Blood and Whispers

by SarellaMartell

Two hundred years after Stannis Baratheon won the Iron Throne, the game begins anew. This is the narrative version of the events of an open ASOIAF RolePlay forum still in progress.

1. Chapter 1

- A PROLOGUE -

Two hundred years after the events of A Song of Ice and Fire, Westeros seemed to enjoy relative peace. The alliances among the great houses of the seven kingdoms remained mostly true to how they were in antiquity: the Tyrells and Martells were still bitter towards each other, Hightower plotted in silence against their liege lords, House Harlaw dreamt of driftwood crowns, Starks and Lannisters gave each other a wide berth, and the Freys remained close with the Lions. Baelish ruled in the Riverlands, Arryn in the Vale, Lannister in the Westerlands, Greyjoy in the Iron Islands, Baratheon in the Stormlands and Crownlands, Martell in Dorne, and Stark in the North.

The Lord Commander and his black brothers at the Wall still fought to keep the White Walkers and the Wildlings at bay. The Golden Company still sought to return, although now from their stout keep on the isle of Bloodstone.

Though none opposed the King openly, the great houses were power hungry and scheming and plotting for a chance to get closer to the crown. The King, Harys Baratheon was a strong man, though naive and rash. He kept his friends close and frustrated his bannermen. Not one to turn down a fight, he was ready to turn to war at the first sign of a threat. In this turmoil, the King threw a feast to celebrate the beginning of the new year. Here like in times gone past, the high lords began their Game of Thrones anew.

- DAMON -

The corridors of the Red Keep were awash in the glow of torchlight and the sounds of feasting echoed dimly off the cool stone walls.

The laughter, the merriment, the cheek kissing, it was all becoming as suffocating as the stifling humidity of King's Landing itself, and Damon Lannister could no longer abide it, nor could he continue to feign recognition of all the sigils and houses from the farthest, smallest corners of Westeros.

Who in Seven Hells would take a bee for their sigil? Was Honeyholt in the Reach or the Riverlands? He could not remember. Perhaps I should have spent more time listening to Maester Jommo and less time making faces at my brother from across the table. His footsteps were hardly heard over the distant melodies of a musician troupe, and he emerged into the gardens behind the Throne Room to the songs of a thousand crickets instead.

The crisp chill of night made him shiver despite the warmth from all the wine he'd drank. The air tasted like winter, dry and thin, even so far south as the capital, and Damon leaned heavily against one of the pillars of the colonnade to breath it in. The marble felt steadier than his legs.

"Have you had enough, then?" a man chuckled, and when Damon turned around he was met with eyes of a deep purple hue, set in the sharp features of an older man's face and framed by silver hair.

"Ser Ulrich," he said. "Forgive me for not greeting you sooner. I did not see you lurking in the shadows."

The knight's white armor glittered in the moonlight, and his cloak mirrored the glowing orb in the black sky. Dawn hung sheathed at the Kingsguard's hip, its milky blade concealed within an unornamented leather scabbard, and Damon glanced at it with the curiosity of a boy of ten and three, not twenty and three as he was.

Ulrich's smile was faint. "You did greet me earlier," he reminded him. "But that was several cups ago."

"Then forgive me doubly." Damon offered a mocking and wobbly bow. "All you White Cloaks look the same in the torchlight. Perhaps I thought I was speaking with Ser Jon or Ser Daeron."

"Mayhaps. I pray you can tell the King apart from the commoners, at least, lest your tongue land you into trouble even a Lannister couldn't pay his way out of."

"Nonsense." Damon shook his head and grinned despite his dizziness. "There is no problem that cannot be solved with gold." Ulrich did not seem to find the remark amusing, but Damon was used to men more humorless than the Sword of the Morning. "Your King already knows it," he went on, nodding to the great oak and iron doors at Ulrich's back that led into the Throne Room. "He spent quite a bit of coin to feast his kingdoms this night. Perhaps someone counseled the Stag that even the most ambitious men can be contented with a full stomach."

A dragonfly was buzzing loudly somewhere between the gillyflowers and sedge, and a white stone fountain trickled noisily. Ulrich looked unhappy. "And what about you and your ambition?" he asked. "Is Damon Lannister content with his Arbor Gold and his whores, and the promise of his father's seat?"

Damon's easy smile faltered at the insult, but only for a moment. "Unlike most men," he said when it returned, "I would be content with far less. Let my father keep his seat, and I will hold my wine and whores, though I prefer the sour grapes from your Kingdom over an Arbor Gold. I dare say the only thing finer than a Dornish red is a Dornish woman." The Lannister's green eyes fell to Dawn at the knight's hip. "There is no need to keep your hand on the pommel of your sword, Ser. Rather uncouth behavior for a feast, wouldn't you say?"

Ulrich seemed surprised to find his armored fingers clutching the hilt, and quickly released his grip, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks. The knight sighed. "Now it is I who must beg forgiveness of you, it seems," he conceded.

"I shall consider it." Damon glanced once more at the weapon before running a hand through tousled golden curls. He was swaying on his feet slightly, but felt the disappointing onset of sobriety creeping closer. The Sword of the Mourning is a better title for this Dayne, he thought. He is as merry as a Silent Sister.

"We do share a brother now," Ulrich reminded him.

"Yes. Thaddius." Damon could scarcely forget that. His younger sibling was at the King's side somewhere within the pink stone walls of the keep, in the same embellished pale armor as Ulrich, an expression somewhere between boredom and misery on his boyish face. Damon hadn't the chance to speak to Thaddius yet, and it didn't seem likely as the feast dragged into its sixth hour.

"Is he doing well?" Damon asked, and this time it was Ulrich whose eyes flickered with hesitation.

"Fine," he answered, after a moment's pause. "Thaddius is a skilled swordsman."

"Some say the best."

"Aye, some say that." Ulrich's gaze wandered about the darkened gardens, avoiding Damon's. "He lacks discipline," the knight said, "but he is still young. That will change. I should return to the feast." Ulrich glanced over his shoulder at the door and then back at the teetering lordling. He managed a small smile. "It may be best if you retire for the night."

"Perhaps." Damon nodded. "I cannot stand to be in that room besides, not with that ugly iron seat within. Who would ever want to feast in the shadow of that monstrous thing? Who would ever want to sit something so hideous?"

Ulrich shrugged. "A king," he suggested. His cape fluttered in the chilly night's breeze as the knight turned and when the moonlight caught it, for one brief moment the cloak looked almost as milky white as Dawn itself.

- RHAEGAR -

Rhaegar Targaryen looked at his stunted dragon and shivered. "Could you at least give us a fire? No? Stupid lizard."

The beast only yawned in reply, then flapped his wings lazily and flew to the top of one of the towers of Castle Black, the shadow he cast over the snow covered bailey below no bigger than that of an eagle. "Take your dragon they said," Rhaegar muttered as he trudged through the white fluff towards the Shield Hall. "Keep you warm he will, won't be so bad."

Rhaegar shook his head, his mane of silver gold hair already freckled with freshly fallen snowflakes. "Stupid dragon. We could all be eating venison, but no, he'd rather roost on a tower and act like he's King in the North."

He pulled opened the old pine doors to the holdfast and the blast of warm air rosied his pale cheeks at once. The hall was worn and shabby, like most of Castle Black, but there was something to be said for the comfort of a fire, even if the benches that were propped around it were splintered and wormholed.

Rhaegar found a place beside his friend, and accepted the bowl of soup that Balon passed him without thanks. "It's cold," he announced, staring down into the stew with thinly veiled distaste.

"It's always cold at the Wall," Balon quipped cheerfully, breaking off a piece of his crusty bread and offering it to the Targaryen.

"No, the soup."

His friend dipped his own bread into the stew and sucked the broth from it noisily. "You can't tell it's gone stale if you put it in the soup," he explained, when Rhaegar frowned at his lack of table manners. Though to his credit, we aren't even eating at a table. The Targaryen sighed and brought the bowl to his lips tentatively.

I will never grow accustomed to this, he thought bitterly. Even Sharp Point had hot food, though there were no cooks to prepare it, only himself and his cousins and uncle. Nothing was hot at Castle Black, not the food, not the baths, and certainly not the Wall itself.

"Have you had any luck getting Vellath to breathe fire?" Balon asked, his dark eyes alight with interest. The Stormlander, like most of the younger boys on the Wall, was enthralled by Rhaegar's pet, as Lord Commander Hoster called it with begrudging affection.

Rhaegar snorted. "No," he conceded. "The dragon is worthless. Why do you think King Harys let me keep him when he sent me here?" Balon only shrugged. "You can think, can't you?" Rhaegar asked, and at that his friend chuckled.

"I think you're letting the snow get to you," he said with a grin. "The Wall isn't so bad, you know. We're as much protectors of the realm as the King is, perhaps even more so. We defend the world of men against the evils of-"

"Snarks, grumpkins, giants..." Rhaegar interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "It's easy for you to wax on about the honor in wearing the black, Balon, since you chose to don your cloak. Though I don't see how being a steward makes you a protector of anything other than ledgers and cold stews."

Balon shrugged. "Not all of us are cut out to be Rangers like you, Ray."

"I'm not a Ranger yet," Rhaegar pointed out, then grumbled, "Though I'm sure it is a mere matter of formality, and not for lack of worthiness. How many men at Castle Black have both a dragon and Dragon's blood? How many men here come from a line of Kings and conquerors?"

Balon turned back to his stew and turned a turnip over with his spoon to check for mold before eating. "My mother was a server in a tavern and my father a cook," he said between bites. "I suppose the Steward's order is where I belong. You won't hear me complaining. I'd sooner tend a warm fire than go ranging out beyond the Wall where the frost is just as like to kill you as any lurking creature of the night."

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows in quiet disbelief, and shook his head. "And therein lies the difference between those of noble birth and those of common parentage. You may be content with your scrolls and your cook pots and your coin counting, but me..." He trailed off, staring into the flames of the fire they sat before. "I have the blood of Dragons."

- MELLARA -

Maude brushed her hair until the tresses that fell in long golden brown waves about her shoulders were shining, like a field of wheat at sunset. Mellara's hair looked like a field of wheat in a hurricane.

"Are you finished yet, Maude?" she asked, bored. The youngest Tyrell was seated on the floor, picking at a thread hanging from the hem of her moss green gown.

"Hush, little one." Maude smiled, turning over her shoulder to stick her tongue out at her little sister. "You cannot rush perfection."

Mellara grinned. "You're already perfect, Maude, everyone knows it," she said, tugging at the string on her dress and absentmindedly watching it slowly unravel the lace fringe. "The King certainly seems to know it."

She was caught off guard by the pillow Maude threw, and yelped when it hit her in the head, messing up her already tangled hair.

"Don't pull at your dress, dear sister," Maude scolded gently. "Our lord father wants us to look our best at court today."

"He wants you to look your best," Mellara corrected her. "After all, it's you King Harys has his eye on."

"He doesn't have his eyes anywhere they don't belong," Maude replied, shooting her sister a mocking glare, "So mind your wagging tongue when people ask you about us. The King simply enjoys my company is all." She shrugged and smiled bashfully. "And I enjoy his as well."

The two sisters entered the throne room together, with Mellara trailing behind her older sister. They took their places in the back of the vast chambers with the other women, and Mellara began craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the proceedings, something which Maude raised her eyebrow at.

"Please try to be ladylike," she told her.

"Shh!" Mellara snapped, "I can almost see the King!"

King Harys sat on the throne beneath the great windowed dome. His brown eyes were always warm to his friends, but they looked bored and disinterested now. He was dressed in a deep green doublet and the black leather of his boots had been polished to a regal shine. A crown of gold fashioned to look like antlers sat atop his head, stretching up towards the ceiling where rays of winter light shone down and reflected off the iron barbs of his seat.

A booming voice was echoing in the chambers, and Mellara stood on tip toe to try and find its source.

"My lords, Your Grace! This has gone on long enough. Aeron Greyjoy is a traitor to the realm, and should pay for his crimes. If not for his heinous offenses towards Lord Vypren, then for his orchestration of raiding parties sent to Seagard. It took all of the Frey and Mallister forces combined to ward off the ironborn, but we took prisoners, and have information that implicates Lord Aeron as the man behind all of this reaving and raping."

Mellara caught a glimpse of the speaker. He was a strange looking man, with shoulder length dark hair but eyes as green as a Lannister. "Who's that?" she whispered, tugging on Maude's arm.

"Lord Randyll Frey," Maude whispered back, keeping her gaze fixed on the court and a pretty smile on her face. Mellara shifted uncomfortably. There was something rather disconcerting about the man's presence.

"Should he be allowed to go unpunished, I fear for the safety of the Trident and the Green Fork!" he was saying. "I would suggest his sons be taken hostage, but it seems the boy is too green to father children, so I say take his ships, Your Grace! Their house plagued your father and now they seek to rise against you, as well. Weaken the Iron Fleet and we shan't see anything of this like happening again."

He stopped to think for a moment, his eyes burning with contemplation, before continuing airily, "Not to mention, the Lords Mallister, Vypren and myself may well require a certain amount of gold to compensate for the brave men and resources we lost tackling the Greyjoy menace..."

The King regarded the Lord Frey warily before replying, tapping a ringed finger against the arm of the Iron Throne, "How much do you seek, my Lord?"

"Ten-thousand dragons should suffice for each of us, your Grace, if your Master of Coin can find room for it," he stated boldly.

"Of course," the King consented, nodding to his Master of Coin, "Lord Baelor, see to it that the lords see their coin."

Before Baelor Pyke could draw his quill, another voice interrupted. A man with flaming red hair and tattoos on his arms spoke. "Your Grace," he said, "If I might be so bold, the Lord of Frey has just raided you worse in a few sentences than Greyjoy did with all of these reavings together. A few soldiers and the food to feed them does not warrant ten-thousand dragons."

Randyll Frey turned, and with a sly smile replied, "Lord Connington, if the crown is unable to provide this money, why not give the ships from the Iron Fleet to us instead? The Riverlands would be the safest they've ever been."

Mellara's eyes darted between the two men. She reached over and grabbed Maude's shoulder, trying to pull herself up for a better view. "Stop that!" Maude hissed, swatting her away. "Can you please try to behave yourself? For me?" Mellara just rolled her eyes.

"Your Grace, may I suggest you let this matter sit for now," a new voice said. Its owner was as a lean man, clad in dark colors and thick fur with dark hair and a clean shaven face. He had a direwolf clasp pinning his grey cloak about his shoulders and Mellara figured him to be Lord Edmure Stark of Winterfell.

"Both parties seem to be missing and this talk of war makes lords bold and has the ladies fearful. Lord Frey seems to be far more interested in the warships than gold dragons. The lion in his blood causes me to question his ambitions... Should we be so quick to provoke the Iron Islanders?"

"Does lion blood frighten you, Stark?"

Mellara elbowed her way through two ladies in front of her and caught a glimpse of a handsome golden haired man before she felt Maude's hand on the back of her gown, yanking her back to her place.

A Lannister, she thought. Even if his yellow hair and emerald eyes didn't give him away, she could guess his house by the way he was looking disdainfully at the Stark lord, making no effort to conceal his contempt.

"Of course, only a dog would run from a fight with his tail between his legs," he was saying, "and that is what you have on your sigil, is it not? A dog?" The blonde man turned to face the King, and added, "Your Grace is also undoubtedly aware that House Lannister and House Greyjoy are united by marriage. My lady mother, wife to the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was a Greyjoy. Given that our houses are aligned, it seems fitting that if Aeron is removed he should be replaced by a Lannister."

"As you well remember, Your Grace," a new voice chimed in, "you and I dealt with this Greyjoy menace in the past. By allowing the house to maintain Lordship over one of the Seven Kingdoms, we are making a grave mistake. Should your Lordship deem my service to the realm worthy of a seventh of your kingdom, I would gratefully accept the Iron Islands."

Mellara fidgeted impatiently. She couldn't see anything from the back of the throne room. "Why do the women have to stand back here?" she whined to Maude, who shot her a silencing glare. "I can't see anything."

"You don't need to see anything, Mellara," Maude responded. "You're supposed to stand there and look pretty. Here, put your hands like this." She nodded at her own hands, which were folded neatly and resting against her perfectly smoothed skirts.

Mellara's skirts were already wrinkled. She scrunched up her nose at her sister. "I do need to see. I can't tell who's talking just by their voice, Maude."

"That's Durran Harlaw," Maude whispered. Mellara frowned in confusion and Maude rolled her eyes. "They call him 'the Reaper." He was the one who killed Lord Damron Greyjoy in the second Greyjoy Rebellion. He's speaking to Damon Lannister." Mellara stood on the tips of her toes, peeking over the shoulders of the women in front of her. "You're too little to know what they say about him," Maude said.

"Lord Durran." Damon bowed his head in greeting, but looked up at the Lord of Harlaw with a somewhat confused frown. "No one amongst us would deny your prowess in battle, nor the strength of your fleet or house. But as you and I both know, the Greyjoys have ruled the Iron Islands since Aegon the First's conquest. There have been no other lines. Pyke won't accept rule from anyone other than a Greyjoy."

"I am grateful for your flattery, Damon." Durran returned the bow, "House Hoare ruled in the beginning, Pyke will accept rule of another house close to it. However fear not, young Lannister, I would not seek to tear down your kin as the rulers of Pyke. I wish simply to institute the Ten Towers as the new capital of the Iron Islands."

The Lannister stiffened, "After Aegon I extinguished House Hoare, he allowed the ironborn to choose who would have primacy over them. They chose Vickon Greyjoy. The Greyjoys have ruled ever since. What you are suggesting is an appeal to a fondness for a house that is centuries extinct. However that is an... interesting proposal, my lord."

"My lord, I am not blind to your lineage," Durran replied, "but a madman such as Aeron cannot be allowed to rule a kingdom. Your continued opposition over the rule of House Harlaw, a house loyal to the King, is surprising and interesting. Perhaps the future lord wishes to inherit two kingdoms when his father passes?"

Damon smiled innocently. "Lord Duran, my thoughts are only of my kin. I wish to resolve this conflict with as little bloodshed as possible. Simply replacing my cousin with a family member more friendly to the realm seems to be the most logical course of action."

Mellara tugged at her sister's arm again. "Are the Lannisters and Harlaws unfriendly?" she asked inquisitively. "I thought that the Lannisters were allied with the Iron Islands."

Maude shook her head. "They're allied with the Greyjoys," she corrected her sister under her breath. "Loren Lannister married one right after the rebellion - the dead Lord Greyjoy's sister." The youngest Tyrell frowned, but before she could whisper any more questions, a loud guffaw from the Lord Stark drew her attention.

"Durran would be a most excellent replacement!" Edmure said, his arms crossed over his chest. "You, on the other hand, seem to only be only capable of handling a jug of wine and a whore! Tell me, Damon, how does a greenboy who hasn't seen the battlefield rule the Iron Islands?"

Damon turned to glower at Lord Stark. "I am not proposing that I rule the Iron Islands, Stark, I am proposing that a Greyjoy rule them, as a Greyjoy always has. If we replaced every incompetent Lord with someone of a different house, the Starks would have gone extinct centuries ago."

"Let Harlaw himself strike down the last Greyjoy! No one would be more fit a man to rule the Iron Islands than the one that stands before you. If not Lord of the Iron Islands then Lord Paramount could suffice till a proper heir comes of age! Killing boys seems to be a cruel specialty of House Lannister, but you have no claws yet lion, so I suggest you hold your tongue till then!"

Damon clenched his teeth, shooting daggers at Lord Stark. He gave an accusatory nod to the skinning knife at Stark's hip and said quietly, "Don't speak to me about cruelty."

Defeated, he turned on his heel and stormed off, the crowd parting to allow him to pass. Mellara scrambled to get a better view of him as he went, but the throne room was too crowded and all she saw was a flash of crimson and the glittering of an emerald pendant likely worth more than every jewel in her mother's vanity drawer.

Bystanders were shooting uneasy glances at the blade at Lord Stark's waist and shifting uncomfortably. Mellara looked to her sister and Maude glanced about the room before explaining quietly, "Lord Stark is rumored to practice flaying."

It was the girls' own father who spoke next. Lord Baelor was shaking his head. "Your Grace, these other lords speak of brash military action in response to mere rumors. I would urge caution and prudence. We should not fall headlong into the haste of warmongering."

Mellara glanced up at her sister. Maude was watching the King with a dreamy look on her face, and the youngest Rose rolled her eyes again. The King looked dreamy as well - he seemed as though he might fall asleep on the throne.

"Lord Baelor is right." A man at the foot of the great seat spoke. This one Mellara knew, as she knew all the members of the small council. He was Aemon Estermont, and he held the position of Master of Ships.

"Your Grace," he said, "these lords are not war hungry, they are power hungry. They talk of dividing and taking Greyjoy lands and fleets as if stopping these so called 'raids' had amounted to stopping another rebellion."

King Harys nodded, speaking at last. He seemed to have awoken from a daydream at the sound of Lord Estermont's voice, and shifted in his seat on the throne. "I agree, my lord," he replied loudly, though he did not seem certain of what it was he was consenting to.

"You are their king," Aemon said to the man on the Iron Throne, "Your word is law, and any dissent is rebellion in itself."

Harys nodded again, and scratched at his beard. His younger brother Joseph looked up at the King with a slight frown and cleared his throat. "Brother, what is your final ruling on this matter?"

"We shall do as Lord Baelor proposed. Now, if that is all, I would like to adjourn this session." He stood up before anyone could protest, and Mellara noted the flicker of annoyance that crossed Lord Aemon's face.

The crowd broke out into a loud murmuring, as various lords and ladies began discussing the many championed proposals and speculating about the different motives of those involved. Mellara took off at once, narrowly escaping Maude's hands as the older girl tried to pull her sister back again.

She wove her way through the throngs of lords and ladies, hoping to eavesdrop on some tantalizing conversation, and her heart thumped faster in her chest when she caught sight of Gylen Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, speaking with a much older man garbed in orange, a black beard shot with white upon his aging face. The stranger's skin was the color of a walnut shell with a small and unostentatious diadem crossing his forehead.

"Prince Aryyn," Gylen greeted him, "What an exciting day at court," he nodded in the direction of the King, who was speaking closely with Maude as he made his way to the exit, Mellara forgotten completely. She was laughing as he led her by the arm. "So the Stag is smitten with the Rose, it's quite understandable."

Gylen sighed. "We can both agree that having a Tyrell on the throne is unacceptable. I know that you have a daughter of a marrying age. Surely your Sarella would be a much better fit as mother to the King's Dornish son than any Rose."

Mellara tucked a strand of straggly brown hair behind her ear she managed to move herself closer to the lords as they spoke.

"You're an intelligent one, Lord Gylen," the Prince replied. "The Tyrells know that their daughters are some of the most beautiful maidens in all of Westeros. A King deserves a comely queen, Lord Gylen, so does every unmarried man in Westeros. Wouldn't you agree, Lady Mellara?"

Mellara was caught off guard at being addressed, but quickly put on the sweet smile Maude always wore. "Of course, my lord," she answered. "That is something every man deserves."

Gylen spun around, his face flushed. "Lady Mellara!" He bowed. "I didn't see you there. How are you enjoying the trial?" He gave a quick, gracious glance at the Prince. "Excuse me for leaving you, I have some business to attend to. Good day, my lady." He turned to face Aryyn and bowed again. "Think about what I've said, Prince Aryyn."

Mellara eyed Gylen distrustfully as he left. She glanced at the Prince. "My lord, was there a problem?"

"Lord Gylen was asking my opinion on who among the maidens in Westeros is most likely to sit next to King Harys as his queen. He mentioned your sister, Maude. I'm like to agree. She is a beautiful young girl."

"That's what everyone says," Mellara replied, eyeing the Prince warily. "But what do you think?"

Prince Aryyn smiled down her warmly. "Sweet child," he said, "some things last forever. Steel may lose its edge, rocks may turn to sand, and even the mighty stag eventually falls, but the sun is always there. And roses? Well, my dear girl... roses wilt."

The smile never left his face as the Prince bowed his head and left.

- AEMON -

"A storm's coming my Lord."

"Then be thankful we've almost made Greenstone." Lord Aemon Estermont stood firm on the deck of Ocean's Gift, glancing to the East he took note of the darkening clouds. Three days out from his visit to King's Landing, the Lord's fleet was finally sailing through Cape Wrath. Soon he'd be home to castle Greenstone.

Lord Aemon's dreams of late had left him restless. A shadowy figure with a bleeding face, his three fingered hands reaching like claws, swallowing Aemon in icy blackness. A bad omen. Aemon shook himself free of his thoughts, best not to dwell on such childish things. Still, he would be grateful once they'd reached harbor.

To the west, waves crashed against the rocky shores of the Rainwood. The dark forest stretched off into the distance, the snarled ancient woodland growing thick with underbrush.

A shout came from the crow's nest. "My lord, shipwreck on the coastline!" Lord Aemon peered along the shoreline and spotted it quickly. It wasn't uncommon to find the remains of drowned ships dragged onto the coast by Cape Wrath's strong current; the Eastern stretch was perilous to the inexperienced sailor. "Looks like a tradeship my lord, recently wrecked." Aemon glanced once more out to sea, the storm was rapidly approaching. "Drop anchor, and make it quick, or we'll have this storm nipping at our heels."

Four longboats landed to the North of the drowned ship on a rocky outcrop. The main mast had snapped with the ship's collision, leaving jagged splinters of wood strewn about the wreck. Its mainsail hung like some great drowned beast, the wind whipping its weary form back and forth. The worst damage was the bow, where the merchant ship had crashed violently into the rocky shore; a gaping hole, half the width of the ship itself.

"Search the ship, take anything of value." Lord Aemon's eyes were drawn to several trails of footprints leading away from the ship, "And watch for survivors."

It wasn't long until a shaken man-at-arms returned, "My lord… I think you need to see this."

Stepping into the bowels of the ship Lord Aemon was hit with a familiar scent, blood, the air was thick with the smell. "What happened here?"

"Some kind of struggle my lord", came the reply, "there are markings of battle throughout the ship, but no bodies." He hesitated. "Well, there is one…" As they rounded the next corner a grinding noise was heard, and the ship groaned. "The men don't know what to make of it…" Lord Greenstone was ushered into what seemed to be a makeshift prison, rope and twine which had been used to tie the door shut lay on the floor, snapped apart. It was there he saw it, a single man, chained to the wall by his arms. Beside him lay two similar shackles, broken open and hanging useless. The man was rhythmically pulling on his chains, each time ushering a low moan from the broken ship. But the man's most noticeable feature were his eyes; each a deep glowing blue.

Lord Aemon stepped back. "May the seven protect us…" The wind had reached a fever pitch outside; the storm was nearly upon them.

"Burn the ship."

- SARELLA -

Inside the Red Keep, the sound of Sarella Martell's sandals softly padding the stone floors echoed in the hallway, but no one seemed to hear it over the music and laughter coming from within one of the castle rooms. She pressed her ear to the door curiously, but was unable to distinguish any words from the light chatter of voices. It was her last night in King's Landing before departing for Dorne.

Just another feast.

She continued on until she spied a door leading out onto a balcony. A light breeze was blowing the sheer curtains back into the hallway and she could see a slice of the black night sky without, dotted with twinkling stars.

She didn't notice Ser Dayne until she stepped out onto the balcony. He was standing alone, leaning against the rail, armor glistening in the moonlight, his long white cloak billowing out softly behind him which every small breeze. Surprised, she tugged at the thin straps of her traditional Dornish gown as she approached.

"Ser Dayne." She greeted him with a small nod, neglecting to curtsy as she had seen the Tyrell ladies do so often. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

He seemed pleased to see her when he turned around. "Ah, Sarella, my lady. It has been what, two years? We danced at your father's feast."

"We did indeed." Sarella smiled. How could I forget? "I was ten and four. Two years doesn't sound like a long time, but it feels like ages. Is the King feasting?" She nodded her head in the direction of the music.

"As usual. I've just come up here to clear my thoughts. I get terrible headaches at his feasts, but a good bath in the light of the stars and fresh air seems to do the trick."

"It seems that all these lords and ladies do in King's Landing is feast, feast, feast." She cocked her head and looked at the knight with a sparkle in her eye. "It's a wonder they can still fit in their thrones. I find the night air cures any troubled thoughts of my own as well, but the air in King's Landing is too cold for my Dornish blood. See?" She held up her arm to show her goosebumps.

Ulrich chuckled. "You get used to both the cold and the feasting, I assure you. What's troubling you, my lady?"

Sarella looked out across the King's Landing. Her father warned her that the Martells had many enemies about, especially at King's Landing. But knights are the most honorable of all men, and the Sword of the Morning is the most honorable of all knights. She leaned her elbows against the balcony rail and lowered her slender arms to the cold stone, letting her hands dangle off the rail.

"My father is sick," she confessed, brushing away a loose strand of dark hair that had escaped her long braid. "If he... If something were to happen to him... I left the Water Gardens only two years past. I am not ready to rule. I know nothing about war or politics or anything of the sort."

Ulrich looked over at her with a bemused smile on his face. "War is all I know. Politics. As the King's glorified doorman, I watch every day and it is pointless. Be honorable, be beautiful, and don't let others manipulate you. Don't try to play the game, fair Princess, because those who do are often left in the dirt." He took her hand, kissed it, and returned to the stars. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

"You are kind to be concerned for me, Ser Dayne." Sarella thought she detected a trace of sadness in his words. I wonder if he misses Dorne, its blazing hot sun, the dry desert air, his family in Starfall... "A doorman, you say." She moved closer to the Dornish knight, her bare arm brushing against his armor. Her face was clouded in worry, but her dark eyes were alight with curiosity.

"You truly don't see yourself as the hero people know you to be?" she asked, leaning in. "You are a knight of the Kingsguard. You are a defender of the defenseless. The shield of the righteous." Her voice became more hushed with every sentence, as she stared intently into his violet eyes. "You wield a blade forged from the heart of a falling star. You are the Sword of the Morning."

"But I am empty, my princess. There is a void within my bones. I am sworn to take no wife, and father no children. When I leave this world for the next, I will leave nothing behind."

Sarella lifted her hand to brush his silver hair form his face and her gold bracelets slid down her slender bronze arm. "Is that the void, Ser Ulrich? The place in your heart where a woman should be?"

"I swore a vow," he said. "And I am nothing if not a man of honor."

She stepped closer until their bodies were mere inches apart. Sarella rested a delicate hand on his breastplate and smiled softly. "A wife is not the same as a woman."

"You are young, my princess, and the heir to Dorne no less. You have obligations to marry someone suitable and..." He wavered for a moment before sighing. "And by the Seven, you are beautiful."

Sarella grinned, looking into the knight's deep violet eyes. The balcony, the noise from the feast, the distant clamor of King's Landing below her, all of it seemed to fade away. It was just her and Ser Ulrich Dayne, dressed in his white cloak and armor, staring down at his Dornish princess. She slipped a hand behind his head and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him as though her very life depended on it.

He pulled away after a long moment. "We shouldn't be doing this. I am a man of honor."

She looked up at the knight, a playful glint in her dark eyes. "You are a man," she corrected him. As if to remind him, she took his rough and callused hands in her own and pressed them against her breasts. Her Dornish gown was a rusted orange, nearly sheer, and draped loosely across her lithe frame. She moved his hands along the curves of her body, down her sides, onto her waist, and kissed him once more.

- THE HIGHTOWER -

"Are you paying attention?" Gylen glared down at his son Gerold, who he had just caught sneaking a glance out the tower window, where doubtless far more exciting things were taking place than a father's lecture.

The Lord of Hightower was trying to teach his son the finer points of ruling, but Gerold's attention span was waning. At ten and eight, his son was no longer a child. And if he is to one day rule over Oldtown, he will need to concentrate on these important lessons, just as I did.

They were a Hightower tradition that began generations ago. Gylen himself could easily recall sitting in the exact same seat that Gerold now sat in, listening to his father drone on. In fact, when he closed his eyes, he could even hear his voice, and the voices of his now dead brothers in the training yard drifting in through that same open window...

"Again. Defense is your best offense. Watch your back," Master-at-Arms Costayne repeated. Young Garth Hightower was surrounded by three of Oldtown's city watch, all of them adorned in light armor and equipped with wooden swords. Costayne was making use of the late morning sun to drill Garth and Gavyn while the shadow of the Hightower above them was not casting the courtyard in shade.

Garth was sweating under his white clothes, he had been training for an hour straight at this point. He was good, and it was evident his father's focus on his fighting ability had been well received by the muscular boy of 6 and ten. Gavyn stood by the side watching, his foot stamping repeatedly in anticipation. He was more slender, but still well trained. A military commander would have to fight as well.

The first guard came at Garth with a strong jab. The boy spun out of the way of the blade towards his attacker, ending up behind him. He poked the guard in the back with his sword. "Flowers, out!" Costayne yelled. The other two came at Garth. Garth parried the first strike cleanly, then the second. The two attacked at once, and Garth dodged one sword, but the other smacked the boy in the wrist. "Garth, you're out."

"But he only got my hand! That's not a ki-"

"In a battlefield it is. Losing a sword hand on the field is the worst way to go. You'll feel the pain before your enemy eventually drives his sword into your neck, if he's feeling merciful, and believe me, the enemies you will face when you're older will not be merciful to you," Ser Costayne lectured.

"House Rowan," a stern voice commanded suddenly.

Gavyn eagerly replaced his brother on the training grounds. Young Garth was already sporting an ugly purple bruise.

"House Rowan," the voice repeated.

Gylen sighed out the window as he watched his brothers fight. He had no scars, no bruises, hardly a cut. He wished he was out there with them not stuck in here with-

"House Rowan! Are you deaf?" Lord Garth Hightower snapped his fingers at his youngest son. Gylen jolted in his chair and blushed suddenly.

"S-sorry father. Golden tree on field of silver. Goldengrove. Lord Svenwood. U-untrustworthy." The last answer was always the same.

Old Garth glared at him, and glanced out the window at his other sons. "You're distracted. Why?"

Gylen rocked in his seat uncomfortably. He didn't like when his father asked him questions like this. He much preferred the testing questions, he was good at those. "I... I don't know. I-I might just be tired sitting here... learning..." He cringed in anticipation of his father's response.

"Tired of learning? Is that it? Well, why don't you go outside then. Play with the others," Garth said, leaning back in his seat. Gylen's eyes lit up, but he hesitated to stand. Garth sat and watched him. The boy of ten rose, but as soon as he did his father shot up as well.

"Yes, go outside. Go and play with your brothers. That's all they're doing, right? Playing. This all a game to you, and you're just getting punished because you're not old enough, is that right?" Garth's angered eyes stared into Gylen's.

"N-no..." Gylen replied, adverting his gaze now.

"No? Then why don't you understand, Gylen? Why don't you understand what I'm doing for you? Why don't you understand that this is your role in your family's victory? Do you not appreciate this? When your brothers take to the field of battle, you will be the one behind them planning it all. When they die, you will survive, is that not a gift? Is life not a good enough gift for you, Gylen? Have I raised you to be that spoiled?"

Tears welled up in Gylen's brown eyes. "I-I don't know."

"You don't know? You don't know! What have I done wrong, have I chosen the wrong son to give my love to? Maybe Garth or Gavyn would appreciate this more, perhaps they value their life more than you do yours. Have I made a mistake, Gylen?"

"N-no, father."

"Good!" Garth planted his hands on the table, his eyes wide. "Now will you sit, and do your family, me, and yourself a favor and pay attention? Son, I do this because I love you the most, don't you see? I knew from the start you were the one, you would bring our family to victory."

Gylen sits down and sniffles a couple times. "Really?" His father always had the answers. He glanced out the window one last time, watching Garth, back on the court, lose the practice fight to a guard prodding him in the back. Suddenly the shutters were snapped closed by Garth.

"Yes. I do this because I love you, and this family. Your House needs you. I need you. And now I need you to tell me the answers for House Dayne."

Gylen regained his composure, still looking down at his feet uncomfortably. "White sword crossed with falling star against purple. Starfall. Lord Arthur Dayne. Untrustworthy."

"Good. House Baratheon."

"Crowned stag against yellow. Storms End, Dragonstone, and the Red Keep. Lord Trystane Baratheon. Untrustworthy."

"Good... House Tyrell."

"Golden rose against green. Highgarden. Lord Luthor Tyrell," Gylen knew this answer better than any other, and his own son knew now as well, as Gerold's voice answered the question.

"Untrustworthy."

- THE LORD OF THE CROSSING -

The book in Randyll's lap was a tome.

Countless worn pages sat nestled between cracked leather bindings, all filled with names and dates written in an almost illegible scrawl.

...Lord Simon Baelish, died of a sudden chill during the Great Winter Frost of 403 AL…

The text read as a cautionary tale. Deaths knocked on deaths as rulers and sons alike told the grisly tale of the castle with their tombstones. Randyll closed the cracked leather cover and glanced once more at the title: Histories and Rulers of Harrenhal.

Even the title is dull, he thought to himself, replacing the tome upon the table. He had sent his squire Orson to retrieve the dusty old text from amongst the many other dusty old texts stored in the Red Keep, but he had hoped for something more substantial to fill the time until his departure. It had been nigh over a month since he had seen Belandra and the children, and the days seemed to inch by slower than the murky banks of the Green Fork beneath the Twins.

A knock on the oak chamber door drew Randyll away from thoughts of home, and he stood as a muffled voice called out tentatively.

"Lord Frey? Are you decent?"

"A moment please," he called back, stepping out from behind the table.

The fading light of the day cast a golden glow on the room, and Randyll's shadow stretched out before him as he stepped towards the door. He opened it slightly and peered outside, smiling and opening the door fully when he recognized his cousin's son, Damon Lannister.

"Damon! What brings you to my door at this hour?"

The man, who Randyll referred to fondly as "nephew," seemed frazzled. He ran his fingers through his thick blond curls and offered a grim smile.

"I apologize if I am disturbing you, uncle. I'm afraid I was... distracted... at the feast and did not get the chance to speak with you. Do you have a minute? I'd like to talk with you about the matter addressed at the King's court." Damon glanced down the hallway, then nodded to Lord Frey's chambers. "May I come in?"

"Of course, Damon. Come in."

Randyll had always been fond of Damon. In truth, he liked to think of Damon as his son, though he was closer to the boy's age than the boy's father's. Their two houses had been wound close by marriage, and Randyll had been raised at Casterly Rock alongside the budding lion brothers, Tyrius and Loren. Tyrius was dead now though, brought down by an axe during the Battle of Pyke. But Loren was as close as a brother to Randyll, and his children were like Randyll's own.

"Please, take a seat." Randyll said, gesturing to the two chairs before crossing the room to draw the curtains shut. "So this is about the Greyjoy's, eh?" he continued, pouring a glass of Arbor gold. "The King has agreed to weaken the Iron Fleet, and I was close to being ten thousand gold dragons richer from the agreement, not that I did anything to deserve it. Mind you, us Freys need not deserve anything, we just take our toll." Randyll chuckled, grinning at Damon who accepted the cup of wine with a smile. "However, I take it you feel more needs to be done. What is the matter?" He sat alongside his nephew and leaned in close, his emerald eyes glimmering in the candlelight.

Damon drank deeply from the cup before responding, and managed a smile afterwards, though his eyes looked tired.

"Well you were kind enough to present His Grace with options, I noted. Ten thousand gold dragons or a sizeable chunk of the iron fleet. I'm honestly not sure which would have been the better toll. Orys Connington remarked that you pillaged the king more with a few sentences than the Greyjoys did with their raiders." He looked briefly at his hands before gazing up at Randyll with the fierce green eyes of a Lannister.

"The Lord of Harlaw is intent on securing the Iron Islands for himself. He's a native ironborn, with the wealth of Harlaw behind him, not to mention the King's favor. If it weren't for him, I'd think the odds were good of replacing Aeron with my sister, Ashara. She could marry Dagon." His gaze had dropped back down to his cup as he spoke, but he looked up suddenly. "I'm worried that the Lord of Harlaw will do something stupid."

Randyll took a moment to digest the information, then nodded and said, "I agree. The ironborn cannot be trusted, whether they are Greyjoy or Harlaw or Codd. Each and every one of their men are nothing more than reavers, and they're certainly not fit to rule their own kingdom. A Lannister would be perfect for the job, especially one with knowledge of the islands, but your sister?"

He poured himself a cup of wine and refilled Damon's glass before handing the chalice back to the lordling. "Why place your sister on the Seastone Chair, when we have you? Lord Damon Lannister, Lord of Pyke and the Iron Islands!" Randyll raised his glass in a toast.

Damon hesitated, but raised his cup politely and took a long drink of wine.

"Truthfully, uncle," he said, setting the cup down, "I care little to sit on some seaweed throne on one of those craggy, bleak islands, even if it were Harlaw itself, which everyone knows to be the better island. Especially since I would likely have to marry my cousin to keep it. Gwin is..." He paused, and stared down at his wine, thinking for a moment before finishing, "Willful."

"You are more fit for a throne than you know, my boy," Randyll said warmly, "You may not see it yet, but I do."

"Kind words, uncle, but my lord father scarcely sees me fit to rule Casterly Rock," Damon responded glumly. It was true, Randyll knew. Loren was a hard man, and harder still on his children. As his eldest son, Damon received the brunt of his displeasure, and Damon's many vices did little to change that. "I just wish…" Damon seemed about to say something, but he shook his head and continued anew, "I just wish I knew that Lord Durran could be trusted, but he's not family, and can anyone outside of family truly be trusted?"

"No man can truly be trusted Damon. We all hold our secrets."

In his mind's eye he could see the Twin's laid out before him. The tower had been so high that the men below had seemed large as gnats. Bend the knee to your liege lord! He had called down, and the Tully had done so.

"I'd wager even your lord father holds some."

Damon seemed doubtful.

"My lord father is as hard as Casterly Rock itself and colder than the Wall, but he has always been forthcoming. He has never once shied away from pointing out my shortcomings." The young lordling brought his glass to his lips, only to find the cup empty. "Family is everything, he tells me, yet I find more warmth in this cup than in him."

"He was never a warm man, your father," Randyll replied, taking a drink from his own glass. "But he was warmer before your mother's death."

"And afterwards you would have thought it was he who was sent off to the Iron Isles to ward under Alannys Greyjoy." Damon spat the name out. "He shares her mirth, in that he has none." Damon's brow furrowed, but after a moment he smiled. "Thaddius once called her All grey No joy. He could not sit for a week."

Randyll had meant to speak with Thaddius before his departure, but the youngest Lannister son was the King's white shadow, and Randyll never had the chance. "All the better for it," Randyll said, refilling both their glasses. "A man should learn to hold his tongue at times, especially in the presence of kings."

"Seems as though King Harys would prefer a kingsguard of mutes." Damon swirled the dark red liquid in his glass thoughtfully. "Thaddius looked bored half to death standing there in that white cloak. It looked to be choking the life out of him."

Randyll could not help but agree. The youngest Lannister son had always been a willful boy, and never happier than when he had a sword in his hands. A life of servitude seemed ill-fitted to the man, yet on his seventeenth nameday he had donned the white cloak and taken the vows. Loren's work, Randyll was almost certain of it. Hard as Casterly Rock.

But Randyll knew that sometimes a man had to be hard. Bend the knee! he had called down, and Hoster Tully had done so. Such a small thing, he had thought, to bend knees so easily… But when he thought of Belandra and his children he could not help but think that perhaps it was not so small, and not so easy.

He reached for his glass, only to find it empty.

"Perhaps, Damon," Randyll said, sitting back in his chair, "But Thaddius has the King's ear, and I am certain he speaks high praise of House Lannister. This Harlaw holds no such sway."

The room had grown dark and Randyll rose to light a candle.

"I apologize, uncle." Damon said, standing. "I've taken enough of your time."

"No need to apologize," Randyll said, "It is good to know I am not alone in my concerns about the ironborn. If ever a Lannister seeks the Seastone Chair, know that I shall be more than willing to lend my support."

The men embraced, and Damon departed, footfalls echoing in the quiet hallway. Randyll sat back down and poured himself another glass of wine. I'm drunk, he realized as he turned over the glass with a grasping hand.

The red liquid spread over the table like a map of blood.

- AEMON -

Aemon gazed out over the makeshift tents surrounding the ruins of Summerhall.

So few men… he thought, troubled. He had hoped that more would respond to the urgency of his message, yet only his own two-hundred soldiers sat in the camp below along with two-hundred men from a lesser Reach house.

Four-hundred men, Aemon thought, Four-hundred brave men... I will hate to see them die.

"Lord Estermont!" Aemon turned as a young man came running up the rise. He recognized the boy as Ser Eldon's squire, a loyal lad, and quick to serve.

"My lord," the boy repeated, having reached the top of the rise. He quickly knuckled his forehead and kneeled."Thirty lanced riders bearing the direwolf sigil have entered the camp from the North."

Perhaps not so few.

Aemon smiled, looking down at the kneeling squire. "Knees weren't made for bending to the likes of me boy, save that for the King when he arrives."

If he arrives, he thought, the smile disappearing from his face. "Direct the young Lord Stark to my tent. There's a battle to plan."

"Yes, m'lord."

Aemon didn't wait to hear the boy's response. Instead he walked swiftly down the rise. The camp, when he reached it, was a bustle of activity. All around him soldiers sharpened swords and prepared torches, Hightower and Estermont alike.

Four-hundred men and not even fifty of them knights, Aemon thought sourly. He'd equipped his archers with tar and pitch and his knights with obsidian daggers, but still he did not like those odds. "Dead men don't fear death," his father had once told him. These wights would not break like men, and they would not flee like men. It would be a bloody affair, no matter the number.

Ser Lomas was waiting for him when Aemon finally reached the tent, a broad man, more comfortable on the deck of a ship than on solid ground.

"Aemon," he said as the two clasped hands. "We've received ravens from High Garden and the Iron isles, they've pledged three-hundred men to our cause."

"Three-hundred men who won't arrive until the fighting is long over." Aemon surveyed the maps laid out on the table. "Where are the Eastern lords? Where is the King?"

"Still no word from King's Landing."

The news was troubling and Aemon glanced once more at the crude map of the Rainwood laid out before him. "We have too few men, Lomas… and too much ground to cover."

A commotion outside the tent interrupted Lomas' reply and the two men turned as a third figure entered, recognized immediately by the obsidian wolf clasp sitting at his neck.

"Lord Stark-" Lomas began, bowing to the young northern lord who, upon glancing at the knight, promptly ignore him and instead crossed over to the table, grey eyes weighing the Estermont lord standing behind it.

"Came as soon as I received the letter, Estermont. You'd better be sure of this White Walker business. Talking of things that do not exist will surely hurt more than just your reputation."

"Lord Stark," Aemon responded as the young man began rifling through the papers. "I wish I could tell you these were simply the imaginings of a weary mind, but it is not so. Since the original sighting my men dare not set foot into the Rainwoods. Undead animals with glowing blue eyes have been seen from the coastline and-" he hesitated, "there has been no word from Mistwood castle or Rain House for days. We must move strongly and quickly once the king's forces arrive. I worry that Stonehelm may be next."

Edmure smirked and tightened his grip on the pike in his hands, twisting the pole into the ground. "Since your men seem to be scared, it will be your lucky day. I will lead the van with my men."

Brash young fool, Aemon thought, glancing towards Lomas who shook his head slightly. "Young Lord Stark, this is no Dreadfort rebellion; you will find no glory here. These creatures do not fear like men, and they will not fall like men. Perhaps you would do best to have caution."

The stone face seemed to glower at Aemon's words.

"My men don't fear the dead, or they wouldn't have killed so many men." Edmure sniffed and glanced at Lomas. "Stick to your ships, Estermont, and I will stick to what I do best: tossing these sacks of dead flesh with my pike."

Aemon began to voice his objections, but the young Stark lord was growing impatient and cut him off before he could begin. "I will lead the van, Estermont, or I will lead my men back home!"

"Careful, lord Stark." Edmure whirled towards the entranceway where a black haired man stood, bearing the rough face and hands of an ironborn sailor. "I know King Harys, and he often prefers to lead the van himself."

"Lord Harlaw," the northern lord said tersely, sizing up the man and the reaper emblem emblazoned on his breastplate. "I'm surprised to see you so far from the Iron Islands."

Aemon shared in the man's surprise. Though he had sent ravens to every corner of the realm he had only truly expected support from the stormlords.

"I was in King's Landing when the raven arrived," Durran sniffed, marching to the head of the table and beginning to pour over the maps. "King Harys and I had matters to discuss."

"Pray tell, Lord Harlaw, where is King Harys?"

The ironborn gave Aemon only a cursory glance before returning his gaze to the papers laid out before him.

"I had hoped to have the support of his men. As of this moment we have far too few for the task ahead."

Far too few, and far too young, Aemon thought, looking over the two lords before him with a tired eye. They had seen battle, Aemon knew, the Harlaw during the second Greyjoy Rebellion and the Stark during the Dreadfort Rebellion. They'd seen battle and lived, true, but it was just as likely to be prowess as it was luck, and Aemon could only pray to the gods that it was the first.

The Harlaw lord waved his hand dismissively and responded with a smirk. "The King was far too busy to personally take part in a grumpkin hunt. Nonetheless, he saw fit to send five-hundred men chasing after shadows."

Aemon was silent. He knew what he'd seen in the hold of that ship, and any who doubted him would learn soon enough that some shadows had more substance than men.

- VARYO -

Across the Narrow Sea, a darkened hall, like most on Lys, stank with the scent of sex. Arrayed on pillows around the hall, men, women, and some of indescribable sexes, coupled and drank. On a raised stadia in the centre, two of the most highly sought-after courtesans performed a captivating erotic performance, protected by two eunuchs. They were heavy with the blood of old Valyria, and men and women came from across the world, paid a chest of gold to bed a whore with dragon's blood.

Tonight's clientele was not wealthy enough to warm their bodies with the purple-eyed, silver-haired girls, so they contented themselves with their view, and cheaper girls and boys to sate their appetites.

Into this room walked Varyo Velaryon, with the easy grace of one raised in Lyscene higher society, but still with a little nerve; the pleasure houses had always slightly scared him, and he had been half a boy when he left his island home. Avoiding the various whores and dancers, he took the long walk to the dais at the far end of the hall. He was acutely aware of being watched, despite the debauchery around him.

Sellswords don't live long unless they are careful, he reminded himself, And these have certainly lived long enough.

The dais was even more in shadow than the rest of the hall. Varyo greeted the figures sat there with a short bow. "Yarro Brokensteel, it's a pleasure to see you again. I assume you have enjoyed the city well enough?"

One of the men smirked. He had hair dyed red and gold in the Lorathi fashion, and gold trinkets woven into his forked beard. A comely young Lyscene boy was strewn across his lap. "Lys is always a pleasure. To be able to come here on work is a fair treat indeed. These are my sergeants."

His companions were introduced after one another. There was the Cut Lord - a gelded Norvoshi captain with a rightful hatred for the Red God, John o'Steel - a Skagosi warrior built like a bear, and Illya the Torn Pocket - a dangerous water-dancer who was once a fine lady of Pentos.

The final one waited to introduce himself; he was Byman, commander of the Bright Banners, a vicious older man with a rank beard and clothing who called himself Mansbane, although most called him the Blight for his many poxes gained serving every city on Essos.

Varyo nodded at the mercenaries. Yarro he knew, and he could pick the Blight out by sight, but the others were new to him.

"I suppose you have heard I am gathering swords on Bloodstone?" Varyo asked

"Would I have let you distract me from my spoils if I had not?" Yarro laughed and sent his boy running with a smack. "Our Maiden's Men and Byman's Bright Banners can give you three thousand swords. But we need to know what assurances we can get of our price."

"Aerion will provide, if we win of course. And anyway, the Lion backs our enterprise. If you serve us well, then I'm sure lands would be provided, too, if you could hold them."

Across the hall, one of the more drunk sellswords stood up and grabbed at one of the expensive girls near him. The two eunuchs were soon upon him. Holding his arms back, they waited whilst the girl stuffed a cloth in his mouth. The sellsword struggled, but foam began to drip from the corners of the cloth; and he made the acquaintance of Lys' other great talent.

"A toast then!" Yarro shouted, "to fire and blood, gold and steel!" His companions raised their wine likewise. Across the hall, a servant dragged the dead man past the coupling bodies. Barely anyone paused for less than an instant.

- AEMON -

The day broke with a chill dawn. During the night, a thick fog had risen from the damp ground, and fat raindrops fell lethargically, pinging against the iron helms of the assembled men. Aemon watched the skies warily. He was used to the weather of the sea where clouds gathered threateningly on the horizon before breaking on the ship in white crested waves. Here, beneath the looming foliage, he felt as if he were caged, and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, painfully aware of the confidence with which the other lords rode into the fog.

As the columns advanced through the forest, a silence hung over them. Men held their torches high, peering into the shadows for the telltale glowing of blue eyes. Yet, the very trees of the Rainwood seemed to extinguish the light, their twisted branches blocking out every last trace of sunlight. As they made their slow march towards Mistwood Castle, the fog seemed to thicken, choking out what little light filtered through the branches.

The seven protect us, Aemon thought.

Ser Lomas rode at Aemon's side, his grey palfrey skittish in the rolling fog. Through the trees, Aemon could make out the other lord's banners - Durran, Stark, Hightower, all hanging low from their pikes like windless sails. King Harys' men led the vanguard, and even now Aemon's breath caught at the sight of the Sword of the Morning, a member of the king's own Kingsguard, wielding the greatsword Dawn like a milky white beacon.

Aemon's own men wielded an assortment of dragonglass weapons: polearms, and daggers, relics that his father had kept in the armory at Greenstone. The king's forces and the Harlaw soldiers had some dragonglass of their own as well, but Edmure Stark had only laughed when offered the obsidian, and the Hightower lord had preferred the weight of castle-forged steel between his hands. Brash young fools, Aemon had thought, touching his own dagger briefly before tugging his horse's reins and cantering off to his troops.

Now, with half a day behind them and no end to the rain in sight, Aemon was growing sore in his saddle. He cared little for the animals, and Ser Lomas seemed to share the sentiment.

"Give me the sway of a ship's deck over the sway of a horse any day," the man jibbed, and Aemon could only nod in silent agreement. Better to think about what sat between their feet than what lay before them. His stomach was a hard knot.

Far ahead, deep in the fog, a single trumpet called out. Harooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, sounding to Aemon's ears like some great dying beast. The sound cut off suddenly only to be joined by another, off to the left and in the fog. Aemon gripped the reins tightly as a third horn called out, this time so close that it could have been Lomas blowing it.

Harooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The fog was so thick that Lomas was merely a black specter now. Aemon drew his shortsword and called out to his men, "Send them to feast in their father's halls!" The closest ones drew their weapons, but the fog seemed to dull the sound. Close by the trumpet's wail pierced the air once more, this time alongside the clash of steel.

The Seven protect us, Aemon thought.

And figures came running out of the darkness.

Aemon's battle shrunk to the few feet of ground around his horse as the first ragged man attacked. Cobbled mail and a half-helm did little to protect the man from Aemon's steel and he lashed out low, slicing a deep gash in the man's face and severing his jaw. The figure came forward heedlessly, blue eyes glowing in the mist, and Aemon swung his torch around, shoving the burning stake into the thing's face. Its tongue flapped wordlessly as it was set alight, but already there was another on his left and a second on his right, and he kicked his horse forward, leaving the burning figure flailing in its small pool of light.

"Set them alight!" he shouted, but his men had already disappeared behind him.

All around there seemed to be a sea of fog filled with points of flickering light. Another pair of burning blue eyes leaped out, skin peeling from its thin frame, but Aemon's horse bolted before he could bring his torch level. Blasted animal. He gritted his teeth and held onto the reins with his sword hand, the torch held aloft in his left.

Amongst the roots of a twisted tree, a knight bearing the stoney white watchtower of House Hightower fought two wights as Aemon rode past. The man fell beneath them as one clawed desperately at his steel plate while the other wrung its hands around his neck, a sword hanging forgotten through its bowels. The man's scream faded behind Aemon as his horse rode heedlessly onward, and he pulled on the reins, trying to turn the beast around. But too late, he noticed the pale figures to his left, and he was flung from the horse as it reared, kicking and biting at the wights.

The fall knocked the breath from his body, and the world throbbed. His lungs gasped desperately for air. He still clung tightly to his sword, he was thankful for that much at least, but the torch had extinguished itself on the damp ground, and his horse was nowhere to be seen. Aemon fought his way to his knees, his breastplate felt constricting, and he drew in air sharply as he got to his feet. Dented no doubt. There was no time to stop though, no time even to remove the dented iron. He twisted on his heels and ran back the way he had come.

We have to hold the line.

Shouts and screams drifted to Aemon's ears as he ran. The fog curled around roots and clung to tree trunks like a death veil. Two figures emerged from the darkness, and Aemon lifted his shortsword to defend himself before he saw the torches in their hands.

"Lord Estermont!" the first shouted. It was Ser Eldon, sword in hand and a gash across his left arm. The second man bore the sigil of house Harlaw on his breast and limped noticeably as they approached.

From somewhere off in the fog a voice shouted out.

"My gods, what are these vile things!"

Ser Eldon turned, but Aemon had already grabbed the torch from the Harlaw man's hand and sprinted towards the source. He'd recognized the voice, Lord Edmure Stark, and without a dragonglass weapon to his name.

With a deep battle cry, Aemon broke into a clearing. Wielding a flaming torch in one hand and an obsidian shortsword in the other, he lunged at the first figure which loomed over the young Stark lord. The swing of his torch barely missed the creatures face, but the thrust of his sword found its mark.

Screaming, the white walker fell.

"Lord Stark, get back to the line! These creatures cannot be killed by weapons of steel!" Edmure's pike spun and dipped beneath one of the creature's defenses, but without the dragonglass tip it was next to useless.

Turning, Aemon thrust his torch into the thing's open jaw, sending it careening backwards. Eldon, who had jumped through the bracken to join the fray, quickly dispatched it with his obsidian dagger. The third white walker had already fallen.

From the trees entered a hulking form - a bear, the flesh already rotting off of its body. Letting out a roar that reeked of death, it charged.

"Run, Lord Stark!"

Aemon turned towards the beast, shortsword drawn as it advanced. He swung his torch low, and the thing stopped for a moment, blue eyes reflecting the dull torchlight.

"I do not run, Lord Estermont!"

The Stark was at his side now, ragged and panting, but holding his pike steady as he jabbed it sharply at the bear. The beast rose on its hind legs and roared. Its underbelly had been torn open and entrails hung out like coiled rope.

Jeyne, Aemon thought as the thing advanced once more. Martin, Eldon, Bennet, Willas, Elena, little Katelyn. The thought of his wife and children gave him strength and he held his ground with steel resolve.

Suddenly, a figure dressed all in white-silver armor hurdled over a fallen tree and slid a glowing milk-glass blade through the mouth of the bear. The animal swatted at the shadow, but the man dodged and plunged a torch into its gaping maw. With a sound like wind filling a sail, the fire caught and the great beast was set aflame, filling the clearing with light.

"Ulrich!"

The Sword of the Morning turned as the bear collapsed and pulled his glowing blade out of the thing's skull. The steel shone like the sun itself and it seemed to Aemon almost as if it radiated warmth.

"My lords," the man said, resheathing the legendary sword. "I believe the battle is won."

- DAMON -

He was late to the Tournament of Harrenhal, arriving on the frosted castle grounds just a day before the games were to commence. Tents were set up, drinks were poured, and hopeful young knights were already practicing diligently when Damon and his party finally made their way through the impromptu city of canvas.

He had planned on watching his younger brother in the melee from a drunken stupor in the stands, but instead, his father informed him that he would be participating in the joust. "I will not have House Lannister made a fool of once again by that boy," were Loren's words to Albar Clegane, when Damon overheard the conversation in which his father asked the bannerman to accompany his son to the Riverlands.

A chaperone, he thought indignantly as they passed through the rows of tents on foot, horses left to water at their own camp. Albar was hulking and brooding, a poor conversationalist, but at least Damon had found Thaddius. The kingsguard was the taller of the two and his golden locks where straight where Damon's were messy waves, but both brothers had their father's green eyes.

"I cannot be gone long, Damon," Thaddius was saying. "Ser Jaime Florent will have my head. He doesn't like me as it is, and he would have a thing or two to say about you, as well. If he found out I were shirking my duties to accompany my brother for drinks..."

"Relax, Thad." Damon looked at the flags above each tent as they walked, a rainbow menagerie of colors and sigils, animals and faces and even food. Grapes for House Redwyne. Would that I could have been fostered at a vineyard instead of some dreary island. "We haven't had the chance to speak in ages, and family is as important as the rest of those things you vowed to keep dear to your heart when they anointed you."

The sun was setting, and a breeze began to pick up and stir the banners hoisted over the pavilions. Thaddius kept stealing nervous glances over his shoulder, as if he expected King Harys himself to push open the canvas flap of one of the tents and come stepping out into the crisp night air.

"My vows are everything," the young knight said, and Damon put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to halt.

"Family is everything," he corrected Thaddius, their father's favorite quip, and that was when Damon caught sight of the grey direwolf on a field of snow white.

The tent flap was tied open and Lord Edmure's desk was strewn with letters, a candle burning low at his elbow when the Lannisters and Albar approached.

"Stark," Damon greeted him with a smirk, leaving out his lordly title, "What a pleasure it is to see you reading a book. I did not think northerners to be literate."

Edmure looked up at Damon with a disgruntled frown, his face cut like melt water on a crag. He was dressed in fur and leather with an obsidian sigil clasp at his throat, and tossed the letters aside.

"Plan on making another spectacle today, Lannister? Maybe you will ask the King to be his Hand, now that Seaworth is dead?" He pointed to the parchment that bore the news as he leaned back in his seat. "So tell me, cub, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I see you've brought your bodyguards. Does wolf blood frighten you?"

Damon looked around Stark's tent with mild amusement. It was bleak and dreary, filled with dark colors and heavy furs, the man being known for his hunting prowess. Hunting and skinning. Damon looked out of place with his flashy Lannister garb of red and gold, a ring on each hand worth half the incomes the North's winter town could expect to see in a year.

"You know," he remarked carefully, "Most of what I've heard of northerners has proved true. They're slow witted, quick tempered, and as refined as wildlings. But one thing I don't think true for a minute is what they say about their appetite for drink. Northmen brag about the mead their fat bellies can hold but I don't think there's a man north of the Stony Sept who could out drink me."

He looked smugly down his nose at Lord Edmure, waiting to see if he would take the bait, but before Edmure could reply they were interrupted by a new voice.

"Brother!" Jojen Stark appeared, giving the Lannisters an uneasy smile before joining Edmure inside the tent, three chattering women following behind him. The younger Stark had the red brown hair of a Tully and the grey blue eyes of his father. The scent of cheap ale clung to the camp followers who accompanied him like perfume.

"Choose one," Jojen said to his brother, "the other two are for the morning."

Edmure glanced at the whores and a brief look of disapproval crossed his face before he turned back to the guests. "Jojen, you've arrived just in time to watch me humiliate a Lannister... again." He grinned and gestured to some empty chairs within the tent. "We are going to see who holds their wine better, the hardy northmen or the pampered princes of Casterly Rock!"

"I won't be drinking-" Thaddius began, but Jojen stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the tent.

"Nonsense!" he said. "We cannot let our brothers have all the fun." He led Thaddius to a chair and shoved a whore onto his lap before he had even finished seating himself, and Edmure poured the drinks.

"To King Harys Baratheon!" Damon toasted once they had their cups, grinning. He downed the wine quickly and refilled it carefully, trying not to spill any on any of the letters strewn haphazardly about the table.

Thaddius sipped his own drink hesitantly, visibly uncomfortable with the camp follower giggling on his knee, tracing a grubby finger across his fine white armor. Albar stood somberly in the corner, watching the scene with caution and the slightest hint of distaste. Why must some people be forced to have fun?

The men drank late into the evening, the sun soon slipping beneath the horizon with the moon rising to replace it, and the wine was the only thing that kept them all from shivering in the winter's night. Damon was content to see the tenseness slowly leave his brother's posture as Thaddius slumped in his chair, drink in hand, laughing at some conversation with Jojen. The whore in his lap had wrapped his white cloak about her shoulders for warmth, and Damon wished their father could have witnessed the sight.

His perfect son with a camp whore swaddled in his beautiful cloak.

Even Edmure had become less stiff as the casks emptied, his cold Stark face melting with every cup. "So, Damon," he said after Jojen finished a drunken rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair that the oldest Lannister had been delighted to join in on. "Will you be participating in the joust, or have you come here to snake around and scheme like the other southron lords? They say you're not half bad when sober, though I understand it's a sight more rare than a direwolf south of the Wall."

Damon finished his cup and refilled it sloppily now, spilling wine onto the letter from King's Landing. Purple splotches appeared on the parchment, blotting out the letters that told of the old Hand's passing.

"I wouldn't be much of a Lannister if I couldn't swing a sword or knock some steel man off a horse," he replied. "People say that gold can't buy everything, but it can buy you the best master of arms in the realm, as well as the strongest armor and the finest horse. My father knows that. If it's entertainment that you want, though, put a bow in my hands. I'm more like to hit my own foot than any target."

Edmure laughed heartily, and Damon leaned over the desk and reached for the Lord's chalice. "Here, let me refill your cup."

Before he could grasp the goblet, Edmure unsheathed his skinning knife and slammed it with a THUD into the table, a hair away from Damon's hand. The laughter ceased, the whores startled, and the mood in the tent turned tense. With its milky white handle fashioned to look like a pack of wolves, the blade was curved like a claw, eerily dull from use.

Edmure broke the uncomfortable silence with another laugh, and released his grip on the knife to sit back in his chair. "I have had my fill for now, Lannister," he said. "Now you must excuse me, I am a busy man. The luxuries of wine and women are best left to men like you and my brother."

Damon eyed the skinning blade cautiously as he rose, flexing his fingers to make certain they were all accounted for. "My lords Stark," he said with a slight bow. "I have enjoyed your company immensely. I suppose this night goes to show that the lion and the wolf are capable of not behaving as cats and dogs. Thaddius, if you will."

His younger brother stumbled to his feet, and the whore pouted with disappointment. "My knight!" she said, lifting her skirt above her knee to show him a freckled thigh. "You do not wish to take me with you?"

Thaddius turned beet red and started to stammer a reply before Damon took him by the arm and pulled him from the tent. Beneath the star streaked sky, the camp was alive with roaring fires and raucous laughter.

"They were much nicer than I thought," Thaddius declared as he walked crookedly beside his brother, fastening his cloak back to the pauldrons of his white armor.

"The whores?"

"The Starks."

"Ah, yes." Damon nodded, taking care to place one foot before the other. He could hear Albar's steel boots clinking behind him as they made their way back to the tent, and did not wish to appear as drunk as he felt.

"I'm doing well, brother," Thaddius said, reaching out to put a hand on Damon's shoulder. His gauntlets were heavy and Damon nearly stumbled. "In the Kingsguard, I'm doing well. I have been controlling myself, like you said, I..." He hiccupped. "I... You would be proud of me."

Damon reached up to place his hand on his brother's, partly as a gesture of affection, and partly to steady himself beneath the weight of Thaddius' armored grip. The wine was making his head spin but the feeling was a familiar one, and pleasant. "Don't be absurd," he said, his breath frosting in the cold night air. "I am always proud of you, Thad."

- AESLYN -

Lady Aeslyn Targaryen strode between the rows of tents, her small household guard behind her, admiring all the colors and banners of the noble houses. House Targaryen had no great canvas tents or wooden pavilions, no black and red flags, no images of three headed dragons emblazoned on the shields of brave knights. In fact, they had no knights at all.

I don't need a knight, Aeslyn thought. I need a husband. And while her house had been exiled to Sharp Point since the War of Five Kings, she was not pessimistic about her prospects in regards to marriage. The two Targaryen sisters were considered by many to be the most beautiful in all the seven kingdoms. Though I am fairer than Danae.

They girls were both petite, fair skinned and slender, with long flowing hair of a silvery blonde hue, and vibrant purple eyes, but their similarities ended with their appearances. Danae had shared no interests with her older sister, choosing to spend her time with her nose buried in books rather than before a looking glass as Aeslyn preferred. And she will learn soon enough that men care little for a woman's mind.

As she wandered between banners of griffins, and snakes, and mermaids, Aeslyn's eyes scanned the crowds of smallfolk, squires, noblemen, and knights, taking in the handsome faces, the sparkling armor, the muscular builds of the men with great swords at their hips, some of the blades as long as she was tall.

So engrossed was she in her observance of a particular knight with dark hair and a glittering turquoise breastplate, that she did not see the one in front of her, and walked right into him.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," she quickly apologized, her hands flying to her gown to smooth out any wrinkles.

"My… My lady, please, forgive me, I did not see you there." He bowed hurriedly. The knight was tall and fair, with hair of gold and flashing green eyes, a white cloak fastened about his shoulders.

"Ser Lannister," she said with a flirtatious smile, recognizing him at once. "I am thankful that it is you I have run into, a man most chivalrous, and not some ruffian hedge knight instead, else I might have found myself a damsel in distress."

Thaddius reddened. "You are most kind, Lady...ah, Lady…"

"Targaryen," she finished for him, inwardly annoyed that he did not recognize her. Then again, at court Thaddius stayed close to the King, and she was relegated to a spot in the back. She maintained her smile anyways. "Aeslyn Targaryen. Are you looking forward to any of the games in particular, today?" she asked.

"Well, the melee should be exciting," he responded, seeming much more comfortable discussing matters of combat than exchanging pleasantries, "But nothing will be able to top the archery competition this morning. Lord Edmure Stark was completely inebriated. His arrows were so far off the mark, they were starting to get worried that he would injure someone… Until then, he did. A Lannister squire, unfortunately. They say that the poor boy likely won't live…"

Thaddius suddenly seemed to realize that perhaps he wasn't discussing matters that were appropriate for a noblewoman, and he blushed again. "Forgive me, Lady Targaryen. I'm sure that you don't want to hear about squires taking arrows to the chest."

"It is no bother," Aeslyn assured him with a wave of her hand. "I would hear anything you had to say, Ser Thaddius, if it meant that I could simply remain in your presence and listen to you speak."

She took no small delight in how his cheeks reddened at her remark, and he stammered out a reply. "Ah, yes, um, that is… that is very… very kind of you to say. You are very…. very kind, my lady."

Aeslyn edged closer to him, dragging her eyes over his body once more, and he almost looked as though he wanted to flee. "Will you be participating in the melee tomorrow?" she asked sweetly.

"I, uh, yes. Yes I will," he managed to answer.

She reached into a pocket of her gown and withdrew a handkerchief of deep obsidian, with a three headed dragon embroidered in red silk thread. "Perhaps my favor will bring you luck then," she smiled, lifting her eyes to stare into his own, green like emeralds, like all Lannisters of Casterly Rock. She took his hand and placed the handkerchief in his palm, then closed his fingers around it.

Thaddius stood frozen on the spot, and the Lady of House Targaryen offered a deep curtsy before winking and striding past him, leaving the smitten knight clutching the black handkerchief with the red three headed dragon.

- A CROW -

Bill was cold.

That was nothing new though; Bill usually found himself cold during his long shifts atop The Wall. The howling winds and gusting snow tended to have that effect on most men. Tonight was especially cold though, and he found himself stomping his boots against the frost crusted ice and wrapping his black cloak tightly around his body.

"The others take this chill," he said aloud, eliciting a grunt from his wall mate, Dornish Donnel, a man who was, in fact, born and raised five miles from the Deepwood Motte and had only earned his nickname because of a jape from a fellow brother about his lack of hot-bloodedness. At the moment though, Bill didn't care to tease him about his brusque response and instead tore off his gloves to blow on his icy fingers, trying to bring back a little warmth to his freezing appendages. "I know we took the vows," he said, "But some days it feels as if they actually mean to let us die at our posts."

Miles below them, the Shadow Tower sat black against the ice, and Bill thought longingly of the fire roaring in the dining hall. Old Sam, the man who kept the fire burning, wasn't likely to let anyone stand idly in front of it for long, but at the moment Bill would have preferred to be anywhere but atop this blasted wall in this blasted cold. The night was dark, and they weren't likely to see anything at all.

A metallic clank interrupted Bill's thoughts and he turned towards the winch where Dornish Donnel already stood. "Someone's comin' up," he stated, looking at Bill expectantly until the other joined him at the winch. When the two were settled, they began to turn the giant crank, a job normally reserved for mules, but one that had somehow fallen to the brothers themselves when more and more of the animals had been called away to navigate the treacherous ice of the Wall's ungraveled paths.

The two men grunted with their efforts, breath frosting in the air with each labored step. But step by step they went, the chain wrapping its way around the structure and raising the cage until finally it reached the summit. With a final screech the structure halted, and a black brother stepped through the iron gates.

"Normund," Bill called amiably, resting against the winch and smiling until he noticed the look on his brother's face. "What? What is it?"

"He's dead," Normund Vance said simply, emotionlessly. " Commander Joss is dead."

- DANAE -

The dry winter air rushed to meet Danae Targaryen as she walked through the sea of tents at the tournament. A cloak of brown fur protected her silvery-blonde hair from the lightly falling snow and in her hands she carried an old and travel worn book titled The Life of the Triarch Belicho. Jousts and tournaments were of little interest to her, and she intended to find a quiet place to read away from the bustle and chaos.

The young James Rivers was at her side. He was tall and thin with dark green eyes and his long brown hair was tied back into a ponytail. The waterdancer was one of precious few guards in service to House Targaryen, and while Danae's older sister regarded him as nothing more than a bastard with a weak sword, Danae slowly came to view him as a friend. Perhaps it was because she did not have many.

The pair stopped to lean against the fence post of the jousting ring, James watching the games with passing interest and Danae opening up to the page she had left off on, when a voice cut through her dreams of giants and Volantis and conquests.

"Might I join you, my lady?"

When she glanced up from her tome, Danae found a man who looked to be in his late fifties with a long beard of black hair streaked with white, long chains of metal around his neck. A maester, she realize, and frowned in confusion.

"Hello, Lady Danae." His voice was soft and his smile softer. "I am Grand Maester Orin. I serve King Harys in King's Landing, and I lately I have noticed the presence of you and your sister at court. Tell me, how is House Targaryen of Sharp Point faring these days?"

Confused that a member of the Small Council was speaking with her, Danae glanced around hesitantly before replying. "Not well, Grand Maester," she answered honestly. "We are but a mere shadow of the Targaryens of old. We have no true home, no armies, and very little wealth. Sharp Point is little but an abandoned watchtower we are allowed to live on out of sympathy."

Now it was his turn to appear surprised. Did he expect me to answer his question with pleasantries and falsehoods? she wondered. I have never been any good at either.

"Waterdancer," the Grand Maester said, turning to James with an apologetic smile. "Would you give us a moment to converse in private?" James gave the man a wary look, but with a nod from Danae he left her side and stood some distance away, glancing in her direction from time to time while doing a poor job of pretending to watch the joust.

"What you say is true," the Grand Maester told Danae, his voice suddenly low. "But you do still have dragons." Orin smiled at the look of shock on her face. "I interrogated your cousin Rhaegar after he was sentenced to the Night's Watch. It is a shame that you must keep them in hiding. Do not worry, Lady Targaryen, as it is my intention to keep your secrets. I only ask for a small favor in return."

I should walk away, she thought, but instead she hardened her gaze. No. I will not be blackmailed by an old man, no matter his station. "Tell me," she said, and she was grateful that her voice sounded more bold than she felt.

"I have an interest in the magic of Old Valyria and the blood of your ancestors. From what I can deduce, that is something we both share." The Grand Maester nodded at the book in her hands. "It is my wish to take you to the Doom with your dragon. While there, I believe that the creature will be strengthened by the magic of Valyria and we can use the beast to restore House Targaryen to its former glory."

"And why would a Baratheon wish to aid my house?" She glanced around to make certain that no one was listening, before whispering angrily, "It was your kin who took the seat from mine, and your blood sits upon it now."

"Lady Danae, tell me what pride I can take in my King. The 'Lord of Seven Courses,' they call him. He fills his small council with his dullard friends and spends his time drinking and whoring and chasing the Tyrell girl. The Seven Kingdoms will rise against him soon and I will have my throat slit because of that very blood of mine. The realm will then find itself in a storm of swords as each pretender rises to reach for the throne that your ancestors built.

"The only hope for the realm that I can see is through the blood of the dragon. Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but it was his dragons that brought peace and stability to the seven kingdoms. You have a dragon."

Danae searched his face for any hint of falseness. What choices do I have? she wondered. Do I live a life of boredom as some minor nobleman's wife, or do I risk my life for the glory of my house, as my ancestors before me?

The Grand Maester cut off any reply. "If you are willing to take your rightful place, I ask that you meet me at the Wall in a few months time. Go home and acquire your belongings, your dragon included. You will not need to inform me of your decision. I will know."

He was gone as quickly as he appeared, his swirling dark robes vanishing into the crowd once he left her place by the fence, and James reappeared at her side. "What did he want?" he asked cautiously.

"James," Danae spoke softly despite the hardness of her gaze, still staring at the place where Orin had vanished. "How do you feel about returning to Essos?"

"I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, m'lady."

"Then there is something you will need to know about me, about my sister, too." Danae took him by the elbow and led him away from the crowds to a secluded area near the sea of tents. "First of all," she said once she was certain no one could hear them, "I need not remind you that what I am telling you could result in all of us losing our heads." She awaited his nod and continued. "After Daenerys the Mother failed to reclaim the iron throne and after she lost her dragons in Westeros she fled to the Free Cities. You've heard all this before, yes?"

"I spent many years in Braavos. Everyone knows of this. Your family lived peacefully in my city for generations."

"What remains a secret," Danae went on, "even in Braavos, is that she fled Westeros with little to her name but three dragon eggs." His eyes grew wide.

"Dragons?" he repeated, and Danae put a finger to her lips and looked once more over her shoulder before continuing.

"Yes, dragon eggs. My family lived in Braavos for many generations until my grandparents moved our house back to Westeros, to poverty and ridicule."

"Everyone in Braavos knows the stories of mad sibling-spouses Elaena and Daemon Targaryen. Rumors of their insanity spread far and wide. I remember one tale of Daemon's madness in particular…"

James was cut short as Danae interrupted sharply. "It is known throughout the Free Cities that the Braavosi gossip more than highborn ladies. As I was saying, my grandparents claimed the abandoned and secluded Sharp Point. Elaena and Daemon sacrificed their first three children to the flame in order to hatch the dragon eggs, but kept the creatures hidden for fear of them being seized and slaughtered. As a result, they remained small and ineffectual."

"I knew that your cousin had a dragon, that's why King Harys sent him to the Wall, but what you're saying is-"

"-that I have a dragon, too," she finished for him. "Aeslyn as well."

James appeared dumbfounded. "You mean to tell me that I've been in your service for all this time now, and you never thought to mention that there were two dragons living at Sharp Point? Where are you keeping them?"

"In the woods, just beyond the keep." Danae shrugged. "Aeslyn and I take turns riding out there in the morning to bring them the fish we catch from the shore. You might have found out much earlier if you rose before noon each day."

The waterdancer frowned. "And what has this got to do with the old man you were talking to?"

"That was the Grand Maester, James. He wishes to take me to Valyria, to see if the magic there will grow and change my dragon into the kind of beast my ancestors once rode."

"Magic? Danae..." His frown only deepened. "I never took you for the kind of girl to believe in things like magic... I know that your sister can be, well..."

"Abusive," Danae offered. "Shallow. Vain. Mad."

His face flushed. "Yes, well... I'm just not certain that following the Grand Maester to Valyria is a better option than remaining with her here. What you speak of is treason. What if this is all some ruse of the Baratheons to steal your dragon?" He shook his head back and forth and looked down at his feet as he dug the toe of his boot into the thin dusting of snow that the shade of the tents had preserved.

"I'm not saying we go to Valyria, James." Danae lowered her voice and pulled her fur cloak tightly around her shoulders. "The Grand Maester is offering me a trip that will take me out of my sister's clutches. The Targaryen ties in Braavos are surely still strong. If I can leave the Grand Maester behind once we arrive on the eastern continent, I can begin to build my own life away from my sister. Why not take my house to Braavos as Daenerys did?"

And why not travel beyond Braavos and see the wonders of this vast world? Danae thought to herself. Why not travel the Free Cities and see the Smoking Sea and even Sothoryos, or the Basilisk Isles, or any of the other hundreds of places I have read about?

"The decision is yours, m'lady," James replied solemnly. "But know that where you go, I will follow."

Danae smiled, for the first time in as long as she could remember. "Then it looks as though we are going east."

The warm and sweet smell of cinnamon drifted through the air as the pair made their way back to the tourney grounds, passing a young serving girl selling baked apples from a wooden box hung around her neck from a cracked leather strap. Small rays of sunlight peeked through puffy white clouds in the sky, melting what little snow remained on the fields, and a fool cart-wheeled through the crowd in a checked suit of gold and black.

He snatched three tomatoes from a vendor's stall, juggling them to the applause of nearby noblemen and women while he hopped from one foot to the next. Danae paused to watch him, and James' hand moved protectively to the hilt of his sword as the fool caught sight of her and grinned.

At least here is one man more a fool than I, Danae thought as the juggler returned the tomatoes to the annoyed seller and came bouncing towards her. Or would even he not be mad enough to follow a stranger's wild promises to a foreign land?

The fool made a showing of emptying his pockets in front of Danae, in search of some unknown trinket. "Ah, here stands one of the last Dragons!" His voice was silky and high-pitched, layered with an accent from the Free Cities that Danae did not recognize. She felt the gaze of the passersby all around her as he finally pulled a coin from his pocket and took a step closer. He flipped the silver back and forth between his hands.

"Everyone hold your breath now, and let us see how this coin will land!" The fool tossed it into the air and let it fall to the frozen ground before leaping upon it, shielding the coin from view as he closed it tightly in his fist. He brought it to his face and peeked between his fingers, then looked up at Danae as his face contorted into a disturbing smile, as many empty gaps as there were brown teeth.

He broke into shrill giggles and then bolted from the crowd, the bells of the hat atop his head jiggling merrily. Danae felt a flush creep up her neck as the men and women around her began to whisper, and she whirled around quickly, shoving her way past them in an effort to escape the attention. One of the last Dragons, the fool had called her. So why do I suddenly feel like a mouse?

She could hear James calling her name behind her, but only walked faster, until she was nearly running. Dragons do not care about fools, or old Maesters, or anyone for that matter. Dragons need no one. Dragons can fly, and breathe fire, and-

A hand reached out and caught her by the arm, yanking her backwards pulling her from her thoughts. "There you are," its owner said, and Danae looked up into her sister's violet eyes, so like her own. "Where did you run off to? Did you think you could find some lord's tent to crawl into? I told you we would be staying in the castle. Lord Baelish has invited us as guests of honor."

"I don't want to stay in the castle," Danae protested, wrenching her arm free from Aeslyn's painful grip. "I told you. Emmon Baelish is a mad man." Though not as mad as you, dear sister.

"You will go where I tell you to go." Aeslyn sneered. "I am the head of our household. I can send you wherever I like, to Emmon Baelish's castle, his bed, or the far reaches of Asshai if I choose to. When Father died, you became mine to control."

You're wrong, Danae thought stubbornly, but she bit her tongue. It isn't Asshai I'll be going to, it's Valyria. The magic there will grow my dragon, not the magic of The Shadow.

James was still calling her name, frantically now, and Aeslyn turned towards his voice before looking back at Danae with a sinister smile. "I can wed you to that bastard waterdancer if I want and you can both live in poverty. Is that what you would prefer?" She reached out to stroke Danae's hair, twisting a strand of her silver blond tresses around one pale finger. "You need only beg it of me, sweet sister."

Danae shoved Aeslyn's hand aside, and the older Targaryen's eyes flashed with anger. "Do you think I care who you lie with?" Aeslyn spat. "Your maidenhead is worthless. I am the head of our house, I am the one to whom noble lords seek to marry their heirs."

"Noble lords?" Danae scowled back at her sister. "What lord would marry himself to exile and shame?" What lord would marry madness?

Aeslyn gripped her sister's shoulders tightly, fingernails digging into Danae's skin, and turned her towards a group of knights in revelry passing by with golden lions painted upon shields of red. "Do you see that man?" she asked. "The one at the head of that column with the golden curls and handsome smile? That is Damon Lannister, and he will be my husband shortly after this tournament."

Danae followed her sister's gaze and her father's words rang in her ears. Words that he had told her long ago at a tournament not unlike the one she was witnessing now. "A dragon does not concern herself with the opinion of lions," she said.

Aeslyn laughed. "Dragon? I see no dragon here. Tell me sister, where are the dragon banners? Where are the dragon knights? Where are the men and women chanting for our house? The days of fire and blood are over, dear sister." She leaned in close, her lips barely touching Danae's ear. "Hear me roar."

.

- MELLARA -

The waves of Blackwater Bay crashed against the rocky beaches outside the Westerosi capital, eating away at the craggy landscape just outside the city's fortifications.

The inns, homes, and winesinks within the high stone walls were built crookedly with stories stacked haphazardly one on top of the other, jutting out in any which direction. In many places, the walls of separate establishments came close to touching as they climbed towards the skies and it was possible to step from the balcony of one house onto that of another.

The people of the populous port city were crooked, too. Pick-pockets, petty thieves, slimy merchants, and drunks all called the capital home. They walked with crooked gaits down the crooked alleyways and some even had crooked teeth through which they lied with the same ease as an ironborn sailed. From Flea Bottom to Fishmonger's Square, smallfolk scurried chaotically about their business and their lives, unaware and for the most part uncaring about the politics of high lords.

But in the great red castle atop Aegon's Hill, life was much more orderly.

Smell aside, Mellara was happy to be back in the capital. She enjoyed the benefits of her family's close friendship with the King and all it afforded them, including baskets full of freshly baked sweet rolls and free roam of the castle. There were plenty of interesting conversations for her to accidentally overhear in the Red Keep - much more tantalizing than anything she heard at Highgarden.

"Gawen Waters is in love with Missy," Mellara was saying to her older sister. Her voice was muffled by her skirts. "I heard Lum talking about it in the kitchens this morning. Theo is livid about it, but there's nothing he can do really since they work different shifts." The youngest Tyrell was practicing her handstands, and the heavy folds of her gown fell about her head as she tried to balance herself.

Maude looked up from her stitches and rolled her eyes with a smile. "Is that your latest bit of gossip, little one?" she asked teasingly. "The romances and affairs of baseborn servants?"

"It's rude to call them baseborn," Mellara replied before losing her balance and dropping to the floor with a thud. Her face was red from hanging upside down and she gathered her tangled hair back and twisted it in a knot to keep it out of her face.

Maude looked at her little sister with dismay. "Mellara, it took me ages to brush your hair this morning. Why do you thwart my efforts to make you into a proper lady?"

Mellara ignored the question. "I have gossip about highborn people, too," she declared, climbing to her feet and walking over to the bed where her own needlework sat abandoned. She flopped down onto the feather mattress and picked up the embroidery carelessly, sending a spool of thread tumbling off the bed and rolling into a corner, leaving a trail of moss green string behind it.

"James Arryn's little brother has a bastard."

The stitches she had already made were sloppy and knotted, and didn't resemble the rose they were meant to.

"The Vale lord's brother?" Maude didn't look up from her work. Her own yellow rose was flawless.

"Uh huh. And the King is going to name a new Hand soon." Mellara picked at her crooked stitches, trying to untangle some of the worse looking ones. "Everyone thinks he should choose Lord Loren, since he's a Lannister after all, and everyone knows they've got gobs of money and soldiers, but Harys doesn't like Loren ever since he married that Greyjoy woman. He only liked his brother."

Maude shot a disapproving glare at her sister. "Where do you hear these things, little one? Are you sneaking about in places you don't belong?"

Mellara's face reddened guiltily but she shrugged and then rolled onto her back, holding the needlework up above her head for a better look. It's a mess, she thought, pursing her lips. It looks more like House Rowan's tree than it does a flower.

"Other people say it should be our father," Mellara went on. "But if you marry the King then Harys won't need solidify any ties to the Reach. It is better to give gifts to those who might be your enemies rather than those who are already your friends."

Maude set down her embroidery and stared at the youngest Tyrell. "Those don't sound like your own words, Mellara. Who are you eavesdropping on?"

A knock interrupted them before Mellara could invent a lie, and Maude stood and left the bedchambers to see who was calling, taking her perfectly stitched rose with her. Mellara was grateful for the timing. If she knew the places her sister sneaked about in, Maude would go straight to their lord father and see to it that she never left her room again.

"King's Landing is a dangerous place," Maude had warned her on their arrival. "This is not Highgarden. Be mindful of where you stick your nose while here, or someone will catch you and cut it off."

Mellara rolled back onto her stomach and sighed, blowing the loose strands of her hair out of her face. Their older brother Troy had given her much the same warning, likely because Maude told him to.

At least Benjen never scolds me, she thought. Benjen was the third son of Lord Baelor, or second if one chose not to count Olyvar, who had forsaken his name and titles to become a maester. Their father never liked to count Olyvar.

The green spool of thread lay forgotten in the corner of the room as Mellara wove gold stitches through her fabric with the gracefulness of a Mormont woman dancing at her wedding feast. She thought of her brothers and wondered if they were enjoying the capital as much as she and Maude were.

Doubtless Troy was excited to be in the presence of so many knights, and especially those of the Kingsguard. He was recently knighted himself and Mellara was glad that he now had other people to wax to about chivalry and the Seven. Every time he went off about honor and protecting women and rescuing damsels she wanted to gag.

Distracted by her thoughts, Mellara yelped when she accidentally pricked her finger.

"Stupid flower!" she muttered. She tossed the needlework aside and sucked at the blood that beaded on her thumb. "Maude?" she called, realizing that her sister had been gone for some time now.

She climbed off of the bed and wandered into the main chambers of the apartment she had been sharing with her sister since their return to King's Landing.

"Maude?" she called again, glancing about the empty room curiously. Her eyes landed on the door to the hall, which was left oddly ajar.

She approached it carefully and stood in the threshold, glancing left and then right down the quiet corridor but seeing no trace of her sister. Finally, she looked down and noticed something out of place on the stone floors of the castle… Maude's needlework, half completed in perfectly straight stitches, the words at the bottom reading

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