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.

4. Chapter 4

note: this is the narrative version of an ongoing asoiaf online roleplay. the story has not yet caught up with the events of the roleplay, so beware of spoilers when visiting the site.

- THE TITAN'S RIGHT HAND -

"Unheard of."

"Ridiculous."

"Absurd."

The advisors shook their heads as they made their way down the long, wide hallway of marble that led to the Sealord's solar.

"A Dothraki horselord in the city would be preposterous enough, but to host one in the palace itself? Has Myrios lost his mind?"

Terro Fregar wore a grim expression on his aging face. He was near fifty now but looked double that, with deep wrinkles carving paths in his forehead and heavy bags drooping beneath his hollow eyes, the result of the stress of his duties as a counselor to a man who seemed equal parts brilliant and mad from one day to the next.

I will look twohundred if I live to be sixty, he thought bitterly, so long as Myrios continues to hold Braavos.

When word reached him that the Sealord had invited the Khal to his palace, the chaos and the fretting that ensued had been even greater than usual. Joro was a lean and fearsome man, copper skinned with dark almond eyes and a braid that hung past his waist, bespeckled with bells that jingled softly when he strode.

He looked ridiculous seated at the ornate table in the lavishly decorated solar of the Sealord, and all Terro could think about was how many men he had to have killed to earn those bells. And what keeps the barbarian from killing Myrios? he thought, watching the Sealord chuckle at the other end of the table at the translator's words and puff on his pipe, wearing the gaudy silks that he claimed were perfect copies of the Pentoshi and Myrish products. And what could a horselord say that amuses him so?

The Khal was grinning too, a sinister sort of smile on his tanned leathery face and Terro could feel what wisps remained of his black hair whitening at the thought of what kind of jest two mad men could share.

"My Lord." The advisor bent low as he approached, and the two men behind him did the same, trying desperately to hide their worry. There were guards stationed throughout the room, but they were Braavosi, and as such they wore little armor and carried only slender swords.

Another bit of Myrios' madness. Terro would wager they spent more time oiling their hair than they did practicing their swordplay and he couldn't begin to imagine why the Sealord would choose to place his valuable life in their hands, though he reckoned it might have something to do with whatever it was he put into that pipe of his.

The Sealord stroked his forked blue beard and looked to his advisors with only mild interest. Myrios was not far in age from Terro, but looked eras younger. The Sealord cared deeply for pleasure and leisure, and his face reflected the results of both. No lines marred his face, no skin drooped with lack of sleep.

"Good Terro," he greeted. He held his pipe clenched between his teeth and leaned back in his chair to smile at the advisor. "I would like to introduce you to my dear friend Khal Joro." He paused as the interpreter translated the words, then again for the horselord's barking laughter and response in guttural Dothraki.

The poor man tasked with navigating the two languages looked hesitant to offer the Braavosi translation, and spoke apologetically when he said, "Khal Joro says that he does not know this man, that he is no friend of his."

The hair on the back of Terro's neck stood on end when he turned to face the dark smile of Joro, but Myrios remained as calm as ever.

"Ah, yes," he replied, "I suppose we have only just met. Nevertheless, I trust we will become friends soon, by the end of our venture no doubt."

Terro swallowed as the interpreted translated, and he knew that behind him the other two advisors were exchanging nervous glances.

"Venture?" he dared to ask, after the horselord laughed once more.

Myrios took another puff of his pipe, sending a curl of smoke towards the high gilded ceilings of the solar. He'd been in the employ of the Sealord for over a decade now, yet the scent still made Terro queasy.

Recently he had been fond of making grandiose statements about how 'The Titan had awoken' and had set to employing even more bravos from off the street. He had even sent delegations to the House of Black and White, demanding that they be trained, and when they had not returned, he had claimed this as victory.

"That's right, venture," Myrios answered. "Khal Joro is a Dothraki warlord of the Great Grass Sea," he explained. "He commands twenty thousand men in his khalasar."

Joro nodded his head, the bells in his hair tinkling as he did. He muttered something in Dothraki, and the translator corrected the Sealord gently. "Thirty thousand, my Lord," he said.

Terro did not understand how Myrios drew mirth from such a statement. The Dothraki were not an enemy to be trifled with. The nomadic warriors were renowned for their horsemanship, and no man or knight could outride them or their glittering curved arakhs. Gifts bought peace from them, and kept them from their walls, but now Nestoros had opened the gates and invited a Khal inside.

"I have made Joro an offer," Myrios explained. "And now we have thirty thousand men. Thirty thousand to send where we please, to raid where we please, to sack what we please."

The counselors behind him wrung their hands, but Terro forced himself to appear calm. Appearances mattered, perhaps in Braavos more than anywhere else.

"And what is it we wish to sack?" he asked hesitantly.

"Pentos..." Myrios replied. He puffed on his pipe and stared off into some unseen world as a slow grin spread across his face. "...for a start."

- NATHANIEL -

"Baelish hasn't yet declared." Nathaniel pressed his finger down onto the map where Harrenhal sat. The faint and gray morning light that filtered in through the roof of the canvas tent made it difficult to see the script, but if there were one thing the Arryn knew best it was maps, and he knew where the Mockingbird's castle lay.

Lord Royce nodded grimly. "It's a risk, but there's no way to get to the capital without passing through his lands." He sighed and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. "He would be a fool to engage. Perhaps seeing the might of the Vale swarming the Kingsroad would sway him to the Lion's cause."

Nathaniel wasn't so sure. He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly and wondered for the hundredth time what James would have done in his position. His older brother had always been so confident in his decisions. Nathaniel was, too, but in matters of law and justice, not choices between kingdoms and kings.

He didn't look up from the parchment. "We'll go," he decided. "But I will have the Baelish's lands well scouted ahead of us. With these whispers of Frey troops moving south, I would assume that Emmon has taken certain precautions. Randyll is a slippery man, and I don't want Emmon mistaking us for a disloyal vassal."

"As you wish, my Lord."

Nathaniel sighed. "Please don't call me that, Ronnel. We've known each other far too long for such courtesies."

"As you wish, my- Nathaniel," the Royce lord corrected himself quickly. "When should the men expect to depart?"

"Soon," came the reply. "Before Baelish awakes and decides he loves the Stag."

Sunlight spilled into the tent when the flap opened, and then vanished once again as it fell shut behind Ronnel. Nathaniel straightened when the Royce left and rolled the map up. His back ached from sleeping on the stiff cot, and he rubbed it painfully, feeling twice his age. I at least hope I don't look it, he thought.

The men wasted no time in packing camp. When Nathaniel mounted after breaking his fast, he rode through the lines and rows of tents to see cook fires being hastily stamped out, armor fastened onto knights by eager squires, and unfinished meals shoved into rucksacks and saddlebags for another time.

The banners stood proud between the chaos. Old houses the Vale had, and most had answered his call. The wheel of Waynwood showed the camp of Ser Harry, eldest of the famed Iron Lords of the Oaks, the flaming tower of Grafton above Lord Gerold and his fierce son, even a few rough men of young Lord Ilyn of the Sisters.

Above the bright colors of these noble Houses, winter's chill still hung in the air, but the soft frost that had coated the ground when Nathaniel first emerged from his tent at dawn had given way to a wet dewy blanket and he did not shiver in his cured leather and fur lined boots. In fact, the Arryn lord was almost appreciating the time spent outdoors after weeks confined to his brother's old solar in the Eyrie when the tranquility was cut short by an approaching rider.

Nathaniel recognized Jon Corbray even from afar with his bright surcoat emblazoned with the bells of his House's sigil. He sighed inwardly, anticipating an unpleasant conversation, when the Royce Lord appeared at his side again on horseback.

"Ronnel," he said, relief evident in his tone. "Your timing is provincial. I was beginning to think I'd have to face Jon alone." He nodded in the direction of the rider and saw Ronnel's face fall.

"The blasted fool," the older man muttered. "I wager he's come to tell you how lucky you are that he's answered your call to banners."

Lord Jon wore a pleased smile on his aging face as he approached the pair, but Nathaniel's expression was grim. "Lord Corbray," he said flatly. "Well met."

"Well met indeed, Nathaniel." Jon gripped the reins of his horse in gloved hands and turned the mare so that he could trot along with them, Nathaniel centered between two of the Vale's most powerful men. "Though I suppose that's Lord Arryn now, isn't it?"

"Regent Lord," Nathaniel corrected him. "Lady Lyanna has given birth to a boy."

"James' widow? Your House has my congratulations. I will pray to the gods that her son is healthier than your remaining brother."

Ronnel grumbled at the remark, but Nate set his jaw like stone. "Dake is doing well," he said. "And so is the babe."

"Ah, the crippled falcon and now a new fledgling. Your maester must be very busy. Cadwyn, is it still? It's been so long, I can't remember."

"Cadwyn, aye," replied Nathaniel, ignoring the remark about his brother.

"They say that James was poisoned," Jon said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "And at the Tournament of Harrenhal, no less. So many lords and ladies were there. However can one find justice for such an atrocity?"

It was difficult for Nate to refrain from grinding his teeth. Jon continued on, tsking and shaking his head. "Such a shame that his boy will grow up fatherless. I hope he will still find everything that he needs to rise to his birthright, as some are calling it."

"The boy's name is Theon, and he'll make a fine Lord one day."

Ronnel nodded his approval, but the Lord Corbray gave a small smile. "And why not you?" he suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. "The babe was not yet born when your brother died. You have as much of a claim to his seat as any infant. Perhaps even more of one."

"A debatable matter," Ronnel answered gruffly, flabbergasted by Jon's suggestion. "And one that could be argued to the end of time with no consensus. Of what significance is it if the babe was yet born? His arrival was mere weeks away, his existence known. Lord Nathaniel is an honorable man, he would not steal his nephew's birthright from him, especially with James so soon departed, Gods rest his soul."

Nathaniel said nothing. He sat atop his mount wearing his usual expression, a deep and worried frown. If Ronnel was content to argue on his behalf then so be it, Nathaniel had neither the energy nor the will to protest.

"An honorable man, yes," Lord Jon nodded, but the smile on his face only widened. "We all know the Arryns' reputation for being stalwart stewards of integrity and morality. 'As High as Honor,'" he quoted, "and so high as to be above the temptations of sin that we mere mortals face, like lust and desire. Isn't that right, Lord Arryn?"

Nathaniel's grip on the reins tightened. "Have you made your point, Lord Corbray?" he asked stiffly. "If so, perhaps you had best return to your men. We are hours from the capital and will be needing to make camp soon."

"My point is that the Vale is yours, Lord Nathaniel," Jon said with a shrug. "You need only reach out and take it." With that, he turned his horse in the other direction and rode off towards the back of the line once more, leaving Nathaniel to brood over his words.

Ronnel shook his head in disbelief. "Preposterous!" he declared when Corbray was out of earshot. "Questioning your honor, implying you would push aside your own nephew to seize a kingdom - Lord Jon need learn restraint, I say. He's fortunate that you are a man with high principles. Another might have had his tongue for such insolence."

"Let it go, Ronnel." The reply was quiet, and Ronnel made as if to argue before finally deciding against it. He heaved an unhappy sigh and grumbled in his saddle.

Let it go, Nathaniel thought, but this time the counsel was to himself.

- DAMON -

"Again."

Damon reached for the chalice of wine but before he could grasp the cup Loren lifted it from the table, setting it back down on the desk just out of reach.

"Again."

The fire burned low in the hearth and Damon dipped the quill into the ink with a begrudging sigh, pushing the imperfect sheet of parchment to the side and choosing a new one. It was his fourth attempt and he was growing weary of his father's seemingly unmeetable standards for handwriting, as well as the shadow he was casting over the desk by standing directly behind him, one hand resting on the back of Damon's chair.

He could almost hear his father's teeth grinding as he wrote 'Griffinlord' at the top of the parchment in exaggeratingly embellished script.

"Should I draw a picture, too, do you think?" Damon asked, sitting back in the chair and pretending to study the parchment as an artist might. "Perhaps a giant bird with a stag in its talons?"

"Is this a game to you?" Loren asked.

"No," Damon replied. "Games are fun and this… this is torture." He set the quill down beside the paper and sighed again. "Why must I write these myself?" he asked, gesturing to the messy desk before him. "Can't a maester do this? Or Ser Stafford, or Lord Aemon or any literate cupbearer, page, or cook?"

"This is a letter to Orys Connington, the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, pledging your support against this dead knight's rebellion," Loren reminded him. "This may be the most important letter you ever write, and, if you don't heed my counsel, your last."

He leaned over the desk and sifted through the papers until he found a map. Unrolling it before Damon, Loren pressed a finger against the place that marked the castle of Stonehelm. "They say he has amassed fifteen thousand men at arms. Do you understand how many soldiers that is? Or would you like me to draw you a picture?"

"I don't want to go to the Stormlands," Damon protested. "If the Sword of the Morning is alive, I don't wish to meet him on the field of battle, especially without a shield." He nodded at the sling that held his healing left arm. "Maybe if he were the one missing an arm I'd have a chance, but I cannot kill that man."

"You're a King, Damon. Kings do not ride in the van. You will not meet Ser Ulrich on the battlefield because there will be no more of this 'first through the gate' nonsense from you." Loren tapped his finger against the map. "But you will go to the Stormlands. A King fights his own battles."

Damon reclaimed his wine and set the chalice down on Highgarden, reaching for the pitcher. "But not from the van, yes I understand you, Father. I'll leave that to the braver men than I. People love a cowardly ruler." He moved to refill his cup but Loren pulled the chalice away again, between Sandstone and Hellholt and onto the Summer Sea.

"Do you understand me?" he asked. "You may have been trained with a sword, Damon, but make no mistake, you are not a soldier. You were born to be a Lord and now you are a King. Your life is not your own, it belongs to the people you rule." He straightened and looked on in disapproval as Damon filled his cup at last. "That was not bravery that sent you first through the Lion's Gate but pride, and pride is the death of many a Lord and King. Did our maester teach you nothing?"

"I can't recall." Damon shrugged. "All his lectures seem to blur together in my memory. Something, something, Tyrius, something, something, Renly. There are so many dead men and battles, how can I be expected to keep track of it all?"

"You're a Lannister," Loren stated flatly.

"Yes, and Gods know how much the smallfolk take to Lannisters." Damon drank and refilled the cup as soon as he set it down. "I will be the most loved king since Aerys the Second."

"It's your wife's duty to love you, not your people's. Their duty is to obey."

"My wife? The one you chose for me? That woman is insane." He spoke into the cup as he raised it to his mouth again, his muttering echoing in the chalice.

"You don't have to spend every waking moment with her, you just have to give her a son."

Damon frowned in annoyance as he lowered his cup. "Oh, that's right," he said. "You're the only one who can marry for love, how stupid of me to forget. The great Lord Loren Lannister can choose any woman he likes as his bride, but the rest of us must simply follow his orders."

Loren's mouth tightened. He opened one of the drawers to Damon's right, removing a stack of parchment and placing it on the table in front of his son, the letter and the map now buried.

"Lord Frey has failed to take Harrenhal," he said, pointing at the folded parchment on the top of the stack, and Damon sighed at the change of subject. "Emmon Baelish holds him prisoner and the Riverlands have not yet bent to your rule."

My rule. Damon would have laughed if his father's temperament not been so sour, but bringing up his mother had already been too dangerous a provocation and he knew better than to push his luck.

Not my rule, his rule. His father had been indignant when Damon suggested that it was his intent to use him as a puppet, but at every meeting, every council, every conversation, Loren was there, leading him by the elbow like a child, directing him to one room or another, showing him some map or parchment or book, pointing, explaining, ordering, asking questions and scrutinizing the answers.

"What would you like me to do?" Damon asked, gazing up at his father, and Loren looked deeply disappointed by the question.

"What do you think you should do?" came his reply.

Damon turned his stare back to the letter. "Demand his release," he suggested carefully.

"Baelish has not bent his knee to you, you may not demand anything of him. You could negotiate his freedom, but until Lord Emmon sees a demonstration of your strength, he has no reason to recognize the legitimacy of your claim." He added pointedly, "Targaryen wife or not."

"I proved my strength when I took King's Landing," Damon argued. "I sit on the Iron Throne, which is horribly uncomfortable, might I add. What more of a demonstration does the Mockingbird want?"

"Taking the capital does not make you a King, Damon, nor does a throne. So long as the Stormlands remain in rebellion, hope is alive for the Baratheon rule. When that hope is dead, the Riverlands and Dorne will bow. You will go to Stonehelm and kill that hope."

He stood straighter and stared down his nose at the son he had crowned. "And don't break anything else while you're over there."

"I'll try my best to please you," Damon muttered. "May I go now?"

"Kings don't ask for permission to leave," Loren said.

"Forgive me, Father. I'm going now." Damon stood and shoved the chair under the desk before departing, taking his cup with him.

When he stepped out of the Hand's solar, he found two men in white cloaks awaiting him and it took him a moment to realize that one of them was his brother. Thaddius' straight sandy hair hung in his eyes, and he pushed the stray strands aside and stood taller as Damon emerged.

"Thaddius, what are you doing here?" the older brother asked in confusion.

"Protecting you?" came the equally perplexed reply. "You're the king, after all, and I'm in the Kingsguard… Its Lord Commander now, in fact."

Damon had forgotten. "Oh. You're not here to speak with Father, then?"

Thaddius sighed. "No, I tried that already." He paused and cleared his throat. "Your crown looks nice, Damon."

"Thank you, brother, would you like it?" Damon started off down the stairs and Thaddius hurried after him, shifting his sword belt and triple checking to make sure that the clasps securing his snowy cloak about his shoulders were fastened correctly.

"No," he answered. His voice echoed in the narrow stairwell.

"Are you certain? You can have it."

Thaddius was quiet for a moment, and the brothers' footsteps echoed in the turret stair. "I'm in love with your wife," he blurted out suddenly, stopping on the steps. The Kingsguard behind him nearly crashed into the younger Lannister.

"You can have her, too," Damon answered.

Thaddius' declaration was an odd one, but it wasn't the strangest to come from his mouth. There had been the time he announced his intent to become a septon when he was ten and two, the time he had declared the Drowned God his own at the age of nine, or the time when at ten and seven he professed a desire to forsake his white cloak for a black one in order to defend the realms of men against the stories he'd heard as a child.

At times, Thaddius' words were as erratic as his behavior, and over the years Damon had learned to mostly ignore his brother's impassioned speeches. This one was met with the same indifference. He will be over it in a fortnight.

Thaddius stood still for a long moment, but when the knight behind him slipped past to follow the King, he forced himself to trudge along behind him.

"Aeslyn Targaryen is the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on," he called after his brother. "She gave me her favor at the tourney of Harrenhal. I love her, Damon. I would do anything to be with her." His voice was pleading. "Why did you marry her?"

Damon spun around to face his brother. "The same reason that you're Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," he said. "Because Father said so."

And Loren Lannister's word is law.

Thaddius watched as his brother turned his back on him and continued down the stairwell. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the kitchens," Damon replied. "I'm going to find the most expensive bottle of wine in the castle, strip down to my small clothes, and drink it on the Iron Throne."

Thaddius looked aghast. "Damon, you can't-"

"A jape, Thad," Damon declared, turning around once more. His younger brother bit his lip and frowned, and Damon looked at him with a sympathetic grin as he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Gods, you're worse than Father sometimes." He frowned and added, "I was serious about the crown, however."

Thaddius forced his own smile halfheartedly, and when his brother turned to go once more, he followed as dutifully as ever.

- THE SWIFTBLADE -

"It's about damn time," Paxtor muttered, and Baelor shot him a scolding glance.

"Mind your tongue, Tarly," the Tyrell Lord warned in a low voice, craning his neck to see if the King was yet returning from relieving himself in the woods just off the road. "You wouldn't want His Grace to hear your complaints."

Paxtor muttered some more and shifted in his saddle, and Baelor contented himself with brooding atop his own mount. Daeron pretended to notice none of it.
The knight gripped the reins of his own horse and remained stone faced and solemn, as was his duty. Highgarden had been growing smaller and smaller in the distance behind them as the armies made their way out of the Reach east along the Roseroad, and while part of Daeron was sad to bid his home farewell, another part of him was overjoyed that the Tyrell lord managed to convince the Baratheon King to march.

If we stayed in Highgarden any longer, Lord Baelor might have sold Harys' head to the lions.

It hadn't been easy. It had taken weeks to convince Harys that vengeance would be a finer dish to taste than any at another feast in Joseph's honor. Daeron had been there for all the arguments and speeches, a wallflower in white armor.

Now he was decor once again, as still as the trees that dotted the hillsides, as silent as the breeze that brought the scent of distant campfires to his nose. Why couldn't I have gone with Merryweather's men? They're likely halfway to Crakehall by now.

The few battles fought so far had been small, skirmishes compared to the ones in the Greyjoy Rebellion Daeron grew up hearing his father talk about, but the Oakheart would have liked a chance to see them anyways.

When they made camp that night, Ser Florent went to the King's tent and Daeron was given his respite. He was debating on whether to spend the time sharpening his sword or reading from his worn and weathered copy of the Seven Pointed Star when the black and yellow banners were spotted through the darkness.

Jon Umber was a large man, but as his nickname suggested he was still smaller than most of the men of his house. When Halfjon dismounted his destrier, he was a good two heads taller than the Oakheart, and Daeron had to lift his gaze to meet his white cloaked brother's dark eyes.

They said strange and wild things about the Northern Knight, although half were untrue and the other half understatements. Daeron knew the latter well. Once whilst upon the road, the King had stopped in a village tavern for one of his sessions of refreshments, and whilst inspecting the town square they had come across a weeping woman in the stocks, naked as the day she was born.

Daeron had still been unsure of the huge man then, after all, he was far from Godly. Daeron had of course averted his eyes before any impure thoughts could cross his mind. He had expected the Northerner whose laugh was lusty enough to wake the dead to indulge his baser instincts and gawk at the poor girl.

Instead, the Knight had forced his way onto the platform and covered the girl with the white cloak from his back. He had bellowed for an explanation, and upon hearing the tale that she was a harlot, having been taken advantage of by a traveling Septon, Halfjon demanded her freedom at once.

The town bailiff had other ideas. He and his boys had gone for their staves, as had a few in the crowd. A couple even threw stones at the giant Northerner although it seemed to matter as much as rain on a mountain.

The fight had lasted about half a minute, and ended with the bailiff freeing the girl with blood pulsing from his nose whilst his three cronies moaned on the floor. The Umber for his part walked the girl home to her parents, leaving them with a purse of silver and a promise, that were her honor ever questioned again, the accuser would have to challenge him.

As the two Knights had made their way back to their King, the Northerner laughing amicably, Daeron had known that this giant was a brother in truth. From that day on, he had always looked forward to serving with Ser Jon. The huge man always seemed to have ridden out from some ballad or tale. Far more than even The Sword of the Morning, the Halfjon reminded Daeron of why he had chosen the white cloak.

"Well met, Oakheart." Jon clasped his arm and smiled his easy smile. The Northman's youthful face had grown stubbled since Daeron saw him last, but his grin was always the same. "Have you been keeping yourself entertained in our absence?"

Daeron watched as the rest of the cavalry unit came trotting into camp, torches illuminating grim faces, and tried to count their numbers. Are they so much lesser than when they left? Perhaps others stayed behind…

"I've been trying my best," Daeron replied. "But I confess it has been difficult. The feasts were chore enough, but now we're marching, too. Feast, march, feast, march. My legs are tired and I worry that soon my belt will no longer fit."

Jon laughed his booming laugh and gave the knight a good natured pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked Daeron off his feet. "Swiftblade, I do not think it possible for you to gain a stone if you tried. They ought to call you Skinnyblade, instead."

Daeron smiled weakly. "I'm glad you're back, brother. But your company looks decidedly smaller."

The Umber's grin faltered and he nodded. "Aye. Lord Loren Lannister does not fight fair. Will you walk with me? Let me practice breaking the news to a friend before I must face our King."

Daeron fell into step beside him, their pearly white armor glinting in the glow of the campfires they passed. Men were drinking and talking noisily around the flames, trading stories and wineskins, but Jon spoke in a low voice.

"You wouldn't believe the horrors I've seen in the Riverlands. Entire villages put to the torch, scorched holdfasts, flayed lords strung up on trees for the crows. The survivors won't even speak to us. They won't speak to anyone. They walk around as if dead. And those that don't, those that do find their tongues…" He glanced around nervously. "The stories they tell would turn your stomach."

Daeron furrowed his brow. "Stories like what?"

"Torture. Rape. Murder. And not just the soldiers, no, it's the smallfolk mostly that are feeling the lion's claws, and even the women and children are not spared. Loren bought himself some sellswords from the eastern continent. The Bright Banners, they are called. They have committed unspeakable atrocities in the usurper's name."

Torture, rape… War was hell, Daeron had heard it enough times from his father that he believed it even without the Umber's words. There, that's one thing that bitter old man taught me.

"Have you any word from Ser Raleigh?"

Jon shook his head. "None since Silverhill. They took the castle and sent a raven to King's Landing, threatening to hang the lord and his sons, but Loren could not even bother with a reply. A man like Lord Lannister isn't moved by threats of hanging, even when it's his own loyal vassals. Besides, he knows a bluff when he sees one. When we left for Bitterbridge, the Serretts were alive and well."

"Seven help us, at least we are on the side with honor." Daeron stared at his feet and sighed, and Jon smiled sympathetically.

"We may not share the same gods, but I share in your gratitude for that," Jon said. "The things I've seen… Loren Lannister's way is not the Northern way. Only a Lion would stoop to such lows in warfare. The North remembers."

Daeron fell silent as they walked through the camp, trying to think of what this news meant. Holding the moral high ground was paramount to the White Knight, but how many men lay dead and buried for their honor? How many kings?

"There's more news," Jon said after a time, glancing away from Daeron, his voice suddenly filled with hesitation. "Your father wishes to support Hightower and the Lion."

The knight stopped in his tracks. No. It cannot be. Daeron felt his stomach drop.

"Of course, I would never doubt your loyalty to His Grace," Jon quickly added, halting as well and placing a gloved hand on the shoulder of his brother. "Nor would anyone else. But… with Thaddius turning his cloak for his family… I would not be near His Grace when he hears this news, were I you."

The sympathetic smile was genuine, but it brought no comfort to Daeron. "I thought I'd speak with you first, before going to see the King," Jon explained. "Good luck, friend."

He turned and left, and Daeron stood dumbly between two rows of canvas tents, clutching his tattered copy of the Seven Pointed Star.

- AESLYN -

Ser Daelys was a quiet one, but he kept secrets, and Aeslyn could appreciate a man who knew how to hold his tongue. The knight bore the Valyrian features his house was known for, and kept his white mane long.

He was beautiful, but strangely uncomely. A little too reminiscent of her cousins perhaps. He did have a reputation, which was probably the reason he was serving her. The Dragonknight Come Again, some said, although his eyes lacked the true fiery violet, and his hair the true gold spun silver.

It also perturbed the Queen that he ignored her revealing gowns and actions. Sometimes she wondered whether he had a manhood down there at all.

He was waiting dutifully outside the door when Aeslyn slipped out, smoothing the skirts of her gown and putting her hair back into place.

"Did anyone pass by?" she asked, and his reply was the same as it always was.

"No, Your Grace."

"Good. Take me back to my chambers." She followed the knight in white plate down the long empty corridor, and cringed when she heard the door she had just come through open again before she had rounded the corner. I told Robert to wait ten minutes, not ten seconds… She did not dare turn to glance back, picking up her pace instead until at least she reached the entry to the royal apartments.

Ser Daelys opened the heavy doors for her and closed them behind her, too. She had to admit that manhood or not, he was terribly useful. The Queen went straight to her silvered looking glass, resting upon an oaken table littered with her jewelry in the warm and spacious anteroom, and lifted it to see her reflection. I look regal, she noted, searching her own features carefully, fingering the ruby brooch that hung about her neck. Her white blonde hair was pulled back tightly, braided and piled high atop her head in the southern fashion, and the small glittering tiara that topped it sparkled in the glass.

I look like a Queen.

The door creaked on its hinges, and she tilted the mirror to catch a glimpse of another crown.

"Your Grace!" Aeslyn set the glass down and whirled around to face him, smiling brilliantly. Her crimson gown carried a train longer than the dress itself, and it dragged across the floor as she hurried to throw her arms around Damon. She held him for a long moment, closing her eyes and nuzzling against his neck, reaching up to pull at a lock of his golden hair.

"It's so good to finally see you, my lord! I've been cooped up in this castle since I've arrived, with no one to talk to but Ser Daelys, and being apart from you is almost unbearable." Aeslyn reached up to stroke his cheek and Damon flinched, a look of apprehension on his face.

"It feels as though it's been ages since we've been alone," she went on, ignoring his hesitation. "They're always dragging you off somewhere, and no one ever tells me what's going on. I've spent every night in this bed by myself since I've arrived. I've missed you, Damon," she said, pulling away at last. Aeslyn turned her gaze upwards to his face and tried to read his blank expression.

Is he angry with me? Displeased? Why isn't he smiling? He's always smiling...

"Damon, you haven't said anything yet… You haven't even said hello."

"I'm just surprised to see you, is all." He looked past her, studying the bedroom as if it were the first time he were in it. He made to step around her, but she put herself in his path like a guardsman.

"Surprised?" she said. "Why? Where else would I be but within our chambers, waiting for my king?"

Does he know? She searched his green eyes confusedly, her own violet orbs filled with hurt, but he only seemed indifferent. Impatient. Distracted.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Somewhere else? Doing queenly things?"

Aeslyn's eyes darkened, and her face fell. "Queenly things," she repeated, an icy tinge to her voice. "You think I'm doing a poor job as your Queen, is that it?"

"What? I didn't say-"

"You didn't have to say it, Damon." She spun around, turning her back to him, and folded her arms across her chest. "I understand exactly what you meant. Don't lie to me. You think I'm not being queenly enough. I can see the disappointment in your face, and that other Velaryon man, with the queer eyes, the bastard. He looks at me the same way. Expectant. Like he's waiting for me to do something but he won't tell me what. And your father, he won't even look at me at all."

"That's nothing to take personally, Aeslyn, he doesn't look at me much either-"

She whirled around again and jabbed a finger against his chest, cutting him off. "I know what the duties of a Queen are, but how am I to provide you with an heir if you won't come see me?"

What they say of men is true, she realized, studying his confused expression. He has no interest in me now that the wedding and the bedding are done with. How dare he! I am living in the den of Lions. Does he want me to wake the Dragon?

"I've been very busy, in case you've failed to notice, every single day-"

"You're never here!" she interrupted again. "I don't even have a clue where you go half the time! You could be lounging in some brothel all day for all I know!" Yes, that's it, that's where he is, that's why he doesn't want me, he has his fill from whores!

"A brothel? Have you taken leave of your senses?" Damon took a small step backwards, trying to put some distance between them. "When do you think I'd find the time for that? Do you think I have the luxury of lounging anywhere? My Father-"

"See?!" Aeslyn's expression changed yet again, as a victorious smile spread across her face. "You would be in a brothel, you simply don't have the time for it! You just said so yourself!"

Damon glanced helplessly towards the door, eyes filled with regret. "I said no such thing," he argued. "Stop putting words into my mouth."

"Don't lie to me, Damon. I'm no fool. I knew your reputation before I married you, I knew who you were, what you've done. How many? Hm? How many women have shared your bed?"

If before he had looked helpless, Damon appeared absolutely panicked now. He glanced again at the door and took another step toward it. "Aeslyn, I don't understand what you're asking me, and I don't understand why you're behaving this way. I just wanted to get some sleep-"

"Sleep with me, then!" she begged, grasping at his shirt with both hands and pulling him back to her. "I'm your wife, and I'm tired of this lonely bed! Why won't you take me?" she asked, running one hand down his side and reaching up to caress his face with the other. "Like you did on our wedding night?"

He's so handsome, and I'm beautiful, doesn't he see how perfect we are for each other? She cut off any reply by pressing her mouth to his, guiding him to the bedroom and the bed they should share, were meant to share. Damon stumbled somewhat as she forced him backwards onto the blankets, and looked up at her with shock as she climbed on top of him.

"Don't you want me?" she murmured as she straddled him, leaning down and brushing her lips against his. She took his hands in hers and placed them on her hips before guiding them upwards along the curves of her body. "I'm yours," she promised. "Only yours."

She kissed him again, before he could manage a response, and then fumbled for the fastenings of his trousers. "Let me show you my queenly duties," she murmured while covering his neck in a frenzy of kisses. "Let me show you what a Queen is."

What else would he want of me? she thought desperately. He can't expect me to sit with my nose buried in a book concerning the realm's finances as Danae would likely do.

The thought made her blood run cold and she froze on top of him. She released her grip on his belt and her hands started to tremble before she burst into tears, the memories flowing equally unbidden.

"Aeslyn?" Damon looked up at her in bewilderment. "What's wrong? Did I do something-"

"No, no, you didn't do anything," she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's her, it's Danae! It's always Danae!"

"Who?"

Her shoulders shook with sobs, and her tears dampened his clothing as she rested her head against his chest and wept.

"He always loved her more," she wailed. "Why? She killed our mother! How could he forgive her? How could he adore her? Everyone liked her best, Father and Alester and Rhaegar, him most of all, the way he lusted after her…"

She lifted her head and her cheeks were red and stained with tears, but her violet eyes were blazing as she looked into his. "I bet you would want her, too. I bet you would think she's more beautiful than I, I bet you would never keep her waiting on you, all alone. You would rush to her bed each night the way our cousin sought to!"

"Aeslyn, I didn't even know you had a sister-"

"I told you about her, Damon! You never listen to me!" She pressed her face against his chest once more, grasping at his shirt with her fists, and sobbed against him. He is scum, scum, scum. Just like the rest. Playing games with me like some wooden knight.

"Seven Hells…" she thought she heard him mumble. She cried until there were no tears left, and all the while he lay stiffly beneath her, occasionally stroking her hair. It felt like ages before he finally spoke again.

"Look, if we're not going to…"

"Going to what?" Aeslyn asked, pushing herself up so that she could frown at him, wiping her tear streaked face with the sleeve of her gown.

"Well," Damon shifted uncomfortably beneath her. "It's just that I have a lot of things I could be doing right now. Also, you're sort of sitting on certain...parts. It's rather painful, really, and there's much to do before I go to Stonehelm-"

"Stonehelm?" She glared. "Why would you go to Stonehelm? Your place is here, with me. What is in Stonehelm?"

Damon looked confused. "I thought you would have heard. Ser Ulrich Dayne and Lord Swann raised an army and garrisoned themselves there on Cape Wrath. I'm taking the fleet around the coast and Connington is coming from the north. If you could just…" His hands were on her waist and for a moment she thought it might have been a gesture of affection, but he was easing her off of him then, gently, and trying to sit up.

She grabbed him by the wrists and roughly yanked his hands from her hips, pinning them over his head and forcing him onto his back once more. Her violet eyes were filled with fury as she leaned down close to his face.

He frowned unhappily. "Aeslyn, I'm really not into this sort of thing-"

"So Ulrich Dayne calls your name, and you go running to him like he's some whore you want to fuck," she snarled. "And what about me? I am the Queen, and I am your wife. A king may have a duty to the realm, but a man has a duty to his wife, first. What if I told you that I were with child? That right now your heir grows inside of me, the crown prince, the next king of Westeros? Would that not soften your heart?"

Damon hesitated. "Well," he said slowly, "Then I suppose that would mean I really don't need to remain here, wouldn't it? Your Queenly duties are done with. May I leave now?"

He slipped his hands from hers and this time she was too shocked and appalled by his words to protest as he lifted her off of him delicately. How could he be so uncaring, so cruel, so indifferent…

"What is wrong with you?!" she finally cried, gathering her skirts about her as she knelt on the bed. "Look at me!"

Damon had stood and set to work fastening his belt but she grabbed him by the arm and yanked him so that he would face her once more.

"I am the Queen!" she declared, slamming her other fist against the mess of pillows and blankets. "I am the most beautiful Queen that ever was, and you act as though I am invisible!"

She was surprised to hear him laugh. "Me?" he asked. "What's wrong with you? I thought you were a Targaryen, the blood of Dragons." He smiled his lazy smile. "Since when do dragons weep and moan over the opinion of lions?"

How dare he. How dare he throw my blood in my face like that.

"I am not a Dragon!" she seethed. "I am a Lion, you wrapped the cloak about my shoulders yourself!"

Memories of the wedding day were among Aeslyn's most cherished. He had held her so close, so tenderly. Did he love me then? Does he now?

Damon looked perplexed as he pulled himself free of her grip. "It's just a cloak, Aeslyn. A ceremony. The only reason my father had us married in the first place was because of your House, you're not meant to discard it like some soiled rag. Why do you think your family's banners hang beside my own?"

"My father," she repeated, sneering. "My father this, my father that. Is he all you can ever speak of? Do you know who my father was, Damon? A fisherman, poor as dirt, without a shred of dignity. Fleeing from Essos like a scolded dog." She spat the words like venom. "I do not look over my shoulder for my father's cloak, or my father's House. I love you, Damon. And I need to know that you love me too."

He glanced hesitantly towards the door.

"Aeslyn, now's really not the time-"

"Answer me, Damon!" Her voice broke as she stared up at him, purple eyes welling with tears once more, but he continued to avoid her gaze, searching the room desperately like a cornered animal looking for an escape.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, defeated. "Aeslyn, I don't even know you… How could I possibly love you?"

Damon placed a hand on her shoulder and she pushed it away, rising and wiping tears from her eyes.

"Ser Daelys!" she called shrilly, and the knight came hurrying into the bedchamber. He glanced from Aeslyn, standing near the bed, her face tear stained and red, eyes puffy from crying, her skirts all a tangled mess, to Damon who stood fastening his trousers. The knight frowned as he bowed.

"Your Graces."

"Prepare a litter," she said. "I wish to visit the Royal Sept." She saw the understanding in his eyes as he nodded, her hidden meaning understood. The Sept was where she had first met Robert. Robert, who listened. Robert, who called her beautiful. Robert, who did as he was bidden and never mentioned that she was a Dragon. Ser Daelys always did as he was told, too.

Aeslyn could appreciate a man who knew how to follow orders.

- DANAE -

The party rode long and hard for the many days following the attack. They ate in the saddle and stopped only for short periods of rest during which no one slept soundly, least of all Danae.

Another day was dawning, rays of light filtering dimly through the harsh smoky air. Her chest had began to hurt from the foul wind, and she had wrapped a torn bit of her tunic around her lower face to try to reduce the ash in her lungs.

It did little to help.

She was so weary she was almost swaying on her horse, and the others seemed in no better condition. James looked pale, his dark eyes rimmed with even darker circles. Even Summer looked exhausted, her blonde hair caked with dirt and mud.

An ever-present, low-pitched hum rang in her ears both during the day and in her dreams. It had begun after the fight on the Demon Road, and only grew louder as they traveled closer to the city. No one else had commented on the hum, so she dared not mention it for fear of sounding mad.

Her body felt as though it vibrated with an unseen force. Her head was full and clouded, and her stomach queasy. She slept fitfully at night, and when she was finally able to drift off, her dreams were as vivid as they were violent.

She had dreamt every night since Volantis of rabid tigers and elephants, a lion devouring its enemies, and rays of burning sun beating down on her as she lay bleeding in the boiling desert sand.

But as the group approached Oros, a new dream came to her.

She closed her eyes for sleep, and when she opened them she found herself surrounded by blackness. The only thing present in the dark was that incessant vibration, resonating throughout her body like an unknown energy. A small, golden light in the distance caught her eye and she heard the faint cries of a dragon calling to her. As she approached the light, it grew into a fire and the tongues licked against her body until the flames extinguished and she found herself face to face with a monstrous gold and white dragon.

The beast opened his maw and snapped at her, his teeth tearing at her dress until she was standing naked in the blackness. Golden flames engulfed her body, purging and cleansing her.

Summer would have called the dream a nightmare, but Danae always awoke from the dragon's fire feeling reborn and able to withstand the heat and ash of another day on the Demon Road.

It is Persion, she thought, strengthening me, keeping me whole, keeping me sane.

As they neared their destination, a strong gust blew in from the sea, warm and smelling of salt, and ahead rose a vast, shattered ruin. Danae frowned as it came into view, bringing her horse to a stop and wiping the sweat from her brow as Summer rode on ahead.

Is this it? Is this what we have come all this way for?

Surely Oros had once been a mighty city of the ancient Valyrian Freehold, with massive walls and soaring towers, but what lay before them now was only a shadow of that former glory. Twisted, half-melted spires still rose into the sky, but many of the structures had crumbled in the Doom and the thousands of years since.

The city was a dilapidated ruin.

An ever-present cloud of smoke and fog clung to the air despite the new breeze, and piles of windswept sand clogged the ash-covered streets. The cracked and hard ground felt hot to the touch, while snake-like tendrils of smoke climbed slowly into the air.

Summer looked over her shoulder at the rest of the party, locked eyes with Danae, and gave a sweeping bow from horseback.

"Your Grace," she said. "Welcome to Oros."

Danae opened her mouth to reply, but a fit of coughing overcame her, and she doubled over from the effort. High above, Persion screamed.

The ringing in her ears intensified as her dragon's cries grew louder. Catching her breath, she turned in the saddle to watch him soar overhead, high above the smoke and ash and ruin.

The magic is strengthening him, she thought as he called to her loudly. She craned her neck back to watch him fly and her body shook with another fit of coughing. Her mind swam in the haze of smoke, and she felt herself growing weak as her vision blurred. Persion tilted in the sky as the ground rushed up to meet her.

Everything went dark. The ringing ceased.

And she did not dream of dragons.

- THE MAESTER -

The flames rose higher, devouring the tangled rose bushes of the maze and licking the white curtain walls.

How could this happen?

Olyvar leaned out the tower window, the links of his metal chain dangling over the dark and empty space.

"Is it bad?" a feeble voice asked behind him. The steward of Highgarden was wringing his hands when the maester turned to face him, a look of distraught on his weathered face.

"See for yourself," Olyvar said, pushing away from the window's ledge and quickly crossing the room to his desk.

"I can't." Robert shook his balding head. "I can't bear it, I cannot. I'm too frightened. Your father, oh, gods, what would your father say?"

Seven help me, Olyvar thought bitterly as he began to rummage through his desk. Little Mellara is braver than this man by miles. He pulled forth a stack of letters, a collection of maps, a pile of parchment, and then hurried to the fireplace.

"What will we do?" Robert moaned. "We haven't the men to throw them back, they've all gone east with the King and Lord Baelor, we've no one here! We've no one to save us! The Lannisters will hang every last one of us before-"

"Those aren't Lannisters," Olyvar interrupted impatiently, kneeling before the hearth. "Those are Golden Company men outside the gates."

"G- Golden Company?" Robert Meadow's face was already as white as a sheet, but what precious little color was left drained at the mention of the famous sellsword company. "B-But… But how?! Who?"

Olyvar began to feed the papers to the flames in the fireplace, all the while thinking of the ones outside the castle walls. How long would it take for the gates to fall? How long would it take the sellswords to climb the fortifications and turn the winch? Minutes? Hours?

He stood once he had burned the last, and pulled his hood over his head. His robes were rough wool and gray, and trailed behind him as he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" demanded the Castellan, catching him by the arm as he passed. "You cannot leave me here! I don't know what to do!"

"I'm not leaving you anywhere," Olyvar answered, annoyed. "You're coming with me. We have to get ready."

"Ready for what?" Robert's lower lip quivered.

"The Hightowers," he said.

The pair made their way down the winding stairs of the rookery together, Olyvar leading and Robert following closely on his heels, whimpering and wringing his hands some more.

"Oh mercy, oh mercy," he kept saying, mumbling it over and over again until Olyvar found himself fantasizing about giving the man a good shove down the rest of the steps.

It was closer to minutes than hours, as it turned out. By the time Olyvar and the castellan reached the Great Hall, the gates had been thrown open, the sentinels slaughtered where they stood.

"They climbed the walls," Edric explained nervously when he met them in the vacant throne room, clad head to toe in steel and panting like a dog. "Shall I order the guards to stand down?"

Lord Meadows only blinked. "I… I…"

"Yes," Olyvar answered. "Have the men lay down their arms, we cannot hold off the entire company, and even if we could, there are no Roses to defend here. The castle is empty. There is nothing here to protect but stone walls and ourselves."

Thank the Seven for that. He thought of Maude and Mellara with their father, Troy and Benjen, too, and Meredyth safe at Horn Hill with the Tarlys. There were no Tyrells in Highgarden, only him.

The doors to the Great Hall opened with a bang, and the invaders strode over the threshold like conquerors landing on a smoking shore.

"BURN IT ALL," roared the man who led the brutes, all wiry muscle and sharp angles. Wavy dark hair escaped from beneath his half-helm, and a neatly trimmed mustache decorated his upper lip.

"You!" he bellowed, pointing a ringed finger in Robert's direction. "Who holds this castle for Lord Baelor?"

Robert trembled where he stood, and Olyvar half expected the man to soil himself then and there. "I… I do, good ser. To whom do I speak?"

"Ser?" the man repeated, looking to the men at his side and laughing. They did not laugh along, but it did not seem to dampen his joy. "You are speaking to Lord Gylen Hightower, Voice of Oldtown, Lord of the Port, Defender of the Citadel, and Beacon of the South. And you should bow before your conqueror."

The steward dropped to his knees with a whimper as the Golden Company men pushed past him, torches in hand, disappearing down the corridors noisily.

"Please," Robert blubbered. "Take the keep, but leave the torches. Fire is so final."

A mailed fist sent the steward's bloody teeth skittering across the stone floor.

"Burn him," the Hightower Lord said.

A wordless moan escaped Meadow's shattered mouth. One of the soldiers stepped forward, an oilskin in hand, and tipped it over the steward's head. He lowered his torch, and when it caught, the fire engulfed flesh, hair, and clothing with a soft whoosh.

Robert's scream rose alongside the smoke and the smell of charred skin. Olyvar looked away, his stomach lurching.

"You," Gylen said, turning and seeing him for perhaps the first time. "Maester. I have a wound for you to tend."

It was then that Olyvar noticed the blood oozing from the Hightower's forehead, a slow trickle nearly lost beneath his thick hair. A laceration. Shallow. Falling debris?

"I will need my supplies." Olyvar said. The room smelled of acrid cooking flesh and he was finding it difficult to concentrate.

"You two." Gylen nodded to a pair of axemen. "You will accompany us to the maester's chambers." He turned his steely gaze back to Olyvar. "Lead us, or burn like the others."

The hallways were filled with smoke and Olyvar held his arm over his face as they walked, breathing through his sleeve. From the distance came the shrieks and wails of women, but it was Robert's voice he heard over and over again in his head as they climbed the turret stair of the rookery.

"It isn't much further," he said to break the silence.

Gylen only laughed. "You'd need more stairs than these to daunt me."

Inside his chambers, Olyvar found cloth and salves, oils and bandages. He piled what he needed into his arms and brought them to a table as Gylen slowly explored the room. The lord ran his hand along cluttered shelves, narrowing his eyes at the various vials, jars, and silver beakers.

"It will be difficult to treat you if you continue to move about the room," Olyvar remarked. "I have steady hands, but not that steady."

Gylen snorted his disapproval, but came to the table anyway and sat down heavily. The chair groaned beneath the weight of his armor.

Olyvar chose one of the bottles, a small one whose label had all but disintegrated, and shook some of its liquid-like contents onto a rag. Gylen flinched when it touched his forehead and swore.

"What is that?" he demanded. "It stings worse than a hornet bite."

"My apologies, my lord." Olyvar added some more to the cloth and kept at his work despite the Hightower's curses. "There are worse things than stinging. Infection, for one. That would leave you longing for something so gentle. Firemilk..." He set the rag down and held up the vial, "will prevent that. Do I have your permission to continue healing you?"

The Lord regarded the maester with a mixture of suspicion and disgust, but Olyvar took his lack of a reply as consent and began to prepare a bandage.

"You've been in this castle long, have you?" Gylen asked.

"I have." Olyvar pressed the bandage against the laceration ungently and let it soak up the blood.

"Maesters don't generally choose where they are sent, do they? The conclave decides for them." The question did not seem a question at all, and Olyvar continued his work silently. The Hightower Lord watched him with sly eyes. "Did it sting when they sent you back to your father's keep?"

Olyvar tensed only a moment, his back turned, before unwinding a long bandage.

"Maesters have no fathers."

Gylen leaned forward in his seat.

"Then you will not have to mourn for Lord Baelor's coming death."

Olyvar let out a shaky breath.

"How curious," Gylen said, reclining once more, "that an heir to a castle and a kingdom would leave it all for some metal links and a chain. And so young, still. Do you ever regret it? Do you look at your younger brother and think of what could have been yours?"

He did not answer.

"No matter. One is dead, and the other will soon follow."

That gave Olyvar pause. Time enough for a sick smile to appear on the Hightower's face.

"Did you know?" Gylen continued, "Your sisters have been captured, your brother's dead, his head removed from his shoulders. Your whole family, on the verge of being completely obliterated. Dead, all of them."

Olyvar looked away, trying not to think of Benjen and Maude, Troy and little Mellara.

"Maesters have no family," he whispered.

- JOJEN -

Jojen pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders as he crossed the castle yard. The wind tried its hardest to tug it away, but the Stark clutched the fur tightly in gloved hands and trudged onwards over the snow covered yard, past the archery targets and the stables, under the stone arches and to the old oak doors of the keep. They said this had been a mild winter.

Mild for the south, perhaps, but never for the North.

He had just come from meeting with the Mormonts. At least the loyalty of the Bears could be counted on, in spite of everything. Dacey had patted Jojen on the shoulder, nearly toppling him in the process as she offered words of condolences and understanding.

"The North will always stand for the Starks," she had told him, though her eyes were lacking their usual cheer. He was unaccustomed to seeing her without a mug of ale in hand. The Mormonts had always been the loudest of his father's guests when Winterfell filled each year for its feast.

Father… Jojen pushed thoughts of Lord Torren away quickly, and he stripped off his cloak once in the warmth of the castle, shaking off the snow so that it could puddle on the ground just inside the hall.

"Lord Jojen?" Eddard's voice interrupted his thoughts, and the memories of toasty halls, freshly baked bread, bitter northern ale and laughing fur cloaked lords gave way to the reality of the cold and empty antechamber.

Lord. I am a Lord, now.

He turned to face the old maester, and when he spoke Jojen's voice sounded almost as grim as his father's always had. "What is it, Eddard?"

"Ravens from the south," the stooped man said. "I left the messages on Ed- on your desk, my lord."

"I will read them later."

The maester bowed his head. Jojen's stomach sank at the prospect of a table stacked with parchment. He hadn't yet responded to the letters from yesterday, and now already more were awaiting him. Any news from the south would be ill gotten. The Reach's army was marching. The West's army was marching. The Vale's army was marching. The Riverlands' army was marching. Dark wings, dark words.

"Eddard," Jojen said slowly, looking at the floor for a long moment before lifting his blue eyes to meet the maester's. "Am I a Stark?"

The Maester smiled, but it was a sad one. "I pulled you from your mother myself, Jojen. Yes, you are a Stark."

"I don't much feel like one," he muttered, abandoning the cloak and plodding off down the hall. The stairwell to his sister's room was narrow and dimly lit, and Jojen ran a hand along the warm stone walls as he ascended, trying to work out what he would say when he found her. Ysela had wept when he told her of Edmure, throwing herself into his arms and letting her tears fall onto his coarse wool tunic.

"You're here to tell me you're leaving, aren't you?" she asked when he pushed open the door to her chamber, looking up from her lap. She was seated on her bed, their mother's cloak wrapped about her shoulders. She was practically drowning in the fur. Jojen let his hand fall away from the curved brass door handle.

"Tomorrow," he told her. "At first light."

Ysela stared back at her hands. "And what about Symeon? Does he know?"

Symeon. Jojen hadn't told him. In fact, he hadn't spoken with his brother at all since the Godswood, thought he could not say exactly why. Was it shame that made him avoid the youngest Stark boy? Guilt?

I have nothing to feel guilty for. Edmure forced my hand. He gave me no choice. The decision was not mine, it was the gods'.

He crossed the bedroom floor, leaving wet bootprints on the gray stone, and took a seat on the bed beside her, trying to think of what he could possibly say. Should I explain myself? Should I justify what I am doing? But when he looked at his younger sister, he saw no judgement in her face. No hatred. No apprehension. Not like when he looked at the lords who had come to join their banners with his, Devorn Thenn with his Bronze Shield, looking as though he was carved of ice, the Glovers with the roots of the Wolfswood through their bones. Northerners, through and through.

"Don't go, Jojen." Ysela stared up at her brother with pleading eyes.

"You have nothing to fear, little wolf." He pushed a strand of copper colored hair from Ysela's forehead and smiled faintly. I will be back before you can even miss me."

She chewed her lip doubtfully. "Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Jojen hated himself as soon as he said it, but the words seemed to reassure her. Nevertheless, when he left her chambers and took the dark winding stairway back to the main keep, his heart felt heavy.

What if Thaddius doesn't even remember me... What if he doesn't want to remember?

He was halfway down the turret stair when he found himself stopping, pausing before a foggy pane.

Through the narrow window he could glimpse the rolling snowy hills outside the castle walls, dotted with campfires and canvas tents, banners of green, yellow, and red hanging limp in the breezeless evening. The sun would dip behind the horizon soon, and the banners would all become black.

Is Ysela right? Is this my last sunset in this castle?

He watched the fiery red sun sink behind the forest, making the naked trees look as though they were ablaze.

- ULRICH-

The storm had followed the Griffin's host throughout their march to Stonehelm. Day and night the thunder and lightning rolled overhead, yet the rain was strangely absent. Down the Griffin's Neck they marched, and through the hills and valleys of Crow's Nest. They camped in the mountains for a night, and they camped in the Rainwood when they could, but for every hour of rest they had three along the road to Stonehelm.

The scouts tracked their movements diligently, and when the army crossed the ridge into the valley with warhorns sounding their arrival, the drumming of the soldiers' march echoing against the mountains, the great stone castle stood, stoic and undisturbed.

As did Ser Ulrich Dayne.

He gazed out at the mass of troops assembling their camp in the distance from atop the battlements, white cloak billowing out behind him on the salty breeze.

"Looks like Connington has arrived," he observed aloud.

Lord Byron Swann nodded grimly. "Caron, too. I had hoped those rumors to be false." He could not pull his sight away from the yellow banners, their black nightingales twisting in the wind.

"They do not outnumber us," Ulrich said hopefully. "We have fifteen thousand in these walls, and your fortress makes each of those men worth at least three of theirs below."

"Aye, fifteen thousand green boys and peasants. A pitchfork is a poor weapon, castle or not."

"King Harys-"

"-is not coming," Lord Byron finished. "Don't give me your King's excuses. I'm an old man, Ulrich. I may not know how to play this game, but I've known its players for a long time. I've known Harys and his brothers as boys, Renly and Loren and Connington as young men. I've known you since you were a child, barely strong enough to lift a sword."

Ulrich had to admit that. Harys was far from the commander that Ulrich was himself. I hope he can take back King's Landing without my help, the Knight thought, letting Byron's talk pass through his mind. It will be difficult, but the rest of the Kingsguard are almost a match for me.

"Though I may be old now, I'm no fool." The Lord of Stonehelm turned to the knight. "This will be my last battle." He clasped Ulrich at the shoulder. "It will be as good as any to die at your side."

Ulrich said nothing. He knew well his mentor's great regard for him. The Knight knew that from the Salt Shore to the Wall, people talked of Lord Byron as being the man who taught the Sword of the Morning.

The air felt heavy and damp and he was beginning to sweat in his armor despite the breeze. The sound of hurried footsteps on the stone walkway made Ulrich turn.

Martyn's expression was grave. This is his first taste of war, Ulrich thought, At least he has the sense to treat it with sobriety. He should have spent more time in the yard, I could still knock him on his arse without breaking sweat.

"Sails," his younger brother reported. "With the Lannister banner flying at the masts."

Lord Byron glanced uneasily to Ulrich.

"How many?" he asked.

Martyn's frown only deepened, and Ulrich answered the question for him.

"Enough."

He pushed away from the castle wall and began marching down the ramparts, leaving Lord Byron behind to contemplate his fate and Martyn chasing after him.

"The usurper wishes to parlay," he told Ulrich.

"Damon has always been fond of talk," the knight muttered. "His tongue has saved his skin as many times as it has gotten him into trouble." He thought back on their conversation in the throne room, the last time they had spoken. I should have cut it from his throat then and there. It will be hard to resist correcting that if he wants to talk.

"You cannot seriously think to meet with him." Martyn looked worried. "Lannisters have no honor, brother, who knows what sort of trickery the usurper has planned."

Ulrich did not respond. He kept his gaze trained ahead, on the ocean that stretched out in the distance beyond the castle, dotted with warships. Gulls cried above his head.

"If you insist on meeting with him, at least take me with you," the younger Dayne pleaded.

"No, Martyn. You have a Princess who needs you alive."

Ulrich hadn't even had time to think on the news his brother had given him when he arrived at Stonehelm a week ago. He and Sarella, betrothed. And what did you expect, Ulrich? he asked himself. You wear a white cloak. You will hold no lands and take no wife and in a day's time you will likely hold no pulse nor take sweet breath.

"If I cared about living, brother, I wouldn't have left Sunspear." Martyn stopped and grabbed Ulrich by the arm. "I'm here, Ulrich. Let me help you."

Ulrich pulled away. As he made his way back to the castle alone, his thoughts were only of Sarella.

He assembled a small guard, Swann men mostly, choosing the older ones and soldiers with complete armor, something not every man in their host could boast. A boy held the rainbow banner of peace, and Lord Byron joined the party as they made their way to the beach, the longships of the Lannisters being dragged ashore before them.

"I did not know lions could swim," muttered Byron.

Ulrich spotted the usurper easily. Apart from the armor and the crown upon his head, Damon looked much the same as Ulrich remembered him from the feast, handsome and golden, smiling in that particular way of his. Ulrich could never tell if it were a mocking grin or a genuine one. Damon stepped from the boat into the surf with the gracefulness of born sailor, the waves rushing over his boots.

"His mother was a Greyjoy," Ulrich muttered, not breaking his gaze. "Though I fear he is twice as slippery as the squid on her sigil." As the would-be King approached, Ulrich called out his greeting. "Lord Lannister! You've risen up in the world since last we spoke."

"Indeed I have, Ser Dayne!" Damon removed his crown for a moment to run a hand through a head of tousled curls, the same color as the sand of the beach they stood upon. He returned it to his brow as he approached the knight. "You know, people have started putting a 'king' before my name as of late. It's very puzzling."

He looked up at the battlements of Stonehelm looming behind the Dayne, then at the men in the parlay party that stood at his back.

"Almost as puzzling as a dead man starting a rebellion."

Ulrich allowed himself a chuckle and strode forward to meet the man. Lannisters... Blonde of hair, sharp of wit.

"Death didn't suit me," he said, "and so I lived instead. Now the two of us cross paths once more, you a king, and me a dead man." He nodded at Damon's shield arm, hanging limply at his side. "Did Joseph do that to you?" And did you think you could hide it from me?

"I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, Ser Ulrich," Damon replied, ignoring the question. "But we are here to discuss war."

Ulrich smirked, though his eyes remained sad. I could kill this false King before he even drew his sword.

Damon turned and gestured to the fleet of longships in the harbor, near half a hundred war galleys, groaning and rocking in the gentle current of the Dornish sea.

"Lannister soldiers, and some from the Velaryon's companies," he explained. "I believe you have already met many of these men. Tell me, do you have a tower to leap from this time, as well?"

Ulrich's fingers itched, aching to reach for the pommel of the sword that should have been Dawn at his hip, but to do so during a parlay would be considered a grave affront and so he stilled his hand.

"War? I had hoped we could avoid it, truth be told. Many of my soldiers are just green boys and elderly men. The boys hope for glory with my name attached to theirs and the men hope for one last victory before they pass."

"There is no glory in slaughtering boys and I would not do it gladly," Damon conceded. "You say you wish to avoid war but tell me, Ulrich, why call your banners? Why are you garrisoned in this castle by the sea? Your name carries weight, and with that responsibility. If you lead this rag tag army of your worshippers into the Lion's maw, their blood will stain your hands. Why would you do it?"

"Because I am a man who keeps his vows, Damon. Your brother ought to take heed. I march these peasants not because I want to, not to spite their lords or to plunder the seven kingdoms, no. I march in honor of promises made and vows kept. I march, friend, because my King demands it. Because my King needs it."

Damon offered a half smile.

"Ulrich, you march towards madness. Words," he said, shaking his head. "Words are wind. Promises and vows are empty breaths. If a fish swore a vow to live on land, he would still die the moment he attempted to crawl ashore. I understand that your own survival means little to you - after all, you're already dead. But the men behind you?" he nodded at the castle, "They have sworn no vows to your king. Why should those fish have to die gasping for breath in the sand when they could live out their lives happily in good health?"

Ulrich stared down at his feet.

"Because you are not my king, Damon. I called for help because I cannot stand alone, and they answered. They will die heroes' deaths beside me, and songs will still be sung of them when your name is gone from the earth."

He stood straighter and squared his shoulders, looking up at the usurper with determination.

"Surrender, Damon, and I promise you your men will be free to go back to Bloodstone. You'll be treated as an honored guest, and we'll ride back to King's Landing together. You'll send your bannermen home and let Harys take back his rightful place. You won't be harmed. I give you my word. Don't let this day end in bloodshed, or I shall look for you on the field."

And you won't want that.

Damon turned to look over his shoulder at the harbor, crowded with ships bearing his house's sigil, then back to Stonehelm, its palisades lined with Ulrich's somber, haggard army. Ulrich could tell that uncertainty had entered the Lion's head. The prospect of facing the honorable, called by the very Sword of the Morning himself, was bringing doubt to the usurper's mind.

"Surrender?" Damon repeated, petty bravado clear to the Knight. "Ser Dayne, you are most generous. But no, I do not think that I will be sailing back to King's Landing just yet. Not without you onboard. Do not misunderstand me, I am certain that you would be a most gracious host at Bloodstone. But I am not interested in giving the Iron Throne to the Stag."

His sarcasm was not lost on Ulrich, nor the men behind him. Do they know as well as Damon the way this battle will end?

"Here are my terms, then," the Lannister said. "You are to turn around and send these white beards and children home. You, along with the Lords and Houses who have sworn themselves to your blade, will sail to King's Landing as prisoners of war, traitors seized before a doomed rebellion."

"You will be given the chance to bend your knee before me and my Dragon Queen, as the realm looks on, and swear your allegiance to the Iron Throne once more. Do you wish for me to state your alternative? Or is the sight of it behind me promise enough?"

"No, I think we've both made our stances quite clear. It seems I shall see you on the field of battle."

Ulrich turned to go, but something came to his mind suddenly and he frowned before turning back to the Lion who would be king.

"I'll miss your wit and your japes, Damon. But answer me this. I can't help but ponder...are you proud of yourself? Do you sleep comfortably at night, knowing that your ascension to the throne was built on a web of lies and knives in the dark? A stairway of dishonor and broken promises?"

Damon laughed. "That is a foolish question, Ulrich," he replied. "I do not sleep at night."

Ulrich gave a sad smile, and turned away to head back to the castle. His white cloak billowed upon the sea breeze like a lonely banner.

- JAMES -

James sat beside his Queen in the hot, cracked sand, stroking the hair from her face as he kept watch for any dangers. Persion circled restlessly overhead as the sun made its way across the smoke-covered skies, mirroring the worry in James' heart.

The others had ventured into the ruins hours past. Summer, the remaining guards, and the Grand Maester. James clenched his teeth as he thought of the man's departing words. The dragon is why we are here, he had said, and James had wished to kill him for it.

The baked earth stretched on seemingly endlessly. When a foul breeze whipped the ash off the ground, it stank and burned in his eyes. This land was dead in a thousand ways, truly lost to mankind.

The young Queen felt so delicate in his arms, like some fragile animal. She seemed almost weightless, a toy princess here only in some child's play. It was strange to think that this was where her blood came from, the very air seemed to be at odds with her.

James was busy staring at the dragon - and not the one he held - when Danae stirred in his arms, awakening and beginning another fit of coughing. He helped her into a sitting position, but soon she was swatting his hands away, dropping to all fours and vomiting onto the dusty road.

He fumbled for his canteen, pulling it from his belt and offering it to her when she finished. Her body was drenched in sweat and when he placed a hand on her back, her skin was hot to the touch.

"His shadow grows larger every day," Danae remarked once she drank and sat up painfully, her face turning up to the sky and her violet eyes scanning the clouds for her dragon. "I will not allow this place to kill me."

"Neither will I," James replied.

She pressed a filthy palm to her forehead, wincing. Blood was slowly beginning to seep through the bandages on her arm and her face was growing pale.

"You should rest, Your Grace."

She closed her eyes and he helped ease her onto her back onto the hot packed dirt, taking his place at her side again, alternating his gaze between the dragon in the skies and the one in his arms.

The others returned some time later, Summer striding ahead and the Grand Maester ambling behind her.

"It is of little value, I think. The ruins have no true meaning," James heard him saying. He watched Orin slip an obsidian stone deep inside one of the many pockets of his cloak.

Summer was swinging a dead lizard by the tail and gave James a coy smile when she caught sight of him. James returned the grin with confusion until he noticed that he had been holding Danae's hand in his. He dropped it quickly, his cheeks burning, but Summer made no mention of it as she set to work building a fire.

"We'll look again tomorrow," Grand Maester Orin said, "and the day after that."

James watched him make camp through narrowed eyes. She may not have that long.

The scent of cooked meat drifted to his nostrils and his mouth watered at the thought of a hot meal as he watched Summer pull the small animal off her crudely fashioned spit.

He wasn't the only one who was hungry. The dragon's scream erupted from the sky and Summer dropped the lizard and scrambled away as Persion dove and claimed the prize for his own. Golden flame spilled forth from his jaws onto the already charred remains of Summer's catch as it lay abandoned in the hard, scorched earth of Oros.

Dragonfire hit the magical ruin of Old Valyria for the first time in centuries.

Ash, smoke, and fire filled the sky. The ground shook, and cracks began to split the earth, erupting from the rock and ash. Summer made a mad dash for the horses and James grabbed Danae by the arm, pulling her to her feet and hoisting her onto her horse as fast as he could.

She swayed in the saddle, fumbling weakly for the reins.

"James, go!" Summer was shouting, and Orin too was yelling, though James could not make out the maester's cries. He swung himself onto the saddle behind Danae and slid an arm around her waist, clutching her tightly to him as he spurred the horse.

Persion was screaming his rage in smoke and dragonfire above them, and as the earth fell away around them, James did the only thing he could think of.

He rode.

- SARELLA -

Sunspear was a warren of narrow alleys, packed with mud faced homes and hovels, bazaars filled with Dornish spices, and markets where one could taste dragon peppers roasted and seasoned with drops of snake venom.

Sarella knew little of it, in truth. The Winding Walls wrapped her palace in a defensive curtain, shielding it from the shadow city at its feet. She could see only the domed tops of the buildings from her place on her balcony, and the flat square roofs where colorful awnings and brightly patterned banners hung.

"I want to go down there," she said, leaning over the ledge and sighing. "I want to see all the traders and charmers and fishermen. I want to see the washerwomen, and the pillow houses, and the markets."

Ellaria smiled behind her. "My Princess, your place is in the palace. Your father would tell you that, were he here."

"If she wants to go, let her go." Anders shrugged. It was hard to tell whether he genuinely felt that way or if he were just disagreeing for the sake of arguing with Ellaria, but Sarella hoped it was the former. The two advisors were each holding letters, and she knew that they were eagerly anticipating whose would be chosen first.

"This news from the Maester," Sarella said, turning around at last and changing the subject before a spat could begin. Anders stepped up eagerly after shooting Ellaria a smug look.

"He begs passage to Sunspear," the advisor announced, passing the Princess his parchment. The paper was stained and travel worn, brought in on a trade ship from Volantis carrying ledgers filled with information on the exchange of Dornish wine and goods in Essos. The wax sigil was cracked and faded.

"We should refuse him," Ellaria said.

"We should welcome him," replied Anders. "What he says of the new Queen is true. She is madder than Prince Aerion of old. Our own whispers from the Red Keep have told us as such. Some claim that the Lannisters keep her fettered in the dungeons, so that no one can hear her wailing and rambling, or see the foam fly from her tongue. Others say that it is she who keeps the King in chains, and that she hosts sordid parties in the night where blood sacrifices are made in order for her to maintain her beauty."

Ellaria rolled her eyes. "Utter nonsense."

"All rumors have some semblance of truth within," Anders shot back. "Irons aside, it does seem plausible that Queen Aeslyn has a touch of madness. It is in her blood, after all."

"And who is to say it isn't in her sister's?" Ellaria shook her head. "This girl, Danae, she is ten and six, a child, with no army, no holdfast, nothing to her name."

"She has a dragon."

Sarella read over the words of the letter as her advisors argued. "Only the Dragon can return Westeros to the prosperity it knew when they ruled for three centuries," it said, "See her for yourself and decide if you wish to reinstate the ancient alliance between your houses. Decide if Dorne will support the restoration of the one true dynasty."

"You are being a rash fool, Sand," Ellaria was saying, her lovely face marred by a deep scowl. "We cannot bring down a Queen, we can barely keep the Yronwoods in line. Think of the mess this could cause if botched. What of our own problems?"

"A pomegranate shortage?" Anders scoffed. "What a crippling conundrum indeed. We had best sit on our hands until the orchards are sorted out, while every other kingdom moves its pieces. Then when the table is reset there will be no place for Dorne and-"

"Enough," Sarella interrupted. The Dornishman closed his mouth and both advisors turned to their Princess once more. "Let her come," she said. "I want to meet this Dragon."

- THE SELLSWORD -

Starling Waters awoke with, as usual, a headache. Light filtered into the room from a high window, the feeling like nails in her eyes. She groaned as it hit her face and went to block out the sun's rays when the budding sellsword realised, with a start, that she couldn't feel her arm.

Oh Gods, she thought, not wanting to look, I can't have lost it.

The girl did have foggy memories of a fight. Also something to do with the color red, and maybe a tree? With great trepidation, she forced herself to open her eyes.

"Oh!" she said out loud, realization dawning as the wine drowned memories came rushing back.

Lying over her arm was a young highborn lad.

Dagon? Damon? Davos? she thought, noticing that he was considerably less attractive in the light of day.

He had been sweet, though, and while a beginner to the carnal pleasures, he had been good at taking directions. Starling remembered with some relish that she had stolen the poor boy's maidenhead. Well, so to speak anyway.

The sellsword forced herself up, putting the shattered night back to together in her head. Tavern on the Kingsroad, near the Vale, going north. Was there a fight? Some boy bad at it? Lots of gold?

Oh yes, that was it. Stupid boy, money, drinking. Oh and a free bed, what else could a girl want?

Starling untangled herself from lordling and rolled out of bed. She almost tumbled as a figure appeared in front of her. Reflex sent her hand to her sword, before she remembered that she was naked. She brought her fists up. No one would ever say that Starling Waters didn't go down fighting.

The figure did the same. Also, the figure had light brown hair, blue eyes and a pair of breasts that in Starling's very humble opinion would have made the Dragonknight give up his vows.

It was a Myrish glass.

Starling sighed and sat herself before it, inspecting the damage. Only a few bruises it seemed, oh, and a nick on her hand. She spotted a basin of water nearby with a cloth, and the sellsword resigned herself to the task of hygiene.

Her body set up goosebumps where the water touched, but she pressed on. More likely than not she would have a full day ahead, and Winterfell was quite some way away.

Once she was finished, she went searching for her clothes. Most were in a pile, next to her bag, but her smallclothes had somehow ended up at the foot of the bed. Starling pulled them on, and was binding her chest when the lordling began to stir.

The boy opened his eyes, frowning as she pulled on her undershirt.

"Morning, beloved," she chimed cheerfully. "Looks as though I have to go, but this was fun and don't worry, it happens to lots of men."

He looked puzzled. It really wasn't a comely look on his face.

Presently, a loud banging on the door almost caused the sellsword's cheerful expression to fade.

"Davos!" someone shouted from the other side of the door, with no regard for any possibly hungover and distressed sellswords inside. "I know you're in there with that harlot! Get out here now!"

This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. Starling bundled up her clothes and began searching for an escape. The boy pointed weakly towards the balcony.

"Thank you kindly," Starling said, turning and rushing outside. The yard was sunny, although fortunately empty except for a groom beginning to saddle a horse. Four similar balconies lay out to her right.

Well, thought Starling, this will have to do.

She climbed the short wall and, readying herself, she leapt, landing with a couple of skinned knees and a roll. Shouts from behind her indicated that her "beloved's" door hadn't lasted.

Quickly, she pulled on her britches, and readied herself to jump to the next balcony. This landing was less rough, but her clothes fell from her arms when she hit the stone floor. She gathered them up, pulling on her boots and running inside the room - a decision she quickly reversed when a bulky servant burst in, followed by an irate Lord in his nightgown.

Panicking, she dashed to the ledge once more and threw herself to the last balcony, then slipped into her jerkin, forcing the last of her clothes into her bag.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, she thought, realizing she had run out of balconies.

Starling inspected the yard with some haste. She noticed with glee, a haystack.

Perfect, she thought, climbing the last side.

She missed the haystack with a clump, landing incorrectly, although fortunately, in a laundry cart borne by two servant women. The younger of the pair screamed, fleeing, and the older decided to take this interloper down with her washingboard.

Starling threw herself from the stinking fabric, ducking a swing from the board. She tripped the lady, slamming her face first into the muddy yard.

She espied a horse, being made ready.

Actually, now that she thought of it, there were a lot of horses everywhere, on banners, servants. Everywhere, really.

A groom boy was fixing the saddle as Starling came up behind him. She kneed him in the groin, leaving the lad rolling in the mud.

With as much grace as one can have when hungover and with quite a number of laundry items attached, the sellsword rose into the saddle, kicking the horse.

It was considerably faster than she had expected.

Starling sped from the servant's entrance faster than a crossbow bolt, trying with all her might to hold onto her lunch. Soon Meadowhall Castle, with all its irate Lords and chaste squires, was far behind her.

As Starling came onto the Kingsroad once again, she was beginning to feel much, much better. Her mood was only improved when she found the Deddings boy's purse in her bag.

No wonder I took him to bed despite the stoat-ness, she thought. Looks like time for breakfast.

- DAMON -

The docks of King's Landing were a chaotic whirlwind of commerce. Gulls circled overhead, crying and picking through the rubbish in the water and on the docks, the bells of buoys clanged, and wooden ships creaked and groaned in the murky water. The smell of the day's catch mingled with raw sewage from the city, the stale salty air, and the sweat of fishermen, whores, beggars and sellswords.

Home, Damon thought with disappointment as he disembarked alongside Robert Manderly. This is home, now.

"Take the younger Dayne to the dungeons," he said in a hushed voice, placing a hand on Robert's elbow as they descended the gangplank, "but not Ulrich. We cannot have him crossing paths with Lord Varyo."

Manderly nodded his understanding. "Where am I to put him?" he asked.

"I'm sure you can find a place." Damon wasn't interested in where the knight ended up, nor was he particularly interested in the man's fate. He was looking forward to seeing his father more than anything, and Loren's reaction when he brought him word of his victory in the Stormlands.

Two Daynes, I bring him, he thought with satisfaction, remembering how small Ulrich looked from atop the battlements when the Kingsguard came riding across the bloody field to answer the cry of his brother's war horn. The look on Ulrich's face when he saw that it was Damon who blew it was one the Lannister would remember always. It was a look of defeat.

He felt like a conqueror riding atop a white steed through the city with his company, a cloak of crimson silk hanging from his shoulders, a crown across his brow, prisoners in tow. He felt like a king.

The moment was short lived. As soon as he passed through the gates of the Red Keep, Damon was met with a grim faced relative. Ser Stafford Lannister was a small man, slender and as of yet unstooped despite his age. His yellow hair was thin and streaked with white, and his face as saturnine and unsmiling as it had been at Casterly Rock when he sat Lord Loren's council table.

"The Lord Hand awaits you," he informed Damon before the returning King even had a chance to dismount.

"And the Queen as well." The second voice seemed to surprise even the advisor, who turned to find its speaker.

"Beg pardon, Your Grace." Ser Daelys bowed, white cape hanging about his broad shoulders, and glanced hesitantly at Ser Stafford before continuing. "Queen Aeslyn asked me to find you at once. She said that it was urgent."

Undoubtedly. Damon frowned as he climbed down from the saddle and passed the reins of his horse to the waiting stableboy. The last time he had answered an "urgent" summoning from the Queen, he had arrived to find a rather unimpressed Lysene girl from the Velaryon's retinue locked in her bathroom.

Aeslyn had first claimed that the lady had slighted her, but once it had become clear that the retainer had a poor grasp of the common tongue and had been coerced into the Queen's apartments, Aeslyn had instead howled that Damon found the girl prettier than her.

Damon couldn't entirely deny it.

"Tell her I'll see her shortly," he lied. Ser Daelys bowed again and departed, leaving Damon to walk alongside his father's cousin to the Small Council chambers.

The pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanking the door watched his entrance through eyes of polished garnet in black marble faces. The council chamber stood elegantly furnished, evoking memories of the Baratheon King who had once sat between its walls.

Myrish carpets covered the floor, bronze and gold, and on the walls hung carved screens from the Summer Isles, depicting scenes of conquest and gluttony. In one a stag stood alone in an immense forest, in another fire rained down in splotches of red, gold, and orange.

Only four of the eight council seats sat occupied. Loren Lannister sat straight in one, speaking intently to the Master of Ships sitting next to him. Aemon Estermont towered over his brother by marriage, but he listened closely to the Lord's words and nodded silently. Rymar Royce was cleaning under his fingernails with a small dagger. The thin man looked up at Damon's entrance, but only smiled knowingly as the fourth member of the council jumped to his feet.

"Your Grace!" Thaddius bowed low, but the Hand showed no such formalities.

"Damon. You're back."

"Don't look so disappointed, Father." Damon pulled out the chair at the head of the long table, the one opposite the Hand, and collapsed into the seat with a sigh. He lifted one leg onto the table, then the other, crossing his feet at his ankles before leaning back into his chair. "I brought you the Daynes," he said. And I dare you to find fault with that.

"You brought two Daynes, from what I understand," Loren replied, as though he had heard the unvoiced challenge. "And we only need the younger one alive. The knight you should have killed at Stonehelm."

Damon's face fell and his posture slackened somewhat. "Forgive me," he said. "I assumed that two hostages were better than one."

"Martyn is betrothed to Sarella Martell," Loren explained, resting a hand on the table and looking at his the King's boots with distaste. "He can be used to negotiate a peace with Dorne. Ser Ulrich, on the other hand, is a traitor not worth the space in your dungeons."

Damon opened his mouth to protest but Rymar cleared his throat loudly. "If I may, Lord Hand," the bald man began timidly, reaching for the papers that sat before him and shuffling them nervously, "Ser Ulrich is a paramour of our Dornish Princess. He is worth more to us than it would seem. Bringing the southernmost kingdom into the fold is of paramount importance, as I'm sure we can all agree, and since they have closed the Boneway and the Prince's Pass, we know that their loyalty to House Baratheon isn't strong enough to be unswayable."

Damon smiled in amusement at the revelation from the Master of Whispers. The honorable Ser Ulrich, bedding his Princess.

Loren made a grunt of displeasure. "The Martells stand alone, as they always have. Lord Gylen tried to speak with the Prince and was rebuffed. I doubt we will find more warmth in his daughter."

"Indeed." Rymar nodded. "Disturbing whispers of independence have reached my ears. Of course, talk is cheap, and all men can be bought. Women, too. During the reign of the Stag, Sarella Martell was fucking the Sword of the Morning, but shortly after you took the throne she began fucking his brother. Once the Princess knows that we have her lover and her betrothed, I am certain she will be willing to bargain."

"Shall I write her?" Damon asked, perhaps too eagerly, for his father immediately interjected.

"I will read whatever it is you intend to send first," he said.

Rymar set his papers down and slipped his hands into his sleeves. "There is still the matter of the Tyrell children," he reminded the council. "If you seek to barter with the Rose, you are in a fine position to do so."

Thaddius was beaming proudly, but Loren shook his head. "Lord Hightower will not abide it," he said.

"And the Stormlords?"

Damon had forgotten that Lord Estermont was present until he spoke, and he looked at his uncle with boredom. "What about them?" Damon asked. "They are Lord Connington's problem now."

If his flippancy offended Aemon, the Master of Ships did not show it. "Do you know his plans for Houses Swann and Seaworth, Your Grace?" he asked. "Lord Janos is an honorable man and Lord-"

"I did not ask," Damon interrupted. He was tired of the meeting already, and moreso the lack of recognition his father was offering for his victory. What does it take to earn his praise? he wondered, not for the first time. He stole a glance at Thaddius, sitting straight in his polished white armor, and his brother gave him a warm smile.

"Are we boring you, Damon?"

Damon looked up at the sound of his name and saw Loren staring disapprovingly at him from across the table. He shifted uncomfortably beneath his father's gaze. "A little, yes," he said sardonically. "I've just arrived back and no one has even offered me a drink. Am I not a king now? I should have Lyseni virgins bringing me Arbor Gold in jeweled decanters while I lounge on silk pillows."

A small sandy haired boy in the corner strode forward hesitantly, a tray balanced in his hands, the vibrant sigil of House Swyft sewn onto the breast of his tunic. When Loren raised his hand, however, the cupbearer stopped at once, the chalices on his platter rattling.

Damon looked over his shoulder at the boy and then turned back to his father. "Really?" he asked. "Were they all out of Lyseni virgins?"

"If you will excuse us, my lords." Loren spoke through gritted teeth and kept his hard gaze trained on Damon. "I would have a word with the King in private."

The sound of chairs scraping against stone broke the tense silence. Thaddius hesitated for a moment before the Hand gave him a nod to leave as well, and Damon watched his brother depart with a sinking feeling. Even the cupbearer vanished.

"You look rather pleased with yourself," Loren remarked, when the door closed behind the last of the Small Council members.

"I am pleased with myself, Father. For gods' sake, someone has to be."

"You require more praise than a juggler or a fool. Take your damned feet off the table. This is not a brothel or a winesink."

Damon obeyed reluctantly. "I'd rather be in either," he protested.

"Seven Kingdoms I've given you. More than most men could even dream of, and still you are as recalcitrant as ever. Are you incapable of gratitude?"

"Are you?" Damon retorted. "I've given you two Daynes and the Stormlands. I swear, it's as though it would physically pain you to tell me I've done something right."

Loren's gaze was hard as stone, and Damon looked away from it. Thaddius would have gotten him four, he thought bitterly. He'd have marched to Starfall and rounded up the sisters as well, gone to Essos for the brother and Oldtown for the maester and herded them all back to King's Landing to applause.

"Lord Durran Harlaw made an attempt for the Iron Islands," Loren said. "He flew the Stag's banner from his mast and claimed it an act against your rule. He was unsuccessful, of course, and the Greyjoys gave him a traitor's death. Don't look so surprised. A king should learn some poise."

Damon looked at the table and struggled to remember how he had felt when he first arrived back in the city. Hadn't he been proud?

"And don't tell me you've forgotten about the boy."

"What boy?" The wood grain of the table looked like rows of planted grain and Damon had a much easier time staring at that than looking into his father's eyes.

"The Baratheon."

"Prince Rickon?"

"He is no prince," Loren corrected him. "Your sons will be princes. Rickon is a prisoner, though it seems his father may have forgotten. It is high time you reminded him."

"Remind him how, exactly?" Damon frowned and glanced up at last. "Do you wish to supervise me while I write another letter?"

"What I wish," Loren said, "is for you to give him to the Velaryon."

"The Kingslayer?" He cannot mean that. "Rickon is hardly eight years old…"

"You are a king, Damon, as you seemed so proud to remind everyone just a moment ago, and kings do not rule with wine and pillows, they rule with steel and iron. I have given you a throne. Are you prepared to do what is necessary to keep it?"

Damon could feel a knot forming in his stomach, and began to search for that sensation he'd had when he rode through the River Gate not long ago. I felt proud, he remembered. What a fleeting thing.

He left the small council chambers and made his way across the lower bailey purposefully, and a chilly breeze stirred the palms. It was warmer in the capital than it had been in Lannisport, but it was winter still and Damon wore lambswool and gloves made from virgin leather. His hands were warm, but he was worried about keeping them clean.

- BALON -

"Our stores run low," Balon muttered to himself, scratching his quill to form tally marks on a worn piece of parchment. It was cold in the underground vaults beneath Castle Black and when the Lord Commander's steward sighed, his breath frosted in the air.

If we don't increase our hunting, the men won't survive to see this winter's end.

He tucked the parchment into his ledger, pulled his worn black cloak tightly around his shoulders, and carefully made his way up the icy wooden stairs.

The Lord Commander's tower was warm, and Balon walked silently through the hall before coming to a halt outside Rhaegar's door. He knocked once and entered, his mind working through his speech on the dwindling food stores.

Rhaegar was seated at his desk, a large and ancient tome open before him. The fire in the hearth crackled loudly and the Lord Commander's small dragon was asleep beside him, curled in a worn arm chair.

"Balon," Rhaegar greeted, briefly glancing up from his reading. "What do you know of the Children of the Forest?"

Balon shuffled his feet and took a step forward.

"Only the stories my wet nurse used to tell me at Harvest Hall. No man from the watch has seen the Children in hundreds of years. Most believe them extinct."

"Nonsense," Rhaegar said with a frown. "I can feel them, Balon. I can feel their magic in the world. I need to find a way to contact them."

Balon blinked and paused for a moment before pulling out his notes concerning the dwindling stores of food and supplies.

"Lord Commander there are more pressing matters at hand-"

"No," Rhaegar interrupted, his violet eyes unblinking. "Don't you see?"

He stood from his desk, open book in hand, and crossed the room to his steward. The Lord Commander thrust the ancient tome in front of Balon and pointed to the text.

"The prophecies from long ago were never fulfilled. His coming was said to be heralded by a bleeding star...the same bleeding star that I see in my dreams each night."

Balon blinked again. He had little faith in prophecies and little knowledge of the beliefs that Rhaegar preached. It was said that the blood of the dragon experienced prophetic dreams though, and Balon was not one to argue with ideas he could not even begin to comprehend.

"I am the Prince who was Promised, Balon," the Lord Commander continued. "My song is the song of ice and fire. Why else would the gods see fit to place me, the blood of the dragon and the son of fire, in this godforsaken frozen wasteland?"

The steward was thoroughly confused. "But what does that have to do with the Children of the Forest?"

"Everything," Rhaegar answered. "Their magic is the key." The Targaryen snapped the book closed and walked to stand in front of the fire. His dragon snorted in its sleep, sending plumes of white smoke into the air.

"I must find them," Rhaegar muttered into the flames. "And when Danae returns from Valyria, we will take back what was stolen from us."

Balon sighed. While it was certainly strange, this sort of speech from the Lord Commander was nothing new. He realized that any talk of food stores would fall upon deaf ears and so he slowly backed out of the room, his mind already thinking ahead to his inventory duties in the armory.

I'll speak with him tomorrow, Balon decided. When he's back to his normal self.

He was hit with a blast of cold air as he crossed the threshold and exited the Lord Commander's chambers. As he closed the door behind him he could hear Rhaegar speaking softly, still enraptured by the fire in the hearth.

"I must find them."

Some men said the winds of Spring were a blessing, a reminder from the gods that the cruelness of Winter was over, a reminder of the hopes and dreams and safety they granted in Summer. Some men said these things, but Balon knew that at the Wall even Spring bites through cloth and leather to chill your bones.

The snow was losing its sheen when he left Rhaegar's tower and made his way towards the commotion at the gate. The trees were fading from their green and night beasts were stirring from their sleep as dusk fell upon Castle Black.

A dark horse was slowly approaching, brown or black, tall, plodding slowly through the light coverage of snow, its reins and saddle old and wrinkled leather. Upon the garron sat an equally interesting man. Shielded under a long dark cloak, his face and eyes were hidden from Balon and the Night's Watchmen who he approached. Only his long, bone white hair blew about his chest.

"Hail, brothers of the Wall!"

The lone rider raised a hand in peaceful greeting, and some of the men on the snowy ramparts lowered bows.

"Who goes there?" Robert Snow was the one who called out, Balon would have recognized the ranger's gravelly voice anywhere.

"Artos of House Harclay. I come to answer your Lord Commander's call for a tour of service from any man with the courage to offer it." The stranger reached deep into his pockets and produced a crumpled scrap of parchment.

The letter. Balon groaned inwardly. He had not approved of Rhaegar's decision to allow men temporary positions with the Night's Watch. What does that say of our noble Order? What does that say to the men who swore these vows for life?

"We need men," Rheagar had told him. "And not these cutthroats and rapists the false kings send us. My army needs knights and soldiers, not children and thieves. They will come with these terms, and no others, and I'll be damned if I let the opinions of monsters stand in the way of more swords."

Balon eyed the white haired stranger on horseback at the gates with caution.

Let us see what blade the Dragon has brought us.

- THE ROSE THAT WOULD BE QUEEN -

Maude and Mellara sat with Rickon, as they had every morning since their capture. From the Maidenvault, the comings and goings of the usurper's Lords and supplicants could be seen through the late winter haar.

Maude hated looking at the bright banners and cheerful badges that they bore, but it took Rickon's mind away from their capture, and as Mellara said, it was important to keep the little Prince's spirits up.

So she consoled herself with the simple thought of the coming demise of these traitors and turncloaks. When the false King had ridden out, Mellara had assured Rickon that Damon wouldn't be riding back, that it would be the boy's heroic father with his wonderful knights coming down the streets to save them.

Well the wonderful knights had come back, in chains.

Maude had locked herself in their bedchambers when Damon had ridden back with Ser Ulrich in irons. Mellara had cooed to Rickon, assuring him of his father's well being, but Maude could barely talk these days without wanting to scream.

This morning was no different. Out of the mist, a ragged crew arrived under a sea blue banner, riding hard.

"Who is that one?" Rickon asked, pawing at Mellara's dress as he lounged in her lap.

Maude squinted at the banner. It was times like these that she realized just how little she had retained of her maester's lessons. The old stinking man who had been there most her childhood, and then Olyvar with his pink little ears, scrubbed eager and nervous.

Who cares for all those small lords' banners. They only need to bow, I don't have to remember every stupid whoever of wherever that dined upon our table.

"Lord Sunglass maybe?" Mellara said unsure. "Young Lord Harlan had been at Harrenhal. Mayhaps he was captured?"

"I think Sunglass has a white banner," Maude said, a distant memory stirring in her mind. "Blue is the color of-"

"It is the Lord Velaryon," a heavily accented voice called from behind them.

Maude wheeled around, her heart suddenly racing as she forced herself to stand.

There before them was the strangest woman she had ever seen. At least, she thought it was a woman. They were garbed in dark blue fabrics, wrapped around their lithe figure and up their head, only the eyes showing, a deep blue like the silk.

Mellara stood too, clutching the little Prince to her skirts.

"Who are you?" Maude asked sharply. "No, how did you get in here? Who sent you?"

The veiled figure didn't seem to notice, or possibly, understand. She indicated a roughspun white tunic draped over her arm, and placed it on the bed.

"I have been sent by the King Damon," she explained, her accent thick and musical, words strange and misplaced. Her voice was thick, full, and Maude had to admit, beautiful. "The King dresses the boy in this."

Maude regained a little of her courage. She placed her hands on her hips haughtily.

"So the great Lion wants to shame his Prince now?" she snapped. "When Harys gets here, he will pay for all these slights, as will you!"

"That one, will wear this, rose girl," the veiled lady said, drawing up to her full height and turning to leave.

"Get back here!" Maude yelled, striding to follow. "How dare you talk like that to a Tyrell of Highgarden! When Father comes, I will have your head!"

It was too late, though. The lady had departed and Maude was left shivering with anger.

She let loose a frustrated yelp and began to pace the room fuming, punishments and penances filing her mind.

Presently, Mellara started to help Rickon dress.

"What are you doing?" Maude snapped. She stalked over, fists clenched.

Mellara ignored her, helping Rickon pull his tunic and undershirt off.

"Sister, what are you doing?" Maude said again, grabbing Mellara's arm.

Mellara locked eyes with her, with a harder stare than usual, then threw off her sister's arm.

"You're helping them too?" Maude said, sulking away. "You are actually helping these traitors..."

Mellara sighed as she pulled the roughspun over the Prince's head. She stroked Rickon's black hair and turned to her sister.

"If it may spare him a little pain, let the Lion have his fun," she reprimanded. "Don't let your pride get in the way. There will be time enough to repay all these slights when your Stag retakes his city."

Rickon, for his part, seemed to lack Maude's righteous anger. He gave a small shrug as Mellara took his hand and stood.

Maude huffed, and sat herself down. It was undignified. Cruel enough to keep them here, let alone wearing smallfolk rags like that.

Mellara drew the little Baratheon close.

"Now, you are going to be brave," she said, a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Whatever happens today... Be brave."

Finally, a rap came on the door.

"Who is it?" Maude shouted, feeling her voice shake, along with her body.

"Open up! Open up in the name of the King," a gruff foreign voice said from the other side of the heavy oak door.

Mellara and Maude exchanged confused looks.

"But, the door is locked from the other side."

The silence from the other side of the door was palpable, then they heard what suspiciously sounded like a reprimanding smack and some Valyrian grumbling in the bastard tongue of the Free Cities.

Eventually, and with much rattling, the door swung open, and in swaggered a brute.

He was almost seven foot high, and swarthy, with hair dyed a vicious red and gold. A wild beard accented his jaw, with gold and silver wired into it. Around him was wrapped a horrible cloth, marked with bloodstains, and something else. He caught Maude's eyes, and for a moment, the Tyrell girl felt as though this mountain was ravishing her with his wild orbs.

Then from behind the giant, another figure appeared, smaller but no less strange.

He wasn't ugly, to be sure, but there was something about this man that made Maude nervous. He stood as though nailed into the earth, in dark blues, with silver hair. His eyes had none of the ferocity of his company, but they were somehow even more terrifying. One green, one watery gray, but they held no love, no anger and no joy. Affixing a half cape to his shoulders was a silver pin, bearing a Seahorse.

Lord Velaryon, the girl thought.

"We shall be taking the Prince," the Lord said, looking around the room.

Maude fought her instincts and moved forward as two guards followed the Lord and the giant in.

"Under what grounds, good ser?" she asked, quavering.

"He is to write a letter to his father, my lady." The Velaryon said the last words like her father would say 'harlot.' It made her blood boil.

She squashed down her rage. Mayhaps this cold Lord would warm to a fair lady's charm.

"I wish to accompany him then," she said softly, batting her eyelashes at the Velaryon, "if it is truly only a letter."

The Velaryon broke her stare, and moved to go.

"Take the boy," he ordered, almost as an afterthought.

The giant smirked as he strode towards the Prince. Finally feeling braver, Maude threw herself between the huge man and her sister.

"What is the meaning of this?! He's only seven!" she shouted, rather louder than she had meant to. "And if he is just writing a letter, as you claim, have I no right to attend?"

The giant chuckled, sniffing in her direction like a dog. He loomed over her, his expression filthy.

"The letter Lord Varyo means to write is not one for a pretty thing like you to see," he drawled, his voice heavy with the Free City tongue. The giant licked his lips, undressing the Tyrell with his eyes.

"Maidensblood," the Lord Varyo said levelly, glancing at the colourful man. The giant stepped back, although his eyes remained locked on Maude.

What kind of Lord is this Varyo, if he commands a man like that? Maude thought, as Mellara and Rickon quivered behind her.

"I give you my word, Tyrell. The boy will not die today," he said, strange eyes looking right through her. "Leave him now and you will not be harmed."

Maude couldn't help it. All the rage, all the insults, all the fear - it all had built up in her.

She kept her ground.

"No," she said, softly.

The Velaryon raised his eyebrows at her, as the guards behind him moved forwards.

"No," she said again, louder, repeating it until it became a scream, "No! NO! NO NO NO!"

The Lord waved his guards through, pushing the screaming girl aside. The Maidensblood went straight for the Prince, leaving Mellara sprawled out on the floor, clutching her face.

Maude screamed again, charging at the huge man. One of the guards caught her slender wrist. She pulled at it feebly, throwing a blow at the armoured man.

Rickon was taken over the giant's shoulder, crying and thrashing helplessly over his back.

Maude's other hand was caught, the gauntlet cold against her skin. She felt hot tears spring unwillingly to her eyes once more.

"Get the boy down stairs then," the Velaryon ordered, and Maude felt the grip on her slacken. The colourful man left, with the little Prince over his shoulder.

Maude let out an incoherent scream of rage. All of this. They had taken everything from her. All of the loss, the heartache. How could they understand? How could they possibly understand?

"Usurper! Craven!" she shouted, feeling her body burn. She ran to the hall, screaming through the door. "You've taken everything! Everything that was meant to happen! How dare you!"

She saw the Velaryon smirk, as his guards reached him. That just made it worse.

"You can't possibly know! You and all the rest! One day I hope you lose as much as me! Then you'll finally understand!"

The Lord had begun walking towards her. His smile had disappeared, which gave her great joy. He came close, eyes dark.

"One day, you're going to lose just as much as me," Maude told him, softer, and she hoped, darker. "Then you'll know what it means."

She smirked, just as the Velaryon had done, and then the silver-haired man struck her in the belly. Hard.

Maude dropped to her knees with a choked sob. She wanted to vomit, could not catch her breath. It felt as though a part of her had come unstuck. Above, pure fiery hate burned in the Velaryon's eyes, and Maude doubled over as another wave of pain hit.

The Lord walked from the room, stopping at the door. The veiled lady from earlier was there, holding it open.

For a moment the two strangers' eyes met. Then the door closed, and Maude was deeply aware of a wetness growing between her legs.

- THE YOUNG CAPTAIN -

Harlan Lannett whistled as he strode down the crowded corridor, brushing shoulders with the guards as he went, a steady stream of red and gold cloaks.

The capital had been busy since the sack, with more arrivals every day. Lords and ladies flocked from far and wide got it to swear new vows of fealty, and Harlan had watched their ships come in from the docks each morning. It wasn't a bad assignment, to be sure. The bay's breeze was pleasant, if more rank than Lannisport's, but the Captain he served was surly and never laughed at his japes, nor did he approve of the way Harlan liked to chat with the highborn women who descended the gangplanks with their lords and fathers and brothers.

"Watch where you're going!" he barked as one of the gold cloaks bumped into him roughly, nearly sending him tumbling. The man paid him no mind, not even a second glance. Harlan grumbled, rubbing his shoulder and adjusting the clasps to his yellow cloak, not wanting the crimson wildcat to appear wrinkled for his meeting with the steward.

Lyman was standing when the Lannett entered his solar. The man was dressed in purple samite, a blue sash slung elegantly over one shoulder and long blonde hair pulled back with a ribbon of silk to match. He looked down his long slender nose at Harlan and his face contorted into an expression of mild disgust, as though there were some foul odor in the room.

"Oh," he said. "You're here."

"You summoned me," reminded Harlan. He did not care for the steward's look, and bowed only as low as he thought he could get away with.

"Yes, but I had been hoping you might not come," Lyman replied. "If you hadn't, then I could have bestowed this title on a man more deserving. Or, at the very least, a man." He held a sheet of parchment between long pale fingers, and toyed with the paper's corner as he spoke.

"Title?" Harlan asked, taking the bait and rubbing self consciously at the wispy hairs on his chin.

Lyman sighed. "The Commander of the gold cloaks is looking to appoint a captain to the Lion's Gate. The last one was slain during the sack of the city."

Could it be?

"I know," Harlan answered, suddenly standing a little straighter, "I was there. Does Borrell mean to name me?"

Lyman laughed. "Gods, no. You are to be the Captain of the household guard. Clearly the King saw in you a tremendous potential for standing around with your sword in hand." He shrugged. "Or, more likely, the King's Hand saw an empty position and a chance to reward his loyal kin. No matter. You get a fine new title out of it, and some men to order around. More than you deserve."

"Why mention the gold cloaks at all, then?"

"Why, I just wanted to see if you were daft enough to think you'd be considered for the role." He set the parchment down and took a sip from the chalice on his desk. "I was right, of course. I often am."

"I will be charged with defending the King and the royal family," Harlan murmured in awe.

"No, you are not a knight of the Kingsguard. You will be charged with making sure there are soldiers in red cloaks standing about the castle at all times. Do you think you can handle that tremendous responsibility?"

"I am certain of it."

"Good. Then why don't you make yourself useful in your new capacity and go receive the envoys from Driftmark?"

Harlan swaggered down to the antechamber, and so enthused was he that twice he almost fell down the stairs. That Lyman did so love to put a dour spin on the proceedings, but Harlan knew the truth: his Lord, no King, was proud of him. Proud enough to hand him control of that fine order of red cloaks.

The newly made Captain hummed to himself as he entered the chamber.

It was a strange party that awaited him, that was for certain. Three men dressed in rainbow rags over piecemeal armor and a knight taller than Harlan by a head, with a young squire behind him.

"Greetings," Harlan said, smile wide and beaming on his fair face. "I am Harlan Lannett, Captain of Damon's Guard."

Gods it feels good to say that, he thought as the strangers made to join him.

"Seven blessings to you," one of the ragged men said. His hair was silver, as was a long beard that made him appear to be much older than Harlan now realized. "I am Ser Laenor Velaryon, these are my companions, Ser Durrum Waters and Ser Colin Waynwood. We are the members of the Most Devout Order of the Holy Hundred."

"Holy Hundred?" Harlan asked blankly. "But there are only three of you."

A flash of annoyance passed across the knight's face.

"Yes, for the time being. I seek counsel with the King," he said sharply.

The tall man who was separate from the group lumbered over. He was bulky and grizzled, like a bull in armor with piercing blue eyes, and seemed old enough to be Harlan's grandfather.

"And I, too, seek to speak with his Grace. I bear news," he said, voice rumbling like water on stone. "We have come from Driftmark. I am Ser Ryman Sunglass."

"Right," Harlan said, remembering his duties. "Of course. Please follow me."

Quickly, and as efficiently as possible, the young Captain led the party through the lower levels of the keep. He of course talked the whole way, to the continuing distress of Laenor.

A young servant girl rounded the corner carrying a tray, unprepared for such a large party as this. She lost her balance, barreling into Ser Ryman's squire.

To his credit, the boy caught her.

"Pardon me, m'lord," she said, blushing. The girl rushed to pick up her tray, leaving with a bow.

The squire looked stunned.

"Eyes front, Robb," Ser Ryman said with a quick scuff.

Finally, they arrived at the King's study. Harlan entered with a bow.

Damon lay slumped on his desk, hands over his eyes. He pulled himself up with a start as the group made their way in.

"My Lord," Harlan said extravagantly before taking up his position at the door. "Might I present the honorable Lay-nore Velaryon, Colin Waynwood and Durram Waters, knights of the Holy Threesome, and Ser Rymar Sunglass."

Damon blinked dumbly, before wiping a strand of drool from his lips and raising his hands in petulant defeat. He took a long drink from a cup on the table as the company coughed politely, and then refilled the chalice messily.

"So then, what exactly can I do for you that my father cannot?" he said at last.

"Your Grace," Laenor spoke, stepping forward. "We have traveled far and wide…"

The Knight began on a very long, and very dull story. Harlan forced himself to stand against the wall as he heard some talk of the Gods and of knights and of divine justice and the like. Abridging the conversation for his own convenience, he ascertained that this Laenor was a Holy Man, who wanted to get other Holy Men together so that they could all be Holy together.

Harlan wasn't exactly sure he liked the sound of that, especially with some of the whispers that you so often heard about Holy Men. Not so much Holy Women, he observed though, no matter how mood crazed a young man might have been, or how attractive a septa might have looked in her robes.

The tale that came after Laenor's was more interesting, also easier to follow. Told by the hulking knight, it went like this.

Robert Velaryon was a very lustful man, he had loads of kids, but his trueborn heir had joined the Kingsguard, and then there was a bastard who had tried to take his place, but then something happened and he fled. Now Robert was dead and his pirate brother - who was also strangely enough called Damon - was back and now he was Lord.

So now Ser Ryman was here, asking for help, and was willing to join the Kingsguard as recompense.

Damon seemed to like that, but also seemed to still be suffering the after effects of Laenor, so Harlan wasn't certain.

"I suppose I could use another knight," he said idly. "And you don't seem to be the Kingsguard type, so that is to your credit."

Damon stood, slightly unsteadily.

"Very well, Ser Ryman Sunglass, I do swear you to protect me and do what I say and all that rubbish. Protect the innocent, defend the weak." He gave a short and bitter laugh and took another long drink before continuing. "And I will have someone deal with the problem of this pirate Lord," he said when he set the chalice back down, "once we've dealt with the one hundred and one other problems I am already sorting out."

He made a lazy gesture to the mountain of papers on his desk, the ones he had been sleeping on before the interruption, and then scratched at the stubble forming on his face, staring vacantly into empty space for a long moment before seeming to remember they were there.

"You can leave now," he offered, picking up his cup and mumbling his next words into the chalice, "I do hereby dismiss you and whatnot and so forth. Titles, titles."

Harlan snapped to attention, ushering the guests from the solar with the diligence and elegance of a drunk cook shooing children from the kitchens.

I was born for this role, he thought happily, as Damon collapsed once more onto the desk. And my King is going to be so proud.

- DANAE -

Danae remembered little, and what she knew came to her in flashes, slipping away like water between her fingers when she grasped for the details.

She recalled the smell of sulfur, the trembling of earth beneath a horse's hooves, and tongues of heat lashing against her body. Most of all, she remembered the screams of her dragon as Persion opened his jaws and set the world around them ablaze in golden fire.

When she awoke, the smoke and ash of Oros had given way to a hazy gray dawn, a gentle salt breeze, and the familiar face of her friend swimming slowly into view.

"She's awake!" James cried.

Danae raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh daylight, and blinked as the room came into focus. The gaps between the chamber's wooden planks were wide enough to slip a finger through, and dawn did just that, sending slivers of light between the cracks and illuminating crooked wooden furniture, scratchy linens, and a dusty bedside table.

"Where am I?" she mumbled, trying to sit up. Her body ached, the effort left her winded, and James sprung forward to ease her back onto the mattress when her strength failed.

"We are at the port, Your Grace." Summer's voice was like music to Danae's ears, and she felt herself smiling almost involuntarily at the sound of it. "Between Volantis and Mantarys."

"Captain Doniphos," she murmured groggily, glancing between the two faces of her friends. "He said that we had to be back or else he would leave without us… He said…"

"It's alright, Danae." James squeezed her hand. "We made it."

She regained her strength slowly as the days passed, awaiting the return of the Captain. Summer ventured out each morning in search of news and provisions, the Grand Maester spent every hour of precious daylight scribbling in his books, and James was ever at her side.

Persion ranged far afield during the day, a mere speck in the sky among the haze of the clouds. His distance didn't trouble Danae. The two were bonded by the visions that came to her each night, dreams of tigers and elephants, orange suns, and roaring lions. In her dreams her dragon was large and fierce, his eyes molten pools of golden fire and his teeth dripping dark crimson.

Fire and Blood, she thought when she spied him soaring between the clouds. At night he always returned to her, curling his long frame beside her own and warming her with his scales. He had grown since they left the ruin and ash behind, and each day he seemed larger still.

When Doniphos did arrive, Danae greeted him at the shore, Persion rising up behind her with his white and golden wings outstretched, his serpentine neck coiled back as if to strike, black smoke rising from flared nostrils.

For their journey to Volantis, Danae was given the captain's quarters.

She was unsure where she should go next, and each member of her company held a different opinion. They stood on the deck of the ship one evening, Doniphos included, watching the waves crash against the hull and the dragon soar over their heads.

"You need an army now," James counseled. "We should seek sellswords."

"With what gold?" Danae replied, her violet eyes tracking Persion as he glided into a graceful dive, his belly skimming the surface of the sea.

"The Sealord of Braavos is a powerful man," Summer offered. "He's not yet taken a wife, but he hasn't yet met the last Targaryen and her dragon."

"I don't want Braavos," Danae countered. "Or the blue-bearded Sealord."

The Grand Maester offered little more than nods of approval at Danae's rejection of each idea.

"Westeros," he said. "The alliances you need are in Westeros."

"My sister is Queen of Westeros-"

"Your sister is a mad woman," Orin interrupted. "Not every lord or lady is pleased with the usurper King and his insane dragon wife."

"You will need a fleet to get you to these allies," Captain Doniphos pointed out, "and gold to purchase an army."

"We know that," Danae said flatly, her patience running thin. She knew what she needed. I may be yet a girl, but I am not a fool. She knew she needed ships, and men to steer then, and she knew they both cost gold, but coin was something she had precious little of.

Persion is all I have. High above, his yellow spinal crest glinted in the sunlight. He is gold of a different sort.

"Do you have any suggestions on how to obtain these ships and gold, Captain?"

"I once told you that I was an opportunist," Doniphos replied with a grin. He followed Danae's gaze to the skies and her dragon. "The streets of Volantis run red with blood. Hordes of slaves rebel against their masters, and the triarchs are at each other's throats. There is no longer a clear ruling party. After all, tigers or elephants, it makes no difference to the slaves.

"The districts are becoming a battleground between the various factions, and even the nobles do not feel safe behind their walls. The captains of the Volantene trading fleet have taken anchor just off shore. Thousands of men sitting in wait for the bloodshed to end." He paused to wink at Danae. "But with great turmoil, comes great opportunity."

"Great opportunity in the spoils of a slave revolt," Summer interjected doubtfully. "Tell me what 'great opportunities' you see for our Queen, Captain Doniphos."

"She takes the city for herself," he answered simply. "Volantis is a hub of commerce, and among the trade captains we have as large a force as any other faction. Use her dragon and the reputation of her bloodline to crush the rebellion and bring the city beneath her rule."

"But I don't want to rule Volantis-"

"You don't," he said with a shrug. "But we do. Win the city for my faction and you will be rewarded gold and ships to do with as you please. You can sail to your allies in Westeros with an army and a fleet, and a forever faithful ally in the Old City."

"What experience do you have with rule?" James asked. "You're a trade captain. How can you expect to lead an entire city?"

The Captain raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "What experience does your Queen have?"

Danae watched the bravo's face redden and he looked to her in silent protest of the captain's words. She smiled a rare smile and looked back to the captain.

"I will help you take control of the city for the price you promised me. I want gold from the vaults and ships from the fleet," she began. "But if you betray me or refuse my payment I will turn the rebellion against you, lay waste to your trade ships, and burn your city to the ground. It is in your best interest to remain loyal to me, Captain Doniphos."

The captain held her gaze and grinned as the dragon screeched above him. "I swear you my loyalty and the loyalty of Volantis."

"Then we have a deal," Danae said with a curt nod and turned back toward the sea as the lights from Old Volantis began to appear on the horizon.

- ULRICH -

I have failed.

The last torch sputtered in its sconce. The glow it cast in the cold, damp cell dwindled steadily, shrinking more and more with each passing minute. Soon his cramped chamber would be shrouded in darkness, Ulrich knew, and the old stones he had become well acquainted with would disappear entirely.

The cell's bricks and mortar were crumbling, its floors caked in dirt and grime. The dankness had taken him ill, and the dust only made him suffer more, his coughs echoing in the lonely place, reverberating off the low ceiling. The iron shackles on his wrists and ankles were the only things holding him upright.

He hung there, measuring his life against the lives of his ancestors, when the heavy iron door creaked open.

"Ser Ulrich," called a familiar voice. A figure was framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the corridor's torchlight.

"Ah," Ulrich said, lifting his head weakly and blinking, "the Lion comes at last."

It felt like a lifetime since Ulrich had seen the usurper's face, an eternity in the dark of a ship's hold, listening to the hollow sounds of the sea. He could still remember his brother's horn in the Lion's hand. His dreams were haunted by its call, and the leap in his heart when he'd ran to answer it.

All for nothing. Martyn had been captured. A trick.

He had failed.

"I'm terribly sorry that I couldn't visit sooner," the usurper spoke, stepping into the cell. The irons cut into Ulrich's wrists as his hands clenched into fists. "I've just been so awfully busy ever since they gave me this crown. It is hard to find time to drop in on friends. I seem to be shackled to my work."

Damon held no torch, and the room remained dim, but Ulrich could see a familiar faint smile, and the rubies that glinted on his crown.

"You seem in good spirits," he remarked bitterly. "Sleeping better now, are you? Did you lie to me at Stonehelm, Damon? You hardly seem a man burdened by guilt."

"And what would you know about my burdens?" The smile vanished, and Ulrich thought that Damon looked almost offended by the remark. "You've never worn a crown. You don't know the choices it comes with."

"Choices?" Ulrich scoffed. "What choices does Damon Lannister struggle with? Arbor gold or Dornish red? Which brothel to visit, which whore to lie with?"

"Not every decision I make is easy, Ulrich." He glared. "And half of them aren't choices at all. You gave me no choice at Stonehelm."

"Is that why you've come here? To shift your guilt onto me? What do you want me to say, that I made you slaughter those boys?

"They stood for you, and you stood against me. You gave me no choice."

But they will be remembered in the songs, Ulrich knew, their faces swimming in his memory. They had to be. He'd told them so.

"Tell your woes to your winecups," Ulrich said, "I will not relieve you of this burden. Let each and every child weigh on you until you suffocate from it all."

"That child-" Damon seemed flustered for a moment and paused to gather his thoughts. "Those children," he began anew, "their fate was decided. A king rules with steel and iron, and I had to do what was necessary to keep this throne."

Ulrich laughed, a hollow sound that bled out into a rasping cough.

"You do this funny thing where you open your mouth and your father's voice comes out," he said. "Loren Lannister spit in the King's face when he married that ironborn traitor, and he raised you to be just like him. There isn't a shred of honor inside you. I know few knights who would stoop to such lows in battle, to sound my brother's war horn in a mock call for aid."

"I'm no knight, Ulrich." Damon shrugged. "Your brother fell to Robert Manderly, and his horn was a prize. That is how battles work. You should be grateful I allowed him to live."

Ulrich snorted. "You spent too much time on Pyke." His skin was rubbed raw and bloody where the shackles bound him, and he grit his teeth in pain and anger. "And why did you let me live?" he demanded. "I would have met an honorable death, a warrior's death."

"Or perhaps your horse would have misstepped and fallen, and crushed you beneath its weight. Or maybe you yourself would have tripped, and landed on some discarded mace. Or perhaps you would have taken an axe to the arm and bled out on the muddy earth. Not every death on the battlefield is glorious or honorable. Shouldn't you know that better than I? How many men did you see fall at Stonehelm, thanks to your honor?"

Ulrich shook his head, and smiled a resentful smile. "Say what you will, Damon, you always do, but it was a mistake to bring me here alive and you know it. What will you do with me now? Why have you thrown me in this forgotten cell in some deep dungeon?"

"We were all out of beds, I'm afraid. This is a pitifully small castle." When Ulrich said nothing in reply, Damon sighed. "To be honest," he went on, "this was not my first choice for your confinement. No, it seems rather unfair to deny you a chamber worthy of your noble birth, but I'm afraid you've made many enemies in your adventures since leaving King's Landing, and some of them would be most unhappy to cross paths with you.

"If you would believe me, this cell is the safest place for you in the Red Keep. If you wouldn't believe me, well, that doesn't really matter. The wonderful thing about the truth is that it is same regardless of whether or not it is believed."

Ulrich laughed in spite of himself. "Listen to yourself. You speak like a king, you look like a king, you walk like a king… You even wear a bloody crown."

Damon did look like a king, as much as Ulrich was loathe to admit it. The Lannister was dressed finely in deep crimson and shining black, a cloak of red slung carelessly over his shoulders. And his crown… it seemed even brighter than Ulrich last remembered it, though surprisingly unornate for a king from a house known for its magnificent displays of wealth. The circlet was wrought in gold and beautifully etched, with one asscher ruby place at its center and several of the stones cut baguette along the band. The diadem sat glittering across his forehead.

"What do you plan to do with me, I wonder?" Ulrich mused aloud. "You could set me free to run back to King Harys or Princess Sarella, but that would be foolish. You could flay me, bit by bit, piece by piece, as Varyo intended." Something changed in Damon's face at those words, and Ulrich regarded him curiously. "But, alas, you are not that stupid nor that cruel."

Damon spoke sadly. "Ulrich, if you do not think me cruel, then you have not been paying attention."

The silence in the cell was broken only by the sputtering of the dying torch.

"Do not mock me, Damon." Ulrich's voice was low and filled with anger. "Do you take pride in your lack of honor? Your broken vows? A knight you are not, that is true, but you swore your own promises, and your father, too. Do you think yourselves better for breaking them? For breaking your fealty to your King, all so that you can have an ugly chair to sit upon? You'll never be comfortable in that seat, because in the back of your mind you'll know what foul deeds took you to it. What foul deeds and betrayals you went along with."

The torch was nearly extinguished, the last of its light slowly fading, shadows creeping along the walls. Damon stood tall, the rubies of his crown turning darker than blood as the light slowly died.

"Foul deeds and betrayals," he repeated. "Do you know what happens when we stop keeping our vows and our promises, and leave the realm to chaos and conquest?" He looked at the broken knight, shackled and bound to the dungeon wall. "The best man wins."

With that, the King was gone, out through the iron doors. As they groaned shut behind him, the torch snuffed out with a final soft breath.

The best man does, Damon.