed the possibilities in her mind. Surely, if he was alive, someone helped him escape. And if the lords weren’t willing to talk, maybe the smallfolk would. She’d need to get a hold of some prisoners as fast as possible. Perhaps even Renly’s nurse or septa, if he had one. She thus missed much of the conversation on the state of the Royal Fleet. The rebels did not have much of one, but Lord Velaryon warned that the spring gales stopped him from being effectively able to blockade anything past the Fingers. Not that this mattered much...

Then, there was talk of strategy. The rebels had not struck anywhere after their attacks on the Lannister hosts. Connington thus proposed to merge the Tyrell host coming from King’s Landing with Tywin’s Westerlander host, to strike at the rebels in the Riverlands. This would give the loyalists a force of about fifty thousand men, perhaps more if she could convince her brother to send a token force.

“Who will have command of this army?” Ser Luthor asked.

“By rights, and as senior commander, it should be me.” Tywin Lannister proposed.

“You’ve lost every battle you’ve taken so far, Lannister.” Lord Rowan countered. “It should be a Reacher that leads the host, as we'll contribute the most men.”

“I’ve led none personally!” Tywin defended himself. "If I had been there, those defeats would never had happened."

“But you sent the orders!” Lord Rowan clapped back.

The Reachers and Westerlanders fought for a moment, until Lord Connington finally brought peace again.

“My lords, I think it should be neither. We need a compromise. How about Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning?” Jon Connington proposed.

The Reachers and Westerlanders went silent, and Elia almost smiled. A slap in the face: a Dornishman.

“Would King Rhaegar not be leading the armies himself?” Lord Velaryon asked.

“We do not know when His Grace will recover from his illness, and he still suffered injuries on the Trident.” Elia remarked. “As such, it is unwise to think he will be well enough to command.”

“And you, Lord Hand?” Lord Whent asked.

“A stable kingdom needs a stable hand.” Elia cut in once again, before Connington had any ideas.

“I agree.” Lord Connington nodded. “I will send for Ser Arthur, unless we can reach an agreement.”

Lord Tywin and Ser Luthor looked at each other angrily, both refusing to back down.

“Then it’s settled.” Connington smiled. “Ser Arthur will lead the armies, then. Pycelle, send a raven to Skyreach, at once.”

“Very well, Lord Hand.”

“Finally, the last issue on the table is that of the Kingsguard. Their numbers have been reduced by over half, and we need new candidates for this role.” Connington spoke up. “All members will need to be validated by the King, but making suggestions would be good.”

“I propose Ser Lyle Crakehall.” Tywin Lannister immediately cut in. “He is one of the finest knights in the Westerlands, and a true beast of nature. No man can defeat him.”

“Ser Richard Lonmouth could be a good pick,” Elia intervened. “He squired for Rhaegar and they have had very good relations. Furthermore, Ser Aron Santagar is also a good option. He has served dutifully as Sunspear’s master-at-arms and is a skilled warrior.”

“All three are excellent choices.” Lord Connington agreed. “Ser Luthor, do you have ideas for another candidate?”

“My cousin, Ser Garse Flowers, is a renowned knight, and would be honored to join the Kingsguard.” Ser Luthor smiled.

“I’ll give word to the King when he is well.” Lord Connington nodded. “Finally, Spider, what news of the Greyjoys?”

“Nothing, I am afraid.” Varys shook his head. “I fear that old Lord Quellon is not as willing as his predecessors to reave just yet. He sits in Pyke and waits for the storm to pass.”

“We will have to sleep with one eye open.” Lord Garrison Prester scowled. “A sleeping Kraken is one who is ready to strike. And it will only strike where it senses weakness.”

The words were left hanging, but everyone knew what Lord Prester meant. They needed to score a victory, and quickly.

Chapter Text

Eddard

Ned sat in Lord Lymond Lychester’s solar, fists clenched and with palpable rage. Ever since the Battle of the Trident, he had stayed calm, if not distant or detached from events. The knowledge that he had failed to win the battle, or to stop Robert’s death, felt like a heavy burden he had to bear. But today, after reading a raven Jon Arryn gave him, coming straight from the capital, the only thing he felt was rage.

With trembling fingers, he read the black-inked words on the parchment again, as if to verify once again if they were truly real.

Lord Stark,

I must address my congratulations. Your sister, Queen Lyanna, has given birth to a healthy little boy, Prince Aemon Targaryen. She is in good health and prays for your safe health every day. She is excited to join me in the capital to serve as my Queen.

As your good-brother, I implore you to lay down your arms so that no more people may suffer in this war. As your liege, I offer you a full pardon for you and all who took arms against me. I will offer you monetary compensation for the dreadful and dishonorable actions of my father against your father and brother. There needn’t be any more bloodshed, Lord Eddard. Bend the knee, and we will make this realm a better place for centuries to come. 

King Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name.

That…bastard! Robert was a flawed man, but to control his urges, he went to brothels, he didn’t snatch little girls from their families and got them pregnant! And now, he wanted to marry her? When he already was married to Elia of Dorne? What of her? What would the Dornish say when they heard this? What would Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell do? The momentary happiness he had when learning of Lyanna’s good health was immediately shattered by the fear of what may happen to her and her child.

No. Lyanna could not stay in the capital. There were too many people who would wish her death, and Lyanna…she was just a child. Too naïve, not ready…

And then Rhaegar…the perfect prince who called on her to serve as Queen. Serve! Not rule, but serve! And that man thought that gold may wash away the sins of his family. As if they had not murdered his brother and father in the cruellest way. He thought that gold could just make things vanish? Did he think Ned was some poor tavern owner whose daughter was defiled by a lordling’s son? That he thought gold and pardons would be enough to make everything go away?

Jon and Hoster read the letter, of course. They’d received similar messages: full pardons, and some monetary compensation for their loss. Hoster’s was worse, though, as it promised to reward “loyal” houses with lands. This was surely one of the reasons why House Goodbrook’s soldiers had left camp one night, and went to the enemy. They followed many Stormlords, who chose to leave the rebel host after hearing of the fall of Storm’s End and Stannis Baratheon’s capitulation.

This was not unexpected, but still quite a heavy blow. All in all, the Stormlanders still contributed about seven thousand soldiers to the rebel cause. On this day, there were only two and a half thousand left, led by Lord Bryen Caron, the lord of Nightsong.

Ned’s fingers traced towards a wine goblet. He looked down, thinking about drinking what was left in it. A voice dissuaded him.

“I don’t think wine will do you anything good at this hour.”

Ned turned around, and saw a small figure standing at the doorway. The man was auburn-haired, wearing a simple green-black garment. Short in stature, but deadly nonetheless, his identity was unmistakable.

“Reed.” Ned greeted him.

“You’re thinking about her.” Howland spoke softly, not responding to Ned’s greeting. “You're blaming yourself. Because you think you failed her.”

“I have.” Ned shook his head. “She’s a prisoner of Rhaegar now.”

“This war isn’t over, Ned.” Howland replied. “We’ll get her back.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then…” Howland trailed off. “Then Lyanna will still live. She is the most stubborn, brave and resourceful person I know. She will make their lives miserable and she will survive.”

“I don’t want that life for her.” Ned shook his head.

“I know.” Howland sighed. “But what can we do? We have to look to the task ahead, Stark. Because we will not bring her back by drinking our sorrows away.”

Ned nodded. Howland was right. He was not going to save Lyanna by drinking himself into an early grave. He needed to continue fighting. Not only for her, but for the memory of all of those who died, including his father, Brandon and his companions, Robert, and countless others.

“Come,” Howland gestured, “It’s time for another war council, and it is never good to be late.”

Ned sighed and stood up. He glanced on the table, looking at Rhaegar’s letter one more time. His hand no longer trembled as he picked up the parchment and smiled.

Howland was right, this was not over yet.

With a flick of his wrist, he crumpled the parchment into a ball, and sent it flying into the solar’s hearth, where Ned left the weak flames burn it to a crisp.

Following in Howland’s footsteps, he then stepped out of the solar, and into the castle’s halls. Lychester was not the greatest keep, nor was its lord the most loyal. The poor man had already lost four sons in the fighting, on both sides of the conflict. But with so many men outside his walls, Lymond Lychester had no choice but to welcome the rebels into his castle. A castle which paled in comparison to the great Riverrun or Winterfell, but a small and defensible one nonetheless.

Ned stepped into the war council rooms, which were smaller than expected. Aside from him and Howland, there were only four other men. Jon and Hoster were there, of course, as well as Lord Jason Mallister and Lord Yohn Royce.

“Eddard.” Lord Royce greeted him with a smile. “You look better than the last time.”

“Thank you, Yohn.” Ned smiled back. “I needed some rest.”

“As did we all.” Jon clapped him on the back. “It has been a long and grueling campaign for all of us.”

“My lords,” Hoster coughed, “it pleases me to find you all well, but we have urgent matters to discuss.”

Ned sat down with the others, anxiousness building.

“Let us start with the good news,” Hoster opened up. “Thanks to Lord Karstark’s temerity, the small cavalry force sent by Tywin Lannister was annihilated on the banks of the God’s Eye.”

“However, Lord Whent did not sally out.” Lord Royce pointed out. “Nor did Lord Ryger.”

“Aye, as such we were unable to seize Harrenhal.” Lord Tully sighed. “Nonetheless, it is still a victory. One which adds to the brilliant success obtained by my brother Brynden Tully, and Lord Cerwyn, near Wayfarer’s Rest.”

“A hard-won victory.” Lord Mallister pointed out, stroking his mustache. “Despite the Lannister host being decisively defeated, most of our troops were still overeager and took losses we could hardly afford. Ser Brynden noted about four thousand casualties in all.”

“Indeed, though these are relatively light and can be made up for.” Lord Tully nodded. “Finally, we have, thanks to Lord Howland, secured the Twins. After a daring night action on the northern castle, the southern castle surrendered without a fight.”

“Without a fight is a big word, Lord Tully…” Howland trailed on. “It seems there was a fight within the Frey camp. In the end, Lord Hosteen Frey surrendered the castle.”

“Lord?” Ned raised an eyebrow. “Hosteen is far down the line of succession, isn’t he?”

“Many of Lord Walder’s sons or grandsons were dead, others chose to turn cloak and fled west.” Lord Tully pointed out. “Hosteen opened the gates for us, and was rewarded.”

“Not to mention that he is not the brightest man.” Jon Arryn pointed out. “And his heir is wed to Lord Royce’s cousin.”

“A way to ensure they do not turn their cloak again, then.” Ned approved. “What of old Walder?”

“That is the final good news.” Hoster smiled wickedly. “It seems the old man was too slow for his retinue, so they abandoned him on the roadside while trying to reach Hornvale. Lord Piper’s men got to him as he was wandering along the Red Fork, and sent him to Riverrun in chains.”

“He will pay for his treachery, no doubt.” Jon Arryn nodded sombrely. “But now, onto the bad news.”

“The amnesty offers of King Rhaegar have reaped their toll on our forces.” Hoster winced. “All Stormlords but Caron have left, along with the retinues of house Smallwood and Harlton. In addition, the few Goodbrook men which had sworn themselves to us earlier in the war, turned their cloak again.”

“A small number, but not unsubstantial.” Ned pointed out. “All of these houses were from the southern side of the Red Fork.”

“Which is why it is still imperative to keep hold of it.” Hoster nodded. “Lord Bracken has been more and more…indecisive, in recent days. He wants to fight the dragons, of course, but war draws nearer to his keep by the day.”

“And we may end up losing more men, which we cannot afford.” Lord Mallister continued. “Despite our successes, Storm’s End’s fall means that the bulk of the Reacher forces has moved towards the capital, while another reinforced the force along the Gold Road.”

“If we add those numbers to Rhaegar’s force and Tywin Lannister’s, this means we’d be facing…fifty thousand men?” Lord Royce questioned.

“That’s a low estimate, too.” Jon Arryn winced. “If the Dornish send another host, and the Reach commit more levies from Highgarden, this number could easily reach seventy thousand.”

“That is, if they choose to place all their forces in the same place.” Ned pointed out.

“With their defeats at the God’s Eye and the Western Hills, I do not see Rhaegar’s commanders trying to show themselves on multiple fronts.” Hoster shook his head. “But would he try to cross the Trident again?”

“That seems unlikely,” Jon Arryn countered. “If I were him, I’d try to sway more houses to his cause, by proving that we cannot properly defend their lands. Thus, a strike in the southern Riverlands.”

“And Rhaegar will want a show of strength.” Ned added. “To force us to bend the knee. He will want to destroy the rebellion by seeking us onto the field, not finding ways around us. And, as it stands, we are threatening Harrenhal and the Goldroad. This is where he will strike us.”

“And how many men could we count on to face this?” Lord Royce asked, worried.

“In total, assuming we still need to defend the Trident and the approaches to the Golden Tooth and Hornvale…” Hoster thought for a moment. “About five-and-thirty thousand, mayhaps slightly more. Unless the North and the Vale send reinforcements...”

“Which would take months to arrive.” Ned let out a sigh. “I believe that we’ll have to make do with what we have with us.”

“We still have the advantage of the terrain, let us not forget it.” Lord Royce tried to lift up everyone’s spirits. “We will be the ones picking the place of the battle. Let us make use of it to our utmost advantage.”

There was a knock at the door, which cut the conversation short.

“Enter!” Hoster Tully shouted.

“My lord,” Ser Desmond Grell, Riverrun’s master-at-arms, entered. “A message for you.”

“Pass it here.”

Ser Desmond handed Hoster the parchment, then took his leave. The lord of Riverrun silently read it, his face showing signs of confusion.

“I think this is relevant to you, Mallister.” Hoster handed Lord Jason the parchment.

This time, it wasn’t confusion on the lord’s face, but worry.

“What is amiss?” Ned asked. “Who writes? Is it Rhaegar again? Has something happened on the western border?”

“No.” Lord Mallister put down the letter. “It’s just signed ‘a friend who wishes you well’.”

“And what does our friend tell us?” Jon Arryn asked.

“He’s saying that the Greyjoys are planning to attack Seagard.”

Chapter Text

Elia stood in the inner courtyard of the Red Keep, standing proud despite the recent events. She wore a bright orange gown with suns strewn, marking a stark contrast with her usual red and black dresses representing House Targaryen. Nonetheless, she still wore a golden circlet on top of her hair, to show the realm that despite all that had happened, she was still Queen of Westeros, and intended to stay that way for some time.

At her side, Rhaegar had regained some colors. After barricading himself in his rooms for five days and nights, he finally emerged with a smile on his face, ready to take control of the realm. Since then, he and Connington had been hard at work in organising the logistics of the new King’s Army, which should launch the final offensive into the Riverlands in a matter of days. But today, Rhaegar was beaming with joy. Wearing a crown of gold encrusted with rubies, he wore the most expensive doublet he had, a red-and-black garment, richly-decorated with patterns of dragons and flames, encrusted with sapphires. The reason for his happiness, no doubt, was the arrival of his paramour…or his new Queen, and his son.

A son that he had immediately legitimized as Aemon Targaryen, to Elia’s great fury. When Doran had heard the news, he had recalled Oberyn from exile and told her that he would be on the first ship to King’s Landing to discuss this predicament. Doran’s arrival would be a relief, she’d thought Oberyn would be the one sent here, and gods knew Oberyn did not know how to control himself at times. Doran was a frustrating, but calm and calculating man. She hoped that he and she could find the right words to, if not reverse the legitimization, at least make sure that Aemon would never be a threat to Aegon’s future rule.

The Red Keep’s gates opened, revealing two Kingsguard on top of their white-clad horses. Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne, of course, were acclaimed by many in the courtyard. While their presence reinforced the King’s protection, she had mixed feelings about their return – more particularly Arthur’s. She had been close to him, during her youth, and he would have been one of her preferred suitors if he wasn’t obsessed with the idea of becoming a Kingsguard. While these feelings subsisted, Elia could not really look at him in the eyes anymore. After all, he had left her alone with Aerys, and had assisted Rhaegar in kidnapping Lyanna Stark, or so it was said. A piece of her still resisted against this idea. Arthur was an honorable knight, and would never let harm come to a child. But, then again, he stood watch at Aerys’ rooms when he raped Queen Rhaella, just like the others…

Once the eyes of the assembled crowd were off the Kingsguard, there came a wheelhouse. One which was used during royal processions, and which seemed comfortable. Out of it came a young girl with long, brown, hair and grey eyes. She had white flowers in her hair, as well as a small golden circlet on her head. She did not smile, and only looked at the assembled crowd with apprehension.

Rhaegar smiled and immediately ran towards her. Lyanna Stark looked surprised, but accepted the embrace when he stepped up for it. They shared a quick kiss which Elia frowned at, before the wetnurse passed the child to Rhaegar. He smiled at her, then presented him to the assembled crowd.

“My son, Prince Aemon!”

The crowd clapped while some cheered, but Elia did neither. Instead, she looked at the babe with interest. He was barely two moons old, but it showed that he had not inherited much of Rhaegar. His hair was dark brown, like that of the Starks, and his eyes were dark grey, almost black. One may have confused him with a Stark bastard if the King himself had not somehow recognized him. Elia laughed internally at the thought. Though she knew it impossible, what if it were actually Robert Baratheon’s child, with the Strong Stag having achieved victory beyond the grave?

But it was not. Lyanna stepped forward, Elia greeting her with indifference.

“Your Grace.” She simply nodded.

Lyanna replied in kind, her voice softer than Elia’s. Rhaegar may have made her promise to treat her and her son right, it did not mean she had to act like nothing had happened.

These were the only words they would exchange throughout the short ceremony. Rhaegar presented Lyanna to the members of the Small Council, then everyone retreated to the Red Keep. With no war council slated for the day, Rhaegar had insisted on her and Lyanna sharing some time together. Elia should have refused, but this would prove to be an opportunity for her to learn more about the Stark girl’s motivations. As such, she accepted, on the condition that it only be the two of them, and perhaps a Kingsguard.

Rhaegar agreed, and immediately sent Aemon to be nursed in the same room as Aegon. He’d think that by making them milk brothers, he would plant the seeds of a fruitful brotherly relationship early on. There was no objection from Elia there, either. Even if she did not believe that it would change much, a close relation between Aegon and Aemon would mean less chances of Aemon building any resentment and as such posing a threat against anyone.

Elia and Lyanna thus met in Elia’s private rooms, escorted by Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning refused to leave the room, however, and this despite Elia’s orders. It seemed that Rhaegar did not fully trust her not to hurt Lyanna in some way. Despite some assurances that no, Elia would not hurt Lyanna, Ser Arthur still refused to budge.

With a sigh, Elia conceded, not willing to have to deal with another drawn-out argument. Instead, she had tea and cakes served, before dismissing the servants and handmaidens. Both of them then sat in silence for some time, as if measure each other.

“It pleases me to finally meet you, Elia.” Lyanna finally broke the silence. “Rhaegar told me so much about you.”

So much about me? The wife he so easily dishonored and insulted to take a child for a wife?

“It would please me if we were formal for now, Your Grace.” Elia sighed. “I do not think it would be proper for us to address one another with our names.”

“Oh…” Lyanna frowned. “I apologize, Your Grace. I thought…Rhaegar told me that we would both be Queens.”

“In that, he did not lie.” Elia tried to conceal the venom in her voice. “But he wed you, and despite what your prejudice told you, not every Dornishwoman is attracted to the same sex. I did not wed you, Your Grace. As such, we are just two Queens of a same King.”

“You will not share the King’s bed, then?” Lyanna asked.

“No.” Elia shook her head. “As far as I am concerned, I do not wish to share anyone’s bed for some time.”

Something seemed to have ticked in the Stark girl’s mind, but she couldn’t know what it was.

“I thought…Rhaegar had told me that since I was to be Queen…I would need to share his bed.” She said simply.

Something seemed to break inside Elia. That girl…she was innocent, caught in something she did not understand.

“No.” Elia shook her head. “We have separate rooms. You can share Rhaegar’s bed when it pleases you.”

Or him, she thought grimly.

“And what will you do, when you are Queen?” Elia asked.

“I do not know.” Lyanna answered. “Rhaegar promised me that I’d have power, and be free to do what I like.”

“What do you like?” Elia asked.

“Riding.” Lyanna smiled. “I always loved horses. Me and my brothers used to race in the great plains around Winterfell, or in the Wolfswood. I also practiced tilts and…oh…”

Elia smiled for the first time. Of course, she suspected that the Stark girl was the Knight of the Laughing Tree. She’d known that Rhaegar suspected as much too. But it was a weak smile, a smile like one of a mother knowing that she had a girl full of dreams ready to be crushed in front of her. She doubted Rhaegar would give her such liberties. No, he would need to keep her close. In a gilded cage…

“You should come to Dorne.” Elia simply said. “Our horses are the fastest and most endurant of the continent.”

“Rhaegar sent me to Dorne.” Lyanna shifted uncomfortably. “It was…unpleasant. All I saw was desert and mountains, not much else. And it was very warm. Too warm.”

“The Red Mountains and the valley of the Greenblood are very different things.” Elia pointed out. “But the heat is even worse.”

Elia took a sip of tea, and continued.

“Your brother wrote today.”

Lyanna’s grey eyes seemed to illuminate.

“Who? Brandon? Ned? Benjen?”

Elia was if struck by lightning. She shared a glance with Ser Arthur, who silently shook his head.

Oh Rhaegar, you cruel man. What did you do?

“Lyanna…do you know that there is a war?” Elia asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Rhaegar told me that the Mad King had done some bad things, but that it would all be over soon. That he was dead, and there would be peace again as Robert had been killed.”

“Did he say what the Mad King did?”

“No, he did not wish to tell me.” Lyanna shook her head. “He said it was not for a girl’s ears. But I’ve heard many things about him. I doubt I could be shaken by much else.”

“Well, there is still war,” Elia pointed out.

“Rhaegar told me that since Robert died, the war would be over.” Lyanna frowned. “I…I did not like Robert much, but I’m still sad he’s gone. Ned will miss him. Is that why the war is still going on? They’re still fighting to avenge Robert?”

“Something like that.” Elia lied. “Your brother sent a letter with conditions for peace. One of his demands was to return you and your baby to Winterfell.”

Lyanna’s eyes seem to beam at this.

“That…that would be nice.” Lyanna confessed. “But Rhaegar needs me as his Queen. I…I can’t.”

Of course, he does. It would be too easy if he could just hand you and your child over.

“I think…” Elia put a head on her temple, “that you and Rhaegar need to have a conversation about all this.”

“Of me going to Winterfell?”

“About the war.” Elia repressed a frown. “And the bad things the Mad King did.”

“I should ask him, yes.” Lyanna sighed. “I know…he’s been dealing with difficult things. I wanted to ask him, but he always seemed bothered with something else. Or for my health.”

“Of course,” Elia nodded, “but I think he owes you some explanations. You should see him today; he has nothing planned. And if he pushes back, insist. Rhaegar cannot deny his Queen what she needs.”

“Thank you, E…Your Grace.” Lyanna quickly rose and bowed. “I’ll do that right away.”

Lyanna Stark quickly put down her cup of tea and ran out of the door, without Arthur Dayne doing much to stop her. The Kingsguard closed the door behind her, took of his helm, and looked at Elia dead in the eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he scowled.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Elia growled back. “This girl has been lied to, manipulated and deceived. Did Rhaegar think he could hide the truth forever?”

“There are moments when a woman should be informed of such things. When she is pregnant is not one of them.” Arthur frowned.

“Is she pregnant now?” Elia snapped. “Look at her!”

“No. But it is Rhaegar’s time to decide when she should learn of such things.” Arthur replied. “Not you.”

“Seriously, Arthur, are you so blinded by your duty to Rhaegar that you do not see the obvious?” Elia raged. “What happened if she learned it from a servant’s mouth? Or from a courtier, or one of her handmaidens?”

“Be that as it may, I obey my King’s orders.”

“Obey?” Elia laughed. “Yes, keep obeying.”

“I swore an oath.” Arthur simply stated.

“What oath?” Elia leaped from her chair. “Your knight’s oath, or your Kinsguard oath? Which one is more important to you?”

“Elia…” Arthur approached her, his voice softer.

“Do not call me that!” Elia snapped. “For the love I once bore you, do not step further. You’ve shamed yourself enough already.”

“I obeyed my oath, to my Prince and my King.” Arthur simply replied. “As you have.”

“As I…” Elia was on the verge of breaking. How could he say this? “Do you know what I’ve endured, under the Mad King? What we’ve all endured? The fear of being sent to the stake for having dared to look at him the wrong way? No, no you couldn’t know. You were his enforcers after all.”

“We had to obey him.”

“Had to?” Elia almost choked. “You let innocents die! You stood and watched as innocents burned and you did nothing! Do not talk to me about oaths. You sully your white cloak even further.”

“The White cloak is a burden which I have agreed to shoulder.”

“Oh, please,” Elia snorted. “I see only one man worthy of that cloak. Only one man stood up to what his oaths really meant. And that man has been exiled.”

“Ser Jaime is a disgrace to the white cloak.” Arthur frowned. “He dishonored his vows. He killed his King.”

“He saved us all! He saved lives, countless lives!” Elia snapped. “While you were hiding in Dorne, protecting the King’s bastard!”

“He is your prince!” Arthur’s tone grew darker, “And you will address him as such.”

“Three men to protect a girl and her baby.” Elia scoffed. “Only one to protect the King, Queen and her two children. Truly, another one of Rhaegar’s great decisions. At least Connington had the good sense of naming you head of the King’s Army.”

“I have no doubt that Rhaegar would’ve thought the same.” Arthur replied evenly. “I need to avenge my sworn brothers and to restore Ashara’s honor?”

“Why?” Elia raised an eyebrow. “Because Ned Stark fucked your sister?”

“He dishonored her, put a child in her…” Arthur snarled.

“Yes, I’m aware.” Elia sighed. “But Oberyn laid with her to, are you going to go to Dorne to duel him too?”

“He put a child in her, Elia.” Arthur frowned. “A bastard.”

“And Rhaegar put one in Ned’s sister. And, to Ned Stark’s credit, he did not have to take Ashara away from her family”

“Careful…”

“Or what?”

Elia dwelled on it for a moment.

“Tell me, Arthur, did you and Oswell have to restrain her as you took her from her family?” Elia frowned. “Did you feel like a knight, then?”

“I did not…”

“Did you hold her down along with your sworn brothers, Arthur?” Elia approached him, a deathly glare in her eyes. “Did she resist? I’ve seen Rhaegar’s face scars, and those aren’t battle ones. Did you have to slap her? A young girl, far from her family? Did you feel like a knight, then, Arthur?”

“Please…”

“ANSWER ME!” Elia screamed. She who was almost silent, always in the shadows, not daring to speak up, not even during the worst years of her life. But she’d been brought to the limit. Lyanna Stark’s defeated look did not seem like a girl who was here of her own volition. It looked like a girl who’d been broken.

Arthur stepped back, shocked at this reaction.

“Answer me, Arthur…” Elia felt a tear go down her cheek. “You owe the truth.”

“I…I obeyed my King.” Arthur gulped.

Elia had been prepared to hear this answer. At least, she thought she was prepared for it. But this cut deep. It was like a betrayal to her. She could not imagine her childhood friend, her lover, the one whom she gave her maidenhood to, just…holding a young girl down as Rhaegar…gods…

“If Rhaegar comes one night, and decides that he wants me…” Elia’s tears streamed down her face. “Would you stand guard, as you did with Queen Rhaella? I promise you, Arthur, I will resist. I’m tired of meekly standing by. Would you hold me down like you did the Stark girl?”

Arthur stood, not answering. A damning silence, and one that broke her heart completely.

“Get out of my sight.” Elia commanded.

“Your Gr…”

“GET OUT!” Elia commanded. “I never want to see your face again. Keep that helm on and make sure it stays that way. You’re no knight. Just another Kingsguard.”

Arthur did not insist. He left her alone in her rooms. There, Elia collapsed on the bed, took a cushion, and cried her heart out.

Chapter Text

Victarion

Victarion Greyjoy was fed up.

Fed up with his father and his incessant indecision, and fed up of having to do nothing on Pyke but push the old man to action. He’d called, along with Balon and Euron, to join the war since it started and start reaving like the days of the Red Kraken.

But his father would not hear of it. Victarion knew that his father was weak, having spent his life defying the traditions of the Ironborn and only allowing reaving in the far-flung corners of the world. It was thus that Victarion did not kill his first man or take his first woman on the shores of the Reach or the Westerlands, like his ancestors, but towards the Basilisk Islands, fighting against Yi-Tish or Volantene corsairs.

At least, Victarion thought, this enabled many Ironborn to seek adventure, rather than stay in this godsforsaken corner of the world. This and the fact that if Ironborn dared to attack Westerosi ships while at peace, there would be a large coalition formed against them which would not survive unless the kingdoms themselves were divided.

But when war struck Westeros, things were different. This meant that the greenlanders were weak and incapable of striking back. In the days of the Red Kraken, the Ironborn took advantage of the Dance to reave as they wished along the coast, with nothing to stop them. And Robert’s Rebellion was another one of these chances. They could’ve plundered Lannisport when Tywin’s forces got smashed in the Riverlands, or attacked the Reach and the Arbor as the Redwyne fleet sailed to the Narrow Sea.

But Quellon Greyjoy was no Red Kraken. Victarion lamented the fact that the Ironborn ships stayed at anchor as the war continued to tear the kingdoms asunder. He lamented all of the gold and spoils of war which were denied to them, even as they were right for the picking.

However, if Victarion’s father was weak of will, it seemed that he was strong of spirit. For years now, Quellon had been almost bedridden, living with painful stomach pains which constantly demanded his maester’s attention. Victarion had thought that their father would pass nigh five years ago, but it was not to be. Quellon was still an Ironborn, a beast of nature, who stood well above anyone else and whose body refused to yield to disease. He even managed to father another son, Robin, a sickly boy who died soon after, and a stillborn daughter.

“The sea calls him to die like an Ironborn,” had mused Victarion’s younger brother, Urrigon, always the poet.

But Victarion thought that Aeron had a point. What was the point of staying alive and in pain on the ground when one could seek glory at sea, while welcoming the Drowned God’s embrace? This, Victarion did not understand. He remembered pushing his father to attack the Arbor when Redwyne’s fleet passed the Stepstones.

But Quellon had refused him, even daring to call Victarion a fool.

A fool! For wishing to strike when their enemy had left their backs turned to them!

Victarion burned with rage for days after this, and had sought counsel with his brothers. Both Euron and Balon, however, did not have more luck. They tried to push their case together and on their own, but to no avail.

Thus, on this day, Victarion and his brothers faced their father once again. Victarion himself had thought that the meeting would end with their father once again refusing to attack the Westerosi. But Balon was much more confident.

“We have been using the wrong strategy.” Victarion recalls hearing his brother telling him. “We thought that we could convince him to attack by appealing to his Ironborn blood. In fact, we need to appeal to his greenlander thoughts.”

Victarion did not think much of it. Balon and Euron were the schemers, Victarion was just a boy wishing to pay the iron price and get his share of real glory.

Victarion thus entered Pyke’s great hall, joining Balon and Euron for another audience with their father. As usual, Euron stood as if the world owed him a debt, uncaring for any of the events happening around him. Balon, on the other hand, stood proud, like a true Ironborn. He’d even worn a kraken-engraved breastplate, which Euron did not fail to mock him for.

The three brothers entered the great hall, decorated with the banners of all of the Greyjoy vassals. At the end was their father, sitting on the Seastone chair, with his maester attending him as usual. All three slowly walked towards him, stopping at a respectable distance.

Balon and Victarion bowed respectfully before their father, while Euron only nodded. Victarion’s older brother was not really someone who respected any authority, even their father’s, which would get him into various forms of trouble.

Quellon frowned at Euron, but did not kick him out of the hall. However, he did not let Balon speak, and took it upon himself to start off the conversation.

“Let me guess, Balon,” Quellon grumpily let out, “you come to beg me to raid the Westerosi lands. I have told you that I am not willing to do this.”

“I wish you to hear me out, father.” Balon asked.

“Hmpf.” Quellon groaned. “Come on, say your piece.”

“Father, the Rebellion has been going on for many moons,” Balon cleared his throat, “and as you know, every kingdom has participated in it, from the North to Dorne. I respect your wishes to stay out of the conflict, but we need to take action. Not because we need to raid for riches, but because it is indispensable to our interests.”

This seemed to have peaked their father’s interest.

“Go on.” Quellon said, leaning forwards.

“Father, right now alliances and allegiances are being built. The Lannisters, Martells and Tyrells all sided with the King, and the rebels are finding themselves leaderless and on the back foot,” Balon continued, “it is only a matter of time until they reach victory.”

“So?” Quellon asked. “Let them tear each other to pieces.”

“So?” Balon growled. “Father, what do you think King Rhaegar will ask of us when he realises that we have not done so much as to lift a finger to help him? Do you think he’d be as willing to continue the fruitful trade you have started? To consider you a leal subject? Or would he consider you a craven and an opportunist? Father, if we do not join the war, our house and what you built will suffer.”

Victarion didn’t speak, but nodded along. However, he was very disappointed. Why was Balon talking about joining with the King? Tywin Lannister’s lands were ripe for the picking and the Reach had its back turned. These were much better targets than the poor Northern or Riverlander lands. But he said nothing. A good fight was better than nothing at all.

Quellon seemed to ponder Balon’s words for some time.

“There’s changes in the Stormlands.” Euron pointed out. “Connington is the new master, and loyal houses have been rewarded with lands. Do you not think we should profess our loyalty by aiding the King’s forces, father?”

“I hear your concerns.” Quellon agreed. “They are much more pressing than mere glory or gold to be gained, to be sure. However, it would not be good to attack the North. After all, we enjoy good relations with them, and they provide most of our lumber, as you know.”

Balon repressed a frown, while Euron gave a cornered smile.

“Then let us attack Seagard.” Balon proposed. “The armies are clashing in the Riverlands. Should we take Seagard, it would be a thorn in the rebels’ side which would surely win the war for the King. He would have no choice but to reward us with your heart’s desire.”

“Seagard…” Quellon mused. “I shall dwell on the idea. You may take your leave.”

“Yes, father.” Balon bowed again, and left, Victarion and Euron coming along. Once they had left the room, it was not long until Euron rushed off into the darkness, as if he were never there. Victarion, for his part, stayed with his older brother.

“Do you think father will agree to join the war?” he asked.

“I am sure of it.” Balon nodded. “Father cannot sit idly on the sidelines and risk being labelled untrustworthy, or worse.”

“Seagard, however…” Victarion expressed doubts. “The Riverlands are bled, yes, but did the Twins fall not so long ago?”

“Of course.” Balon smiled wickedly. “And there likely is a host defending Riverrun. No matter, the rebels know we will be coming.”

“W…how?” Victarion looked shocked. “Why attack anyway?”

“A little bird informed the rebels of the attack. Someone who knew about the attack before it will even happen.” Balon grinned.

“You…why?” Victarion clenched his fists. “You mean to send the Ironborn to their deaths?”

“Yes.” Balon nodded. “But the sacrifice of a few to the Drowned God is worth it. Because father will be forced to lead the attack. The rebels know we will be coming, and he will be killed or captured, it does not matter. What matters is that we, brother, live to fight another day. That we restore the Iron Islands to their former glory. Because, brother, I intend to bring the Iron Islands riches they have never seen before.”

“Riches?” Victarion scoffed. “By attacking Seagard?”

“Seagard is nothing.” Balon scoffed. “When the rebels have lost, they will seek allies. And they will find someone in great need of lumber to rebuild a fleet. Someone who could bring the seven hells to the seas as they get their revenge on land.”

“You want to attack them.” Victarion pointed out.

“Oh, Vic,” Balon shook his head. “The enemy of today will be the friend of tomorrow, if necessity dictates.”

Victarion shook his head.

“I promise you, brother.” Balon smiled. “Riches and glory await us under my guidance. We will show those greenlanders the fury of the Drowned God. But we will have to wait a few more years. What do you say?”

Victarion did not have to think very long.

“What do you need from me?”

Chapter Text

Elia

The capital was in a frenzied state of activity in the past few days. The Royal Army had marched west, and with it several Kingsguard, lords, soldiers and the whole army’s baggage train…sixty thousand combatants in all. The King, however, had stayed in the capital, which still reeled from the days of the Mad King. The city still bore the scars of Aerys’ madness here and there, most notably in regards to the wildfire caches which the Alchemist Guilds had yet to neutralize. The people were thus weary, but hopeful, especially as it seemed to them that things were going to change for the better.

But as many left the capital, few noticed those going in. Most were traders, eager to sell their goods to the populace and soldiery, whilst some just looked for opportunities here and there. The port had seen a recrudescence in arrivals, especially as Lord Redwyne had detached several vessels for cleaning and refit in the capital’s port. As such, a lone ship coming from Dorne was likely not going to raise many eyebrows, nor attract any interest.

Yet, it was this ship which Elia was eagerly waiting for. She had seen it dock from her window atop her rooms in the Red Keep, and had immediately run down the staircase leading to the courtyard. There, she impatiently awaited the arrival of the Crown’s newest honored guest.

It wasn’t long until a procession came knocking at the Red Keep’s gates. Unlike that of Queen Lyanna’s, it was headed by no Kingsguard, nor was the King there to meet anyone. It was just Elia, alongside a few personal guards, and Rhaenys.

“Is this uncle Doran?” the little girl pointed to a large, muscular, brown-haired and olive-skinned man, riding atop his dark horse in front of the procession.

“No,” Elia smiled at her, “this is Ser Aron Santagar. He used to be our master-at-arms, and he comes to protect us.”

“He will replace Ser Jaime?” Rhaenys asked.

“He will be entrusted with you and your brother’s protection.” Elia smiled back. “So that no one can hurt you, ever.”

“But who will protect you, mother?” Rhaenys looked at her inquisitively.

“There are other Kingsguard,” Elia patted her daughter’s head, though she believed little in the words she spoke. Arthur being no better than the rest, and uncle Lewyn being dead, there only remained Aron Santagar that she could fully trust. He’d seen her grow with her brothers, and would never betray her or her family.

Ser Aron smiled as she saw both Elia and Rhaenys, dismounted, and bowed in front of them.

“Your Grace, Princess,” he said, making Rhaenys giggle.

Elia took him in her arms, hugging him tight.

“Thank the gods you’re here, Aron,” Elia sighed into his arms.

“Don’t worry, Elia,” Aron Santagar whispered, “I’ll do my utmost to protect you.”

“I’ve got no doubt.” Elia smiled back. “And the children as well.”

Before Aron Santagar could answer, another man came behind him with a smile. This man was much less impressive than Ser Aron, but stood with great confidence. He was unmistakable with his dark eyes, short and wavy dark hair strewn with a few silver streaks, and a small beard which masked his square jaw.

“Brother!” Elia exclaimed, running into his arms.

“Elia, it’s great to see you again.” Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, hugged her tightly back. “Seven hells, Elia, you’re gripping me like a vice…”

“You cannot imagine what I’ve been through, Doran…” Elia almost sobbed into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I could not be here for you.” Doran patted her, “And I am deeply sorry for Uncle Lewyn. He was a good man.”

“He was.” Elia shed a small tear, which she quickly wiped. Her brother looked at her with understanding, and brought out a small handkerchief from his doublet.

“Come, sister.” Doran smiled. “You’re the Queen now, and Ser Aron will protect you with his life.”

“Uncle Doran!” Rhaenys came running from behind Elia’s skirts before Elia had a chance to thank him.

“Little princess!” Doran knelt down with a smile, and embraced Rhaenys as well. He placed a kiss on her forehead, which earned a small laugh from Elia’s daughter.

“You’ve grown so much, little princess.” Doran remarked, placing an arm on her shoulder. “When I last saw you, you were so small, you probably could fit in Ser Aron’s arms.”

“I’m growing very fast, mother says!” Rhaenys said with a big smile.

“In a few years, I don’t doubt that you’ll outgrow your old uncle.” Doran laughed.

“You’re not old.” Rhaenys shook her head. “Being old is when your hair is grey and you walk with a cane, like the maester!”

Doran smiled at her, raised himself back up, and took her hand.

“Come, now, little princess, we should go inside.”

“Yes!” Rhaenys nodded enthusiastically. “I need to show you Balerion.”

Doran looked at Elia with an inquisitive look.

“Balerion is Rhaenys’ cat. A big black cat who seems to have grown tired of chasing mice around and prefers Rhaenys’ company.” Elia pointed out.

“A nightmare for the servants who have to wash off the cat hair in Rhaenys’ rooms, no doubt.” Doran smiled. “How is Aegon?”

“Well, but Rhaegar keeps him close,” Elia replied with a sigh, “he is obsessed with keeping him close to Aemon.”

Doran nodded, his smile slowly fading. News of Aemon’s birth had already circulated, and Elia knew that her brother was less than keen on his…existence.

The three of them marched in the halls of the Red Keep, followed by Ser Aron. The former master-at-arms was then called to the courtyard by Ser Gerold, in order to judge his capacities before he can enter the Kingsguard. As for Rhaenys, Doran and Elia left her in her rooms with promises that they’d play with her once they were done with “grown-up talk”.

Elia had known about Doran’s arrival for some time, and as such planned a private audience with Rhaegar to address the recent events, especially the multiple insults to Dorne and House Martell. Something Rhaegar was keen to fix, especially as he strove to make peace with the entire realm.

While waiting for Rhaegar to summon them, Elia had tea and biscuits served in her rooms, though this time there was no Arthur Dayne to spy on their conversation.

“How are your children?” Elia asked. “It has been a long time since I haven’t seen them.”

“Arianne and Quentyn are well, thank the gods,” Doran smiled, “they’re both growing into studious people, though Arianne is a little bit rebellious.”

“Aren’t we all…” Elia pondered. “And Mellario?”

“Mel…is a bit complicated.” Doran made a face. “She’s tried to accommodate to Dorne as best she can, but she still feels homesick, and has yet to fully adjust to Dornish customs. I’ve constantly sought singers, artists and poets from Essos to make her feel more at home, however. I’ve given funds for the construction of a Norvoshi quarter in Planky Town to draw artisans to our Kingdom. All of this to make her feel more at home. It’s helped, but she still bears me some ill-will towards my decision to foster Quentyn with Lord Yronwood.”

“I already told you that it is stupid for your children to pay for our brother’s misgivings.” Elia frowned. “I could find something more apt which would still soothe Lord Ormund’s wounded pride.”

“I know you could.” Doran smiled back. “But these experiences are important. Both I and Oberyn squired for some time with Lords Gargalen and Qorgyle.”

“Squired, not fostered.” Elia pointed out. “I’ve got no doubt that the boy is due to spend some time away, but fostering is another thing entirely. You’d break Mellario’s heart.”

“I know.” Doran sighed. “It pains me to do so. Really. But I don’t have a choice. There’s nothing Oberyn could give that would’ve made things right. It thus became my duty.”

“To cover for him?” Elia shook her head. “Our brother needs to understand that his actions have consequences. Fixing his mistakes should not have to come at your marriage’s expense.”

“You’re too kind for your own good, Elia.” Doran smiled back. “I’ll talk more with Mellario and Lord Ormund both. But it would need to be something worthwhile for me to refuse my son.”

“I’ll write to him.” Elia waved him off. “I’ll find something. Mellario deserves both her children and you deserve her love.”

“You’re a delight, sister.”

“I know.” Elia smiled back. “But I suppose you do not want to talk about Sunspear?”

“No.” Doran shook her head. “Have you gotten the measure of the new ‘Queen’?”

“Lyanna Stark?” Elia sighed. “I’m afraid I have, and it seems your anguish was misplaced.”

“You do not think her a threat?” Doran looked surprised. “Her son alone is already enough to cause us worries for the next fifty years.”

“She’s just a girl, in over her head.” Elia shook her head. “Rhaegar manipulated her and forced her into this marriage. Believe me, brother, she has no ambition for her or her son.”

“Interesting.” Doran rubbed his finger against his lips. “But this being said, if she is easily manipulated, it could mean that others will take advantage of her.”

“Rhaegar has been keeping her close.” Elia frowned. “Too close, one might say. If she does anything, Rhaegar is there. If she talks to anyone, a Kingsguard is present.”

“Does she even talk to anyone?” Doran asked. “The capital is not exactly teeming with Northerners.”

“No.” Elia sighed. “She’s been withdrawn ever since Rhaegar told her the truth about what happened to her father and brother.”

“You mean to say he did not tell her about it before?” Doran looked shocked. “Seven hells, I thought she knew.”

“No.” Elia frowned. “Not a word about this, however, Doran. Rhaegar is still upset at me after I encouraged her to seek the truth.”

“The truth sets you free, or it cages you.” Doran shook his head. “In the Stark girl’s case, I wonder what it is. And, most of all, I wonder if it is a threat to us.”

“I think we should do our best to keep her close.” Elia proposed. “The closer she is to us, the less of a threat she becomes. And the more she trusts us, the further I can snap her from Rhaegar’s claws.”

“Spoken just like your mother.” Doran smiled. “As for her son…let us hope Rhaegar is reasonable.”

“I’m sure he will.” Elia replied. “He is obsessed with peace, and will do anything to keep you on side.”

The answer was not long in coming. A few moments after, Ser Richard Lonmouth, newly-promoted knight of the Kingsguard, came to tell them that Rhaegar would receive them in his private solar. Ser Richard escorted them through the corridors, opening the door to them. Elia nodded at Rhaegar, who sat in his chair right under a window overlooking the city. Doran, for his part, knelt down and made the usual courtesies.

“Rise, Prince Doran.” Rhaegar nodded as Ser Richard closed the door behind them, staying inside the room. “We have some issues to discuss, I believe.”

“I believe we do, Your Grace.” Doran nodded as he took the invitation to sit down in front of the King. Elia, for her part, chose to stay standing up, watching from the sides, opposite Ser Richard.

“Wine?” Rhaegar offered.

“With thanks, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar poured two cups, with both drinking from theirs before starting what was likely to be a tense conversation.

“My wife has told me that you are not very keen on the prospect of Lyanna Stark becoming my Queen.” Rhaegar pointed out.

“If I may, Your Grace, it is hard for me not to be worried as this kind of arrangement is hardly precedented in the history of the realm.”

Elia smiled. Doran, ever the diplomat, did not outright say what was wrong in Rhaegar’s decision, nor did he point out the obvious things he had issue with. Instead, he preferred to come slow and steady.

“Well, be assured, Prince Doran, that Aemon Targaryen will only come third in the succession, behind Aegon and Rhaenys.” Rhaegar nodded. “But I understand that my…ways of dealing with this situation have been lacking. A great deal of your men have died on the Trident, including Ser Lewyn, a fine knight.”

“And a caring uncle.” Doran agreed. “We will cherish his memory.”

“As will I, Prince Doran.” Rhaegar nodded. “For Dorne’s sacrifices will not be forgotten.”

“That is good to hear, Your Grace.” Doran smiled back. “I do have a proposition, concerning Prince Aemon.”

“Ah, of course.” Rhaegar smiled back. “I would offer you to foster the Prince, if you will. It would do well to strengthen our bonds, and help Aemon and his siblings grow closer.”

Elia hid a smile. She’d pushed Rhaegar for several days to agree to this proposition, advancing several arguments. Rhaegar had resisted, but she’d won in the end, arguing that it would continue to strengthen the new bond between House Martell and House Stark…or, at least, Lyanna’s get.”

“I am honored, Your Grace.” Doran bowed, slightly taken aback. “How would we go about it?”

“Prince Aemon would spend nine months in Dorne, and three months in the capital, or thereabouts.” Rhaegar pointed out. “He would…squire for Prince Oberyn, when of age, perhaps? However, make no mistake, Prince Doran. Prince Aemon is your responsibility. If so much as a hair on his head is harmed, I will make sure that Dorne pays the price.”

“Your Grace can rest assured; we will foster Prince Aemon as one of our own.” Doran nodded.

On this, Elia agreed. Doran was a ruthless man, but killing children was a step too far for him, especially if these children were under his care. It was Oberyn whom Elia was a bit more distrustful of, but he’d grow to accept this.

“Your Grace, perhaps, to seal this pact, we could arrange a betrothal for Prince Aemon?” Elia pushed. “My niece, Arianne, is due to become Princess of Dorne one day. It would be a good match.”

“I tend to agree with my sister, Your Grace.” Doran nodded. “Such a betrothal is mutually beneficial.”

And by beneficial, of course, Doran meant that Aemon would never be able to raise a finger to challenge Aegon’s rule.

“I’ve considered the match.” Rhaegar tapped his finger on the table. “But I’ve decided something else. Prince Aemon will wed Princess Rhaenys when they are of age.”

Both Elia and Doran looked stunned at the news. Bringing back Targaryen incest, so fast after the Mad King and King Jaehaerys II’s reign? It was madness!

“Your Grace, Princess Rhaenys’ hand is an asset that we should not overlook, especially as the war draws to a close,” Doran coughed, “we could offer her hand to Ned Stark’s newborn son, or to Hoster Tully’s, in order to break the rebel alliances.”

“You mean to say that Aemon is not worthy of my daughter’s hand?” Rhaegar frowned.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Doran shook his head, “but marrying two royal children to each other decreases our chances of making a lasting peace with the North and Vale. That is why I was suggesting…”

“Your suggestions are well-intentioned, Prince Doran,” Rhaegar put a hand up, “but my mind is made on the issue. Their union will be the representation of the unity of a new realm.”

A unity which could have been easily achieved by breaking up the rebels with Rhaenys’ hand, and marrying Aemon to Arianne, Elia thought. Gods, what was going through Rhaegar’s head.

“What will you offer the rebels, then?” Elia asked.

“Oh, do not worry,” Rhaegar smiled. “They’ve already got a Queen, and they’ll soon come to accept her as their own. Stark will bend the knee, and Arryn will be forced to do so as well. As for Tully, I’ll punish him like I have Baratheon. With this, we will have secured a lasting peace, which does not involve me giving away my children’s hands to rebellious lords. Could you imagine if I had? Any lord would then rebel and then ask for a royal marriage! Which lord would then rebel and ask for Viserys’ hand, I ask you?”

Elia stood in shock and disbelief, Doran not faring much better.

Oh, gods, what was he thinking? How could his vision be so short-sighted? Yet, in the back of her mind, a voice continued to laugh.

Let it all burn, let it all burn.

Chapter Text

Gerion

Dawn rose on what would be, in a few moments, a bloody battlefield. The entirety of the Royal Army was facing the entirety of the Rebel Army, in a moment which would surely decide the war. Gerion should have been confident. After all, the loyalists numbered no less than five-and-fifty thousand men in the field, most of them Reachers coming from Ashford, Storm’s End, and the Goldroad.

But, in front of them, the rebels had the advantage of knowing the terrain. And the battlefield they picked was far from easy to navigate. Certainly, in front of them lay a great plain, but it had rained and some areas were strewn with marshes. What’s more, the rebel center, where Stark banners flew prominently, had a line of ditches and makeshift pikes blocking their way.

Outflanking a position was thus recommended…but the plain was flanked by two woods. The woods on the left were not very dense, but it seemed that the rebels had still prepared a small fortified position atop the only hill of the area, with Mallister and Tully banners flying high above it. Finally, the woods on the right, facing Gerion’s position, were quite dense, so much so that Gerion could hardly see a thing, even with his Myrish spyglass.

“Do you think that the woods are fortified?” His brother, Tygett, asked whilst Gerion continued to try and see something in the dense forestry.

“I would be shocked if they were not.” Gerion simply replied, putting his spyglass away, “It seems their strategy is to bleed us dry before we make contact.”

“Aye,” Tygett agreed, “which is why we must proceed with caution, even if we have double their numbers.”

Gerion agreed. The Loyalist right was composed of ten out of the twelve thousand men the Westerlands had sent to King’s Landing, reinforced with five thousand Reachers under Lady Oakheart’s banner. Furthermore, Lord Fowler’s five thousand Dornishmen, which had to ride from the Prince’s Pass, lay in reserve for Tygett’s benefit. The rest of the Lannister force, mainly cavalry, was held in reserve with other loyalist cavalry forces, behind the center. This one, commanded by Ser Arthur Dayne, was composed of banners of a variety of houses: Whent, Ryder, Connington, Velaryon, Massey, Stokeworth, Rosby, Merryweather, Ashford…about twenty thousand men in all, if you counted the mounted reserves. Finally, the host was completed by fifteen thousand reachers under Lord Tyrell’s banner on the loyalist left, facing the rebel-dominated hills. In front of them, they had estimated the rebel host to be between five-and-thirty thousand to an absolute maximum of forty thousand strong, with the last estimate being generous as Tygett did not know how the rebels would have received these kinds of reinforcements so fast.

Gerion shifted uncomfortably. By all accounts, even with the rebel preparations, they should have the battle won. But the recent string of rebel victories taught him to be more careful. The men commanding the enemy army knew what they were doing, and, unlike the vast majority of the Loyalist army, they had much to lose if they indeed lost this battle.

A runner came, dashing towards the two Lannister brothers.

“Ser Arthur orders you to advance, Lord Tygett.”

Gerion’s brother nodded with some apprehension.

“The die is cast, brother,” Tygett sighed, “And it is to us that bears the honor of opening this bloodshed.”

“Shall I sound the advance?” Gerion asked.

“Tell the commanders to advance cautiously.” Tygett replied. “We do not know what awaits us in these woods, and I’ll not send my men to the slaughter. Tell Ser Rupert Brax to stand ready with the cavalry, but not to engage just yet. I’d rather know what I’m sending the horses into.”

“As you wish, Tygett.” Gerion nodded. “MEN, ADVANCE!”

Gerion led the footmen atop his horse towards the woods, dread in his heart. What awaited in that darkness, he could not know, and it scared him. Despite this, he pressed on, finally approaching the darkness. There, he finally saw what he had expected. Trees had been felled to form true barricades from which pikes stood out, ditches had been dug and small traps had been laid.

As soon as Gerion had laid eyes on these works, there was a hissing sound. Instinctively, Gerion put his shield up, hearing two dull sounds. Then, there were screams.

The arrow volley had felled many men, who were now crying out on the ground. Some faltered, and the advance stalled, allowing for another volley to come down.

“LORD REGENARD IS SLAIN!” Gerion heard someone shout.

“IT’S A TRAP!” He heard another shout.

Faltering now, after the first shot, would be disastrous. Instead, Gerion rallied his men to push forward, as he knew the hardest part was still in front of them.

“COME, MEN!” he shouted, “ADVANCE!”

Gerion looked around, trying to find a way to bypass the fortifications, but he could see none. There was no other choice but to run headfirst into the fire, and force one’s way through the entanglements. Assaults thus started on the fortified positions, leading to quick hand-to-hand combat. In front of him, Gerion could finally see who they were fighting: Valemen, with their banners floating behind their makeshift forts. Arryn, Royce, Waynwood, Hardyng, Redfort, Belmore and Coldwater, all defying him.

Sensing that his men would lose heart if the defences were not broken through soon, he led a group of men to the assault of one of the defensive redoubts. Unfortunately, his horse was felled from under him as he crossed the ditch, tumbling to the ground. Luckily, he was only bruised, and a common soldier helped him up.

“Move, move!” he ordered.

Gerion soon crawled out of the ditch and made his way to the battlements, taking them by storm. Clearly, the Valemen in front of him were not expecting such vigor from their opponents, allowing them a slight edge as the first men tumbled over the felled logs. Still, despite this small victory, the redoubt was far from taken. Here, dozens of Vale footmen waited for them. Most of them were drawn to Gerion’s red cloak, hoping to capture this valuable prisoner that would surely make them rich. But he was not so easily taken down, and fought like the lion on his breastplate.

Gerion cut through one man, before running a second with his sword. Seeing him being assailed from all sides, his men quickly came to his aid, allowing him to shove two men off of him, and save a poor Prester man from getting skewered by impaling his attacker from behind. It took what felt like ages to clear the redoubt, but it seemed that, after a bloody melee, the Westerlanders had made themselves masters of it.

However, Gerion’s joy was short-lived, as he saw that behind what he thought was a victory, was in fact a very controlled retreat made by the Valemen towards another defensive position of the same kind. Pursuing was useless, as they were harassed by archers hidden atop the trees or hiding in positions not yet uncovered by the Westerlanders. Gerion thus ordered the first line of infantry to stop, and let the second and third lines to take over. He, however, continued to fight, as the men needed someone to lead them through this daunting task.

As they advanced, men were forced to jump over felled trees or stacks of branches. Sometimes, unlucky ones ended up in a thorny bush or a bundle of nettles. Others found themselves stuck in muddy puddles or worse – a Vale latrine which had been abandoned there. Fighting through these woods felt more and more like a trial of the Seven hells than a battle. But still, Gerion urged the Westerlanders on, while calling for a runner.

“Tell Lord Tygett to commit our reserves, boy!”

“But my lord, Lord Tygett is already engaged on your left!” the boy replied.

Gerion cursed. While fighting, he had lost the sense of what was happening elsewhere on the battlefield, not helped by the fact that one could hardly see what was going on.

“Then send for Lord Fowler. Tell him that we have breached the enemy first line of fortifications, and that we are doing good work on the second, and that we await his reinforcements.” Gerion ordered.

The boy nodded and ran off. Gerion did not like asking for reinforcements even before they left the woods, but the Dornish forces could readily win this side of the battle by taking the occupied Valemen from the flank, thus turning most of the enemy force.

While waiting for this action to be performed, Gerion returned to the assault, leading his men to undertake the capture of another strongpoint. Once more, many men fell around him as the enemy cut them to pieces during these assaults, but the Westerlanders never wavered.

So long as I am alive, they will follow.

As he urged himself atop another stronghold, he noticed several cavalrymen running towards his position from behind. He ordered his men to be careful, but this was misplaced as he quickly noticed the identity of the cavalrymen.

“Ser Arthur!” Gerion shouted. “What are you doing here?”

Gerion quickly jumped over a log to go greet the Army’s commander, worried that the knight’s presence heralded bad news.

“Gerion Lannister, I heard you were dead,” Arthur Dayne said simply from atop his white horse, “but then I heard that a dead man was leading the assaults in the middle of the woods, and I had to see for myself.”

“With respect, Ser, I think you should be commanding from the center.” Gerion replied.

“I’d like you to come with me.” Ser Arthur motioned for a page to bring a fresh horse. “The battle is far from over, but Lord Fowler has broken the left flank in these woods. Most of the northern part is cleared, and no doubt that victory is at hand here.”

Gerion breathed a sigh of relief. It seems that his plan had worked, and the Dornish infantry had made short work of an undermanned flank. However, judging from the sound of clashes he could hear, the battle was far from over.

Gerion mounted the horse given by Ser Arthur, and joined him to ride out of the deep woods. As they exited them, the sunlight was almost blinding, so long had the fights been. It was almost midday, meaning that the battle for control of these woods had been going on for almost five entire hours.

He and Ser Arthur made their way back to the center, where things had not moved much, though it seems that some cavalry was missing, either having gone to reinforce the left or the right.

“What is the situation?” he asked Ser Arthur.

“Your men have conducted themselves well, but we have taken serious losses.” Ser Arthur let out with a sigh. “Despite this, the main line of defence on the right seems to have been breached, which I cannot say for our left flank.”

“Lord Tyrell has not managed to take the hill?” Gerion asked.

“Four times the Reachers charged, and four times they were repulsed by the enemy.” Ser Arthur shook his head. “Not for lack of trying, I am told. Lord Tyrell’s horse was, much like yours, slain underneath him, but he kept urging his men forward. Lord Tarly died fighting during the fourth assault, while Ser Baelor Hightower was seriously injured and had to be taken to the rear for treatment.”

“What happens now?” Gerion asked.

“I’ve ordered Lord Tyrell to cease the assaults.” Ser Arthur remarked. “It is no use to try to break this position when Lord Fowler was putting the Valemen to rout on the left. I’d rather we press our advantage on this side than on theirs.”

“Lord Tyrell will not take kindly to this.” Gerion countered.

“Lord Tyrell is a brave man, and one that should be commended for his determination. However, he must understand that I cannot send more men to be slaughtered, and that wish to win this engagement. And I will not win by running headfirst into a fortified hill.” Ser Arthur pointed out.

As if on cue, a runner came up to Ser Arthur to announce some more mixed news on the right.

“Ser, Lord Fowler says that the Valemen have reformed a coherent line in the middle of the woods,” the boy announced, “However, he notes that Lord Tygett was injured and had to be pulled out from a ditch, whilst the Westerlanders have been fighting for half a day and are increasingly tired. As such, he cannot advance without a pause.”

“Tell Lord Fowler that I grant him this pause. It seems that the rebels have sent reinforcements to the woods to avoid a complete collapse of their flank,” Ser Arthur pointed to the enemy center, which indeed looked like it had lost in size, “this means that their center is ripe for the attack.”

Gerion was offered a Myrish spyglass, and indeed noted that the first line was much thinner than in the morning.

“Are they evacuating their defences?” Gerion asked.

“It seems very well so.” Lord Rowan, on Gerion’s left, remarked. “If so, it would mean that the rebels could be trying to withdraw in good order.”

“I will not let them.” Ser Arthur shook his head, adjusting his helm. “Let us end this, here and now. CHARGE!”

With one cry, the whole of the center charged, cavalry first, with infantrymen following. Gerion tried to stay behind Ser Arthur, the best knight in the Seven Kingdoms, but Gerion’s small Crownlander breed was no match for the Kingsguard’s white Sand Steed, which galloped ahead at astonishing speed.

Despite this, Gerion continued to charge unabated, though his strength started to leave him. Thankfully, it seems, the rebels had indeed retreated, and the loyalists took the fortifications in the center without a fight. This, surely, would be the end of the battle.

But once more, he would be bitterly disappointed. As the loyalist cavalry charged to pursue, they were met with a rebel counter-charge. Gerion could see the Northern heavy cavalry burst out of their defensive positions and into the loyalist ranks, causing heavy chaos.

Soon, he was overwhelmed yet again. At one moment, he’d been rushing in with many others in what felt like the winning charge of the battle, and the next, he was fighting for his life against a determined and relentless opponent. He lost sight of his comrades, and found himself fighting a true deluge of angry Northmen.

The first one he managed to dispatch quite easily, knocking him off his horse. The second one was trickier, as Gerion met him head-on. The man he was facing was much larger, and his horse looked like something out of the seven hells or Clegane Keep. His opponent wielded an axe which felt like it was about to take Gerion to the ground each time his sword clashed with it. Outmatched, Gerion tried to find a way out of this combat before being forced to yield. Thankfully, his luck hadn’t abandoned him, as a Reacher knight charged from behind. If he hadn’t yelled like an imbecile, he may have surprised the Northman and slain him. Instead, the massive man turned around and struck the knight in his side, throwing him almost clean off his saddle.

Gerion did not wait to see what happened to the poor man, as he’d taken his chance to disengage, instead looking for an easier opponent. But the battle had turned into chaos, and pikemen were now flowing behind the Northern knights. He managed to slay three of them, but a fourth stuck his pike in his horse’s belly. The horse tumbled, and Gerion fell with it.

Exhausted, he lay still, waiting for the death blow to come, but it seemed like the pikeman was preoccupied with another opponent. Gerion tried to stand up, but it was futile, his legs wouldn’t let him do much. Instead, thinking that he’d much rather live, even if it was in a Riverlander cell, Gerion crawled towards a batch of high grass, and placed himself on the side of a dead horse, acting dead. Soon enough, his eyes became heavy as the horse’s belly worked just like a pillow. Despite fighting it, Gerion sound found himself going into a peaceful slumber.

He'd expected to wake up in chains, in a Riverlander cell somewhere. But it was not to be. Instead, he was woken up by water being poured on his face.

“Lord Gerion?” a familiar voice greeted him. “Can you hear me?”

Gerion’s eyes fluttered open, revealing Lord Mathis Rowan’s figure, without a helm this time. His dark hair was all over the place, as peals of sweat rolled down his face.

“Lord Rowan…what happened?” Gerion asked.

“Don’t move, you’re hurt.” Mathis countered. “It seems you might have broken your ankle.”

“I fell off my horse, and that’s the last I can remember.” Gerion lied, not wishing to be branded ‘Gerion the sleeping Lion’ or ‘Gerion the cowardly lion’ for posterity.

“The Northmen did quite a job on you, we thought you’d been lost with the first charge.” Mathis looked at him with a kind smile. “I’ll help you up.”

Gerion accepted the hand, but realized that his ankles were fine. He had, however, a sharp pain in his left rib, which made him recoil in pain.

“If the first wave…Ser Arthur?” Gerion let out. “Is he…?”

“No,” Mathis shook his head. “Thank the gods. However, he was injured in a fight with Lord Stark. It seems both duelled and neither won, both having sustained injuries.”

“And…the battle?” Gerion asked.

“A glorious victory!” Mathis laughed. “Well, most of the rebel infantry got out. The Vale cavalrymen fought the Dornish cavalry to a standstill to help their countrymen escape. The Martells are bound to hate Lyn Corbray for generations to come as he slew Lord Tremond Gargalen in single combat, after poor Ser Lewyn on the Trident.”

“The rebels escaped, then?” Gerion winced. “How many did we lose?”

“We don’t know yet…” Mathis sighed. “Lord Tyrell said that his losses amounted to five thousand killed or wounded during his assaults. In total, I think we are expecting around ten to twelve thousand casualties.”

Gerion’s stomach turned. As he looked around on the battlefield, he could see the extent of the death and devastation which had been inflicted on these lands. He could see just how many men were lost – by both sides, certainly – but their men seem to have taken twice the beating their enemy had.

“With respect, Lord Rowan,” Gerion finally frowned, “if the Gods deign to grant us such a victory again, we can consider the war lost.”

Chapter Text

Victarion

Victarion Greyjoy could feel the sea breeze fill his lungs, the wind approaching his face head-on. The Greyjoy fleet thus slowly rounded the Merchant’s Cape, south of the Cape of Eagles, towards Seagard. In the night, no one said a word, each Ironborn waiting in anticipation at their first combat in Westeros since the days of Dagon.

Their father, Quellon, was leading the fleet, aboard his flagship, the Iron Maiden. The old vessel had seen its fair share of battles, and quite like their father, was beginning to be a bit too old for the time. One hundred longships followed the Iron Maiden’s lead, including Balon’s vessel, the Great Kraken. Balon, for his part, had agreed to take Victarion on board as his own ship was not yet finished. As for Euron, his Silence shadowed the fleet, almost completely apart.

Victarion had his doubts as to the position on the Great Kraken. After all, as Balon had explained, they were not here to win a great victory, but simply to lure their father into a trap which he could not escape from. Either sensing this or purely because it was Balon’s idea to raid Seagard in the first place, Quellon insisted that the Great Kraken be positioned in the second line of vessels in the fleet, right behind the Iron Maiden.

Balon had thus taken his precautions. His ships only transported half of the soldiers usually taken on board; the rest having mysteriously taken ill before boarding. No grog had been permitted as long as they were at sea, and Balon even brought a maester to concoct potions that would keep the Kraken’s crew awake for the longest time. For both Balon and Victarion knew it: with the wind blowing in their heads, it was only a matter of time till they were engaged by the enemy.

“What if the rebels do not believe us?” Victarion found himself whispering to his elder brother, breaking the eerie silence.

“Then we score an easy victory,” Balon huffed. “And our old ways triumph over our father’s new ones.”

“But father will still be…here.” Victarion pointed out.

“And be forced to recognize that our way is the old way.” Balon shrugged. “That we gain nothing from his new methods, and that we take strength from what we can take. By paying the iron price.”

Victarion did not argue, for he knew better. He didn’t have a mind for things like these, that was Balon’s domain. He knew their father’s thoughts better than anyone, and he knew the Ironborn and their intricacies like no one else. Euron never bothered about such things, only caring about old tales, grumpkins and snarks. If he wasn’t born in Pyke, he might’ve become a grey sheep, for all Victarion knew. And as for himself, well, he was the fighter of the three, the one with the most muscle, who could defy any Ironborn even at the age of six-and-ten. Finally, Aeron and Urrigon…well, let them grow into men first, and see how things evolve, but no doubt that they’ll be fierce Ironborn in their own right.

In the dead of night, there was a small whisper amidst the crew. It seemed that someone had spotted dots on the horizon. Small dots coming towards them.

“They believed me.” Balon grinned, turning to the helmsman. “Be ready to turn to starboard, by my command!”

“I…very well, my lord…” replied the helmsman, confused at this instruction.

Indeed, the Ironborn ships were so tightly packed together that such a maneuver could very well end up ramming the ship next to them if they were not careful. But Ironborn vessels were swift, and the Great Kraken was not as low in the water as the others…

“Now!” Balon cried out.

“Starboard, now!” the helmsman transmitted to the oarsmen, which immediately set out to turn.

The dots in the distance grew bigger, and this is when Victarion realized what the rebels had in store for them: the dots grew bright against the darkness. Fireships.

The rebels had had their fastest ships tow some lighter craft, and, when in the right position, had set them on fire and loose. With the wind at their back, these light ships came careening towards the Ironborn fleet, which had stayed tightly packed.

At the realisation of this threat, several ships tried to turn away, but, slow and low in the water, rammed each other. Victarion thus saw the Iron Warrior turn to the left, avoiding a fireship, just to strike the bow of another longship, the Sea Serpent, which had tried to turn right. The Sea Serpent struck the Iron Warrior with such force that it cut open its wooden hull, while a fireship struck its rear, flames soon engulfing both ships as if a dragon had vomited its flames on the both of them.

Luckily, Balon’s foresight had saved the Great Kraken. With its speed, the ship had turned around and barely avoided the Iron Heart, which also tried to maneuver away from the chaos, against a background of smoke, fire and ash. Victarion turned around to see the longship trying to follow the Great Kraken, only to burst into flames as a fireship hit it amidships, almost splitting it open.

Victarion could not look away from this grim spectacle. As longships rammed each other, they spread a great fire which only worsened their cases. Screams echoed in the night, carried by the wind, in a hellish scene as flames towered over the Ironborn fleet. He could see men, in their armor, choosing to join the Drowned God at the bottom of the sea, instead of burning alive in their ships. He could see chaos as some fireships sailed straight through the fleet, every longship parting to try and avoid a disastrous fate.

Finally, Victarion gave one more look back, towards the Iron Maiden. The once great ship was now a flaming husk of its former self. Men jumped overboard in an effort to escape the flames, only to be swallowed whole by the dark waters below. The Ironborn did not shed a tear, but nodded. His father would have a good death, and would be able to feast with the Drowned God tonight, as he welcomed all the good fighters which had died today.

But now, the Great Kraken needed to escape, as it stood in the second line, needing to navigate between fireships and longships alike. Balon skilfully directed the helmsman through the burning wreckages and out of the way of panicked longships and fireships alike. Victarion could see Ironborn crews desperately trying to push the ships away before the flames could engulf their vessels.

“Enemy ships ahead!” cried a lookout.

Indeed, as the Great Kraken seemed to be finally out of danger, and having left an ocean of flames behind it, four great shadows appeared on the port side.

“Carracks…” Balon growled.

“We can outpace them.” Victarion pointed out.

“It’ll be a close thing.” Balon retorted. “With the fleeing ships, we can hardly maneuver.”

Balon had it right. The Great Kraken was not the only vessel which escaped unscathed from the disaster, but the fleet was now leaderless and completely disorganized. The risk of collision was just as high now as it was during the fireship attack.

The Great Kraken thus moved, almost elegantly, between longships, trying to create as much possible distance between them and the four shadows, which were gaining ground at a rapid pace.

Then, Victarion saw it. A great carrack, bearing the sails of House Mallister, burst out of the darkness of the night, right in front of the Great Kraken. Immediately, Balon ordered to turn to starboard, saving the Great Kraken from being broken in two by the eagle-shaped ram on its bow. The ship passed so close that Victarion thought he could see the blood in the eyes of the Riverlander sailors, and saw the daunting ship’s simple name: Eagle.

The great behemoth did not get out without a prize, however. Having missed the Great Kraken, it settled for a smaller longship, which wasn’t as lucky as Balon’s flagship. The Red Scourge, a vessel with the colors of House Tawney, was broken in two by the ram, its two sections quickly sinking to the bottom of the sea. Behind it, the Great Whoremonger, a Volmark vessel, was being boarded by another Mallister vessel.

But the Great Kraken had survived. It had made its way to the open sea, where the Silence and a dozen other vessels were waiting, almost impatiently.

“Damn Euron,” Balon growled, “he talks big, but when it comes time to put himself in harm’s way, he’d sell out his own mother before doing so.”

Victarion did not contradict his brother. Instead, he looked back at the inferno now raging far behind them. Several ships continued to appear behind the Red Kraken. Some were limping, damaged by rocks, ships, or wreckage. Others were trailing smoke as if they’d been burning but had managed to stop the fires. Finally, some were so low in the water that Victarion heavily doubted the fact that they’d be able to make the trip back to the Iron Islands. All in all, there seemed to have been about forty survivors from the engagement.

The Great Kraken, it seems, was the only one to have survived from the first or second line.

“Do not worry.” Balon put a hand on Victarion’s shoulder. “Today, we may have lost. But we are Ironborn, and the Greenlanders will soon know to fear us once more.”

“What is dead may never die.” Victarion nodded.

“But rises again, harder and stronger.” Balon concluded.

With that, the tattered Iron fleet headed for Pyke, with the intention of never being defeated again.

Chapter Text

Eddard

Ned watched from atop the Riverrun battlements as the last few soldiers crossed the Red Fork in barges. In a few moments, the rebellion will not have any more forces on the southern bank of the river, save for the garrisons left at Lynderly, Stone Hedge, Acorn Hall, Atranta and Pinkmaiden. A sad sight to behold, and one that almost surely sounded the death knell of the rebellion.

Not even the news of the birth of his son, whom Catelyn had called Robb, in honor of Robert Baratheon, had brought him much joy. He had been happy at the news of his son’s birth and his wife’s well-being, of course, but nothing could untie the knots he felt in his stomach.

Just like at the Trident, they had been so close to a victory, and just like at the Trident, they were beaten at the last moment. Not by any treachery, but by sheer numbers and the determination of those who had faced them. He could still remember the terrible melee, as he and the Northern cavalry rushed to face the enemy. He could remember seeing them advance, but get bogged down as hundreds upon hundreds of enemy horses came after them. And, at their head, was Ser Arthur Dayne.

The Kingsguard had cut a swath through his own guard, and had rushed towards Ned. He saw himself repeat the duel against Ser Barristan on the Trident, though this time, he wasn’t fighting for revenge, but survival. The Dornish knight was much more skilled than he was, but Ned had known real battle before, and took advantage of every distraction he could. In the end, there would be no winner to the duel, as they were separated during the fiercest of the fighting. But Ned was sure that he had landed some hits, including one on the Sword of the Morning’s arm and chest. The problem was that he fared no better.

Dawn, House Dayne’s ancestral sword, had cut through his armor and almost through his mail, slicing a path along his ribs. Another slash, which had gotten rid of his shield, also took two fingers with it, off of Ned’s left hand. Needless to say, as they sounded the retreat, Ned was in bad shape. For him, this war was over, in the field, at least.

Thankfully, they had not lost many valuable commanders in battle. They had taken substantial losses, sure, but Royce, Tully, Arryn, Corbray, Blackwood…all lived to fight another day. Many knights would not make it, however, including Martyn Cassel, Mark Ryswell, Steffon Butterwell, Benedar Belmore, Raymund Ruthermont and old Elys Waynwood.

Farewell, companions, and may the Old Gods keep you…

His thought dwelled on what came next. If it were up to him, he would keep fighting, but to what end? The North was impregnable, sure, but would Ned agree to leave the Riverlands to the wolves, so to speak? When he’d married Catelyn Tully, he also sealed an alliance with her house and, by extension, the Riverlands. How would Ned’s wife react when she learned that he’d sold off Riverrun to the Targaryens? No, this was unthinkable. In Ned’s mind, there was better to be done, and the conflict had only really started.

Ned left the battlements, still pondering these thoughts, and rushed down the castle’s corridors, accompanied by a few guards. Riverrun had become crowded these past few days, with the army crossing and preparing for a future engagement as the Royal Army would surely look to cross after reducing Lynderly and Stone Hedge. Would they try crossing at the Stag's Ford again? Or try finding another place to cross? Regardless, Ned doubted that Arthur Dayne would make the same mistake Rhaegar did on the Trident, in what still felt like yesterday…

Well, at least, there was something to smile about. The Greyjoy assault on Seagard had failed, and the information that their ‘friend’ had given them was correct. Lord Jason Mallister’s plan of using fireships against the Greyjoy longships was a brilliant one, and ensured very low losses on the rebel side.

Chasing away these conflicting thoughts, Ned entered Hoster Tully’s solar, a wide room, dominating the river below, well-lit from several windows which offered a breathtaking view of the countryside.

He was not alone, however, as both Hoster and Jon Arryn had been waiting for him.

“Did the last men cross without issue?” Jon Arryn asked as Ned closed the door behind him.

“Nothing to report.” Ned sighed, taking a seat before Hoster Tully, and to Jon Arryn’s left. “That is the last of them crossed.”

“With that, what do we have left from the seven-and-thirty thousand we engaged at Broclair?” Hoster Tully grimaced.

“Six thousand and five-hundred battle casualties. This counts dead, wounded, and captured.” Jon Arryn coughed. “To this must be added the eight hundred men of House Piper, one thousand five hundred men of House Vance, five hundred men of House Lynderly, and one thousand seven-hundred and fifty men of House Bracken, all of whom have left to defend their own keeps.”

“So, this means…” Hoster counted on his fingers. “We are reduced to a force of six-and-twenty thousand, give or take a few hundred men.”

“And that is not counting the deserters,” Ned sighed, “at most we can count on five-and-twenty thousand, no more.”

“And how many men did Rhaegar lose?” Hoster asked.

“If we are generous and say that our men killed at least twice as many as they did to ours, considering the brutal fighting at Broclair, I’d say they have lost between twelve and fifteen thousand men.” Jon Arryn coughed. “However, unlike us, they are probably in high spirits, with few deserters and without keeps to protect, now that we cannot pose a serious threat to Harrenhal.”

“All in all, I’d expect they can field anywhere from fifty to five-and-sixty thousand men against us.” Ned said, grimly. “And no signs point to any potential…collapse of the alliance, at least for the moment.”

“I am not surprised.” Hoster leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the oaken table. “These things will take time, as the wounds in the realm continue to fester.”

“I agree with Lord Tully,” Jon nodded, “it was foolish to hope for Rhaegar’s supporters to start getting at each other’s throats so early. This is a process that will certainly take years, especially as his supporters will start distrusting him, and each other.”

“And which is why it is imperative that we do not let this happen to us.” Hoster pressed on. “No doubt that Rhaegar will seek to destroy House Tully’s influence forever. Houses Darry, Whent, Mooton and others, no doubt, are likely seeking to unseat me as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.”

“Let them drink the poisoned cup.” Ned growled. “Aligning oneself with Rhaegar Targaryen will be their downfall.”

“Not if the King plays his cards right, which is why, again, we need to stay united. Even if…” Hoster let himself slip. “Even if we are to be separated, one way or another.”

“I trust that you have faced the facts, as we have?” Jon sighed.

“Aye.” Hoster shook his head. “And I do not see how we could truly win this war. Make no mistake, we could make them pay for every inch of land they take, but that would only bloody and weaken our lands…for what?”

“Adding to the desolation would do us no good.” Jon agreed. “It is wiser to hold on to the lands still untouched.”

“So, we are giving up?” Ned asked. “After all of this?”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “Not giving up. Merely…asking for a reprieve.”

“None of us will forget what Aerys and Rhaegar did.” Hoster nodded. “But I would rather bend the knee now, to better prepare for the next war. Because another war will come.”

“The peace that will inevitable come from this will satisfy no one.” Jon agreed. “Any man will see this. Perhaps that the southerners will grow slow and lazy, but we will not. Rhaegar’s realm is already fractured, as the Faith and Dornish are outraged at Lyanna’s forced marriage to Rhaegar. Tywin Lannister has been humiliated, and Mace Tyrell fancies himself Hand as Connington will have to deal with all of these sycophants.”

“While the Stormlands conspire against him.” Hoster smiled. “I trust that you have gotten the message.”

“Aye.” Ned nodded. “From Braavos. Lord Manderly gave it to me in absolute secrecy. Do not fret, Lord Tully, I will have men watch over the boy. Us Starks still have roots and contacts in Essos.”

“Renly Baratheon’s continued escape from the Crown will be a massive headache for Rhaegar, as most Stormlords will rally around him.” Jon smiled. “Not to mention his own brother, who will do everything to be a nuisance.”

“All of this, my lords, is very good.” Ned pointed out. “But it does bring us to something important. If we are to throw in the towel, we will have to accept terms. But are we willing to accept those presented by Rhaegar?”

“We must tread carefully.” Jon stroked his grey beard as he spoke. “We want the Crown to accept our terms while not giving much up, all the while not asking for too much so as to keep them interested.”

“It must be pointed out that the Crown itself cannot sustain this war much longer.” Ned corrected. “They would still have to cross the Red Fork.”

“Unfortunately, our armies cannot be everywhere. Even with Lord Arryn’s promise of five thousand more swords to guard the Stag's Ford, we will be hard-pressed to oppose them there.” Lord Tully winced.

“And we do not know to what extent Rhaegar is willing to commit himself to this war. He does say that he only wishes peace in his letters, but his actions prove the contrary.” Jon Arryn frowned. “We are dealing with the Mad King’s son, in the end. He is just as unpredictable as his father, and we must treat him as such.”

“Unfortunately, this means abandoning Lyanna and her son in King’s Landing, Ned.” Hoster sighed.

Ned clenched his fists. He could not imagine Lyanna prisoner of Rhaegar. The thought in itself repulsed him. His sister, in a prison with her rapist…no! It was unfathomable. And yet, he had to think not as Lyanna’s brother, but as Lord Stark. To do what is good for his men and his people. If he wanted a fighting chance to one day get Lyanna back, he needed to accept Jon Arryn’s words.

“I know how hard it is.” Jon leaned towards Ned. “But we need to make sacrifices.”

“I know.” Ned nodded solemnly. “I know…but how do we toe the line, as you say?”

“I think agreeing to Rhaegar’s original terms of compensation for the misdeeds of the Mad King is a good start.” Jon proposed. “But we must insist on prisoner exchanges, and that we will not agree to anything less than one man for another.”

“By my count, we hold many more highborn.” Hoster Tully smiled.

“Which will in turn be ransomed.” Ned agreed.

“And that bastard Bracken will get what he has coming.” Hoster spat. “He holds two Westerlander knights, that Rhaegar will no doubt force him to give up when he eventually surrenders his castle.”

“If.” Jon Arryn pointed out.

“Bah, Bracken has been itching to turn cloak for a while now.” Hoster shook his head. “Unless the loyalists burn all his lands to a crisp, I do not see how things would change for him. Good. Let him trade his prisoners for nothing, while our loyal men get their due.”

“What about the Freys?” Ned asked. “They control a key crossing between the North and the Riverlands, and no doubt that Rhaegar will be keen on seeing Walder or even his son Emmon as head of the house, in order to further keep the Riverlands in check.”

“I’ll be damned if old Walder outlives me,” Hoster scoffed, “but you are right. Darry and Mooton, I can always manage. Bracken? I’ve got Blackwood. Whent? There’s hardly any left, and Harrenhal will eventually pass on to someone whose ambition does not match his means. But the Freys…then it is a little much. That is why I had a proposition.”

“What would this be?” Jon Arryn asked.

“We would ask…for the North to annex the Frey lands.”

Ned and Jon both gasped at the same time.

“Hear me out.” Hoster raised a hand. “This would only be temporary. We would sign an agreement in which the Frey lands would be attached to the Riverlands once again once…things have settled. A written agreement, if you would. Then, Rhaegar would not be able to do much against me with the Freys as your vassals.”

“They would still be on the border…” Jon Arryn pointed out.

“And who is to say Rhaegar will even accept?” Ned asked. “Lord Hosteen is not bright, and no doubt that Reed can keep him occupied, but this may be a little suspicious, no?”

“I suppose it is.” Hoster smiled. “But, really, why would Rhaegar say no? Ripping away the Frey lands technically weakens us much more. Else, we could also attach the Mallister lands too.”

“You’ll need support, and Lord Mallister is one of your best men.” Jon Arryn pointed out.

“I agree, Mallister is a bit much.” Ned agreed with his foster father. “But I agree that I do not see much else that can be done aside from…giving us the Freys. Let us say, as a price for their betrayal? No one likes turncloaks.”

“Indeed.” Hoster nodded. “We should be strict on the issue, while giving the illusion of conceding on other points. Less coin, hostages…”

“Hostages will only be required for the Riverlands, no doubt.” Jon Arryn pointed out. “I highly doubt that Rhaegar could enforce the North or Vale giving anyone.”

“And if they did, we could always just keep delaying.” Ned scoffed. “It is not like Rhaegar will come and get the hostages himself.”

“On this, we agree.” Jon nodded. “But our friend, Lord Tully, will no doubt be sucked dry. Your son, Edmure, may need to pay the price for it.”

“Yes.” Hoster sighed. “Though I will do my utmost for my son not to get roped into Rhaegar’s grasp. Edmure is a smart boy, he will know where his loyalties lie.”

“Let us hope, Hoster, let us hope…” Jon sighed. “In the meantime, we can wait for Rhaegar to send another peace offer, like he does after every battle. We mustn’t be too eager to accept a peace.”

“Nor should we show any sign that we are ready to lay down our arms.” Hoster added.

“Well,” Ned smiled for the fist time in the meeting. “We are laying down our swords to better stab them in the chest with our daggers, no?”

“Rhaegar would also do well to watch for the daggers in his back.” Jon Arryn smiled back. “I do not think he has as many friends as he thinks he has…”

Chapter Text

Gerion

Gerion looked at the vast river before him. The Red Fork, wide, but shallow, and dotted with small islands and treacherous logs rising from the riverbed. And, beyond it, hundreds of tents dotting the horizon, behind the banks and various swamps.

Crossing the river would’ve undoubtedly led to untold casualties, especially considering the near-disaster that was the Battle of the Trident. Already, after the costly victory at Broclair, the loyalist camp was pessimistic about their chances at a crossing, especially since it was clear that the rebels had seen reinforcements come to protect the Crossroads.

Arthur Dayne himself surveyed the riverbanks, only to find that possible crossing point were jealously guarded by rebel troops, and that any attempt to find a possible unknown crossing point would be very tricky considering the flat terrain. Such an action would be immediately seen by the rebels and could easily be countered, especially considering the Royal Army’s size.

At least, the victory at Broclair had led to some good news. Lord Jonos Bracken had surrendered his castle without a fight, whilst Lord Lychester sought to confirm the terms of amnesty before surrendering his own keep. Atranta, on the other hand, still resisted and had to be sieged by a force of seven thousand men, and as such, had still not fallen. Not like Ser Arthur expected it to fall in the short-term anyway, but Atranta’s presence, especially close to Riverrun’s opposite bank, was like a dagger in the rebel’s back that needed to be dealt with. Another problem which hampered the Royal Army’s effort to bring the war northwards.

And then there were the brilliant ideas of the Small Council. One proposition was a landing in the Vale, near Gulltown, where it was suspected that loyalists could take the town for the King. The fact that we had not heard of these loyalists since the fall of the port city wasn’t on any mind at that point…but the richest idea was involving the Ironborn. After their stunning defeat at Seagard, the fact that the squids could do anything useful was not exactly in anyone’s mind either. But the proposition which involved Greyjoy longships transporting men to land on the Stony Shore was beyond the realms of reality.

No, really, the only logical decision was to try to force a crossing somewhere. There would be a bloody battle, and no doubt that the casualties of Broclair would be matched, but there was a consensus between the main commanders that the rebels could be at worst forced to concede a foothold on the northern bank of the Red Fork, and thus turn the Riverlander Campaign decisively in the Crown’s favor.

Once again, luckily, there would be no need for another bloodbath. For the first time, following the Crown’s success at Broclair, the rebels answered Rhaegar’s call for peace with offers for negotiations. The news caused a rift in both the Small Council and the War Council. In both cases, people debated whether this was a sign of weakness from the rebels, or if it was a genuine effort by the rebels to achieve peace.

As always, the truth lay a little in the middle. Since the beginning of the rebellion, the Crown had underestimated the rebel will to stay together, no matter the circumstances. Separate peaces sent to Stark and Arryn had been rejected out of hand. But, this time, the Crown agreed to negotiate with all three at once, and found the rebels much more willing to listen.

Both sides, however, distrusted each other at best, and hated each other at worst. Thus, negotiations were handled by messengers crossing each side of the Red Fork, with no side willing to engage with the other beyond the usual pleasantries. And, after six months of negotiations, a treaty was finally agreed upon.

And thus, Gerion found himself in the middle of the Riverlands, ready to sign this peace.

He himself had never been involved in the negotiations. All he did during this six-month truce was to recover from his wounds, and enjoy the various Riverlander inns, taverns and whorehouses along his way. No, really, if anyone was ever negotiating anything in this family, it was Tywin.

But Tywin also knew that signing his name to this peace of paper would be insulting for him. And thus, who was chosen to sign the peace in the name of the Westerlands? Well, Gerion Lannister, of course!

The location of the peace treaty’s signing was not chosen by chance. Each party refusing to go towards each other’s territory, they thus found the largest island on the Red Fork, a large sandy bank with large grass and several pine trees, named the Isle of Pheasants. Only the signatories of the peace treaty would be allowed to move there, with several septons and guards to ensure that the rules of nobility and diplomacy were being followed.

With Gerion, who would sign for the Westerlands, were representatives from each loyal kingdom. Mace Tyrell, despite his new position as Master of Laws, insisted in signing the treaty for the Reach. Prince Doran Martell of Dorne was much wiser, having given such task to Lord Trebor Jordayne. The Iron Islands sent a Harlaw, whilst not even King Rhaegar himself went to sign for the Crownlands, sending the Lord Hand, Jon Connington, in his stead.

This thinly veiled insult did not fail to annoy the rebel leaders.

As soon as Gerion touched down on the Isle of Pheasants, he could finally meet the men that had fought him for the better part of two years. Lord Jon Arryn, in the middle, commanded himself well for a man of his age, standing upright and without flinching. The old man did not even have a cane to help him stand, and his presence alone felt like he owned the entire place.

Hoster Tully, to his right, made almost an opposite impression. The man looked sickly, though not frail, and had bags under his eyes, having likely not slept for many moons. Finally, Lord Eddard Stark, on Arryn’s left, had to stand with a cane, likely due to the wounds he suffered at Broclair. The Stark’s eyes were dark black, almost as if they were not there at all, which did not fail to send a shiver down Gerion’s spine. He could feel Stark’s glare pierce through his eyes, skin and bone. An icy chill seemed to envelop him, making him quiver for a brief moment.

“Does the King not wish to grace himself with his presence?” Jon Arryn laughed as he saw Connington approach him.

“The King has other matters to attend.” Connington gruffly replied. “But he sent me in his stead.”

“You?” Hoster Tully laughed, “Are we signing a peace or are just here for a dance? Why do the King and his Lord Paramount not come here? Are we not worthy of their time?”

“I am Hand of the King and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.” Jon Connington frowned.

“Stannis Baratheon is Lord Paramount.” Ned Stark icily replied.

“The King forfeited House Baratheon’s title.” Connington snapped back. “You should do well to remember that.”

“The North always remembers.” Ned Stark’s voice cut deep. “Do not fret, Connington.”

There was an eerie silence for some time. A sort of lull which came over the island, with all participants observing each other. Once again, Jon Arryn cut the silence.

“Well, one can never expect anything decent of King Rhaegar, considering his conduct so far,” the old Valeman sighed, “let it be recorded that we do appreciate Lord Tyrell’s presence, as he seems to be the only one here who knows what respect is, even in war.”

The comments made Mace Tyrell smile widely, earning a frown from Connington.

“House Tyrell always respects strength and resilience, as well as the centuries-old customs and traditions of diplomacy.” The Lord of Highgarden smiled. “And it is an honor to meet those who gave such an admirable fight until now.”

Gerion repressed a sigh. Why did the oaf of Highgarden always have to be so pompous with everyone?

“Well, you are lucky, Connington,” Jon Arryn frowned at the red-headed man, “that the terms of the treaty already have been agreed upon, and that I did not care for whose signature was on that paper. Let us sit and get it over with.”

In the middle of the island, a table had been prepared, large enough so that one man may lie on it without touching the other side. This kept the rebels at a…respectable distance.

A septon brought the treaty, handing it for everyone to sign. He also brought a copy for each Lord Paramount – or his representative – for their own personal records. It also allowed Gerion to take a closer look at the conditions of this peace.

Houses Stark, Arryn, Tully and their vassals will once more swear fealty to the Iron Throne, and King Rhaegar Targaryen…

This one was to be expected. A logical return to the fold.

The rebels will recognize Lyanna Stark as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Prince Aemon Targaryen as the legitimate son of her union with King Rhaegar Targaryen. They will recognize his place in the succession, third behind Prince Aegon Targaryen and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.

Ned Stark likely spat on that one before signing.

House Tully’s title and position of Lord Paramount of the Trident will be revoked. The aforementioned title and benefits will be given to House Darry.

And Hoster Tully probably spat on that one, too.

Riverlander Rebel lands will be seized appropriately, and given to houses which stayed loyal to King Rhaegar Targaryen.

Most of these houses being near the God’s Eye, Gerion did not know how much the Crown could really take. Especially since, for the moment, King Rhaegar refused to give any of the “latecomers” any lands.

All rebel houses will be required to send hostages to King’s Landing to uphold the terms of the peace.

Gerion wondered how effective this order would be. No doubt that the capital would see little Valemen or Northerners in the near future…

Ransoming of prisoners on both sides will be allowed, except for the rebel houses currently under Crown occupation. All riches taken by each side in the War will be allowed to be kept, with the exception of ancestral heirlooms such as Valyrian steel swords, family paintings, or other keepsakes to be defined.

This one was less expected, but it did throw a bone to the rebels, who had more valuable prisoners than they. However, it would not fail to make the houses which switched sides recently quite angry, especially as Lord Bracken expected a hefty ransom from the Riverlanders he was keeping in his dungeons.

As compensation for the murder of Ser Jeffory Mallister and Ser Marq Mallister, the Crown will grant House Mallister two hundred thousand gold dragons. Additionally, House Mallister will be exempt from taxes for a period of three years.

A good compensation for House Mallister, and one which does not affect House Tully. Again, someone will be bound to be angry…

As compensation for the murder of Ser Kyle Royce, the Crown will grant House Royce one hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. Additionally, House Royce will be exempt from taxes for a period of five years. 

As compensation for the murder of Ser Elbert Arryn, the Crown will grant House Arryn four hundred thousand gold dragons. Additionally, House Arryn will be exempt from taxes for a period of five years.

This will not go well with the realm’s finances. Gerion chuckled at the headaches it will cause Tywin.

As compensation for the torture of Ser Ethan Glover, the Crown will release him without ransom. Additionally, the Crown will pay House Glover fifty thousand gold dragons.

A fair offer for a man who had a great brush with death.

As compensation for the murder of Lord Rickard Stark and Ser Brandon Stark, the Crown will grant House Stark one million five hundred thousand gold dragons. Additionally, House Stark will be exempt from taxes for a period of ten years. Finally, House Stark and their bannermen, as a gesture of goodwill from Queen Lyanna, will not have to provide any hostages to the Crown.

Well…it is not like it was enforceable in the first place. And the Crown has the greatest hostage of all: Ned Stark’s own sister. But the prices which the Crown had to pay made Gerion’s head spin. No doubt, Tywin would find the money…but, gods!

The Crown will recognize House Stark’s dominion over House Frey in perpetuity, with the obligation of forcing reductions in price of the Crosssing ranging from one hundred per cent for members of House Targaryen, to fifty per cent for members of any House which loyally fought in His Grace’s forces during the Rebellion.

Generous, considering the North could hardly defend the Crossing if the loyalists had taken a foothold north of the Red Fork. But…they hadn’t. And good riddance to the weasels, anyhow. No doubt, Tywin would be mildly annoyed, but it was no great loss. Though, it did show that the rebels were willing to go to great lengths to protect those that fought for them, as Gerion saw Lord Hosteen Frey as cold meat if he ever was to be handed over to the Crown.

Finally, the Crown acknowledges that the order given to Lord Arryn to hand over Lords Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark was illegal, and the result of a madman’s orders. However, the Crown condemns Houses Stark, Tully and Arryn for pursuing their rebellion after King Aerys II’s death and King Rhaegar’s accession to the throne.

A way of taking responsibility while still shifting the blame…oh well, at least it was over. Well, for the moment.

Gerion signed his name on the bottom of the treaty and made his way back after a short but firm acknowledgement to the three rebel lords. As he walked back to the barge, he was accosted by a surprisingly happy Lord Tyrell.

“Well, Ser Gerion, it is finally over!” Mace Tyrell was almost singing, “It’s now time for a great peace.”

“Peace?” Gerion looked at him with confused eyes. “My lord, this isn’t peace! It’s a truce for twenty years!”

Chapter Text

Elia

The bells rang through the streets of the capital, echoing through a mass of people, houses and horses. For the realm, it meant the end of a brutal war which had cost thousands of lives. For the people of King’s Landing, however, it meant little than another distraction in their day.

As Elia and her escort made their way down the King’s Way, she could notice the capital was in its usual bustling state of activity. Merchants were in the streets, selling various items at each corner, whilst goldcloaks looked on for thieves. Smiths had opened their forges, children were running around, and the occasional cart or mounted knight pierced the crowd which had formed along King’s Landing main artery.

In other words, a day just like another in the life of the capital. Though, as Elia noticed, most of the smallfolk felt a lot more relaxed. The disposing of the last wildfire caches had certainly been part of the reason, but she presumed that the idea of not being potentially sent to be burned alive for the King’s amusement at any time may have also contributed to the mood in the city. Not to mention that most of the soldiers previously camped around the capital had now left, whether for the Riverlands or for home.

All in all, a sense of normalcy had come back to the capital. The smallfolk looked hopefully towards the future, as the nobility grumbled and raged.

The terms of Rhaegar’s peace were certainly on many minds. Some felt like the terms were too generous for the rebels, the sums spent too absurdly high. Jon Connington and Doran alike had pestered against the high reparations given to the rebels, especially as it would keep the Crown tied down to the Lannisters and Tyrells. While the fighting war was finished, the war of influence in the Red Keep had only begun.

Elia’s party, consisting of her, Ser Aron Santagar, and six other men, passed in front of the Alchemist’s Guildhall, at the foot of Visenya’s Hill. The Queen couldn’t help but feel disgust at the Mad King’s enforcers, who had nearly condemned the entire city.

Luckily, she did not have to dwell on it for long. Her horse moved up the paved road to the left, as her destination came into view. There it was, the Great Sept of Baelor, in all its magnificence.

Elia’s party passed next to Baelor the Blessed’s marble statue, parting the small crowd which gathered around the plaza. Once the crowd had been dispersed, Ser Aron helped Elia off her horse with a gentle hand. The two of them then ordered their escort to follow them through the rich gardens surrounding the sept, arriving under the marble stairs of the Great Sept.

There, a septon had been waiting for them. He was old, with a kept, white beard, though he needed no cane to walk. He bowed respectfully in front of the party, and smiled.

“Your Grace, it is an honor.” He nodded. “However, due to the rules of this holy place, only your Kingsguard may come armed into the sanctuary. Your other men may follow, but unarmed.”

“Of course, we will follow the holy rules.” Elia placed a hand on her heart. “My men will stay outside, and Ser Aron will escort me.”

“Then, follow me, Your Grace.”

The three of them entered the Great Sept, passing the Hall of Lamps and into the central, domed, room, from which hung the great statues of the Seven. It is not here, however, that Elia was looking to go to. Instead, she followed the septon to a small door, which led to a long indoor corridor, from which emanated several other doors. After a few moments, the corridor opened on a private garden, with small pools and trees, where septons and septas likely went to pray without fear of being bothered.

“I will leave you here, Your Grace.” The septon bowed, leaving back through the corridor from which they’d come.

Instead, another, older, man welcomed her as she entered the gardens. The man was dressed in simple red and green clothing, and used a cane to walk. He had a small, grey, beard, and small, tired eyes. However, his demeanor was relaxed, and his gaze kind.

“Your Holiness.” Elia bowed. “I am glad to see you.”

“As am I, Your Grace,” the old man feebly bowed to kiss her hand. “I believe we have some…issues to talk about.”

Elia smiled, and ordered Ser Aron to stand watch. The Dornish knight nodded, leaving Elia and the High Septon to walk towards benches facing a small fountain. The small garden reminded her of some of the pools of the Water Gardens, in Dorne, bringing her a kind of soothing feeling. One that almost made her as if she was home.

“How fares the King?” the High Septon asked as he took a seat.

“Well now that peace has come to the realm.” Elia sighed. “But he still has not really recovered from his mother’s death.”

Peace had come only three months after Rhaella Targaryen’s death, which Rhaegar had wept dearly. Elia could not help but have much sympathy for a woman which had suffered so much, and yet had been denied her freedom right before it really began. Rhaegar wanted to name her child ‘Visenya’, but Rhaella had already given the girl her name, and Rhaegar was too overcome with sorrow to change it.

No sooner had she been born that Princess Daenerys became the center of political intrigue in the capital. Prince Viserys, for his part, was to foster at Driftmark with the Velaryons, which Rhaegar had hoped would keep him close to the capital while still giving him a chance to experience something else than the years of hell he’d spent in the city.

But, as Rhaegar wanted to keep Daenerys with him, he soon found himself in a predicament. The cost of the peace he sought to build was high. Too high for the Crown to burden the cost alone. And, aside from the Iron Bank, there were many houses which it needed to lend from, chiefly Houses Lannister and Tyrell. Tywin and Mace thus fought tooth and nail for betrothals they felt were due to them, which broke Rhaegar a little more.

Finally, Elia convinced her husband to betroth Aegon to Margaery Tyrell. The Reach was the region most untouched by the War, Mace Tyrell had proved his worth in battle, and seemed to be respected by his bannermen. Also, he wasn’t Tywin Lannister. And Elia would’ve rather trusted Aegon to a pit of vipers than the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Tywin, thus, got Princess Daenerys, but no betrothal. Since Rhaegar adamantly refused any betrothal to Tywin’s son Tyrion, which Rhaegar almost choked at when he heard the proposition, there was only one option left. This was fostering. Just like Aemon in Dorne and Viserys at Driftmark, the young girl would have to spend nine months in the West and three months in the capital.

Elia felt bad for the little girl, having to spend her days with Tywin Lannister, because of her older brother’s mistake. But Rhaegar had dug himself into that situation, and there wasn’t much Elia could do.

Her mind wandered back to the conversation with the High Septon. After exchanging a few pleasantries about health and some current events, the real subject of their meeting finally came up.

“Your Grace,” the High Septon coughed, “I must warn you that the recent situation with Queen Lyanna has upset many of us.”

“And you will find that it has deeply upset me as well.” Elia frowned.

“Alas!” the High Septon sighed. “There are many faithful who are outraged by this decision. I had even managed to convince the King’s own father, the Mad King, to stay true to his wife. But not his son. A true failure for which I should atone for.”

“In truth, Your Holiness, such an act caught all of us off-guard.” Elia replied. “I do not doubt that if you had known, you would have done your utmost to stop this from happening.”

“What is done is done, isn’t it?” the High Septon trembled. “But this situation now leaves me in a precarious position. There are many who criticise me for not doing enough. The truth is, Your Grace, I did not want to add more violence during a war which had already taken many lives.”

“For a city that already has suffered so much?”

“Exactly, Your Grace…” the High Septon let out a deep sigh, “there are many in the ranks of the septons who see me as weak. They see my refusal to defy King Rhaegar as a sign of submission and corruption. Some even say that I, in person, officiated this marriage.”

“You fear for your life?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But I am no fool, Your Grace, I am old. And I will die soon. My successor, however, may well prove to be a lot less patient than I am.”

“You mean that you fear someone more radical could take your place?” Elia asked.

“There has been talk of…reviving the Faith Militant.” The High Septon cringed. “Some have argued that since Rhaegar took two wives, just as Maegor had, the Conciliator’s disbandment of the Faith Militant was invalid.”

“Taking up arms would revive the flames of rebellion across the continent.” Elia frowned. “While there are more…subtle ways of working against the King’s plans.”

“Of course.” The High Septon nodded. “And House Martell has been a stalwart ally in those efforts, proving that even the King’s own family is against these ungodly acts. But that is not the view of everyone in the Most Devout.”

“You need my help in keeping this…problem away?” Elia asked.

“I do, Your Grace.” The High Septon nodded. “For the realm.”

“Then you’ll have my utmost support, Your Holiness.” Elia nodded.

“I’ll see that the Faith greatly rewards your efforts, Your Grace.” The High septon breathed a sigh of relief. “And I will light a candle to the Mother tonight in your honor.”

“I thank you, your holiness.”

The old man is right, Elia thought as she helped him up, before wishing him a good day. The Most Devout and the most radical of the faithful can feel insulted by Rhaegar’s actions. However, Elia highly doubted that she could keep the Faith Militant at bay forever. No, really, she needed to keep them contained for some time. Time for her to be far, far gone from the capital, and her children with her. But this would have to wait until she had a firmer grasp on the situation.

However, Elia smiled. With these events, she now had a foothold inside the Faith. And with the Faith comes the support of the vast majority of the smallfolk…

Chapter Text

Davos

As a sailor, Davos Seaworth was already familiar with Braavos. When he was a young man, he’d stared with astonishment at the great Titan which protected the harbor, at the great Arsenal which could build a war galley in a day, and at the multitude of canals which dotted the city. He’d frequented many taverns, inns, docks, whorehouses and other places where sailors went to drink, rest, or just sought work.

But, in all his travels to the Free City, Davos had never gone inside the Sealord’s Palace. He’d seen it from afar, that was true. It was magnificent, with its domes overlooking the city. But never up close. He’d sailed into the Ragman’s Harbor numerous times, but kept clear of the Purple Harbor, where only Braavosi ships were allowed.

It was true that this was the best part of the city. All the streets were cobbled, and establishments looked much nicer than the ones near Ragman’s Harbor. Here, men and women alike dressed in rich and fine clothes. Some wore extravagant colors, while others kept to simple dark blue clothing, but whose intricate patterns must have cost a small fortune to commission.

The docks were lined with purple sails, dozens of ships unloading their cargo from all over the known world. The smell of the sea mixed with that of fish, spices and incense which was brought down from each ship. The sound of gulls cackling could be heard over the chatter of the townspeople, the birds looking for an easy meal as they flew over some fishing vessels.

Davos could even see some trees dotting the large cobbled roads, a highly unusual sight for a city which usually possessed no large vegetation, with only the richest manses being allowed to afford such a luxury.

“It is beautiful.” Renly Baratheon gasped as he walked alongside Davos. “Much more than Lys.”

“Lys is a city built by slavers, run by slavers, and made for slavers.” Andrew Estermont spat. “Braavos was built by ordinary men, run by them, and made for them.”

Davos nodded, but said nothing. He did not like Lys either, the atmosphere of the city having almost strangled him. That island gave him the chills, especially as he saw the collared men and women moving around, with the sad eyes of one bound to a life of servitude.

And Lys was a city that could hide a dagger in every street, and a man willing to sell his mother out for a few coppers was present at every corner. A city built on the commerce of the flesh, and whose degeneracy was present at every street. Needless to say, after a short stay in Tyrosh, Davos and Andrew did not stay there long. Instead, they were transported northwards, thanks to Lord Stark’s contacts. He had arranged a passage for Braavos…safety, they thought.

It made sense, in Davos’ view. The North was Braavos’ primary source of timber, which the Braavosi used extensively, whether for their fleet, construction, finished goods or even firewood. As such, there were many Northmen in the city, and no doubt many willing to shelter and protect Renly and the few men assigned to his guard. What’s more, Braavosi were known to be smiling, kind and joyful people, men of honor and loyalty, more akin to those of the Seven Kingdoms.

However, when Davos learned that they would be meeting the Sealord of Braavos in person, he was shocked. Of course, the matter of Renly Baratheon living in the city must’ve piqued the Sealord’s interest, but a meeting was…unexpected, and certainly one in the heart of Braavos’ power.

He continued walking, past the towering Iron Bank, which likely owned much of the Seven Kingdoms. Past the great Moon Pool, where men duelled with swords and sabres. Past the public garden, and the great white square, which was closely guarded by at least a dozen soldiers.

Andrew went to one of them, speaking a few words in broken Braavosi. He, Andrew and Renly were let through, but their escort was asked to wait for them outside. They entered through the wide gates, following a cobbled path towards the Sealord’s Palace, which towered over them.

It was a marvel of Braavosi architecture. A large façade with many sculptures and a dozen columns stood in front of the palace, flanked by two towers three storeys tall. Behind these was the large rectangular building, which was just as long, with one dome protruding from either side. Over the center was the largest dome of all, supported by great columns and with purple tiles, which led upwards to the spire with its great golden thunderbolt at the very top.

It was no fortress like Storm’s End, but Davos could think of few palaces which matched its glory. Not even the Stormlander stories about Summerhall could compare to this, in his opinion.

As they were led through the palace’s interior, Davos could only admire the richly-decorated walls, filled with paintings, mosaics and tapestries, depicting scenes from all corners of the world, naval battles and far-flung lands.

They were led to a small room, where they were told to wait for a few moments. Then, after a few moments of anxious wait, three men entered the room.   

“Let me do the talking, Seaworth.” Andrew whispered as the three men stepped forward.

The first one was an old man with a pointed white beard, though his build was large and muscly, and his clothes a silken blue laden with gold, green and purple. No doubt that this was the Sealord of Braavos, as the two men next to him were armed with swords, though they could not be more different from one another.

The man to the Sealord’s left was a tall, handsome, dark-haired man with a small mustache and fair skin. The man to the right, however, was a darker-skinned, gruff and scarred man, with a large, relatively unkept brown beard, which reminded Davos of a sellsword. But what would a sellsword be doing here, in Braavos?

“My lords,” the Sealord boomed, “I am Sealord Mereno Shahar, Sealord of Braavos. Welcome to my humble demesne.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” Ser Andrew nodded with a smile, and without flinching, “my name is Ser Andrew Estermont, and this is Renly Baratheon and Ser Davos Seaworth.”

“Lord Stark informed me of your coming.” The Sealord nodded. “A friend of the Lord of Winterfell is a friend of mine.”

“I thank you, my lord.” Ser Andrew nodded.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, youngling.” The Sealord moved down towards Renly to shake his hand, which Renly took with a smile. “You remind me of my grandson, Leoryas. Ah, a small boy, like you, though with blonde hair and brown eyes.”

“He sounds nice.” Renly simply replied.

“My lord.” Davos coughed, disobeying Andrew’s instructions. “Pardon my rough accent, I was not born in the greatest of places. However, if I may ask, why does the Sealord of Braavos himself wish of us?”

“Ah, a common man, born from common stock, and risen to such heights!” the Sealord laughed, clasping Davos’ shoulders. “You would make any Bravo proud. I did not know that the Sunset Kingdoms still had such traditions. Did you, Syrio?”

“No, my lord.” The fair-skinned swordsman shook his head.

“Well, Ser Davos, it is simple.” The Sealord continued. “Braavos and the Iron Throne have good ties, even with the recent…conflicts. There are many men from these Kingdoms in the city, and as such, any information could come to them quite quickly should there be any…talk.”

“I like, however, to keep good relations with my friends in the North.” The Sealord continued after taking a breath. “Lord Stark’s father was a good friend of mine, and I have been to Winterfell myself. But, less about me. The reason I am doing this, is by…paying my respects to old Rickard, on one hand, and securing good relations with my Northern friends, on the other. In this way, I am informed of anything that happens to you during your stay here, but I can also help in any way I can. And this involves me knowing what you are doing at all times…for your protection.”

Davos frowned. There was something amiss here, but he did not exactly know what. He turned to Ser Andrew, who also seemed to be circumspect at the Sealord’s words.

“I’ve arranged a house for you, to stay in.” The Sealord continued. “It is situated south from here, near the Green Canal, twelve streets past the Iron Bank. A beautiful house, which was once owned by a very wealthy Stark merchant, who died a few dozen years ago. I had it renovated, staffed, and Lord Stark has arranged for tutors and protection.”

The Sealord turned to the gruff man, who smiled.

“My lords, I am Ser Jasper Karstark, of the Company of the Rose. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Karstark?” Renly let out. “But you’re not Northern!”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this.” Jasper let out a small chuckle “The Company of the Rose was founded by Northerners who refused to bend the knee. Of course, over three hundred years, the Company grew to include a large majority of men which weren’t Northerners. But there are some of us left. However, we grew as Essosi, and many of us never visited the North. My father was Lymond Karstark, but my mother was a simple midwife from Qohor. Our lines our proud and relate to great families of the North, but we’ve long ceased to look like our cousins from across the sea.”

“I was just as confused, excuse me for thinking it.” Ser Andrew let out. “You looked more Dornishman to me than Northerner.”

“Ah, but you have to see Ser Marq Mormont, then! He’s got skin dark as night, since both his mother and grandmother were from the Summer Isles! No doubt the current Lord Mormont would choke on his wine seeing his distant cousin as so.”

Davos would pay good money to see that.

“Well, my friends, I have organised a dinner for us.” The Sealord smiled. “But first, would you like to tour the Menagerie?”

“Is this a place with animals?” Renly asked.

“Oh yes, young Renly.” The Sealord smiled. “We have tigers, lions, elephants, lizard-lions, manticores, walking lizards and many other things from all corners of the world. Would you like to see them?”

“Oh, yes!” Renly let out excitedly.

“Come then, and I’ll also present you to my son.”

Davos frowned as he saw the two leave the room, with them following closely behind. Something was definitively wrong.

“Ser Jaclyn, what do you think the Sealord’s game is?” Davos asked, in a low enough voice for no one to be able to hear.

“Hmm…I do not know.” The Karstark-born knight replied. “Here, everything is about politics or coin. One may think holding Renly in Braavos could give them leverage with the Iron Throne if needed…or that the Sealord may be holding him for political purposes, I do not know.”

“And are you on his payroll?” Davos asked.

“No.” Ser Jaclyn shook his head. “Lord Stark paid the Company for your protection, independent from the Sealord. The old man just gave you a place to stay, and protection from…outside influence.”

“A prison, then.” Ser Andrew sighed.

“Better than a life on the run.” Ser Jaclyn shrugged.

“Is the house sufficiently large, though?” Estermont asked again.

“Ah, yes, I have seen it myself.” Ser Jaclyn nodded. “A great manse, with several rooms, a sparring court, and even a small garden with a few trees. Though, it is hardly discreet.”

“Why is that?” Davos asked. “Does it tower like the Sealord’s palace, over the others?”

“No.” Ser Jaclyn shook his head. “But the façade is well-decorated, and the manse’s main entrance has a large door. A bright red one.”

Chapter Text

The Black Fox

Melessa Florent was a woman raised to be a perfect woman, and a dutiful wife. To rule over her husband’s lands as he rode out to war, and to bear him children which she would then raise to rule his lands in turn.

When she wed into House Tarly, Melessa expected to have to contend with war, hunts and jousts. House Tarly had a proud martial history, and one that ran deeper than that of House Florent. As such, she’d expected her husband to ride out to war, and possibly never come back.

But what she did not expect, was to be a widow so soon. Randyll had ridden out when she was heavily pregnant, telling her to name the babe Dickon, if it were a boy, or Talla, if it were a girl. Melessa acquiesced, of course. She was never one to refuse her husband’s wishes, though she did not fail to make her voice heard if he displeased her.

There was no love lost between her and Randyll. He was a stern and serious man, but he treated her with dignity and respect, which is all she could ask for. She returned the same things, and set about to do her duty as she had been taught. There was no warmth between them, as was expected for a marriage which was arranged when they were children. Some of Melessa’s friends or sisters grew to love their husbands, but she knew that it would be impossible for her.

So, she never really tried to force any love between them, as she’d be content with respect. She gave Randyll and heir, and was pregnant with another child when he rode out to fight for Rhaegar.

“Be safe.” He’d whispered into his ear when he left.

“I will.” Randyll had simply answered. No smile, just an acknowledgement that he’d be back eventually.

This was not to be.

When she heard the news of her husband’s death, on the field of Broclair, she had not wept. No tears shed, no burning feeling in her heart, just a sinking feeling. That of a woman who was now alone at the head of a powerful house of the Reach, with two children still of age of suckling at her teat. No doubt that many would soon prey on her lands, wishing to strike when House Tarly was at its weakest.

Her father, Lord Alester Florent, of course. Melessa was a Florent herself, and no doubt that her father would soon send men to protect her. These men would then slowly build up Florent influence in the area, to be sure. Melessa welcomed it, but did not wish to spit on her husband’s legacy, either. When she donned a Tarly cloak at her wedding, she made the vow to stay loyal to her new house, and she did not intend to give Horn Hill to her father on a silver platter.

But her father mattered little. What mattered was the Tyrells and Hightowers. Both were large, influential and powerful houses. Mace Tyrell had managed to secure his daughter’s hand to the heir to the Iron Throne, and his influence had almost decupled since the start of the Rebellion. No doubt that the Lord of Highgarden thought himself invincible, notably with a web of alliances that spanned the entire Reach.

In truth, Melessa did not remember a time where House Tyrell was as powerful as this. And this was concerning, as it meant Horn Hill could be the next jewel in Mace’s collection. No doubt that in the coming months, he would make offers to betroth little Samwell to a Tyrell cousin…

But Melessa was a Florent, and as a Florent, the dislike of Tyrells ran through her blood. This would have left the Hightowers…who wed into the Tyrells and Florents alike. The Lords of Oldtown had evidently placed their bets in all the right places, marrying into all of the most influential houses of the Reach, in order to be ready for anything. And, as far as old Leyton Hightower was concerned, his great-grandson would one day sit the Iron Throne, something no Hightower had achieved since the days of the Dance.

This meant that she would need to find allies elsewhere. For this, she had explored several possibilities. Houses Rowan, Meadows, Footly, Merryweather and Oakheart were all options, until she settled on the perfect one.

House Redwyne.

They, in Melessa’s mind, were the key to the Reach, even if they did not know it yet. They were tied to the Tyrells, Rowans and Hightowers alike, and commanded the largest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. Having ties to them would therefore be…good. And it would also protect her house from Tyrell influence, as no doubt fat Mace Tyrell would be content to bind House Tarly to his grasp through the Arbor.

It is thus that, on this day, she welcomed her distinguished guest.

“Marq, Imry, please let him in.” She signalled to the two guards, both loyal to House Florent, and sent by her father the moment he had heard of her husband’s death.

The doors to Melessa’s rooms entered, revealing a man in his forties, with red hair, a freckled face and a bushy beard. Ser Denys Redwyne, Lord Paxter’s younger brother, was not what one would call the epitome of beauty, but he had some kind of natural charm she could not put her finger on. His brown eyes met hers, and he bore a soft smile as he marched towards her, curtsying and kissing her hand.

“Lady Tarly, it is an honor. My condolences for your loss.”

“Ser Denys, it pleases me to meet you as well.”

“My brother was surprised when he received your raven.” Ser Denys explained has he took a seat in front of her. “It is true that we know of House Tarly’s great repute, but we have not exchanged much over the years.”

“I think it is time for this to change.” Melessa replied with a smile. “After all, your brother was Lord Tyrell’s best admiral, as my former husband was his best general.”

“This is true.” Ser Denys nodded. “We have done our duty well, to achieve victory for House Targaryen.”

“To our victory then,” Melessa said, filling two cups of wine and raising it in the air, “though, I will say, it came at quite the cost.”

Ser Denys drank the wine along with her, and nodded at her words.

“House Tarly paid a hefty price, and one that I’m sure the King will reward you for.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure the King will honor Randyll’s memory. He has sent us back Heartsbane, seven protect him, and sent me a personal letter of condolences.”

“I am pleased to hear this.” Ser Denys nodded. “And you are right, the ties between our houses have been strengthened by this war. We should explore them further.”

“I had the idea…” Melessa twirled her fingers around her wine cup, “of sending my son, Samwell, as a page or squire to your brother, Lord Paxter.”

“My brother would be honored.” Ser Denys smiled. “Though, if you do not mind me saying, but Tarlys were always men of infantry, not seafarers.”

“War is war, a horse is a horse and a sword is a sword.” Melessa shrugged. “I am not asking him to become Lord of the Arbor.”

“Of course,” Ser Denys laughed. “I see no issue with that, and I can transmit your proposal to my brother.”

“Thank you, Ser Denys.”

The Redwyne knight took his leave, exiting the door with a bow.

Now, she could only hope that Samwell grew to like the place, eventually. And she would need to talk of it with her father, who no doubt had hoped to foster Samwell at Brightwater…

Chapter Text

Eddard

Winterfell was bustling with crowds on this day, with banners of houses from all over the North floating above its walls. Likewise, in the distance, a great commotion was heard. All of the inns of Wintertown were full to the brim, and there seemed to be a jovial atmosphere in the city.

The reason for this was simple: Ned had organized a great tourney to celebrate the birth of his daughter Sansa, one that was paid for with the help of the Crown…well of the Crown’s reparations, anyhow.

Catelyn had been enchanted by this idea, as both her father and brother would make the trip, along with many of Ned’s friends in the Riverlands: Mallister, Blackwood, Vance and Piper, notably. Many Valemen were also invited, though Ned did not extend it to the Stormlords. Indeed, he still needed excuses not to invite any Westerlanders, Reachmen, or any loyalist house who suddenly wished to join, especially considering the distance and the – apparent – lack of grandeur of the tourney.

Ned did however, extend an invite to the young Edmure Tully, who was held in King’s Landing at that time. The man was a hostage, but Rhaegar consented in releasing him for the duration of the tournament. The price to pay for this was, of course, that Edmure would have an escort, which included Lord Velaryon and, no doubt, a bunch of people that would be a bit too nosy for their own good. Lyanna was invited, of course, but Rhaegar made up some excuse about it being a tiring voyage. Nor could Aemon go, as he was still too young for such a voyage.

A lot of excuses, in Ned’s opinion, but he could hardly protest. Edmure’s voyage was already a surprise, though Ned surmised that it was essentially a ploy by Rhaegar or Connington to see what was going on in Winterfell, as the North had mostly closed itself off from the outside world since the end of the rebellion. Most news transited by the Twins…where news was usually slow in coming and very watered down.

Ned thus awaited in Winterfell’s courtyard, his wife standing beside him. Catelyn had been resilient in her pregnancy, had had not waited longer than a month to start being active again. She was strong, Ned thought, stronger than he’d ever imagined her to be. He had not expected love to blossom between them, especially considering he had been spoken for, and she was coming off another betrothal. And yet, here he was, not regretting his choice to go through with taking his vows in the sept at Riverrun. She had given him two beautiful children, and they were already talking about birthing a third.

“I wonder if the capital has changed him.” Catelyn thought aloud.

Hoster Tully looked at her with some surprise. Leaning on his cane, the Lord of Riverrun hadn’t aged well, but still refused any help to stand.

“Edmure is a Tully.” He stated. “He was twelve when the dragons took him, not a babe. His mind was not poisoned, nor will it be. He’s loyal to his own, as you are.”

“Are you sure they won’t push a pretty Crownlander into his bed as soon as they have the chance?” Catelyn grit her teeth.

“I expect them to.” Hoster shook his head. “And I hope that Edmure can think with his head more than his…”

“I believe we got the point, Lord Tully.” Ned coughed.

A few more moments were spent together in silence, all waiting the arrival of the Crown’s party with bated breath.

Finally, trumpets sounded, and the doors to Winterfell’s grand courtyard opened. A flood of horses came, with their riders. There must have been a dozen of them, escorting a smaller group of six or so lords, recognizable due to their lavish decorations and saddles.

The first to step down from his saddle was a young man in bright blue garments, a dashing smile and silver-blonde hair.

“Lord Stark!” he announced with a smile. “My name is Lord Monford Velaryon, his gracious majesty’s Master of Ships.”

“Lord Velaryon,” Ned greeted with a firm handshake, “you are welcome in Winterfell.”

“Thank you, my lord. His grace sends his apologies, as neither he nor Queen Lyanna were able to make it here.”

“As we have heard.”

“Well, my companions here present are Lord Marcus Chyttering, Lord Guncer Sunglass, Ser Alliser Thorne, Ser Jonah Mooton, Ser Myles Brune and, of course, Edmure Tully.”

“I have rooms ready for you and your men.” Ned nodded, “Vayon will show you to them.”

Lord Velaryon nodded in thanks, congratulated Catelyn with a kiss on the hand, before rounding up his companions, who were led by Vayon to one of the many corridors of Winterfell.

Edmure for his part, hugged his father, and then his sister.

“It feels good to see you two again.” Edmure smiled.

“I hope the capital has been kind to you.” Catelyn smiled back.

“The stench is foul and the people are worse.” Edmure made a face. “Darry and Mooton prance about like they think they’ve got my life between their hands, and do not hesitate to make it known. As for the others, they only seek the favors of the future Lord of Riverrun.”

“Darry and Mooton…” Hoster grimaced. “Ah, those traitorous fucks. I hope one day the Gods reward their disobedience with a well-placed thrashing.”

“Lord Mooton is especially…keen on marrying his newborn daughter to me.” Edmure winced. “He rose the matter several times.”

“She’s but a child!” Catelyn gasped.

“I know.” Edmure shook his head. “But there aren’t many ladies available. Lord Bracken had also staked his claim. Almost pushed his eldest daughter into my arms, nigh a few months ago.”

“Oh, they’re looking, alright.” Hoster shook his head. “But you must resist. Understand that, boy?”

“Of course, father.” Edmure smiled. “But not to worry, I won’t marry any of them.”

“You seem quite confident.” Hoster frowned. “At your age, my father could barely contain me from marrying the first pretty face I saw.”

“Oh, that’s exactly the thing, father. All the matches are too ugly for me.”

Catelyn repressed a laugh, while Ned let out a small chuckle.

“Alright, alright…” Hoster tapped Edmure’s shoulder. “And how is Ser Desmond Grell? Has he protected you? I’ve given strict instructions, you know…”

As Catelyn and Hoster started assailing the young boy with questions, a messenger ran towards Ned, bowing as he presented himself.

“My lord, the visitor is here.”

“I see.” Ned nodded. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

He turned around to face the Tullys, giving them a polite nod.

“I am afraid a matter has needed my attention,” Ned apologized, “but…my dear, shouldn’t we present your father and brother to the newest member of the family.”

“Of course.” Catelyn smiled widely. “Robb is watching over Sansa like a hawk, with his wooden sword. He protects her all day, you know?”

“Ah, that sounds like my grandson, alright!” Hoster laughed.

“I won’t be long, I promise.” Ned whispered in Catelyn’s ear, placing a small kiss on her lips.

“I’ll see you in a moment, my love. Go.”

With that Ned was gone, leaving the courtyard towards one of Winterfell’s many grey corridors, taking left and right turns in this grand labyrinth of a fortress. He passed a few guards, and entered a small room, not unlike his solar, in which his visitor was awaiting.

“Lord Stark.” The man rose as he entered through the door. “It’s an honor.”

Ned paused for a moment to look at his interlocutor. He was young, probably no older than sixteen, or perhaps seven-and-ten. He had long, dark hair, and was dressed simply. A black doublet, no sword or armor, one would have thought he was just a merchant passing through.

“Urrigon Greyjoy.” Ned welcomed him. “Sit, I believe you need to discuss some things with me.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Urrigon nodded in thanks, taking a seat. “My lord, I…first of all, let me tell you that on the behalf of House Greyjoy, we are deeply sorry about what happened at Seagard.”

“I understand that your father ordered it.”

“Yes. My brothers tried to stop him from doing so. They wished to raid the coasts of the Westerlands, you see.” Urrigon pleaded. “But…my father wanted to see who would rise above from the rebellion. And then, he sought to attack Seagard as a way of ingratiate himself with King Rhaegar.”

“What does the new Lord Greyjoy want.”

“Lord Balon is not my father.” Urrigon shook his head. “He deeply regrets our past differences, and despises Rhaegar for the insults, not even giving us a thing despite the blood shed in his name.”

“I…do not really see how Lord Greyjoy’s differends with the Crown concern me.” Ned shook his head.

“My brother thinks otherwise, my lord.” Urrigon sighed. “He thinks that you would be amenable towards…reconciliation.”

“If Lord Greyjoy wished an…alliance, he could have come here himself.” Ned frowned.

“My brother is…difficult.” Urrigon coughed. “He sent me because I read, you see. Not as much as the Reader of Harlaw, but I do like a good read during the long sails towards the Stepstones.”

“Your brother isn’t?”

“No.” Urrigon shook his head. “And, to be truthful, none of my brothers are. They are true Ironborn, born to fight, but lacking in…subtlety.”

“So, he sent you to talk for him?” Ned asked. “Well then, Greyjoy, talk.”

“My brother is a proud Greyjoy, Lord Stark. In this way, he refuses to take anything which isn’t paid for with the iron price.”

“You mean reaving.”

“Or, at the very least, fighting for it, yes.” Urrigon nodded. “You may see where the problem lies.”

“I do.” Ned frowned. “If your liege only wishes to fight to take what he needs, I do not see how we will be friends.”

“My brother does not ask for your friendship, Lord Stark, only your timber.” Urrigon smiled. “The timber that helps raise the finest fleet in the known world, on the other side of the Narrow Sea.”

“Lord Balon wishes to rebuild a fleet?” Ned sat back in his chair, interested.

The Greyjoys clearly would not go to stoop as low as beg for an alliance. But if they were rebuilding their fleet, this clearly wasn’t just for show. No, they were preparing something.

Urrigon didn’t answer. Instead, he just shrugged.

“My brother has…ambitions.”

“And if your brother is so keen on paying the iron price, how does he wish to pay for our timber.”

“Ah, a good question!” Urrigon pointed out. “As I have said, Lord Balon abhors paying the gold price. However, he is not against…trading.”

“Trading?” Ned scoffed. “That is just another way of paying.”

“Not to my brother. I think he could be amenable to give up…thirty percent of loot taken from our reaving.”

“You mean to pay with the loot you would steal?” Ned looked, slightly shocked at the audacity of the ask.

“It would be paid with the Iron Price.” Urrigon shrugged. “That is all that matters to my brother. I believe you know our preferred…targets. There would be some things in these places that you would be interested.”

Ned nodded. He thought about this for a moment, but this would be…unconventional. Assisting Greyjoys by being paid with things stolen from people they’d likely slain… But there was curiosity in Ned, something which he sensed could be a great opportunity. If not to get richer, at least not only to weaken Rhaegar, but to seize some valuable information…

“Thirty percent is not much.” Ned straightened up. “Especially since we have no need for…human payment.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Urrigon smiled. “In this case, I would propose something more. Our ships that would come from the timber would be quite empty. Our great isles are not rich, but they do produce some stuffs that could be useful to you. We have iron mines which produce iron, lead, tin, while our forges produce great swords, mail, axes and everything a warrior could want. We could…accidentally lose a few crates of these. And, of course, we would also accidentally misplace a few crates of silver, fish, sealskins and the like.”

“You mean to ask for a real trade, then.”

“I’m asking you to forgive our forgetfulness.” Urrigon pointed out.

“Of course.” Ned nodded. “I will…dwell on your offer, Greyjoy. Try to be…discreet during the tourney. There are King’s men here, and your presence could give them the wrong idea. I will have an answer for you in three days’ time.”

“I will be as silent as the kraken laying in wait, my lord.” Urrigon smiled. “But first, could you lead me to your library? There are a few books of northern history which I’d like to sample.”

A Greyjoy who read! Ned could have fallen off his chair. The world was truly ending now. What would be next? Dragons, Wyverns, Krakens, flying pigs, or the Others coming back?

Chapter Text

Elia

Elia had never set foot in Yronwood before. She’d seen most of Dorne, the Greenblood, Hellholt and Starfall, but the home of the Bloodroyals eluded her. Now, for the first time, as she lay eyes on the fortress, it seemed almost…Stormlander to her.

The approaches to Yronwood were covered with trees which hid most of the desert plain or steep mountains, depending on which side of the Boneway one travelled through. The city of Yronwood itself was perched atop a small hill, with the Boneway circling around it, leading to the port town a few leagues away. Atop the hill were two circular walls which encapsulated another small town, in which a third set of walls was placed, and where the keep and demesne of House Yronwood was located. From atop its walls, one could see for leagues around it, from the spotted islands in the distance to the vast plains which opened up towards the Red Mountains and the deserts beyond.

The walls, however, lay atop green grass and a multitude of trees, which made the scene look much more like a Stormlander or Reacher keep than the usual Dornish one, often placed atop inhospitable, desertic or arid areas. In the distance, she could make out fields following several small rivers, likely growing lavender, grain, oranges, olives and grapes. Indeed, Yronwood wines, while not the best in Dorne, would easily find their way onto lords’ tables in the rest of Westeros. In short, it was good to be home, even if Sunspear was still quite far away.

As for the Bloodroyals themselves, Elia did have some measure of them. She remembered Anders Yronwood, a cute curly-blonde haired boy who was quick to pick a fight in the gardens. He was around the same age as Elia, perhaps two to three years older. They were not close, but Elia remembered that as Anders grew, he put on muscle which made him look like a towering menace. Only Arthur wasn’t intimidated by him, and that is likely why Anders never made any approach towards Elia, as his relationship with the Dayne was less than cordial.

Still, she remembered Anders as being courteous and well-mannered. His build made it easy for maidens to fawn over him, though he only had eyes for a certain Blackmont cousin. Then, of course, everything changed. She’d married Rhaegar, Oberyn had been stupid, and Yronwoods and Martells had a long period of cold and distant relations. Lord Ormond refused for Anders, now married to this Blackmont cousin, to send his eldest daughter to the Water Gardens, and the same for his son, born just a few years ago.

Despite this, House Yronwood stayed loyal. They’d sent men on the Trident, and Anders had fought there and at Broclair alike, distinguishing himself with his courage, if the tales were anything to go by.

Elia’s carriage passed through the outer walls and into the city, where a large crowd had gathered, hoping to see a glimpse of the Queen. She travelled alone, this time, without Rhaenys or Aegon, to prepare for Aemon’s first trip to Sunspear the following year. She could only hope that her children would be fine in her three-month long absence from the capital, but she trusted her ladies in waiting and guards enough to keep them safe.

Elia threw some pieces of gold and silver into the crowds, touched some hands and foreheads, before continuing through the inner walls, and into Yronwood keep itself.

A welcoming party had been prepared there. In the middle stood Lord Ormond Yronwood, another tall giant with blonde hair and brown eyes, though his hair was patched with grey. His wife, a Wyl, stood by his side with confidence. Beside Ormond stood Anders, almost as tall as his father, hands behind his back as he awaited Elia. He had not changed much, save for the scars on his face and the fact that he’d likely grown even more. His wife likewise stood at his side, in a bright cream-colored dress and wearing several expensive bracelets on her arms. Their daughter, a lovely blonde-haired and blue-eyed girl, stood at her mother’s feet. The girl was perhaps nine or ten namedays, dressed similarly to her mother. She held the hand of a dark-haired boy, who could not be more than four years old.

“My Queen.” Lord Ormond bowed respectfully in front of her, kissing her hand. “It is an honor to welcome you to Yronwood. Welcome back to Dorne.”

“Lord Yronwood.” Elia nodded in thanks. “It is an honor for me to be received in your keep. I have heard many good things about the hospitality of the Bloodroyal.”

Elia greeted Lord Ormond’s wife, then Anders’ wife, Jeyne. They embraced for a moment, reminiscing about their time at the Gardens for a brief moment. She then moved to Anders, who likewise kissed her hand.

“It is good to see you in good health, Your Grace,” Anders nodded.

“It is good to see you again, Anders.” Elia clasped him on the shoulder. “I hadn’t seen you since your sixteenth nameday.”

Anders repressed a smile.

“Simpler, happier times, Your Grace.” He simply spoke. “Here are my children, Ynys and Cletus.”

“Your Grace,” Ynys bowed with excitement in her voice.

“Lady Ynys, my…” Elia leaned forwards, “you are growing to be quite a beauty.”

“Even more beautiful than the girls in the capital?” she asked.

“Of course.” Elia smiled at her, before shaking Cletus’ hand and giving him a kiss on the forehead.

Elia then stood back up and turned towards Lord Ormond.

“My lord, I believe we need a moment to discuss some things.”

“We do, Your Grace.” Ormond nodded and coughed. “Anders, see the royal party are cared for. And have the Queen’s rooms be ready as soon as we are done.”

“Yes, father.” Anders nodded.

“Come, Your Grace.”

Elia followed Ormond Yronwood into the heart of his keep, past a staircase leading to a small inner courtyard. This one resembled Sunspear, though the scale was lacking, with small fountains substituting the pools and small oaks and brushes substituting the palm and orange trees. The corridor went around this small garden, and led straight towards a room.

The door opened, revealing a fairly large solar, decorated with tapestries and a great map of the furthest extent of the Kingdom of Yronwood. It seems that old memories will never die, but she also noticed the conspicuous absence of Sunspear, Starfall or Skyreach on that very map.

“Wine?” Ormond proposed with a smile as he took a seat.

“No, thank you.” Elia shook her head.

“Well then, Your Grace, I suppose you wish to talk about our family’s…issues?” Ormond made a face.

“You guessed well, Lord Yronwood.” Elia frowned. “I intend to see that your House is given satisfaction considering my brother’s…recklessness.”

“Reckless is certainly not the word I’d have used.” Ormond scoffed.

“My brother has a gift for making stupid decisions, ever since our childhood.” Elia shook her head. “I’ve always told him ‘Oberyn, one day you’re going to die gloating about some stupid thing you’ve roped yourself into’.”

“I’ve got no doubt you are wiser than this, Your Grace.” Ormond nodded.

“I hope I inherited the brains of my mother, gods rest her soul.” Elia sighed. “Which is why I am here today. I believe that you worked out something with my brother?”

“Yes.” Ormond nodded. “Prince Quentyn is supposed to foster here, starting next year.”

“I think I can propose better.” Elia leaned in. “As it stands, I would not like for Prince Quentyn to be placed so far away from his family.”

That was not the entire truth. Elia had hoped that Prince Aemon could strike up a friendship with a close relative, but the Martell line was lacking in men, especially men of Aemon’s age. Doran’s son was two years older, and thus almost perfect for Elia’s plan. At least, if he didn’t inherit Oberyn’s recklessness, but she doubted that fate would give them grandfather’s side through Doran.

However, removing Quentyn from Yronwood altogether was tricky. Doran had made a promise, and House Martell now needed to keep its word.

“I wouldn’t break my brother’s word.” Elia shook her head. “But I think that fosterage is too much. Prince Quentyn needs to be raised alongside his family, in the Water Gardens. As such, I would propose three months.”

If Lord Ormond noticed that this timeframe was conspicuously similar to the time which Prince Aemon was supposed to stay in King’s Landing for, he did not show it.

“Three months is not much time,” Lord Ormond’s fingers danced around the table, “what would you offer to compensate for the other months?”

“I am Queen, Lord Yronwood, and as Queen I am in need of ladies-in-waiting.” Elia smiled. “I noticed you have a granddaughter. A beautiful one, at that.”

“She is a little young to be a lady-in-waiting.” Ormond pointed out.

“Give it four years, and she will be of the right age.” Elia pointed out. “Furthermore, my good friend, Lady Ashara Dayne, has gotten sick of the capital. She left and, as such, I do not have a head lady-in-waiting.”

Ormond crossed his arms, nodding appreciatively.

“You would want Ynys to fulfil this role?” he asked. “Again, she would be young.”

“She can come with her father, if she wishes. But this role would allow her to get…certain accesses many families in the realm could only dream of.”

Ormond nodded, saying nothing. No doubt the Bloodroyal was turning the idea in his head. He would still get Prince Quentyn three months a year, and his granddaughter would be placed well within the royal family’s inner circle. A position, if played right, could give you a lot of influence amidst the Kingdoms.

“Obviously, I would need to talk of it with my son.” Ormond nodded.

“Of course, take all the time you need.” Elia nodded.

“I’ll have an answer for you as soon as possible.” The Bloodroyal stood up. “In the meantime, please enjoy all that Yronwood has to offer. You only need to ask and my men will fulfil your every need.”

“I thank you, Lord Yronwood. I expected nothing less.” Elia coughed. "Though, perhaps you should also send your son to the Gardens. After all, Prince Aemon will be there, and no doubt many Dornish lords will soon send their sons or daughters there too."

Ormond laughed.

“You make me wish more Martells were like you, Your Grace. Welcome back to Dorne.”

Chapter Text

The Lord of Runestone

Yohn Royce surveyed the walls of Runestone with a slight smile. The wind was blowing from the sea, bringing in a sea breeze and the smell of salt and fish. Runestone’s ramparts stood over it, the old guardian against invaders from Essos, and raiders from the interior.

However, neither were really present anymore. The Mountain Clans usually left them alone, and there was little conflict in this far-flung region of the Vale. As such, the ramparts had fallen into quite a state of disrepair. Those times were over, however. With Robert’s Rebellion over, Yohn had ordered to repair or even, in some cases, rebuild the ageing walls of Runestone. The gold sent by the Crown in compensation for the loss of his younger brother Kyle certainly helped in that regard.

Thus, life in the Vale continued, a little isolated from the rest of the world. Time did not pass as slowly as in the North, but still, life went by. House Arryn would ask for help in campaigns against the Mountain Clans, or some lord would ask Yohn to mediate a dispute with a neighbor. Those were the highlights in these parts.

Yohn was also considering to send his son Robar to foster in the North, or to squire for Eddard Stark. He had yet to put ink to parchment, but it was something he and Ned had discussed at length during his visit at White Harbor, a year ago. This would reinforce relations between the two, especially as it seems Winterfell had become a sort of capital for those who wished to defy or were let down by the Crown.

Today, however, was no ordinary day. Indeed, Yohn had prepared for the arrival of Lord Jon Arryn, in person. The Lord of the Eyrie did not leave the seat of his power often. And when he did, it was rarely to go to Runestone, though Gulltown was nearby.

But Yohn could hardly fault Jon Arryn for wishing to leave the Eyrie once in a while. The Arryn castle was certainly spectacular, but it was isolated, and one could feel lonely up there.

Yohn was then taken out of his thoughts by a man-at-arms.

“My lord, Lord Arryn has arrived.”

“Good gods, why hasn’t anyone informed me?”

Yohn immediately bolted as fast as his legs could carry him towards the courtyard, not waiting to hear the man’s explanations. To his surprise – as he’d thought Jon was outside the keep – the Lord of the Eyrie stood with a smile in the middle of Runestone’s courtyard.

“Did I rouse you from your sleep, Lord Royce?” Jon asked with amusement.

“With age, I get more melancholic and I lose myself in my thoughts.” Yohn shook his head.

“Well, your head may be lost, but your legs are those of a man in his twenties, my friend!” Jon laughed.

“I suppose, we both make one Valeman. You, the brains, and me, the legs!” Yohn laughed as he hugged Jon tightly. “So, what brings you to Runestone?”

“Ah, there has been news from Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Yohn nodded. “Well, come, we’ll be better talking in my solar.”

The two men marched in Runestone castle’s interior, marching across a hallway or two, before settling in Yohn’s solar.

Yohn was proud of the solar he had refurbished just last year. It possessed a large wooden table with a carved map of the Vale along with its main houses, several shelves with many books, a large table, and even a wine rack!

“You’ve got yourself quite a nice place.” Jon smiled.

“All paid for by the Crown!” Yohn sighed as he sat down on one of the oaken chairs engraved with the runic symbols his house was so fond of.

“Yes, the Crown has been kind enough to pay for some of my own projects.” Jon sighed. “But if I had to choose between the gold and Elbert, I know what I’d choose.”

“There’s always an empty seat at the table.” Yohn agreed, “And I’ve kept it empty for a reason. All of this affair…feels unfinished. As if we never had any justice.”

“Aerys’ death at the hands of the Kingslayer probably had something to do with it.” Jon nodded. “But what can we do? The Mad King is dead.”

“And we traded a madman for another.” Yohn frowned.

Jon said nothing, instead just nodding sombrely.

“Wine?” Yohn offered, hoping to distract himself from these thoughts.

Jon Arryn declined, instead continuing to tap on the table before him.

“Is something wrong?” Yohn asked.

“I’m just thinking, Yohn,” Jon calmly spoke, “I’m an old man, but I’ve seen many wars. And still, somehow, I feel like I’ve yet to see more.”

“It is inevitable, Jon.” Yohn replied. “One day or another, the Mad King’s son will do the same thing as his father, and piss off one too many people.”

“This isn’t exactly where I’m worried about…yet.” Jon frowned.

“Really?” Yohn asked. “Does it have something to do with Winterfell? The Wildlings perhaps?”

“Yes, it has something to do with the Greyjoys, and yes there’s some rumbling beyond the Wall, but this isn’t about them.” Jon explained. “There seems to be something up with the Greyjoys.”

“The squids?” Yohn mused. “What are they planning?”

“Ned doesn’t know yet. However, he has been giving them a lot of timber…secretly, of course. And it seems that Balon Greyjoy has been constructing quite a large fleet.”

“And the Crown knows about it?”

“I’m not sure,” Jon shook his head, “but if they know, they aren’t doing anything about it.”

“And what would Balon use that fleet for? You don’t think he’d be stupid enough to take on all Seven Kingdoms?”

“He’s a Greyjoy, let’s not underestimate their capacity to make the worst decision this century.” Jon stopped him. “But my reasoning is that Balon thinks that the realm is weak and divided.”

“He’d be right on that one.” Yohn nodded. “But all the kingdoms hate him more than they hate each other.”

“Yes.” Jon agreed. “Which is why I do not see his plan coming to fruition. That said, we need to prepare for when it happens.”

“Does Ned think it to be close?” Yohn asked.

“I do not know.” Jon shrugged. “And I suspect he doesn’t either. But, regardless, if Greyjoy does rebel, the King will call his banners.”

“Ah, you are asking how to proceed with his call?”

“Exactly that.” Jon nodded back. “If Greyjoy wishes to rebel and give the King hell, fine. But if he calls our banners, we can hardly refuse.”

“Indeed.” Yohn agreed. “But we can’t exactly enthusiastically send anyone.”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “I’ll be damned if any of my men die for the Targaryens again. However, we could stall for time.”

“Ah, and I suppose you would make me head of this ‘force’?”

“Precisely.” Jon nodded. “I need someone I can trust, and someone that won’t try to seek glory like Corbray or royal favors like Grafton or other ambitious lordlings.”

“We would be stalling at every opportunity.” Yohn nodded.

“Yes. But I think we should wager.”

“Wager?” Yohn asked. “What kind.”

“I will pay you one gold dragon for each man you bring back alive from this campaign, and you have to pay me ten gold dragons for each man you lose.”

Yohn smiled at him.

“Oh, Jon, you do not know how many old fox tricks I have…”

Chapter Text

Edmure

As much as Edmure disliked King’s Landing, he could not help but feel a certain fascination at this microcosm of everything which was wrong with the Targaryen rule over the Seven Kingdoms. The heir to Riverrun had been a hostage for the better part of six years now, and yet nothing had really changed.

“Has the King summoned me today, Ser Desmond?” Edmure asked.

“No, my lord.”

Desmond Grell was a man which his father had sent, officially for his own protection. Unofficially, it was to ensure that Edmure did not risk turning against his own family. Edmure knew better. He was a Tully, through and through. And perhaps, had he been ten years younger, he could have been molded into the perfect lickspittle. But he had been a boy of twelve when he left for the capital, and he had seen what the Targaryens had done by then. He’d seen the burned fields of Harrenhal and the terms placed on the Riverlands and his family.

A humiliation House Tully would not forget, especially as to how they treated Edmure in the capital. They had tried to indoctrinate him with stories about how his father was a traitor who only sought to increase his power. That he had tried to put Robert Baratheon on the throne to avenge the slight of a previous broken marriage pact, and to later marry one of his granddaughters to Robert’s son and heir. In short, they’d depicted Edmure’s father as a monster.

But a boy of twelve remembered his father. He was stern, but never unkind. Demanding, but never demeaning. And, most of all, he would have done anything to protect them. Even as the Royal Army was camping on the opposite bank of the Red Fork, he’d confided that if anything was to suggest a siege, he would have Edmure whisked away to the North or Vale, where he would be safe. Perhaps it would have been for the best, as he doubted even the cold of Winterfell or the isolation of the Eyrie were worse than the stench of King’s Landing.

“Any lessons old Pycelle wishes to give me?” Edmure asked Desmond.

“No, my lord.”

Edmure smiled. He’d put on the mummer’s farce, just as his father asked. He’d never questioned any of their decisions, just nodded and continued to act like a good little dog. He’d praised the Targaryen dynasty, knelt in front of their rapist King and sang his praises.

This would be paid, in time.

“Any news from my father?” Edmure asked.

“Not that I know of.” Desmond sighed. “I do believe he wishes you well.”

His father had often times tried to get him back. Edmure was eighteen now, a man grown, and his father’s condition had worsened. The King had always allowed Edmure some trips home, always under close escort and under oath to be obligated to return. He was a man of his word, coming back to King’s Landing each time.

Edmure’s father was not very sick, but he’d seen in recent days that his health was slowly worsening. His mind wasn’t as sharp as it once was, and his hands had started trembling. There was truth to what his letters told, though he also played the part of a dying man every few months in his petitions to the King.

Edmure knew that this situation could not last. Sooner or later, the Crown would have to release him so that he may take his position as heir to Riverrun. But not before they had completely gotten control of him, and this posed a problem.

Edmure grinned, for the supposedly invincible and undivided Targaryen dynasty was anything but. He could see the cracks, every day, forming in the royal family, and their supporters. And he was not the only one, either.

“Will it not soon be time for the King’s audience, Ser Desmond?”

His faithful knight nodded, and followed him out of the door, into the hallways of the Red Keep. The King’s audience was always a highlight of Edmure’s day, as the King received petition from smallfolk and nobles alike. It was there in which divisions in the royal camp could be seen, at the light of day, if one knew where to look. And Edmure wished he could not miss a moment of it.

For it was not the King one should look at, but his Small Council. Queen Elia, Mace Tyrell, Tywin Lannister, Jon Connington, so many factions, and so many ambitions…

Edmure entered the great hall, looking at the great throne made of the many swords House Targaryen had vanquished. No doubt that some Riverlander swords had been recently melted in there…and Edmure hoped they stung the King’s arse every day.

The heir to Riverrun sat down in one of the chairs in the sides of the hall, Ser Desmond standing behind him. He did not speak, instead focusing on the people present around the King.

Because the people who came up with nicknames were very unoriginal, in his mind, the factions were those generally relating to the sigils of their house.

On the one hand, there were the Dragons. Those were loyal to the King, and by extension Aegon Targaryen, his son. There was hardly a moment where the boy wasn’t next to his father. Even at eight years old, the silver-blonde haired boy sat next to him on the throne, listening to the pleas of each petitioner. Sometimes awake, sometimes not. But they were one of the most powerful factions of the Crown, with Mace Tyrell’s backing because of the marriage pact between Aegon and his daughter.

Then, conspicuous by their absence, were the Seahorses. This wasn’t entirely their fault, though. Lord Monford Velaryon, Master of Ships, rarely attended the King’s audience. However, he commanded a great deal of power in this little game. His fostering of Prince Viserys Targaryen yielded many great results, which recently included Viserys asking his brother to bless his marriage to Elaena Velaryon, Monford’s youngest sister. This was accepted, as Viserys was old enough to make his own decisions, and the King did not wish to get in the way of a love match…

After the ships came the coin. Lord Tywin Lannister controlled one of the weaker factions of all, the Lions. However, with Princess Daenerys’ fostering, and his deep pockets, the old Lion still retained considerable influence at court. Especially as the Crown was spending disturbing amounts of money on tourneys, events and parties. Even for a man like Edmure, who liked the finer things in life, it was a little too much at times. Especially since it did little to change the air of the city…

Finally, there were the Suns. This was Queen Elia’s faction, which was more of an arrangement of three factions united by their common distrust of all the previously mentioned lords. The Griffins, led by Lord Connington and the Darrys, were loyal to Rhaegar above all, and wished for the realm to not descend into petty infighting…while consolidating their power. The Suns, who dominated the faction, were mostly Dornishmen, surrounding Queen Elia and Princess Rhaenys. The Dornish distrusted Rhaegar because of the new Queen, Lyanna Stark, but also because of his growing influence on Aegon. So as to not see this nefarious influence grow, Princess Rhaenys was kept away from Rhaegar as much as possible…and this was clear in the attitude of both siblings.

Finally, the Griffins and Suns were accompanied by one last faction, though it was the one which only supported the Suns out of convenience and opportunism. The one faction Edmure had been a part of, and which unofficially called themselves the Wolves, though most others called them the Prisoners. These were the ones loyal to Queen Lyanna, made up of hostages in King’s Landing as well as their guards. Edmure was one of them, along with his friends, Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister. They’d come and seen Queen Lyanna, who welcomed them as friends and asked them about Ned. Each and every year, Edmure could see that Lyanna Stark was growing stronger, and more distant to Rhaegar. He could see that the willing Queen was just another Targaryen lie. She was playing a part, just like Edmure, Marq, Patrek, Balon Swann, Brynden Blackwood, and all the others. They had to band together, like lost children in the streets, to avoid being taken. They resisted the Targaryens, not by defiance, but by compliance, waiting for their hour.

The Wolves rallied around Queen Lyanna, like moths to a flame. They supported her, any way they could, by passing messages from the North and her brothers, which often brought her to tears. They comforted her about the loss of her son to the sands of Dorne for nine months, despite the fact that he had made quick friends with Doran’s son Quentyn and his Dayne cousin Allyria. Ser Desmond himself had told her that, even on the other side of Westeros, her son had family he could count on, and that Ned Stark would burn down Sunspear if but a hair on Aemon’s head was touched.

These seemed to soothe her, before she sunk back in melancholy. It was beautiful and sad to see. Queen Elia had once told him, in passing, that Lyanna seemed to have never grown old, just like a knight fallen on the field of battle. There was some truth to it, though Edmure just shrugged it off. Out of all the Wolves, she was the one that suffered the most. She had to endure Rhaegar Targaryen, and that was suffering enough.

The King’s audience ended, leaving Edmure and Ser Desmond free to go to their occupations. He thought about going to drink with Marq and Patrek, though he was quickly disenchanted by this idea.

“Let us go train, ser.” Edmure turned to Desmond. “It has been long since I have tested myself.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Edmure did not particularly like to fight. He was neither skilled with a sword nor agile with a lance. He was a good rider, but no good jouster. Essentially…he was mediocre. And this stung, especially as a young man, to have one’s pride destroyed like that. Especially since, in the open courtyard, he had been treated to the jeers and sneers of the Crown’s lackeys, laughing as lesser-born squires bested him. Had they forgotten the tales of Ser Duncan the Tall, grand by height and legacy, but of small and modest origins? Sometimes, he wondered if those jeering had ever opened a book at all. Again, Edmure was no sage student, but he remembered his tales…

And then, fighting also provided Edmure with a way of letting off his frustrations. Frustrations of being stuck in this hellish city. Frustration at being kept away from his family. Frustration of being treated like a pawn who would readily submit and turn against his father…

For Edmure knew, there was nothing much keeping him from coming back to Riverrun. The only thing the Crown needed was to find a suitable bride for him…but those were very few. Lord Bracken had many daughters, but King Rhaegar hardly trusted the man, who also had to give hostages, unlike other “loyal” houses of the Riverlands. No, his options were Houses Darry, Ryger and Mooton. The first two did not have eligible girls, and the last’s eldest daughter was a girl of four namedays. Obviously, this did not stop Lord William Mooton from trying to push his daughter forward, but he had been refused. Logically, this was to avoid Edmure “falling in love” with a girl and breaking the betrothal. No, they needed a girl who was around Edmure’s age, close to the royal family, and would bear him a child soon.

Thankfully, divisions in the Crown had prevented anyone from being pushed onto him. The Suns were uninterested, leaving the Seahorses, Lions and Dragons to battle over his Hand. Celtigar, Hightower, Florent, Lannister, Tyrell…so many names which Edmure forgot. No doubt, many were beautiful, which would be Edmure’s weakness. And they had tried, those bastards, to push them onto him! It took Edmure’s entire willpower not to break. That, and a few visits to local whorehouses.

That said, he would soon need to take it into his own hands to choose a bride, before the Crown chose one for him. It could not come from him, but he could still nudge the King and his advisors to agree to a match. But, for that, he needed names and where to strike. It would need to be the strongest faction, perhaps to weaken them, but who?

“Ser Desmond, may I ask you something?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Which houses are not tied to the Tyrells by blood?”

Chapter Text

Gerion

Younger, Gerion dreamt of adventure. He’d seen himself go to the edges of the earth, to seek to unravel the world’s greatest mysteries. What lay in the ruins of Old Valyria? What hid in the jungles of Sothoryos? What kind of lands lay east of Asshai-by-the-Shadow?

But his duty to his family had kept him from doing so. Tywin had asked – if not ordered – for him to stay in Casterly Rock. There would be no expeditions to the east, nor glory to be sought. Only the vast and rich interior of the Rock to gaze at for the thousandth time. If he was lucky, he’d get to see another Westerlander house or take a trip to the capital. Gerion had just become one of his brother’s many enforcers.

However, there was always a bright spot in his life. Princess Daenerys was a sweet and soft-spoken girl, not unlike the Lannisport cousins. She was very studious, listening attentively to all of Tywin and her septa’s lessons. She was curious, asking Tywin to tour Lannisport and the many rooms of the Rock, and would often disappear for some time, causing the Lannister brothers some cold sweats.

Gerion took pride in being the Princess’ favorite. After all, Gerion could smile and at least looked like he enjoyed his time at the Rock, whereas his other brothers…well that was another story. They would never laugh, never jape and never really treat Daenerys like what she was…a little girl who needed to be loved, not a pawn in their greater game.

For that is exactly what Gerion feared: the fact that this poor little girl was being thrust into a game she did not understand. With every lesson, every word, every one of Tywin’s sermons, ideas were planted in her head. Some treasonous, others not. In any case, the Princess should be learning her numbers and histories, not being played like she was just a piece in Tywin’s board. But this was Tywin Lannister. A man who used every single person around him like a pawn to further House Lannister’s standing.

Would Daenerys end up like Jaime, stuck somewhere in Essos, or like Cersei, married to a man she did not love? Would he try to push a betrothal for his son Tyrion, or Kevan’s son Lancel? Surely, it was only a matter of time. Tyrion wasn’t close to the girl, preferring to drink and whore his way through the land, not really bothering to spare a look at the princess. But that hadn’t stopped Gerion’s brother before.

Lancel, then? He was only two years older than her, and will no doubt grow to be as beautiful as a lion. Of course, Lancel was shy and reserved, but at least he had spoken to the Princess before. They’d spoken a few words, but not exchanged more than this, at least to his knowledge. Lancel, ever dutiful, would not like to be seen as intruding or acting in a way that would be untoward a Princess of the realm.

Both made sense, but Gerion knew Tywin had to be careful. He doubted Rhaegar would ever consent to a marriage unless he made absolutely sure that it was his sister’s will. And that’s why Gerion doubted Tyrion would ever be a safe bet for him. As much as he liked his nephew, his disability meant that Rhaegar would laugh Tywin out of court, even if Daenerys was somehow talked into agreeing to the match. No, really, Kevan’s son made more sense. But, again, to what end? Gerion did not know. After all, he was just the youngest brother, and quite a talkative one. As such, he was not exactly privy to all the secrets in the Rock.

Gerion did not dwell on it much. His only role was to be as good of a tutor to the Princess as possible, and hope she did not turn out like Tywin’s daughter, Cersei. Since her marriage to the Hand, she was less talkative, but had yet to sire him an heir and Gerion feared every day that Rhaegar would angrily come to Tywin, accusing him of asking Cersei to seduce him.

Thankfully, none of this happened. Yet.

Instead, Gerion just watched Princess Daenerys finish playing with her companions, and waited for her to join him for a walk in the gardens of the Rock. Tywin had made a point to grow all the most exotic varieties of trees, some coming from as far as Yi-Ti, in order to show the Lannister power and wealth. However, growing gardens on a gigantic rock had been quite a feat, and thus the gardens of the Rock were small and nowhere near the size of those of King’s Landing or Highgarden.

“I’m ready, uncle Gerion.” The girl smiled at him widely.

Uncle Gerion. That was a nickname that stuck, and which he could proudly bear. Tywin and Kevan insisted on being formally addressed, but Gerion refused titles. She’d told him to call him “Gerion”, but she’d added the “uncle” pronoun after some time, which brought him great joy.

“What would you like to do today, Dany?” Gerion asked.

“Just walk.” Daenerys stretched. “I’m a little tired.”

“What did you study today? Your numbers?”

“No, Lord Kevan made me study more history.”

“Oh, which parts?” Gerion asked.

“A bit of everything.” Dany smiled back. “What’s your favorite?”

“Good question, my dear,” Gerion gave it some thought, “the Andal invasions, perhaps. A time of great strife, conflict, heroes and villains. You had it all.”

“Really?” Dany looked at him with confusion. “Not the Dragons?”

“Dragons are legendary creatures, but they will never beat a great story to me. What glory is there to be gained when you can just ride a great dragon?”

“I suppose.” Dany shrugged. “Rhaegar said that I was a dragon, and to never forget it.”

“And my brother tells me the same about being a lion, but you do not see me have fantastic teeth.” Gerion laughed.

“Exactly! I told Rhaegar it was not true; I had no wings!”

“Ah, but we are slaves to our family’s histories, aren’t we?” Gerion smiled.

“I suppose.” Dany shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s all complicated. My father married his sister, who is also my mother. This means I am the aunt of three children who are older than me.”

“And how do you get along with them?”

“Aegon is annoying.” Dany shook her head. “He’s just talking about Rhaegar all the time.”

“He’s just proud.”

“He’s annoying!” Dany snapped. “It’s…I mean no disrespect, but he talks about Rhaegar in the same way that Lord Kevan talks about Lord Tywin a lot. I’d rather learn about you.”

“Ah, but Lord Tywin is very important.”

“Yes, he is.” Dany nodded. “But he’s also not as funny as you, and he doesn’t take me to Lannisport.”

Gerion smiled. He’d always asked to take the princess out of the confines of the Rock and took her to see the docks and streets of the great Western port city.

“Lord Tywin wants you to be raised like a true princess, and no doubt the King wishes Aegon to be raised by a King, to rule like a King.” Gerion replied.

“I don’t know. He’s boring, always with his friends.”

“And Rhaenys?”

“Oh, she’s worse.” Dany sighed. “At least Aegon tries to be interested. Rhaenys is constantly next to her mother, very studious and very calm. She never wants to do anything with me, and says she’s studying. It’s almost like she wants to be a septa. I’ve told her to come play with the other girls, but she never wants to.”

“Well, how about Aemon or Viserys?”

“Viserys is nice, but he’s never here.” Dany sighed. “He’s always on his boats or on Driftmark, and I never see him. Just like Aemon, who is in Dorne all the time, and I’m scared they corrupted him.”

“Corrupted?” Gerion raised an eyebrow.

“Lord Kevan told me the Dornish were very bad people. That they were lecherous, backstabbing, untrustworthy and vain. And I’m scared Aemon will become like them.” Dany shook her head.

“Well, I can tell you that this is not a very nice way of talking about the Dornish.” Gerion frowned. “Queen Elia is Dornish, and have you seen her act like this?”

Dany shook her head.

“Well then, you have it.”

“I suppose.” Daenerys mumbled. “I don’t know. Prince Oberyn has many bastards, and he’s Dornish.”

“Many men have bastards.”

“And he’s not even married. His wife doesn’t follow the Seven. And I’ve heard that he also lays with men, and…”

“And Prince Oberyn is not all of Dorne. Again, just look at Queen Elia.”

“Yes, uncle Gerion, I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Dany.” Gerion smiled back. “You’re young, it’s fine to be wrong about things. When I was your age, I thought all Northmen were gigantic hairy barbarians who ate with their hands and drank in skull cups. And I thought that their women had beards and were as fat as bears.”

“That’s not true!” Dany looked at him as if he’d grown two heads. “Queen Lyanna is very beautiful, and Aemon does not have much hair!”

“Exactly.” Gerion chuckled. “Come now, little one, let’s get you some lemon cakes to keep your mind off these things.”

Dany’s eyes lit up, as she raised her hands in the air and yelled.

“Yay! Lemon cakes!”  

Gerion smiled back. There was hope for this girl yet, but it would be a tough battle…

Chapter Text

Victarion

Silence.

Not Euron’s ship, of course, but the atmosphere around the Iron Fleet at the moment. There wasn’t a sound, not even a whisper. Euron’s threats of whoever made any sound would be the last one ever made certainly contributed to this. But really, everyone was lying in wait, in great expectation.

For on this night, the world would finally see the greatness of the Ironborn, and how they’d risen from the ashes. Today, the world would tremble in fear at the mere mention of their name. Today, the Ironborn would finally make their mark on the Seven Kingdoms. And what better to start with but the Jewel of the West?

They’d chosen their date carefully. Tywin Lannister’s nameday. On this day, Lannisport was filled with celebrations, which meant many drunk men. The Lannister fleet at anchor would likely indulge in the festivities, as sailors usually did. The Ironborn were even blessed by the Drowned God, as a fog bank had hidden their approach from afar, clouds hid the moon and small waves hid the sound of oars hitting the sea.

This time, Victarion would not shy away from battle, as he had at Seagard. He had his own ship, the Iron Victory, and led the formation into the port. Made from the best Northern timber, it could weather even the harshest of storms, and sail all oceans from the Wall to Sothoryos. Victarion navigated the reefs, seeing lights in the distance. No doubt the Westermen were celebrating far into the night. Good, the Greyjoy thought, for many it will be their last.

The Iron Victory continued to sail unabated, silent as a shadowcat stalking its prey. Victarion could see lanterns in the distance, now. One of them glowed brighter than the others, luring Victarion in. He directed his ship towards the light, now carried by the tide which swept him towards the port.

Now, he could see clearer. It was a large ship: the Golden Lion. A galley decorated with gold ornaments which would make the richest Braavosi merchants blush. Tywin Lannister’s pride and glory, his flagship.

Victarion gave a sign. This was the moment. A man quickly gave him a torch, which Victarion held high. Then, suddenly, he threw it on board the enemy ship and roared.

“IRONBORN, TO ARMS!”

His crew roared, followed by a thousand voices behind him. Men threw torches on every Westerlander vessel at anchor, setting a thousand fires which lit up the sky, turning it blood red. Everywhere, he could see the panic set into the Westerlanders, completely taken aback as their ships were set ablaze. Some sought salvation by jumping off, being swallowed by the dark waters below.

But while some commanders would no doubt try to seek glory by capturing some warships, it was not there which Victarion turned his attention to. No, the Drowned God could have the ships: Lannisport was the real prize. A city rich in everything, and which had been untouched during the rebellion. No, really, Quellon truly was a fool.

Victarion did not dwell too much on thoughts of his father. Tonight, he would write his own legacy, as Lannisport’s nightmare. He hoped that mothers would whisper tales of him to their children many years after his death, making him a ghost of terror and legend.

The Iron Victory rushed through the Lannister fleet, shooting flaming arrows on any ship in their path. None tried to stop them, as the Ironborn were just too many. Their numbers had swollen since the Seagard farce all those years ago, and the Westerlanders will understand it tonight. His ship navigated up to the docks, which were taken completely by surprise. The Iron Victory smashed a small merchantman, with Victarion immediately jumping off at the first opportunity.

When he touched land, he could feel himself grinning.

“WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!”

His men followed behind him as he moved down the dock. Soon enough, more Ironborn ships were approaching, either stranding themselves in the shallows or coming alongside to get a path on the docks. A trickle of men turned into a true tide, coming from every direction.

In the distance, Victarion could make out some soldiers hastily trying to resist the onslaught. But there would be too few, and making a stand would be delusional. Still, some tried, forming shield walls at the end of the docks to try and stop them from passing.

They were not in luck, however, as now the Ironborn charged with furious intent, slamming into the hastily-formed barricades. Victarion himself led his men forward, hacking down several Westerlander to pieces. Some, seeing him and his forces, fled quickly. Those were the smart ones.

The stupid ones, however, tried to make a stand. Not noticing that there were many more Ironborn coming, they desperately fought for their lives. Some men did manage to kill one or two, but twice as many came in their place. Completely caught off-guard, there was no true coordination to try and oppose the incoming attackers. A few patrols were the only true opponents they could find, and even they would succumb to numbers.

The city was just ripe for the picking, but Victarion also knew they needed to be out before dawn, and before Lord Tywin could mount some kind of response. They would need to take all they could carry with them, and the men knew this.

Thus, he could see Ironborn streaming into every house, every inn and every hole they could find, from the wealthiest-looking to the most miserable shack. Everywhere, he could hear steel clashing, cries and screams. Some men took coffers with them, with gold coins slipping out. Others had taken jewellery, armor, swords, or even barrels of ale, wine or beers. Some took women, either knocked out or still screaming. Girls as young as six or old enough to be Victarion’s grandmother were taken by laughing Ironborn.

Euron, though, had still given strict orders. The armory needed to be destroyed. Each pillaged house needed to be burned once it had been stripped of value. Everything needed to be destroyed.

Victarion thus led several forays, leading his men into wealthy merchant houses, taverns, inns and whorehouses, but nothing satisfied him. Sure, there was much gold, women and bounty. Enough to sate your lust for these things for many moons. But he kept trying to find something original. Even the common-born could get his hands on some gold, silks or a tavern wench here. No, really, Victarion sought something else.

He drove deeper into the city, but was only now followed by a small trickle of men. This is where something caught his eye: a large inn, but with golden decorations, signs and with even a few guards who hastily tried to mount a defence.

This was it. Surely, this would be where nobles would come to rest for the night. He could grab a few of them, and ransom them for more gold than all the Ironborn warriors could ever carry with them.

He roared and attacked the dozen or so red cloaks present in front of the building, raising his axe high in the sky. When it came down, the poor sod under it did not have much time to react as his head was cut almost clean off his shoulders.

This seemed to have scared some of them, but a man in their midst forbade them from retreating. Victarion thus fought his way through the group, his pure strength keeping them at bay as they pitifully tried to overwhelm him. Soon enough, they were the ones overwhelmed as Victarion’s men joined the fray.

The Greyjoy giant moved to face the men’s commander, who bravely stood his ground, holding him at swordpoint. The man parried a few strikes, but he was not skilled enough to stop Victarion. Each time his axe clashed, he could feel the man’s counter-blows become less powerful and potent. Finally, as the man tried to lunge forward, Victarion’s axe came down hard on his arm, swiping it clean, earning a cry of pain from his opponent.

“You fought well.” Victarion grinned. “Keep this scar as a reminder of the day you fought the Great Kraken.”

The man didn’t even answer, howling in pain as blood flooded from where his arm had once been. Victarion didn’t care, however, and stormed into the inn with his men. There, he found it richly decorated, but was somewhat disappointed. It seems no one was actually there. He stormed up the stairs, reaching the second floor, where most of the rooms were. One by one, he broke down each door, finding nothing.

Finally, as he barged down the second-to-last door, he found a girl in the corner, half-naked and crying. She cried out as he entered, trembling from head to toe.

Good, she should fear the Kraken. But the girl did not have the looks of a highborn. No, she was either a servant or a whore. Most likely a servant who hid her babe somewhere, judging from the clothes laying on the bed. Those were clothes for a child, but strewn with a lion.

Bah, let the child be an orphan, then. Victarion moved towards the woman, raising his axe, but was stopped as he heard a noise. He looked to his left, and saw the doors to the cupboard slam wide open, revealing a naked boy with an axe.

Taken by surprise, Victarion moved a step back, almost falling onto the bed behind him.

When he’d had time to understand what was happening, he almost laughed. The person in front of him was not a boy, but a half-man, naked as the day he was born. Still, anyone with a weapon in his hands could still give a nasty scar if one wasn’t too careful. And by the gods that halfman was fighting like a demon. He lasted longer than the man outside, but Victarion finally disarmed him, throwing his small axe to the floor.

Then, Victarion felt pain in his arm. He turned around, and saw the girl holding a bloody knife in her hands.

“You should’ve gone for the neck.” Victarion shook his head.

He punched the girl in the face, making her drop the knife. She screamed, but those were quickly silenced as Victarion grabbed her by the neck. In one motion, he picked her up with his hand, the other still carrying his axe. Then, he flung her out of the window, her screams only stopping when she violently hit the ground below.

Victarion turned around, only to find the room empty, the axe still on the ground. But then, one of his men entered the room, with the halfman under his arm.

“My lord, what do we do with this one?” the man asked.

“Please.” The Halfman begged. “My father has money.”

“Money?” Victarion groaned. “Who would pay money for a halfman like you?”

“I am a Lannister.” The Halfman said. “Do you know the phrase, ‘rich as a Lannister’?”

Victarion grinned.

“Erik, put him down.”

“Look at my clothes.” The halfman gestured to the doublet on the bed. “There is a lion on them. They’re my clothes, you see. They have the lion of Lannister on them.”

“Alright, Lannister,” Victarion restrained himself from laughing, “you’re a funny one. I’ll spare you and make you my personal jester!”

Truthfully, he had no idea whether the halfman was telling the truth. But he’d heard rumors of the ‘monster of Casterly Rock’ and this inn was clearly for the wealthy. And if the girl was common-born, well, this one had to be of some noble stock.

He gave the halfman his clothes back, not intending to pick up a naked man like this lest he jeered for the rest of his life.

Victarion moved down, already having had enough of this place. He picked up a pouch of gold next to the bed, and looked inside. There were at least a hundred gold dragons in there, if not more. No, really, there was some credence to the halfman’s story. In which case…that half-man was more valuable than all the booty he could ever hope to carry in Lannisport, safe for the Old Lord Tywin himself.

“This one’s mine, Erik.” He said as he carried the self-proclaimed Lannister, “Torch this place and let’s go.”

“The halfman?” Erik looked at him with incomprehension. “What’s his use?”

“The halfman fought better than you dogs, come on, move it!”

Victarion angrily stormed down the stairs, watching as his men started to torch the place. As he stepped outside, he could see that much of the city was suffering the same fate as the inn. Fires had been started everywhere, but were also spreading. They couldn’t stay long here, lest it become impossible to return to their ships.

“Let’s go.” Victarion ordered. “I think the Lannisters got our message.”

He ran down the streets, and back to the harbor. Behind him, only death and destruction.

The Red Kraken would be proud.

Chapter Text

Eddard

“So, it has started?”

Lord Eddard’s voice cut like steel through Winterfell’s war hall. The Lord of Winterfell presided over a long table, which included several lords summoned to Winterfell for this purpose. The council thus comprised his maester, Luwin, as well as Master Galbart Glover, Lord Medger Cerwyn, Lord Rodrik Ryswell and Master Helman Tallhart. Lords Manderly, Karstark and Umber had been summoned as well, but they could not make it to Winterfell on such short notice.

A day ago, they had received a raven which indicated that Balon Greyjoy had declared independence from the Iron Throne, and that Lannisport had been sacked and almost burned to a crisp. Tywin’s fleet was no more, and the Westerlands were now fully reliant on the Farman ships, as well as whatever the Westerlings, Baneforts and Crakehalls could muster…which wouldn’t be much…forty ships, maybe fifty? Against the entire Iron Fleet, this would be more than insufficient.

“Lord Balon has indeed started hostilities against the Iron Throne, much earlier than we had foreseen.” Maester Luwin answered Ned’s remark.

“Lord Balon is insane!” Medger Cerwyn launched. “How does he expect to face up against the might of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I’d wager that he doesn’t.” Helman Tallhart remarked. “I believe he intends to take advantage of the fractures in the realm, and hope that the divisions are deep enough where he can run wild for months on end without consequence.”

“He’s not wrong in some aspects.” Ned sighed. “He knows neither I nor Jon will commit to this farce, and we will continue supplying him with whatever he needs to support his rebellion.”

Ned made a face. It did not please him to deal with the Ironborn, especially considering their methods. He knew supplying timber and steel to them would be frowned upon, and had to face some soft but firm opposition from some of his vassals on that subject. However, every cut the Ironborn made into the frail structure of Rhaegar’s powerbase was just one less problem to deal with later.

“Well, it isn’t exactly Lord Mallister’s twenty ships which will pose a threat to the Iron Fleet…” Galbart Glover remarked. “Neither would our fifty or so ships we could scrounge up on the Stony Shore. Balon Greyjoy would be facing Rhaegar’s strongest supporters.”

“And why now?” Rodrik Ryswell asked. “The Ironborn are never known to take risks. In every conflict, they wait until everyone else is too busy killing each other to start reaving. Here, the realms are at peace. Fractured, to be sure, but at peace.”

“Do you think Balon would be stupid enough to think we’d join on his side?” Helman Tallhart let out a nervous laugh.

“Whatever his reasons, only he has the answers, my lords.” Ned shrugged. “I do hope that he does not expect us to join in his folly, for not only are we not ready but we are not allies with the Ironborn. We merely share a common enemy.”

Ned paused for a moment, letting a moment of silence pass.

“What we must now do, is prepare the next steps to take. Maester Luwin, have either Balon Greyjoy or Rhaegar sent a raven yet?”

“No, but I suspect it will not be long in coming.” Maester Luwin coughed. “The attack was brutal and swift. The King is probably still discussing how to respond to this attack.”

“I expect nothing less than him asking us to march south,” Medger Cerwyn pointed out. “What would we answer?”

“We’d give a polite note and assure them that we stand with the Crown on this matter.” Ned sighed. “As much as I wish to tell Rhaegar to go to the Seven Hells, we cannot risk moving right now. It is not the time.”

“Greyjoy is a decade too early.” Helman shook his head. “But then again, always count on the Ironborn to do the stupidest thing in a generation.”

“We would send our banners south to die for Rhaegar?” Rodrik Ryswell made a face. “Piss on that.”

“Standing on principle and actually sending men are two very different things, Lord Ryswell.” Ned smiled. “The North is vast and our levies should come from each and every corner of our Kingdom. This will mean very long travel times, especially as, regrettably, we will not be able to spare much cavalry as we need the horses for…well, we’ll find an excuse.”

“Ah, and I suspect we would have sicknesses run rampant within our camps, forcing us to slow our march?” Helman Tallhart smiled.

“And our forgers are growing lazy too…” Medger Cerwyn added nonchalantly.

“You have the right of it, my lords.” Ned nodded. “We will assemble our forces, but I will be damned if I send a single man to die for Rhaegar.”

“A bit of exercise won’t hurt the men.” Rodrik Ryswell nodded. “The march to Moat Cailin is quite enough to stretch some legs.”

Ned nodded.

If he played his cards right, he could call on ten thousand footmen and have none of them fight at all. And if Rhaegar asked for the Northern ships, he would have good reason to refuse. Indeed, he’d need them to defend his coasts! After all, it wouldn’t be the first time the Greyjoys have attacked Bear Island or the Stony Shore.

“Now that we know what we would do when Rhaegar asks us to help, we should turn towards the Iron Islands themselves.” Ned coughed. “Maester Luwin, has Balon sent a raven yet?”

“He has, through his brother, Urrigon Greyjoy.” The Maester nodded. “He tells nothing of any…direct martial aid, of course. However, he assures us that timber deliveries can continue, and that the Iron Islands require finished rams in the next shipment.”

“Finished rams?” Helman Tallhart mused. “Now, that is an interesting development. It seems the Greyjoys would wish to try holding castles.”

“It also shows that the Ironborn are after something bigger than just Fair Isle.” Rodrik Ryswell pointed out. “The Ironborn have rams of their own, although they’re only good to storm small castles. Our rams are made for strong doors belonging to fortresses and large castles. What in the seven hells could the Ironborn be targeting which would require them?”

“Urrigon Greyjoy also wishes for us to deliver catapults…in pieces, which they could transport by sea and be easily reassemble.” Maester Luwin added.

“Those are easy enough to procure, the Mormonts have some they use when they cross the sea arm leading to Deepwood Motte.” Galbart Glover replied. “But it does lend credence to the theory that the Ironborn are planning something big…but what?”

“Regardless of what it is, I hope Balon can pay the price, though I trust you, Master Galbart, to ensure that what we…wished from Lannisport is indeed present in the next arrival from Pyke.” Ned nodded.

“Of course, my lord.” Galbart nodded.

“Good. Now that we know what the next steps are for us and the Crown, we just need to know what the Ironborn are going to do next.” Ned looked at the map laid down on the table. “And where does Balon intend to strike?”

“The Shield Islands are a good target.” Rodrik Ryswell pointed out. “They control the access to the Mander. The demand for catapults and rams to take the castles protecting them would make the most sense. It would essentially block all seaborne trade to Highgarden, and give the Greyjoys a good foothold in the Reach.”

“The Shield Islands are forts which could be taken without the use of heavy rams like ours…” Medger wondered. “What about the Arbor?”

“Lord Redwyne does indeed command a fleet of more than two hundred warships.” Ned agreed. “However, one of his ships is worth four Ironborn longships. And, unlike at Lannisport, the Redwynes would be expecting him. While striking the Arbor would make sense to take out the greater part of the Reacher fleet, it is also a great gamble. If he fails to destroy Paxter Redwyne, Balon Greyjoy will lose the war right then and there.”

“It’s just something the squids might gamble on.” Rodrik Ryswell sarcastically chuckled. “A mad plan…”

“Not to mention if he destroys the Redwyne fleet, even the Velaryon ships would struggle to bring him to heel. Greyjoy could run amok in the Sunset Sea like a mad dog for a great number of months…”

“All of this is assuming everything goes well for the Greyjoys, and terribly for the Crown. As much as I would wish for Rhaegar to keep losing, I don’t exactly see how Balon’s rebellion can end in anything else but failure.” Ned sighed. “All we have to do is prepare for the consequences of this failure, and make sure that we have the edge over the Crown by the conflict’s end.”

“And how do we do that?” Rodrik asked.

“We need to make sure this conflict drags on for as long as possible…”

Chapter Text

Gerion

Out of all the fortresses of Westeros, if one were to most fit the definition of impregnable, it was Casterly Rock. Winterfell, Storm’s End, Highgarden, Riverrun…all fell at one point or another in their long history. The Rock, though, was something else entirely. It wasn’t built more than it was carved into the mountain overlooking the Sunset Sea. And, during its entire history, it had never fallen. A feat only the Eyrie could boast to match.

The most impressive part of Casterly Rock was the view at its summit. Towering over the entire region, the view atop the great fortress was unmatched by anything Gerion had ever seen. The Wall was impressive, of course, but it could never hope to match the feeling of dominance one had when standing on top of the Rock’s fortress. A symbol of Lannister power and dominance over the Westerlands and the seas.

However, while one might once be able to see the great city of Lannisport below, bustling with activity, it was not to be the day. For today, one could only look at a pitiful sight. One of pure devastation.

Far below the safety of the Rock, Lannisport lay in ruins. Its walls were untouched, certainly, but the city itself had almost been completely destroyed. Black smoke still billowed from the charred remains of what had once been the greatest port city in the West. Only some small areas were spared by the fires: the prison, made with sturdy walls, the City Watch headquarters, the Lannisport branch keep, the Sept, and some lucky houses in the eastern side of the city.

The docks were ruined, most of them having been completely destroyed during the Ironborn assault. The armory had burned down along with most of its contents, as had the Guild Hall, the Harbormaster’s Hall and most of the port facilities. Not as if these facilities could be used for much of anything. In the harbor, one could see the litany of wooden wrecks having settled on the bottom of the harbor. Some longships were present among them, but it remained the wrecks of more than ninety of Tywin’s most prized ships. His flag, the Golden Lion, it was said had been the first to burn. Only three ships managed to flee in the chaos to join Kayce, and at least a dozen had been captured by the Ironborn, if they weren’t completely destroyed by fires.

In one fell stroke, the Ironborn had annihilated the entire naval power of the Westerlands. The only hope they had was now to rely on Sebaston Farman’s fifty vessels, which would never be enough to stop the raiders. Everywhere along the coast, people now lived in fear of being the next target of Ironborn raids. The Crag, Crakehall, Kayce, Feastfires and Fair Isle all had started strengthening their defences, calling up all men of age to fight, in order to defend their lands.

Casterly Rock was no exception. Outside the Rock, Gerion could see the growing number of tents in the distance, as the banners of the Westerlands rallied. Rallied, yes, but to do what? Gerion supposed he would find out at the war council Tywin had invoked.

As he made his way back down into the depths of the Rock, Gerion dreaded what was coming next. Lannisport sacked, his fleet sunk, Tyrion taken…it had been the worst day in Westerlander history since Dalton Greyjoy or the Fish Feed. And knowing Tywin, nothing would stop him from enacting a terrible vengeance on the Ironborn. One that would certainly rival what happened to the Reynes and Tarbecks.

Gerion found all his brothers anxiously waiting in the war hall, alongside Genna. All were silent, waiting for Tywin to arrive. When he finally did, they were shocked at his state.

Tywin’s face was red, his fists clenched and his eyes almost bloodshot. None dared say a word until their elder brother’s voice cut like steel:

“Sit.”

Everybody swiftly obeyed. Heavy silence filled the room, with no one daring to say a word. Gerion would usually throw a quip or jest to lighten the mood, but he saw that this was not the time for such things.

“They have my son.” Tywin finally cut the silence. “My son!”

His fist connected with the table.

“The Ironborn dared…” he continued, breathing heavily. “They dared attack ME! Burned Lannisport to the ground, burned my fleet and took MY SON!”

Tywin hit his fist on the table again, making some goblets fall from it. Still, though, none of the Lannister siblings dared to say a word.

“They think they can get away with it…” Tywin snarled. “They think the sea will protect them against my wrath. They are wrong. I will have vengeance. The Reynes and Tarbecks are witness of this! I will DESTROY their precious relics. I will take Naga’s Ribs and turn them into POWDER! I will burn all their pitiful little homes and let all them starve in the wintery nights. I will salt the land so that nothing will grow back. And then, when they beg for mercy, I’ll ask them if they had any when they burned MY CITY!”

“Tywin…we must consult the Crown.” Kevan finally dared to speak up. “We have just cause to inflict pain on the Ironborn, but we must also follow what the King asks.”

“The King?” Tywin spat. “That little wretched creature on his thorny throne? His father’s son, through and through. I should have burned the capital to the ground when I had the chance…”

Gerion was shocked. He’d known Tywin and Rhaegar had not the best relationship, to be certain, but never once had he talked so openly and brazenly in such treasonous terms.

“Still,” Tygett coughed, “even if we are to get vengeance on the Ironborn, we have no fleet left. We will have to ask the Crown for their help in order to cross that sea.”

“They will have me crawl at their feet and beg for their ships.” Tywin growled. “To kiss Redwyne and Velaryon’s bosoms and pitifully ask for their help…no. I shan’t. I will rebuild my great fleet from the ground up.”

“With respect, Tywin,” Gerion sighed, “but a fleet isn’t rebuilt in a day. And even if it could, with what sailors could we man it? We lost many good men at Lannisport, which cannot be easily replaced.”

“Aye.” Tygett agreed. “And we cannot take fishermen and place them on warships, either. If we are to rebuild our fleet, it would take us five years, and that is at best.”

“We could hire sellsails.” Kevan proposed. “There are companies in Essos which can do this sort of work. And some have fought the Ironborn before.”

Tywin frowned. He looked at them with scorn, but he knew they were right. They couldn’t just rebuild the fleet overnight.

“Brother, we have faced a similar situation before, during the days of the Red Kraken.” Genna pointed out. “There is no shame in asking the Reach for help. Lady Johanna allied Lord admiral Leo Costayne and wrought destruction upon the Iron Islands. We could do the same with Lord Paxter Redwyne.”

“Genna is right.” Tygett agreed. “No one will care whose banners the ship that brought us to the Iron Islands flew, as long as it is ours which fly upon their keeps.”

These arguments seemed to have soothed Tywin somewhat. His face had stopped reddening, but Gerion could still feel something was still bothering him.

“Will you pay the ransom?” Gerion asked.

All turned to Tywin in that moment.

“What are you talking about?” Tywin snarled.

“For Tyrion.” Gerion pushed. “You’ve said it. He’s your son. Will you pay the ransom if the Ironborn ask for it?”

“The only thing I’ll give these pirates are blood and steel.” Tywin frowned. “Is there anything else?”

There was silence around the room.

“Good.” Tywin nodded, “then we can proceed. Kevan, you will oversee the formation of our great host, which will soon cross the sea and get our vengeance. Tygett, you will command the host charged with defending our shores in the meantime. Genna, I need you to organize relief efforts to Lannisport. Finally, Gerion, you will go to King’s Landing in order to see that the Crown does not sit on its arse and act as Master of Coin in my absence.”

“Brother…” Gerion tried to protest.

“My decision is final, Gerion.”

Gerion knew it was a losing battle, and thus just acquiesced. Perhaps the air in King’s Landing would be more breathable than that of the Rock, but he doubted it.  

All rose, including Tywin, who was about to leave, until a few knocks were heard at the door. In came a page, clearly shaking in fear.

“My…my lords,” he bowed, “there…i…is…n…n…news…”

“Out with it, boy!” Kevan frowned.

“There is news from the Westerlands…” the boy’s hand trembled, showing some parchments. “Lord Farman says that the Ironborn have attacked his fleet, and despite a great stand, they were overwhelmed and destroyed. The survivors are rallying at The Crag but number only ten ships. Faircastle is under siege, but it does not seem that the Ironborn are in a hurry and are content to burn the countryside.”

“Lord Kenning reports that the Ironborn are reaving along his coast, and that Feastfires appear to be either under siege or occupied. In any case, he reports not having heard of Lord Prester and worries greatly.”

Silence fell once more befell the room. Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of wood cracking was heard, piercing the room. Gerion turned around, and could have laughed if the situation was not so serious. In front of him, Tywin was wide-eyed, holding the pieces of his chair, completely cut through the middle, in both his hands.

Chapter Text

Victarion

Victarion Greyjoy looked on, dejected, as another Ironborn assault on the walls of Faircastle was met with abject failure. The defenders, perched atop their high, thick, walls, kept pouring oil and removing ladders Victarion’s men had set up. Screams were heard in the distance, and soon enough, the men came running back, chased by volleys of arrows.

Victarion clenched his fists.

This wouldn’t have happened if Balon had granted him what he wished. Siege equipment, catapults, battering rams…but no! Euron needed them all for the Siege of Feastfires, and could not spare anything, not even the flimsiest ladder! Of course, Euron wanted all the glory, that slimy bastard. He already had no doubt left to gloat in front of Balon about how Lannisport was his great doing, that his taking of Feastfires was also him…all the while Victarion was doing nothing but break his teeth on Faircastle!

Wait and see, brother, who will have the last laugh…

“It’s no use, my lord,” A voice came behind him. “We’re losing good men out there.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Victarion snapped back, turning around to face him. Gorold Goodbrother was a leal man, with many sons and daughters who would no doubt grow to become fierce Ironborn. But he was also soft, seeing death in battle as something almost useless.

“My lord, if we are to continue this assault, we need proper siege equipment. Faircastle is defended fiercely, and ravaging lands will serve no purpose.”

“What about the challenge I sent them?” Victarion asked. “Those Westerlanders love their honor so much, they’ll surely fight me.”

“The envoy wasn’t even allowed in the castle. He was sent back to us with half a dozen arrows stuck in his arse.” Gorold scoffed.

“Cowards, the lot of them!” Victarion roared. “They cower behind their walls, unwilling to defy us!”

This whole affair was starting to weigh him down. Even at sea, victory had felt unfulfilling. The Farman fleet was ready for them, and despite the Ironborn outnumbering them ten to one, the large Farman vessels managed to do much damage to them. Victarion lost twenty-five longships and two prize vessels captured from Lannisport. In exchange, the Farman fleet must have lost sixteen ships, at most. Worse, they had denied him use of the harbor as he found around fifteen more vessels scuttled at the entrance. Thus, the Ironborn had to disembark in coves, where they were relentlessly harassed by archers and ambushed groups, up until the walls of Faircastle.

The Red Kraken had taken it with ease, in his day. But the castle described by Dalton Greyjoy was no more, instead being replaced by a true fortress which had nothing to envy to Lannisport’s walls. He’d held hope that the men would surrender after some pillaging to make them understand what would happen to them if they chose to continue fighting…but that only seemed to strengthen their resolve.

Thus, for the past few days, Victarion and his men had spent their days alternating between raiding the countryside to find a few farms to burn or a few cows to take, and failed assaults on the castle walls.

“It brings me no joy to say it, my lord.” Gorold continued, “But we are beaten here. Unless we can get better siege equipment from the isles, we are stuck.”

Victarion growled, fists still completely clenched. He could not let Euron get away with another victory while Victarion came back empty-handed. He had the Lannister imp, certainly, but he knew Euron would only mock him harder for it. No, he needed a victory, else he’d just return to the Isles, tail between his legs.

“We must continue.” Victarion ordered.

“Continue?” Gorold rose an eyebrow. “My lord, at this rate, we will run out of men! I plead to leave the isle; we cannot take this castle…”

“We will!” Victarion snapped back, briskly moving towards Lord Goodbrother. The latter looked at him straight in the eyes, despite being a good head and a half smaller than Victarion. There was no fear in them, just defiance. Like a true Ironborn.

“Very well.” Gorold nodded. “You may continue the siege.”

Victarion smirked.

“Good. Prepare the next assault.”

“Good luck with that.” Gorold laughed as he moved away, getting his armor and helmet. “I’m leaving.”

“What?” Victarion spat. “I order you to come back, or I’ll have your head!”

Suddenly, at least six men rose around him, weapons drawn.

“These are my men you are ordering around.” Gormond smiled, his arms raised as five more came behind him. “I’ll have no more of them dying to fulfil a mad dream. If you wish to take Faircastle, by all means, Lord Victarion, go ahead. But you’ll be using your own brood.”

“My brother will hear of this…”

“King Balon ordered me, when I sailed, to seek glory and sink as many ships as possible.” Gormond countered. “He did not order me to chase vain dreams of taking castles. I followed your orders because I thought the castle lightly defended. This not being the case, and with us not having any siege equipment to make it fall, I refuse to continue any further. If you wish to speak to your brother about it, go ahead.”

With that, Gormond was gone. A few moments later, a horn sounded, and with it frenzied activity came in the Greyjoy camp. Dozens of men came out of their tents and started tearing them down. It was then that Victarion realised how many Gormond actually commanded. Two-thirds, if not more, of his host were Goodbrother men. If he stayed with his own, he could not only not take the castle, but he was at risk of a sortie from the defenders.

Victarion had an urge to strangle the nearest man. Goodbrother would pay for this.

However, as he watched the Lord of Hammerhorn leave towards his ships, he had no choice to order his own men to do the same.

He could hear the jeering and taunts from the walls of Faircastle. Those damned Westermen. Frail and weak like all the Greenlanders.

Do not fret, Lord Farman, I will be back. And you will regret having mocked the Kraken.

Chapter Text

Elia

The whole court had been thrown into disarray. Where once, cautious optimism and calm had reigned, now laid chaos and uncertainty. The news of the Greyjoy rebellion was initially received as some kind of jape, then of Westerlander exaggerations at seeing a few raiders on their shores. But soon, the sheer extent of the situation was finally revealed.

It must be said that this shocked everyone, Elia included. Not to say that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms did not expect Rhaegar’s reign to be a peaceful one. But Balon Greyjoy was not the one who she expected to rebel, and even less without any support. Indeed, it did not seem as though North or Vale were supportive of Balon’s initiative. A raven by Jon Arryn even ‘condemned the brutal action of Balon Greyjoy’ though he asked for ‘restraint and caution in all actions the Crown wished to undertake’. As for the North, it had stayed silent like always, but nothing lent itself to believe Ned Stark would take up arms in turn.

Elia had to resign herself to the blatant facts: Balon had decided to test the realm on his own. In a way, it was a saving grace. If it had happened at another, less opportune time, then there would be little the Crown could do to stop them. But now…well, they had the upper hand over the Ironborn. All the Crown needed to do was not to throw all their advantage away.

“What dress would you like to wear for the War Council, Your Grace?”

Ynys Yronwood’s sweet voice came to take her out of her thoughts. She looked at her with a small smile, and pointed to a blue one with embroidered golden flowers in it. Ynys nodded, and got to work helping her into it.

Ynys was a sweet girl, though she’d only come here a year ago, finally liberating Ashara to go back to Dorne. In fact, Doran had asked for her to tutor his children and Prince Aemon, thus allowing Ashara’s daughter Allyria to also stay at the Water Gardens for most of the year. In her last letter, it seemed that Ashara had finally started to live again, which delighted Elia. After all the suffering she had gone through, it finally seemed that these days would be over.

“Should I get you a necklace, Your Grace?” Ynys asked.

“The one with the green sapphire, Ynys.” Elia replied.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Ynys had adjusted to life in the capital quickly enough. Even as a girl of sixteen, she was as intelligent as her father. And as beautiful too. Her blonde locks were the envy of every girl at court…and she did not lack for suitors, either. But as all Dornishwomen were, she enjoyed playing them against each other with delightful playfulness. That is not to be said that she played with every man she encountered. Her friendship with the future Lord of Riverrun, Edmure Tully, was testament to that. Now married to Delena Florent, the Tully lordling was due to return to his home, Lord Hoster’s health having severely deteriorated according to Lord Darry. It was probably the only boy Ynys would be sad to see leave, as the man had a sweet charm about him, one of a friendly and caring soul.

Friendly and caring, perhaps, but Elia also knew better. She knew Edmure secretly led the faction surrounding Lyanna Stark, alongside many of the Riverlander exiles. She had leveraged Ynys’ friendship to obtain information from Edmure, though she underestimated the man. He had read her just as well as she’d read him, leading to a small stand-off where each only gave the other what they wished the other to know. It was amusing, in a way, but also terribly frustrating. Elia was frustrated by the unknown, even moreso with people supposed to be prisoners in this very keep! Ynys, for her part, understood her role to play in all this, though she did not enjoy it much.

The Yronwood girl gently placed the necklace on Elia, after which the Queen turned around.

“You look magnificent, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Ynys.” Elia nodded.

“Is there anything else I may help with?”

“Just keep Rhaenys company, please.” Elia ordered. “She has lessons with her septa today, and she has been in quite a foul mood since Viserys left and she and Aegon fought.”

“Fought, Your Grace?”

“Oh, Ynys, as children do. Over some toy or some veiled insult.” Elia waved her off. “She will calm down, but as all Dornish children are, they’re very hot-blooded. It will take some time.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Ynys half-smiled. “I will ensure the Princess follows her lessons.”

Elia nodded at her in thanks, and left the room. Before she walked towards the Small Council rooms, however, she went for a small detour. Accompanied by Ser Aron, her walk took her down the stairs and towards Rhaegar’s rooms. The King was busy with the news of the rebellion, and thus did not stay here during the day, allowing Elia greater access to the ‘other’ Queen of Westeros.

Ser Oswell’s presence at the door was enough to confirm Lyanna’s presence. She knocked twice at the door, and was quickly let in.

“Elia!” Lyanna embraced her uncomfortably. “What brings you here?”

Elia slowly closed the door, and looked at her. Lyanna had taken a little weight; her eyes were heavy and her hair unkept. She looked at her with weary eyes, seeing some bruises on her arms.

“What are those? Did you hurt yourself?” Elia asked.

“Oh, you shouldn’t worry.” Lyanna waved her off. “I was a foolish girl.”

Elia frowned. When Lyanna usually said something like that, it meant that she had done Rhaegar had not approved of and been…punished. Elia knew he would never do this with her, but he had his claws deep in Lyanna. Though, these bruises also meant that Lyanna was starting to resist.

“How are you?” Elia asked.

“Better.” Lyanna sighed. “Rhaegar allows me to go outside a little more. He said we would go to Casterly Rock soon, too. It will be nice to ride again.”

Elia gave her a sad smile.

“And Rhaegar?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him much. He has been busy, with the Ironborn. Have you heard?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Is…does Ned have anything to do with it?” Lyanna’s eyes lit up.

“We do not know.” Elia shook her head. “But it seems for the moment that the North has had no hand in this.”

Lyanna’s eyes went from Elia to the ground in an instant. Something lit up in Elia at that. There seemed to have been a flicker of hope in her that Ned was coming for her.

“Do you know Edmure Tully is leaving?” Lyanna asked.

“Yes.” Elia nodded.

“What a shame, I liked Edmure.” Lyanna sighed. “He gave me letters.”

“Letters?” Elia inquired.

Lyanna turned white.

“I…I…please don’t tell Rhaegar!” the Stark girl immediately pleaded. “It was supposed to be a secret, and Edmure will be punished.”

“Calm down,” Elia whispered. “You know I won’t say a thing to him; you know that…”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Lyanna almost sobbed. “I just…he shouldn’t have given me the letters. They’re from home, Ned and Benjen, Howland, Rickard, Maege, Wyman…he’s been my savior.”

Elia was stunned. Edmure Tully had managed to smuggle in letters from the North without Rhaegar or her knowing anything about it? How was it even possible?

“Do you…answer these letters?”

“I…I can’t say. I promised.” Lyanna stood her ground.

“And…did you keep the letters?”

“No.” Lyanna’s answer was clear. “I burn all of them, so that Rhaegar may not find them.”

Elia chuckled.

“You are a woman of many surprises, Lady Stark.”

“Don’t call me that.” The Stark girl made a face. “It makes me feel old. Lyanna, always, please.”

“Well, Lady Lyanna, I hope you do not mind me leaving. I need to go attend the War Council.”

“Of course, but…you promised.”

“I swear on my life and those of my children, none of the things you said to me will leave this room.”

Lyanna nodded, saluted Ser Oswell on the way out, and was on her way. As she moved towards the Small Council chamber, her thoughts were clouded with what she had just heard, and its implications. It meant that the former rebels had some sort of line of communication which led directly to the Red Keep. She did not wish to sever it, but identifying it would be a crucial step. However, the only man who could help her there was Varys, and he was even less trustworthy than whoever the rebels employed. Unless Varys was behind it all…

And then there was the precariousness of it all. If Lyanna had talked to her, who knew who she could talk to? Would she confess to Rhaegar? And what would be the consequences for Edmure Tully? There too, she had to act, at least to protect the heir to Riverrun, for the time being. If Rhaegar knew about this, his fury would know no bounds and who knew what he was capable of doing?

At least, Elia thought, the Ironborn rebellion would occupy his thoughts for some time. That was, in any case, how she managed to push these thoughts away.

Brisking past Ser Gerold Hightower, she entered the small council room, which waited in great anticipation. Everyone safe for Tywin Lannister, who had left to celebrate his nameday in his home, was present: Pycelle, Varys, Monford Velaryon, Jon Connington, and even Mace Tyrell, who had been visiting and had brought his daughter Margaery. No doubt for her to get acquainted with Aegon some years before they are due to wed…

“You are late.” Rhaegar pointed out.

“I was held up, Your Grace.” Elia curtly replied. “My apologies.”

“Now that everyone is here,” Jon Connington cleared his throat, “we may start.”

“Do we know exactly what is happening?” Monford asked.

“Well, there were many contradicting statements,” Varys sighed. “Not helped by the chaotic nature of events, of course. But I believe we now have a good assessment of the situation.”

“Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands and openly defies us in rebellion.” Rhaegar raged.

“He has attacked the Westerlands in a most daring and successful attack.” Jon added. “Lannisport was sacked, its inhabitants mostly put to the sword, and Tywin’s son, Tyrion, taken hostage.”

“If anything, Lord Tywin will thank them for it.” Elia frowned. “He may use this as a pretext to recall Jaime from exile.”

“Nonsense,” Monford waved her off. “Kevan has many sons which can inherit the Rock.”

“What’s more,” Jon cleared his throat. “Tywin’s fleet has been torched, and the Ironborn have reaved along most of the coast of the Westerlands. Fair Isle has taken the brunt of the attacks, as has the coast up to Kayce. In addition, Feastfires has fallen, though the Ironborn just demolished the castle and took Lord Prester hostage.”

“Are there many good news?” Rhaegar frowned.

“Sebaston Farman repulsed several attacks on Fair Isle.” Varys pointed out. “His brother, Ser Ellyn, has managed to defy the Ironborn in naval combat and dealt them serious losses, although he had to withdraw to The Crag.”

“It isn’t much, but let us trumpet it as a victory.” Jon sighed. “If Fair Isle holds, it means the flank of the Westerlands is not yet completely shattered.”

“Now, the question is, where will Balon strike next?” Monford asked.

“Or if he will strike at all.” Mace wondered. “After all, he has used up his advantage, and now has to face the entire realm.”

“If I were Balon, I’d strike the Shields or the Arbor.” Jon pointed out. “Before we can merge our fleets.”

“Preposterous!” Mace countered. “The Ironborn would be mad to defy Paxter Redwyne’s fleet in combat!”

“Mad and Ironborn go hand in hand, Lord Mace.” Elia mused. “And the Redwyne fleet is hardly invincible. May I remind you that Lord Gargalen’s Dornish held the isle for three hundred years after defeating Lord Meryn Redwyne’s fleet in combat?”

“It was a long time ago, when the Reach was still divided, the Redwyne fleet weak and the Dornish backed by sellsails and the fleet of Lord Ogbert Durrandon, who wished to get revenge for a slight he had received several years prior.” Mace frowned. “And Paxter is not Meryn.”

“In any case, an attack on the Arbor is unlikely, as it is too defended.” Rhaegar ended the conversation there. “We have seen that the Ironborn cannot assault fortifications such as that of Faircastle.”

“They could still raid its shores, Your Grace.” Pycelle pointed out.

“Of course, but it would be but a slight inconvenience.” Rhaegar countered. “However, we must be weary of an attack on the Shields.”

“I agree. If Feastfires fell, the Shield Islands castles may fall as well.” Jon nodded.

“I will have Lord Serry muster his fleet.” Mace smiled. “I believe we can protect the isles with at least a hundred ships. Redwyne can bring two hundred and Lord Leyton will add another hundred to that number. This will be too much for the Ironborn to stomach.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait for our Royal Fleet to join, in order to drown the Ironborn with numbers?” Monford asked.

“How many ships can the Royal Fleet bear?” Rhaegar asked.

“We may be able to bring more than one hundred and fifty ships, Your Grace.” Monford smiled. “Not counting any vessels from the capital, Stormlands or Dorne. However, it would take us some time to assemble them.”

“How many can we provide, Lord Hand?” Rhaegar turned to Jon.

“By my count, not many, Your Grace.” Jon bit his lip. “Our ships are mostly used for escorting merchant vessels. By my count, we could spare fifty, at the most. As for the Stormlands, the muster will have to be mostly shouldered by Houses Baratheon, Estermont and Tarth.”

“How many could these bring?”

“I believe about eighty ships, perhaps a hundred, Your Grace.” Jon coughed. “However, many of these lords will be likely to be…slow to respond.”

“By my count, we shouldn’t have need of them.” Rhaegar shrugged. “What of Dorne, Elia?”

“Your Grace, our fleet is mostly coastal, designed to fight pirates in the Stepstones.” Elia countered. “Hardly suited for combat in the Sunset Sea, where the waters are much rougher. In total we could align perhaps…fifty galleys, but only half of these would be suitable for combat against the Ironborn.”

That was a lie, Elia knew. Dorne’s fleet was coastal, to be true, but Doran would be able to contribute at least sixty warships to the cause. However, this would endanger Dornish shipping in the Narrow Sea, and expose Dornishmen to attacks by slaver vessels. In effect, she doubted Doran would spare more than ten vessels for Rhaegar’s campaign.

“What about the Vale, Riverlands and North?” Rhaegar asked. “Lord Mallister has beaten the Ironborn once before, hasn’t he?”

“Your Grace, having Mallister rally us would be unwise, as his fleet could very well be ambushed by the Ironborn while trying to rally us. It is the same for any Northern forces coming from Deepwood Motte or Torrhen’s Square.” Monford pointed out.

“Specks of dust and glorified fishing vessels, regardless.” Mace Tyrell scoffed.

“In the Vale, House Grafton has reaffirmed its support, and has offered to send thirty warships to Dragonstone.” Varys smiled.

“Good!” Rhaegar nodded. “And the others?”

“No answer from Jon Arryn or Eddard Stark, but no doubt that even in case of a positive answer, these forces would have to go around half the known world. It is unlikely to ever see them in battle.” Jon shook his head.

“Well, the banners have been called, in any case.” Rhaegar countered. “The Greyjoys will drown in the face of the might of the Iron Throne. We have more ships, men and resources than them. Lord Velaryon, how long do you think it will take to assemble your fleet?”

“About three weeks, Your Grace.” Monford answered.

“Three weeks is too long, Monford. How many ships can you spare at the moment?” Rhaegar pushed.

“At this instant?” Monford thought for a moment. “I suppose we could send sixty sturdy warships, including your brother Viserys on my uncle Daeron’s flagship, the Superb, towards Oldtown on the morrow.”

“Perfect!” Rhaegar smiled widely. “Viserys will carry the Targaryen banner forth into battle, and bring glory to our house. Lord Tyrell, I suppose you will take the necessary precautions to defend the Shields?”

Elia said nothing at that, but it seemed…early for Viserys. The boy was just fifteen, and sending him into battle like this was unwise. This, however, would have to be a private conversation she needed to have with Rhaegar, not something to bring up in the middle of the Council, especially not with Monford around.

“Of course, Your Grace!” Mace nodded with a grin. “The Ironborn will break their teeth if they even dare to try and land on our shores.”

“Very good.” Rhaegar continued. “I will also announce that I am creating the office of Master of War, for the duration of the conflict, in order to oversee the preparations for the defence of Westeros and upcoming invasion of the Iron Islands. Lord Rowan will take up this new office, in regards of his brilliant years of service during the Rebellion.”

“A wonderful idea, Your Grace.” Mace smiled

“Well then, my lords,” Rhaegar smiled, filling his cup of wine, “To victory!”

“To victory!”

The cheer resonated through the Small Council chambers in unison. All of this was sound, certainly, but it also assumed nothing went wrong for the Crown in the meantime. Yes, the Ironborn were mad fools, but gods only knew what they were capable of.

It was thus carefully that Elia drank her wine, not overly satisfied of the day’s council. This war seemed to come down to who would make the first mistake, not deal the first great blow. But, in this case, she had to wonder: would the Ironborn really be the ones to make that mistake first?

Chapter Text

The Prince in the Gardens

Doran Martell groaned as he left his bed, pain throbbing in his foot.

“Careful, dear,” Mellario rose from the bed, helping him up, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

Doran gave her a thankful smile, using her to prop himself up. He jolted slightly as the pain shot up through his leg, but it thankfully soon dissipated, leaving a sort of never-ending itch at the bottom of his foot.

Doran was not an old man, having barely past his fortieth nameday. But still, as life would have it, he had been inflicted with gout not two years ago. Maester Caleotte had done his best to aid him, but he had warned that in four to five years, he would be unable to stand without intense pain. All that could be done was ease it, and Doran learned to accept this fate.

Mellario had been more horrified than he when she learned the news. She acted as if he were already dead and buried, despite Caleotte’s reassurances. That day, she had confided that she’d never leave him, especially in this state.

For Mellario had long thought about leaving, back to Norvos. Doran loved her too much to stop her from considering the idea. She had already threatened to do so when Doran struck a deal with Lord Yronwood, insisting that it was not Doran’s price to pay, but Oberyn’s. He understood, but had to say that things were different in Westeros, even if Dorne was quite apart from the rest of the Kingdoms in many ways.

In a way, Elia had stepped in to save the day. With her own deal with Lord Yronwood, she prevented Quentyn from leaving, allowing him to stay close to Mellario and in the Gardens. A most fortuitous decision, as Quentyn’s shy nature allowed him to quickly bond with Prince Aemon, himself rejected by most of the other Dornish boys. A bond that blossomed into a friendship between two boys who both discovered life in the Water Gardens at the same time. Thus, Doran owed much to Elia. His continued bond with Mellario, from which Trystane and Deria were born, and, perhaps, Prince Aemon’s loyalty to Dorne.

Mellario helped Doran dress, giving him a kiss as she handed him his cane.

“Are you sure that you will be alright?” she asked with worry.

“My love, do not fret. I will have Areo with me at all times if something goes amiss.” He smiled. “Will you tend to the children?”

“Once I have put on something decent.” Mellario smiled back.

It’s true that Mellario wore nothing but a small silken gown, hardly appropriate for anything else than their bedchamber. Doran nodded at her, walking a few steps with his cane, feeling a jolt every time he took too large a step.

“Are you sure…” Mellario trailed.

“The children need you more than me.” Doran cut her off as he made to the door. “And the affairs of Dorne call me.”

Mellario crossed her arms, unimpressed.

“Try to fit in some time for your children, Doran.”

“I’ll see how Arianne and Quentyn are doing with their lessons, I promise.” Doran acknowledged. “I’ll also come see Trystane and Deria before luncheon.”

Trystane and Deria were the two last additions to the growing Martell family. Mellario and he had agreed on three children, but Doran’s wife had finally decided that she wished two daughters, and knew the next one would be one. She was proven right, as, last year, she gave birth to a healthy babe which they named after Nymor’s daughter.

Doran took his leave from Mellario, limping forward on his cane, but rejecting all offers from Areo to fetch a chair to carry him.

“I’m no cripple yet, Areo.” Doran snapped. “I’ll manage just fine.”

The Prince of Dorne thus struggled through the gardens, taking a look at the result of the best of Dornish craftmanship around him. Pools, houses, countless gardens…Doran could never tire of the sight. Probably the reason why he chose to spend more and more time here…well, other than supervising Prince Aemon’s upbringing, of course.

To that end, he had gotten the help of the best maesters, septas and teachers from Dorne, but also Essos, thanks to Mellario’s wide network of acquaintances. Thus, he employed a Tyroshi master-at-arms, a Braavosi numbers teacher and a Volantene astronomer. This, added onto the numerous Dornish tutors he had already, which included his treasurer Alyse Ladybright, and Elia’s friend Ashara Dayne.

Doran had his doubts about the inclusion of the latter, but he had to admit that Ashara knew court very well, and could thus teach its ways and manners to Prince Aemon and his children both. These lessons would in turn be essential for them to navigate the just as treacherous Dornish court, where threats were hidden beneath every word. He much rather would have had another tutor, but Elia had convinced him to take Ashara in, and never regretted it. Ashara had in turn brought her daughter Allyria to the Gardens, which Doran readily accepted. He did not take long to notice her Stark traits, which made her and Prince Aemon look like siblings with their grey eyes, and raven black and dark brown hair, respectively.

Doran hurried his pace, making his way down the bright corridors of the Water Gardens, up until a small terrace guarded by four men. They swiftly let him in, letting him pass a white gate which led to a large pool with a wooden walkway, which led to a small isle carved out of rock. On it was placed a few chairs and a table with refreshments. Two of the chairs were occupied by his brother, Oberyn, and his cousin, Manfrey, leaving a third for him.

Doran accelerated his march, finally arriving on the small isle, and taking a seat.

“How do you fare, brother?” Oberyn asked.

“Well enough, Oberyn.” Doran sighed. “The pain is growing, but I still have a few years before I’ll be…grounded.”

“I’m sorry, cousin.” Manfrey coughed. “It must be hard on you.”

“It is, Manfrey.” Doran shrugged. “But all I can do now is endure. I accept your sympathy, but let us move on. What requires my urgent presence?”

“You have heard of the Greyjoy rebellion?” Manfrey asked.

“Of course.” Doran nodded. “The Ironborn have raided half the Westerlands, sacked Lannisport and Feastfires, and are no doubt eyeing other prizes along the Sunset Sea.”

“Precisely.” Oberyn made a face. “The Crown has not exactly been idle, and is preparing to send a fleet out to face the Ironborn.”

“And I suppose the King has asked us to contribute?” Doran asked.

“Exactly.” Manfrey nodded. “We have been asked to contribute warships and troops for the forthcoming invasion of the isles.”

“Warships!” Doran exclaimed. “I hardly have enough warships to protect my own coasts, let alone send anything west!”

“We should…send a token force, at least to show our presence.” Manfrey suggested.

“And soldiers, too.” Oberyn continued.

“Soldiers, I can send.” Doran agreed. “It is absolutely unacceptable that the Queen’s own blood refuse to send anyone. I’ll send for Franklyn Fowler to lead five thousand men and send them to…Oldtown? It seems to be where most of the royal forces are gathering.”

“That seems like a good idea, though we will be pressed to send ships.” Manfrey sighed.

“I cannot spare any vessels, especially with the Stepstones pirates becoming bolder as the news of fleets from the Narrow Sea being sent west likely spreads.” Doran shook his head. “And our fleets are already small in number. No, I cannot spare even a token force.”

“Should we promise the King anything?” Oberyn asked.

“Promise him that we’ll send whatever warships we build. I believe we are due to launch six new galleys this year, that ought to satisfy him.” Doran winced as he rose with difficulty. “Omit the numbers, of course.”

“Certainly, cousin.” Manfrey bowed.

“It will be done, brother, but…where are you going?”

“I have a promise to keep.” Doran smiled. “Do the necessary arrangements with the shipwrights in Planky Town. Dorne is going to war again.”

Chapter Text

Galbart

Galbart Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte, was by no means a soft man, far from it. He had, along with his three brothers, participated in Robert’s Rebellion. Both he and Robett were at the Trident and Broclair, with the Northern forces. Ethan, Galbart’s youngest brother, had gone through even more hardship. Tortured for months by the Mad King, he had left an eye and a leg in King’s Landing, continuing to defy his captors until his release at the end of the Rebellion. Since then, Ethan had vowed to see the Targaryens be sent back to Essos before his demise.

However, despite Galbart being a man who had seen war more than many Northmen could claim to have seen in their lifetime, he still felt squeamish at the idea of aiding the Ironborn. After all, the raiders could not be trusted. How many years had the Ironborn raided the Northern coasts, stealing their lumber, burning fishing villages and pillaging their lands? Certainly, the last great raids had been a few hundred years ago, but the Northerners had a long memory…

So, as Galbart observed the first Ironborn ships docking at the foot of his keep, it was hard for him to keep his composure.

“Something amiss, Glover?” a deep voice called from behind.

Galbart turned around to face a tall man, with blue-grey eyes, dark brown hair which extended to his shoulders, and a solemn expression on his face.

“Dealing with the Ironborn is still…difficult for me to accept, Lord Benjen.”

“I agree,” the Stark envoy nodded, “but for the moment, they are useful to us.”

“And they’ll make the Targs bleed.” The voice coming from beside him was that of Ethan, as hard as iron. “That’s all that matters.”

“Aye, be that as it may, I do not envy the fate of the innocents in their way. Have you heard the stories of what happened at Lannisport?” Galbart almost shuddered.

Ethan stayed silent. He had heard the tales coming back from the city. And they were not flattering for the Ironborn at all. Enough to make many men question whether supporting these pirates was even a worthy cause. For the moment, hatred of the Targaryens trumped that of the Ironborn, especially amongst the wealthiest and most influential houses of the North, but for how long? He, Tallhart, Dustin, Flint and Mormont had all pushed back against the idea when Lord Stark had first proposed it. However, they were convinced one after the other with promises of their share of what the Ironborn would give the North. And so, the number of opposing lords dropped lower and lower. Only House Mormont remained, though Lord Jeor had left for the Wall and Lord Jorah now proved less of a pushback for Lord Stark.

Nevertheless, this small group of lords may yet start grumbling if the Ironborn continue to leave a wake of death and destruction in their path. Northmen were no strangers to spilling blood – they had sacrificed men to the Old Gods, in the olden days! – but times had changed and if a sack or two was always to be expected, the wanton brutality displayed by the Ironborn at Lannisport had made some stomachs turn. Worse, at Feastfires, it was said that Euron Greyjoy burned Ser Forley Prester, who had attempted a sortie, in front of the castle walls, which then fell soon after. In summary, the days of the Red Kraken seemed to have returned.

That said, Galbart shuddered at what Lord Tywin had planned out for the Ironborn when – if – he took the Isles. A man who exterminated two families because they refused to pay back debts was hardly the kind to forgive sacking “his” city and taking his son.

In the harbor, the lead Greyjoy ship docked on the lone quay of Deepwood Motte. It must be said that this harbor wasn’t usually this busy, being conceived for only four ships to dock at once. However, it must be one of the sturdiest on this coast, being used to accommodate heavy merchandise like timber.

This wasn’t the first Ironborn ship to dock at Deepwood Motte, though, and it seemed that it wasn’t the first time the Ironborn was coming here, either. Slowly but surely, the great Longship came alongside, its great prow decorated with a kraken rising high above the sea.

“Whose ship is this?” Benjen Stark asked, inquisitively.

“That is the Foamdrinker, the Longship belonging to Dagmer Cleftjaw, Master-at-arms of Pyke.” Ethan answered. “Be prepared, my lord, Dagmer is a hardy sailor and warrior, but he is hardly a pretty sight for the eyes.”

Galbart scoffed. That was one way of putting it. That old bastard hardly had teeth anymore, and those that remained were half-rotten. A giant scar cut his mouth down the middle, adding to his hideous appearance. Finally, the man was as round as a bear, though just as fierce, always flaunting his many jewels likely taken from some poor sod’s body.

“The Cleftjaw only comes when there are very important matters to discuss.” Galbart added.

“The Greyjoys send us that man?” Benjen Stark raised an eyebrow.

“Apparently, he’s loyal to them.” Ethan shrugged. “All that matters is that they keep their word, not who comes to speak in Balon’s stead.”

“I’ll accompany you, if you do not mind, my lord.” Galbart pressed on.

“It would be appreciated, Glover.”

Galbart, Ethan and Benjen made their way towards the docks, braving the chilly winds that were coming from the open sea. By then, the Foamdrinker had been joined by three other longships, all flying the Greyjoy flag, and all bearing ominous names: Maiden’s Bane, Wailing Wind and Iron Titan. Already, men were busy unloading full crates onto the now cramped dock.

In the corner of his eye, Galbart identified the Cleftjaw, who had just come onto the dock. It seemed that the Ironborn had a good eye, as he’d also spied him from afar and came out, arms raised.

“Glover! How it pleases me to see you again!” He laughed.

Galbard did his best to not hit the man in the face.

“Dagmer, how many ships today?” he asked.

“Twelve in all, including six warships. Not including the captured ones.” Dagmer replied. “In all, we’ve got our hulls filled with what was demanded. Some loot from the Westerlands, gold in part, but mostly the usual: iron, lead, tin, mail, swords.”

“And the…misplaced ones?” Galbart pressed on.

“Aye.” Dagmer laughed. “A third of our shipments have been misplaced by our men, unfortunate really. Silver, fish, sealskins, whale bone and oil, as usual. Did you fulfil your part of the bargain?”

“Timber, catapults, trebuchets, seeds, wheat and ale, with the catapults and trebuchets in parts to be assembled. I trust you are capable of it?” Galbart asked.

“Aye, ain’t nothing we can’t do.” Dagmer grinned, his scar seemingly widening as he did. “I suppose the ol’ man in black is the envoy for the…special shipment?”

“Aye.” Benjen Stark stepped forward. “I am Benjen Stark, brother of Eddard.”

“Oh, they’re sending us Lord Stark’s blood, ey?” Dagmer laughed. “Alright, youngling, come with me aboard.”

“Aboard?” Ethan looked shocked.

“Well, can’t be opening that crate with many eyes around, can we?” Dagmer’s grin widened.

“Galbart, you’re coming with me. I’ll take my men too, Cleftjaw.” Benjen narrowed his eyes.

“Eh, it’s your problem if they talk.” Dagmer just shrugged. “I’m just delivering what the young Stark wanted.”

Dagmer led Galbart, Ethan and Benjen, along with a small escort, aboard the Longship. It reeked of the smell of fish and salt, along with more odors Galbart just couldn’t identify. The Northern party had to fray a path towards the Cleftjaw’s cabin, avoiding Ironborn loading and unloading entire crates or struggling to bring timber on board.

Only Galbart and Benjen entered the cabin, in which Dagmer presented them a small crate.

“That’s it?” Galbart raised an eyebrow.

“Looks like it.” Benjen nodded. “Do the Lannisters know?”

“As far as they are aware, all of it burned down when we set fire to the harbor.” Dagmer answered, struggling to open the crate. “There we are. Take a look.”

Benjen Stark took the crate, and rummaged through its contents. A small smile appeared on his face, as he beckoned Galbart to come closer.

“What is this?” Galbart asked.

He had expected to see some sort of great treasure, but all he could see were simple sheets of paper and books. Galbart moved closer, and took a look at some of the pieces. There, he understood what was so precious about this crate. Inside were dozens if not hundreds of records from Lannisport, detailing the fortifications of the city, layout of the harbor, town and waste systems, as well as several records from paymasters, harbormasters and other taxmen.

“So, are you Northmen happy?” Dagmer asked.

“Oh yes,” Benjen Stark smiled for the first time today, “Very happy.”

Chapter Text

Viserys

The large galley Superb made its way into Ryamsport, flying both flags of House Targaryen and Velaryon. Viserys Targaryen could thus see that Paxter Redwyne had not been inactive after the news of the sack of Lannisport: his fleet was at the ready and patrolling the seas, while the entire town of Ryamsport seemed to be in full effervescence. A far cry from the days when it was but a peaceful harbor, with merchant ships gathering and unloading their merchandise, while crates of Arbor wines were loaded onto other vessels.

Now, the safe haven had become a point of gathering for many warships. From his position at the front of the ship, Viserys could discern many vessels, but the most impressive of which was certainly Lord Paxter Redwyne’s Arbor Queen, with its three great sails and large, white-and-gold oars.

“Lord Redwyne is counting his ships like a farmer counts his chickens.” Daeron Velaryon came beside him. “I have not seen a gathering of these many warships since the Rebellion.”

Daeron was an old man with a greying beard, though he had sailed the seas of the known world since the days of the last Blackfyre Rebellion. It was he who practically raised him from a young age, when Rhaegar decided to have House Velaryon foster him.

He remembered being dejected, feeling left out of a family, banished even. But soon enough, he found out that this decision may well have been the best of his life. Viserys had found himself an able sailor, with a thirst for discovery. Seeing Essos for the first time – Pentos, Tyrosh, Myr and Lys – had awakened his desire to push further beyond, just as the Sea Snake had done in his day.

“Lord Redwyne fears for his lands, uncle.” Viserys softly replied.

Daeron was not his uncle. Not by blood, at any rate. But he had learned to call him that since a young age, as saying ‘Lord Daeron’ became too formal. They had sailed the seas together since Viserys was but a boy of eight, and at sea, such formality soon became a burden.

“Redwyne is right to be worried.” Daeron gruffly said as the Superb slowly arrived on the already congested docks. “The Ironborn once ruled this place, for a time. They still delude themselves that they are the rightful owners of this place.”

“When even the Dornish occupied these lands for longer.” Viserys nodded.

“Good, you remember your lessons.”

“How could I not?” Viserys smiled back.

As he started making his way towards the wooden dock, he took a deep breath, feeling salt fill his nostrils. He thought of Elaena, Daeron’s granddaughter, that beautiful girl with silver-blonde hair. He had fallen for her the moment he laid eyes on her, back in Driftmark. Each time Viserys came back from his travels, Elaena was there, with flowers and wine for him. She tried getting her something each time he had come back: Myrish lace, Lysene perfume, Volantene birds... Finally, he had confessed to loving her. He’d asked for her hand to Lord Monford, who quickly accepted. In a few weeks, they had been wed and bedded. Elaena had gladly accepted this life, though she only asked that they wait to have children, as she was worried about childbirth.

Viserys, never wanting to hurt her, had of course accepted. Thus, they eloped without children for the foreseeable future…at least until Elaena’s twentieth nameday, or when she decided that childbirth was no longer the great fear in her heart. Until then, she would take moon tea. As for Viserys, well, the arrangement suited him well. Being a father at fourteen was not a great prospect, especially as he still wished to sail much longer.

Viserys finally hit the wooden dock, his legs wobbling slightly as he had to adjust to being back on land. Daeron followed him, staying close as the pair were greeted by a knight in green armor.

“Prince Viserys, Ser Daeron,” the knight bowed, “I am Ser Jeremy Norfolk, master-at-arms of Redwyne Keep. Lord Paxter has sent me to escort you to the castle.”

“Well met, ser.” Viserys nodded at the man, a balding knight in his forties, but whose build was still impressive. He was certainly neither plump nor fat, and had likely seen some action in his lifetime. “Lead the way.”

The man nodded, and gestured for them towards the end of the dock, where two stallions awaited them, along with an escort of thirty men in Redwyne colors. Having mounted their breeds, Viserys and Daeron made their way outside of the city, and inland. It is thus that Viserys saw the vast vineyards of the Arbor, stretching as far as the eye could see.

On the map, the Arbor looked like a small island to him. But, in reality, it was an archipelago whose largest island was five times Driftmark’s size, and almost ten times Dragonstone’s. As a result, the distance between Ryamsport and the centre of the island was just as long as that between King’s Landing and Rosby. And Lord Redwyne had chosen the location of his castle well. The Arbor had no mountains, but a series of great hills which rose in the center of the island. Redwyne Keep was three hours’ ride from Ryamsport, at the top of one of these hills, protected by a wooden forest on one side and many vineyards and a stream on the other.

It was no Castle Driftmark, of course, but it still was built with defensiveness in mind, which couldn’t be said for all castles in the Reach. Made of reddish stone, it boasted no less than eight towers on each side, with a great tower on the eastern side, facing the sea, being connected by a bridge to the rest of the fortress.

As they were let inside the castle, Viserys could only appreciate the size of the great courtyard. It was completely open, leading onto the square of a great sept in the center. To the right laid the servants’ quarters, while the left seemed to hold a large building for the troops, and a smaller one leading to another part of the castle.

“Lord Redwyne resides in Gilbert’s Tower,” Ser Jeremy explained as he dismounted. “But his guests reside in the Vine Hall, and he holds all his business there.”

Viserys nodded, and followed Jeremy towards the smaller building, discovering it as a gateway towards a large garden, complete with fruit trees and orchards. Beyond it lay another stone building, which was shadowed by the great tower behind it.

It was at the foot of this building where Lord Redwyne finally greeted the party. The master of the Arbor was standing tall, with his orange hair waving in the wind, and his beard neatly kept. The man did not command much of a presence, but he was tall and thin, with rough hands of a sailor. At his side were a set of twins, a young girl and a plump boy.

“Prince Viserys, Ser Daeron.” Paxter welcomed them with a smile. “Welcome to the Arbor. Here are my children, Horas, Hobber and Desmera. And my cupbearer, Samwell Tarly. You will excuse my wife, but she has left for Highgarden a fortnight ago.”

“It is not often one sees you on land, my lord.” Daeron grinned.

“I must organize the defense of the Arbor and coordinate my fleet,” Paxter replied. “Come, let us discuss how to vanquish this pesky rebellion.”

Viserys and Daeron nodded, being led into the Redwyne apartments. During this time, he eyed Paxter’s cupbearer with an interested eye. The boy was plump, and he had a marked step, struggling to keep up with the rest of the party.

“You are Lord Randyll’s son?” Viserys asked.

“Yes, my Prince.” The boy replied, almost out of breath.

“He was a good man. He died a hero, to end the rebellion.”

“I did not know him, my Prince.” Samwell took a breath, “I was but a babe when he died.”

“I understand.” Viserys nodded. “Do you sail?”

“I try to. My stomach doesn’t often agree.”

“You’ll get your sea legs eventually.” Viserys smiled. “A man who hasn’t been ill at sea is either one who has yet to step on a boat, or a liar.”

“Yes, my prince.” Samwell nodded back.

“We have arrived.” Paxter turned to the two older men. “Sam, you can leave us. Make sure to tell the maids to have rooms ready for our guests.”

“Yes, my lord.” Samwell quickly bowed and walked off, puffing as he did so.

“I like him.” Viserys smiled.

“Sam is the smartest boy I know.” Paxter sighed. “But I often wonder how he is related to his father.”

 Viserys entered Lord Redwyne’s war room, decorated with paintings and tapestries of naval battles and vineyards. However, the cabinet was also decorated with many artefacts coming from every corner of the known world: an Ibbenese unicorn-seal tusk, a Yi-Tish vase, and a walking lizard tooth from Sothoryos were amongst those that caught Viserys’ eye the most.

In the middle of the room was a table, not unlike that of Dragonstone, carved with the Arbor in the center, and showing a very detailed Reacher coast along it. Every rock, isle and reef seemed to have been dutifully mapped, which added to the astounding level of detail.

“Well, my lords, here is our situation.” Paxter announced as he pointed to the Arbor. “I have two hundred warships in and around the Arbor, to which I can add a hundred converted carracks within four moons.”

His fingers slipped towards the Shield Islands, to the north.

“The Shieldmen have their fleet out, defending the approaches to the Mander. Chester, Grimm, Hewett and Serry hold about a hundred warships, though they are spread out between the northern and southern approaches to the Mander.”

Finally, his finger landed on Sweetport Sound, and Oldtown.

“Lord Leyton has about eighty warships under his orders, though he insists on waiting for the rest of the Royal Fleet before setting it out.” Paxter pointed out. “Other houses in the vicinity, such as Blackbar, also have around ten to fifteen warships each.”

“And who commands this fleet?” Viserys asked.

“The King has named no one.” Paxter bit his lip. “Lord Leyton commands his own vessels, I do mine, and the Shieldmen have agreed on Lord Serry commanding their own.”

“Shouldn’t the King have named a commander for this fleet?” Viserys asked.

“Usually, the fleet commander is the Master of Ships. In this case, it would be Lord Monford, who is in Driftmark, overseeing the Royal Fleet.” Daeron replied.

Paxter coughed.

“As the oldest and commander of highest rank here, I should hold command of all forces…”

“What about Leyton Hightower?” Viserys asked.

“Old Leyton prefers to wait for the rest of the Royal Fleet to arrive.” Paxter frowned. “He does not understand that the Ironborn will not wait for it to attack.”

Viserys bit his lip. He understood that Paxter Redwyne was not a man who wished to just let the Ironborn run wild in the Reach while waiting for reinforcements. Especially as his lands were at the forefront of this destruction, and the pressure of Lord Tyrell to keep the destruction the Ironborn wrought on the Westerlands away from his own will be hanging.

“I understand that you wish to meet the Ironborn in battle?” Viserys sighed.

“I do.” Paxter nodded. “With your sixty vessels, and the fleet of the Shields, we have more than enough great ships with experienced sailors to smash the Ironborn to bits.”

“I tend to agree…” Daeron nodded. “But, shouldn’t we be more patient?”

“If we do, the Ironborn will pillage their way across the Reach, and potentially surprise us at anchor, while we sit and wait.” Paxter frowned. “I do not intend to let myself be surprised like Tywin Lannister.”

“With our numbers…” Viserys’ fingers roamed around the Arbor, “indeed, it looks like we have the upper hand.”

“And the Ironborn have never been known for their tactical sense.” Paxter scoffed. “They are pillagers.”

“But hardy seamen all the same.” Daeron sighed. “I agree with you, Lord Redwyne. We do have the numbers, but we should be careful in picking our battle.”

“We will.” Paxter agreed. “I fully intend to choose where I’ll smash that fleet.”

Viserys took another look at the Arbor and its islands. Indeed, if Lord Redwyne knew the reefs by heart, he could well send the Ironborn into a great trap. Suddenly, however, a great noise was heard, and Samwell came inside, looking exhausted, and visibly coughing.

“Sam, I told you, I should not be disturbed!” Paxter lashed out.

“My…my lord…” Samwell took a deep breath. “News…from Lord Serry…the Ironborn have ambushed him and he has been forced to retreat up the Mander. Seven-and-sixty ships have been lost, and the Shields are under siege.”

Paxter went pale, his face contorting into a blend of astonishment and rage. He stayed silent for a moment, before finally managing to get a few words out.

“We sail on the morrow.”

Chapter Text

Cortnay Penrose

Cortnay looked at his numbers, and they were not good. Ever since King Rhaegar had ordered all coastal houses to mobilize their fleets, he had been hard at work in trying to find a ship – any ship – which could join the war effort. His father had been ailing, and such a tall task was far beyond his capacities. As a dutiful son, Cortnay thus stepped up to the task. But he would not outlive his father for long if the tasks ahead gave him so many gray hairs.

He sighed.

“No matter how I look at it, I just do not know how in the seven hells I will be able to commit any vessels to this enterprise.” Cortnay raised his hands in the air. “My lord, what have you thought of?”

The man in front of him sat silently, gritting his teeth.

“Ser, the King’s orders are…what they are.” He plainly stated. “I would agree that it be well-advised not to send anything. But we do not need Connington to start sniffing around like a hound looks for game on what our ships are up to.”

Cortnay straightened up, his face weary. He looked at his interlocutor with calm. Stannis Baratheon was a young man, approaching his thirties, but he spoke calmly and as if he had years of experience behind him. The poor lord of Storm’s End, without a paramountship and with most of his lands seized, his brother dead and his newborn afflicted with greyscale…

“Has Connington been pressing lately?” Cortnay asked.

“More than the usual.” Stannis simply stated. “I wager he wishes to show the King the might of the Stormlander navy.”

Cortnay scoffed.

“We haven’t had a navy worthy of the name since the days of the Durrandons.”

“I know that.” Stannis narrowed his eyes. “But Connington will get what he wants, one way or another. And the King’s word is law.”

Cortnay frowned. Yes, the King’s word was law, but that same law had led them to rebel all these years prior. And seeing the young Lord of Storm’s End use it in that way…unsettled him.

“If Connington starts digging, he will see where some of our ships have gone. And if he manages to slowly go up the track…” Stannis left the last part unsaid.

“I see what you mean, my lord.” Cortnay frowned. “But as I see it, I have several issues.”

“Name them.”

“Our trade, for one. Even if I were to send ships, I would need to protect my coast against pirates from Essos, who would no doubt take any opportunity to strike us when we are down.” Cortnay stated. “And this could very well lead to our own shores being raided.”

“I do not disagree.” Stannis blankly stated. “As a matter of fact, I am counting on the Essosi starting to feel bold.”

“What do you mean?” Cortnay asked.

He could not understand Lord Baratheon’s words. Sending his best ships west meant that his family’s lands were now open for raiding, facing only a few scattered fleets. Pirates would raid the coast just as they had done during the last days of the Dance, pillaging from the Kingswood to Greenstone.

“I’ve spoken with Lords Swann, Tarth, Rogers, Wylde, Whitehead and Estermont, and they all agree with you.” Stannis continued. “If we leave our coasts unguarded, the Essosi will strike our coasts. Something, it would seem, the King has elected to ignore.”

“I do not follow, my lord.” Cortnay looked on in confusion. “If you agree with me, then why press me for ships? I understand that you do not wish for Connington to lead a trail up to R…”

“My brother notwithstanding, this may prove an opportunity.” Stannis pointed out. “Our coasts will be lightly protected, yes, but so will those of the Crownlands, and possibly Dorne’s. Now, you are correct in your assumption that if we do send our best ships west, it would increase Essosi pirates’ boldness, and our trade would be at risk.”

“Not only at risk, but we may well end up losing essential goods, and in turn having to ask for loans from the Braavosi. Or worse, hire their services to protect our own vessels.” Cortnay frowned.

“And this is exactly what I am getting at, Ser Cortnay.” Stannis leaned forward. “Payment for protection.”

“I’m now even further confused.” Cortnay started to lose patience.

“A few years ago, I was alerted by…well-placed sources that the Greyjoys were attempting something and rebuilding their fleet.” Stannis simply stated. “I thus took the liberty to upgrade my fleet. I constructed two types of warships: one class made for ocean-going voyages, with large rams and the best wood the North could sell me, the kind that arms Braavosi flagships; and the other a swifter build, made for the Narrow Sea, with speed and agility in mind.”

“You were alerted?” Cortnay gasped. “By who?”

“I cannot tell.” Stannis shook his head. “And it hardly matters. What matters is that I now have a fleet which can both face the Ironborn…and effectively deal with Essosi pirates.”

“And you mean to…extort me for protection?” Cortnay growled.

“No.” Stannis’ voice was as cold as ice. “I have a duty towards the Stormlords. I would never think of doing such a thing. And my ships, despite being well-built, are few in number. However, if we, as Stormlords, were to create a fleet to escort convoys for our trade, and another to patrol our coasts, it would benefit all of us greatly.”

“A sort of combined fleet, to protect our interests?” Cortnay leaned in his chair. “I could talk to my father about this, but where does payment come in?”

“Well, the Royal Fleet being away, the King will soon have to turn to others to protect his ships. No doubt, some of them can be escorted by the few vessels he has on hand, but the King trades with everyone, and his best ships will no doubt be needed to trade with the richest lands. For…less lucrative trade, he would need backers. And who better than the Stormlords, who can so graciously lend a hand to the Crown for much less exorbitant prices than the Braavosi or Essosi sellsails?”

Cortnay chuckled.

“I seem to have underestimated you, my lord.” Cortnay nodded. “But what if the King does not pay?”

“Then we have a fleet that can effectively protect our own trade.” Stannis simply said. “To us, it brings no drawbacks.”

“And who would…command this fleet. You, I suppose?”

“No, Lord Selwyn Tarth would take charge.” Stannis shook his head.

“And what about you?” Cortnay asked.

“I’ll answer the King’s call, and command the Stormlander contingent of the Royal Fleet.” Stannis replied. “It is my duty. And hence why I came here asking for your ships.”

“You are a brave man, Lord Stannis.” Cortnay sighed. “But this adventure is sure to be ill-fated.”

“I have no plans to send my Stormlords to their deaths.” Stannis frowned in turn. “But I will ask for your sturdiest warships. Many ships can weather the Narrow Sea, but few can face the Ironborn in the Sunset Sea. I know you have three war galleys that may be suited for the task.”

Cortnay pondered this for a moment. He did have three large galleys: the Good Deed, Quillback and Truthful, all three of which were built for voyages to Volantis or the Summer Isles, and all of which were armed for combat.

“I do have three galleys.” Cortnay nodded. “And I assume that I would be…compensated by their loss with your ‘united Stormlander fleet’?”

“You would.” Stannis nodded.

“How many ships would you command, then?” Cortnay asked.

“I have eight, including the Proudwing. Tarth can spare six, Estermont nine, Wylde three, Whitehead two, Swann two, and I have yet to ask Rogers, but I expect to also bring two of his warships.”

“This means…” Cortnay counted in his head. “Two-and-thirty ships. Hardly much to face against the Ironborn.”

“Well, we would hardly be alone.” Stannis shook his head. “And as I said, I will not take any engagement I am not certain to win. Lord Velaryon may try all he might, he will not get to move my ships unless I say so.”

Cortnay leaned back in his chair, somewhat satisfied.

“I’ll have to ask my father.” He nodded. “He is still Lord of Parchments.”

“Of course.” Stannis nodded.

“In the meantime, you are a guest here, my lord.” Cortnay smiled. “Stay as long as you like.”

“I thank you, ser.” Stannis shook his head. “But my wife needs me. With my daughter ill, and such, I need to be next to her.”

“Of course.” Cortnay sadly smiled. “Send Lady Jeyne Swann…Baratheon my best wishes.”

“I will.” Stannis gruffly said as he stood up. “Have your warships ready to sail for Greenstone in two moons.”

Chapter Text

Edmure

“This is absolutely preposterous, treasonous even!”

Edmure did his best to remain calm, though in private he wanted nothing more to punch Lord Meric Darry straight between his rotting teeth.

“I demand to see your father, the true Lord of Riverrun!” Meric loudly proclaimed.

Edmure hid a smile. His father, if he even deigned to receive Meric, would have him run back to King’s Landing with a boar’s head up his arse and an apple in his mouth. However, since Lord Darry was, in effect, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, Edmure’s father kept his calm and just settled for having Edmure deal with him. Enough for it to be an insult, but not enough for Lord Darry to go and whine to his master in the capital, as the Lord of Riverrun’s health had been fragile in recent days.

“My lord father is abed, sickly, and is not to be disturbed, under the maester’s orders.” Edmure simply sighed. “I am receiving you in his stead, and I assure you that I have received all the authority by my father’s word.”

A small lie, in truth. Every decision Edmure made had to go back to his father, who was indeed abed. Not sickly, however. More than likely, he was telling little Alix a story before he had to sleep. Edmure’s son’s birth had been…unexpected, considering he and Delena did not want to rush things. However, once they discovered the pregnancy, both considered themselves happy enough. The birth had gone well, and it had been a boy!

Hoster had been overjoyed, and soon Catelyn and Lysa had been informed, both sending congratulations, hoping to see their nephew very soon. Alix had inherited all the Tully traits, too, with auburn hair and deep blue eyes, though his ears were slightly larger than the usual, owing to his Florent mother.

“I didn’t think I’d see the day I could dote on a grandchild.” Edmure’s father had told him, tearfully.

In recent days, even as his health slowly degraded, his father had found some peace by playing with the babe and helping as much as he could. Edmure had never seen this side of his father, who had always been such a stern and quite unfeeling man. However, it seemed that Alix’s birth combined with his ailment had changed him.

In the meantime, this left Edmure with more and more duties as he readied himself to become the next Lord of Riverrun, even as he was barely eighteen years old. This meant, in addition to the duties of Lord, to also continue to bolster Tully influence and power in the Riverlands, especially amidst the “Northerners”. These ones were houses located north of the Red Fork, generally opposed to the Crown, such as Mallister, Blackwood and Vypren, to which must be added the border houses: Vance and Piper. This was in opposition to the “Southerners”, such as Darry, Mooton, Bracken, Whent or Smallwood, who were mostly in the Crown camp, though many had been feeling disappointed at the rewards for their…treachery? Disloyalty? Side-switching? Regardless, there were opportunities to be exploited there.

Edmure also had to slowly take over Hoster’s vast network of informants, which were critical in maintaining the link between the North and Vale on one hand, and the Stormlands and capital on the other. He had already worked in building a small spy network in the capital during his time there as a hostage, allowing messages to reach Lyanna Stark and other hostages without the Crown being none the wiser. Though, in this regard, he had always suspected someone knew. He had indeed always a feeling of being watched, as if someone were hiding within the very walls of the keep. These thoughts had overwhelmed him, as he sometimes expected to be woken from his slumber and brought to the King in shame. But, to his relief, no one came, and Edmure let the ghosts float away…

Finally, and this was the least favorite part of his role as acting Lord of Riverrun, Edmure had to deal with Darry and Mooton. And while Mooton was a man who rarely left Maidenpool, and was a meek man, Darry was anything but. Lord Meric’s house had suffered in the rebellion, three of his sons having died, but he had emerged victorious. His house held the King and Queen’s ear both, and he had risen to the paramountship of the Riverlands. And Meric Darry made it known.

Every single time that some lord dared to even move his little finger in a way Darry did not like, he came to his keep with a thousand of his men, loudly stamped around and made vague threats, and then waited for the said Lord to grovel at his feet, begging for his mercy or asking how he could be of use. Of course, Darry usually had to call upon his master in King’s Landing in each one of his threats, which got him…into some trouble.

In one instance, Lord Bracken had insisted that Lord Blackwood’s troops had raided his lands around the Burning Mill. Outraged, Meric Darry immediately rushed to Raventree Hall, demanding that Lord Bracken be compensated, both with gold and land. A preposterous statement, to be sure, especially since Lord Bracken had no proof that it was Blackwood troops which intruded on his lands, or that this incident had happened in the first place!

But Meric Darry wanted to prove himself as the master of the Riverlands, and did not care. As such, when Lord Blackwood told him to go have sexual relations with his mother, Darry had to be talked down from starting a siege of Raventree right then and there. He appealed to the King, who ruled that bandits were the cause of the attack on the Mill, and that no evidence was found to incriminate the Blackwoods. Lord Darry had to apologize for burning some of Lord Blackwood’s lands, and had been left humiliated.

Ever since this incident, Meric only waited for the slightest occasion to prove the might of his house, even if it meant taking a fight with the most powerful houses in the Riverlands. And today was such a case.

King Rhaegar had called the banners, all across the Kingdoms. Hoster Tully, as a leal subject of the Crown, had – slowly – amassed about a thousand men around Riverrun. Now, of course, his father would be damned if he let one Tully soldier bleed for Rhaegar. As such, instead of marching towards Lannisport as they would likely be ordered to, he had marched for Seagard, stationing his force there instead. When Meric brought his host to Riverrun, he had immediately asked – no, demanded – that the Tully troops be attached to his host. When Edmure simply answered that they had left north, Meric had gone into an apoplectic rage. A rant which he still hadn’t finished, by the looks of it.

“You do well to remember who you are talking to, Tully.” Meric snarled. “You swore an oath to me.”

“Aye.” Edmure acknowledged.

“As such, you are bound to follow my orders.”

“Yes, my lord.”

"Then why do you continue to defy me?" Meric frowned, mouth twisting into a snarl. “You will bring your troops back from Seagard, at once. If you do so now, I may yet be forgiving."

Edmure sighed. Oh, how he wished he could just punch him right this instant. One day, one day...

"I'm afraid I cannot do that." Edmure finally let out. 

"You know" Mericc said, face red with anger. "I write to his Grace quite frequently. He likes to ask my advice. And just yesterday, I received a letter asking whether or not he should order your new son fostered in the capital, as you once were. I have not yet sent a response, but perhaps I should make it a priority."

Edmure did not flinch, but his demeanour had changed. The veiled threat to his child was not lost on him, but he knew Lord Darry had no leverage there. Jon Arryn had already agreed to foster the boy as soon as he was of age, and there would be nothing Darry could do. Still, the threat itself made Edmure want to snap his neck right then and there.

“Is that a threat, Lord Darry?” Edmure’s face darkened. “I do not like your tone, in my own hall.”

“A...reminder.” Meric grinned. “You serve me. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you are Lord Paramount, yes.” Edmure nodded. “However, I will not bring my troops back from Seagard. No number of threats will change that.”

Meric's face contorted, as he looked barely able to contain a scream of frustration. “Then I suppose I will have to write to hid Grace” he bit out. "You should appreciate the time you have left with your son, My Lord, for you will not get much of it until he is a man grown."

He had walked right into Edmure’s trap.

“Ah, well, speaking of His Grace…” He brought a hand inside his doublet. “Maybe this letter from him will help…change your mind.”

Edmure had Ser Desmond hand the letter over to Meric Darry, whose face went white.

“As I said, I had…taken some initiative. We know that the Ironborn hold a grudge against Seagard, and as such that it could be the next target for them. After all, they tried assaulting it without success during the Rebellion.” Edmure explained. “As such, I wrote to the King, asking to move my men towards Seagard as fast as possible. His Grace assented and congratulated me for my initiative.”

“You…you…” Meric stammered. “You should have told me earlier. Of course…the King is right…”

“Very good.” Edmure nodded. “Then, I suppose there is nothing more to discuss.”

“No, of course…” Lord Darry nodded, “I will move towards Wayfarer’s Rest on the morrow. Time is of the essence.”

“I’ll have supplies delivered to your men for the journey.” Edmure half smiled. “I wish you good luck, my lord.”

Meric Darry thus left the audience hall, his tail between his legs. It was almost impressive how the Lord Paramount’s mood had changed when Rhaegar Targaryen was mentioned. Edmure would bet that if the King hold Meric to jump off the Hightower, Meric would do it without a second thought.

“My lord.” Ser Desmond whispered to Edmure. “It seems that Lord Redwyne has given battle to the Ironborn, around the Shield Islands.”

“Good.” Edmure nodded. “Are the news good, or bad?”

“Well, my lord, that depends on who you ask.”

“I’ll rephrase the question then, are we happy?”

Ser Desmond stayed silent for a moment, hesitating. Finally, words finally left his mouth.

“I believe we are, my lord.”

Chapter Text

Viserys

The Superb broke through the waves, surrounded by the rest of the Royal Fleet’s vanguard squadron. Next to it, the Sea Snake and Sea Serpent followed closely, though at a respectable distance. In the distance, to the west, Viserys could make out the purple sails of the Redwyne Fleet. As the smell of salt filled his nose, confidence rose in him. Two-hundred-and-fifty ships had sailed from the Arbor, ready to take the fight to the Ironborn.

The size of the fleet was such that it had to be divided into three squadrons. The center, commanded by Lord Paxter Redwyme, would be made up of the best – but also slowest – ships of his fleet. On his left, Ser Desmond Redwyne commanded lighter, faster vessels which could outpace and outflank the Ironborn. Finally, Daeron Velaryon commanded the right flank on board the Superb, thus acting as a flagship for the vessels of the Royal Fleet and the few Reachers that had rallied.

Thanks to Redwyne’s fast ships, they knew that the Ironborn had sailed from their anchorage in the Shield Islands. But they also knew that this would be no surprise attack. Several lone Ironborn ships had been spotted, and no doubt the enemy knew exactly where they were.

Suddenly, the Superb’s lookout cried out.

“Greyjoy sails ahead!”

Viserys immediately took out his Myrish spyglass. In the distance, he could see the Ironborn fleet, boldly advancing towards them.

“By the gods…” Viserys let out. “These are no mere longships. Have you seen these, uncle?”

“Aye.” Daeron put down his spyglass. “They’re as large as our galleys. And they seem to have a lot of them!”

“They’ve formed a battle line, charging at us.” Viserys noted. “This means Lord Redwyne will have his beloved battleplan.”

“I could hardly believe the squids would be so stupid to try and charge us head-on.” Daeron let out. “But let us be weary. I want our ships to form two lines, in case the Ironborn try to outflank us. And keep the fast ships out towards the coast just in case!”

Soon enough, men rushed to both sides of the Superb to signal the orders. Slowly, the large galleys around them moved into a great battle line. The Superb was itself flanked by Lord Celtigar’s King Crab, and the Velaryon-manned Surprise.

“It seems that the Greyjoys don’t have that many large ships.” Daeron let out as he observed the enemy fleet maneuvers from afar. “He’s heading straight for Lord Redwyne’s squadron.”

“We should strike their rear immediately!” Viserys smiled. “We’ll have them in disorder in no time.”

“I’m worried that the Ironborn have kept their faster vessels in reserve, which would leave them with room to exploit gaps in our formation should we sail forwards.” Daeron shook his head. “But we have no choice. They’re offering us their flank and it would be disgraceful not to take advantage of it. Signal to the fleet to keep ranks tight, even if small longships attempt to swarm them!”

In the distance, Viserys kept his eyes on the Redwyne fleet to the west. Lord Paxter’s ships had stopped and put themselves in battle formation, ready to welcome the oncoming storm.

“Gods be with you,” murmured Viserys as the Superb sailed past them, and the main body of the Ironborn fleet.

Once again, Daeron Velaryon’s experience had paid off. In front of the Royal Fleet lay a large formation of smaller vessels, more in line with what Viserys had expected of the Ironborn. These were unafraid, rushing towards them with disconcerting speed, but the men of the Superb were experienced. They had fought Essosi pirates in the Stepstones and beyond, and would not let these up-jumped Westerosi pirates break their discipline. Instead, the battle line sailed as one, waiting for the Ironborn to jump at their throats.

As usual, the pirates got impatient, and attempted to strike the flagship. The first vessel, one with Harlaw sails, was unceremoniously rammed and broke in two, taking its entire crew with it. Seeing this, the enemy adapted quickly, refusing to engage combat head-on, instead working on outflanking the Royal Fleet.

This, however, was a risky endeavour as the tight Royal formation and second line prevented the Ironborn from being as free of their movements as they usually would like to. However, this did not stop them from taking their chances regardless. A swarm of longships soon circled the Superb, waiting for other vessels to break formation and give them an opening.

“Prepare for combat!” Daeron ordered.

Viserys immediately got a hold of his sword, waiting with bated breath. If Daeron had given this order, it meant that he did not trust the tight battle line would hold much longer. And he was soon proven right.

The King Crab had been in difficulty for some time, though it had successfully rammed one Ironborn vessel and sent another limping back north. However, it soon was assailed from the rear, and forced to deal with this new threat. Thanks to this, Ironborn ships exploited the gap, rushing towards the Superb.

As the large galley attempted to maneuver, it was soon blocked by its own ships, holding the rear. Viserys then realized that the same formation which stopped the Ironborn from effectively attacking, also stopped them from being able to avoid Ironborn attacks.

“Seven hells.” Viserys cursed.

“We’ve got no choice now.” Daeron shook his head. “I ain’t going to ram my own ships to get out of this one. We’re going to fight our way out.”

Rapidly, four fast ships arrived alongside, putting ladders and rope on ever side. Men rushed with axes, cutting off several, but there were too many. Four separate Ironborn ships had flung their boarding tools, which forced the crew of the Superb to look at several places at once, and diminished the effectiveness of their defense.

Viserys took a deep breath as he saw the first Ironborn climb onto the deck, roaring and laughing. He thought about Elaena for a brief moment, and grabbed his sword. He had to defend the deck of his ship as if it were Dragonstone itself, now. For if he may be a valuable hostage, he had no doubts about the fates of the sailors on board if they were to lose against the Ironborn.

The Targaryen Prince thus rushed into the melee, Daeron not far beside him.

“Push these squids back into the sea where they belong!” Daeron roared.

“The Drowned God! The Drowned God”

“For King Balon!”

“Saltcliffe, Saltcliffe!”

The Ironborn answered Daeron with their own calls. Soon enough, a good two dozen of them had boarded, forcing the crew to fight for their lives.

Viserys held back for a brief moment. His heart beat quickly, and he felt his hands sweat. Those men boarding had armor. Armor, on ships! The Ironborn were mad, truly mad. But this meant that they had a good advantage over Viserys and his crew.

He hesitated. Should he run? Where to? He could still jump, make it to the Surprise...no. He couldn’t be a coward. He wouldn’t be. He’d fought off Essosi pirates in the Stepstones before, and this would be no different. Yet, he stood still, as if he had gone stiff and his body refused to make a choice.

The bulky Ironborn standing in front of him, with a giant grin on his face, made it for him. He ran towards Viserys, shouting something he did not understand, his sword in hand. Viserys reacted by instinct, raising his own sword to parry.

He did not understand anything going on around him, just that there were many shouts, cries and the sound of steel clashing against steel. The only thing he could do, at that moment, was survive. The bearded Ironborn continued to lash at him, using his brute strength to run towards Viserys. Each time, it felt as if it was a giant that put his weight on his sword.

Thus, Viserys took a step back. Then another, then another.

The Ironborn man’s grin grew bigger. Viserys was trembling like a leaf now, but he could not show fear. Not now. His silver-blonde hair obscured his vision somewhat, but he managed to get a hold of his senses. He was alone and isolated, and he was the only one that could save himself now.

He looked past the Ironborn, looking in front of him. He was on the ship’s side now, and he’d be stuck against the wood at any moment. Then, an idea struck him, and his eyes went wide.

“You fight like a dog, pretty boy!” the Ironborn laughed. “Maybe you’ll beg like one, too!”

Viserys avoided the next sword strike, taking this opportunity to dodge to the right. As expected, the Ironborn’s weight carried him forward, towards the ship’s side. Acting quickly, the Targaryen Prince immediately turned around. He only had a moment before the Ironborn would himself turn around and face him again. Thus, Viserys launched his foot forward and kicked with all his might.

“Fuck!” Viserys yelled as he felt the pain invading his toes, then most of his foot. He tripped, almost going overboard, just barely recovering on the railing.

It was there that he could see that it had worked. The Ironborn screamed as he was launched from the ship, and fell into the water like a stone. His armor ensured that he would never come back up.

“Father!” a voice cried out from behind him. “You’ll die for this, scum! No one kills a Saltcliffe and gets away with it.”

Viserys made an about-turn, coming face to face with a much younger opponent, with armor and sword in hand. Blood rushed through his veins, battle fury finally taking control.

“Why don’t you go join him, pirate?” Viserys whispered as the young man rushed towards him.

When his sword clashed with Viserys’, he could feel that he had none of his father’s strength. Nor any of his skill, evidently. It seemed as if the boy was just trying to hurt Viserys in any way he could. He wasn’t thinking anymore, he was just an animal out for blood.

Viserys needed to be patient, to wait for the pirate too give him an opening.

He dodged, ducked and weaved as the Ironborn’s movements became more and more erratic.

“Come on, Vis’,” he told himself,” No Targaryen has ever been killed by an Ironborn. Do not be the first…”

The pirate swung his sword at him again, but this time, Viserys strongly parried. The shock almost sent the Saltcliffe man’s weapon flying out of his hands. As he tried to regain his posture, Viserys struck his arm, where the armor had left a gap.

The young man screamed, dropping his sword, holding his arm. Viserys rushed above him, ready to finish him off.

“Yield!” he ordered.

“Go fuck yourself.” The young man spat, evidently in defiance. He did not, however, consider how far Viserys was standing, as the pirate’s spit landed back on his face.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Viserys smiled, shoving his sword in the man’s neck.

Around him, it was still chaos, but it seemed that it was finally dying down. The last ropes had been cut, isolating what were now not more than six or seven Ironborn fighting for their lives. As he looked behind him, Viserys saw that the men of the Surprise had boarded one of the Ironborn ships, overpowering their weakened crew.

He jumped at the opportunity to rush to the fight with the rest of the men, who quickly overwhelmed the last few attackers.

“Daeron!” he cried out. “Where are you?”

“My lord, Ser Daeron was wounded,” the ship’s ropemaker launched. “He’s at the rear.”

Viserys nodded and made his way to the rear, looking out for his “uncle”. He found him sitting down, the ship’s maester at his side.

“Daeron!” Viserys launched.

“My boy…” Daeron gasped. “Have we won?”

“Yes, we’ve saved the Superb.”

“Good, my boy. Good.” Daeron coughed up blood. “I think this will be your ship, now.”

“Are you unable to command?”

“In a few hours, I’ll be unable to live.” Daeron smiled, “I fear the pirates have made a mess of my old bones.”

“What?” Viserys looked at him with incredulity. “No, come now, you’re a fighter, you’ve always been.”

“The maester thinks I can make it, but he gives me one chance out of ten. And I’ve never been a man of odds.” Daeron smiled. “Promise me, if I die, that you’ll bury me at sea, where I’ve always wanted.”

“I promise, uncle, but…” Viserys shook his head. “you’ll make it.”

“Go, my boy.” Daeron nodded. “The battle ain’t over yet.”

Viserys agreed with Daeron. Looking back at the ship, it seemed as if the chaos had died down, and most of the Ironborn squadron had disengaged. Some of the fleet warships were burning, while others were in a pitiful state. The King Crab was dismasted, while the Sea Serpent was slowly sinking, and that was the ships Viserys could see!

On the other hand, the Ironborn seemed to have suffered just as much. Some of their longships were burning, while others were wrecks ready to be taken by the ocean.

“We need to reform the squadron at once!” Viserys ordered to the signalmen, who were just throwing the last Ironborn dead overboard.

He paused for a moment. He could pursue the reforming Ironborn squadron in front of him, but this was unwise. He had no news of the two Redwyne squadrons, and did not know the full extent of the Ironborn assault on his ships.

“Have us make course back towards Lord Redwyne, due south.” Viserys finally ordered. “Protect the badly damaged ships, tow those who can be and scuttle the ones who can’t.”

As the Superb made a turn southwards, Viserys suddenly became aware that this was certainly the best decision. It seemed that most of the fleet’s ships had suffered some damage of some kind. Even the ships in the rear seemed to have been boarded or seen an attempt at it.

The ragtag fleet thus sailed southwards, hoping to find Lord Paxter’s squadron soon enough.

“Ships straight ahead!” the lookout cried out.

“Ours?” Viserys asked.

There was silence for a few moments.

“Ironborn, my lord. Ironborn!”

Viserys cursed under his breath. This could mean that either the Greyjoys had won their fight against Redwyne, or that they were being pursued.

“Have our fleet change course for the south-east.” Viserys ordered. This movement would gauge the Ironborn reaction. To his horror, the enemy seemed to be in a mood to pursue. With his Myrish spyglass, he could even spot some smaller Redwyne vessels in their midst.

“Seven hells take you, Redwyne.” Viserys growled.

He turned around and shouted to the signalmen.

“Have our fleet make full speed ahead. We will outrun the Ironborn by making for the Reacher coast.”

“My lord, what about the towed ships?” One man asked.

Viserys was struck for a moment.

He gauged the possibilities. He could continue towing the large ships, but this would mean some vessels lagging behind. He could transfer the crews and scuttle the vessels, but this would mean the Ironborn would catch up before the action was completed. And then, there was the final option. The one that was almost impossible to consider.

“Cut the tow lines.” Viserys ordered. “Any vessel that can still row will make for the Reacher coast and beach itself. Those who cannot must abandon ship and row to shore.”

The signalman gulped, knowing the consequences. Viserys was sacrificing these ships, and leaving them to their fate.

“Bandallon is only four hours away,” he whispered to himself, “they could make it.”

He tried convincing himself of it. But he knew that he had, in essence, condemned many men to deaths with these actions. Many more would have died if he hadn’t given that order, no doubt, but he would still have to live with these deaths on his conscience.

The tow lines were cut, and the fleet sped ahead. Viserys’ plan seemed to have worked, as the Ironborn decided to pounce on the much easier prey in the immobilized ships, though he could see some rushing straight towards the coast.

He ordered some maneuvers to destabilize any pursuers, moving to the south, then south-west, and finally back to the south-east.

While these maneuvers were going on, and the sun started to set, he could make out another fleet in the distance. Taking his Myrish spyglass, he could see the burgundy sails of the Redwyne fleet, in no great shape. The silhouette of the Arbor Queen stood tall amongst them, having seen one mast cut down, and much damage to its main one.

The Superb, for its part, was probably no better. Viserys had counted twelve dead and sixteen wounded. Daeron continued to fight for his life, but the maester now only gave him one chance in twenty. There was a good chance he would not survive the night.

The quartermaster came to him with the news of the losses as the sun went down. Out of eighty vessels at the start of the day, Viserys counted four sunk, eleven heavily damaged and left to their fate, and eight with various damage but still able to maintain good speed, though they would need repairs at the Arbor. As for the enemy losses…he could not know. Six prizes had been taken, but all but two had been forced to scuttle during Viserys’ order…and the two others were left at the disposition of the stricken ships to attempt an escape with them, if they could. The number of enemy vessels sunk was unknown, and would likely to remain that way, as his captains would no doubt claim to have sunk the same ship. Only at the Arbor will he have a general idea of what the battle had given.

However, he still felt confident. His squadron had taken – overall – quite light casualties. His men had done their duty, and if it were not for Lord Redwyne’s failure in holding the center, many more could have been saved.  No doubt, the Royal Fleet was running back to the Arbor defeated. However, many of his men would not see it as a defeat, and only come back with a thirst for vengeance.

“Set course for Ryamsport.” Viserys ordered. “But be advised, we will come back. And this time, we’ll destroy the Ironborn.”

Chapter Text

Victarion

Southshield was quite a disappointing castle. Heralded to be one of the bulwarks against Ironborn attacks, it only held off for three days before capitulating, no doubt in large part due to the large number of troops outside its walls and the two naval defeats of the Crown. Oh…and Lord Osbert fleeing with his tail between his legs, abandoning his wife and child in the keep certainly did not help, either. The son will make a good hostage, while Urrigon claimed the wife as one of his salt wives. It must be said that Euron could hardly refuse him, considering he had the lion’s share for the moment.

Euron…another issue to deal with later. This time, he had let the glory slip through his fingers, thinking he could overpower Lord Paxter’s fleet. But it was Victarion who reaped the laurels by destroying the Redwyne’s left flank, capturing no less than seven-and-fifty warships! And all the while, Euron could not get a hold of the Arbor Queen, and that little brat Aeron got his arse kicked by the bloody Velaryons. Hah!

No, on this day, Victarion Greyjoy was the hero. Greater than Euron and his plans, Urrigon and his thoughts, Aeron and his…well, come to think of it, he didn’t have anything good to say about his brother. But no matter.

And, today, as was right and proper, the Ironborn celebrated. The Shield Islands were taken, the Crown’s fleets vanquished, and the Reach was now undefended. It was a matter of time before they would sweep in and sack the Arbor, or, one could dream, threaten Oldtown, Brightwater and even Highgarden.

Then, when all fleets had been destroyed, they would turn their attention back north. Towards Seagard, to wipe the shame of the Rebellion’s defeat, even if it was orchestrated as such. And, who knows, the Northmen might also outlive their usefulness when there was nothing stopping the Ironborn from rising to the glory of the days of King Qhored.

Victarion languished at the thought. But tonight, he would celebrate, as did his men. And if Southshield was but a disappointing castle, its stocks of wine were colossal. And he would indulge himself as much as possible, spilling the likely priceless vintages into the sea when he’d had his fill.

“Urrigon!” he beckoned his brother forward as he saw him enter the hall, with a disappointed look on his face.

“Victarion,” Urrigon nodded, “how do you fare, dear brother?”

“Sit.” Victarion almost ordered, bringing a cup forward and dipping it into a nearby cask. “And drink.”

Urrigon accepted the beverage, though he only dipped his lips into it.

“How is your new wife?” Victarion grinned.

“Resistant, and desperate, of course.” Urrigon frowned.

“Ah, well, you need to teach those bloody whores.” Victarion shook his head.

“I’ll choose to wait.” Urrigon simply replied. “She will come about.”

“Hah!” Victarion almost spit out his wine. “You are too sentimental by half. If she refused me, I’d have her choose between myself and my entire crew. She’d have begged for me to take her in whichever way I wished.”

“Sobbing, no doubt.” Urrigon shook his head. “No, brother. She will come to me; I am sure of it.”

“Ah, to be a young fool.” Victarion grinned. “I was like you, once. Well…now I am not. You’ll grow out of it, do not fret. Now…let us drink.”

“Drink…” Urrigon took a breath. “To what occasion?”

“Well, our great victory, for once!” Victarion looked at his brother as if he’d grown two heads. “The Reachers lost their precious Shield fleet, all their islands, and their grand fleet too!”

“Aye.” Urrigon nodded. “What a victory…”

“You do not seem happy, brother.” Victarion frowned. “Has Euron…”

“The less talk about him, the better!” Urrigon snapped. “I do not know what he is planning, nor do I particularly wish to know.”

“Are you sure?” Victarion smiled.

“Has he told you?” Urrigon asked.

“Aye.” Victarion nodded. “Euron has given me command of the main fleet. We are to seek an engagement with the reinforcements sent by the Crown, threatening Oldtown.”

“Oldtown?” Urrigon scoffed. “And Euron?”

“He means to lead a smaller fleet towards the Arbor, to pillage it and finish off the ships we damaged in the great battle.” Victarion waved him off. “As I said, he will scurry off, pillage as he wants, while I reap the glory from the destruction of the Crown’s remaining forces. And then…the seas will be ours to rule.”

Urrigon went silent for a moment, gazing at Victarion. His eyes remained fixed on him for what seemed like an eternity.

“What is amiss?” Victarion frowned.

“Euron is amiss.” Urrigon scoffed. “Euron always plans for everything, Vic. Why would he give you control of the fleet? Why now?”

“The Ironborn rightly venerate me as a hero after I spanked the Redwyne fleet.” Victarion huffed. “Euron recognized that my talents as a leader of men are superior to his.”

For the first time since he’d arrived, Urrigon smiled widely. His smile turned into a laugh. A deep laugh, which made Victarion angry.

“Euron?” Urrigon kept laughing. “Euron thinks himself above all. Smarter than all, seeing things that we – poor lowborn – do not see. And you think he recognized your talents?”

“Careful, Uri.”

“Vic, use that big head of yours to think for a moment.” Urrigon wiped the tears from his face, placing Victarion’s cup out of his grasp. “Euron does nothing out of the goodness of his heart. Nothing.”

“You worry too much,” Victarion scoffed as he tried to take back his cup, which Urrigon still kept him away from, to his great annoyance, “Euron simply wishes to raid and reave as he wishes. We’ve seen that he’s not a good commander at sea, unlike me. No, he just wishes to wash his hands of the Iron Fleet and go on his adventure on the Arbor.”

“I think Euron is sending you to your death, Vic.” Urrigon said with a straight face.

“To my death?” Victarion heartily laughed. “I smashed the Redwynes once, I’ll smash whatever fleet the Dragon King sends my way, do not fear.”

“Vic, we have lost thirty ships in the last engagement.” Urrigon sighed. “Now, yes, we have captured around seventy ships and sunk nearly thirty, but the Redwyne fleet is two hundred ships strong. The Crown holds about the same number in the Narrow Sea, ready to rain it down on us.”

“Then we will beat them, again and again.”

“They will learn, Vic. The mistakes they made last time…they will not make them again. Rodrik Harlaw and our brother Aeron already struggled against the Velaryon fleet.”

“The Reader and the Drunkard!” Victarion laughed.

“Drunkard and Readers, they are good seamen all the same.” Urrigon pressed. “They fought, and almost damn well lost.”

“As I said, Uri, you worry too much.” Victarion shook his head. “I will bring forth a great victory in front of Oldtown.”

“And then what?” Urrigon sighed. “We will lose more men. Men we cannot replace. The North cannot sell us timber eternally without the southern king knowing. Not in these quantities. And while this is happening, the Greenlanders will keep building ships faster than us.”

“And we will keep defeating them.” Victarion scoffed, finally managing to get a hold of his cup. “They’ll come over and over, and we will smash them like we have in the days of King Qhoren.”

“Qhoren faced squabbling kingdoms, not seven united ones.” Urrigon sighed. “Do you not see it, brother?”

“Uri, you are starting to annoy me.” Victarion slammed his fist on the table. “What in the Drowned God’s name do you think Euron will do? Declare himself Lord of the Arbor? He can have it if it pleases him.”

“I do not know.” Urrigon shook his head. “But I know he wants us out of his sight. You, because you pose a threat to him. He’ll find a way to get you killed in battle. The great Ironborn hero, dead.”

“And as for me…well,” Urrigon scoffed. “He hardly needs to send me to a forlorn battle. He gave me command of the defence of the Shields, with a fleet of captured galleys, most of which are damaged and will need repairs. And that, all the while the Reach prepares a force of nearly forty thousand up the Mander to retake the isles. That is more than the entire isles could ever hope to muster.”

“As for Aeron…” Urrigon let out a deep sigh. “Well, if I can find more than two dozen ways of seeing him dead without anyone suspecting anything, no doubt Euron can find two hundred.”

“For what purpose?” Victarion poured himself another drink. “Become King? King of what, anyway? Without us, Euron is nothing.”

“I do not know.” Urrigon shook his head. “Euron has always…scared me.”

“He scares many men.” Victarion laughed. “But he’s also foolish. Foolish and no good leader. They’ll throw him in the sea if he tries anything against us, that you can be sure of.”

Urrigon looked at him with a look of resignation. He took a look at his half-empty cup, and downed it in an instant.

“Mayhaps you are right.” Urrigon conceded. “I may be imagining things.”

“Aye, I think you are.” Victarion laughed as Urrigon rose from his seat.

“I’ll…tend to my wife.” Urrigon smiled at his brother. “After all, it would not do for the Lord of this castle not to sleep in his own bed tonight.”

“That’s better!” Victarion rose his cup. “I’ll see you on the morrow, Uri!”

Urrigon gave him a sign of his hand, and left, leaving Victarion alone in the rumbling hall. No, really, Urrigon was reading too much into things. He’d always been terrified of Euron, as if he were a demon from the stories their mother used to tell them as children. But Euron was no kraken, sea serpent or leviathan, Victarion knew.

He was a man, who drank, ate, shat and bled as any other. Whatever Urrigon thought of Euron, Victarion couldn’t disagree more on. One of these days, he would need to burn those books of his, they gave him too many ideas. And that way, he wouldn’t become like the Reader of Harlaw, stuck with his nose in books too often to notice which way the wind is blowing or his boat is sailing.

No, really, all they needed to do now was just destroy whatever fleets were going to be sent their way, and enjoy their reign over the seas for the next five hundred years.

And so, Victarion poured himself another drink.

Chapter Text

Eddard

Winterfell’s halls had not seen such effervescence since the days of the Rebellion. For the first time in about ten years, all the great lords had once again gathered in the Stark keep. However, the mood was very different this time. Last time, it was a unified North that clamored to go south and thrash Aerys and his ilk. Now, the mood was vastly different.

Ned could see it on each lord’s face. Anticipation, even worry was the dominant feeling. What to do, in the face of Rhaegar’s call to arms? No doubt many had questions, especially since Ned did summon the banners in response to Rhaegar’s call.

Of course, he hardly had a choice. Summoning the banners was a logical response to the King’s call, even if the Lord of Winterfell did not wish to go south, or support Rhaegar in the slightest. However, it would be – in the capital – a sign that everything is going well. Or close to it, anyhow.

But as for the next steps, well, he would need counsel from his lords. He did not wish to risk lives in this war, but he also knew that tensions had grown within the North. Some lords wanted nothing to do with the south, such as the Greatjon or Lord Rickard Karstark. Then there were those who, like Lord Manderly, preferred not to completely break ties for trade reasons. Some other lords were indifferent to these issues, but were worried that the Ironborn could pose a growing threat to their shores, with Lord Jorah Mormont at their head.

Finally, he had called for an assembly of all major Northern houses in his hall, to set the objectives of the North during this Rebellion.

Ned thus presided over a large table, his seat being that of honor, with his wife Catelyn at his side. Amongst the attendees were the Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Jorah Mormont, Wyman Manderly, Willam Dustin, Lyessa Flint, Rodrik Ryswell, Helman Tallhart, Halys Hornwood, Robett Glover, and even the young Lord Domeric Bolton, who had attained his majority a year ago.

Also present was Lord Hosteen Frey, who came with a plethora of his family members, brothers, sons, daughters…it made Ned’s head spin.

Frey…

Ned wished he’d said no to Hoster when he suggested taking the Twins. That family brought nothing but problems, and Hosteen was a lackwit. It suited Ned, of course, but it also meant that The Twins were a hive of treachery and cupidity. Behind each cloak lay a dagger, and at least a dozen allegiances which shifted as often as the winds on the coast of Skagos. This meant that he had to pay close attention to each and every movement of the Riverlanders. It also meant that from the two dozen Freys in Winterfell, half were Royal spies, a third were loyal to the North, and the rest were waiting to see who would pay them more. In marriages, gold, trade…the Freys could be reasoned with. But their loyalty, while it could be bought, was as fickle as paper.

Gods, he hated dealing with them. Not to mention their constant wish for marriages, most often to children just out of their crib. Often, the marriage requests came with the letters of congratulations.

Well, something to keep him awake, Ned thought. At the very least only Hosteen would be present for the war council, though it did not decrease the chances of something treasonous finding an ear in King’s Landing. Hosteen was one that couldn’t exactly hold his tongue, especially in pleasant company.

Catelyn helped soothe these worries how she could. Promising that she’d handle the Freys, as well as talk with Lord Jason Mallister, who had ridden up to Winterfell for a courtesy visit – which happened to coincide with the war council.

The Great War Hall thus continued to fill, with each and every lord taking advantage of the ale which flowed freely, though Ned had also made a point to include some Riverlander wines and some…gifts from their Greyjoy “friends”, taken from Lannisport’s cellars.

“Do you not fear that drink will untie many tongues?” Catelyn whispered to him.

“Northmen can handle their drink,” Ned replied, “and ale must be provided at war councils. It is almost a tradition.”

“I knew that drinking for courage before battle was common, but surely, Ned, ale in war councils…” Catelyn trailed.

“Southerners have sweet wine, do they not?” Ned smiled.

“There’s a difference with strong ale.” Catelyn straightened up, her brow furrowed.

“Have no fear, Cat.” Ned put a hand on hers. “You’ll see them drink, while still holding normal conversations. To some, it even makes them spit some sense.”

Catelyn let out a light chuckle as the last of the lords made his way into the hall, with the doors closing behind him.

“Finally.” Ned loudly announced. “We are now all here, let us address the current situation.”

There was a mumbling in the room, and then silence.

“You all know that the Iron Islands have rebelled, and that King Rhaegar has called the banners, urging for an invasion. I have summoned you on this day to discuss our plans for dealing with the King’s order...”

“Shove it up his arse!” shouted a voice.

There was laughter around the room.

“No doubt, my lords.” Ned smiled. “I do not intend to have a single drop of Northern blood shed during this conflict. Our priorities must remain…elsewhere.”

“Let us use this as an opportunity!” the Greatjon rose. “As the King is busy with the rebels, let us cut ties, once and for all!”

“Lord Umber, this would not be wise.” Ned spoke up. “For our friends in the Vale and the Riverlands will suffer. If we were to rebel, no doubt that our friends would be in grave danger. Lord Mallister here can attest to that.”

“Indeed, Lord Stark.” Lord Mallister rose. “Lord Umber, you know me. We have fought together, for the same cause. I yearn for freedom as much as you do. But, as of now, there are nigh fifty thousand loyalist troops in the Riverlands, whose swords can very well turn towards Riverrun, Seagard or Pinkmaiden at a hint of treason.”

“Not to mention the damage it would do for our merchants who still commerce with the Seven Kingdoms.” Lord Wyman pointed out. “We have been trying to source products elsewhere, but this process takes years.”

“You and your gold…” Rickard grumbled.

“My lords!” Ned raised his voice. “We will not join Balon’s doomed rebellion on his side, this much is clear! This meeting pertains to how we will use our forces. The Crown has asked us for a minimum of ten thousand men.”

Once again, the room filled with chatter.

“I intend to give it to them.” Ned announced. “But no soldier will see combat. Instead, we will take this opportunity to…confer with our friends.”

“Lord Tully’s forces have arrived in Seagard, and we are expecting Lord Arryn’s forces to come soon.” Lord Mallister spoke up.

“What use is there for them?” Daryn Hornwood asked.

“To prove to the Crown that we are of goodwill.” Ned replied. “We will avoid any confrontation, while still providing help to the war effort.”

“And what if the King orders our army to march to the Isles?” Lyessa Flint objected.

“I’ve got no doubt that there are fifty thousand Westerlanders and a hundred thousand Reachers ready to take our place.” Ned simply replied.

“Not to mention that the Crown sees forces as unreliable.” Lord Mallister added. “I highly doubt any Northmen would be chosen to lead an assault on the Isles.”

There was a slight chuckle in the room, though Wyman Manderly rose from his seat, with difficulty.

“My lord, what do we do to the summons for our ships?

“You say nothing.” Ned replied. “Our galleys are needed to combat Lorathi and Pentoshi pirates who dare to approach our coasts.”

Ignoring the Braavosi presence, of course…

“And as for our western forces, we should not be worried about them. Even the Crown won’t have us send our fleets into the jaws of death.” Ned continued with a sigh. “And if they would, I’d tell them exactly what I think of their plan.”

“Should we expect reinforcements on the Stony Shore?” Jorah Mormont asked. “As well as Bear Island.”

“No, as we shouldn’t be attacked.” Ned replied.

“My lord, these Ironborn are raiders.” Jorah frowned. “I understand your lordship has ceased trade due to a royal order and fear of retaliation, we thus cannot hope the Ironborn won’t raid our coasts.”

“What would they gain from it?” Robett Glover asked. “We’ve sold them enough timber to make three Iron Fleets.”

“Pirates are Pirates.” Helman Tallhart bit his lip. “I am with Lord Mormont on this. We should strengthen our defences on the Stony Shore. It is but a matter of time before the Ironborn attack us.”

“Do you not think they have their hands a little bit full at the moment?” Medger Cerwyn laughed.

“That is why we should prepare.” Jorah frowned. “If the Greyjoys do manage to burn their way through the Crown fleets, where would they turn? They cannot reave the Narrow Sea as Braavos would get involved. What is left? Finishing off Fair Isle? Seagard?”

“Raiding the Mander and the Reacher coast seems a much more worthwhile enterprise than sacking our coasts.” Wyman Manderly scoffed. “Especially considering our history.”

“It is exactly because I read Ironborn history that I worry.” Jorah Mormont put his fist on the table. “If the Ironborn win against the Crown, we are next. You cannot claim to feed the lion and expect to be devoured last.”

“The lion will have been burned by the dragon by that point.” Wyman retorted. “Surely you can see that the balance of forces is much in the Crown’s favor, with or without our help.”

“Lord Mormont speaks just of planning ahead.” Helman Tallhart tried to interpose himself to calm everyone down. “I see no problem in taking our precautions.”

“We shall take precautions if their fleet starts sending heaps of Crownlander, Reacher or Stormlander wood to the bottom of the Sunset Sea.” Ned replied. “As of now, there is no reason for us to consider strengthening the Shore.”

Ned could tell neither Mormont nor Tallhart were very happy with this outcome, and the Flints likewise wouldn’t like it either. But it was simple: in Ned’s mind, the Ironborn could not afford to go to War with everyone. He hadn’t expected their strange alliance to last, of course, but he expected that even pirates had brains. After all, the Red Kraken had never attacked the North even as he had burned his way up and down the Reach and Westerlands.

“I’ll expect your banners to be ready to march towards Seagard in a month.” Ned announced. “We shall group our forces at Moat Cailin. Lord Frey, you may wait at the Twins. Oh…and one last thing, do take your time. A month, two, three…the North is treacherous and we do not need sick soldiers, especially as we will cross the Neck.”

There were more chuckles in the room as every lord stood up. Ned would have the opportunity to talk with each one of them individually later, but things were now clear. The North was marching to a war it had no intention of fighting.

Chapter Text

Davos

Davos Seaworth made his way through the manse, reaching a guarded door. Both guards looked at him inquisitively, but let him knock. After a few moments of waiting, he was told to enter by a voice inside.

“My lords,” Davos bowed, “I have a message from Storm’s End.”

“Storm’s End?” Andrew Estermont looked at Davos pointedly.

The man had grown much since the day they had left Westeros. Once a dashing youth, Ser Andrew was now in his thirties, his beard long, neat and pointed and his hair short and well-kept. He had become an accomplished knight, his sword almost never leaving his side, even when giving lessons to young Renly.

As for Renly, well, he too had grown much. He was no longer the boy of six that used to marvel at everything in the manse. He’d grown into a brave young boy who longed for adventure. As for his physical appearance, Davos had to concede that he looked little like his brother Stannis. Lean, well-built, clean-shaven and with dashing long hair, he was a stark contrast to his short-haired brother. Only their dark black-colored hair was similar, though both of them also towered over Davos, both being at least a head taller, and Renly still growing. As for the hair…Davos could hardly see it much of the time, as it had been dyed blonde since he arrived in Braavos.

“He’s growing to be Robert Baratheon come again.” Ser Aemon Estermont had whispered to him once.

But Renly was also becoming caged in the Braavosi manse. When he was a child, it was easy to tell him that the outside world was too fraught with dangers, and only seldom would he be allowed to go out to see the Sealord’s Palace or other places that would be very well-guarded. But as he grew from boy to man, keeping Renly in the manse became more and more difficult. Davos had to assent to take him to the docks and into the city, even at the risk of being discovered, lest he try to escape himself and give headaches and cold sweats to everyone. At least, Davos thanked the gods, he had yet to ask them to go to Pentos, Lorath or gods knew what exotic city. Yet.

“News from Stannis?” Renly’s blue-green eyes lit up from his book. “What is it?”

Davos came closer to the table, placing the scroll on the table, but Renly just turned it back over to him.

“Read it, Ser Davos.” Renly said with a smile. “Like I taught you to.”

“Er…my lord…”

“Come now, Ser Davos.” Renly shrugged. “Everyone has to learn somehow.”

“Alright, my lord.” Ser Davos nodded.

“L…Lord Stannis has left Storm’s End with…with…” Davos struggled between the unknown words and the way the letters were written, “seven-and-fiftay war…ships and sails to…the Arbor.”

“The Arbor?” Ser Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Lord Stannis is joining the war effort against the Ironborn?”

“Light ships for Narrow Sea trade un…una…” Davos struggled with this long word. “Un…a…ffay…Unaffaycted.”

“I suppose your brother wishes to take his sturdiest ships in battle.” Ser Andrew turned to Renly. “But why risk himself in battle?”

“Signed, Maester Cressen.” That part was easy for Davos.

“Well, numbers are still your bane, Ser Davos.” Renly smiled. “But you’re getting better.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Davos curtly bowed. “But I must say that this is quite unexpected.”

“Mayhaps the King forced him to sail his force?” Renly asked.

“If he did, why did your brother wish to risk himself so?” Ser Andrew asked. “This is what bothers me.”

“With respect, ser, mayhaps he feels as if the order had been directed to him, and refusing to lead his own forces into battle would be a dereliction of his duty.” Davos suggested.

“All the same, that bastard Connington is not leading the Stormlander fleet into battle, is he?”

“Connington has no ships and is still Hand, my lord.” Ser Andrew pointed out. “But I still question Lord Stannis’ decision all the same. Why not entrust the fleet to someone like Lord Selwyn Tarth, or Lord Eldon?”

“I do not know, ser.” Davos shook his head.

“All we can do is pray that my brother comes back from this war unscathed.” Renly let out. “I already lost a brother, and I do not wish to lose another.”

“No one wants to lose Lord Stannis, my lord.” Ser Andrew cut in. “He has proved to be an able lord, even with Connington trying his utmost to break him.”

“I know that. And your loyalties are appreciated.” Renly nodded. “If I get my hands on that Jon Connington, gods save me…”

“It will be him the gods will need to save when it does happen, my lord.” Ser Andrew continued.

Renly nodded, saying nothing. Instead, he closed the book and smiled.

“I think I know what to do to keep our mind off this news.” Renly grinned.

“My lord, if you please, we should focus on your lessons.” Ser Andrew protested.

“Lessons?” Renly smiled. “Why, my lord, I must now worry about my brother going to war, and you think I’ll be able to study well?”

“It may keep your mind off the news, my lord.” Davos cut in.

“Nay, smuggler, come now.” Renly shook his head. “Words on pages are no way to take your mind off things. How about a walk in the city?”

“My lord, is that really appropriate? Especially at this hour?”

“Well, let us take some guards, then.” Renly scoffed. “Come, now, we have done this before.”

“We got lucky…” Ser Andrew mumbled beneath his breath. “No one recognized you.”

“There’s hardly a man that can recognize me, now.” Renly shrugged. “I’m Arkar Monseryat, cousin to Menelas Monseryat, Great Captain of the Sealord’s Palace Guards. I have no Braavosi accent as I spent most of my childhood in the Braavosi Merchant’s Quarter of Dragonstone. Now, are you two going to accompany me or should I go alone?”

Defeated, Davos and Ser Andrew ordered four guards to follow them at a safe distance, and prepared to go out. Thankfully, as it was still early afternoon, it was still somewhat crowded, allowing them to pass almost unnoticed in the great port city.

Of course, it was hard to not draw any attention, even if any Westerosi sigil had been carefully hidden or scrubbed off their tunics long ago. Davos stuck out quite sorely, especially as they went into wealthier areas, with his brown coat and heavy accent. It contributed to the feeling of being watched, constantly, even if there was not a soul around.

Still, both Davos and Ser Andrew made sure to not let Renly out of their sight for even a moment. They passed the Green Canal, staying near the Great Aqueduct all the way to the Moon Pool, then bypassed the Red Palace to the north, finally reaching the Purple Harbor. Instead of going east, towards the Sealord’s Palace, the small group chose to follow the harbor to see the Braavosi ships arriving, before setting off west. This allowed them to see the frenzied activity in the inns and taverns, passing many names such as The Chequered Flag, The Boar’s Head, The Blue Lantern and The Seaman’s Rest.

Davos worried every time they passed the Purple Harbor. He knew that most ships here were Braavosi, but some sailors may yet have recognized them from an odd trip to Westeros. Then, Davos knew, the sailor’s language would unravel and soon spread to other, further ports. But how could they know? Davos was just a smuggler, and no one had seen Renly in years. As for Ser Andrew, he was an unimportant cousin of the main Estermont line, and no one would surely pay attention to his figure…

“Braavos is certainly quite a majestic city, is it not, Davehrar?”

Davehrar was the name Davos used when they were in public. A man raised from the sewers of Ragman’s Harbor that rose to prominence through the spice trade. Andrew’s name was Antagon, Arkar Monseryat’s trusted sword.

“It is indeed.” Davos acknowledged. “But perhaps we should start making our way back to the manse?”

“Oh, come on, sm…Davehrar,” Renly scoffed. “We’ve only been here for a few moments, let us enjoy the view while it is still beautiful outside.”

Ser Andrew gave him a knowing look, asking him to be patient. Davos didn’t like it, but he knew better than to oppose Renly. That boy was as strong-willed as his brother, even though it was probably just him coming of age that made him like this.

“Arkar Monseryat!” an unknown voice called from behind them.

Instinctively, all three men turned around, going for their sword.

In front of them was a man dressed in fine golden cloth, with blonde hair and piercing green eyes. He had a grin on his face, one of a man who knew who they were.

“Or, should I say, Renly Baratheon?” the man kept grinning.

Andrew instinctively drew his sword, ready to run through the intruder.

“Sheathe that, Estermont.” The blonde man scoffed. “You do not want to make a ruffle. Not here. And besides, if I wanted to harm your boy, I’d have run you two buggers, and your guards too.”

“Who are you?” Renly stepped up. “And what do you want?”

“Ah, I think we have not been acquainted. When I last saw you, you were but a boy of three, still struggling to speak.” The man grinned. “I see you’ve grown well.”

“This is Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.” Andrew spat.

The man gave a mocking bow.

“At your service. Now, should we go talk somewhere more private? This harbor is much too crowded for my liking.” The man thought for a moment. “There are plenty of inns here that would be appropriate.”

Andrew grit his teeth, but assented.

“Why are we following him?” Renly whispered. “It could be a trap.”

“Because if he wanted us dead, he’d have killed us all long ago.” Andrew sighed. “Ser Jaime used to be one of the finest knights in the kingdom at your age.”

“He could try to steal the boy away.” Davos interjected. “Let us not blindly follow him into an inn. We have friends at the Seaman’s Rest, let us go there.”

Andrew agreed with that proposition. The group thus moved along, with Ser Jaime staying closeby, to make sure they were not trying to lead him into another trap. As they entered the inn, Davos gave a nod to the innkeeper, a man in the Sealord’s pay, who knew them well. He gave them a private table on the second level, where they were sure not to be disturbed.

“Well, I am acquainted with both of you.” Ser Jaime said as he pointed to Renly and Andrew, “but your name escapes me, ser.”

“You do not need to know his name.” Andrew spat, stopping Davos from answering. “What do you want, Kingslayer?”

“Wait. What happened to you?” Renly asked. “The King sent you in exile, that I know of. But what have you done for the past nine years?”

“Ah, a great story, my lord!” Ser Jaime smiled. “As you know, I was sent off into exile, despite my father’s wishes. They wished to put me to death, I am told, but Queen Elia interceded in my favor. Or so, that is what has been told to me.”

Ser Jaime cleared his throat.

“Anywhom, my father wished to have me stay in an expensive manse in Pentos until he could convince King Rhaegar to abrogate my exile.” The Lannister explained. “But sitting around while doing nothing was hardly something I could accept. So, I left.”

“To where?” Renly was suspended at his lips.

“The nearest recruiting post.” Ser Jaime shrugged. “It’s not as if I had many choices. I am not a merchant, a trader or a sailor. Thus, I became a warrior. I enrolled in the Company of the Cat, then the Golden Company brought me a better contract. I did was I was good at: fighting.”

Jaime took a breath.

“When I was in Braavos, discussing terms of a contract when I was still with the Company of the Cat, to get rid of Lorathi brigands in the Highlands, I came across a house with a red door.” The knight mused. “Out of it came a boy with blonde hair, with two very Westerosi guards. I thought I had not seen properly, but I did manage to take a look at a window, and saw the boy go past. I knew I had seen him before. I slept on it, came back to the house on the following day, but did not see the boy then. I told myself that I’d come back to Braavos and see for myself one day. And now…here I am.”

“A good story, Kingslayer.” Ser Andrew frowned, “from Westerosi hero to sellsword. Now, what are you doing here? Do you want gold?”

“Gold?” Jaime scoffed. “I’m a Lannister, seven hells, I’ve got more gold in my purse than you’ve seen in your life, Estermont. No, I want to join the boy’s guard.”

Davos nearly choked, while Andrew was staring at him in disbelief.

“What a great idea!” Renly smiled. “The great Ser Jaime, at my service?”

“My lord, he killed the man he was previously sworn to serve.” Andrew cut in.

“I killed a man who planned to blow up a city of half a million souls.” Jaime frowned. “Do you plan on doing this, Renly?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.” Jaime smiled. “Then I see nothing wrong with swearing you my sword.”

“Why?” Davos asked.

“Well, I take it that since you are here, you do not plan on staying in this hole forever.” Jaime mused. “At some point, you will go back to Westeros.”

“You cannot come back to Westeros, on pain of death.” Andrew pointed out.

“Well, I assume that when you return to Westeros, it won’t be to grovel at Rhaegar’s feet.” Jaime scoffed. “I will just ask for whatever King you choose to serve to abrogate my exile so that I may leave this continent. Essos is just not a fit for me, I’m afraid.”

“And how do we know you aren’t just spying for your father?” Andrew questioned.

“I’m not, and you’ll have to take my word for it.” Jaime shrugged. “My father still thinks me with the Golden Company, at Qohor.”

“And what if we refuse?” Davos asked in turn.

“Well…you won’t.” Jaime smiled. “Because you and I both know that I can send one message to my father, revealing the young boy’s presence here. Now, I would hate to do this. But you lot might be my chance at getting out of this continent, and I intend to seize it.”

“I accept.” Renly nodded with a smile.

“But, my lord…”

“You are sworn to serve me, Ser Andrew, are you not?” Renly turned around.

“Yes, my lord, but…”

“Then, your objections are noted, Ser.” Renly smiled. “But I do not see why I wouldn’t take him into my service. As long, of course, that you swear fealty to me.”

“He spat on his oath, my lord…” Ser Andrew protested.

“It’s as you said, ser. He betrayed his oath not for gold or glory, but to save lives. Is that not exactly what a sensible man should do? To break his oath when it is clearly the right thing to do?” Renly asked. “Or are you calling my brother’s rebellion unjust? Are you calling Stannis’ actions wrongful? They had oaths too, ser, which they also broke because it was the right thing to do.”

Andrew sank into his chair, defeated.

“I’ll be glad to have you in my service, Ser Jaime.” Renly smiled back. “So long as your loyalty to me is certain.”

“I’ll be glad to follow you, my lord.” Jaime Lannister smiled widely. “And I’m sure you’ll do your brothers great pride.