Sorry for the delay. I went home for a while, saw the family, went on a night out and so on… Welcome to the penultimate chapter, The Darkest Hour of Night.

NOW, I noticed a massive error in the previous chapter, so I'm just going to clarify – Rolan Mormont is not at the siege. That was a massive mistake in my last chapter – I'll remedy that once I finish this story. Apologies.

Ser Edgar Sand – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands

I'd never understood why the rest of Westeros could not fend off the dragonlord Targaryens. But, looking upon the Red Keep, I found there was little wonder; who could oppose those who could construct such a castle? Two dragons flapped their wings as they circled the spires that arced up to the heavens above. Glistening scarlet stone resembling fire and blood.

As I came to the gates, a large steel-armoured brute walked up to me, chuckling as he looked back to his friend. "Are you lost, Dornishman?"

"I do not believe so, no."

"What's a Dornishman doing this far North?" I turned to the second man.

"Engaging in a palaver with two men, unencumbered with the mind."

"What's that then?" The first guard turned back to his peer.

"A mind?"

"No, a palafer you dolt."

"Sers, I have business with your King, Aeron Targaryen."

The two men stiffened as the second advanced closer. "And what's a fella like you want with him?" The first man turned back to the second, "A spy, maybe?"

"Maybe, Tom." The second guard's gaze fell upon the hilt of Dawn. "That's a nice-looking sword."

"It is indeed," Tom's mouth shifted into an ugly smirk, "Could do with a nice-looking sword like that. It's about the price of entrance to the castle, ain't it, Paul?"

"Reckon so, Tom."

"Would you deny an anointed knight entrance to the castle?"

"A Dornish knight?" Tom guffawed. "I've taken bigger shits than you. Go find a fucking goat…"

I smiled and chuckled with them. Foolish oafs… they were easy to talk past. In my time at Sunspear, I had found that a threat alone was often as effective as carrying out any action. "I am the Sword of the Morning, Ser Edgar Sand of Starfall, bastard brother of Prince Vorian Dayne. I have come to seek an audience with your King, Aeron. So," I placed a hand on the hilt of Dawn, "shall we?"

Evie Stark – White Harbour, The North

White Harbour. I never used to like visiting here, but Gods, I'd never been so glad to smell that fish. I had travelled from Winterfell to Cerwyn, and found both castles empty. And so, I had travelled south, down the White Knife, to White Harbour, in hopes of finding out where Markas was. I couldn't wait to see my brother… I missed his brooding silence, his melancholy tone. His dark hair and light eyes…

But I couldn't help but feel hollow at the prospect of seeing him. I didn't know how I would tell him about mother and Tylan… all I knew was that I had to tell him. I had to tell him that our mother was dead, and so was our youngest brother. I had to tell him that we were now orphans. That word felt strange… I oft thought that only peasants were orphans.

But the pack had not yet died. Markas was still alive. So was Finn… wherever he was. There was hope. House Stark was not gone. Though our castle was razed, our parents slain, one brother gone and another a world away, House Stark was still here. We'd stood for over a thousand years and we'd stand for another. On my mother's memory, I swore this.

I trotted along on my mare as I drew nearer to the town. Father used to like it here. He said that even in the bleakest winters, when it seemed as though nothing could survive the North, us northerners found a way. It was Spring, so commerce had resumed like an arrow shot from a bow. I never used to like it here, but Father insisted I had come along several times. He said that we all had to do things we didn't want to, from carrying out the King's justice to visiting a fishing town.

I dismounted my horse at the trough and walked past the various market stalls which boasted freshly caught mackerel. I passed an inn, the smell of salted black cod drowned in vinegar enchanted my nostrils. Gods, when was the last time I had eaten?

I wandered into the inn, which was surprisingly empty. I suppose, all the men had gone to fight. The inn was filled only by a young woman scrubbing a table and a couple of fishermen. I walked up to the serving girl.

"I'm sorry, can I have some food, please?"

"Show us some colour."

"Colour?" I frowned. The woman straightened up, holding out her hand. Gold… I took out my purse, looking inside to find a smattering of silver. Well… it would be a while before I would find another place to eat… I took as many as would fit in my hand and held it out to her. The girl took one, turning it over in her hands before resting a hand on her hip. "What can I get you?"

"Cod. And potatoes… do you have any stew?" The woman nodded.

"Ale?"

I bit my lip – I'd barely ever had ale before. Once, when I was younger, I had tried some of Markas' at a feast, but found it… well, really dry and like crusty bread. I nodded my head – men drank it all the time, there must've been a reason. Maybe, since I was older now, I might like it…

When the woman returned with the food, I bit into it and fell in love. Thank the Gods for White Harbour. It's food was oily and bursting with flavour. The stew was piping hot, and though it burned the roof of my mouth, I'd never savoured a drop more. I wolfed down the bread, and took the horn of ale, gulping it. This only made me cough and splutter as I looked around for water. Finding none, nor the serving girl, I had some more stew, hoping it would wash out the flavour, which it did – only by burning my tongue.

The door opened, and a handful of men walked in. My heart leapt into my throat as I recognized one of them – he had travelled to Winterfell to see Markas. He had long auburn hair that fell to his shoulders, and even longer beard which had started to grey. A long, diagonal scar carved it's way down his cheek, away from his light brown eyes.

"Bloody dolt…" Lord Ichabod Cerwyn grumbled to himself as he sat down at the table in the centre of the room. He turned to the man beside him, "I warned him."

"Aye, M'Lord, you did," the man beside him agreed. "Oi, girl!" He called to the serving girl. "You've a Lord here! Service!"

"Cheeky bugga'…" the young woman walked over to them, slapping the side of the man's head, "don't go actin' like you're all 'ighborn and that, Duncan - I remember 'ow you used t' watch me bathe! Perha's I'll go tell your mother?"

"That's not necessary," Lord Ichabod grabbed the horn of ale from the other side of where the girl had touched it, "We require a meal."

"Aye, M'Lord, we got plen'y of tha'."

"Any salted beef or pork?"

"We got some fish. Black'od," She gestured with the jug of ale to me, "Li'le La'y ove' there ordered some not too lon' ago."

Lord Ichabod's eyes travelled over to me. "A Lady, you say?"

"Smells 'ighborn. Sounds it, too."

"My Lady," Lord Ichabod called over to me, "Are you unescorted? In times of war, I must suggest to you to reconsider this. We would happily offer an escort, should you be travelling in our direction."

I wiped my mouth and stood up, turning to face Lord Ichabod better. His eyes widened and he quickly leapt down onto one knee.

"Lady Evalyn," he looked to Duncan, "kneel, dog," he hissed. The man quickly followed. The woman looked at me with wide, green eyes.

"Yous Evie Stark?" I nodded, and the woman set down the jug of ale before kneeling. "So sorry M'Lady, I been…" she turned to Duncan, "I was sayin' all that shite- sorry, M'Lady…"

"It's quite alright," I held up a hand to reassure her.

"Food alrigh', M'Lady? I can ge' you some more-"

"No need for that, it's perfect, thank you," I let out a small chuckle. It felt good to be back home… "My Lord Cerwyn, I'm glad that I have found you." Cerwyn's eyes stayed on the ground. "I'm seeking my brother, Markas."

"My Lady…" Lord Cerwyn rose to his feet, "Lord Markas…" He frowned, looking at his hands. "He's at the Dreadfort."

"He has besieged the Boltons already?" I knew Markas was better at warfare than he thought. He was just like father, just like Finn – Markas was a warrior, and he'd be a noble Lord once the War in the North was won. My legs began to tremble from the excitement of seeing Markas again.

"He… he did, My Lady," Lord Cerwyn cleared his throat, "we've heard that… Lord Markas has been taken as a hostage by Lord Raff of House Bolton." I frowned. I didn't understand, what did he mean, Markas was taken hostage? "We're returning home, to Castle Cerwyn."

"But… why aren't you still there?" I frowned. "Aren't you scared of what Markas will think?"

"My Lady," Cerwyn held the bridge of his nose, "Lord Markas has been taken by Raff Bolton. Into the Dreadfort. He is a prisoner. That is…" Cerwyn took a breath, "that is, if he is even still alive."

"Of course he is!" I shook my head. "What are you talking about, Markas is still alive!" I didn't understand this – I didn't want to! Father was gone, so was Tylan and mother… now Markas too? He was the last one of us – the last true Stark. My family. And now I was all alone. I wiped my eye and shook my head. "Why aren't you helping him?"

"My Lady, we heard that Lord Reed and the Redbeard have been unable to co-ordinate an assault… Lord Karstark has left Karhold but…" The serving girl offered me a hanky, and I used it to dab at the corners of my eyes. How was it that, in barely two months, I had lost my entire family? "My Lady, it is my duty to tell you that Winterfell…"

"I was there," I said quietly. "My mother is dead. Tylan is nowhere to be found…"

Lord Cerwyn's face crumpled as he walked towards me, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder as he leant down, "I won't pretend I hold much love for your family… Your brother was a fool, your father too, but they were your family." He took a breath, "And my ancestors swore an oath to yours. I shall continue to do my duty. You may reside in Castle Cerwyn. My men and I shall keep you safe."

"That's not my home."

"No… but it's the closest you have." Lord Cerwyn straightened up. "A terrible thing… to lose one's family. At such a tender age, too…"

I looked out of the window at the golden cusp sat heavily upon the waves, the strange ships arriving with a mark of a large warrior upon a purple sail. I vaguely remembered a ship like this from when I was a child, visiting White Harbour – the ship held darker people, strange spices and a foreign language shouted across the deck. I recognized the sail – it was a merchant vessel of Braavos.

"Not all my family…" I muttered. I turned back to Lord Cerwyn. "I need to buy passage to Braavos."

"Braavos?" Cerwyn frowned, "You'd go into exile?"

"No. I mean, I don't know. But… my brother, Finn is there."

"Ben's bastard?"

"Please, My Lord, I cannot do this alone…"

"I will not leave my castle undefended against the Boltons."

"But…" I began to frantically search for a reason I could use to persuade him, "we- we could hire an army! Bring back sellswords…"

"Evie…" Cerwyn gritted his teeth.

"Or we could talk to the Sealord of Braavos! We're highborn, I'm sure he would grant us an audience… maybe he will sympathise?"

"When will you understand, girl?" Cerwyn snapped at me. "This war is already done! The Boltons have won. Your name is gone. And I would sooner die in my bed with my children around me than on some Bolton's blade."

I wanted to cry. I balled my hands into fists to hold back the tears and gritted my teeth. I was sick of myself. When Finn left, I cried. When father died, I wept. When I was shipped down South, I sobbed. When mother and Tylan passed, I bawled, and here I was again, snivelling. A mess. Starks didn't act like this. Mother never did. Father never did – no-one ever did. I looked up at Cerwyn, who turned back to his table.

"I never thought you Craven, Cerwyn."

He turned around to me, eyes wide. "Craven?"

"You'd sooner run back to your keep like a whipped dog than fight for your land and your lord."

"The Starks are gone. By law, you are a Baratheon. I offer you protection out of my loyalty to your family."

"I was wedded, but never bedded." I stated firmly. "By law, I am still a Stark. A girl of fifteen, and I would still stand against the Boltons. Whereas you scurry back home. Well, go, Cerwyn. I have no need of cravens and Oathbreakers."

"You blasted girl…" Lord Cerwyn rose from his chair once more.

"I am Evie of House Stark, by right, the Wardeness of the North, and I order you as my bannerman to take my East to Braavos."

Aeron Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands

I walked into the throne room, rubbing my tired eyes. After visiting Ashriel in the dungeons, and discussing child names and birthday celebrations with Delyth, I was exhausted, and craved a few extra hours in my bed. However, it seemed I would find no respite – I was requested by a Dornishman. As much as I grumbled about granting him an audience, I was intrigued – a Dornishman in the capital? Would he be as savage as I'd been led to believe?

I entered the throne room, and found my Hand, Lord Lucian, sitting upon the throne, rubbing his chin in thought. Down the steps, stood a man in a violet silk surcoat, with silver streaks sweeping across like strokes of a brush to canvas. Underneath, was a linen flint-coloured shirt, and upon his back was a greatsword… an eye-catching greatsword.

"Your Grace." Lord Lucian rose, holding a hand to his breast and bowing his head. I nodded at him and walked up, taking my place on the Iron Throne as I looked at the Dornishman. He looked vaguely familiar – tall and lean, though his nose was sharp and his eyes were narrowed. Dark hair sheared short and presentable, but those deep blue eyes… I'd only known one other man to have eyes like that.

"May I present Ser Edgar Sand of House Dayne?" Lord Lucian held out a hand to the Dornishman in front of me, and turned to him, "The Sword of the Morning."

"Sword of the Morning?" I raised an eyebrow, turning to Ser Edgar. My suspicions were correct – a bastard of House Dayne. "You are Ser Richard's bastard brother?"

"I was."

I suppose a lesser man would have felt threatened. I was no fool – He was a Sword of the Morning, and Dornishmen were hot-tempered. But, I had my faithful Ser Mikal with me. I grinned as his hand clenched around his hilt.

"May I introduce you to Lord Commander Mikal Drake of the Kingsguard?"

Ser Mikal took a step forwards. "You're Richard Dayne's bastard brother?"

"Ser Richard Dayne," Ser Edgar nodded. "Are you the one who killed him?"

"If we're going to split hairs, it was on my orders," I explained, taking my cup of wine from my cup-bearer. "Well, he was an oathbreaker. He declared that I was not his king."

"He was loyal."

"He was." I nodded. "Very admirable. Very knightly… it's just a shame it was to the wrong Targaryen." I shifted my weight on my throne, "So, I suppose you've come to claim vengeance?"

"No…" Ser Edgar smiled, taking a cup of wine, and nodding his thanks, sniffing the cup and furrowing his brow.

"It's not poisoned, Ser. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't use poison."

"It may not be poison, but this Arbor swill not far off…" Ser Edgar frowned, "We Dornish have stronger tastes."

Ser Mikal's hand tightened even more. He was a loyal hound, nay, a loyal dragonclaw. With one word, he would lunge forwards and rip out Ser Edgar's throat. But, for a Bastard to rise high to become the Sword of the Morning… I admired him. I respected him. Even if he was Dornish.

"Why are you here, Ser Edgar?"

"I've come to request a place on your Kingsguard." He explained. Ser Mikal let out a chuckle.

"It seems the Lord Commander is unimpressed with you."

"I am the Sword of the Morning. Surely, this is reason enough for a place on your Kingsguard."

"Dornishmen are piss-poor fighters," Ser Mikal rumbled, "better at swallowing swords than wielding them."

"It's hot in Dorne," Ser Edgar flexed his shoulders, "we're not used to frigid behaviour," he smiled at Ser Mikal.

"Your Grace," Ser Mikal turned to me, "I'd not let this man in the barracks, for fear of him sharing quarters with the other men."

"If six knights cannot fend off one, the tales of the Kingsguard have been grossly exaggerated…"

"I do not think you will kill them, boy-fucker…" Ser Mikal hissed.

Ser Edgar let out a chuckle. "Perhaps you are right, Ser Mikal. Maybe I will send for a Dornish Red and show the Westerosi what wine truly is…" He grinned. I rolled my eyes – how typically Dornish.

"I will not stand for that talk in my Keep, Ser. You are a guest, but I am chosen by the Gods to rule these lands, and I shall continue to carry out their will."

"Westerosi…" Ser Edgar chuckled to himself. He held out his arms. "So… am I accepted?"

I rubbed my thumb and fingers together. This Ser Edgar… he was very… well, Dornish. If I accepted him into the Kingsguard, I could be seen as a traitor to my own kingdoms. it could be a step towards uniting the kingdoms. If I could take Dorne, end Viserys and Visnenya and have the Boltons settle the War in the North, Westeros would know peace. And everyone would prosper… I would be the King who brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms and united them all under one throne. Moreover, he was the Sword of the Morning – only a fool would deny the loyalty of a knight of such a legendary lineage. All I had to gauge was who his loyalty was to.

"Leave us."

Ser Mikal turned to me, "Your Grace?"

"Your Grace," Lord Lucian crept towards me, "perhaps we might talk in private, before-"

"Do I need to ask twice?" I looked to Lord Lucian. He swallowed, and nodded, before shooting an anxious look at Ser Edgar and leaving with Ser Mikal.

I waited for the door to close before rising from my throne and sipping my wine, running my eyes up and down Ser Edgar.

"So," I cleared my throat, "should I fear for my safety?"

"You wouldn't have sent him out if you thought so." Ser Edgar stated. "I was an advisor to the Queen of Dorne."

I nodded. "So, why are you here, Ser Edgar?"

"I request a position on your Kingsguard…"

"Yes – I know that – but why? After all," I held my cup out, and my cup-bearer filled it with more wine, "the last Dornish knight on my Kingsguard died."

"You do not understand," Ser Edgar smiled, "I do not wish to be any knight. I wish to be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

I chortled, "Such a notion… shall you discuss it with Ser Mikal?"

"I fully intend to." Ser Edgar smiled at me, picking up the cup of wine. "My condolences for your father."

"Thank you Ser, to yours as well. And to your brother as well. You shared his blood, despite your… other family."

Ser Edgar laughed. "You Westerosi tip-toe around bastards so carefully… so my mother was not my father's wife." Ser Edgar shrugged, "We are born of lust. Of passion. In Dorne, our blood is that of the Sand. We have a thousand brothers and sisters."

"Not 'we'." I stated. "I am a Targaryen of the Red Keep."

"Of course." Ser Edgar nodded. "So… is there a ceremony? When do I find myself in one of those pretty white cloaks?"

I pulled my tongue across my teeth, nodding. "Report to Ser Mikal. He will oversee your iniation. I understand that the Kingsguard have their rituals." Ser Edgar nodded, and turned to leave. "Ser Edgar?" He turned around to me. "You will address me as 'Your Grace' from now."

"Of course. You are my King." He smiled, bowing his head once more. There was something about his smile – like that of a viper upon finding it's meal. No happiness, except that at the sight of cruelty and pain.

But we would see who he inflicted pain upon.

Haylise Baratheon – The Stormlands

The birds were calling for me to awaken. It took some time, and everything was still blurred. My head was heavy, as were my eyelids, but I managed to make out my surroundings. A field, a tree… the air felt wet and heavy. And there was something… a sound. A constant sound. Rain, I think.

Hot. In my mouth. Wet. Warm. Tastes… chunks.

Wet again, this time cold. My arms felt cold. Then scratchy, but warm at least.

My eyes flickered open once again, and I saw that, I was, indeed, beneath a tree. Branches stretched out above me, with leaves sprouting all along it, all new and fresh. Looking down, I was wrapped beneath a rough-spun cotton blanket. I could make out a figure sitting beside a small fire, a pot set upon the flames, bubbling silently.

I pushed myself up onto my arms, and quickly fell back to the ground with a groan. The figure at the fire turned around, and walked over to me.

"My Lady?" I looked up at him, unable to make out the face beneath the hood. However, his voice was distinctive enough.

"Edric?" I croaked.

"Don't speak, Your Grace," he pressed a small bowl to my lips, feeding me some stew. "It's not much, so you need to rest."

"Where…" I began coughing. He picked up a small wooden cup of water to my lips.

"The Riverlands." Edric spoke. "I've been hiding you in the cart." He nodded to the small cart, loaded with hay. I smiled at him.

"You're a good man, Edric. Loyal…"

"Your Grace…" Edric stroked my hair. It was as though he was debating something, his eyes seemed to harden after a moment.

"What is it?"

Edric shook his head. "I'm taking you North to Winterfell. Hopefully your new sister-in-law can provide us with some shelter."

Lord Commander Mikal Drake – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands

I stood in the gardens, my armour polished and my sword sharpened. Aeron had been a noble leader, decimating the House of Baratheon. They were traitors, who wielded their rage like a battering ram, uncaring of whomever may stand in their way. My only regret was that I was not the one to destroy their house myself.

Maester Godwin stood between the rat, Roto and I. He was all skin and bones, with no weapon of his own. Instead, he had been permitted to wield a blade from the armoury, along with a shield. He gripped the hilt firmly, muttering to himself as he eyed me carefully, no doubt planning a strategy. Fool. It would all be over quickly. I wasn't the type to toy. Dragging it out would only be cruel, and I would not stoop to the levels of rats and oathbreakers, who sought to kill their noble king outside a Sept.

A horn sounded, and Master Godwin held out his arms.

"Here in the sights of Gods and men, we are here to ascertain the guilt or innocence of this man, Roto, son of Riler. May the Mother grant them mercy, may the Father give them such justice as they deserve, may the Warrior guide the hand of our champion to victory, just as the Smith may grant them strength. May the Maiden guard their daughters, may the Crone grant them wisdom, and may the Stranger embrace them readily."

The horn sounded again, and the Maester withdrew to the balcony, upon which, my King, Aeron, sat, watching me with the eyes of a falcon. He smiled and gave a curt nod, which I returned. I took my helmet from my squire, Tom, and turned towards Roto, all skin and bones. I placed my helmet over my red hair, and held out a hand for my sword. Tom handed it to me, and I strode halfway towards the rat before halting, breathing steadily as I waited for him to charge. The lad didn't even have any armour, the dolt.

I didn't picture him as a Baratheon. No, I didn't use that rage that I reserved for Ryleigh. Instead, I saw him as a foreign invader – a man without honour. I imagined him as this Ser Edgar Sand. I imagined that he held Dawn aloft as he began to charge at me, letting loose a barbaric war cry. As if he was a Dornish savage.

He came closer, and once he was within reach, the sword raised above his head, he brought the blade down, aiming for my helm. Fool – the sword would only dent a Kingsguard Knight's helm. I bound my longsword against his, grazing it so it fell down to the ground, and countered with a riposte, the edge of my blade puncturing his throat. I felt the small judder down to the hilt, telling me I had reached the top of his spine.

I took a step in, grabbing the boy's shoulder. His eyes were wide and full of confusion, his sword clattering to the ground as his body began to convulse. I then wrenched the blade backwards, withdrawing it from his neck and standing aside, letting him fall onto the floor. I looked up to King Aeron, bowing my head as the Grand Maester Godwin stepped forwards again, signalling for the applauding crowds to quieten down.

"The Gods have made their will known!" He announced. "And in doing so, they have announced who our one true King is. Aeron of House Targaryen, is beyond reproach, the chosen representative of the Seven in this world."

Oooh… Well, quite a bit has happened here.

You guys want to know a secret? Evie's part was only meant to be a tiny little bit but I kinda got really into writing her and it turned into 2,000 words…

So guys… it's the finale next time. The next chapter takes place in King's Landing, The Vale and Braavos, and is named 'The Final Lesson'.