Chapter XX: Like Pieces on a Cyvasse Board

Selyse

Selyse did not like Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. She did not like it in the least.

It was a damp, dingy place. On its best days it was still a more miserable experience to walk its halls and lands than Dragonstone's on its worst. Air escaped her nostrils, the barest hints of a laugh. I never thought I could miss Dragonstone, she mused, but stranger things had happened. Red priestesses could travel from worlds away and bring the light of the true God to dark, stony halls.

One of her ladies turned to her. "Your Grace? Is something the matter?"

Arta Peasebury was a plain slip of a thing, with flaxen hair and wide brown eyes; childlike in some ways, she often seemed closer to Shireen's age than her own. She was the second wife of Lord Peasebury, who had marched away with Stannis to battle Mance Rayder's Wildling horde. She was not the most glamorous of ladies-in-waiting, being from such a low house, but she was something.

And Lord Peasebury had remained loyal when so few had, so his wife served at her side.

"It is nothing, Arta." She sniffed. "Simply a humorous thought."

The queen turned away from the window that overlooked the Night's Watch's pathetic port, and the choppy waters that spread out all the way to the horizon.

"Tell me true," Selyse said to Arta. "What did you think of Dragonstone?"

Arta's eyes widened, and she stopped her sewing. "Your Grace?"

Selyse's mouth became a thin line. "Must a queen repeat herself?"

"Ah–no," she replied, quailing. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace." Arta looked down to her work. She was sewing a fiery heart onto the jerkin of a Sworn Brother. "It… was a dismal place, Your Grace." She frowned. "The gargoyles and the stonework, were… immaculate, but terrible. I liked it not, when first I arrived."

The queen offered her a nod. "It was much the same for me." She sniffed again. "Brightwater Keep was beautiful. The colors of a thousand harvests decorated our fields, and the gardens. I miss the gardens still, truly. The weather too, was pleasantly warm nine days out of ten, and even our winters were not terrible. When I was wed to His Grace, and came to his seat, it was…" her lip curled, "an adjustment."

Rhaelle Fell, named for the mother of Steffon Baratheon, spoke up from her seat near the hearth. "They say that Dragonstone was raised with magic, that the dragons and gargoyles were set from liquid stone."

Serving men and women spread tales and falsities in every castle across the land. Selyse had heard many a story in her youth concerning the histories of Brightwater Keep from cooks and maids. Garth Greenhand had once sat in those very halls, some said. Garth had raised the halls himself, others said. Still others claimed it was Brandon the Builder who had raised Brightwater Keep, as if one man might have built every structure in all of Westeros.

But on Dragonstone, Selyse could believe it. The halls all but stank of sorcery, and the old Freehold had loved their magicks before the Doom, if old Maester Tybus's lessons could be trusted.

The Targaryens had had magic. Their dragons ruled the skies, and they through them. They had gelded the Gardener kings on dragonback and made seven kingdoms one.

And their blood flowed through her husband, and through Shireen.

Selyse returned to her own needlework as Arta began to chatter with Rhaelle. There was a considerable gap between the two ladies' ages, but they got along well enough. It had been more volatile, before, when Rona Sunglass was still among them, but she had sent her away after Guncer burned for his seditious crimes. Melara, at least, didn't have the energy to be volatile after Alester burned (Selyse had wanted to send Melara away, or leave her at Dragonstone, but Stannis demanded she be brought along as hostage).

Violet and Alona both were touring the docks and nearby fishing village, she knew, for the both of them, alone among her ladies, truly loved the sea.

And Arta's young daughter-by-marriage Jonquil reclined in a soft chair, fast asleep. Nominally, she was of Shireen's household, but Jonquil was disquieted by Shireen's greyscale and the fool Patchface, so Selyse had taken her in.

Shireen was in her chambers, she knew, with Patchface at her side and two guards outside her door. Shireen seemed to spend more time than ever alone since they landed at Eastwatch. They might break their fast together, and sup at each other's side, but unless specifically requested, Shireen would retreat to her quarters outside meals and the nightfires. Shireen had demanded her own quarters, and Selyse had relented.

Selyse frowned. A log cracked and spat in the hearth. Arta giggled.

Does she brood? She wondered. For what reason?

Stannis brooded. Stannis brooded long and often, but however much her husband retreated from others and glared into fires, he always had a reason. Stannis had much and more to brood over, while Shireen… Shireen had never brooded before, at least. Only sulked.

The queen stabbed at her needlework, frustrated.

Seria Chyttering had joined the conversation, "Dragonstone was not so–"

Then, there was a sharp knock on the door.

Melara, who had been vacantly working at some embroidery, jumped at the noise.

The door opened slightly and quickly, and Amber Grandison squeezed through the slit. It would not do to let the heat of the room escape, after all.

"Your Grace!" she called. "A raven from Castle Black!" She clutched a sealed letter tightly, and waved it frantically, breathless.

Selyse put aside her needlework. "Bring it here," she said, rising from her seat.

Standing, Selyse towered over every one of her ladies. However unladylike it might be, to be tall, she thought it only right. Royalty ought to rise higher than rabble.

Amber quickly crossed the threshold of the room, curtsied, and handed Selyse the letter.

She saw the stag of House Baratheon and the golden sealing wax it was pressed with. Stannis had not yet commissioned a new stamp bearing the burning heart of R'hllor, to her consternation, but she could not argue its legacy; hundreds of years of Durrandon rule in the Stormlands, and three hundred as Baratheons. It lent a certain legitimacy. She broke the wax delicately, as befit a true queen, and read the letter quickly.

Her ladies eyed her.

She read it again.

The dire wolf of House Stark stood proudly in silver alongside the stag of House Baratheon at the bottom.

"What is the news, Your Grace?" asked Seria Chyttering.

Selyse struggled to find the words for a moment. Never in a thousand years, would she have expected such an outcome. "The king has found himself a Stark," she answered finally, frowning.

Even Melara was looking up at her now.

Arta rose. "A Stark? The male line is dead, is it not?"

"Extinguished," agreed Lady Fell.

Selyse shook her head. "He has made himself one. Eddard Stark's bastard went to the Wall, and His Grace has made a lord of him."

An array of different emotions showed on her ladies' faces. Surprise, confusion, curiosity.

Selyse felt a measure of disgust at the notion, her studious upbringing ensuring that much at the least. Any love she might have had for bastards by the end of her education was quickly extinguished by Delena and the pig of a king that preceded Stannis. But she was no fool. She saw her husband's move for what it was.

"His Grace has won the North!" One of them said in a rush.

Melara caught her gaze, her eyes as guarded as they had been since the day of their departure from Dragonstone. "Let us pray," she said, her voice oddly hollow.

Selyse agreed. "Let us pray."

The room quieted, except for the sound of fire, and each of them prayed silently. Some bowed their heads, others looked to the fire, and Arta alone looked up to the rafters.

And Selyse thought. Perhaps he has won the North, but he has lost the Wall.

Janos Slynt was Lord Commander, the letter said, and if Robert had been a pig, then Janos Slynt was a worm. Even the little demon they called the Imp had seen that, else he would not have been sent north at all. She had even heard it that while at Eastwatch, the former Goldcloak Lord Commander had not once ventured to the top of the Wall.

The night is dark, and full of terrors.

In several long strides she had come to the hearth, and with another second and a flick of the wrist, she had sent the letter to R'hllor.

"Your Grace?" Seria asked.

"I must needs speak to my daughter."

Then she left.

Ser Malegorn stood guard outside Shireen's chambers. Broad, dark haired, and bearded, the man looked half a boar, but he was nonetheless one of her most devout knights, and would surely be among the first to be knighted again in the light of R'hllor, as Lady Melisandre planned. He was something of a lecher, but Selyse knew that little could be expected of men in that regard. A fire yearns to spread.

"Your Grace, Ser Benethon had...er– business to attend to. He shall be back shortly," Ser Malegorn said, a trace of sheepishness in his tone.

She frowned, but waved him off. "Ensure that he is," she said.

He bowed to her, then pulled the door open.

A rush of warm air escaped the doorway, as breath from a dragon, and Selyse passed through and into the room that Shireen had claimed for herself.

Inside, a fire burned preposterously high in the hearth. The windows were shuttered, keeping the room warm, warmer even than Selyse had been in her makeshift solar with her ladies-in-waiting. The tattooed fool sat atop a cushion to one side of the room, while Shireen sat crouched before the fire, gazing into the blaze intently.

Selyse smiled at that.

She knew that many named her smiles "tight", or "pinched", and in many cases that was true. The queen had little patience for dullards and fools, but she must always observe her courtesies, no matter the situation. But her own daughter come to the Lord's light was a sight she would always cherish.

Shireen had been so resistant, for so long, even more than Stannis in some ways. Cressen had filled her ear with lies while he breathed, and paid the price for it. And Edric Storm too had worked to keep the Seven false gods in her head, but Melisandre had gotten through to her, somehow, and Selyse was glad of that.

"Shireen," Selyse called as she crossed the room.

Shireen did not so much as turn from the fire.

"Shireen?" She called again.

The fool jingled and jangled in place, twisting his head this way and that, ringing the bells that hung from his antlered bucket hat with every turn of his head; still, Shireen did not move.

Selyse drew up to her daughter's side. Her blue eyes stared, all but entranced, into the fire.

She had been so happy... when Shireen was born. Seeing Stannis's blue eyes on the babe's face, and not her own, had been a salve to her in the wake of her failure to provide a proper heir. Selyse had not been able to save Shireen from the famed Florent ears, but she had been spared her own plain brown eyes at the least.

Shireen would never truly be beautiful. Never a Cersei Lannister, or a Margaery Tyrell. Her jaw was too strong, and she looked to have inherited her father's broad shoulders besides.

But R'hllor did not care for beauty.

Why else would Selyse have been the one to give Lady Melisandre the voice she required?

Why else would Shireen display the gift?

She crouched beside her daughter, the heavy furs she wore making it a more difficult affair than it might have been.

"What do you see?" She breathed. "What does the Lord show you, sweetling?" She brought a hand to her daughter's shoulder.

The blaze reflected in Shireen's deep blue eyes. Fire danced, orange and red and yellow.

Then, her daughter returned. The child of fire.

"What did you see?"

Her daughter finally seemed to notice her, but she did not jerk, or shrink, or cringe as she might have only months ago.

"Dragons," she said, "stone dragons." She looked back to the fire. "And ice too. Snow and ice and the Wall."

Selyse nodded, and took her daughter's hand, drawing her up to her feet. She led her daughter to the nearby bed, and sat upon it, holding Shireen close. Shireen wrapped her arms around her, quiet, but not shaken.

For a short time, they simply sat, listening to the fire. The roaring blaze, the crackling, splitting, and spitting of kindling, the jingling of the fool, the muffled echoes of wind and sea. She felt her daughter's heartbeat, somehow, even through all of the layers between them. She clutched her daughter closer.

Selyse yearned for a son, and prayed that the Lord of Light would grant her one still, but Shireen was hers. Stannis had been away for much of her life, and that left Shireen to her, for weeks and months and almost years at a time. They had been closer, when Shireen was younger, when the memory of the greyscale had been fresh, but she hoped that R'hllor would bring them yet closer together once again.

"Was it the Lady Melisandre's prophecies?" Selyse asked finally. "Was it them that called the stone dragons to mind?"

Melisandre had spoken to her at length of the true Seeing. R'hllor might grant visions with no regard to the devout's desires, but so to might the devout seek a specific future, a certain sight.

Shireen shrugged into her. "I don't know, mother." She looked back to the fire again. "Why do the dragons sleep? What hatches the stone dragons?" the princess asked.

Hatch?

"It is wake, Shireen, not hatch," Selyse answered, "and you know the answer as well as I. Lady Melisandre speaks of it frequently."

"King's blood," Shireen murmered, almost inaudibly.

"It flows in your veins. It flows in your father's veins. Even in mine own, thin as it might be." The Gardeners were kings for a thousand years or more, and none had a link to them stronger than that of House Florent. Melisandre had proved the truth of that too, when Alester burned.

Shireen clutched her harder. "Must someone burn?"

That gave Selyse pause. "...None can know the will of the Lord, not truly. We can attempt to abide by His edicts, follow His guidance, but we cannot know His desires with certainty. Those that burn, burn for a reason." They must. "...But it cannot be as simple as such. If it were, the Targaryens would never have lost their dragons; Aerion the Monstrous bore the blood of king's, and died by fire, and yet he begat no dragons."

"...And the Targaryens… they didn't sacrifice to hatch their dragons."

Selyse sniffed. "As the maesters tell it, no." The queen knew all too well that what men tell others was not necessarily the truth. What the dragon kings may have done in the depths of Dragonstone or the dungeons of Maegor's Holdfast, none of them would ever know. The Valyrian Freehold was an empire of sorcerers, and their dragons were only one part of their great power. "Enough of this talk of dragons, sweetling, the Lord is with us, and that is what matters. Azor Ahai had no need of them, and neither shall we."

Shireen's eyes widened, and she released her. "Did something happen? Is father victorious?"

"He is," Selyse confirmed, with another genuine smile. "The Lord has brought him victory over the Wildlings."

A smile curled the right side of Shireen's mouth up; the greyscale on her left side prevented smiles from ever becoming bright, full things. "I'm glad," Shireen said. "Father needed a victory, he told me."

Selyse felt her smile tighten. Shireen had spent more time in Stannis's confidence during their voyage than she herself had. Even taking into account the fact that she had managed to coax the man into her bed, she seemed to scarce chance upon his sour visage for the near month it took them to arrive at Eastwatch.

"There is more," Selyse continued, "your father has named Eddard Stark's bastard a lord, and means to use him to court the North."

Shireen's face scrunched as much as her greyscale allowed. "Is… Is that a good thing, mother?"

Selyse took her daughter's hand. "We must pray that it will be." She squeezed it tightly.

As queen, Selyse had always taken little initiative to demand a presence in her husband's war councils. War was not her domain, and it never had been. What little Maester Tybus had taught her of war had been concerned with the effects of them, the alliances that ensued and the boundaries that shifted, not the stratagems and gambits used by the men who fought the battles.

But the particulars of court had never been Stannis's strength, either. That was woman's domain, not man's. Men could not know the fear of a poorly made match, would never know the terror of a bedding, or the pressures to produce a son. Men were warriors, and at times it seemed that is all they thought of. Battles. And how to win them.

Perhaps Stannis had made the correct choice, or perhaps he had not; but Selyse would not see the seeds of another Blackfyre Rebellion sown before her, not without her voice being heard. She would make sure of it herself.

"Come, Shireen. We must fetch the maids and stewards, we will not tarry here any longer."

"Mother?"

"I would not have it be said that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms hides at Eastwatch," Selyse said imperiously. "Let the Onion Lord hold this place. There is to be a wedding at Castle Black, and we must make haste."

Aegon

Aegon had heard all of it, of course.

The talk of Jon Snow's legitimization and elevation to lordship had swept across Castle Black like a raging inferno, faster even, it seemed, than the news of Janos Slynt's election to Lord Commander. King's Men and Queen's Men alike crowed that the North was all but won, while the Crows muttered and kicked and cast dark looks upon the King's Tower.

The new Lord of Winterfell had not left the King's Tower since the morning Janos Slynt was chosen, and the reason for that was clear to any man with eyes.

Even one without, Aegon mused, thinking of Aemon.

The Black Brothers were less than enthused with the news. Stannis had saved them, yes, but he had facilitated a man of their number putting aside his oaths. Beyond that, he harbored another oathbreaker, with as yet no signs of an incoming execution. Some bore less ill will than others, but many were sour. And some, including their new Lord Commander, were all but murderous. It was all too clear that Stannis's men had begun to tread more carefully these days.

–Aegon felt the blow of an impact to his side, and fell to the muddy slush of the training yard.

"Dead," said Iron Emett.

Aegon groaned. "Only if I'm not wearing plate," he retorted.

Emett only laughed. "Get up boy. You won't get any better lying in the mud."

Aegon pulled himself to his feet, the heavy, ill-fitting, Crone-only-knew how many years old armor making it a tougher affair than it had any right to be. He used the tremendous hunk of metal that Donal Noye called a greatsword to push himself up from the ground. In Aegon's eye, it was a better cane than it was a sword.

The Eastwatch man eyed the large two handed sword. "Never trained with it, did you?"

He shook his head. "Sword, and lance, and mace, and even axe, certainly, but I never much liked greatswords. Too heavy. And I prefer to have a shield if I can."

Iron Emmett raised a brow. "A shield, with plate?" He laughed again. "A waste of strength! Your shield is all about you if you have the fortune to wear plate. Better to have the reach of a greatsword, I say."

Duck had said much the same during his years of tutelage, and at Jon's insistence, he had been instructed primarily in the use of hand and a half blades. It was the most they could force him to use, so long ago, and he had gradually grown used to Brightfyre, as much as he'd have liked to use a shorter sword.

But Aegon had seen the training sword resting in the armory, and for whatever reason, he had taken it. It was a monster of a blade, made even more monstrous due to the crude, heavy steel of its construction. It might very well have been the heaviest weapon he had ever held, and he was decidedly unpracticed in its use.

"It would be more even with my Brightfyre," Aegon replied.

Emmett shrugged, before readying his stance. "Aye, perhaps. But battle is rarely even."

Before either of them could strike a blow, however, a voice broke out across the training yard, turning both of their attention away from the aborted battle.

"Ho there," said the voice. "Might I test myself against you?"

Clad from neck to heel in worn, but quality, plate, the King's Man cut a formidable figure, despite his middling height and his less than fiersome visage. A weak chin, plain brown eyes, and reddened cheeks were made visible by his lack of helmet, but what stood out most of all were the large and protruding ears that any man in Castle Black could mark. If his ears did not give him away, it was the fox's head and bright blue flowers on a field of bone upon his shield that did it.

Aegon knew the man, in fact. For despite Jon's tightened leash, Aegon would always remain a flagrant socializer. "Ser Willfred," he said back, with a smile, "it would be my pleasure."

Iron Emmett eased his stance and was walking away with a spring in his step within seconds. Emmett enjoyed watching a good thrashing about as much as he enjoyed delivering one. Which was, to say, considerably.

Willfred Florent took the place that Emett had occupied, sword and shield in hand. The King's Men and Queen's Men both took to the training yard at times, and though they did mingle with the men of Castle Black, they most often sparred against each other. Aegon would not let an opportunity pass him by.

Aegon raised the great hunk of dulled metal before him into something approaching a guard, and Willfred did the same. Fox and flowers glared at him from the Florent man's shield, even as the man himself did not; Willfred smiled still, though it had the set of determination to it.

There was no shout to begin, nor a flurry of motion and violence. Willfred simply advanced, shield raised and sparring blade ready. Aegon kept still, tracking the man's movements carefully.

The moment that the King's Man was within range, Aegon lashed out with his greatsword. A sword of such length's strength was its reach; letting the man approach too close would be foolish. Ser Willfred batted aside each strike with his shield and his own, shorter blade in turn, stalking closer and closer with each parry or block.

Aegon retreated calmly, but kept up his attacks, whirling the sword around to enhance the strength of his slashes, as he had heard some Lyseni bodyguards were wont to do.

The weight of the blade took its toll on the knight, Aegon could easily see that, but the man was practiced, and advanced all the same. Then, without so much as a warning, Ser Willfred pushed aside the blade with a mighty bash of his shield, and closed the distance in what felt like half a heartbeat.

Then Aegon was very much on the backfoot. Cuts came hard and fast and turning them aside was the most he could do. Only the years of sparring with Duck and Jon (and occasionally Haldon) kept him on his feet; for as much as he was unpracticed with a sword of this size, he was still well-learned in his footwork.

Aegon could only imagine Sir Wilfred smirking beneath his visor, and the thought alone was enough to encourage him to attempt to push for the offensive. He saw an opening between two of the Florent knight's swift slashes and countered with a sweeping strike of his own.

The strike slipped between the fox-and-flower and the blade that rushed to meet it, impacting along Ser Willfred's side, but despite the strength of it, Wilfred held firm against the cut.

Wilfred dropped his shield arm then, and holding the greatsword fast against his chest, he slid forward against it. Aegon made a futile attempt at ripping the sword from the knight's grip, before the King's Man was slamming into him bodily, knocking him to the ground.

He managed to hold onto his sword, but Ser Willfred's was pointed directly at a break in his armor. With one hand, Aegon could not swing the sword around before he would be–

"Dead," said Ser Willfred with a smile plain in his voice, before he withdrew his sword. "That's twice today, Tyroshi. Usually, you are not quite so ineffectual."

Aegon pulled himself to his feet. "Usually I use a proper blade." He shook the great hunk of dull metal. "This could hardly be called a sword… or even a mace I would say."

The Florent knight pulled up his visor, revealing plain brown eyes crinkled with mirth. "So you say, Griff, but Tywin Lannister's great Mountain wields a blade larger than that in a single hand."

That brought a frown to Aegon's lips. "Even in Essos… there are tales of the man," he replied. "but Gregor Clegane is a beast in the guise of a knight."

"Aye. That he is." Something that was almost a laugh escaped him. "I was on the wrong side of Robert's Rebellion, you see. I spent most of it attempting to starve out His Grace, outside his very own stronghold. We were the storm, we thought, but the king proved to us the name of his ancestral home..." Any mirth in his tone vanished. "...But even now, I recall the tidings that Eddard Stark brought to us. Of the Kingslayer, and of the Mountain that Rides." He spat. "Any man of us remembers that day well."

But before Aegon could respond, there was a shout.

"Will you stand there till the sun sets?" Emmett called. "Others would like to test their steel!"

Ser Willfred turned to the voice sharply, seemingly surprised. Then, he turned back to Aegon, his expression flat. "I would test you again, boy, but this is not the only reason I am here."

"What else, then?" Aegon replied, disquieted at both the man's words and at his countenance.

Ser Willfred looked up to the King's Tower, where even now smoke rose. "His Grace would see you, Griff." It was not a question.

Aegon stabbed his greatsword into the mush beneath his feet.

"Then take me to him."

The King's Tower had changed much since his own stay in it.

Aegon was given to understand that the Tower had been all but decrepit before the destruction of the Lord Commander's old quarters, and that it had been renovated even further pending their own arrival at Castle Black. Now though, it was an entirely new tower, or at least, it felt like it. Men patrolled or stood guard at every level of the tower, some wearing the burning heart proudly, and some few the old Baratheon stag. Each was armed, and each watched him warily even as Ser Willfred led him through.

Aegon had returned Donal Noye's armor to the armory, but Willfred retained his own. The knight's disposition had not quite become what it had been when they met in the yard, but it had eased some since entering the King's Tower.

They climbed each successive landing quickly enough, and in no time at all, they arrived at the very top.

Two guards stood vigil, both with the fiery heart of R'hllor at their breast. One was clean shaven, and the other bore a bushy brown beard. Aegon knew neither of them; both gave him a hard look.

Ser Willfred offered them a courteous nod. "His father is inside already, I take it?"

"Aye," said one, the clean shaven man with russet brown eyes,

"Ser Justin fetched him not ten minutes ago," added the other, before he pulled the door open slightly.

A boy's face poked through the crack in the door. The boy glanced over to Aegon, then to Willfred, then the guards, and nodded.

The watchman with the bushy beard promptly pulled the door open, and Aegon felt the rush of warm air full on, as all but a physical blow. Though, it was not pulled so far that he could clearly see the occupants of the room besides the boy who could only be a squire.

Aegon quickly crossed the threshold, and only belatedly realized that Ser Willfred had not followed him through as he heard the door slam shut behind him.

The rumbles of discussion that had been present in the room before his entrance swiftly ground to a halt as his presence was noted. He saw many familiar faces among the men gathered in the "king's" solar. Justin Massey. The man of the moths called Horpe, who had captured the Horn of Winter. Ser Gody the Giantslayer, who made his presence and his title known to any and all who would listen and heed, and his crony Clayon Suggs. A young man, with short-cropped blonde hair with hard brown eyes. He wore a surcoat emblazoned with a crescent moon hanging in a night sky above a forest. Fell, he knew, and Peasebury. Peasebury bore the green pea pod proudly, but he was a homely man. Almost common, by the look of him.

Standing apart from the rest was Jon, whose gaze was both worried and relieved.

Nearest the table, first among the king's retainers, was the newest of them. Standing shorter than the rest, the Lord Stark was nonetheless the most solemn of those who had pledged to King Stannis. Grey eyes, as stony as slate, stared out at him, with not a trace of the mirth (Or even sadness) Aegon had seen at other times. His black cloak had been traded for one of white and grey. Even when Jon Stark's eyes met his own, Aegon saw not even a hint of recognition on his long Northern face.

Last of all, seated behind the desk that Bowen Marsh had once interrogated him from, was the fiery stag himself.

Gaunt was the word that came to Aegon's mind most quickly. Gaunt, and harsh. Eyes of deep blue stared out accusingly from a hard set brow, as sapphires set within a skull. Tall, even seated, Aegon knew the "king" was the largest of them. Broad shoulders bore a clasp of his own sigil, of the burning heart of R'hllor, holding a cloth-of-gold cloak firmly against him. A crown of fiery gold points rest upon his bald head, a square cut ruby placed at its very forefront.

When Stannis Baratheon's eyes met his, Aegon fought the instinct that screamed at him to cower, to lower his gaze. Instead, he stood straighter. Firmer. He held the man's gaze. Then... He sank to one knee. "Your Grace," Aegon said smoothly.

"Rise," Stannis Baratheon barked back.

Aegon rose, and quickly closed the distance between himself and his father. Something flashed in Jon's otherwise frosty gaze as Aegon took his place alongside him. He felt Jon's firm grip on his shoulder as they together faced the king and his men.

You taught me well, he wanted to tell him. No other king would prostrate himself before a usurper. But from the very moment he'd been told of his identity, Jon, Lemore, and Haldon had impressed upon him the paramount importance of acting the way others would expect him to. He was a sellsword's son. A Tyroshi squire with a love of song and swordplay.

Not the son of the prince slain at the Trident.

It was Jon who broke the silence that ensued. "His Grace and I were discussing… our arrangement with the Golden Company."

It felt scandalous for Jon to even utter the name of Bittersteel's heirs in the company of Stannis Baratheon, but Aegon took it in as good a stride as he could. "Has Strickland seen the light at last, father?" he asked, with forced unsureness.

"Not likely," Jon replied, with something that might have been a laugh. "Homeless Harry–"

"–will reconsider his position," intoned the king as he rose from his seat.

The squat, oafish Ser Clayton Suggs voiced his approval. "The man would be a fool not to."

Ser Godry Farring and Lord Peasebury joined in the man's approval, as the other assembled men nodded or smirked in turn.

Stannis Baratheon watched his men-at-arms and leal lords with an expression Aegon could not identify, but when their grumblings of approval ceased, he spoke again. "No company of sellswords would come to these wastes on stories of dead men alone, no matter the debts owed to this father of yours," he said, to Aegon. "And why should they? When they might stay, and reap the bitter fruit of the Free Cities' never-ending wars over long despoiled land?"

"The king would see the lands of the exiles returned to them, and high positions for their officers not of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon added. Jon was not so skilled a mummer as Aegon, but still, his performance was a fair one. "Even Homeless Harry would find himself hard pressed to refuse this offer, no matter the opponent."

Finally, Jon Sn–no–Lord Stark spoke. "And he will not find himself alone." It was a lordly voice. Not one he had ever heard Jon the Crow use. "The North will be at his side."

Jon's eyes flashed at Lord Stark's announcement, but he said nothing.

Once, they had thought to snatch the North from behind their ill-fated king's back, while he wasted his manpower in the south. Harry had not approved of the notion, no more than he had approved of the venture to the Wall. Aegon knew little of the deal that Illyrio made with Blackheart, but it was clear that it alone (and vague promises of compensation) was not enough to pull the Golden Company to the Wall.

Aegon frowned despite himself.

Sellswords were a duplicitous lot. That much was known in the Free Cities as well as in Westeros. Only the Golden Company had risen above the tales told of others, but still, they fought for gold. They fought for compensation. If they came now, with promises of rewards from a man known for his word, with allies ready and waiting, whose men would they be truly?

Would they remember the promises to the dragon, when it was the stag who filled their purses?

"Thousands died at the Red Wedding," Lord Stark continued, "and the North does not readily forget betrayers. Roose Bolton and his men took part in the slaughter, engineered it even, perhaps." His eyes were slate; his posture straight. "There is no better time to rally the North than now."

Lord Peasebury turned a delicate shade of purple. "–But the Wildlings, Your Grace…." he said, addressing the king, "I cannot help but fear they will bring more harm than good upon your cause."

Wildlings?

Many among the king's council shared conspiratorial glances. One even laughed, though Ser Justin Massey bore the slightest of frowns.

He felt Jon's hand on his shoulder again, his grip tighter than before. "Wildlings, Your Grace? I was not informed of anything regarding Wildlings."

Lord Stark met Aegon's gaze briefly before looking to the king.

Stannis Baratheon rose from his seat in one swift motion, instantly overtopping even the tallest of them by inches. He looked from Lord Peasebury, to Lord Stark, to the rest of his assembled men. "Move aside," he grunted, to which his men dutifully assented.

He strode quickly to the hearth, his steps brisk yet heavy, and gripped the stone mantelpiece with a gloved hand.

None spoke as Stannis Baratheon stared into the fire.

Aegon had heard that the king had taken up with the Lord of Light, but…

The king's deep rumble cut the quiet like a blade. "All who would follow my laws are my people, no matter their origin. If they would not, then they will return to their old homes; to the cold, and the Others." He turned to the knight of the moths. "You will play your part, will you not?"

The pox-scarred knight of the moths frowned deeply. More deeply even than Jon Connington on his worst days. "Of course, Your Grace." There was conviction in Horpe's words; This was not the empty platitude of a sycophant, despite his expression.

The king had returned to staring into the hearth, and quiet had resumed its reign over the knights and lords. Aegon shifted. Jon loosened his grip on his shoulder. The fire crackled and spat. What part the lean knight was to play was left unsaid. Stannis Baratheon was not so willing to let outsiders into his confidence as his plans implied.

Aegon clenched his hand as he glanced about the room. A ruby glinted in the hilt of the sword that hung from a peg to the side of the hearth. Lightbringer, he calls it. But it was not the genuine article; it was a farce.

And yet, Stannis Baratheon had come. He had answered Aemon's call for aid. That was worthy of praise, even if the man grasped for the throne that was rightfully his own.

"Is it enough?" Aegon found himself asking.

The brawny man who called himself the Giantslayer rounded on him. "Is what enough, Tyroshi?" Clayton Suggs at the man's right sneered in agreement. "You presume to question His Grace?"

Aegon did not flinch, even as his father's grip tightened once again on his shoulder. "The Golden Company, the North, some thousand Wildlings… Is it enough to turn back the dead? To defeat the Others?" These thoughts had torn at him ever since the Black Brothers returned, and the tales of the dead became corporeal to him. "The Wildlings tell stories of the slaughter and horror of the cold."

Stannis Baratheon turned away from the fire, and his harsh blue eyes burned into Aegon's own. "It will have to be, boy; it is what the Lord has given me." And then, there was a vitality to him; a strength came to life on the grim-faced man's visage. "Ser Justin," he barked. "You will depart to Eastwatch within the week."

"Your Grace?" Ser Justain answered, his composure broken.

"You will cross the Narrow Sea at Griff's side, and ensure my sellswords find their way to my side." Then, Stannis looked toward the door, "Bryen," he called. "Soon, I will make a knight of you."

The young man was frozen, his mouth hanging agape; but quickly he gathered himself and bowed, "If it please, Your Grace."

The king's fiery golden crown glinted in the firelight as he crossed the room in several long strides. He stood before Aegon and Jon, a tall, gaunt, skeleton of a man. His cloth-of-gold cloak hung limply from broad shoulders.

"Wish your father well, boy, for I shall have need of you."

Jon's grip became a vice.

"Speak plainly, Your Grace." Jon said, now unable to quash his latent hostility entirely.

The lightest of smirks adorned the Stannis's sour visage. "I find myself lacking a squire," he said. "I have seen your son in the yard, and he knows the castle well. My lord of Stark has spoken highly of him. He will serve adequately enough once Bryen takes his vows."

Shrugging off Jon's hand, Aegon bowed his head low. "It is an honor to serve with a king, Your Grace."

There was no denying a king, of course. Whatever his answer, Stannis held their lives in his hand. It was better to smile, and suffer it. Kings had suffered worse before; the Dragonbane, for one.

"Worry not father," he said laughingly, "Duck will fare well enough without me to attend him."

A storm of emotions swirled in Jon's ice blue eyes. Fear, apprehension, anger…

You brought me up to survive worse, he wanted to say. The dragon does not fear the stag, perhaps... But that was not the truth.

Aegon had never been apart from his father, not since he first arrived in his life so long ago. Jon Connington had been at his side for near as long as he could remember. Pale blue eyes had watched him, and his broad, brawny shoulders had sheltered him from danger. He had taught him to wield a blade, to loose a bow, to skin a kill, and to remember his past. He had taught him to be a man, and he had raised a king.

When his father's face remained unmoved, he added, "I'm a man grown, father, don't forget."

Jon Connington's frown was fierce as he met Stannis Baratheon's gaze. "Your word–," he finally ground out, "–I would have your word of my son's safety."

"Father, it is–" Aegon began.

Stannis raised a hand. "From one father to another, you have my word."

Jon Connington extended his own, and clasped the king's arm. "Swear it," he said.

An even darker frown answered him."In R'hllor's light I swear it." When Stannis withdrew his hand, he added, "Fetch me the Golden Company, sellsword; ours is the only war that matters."

"They will come," Jon said. "This I swear."