The Captain of the Guard

He didn't know quite how, but Allen would bet his right hand that these bastards were somehow connected to that group of men who'd been wreaking havoc a few moons prior. There'd been the giant, the Valyrians, and a few others whose faces were mere blurs in his memory.

And then there'd been the king.

As a third-born son of a minor Crownland castellan, Allen knew that there was no place for him at home—he'd marry some wench scarcely better than a peasant, never leave whatever hovel he'd come to inhabit, and likely die an inglorious death. Given this, leaving home to join the gold cloaks had been perfect—for the first time in his life, he'd been the one with power over other; the ability to choose between mercy or punishment, a blackened eye or a lightened purse, life or death. He'd sped through the ranks, and within a few years was one of their top lieutenants, even being afforded the opportunity to rub shoulders with nobles and royals, people that he never could've dreamt of even laying eyes upon had he stayed at home. It was a good life, and a satisfactory existence. He was happy.

Then he'd had the spike of a warhammer driven into his belly, by the spitting image of King Robert Baratheon when he'd been responding to reports of fugitives hiding in a Flea Bottom smithy. No-one had believed him, of course; he'd been delirious from blood loss, and the king had been dead for years. Not to mention, the man hadn't been…well, fat.

Still, Allen had known it was him. He didn't know how or why, but he knew deep in his soul that it had been the king to do it. His ramblings had been put down to his trauma, and as he slowly but surely healed, he knew that there was nothing that would be done by anyone else. No, Allen would have to handle this himself.

So there he was, directing another wave of fodder at the men in the sept, knowing that this attempt would be just as fruitless as every one before it. The Lord Commander had taken the best troops with him to fortify the Red Keep and there was still an entire city for which the gold cloaks were woefully underequipped to defend. As such, Allen had been left in command of the pissheads and vagrants hired by Janos Slynt before he'd been sent to the wall, who were currently being entirely repelled by the wall of iron in the door of the great sept, whose commander clearly must've had the pick of a better bunch when choosing his men.

'Now!'

The shout came from behind him, and Allen whirled around to see men, hundreds or even thousands strong, stretching from one side of the Street of Sisters to the other. They were hungry for battle, he could see, with none of the weariness of any of Allen's men. And at their head, there was—

Yes! He'd known he was right, and now so would the rest of King's Landing. He'd kill Robert Baratheon—properly, this time—and then he'd get the glory he deserved.

Then the men charged, and he suddenly realised that he and his own—much smaller—force were trapped between two other groups of soldiers. They were getting closer by the second, and it was all Allen could do to lift his shield, dig his feet in, and pray that his stitches wouldn't rip.

Robert Baratheon wouldn't know what hit him.

The hammer swung in a graceful arc, steel singing as it flew through the air, before connecting with the soft flesh of the man's jaw. It exploded like an overripe nectarine in a clenched fist, chunks and liquid spraying around as the body slumped to the floor.

The stitches didn't tear.

Duncan

For once, Dunk was almost glad for the smell of piss permeating the air of King's Landing. For one, in his experience it as more likely that the enemy would surrender if they were already at the point of pissing from fear, and Dunk would take a surrendering opponent over one he'd have to kill any day.

Secondly, it covered the scent of blood.

He wasn't squeamish by any stretch—after all, killing was his trade, and he was bloody good at it. But all the same, the lingering scent of blood in the air only served to remind him of the men who wouldn't go home to their families tonight, all because of the ambitions of a few nobles, each grabbing for whatever they could. Aye, it may have been for the greater good, but that still didn't mean he liked it.

Duncan sidestepped and brought his sword up into a parry. His opponent—half-drunk by the look of him—was struggling to keep his arms steady, the vibrations of steel on steel clearly travelling up his arm. Another moment, and Duncan was pulling his sword from the man's belly. Based on the manner in which he was able to slice through the man's mail like butter, the quality of the City Watch's equipment had not improved at all since Duncan had last been here.

Well, maybe not quite like butter, but it was easy enough anyhow.

Now's not the time to compare armour quality, you simpleton, he thought to himself, shaking himself out of his musings. You've got a job to do.

Said job was barely a step behind him, with heavy pants audible through a Tully helm. For all his skills elsewhere and despite the hours of tireless training by Dunk himself, it could never be said that Aegon Targaryen, fifth of his name, had been anything beyond an average soldier.

'Keep your shield up, you dolt!' Duncan yelled without turning back, being immediately gratified when he heard the reverberating thud of sword hitting shield followed by steel puncturing mail. A gold cloak fell to his feet, and Duncan almost felt pride.

The fight at the sept was drawing to a close now, with the last remaining city guardsmen being ingloriously dispatched and the two attacking groups joining up to form one. If all was going to plan, the southern and western contingents of their overall force would have overpowered the walls, and any moment now the dragon queen's fleet would meet the kraken's. Of course, few could be a match for a Greyjoy at sea, and even in the short while he'd been back in the realm of the living Duncan had heard tales of this Euron. He could only hope that the queen's men would not be out of their depth.

No, you can't afford to think like that. Stay focused, you fool.

By now they'd reached the Alchemist's guildhall, the large open square at the heart of the city. He could see a large green and gold mass make their way towards them from one wide street—the Tyrells, he presumed—who were immediately met by Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon. There was tension there, to be sure, but Dunk knew they were allies—there'd be no fight between the two groups. At least, not today. The man at the head of the roses furrowed his brow in confusion for a moment as he set eyes on the commanders of the northern contingent but shook his head and made to talk before a distant rumble turned his head.

A paltry group of city watchmen—no more than twenty of them—burst from the shadows of the roads of the south, fear etched onto their breathless face beneath their golden helms; fear that turned to desperation when they saw the amassed host before them.

How could such a small group cause such a rumble? Surely I cannot have imagined it?

And he surely hadn't. A moment later, scores of men burst from behind them, a wave of glittering crimson blades crashing into them like water hitting the shore. The dust took a moment to settle as the bodies hit the ground, and as it did, a few silhouettes began to emerge.

'Hello, father,' a sturdily built redhead said, weariness and joy evident on his blood-stricken face as he laid eyes on Ned Stark. 'It's bloody good to see you.'

Oberyn

Never had Oberyn thought he'd be the least bit glad to see Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark, or a shining mass of Reach pikemen, but here he was. He took a moment to take a breath before walking over to the commanders, where Robb Stark was already embracing his father. The thought of his daughters came unbidden to his mind, and a pang of regret was felt in his hearts. Gods, he missed them. No, he wouldn't interrupt this reunion quite yet.

'Prince Martell,' Baratheon boomed, inclining his head slightly. 'It's good to see you. I trust your lot haven't had too much trouble getting here?'

As the spear hit the boy's belly, he began to retch, bile and blood spilling onto the floor in equal measure. He gave a shaky cry of pain as he collapsed, before falling silent for the last time.

'None, really,' Oberyn responded, pushing the boy's death from his mind. He would deal with that later. 'Yourself?'

'Ha! Trouble, from the city watch? I'd have had more trouble from a septa or two. No, we had an easy enough time of it, our losses being far outnumbered by the gold cloaks.' Robert smiled for a moment, before a wary look came over his eyes. 'Is…is she here? The, uh, queen?'

'She will be, soon enough. At present, she leads the fleet against Euron Greyjoy.'

Robert's eyes widened and his mouth fell agape, if only for a moment. 'Greyjoy? Is she mad?'

'Peace. I can't imagine any fleet, no matter who's at its head, being able to withstand those beasts of hers.'

'They're real?'

'That they are,' Oberyn replied with a wry grin. 'In fact—'

He was cut off by the low bellow of a horn on the lips of a towering northerner. Clearly, it was time to move on. They had a war to win, after all.

'It's no matter,' he said to Robert with a grin before moving to the head of the column of men. 'Soon enough, you'll see just how real they are.'

The Iron Captain

Victarion had never been under the impression that he was a smart man. Beyond to command a ship, pillage a holdfast, and swing an axe, he knew very few things. First and foremost among those few things, however, was that he knew he hated his brothers. Balon had been a miserable old cunt, and Aeron was at best a pain and at worst a raving lunatic. However badly he felt about either of them, however, paled in comparison to his hatred for Euron. There were half-a-hundred reasons at any given time, but his most recent command was currently the one that burnt the worst.

'Hold the attention of the dragon whore, brother. By any means necessary.'

'How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I have command of three ships, Euron. Three. Give me some of yours, if it's so important.'

Euron laughed, his blue lips stretching into an icy grin. 'Fuck off. You take any of my ships, and I'll take your cock. No, you'll make do with three. I have need of mine. Trust me, brother, it'll work out just fine.'

So there he was at the prow of his ship, barking orders to his men whilst his brother was galivanting somewhere else, watching Victarion's men prepare to die on some horseshit suicide mission. As the Targaryen fleet had approached, they'd swept in from the side, crashing through some of the outermost ships and causing her fleet to grind to a halt. She may have had the numbers, but Victarion would bet near anything that not a single man in her entire force had half the naval experience he had—his ships were juggernauts, with the best sailors the Iron Islands had to offer outclassing the dragon whore's captains a hundredfold, slowly smashing their way through the outer ranks of the fleet and sending them all to meet the drowned god in the murky waters of Blackwater Bay. Yes, the other side certainly had the numbers, but they'd met their match in Victarion Greyjoy, the Iron Captain and scourge of the seas.

A shadow passed over him, and it dawned on Victarion that he might have also met his own.

'What is dead may never die,' he muttered to himself, his heart absent of any fear. 'But rises again, harder and—'

It was as if the sun itself was descending on him, with all its furious white heat, and soon the iron captain as naught but ash.

From behind the towering outcrop on the corner of the bay, fifty of the finest ships the Iron Islands had to offer laid in wait. True, they were still vastly outnumbered, but the dragon queen had played her hand, and he had a plan. They didn't need to sink all the ships—nor would they be able to, since they were still vastly outnumbered—but if they were able to cut the head off of the dragon, the body would collapse into dust, just as his brother just had.

From behind the towering outcrop on the corner of the bay, a pair of blue lips spread into a smile.

What was dead would never die, but Daenerys Targaryen certainly would.

A/N: Hello! I know I'm starting to sound like a bit of a broken record, but I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated the story-uni is mad at the moment, and if I've ever got any spare time the last thing I want to do is stare at a keyboard, so motivation's been a bit lacking. I'll try to update slightly sooner this time, but I'll make no promises. Again, sorry for the wait, and I hope you've enjoyed the chapter.

As always, a massive thank you to those who have favourited, followed, and/or reviewed the story-it means more than you know.

There'll probably be another chapter or two of the southern campaign, and then: NORTH.

Cheers,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

jdota: Cheers, glad you're enjoying it. I definitely understand the criticism, but it had to be done, since ASOIAF has such a rich world that I wanted to make the most of. No, now they're all in one place, with one destination in mind, so it should definitely be more focused from now on.

kingmanaena: Thank you! Sorry again for the wait.

Force Smuggler: Haha cheers mate, glad you're liking it.

jeremiahkelley93: Thank you!

AussieKayz: Cheers!

Blackwidow713: Cheers man, glad to be (relatively) back

Uncle Dork: Yep, he certainly is. Let's just hope Dunk and Egg can both last long enough...

KingOfWinter: Thank you, really appreciate that :)