"Robb Stark has taken Harrenhal, allowing his forces to point a dagger directly at our heart," Kevan Lannister announced. "With the Knights of the Vale officially declaring him King, they outnumber us in the field. It will take time to muster enough sellswords to match them."
"What are our best estimates for their forces in the field?" Matthew questioned, having been trapped in a Small Council meeting for hours. "And I would like to know how much longer it will take to rebuild the city."
"According to my spies, Stark now has forty-five thousand, not counting those who returned North to fight the Ironborn," Tywin informed. "Your Grace, I worry that you are taking this threat too lightly. We won a great victory, but the war is far from done."
"Something we're all guilty of," Matthew pointed out. "Didn't you assume Stark to be a green boy ready to flee after his first loss?" Tywin scowled at Tyrion, assuming his hated son to be the source of Matthew's information. "The same was said of you once. Now his blunder regarding Theon has cost him, though not enough to remove him as a threat."
"It will take months before we can raise a new host in the Westerlands, allowing them to burn and pillage at will," Kevan looked through the reports. "The Riverlands are eager for the opportunity at revenge and the Blackfish is a capable commander."
"For this reason, I recommend a marriage between yourself and Margaery Tyrell," Tywin narrowed his arms. "We are outnumbered and need the strength of Highgarden."
"I'm concerned about what sort of message that will send," Matthew reminded. "If we bring them into the fold after they attempted to put a puppet ruler on the throne, what will the rest of the realm think?" We lose a battle, the Tyrells will make another attempt on us.
"Already the first of the ransoms are being paid, allowing us more than enough funds to repair what Renly damaged. Four Kingdoms are rebelling against us, and we need allies."
"Allies that will stab us in the back at the first opportunity. Even with Mace's three children hostage, one solid defeat will undo all our efforts. Winter is coming, as the Starks like to say, and they won't be able to stay so far from home long."
"An uncertain ally is better than fighting alone."
"There are worse fates than having Margaery Tyrell in your bed," Tyrion quipped, speaking up for one of the few times since the meeting started. He'd spent most of his time alternating between glaring at his father and staring at the wall, instead of the quips Matthew was accustomed to.
"Your Grace, when your enemies bend the knee, you must help them back to their feet," Tywin instructed. "Else no man will ever bend the knee to you. If forced to fight to the death, they can and will inflict great harm before they are finished."
"I will consider it and the money coming in will help us in any event," Matthew conceded. "However, they could just as easily poison me at my wedding and put the blame elsewhere, having our family collapse into infighting."
"We have few options, Your Grace. Your gamble with Dorne is a dangerous one. Doran Martell will not send his troops North, even if he does agree to your terms."
"I'm considering more long-term plans, ones I don't want the Martells interfering with." Matthew knew it might not work, but unlike the others, knew what was waiting for them across the Narrow Sea. "Would you propose a match between myself and Margaery. While it holds a superficial appeal, I would consider that tantamount to surrender."
"They will want major concessions if an alliance is possible."
"Then how about Jaime? Release him from the Kingsguard, and suggest a match between him and Margaery. It'll put an end to the false rumors about my parentage once and for all." On that at least, Matthew enjoyed inflicting a bit of torment on Joffrey as payback for dealing with him in his dreams every night.
"We first need to ensure he escapes Stark captivity alive," Tyrion warned. "Given your actions at Harrenhal, his men may butcher him." Tywin's face went red at the thought.
"Were it not for your incompetence, Jaime would already have been freed," Tywin fumed.
"One thing at a time." Matthew interjected before it could turn vicious between them. "It doesn't have to be immediate, but dangling the prospect to Mace will at least convince him to hold off on any possible Stark alliances. Besides, knowing you as I do, I'm certain you have other ways to get him freed."
"Perhaps," was all Tywin was willing to concede. "Kevan, I need a competent commander in charge of our defenses. Therefore, I am returning you to Casterly Rock to bring down Stark's raiders at all costs."
"I am at your command, brother," Kevan agreed. "I will leave on the morrow."
"Let us not forget the Stark words: Winter Is Coming," Matthew recited. "According to my last conversation with Pycelle, the South Star has disappeared. This means winter will be arriving shortly, and perhaps has arrived already." Having two different calendars was a little confusing to Matthew, but he'd learned to work within it. "The North will be far more affected by winter than us, as we have access to the Reach and the Free Cities."
"That does nothing to stop him from plundering the Westerlands. Famine is already likely once winter is here."
"Victories are not always quick. Is he going to have the strength to take King's Landing? You know the capabilities of your bannermen better than I do."
It took Tywin several minutes to answer. "Not in the short-term, no. Tyrion's tribesmen can force the Vale knights to keep most of their strength within their territory. Stark has yet to lose a battle, but there are other ways to win a war. However, we cannot take the possibility lightly. Unlike Renly, he will know better than the storm the city."
"So we allow disease and famine to run its course. I'm fairly certain Robb wishes to bait your bannermen into departing from the capital to defend their lands. Have you heard such mutterings?"
"I have, but no one would disobey my orders."
"Some of the damage will be unavoidable. When winter comes, we will be reliant on imports. However, that is an option we have that Stark does not. If I remember my history lessons correctly, warfare is difficult and rare in the winter years."
"Correct, but not unheard of." The more times Matthew spent reading up Westeros' history, the more liberties he found that the author took with it.
"So what we're likely to end up with is a war of attrition." Once Mance Rayder begins assaulting the Wall, Robb will have to pull back more of his troops.
"Perhaps," Tywin considered.
"Do we have any further news about Daenerys' whereabouts? Without a Master of Whisperers, intelligence is proving difficult." Trying to remember: is Ser Friendzone still spying on Daenerys for us?
"Last I heard, she has just departed Qarth. Without her Dothraki husband, Daenerys is no threat to us."
"I expect to be appraised of any changes."
Tywin turned to his son and brother. "Leave us. I wish to speak to the King alone." Both complied without a word, though Tyrion took the opportunity to cast a final hateful glare toward his father.
"What do you need, Grandfather?" Matthew told himself not to squirm. He could still firm in the face of Tywin Lannister, but it was still not an easy task.
"I've looked over the designs you used in the defense of the city. I am most curious as to how you developed them."
"When we were in imminent danger, I looked around for anything to give me an edge in the coming battle. Braavos was willing to assist for the right price, I had a few ideas, and it turned out to be a success."
"Yes." Tywin gave Matthew his most potent stare. "They tried to obtain funding from me a decade ago, during the Greyjoy Rebellion. The tubes were useless, the powder weak, inferior to trebuchets, and more dangerous to their operators than anyone else. How did you provide solutions so quickly?"
"Most of the work was already done. I merely provided a few suggestions." Matthew knew he was a bad liar, not a trait that functioned well for Westeros.
"A few suggestions? This is a completely new weapon, one with enormous implications for the future. You're telling me you alone were able to add a different metal, different design, a method of increasing the force of this powder, along with their mobility."
"I never claimed to do it on my own." Matthew evaded, briefly breaking eye contact before reminding himself not to look weak.
Tywin hmphed, not believing his words for a moment. "I promise you, Joffrey, I will find out what you are concealing from me." He followed his brother and son out the Small Council chamber.
Matthew let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Shit. If Tyrion could discover the truth, odds were good Tywin would put everything together as well. And then what am I going to do?
Before his next duty, Matthew mounted his horse, deciding to see how progress was going. The smell of the city barely affected his nose now, human and horse excrement now merely part of the landscape. "All hail King Joffrey! Hail to the King!" Smallfolk scattered and cheered as he passed by. Not all greeted Matthew with such jubilation, but a good many.
To think not long ago, these people wanted me dead. And all it took was saving their entire city to win them over. Matthew observed those around him, both searching for possible assassination attempts and to witness improvements in their health.
Prices of food had fallen, although they were still higher than before the war broke out. Fewer beggars on the street, more smallfolk with full bellies. A few smallfolk still cursed Matthew, but he ignored them.
Prisoners who worked on tunnels in the center of the streets threw hateful glares at him, but said nothing. Already urine and excrement were falling into them, allowing the rest of the streets to be clearer. Once these tunnels are done, King's Landing ought to be a bit cleaner. It wasn't nearly as good as a proper sewer system, but was still an important step toward modernization. Matthew eyed them, having chosen locations where the waste would flow out into Blackwater Bay.
Gaps on the walls were still visible despite efforts to repair them. Gold cloaks patrolled the street, watching Matthew with weariness, not wishing to be executed for corruption.
The line of brothels caught his eyes, Matthew making sure his presence was known. Tempting as it was to visit Alayaya again, it would have to wait for another time.
Matthew's horse stepped into puddles of human urine as they entered Flea Bottom. His Kingsguard scowled, worried about his safety in such a dangerous area.
God, this place is a hellhole. Unlike much of the city, its filth, danger, and decaying homes witnessed no improvement. Perhaps some of the money he obtained could be used to assist. Course, if it's anything like projects back on Earth, there may be little point.
"All right, I've seen enough," Matthew decided after an hour. "Can't expect everything to be repaired overnight." With an overwhelming feeling of relief, he galloped back to the Red Keep, nearly trampling over a mother and child who were too slow to get out of the way.
Tycho Nestoris waited for him just outside, punctual as always. "I trust everything is going well, Your Grace." He gave a slight bow.
"Well as can be expected," Matthew responded. "If you would follow me. . ." He dismounted, marching towards the catacombs of the Red Keep. "I hope we have been able to increase production."
"Slightly, Your Grace. It will likely take years before we can produce these in significant numbers." Torchlight dimmed with each step, Matthew moving carefully to avoid tripping over his own feet.
"I hope you will be able to construct my new design as well." Matthew handed him a piece of paper. "Similar, so I believe it is possible."
"You are asking quite a lot of us, Your Grace," Tycho looked the paper over. "These weapons are neither easy nor cheap to construct."
"I didn't ask how much it cost; I asked if it can be built." Matthew interrupted. He'd hoped to start building muskets by now, but circumstances had prevented it.
"Yes, I have every confidence that such a design is possible." Tycho nodded, looking over Matthew's latest idea. Rather than a straight shot, it was designed to fire iron balls into the air. Matthew wasn't sure whether the proper name was a mortar or howitzer, but it didn't matter much to him. "However, I am curious as to why. They appear to be of limited field use, so who do you intend to use them against?"
"Dragons; I'd like to see Daenerys' beasts survive one of these babies." Matthew placed his hand against the cannon he'd ordered placed inside with a slight laugh. Six-pounders were all he had currently, though it would change in a couple weeks.
"Your Grace, you mean to use them against. . ."
"Sooner or later, Daenerys will cross these shores and try to take back her father's throne. I don't intend to let that happen and since scorpions require a lucky shot to cause serious damage, I'm going to try something new. They might be small now, but that will change."
"Your Grace, I don't believe young Daenerys will be returning to a continent she possesses no memory of." Barristan pointed out, hesitant to kill a young girl. Matthew kept him and Balon around at all times, preferring their company to most others. "Perhaps it is best to focus on your current enemies."
"Most interesting to hear you say that, Your Grace." Tycho responded as the cannon was carefully set down from the drop. Not that Matthew expected serious damage, but he wasn't going to take unnecessary chances.
"And why is that?" Matthew paid more attention to the dragon skulls and bones surrounding the room. God, imagine facing one of these on the field. They varied in size, but even the smaller ones had a head the size of Matthew's body.
"The Free Cities have been stockpiling dragon eggs since the news of their return in this world," Tycho informed.
"I've heard nothing about this." I need a new Master of Whisperers. Matthew clutched his Warhammer, wondering if this was one of Varys' hiding places. He'd had little luck locating the secret passageways with what little time he could spare trying to find them, and ordering others to do so would give the game away.
"They seem to believe that if she could hatch three dragons, other eggs will hatch as well. Particularly Volantis, as they still possess strong Valyrian ancestry."
"And the city with the greatest population of slaves," Matthew added, knowing it was a sore spot for the Braavosi. "Considering Jaehaerys threatened to burn your city down if any eggs did hatch, it's at least possible they'll succeed. All the more reason to find out if these things work."
Holy Mother of God! Matthew stopped dead at the sight of Balerion's skull. The claims Balerion could swallow a mammoth whole were something of an exaggeration. Looking upon the mount of Aegon the Conqueror, Matthew discovered they weren't much of an exaggeration.
He must have been the size of a jumbo jet, judging from the size of the skull in comparison to the rest of his body. Matthew felt his muscles seize up at the mere sight of his skull. He could only imagine how Westeros felt having to fight such creatures in the field.
"This looks like the perfect target." Matthew nodded his assent, watching the operators set the cannon up at the opposite side of the room, kicking stones aside. "Everyone plug your ears as much as you can." In a confined space, he knew it wouldn't do to muffle the noise.
Matthew studied the cannon being loaded, his mind forming anti-dragon tactics. Looking at Westerosi history, he was astonished no one had bothered to try anything but shooting scorpions into the air and hoping for the best. "I'll have to do better than that," he muttered. Barristan and Balon looked at him, but he did not elaborate.
Everyone not operating the cannon moved as far away as they could from the danger zone. Matthew braced himself for the sound, hoping the test would be a successful one.
Balerion's snout shattered into a hundred pieces, flying bits of bone putting Matthew's entourage into more danger than the cannon had. He stepped closer to get a detailed look at the damage.
Most impressive, and more than I expected. Matthew stared at the skeleton, now deprived of many of its teeth. The cannonball hadn't quite destroyed the optical bones, but definite cracks were visible.
"All right, the good news is we know this will work better than a scorpion, but let's keep this in context. When the time comes, we're not going to be shooting at a 200-year-old skull. We've got to hit a moving target in the air."
"Certainly the dragons, provided your prediction is correct, will not be anywhere near this size," Tycho commented, his hearing not yet recovered from the blast.
"Best to prepare for the worst-case scenario," Matthew instructed. "Despite its limitations, we did pass the first test." Now I need to know the ranges of dragonfire. Expect it would vary based on the age and strength of the dragon, along with wind conditions, flight speed, etc. He doubted the Targaryens recorded them in any detail, not wanting their enemies to devise any effective counters.
"Tell them to build faster or else you'll begin cutting their hands off! Enough of these, and I'll be invincible!"
I could have done without listening to you in my head.
"Your Grace, I understand your concerns, but her dragons will not be able to fight for some years yet," Balon reminded. "You have current enemies to fight. Perhaps best to focus on them."
"These will serve just as well against Robb," Matthew pointed out. With the Vale joining him, Stark had three Kingdoms backing him. All he had was the Westerlands and part of the Stormlands. He turned to Tycho and asked: "Has Braavos made progress with my designs?"
"We have, though how you discovered so many is a subject of curiosity," Tycho admitted. "You have more than proven you can back up your claims."
"Good, because there's plenty more I'd like to implement," Matthew laughed. He didn't have time to experiment with all of them, so military designs came first.
We'll beat Daenerys when the time comes. And whoever lies in wait beyond the Wall. Matthew no longer had to fake his confidence.
"And Westeros will be ours!" Joffrey laughed. The prospect sounded. . . better than Matthew would have liked.
XXXXXXXXXX
Where am I? Daenerys questioned, the torch providing her only just enough light to see her way around. She listened intently for her dragons' cries, desperate to save her children.
That being said, she was certain following Pyat Pree wasn't a smart thing to do. "What are you showing me?" Daenerys demanded.
Pyat turned around with a small smile on his face. "Follow me and find out if you wish to see your dragons again." His laugh was inhuman, chilling her to the bone.
Daenerys' heart full of dread, turning around to find the exit, only to learn it had disappeared. If I look back, I am lost. She could not abandon her dragons to whatever they had in mind for them.
Sounds came from each of the doors, Pyat disappearing around the corner. Daenerys rushed to follow him, but found nothing. "Sorcery," she mouthed. There was no other explanation.
I'll rescue my children. Daenerys promised herself. No matter what it took. She pushed against one of the doors, finding that it gave instantly. A silver-haired man held his small wife, keeping his grip gentle to avoid hurting her.
"We can have a third child," the woman pleaded with him.
"You barely survived the last birth," The man shook his head. "I can't put you through that again. This requires three."
"Why do you care so much about that damned prophecy?" She snapped, Daenerys having the distinct impression the couple had gone through this before.
"I know what's about to happen; the three heads of the dragon." He pleaded with her. "And I'm sorry. I know you aren't happy with. . .
"I don't understand you half the time." She gave a sad look. "But you don't have to. . ." The scene ended, the door slamming before Daenerys could make out anything else.
She continued down the hallway, tempted to see what the other doors held. Yet only her children interested her now. I am the blood of the dragon. A pair of giant bronze doors appeared at the end of the hallway, their cries echoing through Daenerys' ears. Her eyes transfixed on the doors, knowing how close she was to reuniting with them.
"Not that door; stay away!" Pyat demanded. "If you wish to see, follow me." Daenerys could not tell where the voice was coming from but refused to listen to a word he said.
The bronze doors were easily four times taller than her, Daenerys only just able to reach the hinges. However, the door opened far more easily than its size would suggest.
Her torch allowing a clear view, Daenerys looked upon the sight with awed eyes. The room was. . . familiar in a way. Dust covered the floor, with shattered pillars and large gaps in the ceiling.
But it was the center she was interested in. Could that be? Daenerys had been told the Iron Throne was cast from 1,000 swords. Studying the chair carefully, it wasn't nearly that size, but impressive nonetheless.
What happened here? The dust or snow was deep enough for Daenerys' feet to leave deep footprints. She gravitated toward the Iron Throne, awed in its presence despite knowing none of this was real.
Her birthright. The throne stolen from her family by the Usurper. Viserys often spoke of it, back when he was still kind to her. Daenerys cautiously touched it, her hand brushing against one of the arms. It felt. . . warm, inviting, like it was made for her. "Maybe it'll let me. . ." She considered, climbing onto the throne and sitting herself upon it. Daenerys felt a rush of power at the action, as if it was made for her. It's rightfully mine, after all. And when the time came, Daenerys intended to take it back.
Daenerys thumped her fingers against the throne, already imagining what she could do as queen. She'd seen many injustices in her young life and once the Throne was hers, they could be corrected.
Shadows appeared in front of the throne, Daenerys telling herself not to fall for any tricks. Her eyes felt a sharp flash of light, taking a moment to recover from the onslaught.
When Daenerys could see again, she witnessed a large number of men and women, covered in scars and blood. A few of them were missing limbs, but all focused their attention on her.
"All hail Daenerys, mother of dragons!" They called out, bowing before her and chanting. Daenerys stared at them, enjoying their admiration yet frowning her lips at their injuries.
"Is there. . . anything I can do?" She whispered. Their injuries were far beyond Daenerys' ability to treat, but she would try nonetheless.
No sooner did Daenerys remove herself from the Iron Throne than the scene changed. She fell to her hands and knees, praying that she would not be trapped inside forever. When the scene changed, Daenerys stared at another group of smallfolk, frightened and haunted. Why am I seeing this? There was nothing she could do to help, however much Daenerys wished otherwise.
At their center was a dark-skinned man, offering them gentle words and healing for those who required it. Daenerys gave a relieved sigh, grateful that someone could offer them comfort.
As she approached, Daenerys spotted a string in the back of the dark-skinned man's neck, going up into the sky. She paused, unable to explain such a strange sight, wondering what game the warlocks were playing.
Yet Daenerys could not bring herself to ignore their plight. She was determined to assist them, real or not. When she looked down at a young child begging for food, the previously friendly man snarled at her. Daenerys jumped back, startled at such hostility.
The man grabbed a hammer, swinging at her in incoherent rage. Daenerys dodged the first strike, but tripped over her own feet just before the second. He stared at her with cold hatred, determined to end her life.
I am the blood of the dragon. Daenerys repeated. She would never be that frightened girl again. However, her eyes closed, body braced for what would surely be a terrible wound.
A clang made her shudder, daring to see why she had not yet perished. A silver sword deflected the man's blows, forcing him to retreat. "Thank you, my. . ." Daenerys lost her voice at the sight of him. He was a man. . . and yet not one. The left side of his body was consumed by fire, the right side by ice.
He turned his head, lips curling with worry. "Daenerys. . . you need to leave before its too late."
How does he know my name? Daenerys wondered, but she knew better than to stay around. I've been lured into a trap. I should have known! She pulled on the doors with all her might, praying they were still willing to budge. Daenerys rushed out as soon as the gap was large enough, leaving those who wished to harm her trapped behind.
Now what? Daenerys had dropped her torch in the struggle, forcing her to continue blind. She listened intently for the dragon's cries, her love the only thing keeping her from trying to flee.
Daenerys stuck her arms out, feeling around the corridor, looking back every few seconds to make sure those inside the great room did not follow. Her heart felt ready to rip itself out of her chest, knowing each step could be her last.
I should never have agreed to go alone. Daenerys swore she would find a way out and repay the Thirteen for their treason. Her dragon's cries echoed in the distance. Heedless of her safety, Daenerys sprinted toward them, ignoring the part of her brain warning that it was another trap.
Like the previous doors, the black and green ones were easily opened. In the center of the room lay Drogon, Rheagal, and Viserion. Daenerys expressed a single tear, overjoyed to find her children. They're growing so big already. Drogon was nearly her size, perking up at the sight of his mother. Viserion and Rheagal were slightly smaller but no less eager to see Daenerys.
She struggled with the cage doors, looking over the lock. Char marks were visible on it, weakening the chains slightly, but not enough to where Daenerys could successfully pry them apart.
"Hello, mother of dragons." Voices echoed, the chamber lighting up with torches. Surrounding Daenerys were several men and women of various ages.
"Release me and my dragons at once!" Daenerys demanded.
"Oh, I'm afraid I can't allow that," Pyat Pree shook his head. "I've been waiting for such an opportunity for so long."
"Why have you done this? What do you want with my children?"
"Children. . . children. . ." The voices repeated, Daenerys unsure whether they were real or not.
"I see many things, mother of dragons." Pyat continued. "Many futures, futures I will not allow. This chamber is where you must remain. . . forever."
NO! Daenerys charged Pyat, only to be held back by some invisible force. She felt herself crash to her hands and knees, muscles refusing to obey her commands.
"Pathetic; how could you have ever believed you would accomplish anything?" Pyat laughed. "Welcome to your new home, Daenerys Targaryen."
At those words, Drogon burned the lock on the cage, bashing his body against it, heedless of the injuries it inflicted. Roaring, desperate, the cage door finally gave way. Pyat attempted to flee, but Drogon launched the largest column of flames he had yet managed. Viserion shrieked, taking bites out of the man's flesh. Rheagal made no sound at all, a second stream of fire the only indication of his actions.
His screams could only just be heard through the flames, Pyat's body collapsing after a few moments. Drogon roared in triumph, Viserion and Rheagal surrounding Daenerys.
The men and women around them did not so much as move a muscle. "Three treasons you will know. . . once for blood. . . once for gold. . . and once for love."
Viserys died in a pool of molten gold. Daenerys witnessed a massive young man strike down his silver-haired opponent with a Warhammer. A feeble man with a beard down to his knees spoke to those beside him: "Burn them all!" The knight in silver armor shoved his sword in the man's back before cutting down those who attempted to get away.
Faster and faster the visions came, Daenerys' mind having no time to deduce their meaning.
Two dragons circling each other, one black, one blue, fighting to the death. . .
Two identical women staring at Daenerys; the first with a smile angelic and inviting, the second cruel and hateful. . .
A great stone beast taking flight from a smoking tower. . .
Thousands of bloodstained hands raised, calling: "Mother! Mother!. . .
A group of dragons in a circle consumed by a cloud of smoke. . .
A creature made of ice standing on a giant wall. . .
Sounds of innocents burning alive, with the sobs of those who watched. . .
Daenerys fled, unable to endure any more. Her dragons followed, ready to slaughter anyone who dared try to stop them.