I
"And what is to be done of the Targaryens?"
The question, presented by Lorren Lannister, quelled the sounds of conversation in the room, and all turned their heads towards the Northern delegation, where the King of Winter sat, and Torrhen Stark sighed, setting aside his horn of mead.
"I too am interested in the fate of the Dragons," Argella Durrandon added from her corner. When several curious looks were sent her way, the Storm Queen shrugged. "My new husband begged me to grant him closure in the matter before I made my way here, and tis the least I can do. I owe him that little, at least."
Torrhen nodded his understanding at that, taking one last swig of his horn before speaking. "Prior to making my way to this Council, I made conversation with my captives, as they are mine by rite of war. In exchange for the lives of his sisters, Aegon Targaryen agreed to concede to us Dragonstone and all its assets. By now, the Whitehaires should have arrived, or are near arrival to the island."
There were mumbles and raised brows at that. The Kingdom of Winter, with such a foothold that far South? Seeing as the Vale's fleet had been destroyed or captured, and the Targaryen one having fled to the Dragonlands or back to Essos, the North would be the dominant power on the East Coast.
Sensing the troubled mood, Torrhen waved his arms concedingly. "I have no wish to keep Dragonstone, you have no fear. I merely wish to take what is there, so that the Valyrians can never raise steel against us again. Should any of you wish to claim the island, you will have no contest from us."
The mumbles faded, and so did the worried looks between the Andal lords, and Torrhen thought the matter over.
Then, Edmyn Tully spoke up, glaring at him all-the-while (was it his fault that he deiceded to ally with foreign invasions? Torrhen thought not).
"You said you exhanged Dragonstone's assets for the lives of his sisters," his eyes narrowed. "So what of the K- Aegon himself?"
Torrhen raised an eyebrow.
"What of him? He'll be dead."
II
"My husband will be devastated to learn the fate of his brother, methinks."
Torrhen turned away from the battlements and raised his brow at the approaching Storm Queen. "Devastated, mayhaps, but surely he knew there was no chance of Aegon's survival, aye?"
Stopping besides him and staring out beyond Harrenhal's battlements, down into the camps of the various Kingdoms of Westeros, Argella shrugged. "He was aware, of that I made sure of. My husband he may be, but I've not forgiven him in full for killing my father."
"Then why does he live?" Torrhen was genuinely confused as to why Argella married the captured Orys Baratheon. "Orys is the one who took your castle, is he not? And he is disgraced, with no lands or titles or armies to his name. What possessed you to marry him?"
Instead of answering, the Storm Queen merely grinned. "I do not forget acts of kindness, and Orys acted in a way I've yet to see replicated. In truth, he is a fine husband." A faint smile ghosted her lips. "Besides, you heathen Northmen have your secrets, and I have mine. Assuming all goes well, you will learn of my designs soon enough."
Torrhen stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly, and turning his attention to the camps north of Harrenhal. "Then, the best of luck to you, so long as you do not interfere with my people."
At that, Argella scoffed, and rolled her eyes. "I hardly give a rat's tail about what the Septons say about you barbaric heathens and your strange gods, and I have no wish to call for another doomed crusade."
"Oh, so you Andals do learn occasionally."
Argella let out a surprised chuckle at the jape, turning her gaze towards the King of Winter. "It took us Stormlanders a while to figure it out, but we learned. In any regard," her smile fell, a neutral expression overtaking it. "The Stormlands have no quarrel with the North, at least for the time being."
Turning towards her again, Torrhen studied the Storm Queen for a moment, before nodding back in understanding. "And the North has no quarrel with the Stormlands." He offered his hand, and Argella took it, and they shook.
III
Never should have come here.
Those were the thoughts of one Orys Durrandon née Baratheon as the ship he was sailing on rowed into Dragonstone's bay, escorted by two Northern war galleys.
Although, he mused cynically, I suppose this is my fault. In truth, it had been his idea to sail for his former island home to secure the library of Valyrian knowledge for the Stormlands, an idea that Argella herself had been happy to allow.
His relationship with the Storm Queen was... odd, when spoken at its plainest.
He supposed he could trace the confusion back to the last he'd seen Argella, before he had marched his army north from Storm's End to support is Monarch siblings.
She had come to him before they had departed, and glared at him with a deep, deep loathing, all the while tying a sewn favor around his right gauntlet. A favor she had made of her own volition.
Then she had turned and left.
(Gods, women were confusing. You would think growing up besides two trueborn sisters would help him understand the other sex better, but nooo.
Maybe because Aegon hogged most of their time, but, well.)
Of course, that favor may as well have been a curse upon him, for his siblings and their dragons had been felled from the sky, the army behind him almost immediately fractured, and not ten minutes into the melee he was before Orys had been apprehended by the Stormlander contingent of the formerly-Targaryen host.
Immediately after the Battle of the South Banks, and when the southrons were assured that they wouldn't be assaulted with giant arrows to the back, the Stormlanders packed up camp and began the march home, with him in tow. Upon reaching the borders of the Stormlands, he was bound, gagged, and stripped naked, before being paraded on foot all the way back to Storm's End.
It was there, in that massive castle, amidst the hero's welcome the Stormlander army had received, that Orys was thrown to his knees before Argella, once again the Storm Queen. It had been raining, that day, and the general remembered duly noting that she looked radiant in it.
Of course, that thought was second to his main one;
He was going to die.
Or, at least, that is what Orys thought when Argella unsheathed a small dagger from her belt, and he simply shrugged in resignation. And so, he waited for the blade to come down.
And it did.
Argella cut his binds, ungagged him, and unclasped her cloak before wrapping it around his shoulders.
Then she once more brought the blade to its scabbard and sheathed it.
She had turned, then, and began striding towards the Great Keep. She had taken several steps before halting and turning back to face him, an inquisitive arch to her brow.
"Are you not coming? I don't suppose you find the ground comforting to your knees, do you?"
It had been an... interesting way to reunite with his wife again.
The next several months passed with Orys spending most of his time either in his 'chambers,' which were in truth a glorified, well furnished cell, and with Argella herself. She visited him surprisingly often, though Orys found no objection. Sometimes they spoke of the affairs of the Stormlands, another surprise to him. Other times she would simply have servants bring in a meal, and they would eat in comfortable(?) silence.
Then came the day he was finally allowed to leave Storm's End, he had been escorted to the Storm Queen's chambers, where he discovered, to his shock, that she had in fact not annulled their marriage, and he was now technically Orys Durrandon, Prince-Consort to the Storm Queen.
A traitorously large part of him found he quite liked the way that sounded.
Evidently, Argella liked the way it sounded well enough as well, due to the fact that as soon as she dismissed her servants and attendants from the room, she bolted the door and removed her clothing.
"To make the wedding official. You did not take your marital rights before you left for the Trident," she had said.
Orys was no fool. He knew the Storm Queen desired him for much more than simply his loins, else he would most likely be short a head.
But, he was not one to look a gift-dragon in the jaws.
That had been a night to remember.
And then, a week before Argella had departed for the Council of Kings, Orys had brought up his idea, and the Storm Queen held no opposition towards him.
So, two days after his Queen and wife had had ridden for Harrenhal, Orys found himself escorted to Dragonstone via the Stormrider, accompanied by Stormlanders loyal to Argella. He hadn't minded that, in truth, for while no doubt some of them had been sent to keep a watchful eye on him, the rest where apparently sent for his own protection.
The ship had only halfway been to Dragonstone when Orys realized he loved his wife.
But, the gods bore no love towards him, so of course that was when the North-Eastern fleet of the Whitehaires made themselves known.
The Northern galleys boasted larger sails and many more oars than Orys' own ship, so fleeing was no option. He ordered the captain to maintain their heading, in the hopes that the Northmen would not immediately rain arrows upon them, and reluctantly, the Stormlander ship continued.
There was a collective sigh of relief from all aboard the Stormrider when a loud Northman yelled at them in the Common Tongue that they would be escorting Orys and his men to Dragonstone, "by order of Brandon Snow, Lord of Dragonstone."
Admittedly, that irked Orys more than it should have. Dragonstone, his home, the seat which he would never hold due to his status as a bastard, given to a bastard. A Northern bastard, at that!
But, there was nothing he could do but grit his teeth in silence as the three galleys cut a swath through the waves towards the (formerly)Targaryen island seat.
And then, finally, finally, the Stormrider pulled into the docks. The ship gently came to a stop as the sailors retracted the oars, and the gangplank lowered.
After nearly three years, Orys had come home.
As soon as he stepped foot on the island, his men were confined to the Stormrider while Orys himself was brought up into Dragonstone proper. Upon entering the keep he had called home, he bit back a scowl. Tapestries and shelves had been overturned, shards of pottery and parchment strewn about haphazardly.
They're tearing Dragonstone apart. Nay, they're sacking it.
"Ah, leannán-deirfiúr, welcome! The hospitality of Dragonstone is yours."
Orys' glare shifted from the floor to the man on the dragonglass throne, who merely smirked at it. "I would offer you bread and salt, but obviously you and yours hold no regards to the laws of the gods."
The bastard inhaled sharply before exhaling, biting down a retort that would surely get him killed. "What business do you have here? This keep belongs to Aegon Targaryen." King of All Westeros, he wanted to add, but did not. His wife would take offense to that, and he had no wish to ruin what relationship they had managed to forge.
Brandon raised an eyebrow at that. "I would beg to differ. Dragonstone now belongs to the North. Therefore, all things in and on Dragonstone belong to the North. I've simply come to collect."
Ignoring the sudden halting of footsteps from behind him, Orys interjected. "'Belongs to the North?' What madness do you speak, barbarian?"
The Northman grinned, and gestured behind Orys.
"Ask you sister," he said, just as someone murmured "Orys?" from behind him.
And, indeed, Orys whirled around to find Visenya staring at him in shock.
His sister took him to a side room for more privacy, and to his surprise, the Northerners let her. It was only when she closed the door that she let herself sag, and they flung their arms around each other.
"Gods, I'd thought not to see you again," she murmured, and Orys gave a sad chuckle. "You and me both, Visenya."
They stayed that way for several more moments before pulling apart. Visenya drew up two chairs, and the two dragonbloods seated themselves. Orys reluctantly broke the silence first. "Is it true, what the Northman said? Dragonstone no longer belongs to the Targaryens?"
Visenya flinched, but nodded, eyes downcast. "Aegon was forced to capitulate it after our capture. He had little choice. As soon as he had written the declaration, Torrhen Stark sent ravens to our vassals and loyal Houses, before sending Aegon, Rhaenys, and I into the Winter hinterlands."
"And that bit about you being his wife?"
"Another part of brother's capitulation," the Targaryen growled. "He was forced to give our hands in marriage for our lives." Her eyes, which had been filled with rage, dimmed. "Except for Aegon's himself. He is to die."
Orys lowered his head in sadness and shame. Could all of this, the failure of the Dynasty, the collapse of Aegon's kingdom, have been avoided if he had just kept order in the ranks?
"Gods," he sighed, "it's all gone to qrugh, hasn't it? To think, a year ago, we were rulers of the near-damned continent!"
They sat in silence for a while longer, before Visenya snapped and flung her chair into the wall. Having done that, she shut her eyes and gritted her teeth.
"We never should have left."
Orys couldn't help but agree.
The two dragonbloods spent the night together (in separate beds, Visenya did not love him in that way and Orys was a married man) before being roughly awoken from slumber by several Northmen. Visenya was dragged off to help direct the barbarians to any (and all) valuables remaining, something which she did reluctantly, but truly. Orys understood, of course.
It's not like she had a choice.
Neither did he, for that matter. He was to remain on Dragonstone until the Northmen departed from it, and despite it all, a part of him wished that they did not, if only that he might be able to speak with at least one of his siblings.
Unfortunately, that was not to be, as Brandon Snow delighted in informing him. "Did you enjoy the night with your sister?"
They were once again in the throne room, though this time the Northman did not sit upon the dragonglass, but stood before Orys, whose eyes flashed with constrained fury. "We did not lay with one another, no."
The First Man's brow raised in mock-surprise. "Truly? Well, I suppose one learns new things occasionally. We're leaving on the morrow." The sudden change in conversation caught Orys off guard for a moment, before the words caught up to him and his shoulders sagged. "And Visenya is to go with you."
"Yes," Brandon confirmed, and the Durrandon cursed him in his mind, but remained silent for a moment more.
The Northman's next words surprised him, however. "We've found everything we want or need from this wretched island, so I have no need to keep your sister close. Spend the rest of the day with her, for once we depart you will never see her again."
Orys barely registered his response, all but stumbling away from the man, and made to find his sister. Eventually, he did, and they spent the rest of their time together regaling one another with stories and tales from their childhood. They spoke well into the night.
It was bittersweet.
The next day, the two dragonbloods bid each other farewell, no sign of weakness in any of them. Only when the last Northen galley, the one carrying Visenya, sailed out of sight, did Orys let a choked sob escape his lips.
As soon as he could, his ship was rowed out of the bay and sailed back to Storm's End. Argella, to his numbed surprise, was not disappointed or angered in the failure of his task, but… sad(?) for him. In any rate, she did not complain when Orys broke down later that night in their shared chambers, going so far as to embrace him while he wept.
Orys fell asleep to the sound of Argella's soothing voice.
...
Brandon Snow was right.
He never saw Visenya again.
IV
"...I suppose that is everything, then? Are there any other matters anyone wishes to bring before the Council?"
At Prince Martells words, several pairs of eyes shot towards the group of Reachmen, split between the Tyrell/Targaryen faction and the Hightower faction. And though the two groups shot each other murderous glares, they did not speak out, and Nymor let out a hidden sigh of relief. "Then I see no reason to keep you all from your homes and hearths." From his place on the dais, he stood up, quickly followed by the other Monarchs and Great Lords.
"My Lords, my Ladies, fellow monarchs of Westeros," Nymor bowed his head. "I hereby adjourn the Council of Kings. Let it be known that you all have my thanks in joining me here."
His declaration was met with several 'here here!'s and nods of acknowledgement from the other delegates, and with that, the first Council of Kings came to a close. The lords and ladies filed out of the room, some seeking out others to converse with them before returning home, whilst others simply made all haste to their camp, desperately wishing for home.
Nymor was in the latter group.
Slipping away from the other monarchs and into a empty corridor, Nymor let his shoulders sag. "Should the Mother Rhoyne will it," he muttered, "I am never doing that again." Gods, just organizing the seating plans had been a headache in his attempt to placate any possible insult, and then he had to deal with the Reachmen (gods-damned Tyrells) and make sure the inevitable civil war didn't spark out amongst the council meetings which would most likely result in every kingdom declaring war on each other within a fortnight-
Nymor inhaled, exhaled, closed his eyes for a moment, then stood up straight.
"By the Mother Rhoyne, I need a glass of Red. And a fast ship back to Dorne."
The Prince Martell left to find those things.
"I suppose this is farewell then, Torrhen."
Both the Storm Queen and the Stark King stood before each other besides their mounts, looking towards their camps that were slowly being packed away. "A shame, really. I quite enjoyed your dislike of Andal politics," Torrhen lamented, and Argella grinned. "If only half the people in the Stormlands thought like you barbarians, I'd be a happy woman."
The two monarchs, in the eight days they had attended the Council of Kings, had grown to enjoy each other's company (not in that way; Torrhen still loved his wife, dead or no, and Argella's feelings towards her husband were growing into something more than convenience) and had taken to talking with each other whenever time permitted. However, both were eager to return to their homes, so they spoke knowing they would most likely not see each other for another decade.
The two lapsed into a momentary silence, in which Torrhen shifted his gaze from his camp to the Vale one, specifically to the runic banner of House Royce. He didn't see the Lord Royce himself, but that was probably for the best; he wanted no hint of their plans leaking to the Andals.
The silence permeated for a moment longer, before Argella dipped her head slightly towards Torrhen and mounted. "Well, King Stark, I have a half-dragon husband to return to, so I must bid you farewell. May we meet under better circumstances."
Torrhen chuckled, mounting his own unicorn (horses had been phased out of mass use some time after the integration of the Skagosi) and nodded back. "You tempt the gods, Argella, but I too wish that. Fare thee well, Storm Queen."
With that, the two monarchs (and maybe-friends) turned their steeds and departed for their own camps.
Upon arriving to his, Torrhen was greeted with one of his Children kin, Leaf, who simply phased out of the nearby shadow of a tree upon the King of Winter's approach, and hopped onto the back of Torrhen's steed. "I bring back word from the Isle."
That gained the King's attention immediately. One of the the first things he had done upon arriving to Harrenhal was send several Children and Greenmen to discover what exactly happened to their isolated kin on the Isle of Faces after the Doom.
"And?"
"Our kin there had either died in the Doom or were rendered comatose. It took several small blood offerings for them to awaken. Although some of the locals did mention the Isle disappearing for some time... Nothing permanent, thank the gods," Leaf sighed in relief, and Torrhen did the same. "Thank the gods indeed. Now, let us depart from this place. We've been south far too long, don't you think?"
Two hours later, the Northmen were marching home, marching to a hymn in the Old Tongue.
Yorwyk Royce felt himself tense in mild anticipation when the mountains of the Vale crested the horizon after nearly a fortnight and a half of marching.
Like many, if not all of the other lords, of the Vale or otherwise, the Lord of Runestone wished to be surrounded by the comforts of his own keep, if not for the fact that he had not slept in his own home for several weeks, for the fact that he had sent a very important raven northbound before departing from Runestone, and he needed to be home to receive the answer it would return with.
As the host of eighteen-thousand made its way deeper into the Vale of Arryn, lords began to split away and head for home, something Yorwyck desperately wished he could do. Alas, he would spend as much time as he could escorting Sharra Arryn back to the Eyrie so long as it made him seem like the ideal loyal vassal.
In the end, the men of Runestone stayed with the now smaller Arryn host, and eighteen-thousand men became fifteen.
Thoughts drifting away from home, they turned to the remainder of the First Men of the Vale, represented by three houses (including Yorwyck's own) and three-thousand men between them
House Royce's relations with the First Men of the Vale were strong. Few houses old enough to remember their own kingships, or that of the Griffin King or the last Bronze King, truly enjoyed living under the yoke of the Arryns, though some, namely House Shett and House Hunter, had benefited under their Andal rulers had saw no reason to rise up against them. Though, there were several other First Men families in the Vale who didn't share that view, and all had pledged their support in joining Yorwyck in his fight against the Arryns.
And then there were the Mountain Clans of the Moon.
While no Andal house, or Andal-sympathetic house knew the truth, all the First Men Houses of the Vale had, at some point, sent a shipment of steel arms, armor, and food (and sponsored several raids) towards their more proud kin, House Royce among them. It had gone on for centuries since the Andal Invasion, to the point where, apparently, the clansmen started to work steel themselves, which was noticed when they started leaving the worst of the delivered steel behind.
And then, two decades ago, they just stopped taking the steel at all.
Which was worrying unto itself, Yorwyck would admit.
What was even more concerning was that there hadn't been any raids from the Mountains in six years.
The Andal lords had been ecstatic, but Yorwyck and his allies had been worried. What catastrophe could have befallen them that they simply stopped? Could the last Winter truly have been that devastating that their mountain kin simply died off?
Yorwyck didn't know, and that troubled him.
Those thoughts were promptly forgotten when, somewhere in the distance, something akin to a horn blew.
...Was that a carnyx?
Urging his steed through the throngs of abruptly-startled mounted men, Yorwyck made his way to the head of his men, who were, in truth, somewhere near the end the procession, and met eyes with captain of his guard. "Eiric, what is the matter? Why has the host stopped moving?"
Disturbingly, his captain didn't answer him for a moment, and just before Yorwyck was about to demand an answer, Eiric gave him one.
"When the time comes, make for Runestone with all haste, Bronze King. Your family has done good by us, and it would not do for you to fall today."
Yorwyck nearly fell off his horse. He- how does he know?! "Is that a threat?! And how do you-"
And then two blasts from a carnyx echoed throughout the pass, this time from the rocky ridged surrounding them.
The would-be Bronze King's mind raced furiously, connecting the dots with the last thread Eiric had given him.
Oh.
Alright then.
He figured it out.
Not nearly soon enough, though.
...
With a vengeful fury several-thousand years in the making, the Mountain Clans of the Moon descended upon the Knights of the Vale.