Varys XVII

Thoros had found a co-religionist among the Golden Company and a keg of cider from the Reach. Varys had to admire his resourcefulness. For his part, Varys thought that she was a woman best kept under observation. It wasn't hard to do since many of the other men similarly wanted to look at her.

"You lied to me," Jon Connington accused bitterly.

"I did not lie." Melisandre's voice was harsh with her own pain. "I was wrong. Tragically wrong."

"You and the Spider both." The exiled Stormlander wasn't swaying but there was a certain lack of focus around his eyes that suggested he'd drunk a good quantity of fortified wine before he found their little group. "Was he even Rhaegar's son, did you lie to me the whole time?"

Varys sighed. "Was he the same boy I placed in your care?"

"Of course he was!"

"Then yes. He was Rhaegar's son. Elia's too, which may have been his undoing."

"You're lying. You're always lying..."

"Then why do you even bother to ask?"

Connington fumbled at his belt, hand not quite settling upon the hilt of his dagger. Before he could find it, Thoros rose and took his arm. "It's hard to lose a son," he said sympathetically. "And it's clear you loved him as a son. When a man's son dies, he should mourn. Not quarrel."

"I... yes." The red-haired lord let himself be turned away. "What will I do?"

"Have you buried him?"

"Gods, how can I bury him? I failed him. I failed him."

Melisandre watched them walk away. "We all failed him. For a Targaryen to die to a dragon..."

Varys raised his cup in toast. "To Aegon Targaryen, who died like Aegon, son of Aenys, to a dragon."

Her eyes met his. "You expected this?"

"I had concerns. On the matter of dragons I consulted with a sorcerer well-versed in the matter. He felt that the Valyrian blood flowed strongest through the maternal lines. Elia Martell had some Valyrian blood through her mother but not as an unbroken female lineage. The chances were no more than even that a dragon would accept him."

"Interesting." She drew her finger around the rim of her cup. "Who did you consult? I know of no one who has such expertise."

"His name was Brynden Rivers."

"The man they called Bloodraven. One of my teachers spoke of him. They thought him dead, long ago."

He looked away delicately. "Not so very long."

"Thoros tells me that your companion Bronn was restored to life by R'hllor. He has been called. I erred with Aegon, but not in coming to Westeros."

"No?"

She shook her head. "You do not believe, even though you saw it. What do you know of Azor Ahai."

"I know the legend. A man who forged a sword to fight your Great Other. Twice it failed, until he quenched it in the blood of his own wife."

"That sword was called Lightbringer and so the Long Night ended with a new dawn." Melisandre spread her hands. "Another long night has begun and Azor Ahai has returned."

"And died." Varys hid a smirk. "I suppose we will have to manage, somehow."

"He was not Azor Ahai. I was wrong."

"So you'll look for him."

"I have found him."

"Bronn?"

"No." Melisandre eyes were like dark pools. "He has his part to play, although I can only guess at who it is. But today I saw a prince draw a sword from fire."

"You think Stannis Baratheon is your... Azor Ahai?"

"Do you doubt it?"

Varys sipped from his cup. The cider was very fine. "I would deeply appreciate being there when you tell him that."

Cassana VIII

The previous day's disaster had deterred some of the men who'd been eager to win glory as a rider of the first dragons seen in centuries. The smarter ones probably.

"I'm sure that one of them would bond with you," Daenerys told her brother as they watched those who still felt it was worth the risk. "You're my brother, after all."

"It doesn't necessarily follow, Daenerys." Cassana saw Viserys rest one hand on his sister's shoulder fondly. She wondered if he wished to follow the Targaryen example in brides. Her father wouldn't have approved and she thought Stannis would object too. "I've learned that the..." He paused in thought. "Hmm. It's complicated."

"Daenerys and I worked out how to hatch dragons after no one managed for centuries. I think we can manage."

He looked at her and smirked. "I'm trying to think how to explain it, not doubting your ability to grasp it. You see, it seems the key is the mother's bloodline. You have read your father's book?"

She felt her cheeks heat. "If we stipulate that no one tells mother that I have?"

"I'm absolutely sure that Queen Alysanne helped him write it."

"T-t-that's beside the point."

"Fine, fine." He lowered his voice slightly. "Do you recall the theory of the seeds?"

"The two small seeds of the mother and the one larger and one smaller seed from the father?" asked Daenerys. "Yes. I think..."

"The dragon's blood," Cassana murmured, thinking back to the books in the Crown's smallest tower. "That's why he thought it was stronger in women than men - if it's in the small seed then a woman could inherit it from both parents while a man could only receive it from his mother."

"Precisely. Since you hatched dragons, I must assume that you inherited that blood in full measure. But Rhaegar and I could only inherit it from mother."

"But there have been men who rode dragons! Many of them!"

"Of course. Riding a dragon is much easier than hatching them. But there are other traits that can be carried in the female line. Our great-grandfather married a Blackwood and the blood of the Old Men entered House Targaryen. Since it's inherited from a female ancestor it must also be through the small seed?"

"But that doesn't mean that you inherited it." Cassana thought a moment. Aerys' parents had been siblings so... likely both had the old blood small seed, his mother the Targaryen small seed as well. Then Aerys wed his sister, who must have had the old blood and... "Daenerys has dragonblood from both sides, so you could have received it from Queen Rhaella."

"Trust me, I have the old blood." Viserys shrugged. "It's a simplication of course, even your father admitted it. And there's some chance that I might have enough dragonblood in me to ride a dragon, but not much better than poor Aegon's."

Cassana noted that upon his death Aegon had been transformed from a potential rival to a mourned for kinsman. "If no one else manages..."

Across the fence a squire from the Westerlands was dragged away from Orbar by a rope tied to his belt. He'd been a handsome youth but now his face was as crimson as his tunic. If he lived, he'd bear the marks for life. The claws on the grey dragon's wings were smaller than those of it's feet - the squire was lucky that Orbar hadn't attacked more viciously.

"There is... oh gods, what is he doing?"

The next man to behind the fence wore the armour and helm of a mystery knight, as if this were some kind of tourney, but he was pushed aside by a more substantial man who wore a tabard in the colours of Griffin's Roost and wore full armour. Once across the fence he donned a helm but everyone had had a chance to see that it was Jon Connington.

"I really don't want to imagine what he'd do with a dragon."

Daenerys frowned. "Why? He was loyal to our nephew."

"He was in love with our brother," Viserys said grimly. "And he raised Rhaegar's son only to lose him. I wouldn't assume he might not do something reckless to King Eddard given the chance."

"Do you think he could?"

"I hope not. But just in case, I hope you can be ready for Banthis to protect the royal stands."

The youngest surviving Targaryen paled and moved to the fence herself, whistling softly for her dragon's attention. The black reared up at Connington's approach while the other two dragons eyed the man with half-lidded eyes.

The evident interest of Banthis drew the crowd's attention but Connington seemed entirely focused upon the violet dragon. He didn't run towards it but nor did he hesitate as the drake slowly craned its neck to point towards him.

"What is this one's name?" he asked, voice carrying to the crowd. Orbar twitched and small flames scorched the earth as he rose and started to move to flank the knight. Qelos remained still save that his eyes were locked upon Connington.

"Qelos," Cassana replied. "It's High Valyrian for -"

"Star, yes I know. I spent most of your life in Essos." Connington shook his head. "Until last night I never wanted Rhaegar's death. But to see his son burned down by one... he would have hated it." The knight extended his left hand to point at Qelos, almost close enough to touch. "Hated you."

Connington's right hand was out of sight for only an instant but he drew his sword with speed many a younger man would have envied.

"Daenerys!" Viserys leapt across the fence, as did the mystery knight who Connington had pushed aside.

"Banthis! Dracarys!"

Connington's sword thrust at Qelos' face and the dragon recoiled. An instant later and the knight was rolling aside as a tongue of golden-red fire tore through the air towards him. He didn't quite make it - his tabard was on fire as he scrambled upright - but ichor dripped from the blade of his sword.

Cassana gripped the fence and stared at Qelos. The dragon was waving his head around and it took only an instant for him to turn enough that she could see that one of the dragon's eyes was a bloody ruin. Spotting prey, Qelos exhaled sharply and flames roared across the enclosure.

With an oath, Viserys hurled himself backwards, scorched but no more. On the other side of the flame, Connington lunged forwards to try to finish the job.

There was a crash as the mystery knight tackled the renegade from his feet. Smashing one heavy gauntlet Connington's helmet, the man pulled back only long enough to draw a weapon of his own. Rather than a sword - unwieldy at close quarters - he drew a needle-pointed ponniard from his belt and thrust it through the eye-slit of Connington's helm.

The long-exiled Lord ceased to struggle, laying upon the ground with the other knight crouched above him. Around them the three dragons stood, one breath away from immolating assassin and defender both.

No one dared move. Anything done, anything said, and hero would die with villain.

Slowly, finally, the knight drew back the ponniard and discarded it. Facing Qelos he wrenched at Connington's helm and yanked it off, revealing a face as disfigured as that of the violet dragon.

With a hiss, Qelos struck, jaws closing around the skull of the stormlander and wrenching it away from the neck. The knight prudently backed away as the other two dragons tore into the body, Qelos seemingly satisfied to crunch at the skull until it broke and then to devour every remain of Connington's face, skull and the brains within.

"Who is that?" whispered Viserys.

"I've no idea."

Satiated, Qelos turned towards the still helmed knight and flapped his wings once, hopping as far as his chains would allow him, facing the man. His head darted forwards and butted against the man's chest. Then again, less forcefully Cassana hoped, against the front of his helm. "By the Stranger... is this..."

"I think so."

The knight reached up and unstrapped his helm, tossing it aside. The face revealed was no older than Cassana's - about Eddard's age. Pale hair and violet eyes but the angles of the face didn't speak of Viserys or of any other Targaryen she'd seen.

On the royal stand, Eddard rose and pushed past his uncle's restraining arm. "What is your name, ser knight?"

The youth looked at Qelos' face, inches from his own, and then at his king. "I'm not yet knighted, your grace. My name is Duncan Selmy."

Viserys XVII

Where Westerosi nobles assemble, merchants will shortly arrive to sell luxuries to them. It wasn't so different for sellswords in Essos, although the luxuries tended to be of a lesser quality. On the way south, Viserys had visited a merchant in White Harbour who represented the Iron Bank. By prior agreement with the infamous Braavosi bank - something useful for a sellsword who didn't know where he might end up - he was listed with their representatives and was able to borrow money from them, a loan to be repaid by the bank out of money he'd entrusted to them before.

It wasn't an unusual arrangement in Essos, at least in the daughter cities of whichever of the Free Cities you banked with. Robert had negotiated the extension of the influence of the Iron Bank to the Seven Kingdoms, at least to the major cities. Pentos was probably going to fall into the same financial network now, which Viserys thought would probably have repercussions next time Pentos and Braavos fell out.

In the short term, however, it meant that he'd been able to afford to replenish his wardrobe and dress well for a private dinner with the King.

"It's a long time since King's Landing."

"It is." Eddard leant back in his chair, eyeing the succulence of the chicken pie with anticipation. "I never had a chance to thank you for that advice on dice."

"Just remember to name your first born after me. That's V-I-C-E..."

The young king had just forked some mashed turnip into his mouth and he had to fight not to spit it out as he laughed. "I learned how to spell your name. It's the same as two of your ancestors that Maester Colemon insisted I learn."

"I hope you learned more than that." Viserys cut a sliver from his own portion of pie and bit from it. "You're not that many years from ruling as king in your own right."

"I hope to have Uncle Stannis' support there." Eddard grinned at him. "Yours too, if you're not planning to go back to Essos."

Viserys raised his eyebrows. "Are you offering me a position?"

"Would you accept?"

The Targeryen chewed on another mouthful of the dinner and thought. "Yes."

Eddard slumped slightly in relief. "Thank you. It feels like everyone expects me to just... become my father all over again."

I know how that feels, although I suppose it's not quite the same. Viserys didn't say that though. "It's interesting," he said instead, changing the subject. "The letters we've had about Bolton's Ford... Lord Royce wanted a roll kept of bodies recovered, including those raised by the Others for their armies."

"Aye, to give peace to their kin. What of it?"

"There are bodies accounted for from almost every tower on the Wall and every holdfast pledged to Benjen Stark. A lot of the Houses that took heavy losses at Robert's Stand had their kin found at the ford too. And thousands of wildlings and smallfolk too."

"Naturally." Then Eddard lowered his fork. "So if we compare to the rolls of armsmen available for levy we could have a decent idea of how many of our folk they still have."

"And we can ask Mance Rayder for an estimate of the Free Folk numbers. Thirty or forty thousand gone to Essos and while I didn't get a count when I saw what was left at Robert's Stand, between those dead there and at Bolton's Ford there may be as many who became wights and died."

"It's insane to think that so many men could be killed and a war not be over. There were fewer dead at the Battle of the Trident."

"You're missing the point, Eddard. The Others aren't opening up barrows and tombs. Every wight they send at us was recently dead when they got their hands on it. Which means they have limits on their numbers."

Eddard's eyes went wide. "And we've killed... got to be forty thousand of the wights at least!" He stabbed a finger towards Viserys. "This is exactly why I want you on my Small Council." The boy pushed back his chair and turned to the door. "We should tell Uncle Stannis right away."

"Hold up a moment..."

Eddard yanked open the door and almost ran into the fist of Duncan Selmy, which was raised to knock on the door.

"Your grace," the young man said, lowering his hand quickly and dropping to one knee.

"Lord Duncan?" Eddard glanced at the two Royal Guards who flanked his door. "I wasn't expecting another dinner guest."

"I'm very sorry, your grace. I asked directions to Ser Viserys." Duncan's cheeks flamed. "I didn't think to ask who he was with."

"Well we were just having dinner." Eddard grabbed for his manners. "And you're the man of the day, come in and join us."

"I... thank you, your grace."

Viserys leant back in his chair and examined the youth. Now that the first shock of surviving Qelos' attention was done, how would the dragon shape Lord Barristan's heir?

"So what brings you?" Eddard asked, taking his chair again. The notion of going to Stannis had apparently been knocked right out of his head by the new arrival.

Duncan found a third chair against the wall and moved it up to the table but he didn't sit. "Ser Viserys suggested that he might consider taking me as his squire."

"Squire? But you're to be a dragonrider!?"

"Yes, your grace. But there's no reason I can't - or shouldn't - also be a knight. My father thought Ser Viserys was worthy of knighthood. I couldn't ask for a better judge of whether I might one day be due the same accolade."

Viserys refilled his goblet. "And your mother's opinion?"

The pale-haired boy winced. "She understands, ser. I won't pretend she's entirely happy but she's given her permission."

"Well." He paused and then sipped on the wine. "I wasn't planning to go south anyway."

Olenna XIII

"Please don't do this, Willas."

"I have a better chance than most," her grandson told her. Willas patted his chest, which was covered with a padded jacket lined with boiled leather. "The maesters tell me that this cloth is woven of a stone mined in a few corners of the Red Mountains. It can be spun like wool into threads and then woven like linen. Most importantly, it will not burn."

"Oh very clever. Is it also impervious to tooth and claw?"

"I have some hopes of the leather, should it come to that grandmother. But wearing metal would be folly indeed."

More than thirty men had hazarded the dragons now. Orbar was more placid than the other two, but that didn't make the dragon gentle. Fourteen of those who had hazarded her were dead and most of the others would be marked for life.

Olenna shook her head. "Most of those who have stepped forwards are hedgeknights and bastards, men who think they have little to lose. You still have Highgarden, Willas. You should be be considering a marriage to begin rebuilding our family's influence."

"It is fine for you to say that when you did nothing to avoid that influence being lost in the first place."

"Your father's folly was far greater than I thought. Be glad -" she lowered her voice "- that I saw certain letters destroyed or your head would have parted company with your shoulders, Willas. You played with fire."

"And now I shall do so again."

"Why do you think you have a better chance than any of the others."

Willas' lips curved. "For that you may thank my mother."

Olenna made to speak but he raised his hand for silence.

"I know you have scorned her, but think on it. Selmy's light hair marks one of the older bloodlines of the south-west. One that warred with, and sometimes wed to the other petty kings along the Torrentine and the Honeywine."

Alerie Hightower's hair had been as pale as Olenna's even before she wed Mace and bore him four healthy children. As silver as a Targaryen's, some had said. "You think that it is a trace of Valyrian blood in those families?"

"It seems a chance. I have no certainty, of course, but a dragon for Highgarden would go far to reclaim our glory."

"And if you are wrong?" She looked to her grand-daughter, recently delivered of her first born. "Reason with him, Margaery. It seems he does not listen to me."

"We have spoken already." Margaery did not meet Olenna's eyes, instead working at her embroidering. "I have no rule over Highgarden - and little enough in Riverrun with father forced to take the black. Perhaps had I given Hoster a grandson and not a granddaugher..."

"And perhaps if your brother isn't burned to cinders he'll see the Tyrells a princely house. But I doubt it very much!"

"Enough, grandmother. If I die, you can harp at Garlan that you told me so. But my mind is made up."

Olenna had had more years - more decades - than she cared to remember of recognising the times when a Tyrell man was beyond any persuasion she could bring to bear. But it hurt to see Willas reach that point.

Luthor had died because she couldn't persuade him not to ride a horse with more sense. Enough sense not to ride off a cliff, for example. Mace had died because... "Willas -"

"Enough!" he snapped and turned pointedly away. "Margaery could you check the ties on my gauntlets. The left one seems a little loose."

Olenna fumbled for her stick and one of her servants steadied her. "This can only end in fire," she said. "And blood."

Her grandchildren ignored her and after a moment she turned away. Was this her reward, she thought, for years promoting their interests at court?

Mace was waiting for her, clad in plain black. "He wouldn't listen to you?"

"He would not. Have you tried?"

"Who listens to a failure?" Her son folded his hands behind his back. "I have had to come to some acceptance that there are things I can no longer influence. It seems that my sons are one of them." He grimaced. "And yes, I tried anyway."

Olenna couldn't help but suspect that if Willas did bond with the last dragon then it wouldn't be the end of the Tyrell's problems. The Lord Regent might give Willas a chance to prove himself but he would have two dragons - at least as long as he retained the leadership of Viserys' new squire and Daenerys Targaryen - to use against Orbar and Willas if need be.

"If you'd..."

"Oh yes, blame me." Mace sighed. "I still think I was doing the right thing, but the Baratheons would have their way. At least by going north my sons will know that I'm no coward."

"Scant comfort for Loras and probably for Willas now."

Her son reached out to to her and after a moment's hesitation she let him embrace her. "Fewer thorns than I expected," he jested weakly. "We should watch him at least, if there's nothing more we can do."

Olenna nodded and leant upon his arm as they walked towards the enclosure. She ignored the whispers around them as they found a place.

Margaery had escorted Willas to the enclosure but then returned to a cluster of the Tully's bannermen which Olenna thought a wiser decision than the alternatives. Hopefully Edmure would return and sire a son for Margaery, but until then she would need allies.

Both Banthis and Qelos had been removed to seperate enclosures, well away from the crowds, as a precaution and after Connington's madness a score of archers were positioned around the edge of the enclosures with crossbows ready. Plate armour wouldn't resist the bolts at this range, much less Willas' light protection. Perhaps that would at least deter him from obvious defiance.

In the royal box, Eddard remained overshadowed by his formidable uncle. He leant forwards eagerly as the lists, such as they were, opened up for further volunteers. Oddly, the deaths so far hadn't deterred everyone and Willas wasn't even the first in the line. It had at least stopped threats and bribes to secure first place in the line as it was clear that Orbar wouldn't accept anyone based on them being the first there. Quite a number had brought food but that had been halted firmly by Stannis, lest it be poisoned.

Another man maimed - arm lost to Orbar's maw - and a second burned to death when he recklessly tried to loop a chain around the dragon's throat. Then Willas stepped forward, pausing only to allow a rope to be secured to his belt. He'd wrapped his head in the same white cloth that his jacket was made of.

As he walked closer, Orbar watched him with half-lidded eyes. Perhaps the beast was satiated by the mouthful it had already had?

Reaching out, Willis traced the lines of the dragon's jaw and then withdrew his hands. He crouched before it and waited.

Orbar studied the man before him and then extended his nose and sniffed at him. With a hiss, the grey dragon drew back its head and snorted. Then it opened it's maw and a roar mingled with the crackling of flames.

Willas, having perhaps a fraction of a second's warning, flung his arms up in front of his face and dived out of the way, twisting to land on his front. Olenna leant forwards, heart thumping in her chest as her grandson scrambled away. His armour was smoking but flames didn't cling to it and he seemed intact.

With an outraged roar, Orbar flapped her wings, stretching forwards and the great claws on her legs bit into Willas, around the hips.

Screaming the young lord of Highgarden was dragged in two directions as men hauled on the rope of his belt, trying to resist the dragon's pull. Mace tried to climb the fence but one of the archers turned and gestured sharply with his weapon, wordlessly threatening consequences.

"Willas," screamed Margaery, catching hold of the rope and adding her small weight to that resisting Orbar's pull.

Orbar's jaws snapped forwards, severing the rope and then Olenna could see only red and black. Her heart thundered, every breath tearing at her chest as she took it. She fell into strong arms and knew nothing...