Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of George R. R. Matin, Bantam House Publishing, and HBO. The Lost Regiment series and its characters are likewise the property of William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. I'm not making any money of their use so instead of suing me, go sue HBO, Seth Rogan, Sarah Silverman, and everyone associated with that piece of s**t called Santa. Inc!

Author's Note: I know it's been a long time. My computer died on me, I had to get it fixed, and it erased my files. I had to rewrite the entire chapter, after taking care of more important things. And then I got blocked on the conversation between Kathleen and Cersei.

Jack

Jack was learning from Ser Kyle, one of the knights who'd attacked the Colonel and the others back at Winterfell, how best to deliver a sidestroke when the new recruit entered the practice yard. "Your feet should be farther apart," the disgraced knight urged. "You don't want to lose your balance. That's good. Now pivot as you deliver the stroke, get all your weight behind the blade. "

Charlie Baxter, who'd just got the stuffing knocked out of him by another knight, interrupted Fredericks' thoughts. "Good God Almighty," he murmured. "Would you look at this, Jack. "

Fredericks turned. Through the eye slit of his helm, he beheld the fattest boy he had ever seen standing in the door of the armory. By the look of him, he must have weighed twenty stone. The fur collar of his embroidered surcoat was lost beneath his chins. Pale eyes moved nervously in a great round moon of a face, and plump sweaty fingers wiped themselves on the velvet of his doublet. "They . . . they told me I was to come here for . . . for training," he said to no one in particular.

"A lordling," Pyp, one of the locals whom the exiled Yankees were getting to know, observed to Jack. "Southron, most like near Highgarden. " Jack Fredericks had no idea what or where Highgarden was but Pyp had claimed to have traveled the Seven Kingdoms with a group of traveling actors and bragged that he could tell what you were and where you had been born just from the sound of your voice. There was no way to prove him a liar, so Jack decided to believe him.

A striding huntsman had been worked in scarlet thread upon the breast of the fat boy's fur-trimmed surcoat. That meant nothing to Jack but he decided it meant Pyp knew what he was talking about; in a medieval society like this it was reasonable to assume someone with a coat of arms on their clothes came from an important family.

Ser Alliser Thorne looked over his new charge and said, "It would seem they have run short of poachers and thieves down south. Now they send us pigs to man the Wall. Is fur and velvet your notion of armor, my Lord of Ham?"

It was soon revealed that the recruit had brought his own armor with him; padded doublet, boiled leather, mail and plate and helm, even a great wood-and-leather shield blazoned with the same striding huntsman he wore on his surcoat. As none of it was black, however, Ser Alliser insisted that he reequip himself from the armory. That took half the morning. His girth required Donal Noye the Watch's chief armorer, to take apart a mail hauberk and refit it with leather panels at the sides. To get a helm over his head the armorer had to detach the visor. His leathers bound so tightly around his legs and under his arms that he could scarcely move. Dressed for battle, the new boy looked like an overcooked sausage about to burst its skin. "Let us hope you are not as inept as you look," Ser Alliser said. "Halder, see what Ser Piggy can do. "

Jack Fredericks winced. Halder had been born in a quarry and apprenticed as a stonemason. He was sixteen, tall and muscular, and his blows were as hard as any Jack had ever felt. "This will be uglier than a whore's ass," Pyp muttered, and it was.

The 'fight' lasted less than a minute before the fat boy was on the ground, his whole body shaking as blood leaked through his shattered helm and between his pudgy fingers. "I yield," he shrilled. "No more, I yield, don't hit me. " Rast, Hinson, and some of the other boys were laughing.

Even then, Ser Alliser would not call an end. "On your feet, Ser Piggy," he called. "Pick up your sword. " When the boy continued to cling to the ground, Thorne gestured to Halder. "Hit him with the flat of your blade until he finds his feet. " Halder delivered a tentative smack to his foe's upraised cheeks. "You can hit harder than that," Thorne taunted. Halder took hold of his longsword with both hands and brought it down so hard the blow split leather, even on the flat. The new boy screeched in pain.

Something in Jack Fredericks stirred. In his old life he'd been a drunkard, a petty thief, a brawler and a whoremonger. He'd never been a bully; he didn't care for beating on someone who couldn't defend himself-although whenever he'd seen it happen, he'd look the other way. This time, however, he took a step forward.

Charlie laid a mailed hand on his arm. "Jack, no," the youngest of the Yankee exiles whispered with an anxious glance at Ser Alliser Thorne.

"On your feet," Thorne repeated. The fat boy struggled to rise, slipped, and fell heavily again. "Ser Piggy is starting to grasp the notion," Ser Alliser observed. "Again. "

Halder lifted the sword for another blow. "Cut us off a ham!" Rast urged, laughing.

Dale Hinson was standing right next to Rast. "Or some bacon!" he added with his cackling laugh.

Jack shook off Charlie's hand. "Halder, enough. "

Halder looked to Ser Alliser.

"The Blue-Legs speaks and the peasants tremble," the master-at-arms said in that sharp, cold voice of his. "I remind you that I am the master-at-arms here, Blue-Legs. "

"Look at him, Halder," Jack urged, ignoring Thorne as best he could. "He's beaten; there's no need to hurt him anymore. He gave up." He knelt beside the fat boy.

Halder lowered his sword. "He yielded," he echoed.

Ser Alliser's onyx eyes were fixed on Jack Fredericks. "It would seem our Blue-Legs is in love," he said as Jack helped the fat boy to his feet. "Show me your steel, Lord Blue-Legs. "

Jack drew his own dull practice-sword. He dared defy Ser Alliser only to a point, and he feared he was well beyond it now.

Thorne smiled. "The Blue-Legs wishes to defend his lady love, so we shall make an exercise of it. Rat, you other Blue-Legs, help our Stone Head here. " Rast and Hinson moved to join Halder. "Three of you ought to be sufficient to make Lady Piggy squeal. All you need do is get past the Blue-Legs. "

"Stay behind me," Fredericks said to the fat boy. Ser Alliser before had sent two foes against the better pupils like him, but never three. Sometimes he'd won against two, most of the time he'd had his ass handed to him. He knew he would likely go to sleep bruised and bloody tonight. He braced himself for the assault.

Suddenly Charlie was beside him. "Two to three will make for better sport," the small boy said cheerfully. He dropped his visor and slid out his sword. Before Jack could even think to protest, Captain Kindred had stepped up to make a third.

The yard had grown deathly quiet. Jack could feel Ser Alliser's eyes. "Why are you waiting?" he asked Rast and the others in a voice gone deceptively soft, but it was Jack who moved first. Halder barely got his sword up in time.

Jack drove him backward, attacking with every blow, keeping the older boy on the heels. Jack knew Halder, brutally strong but short of patience, with no taste for defense. Frustrate him, and he would leave himself open, as certain as the sun set in the east-in this world as much as the one he was born on.

The clang of steel echoed through the yard as the others joined battle around him. Jack blocked a savage cut at his head, the shock of impact running up his arm as the swords crashed together. He slammed a sidestroke into Halder's ribs and was rewarded with a muffled grunt of pain. The counterstroke caught Jack on the shoulder. Chainmail crunched, and pain flared up his neck, but for an instant Halder was unbalanced. Jack cut his left leg from under him, and he fell with a curse and a crash.

Captain Kindred was standing his ground, giving Hinson more than he cared for, but Charlie was hard-pressed. Rast had two years and forty pounds on him. Jack stepped up behind him and rang the raper's helm like a bell. As Rast went reeling, Charlie slid in under his guard, knocked him down, and leveled a blade at his throat. By then Jack had moved on. Facing two swords, Albett backed away. "I yield," he shouted.

Ser Alliser Thorne surveyed the scene with disgust. "The mummer's farce has gone on long enough for today. " He walked away. The session was at an end.

Dareon helped Halder to his feet. The quarryman's son wrenched off his helm and threw it across the yard. "For an instant, I thought I finally had you, Blue-Legs."

"For an instant, you did," Jack replied. Under his mail and leather, his shoulder was throbbing. He sheathed his sword and tried to remove his helm, but when he raised his arm, the pain made him grit his teeth.

"Let me," a voice said. Thick-fingered hands unfastened helm from gorget and lifted it off gently. "Did he hurt you?"

"I've been bruised before. " He touched his shoulder and winced. The yard was emptying around them.

Blood matted the fat boy's hair where Halder had split his helm asunder. "My name is Samwell Tarly, of Horn . . . " He stopped and licked his lips. "I mean, I was of Horn Hill, until I . . . left. I've come to take the black. My father is Lord Randyll, a bannerman to the Tyrells of Highgarden. I used to be his heir, only . . . " His voice trailed off.

"I'm Jack Fredericks, from DeBerry Cove, Maine." When the fat boy looked puzzled at the unfamiliar name he added, "It's a long story."

Samwell Tarly nodded. "I . . . if you want, you can call me Sam. My mother calls me Sam. "

"You can call him 'Blue-Legs,'" Pyp said as he came up to join them. "There's six more we also call that."

"These two are Peter Kindred and Charlie Baxter," Jon said. He introduced Sam to the other Yankee exiles and the handful of locals they'd become acquainted with. "And this two here are Grenn and Pypar."

"Grenn's the ugly one," Pyp said.

Grenn scowled. "You're uglier than me. At least I don't have ears like a bat. "

"My thanks to all of you," the fat boy said gravely.

"Why didn't you get up and fight?" Grenn demanded.

"I wanted to, truly. I just . . . I couldn't. I didn't want him to hit me anymore. " He looked at the ground. "I . . . I fear I'm a coward. My lord father always said so. "

Grenn looked thunderstruck. Even Pyp had no words to say to that, and Pyp had words for everything. What sort of man would proclaim himself a coward?
Samwell Tarly must have read their thoughts on their faces. His eyes met Jon's and darted away, quick as frightened animals. "I . . . I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to . . . to be like I am. " He walked heavily toward the armory.

Jack called after him. "You were hurt," he said. "Tomorrow you'll do better. "

Sam looked mournfully back over one shoulder. "No, I won't," he said, blinking back tears. "I never do better. "

When he was gone, Grenn frowned. "Nobody likes cravens," he said uncomfortably. "I wish we hadn't helped him. What if they think we're craven too?"

"You're too stupid to be craven," Pyp told him.

"I am not," Grenn said.

"Yes, you are. If a bear attacked you in the woods, you'd be too stupid to run away. "

"I would not," Grenn insisted. "I'd run away faster than you. " He stopped suddenly, scowling when he saw Pyp's grin and realized what he'd just said. His thick neck flushed a dark red. Jack left them there arguing as he returned to the armory, hung up his sword, and stripped off his battered armor.

Life at Castle Black followed certain patterns; the mornings were for swordplay, the afternoons for work. The black brothers set new recruits to many different tasks, to learn where their skills lay. Jack cherished the rare afternoons when he was sent out with hunting outside the wall back game for the Lord Commander's table; he'd often hunted rabbits with an old flintlock musket as a boy and had become good with a crossbow.

But for every day spent hunting, he gave a dozen to Donal Noye in the armory, spinning the whetstone while the one-armed smith sharpened axes grown dull from use, or pumping the bellows as Noye hammered out a new sword. Other times he ran messages, stood at guard, mucked out stables, fletched arrows, assisted Maester Aemon with his birds or Bowen Marsh with his counts and inventories. The old and blind Maester seemed to like having Jack and other Yankees assist him; he was always peppering them with questions about America, what it was like and about how the Yankees had come to this world; he even seemed to enjoy having Jack read his Bible to him. Aemon may have been decrepit and blind, but his mind was still broad and sharp.

That afternoon, the watch commander sent him to the winch cage with four barrels of fresh-crushed stone, to scatter gravel over the icy footpaths atop the Wall. It was lonely and boring work, but Jack found he did not mind. On a clear day you could see half the world from the top of the Wall, and the air was always cold and bracing. He could think here, and he found himself thinking of Samwell Tarly the fat boy-and oddly enough of his own father whom Jack had disappointed so many times. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, the elder Fredericks had once said. This world and the one he'd left behind were full of cravens who pretended to be heroes; it took a queer sort of courage to admit to cowardice as Samwell Tarly had.

His sore shoulder made the work go slowly. It was late afternoon before Jack finished graveling the paths. He lingered on high to watch the sun go down, turning the western sky the color of blood. Finally, as dusk was settling over the north, Jon rolled the empty barrels back into the cage and signaled the winch men to lower him.

The evening meal was almost done by the time he reached the common hall. A group of the black brothers were dicing over mulled wine near the fire. His friends were at the bench nearest the west wall, laughing. Pyp was in the middle of a story. The mummer's boy with the big ears was an actor to rival the Booth brothers, and he did not tell his tales so much as live them, playing all the parts as needed, a king one moment and a swineherd the next. When he turned into an alehouse girl or a virgin princess, he used a high falsetto voice that reduced them all to tears or helpless laughter, and his eunuchs were always eerily accurate caricatures of Ser Alliser. Jack took as much pleasure from Pyp's antics as anyone . . . yet that night he turned away and went instead to the end of the bench, where Samwell Tarly sat alone, as far from the others as he could get.

He was finishing the last of the pork pie the cooks had served up for supper when Jack sat down across from him. He asked about the archer on Sam's chest.

"It's a striding huntsman," Samwell Tarly said. "My family's sigil."

"Do you like to hunt?"

The fat boy shuddered. "I hate it. " He looked as though he was going to cry again.

"What's wrong now?" Jack asked him. "Why are you always so frightened?"

Sam stared at the last of his pork pie and gave a feeble shake of his head, too scared even to talk. A burst of laughter filled the hall. Jon heard Pyp squeaking in a high voice. He stood. "Let's go outside. "

The round fat face looked up at him, suspicious. "Why? What will we do outside?"

"Talk," Jack said. "Have you seen the Wall?"

"I'm fat, not blind," Samwell Tarly said. "Of course, I saw it, it's seven hundred feet high. " Yet he stood up all the same, wrapped a fur-lined cloak over his shoulders, and followed Jack from the common hall, still wary, as if he suspected some cruel trick was waiting for him in the night. I never thought it would be like this," Sam said as they walked, his words steaming in the cold air. Already he was huffing and puffing as he tried to keep up. "All the buildings are falling down, and it's so . . . so . . . "

"Cold?" A hard frost was settling over the castle, and Jack could hear the soft crunch of grey weeds beneath his boots.

Sam nodded miserably. "I hate the cold," he said. "Last night I woke up in the dark and the fire had gone out and I was certain I was going to freeze to death by morning. "

"It must have been warmer where you come from. "

"I never saw snow until last month. We were crossing the barrowloads, me and the men my father sent to see me north, and this white stuff began to fall, like a soft rain. At first, I thought it was so beautiful, like feathers drifting from the sky, but it kept on and on, until I was frozen to the bone. The men had crusts of snow in their beards and more on their shoulders, and still it kept coming. I was afraid it would never end. "

Jack smiled.

The Wall loomed before them, glimmering palely in the light of the half moon. In the sky above, the stars burned clear and sharp. "Are they going to make me go up there?" Sam asked. His face curdled like old milk as he looked at the great wooden stairs. "I'll die if I have to climb that. "

"There's a winch," Jack said, pointing. For people in a medieval state of technology, the Westerossi had an excellent grasp of mechanics. "They can draw you up in a cage."

Samwell Tarly sniffled. "I don't like high places. "

It was too much. Jack frowned, incredulous. "Are you afraid of everything?" he asked. "I don't understand. If you are truly such a coward, why are you here? Why would a coward come to this godforsaken place?" Jack literally translated the English expression; it was not one the Westerosi used but easy enough to get the gist of.

Samwell Tarly looked at him for a long moment, and his round face seemed to cave in on itself. He sat down on the frost-covered ground and began to cry, huge choking sobs that made his whole-body shake. Jack Fredericks could only stand and watch. Like the snowfall on the barrowloads, it seemed the tears would never end.

Jack stood there, until Samwell finally stopped. "If I cried any more, the tears would turn into frostbite."

After a couple of minutes, Samwell Tarly began to talk some more, and Jack Fredericks listened quietly, and learned how it was that a self-confessed coward found himself on the Wall.

The Tarlys were a family old in honor, bannermen to Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. The eldest son of Lord Randyll Tarly, Samwell was born heir to rich lands, a strong keep, and a storied two-handed greatsword named Heartsbane, forged of Valyrian steel (whatever that was), and passed down from father to son near five hundred years.

Whatever pride his lord father might have felt at Samwell's birth vanished as the boy grew up plump, soft, and awkward. Sam loved to listen to music and make his own songs, to wear soft velvets, to play in the castle kitchen beside the cooks, drinking in the rich smells as he snitched lemon cakes and blueberry tarts. His passions were books and kittens and dancing, clumsy as he was. But he grew ill at the sight of blood and wept to see even a chicken slaughtered. A dozen masters-at-arms came and went at Horn Hill, trying to turn Samwell into the knight his father wanted. The boy was cursed and caned, slapped and starved. One man had him sleep in his chainmail to make him more martial. Another dressed him in his mother's clothing and paraded him through the bailey to shame him into valor. He only grew fatter and more frightened, until Lord Randyll's disappointment turned to anger and then to loathing. "One time," Sam confided, his voice dropping from a whisper, "two men came to the castle, warlocks from Qarth with white skin and blue lips. They slaughtered a bull aurochs and made me bathe in the hot blood, but it didn't make me brave as they'd promised. I got sick and retched. Father had them scourged. "

Finally, after three girls in as many years, Lady Tarly gave her lord husband a second son. From that day, Lord Randyll ignored Sam, devoting all his time to the younger boy, a fierce, robust child more to his liking. Samwell had known several years of sweet peace with his music and his books.

Until the dawn of his fifteenth name day, when he had been awakened to find his horse saddled and ready. Three men-at-arms had escorted him into a wood near Horn Hill, where his father was skinning a deer. 'You are almost a man grown now, and my heir," Lord Randyll Tarly had told his eldest son, his long knife laying bare the carcass as he spoke. "You have given me no cause to disown you, but neither will I allow you to inherit the land and title that should be Dickon's. Heartsbane must go to a man strong enough to wield her, and you are not worthy to touch her hilt. So, I have decided that you shall this day announce that you wish to take the black. You will forsake all claim to your brother's inheritance and start north before evenfall.

"'If you do not, then on the morrow we shall have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you will be thrown from the saddle to die . . . or so I will tell your mother. She has a woman's heart and finds it in her to cherish even you, and I have no wish to cause her pain. Please do not imagine that it will truly be that easy, should you think to defy me. Nothing would please me more than to hunt you down like the pig you are.' His arms were red to the elbow as he laid the skinning knife aside. 'So. There is your choice. The Night's Watch'—he reached inside the deer, ripped out its heart, and held it in his fist, red and dripping—'or this.'""

Sam told the tale in a calm, dead voice, as if it were something that had happened to someone else, not to him. And strangely, Jack thought, he did not weep, not even once. When he was done, they sat together and listened to the wind for a time. There was no other sound in all the world.

Finally, Jack said, "Perhaps it's time for that 'long story' I mentioned earlier."

Jack told of how the Yankees boarded the Ogunquidt, and the storm that brought them to Westeros, their reception at Winterfell-and why he and his companions had been sent to the wall. To keep things simple, he left out any mention of rifles or steam engines; Samwell would learn about them soon enough.

Sam looked aghast. "You-you raped those girls?"

"Only one of them got raped, and by Hinson." Jack looked down at his boots; they certainly kept his feet warmer than his old army-issue brogans would have. "But I was holding her down and I would have had my turn, if the others hadn't caught us and handed us over to the Lord of Winterfell. We were told about the Watch and decided it would be better than losing our balls."

Sam grinned. "I suppose it would be."

Now he looked closer at Jack. "Tell me about yourself-and where you are from. I want to hear about it."

With a sigh, Jack told Sam about DeBerry Cove, the seaside town in Maine where he was born and raised. He tried to keep things as simple as he could yet found himself having to explain things like the church where his father was a parson, and even what a school was.

Sam seemed to like the idea of that latter. "That must have been wonderful."

Jack snorted. "I didn't think so. I hated studying; I preferred to spend my time drinking, getting into fights, playing cards, pranking the teachers, and when I got older, whoring." He grinned. "That's the reason I got kicked out of the two seminaries my father sent me to.

"After I came home, I got even worse. I drank even more, kept getting into fights, and would steal. I didn't even need to; it was just a thrill. Then finally one night in a tavern I stabbed a man in the stomach-I don't even remember what the fight was over-, and he died three days later. I was brought before a judge, and he gave me a choice. There was a war going on in our country because the southern region was trying to break away. I didn't really much care what the fighting was about, but the army seemed a better choice than prison or being hanged.

"And the night before I went to training camp, my father spoke to me. He said he hoped the Johnny Rebs would kill me."

Now Sam gave a small laugh. "I guess we're not so different. After all, both our fathers hate us"

"There's one big difference," Jack went on. "I deserved it."

Jon

"Here he is, colonel." Jon Snow handed Keane the reins.

"Thank you." The one-armed man gazed over his steed with quiet appraisal. "You did good, Private; I don't think Mercury was ever groomed as well before you joined us."

"Thank you, sir." Normally Jon would have felt irritated at praise for something as mundane such as caring for a horse, but he'd come to admire Keane and appreciated his approval over even small things.

The colonel's disability did nothing to hinder him as he mounted. "Go now, join the rest of your company. I'll be with you shortly."

Jon walked out toward the courtyard, where most of the regiment was assembled, along with the artillerymen of the 44th New York and the Ogunquidt's sailors; off to their right were the smiths and servants with their families while his father, half-sisters and their entourage stood to the left.

Jon snatched up a musket from the several stacked nearby like sheaves of wheat. Finding his place among the ranks of Company A, he stood straight with the butt of his musket at rest, the long sharp bayonet attached and gleaming.

The officers stood at the forefront of their companies. Each of them was dressed in their best-pressed uniformed and their boots were polished and shining-except for one. Jonah Harris stood with Captain Hanford and Lieutenant Billings, wearing his everyday uniform and boots-and a scowl on his face.

Last night after dinner was over Lieutenant Harris had approached some of Jon's father's men and as best as he could, requested he test their skill at swords with his.

As the first duel began, Jon and the Sadler brothers stalked away from the dining hall to officers' barracks-specifically to Harris's own quarters.

There, they found the chest were the lieutenant kept the uniform he'd been planning to wear and the boots he'd made Brian Sadler spend five hours polishing. They promptly emptied the contents of a chamber pot onto the uniform and stuffed two handfuls of Ghost's droppings into the boots.

Making their way back to the dining hall, the three saw Harris was still dueling-he had bested four of his father's guards and two of the royal garrison-and now was facing Ser Jamie Lannister.

As he had watched the duel, Jon knew for certain Lannister would win-the Kingslayer was known to be one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, and by all appearances held the upper hand. Yet if he read body language right, the lieutenant was holding his own, and quite well-even when Ser Jamie finally disarmed him Harris showed no embarrassment. And why should he? The Yankee had already beaten six well trained men at arms and acquitted himself well against one with a sterling reputation for swordsmanship if not honor.

This very morning, Jonah Harris had found what had been done to his uniform and shoes-and the entire company had roared in laughter over it.

Captain Hanford brought all of Company A out and in his most stern voice warned them that if it ever happened again, the entire company would be doing latrine and kitchen duty for a month.

There was a twinkle in the captain's eye while he said it.

One of the sentries over the main gate shouted, "The royal party approaches!"

The gates of Fort Lincoln opened wide-the castle had no moat-and into the courtyard a dozen horsemen in armor with the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon on their surcoats and the banner carried at the front followed several more in the trappings of various houses. Jon realized who they were-the Lords Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms, or their representatives. Jon's own father, of course, would be representing the North.

Jon recognized the leaping trout of House Tully, the falcon and full moon of House Arryn, the golden rose of House Tyrell, the spear through a sun of House Martell, the lion on red of House Lannister. Of course, he recognized the kraken of House Greyjoy, which he'd seen on Theon, and again the Crowned Stag-only instead of black on gold, this stag was gold on a field of green, matching the surcoat of the one underneath: Renley Baratheon. And by his age and bearing, and the way the Imp and Kingslayer's eyes widened in recognition, the man under the Lion banner had to be their father, Lord Tywin.

Under the Kraken banner rode a thirty-forty looking man with brown hair and a short grey beard whose doublet bore the silver scythe on black of House Harlowe; possibly this was Lord Rodrik who Jon remembered was Theon's uncle.

Under the Rose Banner rode two men, in surcoats matching the banner. They were close to Jon in age, too young to be Lord Mace Tyrell. The Lord of Highgarden had three sons, although Jon could not recall their names. The eldest was supposed to be lame so these had to be the younger two.

The surcoats of the two men under the Martell banner also matched, yet one seemed closer to Jon in age while the older looked closer to that of Lord Eddard. A tough looking maiden, seemingly halfway between her companions in age rode with them. Prince Doran Martell, Jon had heard, was laid up with gout; perhaps the older man was his brother Oberyn.

Jon had a harder time recognizing the representatives the Vale and the Riverlands; neither matched the banner they rode under. The man from the Riverlands was an elderly man cut from the same cloth as Barristan Selmy, with a hard, angry look about him. The sigil looked like the reverse of House Frey, two silver towers connected by a bridge on a field of blue, beneath a red bend sinister. One of Lord Walder's bastard sons?

The flag representing the King's middle brother Stannis the Prince of Dragonstone the standard royal banner, save for the flaming heart surrounding the stag. Underneath rode a grizzled looking man with a very unusual sigil-a black ship on grey, with a what looked like a white onion on it. Compared to the others, this man was dressed rather plain, with his cloak undyed and his doublet of linen instead of silk.

Try as he could, Jon couldn't place the man who represented the Vale. He was a sturdy, stocky man with silver hair who seemed a competent warrior. His personal sigil, a yellow sun, white crescent moon, and silver star on a blue chief over a silver field-John had tried hard, but he simply couldn't recall the house that used the sigil. Perhaps he was simply a run of the mill knight who'd sworn his sword to House Arryn.

A man in an ornate robe rode behind them underneath the banner of the Seven-Pointed Star. Jon recognized him as the High Septon, but past that it meant little to him.

As the lords or representatives, and their retainers rode into the courtyard Keane drew his sword and, controlling his mount with only his knees, held the hilt in form of him in a form of salute Jon saw him do before; the lords and representatives bent their heads in acknowledgement. They dismounted, and men took their horses while they placed themselves to either side of the men in blue.

Now knights and men at arms bearing the black crowned stag on yellow sigil for the Royal House Baratheon on their surcoats and banner rode past the gate. And at the very center, surrounded by the four remaining Kingsguard-the late Ser Boros's position had yet to be filled-rode King Robert Baratheon and Prince Joffrey.

As they passed the gate, almost immediately the smiths, servants, lords or representatives, and their retainers knelt in submission. Keane, however, simply repeated the gesture he made with his sword while all officers, sailors, and artillerymen gave their sharpest salutes; the lady Kathleen lifted the skirts of her dress in a curtsy. And as one, all the enlisted men, Jon included, raised up their rifles as the King and Crown Prince rode past them.

Jon could feel the gaze of both passing over him. He doubted either recognized him; he'd had little real interaction with Robert or Joffrey; now dressed in the blue uniform with the brim of a kepi over his brow he looked no different from any Yankee private.

Robert nodded, evidently impressed with the Yankees' discipline. Joffrey had the same petulant sneer Jon had always seen on him.

A carriage, much smaller than the wheelhouse that came to Winterfell but still very ornate entered the courtyard. It swerved to the left then stopped the door facing the assembled men and women.

The king, prince, and colonel dismounted, accompanied by Jon's father, walked up to the carriage. Two pages opened the door and out stepped Queen Cersei, followed by Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen.

Andrew

Like he had at Winterfell, Andrew Keane took Queen Cersei's hand and kissed it. Before however she merely looked condescending. Now though, there was no mistaking the daggers in her green eyes.

Mary had eyes like hers.

Andrew mentally cursed himself. Mary had never looked maliciously at him like that; she merely cuckolded him. He had to stop thinking of his unfaithful fiancée whenever he dealt with the queen.

With Tyrion at his side, Keane walked the king and queen along with the others on a brief tour of the courtyard, showing them the armory where he could easily see Robert was impressed by the progress they had made; His Grace had grinned when he hefted the completed musketoon for the City Watch, and saw the parts made for the muskets and rifles as well as the first finished cannon.

Going out to the wharf, the procession approached the Ogunquidt where Tobias and his crew were waiting. All the horses, Mercury included, were already loaded into the ship's hull stables. The vessel was decked out with all its signal flags on the bare poles of the masts, as if ready for a festival. Tobias there, wearing his best dress uniform, with the thirty men under his command; all of them obviously proud to have their ship be the center of attention.

Andrew had to draw his sword again in salute to Tobias. "Captain Cromwell, have we your permission to come aboard?"

The diminutive captain, to his credit returned the salute. "Permission granted." Tobias dipped his head to King Robert. "Your Grace," he said, then took Cersei's hand, and with a grand flourish, kissed it. "Welcome aboard the Ogunquidt."

Two monarchs, followed by their children, the lords, representatives, and their attendants, marched up the gangplank. The man he knew of as only the High Septon, however, lingered behind.

"This ship-" the man said in a faint voice. "We saw it move without sails or oars-some of my septons whisper it is by demon craft, and the shrieks it gave were the cries of damned souls."

Andrew rolled his eyes; he should have expected something like this. "It is no more magic than the water-wheel that turns the grinding stones of a mill," he said in calmly. "Come aboard, and you will see." Nervously, the man did so along with his attendants.

After the High Septon came the men of Company A, obviously delighted with their first prospect of a day's pass. Behind them came O'Donald's men, and then the smiths and servants who'd drawn lots to see who could travel on the boat and who would have to walk or go by cart to witness the tourney.

Mounting the quarterdeck, Tobias, with His Grace and the Crown Prince behind him, stepped into the pilot house. With a dramatic flourish, Tobias took a long hard pull at the whistle and a high-pitched shriek echoed through the ship.

Most of the Westerosi either made signs of blessing or drew swords, to face whatever new terror had been unleashed upon them. The High Septon too, blanched at the sound. Only two of the Lords remained unfazed, Lord Eddard, and another, a stern looking man who wore on his doublet the same lion on red as Tyrion.

Tyrion and Maester Jaimes both went through a quick round of translations to ease the tension gripping the party. After several moments, King Robert was finally convinced to pull the rope himself.

Another round of shouts greeted His Grace's action as he pulled the rope down, then released it as if he had touched a venomous snake. The monarch took a deep breath; a look of delight came over his plump face as he as he tried again and saw the look of terror on his subjects' faces.

Then he let his son have a try. Prince Joffrey's face lit up with glee as he pulled the whistle rope repeatedly, each shriek making his smiler wider.

"Yes, yes, YES!" cackled the prince. "I want a scream maker like this on my name day!"

Tyrion looked askance at Andrew. "Could you manage such a thing?" the dwarf asked in English.

Andrew thought. He was no engineer but understood that a steam whistle should be a simple matter for Ferguson to handle. "I think it can be arranged."

"It should at least keep him occupied well enough," Tyrion muttered. "Although-the last time I saw that expression on his face I came upon him strangling a cat."

Before Andrew could ask more, Tobias motioned for Joffrey to stop pulling at the whistle. The youth looked petulant but did as he was bid.

"Colonel, sir."

Andrew turned to see Hawthorne standing on the quarterdeck, smiling.

Hawthorne stepped forward, pulling his knapsack off his shoulders. Opening it up, he brought out a small wooden clock, carved by hand.

"Sir, I thought with your permission I could give this to His Grace King Robert as a token of friendship from myself and the enlisted men of the regiment."

"Does it keep time well?"

Smiling, Vincent pulled out a small pendulum, attached it beneath the clock and set it to ticking.

"Well done lad." Andrew patted the young Quaker on the shoulder.

Tyrion led Vincent up to the king and translated Hawthorne's words as the private explained the clock's purpose and workings while opening the back panel. His Grace took the gift in his hands and cuffed Vincent playfully on the shoulder, evidently pleased with the new gift. Vincent reeled back, and the various lords and attendants guffawed at the sight.

"Could we get started?" Tobias asked, interrupting the conversation. With a nod from Andrew, the captain called for the lines to be cast away.

Tobias signaled below to the boiler room, dark puffs of smoke belched from the smokestack and the lines were cast off. A vibration ran through the vessel, and then, ever so slowly, and with increasing speed, the Ogunquidt started on its way.

Forward the leadsman called out the sounds as the Ogunquidt swung out into midstream and then pointed it's bow upstream. It was soon making ten knots.

Robert, Joffrey, Cersei, and the rest of the Westerossi stood in stunned silence, while Tobias, with Tyrion's help, tried to explain the nature of what was happening. Finally, Tobias pointed to a hatchway and the party went below, with Andrew bringing up the rear.

The engine deck was hot, the thunderous pounding of the twin reciprocating cylinders working their steady rhythm.

Tobias tried to explain the workings of the steam engine, pointing to the driveshaft leading aft to the single screw, but it was obvious the devise was beyond their understanding. Andrew noticed, however, the man with the lion on his doublet was listening intently.

As they went topside, Andrew found the man walking toward him and Tyrion. The older man spoke, and Tyrion said to Andrew, "Colonel Keane, I must introduce you to Tywin, Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West." With a glum look, the dwarf added, "My Lord Father."

Andrew offered his hand. Tyrion's father took it; his grip was firm and strong for a man in his early to mid-fifties. His expression remained unchanged.

In the common tongue Andrew said, "Your son has been very helpful to us. Not just as a translator but has given us valuable advice on how to adjust to life in Westeros."

"I imagine he has," said Lord Tywin dryly as he looked down at his diminutive offspring. "I am certain he has well advised your men on the best establishments to find in the Street of Silk." This 'Street of Silk,' Andrew knew from hearsay was King's Landing's brothel district. Knowing his men as he did, Andrew had no doubt many of them would head there the first chance they got. And seeing the way Tyrion, who normally was uncommonly bold with his words, quieted and even seemed to wilt under his father's gaze suggested to the colonel he indeed had spoken of such establishments with the rest of the Yankees.

"My men are human," Andrew admitted.

Tywin Lannister merely nodded. "I've commanded soldiers myself and know what they are like." He seemed to drop the subject for he went on, "This 'steam engine' is a remarkable device. Tell me, are there other uses for them are they just for moving ships?"

An inquisitive sort, Andrew realized. With Tyrion's help, he described how steam engine were used to power weaving looms, draining pumps for mines, cutting saws, and various other uses. He mentioned railroads last, but that one interested Tywin Lannister the most, judging by the man's raised eyebrow.

"Can you reproduce these as well?"

"It would take considerable resources and energy to do so," Andrew explained. "I'm not an engineer, merely a soldier and before that a teacher of history."

Tywin Lannister made no change in his expression but simply nodded. "I expect to speak with you later tonight, Tyrion." And with that, he simply left.

His Grace and the rest of the Westerossi wandered about the deck, looking at every fixture, pulling on the cables, hefting the belaying pins, and gathering around the single field piece, mounted on the chocks amidship.

Word of the voyage had obviously spread, from out of King's Landing; along the shores of Blackwater Bay was an unending stream of peasants, city-folk, horse mounted lords and ladies, their shouts of wonder and dismay echoing across the dark waters.

Seeing he had an audience, King Robert went back to the quarterdeck and ordered his banner to be shown, at the sight which the crowds all went to their knees.

Prince Joffrey stepped back into the pilot house and repeatedly pulled on the whistle, then stepped out, waving to those on shore to show their prince had control over the 'scream maker.'

Bemused, Andrew settled against the railing, Tyrion standing beside him. He scanned the locals, and something caught his eye.

"Tyrion," he asked the dwarf, "Do you know anything about that man over there?"

Tyrion looked in the same direction as Keane. "Walder Rivers?" he said, indicating the man who had been representative from the Riverlands, a tough looking sort who looked to be in his early sixties and reminded the colonel of General Meade, the Old Snapping Turtle. "He's the oldest bastard son of Lord Walder Frey of the Twins. How they chose him to represent the Riverlands I don't know, he has a sour temper and quick to take slights."

Andrew was a little surprised. Ser Walder looked nearly sixty and his father was still alive? That Lord Frey must be ancient.

"Not him. The man next to him, the on with the strange looking sword at his side." The man in question looked unlike most Westerossi Andrew had seen; he was slightly shorter than the norm, with straight black hair, sallow skin, and somewhat slanted almond shaped eyes.

"Oh." The dwarf's eyebrow cocked upward and for a moment Andrew could see a resemblance between Tyrion and his father. "That, I believe is Tatsu Snow. Although he's a Northern bastard, he acts as Ser Rivers's-well, not squire for he is a knight himself. But's he's always at the other's side; some call him the elder bastard's shadow."

"He looks different from most of your people."

Tyrion smiled. "His father is a Ronin. They are a people living in Essos, on the Northeastern border of YI Ti." Andrew mentally digested that; he had a brief lesson from Maester Jaims about Essos, the other great continent to the east but still knew very little about it.

The dwarf continued, "Although they seldom come to Westeros, one company of sellswords from them did take service with Lord Wyman Manderley at White Harbor. Tatsu Snow's father had taken up with a maiden in White Harbor and had Tatsu."

"Oh." Keane thought back to when, while visiting Yale University three years before the war broke out, he saw a display commemorating Oliver Perry's visit to Japan. Said display had shown photographs of local Japanese, and included artifacts brought back including a sword almost identical to the one Tatsu wore.

Then again, the Westerossi were superficially like medieval Europeans, but several key aspects were noticeably different, especially the language and religion. Tatsu Snow and the Ronins' resemblance to Japanese had to be a similar coincidence.

Kathleen

Kathleen O'Rielly did not go down into the engine room; as a girl she had at times stood at the cab of locomotives and knew how hot steam engines could get. Instead, the Yankee woman stood against the railing at the foredeck, watching the crowds lining the shore.

"Lady Kathleen?" Kathleen turned around and smiled as she looked down at Princess Myrcella. She still felt amused whenever the Westerossi referred to her, a Boston-born daughter of two Irish immigrants, as a 'lady.' She knew it was only a curtesy, as she was the sole women among her countrymen. Her father would have laughed his head off.

"You remember our language," she answered, pleased.

The princess blushed. "I practice. With some of Mother's handmaiden's who traveled with us, and with Tommen. He's learning-not so fast but he is." She changed the subject. "How is your hand?"

"Oh." Kathleen looked down at her scarred palm. "It's much better, thank you." Although she thanked the Virgin every day that it was only a scratch; four years as a nurse following an army had taught Kathleen how even the most minor wounds could easily turn serious or even fatal.

"I must apologize for how my brother acted. He can be-what's your word?"

A miserable little cunt, Kathleen thought, then considered that an insult to cunts. "Impulsive," she finally said, and then gave the equivalent in the common tongue.

"You've gained quite a good command over our language." Kathleen saw Queen Cersei walk up behind Myrcella. "I am pleased, for I'm afraid I lack my daughter's apparent gift for learning new languages."

"She does learn fast," Kathleen said in the local language, then added, "and I do need to learn your 'common tongue' if I am to be in this country for what looks like the rest of my life."

"Indeed." The queen scanned out the foredeck. "When my brother told me that this ship moved without sails or oars, I thought he was repeating ale stories. But it seems it was true after all. It makes me more likely to believe that some of those other things you talked about in the wheelhouse, like the trains of wagons that move on iron roads or wires on poles that carry you r voice over great distances, are real as well. Tell me, can your people bring those things to our realm as well?"

"I don't really know," Kathleen replied, "I tend to wounded soldiers; if you want to know more about such things, you'd have to speak with Major Mina or Sergeant Ferguson, Your Grace." She decided not to tell the queen about the railroad project that had been pitched to Lord Stark the night before. "I'm afraid neither is on board today."

"Perhaps a meeting can be arranged for some other time," added Cersei. "Anyway, the reason I wanted to speak with you is, I wish to apologize-both for my outburst, and for that of my son."

Kathleen glanced down at her hand. "That's a hard one to forget."

"I suppose it is. My reaction extreme, especially for a Queen. But we often go to extremes were our children our concerned. My son was injured; perhaps if you had any children of your own you would understand."

"I'm afraid that is unlikely, your grace."

"Oh? And why is that?" the queen asked. "Are you-barren?"

"Oh. No, not that I'm aware of." Kathleen felt her cheeks go hot at Cersei's surprising bluntness. "It's just..." To Kathleen's own surprise she found herself telling the queen about Jason, how they were to be married, how he enlisted when the war at home broke out.

"And he didn't come back," Cersei concluded.

"No, he didn't," Kathleen said. "At first, I just buried myself in my grief, then when I heard about how the Army was accepting women to nurse wounded soldiers I volunteered. And after tending to so many badly wounded and dying men calling out for their mothers, sisters and other loved ones, I simply couldn't bear the thought of being in those women's place."

"Strange, I would have thought, since I've seen you and your colonel in each other's company-?"

"No," Kathleen replied. "Andrew's just a friend. Nothing more."

"Strange. Are men and women commonly 'just friends' where you are from?"

"Not really." Kathleen couldn't understand why she was blushing; Andrew was a good man and the sort of person her parents would have approved of even if he was Protestant. "I'm the only woman among my countrymen here. So, I have little choice but to be friends with the men."

"I see." The queen paused for a moment, then said, "Myrcella, leave us." The princess did so.

As soon as she did, Cersei spoke, "I have noticed my Royal Husband looking at you-with interest. If you are worried about offending me, do not fear. Robert's bed is Robert's province, and who he lays with is no concern of mine."

Now Kathleen was taken aback. She knew that men had affairs, of course, and that some wives didn't care. And back at Winterfell she had seen the King looking at her, but he'd been enough of a gentleman to stop when she made it clear she wasn't interested. But she'd never imagined any woman propositioning her for her husband like this.

"Please," she said. "I not interested in your husband."

"Are you sure? Many women consider laying with a king a great honor."

"I'm sure they would," said Kathleen. "But I'm not one of them."

Dany

The Horse Gate of Vaes Dothrak was made of two gigantic bronze stallions, rearing, their hooves meeting a hundred feet above the roadway to form a pointed arch.

Dany could not have said why the city needed a gate when it had no walls . . . and no buildings that she could see. Yet there it stood, immense and beautiful, the great horses framing the distant purple mountain beyond. The bronze stallions threw long shadows across the waving grasses as Khal Drogo led the khalasar under their hooves and down the godsway, his bloodriders beside him.

Dany followed on her silver, escorted by Ser Jorah Mormont and her brother Viserys, mounted once more. After the day in the grass when she had left him to walk back to the khalasar, the Dothraki had laughingly called him Khal Rhae Mhar, the Sorefoot King. Khal Drogo had offered him a place in a cart the next day, and Viserys had accepted. In his stubborn ignorance, he had not even known he was being mocked; the carts were for eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old. That won him yet another name: Khal Rhaggat, the Cart King. Her brother had thought it was the khal's way of apologizing for the wrong Dany had done him. She had begged Ser Jorah not to tell him the truth, lest he be shamed. The knight had replied that the king could well do with a bit of shame . . . yet he had done as she bid. It had taken much pleading, and all the pillow tricks Doreah had taught her, before Dany had been able to make Drogo relent and allow Viserys to rejoin them at the head of the column.

"Where is the city?" she asked as they passed beneath the bronze arch. There were no buildings to be seen, no people, only the grass and the road, lined with ancient monuments from all the lands the Dothraki had sacked over the centuries.

"Ahead," Ser Jorah answered. "Under the mountain."

Beyond the horse gate, plundered gods and stolen heroes loomed to either side of them. The forgotten deities of dead cities brandished their broken thunderbolts at the sky as Dany rode her silver past their feet. Stone kings looked down on her from their thrones, their faces chipped and stained, even their names lost in the mists of time. Lithe young maidens danced on marble plinths, draped only in flowers, or poured air from shattered jars. Monsters stood in the grass beside the road; black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores with their barbed tails poised to strike, and other beasts she could not name. Some of the statues were so lovely they took her breath away, others so misshapen and terrible that Dany could scarcely bear to look at them. Those, Ser Jorah said, had likely come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai.

"So many," she said as her silver stepped slowly onward, "and from so many lands."

Viserys was less impressed. "The trash of dead cities," he sneered. He was careful to speak in the Common Tongue, which few Dothraki could understand, yet even so Dany found herself glancing back at the men of her khas, to make certain he had not been overheard. He went on blithely. "All these savages know how to do is steal the things better men have built . . . and kill." He laughed. "They do know how to kill. Otherwise, I'd have no use for them at all."

"They are my people now," Dany said. "You should not call them savages, brother."

"The dragon speaks as he likes," Viserys said . . . in the Common Tongue. He glanced over his shoulder at Aggo and Rakharo, riding behind them, and favored them with a mocking smile. "See, the savages lack the wit to understand the speech of civilized men." A moss-eaten stone monolith loomed over the road, fifty feet tall. Viserys gazed at it with boredom in his eyes. "How long must we linger amidst these ruins before Drogo gives me my army? I grow tired of waiting."

"The princess must be presented to the dosh khaleen . . . "

"The crones, yes," her brother interrupted, "and there's to be some mummer's show of a prophecy for the whelp in her belly, you told me. What is that to me? I'm tired of eating horsemeat and I'm sick of the stink of these savages." He sniffed at the wide, floppy sleeve of his tunic, where it was his custom to keep a sachet. It could not have helped much. The tunic was filthy. All the silk and heavy wools that Viserys had worn out of Pentos were stained by hard travel and rotted from sweat.

Ser Jorah Mormont said, "The Western Market will have food more to your taste, Your Grace. The traders from the Free Cities come there to sell their wares. The khal will honor his promise in his own time."

"He had better," Viserys said grimly. "I was promised a crown, and I mean to have it. The dragon is not mocked." Spying an obscene likeness of a woman with six breasts and a ferret's head, he rode off to inspect it more closely.

Dany was relieved, yet no less anxious. "I pray that my sun-and-stars will not keep him waiting too long," she told Ser Jorah when her brother was out of earshot.

The knight looked after Viserys doubtfully. "Your brother should have bided his time in Pentos. There is no place for him in a khalasar. Illyrio tried to warn him."

"He will go as soon as he has his ten thousand. My lord husband promised a golden crown."

Ser Jorah grunted. "Yes, Khaleesi, but . . . the Dothraki look on these things differently than we do in the west. I have told him as much, as Illyrio told him, but your brother does not listen. The horselords are no traders. Viserys thinks he sold you, and now he wants his price. Yet Khal Drogo would say he had you as a gift. He will give Viserys a gift in return, yes . . . in his own time. You do not demand a gift, not of a khal. You do not demand anything of a khal."

"It is not right to make him wait." Dany did not know why she was defending her brother, yet she was. "Viserys says he could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers."

Ser Jorah snorted. "Viserys could not sweep a stable with ten thousand brooms."

Dany could not pretend to surprise at the disdain in his tone. "What . . . what if it were not Viserys?" she asked. "If it were someone else who led them? Someone stronger? Could the Dothraki truly conquer the Seven Kingdoms?"

Ser Jorah's face grew thoughtful as their horses trod together down the godsway. "When I first went into exile, I looked at the Dothraki and saw half-naked barbarians, as wild as their horses. If you had asked me then, Princess, I should have told you that a thousand good knights would have no trouble putting to flight a hundred times as many Dothraki."

"But if I asked you now?"

"Now," the knight said, "I am less certain. They are better riders than any knight, utterly fearless, and their bows outrange ours. In the Seven Kingdoms, most archers fight on foot, from behind a shieldwall or a barricade of sharpened stakes. The Dothraki fire from horseback, charging or retreating, it makes no matter, they are full as deadly . . . and there are so many of them, my lady. Your lord husband alone counts forty thousand mounted warriors in his khalasar."

"Is that truly so many?"

"Your brother Rhaegar brought as many men to the Trident," Ser Jorah admitted, "but of that number, no more than a tenth were knights. The rest were archers, freeriders, and foot soldiers armed with spears and pikes. When Rhaegar fell, many threw down their weapons and fled the field. How long do you imagine such a rabble would stand against the charge of forty thousand screamers howling for blood? How well would boiled leather jerkins and mailed shirts protect them when the arrows fall like rain?"

"Not long," she said, "not well."

"And yet-." Jorah paused. "The Dothraki are not unbeatable. Shortly after the Doom of Valyaria, Khal Temo led a khalasar of 25,000 screamers against 3,000 Unsullied eunuchs-soldiers. Only 3,000 bloodriders survived and cut off their braids in shame. And there are the Ronin."

"The Ronin?" Dany had never heard of these people.

"Their land is to the southeast of Yi Ti, bordering on the Sea of Grass. They appeared shortly after the Doom, and the God-Emperors use them as a buffer between themselves and the Horselords-and are wise to do so. Twelve times, Dothraki tried to invade the land of the Ronin-the last time, the heads of Khal Nido and his sons were sent to Vaes Dothrak in jars of piss."

He paused. "And there are the matter of these strangers who Robert has taken into service with him." Before Dany could ask he went on. "Just before we left, Illyrio's contacts in King's Landing told us more about them. They have agreed to share the secrets of their weapons with the Usurper."

"Are these-weapons-that powerful?"

"My source in King's Landing-he's never seen them himself. He has spies of his own who have, however. Their main one, which is used almost like a crossbow, and can shoot further and hit harder than any arrow. They are supported by much larger ones that hurl iron balls and explosions great distances and are more mobile than any siege engine." The aged knight paused. "There is even a smaller kind, carried by their officers. They can kill a man simply by pointing it at him like a finger."

Dany was incredulous. "That sound like sorcery."

"It isn't sorcery, or at least the strangers, who call themselves 'Yankys' or something like that, claim it isn't," continued Ser Jorah. "Illyrio and I were told some form of powder is involved. And that it seems likely that these weapons take only a few months of training, compared to years and years that swords, bows, and even crossbows require. If the Usurper could field an army of men with such, with the aid armored knights and men-at-arms-."

"The Dothraki would be slaughtered." Dany formed the picture in her head. Jorah nodded. "Can you trust your source? You say he never saw these weapons used himself."

"He also says they have a ship somehow uses steam to move without sails or oars, and he has seen that." Dany blinked; how could a ship move without the help of wind or rowers?"

Before she could ask more, the khalissar stopped.

"There," he announced, pointing. "Vaes Dothrak. The city of the horselords."

Khal Drogo and his bloodriders led them through the great bazaar of the Western Market, down the broad ways beyond. Dany followed close on her silver, staring at the strangeness about her. Vaes Dothrak was at once the largest city and the smallest that she had ever known. She thought it must be ten times as large as Pentos, a vastness without walls or limits, its broad windswept streets paved in grass and mud and carpeted with wildflowers. In the Free Cities of the west, towers and manses and hovels and bridges and shops and halls all crowded in on one another, but Vaes Dothrak sprawled languorously, baking in the warm sun, ancient, arrogant, and empty.

Even the buildings were so queer to her eyes. She saw carved stone pavilions, manses of woven grass as large as castles, rickety wooden towers, stepped pyramids faced with marble, log halls open to the sky. In place of walls, some palaces were surrounded by thorny hedges. "None of them are alike," she said.

"Your brother had part of the truth," Ser Jorah admitted. "The Dothraki do not build. A thousand years ago, to make a house, they would dig a hole in the earth and cover it with a woven grass roof. The buildings you see were made by slaves brought here from lands they've plundered, and they built each after the fashion of their own peoples."

Most of the halls, even the largest, seemed deserted. "Where are the people who live here?" Dany asked. The bazaar had been full of running children and men shouting, but elsewhere she had seen only a few eunuchs going about their business.

"Only the crones of the dosh khaleen dwell permanently in the sacred city, them and their slaves and servants," Ser Jorah replied, "yet Vaes Dothrak is large enough to house every man of every khalasar, should all the khals return to the Mother at once. The crones have prophesied that one day that will come to pass, and so Vaes Dothrak must be ready to embrace all its children."

Khal Drogo finally called a halt near the Eastern Market where the caravans from Yi Ti and Asshai and the Shadow Lands came to trade, with the Mother of Mountains looming overhead. Dany smiled as she recalled Magister Illyrio's slave girl and her talk of a palace with two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver. The "palace" was a cavernous wooden feasting hall, its rough-hewn timbered walls rising forty feet, its roof sewn silk, a vast billowing tent that could be raised to keep out the rare rains, or lowered to admit the endless sky. Around the hall were broad grassy horse yards fenced with high hedges, firepits, and hundreds of round earthen houses that bulged from the ground like miniature hills, covered with grass.

A small army of slaves had gone ahead to prepare for Khal Drogo's arrival. As each rider swung down from his saddle, he unbelted his arakh and handed it to a waiting slave, and any other weapons he carried as well. Even Khal Drogo himself was not exempt. Ser Jorah had explained that it was forbidden to carry a blade in Vaes Dothrak, or to shed a free man's blood. Even warring khalasars put aside their feuds and shared meat and mead together when they were in sight of the Mother of Mountains. In this place, the crones of the dosh khaleen had decreed, all Dothraki were one blood, one khalasar, one herd.

Cohollo came to Dany as Irri and Jhiqui were helping her down off her silver. He was the oldest of Drogo's three bloodriders, a squat bald man with a crooked nose and a mouth full of broken teeth, shattered by a mace twenty years before when he saved the young khalakka from sellswords who hoped to sell him to his father's enemies. His life had been bound to Drogo's the day her lord husband was born.

Every khal had his bloodriders. At first Dany had thought of them as a kind of Dothraki Kingsguard, sworn to protect their lord, but it went further than that. Jhiqui had taught her that a bloodrider was more than a guard; they were the khal's brothers, his shadows, his fiercest friends. "Blood of my blood," Drogo called them, and so it was; they shared a single life. The ancient traditions of the horselords demanded that when the khal died, his bloodriders died with him, to ride at his side in the night lands. If the khal died at the hands of some enemy, they lived only long enough to avenge him, and then followed him joyfully into the grave. In some khalasars, Jhiqui said, the bloodriders shared the khal's wine, his tent, and even his wives, though never his horses. A man's mount was his own.

Daenerys was glad that Khal Drogo did not hold to those ancient ways. She should not have liked being shared. And while old Cohollo treated her kindly enough, the others frightened her; Haggo, huge and silent, often glowered as if he had forgotten who she was, and Qotho had cruel eyes and quick hands that liked to hurt. He left bruises on Doreah's soft white skin whenever he touched her, and sometimes made Irri sob in the night. Even his horses seemed to fear him.

Yet they were bound to Drogo for life and death, so Daenerys had no choice but to accept them. And sometimes she found herself wishing her father had been protected by such men. In the songs, the white knights of the Kingsguard were ever noble, valiant, and true, and yet King Aerys had been murdered by one of them, the handsome boy they now called the Kingslayer, and a second, Ser Barristan the Bold, had gone over to the Usurper. She wondered if all men were as false in the Seven Kingdoms. When her son sat the Iron Throne, she would see that he had bloodriders of his own to protect him against treachery in his Kingsguard.

"Khaleesi," Cohollo said to her, in Dothraki. "Drogo, who is blood of my blood, commands me to tell you that he must ascend the Mother of Mountains this night, to sacrifice to the gods for his safe return."

Only men were allowed to set foot on the Mother, Dany knew. The khal's bloodriders would go with him, and return at dawn. "Tell my sun-and-stars that I dream of him, and wait anxious for his return," she replied, thankful. Dany tired more easily as the child grew within her; in truth, a night of rest would be most welcome. Her pregnancy only seemed to have inflamed Drogo's desire for her, and of late his embraces left her exhausted.

Doreah led her to the hollow hill that had been prepared for her and her khal. It was cool and dim within, like a tent made of earth. "Jhiqui, a bath, please," she commanded, to wash the dust of travel from her skin and soak her weary bones. It was pleasant to know that they would linger here for a while, that she would not need to climb back on her silver on the morrow.

The water was scalding hot, as she liked it. "I will give my brother his gifts tonight," she decided as Jhiqui was washing her hair. "He should look a king in the sacred city. Doreah, run and find him and invite him to sup with me." Viserys was nicer to the Lysene girl than to her Dothraki handmaids, perhaps because Magister Illyrio had let him bed her back in Pentos. "Irri, go to the bazaar and buy fruit and meat. Anything but horseflesh."

"Horse is best," Irri said. "Horse makes a man strong."

"Viserys hates horsemeat."

"As you say, Khaleesi."

She brought back a haunch of goat and a basket of fruits and vegetables. Jhiqui roasted the meat with sweetgrass and firepods, basting it with honey as it cooked, and there were melons and pomegranates and plums and some queer eastern fruit Dany did not know. While her handmaids prepared the meal, Dany laid out the clothing she'd had made to her brother's measure: a tunic and leggings of crisp white linen, leather sandals that laced up to the knee, a bronze medallion belt, a leather vest painted with fire-breathing dragons. The Dothraki would respect him more if he looked less a beggar, she hoped, and perhaps he would forgive her for shaming him that day in the grass. He was still her king, after all, and her brother. They were both blood of the dragon.

She was arranging the last of his gifts—a sandsilk cloak, green as grass, with a pale grey border that would bring out the silver in his hair—when Viserys arrived, dragging Doreah by the arm. Her eye was red where he'd hit her. "How dare you send this whore to give me commands," he said. He shoved the handmaid roughly to the carpet.

The anger took Dany utterly by surprise. "I only wanted . . . Doreah, what did you say?"

"Khaleesi, pardons, forgive me. I went to him, as you bid, and told him you commanded him to join you for supper."

"No one commands the dragon," Viserys snarled. "I am your king! I should have sent you back her head!"

The Lysene girl quailed, but Dany calmed her with a touch. "Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you. Sweet brother, please, forgive her, the girl misspoke herself, I told her to ask you to sup with me, if it pleases Your Grace." She took him by the hand and drew him across the room. "Look. These are for you."

Viserys frowned suspiciously. "What is all this?"

"New raiment. I had it made for you." Dany smiled shyly.

He looked at her and sneered. "Dothraki rags. Do you presume to dress me now?"

"Please . . . you'll be cooler and more comfortable, and I thought . . . maybe if you dressed like them, the Dothraki . . . " Dany did not know how to say it without waking his dragon.

"Next you'll want to braid my hair."

"I'd never . . . " Why was he always so cruel? She had only wanted to help. "You have no right to a braid; you have won no victories yet."

It was the wrong thing to say. Fury shone from his lilac eyes, yet he dared not strike her, not with her handmaids watching and the warriors of her khas outside. Viserys picked up the cloak and sniffed at it. "This stinks of manure. Perhaps I shall use it as a horse blanket."

"I had Doreah sew it specially for you," she told him, wounded. "These are garments fit for a khal."

"I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not some grass-stained savage with bells in his hair," Viserys spat back at her. He grabbed her arm. "You forget yourself, slut. Do you think that big belly will protect you if you wake the dragon?"

His fingers dug into her arm painfully and for an instant Dany felt like a child again, quailing in the face of his rage. She reached out with her other hand and grabbed the first thing she touched, the belt she had hoped to give him, a heavy chain of ornate bronze medallions. She swung it with all her strength.

It caught him full in the face. Viserys let go of her. Blood ran down his cheek where the edge of one of the medallions had sliced it open. "You are the one who forgets himself," Dany said to him. "Didn't you learn anything that day in the grass? Leave me now, before I summon my khas to drag you out. And pray that Khal Drogo does not hear of this, or he will cut open your belly and feed you your own entrails."

Viserys scrambled back to his feet. "When I come into my kingdom, you will rue this day, slut."

Before he could leave however, Jhiqui poked her head through the doorway. "Khaleesi, a gift arrived. For you. A belated wedding gift."

Dany was surprised; who would send her a gift this late? "It will have to wait until tomorrow, for when the khal returns," she replied. "We will be presented with it together."

"You misunderstand, Khaleesi," said Jhiqui. "The man who brought it, he says it is for you, and for you brother. Not the khal. And that both of you must be present to receive it."

That caught Viserys's attention. "Who sends a gift to a bride and her brother?" he wondered aloud."

Dany was surprised to hear her brother make sense for once. "Go, bring the gift," she told Jhiqui.

The Dothraki woman return with a man carrying an ornate chest.

The person in question, a short dark-skinned man who dressed in the style of Pentos, set down the chest in front of Dany. "Greetings, Khaleesi, he said after bowing low. "This gift comes to you and your brother from Robert Baratheon the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Roynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and Protector of the realm."

"Do not call the Usurper that," snapped Viserys. "Those are my titles, not his."

The Pentoshi bowed his head. "Pardons, Your Grace," he said, and Dany couldn't help but notice the edge of sarcasm in his voice. "I merely speak as I was bid."

Turning back to Danerys, he went on, "I was instructed to give these to you, in honor of your nuptials, His Grace-," Viserys tightened his jaw but remained silent, "sent you these." He opened the lid.

Dany reached inside-and took out a long sharp tooth. It was curved and nearly the size of her forearm; there were several more inside the chest. Dany had never seen any animal with such teeth.

Visarys, however had-or at least a part. "Those teeth come from the dragon skulls of the Red Keep," he said. "Why would the Usurper send them here, to us?"

"Because," The Pentoshi man said, "Robert Baratheon felt you both were in need of teeth."

Dany was speechless. She could barely imagine the arrogance of this man, this Usurper, to make such a jape.

Visarys, however, was far from silent. "He mocks me!" her brother roared. "THE USURPER MOCKS ME!"

End of Chapter 11

I'm afraid we're going to see the last of Danerys for a while; most of what happens to her will be the same as in canon-at least until the dragons are hatch.

In case you haven't read the books, I've included characters who weren't mentioned in the TV series as the representatives. Ser Walder Rivers, for instance, although Tatsu Snow is an OC suggested by a reader of this fic. And if you have read the books, you can probably guess who the unnamed representatives are

Andrew is right about Westeros's similarity to medieval Europe being coincidence-but wrong about the Ronin. You can probably guess what I'm getting at.

I know, Cersei apologizing for anything is out of character. How worried should Kathleen be?

And Tywin Lannister taking an interest in steam engines. Guess what that can lead to...