Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 7

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

Robb Stark's Camp, the Riverlands

The sun was just beginning to rise over the trees, the dim rays of morning light bringing warmth to the waking camp. The sentries eyes were red from lack of sleep, their minds thinking of their cots while they leaned on their spears. As they stated out into the woods, an old man in a grey cloak wandered up the road, bowed over and leaning on a wooden staff. He had a strange blue pointed hat on his head, and didn't look at the sentries as he walked forward.

"Who goes there?" the foremost sentry questioned, leveling a spear at the old man. "What is your business here?"

The old man looked up at him from beneath the shadow of his pointed hat, leveling an impressive pair of eyebrows at the the young lad. "I am Gandalf, and I have urgent business with your king." He stepped forward, and the guard shifted his grip on his spear, keeping the weapon pointed at the wizard.

"What business?" the sentry questioned, working hard to look stern.

Gandalf planted his staff, leaning against it and looking the boy over with a quizzical eye. "Are you so afraid of an old man, that you would hold him at spear point?" Gandalf inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Am I such a threat to you?"

"Well, um…" the guard twitched, his eyes scanning Gandalf. Glamdring was hidden among the folds of his cloak, so all the young man could see was an old man leaning on a staff, dressed in ragged robes and a strange hat. "No, I suppose you don't look particularly dangerous." He pulled the spear back, shifting uncertainly.

"Good," Gandalf huffed. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I need to speak to the King in the North. You may accompany me if you wish, but I am going, with or without you."

The sentry glanced at the other guards, who seemed to be quite amused with the whole situation. One of them laughed, holding up his hands defensively. "This one is all you Rann."

Rann sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Alright old man," he muttered, stepping aside. "Let's take you to see the King."

"Very gracious of you," Gandalf stated, his beard hiding his smirk. "Hurry on now, we don't want to keep him waiting." Gandalf strode forward, and to Rann's surprise he had to pick up his pace drastically in order to keep up with the old man. As they walked, Gandalf examined the soldiers they passed. They seemed healthy, but they were restless, discontented. They were itching for a fight. "I was in a camp much like this one many years ago," Gandalf told Rann absentmindedly. "It wasn't far from here. Starks, Baratheons, Tullies, Arryns, all together in one great host."

Rann stopped in his tracks, staring at Gandalf. "You fought in Robert's Rebellion?"

"Fought?" Gandalf laughed. "No. Even then, I was old. But I did help, in my own way. It wasn't quite as the stories make it out to be. It was a complicated time…"

. . . . .

Third Age 2934/281 After Conquest

Rebel Camp, the Riverlands

"Damn it Gandalf!" Robert exclaimed, slamming his war hammer down onto the table. "The bastard has Lyanna, and you want us to negotiate with him?"

"The Mad King is our true enemy," Gandalf countered, "not Rhaegar. He is as aware of his father's madness as we are, and he has no desire to see more death, I assure you of that. And I believe there is more to the situation with Rhaegar and Lyanna than we know."

"What is there to know?" Robert questioned. "He kidnapped my betrothed, Ned's sister," he gestured wildly towards his friend across the war table, "and took her gods know where. He's probably raped her several times already!"

"Rhaegar was never one to-"

"Never one to what!?" Robert spat. "Steal a woman away from her family and her betrothed and have his way with her? Because that's exactly what he's done!"

"With all respect," Ned added, holding a hand out in an attempt to calm the situation, "we're a bit beyond negotiations now. We are in open rebellion against the throne. And he does have my sister."

"If we go to them under the flag of truce, they are as likely to hang us all as traitors as they are to actually treat with us," Hoster Tully added. "But if we win this battle, we win the war."

"And how many thousands will die?" Gandalf inquired. "We could stop the death here and now, without another drop of blood spilled."

Jon Arryn walked over and put his hand on Gandalf's shoulder, sharing in his pain. "I do not wish this any more than you do, old friend," he told him. "But we do not have any other choice. Rhaegar will not treat with us. Even if he wanted to, every single one of his advisors would press him not to do it, or to use the opportunity to set a trap for us all. The dead may haunt us, but if we want to be free of the Mad King, this battle is our only path."

Gandalf huffed, turning away. When good men kill good men, he thought to himself, who will be left? Rhaegar should have been leading this rebellion, not fighting into battle against it. Why had he taken Lyanna? It didn't make any sense. He sent many messages to the prince, hoping to find some reason for his actions, some answer to heal the realm. But no replies came, and now the men he had raised to help Rhaegar rule would instead face the prince on the battlefield. Why, Rhaegar? Why did you take Lyanna? Why will you not speak with me?

. . . . .

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

Robb Stark's Camp, the Riverlands

A strong wind blew through the camp, making the flaps of Robb's command tent flap wildly. Robb paid little attention, focused as he on the table at the center of the tent. A map of Westeros spread out before him, the different armies on it represented by stylized wolves, lions, krakens, etc. "The men are getting restless," he muttered. "We haven't had a real victory since Oxcross. We need to catch Tywin somehow."

"A problem, to be sure." Robb spun around and saw an old man standing at the entrance to his tent, dressed in worn grey robes, a pointed blue hat, and leaning on a gnarled wooden staff. His long beard stretched down his chest, his grey eyes strangely both younger and far older than the rest of him.

"Who are you?" Robb demanded. "Who let him enter my tent?"

"I'm sorry your Grace," a soldier standing next to the old man said with a bow. "He said he had urgent business with you. He says his name is Gandalf, and that he knew your father."

Robb walked forward slowly, carefully examining the old man. "Is this true?"

"I knew Ned very well, since he was a young boy. I was grieved to learn of his murder," Gandalf answered solemnly.

Robb nodded to himself, noting the use of the word "murder" instead of "passing". "And what brings you here, Gandalf?"

"To give you counsel in these dark times," he answered. "And tidings. Hopefully you can do what others could not. A great darkness has come to Westeros, and this is only the beginning."

. . . . .

At sea, off the coast of the Crownlands

Small rays of sunlight peeked through the windows and wooden ceiling, but the light they gave was sparse, giving the cabin a gloomy feel. It seemed appropriate though, seeing the circumstances. Salladhor Saan patted Davos on the back as they entered, the old friends settling into chairs opposite of one another.

"I thought you were dead," Salladhor stated as he walked to his chair. "Everyone thought you were dead." He did not sit down, instead standing with his hands on the table in front of him.

Davos said nothing, his mind consumed with thoughts of the battle. Behind his eyes he saw fire, green fire consuming everything. He could still feel the pain of bits of his flesh melting off. And still he could see the others, those closer to the flames as their bodies were consumed by it…

Salladhor could see the battle within Davos's eyes. "And your son?"

Fire. The memory flashed through his mind, the image of his son, with all his faith and dreams and future, destroyed in an instant, consumed by the hellish flames. Shaking himself from the memory, Davos looked back up at his old friend and shook his head, unable to do anything more.

"He may have swam ashore, as you did," Salladhor told him, trying to sound reassuring.

Davos shook his head again, more vigorously this time. "No, the Wyldfire took him, I saw it." He breathed in sharply, trying to keep the painful memory from overwhelming him.

Salladhor looked away, not wanting to see that pain in his friend's eyes. He sat down, slumping into his chair. It took him a moment to find the right words. "I am so sorry, my friend," he said, turning back to Davos. "I too have lost a son. There is nothing worse in this world. But Davos," he pointed for emphasis, "you were a good father."

"If I was a good father he'd still be here." Davos settled back into his seat, trying to think of a way to change the subject. "Stannis lives?"

"For now," Salladhor answered. "They say one of your gods came down from the sky and struck him down for his sins. Others say that he was bested in single combat by an old man."

"That would be quite the old man," Davos scoffed.

Salladhor shrugged noncommittally. "Either way, Stannis is now a guest of the Lannisters, deep inside the Red Keep's dungeons."

"We must get him back!" Davos exclaimed, rising in his seat.

"There is nothing for me in King's Landing now other than a spike for my head," Salladhor stated plainly. "They've likely got one reserved for you as well."

"This war is not over," Davos insisted.

"Not for you, maybe. But for Salladhor Saan," he shrugged, "the war is over."

"We are both sworn to King Stannis-"

"I am sworn to no man!" Salladhor exclaimed. "I promised you thirty ships and you promised me riches and glory." He leaned in closer, his vice accusatory. "I delivered the ships."

Davos shook his head. "Stannis never gives up. Never. Once he gets out of the Black Cells-"

"He's a broken man," Salladhor interjected. "His fleet lies at the bottom of Blackwater Bay. He will likely be executed within the month. The Red Woman has taken over Dragonstone in his absence. Stannis's wife has stepped aside, letting the Red Woman take control and burn men alive."

"What?" Davos couldn't hide his shock. Burning men alive? He had thought that he and the Red Woman had come to an understanding, but if this was true then he had been very wrong. He should have realized that something would happen. The two of them had been allies of circumstance against the Mouth, but they had never been friends. The Red Woman didn't like the Mouth's brand of sorcery, but she was just as much a dabbler in the dark arts as he. Stannis had seen it. He should have known better than to trust a witch like her.

"When she returned, they built a great fire," the pirate explained. "All those who spoke against her she called 'servants of darkness'. They say she sang to them as they burned." He stood up abruptly, pacing over to another table and pouring himself a goblet of wine. I'm a pirate, you're a smuggler. 'Servants of darkness.' I'm thinking anything connected to Stannis is good to avoid."

"Take me back to Dragonstone, please." Davos insisted, anger rising within him. He had been a fool to trust her. He should have killed her when he had the chance.

"You can't make her leave!" Salladhor countered, exasperated.

"Maybe not. But I can carve her heart out."

"You could try," Salladhor admitted. "If you fail, they will burn you. If you succeed, they will burn you. And you've only just come back to life, stay alive a little longer my friend." He took a deep drink from his wine, turning away from Davos to end the conversation. But Davos wasn't done.

"You call me friend," Davos said, leaning in, "you drank with me on my wedding day-"

"And you drank with me on four of my wedding days, but I don't ask you for favors!" Salladhor exclaimed, cutting him off.

"I have to stop her," Davos continued. "Please. Do this for me."

The pirate gave Davos a good long look before finally answering, his voice solemn. "When you are dead, I will gather your bones in a little sack, and let your widow wear them around her neck." With that he took another drink and walked out, leaving Davos alone with his thoughts.

. . . . .

The open sea, east of Essos

"There's nothing, captain!" the Ironborn sailor shouted from his place atop the main mast. "Nothing in any direction! Just open sea!"

Three weeks, the captain thought. For three weeks his pirate fleet had been caught in the biggest storm he had ever seen. The Ironborn knew the sea better than any others, but even they had been no match for this storm. They were sailing out in the Jade Sea when it caught them, the mightiest tempest to ever blow across the seas. They had been tossed about like children's playthings, unable to do anything beyond stay alive. And they hadn't even done a good job of that. Out of over a dozen ships, only three had survived the storm. If he had been anywhere near as religious as his brothers, he would have thought the Drowned God wanted him dead.

Well, if God wants me dead, he'll have to try harder than that. Not that He would have to try very hard. They were running out of food and good water. If they didn't find land soon, his men were likely to start drinking seawater to sate their thirst. And that never went well.

"Wait!" the lookout exclaimed, his voice excited. "A ship on the horizon! A white ship, with white sails!"

A white ship? It certainly sounded strange, but a ship was a ship. "Well, what are you waiting for?!" he shouted to his crew. "Signal the other ships! That ship is ours!" His crew cheered, brandishing their weapons. Ironborn loved the sea, but they loved pillaging even more. Nothing would get their blood up like a good fight.

He pulled out his blade, grinning hungrily as the strange ship came within sight. It was shaped like a swan, the crafting so detailed it hurt his eyes. Or perhaps that was because it was so perfectly white that it reflected the sunlight better than the water did. Either way, he was going to enjoy tearing it apart.

As they drew nearer, the captain caught his first sight of the strange vessel's even stranger crew. They were tall, taller than most men he had seen, and all of them had fair skin, like Westerosi. The strangest part was that he had difficulty telling the women apart from the men, as they all seemed to be nearly the same height, and the men looked almost as pretty as the women. There was not a single beard on any of them, and their clothing was spotlessly clean. Some of them even seemed to glow.

"Captain," his first mate questioned. "Your orders?"

The captain turned to his first mate, his mutton chops framing his incredulous expression. "I don't care how pretty or shiny they are. Attack!"

. . . . .

It was a massacre, but not in the way the captain had expected. Only a few of the strange seafarers bore weapons and even fewer wore armor, but they fought like dragons. Ironborn fell by the dozen as the fae creatures cut through them, moving as fast as the wind and twice as graceful, weaving a tapestry of death with their bright blades flashing in the sun. Their armor turned away Ironborn blades as if they were practice swords, their weapons piercing Ironborn armor as if it was made of paper. One of the women (or at least he believed it was a woman) was slaughtering his men with a long spear, moving in a blur through the hardened warriors, when he stabbed her through the back, her eyes accusatory as the light in them went out. "You should have watched your back," he told her as she died. He noticed with interest something he hadn't during the fighting: her ears were longer than normal, with pointed tips. A quick glance at the other corpses found similarly pointed ears.

Finally, they killed the last of the superhuman warriors, a few of the noncombatants chained up and thrown onto the deck. "Two thirds of our men are dead, captain," his new first mate whispered, the former first mate fallen with a silvery blade through his chest. "What do you want to do with these… things?" Fear was obvious in his voice. It was a reasonable fear. After all, these creatures had slaughtered a force ten times their number when less than half of them even had weapons. But the captain had other thoughts on his mind.

He pulled one of the silvery blades from the ground, examining the weapon's strange shining metal, its gentle curve, and its fine edge. He tossed his old sword aside and slipped this new one into his belt. That done, he strode over to the strange prisoners with his thumbs looped into his belt, looking over them. He found one that was glowing, a man he assumed, from the lack of breasts. He leaned down and grabbed the creature's chin, pushing it to either side and examining it closely.

"What are you?" he whispered, intrigued. "Where do you come from?"

"I will tell you nothing," the glowing pointy-eared man hissed.

The captain, Euron Greyjoy, grinned at that. "Oh, I think you will tell me many things," he replied. "I can be a very persuasive man. I'm also very patient…"