A/N: Hope all y'all are doing well.

Great news! My new story about Maegor and the Conquerors have been posted. It's called Dragonshield and I would be so stoked if you guys checked it out!

And now on to the new adventures of our dragon family :D

Enjoy.

Chapter 72: The Lannisters Send their Regards

Initially in disbelief, looking down upon the sword buried in his heart drove the city watchmen's eyes to widen in surprise and acceptance before they lost the light of life. Kicking the corpse away, Euron Greyjoy slashed at another defender, laughing as he did it. "Kill them all!"

In the distance, the looming spires of the Citadel and the Hightower were obscured by the massive pyres of greasy black smoke, as was the dome of the Starry Sept - rebuilt to a pure majesty after an earthquake hit the city during the early reign of Daeron II. The Ironborn of a hundred ships cared little for such beauty. Already a half-dozen smaller Septs had been looted, stripped of even the gold leaf that coated the plinths of the alcoves and altars. Septons and begging brothers were hung, the septas defiled and carted off as Salt Wives.

Euron had no problem with this. The four dozen triremes and carracks of the Hightower fleet, the true military target. Every home burned, sept looted, or woman raped just added to the carnage he so desired.

"My Lord?!" Ser Baelor Blacktyde, one of Euron's most capable commanders on land, trotted up with a bloodied sword clutched in his hand. "The Hightowers march in force down the main avenue."

Snorting, Euron whistled, alerting his men. "Well let's give 'em a proper fucking welcome!" Bellows and warcries from the other reavers drew them running. Hornblows summoned hundreds more to defend their beachhead.

While Victarion had made waves among ironborn doctrine by training a proper land army as House Hoare used to conquer the Riverlands and Blackwater Bay, Euron thought such effects to be a waste of time. We do not reap, we do not sow, we do not fight like knights. As such, when the column of two hundred Hightower men-at-arms and fifty mounted knights reached the outer edge of the Ironborn beachhead in the harbor, what they found were a group of septas and other women being brutalized by the saltiest-looking reavers Euron could find.

The effect was predictable. Not even fun. Enraged cries leaving the Flower knights' throats, towards them they charged at a full clip to save the innocent women… only for Euron to activate the trap with a thwack of his bow.

Hidden amongst the windows and alleyways branching off from the main road, the Ironborn assaulted the Reachmen on all sides. Arrows flying, swords swinging, all cohesion left as a slaughterhouse ensued. Smirking like a madman the entire time, the third son of Quellon Greyjoy leapt into the fray, knocking a knight off his horse with a well-aimed arrow before slashing and gutting anyone he could with his naval short sword.

It was over before it began. "To the Hightower!" bellowed Blacktyde. "We'll take this fucking city!"

"No," Euron commanded. "Back to the ships. Take everything not nailed down, including the women."

Blacktyde blinked. "But we have them…" He stilled, a knife to his throat.

Euron stared into his eyes - calm, calculating like a snake. "To the ships." No one questioned his order after that.

...I was content to speak not of your constructing a sept on the holy grounds of Winterfell. After the suffering of the rebellion, of which I felt personally, I couldn't begrudge you trying to accommodate your bride. But when the bastard septons of the southern dandies come spreading their filth upon my lands I cannot stand by with your fu…

Groaning, Ned set down Lord Karstark's letter. It was only the most recent missif that his bannermen were sending in complaint of Catelyn's wartime decision to open up the North to proselytizing by the Starry Sept. So far they kept most of their activity in White Harbor, but they were beginning to branch out and anger was brewing.

Gods, if only he could actually kick them out. But with the Faith brought the immense political clout they wielded, a clout that had been solidified in the Seven Kingdoms since Jaehaerys the Conciliator made his grand compromise with them. With the fall of the Iron Islands to their influence due to Quellon Greyjoy's declaration, the North was the last bastion apart from isolated groupings in Raventree Hall or Starfall… and with the North having only survived the extension of the last winter due to grain from the Honeywine, Ned couldn't rescind. Not with Rhaegar - his goodbrother - on the throne.

Jorah, Gregor Forrester, Wyman Manderly, Howland, and even Roose Bolton of all people were understanding. The rest… not so much.

Of this, he could do nothing. But of his own household, he still held considerable options. "Jory!" Fifteen and the newest member of the Household Guards, Martyn Cassel's son brought wistful memories of his father for Ned, who had watched him die upon the fields of Stoney Sept. "Fetch Lady Stark for me. Tell her it is of the utmost importance."

"At once, my Lord."

In his mind, Ned could hear Sansa's tearful begging as if she were beside him at the moment. His little pup hugging his side, face buried in the crook of his neck, pleading with him not to let him go south 'where dwagons and wolves die.' After a half-dozen attempts to coax a reason for all of it, she told him of what Cat said. Of a fostering in Oldtown of all places that he most certainly did not even hear of - let alone consent - but that Cat told Sansa he did. Ned restrained his anger, calmed her down, and put her to bed… resolved to speak to Catelyn about this.

She is my wife, but I cannot tolerate this. Sansa was a daughter of the North. He wouldn't entrust her to any southern hands that didn't respect that. Currently, the list was short: the Daynes, the Blackwoods, and Lya. Hopefully, he could have a reasoned discussion with his wife and they could reach an accord.

That hope died as soon as Catelyn entered. She was seething - silent, but seething. This was not going to be good. "Cat," he nodded gruffly.

She didn't acknowledge him except by meeting his eyes. "Lord Stark." Lord Stark. Not Eddard, husband, or Ned. Not good at all. Catelyn rested her hand on her pregnant belly… almost as if she was trying to highlight it. "I was on my way to speak with you, only for your guard to inform me that you wished for my presence. May I ask what it is in regards to?"

"Why did you wish to speak with me?"

"I asked first."

Eyes narrowing, Ned decided to humor her. "Sansa is my heir," he said bluntly, not wasting time. "I am her father. Where she goes and how she is raised is for me to hold final control over."

The look in Cat's eyes - once slowly warming over the last few years - were as cold as they were on their wedding night. Even colder. "I am her mother."

"Of this I realize, which is why I have given you latitude over the smaller matters. Potential fosterings, and I might add what faith she is brought up under, are different entirely." He leaned forward, voice dropping low. "Did you really think you could send her to Oldtown without my permission?"

Catelyn bristled, offended by his closed-mindedness. "You fail to see who your daughter is… what she represents. The cousin of the future King of the Seven Kingdoms, niece of the Queen." She didn't much care for Queen Lyanna nor thought her marriage was sanctioned under the Seven-Pointed Star, but there was no denying reality… or the avenues of advancement. "She is to be one of the most eligible young ladies in Westeros, and unless she receives a proper southern education then even the most insistent of suitors will shun her."

"Sansa is my heir," Ned replied. "And there exist plenty of matches for her in the North." Or of the royal family. But Ned wouldn't say that out loud.

"I carry your heir inside me," was her retort. "And I will not consign my daughter to live in this frozen wasteland with a second-rate husband… at best." The Manderlys were the least bad of all the other options, and even they weren't worth the gem that Sansa was.

He blinked. "Frozen wasteland?" Ned's voice rose. "You dare insult my home? Dare insult me?"

She didn't back down. "You are the Warden of the North and goodbrother to the King. You are a noble husband, but the rest of them…"

"Those are my bannermen! You will treat them with respect!" Had this been what Howland, Jorah, and Gregor warned him of? This attitude being ferreted out by the other lords? How had he not seen it? "Wolves do not fare well south of the Neck lest bonded to dragons, and Sansa is a wolf, as I am."

"Ah yes, a wolf. Wild, without shame or decorum. Your sister has it in spades, as do you."

While Ned almost lashed out at the thinly-veiled insult at Lyanna, her last statement befuddled him. "What are you talking about?" While Lyanna or Rhaegar or Howland spoke of the 'wolf coming out to play' increasingly as Ned matured as a Lord, no one had ever characterized him as so centered around his wolfsblood as the Queen or Brandon were.

"Do not give me that, husband." The last was a snap. "Honorable Ned Stark, beloved ward of Jon Arryn and the brave warrior that secured vengeance against the Mad King for your house… turns out you were just as wild and debased as the rest of these savages you call bannermen."

"Watch your tongue woman…"

"I will say whatever I please to a man that fathers bastard sons at will!"

They had been married for four years. Ned knew what was going on in Catelyn's mind… what she would say, but this… he couldn't make sense of it. "What?" Has she gone mad?

Chuckling without mirth, Catelyn rose, protectively shielding her belly. "Here I am, your wife - pregnant with your son and heir - when I find out the honorable Ned Stark has a bastard son with Cersei fucking Lannister!" Just her name stoked Catelyn's ire. "Even the great Jon Arryn couldn't do away with the wild wolf inside you." Be it fathering bastards or competing in tourneys like men, the Starks were all alike. All but my Brandon.

For Ned, he heard not anything Catelyn said after his love's name. All color drained from his face, and he could have sworn his heart stopped. Cersei… a son, my son… of her womb? Knees buckling, he fell into his chair. A son that lives without me… It was as if Aerys was burning him alive, the pain the same. "How do you know this, of my son?" he choked out, eyes glassed over.

Catelyn rolled her eyes. "Of course the bastard is all that matters to you." He was unbelievable. "Petyr told me… Apparently old Tywin Lannister was trying to keep this quiet, though it isn't shocking. Given how his son is a Kingslayer, his other son a demon monkey, he wouldn't want anyone finding out what a whore his daughter truly is."

That knocked Ned out of his daze. While his heart still ached and stomach still churned, when at his lowest point the assault of his wife stoked the howl of the wolf. "Do not call her a whore," he said darkly.

She huffed. "So it is true. You did bed her."

Even if he wanted to, Ned could find no shame in it. Not a single regret in loving her. "Aye, I bedded her. The night of my sister's wedding." The thought brought him a rare joy. "She was my first… and I didn't just bed her. I loved her, and I love her still."

Reacting as if stricken, Catelyn hadn't expected that - that he actually loved her. "You love that whore?"

He nodded. "Aye, and I cannot bring myself to regret it." A sudden urge came about him, to sink the knife deeper - after so long trying to appease Catelyn and make her happy as was his duty, to have her hurt both him and Sansa so was galling. "The nights we shared… they were magical. Her passion, her ardor…"

"Enough!" She couldn't take it, hearing him speak of her. "You disgust me, Lord Stark. Gods, just seeing you in the chair that Brandon should've sat in is disgusting. He would never have done any of this!"

"You truly believe that?" Ned grinned darkly, the wolf coming out to play as Lya would say. "He had been fucking serving girls, whores, and maybe even highborn maids for all I know." He didn't want to disparage his brother, but even Brandon himself was open on who he was… open to everyone but Catelyn.

So enraged, she grabbed a vase and hurled it at the wall to his left. "You lie! I will not let you slander My Brandon!"

As it always was. Ned would never hold her heart, the real source of their distance… he was fine with that, but her obsessive lionization of his brother had pushed them all down the rabbit hole. "Stop Catelyn. This isn't a tale like you and littlefinger believe, this is the real world. Ask anyone with two eyes and they'll tell you what my stellar brother was like." It still hurt to think of Bran, burned alive at Aerys Targaryen's insane whim. "I loved him, for the life of me I loved him, but he was far from lord and husband material."

"You wouldn't know what lordly material is if it manifested as a direwolf and bit you. True Lords don't fuck the Whore of the West and sire bastards behind his wife's back!" She would never believe Brandon was a whoremonger. She wouldn't believe Ned's lies.

Up until that moment, Ned was still undecided of whether to destroy her entire world with the truth. But after she again called Cersei a whore… "Brandon knew." Digging deep into his desk, he withdrew a slip of parchment and harshly handed it to her. "I don't doubt you'll recognize his handwriting."

Catelyn took it and it isn't long before her blood ran cold. "When did you get this?"

"Shortly before he and father were unjustly burned to death by Aerys."

"This is a lie." Her hand trembled around the horrid letter. "You forged this."

She flinched as he slammed his palms on the table, eyes blazing. "Take that back." Ned wasn't going to take any of this anymore, the Direwolf had truly woken. "I never has any intention of usurping my brother, I loved and admired him with all my heart. I never asked to be father's successor but I'm not gonna let you imply I slandered the memory of my brother!"

Overcoming her shock and fear at his tone, Catelyn's rage returned. "It doesn't matter! Nothing that you said can be proven, while you sired a bastard from a highborn whore!"

"SHE'S NOT A WHORE!" His bellow almost shook the solar. "Cersei Lannister is more of a woman that you could ever dream of being! Someone who actually respects me and makes me wish to be a better person." A person who truly loves only me… It seemed so shocking that it was her, but Ned knew it to be true. "Gods, how I put Sansa and that babe in you is beyond me, having you in bed is no different than a dead fish." The darkest thought came to his mind, the worst pain to inflict. "On our wedding night, all that got me through the chore you and your Septa forced me to endure was thinking of her."

Catelyn slapped him, the palm of her hand leaving a bright red mark on his cheek. "You have no honor, Lord Stark."

He rubbed his cheek, scowl frozen on his face. "I had honor… and I lost the woman I love for it. Something that I shall regret till my dying breath." After all he knew now, the alliance with Hoster wasn't worth it. Rhaegar would have won regardless, especially with Tywin behind him. "I wish Sansa were her daughter. And our son my heir." There was no doubt as to whose son he meant.

Another slap rang out, hitting his untouched cheek. "I'll not stay here and continue to listen to how you heap praise upon a bastard when your trueborn children are under your care." Catelyn shook with anger, but his words had stabbed deep. "Neither of us wanted this, but it's apparent that being formal is out of the question now." She stepped back and curtseyed. "Good evening, my Lord." And with that she was out.

Ned collapsed into his chair, the weight of it all crashing onto him. "A son… we have a son, Cersei." Imagining what he could look like - dark hair and green eyes, or golden hair and grey eyes - the sorrow came unbidden. Ned buried his face in his hands, letting the tears flow.

Pushing herself into a stairwell, Catelyn let out the scream she had been holding it. It echoed in the cylindrical dwelling, a haunting, painful sound joined as she pounded her fists upon the stone wall. "He dares favor a bastard! Over his trueborn children!" there was only one reason. "That whore! That golden-haired whore of the west!"

Just wait till my father and uncle hear of this! They and even her goodbrother Lord Elbert would have quite the chat with the King over this. She would not permit a lion bastard to take the place that belonged to her children.

"Mi'Lady?"

Too immersed in her rage, Catelyn turned to see a guard. He was a slender fellow, the armor hanging loosely on him and stubble uneven, but there were plenty of men of such continence in Winterfell that she thought nothing of it. "Yes… What is it you want?"

The man took a step closer to her. "Forgive me, mi'Lady, but I come bearing a message for your ears only."

Given the guards generally hated her, the fact he was here on official duty was actually calming to Catelyn. Her worries were allayed. "A message from who?"

He twitched, but took another step forward. "He informed me that you would recognize whom it is from after I tell you."

At that, Catelyn was certain it was Petyr… or maybe Lysa. She was always dramatic like that. "Well, tell me."

Suddenly, the man seized her, hand clasped over her mouth and his foul breath scorching her nostrils. Catelyn hadn't even had time to do more than tense up as he whispered harshly in her ear. "Tywin Lannister sends his regards." With a shove, he sent her tumbling down the stairs, grinning at her screams.

"Help!" he bellowed. "Lady Stark has fallen!" Only too easy.

Sea spray slamming into his face, Euron Greyjoy's hair matted to his forehead. He inhaled deeply, savoring the magnificence of the day.

The captain of Euron's flagship, the King Harwyn, cleared his throat. "The winds blow from the east, my Lord…"

He was cut off as Euron punched him in the gut. "I thought we had this discussion? My brother is a King, so therefore I am a prince." Truth be told, Euron couldn't have cared less what he was called, but titles were important to men so he viewed being considered the right one was critical to his standing among them. "And yes, which is why our sails are packed and our oars ready."

All aboard the decks of the seagoing trireme, Euron looked from his ship's perch at the van of the Ironborn left. In the distance he could still see the smoke of the gutted Oldtown - left as a reminder of his power, a man that could make the oldest city on the continent tremble. To his right, he could see the rest of the fleet assembled two lines deep in the tight Honeywine Strait. Galleys and longships in front with the much larger carracks waiting behind.

And sailing straight into their clutches was the might of Paxter Redwyne's fleet, answering the call of Leyton Hightower to destroy he who tormented them. Two hundred galleys, cogs, and carracks ready to do Euron's hundred ships battle.

Their numbers count for nothing in the straits. Euron shucked off his cloak, braving the winds with but his armor and hair unbound. "Signal Blacktyde and Drumm. Full attack!"

"Aye, my Prince." Moments after Euron's order, the horns boomed their stucco blasts, signal flags hoisted to the top of the mast. A little invention of Euron's - with all the captains in possession of spyglasses, they could communicate far better. Every little bit counted.

Drums sounding off in the holds, the three rows of oarsmen began their laborious task, lurching the King Harwyn from it's position towards the waiting Redwynes. "The winds are perfect, this day. Perfect weather to fight." Overcast with the slightest drizzle. It reminded him so much of home, even with the rewards of the Reach filling the bellies of the men that fought with him.

Flush with such treasures, they would go to the bottom of the sea and do battle with the krakens themselves for Euron.

It didn't take long for the trireme to reach a fast clip. Ten knots, perhaps even eleven… Far better than even the massive carracks with their banks of sails. Blasting through the heavy winds - fighting the very will of the gods themselves - Euron watched through the spyglass. "They're clumping," he whispered to no one in particular. Already he could see the formidable Redwyne battle line forced to merge within the straits, hemmed in by the shallows into a confused mess.

They think their numbers will win the day. Time to show the greenlanders their folly. "Signal rear! Sail to the North!"

"Aye, my Prince!" Another set of flags hoisted up the mast, and it wasn't long before his fastest carracks began to use the slackening winds to move themselves northward.

Time slowed, the trireme slowly approaching the enemy fleet. "Rudder, amidships!" the captain bellowed, steering course for a gap between two carracks. "Man catapults!"

Euron caught on to the tactic, but pushed the captain aside. This was his ship, he would have the satisfaction of victory. "Load pitch!" Projectiles filled with pitch and tar, they were covered in a light coating of oil that was set alight. "Hold… Thirty degrees port, ramming speed!"

"Ramming speed!"

The drummers boomed a faster tempo, the ship lurching again as the rowers went all out, unleashing a powerful roar of splashes upon the churning sea.

"Loose!" he screamed, watching the arcing trails of the flaming projectiles streak towards the ther Carrack. One splashed in the water a hundred feet off. Another splash, but only thirty feet off. The two remaining struck home, one below the mizzenmast and the other on the castle. Euron grinned as the carrack grew awash with flame.

Suddenly the charging ship jolted, all speed lost as its reinforced, metal-jacketed prow slammed into the hull of the Redwyne carrack. Positioned all along the hull, Ironborn archers raked the ship with barbed arrows, unleashing complete chaos while the oarsmen reversed course. As the ship pulled back the seawater of the Drowned God himself began to flood the lower decks - calling the lives of the Arbor's sailors to the beasts of the deep.

Euron felt the wind bracketing him… this time from the west. He understood it almost immediately. "The winds have changed! Full attack of the second line!"

Already, he could see the rear of the Redwyne fleet utilizing the change in the winds to escape for the Arbor. First in dribs and drabs, and later a flood. The straits were his. "No quarter!" Euron wasn't about to let the greenlanders salvage anything from this victory - his victory. "Slaughter all you can!"

And so the sheep tremble as the kraken emerges, hungry and filled with a conquering fury.

He chuckled as another Redwyne galley was set aflame by his own artillery. Bring me the dragon… it is time I face someone worthy of me.

Leaning against the railing, Ashara Dayne heard the scuffle of boots across the stone floor of Maegor's Holdfast. "You're late," she said, a tiny smirk dancing upon her lips.

From where he waited beside his aunt, young Arthur Mormont - 'Artie' - smiled up at his sire. "Father!"

Arthur Dayne opened his arms and took his son in a tight embrace. "Apologies, sister," Arthur replied, adjusting the strap of his breastplate. "We were sidetracked."

She raised her eyebrow at her brother and closest friend. "I can see that." While it was the little things with Arthur, for the less prim and proper Dacey her dress was awkwardly rumpled in places and some locks of hair were out of place. There were no illusions about what had 'sidetracked them,' and she could see how Dacey blushed at her recognition.

"Momma, come stand with me." But Ashara wouldn't tease them beyond that. Making love with a small child around was quite hard, and Artie was a handful - wild just like his mother.

"Of no consequence, though," Benjen replied, arms crossed as he also watched the inner courtyard. "You didn't miss anything. Hasn't started yet." He laughed. "The royals haven't even shown up yet." Except for two.

Assembling on opposite sides of the courtyard were the two sparring partners - and for the level of attention it was receiving, almost akin to a Ghiscari fighting pit, it could only be two. "You need not gawk, goodbrother," King Rhaegar called to the balcony, scaled armor clinking as he did a pre-clash stretch.

"Why not, when you dress in such a manner for a simple spar." The King was dressed for battle, not a strap out of place after his squire Monford Velaryon was done.

"Ask your sister why, she insisted on true blades."

Across the courtyard, Lyanna checked each of her ties and straps, her northern-style leather and mail armor weaker but far more maneuverable. It also hugged close to her figure - hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked fierce but radiant. "Shut it, Targaryen," she taunted. "We tilted lances at each other and you were fine."

"Lances weren't made with Valyrian steel, sweetling," Rhaegar teased back.

Lyanna snorted. "And yet we both have Valyrian steel, so you cannot complain… lest you think yourself inferior to me."

"In your dreams, she-wolf."

"Are they on it again?" Ashara turned to see Elia arriving on the balcony, joined by the Hand of the King and their eager retinue.

Artie beamed. "Baelon!" Not blood, he knew the Prince by his formal name.

"Artie!" They both rushed to each other, but refrained from their usual rough and tumble play… not in front of their munas. "Hi."

"Hi." The two were already the best of friends - Jon was equally close to Egg, but the other boy's quiet demeanor led him to shun most outdoor activities. No one minded, but that just transferred Jon's companion in such to Artie. Brow raised, Dacey looked at Elia at the absence of young Egg… only for Elia to shake her head.

He had a sudden spasm the night before, and still napped under the watch of great-uncle Aemon. A sorrow for the whole family, but he was alive. It hardened the King and Queens of their decision to make Jon the Crown Prince, regardless of the consequences.

"Oww!" Dany held no such compunctions about behaving in front of her muna and punched Artie in the shoulder. "That hurt."

Daenerys gave him an innocent look. "Your kepa is Swod of the Mowning. Don't be such a baby."

"Dany," Rhaella scolded. "What did we say?"

The young princess sighed. "Fire re...re...stwained is fire most deadly."

"Good girl." Speech still halting with youth, there was no denying Dany as whip smart for her age. Jon as well… the Targaryen brood was sharp and intelligent, already learning their letters.

"You're not going to win, husband!" Eyes shifted to the sparring court. "Give up while you still can."

"And give you the satisfaction? Over my corpse!"

Elia rolled her eyes at the taunting banter between her spouses."They're a pair of fools, both of them," she chided, taking a place on her own, though smiling and giggling with Ash and Dacey.

Rhaella held more composure befitting her age and station, but there was a mirthful twinkle in her eye. "I am reminded of a young boy that used to taunt the other highborn boys to rush him… and then plant them on their backs with a right hook." She stifled a laugh. "I believe that's how he and Arthur first became friends."

Elia looking instantly at Arthur, the Sword of the Morning shrugged. "I was the only one to best him."

That seemed to catch Rhaegar's attention. "That was by the skin of your teeth and I was blinded by the sun that time!"

Arthur found a champion in Queen Lyanna. "Keep telling yourself that, dragon. See if it soothes your wounded pride."

Growing impatient, Rhaegar drew Blackfyre from its sheath. "Enough talk. Put your steel where your mouth is, wife."

Lyanna smirked and drew Wolfsbane, twirling it. "You may not like what you wish for, husband."

"Watch this, my son," Elia whispered to Jon, the young Prince standing on tiptoes to watch over the beam of the parapet. "You're going to see the might of the dragon and the wolf." Jon's eyes were riveted as the King and Queen charged at each other.

It became apparent rather quickly the strategies of the two. Lyanna used her speed and agility to her advantage, carrying less weight in her armor to jink and weave - Wolfsbane attacked from quixotic angles, challenging Rhaegar at every turn. But Rhaegar was quicker than he looked. Twirling and jerking, Blackfyre met each slash and thrust. Not letting Lyanna force an opening even though her assaults were perfectly executed.

Grunting, Rhaegar parried a downward strike one-handed and lashed out with a left hook. He missed Lya's side, but she was forced back. The King thundered forward, using his momentum to make her react to him and his superior strength and bulk to overpower her. Blackfyre crashed against Wolfsbane, Lyanna planting her feet on the stone and meeting him shove for shove. Slowly, surely, he began to push her down…

"Muna can't win…" Rhaenys mused.

Elia smirked at her daughter. "Don't discount her just yet."

Her words were prophetic. Knee rocketing up, with a warcry Lyanna slammed into Rhaegar's gut. He let out a pained grunt but remained firm… but it let Lya spin away. She slashed downward at him, Rhaegar only just parrying it.

"Wow," breathed Jon, riveted to the scene… even as the moments turned to minutes. The fight dragged on through strike and counterstrike, neither monarch gaining a long-lasting advantage over the other. Lya and Rhaegar were drenched in sweat, breathing hard and aching all over but still they sparred… driven by a primal urge to show up the one they loved. From above, Elia watched, her underclothes likely dripping.

What more appealing scene could there be for her? Seeing her spouses locked in a furious dance, showing off their best features? Few, I believe.

But suddenly, the fight broke decisively for one of them. Practically a race to whom would buckle first… it ended less as a buckle and more of a slip. Lya's muscles aching, she hesitated for the briefest of moments from a twinge in her shoulder, leaving Wolfsbane in the unfortunate position of meeting Blackfyre in a weak stance… batted aside. Rhaegar spun his blade and thrust forward...

Blackfyre leveled at her chest, Lyanna's eyes narrowed, a curse bubbling on her tongue but not vocalized - mindful of her audience. Son of a bitch…

Rhaegar thought he would feel a sense of gloating pride, but he was instead just tired. Exhausted and panting from just the exertion needed to best his bride. His gorgeous warrior Queen. "Yie… yield," he choked out, breathing hard.

The exhaustion and soreness afflicted Lya as well. Her shoulders slumped, Wolfsbane's tip sacking the stone floor. "I yield." Blackfyre dropped, and the two of them sheathed their swords. "Well…" Lyanna wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead - brushing loose strands of hair back into place. "You bested me."

"A close run thing," he smiled tiredly, and before either knew it they were embracing - a loving kiss shared between them.

Which was broken as a wave of clapping and cheers rang out from the balcony. "Amazing! Amazing!" Rhaenys clapped hard, whooping for her kepa and muna.

"I grow up just like kepa!" Jon cheered, while Daenerys watched Lyanna with barely contained awe. Does my goodsister wish to learn swordplay? Lyanna was certain that Rhaella wouldn't deny her the chance if she was willing to teach Dany once she grew.

"A marvelous show, my son - gooddaughter," Rhaella beamed. "You've both become masters at your craft, do you not agree, Elia?"

Elia looked down at them, eyes shining darkly. "Master seems an understatement for their skills, goodmother." Both King and Queen knew that look from Elia… joined by a quick darting of the tongue to wet her lips. They shuddered inwardly, knowing what would await them in their bedchamber after this.

Ser Barristan jogged up to Rhaegar and Lyanna. "Their Graces speak true… you have certainly gotten as skilled as myself, my Queen."

As a servant brought a jug of water and two glass goblets to drink from, Lyanna shrugged. "I wouldn't go so far, good Ser, but the sentiment is appreciated." A drink was poured for each of them, Lyanna drinking hers greedily.

Mid-drink, Rhaegar stilled as Lord Varys approached him. Eye raised, Varys said something intelligible, which led to Lyanna leaning in with her own comment… Varys continued, and in an instant the tired, happy expressions of the King and Queen morphed to shock - and a mutual rage a split-second later. With a snarl, Rhaegar smashed the goblet against a stone column with his palm, shattering the glass all over the place.

Chattering amongst each other, at Rhaegar's rage the children all stopped, staring down at him with wide, fearful eyes. "Kepa?" Jon trembled.

"Kepa," Rhaenys was a bit more circumspect about it. "What's wrong?!"

Rhaegar ignored them. "Convene the military council!" he bellowed, storming out with Ser Barristan in tow.

Both Rhaella and Elia were worried… both held positions on the military council by virtue of being the dragonriding Hand and the Queen respectively, and Rhaegar's tone left no room for argument. "Lya?" Elia asked, while the children started to cling to her… shaken by Rhaegar's sudden anger.

Her own eyes blazing, they softened when she saw her wife's worry… and the fear of their babes. "The Ironborn," she ground out… trying to be measured. "They've risen."

Now the Dornish Queen would feel the same anger as her wife and husband.

Rain pelting at his visor, Tywin Lannister shoved it up, his face now exposed to the elements. How do I stay safe if I see fuckin' nothing?! Around him, he could see the telltale signs of complete chaos and carnage… and unlike his victory at the Battle of Red Rain, it were the red-gold coated bannermen of House Lannister that fled the field. Slaughtered as wave after wave of arrows bracketed them.

"My Lord!" A veritable giant of a man, Ser Gregor Clegane needed not a horse to keep high enough to meet Tywin at his level. "Your goodbrother!"

Sure enough, there was Emmon Frey on foot. His horse was nowhere in sight though he still wore spurred boots, and neither was his lionshead helm. The sigil of the Twins emblazoned in Lannister colors on his surcoat was splotched with mud and dried blood, while his eyes were wide with terror. "Emmon!" Tywin bellowed. "Emmon you bloody fool!"

With a nod from his lord, Gregor halted Emmon with an outstretched hand… barely budging as the Frey crashed into him. He looked petrified, only to relax upon seeing it was his goodbrother - slightly. "Tywin!"

"Calm down you idiot. What the fuck is going on?!"

"We're being slaughtered!" Emmon babbled. "They've got sea bows! We were barely able to get close!"

Tywin cursed. Lannisport half-burned by the krakens in addition to his entire fleet, somehow Victarion Greyjoy had been able to land a proper army to besiege the place. Not having withstood a siege since the First Blackfyre Rebellion - and it embarrassingly fell quickly to Quentyn Ball - Tywin quickly assembled a scratch force of all the bannermen he could find in and around Casterly Rock to end the siege before Victarion could take the city and link up with the Harlows camped at Feastfires.

And now his forces were impaling themselves against the Ironborn atop the hills. "Where's Tygett? Where's Stafford?! Where's anyone with any form of sense?!" He had given strict orders to wait till the morning to attack, stormclouds brewing to the west that now turned all approaches to a thick soup of mud.

Babbling, Emmon kept looking towards the foot of the hill and freedom, the sounds of battle and dying disconcerting him greatly. A knight trudging in a daze, holding in his intestines in a bloody heap, nearly made him piss himself. "Tygett… led the charge… Stafford… Stafford…"

Craven fool. "Gregor, put some order to the fucking men, and make sure Emmon goes to the front lines like a good knight."

Emmon's eyes widened in panic. "Tywin! Please…!" But Gregor had a meaty, strong arm wrapped around his waist. Drawing a claymore, the Mountain half-carried, half-dragged Emmon back up the hill along with the rest of Tywin's personal guard.

All around, Tywin found the bloody, broken corpses of his best forces. Crack troops from the Reyne-Tarbeck revolt or trained by them littering the ground. The Lannisport crossbowmen with arrows embedded in their skulls or torsos were the most numerous. Seven fucking hells… seven fucking hells… Finally, a glimpse of golden hair drew him in. "Stafford!"

Tall and well-built, Stafford Lannister was Joanna's brother but inherited none of the intelligence or wit that she did. He was stolid though, able to carry out orders. "Tywin! Please tell me you have more men!"

"You didn't fucking need more men! I told you to wait till the morrow!" Screeching, both men looked behind them to watch a horse riddled with arrows galloping towards the rear, dragging a broken corpse still attached at the stirrup behind it. "Why the fuck did you go in?!"

Stafford ran a hand along his forehead, matted with rainwater and blood. "Fucking Tygett, he said he could take them alone. Ordered the missile troops forward. Even when they were routed by the krakens he still charged."

"That little…" Was his brother that desperate to show him up? Fuck yes, he would. "Why didn't you stop it?!"

"It was too late."

Stafford's words were understating the situation. As the battle commenced the crossbowmen were forced to fight in the rain with waterlogged strings, reducing their range and power. The Ironborn, used to fighting among typhoons and sea sprays, coated their bowstrings with whale oil that kept the water out. As such, their bows slaughtered the crossbowmen and savaged Tygett's heavy horse so that in conjunction with the mud, Victarion's reavers could butcher them at will once the few reached the crest of the hill.

Any profanity unable to capture the level of rage Tywin felt, the man that destroyed the Reynes and Tarbecks quickly took command. "All archers, loose at the hills!" Infantry, forward! Keep to shield walls! On the double…"

Suddenly, a torrent of arrows hailed from the sky, assaulting the command tent with the fury of a Sunset Sea gale. Shielding his head, the barbed iron tips bounced off Tywin's armor. Stafford wasn't so lucky, getting an arrow through the jaw.

As if a fungus on his foot, Emmon appeared again. "Tygett's dead! They're charging!" This time there was no Mountain to stop his flight out of there.

And then the bellow from the crest of the hill. "WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

Tywin's mind whirred at a mile a minute. If being Aerys' Hand had taught him anything, it was when to cut one's losses. In a split-second, he knew there was no salvaging this. "Retreat!" Galloping towards the milling heralds, their faces white with fear, he grabbed the nearest hornblower. "I said sound the retreat!"

Lannisport would fall, but damn the gods Tywin would never let Casterly Rock join it.

Not to fucking Ironborn! He could almost hear Aerys laughing at him from beyond the grave.

A/N: And Tywin's plan comes to fruition, right after the big fight between Ned and Cat. Hope it met expectations.

Euron is not taking any chances. Huge flurry of attacks.

Let me know what y'all think of the belated end of Catelyn. Drop a review and be sure to check out Dragonshield :D