"Are you EVER, going to shut up about that damn sword?"

Brynden Mudd's tone was that of a man, juuuuust a few steps away from strangling someone. That someone in this case being his companion Ser Brandon Manderly from White Harbor.

Who had been chatting for two hours about his damn new sword.

"Well ONE of us has to talk about it. It's a couple of Valyrian Steel swords, man, we're NEVER gonna be this gloriously lucky again!"

"We're about to be lords." Brynden countered.

Brandon snorted.

"Lordships are common. Blades from old Valyria are not. Did you know my ancestors sent no less than 62 expeditions to Valyria to try and buy one?"

"Yeah, I think you said something about that once while you were in your cups back on the Golden Field."

"Ah, that was a fine time, wasn't it? But anyway back to the sword, why did you go with Justice?"

"Why not?"

"It seems kinda a… Generic name for a blade is all."

He snorted once again.

"Yes… I suppose I could have gone with something long and overly compacted. Maybe "The cutter of the Mud" or "The breaker of the filthy earth" or maybe "The brown waterer"."

Brandon, in his usual, overly chipper tone simply replied enthusiastically.

"Why not" The unclean wound"? Or maybe "The Murky Blade"?"

"If you HAVE to know, I named it after my ancestor. Tristifer the fourth."

"Who was he?"

"The hammer of Justice they called him. He was one of the last Mudd King's of the Rivers and Hills. He crushed the andal time and again, including cutting the head of one of the falcon kings until in his old age, he lost the hundredth battle against the andal."

"What happened then?"

"They cut his head off, mounted it on a spike after having shoved his cock and balls in his mouth. Then they paraded it around to show that the hammer really was dead."

A rather ignoble end for such an unparalleled hero. But such was war.

"I… I meant politically. You mentioned he was one of the last Mudd Kings. Were they ousted shortly after this guy died?"

"Yes. His son wasn't a particularly good king or warrior, and when he was killed, they chopped off his manhood and fed it to the goats."

"Really charming folks, these andals of the Riverlands."

"After he died, the kingdom fell with him. His siblings were forced to flee, one of his sisters then fled to the neck, and some thousands of years later, here am I."

"Quite the long time to keep the memory of your lineage alive."

"As opposed to what? The Starks or manderlys? You lot started 8000 years ago, and you still remember it well enough."

"True enough I suppose… So, you named it after this hammer of justice. Any plans for what to do with the hilt?"

He glanced down on justice in it's scabbard of steel. The blade that was sharp enough to cleave it's way through that if enough force was put into the blow, would have looked like any other, if it hadn't been for the very visible crossguard, with it's shimmering dark steel, that went out to the sides, then jutted up like a bull's horns.

The actual hilt itself though was as bland as could be.

"I think I'll put… A crown as the pommel?"

"In gold, and inlaid with emeralds of course."

Brynden rolled his eyes. Yes, he would definitely waste a small fortune on a sword pommel, when he had to actually build up his castle, not to mention invest in his lands. But hey, he could instead pay some blacksmith somewhere his beloved arm rings to make a golden crown for his sword hilt in an age where the only use swords would have was as cavalry weapons, or arms for protecting oneself.

"And what about you? You any plans for that "Cleaver" of yours?"

"I'm thinking… Maybe a scales pattern in gold… or maybe a hilt of Ivory instead. And what's wrong with the name "The Merman's Cleaver"?"

"Nothing. If it was literarily ANY OTHER kind of blade. Why you would give that name to a braavosi poker I'll never know."

It went on like that. Just like it always did.

Around them, the army was settling into it's newly made camp in the last hours of sunlight.

The large hill they had settled on and around was a strange place. In what was one massive plain of countless irrigated fields, this relatively large area where the grass was allowed to grow wild without any oversight, and only a few animals strayed around in an area maybe a mile in each direction from the hill, stood out quite a bit.

On hills like these, it was common to see structures of some kind, a castle, or a small fort, or at least a tower of some kind.

He would have expected a tower to be used to keep track of the plains, as any reasonably tall one could have allowed whoever held it to watch for miles and miles around.

As it was, the entire thing was… Uncultivated.

It reminded him of the lands near Qohor, on the spots where civilization was just ending, and the wilds where the Dothraki seas began. Only… It was not. They were in the thick of the cultivated plains of Tyrosh.

It was a queer contrast.

Either way, his usual. Bickering with Manderly kept on going, as the army set up camp, and as they finished up with that, the sun finally went down over the horizon, and they were the shadows grew long, and hard, and all-encompassing, except where the torches of their company had been placed or were held by those men unfortunate enough to be on duty.

It didn't take long before any hint of sunlight had vanished from the world.

Manderly and he kept bickering, but as they kept on, it seemed so… Quiet elsewhere but for the crackling of the fire, like the entire camp had all decided to go to sleep, all at once.

That… Couldn't be right. They had barely been here an hour. There should be plenty of folks up and about playing cards, drinking, or just cursing the fact that they were on duty in a few hours and wouldn't get any sleep until it was over.

He yawned.

"Getting tired Brynden?"

Manderly said in a tone that could have sounded somewhat smug if it weren't also tinged with it's own desperation for a nice bed.

"We still have 3 hours left before it's Donnel and Arthur's shift you know."

"I… I know."

He yawned again.

Part of him wanted to keep bickering with Manderly, but suddenly, it was as if… If he just didn't have the energy or the mood.

Mayhaps Manderly felt the same, for he didn't say anything more, as they stared out across the sea of torches.

The air was quiet now. Only the sound of torches or logs crackling. No one was speaking.

Sometime later, how long was hard to say, as to Brynden it seemed like hours had passed, but Mayhaps not, he suddenly realized that the torch that had been planted just by his side had gone out.

He swore. Damn it all! For a second he wanted to go and replace it. Then reality hit him. He was one of the princess's two guards. He'd need to get someone else to do it.

He looked around with weary eyes for someone running about. Some squire, a patrolman, or anyone really.

But no, it was just him and Manderly going about in their area. Well, them and the rest of the officer's guards, but they would be in the same boat as him and Manderly so best not to bother-

His breath caught in his throat.

As he looked down on the camp, feeling great annoyance. The torches and. Campfires began going out.

One by one they faltered, and went out, like torches that had just been put in a water basin.

He whirled his head around to. Manderly, only to see with a shock that the knight has slumped against the tent's entrance, and lay sitting against it.

He didn't have to listen to breathing to realize he was unconscious. The man's own torch had also gone completely out.

He gave the knight a swift kick with his heel to wake him, then he drew justice from it's scabbard and held it wardingly out against the darkness.

The spellbound steel glimmered in the light from the torch, the only light left in a sea of darkness.

Something was there in the darkness. Something just outside his sight.

"PRINCESS DAEMONA! WAKE UP, WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" Then, louder, he screamed "TO ARMS, TO ARMS! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"

With the height they were at, the shouts should have carried far and wide, but they did not. It was as if they were snuffed out immediately the moment they left the circle of light from his torch.

Manderly did not wake, but from inside he heard sounds, the clinking of metal.

He could only hope to the Gods that the princess was still wearing her plate.

As it was, all he could do was stand there his sword and torch held up, ready to meet any attacker with the bite of fire and steel. Down below him, Manderly had not risen. Not from kick or shout.

This was bad, really, really bad.

No sound came, but Ser Brynden of the Golden Company, who proudly proclaimed descent from the Kings of the Rivers and Hills snarled as he felt it come. The attack, the challenge to his charge, the one he was sworn to protect.

He met it with a thrust and he felt a grin of mad satisfaction, that he heard a scream from the darkness.

Then, suddenly the cold bite of water was all around as if he had been dunked in a river.

For a moment he panicked, but above him was light through the darkness, and below was… The river bottom?

He didn't think, but instead, he planted his feet and kicked. He soared up, up through the muddy water that clouded his sight so, and up into the light.

I


Daemona burst out through the tent flap, the unnamed sword of Valyrian Steel in her hand, and a thick, kite shield in the other.

From Ser Brynden's shouts, she had expected an attack, an attempt to take them unaware.

She had been taking a nice rest, just waiting for the… Handmaiden that had replaced her mother for the campaign, to finally come and help her with getting out of the armor.

To her, it had seemed she had been waiting for maybe half an hour, but it must have been much more, for when she burst out of the tent, the light of the sun had completely given way to the darkness of night.

Instead of the battle, or preparations for a battle she had been expecting, she instead emerged out of her tent to find… No one.

She froze. Then her head turned from side to side, expecting to find Brynden or Brandon. They were nowhere in sight.

Nor was anyone else.

The entire camp around them seemed deserted, the only thing that remained was hundreds and hundreds of torches and campfires, glowing like small, miniature sun's in the darkness.

"Brandon!? Brynden!?" She called out, but she got no response. It was as if they had completely vanished without a trace.

She swallowed, then, steeling herself, she went over to one of the other leaders' tents and opened it to peek in, all the while expecting something to happen.

Nothing did, and all she found was a big, empty tent, shrouded in darkness, as the brazier in the middle of the tent was going out, leaving only embers.

She quickly pulled her head back out to survey the rest of the camp.

The fires were still burning bright, and yet, in the depth of the darkness, she saw not one inch of movement.

Fear began to claw it's way into her. The kind of fear that only set in when you were alone, and you knew you were alone in a dark, dangerous environment.

She had felt this fear before in both her lifetimes.

Myr and the many streets of the cities of the U.S.A at night gave you this feeling if you were dumb, or desperate enough to dare walk them alone at night.

And she had been both at various points in her past.

There was one big difference then and now though.

This time, there was a sword in her hand, and her body was protected by a layer of steel.

That should have made her feel safer. It did not.

As she began walking through the camp, she began noticing that her sword was… hot. Not like it was on fire, but it was giving off heat.

It was as she contemplated the warm blade in her hand, that the clouds parted, and some light from the moon began to illuminate the world.

She looked astonished upwards. For one thing, she hadn't even realized the sky was overcast. For another, she was rather blatantly certain that the moon had NOT been anywhere close to full.

Yet above, the damn thing shone like a giant ball of silver, it's countless craters so visibly different than the ones she had grown up with the first time.

As she looked out over the plains, she was immediately struck by how the shadows refused to part beyond the camp. Like it was there the boundary of reality started.

This was all really, really unnerving. Daemona was starting to really hope this was all a dream of some kind. The hope that it was was one of the main reasons she made her way down the hill, to a specific spot near the bottom of it.

The spot where they kept the elephants.

She hadn't expected to find the elephants there, nor did she, but as she had hoped, she did find some crates. The crates and their contents did not concern her much at the moment.

The feeling that she was being watched with every step did, however, and as she walked she constantly looked over her shoulder, feeling limited in what she could see in her steel helmet.

Finally, she reached the spot she was looking for, and after sheathing her sword, and picking up and lighting an unlit torch from one of the crates, using the still very much burning, mounted torches all around the camp, she went to the crate she had been looking for.

Well, whatever was going on, she wasn't dreaming. She read the words describing the inventory of this particular crate well enough in the torchlight, which meant this was no dream, and- Behind her, something made a sound.

She whirled around, her shield arm stupidly going to her sword, except it was on the wrong side to pull it out, and she was already holding her shield with that hand.

She was about to drop her torch, and use her sword arm to draw when she froze.

Not too far from her, the torches furthest were going out. It was a pattern, and she could hear… Something moving through the camp. Something that extinguished the torches as it moved.

Then, a stench unlike any other she had ever smelled hit her nostrils. It was so overwhelming, that for a moment, she almost threw up right then, and there as she gagged. Her eyes immediately watered as she intricately stepped back, and… the torches to her right side, also began going out.

She froze… Then instinct took over, and she began running, immediately moving to the left and past the crates.

She quickly began running back towards the hill, seeing with terror that the lights all around the base were going out. Behind her, and to both her left and right, she began hearing sounds in the darkness. And that stench struck her nose from all sides, hanging in the air as she ran.

It was a scent of something dead, something that had been lying in water and rotted, and then been dragged up to be cooked over a filthy fire.

And the sounds! The sounds were not easy to make out in the darkness as she ran, but whatever it was, footsteps it was not.

More than anything, it sounded like something massive and slimy splattering it's way across the ground. Only there were many of them, so, so many.

She reached the hill and began making her way up and-The ground collapsed under her.

With a scream, she fell, fell, and fell into a void of darkness all around.

Then, she hit something, but water it was not. It was thick and heavy, and as she desperately tried to claw her way up in the darkness, her mail and plate-covered arms felt like they were wading around in mud.

Then her hand hit something. Something solid. She immediately grabbed it and pulled. Her other hand followed, and with what felt like the heaviest lift she had ever done, her head broke the surface.

She coughed and harked, as she climbed unto what she assumed was land, but whatever the liquid had been, it didn't just run off her like water, it was thick and clung to her and tasted like.

Blood. It was blood. Of course, it was blood.

She was fumbling with the chinstrap to her helmet, trying to open it so she could properly at least try and scrub some of it off her eyes, when something slammed into her from behind, knocking her to the ground, and then, while she was still disoriented, she was flipped around, so she was lying on her back.

She tried to punch whatever, or whoever it was doing this to her in the face with her gauntleted hand but found only open air.

Then, her entire body was engulfed in water. Cold water in enormous amounts, pressing over from her from above, like someone had just dumped a tub on her, only it didn't stop. It just poured and poured, keeping her locked down by the weight of the falling water, and her lungs searing then burning, and her eyes going black until she began thinking of death in her final few sparks of dwindling brain activity.

Then, it stopped. As suddenly as it had come.

This time, she didn't cough and hark, just lie there, weak and battered.

It seemed she lay there for a long time, but mayhaps it was just a few minutes.

This time, as she groggily unstrapped her helmet, nothing happened. No sudden push or twirling force took her.

Instead, she just loosened the helmet, and as she struggled to her feet, she wrenched it off and let it fall to the floor.

Her eyes finally opened again.

Yes, it was blood beneath her.

Not just red blood either.

Lots of dark red and black, dried chunks of blood were floating in it.

She really wished she wasn't familiar enough with blood to recognize what the black was so quickly.

Her head went up and looked all around. The sky was darkness. But the blood was bright and easy to see. So was what she was standing on.

She screamed as she wrenched herself to her feet.

Beneath her, was corpses. So. Many. Corpses.

She was standing on a landmass of corpses. And as her eyes darted to the sides, she could see the edge of the landmass, and the countless bodies beneath the surface stacked up, on top of each other, like a grotesque parody of an island, rising from the depths of the sea.

The bodies. So, so many bodies!

Children, old men, old women, men in their prime, women with bellies swollen with child, newborn babes.

She wretched. She fell to her knees and threw up. And then threw up again once she felt she was done. Then she threw up one, final time.

When she was done, she forced herself to her feet again. Her breath got more and more frantic as she stared down then around.

She was hyperventilating. Her mind told her to. Calm down, but fuck her mind, FUCK reason, she was standing on a mountain of the slain.

Because that's what they all were.

Killed. Butchered. Murdered.

Beneath her, was thousands, and thousands, and thousands of dead, every single one with a mortal wound.

A Spear thrust, a bullet hole, a cleaved neck, a cannon hole in the gut. Simple, clean wounds form a bayonet, and grotesque wounds from a grapeshot.

One thing that suddenly struck her as she stood there, looking out over it all, was that many, many of the dead were wearing coats of arms on their clothing. Symbols she recognized.

The red dragon of the Targaryen, the Kraken of the Greyjoys, the Lion of Lannister, the stag of Baratheon, the trout of Tully, the rose of Highgarden, and the sun of Martell. And countless other banners of those who swore them fealty.

Everyone from all over Westeros. Everyone except the North.

Why no Northmen? She wondered numbly.

Then, she finally saw him. Her earlier attacker.

He stood a way away from her, farther along the bridge of the dead.

Mayhaps some 20 Meters.

He was turned away from her and looking off into the darkness. It took a moment for her dulled brain to recognize the symbol on the back of his cloak.

A wolf. No, a direwolf. A Grey direwolf on white.

"If you look back, you are lost. You must ever keep moving forward until all your enemies are destroyed." The figure said in a calm, collected voice with a heavy Scottish accent.

Though he spoke softly, she could hear him as easily as if he had been right in front of her.

She stared at him blinking.

"Why…?" She croaked.

The figure, who she now saw was wearing a helmet of steel, neither answered nor turned at her question.

"WHY?!" She screamed at him.

"WHAT IS THE POINT OF THIS?!" She screamed at him, anger finally awakening reason in her mind again.

"THIS IS MY CONQUEST RIGHT?! MY "GLORIOUS" FUCKING CONQUEST OF WESTEROS!? WHAT THE HELL. IS THE POINT OF THIS?! WHAT COULD EVER BE WORTH ALL OF THIS?!"

The figure didn't answer at first.

Instead, he lifted a sword. A MASSIVE long sword, of grey Valyrian steel. He lifted it, as easily as a dagger, and pointed northwards.

For a moment, she wondered how she knew it was northwards, then she realized he was pointing at the pathway across the bridge of corpses.

"Because Winter Is Coming."

Then he, the corpses under them, the blood sea around them, the very black sky, all froze. She had a moment to take in the sudden chill that bit into her wet body, before it all broke, and shattered.

A snowstorm suddenly took hold and engulfed EVERYTHING in the world.

She tried to steady herself in the sudden, biting cold, powerful winds, but they battered her around as easily as if she were a doll.

Then she slammed into something. It wasn't until it gave way that she realized it was a door. A massive door.

She pushed, desperately hoping it would lead somewhere, anywhere else. She didn't care if it was the Dothraki sea, her war camp, Dorne, or wherever, just so long as it was not more burning cold!

It was not.

As she walked into the room, the cold disappeared like mist before the desert sun.

She stepped into the room, an enormous room she now saw was composed of red stone, and with a series of massive pillars flanking the sides. The howling of the wind, however, was not replaced by silence.

Instead, screams.

Her head shot up.

The entire room was absolutely brimming with people she saw. She began moving, with great haste across the room, past people, showing them out of the way, to reach the source of the screams.

A feeling of dread came over her, as she saw what was over by one side of the room, on a dais, making the monstrosity that lay there even more pronounced and taller than it had any right to be.

The throne of iron, made of tens of thousands of steel and iron blades, was an absolute monstrosity.

It was a grotesque and unpractical thing, made by someone who wanted to be glorified as the greatest and most memorable conqueror that had ever been.

One who didn't care for practicality, or other people, just himself and his legacy.

But at that moment, it wasn't the damn throne that had her attention. It was the two men beneath the throne. There, two men were being subjected to a grotesque mockery of a trial.

Brandon Stark was blue in the face as he was strangled there on the floor, with a rope anchored to the ground. But he wasn't just lying there, being choked. No, he was desperately forcing himself forward, against the bonds trying to reach a blade in front of him.

She didn't think as she showed a man in white to the side, nor did she glance over to the other man. It was too late for Rickard Stark.

Not for his son.

The Valyrian Steel blade she had taken from that nameless Tyroshi soldier cleaved through Brandon Stark's strangulation device as easily as a hot katana through butter.

The man bolted forward grasping the sword and then…

The room disintegrated into darkness. No, a dark void.

Then, slowly, it came back again.

Bits and pieces. Slowly. One detail at a time, came emerging as the shadows parted.

One pillar, one step of the dais. One bit of the Iron Throne and it's steps of swords.

Then, a sound. A footstep. One that belonged to something big. Enormous.

It came again. From the Throne Daemona realized.

It came again, and this time, she raised her sword up in a guard position, expecting a dragon to step forth from the darkness.

Yet, as the shadows began to part, what stepped forth from the Throne, was not a dragon, but a woman.

She was tall, a head taller than she was. And as she stepped down from the steps of the Iron Throne, she realized with a start that the woman was naked.

The first thing that really struck her was her build. The woman was built in a way that people of this world just were not, a result of real, proper body training, and not just the exercises that knights did to build muscle. Her height just made her build seem even more towering than it already was.

She was also remarkably stacked, with quite the bosom, but before she could really take in that fact, the woman's face came into light.

She recognized it immediately. It was her. It was older, more mature, but it was hers. The one she saw in any mirror.

The white hair was just as devoid of gold, and the dark purple eyes were the exact same shade as hers.

Her older self wore an imperious, stoic look as she stared down at her from up on the dais.

Then, in a burst of fire, she, and the entire room, was engulfed in fire and flame, that seemed to burn with a heat and power so seething warm, that daemona had to cover her face to shield her eyes until it was over.

Finally, she let the arms fall again the brightness having faded.

Leaving only the room in bright sunlight from the windows.

As she let her arm fall, she was greeted by the sight of the woman, now garbed in a fine, red silk dress, with a long cut down the side, exposing a set of legs covered by dark pants, and a set of black gloves.

Around her waist, she wore a belt with a big, massive red Ruby enclasped by gold. Around her neck was a necklace of a fine, black metal, with set rubies, and at the edge of her hands, were fine black-trimmed embroiderings.

Upon her head, sat a crown of red steel, with expectedly cut obsidians in it, everything about the crown being a direct copy of the crown of Aegon the conqueror.

Upon her chest, and in her hands were two things that momentarily confused her.

Upon her chest was a tiny, little three-headed black dragon, and in her hand was a sword that was neither the one in her own hand nor Blackfyre.

The sword was Valyrian steel, true enough, with both a ruby and draconic imagery.

Then, in another burst of flames, both sword and symbol burst alight! And out of a small set of infernos, they were replaced by something new.

Now, upon her chest was the TV show's version of the black dragon, as well as another sword. This sword she recognized. It was the Blackfyre from the dunk and eggs comics.

Both burst alight anew after a brief moment, and this time, it was both the symbol and the sword she recognized.

Then for a brief moment, the two looked each other in the eyes.

Then, behind the older woman, the Iron Throne itself burst into fire and flames. This time, however, the flames were blue. And more importantly, it spread far, beyond the throne, setting the walls, the floor, the woman in front of her alight, as Daemona backed away with great speed.

The Throne morphed, changing shape, becoming more blocklike.

Then, the woman finally spoke, as the only thing of hers that Daemona could not see was her left eye.

"Winter is coming. Remember that as you lay low your enemies."

The floor gave away and broke from the flame.

Once more, she was falling.

This time, however, it was not a void.

She SAW.

She saw a knight in white, protect a dragon that was set upon by other knights in white, and other dragons, all in red.

A dragon with corns like a crown roared at the knight. But what it roared, she could not hear. But she heard what the knight said.

"Because I remember my wows."

The knight, the dragons, everything went up in green flames.

She saw to the north. To a lagoon, where a man narrow and thin as a scarecrow, with a long, and narrow curved mustache, was readying for dreams of war and conquest.

She saw further north, beyond the city in the lagoon. To a wall of ice at the end of the world. She saw a man with white skin, and white hair, with only one eye, who was growing into the ground. She felt it, as he was startled by her coming.

She felt what was beyond him, and felt their startled thought as well.

She pulled back, back to where she was.

Below her, she saw Tyrosh in all it's wealth, and splendor, and terribleness.

Then… for a brief glimpse, she saw something more. Something that had been. Something that had been destroyed long, long ago.

She felt something try to pick at her forehead. Then more. Then it felt like something was trying to drill a hole in her forehead.

She screamed.

Then she cleaved with the sword she still held in her hand. The nameless blade forged in Valyria so long ago.

She heard something scream.

I


When she woke up, Daemona felt… Like. Complete and utter shit. Like she'd gotten drunk, then began to sober up, only go drinking again. While sick with a fever.

Her entire body felt like it had been beaten, every inch feeling like someone had recently taken a mallet to it.

The first thing she noticed, as she finally managed to form conscious thoughts, was that her helmet was on.

Strange. She could have sworn she had discarded it... Somewhere.

As she forced herself to her feet, she was still gripping her sword in a death grip, though as she tried to do the same to her shield, she quickly realized it just wasn't there.

She forced herself up on her feet. Then looked around.

She was in a MASSIVE underground chamber, at least a mile across.

The chamber was helpfully lit up by large holes above, letting in sunlight.

It was filled, wall to wall, with human bones.

Thousands, and thousands of them. Tens of thousands of all sizes.

She almost threw up again, but this time, nothing came up, no matter how she wretched.

Instead, she eventually got to her feet, very, very slowly, and carefully. Being very deliberate where she put her hands and feet.

The bones were so brittle, they disintegrated the moment she touched them. They had been here a LOOOONG time.

As she got to her feet, she looked around. She quickly realized two things.

One was that on one edge of the room was a set of stairs carved into the ground, and judging by the light behind it, there was an entrance at the top.

The second was that there was something carved into the wall on the opposite end of the corner. Something massive, and red.

Every inch of her brain screamed at her to just go directly to the stairs, but something else, something more primal, urged her to go there instead. To look at what had been written into the wall.

And so, she did.

The bones beneath her feet. Turned to nothing with every step, until she finally reached the edge of the room, numb into her bones.

What she had seen, carved into a flat, stone surface, as a relatively simple cave painting.

It showcased a very primitively drawn axe, or mayhaps a hammer of some kind. It had a large side on one side, and a small stub on the other, on top of a long shaft.

Out from the axe… hammer… of from the head, a giant spiral pattern composed of hundreds, and hundreds of dots. Or at least that was what she thought at first. When she looked closer, she realized that every single one of the dots was a handprint.

Handprints of people with four fingers, and far more narrow fingertips than any human.

She didn't need to be reminded of the show's white walker spiral art, to realize who had made these.

It had been children of the forest. They had made these, long, LONG ago. Probably back when this place had been the arm of Dorne and not just an island in the narrow sea.

Why she did not know.

Near the bottom of the painting, on a small, crude altar, was a head, wearing a crown, of black metal.

She was not fool enough to try and take it.

There had been spilled King's blood here once. Along with the blood of tens of thousands of humans.

A ritual had taken place here. But what that had been for, only those whose hands had left a mark in the wall could have answered.

She most certainly was not in any mental form to try and figure it out.

As she reached steps, she found her shield again, lying discarded on the ground, alongside a now dead torch.

She hefted it back on her arm but left the torch.

She did not look back out over the room of bones. Instead stepping out, into the beautiful sunrise.

The camp was filled with people, thank God.

Some of them were only now beginning to wake, but most of them had been up and about for a while now she could tell.

She could also tell by their expressions that she was not the only one who had had a bad night.

Far too many looked shell-shocked. Some had taken off their shirts and armor and were checking out their own bodies, looking extremely concerned.

None either greeted her, nor gave much heed as she walked past them, and began the trek up the hillside.

Here and there she saw a more depressing, and worrying sign.

Men who had wounds.

Gunshot wounds it looked like.

At least two were cradled by other, weeping men.

She had a sinking feeling that a lot of friendly fire had happened tonight. An idea only strengthened as she found Brynden outside of her tent, having rammed his Valyrian steel blade through one of the squires.

The knight of house Mudd was unconscious as she stepped up to him.

She kicked him. Hard.

That got him up quick enough.

It took a moment before he screamed though, and in that time she had kicked Manderly awake as well.

"What! What-What happened?!" The knight cried out, as he wrenched the brown sword out of the long-dead squire. As he staggered to his feet, he stared horrified down at the lad, who couldn't be older than 14.

"Bad things in the night." She simply replied.

It wasn't before she actually talked, that she realized just how dry her voice was. Goddamn, she was parched.

"In any case, I've got a job for you two." She said, not in the most gentle of tones. As she said it, Manderly staggered to his feet, and for some reason, his hand went up to his right eye, pawing at it, as if afraid it was no longer there.

"I want you two to find out how many died in the night. Also, spread the word that everyone who died here died as heroes, as a result of the wounds they got from yesterday's battle. We will be taking them and burying them later. But not here. Far, from here."

It was probably not a kind way to treat a man who had just accidentally slew a comrade in arms, but at that moment Daemona was far, far too tired to care. Also, she wanted to get away from this place, as quickly as humanly possible.

As she waited for the report to come in, she drank half a bottle of wine, and suddenly realized that her stupid sword had turned red, white, and blue.

Valyrian steel swords sometimes had an additional color, that had either been an accident, or intentional, but her sword had been a regular Grey.

Now, the damn thing had a red blade, with white crossguard, and blue hilt.

It looked stupid as the seven hells, and it took a minute or two longer than it should have, to realize that it now matched the color of the US flag. That did not do much to lighten her mood.

The sword that needed reforging had remained it's old color, but both Manderly and Mudd's blade had changed colors as well, both of them matching their house sigils.

In the end, they had 78 dead.

None who had been wounded had survived their wounds, all of them bleeding to death, but of those 78, 9 had disappeared completely.

She had not managed to find the entrance to the cave again to check if they were there(It had seemingly vanished completely.), so she had assumed she would simply never learn what happened to them.

Alas, she did learn eventually.

As it turned out, some of her men had managed to escape the darkness that had set upon the hills, by simply running away from it, and beyond the darkness at the edge of camp.

Those who had vanished completely were the gallant fools who had tried to return to camp to help their comrades.

Those who had not had only been able to report that there had been horrible, horrible screams in the night beyond the shadows.

As the army marched out two hours later, it was with a speed that dwarfed any Daemona had ever seen of any army. Forced march or otherwise. They didn't stop until 4 hours later when they buried their dead comrades as well as ate and drank.

Then they marched three hours more before making camp, all without any complaints.

It was as far as she was willing to march before she got a further update from her scouts.

That night, however, was a quiet one, with many, many worried men and 3 times more guards than had been necessary, but no attack came. Neither did anyone more die.

That was for the future.

Winter was coming. She mused bitterly.

She had sometimes wondered WHY she had ended up here. When she wasn't busy trying to actually survive. Of course, the actual answer was simple. She was here because half a century from now, the world was threatened by foes set on exterminating human life from this world.