Interlude III: Known faces

Marya

Gulltown, 298 AC

This part of the city was by no means a clean place, but it was way better than Flea Bottom. Although there was a strong smell of fish, which was to be expected from a port city, it wasn't even remotely as overwhelming as the awful, omnipresent stench of winesinks and pigsties. Even the sky was somehow better.

The sea, though...the sea was always the same.

That vast expanse of water that seemed to go on forever, that could either make you rich like a Lannister or destroy you. Something that you couldn't help but fear and respect. Sometimes it could be your home, or your closest friend.

And sometimes, it could also be a grave.

Marya calmly walked along the docks, looking at the horizon. She was wearing her usual humble attire, and in her hand was a small flower. A rose, like the ones he had given her the day of their wedding.

Five and twenty years today. Can you believe it, Davos, my love? It's already been a quarter of a century.

Five and twenty years since their wedding. And almost ten since his death.

She still remembered it clearly. The worst day of her life, something no man or woman should ever have to experience.

She had always known that something like that would happen. A smuggler's life wasn't safe. One had to be constantly on high alert, especially from other smugglers. Backstabbing wasn't unheard of in their job. And even if you were good at your job and knew all the safest sea routes, you couldn't always count on your luck to protect you from the patrols of the royal fleet.

And when that day had come, when her sons had come back home bearing that terrible news...

They had us cornered like sea rats! It was like they appeared out of nowhere!

She stifled a tear. How she wished she could go back in time and change things. Her husband would still be with her. They would still live in their old home and...

Stop it, she commanded herself. You can't bring him back. As painful as it was to admit that truth, there was nothing else that Marya could do. She could only keep him alive in her memories, and go on with her life. Davos wouldn't want her to spend her days moping and thinking about the past, after all. He would want her to be happy.

And indeed, she was, if not happy, at least content. Moving to Gulltown had been a good choice. It hadn't been easy at first, but step by step she had made herself a new life. Her sons now held respectable positions in the city watch and the Grafton merchant fleet. And her inn was doing quite well.

But she would never forget Davos.

Marya reached her destination and stopped. She knelt and gently placed the rose on the water. She watched it float and then, as the current carried it away, she started humming Davos' favorite sea shanty. She didn't have a proper grave to mourn on, so every year, on this day, she came here. The sea was vast, and somewhere out there, Davos' bones were resting amid fish and sea weeds.

Like it had done for countless people before, the sea had become Davos' grave.

She sighed and buried her face in her hands. This time she didn't stop the tears.

XXXXXX

Balon

Somewhere in the Narrow Sea, 281 AC

If there was one thing that Balon despised, it was weakness.

Weakness of mind, of body. It was all the same. A weak man was a disgrace to himself and those around him who were strong enough.

In a right world, only the strong would have any say in matters of importance. In a right world, the weak would be at the feet of the social hierarchy.

In a right world, the ironborn would have no masters but themselves.

Instead, in this weak, wrong world, his people had to bow to the greenlanders and their Iron Throne. They couldn't reave and pillage as they pleased, they had to accept their false gods and their stupid laws. And what was worse, now...now they had become the greenlanders' watchdogs! The indignity of it all!

And it was all his father's fault. He had suggested the idea to the dragon king. When he had announced it to him and his brothers, Balon had felt his heart sink. How could he endorse such a thing? How could he not realize how humiliating it was? He had tried to make him see reason, but the old man had been adamant about it. Balon had had no choice but to obey.

And so here he was now, at the bow of his ship, arms crossed and brow furrowed in thought. His and other three longships were escorting a Lannisport merchant to Tyrosh. So far, they had met no pirates.

That had allowed Balon enough time to think. What could he do to change things? How could he free his people and bring them back to the old glory days? The days of Urron Redhand, when all the inhabitants of the shores of Westeros lived in fear of the longships, and the ironborn could earn a living the proper way.

There was only an answer to that: rebellion.

Balon nodded grimly to himself. Yes, rebellion. Attack the greenlanders, and force them to recognize the Iron Islands' independence. It wouldn't be easy, he knew it. But he was also confident that it could be done. He would have to be very careful, though, and would have to coordinate efforts with his brothers. Also, he couldn't act as long as his father still drew breath. Killing him was out of the question: Balon didn't want to be remembered as a kinslayer. He would have to wait until he died of old age. Which could happen any time soon. Quellon Greyjoy was way past his prime. Just a little patience, and then...he smiled.

King Balon, Ninth of His Name. Sounds really good.

His reverie was abruptly interrupted by the lookout's loud call. Balon turned and noticed three dark shapes approaching from the far distance. He cursed. It could only be one thing. Pirates. Well, it wasn't an unwelcome distraction. Now he would get something to vent his anger on. He started barking orders to his men and slowly stroke the hilt of his sword. Those fools would regret the day they had chosen to attack his ships.

He was determined to spill blood. And when their ships met and fighting broke out, he bellowed a war cry and began to kill pirates.

And he kept on doing just that for a while, until an enemy axe hit Balon right in his forehead, killing him instantly.

XXXXXX

Arthur

Summerhall, 297 AC

He realized something was wrong as soon as Rhaegar and Jon started talking. He didn't know what it was, just a strange feeling in the back of his mind.

What is it? Why do I feel this...this anxiety? Or...

...is it fear? But of what?

"Arthur, are you still with us?" Rhaegar asked him. "Are you so bored that you began to daydream?" he added jokingly.

Arthur chose to not share his inner thoughts with the king. There was no need to bother him with something so meaningless. "It's nothing, Your Grace."

That was a lie, though. Arthur's instinct was almost never wrong.

What could it mean, then? Was it really nothing? Or was something actually going to happen? Maybe it was just the atmosphere. They were in Summerhall, after all, where one of the greatest tragedies of House Targaryen had taken place. Even if it was almost completely rebuilt, it still retained something of that event. Some eerie reminder of the tragedy. The workers and some of the guards said that the ghosts of Aegon the Unlikely and Duncan the Small still wandered the halls at night, forever crying for the tragedy that had wounded their family. It was just some stupid smallfolk hearsay, of course.

But...what if they were right?

He chided himself for that thought. What was happening to him? Why did he keep on thinking about such dark matters? It has to be the castle, he decided. Yes, that was the only logical explanation. The castle's grim history had somehow influenced him. Stupid Arthur. You are not a child anymore, to let yourself be spooked by ghost stories. What would Rhaegar and Jon think of you?

All those thoughts ended when Rhaegar took the eggs and approached the burning brazier. Arthur held his breath and waited as his king gently placed the eggs amidst the flames. It was a meaningful moment, one that had the potential to bring back the Targaryens to their glory days.

The ominous feeling returned, this time a little stronger. What is it, now?

And just then, something terrible happened.

A huge burst of flame erupted from the brazier, almost blinding the three of them. Arthur shielded his eyes with his arm and took a few steps back. Gods, the heat...

Rhaegar stared at the flames with hungry eyes. "Yes, we are almost..."

Before he could complete that sentence, the brazier trembled and collapsed. Flames started puring on the floor as Rhaegar and Jon screamed in horror.

"NO! THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!" the king yelled.

The flames got too close to Rhaegar, but neither him nor Jon moved. They just stood there looking at the burning mess.

Just like Arthur. Somehow, although he wanted to surge forward and save his two friends, he found that his feet wouldn't move. What's happening?

The flames engulfed Rhaegar, and yet he still wouldn't move.

"RHAEGAAAAARRRRR..." Arthur screamed as the world around him was devoured by the flames.

He opened his eyes to found himself back where he was. Only, this time something was different.

It was all blackened stone and burned wood. The walls had collapsed, and there was a persistent smell of death all around him.

Rhaegar and Jon were nowhere to be seen.

Arthur stood there as, all of a sudden, the memories returned.

The fire had consumed the castle. The dragon eggs hadn't hatched.

And Rhaegar...Rhaegar had died.

Just like Arthur.

He finally understood what had happened. He hadn't been able to save his king. That was the greatest crime a kingsguard could commit. He should have shielded Rhaegar with his own body and taken the brunt of the flames.

Instead...he had let him die.

The realization hit him as a single tear ran down his ghostly cheek. There was no excuse for what he had done. He had to atone for his sin.

And the only way to do that, was by constantly reliving the moment it had happened, so that he may never forget.

That was his duty.

That was his sentence.

AN: It's a little rushed, but I hope you still liked it.