Author's Note: I'm back. My foray into rewriting the Dragon of Duskendale did as I'd hoped and helped me get off the mat with this one, even though it took longer than I had hoped. You guys are awesome for sticking with me.

As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update!


Maybe in the nose.

Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne sat to the right of the boy who claimed to be his nephew, searching for any type of resemblance to the long dead sister the Red Viper had so loved. It had proven difficult, for the lad was clearly more Valyrian than anything else and, to his shame, Oberyn found it harder and harder to remember the details of his sister's face.

He compared it to his own visage, then his daughters and Doran's and Doran's children. Perhaps there was some slight resemblance to Quentyn? Or perhaps that was simply his mind wanting there to be one. Oberyn couldn't remember Rhaegar Targaryen's face with much detail; they had never gotten on well even before he'd shamed Elia. Mayhaps this boy was an image of the long dead dragonlord at the same age.

Or maybe he wasn't a Targaryen at all.

It doesn't really matter. Oberyn wanted this Aegon to be his sister's son, certainly, but even if he wasn't he would still have done what he did. He and Doran had waited years for a chance to strike back at Tywin Lannister for Elia's murder; this wasn't true revenge, but it was a hell of a start.

And even if the lad doesn't have Martell blood, his heirs will. Oberyn looked to his niece, dress still revealing despite the cold in the air. The pair weren't married yet, but Oberyn had little doubt it would soon be so. Arianne will see to that one way or another.

Jon Connington, Hand of the King, had spoken amidst the Red Viper's ponderings. "We have secured the majority of the city, Your Grace."

Their new king, whatever his true blood, was a handsome lad. His hair was undoubtedly Valyrian, his eyes a purple that appeared dark blue in the right lighting. Still growing at six and ten, he was lithe and fit even now, and likely would be long and lean in the years to come. He looked the part of a king already. His baritone voice was authoritative, meaning he sounded like one as well. "And what of the Florents, Lord Connington, and the Sept of Baelor?"

"Contained, though the High Septon—this High Sparrow—has given them shelter."

Arianne spoke, the mere sound of her voice enough to rile many of the men present. "He is a traitor to the crown, then?"

Varys, one of the un-riled for obvious reasons, answered her. "One we must be careful with, Princess. Many of the smallfolk and no small number of lords and ladies are taken with him and look for his guidance. He could be a powerful ally or a dangerous enemy."

Laswell Peake, one of the Golden Company's top serjeants and the new Commander of the Goldcloaks, snorted. "He is a septon. Let us storm the Sept and be done with it."

"Not just a septon, Lord Peake. The septon." Aegon glanced at the serjeant, merely glanced, but the reproach was clear to all. Another positive trait. "It would not behoove my reign to start it with a war against the avatar of the gods, now would it?"

"We can turn this into an advantage," Oberyn spoke up. "The golden bastard is not on good terms with the faith on account of his mother. If we turn the High Septon into an ally, it can help solidify your claim and dispute Baratheon's."

"Lannister's," said Arianne.

Oberyn shrugged in deference. "Whatever his name, we need to discredit him. He has a solid grip on the Reach and Westerlands, and likely on the North and Riverlands as well."

"He is also a world away in the North, battling savages." Connington's hatred of the Baratheon family was no secret; it clearly made no difference that Damon Baratheon may not be a Baratheon at all. "He is only king of the south because of his blade, not his character, and that blade is far away. He is not a man many would follow."

"Many are following him," Varys pointed out. "For his blade, as his lordship states, but do not think he is a Joffrey. Damon whatever-his-house is not as charismatic as our King Aegon or as well spoken, but he draws knights to him for his courage and skill, both of which have been thoroughly tested."

"Where my own has not." Aegon said, tone neutral.

Varys bowed his head. "I meant no offense to His Grace—"

"And none was taken," the king cut in. "But it is the truth, there is no denying that. Perhaps my uncle is right; we should treat with the High Sparrow and vie for him to support my claim over Baratheon's. He would make a better friend than he would a foe." He looked to Varys. "Does the Usurper's son know of my presence yet?"

The Spider shrugged. "As far as I can tell he knows nothing of Stannis having taken the capitol, much less Your Grace taking it in turn. It has taken near all my resources and much effort, but no known ravens or dispatch riders have made it past Greywater Watch. I cannot promise it, however; mine is an art, not a science."

Arianne, having grown comfortable with the power Aegon seemed content to give her—though she is not his queen yet, one must remember—spoke again. "We lost a key piece when Myrcella slipped through our fingers. Has there been any word on that front?"

Oberyn shook his head brusquely. Myrcella Baratheon had slipped out of Sunspear just before the Martell's had publicly sworn for Aegon, her Kingsguard knight and a handful of servants and soldiers accompanying her. Prince Trystane, smitten with the girl and more observant than any in his family had given him credit for, had arranged her escape.

It was brilliant, really, a far cry more than Oberyn had considered the boy capable of. Trystane had started a siege within Sunspear's own walls, in the Tower of the Noyne. For seven days he and the majority of Myrcella's guard had held out, glimpses of Myrcella's golden hair or Arys Oakheart's white cloak and silver armor seen through windows. Doran, being Doran, had not stormed the tower for fear of his youngest coming to true harm. When the lad had finally surrendered, the golden hair had proven to belong to the Princess's cousin, Rosamund Lannister, and the white cloak and silvered armor, while Ser Arys true armor, had been worn by a Lannister guardsman of similar build and height.

By then, the true Princess and her guards were long gone.

Trystane had accepted whatever punishment his father deemed fit. By his own admission his concern was not for the cause of Damon, but for the girl herself, and for her he would accept whatever may come. Trystane is a young idiot in love, more foolish than I realized yet braver as well. But he chose a damnably awful time to show that.

"She is a girl of three and ten. How can she possibly escape soldiers?"

"A girl with loyal servants and a head start," Oberyn remarked, looking at the glowering Connington. "Who was gone for days before it was known."

Connington snorted. "An embarrassment."

"Silence," Aegon barked, before Oberyn could respond. "My Hand or not, you will not insult a loyal man for matters he was miles away from. The escape of the Princess is regrettable, but not crippling." The king looked to Varys. "And Tywin Lannister?"

The mere name made Oberyn's blood boil, but he held his tongue as Varys responded. "He had marshalled at Harrenhal after the fall of the capitol to Stannis. When he knows of the arrival of Your Grace, which I am certain he soon will if he does not already, I am uncertain of what he will do."

"Their forces are still scattered along the western shores to face the Ironborn, though more are gathering the longer we tarry."

"Then we shan't tarry long." Aegon looked to Harry Strickland. "We march on the closest Crownland lords at once. Rosby, Stokeworth, Hayford. They swear fealty and add what remains of their strength to ours, or they are imprisoned. I leave the details of that strategy to you and my uncle, but our overall goal is to secure their support and regroup within a fortnight. My own goal will be finished by then."

Varys asked for all of them. "And what is that goal, Your Grace?"

Aegon shrugged. "We agreed the Faith would be an important ally. I see no point in wasting time; I shall meet with the High Sparrow this very night."


"You look like you could use some wine."

Tyrion Lannister was a whoremonger and a drunk, with a mind much too lewd and a tongue much too sharp for Sansa to ever be comfortable around him. But while almost any reminder of her time in King's Landing made her uncomfortable, Tyrion had been good to her, in that he hadn't actively contributed in her torment. That was high praise, considering.

The Imp was amidst the books of Winterfell library, both sides of the table heaped with leather and parchment tomes in stacks taller than the Lannister lordling himself. Mismatched eyes looked at her from either side of the cleaving scar across his face, glittering with the small smile he gave her. "I could always use wine, Lady Sansa."

She came to a stop across the table from him, clanking the mug down across from him with a smile. "Noted. Here is ale."

Tyrion laughed, though he accepted the drink. Sansa noted the mug would join half a dozen others, each empty. "That will have to do, won't it."

Sansa took a seat across from him, amidst her own stack of books. "Any luck?"

Tyrion sighed. "Many accounts of old wars and old Starks. Few quite as old as we wished, though."

She nodded grimly. "Much the same, then."

"Yes."

The two of them had been in the Winterfell library for the best part of a fortnight, prompted by a messenger from Robb. She remembered the tales Old Nan had spun as well as her brother did, and she hadn't believed in them any more than he had. But something Robb had encountered north of the Wall had scared him, he who had never lost a battle. He'd called for every man Ser Rodrik felt the castle could spare be sent north with all haste, as well as ordering Sansa and their mother to prepare to host a torrent of Northern lords and their families; the Umbers had already arrived, and the Forresters and Karstarks were not far behind, with others en route.

He'd also asked Sansa to scour every book in the library for any information she could find of the War for the Dawn. Anything she found, no matter how obscure, was to be sent north to Robb and King Damon.

She'd recruited others to her cause. Tyrion had been perfect for it, and had leapt at the opportunity to do something; the Halfman had been left adrift when Damon and Robb marched north. The relationship between Tyrion and Damon had never been close, and his sentencing to the Wall had not helped it. From their conversations, Sansa knew that Tyrion understood Damon had saved his life. She also knew the Imp was grateful on one hand and furious on the other, innocent one.

As a member of the Night's Watch he should have been expected to go North, but Damon had merely shook his head when the Imp offered. Being Damon, he hadn't elaborated. Sansa didn't know if the king though Tyrion had killed his brother or not—he certainly had reason to, but so did half the nobles in King's Landing at the time. If she had been present, she could have been blamed, for Sansa had a better reason than even Tyrion to rid the world of Joffrey. Either way, the king had made it seem like he didn't wish Tyrion to accompany him, so Tyrion had not.

For her part, she didn't believe the Imp responsible for Joffrey's assassination. If he had done it, Sansa felt he would have confessed it to her. She would have kissed him for it and gladly.

Sansa looked to another of her recruits, the one who had nearly cost her brother everything. Jeyne Westerling was a pretty girl, true enough, though quite how she had so thoroughly snared Robb Sansa could not say. Curly chestnut hair, shining more of late, framed a heart-shaped face and soft doe eyes. She'd retained her slenderness everywhere save her belly, which seemed to grow more and more each day as the child inside grew.

"And you, goodsister?"

Jeyne looked up, smiling shyly as she shook her head. "I am afraid not, Lady Sansa."

Sansa smiled back, nodding. "Perseverance, I suppose." She watched the girl a moment longer. In truth, Jeyne had been left even more out of sorts than Tyrion had when the kings went north. Newly pregnant and newly demoted form Queen to Lady, she was nominally in charge of Winterfell in Robb's absence. What with both Catelyn and Sansa's presence, as well as the state of chaos the Seven Kingdoms were in and her own shy disposition, she had struggled to find a true place. Catelyn was still viewed by many as the true Lady of the North, and Sansa was being treated almost as a hero for surviving Joffrey and King;s Landing. Northern lords and ladies held back with Jeyne, as she had nearly cost them the war and Seven knows what else.

Mother has tried, as have I. But, if Sansa was honest with herself, both she and Catelyn had held back too. Jeyne seemed to be a sweetheart, and Sansa could empathize with her position in a court with few friends, but…well, if not for her dalliance with Robb and what it made her stubbornly honorable brother do, perhaps Robb wouldn't have been forced to stay at the peace table with Damon. While Sansa was glad he had…the what ifs were many. Far or not, many blamed Jeyne, and part of Sansa did as well.

Sansa joined the other two as they returned to their task, scouring parchments and books for anything pertaining to that once-thought-mythical war of long ago. Her father's words echoed in her head as she read, as they so often did.

Winter is Coming.

According to Robb, it was here.

She was in the middle of an account from the steward of Theon Stark the Hungry Wolf, a king from ancient times but not as ancient as she needed, when her mother entered. Tyrion and Jeyne tensed for vastly different reasons, only Sansa managing to speak a greeting. "Lady Jeyne," her mother said. "There are visitors approaching."

Jeyne swallowed nervously, still uncomfortable in Catelyn's presence, but she rose. As it always did, Catelyn's face softened slightly at the sight of her grandchild growing. If anything returns mother to who she was before father died, it will be that. Even word of Bran and supposedly Rickon's survival had not cracked the hard exterior that had grown over the matriarch. "Of course, Lady Catelyn. Will you join us in the courtyard, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa had started to move forward when Catelyn, to the shock of all, looked directly at Tyrion. "You should come as well, Lord Lannister."

Tyrion froze with his cup halfway to his mouth, then slammed it down in his rush to rise. "At once, Lady Stark."

Sansa was as confused as Tyrion at her mother's invitation until the gates opened.

Through them, sitting sidesaddle, rode Cersei Lannister.


Miles north, a boy in a wheelchair stared into the night from atop a wall. "King Damon," he said softly to a tall man with golden hair. Damon looked down at him, having also been staring into the dark, lost in thought and worry about the situations both south and north, a condition he had been in often in the fortnight since the capitol fell. "Yes, Lord Bran?"

The Three Eyed Raven never looked away from the dark and its dangers below. "There are some things you should know."


A/N: *tease* The pointing spider man meme, but with gold hair.

Every now and again I like to catch everybody up and where the hell the other important characters are and build some foundation for future stuff. As my own worst critic, I never truly like those chapters when I'm done with them, but necessity always wins out. Hope you guys enjoyed anyway!

Also, and I say this with humor, the overall story is shaping up to be so. fucking. long. Hopefully you folks are down, cause we in this now.