Let the Galaxy Burn

by Antony444

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

12. Divided Council

Author's note: And here is the new chapter of Let the Galaxy Burn. It begins with aftermath of the terrorist attacks having just struck King's Landing and continues several arcs which may or may not have their importance for the rest of the year 300AAC.

If you want more to read, the maps and the warships I use as models or the tropes, here are the interesting links.

TV Tropes Page: / pmwiki/ / Fanfic/ LetTheGalaxyBurn

Alternate History page (useful for conversations, maps and ships models but you need an account, you have to remove the spaces): www. alternate history forum/ threads/ let-the-galaxy-burn- asoiaf-space-opera-au.396049 /

If you want to support my writing on P a treon, the link is: www. p a treon / Antony444

And now that everything is said, let the political disputes and the conspiracies of betrayal begin...

---

The Dying Peace Arc

Chapter 2

Divided Council

The bombing in front of the Royal Sun Casino which caused the death of Lord Gyles Rosby and his relatives was just the first of seven attacks bloodying the streets of King's Landing in this night of 02.07.300AAC. The Eternity Hotel, the Silver Flames Bank headquarters, the Jade Sept of the East, the Red Temple of the Cult of the Lord of Light, the Iridescent Palace and the Museum of the Essossi Free Planets were bombed too. With seven deadly attacks, the number of dead was in the hundreds, an unavoidable result since the perpetrators had used military-grade explosives to massacre the greatest number of persons possible. Thousands of men, women and children were wounded as well, either by the explosions or the desperate crowd trampling when the Kingslanders tried to flee the grounds of the bloodshed.

The medical services of the capital, never noted for their utmost efficiency and skills, were overwhelmed in minutes by the torrent of casualties. In every hospital, military or non-military, the rooms were filled to the brink with dying people. The cries of joy and celebration were replaced by agony laments.

The City Watch and its various auxiliary agencies tried to keep control, but panic spread nonetheless and for a few hours it was not false to say the streets of King's Landing the City were in chaos. Shops were raided, several quarters went down in flames and in many cases the absence of retaliation from the military authorities made sure the situation spiralled out of control.

By the morning of 03.07.300AAC, King's Landing was a bloodied city and if order was restored, it was a fragile thing and the appearance of peace had been brutally murdered. While the real number of victims would probably never be discovered, official estimations were already of twenty-four thousand dead and perhaps twice that many injured men, women and children. Before ten days had passed, the dead toll would skyrocket to fifty thousand and many of the wounded were crippled for the rest of their lives.

In the aftermath of this heinous attack, the rumours on who could have committed these bombings went wild. From an incomprehensible scheme from Northern secret agents to the vanguard of a new Blackfyre plot, uncountable possibilities were evoked. Several holo-news services openly said in front of thousands spectators two or three of the terrorists had been identified as Ironborn before retracting their words, an affirmation which did nothing to improve the image of the inhabitants of the Iron Sector.

But the attacks were not claimed by Ironborn or former rebels desirous to humiliate the Targaryen dynasty for their past slights. In this morning where tens of thousands Kingslanders woke up in tears and mourning, a fanatical organisation naming itself the Seven Sparrows claimed responsibility for the terrorist bombings.

In a long news release, the spokesman of this organisation no one had had a clue of the existence before that month screamed their culpability for the murders and the bloodshed unleashed in King's Landing. These seven attacks were voiced to be the answer for the assassination of the previous High Septon of the Faith, approved and ordered by King Rhaegar the Cursed. The Seven Sparrows openly stated the greatest religion of Westeros, the Faith of Seven, had become totally corrupt and its leadership was now serving body and soul the Iron Throne without considering the spiritual needs of the smallfolk. The Seven Sparrows, it was affirmed, had delivered a blow to the sinful, immoral and heretical forces worming their way in the heart of the Seven Sectors and this was the beginning of a long-needed purge.

Galactic Targaryen News and the other governmental news services quickly presented the culprits as dangerous fanatics and the High Septon himself excommunicated the Seven Sparrows, whoever they might be, for these atrocities and the innocent victims they had murdered in cold blood. But the damage had been done. Many locations visited by the wealthy and powerful Kingslanders had been bombed, but millions of the poorer inhabitants of the King's Landing System would never set a foot in these places and were stunned at the amount of wealth and luxury which had been brought down by the fanatics. The High Septon speech did not calm matter: the supreme leader of the Faith was puffy, old and uncharismatic in the extreme. Despite the best efforts of the elite propagandists, there was not much they could do to make attractive the person under the crystal tiara. Millions and millions of Kingslanders and billions of the Crown Sector had thus the confirmation the accusations of the Sparrows had at least some foundation in reality.

Still, there was an ocean of anger directed at the terrorists and the Crown agents quickly capitalised on it. Cells long suspected to hide the most radical elements of the Faith were raided by the dozens and hundreds of people were arrested. The Goldcloaks ruthlessly crushed hundreds of gangs who had a reputation to sell illegal weapons to the highest bidder. The Secret Police actions were not secret anymore, and highly wanted suspects disappeared in the night, their fate a warning to all that challenging the rule of the Iron Throne was the last mistake a man would ever make.

Many dangerous plots and foreign agents' schemes were discovered and stopped by this outburst of activity. But in spite of dismantling enemy cells, the Crown forces were not able to arrest anyone they could link with certainty to the Seven Sparrows – though plenty of Goldcloak officers liked to pretend the contrary in order to boost the morale of their troops.

The religious terrorists who had put themselves at the top of the black list of the Targaryen regime were impossible to find. And in the mean time, the political tensions were growing uncontrollable. The Rosby succession, which until now had seemed a minor issue, was suddenly evolving into a painful curse for the Small Council and the Lords of King Rhaegar the First...

From Night Falls by Yzabel Tendao, 317AAC.

You asked in a previous missive how the Kingdom of Westeros ruled itself these days. The answer is very badly. The mental health of the King has degraded severely in the last decade and the court is trying to modify, adapt or ignore as best as they can his insane orders. The Small Council –which should in theory govern until the King recovers his wits – is extremely busy quarrelling for the most futile issues. Many bards have already propagated the picture of angry five year-old children fighting each other while the house around them is burning. The Guilds, the Noble Houses, the armies and the fleet are paralysed most of the time by budget and political infighting. I fear that at the first crisis, the edifice is going to fall apart and start another civil war...

Extract from a report of a Volantene diplomat to his superiors, 299AAC.

---

Lord Varys Tivario, 03.07.300AAC, King's Landing System

All it had taken for the King to grace of his presence the Council Room this year was the worst massacre on this planet since Operation Downfall seventeen years ago. Just for that, he wanted to hang these Seven Sparrows murderers at the nearest lamppost.

And yes, Varys was well-aware they were the third day of the seven month in the year of grace 300 after the Conquest. Aerys had been so paranoiac after the Defiance of Duskendale that no official council could start without him being present. Just after the Greyjoy Rebellion, the signs had been there his eldest son intended to follow the same policy but these noble and pious intentions had died before the year was over.

A particularly venomous tongue would have affirmed at this point that a lot of things the King of Westeros did were indeed poisoned or killed in the space of a standard month.

Varys couldn't possibly comment in public, he liked his head where it was, thank you very much.

"My Small Council will deal with these terrorists and the Rosby succession. I must consult the prophecies and see if the course of the future hasn't been irrevocably damaged."

It took a monumental effort to not roll his eyes, sigh loudly or bash his shaven head against the table. It was even more difficult to keep his smiling expression in front of his fellow councillors and the rest of the assembly. A fast observation of the room made him wonder if he should have bothered. Lord Walther Whent was showing a horrified face and many councillors showed expressions of discontent or outright anger.

Truthfully, Varys understood them a bit. It was bad enough that the King's orders to the Council had been sent by letters and formulated like they were insolent servants in the last months, but these powerful Lords and Masters had at least had the hope Rhaegar would be more respectful and rational when he was in public.

They had obviously been completely wrong.

Fortunately, the madman turned around and left the Council chambers immediately, followed by a crowd of about fifty-plus men and women. In other circumstances, it would not have bothered Varys so much, provided these persons were competent bureaucrats, soldiers or bankers. He would have placed a few agents in their ranks to make sure nothing problematic unfolded without his knowledge, but he could have lived with it.

But this weird group was definitely belonging to any of these categories. There were according to his last reports: two ex-maesters excluded from the Citadel for their outrageous views, four women pretending to be hedge witches, six supposedly-famous astrologers, two extremely corrupt septons, three self-proclaimed 'prophets', five Essossi cultists of minor deities venerated from Braavos to Lys, a man pretending to be a Green Priest but who was in reality an imposter from the Stoney Sept, and of course several Red Priests and Red Priestesses led by the Red Witch of Asshai. And those were just the important characters. As a result, the lone agent he had infiltrated among these mad and crazy men and women was not exactly reliable.

When the heavy door closed in a sonorous crack, there were many around the priceless marble table who breathed in relief. Varys took a look at the superb platinum watch Illyrio had offered him so many years ago. Three minutes and fourteen seconds, this new royal intervention had to be some kind of record in itself.

"Good riddance," grumbled Lantion Lannister, the current Master of Coin. The golden hairs of the man were half-turned to grey, but the glare he threw at the recently closed door was not tired or devoid of energy. "May he return to his prophecies and let us govern the realm in peace."

Alone from the councillors, the Hand of the King looked like he was about to protest these words, but after seeing no one disagreed, Walter Whent huffed and limited himself to groan in his chair. It was a wise decision, really. The only member of the Council who would have defended their sovereign for sure was Ser Arthur Dayne, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was guarding the Crown Prince thousand kilometres away from the Red Keep and the capital, in case there were more bombings.

"Peace is not at the order of the day, I'm afraid," declared Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Information. "The capital was attacked and people certainly don't feel safe anymore."

Varys found himself nodding with the others. He didn't like Petyr Baelish very much – no, in fact this was wrong, he didn't like the man at all – but force was to admit that in this case he had a point.

"I must admit my failure and those of my services," Varys said out loud, attracting some surprised looks. Ah, they hadn't expected him to recognise he had been unable to see the terrorists coming. "The Crown Intelligence Agency never had a clue these... 'Seven Sparrows' existed or how destructive their intentions were. In fact we are twenty-four hours after the attacks and we have absolutely nothing on them except their claim they are behind the bombings."

"The same is true of the Secret Police," told Ser Alliser Thorne with his usual angry and insulting behaviour. "We have interrogated many troublesome Priests and nutcases who believe they are accomplishing the will of the Seven, but apart from resolving several unresolved crimes, we met everywhere dead ends. No one seemed to have ever heard of these 'Seven Sparrows'." The black-clothed man sniffed disdainfully. "I find it extremely suspicious. These terrorists had military explosives and these weapons have to come from somewhere!"

"The arsenals of the Goldcloaks and the Gold Fists in the system are verifying their stocks as we speak but so far nothing is missing," Lord Commander of the City's Watch Ser Jaremy Rykker spoke. Unlike his Stokeworth predecessor, Rykker had come with a fine tunic and a golden badge, not in a pompous battle-armour. "The security measures implemented after Operation Downfall appeared to have worked. Wherever these terrorists found their explosives, it was not in my forces' armouries."

Well, this was good news. Of course, the reason the Goldcloaks weren't selling anymore their own weapon stocks to outlaws was self-preservation. It had been brutally pointed to them during Downfall how likely they were going to be the targets of said weapons if an insurrection started. And the City's Watch always preferred their fights to be one-sided with their opponents armed with sticks and stones.

It was then the turn of Lord Tommen Costayne, bannersman of House Hightower and Master of Laws, to intervene. Unlike the Lannister or the Rykker councillor, he looked haggard and nervous. Not entirely without reason, since a lot of his directives had eased security orders and allowed the terrorists to kill themselves close to important monuments of King's Landing. His star was on the wane, and the Reacher Lord knew it.

"We will have to wait for the official analyses, but some of my best agents on the terrain called back to tell the explosives inflicted wounds similar to the ammunition Tully soldiers used during the Usurper's Rebellion."

"These stocks have been widely dispersed during the years preceding the Greyjoy Rebellion," Grandmaester Pycelle commented while caressing his long white beard with a wise expression. It was amusing how a man violating his vows fifty times a day could look so distinguished and show to the world a face of intelligence and calm. "It will be difficult from simple analyses to track back which army was charged to dispose of them."

Difficult, it was a good one. It was bloody impossible, that was the painful truth. When the River Sector military forces had been demobilised after the Peace of Maidenpool, what had been a unified navy and army had fragmented into dozens of groups. The Lannisters and the Tyrells had fallen like a pack of predators on the vanquished Lords and Ladies to empty their depots, and they had just been the first, not the only ones. It had been a pillage tacitly approved by the Crown...and Varys knew there were very rare data-slates and official documentation to support it. It wouldn't do for the victims to protest in front of a tribunal they had been robbed of their personal weapons, after all. Add to this chaos that there was no 'River Army' or 'River Navy' today. Oh, technically the Darrys were the Masters of the Sector, but this was a polite fiction. Between the Blackwood-Mallister block, the Tullys, the Brackens, the Mootons, the Freys and of course the Darry-Whent supporters, who owned what was always difficult to assess.

By instinct, Varys felt he would have to search in the direction of Houses having kept their old warships of the 280s in commission but it was possible the problem had come from another leak. With the list of enemies the Targaryen dynasty had accumulated in the last decades, everything was possible.

"Assuming the preliminary analyses agree with these facts, we may have enough justification to launch a serious investigation," said gravely Lord Whent, his old and wrinkled face trying to adopt a posture similar to Pycelle and failing miserably in the process.

Varys had a powerful urge to slam the head of the useless Hand of the King against a hard surface, but once again had to keep his smiling persona. Really, it was becoming more and more difficult to continue his role as a spy. The Small Council and the court were hitting his nerves with an alarming frequency these last months.

Thankfully, there was another man to correct the Lord of Harrenhal and this stupidity was right in his domain of competence.

"And exactly against whom should the Crown open an investigation against, my Lord Hand?" The mockery in Lord Petyr Baelish's voice was unmistakeable. "Lord Hoster Tully? He's rather dead, I'm told. The Seven Sparrows? They're bloody maniacs and apparently we can't find them! The River Lords? I'm sure half of them would rise in rebellion if we accused them with weak evidence like this! I suppose we could accuse the Northerners or the Essossi like we always accuse them when something turns wrong, but then we will have to present proof and there isn't a clue who has armed the terrorists!"

"Enough, Baelish," The tone of High Admiral Monford Velaryon was thick with disgust. "You may have a point, but your tongue went too far."

The Master of Ships and the Master of Information could hardly be more different nobles. One had hairs of the purest silver they took from their Valyrian lineage, the other had common black hair with light threads of grey. One was a cousin of Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the previous Lord Admiral who had heroically led the Deep Space Fleet against the Iron Fleet and won the Battle of the Arbor at the price of his own life. Monford had very deep pockets and it was his connections and the youth of the young Lord Jacaerys who had propelled him to this prestigious office. Baelish on the other hand had risen post by post without the slightest support from a powerful Great Lord. Technically, Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish had always been a Lord, but the system under his rule was so lightly populated, dirt poor and away from the trade hubs there were provincial highborn with twenty times his coffers and manpower resources.

It went without saying the two loathed each other. It had begun with Baelish calling Velaryon – what were the exact words again? – ah, yes 'an Admiral in slippers' in an interview and it had degenerated from there.

"You're right," agreed the Valeman with another of his amused and insincere faces. "My deepest apologies," there was absolutely no contrition or remorse in his attitude, "I was asking for precisions".

No one immediately spoke after this sardonic comment. The Master of Assassins was silent under his dark hood – Varys could not even tell if the man was asleep or not under this heavy cloak or for that matter if it was a man at all. Aron Santagar, the Master of Arms, looked supremely unconcerned by all this agitation and was reading the latest reports on the bombings. Whose brilliant idea had it been to put this Dornish on the Small Council? The Knight was useless, he had no interest in helping them ruling the realm and as far as everyone could tell, House Martell had never taken this nomination as something more than a half-hearted apology for the events having caused the death of Princess Elia Martell.

"We need to find the Seven Sparrows before the month is over," urged Lord Costayne.

Thorne barked contemptuously at the Master of Laws' assertion.

"My men are good, but they can't interrogate corpses in a thousand pieces." The Head of the Secret Police eyes were dark. "If we had had proper security measures in places, maybe we could have captured one of those terrorists before they blew themselves or found one of the hideouts where they prepared the massacre."

"I had my orders from the King, Thorne!"

"The King or Mace Tyrell?" The derisive question of Monford Velaryon was the big provocation which broke the tiny pretence of civility still in the air. "We all know the Reach is more interested in filling their own pockets than saving lives..."

"It's not like you have any room to speak, Velaryon."

"The taxes on wines of the 290s have been increased of eight percent because of you!"

"I have no lesson to receive of a Lannister sitting on a mountain of gold..."

And just like this, it was not a Council session anymore but a shouting session. Monford Velaryon hated Littlefinger, but this loathing was nothing compared to the enmity he had with Costayne or Lantion Lannister. Baelish was in the end an upstart who had climbed too far above his real place; a Hightower vassal and a Lannister emissary were the true threats directed at House Velaryon from his point of view. In seconds, the Master of Coin, the Master of Ships and the Master of Laws were vociferating and insulting each other, with Thorne and Rykker on the sidelines trying to take their part of flesh in this dispute. Walther Whent looked completely lost as usual. In theory, the most powerful man after the King himself, the Master of Harrenhal was an old man and the good fortunes enjoyed by his House and his sons did not mean he had managed to impose his will to the Lords Paramount and the greatest of the Noble Houses. House Whent was once again powerful in the River Sector, but this was in large part because the planets there lacked a strong leadership to keep them loyal.

Varys sighed as the accusations flew from every corner of the marble table. One might have expected nobles of such long and distinguished lines to behave like the charismatic and competent advisors they were supposed to be. Unfortunately, like in many things, there was a large difference between theory and the ugly reality. And the reality was that the Small Council didn't function anymore, if it had truly worked at all since Rhaegar had taken this bloody crown and sat on the Iron Throne for the first time.

Aron Santagar and the Master of Assassins were ignoring the angry exchanges and Pycelle was taking notes on a data-slate – in all likelihood his version of the session which would rapidly find its way to Casterly Rock. If there one thing the Grandmaester could be counted on, it was its total subservience to Lord Tywin Lannister.

Petyr Baelish was smirking, not saying a word but clearly watching the 'spectacle' proposed by the other Masters. This one was dangerous. Varys admitted in the privacy of his mind it had taken him a long time – not before 291AAC – to realise how complex the machinations were in this seemingly unimpressive head. Petyr Baelish, son of a former mercenary captain favoured by Jon Arryn, had huge ambitions and sadly not a shadow of reluctance to achieve them. Evicted from Riverrun and a pariah inside his own Sector, many Lords and Knights would have retreated to their holdings and remained there until their deaths.

The man nicknamed Littlefinger was not built in this mould. As the hostilities ended between the Iron Throne and the Rebels, the forgotten Vale Lord had been on the move. First, the penniless Petyr Baelish had concluded a marriage between himself and Janyce Hunter. The Old Lord of Longbow Hall was notoriously avaricious, and a marriage with the Lord of the Southern Fingers System must have appeared like a miracle: the groom was so poor he could propose the third of a normal dowry and still see the bargain be accepted. Lord Eon had probably laughed at the good joke he had given a man who would never have the opportunity to be a threat to his powerbase and his influence.

Baelish had not lost time, however. The next month, he had used the money provided by the dowry to buy an important commission in the offices of the Crown Information Services at Duskendale. After that, his ascension had been in all honesty phenomenal, alternating between important jobs at Galactic Targaryen News and moving in the headquarters of the Master of Information at the capital itself. On the surface, Baelish had been toothless and a talented administrator uninvolved in the Lords' power struggles. In reality, Littlefinger had pushed Lord Garth 'the Gross' Tyrell and his main subordinates to tear apart their reputations in outrageous scandals. By the time Balon Greyjoy's Rebellion was ruthlessly crushed, the Tyrell Lord had been a pariah, and Petyr Baelish had become his temporary successor...an 'interim' which had become quite permanent when year after year the candidates willing to replace him suddenly revealed themselves unsuitable for one reason or another. Some of his tricks had managed to surprise even Varys when the full extent of certain conspiracies came to light.

To sum-up the situation, Baelish had proven he was extremely dangerous. Worse, Varys had not much pressure to apply on this scoundrel. Littlefinger's wife was fiercely loyal to him, as were his daughters Meredyth and Catelyn. The Valeman was charismatic, ambitious and ready to throw in the flames his 'allies' if it gave him more power and influence. And the best part in this was that the Lords of Westeros were completely unaware of the snake they had invited inside their ranks. Why should they worry at all? Littlefinger had no warships, no great armies and no formidable cohorts to wage war against them. He had only his words...the similarities with Varys' role were really striking, in hindsight.

The noise from the verbal fight augmented once again, forcing the Master of Whisperers to redirect his attention to the quarrelling children – pardon, the noble and wise nobles debating loudly.

"Enough or the King will have to nominate a new Small Council," the Lord of the Seven Deaths spoke and it was like someone had pressed the button to silence the entire room. The councillors had pale faces when they turned it at the dark-hooded being on the left corner and their dispute had been swept under the carpet in a hurry. Imbeciles they might be, but the Lords of the Small Council had still enough self-preservation in their skulls to fear the Master of Assassins.

"The next order of the day is the Rosby succession," began Varys, pointedly ignoring how half of the participants were looking worriedly at the assassin threatening them by his or her simple presence.

"There were no survivors among Lord Rosby and his retinue," Lord Baelish for once did not look amused. His chosen candidate to replace the sickly Lord had been a favourite for the gamblers and all this investment had disappeared in a single explosion. "Lord Rosby and twenty-six men and women who could have continued the Rosby line in his name have been confirmed dead."

"There are a few lesser families with the name in the Rosby System," suggested helpfully the Head of the Crown Intelligence Agency.

"It is out of the question to raise Hedge Knights and paupers to the dignity of Noble Houses!" The roar which had come out of the mouth from Lord Costayne was spoken like it was a reflex of survival. Varys rolled his eyes mentally. The bannersmen of Highgarden had a very high idea of their noble blood and did their best to stop any possible changes in the cradle. It was in the Reach Sector where the divide was the greatest between highborn and smallfolk first, and between Knights and Lords second. The rest of Westeros was anything but a system of equality but it was near the Mander Rift that the Noble families believed themselves the masters of the stars and above the rest of the mortals.

Needless to say, the next years were going to be a very nasty surprise for them.

That said Varys was not surprised that Lantion Lannister and Monford Velaryon nodded in approval, followed by a cautious Lord Whent. All of them were born with a golden spoon in the mouth and had never known true hunger and thirst in their lives.

"Who are the next claimants?" asked Aron Santagar, who for once had abandoned the lecture of the documents in front of him and looked genuinely interested.

"The children of the union between Lord Walder Frey and Lady Bethany Rosby," Varys answered, feigning to not notice the looks of distaste emerging on the visages of his interlocutors. "The Lady was Lord Gyles' sister and died giving birth during the Usurper's Rebellion but she had five children who survived their first years..."

"The Starks botched the job..." whispered evilly the High Admiral between his teeth.

"...Two died of various illnesses," also known as murders, Emmon Frey had succeeded his father after Lord Eddard Stark removed the head of Lord Walder, and the husband of Lord Tywin's Lannister sister was not fond of the relatives he had inherited. "But there are still three alive, two boys and one girl. Their names are Perwyn, Olyvar and Roslin, according to my little birds."

"So this...Perwyn is the eldest and has the best claim?" There was no condemnation in the Master of Coin's voice, just interest. Varys could almost see the reasoning in the bright green eyes. The Lannisters were linked to the Freys and in one move could ensure the Lord of the Twins was deeper in their debt as well as boosting their influence in the Crown Sector.

"Yes, though it is Ser Perwyn Frey. The young man has been recently knighted I'm told."

It would be the solution of facility and wisdom in one. Perwyn had been a ward in the Saltpans System and by his agents' reports an intelligent young lad, unlike the Crown Prince and the majority of the golden youth drinking themselves to their deaths in the scandalous establishments of King's Landing. Plus he had been more or less ignored by the powerful blocks and had no enemies in the Sector.

Pycelle caressed his beard thoughtfully before nodding slowly.

"I will need to consult the genealogic tree of House Rosby, but it looks like Ser Perwyn Frey might be the Lord the Rosby System needs." And with Lantion Lannister showing his agreement, this was the Lannister block of the Small Council who had given its assent.

And two seconds later, unsurprisingly, the first voice of dissent was heard.

"Out of the question!" The Blackfyre descendant had expected Tommen Costayne or Monford Velaryon to express loudly their objections first, but it was the vocal chords of Lord Walter Whent from where the outburst had come. "House Langward and House Buckwell have the best claims to the Rosby Lordship!"

"How?" When Ser Alliser Thorne was openly incredulous, it was a either a very good or a very bad sign. Varys had a guess which was the correct choice here. "The two Noble Houses in question have not married with House Rosby in the last five generations unless there was a marriage I wasn't aware. And Lord Gyles hated Lord Langward's guts!"

One of the most feared men of the Crown Sector fixed the Hand of the King with a suspicious glare.

"This is an attempt from the Crown Prince to give some of his friends the titles they absolutely don't deserve, am I wrong?"

"Of course not!" But the breathing and the transpiration of Walter Whent were so loud Varys and the rest of the men knew within the second this was a lie and a poor one.

The Master of Ships sniggered loudly before adopting a more serious expression when the eyes of the Lord of Harrenhal turned in his direction.

"It is House Stokeworth which should be given the Lordship," the silver-haired Lord told them. "A cousin of Lady Tanda's was Lord Gyles' second wife and no one can doubt the friendship between the two Houses and their loyalty to the Throne."

Their loyalty Varys could very well believe. Lady Tada Stokeworth and her husband the former Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks Manly Stokeworth were so dumb the very thought of betraying the Targaryens would never find its way to their ears. They were also utterly incompetent when something more complicated than lacing their shoes was demanded.

"I disagree," countered the Master of Laws. "Rose Transports and Oldtown Unlimited have invested a lot of money to increase the agricultural production of the Rosby lands post-rebellion. Lord Leighton and Lord Mace will not accept a Lord unfriendly to the Reach Sector's interests and Lord and Lady Stokeworth have proven they can't be trusted with their loans."

Oh, and the economic card now was in play. In all his years as Master of Whisperers, Varys could honestly admit no one had tried to use it before in a Noble House's succession.

"And who is your preferred candidate?" The secret Blackfyre demanded, honestly curious which name would be proposed.

"Why, a son of House Chelsted, of course." The Lord of House Costayne smiled. "Lord Gyles' first wife was of this House and this union should be taken into consideration, no?"

Varys felt a very cold shiver in his bones. Oh yes, what a formidable idea. Since Aerys had roasted the previous Lord like a pig in a pyre of wildfire, none of their members had graced the court and King's Landing with their presence. Their forces had not participated in the smallest military exercise in the last sixteen years and the taxes they paid were about half of the standard for their wealth.

But the new Lady Chelsted was a Sloane or a Stackhouse, and thus a Reacher...by the Gods and Goddesses of this Quadrant, Varys really hoped this wasn't the sole reason Costayne had chosen this House.

"Just because you have sold a few tractors and combine harvesters to House Rosby doesn't mean you have the right to dictate their succession," told Jaremy Rykker in a belligerent tone. "This is the Crown Sector, and Crown laws must apply. We will not bow to Mace Tyrell's edicts."

The assertion was accompanied by a vigorous strike of his fist against the table. By the Seven, this had to hurt.

"You speak of laws and customs proudly," laughed Tommen Costayne. "But when the moment will come, you will be the first to push for one of your siblings to replace Lord Gyles."

Varys raised his hands in appeasement but it was too late.

"I suppose you know what you're speaking about, since you claimed your Lordship like this." The fists of the commander of the Goldcloaks were tightened and his face was turning a nice red.

"Oh, because your loyalty is unshakeable? I remember you and three others Generals stabbed Lord Stokeworth in the back when the time came to explain who was at fault for Downfall."

"If you lose nuclear bombs in your custody I will question your competence too..."

And then the very uncivil debate between the Lord Commander and his –nominal- superior the Master of Laws was just not limited to the two of them.

"I don't think I feel very safe with the two of you in charge of our security at King's Landing," remarked Baelish.

"The capital is not one of your whorehouses, Littlefinger!"

"Could have fooled me..."

"The Crown Lords will not tolerate vultures of your kind!"

"Take that back or your loans will increase by five hundred percent!"

Varys sighed and tried not to show his annoyance as the Master of Assassins exited the room without a noise and the rest of the Small Council renewed the verbal hostilities. Every time they met in the last three or four months it had been like this. The Masters and Lords of the Council could not spend ten minutes together without provoking a large dispute.

"You are growing strong at the expense of every other Sector!"

Pycelle and he had discussed it four or five times around a bottle of the Arbor. They were the last two councillors of King Aerys. They were not fond of the pyromaniac madman their King had become after the Defiance of Duskendale. But you had to admit, with or without Tywin Lannister as his Hand, there had never been much debate where the power was to be found at King's Landing during that era.

"I will not tolerate these words from a man who had built his fortune stealing a third of the River Sector's gold!"

Now the realm was leaderless. Rhaegar Targaryen and Walter Whent were both hilariously ineffective in their duties. The two Lord Paramount who could have solved this deadlock behind the scenes, Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell, were advancing their pawns to put their blood on the Iron Throne. The others powerful factions had rebellions or insurrections in mind.

"Stop building ridiculous super-battleships and maybe someone will take you seriously!"

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the traitorous Master of Whisperers, the person who helped sowing confusion in the loyalists' ranks. Instead, he had exhausted himself the last two decades preserving something of the old Seven Sectors. The Gods and Demons must laugh at the irony.

"I will listen to your advice when you stop painting your yachts in gold!"

Well it was time to end this disaster. Rhaenyra was ready to take her throne and must have now by this time won her first skirmishes against the Tyroshi fleets. Several Tigers of the Old Blood had already agreed to support her and Strickland was slowly abandoning his neutral stance. They were about as ready as they could be...and anyway Westeros would not wait any longer.

He rose from his seat, abandoning his seat and the screams of Monford Velaryon insulting Lantion Lannister. The priceless carpets covering the ground ensured his departure would be unremarked by the main parties long after he was gone.

As he marched in one of the corridors decorated by tapestries illustrating the Conquest of Aegon the Conqueror, Varys smiled and this time it was a sincere expression. In a few months, his fellow councillors were going to suffer tragic accidents...dolorous and tragic accidents. Once upon a time, he would have spared them but their greed and their selfishness deserved only painful deaths.

In the end, House Targaryen and those supporting it were vanquished before the first shot was fired...and the Blackfyres were not at fault.

---

Eddard Stark, 03.07.300AAC, Winterfell System

It seemed an eternity ago that Robert had boasted of being able to slay a dragon.

Of course they had been both quite drunk that day. So had been Elbert, Denys and many Vale teenagers. In hindsight, they had been anything but careful. An excursion in the wild and high mountains of the Lance Mountains could be extremely dangerous, and the risks increased a lot when all the participants had drunk the equivalent of a good tavern's reserves in alcohol.

It had been a better time. Or maybe it was his memories and the innocence of a teenager. The kingdom was at peace, there was no storm on the horizon and the biggest threats came from Lord Jon Arryn's mouth when he saw the results of their pranks and joyful celebrations.

They had all said quite a few things that should never be repeated in polite company. But for one reason or another, the 'dragon slayer' had stayed in his mind while so many other things were forgotten.

One thing was sure, Robert had been wrong. The former ward of Lord Arryn didn't see a way a single man could slay a beast like this.

To be honest, he didn't see a way a conventional army could slay a dragon without orbital support.

The immense carcass of the ice dragon was in the small valley before his eyes while he observed the monster surrounded by his guards. It was extremely humbling to see a huge creature like this...not to mention terrifying. The Northern Sector had its fair share of super-predators; Howland had showed him some of the lizard-lions his family and friends had hunted for sport in the last century and some skeletons were gigantic.

They were nothing compared to an ice dragon, and he included the pack of giant direwolves circling around them in the comparison.

The legendary flying creature was simply too big, too awe-inspiring. The vast wings had been shot, pierced and crushed. There were three massive holes in the throat of the best. Every part from tail to the maw looked to have received a hellish punishment. There were likely tens of thousands of wounds on this reptilian corpse. And despite this, the dread aura inspired by the dragon remained. Several scouts had despaired without any reason, persuaded the dragon was going to regain its consciousness and devour them all. It was pure non-sense...and yet. There was something agitating every man, woman and children's thoughts. It was something dark, as if the dragon's death had left an imprint of the soul on the white snow. Perhaps, it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything. One thing was sure: this ship of the line-sized monster was forcing him to re-evaluate a lot of things by its very existence. The old legends had mentioned ice dragons at one time or another, but if the Others had waited generations in order to have hundreds of these space-faring weapons, then the North and the rest of Westeros were in deep trouble.

One just needed to look at the size of the fangs and claws to know where man was in the food chain compared to the dragons. And there was the ice breath...

"The warship the dragon fought was not one of ours," he didn't make it a question. No human starship had ever been built in the wood they had found the debris of.

"No, Lord Stark," replied one of the Green Priests he had brought with him. The dark green robe and the burning anvil insignia worn over the winter suit told the Master of Winterfell the man was one of the followers of the Old God Nantosueltos, deity of fires, engineering and creation. These Green Priests were rather famous – or infamous depending who you asked – for their ability to create runic blades. These weapons had obviously not the sharpness and the intrinsic supernatural abilities of Valyrian steel, but unlike these priceless swords, the secret of fabrication had not been lost. Runic weapons were of course of little utility against a human opponent, as House Royce and many First Men armies could vigorously testify. But against the dead and other magical abominations gathering in the shadows, they would be of prime importance.

"I suspect the dragon was fighting one or more of the Children of the Forests' warships. We will get no survivors to get more precise information; the dragon has made too much damage."

"It does make sense, my Lord," said Major-General Jory Cassel. "The old legends agree the Children and the creatures of the frost are deep enemies."

A smile came to Eddard's lips. It was somewhat amusing how his men were dancing around the word 'Others' since the dragon had crashed in this far-removed and frozen land over a day ago.

"You can send your men inspect the carcass," the Lord Paramount of the North commanded the Green Priests and the detachment of his guard he had chosen for the duty. "Take all precautions you deem necessary. Every danger may not have died with the beast."

A forest of salutes was made and then the Northern soldiers and priests descended the slope. Looking at the four hundred-strong column, Lord Eddard Stark wished there was more Green Priests among them...only one in eight were magical soldiers here, the rest were elite soldiers. Now, fifty Green Priests was a big number, especially when their numbers had been so reduced over the centuries until his father's rule. They were also numerous training sessions, recruiting operations and deployments to do outside the Winterfell System. But these were just fifty men and women...and while they were far more powerful than a man in battle-armour, they died like everyone if they received a tank shell on top of their heads. There was also too little of the war-experts followers of Taranos to his liking.

"We are rearming as fast as we can, but we forgot so many things," he whispered.

"We have the proof in front of us these dragons are anything but invincible, my Lord."

Jory had clearly decided to be the voice of optimism and cheerfulness today.

"You have a point, but if there are too many of these monsters to support our enemies, the ice dragons don't need to be invincible. Their masters just need enough of them to bury us in a storm of ice and death. This thing is bigger than our new ships of the line and I must assume it is as dangerous as well."

He would order numerous simulations to be made to be sure, but he had the feeling close-quarter space actions had just become a tactical impossibility. Northern warships would have to rely on their new missiles to outrange the breath of a dragon and never present a coherent target.

It was the first sight of the Enemy and their doctrine had already to be modified. For the North's sake, Eddard hoped the ice creatures had not too many of these surprises waiting for them in the cold depths of the Void.

Abandoning the watching of the ice dragon's corpse, he pivoted to observe the nearby dark woods and frozen plains...and sighed.

"Remind me, Jory. Why did I think bringing my daughters here was such a good idea?"

"I have no idea, my Lord," replied with a modicum of fake virtuousness his Cassel subordinate.

The direwolves' pack had largely retreated out of view when the Stark detachment had landed on the planet. It had not surprised him a lot; the huge predators were wild animals and they hadn't seen by a single human in a few centuries. There had been paw prints, furs remnants, corpses left behind, but living wolves had almost entered the realm of tales and legends.

There was a large exception. Nearly two meter-tall, grey-furred, the length of an average air-car and in all likelihood the weight to match the vehicle, a young direwolf had decided this was clearly the day of hugging and caresses. It had begun with salted meat thrown by Arya and Joanna, had continued with Sansa caressing the heavy fur on the animal's back and rapidly gone downhill from there.

As long as his daughters and sons continued to feed the glutton, the direwolf didn't seem to mind the photos and the caresses. In fact, the symbol of House Stark seemed to actively encourage it. Under his eyes, the direwolf went on his back, clearly wishing for more attention to be lavished on its belly. Since everyone obliged, the direwolf wasn't disappointed and growled sonorously in satisfaction.

As he marched back to his family, the question he had half-expected for several hours came from Arya.

"Dad, can we keep him?"

"Arya, a direwolf is not a pet you can keep around like this." He tried to keep his tone stern. Last year he had said tentatively yes for a cat and before he knew what had happened, every member of House Stark wanted a pet. If he said yes to a direwolf...well, the dire consequences did not bear thinking about.

"Are you sure?" asked Baela. The enormous tongue of the young direwolf went out salivating, begging for another meat piece which was promptly granted and swallowed in less time it took to say it.

"Direwolves are not pets," he repeated with what he hoped to be an infinite patiently expression. "House Stark sons and daughters have more important duties to come and besides, these animals are far too big for anything but our largest transport shuttles and warships. They will never fit in corridors, rooms, bridges or weapon control stations. This one is just growing, and it is already the size of a family vehicle. It would never be practical to take one with us. And the direwolves are wild, no matter how nice they seem at first glance. Try to take him away from his pack, and they will be far less accommodating."

"Ah, but I wanted Dragon's Doom to eat the Kingsguards and their master!" said Joanna in a disappointed pout.

"Dragon's Doom?" He could not help but ask while raising his eyebrows.

"He and his pack killed a dragon, the name is deserved!" defended vehemently the daughter he had with Ashara.

But apparently the decision wasn't unanimous in the audience. A loud debate started on the spot.

"I think Great Fang was a better name..."

"We should call him Wind of Terror!"

"Have you seen this magnificent fur? I think we should call him Grey Wind!"

"No, Shaggywolf!"

Catelyn gave him a heartbreaking look, the kind pleading him to do something and bring some measure of sanity to this humorous situation. A few metres away from their children, his wife was talking with two Priestesses of Abnobia, the Old Goddess of nature, earth and forests. The Lord of Winterfell nodded negatively in answer. He considered himself a fairly good judge when a battle was lost, and he was not going to stop his children from their 'direwolf hugging-time'.

Under the grey sky, the Lord Paramount of the North watched his surroundings. There were five or six direwolves watching him back in the distance. Unlike their younger pack member, they did not seem in a hurry to take the meat and the caresses. They were also bigger and older. After instructing the guards to maintain some vigilance, he abandoned his contemplation to see what the force examining the dragon had found.

On top of the hill, Eddard was free to marvel at the dragon's size once more. The direwolves had killed the dragon, yes but they had not eaten it, they had just given the last strike. Maybe there were analogies to be drawn with the current state of Westeros.

Now that he thought about it, the presence of the nearby great winter predators didn't explain how the ice dragon was looking so well- preserved. Runic Fang was a harsh world full of dangers and between the temperatures and the winds, it could rapidly transform itself in a very cold hell. But one thing it was not was a desert. Reports from the rare Marines and foresters venturing in these areas told of a very varied fauna and flora, with plenty of carnivorous animals to feed on the corpses of the fallen.

Either the meat of dragon was naturally indigestible, or there was something far more sinister at work there. New reports came to his ears, interrupting these thoughts. The size of the dragon was confirmed. From muzzle to tail, the ice beast was 2028 metres long. Eddard wasn't a specialist in dragonology. There must not be a lot of people in the North who did given that the species had been thought extinct until this week. Moreover, the North had never been friends with dragonriders or their trusted allies. If the Blacks had wanted an alliance with Lord Cregan during the Dance, it was because they were getting desperate and had many enemies in the South to defeat.

Still, there were information data-banks left of these ancient times, precise and accurate for his men to conclude this ice dragon – temporarily named Dawncrash and no, he didn't want to know how they had chosen this name – was roughly on par with the fearsome Caraxes in size. The ice dragon was according to the old records less nimble and swift, but compensated by more resistance in its scales and a more robust body allowing it to endure more punishment. Like with fire dragons on the other hand, the preliminary studies tentatively told him the wings remained a glaring weak point.

Giving back the data-slates and throwing new orders, he could at least see the good side of things. This dragon was a fearsome monster, and its loss was a severe blow to the Others' capabilities without the North having to pay tens of thousands men and women to kill it. It was also smaller than the Black Dread and Vhagar. It was not to say the Enemy had not monsters like this available but not unleashing them when this dragon was not sufficient was either overconfidence or stupidity.

"My Lord, we have found something!" shouted a captain in his holo-communicator.

It was not terribly useful, as Eddard could see it from where he was watching. Or to be more accurate, he was aware something had caused plenty of the Green Priests below to dig in the snow and begin to unearth an unknown object with their powers and a lot of precaution.

"So I see," he answered calmly.

Precautions which started to be more and more justified when they saw what they had discovered. It was a large wood container in piteous state and the moment the soldiers tired to move it by hand, the large cracks on the outer surface getting bigger. The Green priests told the men to stop their efforts, but the initial shock had been too much. In a large scraping noise, a sizeable wood panel completely fell apart and silence fell.

Eddard slowly descended the hill in the gathering's direction. A wood container meant this was something that had been stored with incredible defences aboard the Children's ship – it had to be to resist the spatial assault of an ice dragon and an orbital crash in good state.

His troops separated to let him pass, and soon he could see what was in the container. Despite having seen a lot of things and experienced a lot of surprises in his life – many of them unpleasant – he could not help but gasp when his mind realised what was inside.

The first object had an oval shape and looked like it was made up of sapphires and diamonds. He had any doubt any jeweller would cut one hand to possess this stone...except it wasn't a stone, wasn't it? Eddard had consulted some of the descriptions from two centuries ago, and this 'stone' could only be one thing.

"It is a dragon egg, isn't it?" He asked to the leading Green Priest. The grey-bearded man answering to the name Bur nodded with a dark expression.

"And a big one, my Lord," The black eyes of the Taranos-sworn Priest contemplated the egg for a few seconds before speaking again. "My colleagues and I will have to study the runes for a while, but I would not be surprised if the Children didn't use the egg to...stabilise everything in the container and stop the Others from localising their ship."

"Clearly it wasn't enough."

"Clearly not," replied Bur. "I would advise not to touch anything. The egg is imbued with an incredible quantity of magical energy and it is nothing compared to the sword."

Because of course the second object had to be more dangerous. Like Bur had said, it was a blade though a glance was sufficient to know it hadn't been forged by human hands. In size terms, it was longer than Ice but far narrower in width. The hilt was in a shining silver-like material hurting his eyes and the metal - or whatever the Enemy used as substitute - was pale blue and so perfect it looked like a mirror.

It was an Other's sword. No, it was Her Sword, majuscules necessary.

"The Sword of Frost..."

A spark of blue sparkled at the point of the blade while he examined it.

He sees a world in flames. The warships are bombarding this world to oblivion. Towers are collapsing, fortresses are torn apart in monumental explosions and vast cities are burning under a black sky.

He sees an army advancing, hundreds of thousands, no millions of battle-armours, tanks and artillery. He sees their weapons crush their enemies and create a mountain of broken gold equipment. Lakes of blood are created by the quantity of Gold Fists and Goldcloaks bleeding on hundreds of battlefields.

He sees King's Landing and the Red Keep under siege, their feeble forces routed and in disarray. A battlecruiser in orbit tries to enter the upper atmosphere to provide some support but the warship is torn apart by impossible air-batteries.

He sees himself, leading uncountable Legions to victory. Thousands of Crown soldiers died under each of his strikes. A cruel smile is on his lips and his soldiers roar in triumph, desperate for more carnage and blood, a fitting end for three centuries of humiliation.

"Robert was weak! Robert had the galaxy in his hands but he hesitated and he died! We will not fail! We are not weak like him! In this day I promise you victory...and we will kill all our enemies, no matter where they hide!"

The armies shout in joy and throw themselves against the last citadel, eager to finish the last bastion of resistance...

He shook his head in repulsion and stopped gazing at the sword. In fact, he stopped looking at the container. What the hell had this been a vision? No, it had felt more like...a promise. Like this thing had expected him to grab it and wield it to battle.

"This is Her Sword, isn't it?"

"It might be..." There was not much doubt in the Green Priest's tone. "We lack good descriptions of this sword for obvious reasons."

Yes, eight thousand years and the fact most people who saw the blade died in the next instants...it tended to leave patchy records.

"But yes, this weapon is likely to be Frostbringer, the Night's Queen sword."

Many men and women shivered in unease around him. Old tales or not, there were artefacts and weapons that had gained such a reputation they were more legend than reality. The name which had just been just uttered definitely belonged to this category.

"Extract the sword and the egg from the container. Separate them, and make sure no living soul is in the vicinity of this evil sword for more than a minute. Hide it the fastest you can with your abilities."

"My Lord," replied Bur in a murmur. "I don't know if we will be able to hide well the sword against the abominations seeking it. The ice dragon is proof the monsters will stop at nothing to claim it back and we are not the equals of the Children. It is highly possible the Others know already the Sword is here in the Winterfell System."

"I see."

He would have loved to rage and scream but this wasn't his way. The galaxy wasn't going to change its fundamental rules just because he howled in fury. Instead he suppressed his anger and showed his men the shadow of a smile.

"Well, if they know where it is, they're welcome to come and challenge us to recover it."

A sonorous cheer mounted from the four hundred-plus formation. Northerners always loved to ignore the odds and beat the enemy with them, so he knew this declaration was going to be loved and known from Last Hearth to White Harbor by the end of the month.

"We will take back the ice dragon egg to Winterfell. Make the necessary arrangements, Jory."

"Is it wise, my Lord?" The question from the Major-General as they walked away and began a slow progression in the snow was annoying and too slow to his taste. At least they were away from this damned sword. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the air seemed far lighter each step they took away from this relic. Judging by how the Northern warriors around him were in a hurry to follow him and imitate his move, there was some sorcery at play here.

"It is not wise. But if the Dance of Dragons proved something, it was that dragons were the best dragons to kill other dragons."

"There's nothing to support that there are more ice dragons out there," replied cautiously Jory.

Eddard shook his head. It was not the correct reasoning. Dragons, fire or ice, were likely taking years to grow up. If the Others had fully grown dragons, the North would have to imagine new tactics to kill them. Sending a dog or even a direwolf-sized creature against a ship of the line-long monster was not the recipe of a successful strategy.

"No, using an ice dragon against demons who have certainly trained for hundreds of years with them is not what I have in mind. I was more referring to the moves of certain agents buying petrified eggs on the other side of the Narrow Void."

"They failed time and time again this last century to hatch something living and not deformed."

There was no question who the 'they' referred to. Half of the known galaxy must have heard of the disastrous attempts of the Targaryens since the reign of the Dragonsbane.

"And I pray the Old Gods the Rapist's plans will fail like the rest. But I must ensure there are counters in place. There will be no Second Conquest, not while I live. And now, do not tell a word of this to my children. They don't need to know of the two artefacts before we have the full report; we may need to break the egg and the sword before the end of the month."

"What's the worst that could happen?"

The Lord of Winterfell had the fierce temptation of shooting the young idiot who had babbled this stupidity. Andal or First Men, Rhoynar of Ironborn, there were things you just didn't say because the universe was always listening.

And once more, this occasion was no different.

Once they were at the top of the hill, Eddard saw Arya running straight towards them. And yes, there was a little grey fur ball in her arms that could only be a newly-born direwolf.

"Dad! This is Nymeria and she's mine!"

There were days like this he really hated being the Lord Paramount of the North and a father. Maybe Benjen had had the right idea joining the Night's Watch...

---

Shiera Targaryen, 05.07.300AAC, King's Landing System

There were proper hours to have a family meeting and it was not fifteen minutes before midnight. If a councillor or one of her tutors had sent a messenger at this hour, Shiera would have been more than happy to explain to them what she thought of their horrid schedules. But the guard charged to deliver the information had not come from them. It had come from a far higher authority, one which didn't care for the problems it caused. Fortunately, when the summon came she was returning from her late piano lesson. This time at least, she would not be woken up because the King desired to speak with his children and could not be bothered to wait until sunrise.

The young Princess still thought this was not an acceptable hour to have a familial meeting or any type of meeting at all. She was thirteen years old and Daeron walking right behind her was nine. Tomorrow morning, they had to attend a conference with Guild Masters and senior officials, followed by more lessons and a quick presentation to the court for some protocol nonsense. The Seven only knew how tired she was going to be, and Daeron was going to be in a worse state, since unlike her he had been sleeping when their genitor summoned them. Plus they had to walk somewhere around two kilometres between their bedrooms and Queen Myriah's ballroom in spite of taking a multitude of highly-guarded elevators to get where the meeting was convened.

The section they had reached was silent and almost empty at this hour. They were in the depths of Maegor's Holdfast, an underground fortress hundreds of meters under the main fortress where the Iron Throne was located. A few guards and lone servants could be seen doing their nightly work, bowing when Shiera and her brother came into view, before returning to their long and tedious duties.

They took a last elevator, and the decoration on the walls and the doors took a very Dornish air. It was a part of the Red Keep King Daeron II had specifically built for his wife, according to her tutors and the maesters of the court. While she had visited six or seven times before, Shiera had believed it abandoned it after the death of Princess Elia Martell. Obviously this was no longer true.

Before the last intersection, Shiera adjusted her golden dress and looked at her younger brother, trying to see if his clothes needed a last-minute touch. To her relief, it wasn't necessary. The red-gold cloak and the red tunic were looking good on him, and despite the exhaustion Daeron was showing a good figure.

"Ready?" She asked.

"Ready," answered her brother and there was a resignation in his voice that shouldn't be present. Alas, it was. As far as they could remember, family meetings were rarely pleasant affairs and there was little chance this one would be an exception.

They moved at a slow and dignified pace on the vermillion carpet, tapestries on the right and the left detailing the defeat of the First Blackfyre Rebellion. In front of them eight soldiers in black battle-armour with the red dragon on their chest raised their vibro-halberd in salute before forming a guard of honour.

The large doors of the ballroom, decorated with images of King Daeron II and his wife, opened without the usual rumbling before closing once again when they set a foot inside.

Six massive crystal lustrums were illuminating the ballroom built by Queen Myriah. As far as Shiera could see, these were the only things left of the original decoration. Months before, the dancing room had been moderately but tastefully decorated with an oasis theme. Several paintings of famous Dornish painters had been on the walls, the ceiling had represented a dune landscape and there had been several emblems of the dragon surrounding the sun. The floor chosen by the Martell Queen had been a rare and hellishly expensive wood of her home kingdom, polished with an oil specially ordered from the Free Planet of Tyrosh.

Someone had completely changed the decoration and the young Targaryen Princess had a very good idea who was responsible.

The small tables and alcoves supposed to surround the ancient dance floor had disappeared. In their place was a long and cold rectangular table in a black-red colour. The oasis paintings had been removed and scenes from the Battle of Ashford, the Triumph of Harrenhal and the Surrender of Storm's End could now be watched. The ceiling had been repainted with scenes of the First Conquest of Dorne, specifically the Conqueror on Balerion laying waste to castles, armies and fields. The Dornish wood may be still there under her feet for all she knew, but the ballroom had now a new carpet with mysterious symbols on it. In the background a harsh and loud music with drums and angry musical notes were heard.

Truly, if Dornish men and women had a chance to look at this, they would have even more reason to hate the King. Not that they needed more, really.

Daeron and she were not the first invitees to arrive. On the left side of the table, a silver-haired man in dark blue and gold attire was seated.

"Uncle Viserys," She saluted with a large bow. The Prince of Summerhall was one of the few royals her brother and she had no great enmity against and it didn't cost a lot to be polite. Their 'uncle' nodded back almost thoughtlessly, his eyes in the vague and his thoughts certainly far from here.

They sat on the comfortable great chairs prepared for them – the furniture had been decorated with their personal banners: Shiera's seat had two red dragons on gold engraved on top of it and Daeron's had three gold dragons on red.

Once it was done, they waited without a word, sipping a few glasses of cold water already present on the table. It was better to not remark out loud how far they were from the supra-enormous-abominable throne at the other end of the room. This affront to art and fashion must have cost the same price as a dozen of expensive air-cars, it was lavishly decorated and had hundreds of gemstones, but the final result appeared very 'new rich' and pretentious.

Judging by the frown on Viserys' face, the placements had not escaped him too. Daeron and she were facing each other, the furthest away from the throne. Then on her right was Visenya's seat, the silver dragon on black being eminently recognisable. After that came Viserys' seat and the only two seats remaining until the throne had to be for Joffrey and Aegon, respectively.

Just like this, the King of Westeros had informed them how they stood in his mind. It was so enjoyable to feel loved...but what could you expect from a tyrant who had imprisoned their mother in the Maidenvault for nearly an entire decade?

A cavalcade resonated in the corridors and the ballroom doors opened brusquely. Shiera prepared to stand if it was their genitor deciding to grace them of his disgusting presence but it was their half-sister who entered in impressive long strides.

"I am not the last one," commented soberly the grey-eyed Princess, her silver hairs tightened in a ponytail. "Good."

Prince Viserys and the two children of Cersei Targaryen born Lannister had taken the time change their clothes, but the seventeen year-old young woman had clearly not judged it worth the effort. Visenya was wearing a black starfighter pilot's suit, one which did absolutely nothing to hide her athletic body.

Despite herself, Shiera felt a tinge of jealousy. Visenya had a body to die for, she was tall, muscled and her breasts were rather well-proportioned...and for the moment Shiera was remaining flat and short.

"I see you and your squadron are still working on your new starfighters," commented their 'uncle' as Visenya ruffled Daeron's hairs first before seating at her place like she was on a couch instead of a chair.

"We are not 'working' on our new starfighters, Admiral." The correction was made in a tone which was not really polite or even respectful. "We are rebuilding them because some greedy shareholders have filled their pockets with billions of dragons but couldn't be bothered to invent something working!"

Shiera wasn't able to recognise all the political and military implications of this, but by the way Prince Viserys was paling, they had to be huge. The Prince of Summerhall had not paled liked this in her presence since the King had informed his youngest sibling he was going to be wed to Lady Lynesse Hightower a few years ago.

"It was yesterday High Admiral Velaryon and his sycophants were telling me the Ultra-Stealth Joint Superiority Strike Starfighter program was completed and we had the most advanced single-seat ship-killer of Westeros. Are you saying they lied?"

"Oh, no we have the most advanced starfighter of the Seven Sectors," approved her half-sister with a disarming charm before adding the fatal condition. "When it works."

The expression Viserys had on his face was one alternating anger and resignation.

"The maintenance issues haven't been solved."

"Nothing has been solved," the black humour of Visenya was very funny, and Shiera laughed, though the subject had to be of critical importance. And then the unofficial testing pilot began to list the real problems. "The firm which built the reactors for these flyers deserves to be shot. Many critical components are breaking apart hundreds of hours before their life-limits. If you try to enter in the atmosphere of a planet with this starfighter, there a one in three chance you will become an impressive torch. The starfighter is not nimble enough for missile evasion. There are huge software problems randomly showing on the console. The ultra-stealth electronic devices and paint aren't functioning correctly and that was before agents of a certain foreign power stole its plans five years ago. The ejection module can kill you if you're not tall and heavy enough. The seat is terribly uncomfortable and is causing plenty of neck problems to my team. If the fuel we use is too warm, the coolant tubes can't handle the strain and there are...unfortunate effects. The air supply has several times been out of service and it was a miracle we didn't lose anyone. For every hour spent in space, the mechanics need a hundred to repair everything flawed. The electronic maintenance system is showing a lot of faults which don't exist but fail to mention the ones we have in front of our noses."

Visenya served herself a glass of water before continuing.

"I won't say this is the worst starfighter of Westeros...but I have really no idea which flyer has worse capacities than the 'Magma'. Let's forget a moment it can't use half of the weapons we have for starfighters in the Crown arsenal, these things have inferior performances to the very starfighters they are supposed to replace."

And after one large gulp, the conclusion was without appeal.

"These new starfighters are pieces of crap and nobody in my team can see how they can be transformed into worthy ship-killers."

"Surely you exaggerate, dear sister."

Every pair of eyes around the table turned towards the entrance, and sure enough, the Crown Prince was here, proud of the rude he interruption he had created.

Shiera supposed each of the Royal family's members had a style of walk and presentation. The Prince of Summerhall, for example, was in the 'modest but elegant' fashion and could be seen when he was at court marching at a vigorous pace in the corridors and the training grounds.

Aegon, by contrast, strutted in Queen Myriah's ballroom like one of these super-sized peacocks the core systems of the Reach were so renowned for. And the best part was that his attire really supported this point of view. For this meeting, Aegon had tried to wear a Crown military uniform before evidently deciding a customised version was better for him.

As a result, the original gold colour had been partially replaced by the traditional red and black of House Targaryen. The final result was reminiscent of one of these strange Qohorik animals called the zorse they had in the King's Landing royal zoo, but instead of black and white they had gold, red and black to observe tonight.

In all frankness, it was very difficult to take seriously their eldest half-sibling right now. A dozen large military medals shone just above where his heart should be. Shiera found it extremely pretentious and self-aggrandising. She had fought the same number of battles as Aegon...unless you counted waking up in the morning and ordering your servant to lace your shoes a triumph over adversity? There were large ribbons of rainbow colours around his wrists. Big golden epaulets were on the shoulders.

In Visenya's own words, this was perhaps not the most ridiculous military uniform of the galaxy...but unless presented with the counter-evidence, Shiera would consider it as such.

Passing near his half-sister, the Prince of Dragonstone tried to ruffle the silver hairs of Visenya but an iron grip prevented the contact.

"Oh, come on sister!" said the preferred child of the King. "I touched far more when we were in a bed together..."

"An error I will regret until my dying day," hissed between her teeth Visenya.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you..." Aegon was trying to look bored and amused, but there was desire and anger in his eyes.

"I knew you are supposed to marry the Tyrell girl, but surely you didn't expect me to tolerate another hundred whores in your bed?" If the Princess could have spit on the carpet without repercussions, she looked like she would have done so. "You took my virginity and humiliated afterwards. Be happy we're of the same blood, I would have thrown you out in space by the nearest airlock if you were not."

"What a pity," drawled a familiar voice. Shiera didn't turn her head, there was only one person left to come save their genitor. "The Seven Sectors and the Seven Heavens would have rejoiced together."

Joffrey had arrived. What was the expression again? Oh yes, let the games of idiocy begin.

To his credit, her eldest brother didn't strut like Aegon had in the transformed ballroom. Then again given the huge gold cloak he dragged laboriously behind him, it was quite likely he couldn't. The Prince of Cracklaw had decided to come in an exquisite white doublet, the only colour which was not white was the gold of the three-headed dragon on his chest and of course the cloak. The clothes were the new banners today for the meeting. Joffrey's personal sigil was the gold dragon on white and Aegon's was the red dragon on black. Obviously, it had its limits because Viserys, green dragon on black, had not shown any sign to be involved in this fashion race. Slowly and in a progression he tried to make as majestic as possible, her sibling went to his seat before seating himself like it was his throne.

Did she need to describe how during this interval Aegon and Joffrey glared at each other? Each time they met these days, it was a mummer's farce. One or the other threatened, insults were spoken, weapons were half-drawn and Houses of lesser standing saw their taxes increase for law-breaking which had not existed before the edict of the day.

Today the two were watching Visenya...and she didn't appear to like the attention. Shiera didn't blame her. Her brother frightened her at times, and he was her full brother. As for Aegon he frightened her, point. Without the Lannister guards sent by Casterly Rock, they would surely have received the same treatment the servants and lesser nobles received: beatings, public humiliations, money allowances disappearing in the unknown and far more.

"My bed is always open if you want, sister." Oh no, she didn't like this look on Joffrey's face at all.

"I thought you had already the Bracken whore to endure your pitiful performances," Aegon pale visage was getting colours – the red shade type – and his violet eyes were throwing murderous glare. "Or is it another of the River Ladies? I always forget which ugly creature accepts to follow you to your quarters? Truly..."

"You have no reason to strut, oh Admiral of the Narrow Void." Joffrey's tone was indicating very loudly what he thought about Aegon's title. "I have had only three lovers and unlike you, I'm not betrothed to someone. I am not the Prince the Master of Information spends his time crushing rumours about. The entire court knows you're a depraved monster and a symbol of decadence..."

"Now that's your jealousy speaking," interrupted him the Prince of Dragonstone. "Three lovers you said? I'm sure I will have only to discover the three ugliest women of the System and we will have the answer..."

"If I were you, I would be more afraid of the heresy accusations you will soon be accused of." Joffrey smirked. "The Faith is not appreciating at all your relationships with the Red Priestesses..."

Aegon did not look that afraid. In fact, he burst into laughter.

"Why should I be afraid of old men and powerless fools? Father has the Most Devout and the High Septon in his pockets! Any accusation or trial attempt will never see the light of day!"

A trumpet sounded in the distance and the vicious exchange ended abruptly. However, determined green eyes met complacent purple eyes, showing there would be a reckoning in the days to come. The Targaryens stood up around the table, preparing to greet the King of Westeros.

Another trumpet resonated and the Kingsguard came into view. Unusually, the seven of them were present tonight. It was a rare event. More often than not there were only three or four of them at the capital and those were the yes-men of the King.

One by one, they stood next to the huge throne. Like with the seats which had waited for them, their positions were not left to chance. Uncle Jaime, their mother's brother, was at the extreme left. They saw him rarely but he looked in good health...the King always sent him to far-away Systems in long inspections. The other Westerner, Ser Preston Greenfield, was on the extreme right. Next to her Lannister uncle was Ser Arys Oakheart, her preferred protector. Ser Preston had Ser Garth Hightower on his left. The Knight of Oldtown was standing like an emotionless statue. Closest to the King's seat on the left was Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. Personally Shiera didn't see what courage and boldness there were to save a mad king from his own foolishness and guard another for a decade but it was just her. On the right was one of the damned souls of King Rhaegar, Ser Oswell Whent the Dark Bat. And barring the access in front of the throne, was of course the Lord Commander Arthur Dayne, barred from dozens of Systems and two entire Sectors because they dreamed to put his head on a pike.

And after this they waited. It did not take long, maybe ten seconds in all, but they all knew there was absolutely no reason the sovereign of Westeros could not have come immediately on their heels. As for his reasoning lying behind it...better not to think too much about it.

King Rhaegar, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Sectors, Kings of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar – though the latter two refused to obey his orders – Defender of the Faith, Shield of His People and Protector of the Realm appeared before them. With his silver hairs cut to perfection, his noble purple eyes and the silken red-black attire, the sovereign looked like a King.

But it was all he had.

Shiera was hardly around him during hours, but his moves were jerky and erratic. His behaviour was not better. Twice he stopped on his way to the throne, seizing watches and what looked to be tiny astronomy instruments, mumbled a few things unintelligible before walking a few steps and starting back.

It was...weird and a little creepy.

The ballroom was long and the King was not a fast man. It took several minutes for him to be seated on his ridiculous throne which shamed the work of the Conqueror by its very existence. The music which had been playing in their ears ceased and they sat in their large cushioned chairs.

"I have all summoned you here for you need to hear important news. I have studied the signs of the Stone of Ages and the cosmic storms..."

The next sentences were the worst gibberish she had heard in her life. She looked at Visenya and Viserys, and yes, they had the same lost expression. Joffrey was watching their genitor like one observed a mummer's play and Aegon was throwing not so discreetly glances at Visenya. Her little brother was fighting to stay awake. The Kingsguards were all harbouring stone-faced expressions. Probably they wondered how long it was going to be until the next assassination attempt and their service's end.

This insanity wasn't ending and did not make any sense. Could the man just have waited until after lunch tomorrow to utter this nonsense? This way Daeron and she could have taken a nap...

"...and the great conjunction is close. The portents are clear. Our family must be reunited for the union of my eldest son and his betrothed Lady Margaery Tyrell."

Shiera maintained an emotionless face. Surely their genitor wasn't that clueless and stupid. This year, House Targaryen was just united in their hate for each other – the only exception had to be Viserys' daughter Rhaella and the girl was one year-old. Apart from Daeron and mother, the only members she could tolerate were Viserys and Visenya – and for the Prince of Summerhall, it was only true if the Hightower's harpy wasn't in the vicinity. There was no need to bring more enemies to the battlefield.

"Viserys, you will go to Dorne with Ser Jaime and bring back my daughter Rhaenys."

The King...he was joking, right?

"The Dornish have sworn to kill every Targaryen who are not your eldest daughter, your Majesty," replied coldly the Prince of Summerhall, who was also failing to find the humour in these orders. "Ser Jaime will be escorted by my warships through the Stepstones, but he will have to go alone to Sunspear. The Martells only want to kill one Kingsguard so he should be fine."

Ser Arthur Dayne didn't move, but a very short grimace was all the Princes and Princesses needed to know the remark had found its target.

"Ah yes, yes. The call of the sands will turn twice for the moons and the rivers will flow black, I had almost forgotten."

Shiera dearly hoped the King wasn't sending messages like this to the Small Council...else she really pitied the councillors. The words were absolute nonsense.

"Joffrey, you will go to Braavos and tell the Braavosi Daenerys' stay in their capital is coming at an end. My youngest sister's presence is required at home."

"Your Majesty," like her and everyone except Aegon, no Targaryen was going to call Rhaegar 'Father'. "The fostering of Daenerys that was negotiated a decade ago is supposed to last two more years. Do we really want to annoy Braavos more than we already have?"

Joffrey's voice was very reasonable and his arguments were logical for once. Sadly, he had a default. He wasn't Aegon, who could order the beating of someone and be congratulated the next day. And he wasn't Viserys, who had a Stellar System and a fleet to support his actions.

The change in the King's expression was brutal.

"You will do as you're told!" shrieked Rhaegar Targaryen. "You will not defy the threads of fate and the outcome of the Song of Ice and Fire! I don't care if the Braavosi are offended. It is the fate of the galaxy which is at stake!"

There was no nobility in these traits, just madness. And for the first time, Shiera was happy her mother was in the Maidenvault, because the...thing in front of them would kill her if given the chance. He had already done it to two wives, no?

Joffrey lowered his head, apparently cowered by the royal fury. But she knew her brother. One of the King's supporters was going to pay for this tirade before the week was over.

"Visenya, you will go to Winterfell and bring back your twin sister."

The grey-eyed Targaryen applauded mockingly in an exaggerating slow fashion.

"And when they tell me to go to the Seven Hells and revolt, what will I do?"

This was a good question...her tutors had tried to brush off her questions on the subject, but it was obvious the Peace of Maidenpool terms had been violated and ignored hundreds of times. Presented like this, the Northern Sector was going to revolt and the loyalist coalition which had repulsed them before was gone.

"This will not happen," declared with righteousness the true son of Aerys II the Mad. "The blades will not be drawn until the great comet turns the Eye of Woe red and the devourer of the stars die under the pack's fangs."

"Of course, your Majesty. It is far from my intention to criticise your deep knowledge of prophecy."

Daeron snickered lightly and soon everyone around the table smiled or chuckled, knowing Visenya was making fun of the King. But Rhaegar apparently didn't know enough his daughter to recognise the sarcasm and nodded seriously.

"Good, Aegon my dear son you will go to Highgarden and present yourself to your future wife before bringing her back here for the festivities!"

The Crown Prince did not look that happy to be chosen for this travel-and-escort mission. Was it his imminent marriage or something else putting him in a sombre mood?

"Yes father, I will not fail you."

And with this that made four on four Targaryen who weren't happy at the destinations the King had chosen for them. Shiera thought that if she had been Queen, she could have done it a bit more diplomatically. It was not a secret Prince Viserys wanted to visit his sister but his brother had forbidden it countless times; this would have made him a good emissary to send to Braavos. Visenya could have been sent to the Reach; that way there would be no scandals and Mace Tyrell would try to charm her to his side. Joffrey could have been sent to the North via White Harbor; her eldest brother was trying to present himself as a friend of the Faith and knighthood plus he respected his oaths...not that he was giving a lot of them these days.

As for Aegon, she didn't know where to send him. Wherever he went, the Prince of Dragonstone was causing problems...

"Now let's speak about the marriages I have in mind for my children..."

Shiera suddenly had thoughts of kingslaying flooding her mind. When was someone going to kill that prophecy-lover?

---

Andrew Baratheon, 05.07.300AAC, Musgood Hall System

Nearly a decade ago, Lord Corwin Musgood had received an extraordinary honour from the Crown. For his good and loyal services in the Rebellion, the Lord of the Musgood Hall System had been elevated to the dignity of Sentinel-General of the Lonely Light System.

Andrew was just thirteen and not really able to discern the subtleties of politics. But garrisoning this arid and inhospitable planet of twenty-five million souls did not look like a reward. It felt more like a punishment.

Stopping the Ironborn from rearming and patrolling endlessly in the Sunset Void in search of the last reavers who had survived the Greyjoy Rebellion was an exhausting affair for men and the starships. The disastrous state of their Sector's economy not helping, House Baratheon would without doubt have experienced hardships – in manpower and supplies - if they had been chosen for the role. But House Musgood had never been as powerful as House Baratheon and their navy was on the verge of collapse. Their only ship of the line was officially in overhaul since 296AAC, but unofficially there was not a lot of chance it would leave one day its space dock. The Laurel of Glory had been one of the earliest hulls of the Storm's Wrath-class, and the lack of maintenance before Balon Greyjoy decided he was the greatest moron of Westeros had doomed the starship. Too old, commanded by a sub-experienced crew, the Laurel of Glory had almost broken in half when it had jumped back home and had to be towed the last part of the journey.

Andrew's father had been clear that this slow death had not stopped with the flagship of House Musgood. The second most powerful warship of their House, an armoured cruiser, had been used as an orbital base around the Lonely Light because it was too dangerous to use its engines anymore. One of their two battlecruisers had come early two years ago and about nine more months would be necessary to give it another decade to its life-expectancy. Two out of their three heavy cruisers were in the shipyards waiting for spare parts that would not come without large sums of gold dragons. The rest of the light units were similar conditions.

All told, House Musgood and Lord Corwin had eight warships available: one battlecruiser, one heavy cruiser, one light cruiser, four scout cruiser and one light carrier with thirty starfighters operational. With the exception of the light cruiser, these hulls were all in the Iron Sector right now. The 'honour' bestowed by the Iron Throne was killing slowly but surely their navy. And yet Lord Musgood remained incredibly loyal to Jon Connington, the great and magnificent idiot everyone was supposed to call a Lord Paramount.

They were Lords of Noble Houses like that.

In the end, the stubbornness of Lord Corwin was making the happiness of House Baratheon. Many ship parts the Musgood Navy absolutely needed for its warships were made at Storm's End. Better, the near-total absence of mobile starships armed with a gun in their home system made it the perfect place to hold deals under the table. After all, if there was a place where the Master of Griffin's Roost wasn't going to search potential traitors, it was in a system belonging to one of his fiercest supporters.

Not that the Baratheon were traitors, perish the thought. Indeed, the Dragon's Breath-class scout cruiser Velocity accelerating away from their battlecruiser had a perfect legitimate reason to be here. The Crownlanders were conducting a surprise inspection on a Storm warship, the latter performing routine anti-piracy patrols. There must have been dozen of similar patrols in the last couple of months and the majority were perfectly legitimate. Besides, the authorisations on the Crown's side had been signed by the Prince of Summerhall in his authority as Admiral of Dragonstone. It would take a very high-ranked Lord or Admiral to question publically these orders and so far everything Andrew had seen implied the Royal Headquarters of King's Landing could not find their boots without printed instructions. Leading a proper investigation was in all likelihood out of reach for their poor skulls.

In a matter of seconds, the scout cruiser became invisible to his eyes, and after three minutes, the tactical display of the Relentless Storm was no longer able to display the position of the other warship.

Andrew breathed loudly. It was all the excitation they were going to have for the day, it seemed. It was not as boring as certain official visits their parents had imposed him, but it was not awe-inspiring either. One last glance at the stars on the other side of the window, and he turned his attention towards his eldest sister.

"What did the messenger came to propose, sister?"

Shireen raised her head from the pile of data-slates she was busy classifying. Her blue eyes were clear and did not look amused. Under the powerful lights of their quarters, there were faint lines remaining of the surgery which had been necessary to rebuild her visage after a disease had almost killed her when she was a child.

"Oh, the usual when it comes to Targaryen pretenders." His sister did not hide her disdain. "Removal of all the extra taxes and financial punishments the current King imposed us. Lord Jon Connington will be removed from his position of Lord Paramount and judged for the illegal activities he committed. House Baratheon will be reinstated in their place. Reparations will be paid for the prisoners of war they slaughtered or sent to the Wall seventeen years ago. The hostages and wards still in custody at King's Landing will be released. Subsidies will be handed to rebuild our forces and our static defences. We may be granted a few Reach Systems to occupy if we're reasonable."

Shireen adjusted her long black hairs and threw a dagger at the royal portrait which was supposed to be on every warship sworn to the Iron Throne. This time her attempt went directly in the middle of the target's chest.

"It is not very original, I agree." He took another dagger and threw it at the portrait, touching it in the left forearm. "I suppose Prince Viserys isn't going to give us the head of his rapist of a brother?"

A grin came to Shireen's lips.

"Unlike Prince Joffrey and Princess Rhaenys, the Prince of Summerhall is far less bloodthirsty when the future of King Rhaegar is discussed. I think he has exile or a soft imprisonment in mind."

"Awful." The monster had plunged the realm into bloody chaos and was doing his best not to reign, and they were supposed to treat him with dignity?

"Indeed," relied Shireen. "Of course, father will accept this message after an appropriate delay of reflexion."

"Like we did for the other pretenders?"

The third dagger pierced the head of the portrait, a perfect throw if there ever was one.

"Yes brother, it's time for the Targaryens to understand they don't have a monopoly on betrayal..."

---

Jon Arryn, 06.07.300AAC, The Eyrie System

"One day Father, you will wake up and realise that your Sector fell apart while you were sleeping!"

His eldest son affirmation would have been a lot more impressive if this loud tirade had not ended in a monumental series of coughs. In his haste to contest his latest decisions, Robin had forgotten to take his medicine, apparently. The situation wasn't brilliant, but the sixteen year-old boy chose to worsen it by racing towards his mother waiting for him near the great blue doors.

Simply handing the medicine would have been enough, but his wife decided to hug him, help him dry the tears which were flowing and caress lengthily his dirty blonde hairs. Lysa Arryn born Tully was not breast-feeding Robin, but Jon had a feeling this was a very near thing. And during all this time, she was whispering in his ears. He was too far for his poor ears to hear the murmurs, but he could read on her lips and it gave something like: "It's not your fault...your father doesn't understand...I'm proud of you..."

It was absolutely pathetic.

Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale Sector, did not need to look at the elite guards dispersed thorough his dinner hall to know his son had just humiliated himself once more in front of the very soldiers he had to gain the respect of.

"Perhaps I should have named it Robert..." He grumbled to himself.

Had he struck his eldest son, insulted him or given him any other reason to complain, Jon could have accepted this display of weakness. But Robin had barged in the dinner hall while he was finishing his supper, and he could honestly say he had not shouted a word or pronounced a single offending word in the five minutes his son had spent here.

Perhaps giving him another name would have changed this fate. Then again, he was far from the only Lord to have accepted that 'Robert' was a name really unpopular these days. Eddard had disregarded it for his first-born, but then again no one had expected the opposite. Unfortunately, the Vale was far closer from the capital...

"We will speak again, Father..." Ah, the challenging voice was back. It could have almost forced a sliver of pride in his heart if Robin was not pressed against his mother's bosom and had tearful eyes.

And on this last promise, Robin and Lysa left the room. Once the massive doors were shut, he could hear two or three soldiers sniggering contemptuously. Vale soldiers were not stone-hearted, but this display of weakness was not what they expected from the Heir of the Vale.

"What did I do wrong with my son, Vardis?" He asked the Egen knight serving as the General of his personal guard.

In public, Ser Vardis Egen would never have uttered a word which could be construed as an insult against his Lord and House Arryn as a whole. In private and when the Lord of the Eyrie asked, it was a different thing.

"You should have separated him from his mother when he was five, my Lord," told him bluntly the warrior who had saved his life several times during the Rebellion. "The woman is a menace; she was always here to provide crutches when the boy should have stood on his two legs. She made him weak."

The last word was pronounced with the same tonality as a funeral eulogy. And the worst part was that Vardis was not exactly wrong. Jon felt his heart tighten in his chest. He should have done something but the very determination that had allowed him to crush his rebellious bannersmen in the early stages of the Rebellion had been non-existent this time.

"He was ill and I had not the courage to foster him in another House..." And now it was too late, he knew it very well. If he sent his eldest son to one of the Houses he trusted absolutely, Robin would not last two weeks before said Lord abandoned this hopeless task and sent him back home in disgrace. His son had just received the barebones of a military education and his physical performances were completely inadequate.

"You gave him the best treatment any man and woman could afford, my Lord. Your daughter Alysanne received the same care when she was young and she turned out fine."

Jon chuckled but the sound had no joy behind it. The underlying message given by Vardis words was not hard to understand. Both Robin and Alysanne had had the same health problems – that they had gotten from him and his Arryn blood – but one had been coddled by his mother while the other was not. It was not very had to guess which of his children had been fostered at Old Anchor. It also took no great amount of intelligence to realise which child between the two was ill-considered by the space and army forces of the Vale Sector. Granted his daughter was not and would never be a warrior, but Lord Mathos was showering her with praise when the subject was administrative and law-making duties.

Alysanne was fourteen and already a far better child than Robin had ever the possibility to become.

"And authorising him to go to King's Landing once was a dreadful mistake."

"And this travel to King's Landing was an awful blunder," confirmed the veteran General.

Sometimes, Jon cursed himself in the middle of the night from ever accepting. In other occasions, he comforted himself this had at least given him the confirmation Robin Arryn would never be a good Lord Paramount. Seven Hells, if the Lord of the Vale Sector wanted to be honest –not that he particularly wanted to but he had certain obligations – Robin had manifested glaring weaknesses that were absolutely unacceptable for a minor Noble House or a Knightly one, never mind the Heir of a Lord Paramount.

Robin was not only frequently ill, he was gullible. A few words from the Crown Prince – and by the Mother what sort of monster was waiting to mount on the Iron Throne – and he was easily swayed. House Grafton and their allies must not have believed their chance when their spies at court reported this. Yes, the Targaryens had fuelled a lot of money in secret to rebuild their crippled infrastructure and fleets, but as long as they had no ally in his House they knew they had to stay discreet and out of sight. But if they had the Heir of the Eyrie on their side...it was a game-changer indeed.

Jon Arryn fixed the plate in front of him. The meat had gone cold of course, and the mushrooms and the vegetables next to it looked incredibly indigestible for his poor stomach. Then again, it wasn't like the situation of the Sector he was supposed to rule was going to be better in the next months. There were Targaryen loyalists who would raise their banners and muster their armies instantly for the Crown Prince now that his eldest son was in admiration of Aegon Targaryen. On the other side, there were dozens of Noble and Masterly Houses which would remember the rebellion and join the Starks and the Mallisters for a new rebellion to kill the dragons.

Yes, indigestible described perfectly the situation he was facing. For a second or two, he felt jealous of Eddard. His former ward had a loving wife and children who were not bringing half of the problems his eldest was giving him. But the feeling disappeared as fast it had appeared. Eddard had deserved love after so much tragedies during the Rebellion, and it wasn't his fault the youngest Tully daughter was incompetent when it came to child-raising.

"If Robin sits on the Falcon Throne when I die, House Arryn will not survive ten months." It was the first time he found the courage to speak these words in public. It hurt, oh it hurt. And yet at the same time, it was strangely liberating.

"You are in good health, my Lord," remarked Vardis. "I stand by my earlier remarks, but you still have at least a good half-decade in your heart and bones. Robin will not become Lord of the Eyrie any time soon."

"Elbert and Denys," The two names of his previous Heirs resonated heavily in the deadly silent hall and Vardis paled. "Whether I like it or not, war can easily destroy a Great House when the cannons begin their litany of destruction."

A sign was made, and ten seconds later a servant rushed out from behind a tapestry and took back the plate back to the kitchens. Once she had disappeared, the Arryn Lord spoke again.

"I can't take any chances anymore. Too long I have waited and done my best to train a worthy Heir. The hour is late and war is almost at our gates again."

Except this time it would not be a simple act of madness and a crown of flowers destroying decades of peace. No, this time every Sector had reasons to hate their neighbours...it was going to be a bloodbath and the Vale would not be able to escape it.

"Tomorrow morning, I will send some of our most trusted captains to Strongsong, Runestone, Redfort and Old Anchor. Make the necessary preparations and keep it as secret possible."

The news of such a meeting would come out in the future, it was unavoidable. That said he was not going to make the task of the Crown spies easier. The agents believed themselves clever by infiltrating the not-so-loyal Tully delegations, well it was time for them to prove their salaries.

"Of course, my Lord," answered the Egen knight. "The 2nd flotilla of scout cruisers is almost due for a new patrol against the Rift Clans. I think we can arrange an early departure without arousing suspicion."

"Good, thank you Vardis," the commander of his guards bowed and then walked away, leaving him alone to ponder on the future of his House.

If only Denys Arryn was alive, he may not have been forced to marry after the Rebellion. If only Elbert had not been part of this doomed party at King's Landing. If only bad genes, plagues and awful misfortune had not decimated his cousins, nieces and relatives. But with 'ifs' it was Robert who would sit the Iron Throne, and Jon had a feeling the galaxy would be a far better place. You could hardly do worse than Rhaegar, at any rate!

The Master of the Vale yawned before throwing his pristine napkin on the table and pushing back his chair. The politics and the demons which came with it would have to wait another day. It was late and he was getting tired.

Before going to his bed however, he took a detour to the small marble sept near his quarters. He had never felt deeply faithful in the last two decades, the tides of destruction he had unleashed would haunt him until last breath. And there, Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale Sector and Warden of the East, prayed for a few more years of peace and the salvation of his family.

---

Ser Gerion Lannister, 07.07.300AAC, Volantis System

For him and the rest of the surviving crew of the Laughing Lion, they had felt that between their departure of Volantis and their return from the infernal depths of the Doom, five months had passed. As they had discovered to their horror, it had lasted far, far longer than that.

The Laughing Lion, deep space heavy cruiser of the Western Navy, had left the First Daughter of Valyria on 02.03.291AAC. Between the space crew, the soldiers of the 104th Regiment, the servants, the superior officers and the various scientists, there must have been somewhere three thousand and eight hundred people aboard. They had brought a lot of heavy weapons, four tanks and plenty of battle-armours to fight any conceivable threat.

The problem had been that the enemies they fought were neither human nor conventional. And their travel, supposed to last at most half a year before their autonomy reached their last reserves, had lasted far longer than that.

It was less than a day they were back in Volantis, and he was still trying to cope with how long they had been away from the rest of the galaxy's perspective. By the Westerosi calendar, it was the seventh day of the seventh month of the year of Grace 300 after the Conquest. In other words, they had remained nine years in the ruins of the Valyrian Freehold. Well, the survivors had. For the dead, the stay would be eternal.

Of the three thousand-plus men and women of the original crew, less than four hundred were still alive...and for many the definition of 'alive' had to be taken lightly. The fire demons had made a terrible carnage during the short amount of time they had been assaulting his warship. Half of the Westerners missed now a leg, an arm or more. Gerion himself had not lost a limb, but the scars on his visage, his chest and his back would remain with him until last breath.

He was one of the lucky survivors, yes. Of course, it was very mixed blessing. Whatever he did now, the visions of demons in this nightmarish realm would pursue him for the rest of his existence. He wasn't able to sleep anymore...the fire abominations were hunting him in his dreams.

We did not triumph this day. We just escaped and left the majority of the crew's souls in the claws of these monsters.

And the escape had been so narrow the Laughing Lion was going to be dismantled before the end of the month was out. The demonic invasion was over, but the traces of their passage had caused so much damage it would be suicidal to try to go back to Westeros with it. In fact, the last surviving engineer thought it was divine intervention which had saved them. There was only one fusion reactor operable, the different engine sections were red and black – red from the blood of the men who had sold their lives to defend them and black of the burned metal and bones.

Gerion emptied the rest of the bottle of wine while watching the vast space shipyards of Volantis in the distance. When he had seen them the first time, he had been stunned with incredulity, the man-made constructions appearing endless and invincible to his inexperienced eye. Now they were looking entirely too vulnerable once the Enemy had proven it could bring demons into the equation.

Loud footsteps echoed in the corridors. Gerion grimaced and posed the bottle on the table. He wanted to explode it against of the transparent bays, but he frankly ignored what the supernatural battle had done to their properties. Besides, he had lost his butler and all his servants he had brought in this desperate adventure so if some clean-up was needed, he would have to do it himself.

Tion too was dead. Many of the Lieutenants had died alongside his second in these desperate battles. It was not worth it. Nothing was worth all these deaths and Brightroar was no exception. But if what they had discovered on King Tommen's Last Stand could be trusted, they had a chance to prevent a cataclysmic disaster. The Seven knew if the King, the Small Council or his eldest brother were going to listen what looked to be the ramblings of madmen, but he would have to try.

He turned to see a man in a badly-mangled red battle-armour entering the ravaged bridge.

"Two men of the 104th Regiment are no more, my Lord," said Ayric Sarring in a dark tone. Gerion sighed. More deaths on his soul, men he had not been able to save in the end. He would pray these were the last to die before they returned to King's Landing, but his heart argued against it.

"Sit Lieutenant," the youngest brother of the Lord of Casterly Rock spoke – if Tywin was still alive but Gerion had a feeling the Great Lion would outlive him no matter what he did.

The last officer of the Western regiment obeyed with a lot of precaution, the seats available being mangled and about to collapse on their own. Gerion took a few seconds to observe him. Black hairs, black eyes and a few scars here and there, Lieutenant Ayric Sarring did not look like an extraordinary warrior. But Gerion had seen the videos recorded by the internal sensors who had survived the bloodbath. The veteran had fought his way through the armoury and several corridors to reach one of the greatest abominations and slaughter it in a one-sided duel with only two other soldiers to guard his back. Given that the path had been crawling with hell-spawn and no longer answering the law of physics, it was a feat worthy to enter the legends. No wonder the other survivors had given him the nickname 'Demon Killer'.

He was also the only warrior apart Gerion himself to have kept the Valyrian blade he had found in the remains of the corpses of the ancient Lannister army. The rest of the relics had disappeared with the bodies and the shuttles ejected into the Void.

"The rumour mill told me you have a chosen a name for your blade," he said, turning his attention to the sword sheathed on his back. Unlike Brightroar, this weapon was looking like war made alloy. The blade was a colour of pure darkness and the hilt was the shade of steel, with a single diamond for all decoration.

Ayric scoffed, and for once the ghost of a smile came to his lips.

"More like Preslan chose it, organised the vote behind my back and forced me to accept the result." The veteran of countless campaigns paused before breathing loudly in resignation. "I would not have personally chosen 'Demonsbane' as a name for my sword, but I've long learned resistance is futile in cases like that."

"There are worst names than this one, trust me." Gerion had a sudden urge to go and take back a bottle from his private reserve, but he had already drunk one bottle and it wasn't midday. "I have already said it in front of all the men, but Lannisters pay their debts and I will not come back on my word. Every man will be promoted three ranks and given the pay of twenty years of service once we reach back a Westerosi System."

The Father and the Mother knew they deserved it, though few would be in a state to enjoy a peaceful retirement considering how badly the demons had torn them apart.

"That's ...good to hear, my Lord."

The tone was cautious. It was not surprising, Tywin had screwed up Sarring and the survivors of Lightning Lion and Gerion had personally gone with them in the antechamber of the Seven Hells. There wasn't much of their loyalty to House Lannister.

"You are the senior officer of the regiment and have more than proved your fighting credentials. The 104th is yours...Colonel Sarring."

---

Euron Greyjoy, 07.07.300AAC, Nightfort System

After centuries of absence, the Night's Watch had finally returned to the Nightfort in force.

Hundreds of shuttles were screaming their engines in the cold atmosphere, disgorging thousand troops on the frozen ground. Tanks motors and uncountable engines were rumbling, securing the perimeter. Despite the difficult conditions, work was already beginning on the foundations of the new fortifications.

It was all the more impressive when he knew a decade ago, the Order sworn to defend to the Wall would have been unable to make this kind of effort. By 290AAC, the population of the Gift had decreased to a meagre two hundred million people. Two hundred million and between the crippled, the mad, the cowards, the children, the women and the old crones, the true fighters were about a tenth of this number.

Ironically, the Night's Watch could thank his brother for his monumental failures. Balon's folly –also known as the Greyjoy Rebellion by those living in the galactic south – had destroyed the Iron Sector for the next generations but the Lord Commander had received nearly one million soldiers in a few months. Of course, not each of these Ironborn was happy to meditate their defeat on these desolate planets, and examples had to be made. By all accounts, the men of his Sector had to be in the eight hundred and fifty thousand now – he didn't count the 'reinforcements' the various crushed insurrections had provided five years ago.

Even this however would not have been sufficient if the Lords of the North had not decided to act. The Greyjoy recruits had come to the Wall with sometimes nothing but the clothes on their back. Willing to fulfil their oaths or not, the best soldiers could do nothing with this lack of equipment. Under the back apparatus allowing him to breathe correctly, Euron smirked. It was deeply ironic his defeat at the hands of this fucking Other bitch had convinced Winterfell and the Northern bannersmen to go on a partial war footing, but it was exactly what had happened. For the first time in untold history, defending the Wall was now an absolute priority. Oh yes, the irony was absolutely delicious.

Whereas the defences had been manned with lone imbeciles and rusted laser rifles before, multiple companies and field guns had taken their place. New fortresses were rising to the skies, protected by cutting-edged shields bought from the Braavosi Republic. Where before a wildling starfighter could have tranquilly flown over half of the Watch's defences without being fired in retaliation, dozens of anti-air batteries had been installed. Armouries which had waited dusty and empty for the best part of a millennium were suddenly rebuilt to welcome thousands of battle-armours Mark 2 and 3. The training grounds were trembling as tens thousands of men were running on them.

Not that those were the only contributions Lord Eddard Stark and his generals had made. Lord Rickard Karstark and several squadrons had been dispatched to help the beleaguered black warships. There were no ships of the line in this formation right now, but sixteen battlecruisers, sixteen escort carriers and their escorts were nothing to sneeze at. This was the newly creating Third Fleet and rumours were optimistic the new classes of capital warships and the new starfighters were on their way to here. At Castle Black, a new Fourth Host was gathered, already one million and two hundred thousand strong.

It was the most powerful armada the Northern Sector had mustered in the last century on the Gift, and it was just the beginning. King-Beyond-the-Wall or not, the wildlings were really not going to enjoy the welcoming party.

Euron raised his eyes to the sky and frowned. The Breach-in-the-Stars, which for millennia had been a blue-violet colour, was turning redder day after day. It had begun a couple of months ago and it was showing so far no sign of stopping. So close to the Gate of Woe, the fastest path to get in and out of this gigantic cosmic phenomenon, it was like half of the sky was bleeding.

The science experts thought the cause of this unnatural colour was due to a large comet on the other side of the galaxy but Euron and the Green Priests sent there to dismantle the various curses buried in the depths of the Night's Watch forts knew they were wrong. This was the magic of the planets reacting at long last, sorcery and power bleeding into reality, altering the forces between the dimensions to announce the Third Sign and a new age of war.

"The time of peace and summer is almost over...at last vengeance and winter are at the gates."

He could feel it, despite the terrible black armour he was imprisoned in. The cataclysm was near. The abominations were coming and when they emerged from the Breach, it was going to be a fight the stars would remember until they died.

His mechanic laugh echoed in the dark winds.

"I wonder who is going to win in this story. There are too many monsters, not enough heroes, and the South is going to burn as the dragons dance."

Oh, yes in a millennium humanity would remember this war...if it was still in existence.

"Ice, fire or darkness, it makes no difference to me...let the Galaxy and the Gods die."