Edric

They presided over the court of his parents and his ancestors as if the ancient seat of the Kings of the Torentine had been restored. Lord Edric Dayne, who was not his uncle Arthur, sat beside Sansa at the head table, ruling something more or less than one kingdom as Queen and King regnant both, evenly positioned beside the center of the table, as if they were already married, speaking as one in the manner of Jaehaerys the Conciliation and his wife the Good Queen Alysanne, rather than allies of convenience who'd yet but met less than a year before. Were they lovers of convenience too? The thought was not one completely foreign to Edric, that were he not a lord but an heir or a second son, a younger brother, a landed knight, or even a lord with but an insignificant castle or lands or name, then he would've never discovered a Queen sharing his bed every night.

And what of it then? Was it not his duty, to serve his Queen in whichever way demanded of him, whether militarily, politically, or personally? If the Queen ordered him to murder his liege lords, his guests, in the cellars of his castle, was it not true that he was bound to obey? After all, only Doran had suffered, and his fate kinder than the fate that most traitors deserved and received. For Areo Hotah, a soldier who'd taken nearly all of the Sand Snakes and the Princess Stark to subdue, Ned felt little sympathy for either. It was the Norvoshi man's duty to give his life to protect his Prince. That he would die while failing would have been the man's worst fear, yet he would have given it consideration all the same at one point in his life or another, same as any soldier or knight prepared to his sword in battle.

But for Arianne and Quentyn? All Edric could console himself with was that neither of them had suffered too unduly, except in their minds, knowing and protesting what was to come.

It's better than watching men burn.

Would his vaunted uncle agree with him, that whatever sacred vows of guest right they'd broken, surely the gods would condemn him less for than the burning the lords of the North without trial, or the act, or lack of it, while watching silently as it happened?

"Tell me this," the Queen commanded at his side at the two supplicants. "The blows which killed my father and Prince Robb, did either one come from you?"

The older woman shook her head. "I was leagues away besieging Stannis," Yara Greyjoy stated plainly. Edric didn't think she was lying, because she did not seem the type to ever feel the need to, not when she could cut and stab her way out of any predicament. Apparently Sansa agreed, and the Queen's attention turned to the younger man beside her.

"King Theon?"

They'd address them by their chosen titles, Sansa had decided, because in truth they were both supplicating the other, Sansa having ordered summons sent to the Stepstones even before Arya Stark and her sisters in murder had cut apart Doran Martell piece by piece. And the truth was just as likely that the would be King and Queen of the Iron Islands had started their sail westwards before even receiving the summons. It was confusing to Ned, did they intend to wed, or would they both retain their titles in an un-Targaryen manner, if they ever took back their father's stronghold on Pyke? Would they wage war and fight it out, one last battle once their common enemy was vanquished?

Say the right thing, Edric thought, or none of your plans for the future will matter, because neither of you will live to see morning.

"I fought your brother in battle," Theon Greyjoy admitted to the makeshift court of Sansa I Stark. "T'be honest, he was good, very good, I could barely get a scratch on him. But he was busy fighting me, and didn't see my uncle Euron come in from behind him."

"And it was Jon Connington who struck down King Eddard," Yara Greyjoy added bluntly, "this is known."

The Queen remained silent as she stared down the two former enemies, whether they would remain so not entirely decided yet in her mind.

"Convenient, isn't it? But is it the truth?"

"It tis," Theon answered, "I swear upon the Drowned God, by my name, my father's name."

It was almost as if Edric could hear the rage churning inside the Queen's heart and mind at the mention of Balon Greyjoy, even if not by name. But he looked to Sansa, and her face remained stone. Ned readied his sword, half expecting to hear the order given anyway.

"The Crown will support the claims of Theon and Yara of House Greyjoy to the Iron Islands," the Queen finally decided, and Edric breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps an even heavier one than that of the pirates before them. "You will return to the Stepstones, rally all your people, bring together as many bands of fighters as possible, whether allies of yours, or rivals, and ready them all for the upcoming war."

Ned spared a look to his aunt Allyria, who had arrived with little Arthur, her son by Beric, half a fortnight ago. The marcher lords would remain in their marches to protect their homelands from the arriving armies, unless ordered otherwise by Sansa. Much as it would have comforted Edric to have Beric's guiding voice and wisdom by his side again, they'd decided together to let it be, as war in the Stormlands would preempt any invasion of Dorne, giving them the chance to further ready their own army while hopefully getting a glimpse of how Rhaegar and Randyll Tarly planned to conduct their part of the war.

"There's plenty of Tyroshi scoundrels who'd love to have my head," Yara replied scornfully, speaking more assuredly now that she'd been promised implicitly the safety of herself and her brother. "They'd love to have yours too, Your Grace. Other parts too, from both of us. So unless you start promising them some of the gold yer busy melting down, or statues you're selling off from the Water Gardens, I don't expect you any chance of winning them over."

"The Water Gardens belong to Dorne," the Queen answered calmly. "Their treasures will be returned to the people of Dorne, who raise their swords today to defend their lands, their Prince, and their Queen. But many great houses have betrayed me, Queen Yara, and many houses continue to make war against me...against us. The jewels of the Reach...Highgarden, Oldtown, Horn Hill, may I remind you that they are not without treasures either."

Her words elicited a hungry, primal fervor out of the Greyjoy siblings, and Edric had to remind himself that, lofty titles or not, these were still pirates at heart who stood before them.

"Aye, I get you," Theon Greyjoy said. His posture stood respectfully and at attention, but Edric could not help feel pings of jealousy at the way the man's eyes leered towards Sansa. He imagine this would not escape her notice either.

"This war will not be kind," Sansa answered calmly, ignoring his would be lechery, "and there will be many dark days and nights of bloodshed. But we must remind ourselves that we are not our enemies, we are better than them. There will not be any rapine, and children will be spared if possible. Tell your men that, tell the other bands who would sail with you the Queen's commands, no salt wives, not when there's plenty whores and brothels across the realm, and ample coin to pay their way. Your riches and your rewards will come from the men and women who willfully decided to commit their treasons. Our war will not be waged against smallfolk who are innocent of the crimes of their lords."

"Aye," Yara answered, after they continued facing each other uneasily, both of them surely measuring the difficulties of how to command their fellow pirates to not commit piracy. "It is understood. But yer no fool, Your Grace, it'll take every last scratch of coin and treasure in Highgarden, down to the damned roses themselves, fer the men t'restrain themselves."

"And they will be more than amply rewarded for their restraint," Sansa answered, not without glee in her voice, "I assure you of that."

"So we win this war against the dragons for you," Theon said, stepping one foot forward. "And then what? You command seven kingdoms to lay siege on Pyke against our uncle? What assurances would you give us, that you'll fulfill your end of the bargain once we've done the same?"

You think to ask for her hand too, fool? Careful, idiot, you know little of what you'd be getting yourself into, this is a Queen who's far more dangerous than yours.

"The bargain will fulfill itself," Edric answered. "We will squeeze and press the usurprer and his armies. Even as we speak, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Westerlands are rallying and marching on behalf of their rightful Queen. The tighter we close the vise, the more desperate our enemies will become. They will then naturally seek out more allies."

"Which will draw Euron into this war," Yara said with a knowing smirk.

"With any luck," Ned continued, "you'll have your uncle dead and your kingdom secure before even having to lay foot on Pyke."

They'd discussed this together the previous evening. While their nights together remained as active, instead of lounging casually afterwards, enjoying endlessly the feel of each other's bodies as if they were lovers without any other cares in the world, now they'd resume their study of the maps, Edric noting carefully with his quill each hill or valley or hidden path he knew of, Sansa filling him in on her knowledge of all the houses and her presumptions of their loyalties, honed after years of study with the maesters, and then during her awful captivity.

"It's the Freys I worry about," Sansa said, the thin silk hanging loosely off her body after yet another post coital strategy session, her open belly and navel facing the desk. The Dornish garbs did not fit her as well in style, Edric thought, as the loose fitting robes of the Sand Snakes fit her sister, but Sansa looked just as tantalizing to him tonight as always, she would in every way regardless of what she wore, or didn't wear.

"Didn't your Uncle Edmure marry a Frey," Edric frowned. All the tables in his formerly barren chambers were now covered with maps of seemingly every kingdom, pieces littering each corner of the parchment, Sansa ordering what seemed to be dozens of new sigil carvings by the day to further litter the sheets. All the houses and their loose loyalties seemed too much for Edric, the warfare part of the actual war was so much simpler, though perhaps that was why they got along well, both in leisure and in war, because he could not conduct a war without an army, and they could not build an army without Sansa's knowledge of her realms.

"Yes, and old Walder ought to have been happy about that afterwards," Sansa replied, worried, "not continuing to seek alliances with Jonos Bracken and all the like. I need to write my uncle...I don't think I'll feel comfortable about the northern kingdoms, not until I've heard word that the Brackens had been repulsed."

"That's the problem, isn't it," Edric replied thoughtfully. Remembering something he'd glanced through that morning, Ned flipped through a stack of letters, pulling out the one scroll he'd sought. "The Royces have declared for you. We'll write them, tell them to march into the Riverlands against any armies the Brackens can muster."

"Still nothing from the Eyrie though? Or the Waynwoods?"

It seemed Sansa's aunt Lysa had picked the worst time to die, events in the Vale seeming as mysterious as the politics of Asshai for all it mattered to them on the other end of the continent.

"Nothing," Edric replied, troubled because she was troubled. "It could be just the snows though, you've told me how treacherous the Eyrie is in winter."

"I still don't like it, the Waynwoods should have declared along with the Royces, they're not waylaid by the high mountain passes."

"And nothing from Storm's End either," Edric sighed. "Princess Daenerys and Lancel Lannister have enough to worry about in their own kingdom, we can't have them paralyzed by their northern and eastern fronts. They need to meet us in the Reach, we can't defeat all the Tyrells and Tarly's and Hightowers with just Dorne and the smaller half of the Stormlands."

The Queen turned her head away from the desk to look at him. Under the dim glow of the candle against her auburn hair, it was easy to see her as just a beautiful woman he was becoming more and more besotted with, whom he imagined and dared hope felt the same way for him, rather than a Queen planning every stroke of a great war which would see thousands dead, and more houses to follow the fate of the Martells.

Would her next murders be committed under your roof again, will they share salt and mead and hearth with your good name?

She brushed away his misgivings with her voice, so soft and vulnerable and...relenting. "I've given thought about what you said, regarding the mercenaries."

"You have?"

Sansa hadn't liked the idea at first. Her adversaries the last war had used foreign invaders, and she did not like the idea of calling them to her side, not after rallying the country against them almost seven years before.

"It has to be the Unsullied," she replied. "I don't like the idea of buying slaves, but they won't rape or reap, not like the others. We'll use them only to defend Dorne, and the passes between here and the Reach."

"I understand," Edric said, standing and placing his hand gently upon her shoulder, to show that he would not gloat, now that she'd agreed with him in this one small piece of the war. "I'll write the Lady Ellaria, ask her to use some of the gold to buy a company of two thousand. That should be enough to keep Tarly back, enough to give us fair warning, without overwhelming the land with foreigners."

It would be a risky maneuver, an invasion of Dorne from somewhere between Horn Hill and Highgarden, though exactly one Edric had to anticipate from a dangerous foe such as Randyll Tarly. A two pronged invasion, the other half coming from the King and Connington's armies in the Stormlands, would make sense on paper, except the western half of that invasion would be capable of taking only Starfall and the lands of the Torentine, with a second range of mountains separating the would be conquerors from any invaders marching south through Prince's Pass. Though their enemies still had the numbers, Edric felt good about a defensive war waged through the mountains, but he'd feel even better about an Unsullied army to preempt any risk of ignominy from having the enemy occupy both his home and the current seat of the Queen's court, should they commit themselves to a northern offensive.

The Queen yawned, stretching her arms outward, and Edric walked around the room, blowing out each candle except for the one he carried in his hand. They both fell upon the bed the same time, and Sansa rolled easily into his arms. Were this even a fortnight or two ago, they'd be upon each other instantly, ready for yet another round of lovemaking, but though his body stood ready and willing, Edric was also perfectly content to feel the pangs of slumber overtaking the both of them early. Briefly, his thoughts turned to the only other woman he'd been close to, sleeping somewhere in another castle, one he hoped he would not have to besiege in the coming war, though Edric knew better than to hope further.

Beside him, soft snoring sounds already began to emerge from the nostrils of his lover, one graceful royal cheek nestled against his chest. Her snores were not intrusive, but gentle, even melodic, and Edric gave thanks for these nights when Sansa did not need to cry before she fell into whatever nightmares which still plagued her at night, that he still lay helpless to prevent.


Rhaegar

It was strange that, though he rode to war this time in a wheelhouse, the King of Westeros savored the ride south, the views of the dense forest given way to barren hills and dry leaves of grasses, the sounds of trumpets and footsteps and chants, the songs of soldiers singing and knights admonishing filling his ears with...contentment? Purpose?

The ride to the Trident atop his steed had been so different, his heart ached with pain, concern for what was to come, the ordeals of both the rebels and his father tearing through either flank of him with equal agony, and of course the fear, of Lyanna, how she'd screamed at him before Ser Arthur took her. Even as he donned his armor that fateful morning, his thoughts remained with Lyanna, and Rhaegar prayed that though they parted further and further with every passing minute, in distance as well as heart and mind, that his soul may remain with her, that her heart would return to him, and she would see reason, once the battle was won, the rebels defeated, Ned Stark pardoned, and his father compelled into abdication. Then, all would be well.

He would be equally forgiving this time. Sansa Stark would survive, because he doubted his wife would have any inclination towards leading what little armies she could gather in person. Then he could forgive her and, her little adventure complete, she would return to the capital with him, do her duty, give him the third head of the dragon, and all would be well. Her supporters would be forgiven too, for her sake, so long as they bent the knee, though there were these disturbing whispers about this boy lord of Starfall, Ser Arthur's nephew...

How dare he touch her, Arthur would roll over in the dirt in shame, Sansa Stark is mine, she's my wife, my Queen, I'll have lions tear him limb from limb, and she'll watch it happen, that'll teach her to ever touch another again...

His sister too, who'd joined his wife in this misguided rebellion, for what possible reason, it befuddled Rhaegar. Hadn't he given her the best life possible, hadn't he spent over a decade in exile raising her as his own daughter, even putting off the war against Ned Stark until he'd been satisfied that Dany was grown and able? By the Gods, he'd given her Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister's former seat, the greatest prize in all Seven Kingdoms! But Randyll Tarly was right, women were fickle creatures, but so quickly did Dany's sympathies lie with the girl now, so quickly could they again change, once they could speak, and meet eyes, and Rhaegar could remind her of all that he'd done for her.

Like you would've reasoned with father to give up his crown, after the Trident?

Certainly this was not the first time Targaryens have gone to war against each other. The dragons were dead, gone, which for once was a good thing, because it made possible their future forgiveness, and kindness, and generosity, without the scars of the torrid fire scorching the land and hardening their hearts against each other for all eternity, through death and life. Daenerys would beg for his forgiveness, just as Viserys had, it would happen, because it was meant to happen, and he would not rest until it did happen, because a King simply could not rest until his own house, his family, lay at peace.

"Hurrah, we have a new Lord of the Eyrie," Connington pronounced happily, breaking through his contemplation.

"Robin Arryn died?" He would never celebrate the death of a child, especially one who could have been pushed unwillingly into treason by his unreliable relations, but it was would be a convenience all the same, and fighting his third and last war, Rhaegar knew that he could afford to spurn no advantages out of the softness of his heart.

"Soon enough, maybe," Connington grunted, as they came to a stop for the evening, just before the sun set early. Harvest Hall they would reach by afternoon of the next day, alas House Selmy was the only marcher house who'd remained loyal with Beric Dondarrion's treason. "But all the praises to Lord Harry Hardyng...apologies, Harry Arryn, he's agreed to act on behalf of his true King, Tarly says he'll wait for the Royces to march west, then storm the Bloody Gate."

"What will happen to the boy then?"

Connington shrugged, placing the letter from his Hand inside his waistcoat. "The new heir can't let the old one live, unless we give him some kind of out. If it's mercy you'd wish, then...mayhaps we make him join the Faith, hells appoint him the next High Septon, that'll knock out two sparrows with one rock."

Rhaegar chuckled, he could appreciate the joke, and he could not be more than thankful for the man who'd stood by him for so long.

"Mercy it will be, it must," he said, his voice soft, as gentle as he could make it. "Thank you Griff. It's been a long life for you and I. We've had our good days, and bad."

"Aye," Connington replied, averting his eyes as they helped him out the wheelhouse and into a chair which had been placed by the fire they would set for the night. "I remember it, when you came with me to Griffin's Roost. I'll never forget that day." Nearby, the servants prepared their supper, roast grouse, the meat lean and stringy, he'd guess, based on their meals in the days past, yet Rhaegar savored it, because it reminded him of the before, when there'd been a purpose to his life, one where he was not left sitting to watch others carry out that purpose in his name.

Jon Connington loved him, truly loved him, he'd always known this. He could never love the man back, not as Griff would like, but nevertheless the Lord of Griffin's Roost never abandoned him, never betrayed him. Rhaegar could not even say the same for his own siblings.

"This war," Rhaegar began, "it will be no easy thing."

They'd passed the crossroad for the path to Summerhall the previous morning, and it took every fiber of his will for him to not order their march diverted, so that he could pay his respects to the ruins which had claimed the lives of so many of his family, on the day he'd been born. But the Selmy's were the only marcher house who'd declared for him, and Connington did not want to tread too deep into the marches until they'd gathered enough banners, especially onex who knew well of the terrain they'd meet their enemy upon.

Not everything was so discouraging though. The Swanns had joined neither side of the war yet, which meant only one thing.

"They want something from us," Connington guessed at.

So a rider had been sent, to offer a pardon to the Lord of Stonehelm for his wayward son, Ser Balon, who'd been complicit with the Queen in treason. Though the Selmy name carried further because of the songs of the great and tragic Barristan the Bold, it was the Swanns who held within their control possibly the second most powerful army in all the marches.

"No war is," Griff muttered quietly, his eyes lost in their own tragic past. "I know that now, better than most."

"I'm sorry too," Rhaegar continued. The war may truly begin any day now, even before dawn broke, and it was best that what needed to be said would be said by then. "I've run you ragged since our return. You've seen Griffin's Roost but once, after the tourney at Highgarden?"

The old man Griff nodded sadly, regretfully. "There'll be time enough, once all the damned work's done." He took a swig of his ale. Rhaegar had never liked the nectar of soldiers before, even less since the Trident. "I'm sorry too. About Ser Lewyn. He was a loyal man, a man of honor. He stood with us, until that night."

"I wish he could have lived to see the world that's to come," Rhaegar thought out loud. "The Great War...it can only mean a greater peace afterwards. That's what we fight for, Griff. Not war, but peace. Always peace."

Connington shook his head in agreement. That was what they'd always fought for. Perhaps this was why the war seemed never close to victory, because surely the Gods would not let them pass so easily the most strenuous test known to man. But he would pass it, he alone could pass it, this Rhaegar had known since the day he'd been born.


Sansa

The steps were worn and dusty, and Sansa took care not to slip and fall, though she figured that Arya was not struggling similarly. The narrow stairway circled around endlessly, abutted to the faded stone walls, before disappearing into the nothingness above. It would not just be ghosts she would fear, Sansa thought, were she to find herself in this crumbling tower alone at night, not when a misstep would simply add her soul to the ample tally of ghosts already residing within. As they ascended, the Queen imagined that her sister, like herself, was thinking of those who'd climbed these steps before them, all of them dead now. Behind Arya trailed Edric, respectfully giving them their distance, sensing the weight of their pilgrimage, though his famed uncle had also met his end by the tower as well, though further down in the small saddle below its gates.

"Aunt Lyanna died here," Sansa almost proclaimed, observing the barren stone walls grazing the empty room. Father had described it as sparsely furnished then, and surely bandits or even the nearby villagers had stripped from the chambers all that was salvageable over the years, no sentimentality they felt for dead Starks out of place by the boundaries of Dorne and the Stormlands.

"Jon was born here," Arya replied, as Edric made his entrance quietly into the doorway behind them.

They both imagined the sound of a crying child, the cries of a dying mother, and the agony and despair of a man, a soldier, soon to be a great King, yet helpless to protect his most beloved sister.

"We'll see him again," Sansa promised, wanting to please her sister, "once we win the war. I'll release him from his vows too, if that's his wish."

Though it'd be mighty convenient for me were he to take a strong liking to Castle Black.

"Do you think she can see us, hear us," Arya wondered, "right now?"

"Her ghost?"

Her sister nodded grimly.

"I think..."

I don't believe in ghosts anymore. Except I believe in them more than I do the Gods of Riverrun, of our mother and grandpapa.

"...I don't think she'd be stuck here," Sansa finally replied after a long pause. "Father and Robb would've dragged her out by now, to wherever they are. They'd all be together, I'd think..."

"Which means we're the ones who are stuck here," her sister finished for her, with a chuckle that was not at all joyous.

They'd ridden past this tower several times before, and it had been easy for Sansa to avoid approaching even the base of the hill supporting the structure. This was a history she would rather not visit, not after her last so-called marriage.

What kind of joy was Rhaegar thinking of when he named this tower? The joy of raping maidens, the joy of abandoning his wife and children?

Standing in this room, it forced her to confront the conflicting truths she'd been told, the possibility that it had been her father who'd lied to her. And what if Lyanna did love the man, and ran away willingly with him, splitting the seven kingdoms asunder in her wake. She'd been young, hadn't she, didn't Sansa make her own mistakes with Lancel Lannister, out of all people, when she'd been the same age? What did that mean then, if Rhaegar had been telling the truth? Had Lyanna been fooled, or had there indeed been something to the man which had captivated her aunt's heart? Lyanna Stark hadn't been alone either, because didn't all the maidens and more than half the wives and spinsters of all of Westeros covet the man she'd been lucky enough to marry? Was it just the looks he'd once possessed, his skills with his sword, his title? Or had there been some innate sense of honor and nobility in Rhaegar Targaryen once, before they'd all been washed away by the waters of the Trident, his sins, his exile, his undeniably accursed blood?

Having taken leave of their ghosts, and his own, Sansa watched as Edric wander from one wall to another, gazing out the windows to undoubtedly study the surrounding terrain through their uniquely high vantage point.

"Any sign of Lord Beric's armies?"

Edric shook his head. "On a clear day, we should even be able to see fires burning as far as Nightsong. We'll know if they're coming."

"If it's from somewhere west like Nightsong, it'll be the enemy." Arya had been studying her maps as well.

"The Unsullied are already positioned north of Blackmont, I know that ridge, it'll hold, long enough for them to send a rider and warn us. We may see the fires from the Manwoody and Fowler hosts by nightfall, and we're close enough here to divert enough men to ward off any invasion from the western edge of Prince's Pass. Anything from Rhaegar, we'll know if he mounts an attack from the marches."

They all knew this, they all knew the plan, and what they wanted their enemies to do. Whether Edric was repeating himself now to assure the two of them, or himself, Sansa could not be sure of. With still more armies marching west from closer to Sunspear, their numbers Edric guessed were about even with the men terrorizing the marches, based on what they'd heard from scouts sent by Beric and Lady Brienne. Of course, joining with their Stormland banners would give them a much better advantage, but they'd still be overwhelmed were Randyll Tarly to bring over the full might of the Reach. For all his talk, for all his knowledge and skill with his sword, the young Lord of Starfall was barely a boy into his maturity, who'd followed but never led an army of his own into battle. Just how well did that bode against enemies who'd already had the skill and cunning to steal seven kingdoms once from her already?

"I thought I knew him, Rhaegar," Sansa whispered quietly to herself. "Yet it surprises me, that he'd ride this far south from the Keep, that he'd march with his men into battle."

"The weaker he is," Arya said knowingly, "the more he'd look to prove his strength."

"A man of pride and sound mind would, yes. But Rhaegar..."

She would've thought he'd succumbed on the march by now, to sickness, to madness...to the predatory gazes of his own soldiers, who knew? But it was an advantage, so she would press it. Sansa felt Edric's strong hands clasping her shoulders, the young man no longer bothering to hide any signs of affection for her, whether in front of their men, or her sister.

"Doesn't matter," he whispered, as Sansa leaned her weight against the surface of his leather plaited armor. "Sound mind or not, he's one man. Sound mind or not, he's a weak man. If he's foolish enough to pursue us, we'll get him. If he dallies in the marches, we'll get him too."

Except they both knew it was easier said than done. They knew, or rather they hoped, that Daenerys Targaryen had begun marching whatever houses she'd been able to muster southwards, but the uncertainty of whether they would make it this far south in time, much less sneak or battle past Tarly's men lying between their respective kingdoms, made an outright attack outside of Dorne, much less in open terrain such as the marches or the plains of the Mander, far too risky. Better to let their enemies bear the burdens of invasion for now, and let their numbers be augmented by the treacherous mountains which had protected Dorne for untold centuries.

And the tower, this particular tower, Sansa did not doubt for one second its significance to the dragon at the head of their enemies. She needed him to be weak, she needed him to be prideful but, of sound mind or not, Sansa realized what she needed more than anything else was Rhaegar to be Rhaegar.


Rhaegar

The same dream echoed through his mind over the last fortnight.

Three heads of the dragon.

"Damned cowards refuse to meet us in the field," Connington muttered unhappily. "They pick at our rearguard like damned wildlings, killin' stragglers and sentries at night."

"Yet we lose dozens by the day."

"Aye, deserters too," Jon added. They'd taken Blackhaven with ease, though the castle had been already abandoned. The village had burned anyway, along with their granaries, because Beric Dondarrion's treason was not something they could afford to take lightly, though they'd dispersed all the smallfolk before the burning. In hindsight, they should have just burned the castle instead, Rhaegar thought. The raids got worse and more savage after that, and just this morning they'd found Ser Androw Buckler, a young and promising knight out of the Bronzegate, impaled through his abdomen by a stake made out of a freshly cut tree stump, the poor man still alive and agonizingly so...as were the over half dozen men he commanded who'd suffered the same fate.

Yet again the enemy continued eluding them, far gone by the time they'd discovered this newest atrocity. The marches were barren and endless, the winter days too short for long pursuit and fruitless chases. Many of their scouts never returned, and the only constant whispers from the ones that did were that, though it seemed the enemy could pick at them endlessly until they'd given up and retreated to King's Landing, more and more of the marcher armies were actually riding towards Dorne, via the Prince's Pass.

"We need to end this war," Rhaegar said, not for the first time this campaign. It was deplorable, the suffering of the villagers, and young soldiers who'd never get the chance to live out their vows and be remembered by the likes of Ser Arthur and Barristan. "Send word to Tarly, it's time to bring this war to the enemy."

The enemy. My wife. Who'd ever thought I'd be saying that? Elia. Lyanna. We had our difficulties. But they never would have dared make war against me. Perhaps it's Sansa who's the third dragon, my Visenya, the most difficult dragon to tame.

"Dorne, eh?" Even Connington shook his head doubtfully. "You won't be the first dragon to take his stab there."

"I know my history, Jon," Rhaegar replied impatiently. "I know Dorne too, I've ridden through the passes many times." He paused. Thoughts came to him easier these days. Perhaps it was a product of the war. Frustrating as it was, war was a much simpler thing than politics, all the lies, deceit, shade, and subtleties of court, shameful skills which his newest wife seemingly excelled at. Perhaps that had been why he'd dithered so long in acting against his father, especially allowing himself to be so distracted at Harrenhal, because in his heart Rhaegar knew, at the time at least, that the only thing he dreaded worse than a realm ruled by Aerys II Targaryen was having to rule the poisonous nest himself.

"I've heard word that the marcher lords are gathering south of Vulture's Roost." It hurt him to continue, but he had to continue. "There's a tower there, on the east side of the pass. I know it well. The lands, the terrain..."

How Ned Stark had been there, and I was not.

"They'll be ready for you," Connington countered with a harsh swig of ale. Rhaegar needed to remind him not to drink so much, once the final day of the great battle came. "The Dornish have their tricks, they fight like women, and the marcher lords are learning them well."

"The Dragon has...," fuck the red woman, she'd been wrong, "four heads," Rhaegar corrected at the last second, but his old friend just looked at him befuddled.

"Pardon me, Your Grace?"

"We make straight for Vulture's Roost, and the tower beyond. The plains are open, so they won't be able to surprise us."

"And Tarly attacks from the east?"

"Two prongs," Rhaegar began, seeing this war as clearly as he'd ever seen anything in his life, as if the second sight of the priestesses had finally and miraculously returned to him. "One from Horn Hill to cross the Torentine north of Blackmont, threatening Starfall, while the Tyrell host marches around Nightsong to converge with us directly by the Tower of Joy."

"Aye," Griff agreed, the traces of a smile forming behind his red and unkempt beard. "Pin 'em, an' cut them off from running back down Prince's Pass."

"We have to move fast," Rhaegar continued, his mind still moving so turbulently that he felt his actual breath catching in his chest. "But they're gathering for a reason, to attack, not to retreat. So we'll give them their war...and..."

Had he felt so invigorated waging war against Robert and his usurpers? Perhaps it never would've come to that duel, had he planned things better then. Picking up his cane, Rhaegar drew from his seat the lines of the familiar roads and castles and terrain onto the sandy surface by the fire, forming one last arc which he knew would be the deathblow to the rebellion.

"The fourth head of the dragon. The Selmy men are small in number, but fierce and bold, as befit their reputation. They'll march down the Boneway and outflank their right. They won't be able to advance, if we besiege them quickly enough, they'll be cut off on both ends."

Instantly, Connington jumped up, the man was a soldier, and he knew orders when given them. Rhaegar could trust that the right messages would be relayed westward. He'd wish for his wife to survive the battle, with any luck Sansa would be situated at the rear, and Rhaegar would give instructions for his rider to pursue her most gently. Then they could turn their attentions back north, to pacify his sister. Then, blessedly, finally, his family whole once more, the King would rest, and watch as the seeds of his hard work finally bear fruit.