Let the Galaxy Burn

by Antony444

ASOIAF Space Opera AU. The War of the Usurper has left the Seven Stellar Sectors of Westeros in flames. Worlds are ravaged. Millions died. But as bloody and desperate battles are waged by those loyal to the Targaryen dynasty, the whispers of another, greater and terrible conflict are in preparation in the shadows. Forget peace. There is only an eternity of war among the stars...

2. Ashes of the Trident (Prologue 2)

Prologue 2

Ashes of the Trident

Elia Martell I, 10.07.283AAC, King's Landing System

Ten years ago on a visit in the Red Dunes system, her brother Oberyn had happily declared the Dornish had mastered during centuries at least eight out of ten of the most exquisite and exotic ways to execute someone. With years of experience and study as a master of poisons added to the Dornish long and infamous history in assassinations, it was entirely possible Oberyn had been right.

But if her home Stellar Sector was known to kill their enemies and their criminals in exotic ways most of the other Sectors were unable to imagine, House Targaryen of King's Landing had established from time to time the cruellest and weirdest methods to torture their criminals. It had begun with Maegor I, the justly called 'the Cruel'. It continued a couple of centuries later under his descendant the 'Mad King', Aerys II.

If anyone in the audience wished to contest it, the man burning in the green flames at the centre of the arena was a strong point arguing for the madness of the sovereign. The Princess of Dorne frowned in disgust. The man named Jon Clearwater, minor landed knight in the Bywater system, had been totally corrupt and willing to divert huge sums in his pockets, but he didn't deserve to be carbonised by wildfire. Nobody did. Else the rest of the King's Landing and the Crown Sector administration would have joined him on this pyre a long time ago.

That said, no one in the assembly of lords, ladies and other invitees in the royal lodge of the Coliseum had dared open his mouth in protestation. Instincts of preservation, perhaps. With King Aerys II Targaryen so close and his close of circle of Alchemists surrounding him, no one wanted to irritate the King or give Lord Rossart an excuse.

Looking one by one the various members of the Small Council left, it was easy to see those who had lost hope and those who conspired. Except two, all were doing their best to become the image of fawning sycophants. As for Lord Alliser Thorne, the loathed and hated Chief of the Secret Police, and Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers and Head of the Crown Intelligence Agency, they were stone-faced and condescending, showing disdain with their lips and their eyes to anyone having the temerity to look at them for more than a few seconds.

The screams of agony of Clearwater finally ceased in the arena. Of the knight, there was nothing worth watching anymore, just a column of green fire progressively dying out. The soldiers surrounding it did not rush towards it with fire-extinguishers. It was common knowledge wildfire was able to burn in the most impossible conditions, and water, chemical products, foam had one by one proved to be useless against it in its infamous history of field experiments.

"AND NOW..."Shouted the speaker of the Coliseum."THE GLADIATORS ARE SOON GOING TO ENTER THE ARENA!"

Three quarters of a million Kingslanders, their former silence and reserve instantly forgotten, shouted and screamed their joy in acclamations so loud the orbital stations over the planet should be able to hear them. The marble and stone stands were trampled and jumped upon, drinks and acclamations were pronounced all over this huge human crowd.

Elia tried not to greet her teeth, but the Princess of Dorne failed in her attempt. How typical of the smallfolk, she thought. One second Aerys was forcing them to witness the agony of a man, the second after they were cheering for the bloody spectacle to come.

What a band of mindless sheep.

It was perhaps a bit dishonest to blame the smallfolk, with every channels of holovision censored and owned by the Targaryen propagandists. On the other hand, Elia Martell had realised long ago that honesty in King's Landing was nothing but a dead and smelly body waiting for its eventual burial. Everyone had an agenda on this cursed planet, and the will to betray the opponents blocking the way to said goal. Smallfolks and nobles were much the same, whether they shared the same proud ancestries and the wealth or not.

"This is going to be a true and grandiose spectacle..." Cackled in the most absurd evil manner the king, looking like some deranged psychopath. As the gladiator games had been reinstated on his express orders and the Coliseum's primary function of a theatre and sports stadium been removed, it was obvious Aerys was feeling excitation at the soon-to-come nauseating spectacle.

"Which is against every tenet of the Faith of Seven!" Proclaimed loudly a voice to Elia's right. The Princess turned her head and was greeted by the sight of the High Septon arriving in the royal lodge.

Aerys II Targaryen, hirsute appearance including but not limited to, long nails, dishevelled hair and yellowish teeth, laughed like a hyena.

"Ah, your Holiness." Barked the Dragon monarch. "I see you received your invitation."

The leader of the Faith emitted a curt nod, but made no other sign of allegiance.

Compared to the Targaryen sovereign, the contrast was as clear as the difference between day and night. White and perfectly neat robes, a nice trimmed beard, a golden sceptre and the crystal tiara upon his head, the High Septon was the true image of a religious dignitary. But it was his dark brown eyes that were the most interesting, showing something close to anger and fury. The invitation sent by the mad dragon king had certainly not been neither polite nor friendly.

Shocking sign, the High Septon was also accompanied by two soldiers in rainbow colours and heavy battle armours, a violation if there ever was one of Aerys rules that no soldier save the Kingsguard and the Alchemists was to be armoured and carry weapons in his presence. Because the huge laser rifles in the hands of the Septon's bodyguard did not look like fakes. The Princess of Dorne saw the young Ser Jaime Lannister manifestly grow tense and ready to draw his personal vibro-blade. The Alchemists ceased their silence and small green sparks appeared near the mysterious machines they had brought here. A sign of the King ordered them to lower their guard.

Nonetheless, it was worrying. The predecessor of this High Septon would never have dared provoking Aerys II face to face in a century. Unfortunately for him, the Pudding One, as his Holiness had been called, had received a horrible end at the hands of the Alchemists after a few private comments made following the Battle in the Trident System.

Unsurprisingly, the Faith-or at least its upper hierarchy- had been enraged beyond belief, and elected one of their most radical members to signify their profound displeasure. This new High Septon was the result. He had soon been nicknamed the Vocal One, and from the highest lord to the lowest beggar, seventeen billions of men, women and children regarded him as something between a madman and a saint. It took certain guts to naysay the pyromaniac on the throne. It took even more courage to form a 'Faith Guard' of some five hundred members.

It was not the Faith Militant which had been formally disbanded during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, but it was the first and biggest step the Faith had made in rearmament in centuries.

Apparently the Priest had decided not to defy the king more today, and sat directly to Elia's left. Elia shivered, as the monster she was forced to call her father-in-law sent her a nasty glare, but nothing else followed. Maybe Aerys didn't want a religious war in top of all the other conflicts he had started?

"Now that everyone is here, let's begin!" Snarled King Aerys II.

A series of gongs sounded in the distance, and the atmosphere in the stadium grew even more frenetic. The gates of the arena opened in full, leaving every spectator see on his own eyes or by interposed screen the persons walking on the large and sandy surface.

First came the Provocatores, some three hundred in all, marching in a three columns formation. Their equipment had not varied from several thousand years ago when they made their debut in the arenas of Old Ghis and Valyria. The men wore the classic rectangular shield, the helmet with red feathers, the sandals, the breastplate and the short vibro-sword known as the gladius. Unlike their long disappeared predecessors, their weapons and armours were in various modern alloys and dura-steel, but that was the only difference. From an outside, they were the perfect heirs of the primitive legions in Essos fighting with spears and swords before humanity rose to the stars.

Traversing the arena, the gladiators formed a long line facing directly the royal lodge. It said something about the size of the arena that the men could maintain a safe distance between each other and their line did not even reach a third of the arena's width.

In one synchronised move, the professional killers drew their swords and raised them in a challenge millennia-old. The High Valyrian battlecry resonated in the air:

"HAIL TARGARYEN! THOSE WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE SALUTE YOU!"

On his throne, Aerys II answered by the traditional salute: placing his fist above his heart, then rising his right arm in the air like a general of the extinct Freehold. Sadly, this act was made more or less terrifying due to his nails and the scars on his skin inflicted by the blades of the Iron Throne, not glorious.

A trumpet sounded. That was all the signal needed the gladiators needed. Having dispersed in little groups all over the arena, the Provocatores charged and battled against each other. Elia viewed the spectacle with repulsion, but the spectators evidently did not share her opinion. The clamours mounting from the stands reserved to the smallfolks were destructive by their sheer intensity.

Soon, a gladiator with a skin so dark he was certainly Summer-born made the first fault. His opponent, a big brute with a large scar on his skull, did not hesitate and plunged his gladius straight in the left eye, a thrust powerful and cruel that made the extremity of the blade emerged on the other side. The black gladiator screamed in agony, before falling lifeless on the ground.

The thousands of men and women cheered in ecstasy. First blood had been spilt.

It did not get any better. The winner of this bloody contest was just rising his hands to celebrate his victory that two gladiators behind him, having seen the ease of this slaughter, decided to get rid of a potential competitor. Two gladii flew through the hair and the first gladiator perished, two swords in his back.

The arena became a spectacle of unlimited violence. And to make sure nobody missed any deaths and impressive sequences, the different screens installed in the high structure of the Coliseum regaled the spectators of murder and free acts of torture. One Provocator beating his opponent with his own detached arms. A sadist cutting bit by bit his victim, beginning with the legs and moving upwards.

This detachment allowed Elia to nonetheless realise something interesting. By the insults and the war cry shouted by the gladiators, less than half were Westerosi. It looked like Aerys had had difficulty finding enough mad and crazy subjects to descend duel in this bloodbath, even in a megalopolis of several billion able bodies.

And then the opening round was over. Roughly fifty or sixty gladiators were catching their breath and lowering their weapons, disarming and putting an end to this opening act. That said, the number of deaths this small clash had produced was simply atrocious. Over two hundred men had left this world in less than half an hour.

In spite of this, Elia breathed in relief. While definitely not a stranger to violence, she had served in the Dornish army after all, this free bloodbath was not to her taste. Alas, with Aerys attitude towards her these days, it was possible her denunciation would encourage, not discourage, the pro-gladiator faction.

The moment of self-reassurance did not last longer than a half minute. The crowd was now more excited and bloodthirsty than ever. The deaths in the Provocatores had not calmed this folly, in fact it seemed to have magnified it. And Aerys was obviously shared their opinion, because under his command the trumpet sounded again, letting the great doors of the arena open for the second time.

This time the need for Provocatores was over. Aerys, because who else had planned this symphony of killing? Well, Aerys had decided the public needed to see flesh and the gladiators in all their infamous diversity. Retiarii were abundant, each carrying a trident and a net. Elia had heard from Oberyn, who of course had gone to several similar spectacles when he was gallivanting in the Essos Quadrant, that mastery of this gladiator fighting form was extremely difficult. Behind them followed the scissores, their equipment consisting in two vibro-blades looking effectively like scissors, thus the name. Scutarii, gladiators hiding behind a huge shield. Murmillones, the heavy muscle of the fighters, armed with a large sword and a heavy shield. The secutores, nominal adversaries of the retiarii, with a gladius in one hand and a rectangular shield on the other. They didn't have any defence beyond that however, making significant gains in speed compared to their Provocatores cousins. Velites, skirmishers with a javelin and a shield, completed the list.

There was nothing noble in this pack of criminals, war butchers and crazy killers. Elia was ready to bet a thousand dragons on the fact the best of the lot were regular soldiers having been discharged in disgrace from their home Sectors military forces.

All had various mad, happy or condescending expressions as they saluted King Aerys in the traditional manner, neatly organised into three massive lines. The King, a sinister expression on his hirsute face, saluted back.

And then the slaughter started anew on the already red-stained sand. The king and his organisers having never organised a gladiator fight of this magnitude, it was no surprise to Elia's that the arena became pretty much a free-for-all fight where every nasty trick, no matter how 'dishonourable', was authorised to murder and go on a rampage. Astapor, Meereen, Volantis and Yunkai were known to organise highly ritualised in their own arenas and beautiful spectacles. Aerys had skipped this part, and ordered a pure spectacle of slaughter.

Needless to say, the number of gladiators rapidly diminished after this infusion of barbarity. By scores and individualities, the gladiators fell one after the other. The nets missed their marks, letting the gladii tearing apart the unprotected torsos of the retiarii. Scissores lost their blades in the bodies of their victims, letting unseen attackers inflict lethal wounds while they had a part of their tactics disabled. Velites saw their spears broken, and found themselves armless the second after. The others warriors did not fare better. Whatever order a gladiator fight was supposed to have, with referees or whatever, there was clearly none at the moment. As such, having a trident or a shield was no guarantee of survival.

A trumpet sounded, and the guards in red and black armour of House Targaryen took position on the top of the wall encircling the arena, their laser and plasma rifles ready to fire. The gladiators alive understood the message. By small groups, the butchers avid of glory and blood laid down their weapons and ceased the fight.

But glancing at the hungry face of the mad monarch behind her, Elia was realist enough to know this butchery had not been enough to sate the monarch. The cheers of the nobles trying to convey their admiration went ignored. Frightening, when by the most minimal estimates there had been one thousand gladiators fighting for the pleasure of the public, and now less than one hundred breathed the polluted air of King's Landing.

"Abominable heresy..." Grumbled loudly the High Septon.

But his visage was not betraying the slightest hint of wrath, as if the man was trying to get an answer of Aerys. It failed. The King laughed madly, then gave another sign to Rossart, his favourite executor since the whole madness had exploded in rebellion. The Alchemist bowed largely, and then left the huge lodge. In the arena, hundreds of auxiliaries were dragging the corpses of the gladiator battle out, while the men responsible for the Coliseum changed the bloody sand, inspected the state of the large wooden structure and the machinery underneath in case the spectacle had done some damage.

The lodge became unusually silent, with only sometimes Aerys cackling in the background and the Alchemists explaining to no one in particular how yes, their substance was the most exalting thing to fabricate and deliver on a non-expecting member of their own species. More than ever, Elia was glad she had not brought Rhaenys in presence of these monsters.

The arena was finally clear of all blood and human parts, and the great doors opened a third time in front of them, letting enter a much more circumspect group of men.

The reason for this prudence was quite obvious. Showing contusions and severe wounds, the group having appeared in this place of bleeding were no gladiators. A dozen had on them pale yellow battle-armours with black insignia falling onto disrepair. Most had on their back nothing but simple clothing, but their stance and their mannerisms betrayed their warrior past. A couple dispersed at the edge of the formation had spacesuits in the same shade of yellow, providing you could call them spacesuits. Pierced with holes, torn apart, so dirty Elia knew the odour had to be repulsing, these clothes had no chance to serve as a protection whatsoever in the cold and harsh environment of a spaceship or an orbital station.

It did not take many deductions to realise who these soldiers were. So far and despite everything Galactic Targaryen News broadcasted in the galaxy, the sole battle where large numbers of rebel troops had been taken prisoner was the battle fought in the Ashford System. Stoney Sept, Gulltown, Summerhall had all been decisive defeats. And at the Trident, the rebel fleets and ground forces had withdrawn in good order, due to the insane damage the initial thrust Lord Robert Baratheon had inflicted.

Still, there was an issue. According to real intelligence Elia had managed to be granted access by a few of her agents in the official Intelligence apparatus, Ashford had been a delaying action of the Baratheon fleet and a small army on the planet commanded personally by Robert Baratheon. The Usurper, as the Targaryen loyalists were pleased to nickname it, had been wounded by Lord Tarly but the losses in men had been in the low thousands for the Stormlords. Less than ten thousand men had begun their march towards captivity. So why had these prisoners of war disappeared from the official records, only less than one tenth of them to be transported here? And what did Aerys intend to do with them?

A little voice in Elia's head, the one of her darkest thoughts, screamed to her a defeated enemy had no rights and was to the complete mercy to the winner. But her heart tempered it, affirming that the war was not yet won, that tens of thousands Dornish and other loyalists were in the prisoner camps of the Northern and Vale military forces. And executing these men would make sure the realm would never heal from this civil war.

Elia knew this...but she didn't open her mouth to protest. Aerys face was looking like a man about to have an orgasm, further supported by his right hand going under his tunic and touching his genitals.

The gigantic doors, only visible point to enter and leave the arena, closed in a thunderous roar. Sensing the danger and the crowd baying for their blood, the Stormlanders formed an improvised circle, with the ones in the best shape on the outside, protecting the badly wounded comrades-in-arms. It was no less that Elia had expected for the loyal warriors of the Storm Sector...but Oberyn's sister had the sinking feeling the insane father of her insane husband had anticipated that.

A shrieking sound echoed in the greatest stadium of the Seven Stellar Sectors. The Stormlanders and the rest of the audience shivered. A portion of the ground opened up, unveiling the source of the terror. A large maw, with teeth surpassing any feline predator. A long tail, covered in sharp thorns. A sinuous body covered in black scales, close how to a young dragon developed at an early age. Elia had seen and heard enough of Oberyn to know the name of the extremely dangerous reptile in her view.

It was a shadowed-wing wyvern. Aerys, damn him to the Seven Hells, had bought one of the ultimate predators reigning over the dark jungles of Sothoryos. Half the size of a middle-aged dragon, the wyverns were a deadly danger, as this specie did not hesitate to feed itself on humans when the occasion presented itself. With their poisonous fangs, poisonous claws and a shadowy breath (also poisonous and paralysing), solid scales resisting to the dura-steel, the wyverns were basically a small dragon with poison to replace the dragonfire.

It went without saying that without a weapon, the Storm soldiers needed a miracle right now. Rossart and Aerys had not bothered arming them, sadists and monsters that they were.

The black wyvern shrieked, and seeing the elevator that had mounted it there had disappeared, charged the humans on the ground at a slow pace. Elia didn't understand why, until a focus on the nearest screen showed the paws of the animal had been heavily punctured by restraining devices, and the wings had received the same 'treatment'.

But slow pace for a wyvern was better than a good human runner. Half of its designated victims had not had the time to move when the wyvern arrived in range and launched its strike. The men sworn to House Baratheon were slaughtered. The wyvern did not even resort to its redoubtable breath, cutting and splitting them with its claws and fangs, before eating them one by one, bones, flesh and blood.

In this moment of gore, the veterans of the Storm Sector understood their salute resided in fleeing and executed a very hasty retreat on the periphery of the arena. Only to be gunned down by a concerto of laser fire from the Targaryen armsmen on top of the arena walls.

The only good point was that it was quick. Forced to choose between a slow death by the guns of the dragon dynasty and the rapid maw of the hungry wyvern, the Baratheon military men chose the monster sharing their predicament. Ten minutes later, there was a lake of blood in the arena, the wyvern was subdued by massive harpoons and military shields, and Aerys finally left his throne, aroused and pleased by the murders done in his name.

Certainly, his sister-wife was going to be raped this night. Poor Rhaella. Forced to marry an abomination and the Kingsguard let their sovereign rape her, decency and defence of innocent be damned.

Ser Jaime Lannister, the poor white knight limpidly nauseated of this butchery, was on his heels. Thirty Alchemists followed, and after that it was the turn of the court, lords and ladies, planetary and provincial, doing their best to convince themselves they had appreciated the spectacle.

Rapidly, there was only Elia, the High Septon and his bodyguards in the royal stands.

"It won't be long, now. Rhaegar is going to make his move."

"Ah." The religious man was not surprised in the least, or he was simply that good at hiding his surprise. "What do you want of me, your Highness?"

"Use your influence and your network. Rhaenys must arrive to Sunspear safe and sound."

"I see." Was it respect she heard in the voice of the Faith leader? "And yourself?"

"I am too monitored by Aerys cronies. I wouldn't make it one kilometre away from the Red Keep before being blown to pieces."

"Surely your husband wouldn't risk the life of his wife and his only daughter."

"Your Holiness, if I have learnt something these last months, it is that Rhaegar-" the name was venomously spoken since the bastard had kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark, "- does not care about anyone save himself and his ridiculous prophecies."

"I see. And Aegon?"

"I have been forbidden to see him since the Trident. My son...is lost to me. I do not even know if he is in the Red Keep."

The High Septon looked deeply chagrined by these news.

"I see." The holy man repeated. "I am sorry. I will take care of your daughter and I ensure you this adorable child will be in the arms of her uncle, safe and sound."

"Thank you, your Holiness."

"Think nothing of it. I am simply doing my duties as a Priest of the Seven-Who-Are-One. The real question is what do you intend to do when Rhaegar's soldiers will launch their coup?"

"The officers of the Gold Fists are honestly utterly defenceless against bribery." Said Elia enigmatically. Granted their conversation was jammed by a priceless Myrish portable technology, but there was no need to take a risk. "I have acquired some interesting weapons, and should my fears be realised, I won't go down alone..."

"Like a descendant of Nymeria?"

"Rhaegar forgot the words of my House." Whispered the Princess. "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken."

Lord Wyman Manderly, 12.07.283AAC, Crossroads System

It was a magnificent spectacle.

The white sun, named by the humans Crossstars due to the central position of this system in the River Sector, lightened of a thousand fires the planet below, revealing in all their glory the white clouds, the brown and green earth, and the blue of the seas and oceans. With the darkness of the void surrounding it and the luminescent rainbow of colours striking the atmosphere before dissipating, it was even more glorious.

Truly, a spectacle worthy to be commemorated on a painting or a tapestry. His children and future grandchildren would no doubt tease him mercilessly for years to come, but better remember this moment of plenitude. There were so few of them as time passed and Wyman aged.

Not that what the Lord of White Harbour saw was the real thing, of course. It was only a video filmed by the numerous detectors of the Faithful Merman, and transmitted on the screen in front of his comfortable seat on the bridge. Northern military doctrine, unlike certain other Sector navies, had long dictated a certain prudence. Better see the stars, the asteroids and the planets only by a technologic intermediary, had reasoned the Northerners in charge of designing the ship. Burying the bridge of a warship under uncountable layers of durasteel plate and anti-explosion doors was a minor drawback to contemplate the universe's beauty, but it stopped laser, plasma and missiles from claiming the lives of your entire leadership in the first volleys of a space battle.

It had not been a problem in the Crossroads System this time, of course. The Lannister squadron had immediately withdrawn once its captains had seen the Northern navy jump into the system. With nothing bigger than a heavy cruiser, the Westerners had obviously not felt being outnumbered with a ratio of fifty to one were good odds to win a battle. The Western ground force, a couple of brigades mustered by House Myatt, had decided not to verify the old saying that the force which holds the orbital holds the planet, and surrendered as soon as the final outcome was clear.

The planet of Crossrifts was back in the hands of the hands of the Rebellion with no losses. Hopefully for good this time. Following the defeat in the nearby Trident system, it had been abandoned in all haste. Too many ships damaged, in dire need of repairs. Too many officers wounded or dead. The sudden arrival of the Lannister forces on the frontlines had forced the North and the Vale sector navies to retreat back to their own realms and rearm, waiting for an opportunity to counter-attack. An opportunity the arrogant Admiral of the Lions Loren Lannister had enthusiastically provided.

"My lord."

Wyman diverted his attention from the screen to see Ser Bartimus Whiteliege respectfully stand to attention in front of his current seat.

"Lord Stark's compliments, and a summon for all the admirals and generals to attend his flagship at dinner's hour, my lord."

"Convey my regrets to Lord Stark I will not be attend the meeting in person. I will be present by holo-com to participate in the military decisions of course, but my injuries force me to avoid any strenuous activity or be subjected to hazardous environment conditions. "

And space shuttles to travel from a warship to another, with their insane speed-addict pilots, definitely entered the latter category.

"By your orders, my lord." Nodded Ser Bartimus, Captain in the Northern Army. "I will convey your regrets to the High Marshal." The Northerner turned around and moved towards the communications section.

"Good man..." Whispered Admiral Manderly, as a small amount of pain echoed in his ribs.

Ser Bartimus was certainly worthy of a place on the Bridge's of the Merman. Despite having been recently wounded, the Ramsgate-born Northerner managed a fantastic amount of paperwork to get done every day. It had not stopped certain Lords of the Vale Sector after the Trident to denigrate him, the precious aristocrats having taken offense of a 'smallfolk' been able to walk in their presence without scrapping their shoes.

In Wyman's opinion, these lords could go to the Seven Hells for all he cared. Bartimus, simple Sergeant, had charged in the melee and saved him from the deadly vibro-spear strike of Lord Alester Florent when all the Manderly sworn swords had been dying or unable to come in time to his rescue. Once the medical teams had operated him and the Lord of White Harbor had regained consciousness, Bartimus had been knighted for his deed.

But in the Northern sector knighthood didn't earn you more than the respect of your peers, and sometimes less for those worshipping the Old Gods. So Wyman had promoted of his own initiative Bartimus to the rank of Army Captain, made him his army liaison on the Faithful Merman and paid of his own pockets the prostheses for the leg and the eye the brave forties-year old veteran had lost to save a man who was not even his liege lord.

It's thanks to this kind of men the North is as strong as he is today, thought the Master of White Harbor. I might as well recognise the talents while I'm at it.

In the Northern Sector, powerful local Master Houses had sometimes risen on their own merits from the ranks of the common men, and the nobility had lengthy records and memories to force them to remember yesterday's subordinate could be tomorrow's liege. 'The North remembers' was the old adage of the First Men, and the rebellion they were fighting would not change millennia of practise.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the Northern Sector was practically the only one to have such traditions of meritocracy, the other notable Westerosi exception being Dorne. Nevertheless, the North remained far as tolerant, egalitarian and libertarian as the Republic of Braavos, the model in this domain.

Coming back to the subject of the summon, the injuries of Wyman would not have prevented his transfer to the flagship of the Northern fleet, but the lovely nurses serving as his medical staff would have sedated him instantly for daring disregard their recommendations. Not to mention Wyman required a very large shuttle for his spatial moves, being significantly larger than the rest of the spacemen aboard the Merman, and that entering his doctors plus himself plus their equipments would have been extremely impressive.

A shame. The meals prepared by his liege's cooks could have tempted a saint. Ah, well. There would be other occasions, Wyman supposed. A small laugh escaped his lips, but the shift in his position on the large seat awoke the pain again.

But damn you Florent. The ribs, the arm and the leg?

It was perhaps unjust to Lord Alester Florent. The Reach lord had planned an impressive boarding on the Manderly flagship, the eight hundred years-old arch Merman's Exile. The fighting had raged in the corridors and the vast bays, causing thousands of casualties. It was only when a strike force led by Lord Eddard Stark himself had come back in orbit that the outcome had been decided. The Lord Paramount of the North had taken the Florent banners in the back, and annihilated them to a man, decapitating Lord Alester of a single circular strike of the Valyrian sword Ice. The Merman's Exile had survived, although it would not leave the dockyards of White Harbor before the end of the year.

Redirecting his attention to his screen, the Lord of White Harbour manually changed the perspective, revealing a far less peaceful panorama.

Around the planet Wyman was observing a moment ago, was orbiting a massive war fleet.

The Northern Sector's fleet. Or rather, the part of the fleet assigned to Operation Trident Ashes.

One flagship, the antique battleship Ice, still bigger than the modern ships of the line despite having been built hundreds of years ago when House Stark still wore on their heads the Crown of Winter.

Seven ships of the line. Twenty-two armoured cruisers. Thirty battlecruisers. Fifty heavy cruisers. One hundred and fifty plus for the light and scout cruisers. Sixty frigates. Eight light carriers.

And out of his sight, they were also the warships of Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton on the other side of the Green Rift, operating from the Oldstones and Vypren Systems.

By anybody impartial assessment, a phenomenal concentration of firepower, able to sterilise a planet in mere hours should the order be given.

This was impressive, but alas worrying too. This fleet was a far cry from the fifteen ships of the line and hundreds of escorts having passed the System of Moat Cailin months ago, in order to avenge the unprovoked execution of Lord Rickard Stark and his Heir. Too many were still in the hands of the dockworkers at home, or debris floating in space one system jump from here.

And to be fair, it was nothing compared to the thousands of warships who had been mustered before the Trident. On that day, when Lord Robert Baratheon and Lord Eddard Stark had planned their attack on the unsuspecting Royal Fleet of the loathed Rhaegar Targaryen, there had been four navies represented.

Now? There were a few other Sector crews and lords aboard the warships, but only one was truly presented in significant numbers. Only one. The North.

By re-conquering the Crossroads System, the North had been able to assess the state of the Vale navies at the Bloody Gate. Frankly it was not good. The Eastern dockyards looked and acted way slower than their Northern counterparts. A task force of two ships of the line was on its way, but it was unlikely the Vale flagship the Azure Falcon was at their head. However, the proximity of their yards meant they could recover faster from the thrashing the defunct Lord Randyll Tarly had given them.

The River Navy was in shambles. Of the Rebel Sectors revolting against Targaryen authority, they had been the most divided, not very surprising after all: Lord Eddard's marriage to Catelyn Tully and Jon Arryn's to Lysa Tully had proved the man was in to gain power and influence in the Game. Events had not gone according to the plan. The Rebellion had lost its leading figure at the Trident; the River Sector had lost Hoster Tully. The Lord of the Rivers had suffered critical damage, and had had to be scuttled with its fusion reactor overload. Half of the ship of the line's crew had survived, but Lord Hoster had not been among them. The death of the Lost Paramount had finished the Riverlords cohesion. With Lord Tywin arriving by their western galactic frontier, each commander had decided to go back home and defend their home planet. It said something about this strategy that at this hour, only Riverrun and Raventree Hall were still fighting. Small squadrons subsisted...but these were small raids on the rear of the Lion, mere nuisances, unable to deliver a great blow and crush the Lannisters. No, the River Sector was a spent force according to his spies.

The Storm navy was the worst. For all intent and purposes, it no longer existed. Thousands had died with Lord Robert Baratheon, half of the Storm Sector had been fighting against him or ignored his call-to-arms. The survivors had refused multiple times the injunctions of Wyman and the other Northern commanders to retreat. The main lords and knights were still alive, but their warships crippled had stayed forever in the graveyard of Moat Cailin, and their crew were in the hospitals or in for a long recovery.

"The conference is about to begin, my lord." Announced his Chief of Staff Captain Sendel Wull.

"Thank you Sendel. You can take a break, the nature of the meeting requires a certain discretion."

"By your command, my lord."

Wyman pushed the blue button to ensure his portion of the bridge was fully isolated, then the yellow one. In the blink an eye, a conference room materialised by holo-projection around him.

The decoration showed by the holo-projector was austere. Besides a painting of old, showing the great fortress of Winterfell City under snowfalls, the walls were a neutral grey colour with a few imaginary direwolves paws. There were no gold, jewels or anything to reveal great officers were meeting there. Just a grey stable with the emblem of House Stark on it, a small tactical display, and nine chairs, which now were all occupied.

Including himself, two were holograms. The seven others present were all men and a woman of flesh and blood.

To his direct left were General Lord Jeor Mormont and General Lord Jon Umber, respectively Chief of the Marines Operations and Commander of the Northern Marine detachment. General Lord Willam Dustin, the third Marine in the chain of command, had also been invited but was much like Wyman only represented by a hologram. Willam Dustin injuries inflicted by Ser Barristan Selmy had not fully healed, and the rumours were his wife had not been happy to see her husband go back to the front while he was not able to walk on his own. Each of the three Marines seemed weirdly out of place, but because it was simply the fact they did not wear their massive battle-armours.

On Wyman's right were two of his fellow Admirals, Lord Ondrew Locke and Lord Medger Cerwyn. As Wyman was the Third Space Lord, responsible of the Northern Logistics and Intelligence, Medger was the First, more commonly known as the Chief of Naval Operations for the entire war effort. Lord Locke was the Second Space Lord, receiving the thankless and titanic task of keeping the navy finances healthy and the manpower problems to a minimum. Between the three of them, they coped with the situation. Barely.

And in front of Lord Wyman were the three persons truly in charge.

Lord Howland Reed, Master of Greywater Watch. Unimpressive and of little size, the crannogman did not look that dangerous. Hundreds of Dornishmen and Targaryen loyalists would have begged to disagree, if they had been alive to do so. Lord Howland was 'only' a General in the Northern Army, and had been transferred when the war started to supplement the limited Marine numbers, the Marines going on the offensive and the Army garrisoning and defending the conquests and the North itself. In truth, it was an established fact Lord Reed was Lord Stark's right hand, and his tactics had cost House Targaryen tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands men in the River Sector through irregular attacks and bloody skirmishes.

Lady Lyessa Flint, Lady of Widow's Watch. The only woman to be present, she led the Supreme General Staff of the Northern Sector, coordinating Navy, Army and Marines plus the various militias and diverse intelligence agencies spread from the Systems bordering the New Gift to the gigantic base of Moat Cailin. Officially, she had no military rank. House Stark had long learnt in centuries past it was not very intelligent to advertise who was managing all your military activities, as such a thing tended to focus dramatically the assassinations on your person. Unofficially, Lady Flint was the only person besides Lord Stark to hold a title of Marshal, making her the military superior of anyone in the North save their Lord Paramount. Which was why Lady Lyessa would disappear again at the end of this reunion, with no one save the nine persons in this room having noticed her arrival.

And of course, last but not least, Lord Eddard Stark himself, High Marshal of the North, Lord Paramount of the Northern Sector, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Young and clear-shaven, brown haired and grey eyes, Lord Eddard had a rather handsome face, and should have he not been married to Catelyn Tully, a lot of noble ladies would have rushed to charm him, make him smile and perhaps courtship towards a marriage.

But the Lord of Winterfell was rarely smiling anymore these days. Not since the Trident. Not since Lord Robert Baratheon had died in his arms. And the Silent Wolf, as Lord Stark had been nicknamed, had become a figure of dread and fear. Rumours had spread like an inferno of the now eldest surviving son of Lord Rickard. How hundreds of yellow-armoured knights of the Crown Sector had been cut down ruthlessly in the retreat to the assault shuttles. Thousands of loyalists had been systematically wiped out when the bays and rooms they were fighting in had been opened to the void or depressurised without warning. As far as the videos of this slaughter showed, Lord Eddard Stark had taken no prisoner in this bloodbath. Not a single one. And the merciless devastation of House Frey and the execution of Lord Walder had been done at his hands and on his orders. Though the weasel had undoubtedly deserved it, of course.

"Now that everyone is here, let us begin. We have little time, and even less to prepare our strategy. Marshal Lyessa?"

"The news are not good. In fact, they are horrible."

"How bad?" Asked Lord Mormont, the very figure of the Bear on his House arms.

"Storm's End has surrendered."

"By the Old Gods..." Whispered Lord Locke, paling brusquely.

"I'm afraid to say it, but it was in part the defunct Lord Robert's fault." There was no great apology in Lyessa's voice, but a flash of pain crossed Lord Stark's eyes and face. Seeing no interruption, Lady Lyessa continued.

"Storm's End was completely unprepared for a long siege, and their food stocks were practically empty when Mace Tyrell came with the might of the Reach at his back. The Baratheon system has few methods to produce food, and all them are extremely vulnerable to a hostile fleet. Moreover, Storm's End was home to eight hundred million inhabitants, as befitted for a great industrial centre of Westeros. Besieged, these were eight hundred million mouths to feed."

"I still say Lord Stannis could have found alternatives." Grumbled Jon Umber.

"I don't." Intervened Wyman. "My trade merchants have long frequented Storm's End and its surrounding systems, Lord Umber. It is not like the North where there are plenty of resources for every firm and free man wanting to make a business. Storm's End has been exploited to the bone by the Durrandons before the Conquest, and the Baratheons continued after they were granted the Paramountcy. It is not King's Landing, but they are forced to distillate their water and filter their air increasingly often these last years to prevent precocious cancers and the like. Being cut out of resources...they could not hold for long, no matter how powerful their orbital fortresses were."

"Lord Manderly speaks the truth. Lord Stannis tried to use smugglers to feed his planet, but few had any success against the Deep Space Fleet of the Redwynes. One named Davos managed twice to evade the patrols, but one smuggler enough was ridiculous for the needs of an entire planet and its garrison. And the rest of the pirates and sellsails abandoned their efforts after five were annihilated by the cannons of the Redwyne battlecruisers. Once they started to eat rats, the smallfolk population went into riots and the soldiers forced Lord Stannis to seek terms."

The voice of Lyessa Flint had not risen, like she was reciting a series of regulations. Perhaps she had decided to emulate Roose Bolton?

"Where does that leave us?" Asked the Lord of Winterfell.

"In a bad place?" Asked tentatively Lord Medger Cerwyn with a minor smirk, which disappeared as his Lord sent him a cold glare. "Without Lord Stannis or his younger brother, we have no other claimants to oppose the Targaryens."

"And if they are not busy surrounding Storm's End, the Tyrell fleet will be free to redeploy against other targets." Lord Willam Dustin dramatically paused. "Us."

"Us." Agreed Lady Lyessa. "According to the reports we got from our sources in the South, the Reach fleet is still numbering forty ships of the line, even without the twenty Lord Tarly and Florent lost at the Trident against our coalition. If they join with the Lannister fleet concentrating at Harrenhal and whatever remains us the Crown and River lords loyal to the dragons, we could have a fleet of sixty to seventy capital ships, and perhaps two thousand more lighter ships against us."

"We can't stand after that." Lord Locke turned his head to see everyone in the room, holographic or real. "We can't stand. At best, we will have some fifteen active ships of the line once the Arryns reinforce us."

"We have to pass on the defensive. There's no other option." Concluded Lord Jeor Mormont.

"Agreed." Answered Admiral Locke. "Thankfully, we have no shortage of spatial mines, laser platforms and missile barrages to guard the jump point."

"Can our stockpiles last this attrition warfare? We have been forced in this war quite precipitately..."

The point of Lord Willam Dustin had touched a sensible issue, by the way Lord Stark and Lady Flint exchanged looks.

"No." Sighed Marshal Flint. "The war has generated a huge amount of disruption in our economy. I think we have six months of supplies before I am forced to divert critical reserves from the less important areas."

"We would be forced to rob Torrhen to equip Brandon." Clarified Lord Reed, his unimpressive voice taking part for the first time in the conversation.

"Exactly. Which is why I'm hoping to avoid this." The warmth of the looks Lady Flint sent to the other Northmen could be best described as very insistent.

"What about Braavos or another Essossi power?" Proposed Lord Jon 'Greatjon' Umber. "They have the greatest Deep Space Fleet of the Quadrant, and certainly the industry to aliment our war machine for a few more years."

"Yes, but Braavos has officially declared neutrality." Wyman said in a resigned voice. "They don't like the dragons, but Tywin Lannister paying the Iron Throne's debts has limited their interests in the Seven Sectors. No, unless a Targaryen commander is stupid enough to fire on a Braavosi merchant where dozens of starships can see him, they will not go to great lengths to help our forces.

As for the rest of the Essossi Free Planets, we have no major contacts with any of them, and they are all slaver nations. "

"The price they would demand could ruin us for centuries to come too." Added Wyman on after-thought, having a good grasp of the sums ammunition, tanks and all sort of warship spare parts cost. "If the price of freedom from the Targaryens is economic slavery to the Essossi..."

"As long as Aerys Targaryen is in command, we have no choice but to fight." Told Willam Dustin in an ironic voice. "I don't think that 'execution by wildfire' would be a nice resume on my career report."

All the participants laughed nervously at the terrible joke.

"I will send a raven-drone to Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton to test the defences of the Fairmarket System." Decided the Lord Paramount of the North." If they can take and fortify it against the Westerners, we could stop cold the Tyrell and Lannister offensive in their tracks on two fronts. Admiral Manderly, you will detach a light cruiser squadron to reconquer the Saltpans system. Send a courier to verify the neutrality of the Quiet Isle has not been disrupted."

"And if the Targaryen persist coming at us?" Demanded Admiral Cerwyn. "What if they decide to press on the offensive?"

"Then we will teach them why it is a bad idea." Answered Lord Eddard with a look that a direwolf of old would not have denied as family tie. "Winter is coming, Admiral Cerwyn. The Reach is a very populated Sector, but even an idiot glory-hound like Mace Tyrell should understand the lesson when he will lose a few million spacemen and ground soldiers to take each system of the Kingsroad one by one."

"Death to the lackeys of the Targaryens!" Exclaimed the Greatjon, agitating the large arms with which he had crushed so many enemies.

"Winter is coming!" Answered the eight others, in a ritual that had oddly become familiar as the Rebellion went on.

Yes, thought Wyman. Winter is coming. I wonder how long the walls of Westeros can hold it?

Kevan Lannister, 18.07.283AAC, Harrenhal System

Whatever one might think about Harren Hoare, it was impossible to deny the man had thought big. Like, galactic-sized big.

The Harrenhal system was living proof of this immense ego.

Before Harren turn his monstrous ambition to the River Sector, the Blackwoods and the Brackens had disputed themselves this rich system named Nirvana. With one verdant planet and two moons inhabitable, plus a modest asteroid belt and a gas giant, the system was a nice prize to whoever commanded it. Plenty of minerals and water cascades in Nirvana Major. Flourishing harvests in Nirvana Minor and Taera. Four jump points allowed merchants to come here and buy the agricultural products that were the main income of the system. There had been of course constant skirmishes between the two bitter enemy Houses of the Sector, but overall Nirvana had been a very pleasant stellar system to live in, with low taxes and a decent climate.

The arrival of the Hoare dynasty brutally put an end to all of this. Wishing to replace the old fortress of Fairmarket, Harren decided Nirvana was going to be his masterwork. The three powerful knightly Houses in Nirvana had been exterminated, and Harrenhal Prime was built on their ashes. It took overall forty years, everyone not living as a hermit in the Seven Sectors knew that. Forty years to build a titanic fortress, dwarfing by length, width and height every citadel of Westeros. Five huge black towers and an imposing of modern ramparts then rose to reach the sky. Forty years to construct sixty-six massive orbital stations, that would in time supply the Iron warships, protect the world below and provide everything the master of the Iron Sector wanted. Forty years for a fuel station to feed the greedy needs of the Ironborn longships. Forty years to produce tens of thousands laser, missile and plasma defensive installations, with the reactors necessary to aliment them.

The cost had been beyond atrocious. The gold reserves of the Iron and the River Sector had been completely liquidated. Four hundred million workers had continuously participated in this seemingly impossible task, and at least half of them had died before the task was accomplished. The River Sector had been bled out in manpower, and every lord of note had been pushed on the verge of insurrection by the impossible demands coming every month by raven-drone. Harren had obviously not thought a lot about how he was going to keep his hellish-looking base functional, having literally killed the Nirvanan economy and a quarter of the River Sector manpower to achieve his fool dream of glory.

But it had not mattered in the end.

Harren had been challenged by Aegon the Conqueror immediately after the total completion of his dark orbital fortresses, and paid it of his life. The defences of Harrenhal Prime, combined with the longships kept in the shipyards, may have been able to deter a large fleet until the Ironborn reinforcements came to the rescue.

Against Balerion the Black Dread, they had not stood a chance. Bigger than a ship of the line, the black dragon had appeared from the emptiness of deep space and demolished the elaborate defences in orbit like they were toys. Then Harren had learnt how his defiance was futile, as dragonfire consumed forty years of efforts and tens of thousands men.

Despite the attack of the greatest dragon alive, anybody was forced to realise Harrenhal had well resisted. Harren had built big, and in one night Balerion had not had the time to burn everything. The large towers were gone at the top, but it still left them hundred of metres above the ground.

The parade grounds in front of the black fortress now belonging to House Whent were cursed with the same folly of size. In the military headquarters of a Lord Paramount House like House Tully, the space given to such a construction was enough for a hundred thousand soldiers to come to attention. The ones owned by House Lannister were a bit bigger, but they were underground, to avoid the disgraceful possibility of an Ironborn raid eliminating the Western upper chain of command in one strike.

But those which had been built by Harren defied imagination. With the space that had been created, literally millions of regular infantry could march and manoeuvre here. For extraordinary events like today, it was perfect.

"What a waste of size and time." Whispered on his left Kevan's brother, Gerion Lannister. "I bet we could have done a lot of interesting things instead of waiting for this clusterfuck. I'm sweating under this proud lion's uniform and-"

"Gerion..." Kevan groaned. His younger brother had been strangely calm for the last hour in his Colonel attire barded with medals. Now the period of silence was well and truly officially over.

"I mean, it's not like hundreds of Lannister soldiers are fighting and dying everywhere...or the paperwork is not amassing in mountains as we speak..."

"Gerion..."

"Do you think Lord Whent has kept Harren's swimming pool?"

Kevan stared open-mouthed a couple of seconds before saying a curt:

"Shut up, Gerion. And keep it closed, Tywin was already in a bad humour this morning, no need to make it sourer."

"You mean he was as grumpy as ever." Translated Gerion. "Fine, fine. I will not open my mouth in public. Satisfied?"

Kevan frowned inwardly. The tone of his young brother was not humorous anymore, it had taken a dark edge. Why did he suddenly get the feeling he had made a mistake? By the Father, he was the Chief of Naval Operations of the Western Sector and he was unable to dress down his brother!

"The pride must stay united. Hear me Roar."

"Yes, yes." The voice of his brother Tygett announced himself on his right. Turning his attention to him, Kevan saw the first of his brother were tightened around the hilt of his ceremonial vibro-sword, and his muscles were particularly projecting the red uniform of space squadron commander he wore. The gold wings showing his membership of the Western Fighter Command shone brightly under the sun. "We have to stay united for Tywin to gain more power and the glory of House Lannister. No need to tell this for the millionth time, Kevan. Just remember him the next time that we are his brothers, Kevan. We are not the enemy."

"He hasn't coped with Joanna's death. Give him time..."

"Seven Hells, brother!" Angrily whispered Tygett. "She's been dead for a decade! I know it cost him dearly, but it's not a reason to imitate a stone and send thousands of men to their deaths! The next assault on Riverrun was just a meatgrinder! Half of the fighter wings we had were shredded! Guess what, these men had wives and children of their own!"

"The court-martials he prepares for every officer having failed in their duty at the Twins worry me too." Spoke Gerion. "I mean, Loren screwed up badly, but given how bad the intelligence in the briefings was..."

"I know." Kevan sighed, a headache was slowly forming. "I know..."

Fortunately, the arrival of the shuttles put an end to this uncomfortable conversation. In their formal uniforms on the great balcony overhanging the grounds, the highest nobles of the Western Sector military forces assisted to the first deployment in parade of a hundred thousand infantrymen in their impeccable battle-armours, quickly followed by hundreds of tanks and uncountable war machines.

It happened on the extreme left of the area, and the army represented was the loyalists Riverlords.

"They look like they're going to a mummer's farce." Commented soberly Tygett, and Kevan could not fault his brother. Since Aegon the Conqueror had made the Tullys his Lord Paramount of the Rivers, the Sector military uniform had been red and blue. Now however, with Riverrun in rebellion the loyalists had been forced to repaint their armours to signal they stayed loyal to the Targaryens. The problem? They had not managed to form a consensus on whose colours to choose. The Darrys were now in brown armours to emulate their banners, the Whents had chosen a yellow stripped with black model, the Rygers were in white and green...and the list continued on and on. Furthermore, the dreadful casualties they had received at the Trident and against the raids of the Tully raiders meant they were sometimes companies of three or four different systems. The colour effect was...strange, to stay polite.

Then it was the turn of the extreme right to be hammered by durasteel boots in step. If the presence of the Riverlords had provoked some amusement, in the three lines of red-dressed figure behind Kevan, the feelings provoked by the newcomers were somewhat worse. Piety, outright insults, angry whispers.

The Crown Prince had ordered for a hundred thousand men of the highest peerage possible from each Sector to assist this triumph, but for the Vale loyalists and the Stormlands loyalists, it was impossible. There were simply not a hundred thousand men having stayed loyal to the dragons in these two Sectors, nobility or no nobility.

Exiling Connington has not helped. Nor did Merryweather's tardiness to support Gulltown.

After the exile of the Lord of Griffin's Roost, the men of the Stormlands had in their great majority gone home and stayed quiet. That they had not bothered coming in numbers now that Storm's End had surrendered said quite a few things about the loss of prestige the Targaryen dynasty had suffered.

As for the Vale, the men stationed in Harrenhal were in majority rebels having turned cloak at the Trident or detachments that had been stationed outside Arryn lands when the conflict erupted. Not exactly the best example one wanted of loyalty. Between the two forces, the one hundred thousand mark required was reached. Barely.

The process continued with the last of the Eastern sectors. Shining under the splendid sun, the Gold Fists, as the regular troops of the Crown were called, left their landing zones on Kevan's direct left and advanced in a standard military march, luminescent in their bright yellow armours, rising high the black and red dragon banner of House Targaryen. Lord Mortimer Harte was leading them, his helmet under his right arm, saluting the crowd of Harrenhal having come to assist to this event.

Then it was the turn of the Lannister parade. Kevan winced. By all rights, it should have been the turn of the Tyrell to come now, and the Westerners after, at the place of honour, in the centre and under the hurrahs of millions spectators. That it had changed...only one person had the power to make this drastic modification.

"Oh, our dear brother is looking like he was forced to shit gold." Murmured Gerion, looking very pleased as a hundred thousand men in red with gold insignia were brought to the parade ground.

"Gerion..."

But it was true, to Kevan's great shame. Even from afar, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport and by the laws of Gods and Men, Supreme Commander of the Western Sector Military Forces, was looking grim and tense. Kevan's eldest brother had removed his leonine helmet too, but he made only slight movements of his golden armour to unleash acclamations, and the crowd returned it by dispersed cheers. The progression of a hundred thousand and one red-gold armours was done in a rhythm close to a funeral march.

When his brother stopped his march in front of the balcony, the controlled column of thousands of Lannister bannersmen at his heels, Kevan could see the eyes who had mercilessly killed every Reyne and Tarbeck burn in anger and controlled rage.

Once again, the dragons humiliate us. First Aerys, now Rhaegar. Why did we take their side again in this war, I wonder? Ah, yes. Tywin wanted his daughter to be a Queen.

And finally, under thunderous acclamations and entire chorus of trumpets, the Reach forces came from orbit to complete the picture. One look at the number of shuttles and atmospheric transports made limpid they had not arrived in the same effectives as the rest of the other Sectors.

We wanted a hundred thousand men each to make a display of unity! What is Mace Tyrell playing at?

"And here come the Dumb Peacock..." Smirked Gerion, with Tygett barking to approve.

Fortunately, the Lord of Highgarden was still some four hundred metres away, unable to listen to the mockeries he was the recipient. But it was well deserved. There were about the triple of the expected Reach forces landing on Harrenhal grounds, a sea of green extending far towards the horizon. Marching in first line, with a finely crafted gold and green armour, was Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, waddling under a great rose banner.

With a finely trimmed beard and the hair at the latest southern trend, the Lord of Highgarden looked almost like a hero of legend. Alas, his gigantic battle-armour displayed exactly the contrary. Covered in golden engraving and enlarged to accommodate the belly of its occupant, Kevan estimated this object of vanity would attract every marksman on a conventional battlefield, and it could not stand more than two or three laser hits. And to prove exactly that point, the High Marshal of the Reach had come without helmet. Without helmet! Kevan wondered if Mace Tyrell marched one day to battle, how far would he get. The Warden of the South was often criticised as being unable to find the site of a battle without explicit instructions and a lot of help.

"GROWING STRONG! HARRENHAL!" Boomed the shouts of hundreds of thousands green warriors at the same moment. Certainly prepared in advance.

The crowd behind and to the sides of Kevan loved it. They exploded in cheers and screams. "HIGHGARDEN!", "TYRELL!", "GROWING STRONG!" were the most common. No cheer for the Lannister, Kevan noted with a point of jealousy.

Turning again to parade ground, everyone was now standing attention. All the transports were now on the grounds, with no more lords and knights declaring their presence to this princely summon.

It was all. No forces of the Iron, North and Dorne sectors would be coming. The North, of course, had been fully committed to the rebellion from the start, thanks to the madness of Aerys. The Ironborn had stayed neutral, even if one or two audacious pirates attacked the merchants risking themselves in their hunting grounds of the Sunset Void.

No, it was Dorne's absence that was the critical factor. House Martell had lost four of five men and ships they had sent to the Trident, including one Kingsguard. Kevan knew the surviving troops, still numbering around a million survivors and twenty warships, were stationed in the Wode and Darry Systems. Said Systems were one and two jumps away respectively, and heavily garrisoned against the possibility of a counter-attack. A missing day away was not justifiable. Refusing a summon from a Targaryen was tantamount to treason, and with the death of Prince Lewyn Martell, there were only two men in the Seven Sectors who could order their spacemen and armsmen to play ignorance. The first was the Prince of Dorne. The second was the Red Viper.

I wonder how they are going to react to our little surprise in King's Landing...

In other circumstances, Kevan would have ordered a purge. But if Doran Martell himself had given the orders, eliminating these veterans would just convince Dorne to jump with the Rebellion.

And it's not like we have the manpower to invade Dorne at the moment...

A new shadow obscured the sky, breaking his thoughts. It was a large shuttle, almost the size of one the Western army used to land its Behemoths in battle. On contrary of the heavy shuttle design, built to resist the strikes of hundreds, no thousands of anti-aerial pieces, this mammoth had not been conceived to wage war. It was dragon-shaped, painted in red and back, with the dragon symbol repeated a score of time on the doors, wings and hull and decorated like a cathedral gate.

In a last burst of its reactors, the flyer landed in the space left between the Lord Paramounts and the group led by Lord Walter Whent. The score of men with the Lord of Harrenhal had just descended from the balcony by the black marble ramp, and was now turning his back to the balcony where Kevan was standing with his brothers.

Leaving the princely transport, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen came into the light, surrounded by his sworn swords, all wearing the red and black battle-armours of his House. A torrent of applaud erupted from the smallfolk and the armies gathered. Millions screamed when the Crown Prince raised his arm in salute.

"HAIL TARGARYEN!" Was repeated again and again by people delighted by this demonstration of grace and firepower.

This was not the perfect Prince who had seduced millions of maidens on hundreds of world at the Harrenhal tournament. This Rhaegar had been perfect in appearance and manners. This Rhaegar had been irresistible, gracious and without reproach, graceful and a sun of beauty, a living reminder of the power and the blood of the ancient dragonlords. The one standing in front of Tywin, Lord Walter Whent, Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Mortimer Harte made a good show, yes. But it was not the same man. This man was...diminished.

The eldest son of Aerys was wearing a priceless Mark seven battle-armour with incrusted rubies and diamonds. His helmet, carried playfully under his left arm, was dragon-shaped with a fist-sized ruby upon the forefront. The long silver hair, inheritance of a power lost to the Doom, flowed freely in the air. A magnificent vibro-sword with the hilt of a dragon was belted to his side.

But it was his face where the problem laid. Despite the efforts of the best healers Rhaegar had on his flagship, hundreds of hours to hide the dozen of severe scars which had partially disfigured his face were not enough.

Lyanna Stark had really not gone without a fight, thought Kevan.

Galactic Targaryen News was going to censor the subject and retouch the holo-videos, that was not a question. But as soon as the North got an unedited picture of this meeting...

More than ever, Kevan prayed Tywin knew the risks of their ploy. Replacing the wife of the Prince by Cersei was a sure plan to gain more power and influence, but when the man himself was a known rapist...

"Your Highness." Bowed Lord Walter Whent, aged but shining in yellow-black battle-armour. All the warriors and the assistance imitated him, from Tywin and Kevan to the humblest smallfolk in the distant stands. "Harrenhal is yours." Rhaegar lowered his right hand, and the Master of Harren's Folly kissed the flashing red ruby set in a black dragon-shaped ring. Then a graceful gesture was made, and the spectators stood again on their own legs.

The next hours were tiring and harassing. Lord Whent insisted to give a grand banquet, though for what purpose evaded Kevan. With the war raging everywhere, every food stock was officially rationed. The system of Harrenhal wasn't an exception to the rule. Indeed, while the menu available for Princes, Lords and Admirals was significantly better than the vile paste given to the lower ranked soldier. At the Great Tourney, celebrated in this very fortress what felt like an eternity ago, there had been seventy-seven meals for an entire week and alcohol to profusion. Now, there were seven and they were not appetising ones.

Gerion and Tygett had escaped long ago for who knows where, though Gerion had not resisted to shout a "Hear me Roar!" in the assembly before fleeing with a great cup of wine and a prostitute in his arms. The challenge had not been noticed by Tywin nor by many others, the cacophony reigning in the kilometres-long being properly infernal. Kevan had really wanted more to shoot his brother, but unfortunately the weapons had been left behind to avoid regrettable incidents.

After three more hours where the entourage of every Lord Paramount got drunker and drunker, Prince Rhaegar finally left the table, sending servitors to ask a few chosen commanders to follow him. Tywin and Kevan were included, as befitted of the men leading the Western fleets, as was Ser Damion Lannister, Field Lion Marshal of the Great Western Army. For the River Sector, Lord Raymun Darry and Lord Walter Whent were chosen. For the Crown, Lord Mortimer Harte. And for the Reach, came the Warden of the South Lord Mace Tyrell with Lord Rowan and seven other major lords with red faces.

They really have not gotten light on their drinks, don't they?

The room all the summoned lords entered was of course several square metres larger than common sense required for a private meeting, but it was at least not the Great Hall where an entire army could disappear without leaving a trace. Gold and onyx decorations were everywhere, the bats were sculpted on every column and a rich golden table with the arms of House Whent lied in the middle, with huge seats surrounding it. Nothing having been planned and some of the participants staggered before finding an unoccupied one.

"Impressive speech your Highness." Buttered up Lord Whent as soon as the last fat Reach posterior had found its place.

Kevan raised an eyebrow. Rhaegar had pronounced a speech? In all this noise and the metres separating him from Aerys's son, it had not arrived to his ears.

"Thank you Lord Rowan. But I'm afraid this speech was the easy part. How fares the war?"

"Not well, your Highness. Not well." The Lord of Harrenhal was on the verge of sniffing, it was pathetic...and another attempt at bootlicking. "The Northerners have retaken the Fairmarket System in a two-prongs attack, and once our reinforcements arrived, the jump point was already mined and the rebels were waiting behind."

"How many ships of the line were engaged by the North in this battle?" Asked the Crown Prince with a frown of concentration.

"Only two, but they had a lot of armoured cruisers and battlecruisers." Replied Kevan. "And to make matters more complicated, Vice-Admiral Jast was forced to divide his forces in two formations to cover the jump point from Oldstones and the artificial one from Vypren. At two against one in tonnage, our commander preferred to withdraw instead of risking the destruction piece-meal of his forces."

"It sounds a lot like excuses after having misjudged the situation." Commented Lord Jack Blackbar.

"I beg your pardon my lord?"

"This was not an accusation, Ser Kevan."

No, but it was the next best thing you could imply.

"So the Rebellion holds every system north of Fairmarket and the Crossroads." Commented Lord Jon Bulwer, his wine-stained clothes and his slurred voice making a mockery of the General title the man held.

"Yes." Detailed Lord Mortimer Harte." Our agents and the raiders we left behind have all reported they are not probing further south anymore. They have placed a lot of mines and defensive platforms on top of each jump point. All signs tend to point they are aware of the fall of Storm's End, and are now intending to wage a defensive war."

"I agree with Lord Harte, my Prince." Insisted Lord Walter, who apparently had decided to speak a lot but with little intrinsic value. "Apart from small raids, they are retrenching behind a new defensive line."

"Bah! This will not save them when we will attack!" Boasted Mace Tyrell.

What did he just say?

"With due respect, Lord Tyrell, this might be a very daring proposition." Affirmed Marshal Damion Lannister. By the expression on his face, Kevan's cousin had wanted to replace the word 'daring' by 'stupid'. "Our analysts predict that for each system we launch an attack in due form, we must expect to lose four ships of the line and the double in escorts. And if the Northerners are fighting as well on ground than they are doing in space, our ground forces could lose between one and two million men by planet."

"These figures would be for the first systems assaulted. Our casualties would largely diminish after the first series of assault." Tempered Lord Mathis Rowan, his green uniform being far from spotless. Unlike his counterparts it was not wine but another white substance which had found his way on his uniform.

"I disagree." Lord Raymun Darry's posture was bristling with hostility. "Our troops have already fought the Northerners all over the River Sector, and at no moment have we watched a decrease in moral or efficiency. They hold fifteen systems, and the more we push them northwards, the more we play their game as they are shortening their supplies lines. The last worlds to be assaulted will be more defended than the firsts, not less."

"Lacking the stomach for war, Lannister, Darry?" Scoffed one of Mace subordinates with a condescending and dry Reacher accent.

"Trying to minimise our losses, Blackbar." Retorted Damion. "If the Northern forces retreat from the River Sector, our next target is Moat Cailin. And we haven't a chance in the Seven Hells to take this fortress System. Not without two large Deep Space Fleets attacking White Harbor and the Blazewater Rift to catch them in the flanks."

Lord Jack Blackbar did not find any worthy counter to this assertion and stayed with his mouth shut. But the brown eyes were narrowed, and Kevan could not help t think the Marshal of the Western Sector and the Rose General were not going to leave this room with plans to betroth their children.

"Attacking the Bloody Gate presents the same difficulties." Lord Mortimer calmly tried to divert the course of the conversation to safer harbours. "There are massive fortresses everywhere, and the asteroids belts present uncountable ambush points against any attackers. We could lose millions men before reaching the planet and tens of millions afterwards."

The situation shifted to more pleasant topics afterwards, but with very little solutions. It was golden clear this was not going anywhere. The Reachers were drunk, Lord Walter was sucking up for the Prince and Tywin had not opened the mouth once. Rhaegar had deprived him of the place of honour in the triumph, the Heir to the Iron Throne would find no help here.

Finally, Rhaegar rose his hand. The conversation stopped.

"I trust everyone here is aware of Operation Downfall?" This was more an affirmation than a question. A murmur of approbation and vigorous drunk nods of the head answered Rhaegar positively.

"Good. I intend to recall Lord Jon Connington from exile as soon as my father is deposed."

To their credit, none of the men around the table flinched at the announcement of what couldn't be mistaken as high treason and rebellion against the King of Westeros.

"For his faithful service and his accomplishments in this conflict, Lord Connington will be elevated to the rank of Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector. House Baratheon will keep the lordship of Storm's End, but none of their other titles and will have to proceed to a general demilitarisation of their home orbital defences. Each family will have to send one of its members to the capital as hostage, if it is a child the Crown will decide where the fostering will take place. The Houses having rebelled against House Targaryen will be forced to pay reparation for the loyal subjects of the Iron Throne they have attacked and killed. Goods from the Reach will be granted a tax decrease of ten percent on their exportations in the Storm Sector. To make sure they understand the price of rebellion, their tithes will be raised by thirty per cent for a period of twenty years."

By the Father Above...this is going to destroy the Storm Sector!

Not every lord had answered the Baratheon call for arms, but those who had followed the rebels to defeat were generally the wealthiest. Selmy, Caron, Dondarrion, Buckler, Morrigen, Swann, Estermont. These were the first which came to mind, all owning various resources or their systems being strategically placed to take appreciable commercial tolls for their Systems interests.

Kevan was a Lannister. This meant that for all his childhood, he had been initiated in the saint precepts of the economy and the trade centre exchanges. The Storm Sector was one of the weakest financially speaking, with only the North sending equivalent tithes. Each of the punishment in the list Rhaegar had given would have made huge damage. Combine all of them, and this was going to be ugly for the Stormlanders.

If Rhaegar had conscience of the devastation's magnitude his declaration was going to cause, his scarred face showed none of it.

"For their dedicated service to the Crown in this hard time, Lord Raymun Darry will be granted the Paramountcy of the River Sector and Lord Walter Whent the title of Trident Warden. Lord Edmure Tully will be acknowledged by the Crown as Lord of Riverrun, under the condition he becomes ward of the King until his twenty name days. All the Noble and Knightly Houses having followed their liege lord in rebellion will have to foster one of their children at King's Landing. An increase of their taxes of fifteen percent for ten years has been hereby decided, and they will have to participate in the recovery of the Trident System, that they have contributed to destroy. "

Far more lenient terms for the River Sector. No surprise there. Lord Raymun Darry and Lord Walter Whent had lost quite a few members of their families at the Trident and in diverse skirmishes, which put them before the Tully rebels in reliability.

The stratagem of Rhaegar was not subtle, but it was hardly idiot either. Divide the different Sectors of the Rebellion by proposing different terms, starting feuds and enmities in their battle orders, which in the defeat had already started to fracture.

House Connington and Darry were certainly powerful Noble Houses, but neither had really the prestige or the industrial capacities at present to challenge the Systems of their former liege lords. This was going to be troublesome. The Mallisters and the Blackwoods had still big connections and military strongholds. If they decided to contest these decisions in the future...

Rhaegar had not finished. In fact, the next point out of his mouth was even more controversial. Moreover, two of his teeth were golden, souvenir of a rape session having badly turned.

"I intend to propose to the North and Vale a cease-fire upon my coronation. There will be no demand for hostages or taxes increases, and I will give back to Lord Arryn and Lord Stark the mortal remains of their families and bannersmen who were killed by my father."

How generous of you. They might forget it was your family and your actions that started this whole mess.

"Such lenient terms might be more than the North and the Vale expects." Warned Lord Raymun.

"Which is why the North will have to abandon all the River Systems they hold at the moment and all the pretensions going with them. I know they have proclaimed new Lords for the Twins, Erenford, Charlton and Haigh, but these nominations will have to be rescinded."

Rhaegar was openly smirking, now, like the Prince of Dragonstone knew a good pleasantry he had just invented.

"Lord Emmon Frey will be the new Lord of the Twins."

Kevan saw the sulking of his brother turn to something more interested and rapacious. Emmon Frey was a non-entity, but he was married to their sister Gemma. House Lannister had just been granted a golden door to control the Twins tolls for the next decades. Assuming the cease-fire was accepted.

" Ser Leslyn Haigh will regain his possessions. Lord Ambrose Charlton and Lord Duncan Erenford are the new legitimate governors of their systems, and the Crown will tolerate no other claim. The Umbers and Flints occupying these systems will return to the North, leaving the infrastructure in the state they found it."

"And the prisoners, your Highness?" Lord Mortimer Harte was inquisitive. There were a lot of Gold Fists held in the Northern prisoner camps.

"Ah, yes the prisoners." The smile of Rhaegar bordered on the gurgle of daughter.

"Under the circumstance, I don't think the Starks and the Arryns have the right to demand the ransoms they want from our loyal lords and subjects. The rebels will take the sums we decide, and not the contrary. The regulars trapped behind enemy lines will have to be repatriated at the expense of the rebel flag officer in charge of the spatial theatre."

"Why, your Highness, should the Lord of Winterfell accept such terms?" Kevan voiced with heavy scepticism what a lot of lords no doubt thought at this table. "I will grant you the terms are not particularly damaging economically and militarily. But the North and the Vale aren't exactly losing as we speak. Why should the Lord of Winterfell accept such terms and give back all his gains when he has just won a major offensive?"

The expression of the Prince of Dragonstone became a mix of viciousness, insanity and dark joy.

"Why, to save his daughter and his nieces, of course."

Overall the Northern offensive code-called Trident Ashes, the last great offensive of the Usurper's War, was a major success for the Rebellion, partially erasing their defeat suffered in the Trident system.

The Northern navy retook nine systems in the River Sector, including the vital Fairmarket and Crossroads Systems, suffering only light losses in the process. One battlecruiser, two heavy cruisers and twenty-six lighter units were destroyed, one armoured cruiser was heavily damaged and would be abandoned to the scrap specialists of Seagard two months later. But they had done much better than their opponents, and the Stark-led fleet could unite once again with the Vale forces from the Bloody Gate.

Between the loyalist Western and River ground forces, 15 brigades were forced to lay down their arms and surrender, approximately 24 768 men in total. To these numbers had to be added the destruction of the 182th Brigade commanded by General Talin Lannis in the Vypren System when he and his command refused to surrender to the vastly superior Northern forces. The Lannister Navy saw two of its old armoured cruisers and four battlecruisers be destroyed, and sixty-one smaller warships of diverse classes disappeared from their order of battle.

In the loyalist controlled Systems, the very mention of this offensive was deliberately and consciously censored. Men and women trying to contact their missing families in the areas were misled with false explanations or put in detention until the end of the war. Foreign and rebel agents trying to spread the news of the Northern counter-offensive to Operation Lightning Lion were arrested and more often than not executed by firing squad without a trial. If finding the truth about the Battle of the Trident was difficult and would in most cases be revealed progressively after the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion when other matters attracted the public attention, Trident Ashes stayed a taboo for the Houses and their subjects respecting the laws of the Iron Throne for long decades. Nine men out of ten having been involved were put in half-pay, with the formal interdiction of speaking about the defeat. The ones who kept their post saw their careers stalled for decade, Vice-Admiral Lord Antario Jast being the prominent example.

After the final peace treaty was signed and the new king crowned, all mentions of Trident Ashes were promptly erased from the military records at King's Landing and the core headquarters following the Targaryen lead. False battles images and reports were forged by the technicians of the Ministry of Information, rewriting history at the orders of the Hand and the Small Council. Nothing had to murky the announced triumph of House Targaryen, and neither the Western, Crown nor the Reach ruling elites wanted to reveal how long a war to submit the last rebel realms would have lasted. Assuming victory would have been the outcome.

As a result, the Crown, Reach, River and Western navies completely and utterly failed to learn anything from this humiliating experience, an issue which was going to return with a vengeance during the Greyjoy Rebellion, but more importantly and dramatically in the conflict following eleven years later.

Foreign nations were more astute in that regard. In 286AAC, the Triarchy of Volantis officially launched the Gladiator, leading ship for their new class of battlecruisers, preceding by three days the Dancer of the Braavosi Navy. In both cases, naval experts recognised the influence of the Northern starships. Bulkier shapes, overpowered engines, augmentation of the armour-plating and the shields, resistance and length improvement of different electronic and gravity components.

The North itself would analyse its mistakes and built the Dreadnought class for the battlecruisers and the Brandon Stark class for the Armoured Cruisers by 288AAC, although the specifics of the changes were going to be a mystery until 301AAC, none of the warships in question fighting in the Greyjoy Rebellion.

The unclassified parts of Trident Ashes proved to launch hundreds of debates from Winterfell to Tyrosh on the proper doctrine for battlecruisers. Manderly Editions would publish a score of e-books on the topic until 298AAC, and the Essossi Free Planets saw quite a few pertinent works be published, some of them finding their way in the hands of gifted tacticians. Naturally, all those writings were forbidden of publication from Nightsong to the Twins.

Overshadowed by the Fall of Storm's End, the Triumph of Harrenhal and the King's Downfall of the same period, Trident Ashes remains to this day obscure and uncharted void for those in the Sunset Quadrant having a limited knowledge of military history.

From Prelude to the Night by Syrio Forel, 310AAC.