The Neck
A flickering fire glimmers in the vast, treacherous wilderness of the Neck. The croaking of bullfrogs and the deeper, foreboding growl of a lizard-lion fail to disturb the gaunt figure hunched by the dancing light. He is bent over a scattered set of rune stones, examining their arcane symbols. Having reached a conclusion, he scoops them back into a worn leather pouch and returns it to his belt, where the flames reveal the black and white sigil of the Faceless Men. Looking out across the bog, he sees the lights of The Twins in the distance. A girl has stolen herself from the Many-Faced God, he thinks. Such a crime cannot be left unpunished.
The Twins
Within the stones of the ancient seat of House Frey, Lord Walder and his young new wife are hosting a great feast, the second in a fortnight, strange for the notoriously stingy lord. But his invitation had been a demand, and the hall is overfull of every Frey man within reach of the Twins.
Ser Emmon Frey, small, thin and very bald, picks at his food. Travel has always given him an upset stomach. It had no such affect upon his sons, Cleos and Lyonel.
"Two feasts in a fortnight!" Cleos laughs, already drunk, it seems. "Perhaps age has finally caught up to old Walder!"
"Hush!" Emmon hisses, as if Cleos were yet a child and not a man-grown, with sons of his own. "Respect your grandfather, in the least so long as we are under his roof."
His eyes past over his brothers and their issue. Even he has lost track of them all, but there are a few he yet knows. His elder brother, Stevron, died at Oxcross. Near the front of the hall is his eldesr, Ser Ryman, heir to the Twins, and Ryman's own sons, whose names he cannot recall. Then there is his younger brother, Aenys, and his sons. And countless half-brothers and nephews and grand-nephews. But he does not note Lothar or Black Walder. He did not bemoan their absence, the most miserable of a miserable clan.
Every other man of House Frey and toiled and schemed, betrayed their kin and groveled at their cruel father's feet, naming half their children for him, each hoping to one day take his seat as Lord of the Crossing. But Emmon had always hated the Twins. And so he had married well, claimed his own wealth, free of Old Walder, and now his banners flew above Riverrun itself, and his son's after him. House Frey of Riverrun. Now that was a good sound. He smiles at the thought.
The doors open and a line of serving girls bring out new pitchers of wine. Walder is standing now and calling for silence He seems more limber than Emmon remembered. His change in fortunes must be good for the health. Mayhaps he will yet outlive us all. Wouldn't that be a cruel jape?
"Don't think I haven't heard all your whispers!" the old man coughs. Emmon glares at his sons, both too drunk to be nrevous. "Two feasts, so soon? Old Walder's gone soft! But I ask you, is it soft to enjoy the spoils of victory? To revel in justice served to those who mocked us for generations? To celebrate the death of our foes? No! It is not! That's why I've summoned every Frey worth a damn back here. To get a taste of how a Great House lives!"
Emmon rushes to his feet. "A toast! To my father, Lord Walder Frey!"
"His father and mine!" Aenys stands and shouts alongside him.
'And mine!" Another Frey shouts, soon all the crowd is standing and cheering, drinking from the new wine. It has a strange smell to it, Emmon thinks. And then the back of his throat begins to itch.
"Oh, but this toast is not for me!" Walder croaks. "It is for you! The brave men who have made Frey a name to be feared, not scorned!"
It's clear Emmon is not the only of his kin feeling suddenly ill. He beings the scratch at his neck, the itch turning to a burn. And then, horror as Cleos vomits blood onto the table, dropping back into his chair, convulsing. But Walder talks on.
"The Red Wedding! That's what they call it! They've written songs! Have ye' heard them? As long as men speak, they will sing of my sons. So brave to invite their king into their home! So noble to murder him, his lady wife, his mother, every last one. Only the greatest of men could do such a thing! And now we get what we deserve."
Emmon begins to sway, his vision blurred with red, He has forgotten his sons, lying twisting on the floor beside him. In his mind, there is only the pain. Around him, his brothers and their kin cough, gasp for air, claw at their throats or peer into their empty cup for some manner of explanation.
His mouth is wet, he thinks, and wipes it in his haze. It's red. Red, the color of his lady wife.
Genna... Is his final thought, and the the floor is rising up to meet him.
As the last of the Frey men collapse in convulsions to the floor, the terrified lady of The Twins looks to her old husband in horror. Walder turns to her with empty eyes as his hands grasp his scalp and pull. Her shock can only grow deeper as the lord's face peels off with a sickening sound to reveal a girl she does not know.
Arya Stark.
"When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers. Tell them winter came for House Frey."
Dragonstone
Three dragons soar above Daenerys Targaryen's fleet of Ironborn and slaver ships, now emblazoned in her own imagery, as they cut swiftly across the water toward the ancient island fortress of Dragonstone. Atop its ramparts, the stark black and red flags of House Targaryen already wave. The dragon queen herself stands at the bow of the leading ship, the spray of the ocean rising up to meet her face. Tyrion Lannister is proudly by her side.
"So it's true," Daenerys sighs wistfully. "My brother always said the people kept our banners waiting, longing for the day we would come home. I don't think I ever believed him then. But there they are."
"Well, I can't promise you a parade in the streets, my queen," Tyrion said. "But it seems your new allies have done good work to make you welcome."
Sure enough, standing at attention as Daenerys and her allies arrive before the great gates of Dragonstone, she finds Lady Olenna Tyrell waiting with a compliment of soldiers from The Reach, alongside Ellaria Sand, flanked by her loyal Sand Snakes. The time for introductions will be later, however. Daenerys flows past them into the fortress, as if walking on air.
"I didn't expect her to bring the dwarf," Ellaria grumbles.
"I thought she'd be taller," Olenna shrugs as they turn to follow her, this strange girl from across the sea who they have named their queen.
Inside, Daenerys runs her hands along the cold stone walls, now cleansed of the Usurper's banners and colored by Targaryen Red, Tyrell Green, and Martell Yellow. She slips off her shoes to feel the rock beneath her feet. It seems to come alive as she walks the halls. Her home, the birthplace she never truly knew, rises up to meet her. Each new room comes to life from the stories of her childhood - before Drogo, before the dragons and the slavers. Before she was queen.
Tyrion follows her dutifully, wishing he could share just a bit of her wonder. At once, she seems not so much the queen he is sworn to serve, but a girl again, dreaming of a distant land across the sea. Then, they reach the war room and the queen returns. Running her hands over the table map carved by her ancestors, she finally acknowledges her Hand's presence.
"This is where it all began. Aegon's Conquest, three hundred years ago," her eyes stray out through the great window, over Blackwater Bay.
"Indeed," Tyron nods. "And it is here we will plan your own."
"These women Varys brings me as allies... Can they be trusted?"
"They are very powerful allies, with vast armies and wealth at their command," he answers, eying the markers on the table. "They've sent word to every noble house declaring for you and bidding the other lords do the same. And I can assure you, they hate my sister more than anyone in Westeros."
"But..." Daenerys eyes him, knowlingly.
"But what?"
"You are a miserable little man. I can always tell when you are about to cast a shadow upon things."
Tyrion sighs, turning a Tyrell marker over in his hands.
"Hate makes a sharp knife, but weak rope. It will serve you well as a weapon, but it cannot hold together an alliance."
"Then we must give them something to believe in. Call them in. It's time to take back my throne."
King's Landing
In a plaza of the Red Keep, the sun shines softly down on a young painter, bent over on the ground as he fills in meticulously traced lines with vibrant paints from across the Narrow Sea. His brush is bringing to life a great map of all Westeros, spanning the entirety of the plaza floor. The work is almost done, but each stroke grows more tense than the last under the watchful gaze of his queen, who stands mere feet away.
"Cersei!" A voice calls out. The startled painter's brush slips. In terror, he looks up to ensure the queen has not seen, but she has thankfully turned her attention to Ser Jaime Lannister as he strides into the courtyard. Reading the implicit need for his departure, the painter hurriedly gathers his tools and leaves.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Cersei moves tenderly toward her brother, pointing to the mural. "And now all of it is ours."
"I believe there is no shortage of men who would disagree," Jaime is not here as a lover, much to the queen's disappointment. "The Tyrells and Ellaria Sand have pledged their land to the Dragon Queen. Her fleet has docked at Dragonstone. And…"
"I know all this," Cersei offers a glass of wine, which is declined. She takes it herself. "I am the queen. And you are the leader of my armies. You shall make short work of all traitors."
"No, Cersei. I need to stay here, with you." The queen is caught off guard by her brother's sudden defiance. "You need me. We need each other. We can't afford any more…"
"Any more what, brother?" In an instant, Cersei's mood has changed. All romantic pretense is gone, replaced by an icy glare fueled by a conflict she thought finished.
"Any more rash decisions. You…"
"I did what had to be done to protect our family!"
"Our son is dead! Our last child!" Jaime storms forward, cornering his sister against one of the dark, red pillars of the plaza, burning with an anger he never knew he could hold toward her.
"Our son died the day that whore gave him over to the sparrows." The response is stern and factual, but Cersei turns away to hide a single tear, wishing she could blink away any deeply buried regrets so easily as the salty drop. "The only thing that matters now is us."
"Which is why you need allies." Jaime, quickly regaining his composure, regrets the outburst at once. Gently, he pulls his sister back to him in an embrace.
"Half the kingdoms are ruled by traitors or dead men," she says. "I have already spoken with Lord Tarly and Lord Dondarrion. I have made them Lords Paramount of the Reach and the Stormlands, as well as Wardens of the South and East."
"House Arryn has always been the Warden of the East."
"Their lord is a sickly boy."
"Lord Petyr Baelish holds..."
"Littlefinger has led his armies to join with Ned Stark's bastard in the North. The Vale cannot be trusted. Harlan Dondarrion will bring them in line. And I have assurances from Ser Gerald Dayne that Dorne will soon be returned to loyal hands."
Jaime cannot help but be impressed. "But what of the Small Counsel?"
"Reassembled. Anyone still uneased shall soon be placated. Then all the seven kingdoms will see that none dare challenge us."
At this, Cersei leans back to accept Jaime's kiss, with all of Westeros freshly painted at their feet.
Winterfell
Jon Snow looks down at the summons, signed with the sigils of House Tyrell and Ellaria Sand. Placing it on the table before him, he looks up at his sister, Sansa, with tired eyes.
"You need to know you have my full trust," he says, the weight of the world upon his words. Sansa takes a step back.
"You can't mean you're thinking of going?" she protests.
"Maester Wolkan says Dragonstone holds the largest known deposit of dragon glass. We need the glass. And we need her support."
"Jon!" Sansa tries to stop her half-brother as he moves to leave, but he does not listen. Donning his heavy fur cloak, he marches sternly down the halls toward the yard. Sansa rushes after him, her mind racing.
"I will take Ser Davos and a dozen men, we will sail from White Harbor. Their absence will be no burden to you."
"It's not the men I'm worried for, Jon. It's you! Your place is here! The lords will not understand…"
"Then you must stay to make them understand," Jon stares back at her with eyes as cold and serious as winter. "I have to go. We need the glass."
"Then send Davos with Lord Glover, or one of the Manderlys! You are our king!"
"I did not ask to be king."
"None of us asked for any of this!" Sansa struggles to stay calm. Losing her temper will solve nothing. "If we all got what we wanted, father would still be sleeping in his bed, not you!"
"Our father knew his duty. And I know mine. I must represent the North and plead our case before Daenerys Targaryen."
Sansa nearly chokes at that. "Have you forgotten what the last Targaryens did to our family?"
Jon has no answer. He hugs her, but there is no warmth. "Take good care of Ghost, for me."
At that , the Lord of Winterfell and King in the North turns and walks out into the yard. The cold winter air washes over Sansa's face for a moment before the heavy wooden doors slam shut again. A single snowflake lights upon her cheek. As it melts, she stands alone. Again, again, all alone.
Somewhere in the Riverlands
Sandor Clegane watches as the contents of Thoros' flask soak into the dirt of a freshly dug grave. The drunken priest had helped him bury the bodies, now decomposed beyond recognition, but Sandor knows all too well who they were in life.
He hadn't wanted to stop here at this hovel. He knew at first sight he had been here before, in another life, when The Hound and Arya Stark had sought shelter here. A farmer and his daughter had welcomed them in, but The Hound had robbed them. And now here they lie, more victims of the violence that follows him, no matter what name he calls himself. Just like Brother Ray. Just like Arya Stark, most likely.
They would have died soon enough, anyway, Sandor reminds himself again and again. Doesn't make the darkness go away. Thoros is mumbling some incoherent prayer in an Eastern tongue, but that is no interest to Sandor, as he slouches back into the hovel, ducking to enter. Inside, what remains of Beric Dondarrion's Brotherhood Without Banners reclines. Tom O'Sevenstreams is composing a new song, Anguy the Archer tightens his bowstrings. Beric himself is, as always, staring into the fire.
"Close the door, Hound!" Jack, gripes. "Lucky" as the Brothers call him, beaten and torn from decades of brawls and battles. Sandor would have gladly left him behind at some inn, but the old bastard just keeps limping along beside them.
"Come by the fire with me, Clegane," Beric summons. Sandor follows, reluctant to sit so near the flame, but he knows their leader will not relent.
"Your god has no words for me, Beric," he grumbles.
"The Lord of Light has a message for us all," Beric shakes his head, the fire glowing in his one good eye. "Don't you think you have a purpose?"
"A purpose? No. I have a curse. Death follows me. If I have a purpose, it's to find a place far away, where no one else can be hurt by my fault, and stay there 'til I rot."
"You think our god punishes you for your sins?"
"I think the gods don't give a shit about me. Or anyone else. If they deal out punishments, you must have been the worse of us all. They're damned detirmined not to let you die."
"Aye, perhaps," Beric muses, suddenly saddened. "I was a vain man once, I chased false glory. I had brothers I cared not for, a betrothed I never intended to marry, a lordship I spurned. And now all those memories are burned away, more with each life. Before, I lived without purpose. Now the Lord will not let me rest until I fulfill the one he has chosen for me."
"Whatever you wanna call it," Sandor shrugs and leaves his new leader to find a dark corner in which to sleep. But in his dreams, he only sees fire. Fire and ice.
Oldtown
In the great harbor of Oldtown, with the eternal flame of the mysterious Hightower looking down like an ever-watching foreman's eye, scores of men toil away in the shipyards, at work on a vast fleet. The sounds of their labor ring out over the legendary city in its ancient splendor. Oldtown appears glorious beyond the wildest legends told of King's Landing. But here, they are all true.
None of this beauty or mystery can resonate with Samwell Tarly, however. Things had started off well enough. He was welcomed as a novice despite his age, thanks in no small part to the respect owed to Maester Aemon, who Sam now missed more every day. And the Citadel itself has not disappointed. It is everything he ever imagined. But his place is a far cry from his old dreams. A novice studies little and works much. And even alongside his peers he has little camaraderie.
He is at least five years older than the oldest novice, a fact the Seneschal's assistant Pate had made quite clear. The pig-faced lad had quickly taken a dislike to him. Seneschal Ebrose himself, the old archmaester in charge of discipline and governance, was exactly the type Sam had hoped an archmaester would be - like a grandfather to all, old and wise with a sharp wit. But he saw little enough of him. And no amount of niceties from the old man could lighten Sam's daily routine.
His days are an endless string of emptying filth from bedpans, cleaning those same bedpans and eating all too familiar looking gruel from an all too familiar looking pan, alone in the mess hall. His thoughts as he stares down at his gruel are almost always of Gilly and Little Sam, subsisting off funds procured from Horn Hill, hidden away in a rented hovel. But the funds will be gone soon, and it is not easy to find a job for Gilly, so long as Little Sam demands her attention. But it is during one of these miserable meals that someone finally noticed him.
"It does get better, you know. Eventually they let you cart around the archmaesters' books instead of their shit." The voice was soft, Sam almost thought it to be a woman's. Looking up, he sees a young man, hair shaved close to his head, with smooth, precise features and teak-colored skin. He wears the metal collar of an acolyte, none of whom had yet to speak anything but harsh commands in Sam's direction.
"I'm Alleras," the young man smiles and takes a seat across the table, his own meal a far cry better than that allotted to Sam. "But most here call me The Sphinx."
"Like the riddle?"
"You could say that."
"Well, I'm Samwell Tarly," Sam eagerly extends his hand in greeting. For all his life, he had dreamed of reaching the Citadel. The reality until this moment had proved crushing. But if he could make just one friend, he thought, perhaps it would all work out in the end.
King's Landing
Queen Cersei strides confidently through the halls of the Red Keep, Jaime at her side in full Lannister armor, discussing matters of the realm.
"You've made Ser Steffon Master of Law?" he asks incredulously. "House Swyft's vaults are empty and his father is a coward."
"That is all true," Cersei concedes. "But their house is highly respected in the West and Ser Steffon's sudden promotion has made him conveniently forget that his sister and brother-in-law were in the Sept of Baelor when it was so tragically destroyed."
Jaime grimaces at this. He knows that no one believes Cersei's claims that the wildfire explosion was an accident. And in truth, he thinks his sister wants the people to know it was her.
As they reach the Small Council chamber, their progress is brought to a halt by the sudden appearance of Lord Tytos Brax. A small weasel of a man with squinting eyes, he is dressed in a gaudily luxuriant purple and silver doublet, pinned together by an oversized amethyst unicorn, the sigil of his house.
"My queen, I am so grateful to have just run into you like this," he speaks with nasal flattering. "You see, I had heard a rumor that you had made Wylis Manderly the new Master of Coin."
Cersei smiles, forcibly polite. "Perhaps I should have made you Master of Whisperers, Lord Tytos, you speak correctly."
Tytos sputters at the realization and the Lannisters turn away. Regaining his composure, however, he once more steps into their path.
"My queen, with all due respect, House Manderly is, along with the whole of the North, in open rebellion against the crown! Whereas House Brax as made considerable donations to…"
"How long do you think Wyman Manderly will kneel to Ned Stark's bastard while his own son is here in King's Landing?" Cersei has had enough of the petty lord. "Now leave us be, Tytos. You must learn to see the bigger picture, you'll last longer that way."
With that, the queen and her brother enter the chamber, letting the door slam in Tytos' face. Jaime, for the first time since returning to King's Landing, feels a rush of pride as he steps in remembering how, when he was still Lord Commander of the King's Guard, he was denied a seat at the table. None here now would dare deny him access.
Standing at attention upon their queen's arrival are Ser Balon Swann, the broad-chested, modest hero of the Stormlands, first Lord Commander of the new Queensguard. Ser Steffon Swyft, with a hooked nose and shock of yellow hair rivalling the rooster of his sigil, now the Master of Laws. Arthur Waters, still but a small lad, the eldest of the little birds now sworn to Qyburn. Cleaned to seem presentable, perhaps for the first time in his life, he seems almost highborn as Master of Whisperers.
Across the table is Lord Randyll Tarly, a hard man with harder features and a face devoid of emotion, befitting the Master of War. Beside him, a more shocking contrast seemingly impossible, sits the rotund, heavily mustached figure of Ser Wylis Manderly, Master of Coin. Qyburn, Hand to the Queen, bows to Cersei as she takes her seat. At her approval, the counsel sits and the meeting begins in earnest.
"Daenerys Targaryen has landed at Dragonstone," Lord Tarly bluntly asserts the thought on everyone's mind. "She brings with her a vast fleet and uncounted hordes of the Unsullied and Dothraki. She stands allied with House Martell and Ellaria Sand."
"And three dragons!" Ser Wylis Manderly spouts, clearly terrified at the thought.
"The queen knows all of this, my lords," Qyburn smiles. "We have all been aware of her threat for some time now. She is not a surprise arrival on our doorstep."
"Lord Tarly mentioned her fleet," Ser Steffon interjects. "I see we are missing a Master of Ships. What are we to do if she blockades the harbor?"
Qyburn looks to Cersei, unsure of how much information to share.
"We need not fear her fleet, Ser Steffon," Cersei smiles. "As my Hand said, we have had years to await the girl's arrival. There is no threat approaching King's Landing that we have not prepared for."
The Twins
In the Great Hall of the Twins, the men of House Frey lie cold, their bodies frozen in their final twists of agony. The doors of the hall swing open, letting the stench of death wash over the latest arrivals, here to witness the aftermath of Lord Walder's final feast.
The soldiers, miserable little men in the floppy hats distinctive of Frey forces, are brought to a swift halt, gagging at the stench. It does not faze the woman who leads them, however. She is old and fat, but not in a way that speaks weakness, as with so many of the dead men at her feet. Her frame suggests that, if so inclined, she could have personally hurled each member of the house from the ramparts of its highest towers.
Stopping by two of the bodies, she examines the faces of Emmon Frey, her husband, lying dead beside their sons, caught in a grimace of eternal misery. She does not mourn long, however, quickly locating the bag of coin on his waist and moving it to her own.
"My lady!" the soldiers call. She turns to see more guards have arrived, and with them Kitty Frey, the slain lord's child bride. "We also found Edmure Tully roaming the lower levels. I don't think he quite knows what's happened."
"Take him to the wagon," the woman orders, before turning her attention to the girl.
"Can you tell me what happened here, Kitty?" Her voice is suddenly calming, opening the young lady's mouth for the first time since the massacre.
"It.. it was a girl. She was wearing my lord's face, like a mask." The woman is visibly taken aback by the claim, but Kitty persists. "I swear, my lady, by the Seven, it is true! She told me to tell anyone who asked that….. that the North remembers."
Deep in thought, the woman stands back upright. Stepping out of the chamber, she motions to a guard.
"Return the girl safely to her family. And find the maester, if he's still alive. I need to send a message to King's Landing."
"What should I have him say, Lady Frey?"
"No," the woman swiftly turns. "House Frey is dead. I am Lady Genna Lannister, and I want the queen to know I am coming to visit. We have… much to discuss."
Author's Notes
New Cast Including: Camryn Manheim as Genna Lannister, Rick Hoffman as Tytos Brax
Welcome to The Last War! I hope you've enjoyed this first chapter. I know that some of these early events heavily parallel what we got in the show, but there are several main events from Season 7 that I feel like were the natural outcomes of the previous buildup. So some moments will be familiar here at the beginning, but new characters like Genna Lannister and Alleras, different choices and the maintaining of character arcs, themes and plot lines that were abandoned in the show will take it in a wildly different direction as time goes on.
As an aspiring writer, there's nothing I love more than feedback (except maybe getting hired for a writing job) so please, leave and thought, questions, comments or critiques in the reviews below. Every little bit is appreciated!