The Crown (ASOIAF Robert Baratheon SI) Chapter 2: Broken and Divided - United and Strong, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

The king rode into Storm's End. It was a moment of joy, of great importance to the history of the world.

For those who had the gift of sight, however… Robert Baratheon struck a much different profile, as he rode in beneath the unbreakable archway that Durran and the boy from the west had laid so, so, so long ago.

It was a presence. A weight in the air. A taste on the winds.

And beneath the sun, there was a shadow. The shadow of a man… And the shadow of a stag, great, and terrible, and these two danced across the courtyard, forever moving, and never still... Unheeding of all the laws of nature.

And on his head, above the eyes, and beneath the hair… Something much, much darker…

A sword above the throat of the world.

Sleeping, but always there.

What he was, was something unique, something new, something never seen before.

But what rested in him now had been seen before in this world.

Men such as he was now, had once upon a time brought the empires of the lands that now was known only as Asshai, and K'dath to oblivion, as they dabbled in powers that should best be left alone.

Luckily for his nation, however, this man was no sorcerer. No mage, or wizard or warlock, who danced with demons in the night.

He was a man who distrusted magic and believed only the power of steel, and the strength of men.

He would never dabble in the sacrifices that would be needed to open his third eye, as the future would show time and again.

And only good was that.

That was not to say, however, that there were no consequences for those who were around him. Especially here, where old power only grew in might… If they could get past the wall.

And as the shadows danced, they found something. A broken man, a man with the sight, and little else.

And they broke him anew.

Essarion walked into the council room and closed the door behind him.

As he did so, he left behind his guards and wore nothing but simple grey clothing. Too tight and plain for any hidden weapons.

His fellows were dressed the same way.

They always did in these meetings.

Cloak and daggers might be for the outside world, but here, in the innermost chamber of the Iron Bank, the men and women who ruled behind closed doors here were all equal. And more importantly, when they stepped in here… You put aside your grudges and rivalries.

There was an official council that ruled the Iron bank. Shareholders and key holders, and rich men with power.

But behind that, there was another council. The "Secret" council the people at large called it. All men knew it existed. Few knew who was on it, and where their power began, and the official council ended.

The truth was that the official and "secret" council were made up of largely the same men. The official councilmen who were able to play nice at least.

Those who did not, either never go on the deeper council, or they found themselves in an early grave.

"Essarion, finally made it did you?" His sister-in-law greeted him.

Vassara was an older woman, long past her younger years and her beautiful looks as most of the council were.

Still, there was still a fair bit of the boisterous beauty she had been when she wed his brother.

"I was up the river when the message came. Had to get down and back into the city."

That he was having fun on his pleasure barge, far away from the prying eyes of the city, she did not need to know.

"Well, it's good you're here. That leaves only Bardar. Then we get this meeting started."

She grinned a smile full of golden teeth.

"It's time to make the deal of the millennia."

"Aye." He agreed. "That it is."

As they waited for Bardar, there was small talk about trading ships, chatting about family, some talk about the latest Theaters. The gossip and meanderings of 20 rich and powerful people, directly, or indirectly dominated the economy of over 40 million people.

While the council talked their nominal "leader" Fabio Haeder, was quiet, and rereading a set of letters that he could only assume was the deal in question.

The deal from beyond the Narrow Sea.

Finally, Bardar came, breathing heavily, and panting.

"Sorry, I was-" "Don't care, sit down." Fabio said.

Bardar did so.

Finally.

"Well… I don't think I need to tell you lot why we're here."

He held up the letter.

"The only thing we need to discuss is the terms…"

"Are they truly as good as the message said?" He asked hopefully.

"Aye… They are…"

Fabio's old eyes went down to the paper.

"In exchange for the full construction of 4 canals that connects the sunset sea to the narrow and shivering ones… plus one that connects the Gods Eye to the river known as the trident… In exchange, Robert of House Baratheon will grant half of all tolls, levied on any ship that uses these canals for passage to the Iron Bank of Braavos. For the next 77 years after the final canal is finished."

Several of them whistled.

"Not the sharpest knife is he?" Someone commented.

"Well… It's not entirely harebrained. The Westerosi are rather primitive and do not have the concept of shares. These canals would be the full property of the king, and he doesn't have to share with any of his lords or knights. And once the 77 years are up, all future tolls are his."

Yeah, that was true… still, it was a completely lopsided deal. In their favour.

Fabio however, was not done.

"Well… There are catches of course. Both official, and… Unofficial ones."

He snorted.

"Of course there are catches. This is a ludicrously good deal, there is no way there wouldn't a catch of some kind."

Agreeing murmurs sounded around the table.

"Aye, my brother is right. So, lay out for us. What are these boons the king wants?"

Fabio sighed.

"Well to start with, he wants the canals done in 10 years' time at the longest."

His eyes went down to the letter.

"In the event, it takes longer than that, for every year that is extended, we'll lose 10 years of the bargain."

"... That's it?"

"Officially aye."

"That's… That's nothing."

The Speaker, one Larronn, turned to one of the other members, young Havrree.

"Havrree, you are an expert on canals, how long would these canals take exactly?"

"These Westerosi canals? Well… Much shorter than usual. All of these are across open plains. Little to no rocks, Westeros is full of great, fertile farmlands to buy food from, and except for winters, the climate is fair and easy…"

He snorted.

"No bloody Dothraki to worry about, nor the heat of deserts."

He contemplated the question a bit more before continuing.

"We'd… Really have to invest a lot of coin into this. If we bought the freedom of say… 70 000 slaves for each side of the canals and hired them on as dirt-cheap labour… well… we should meet the deadline. Provided we don't get a four-year winter, but… Well, other than that, we should do just fine. Other than one waterlock at the western part of the blue fork trident, it's just a matter of digging a hole in the ground. Simple and easy, and a matter you can brute force by throwing enough bodies at the problem. Also, if there is a large disease outbreak and thousands of our men die, we can just free more slaves and hire them to replace them. Simple and easy."

Most of the council considered.

"It's a simple plan but… I agree. It's doable."

Havrree chuckled.

"Of course… It doesn't have to end there. By the end of it all, we'd still have a massive force of cheap laborers. Once the western canals are done, we could hire them to the other free cities. Qohor has always wanted a bitterweed canal that would connect the shivering sea to their great lake."

Lots of positive murmuring. Then he continued.

"Not to mention there are other potential canals. Myr and Pentos both want canals to connect their great lakes to the Rhoyne. Volantis wants canals that would allow their ships to avoid the sorrows… And at the end of it all, we can send our builders to attempt to build the sighing sea canal, that would allow any ship to bypass old, cursed Valyria. A doomed errand to be sure, but if they fail… Well, we will have gotten rid of the burden of caring for all of these men. And if they succeed? Well… We'd have an easy waterway into Slaver's bay."

The young man grinned.

"And if these canals are all finished and deep enough for war galleys… which we most certainly will make sure they are… Well, Braavos would have easy access to the rhoyne. Allowing us to put a sword to Qohor, Norvos, and Volantis' throats whenever we please. If Braavos would ever make a push to unify Valyria's daughters… Well, such canals would make it much easier for us to do this thing."

Silence. Then nods.

Yes… this was a good plan. Grand, ambitious, and with Braavos final endgame in mind.

"An interesting idea… But we should really focus on the here and now. Also, that was just the first catch. The second catch is that he wants us to convince the sealord to join the Westeros civil War on his side, surround Dragonstone with a massive fleet to make the Targaryens bend the knee to him and surrender their fleet. Then sail around the arm of Dorne and crush the Redwyne fleet, as well as help him ferry over an army to conquer the Arbor, and the Shield Islands."

This time it was old Tyrra who spoke up.

"We… We are going to do more than that right? If we're going to get this project going, we have to do it NOW. While we're still in the first year of spring. We cannot risk that there will be TWO winters during the next 10 years."

Fabio nodded.

"Indeed. I have already spoken to him, and he agrees fully with that sentiment. If we vote yes, he will launch a navy of 300 ships, as well as send 15 000 foot across the sea to help Robert Baratheon crush the last of the Rebels. We must end this war as quickly as possible so we can begin our work. He was less inclined to the other boons Robert asked for… Though he has agreed to relent on the matter, provided we vote yes on this contract today."

"... And those are?"

Fabio shuffled the letter, so he had the second paper in hand uppermost.

"The next two boons are things he wants kept under wrap. The first, and less egregious one regards Syrio Forel."

"The first sword? What does he want with him?"

He wants us to convince Syrio to sign a contract that says that when the Sealord dies, the first sword will pledge himself to become a member of Robert's personal lifeguard. The Kingsguard. To protect his family, and train his children in the water dance."

"He's got good taste then. Has Syrio agreed?"

"He says that guarding a royal family, and training royal princes will be an interesting challenge. Either way, it's the last request of his that's more… Out there shall we say."

Essarion looked at Fabio with a curious inquisitive look.

The old man looked very troubled.

"Well? What is it? Spit it out, man!"

Fabio sighed.

"He wishes for us to hand over the three Dragon Eggs that Farman traded to us long, long ago."

The reaction was varied. A few looked disappointed, some worried, a few baffled, and several looked amused.

He was one of those.

"Well, he's certainly got a better coin to bargain with than the priest had." He chuckled.

"What does he want with the eggs?" Asked their canal builder, worried.

"He isn't planning… Trying to hatch them is he?"

"I do not know. His own letter though specifies that it must not come anywhere near Dragonstone, and he wants no one to know he has these."

He snorted in a bemused manner

"Does it matter? The Targaryens never managed to hatch theirs. And if they could not, I doubt the stag will succeed. Anyhow, if that's the final thing he wants of us, I think we know what we need to, and it is time to vote."

In the end, it was unanimous. Everyone voted to sign yes on this deal.

It was time to make history… And wealth and coin beyond any imagination.

The sounds of merrymaking echoed strongly all throughout storm's end.

The garrison was celebrating alongside all the many lords that had done Robert fealty in the feast hall, the enormous army in the field was similarly enjoying themselves outside it's walls, gorging themselves on the supplies and food that had until shortly ago belonged to Mace Tyrell's host.

Cressen doubted the men outside were crying as they ate though.

Truth be told, he almost cried himself, as he ate a delicious blueberry pie.

It tasted better on his deprived tongue than any other meal he had ever tasted, other than mayhaps the onions that Davos Seaworth had brought earlier in the siege.

They were even more starved then than they had been when Robert had finally come home to lift the siege.

The man had saved all of them, from death… and from eating their own dead.

Best not dwell on that though.

For tonight, there would be only celebration, as Robert laughed, Stannis managed not to scowl as Robert slapped him on the back as they sat side by side at the high seat.

At Robert's other side were the unlikely pairing of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and warden… No, PRINCE of the North, and former Smuggler, now turned lord of the Arbor, Davos seaworth.

The two could not have looked more out of place or more different than the other.

On one hand was the crowned prince, clean-shaven, dressed in a fine white surcoat with the direwolf of his house emblazoned on the front. His face was long and, and as he looked out over the gathered lords, he had a melancholic look on his face. He seemed perfectly at ease though.

The man beside him, dressed in regular wool, and the only nice garment to his name being a black cloak draped over his shoulders, seemed completely out of his element, being seated at Robert's own side.

The looks he got from many of the other lords did not seem to make him feel more at home there.

Neither did the way Robert would now and again unexpectedly turn and ask him a question, or deliver a joke.

The man was rough, filthy, with a rugged beard and faded clothing. Yet Robert spoke to him with that same energetic, charismatic voice that made so many love the man.

It was the way Robert had always been. If he considered you a friend, he'd laugh, jest, and make small talk with you.

What made Cressen wonder more, was the tidbits he'd learned from just listening in on what Robert said as he spoke to Davos.

For one thing, Robert seemed very interested in learning which of the Westerosi towns that Davos had visited, that the smuggler thought could easily make the transition to a city.

Robert was apparently planning on granting a lot of city charters as rewards after the war was over and done with. An astonishingly high number in fact.

In the North, Barrowton was getting a city charter. So was the town of house Fisher(which he was not even aware was still alive before this evening.) on the west coast, the Mormont's of Bear Island on the condition they bought a shipyard and something about Ironwood, the Ryswell of the Rills, the Flints of Flint's finger, the Flints of widow's Watch, the Umber's Last Hearth, Karhold of the Karstarks, Overton of the Overtons and finally there was Torrhen's Square under the Tallhearts.

It was insane how many city charters he was handing out. And that was just the North.

In the Vale, there was Sisterton, Coldwater Burn, Snakewood, Strongsong, Heart's Home, Longbow Hall, Iron Oaks, Redfort, Old Anchor, Runestone, and Wickenden.

In the Riverlands, there was Seagard, Hag's Mire, Sevenstreams, Ramsford, Wendish Town, Fairmarket, Mudgrave, Pennytree, Nutten, Pinkmaiden, Stoney Sept, Willow Wood, Sherrer, Wayfarer's Rest, Atranta, Acorn Hall, Tumbler's Fall, Lychester, Lambswold, Sallydance, Harroway, Saltpans, Maidenpool, Harrentown, Sow's Horn, Briarwhite, Lake Town, Crossed Elms, Rushing Falls.

He didn't even know half of these towns even existed before tonight, nor that even half of these castles had a castle town to call their own.

That Robert was able to so perfectly recall each and every single one of these planned cities of his astonished him if truth be told.

Robert had always had a good head on his shoulders. In terms of wit, he would have said that of the three brothers, the gods had blessed him with the best head.

But Robert had also been struck with a chronic case of laziness that neither Renly nor Stannis had ever suffered from. Going over papers, and letters and the numbers of taxation bored him, and every time he'd visited Storm's End after trips back from the Eyrie, he'd left it to the steward.

Robert had always dested "Counting Coppers" in all respects.

It would seem war had changed him in that regard. That was surprising… but not completely unexpected.

What astonished him far more, however, was the amount of cities Robert apparently wanted.

He could have understood if Robert wanted to reward a few of his loyalists, but the way Robert was planning on going about it all was… Well, it was as if he'd thrown all conventional wisdom about how to make sure none of his vassals became overly mighty.

With so many cities, he'd allow each and every single one of these lords to one day potentially rise as tall as the Hightowers, or the Manderlys.

Robert did not seem to either understand that fact, or he didn't care.

Cressen would have expected Eddard Stark to care. The Starks had their own history of overmighty vassals after all. And they had dealt with such vassals with a hard hand, as the presumptuous Greystarks could attest to.

If Eddard Stark cared about the possibility of any of his vassals growing too strong, however, he didn't show it. Instead, he simply sat quietly between Robert and the former smuggler as they talked, drank mead, and just enjoyed the food.

He wondered if Jon Arryn or Hoster Tully would be similarly unconcerned about it all.

He doubted it. The Tully's were a family that was already chronically weak compared to their vassals. Adding more power to that balance would not be advantageous at all… Unless there was something he was missing here.

Mayhaps he should ask Robert about it, and his overall plans before he left to finish the war in the west.

But not now. Not tonight. Tonight Robert needed to mingle with his lord and the garrison.

It could wait until tomorrow.

Tonight he would enjoy food and drink in a way that he generally did not.

Gods it felt…. Good, to know that the worst was now over.

Whatever was to come in the future, nothing could be worse than what they had had to endure to get here.

When Cressen woke, it was complete night.

He got slowly, slowly back on his feet again, feeling… Groggy…

"Too much Wine…" He muttered as he got up, feeling like every muscle was laden down by lead.

He was relieved to see he hadn't pissed himself in his drunkenness, which was good. He had been unfortunate enough to do that in his youth after having 6 cups too many.

He was certainly not the only man in the room that had had too much to drink.

Of those who remained, seated over the tables and snoring, it was mostly men of the garrison. A few other lordlings here and there that had celebrated too hard as well.

Cressen winched, as a biting pain began to shoot through his head.

Storms… He'd been too indulgent.

As he looked out over the room, it took his slurred mind about half a minute before noticed that there wasn't any food left on the tables.

What time of night was it? If everything had been cleared out, then certainly the feast was long, long since over.

The old maester groaned as he began walking, almost slamming into the wall as he stumbled.

What was wrong with him? Getting this drunk on a feast… The maester should have known better, but… The food and drink had just been too good.

As he continued, he had to force himself to steady himself along the wall, until finally, he reached the door out of the room.

He opened it, then walked through it. Then he stopped and looked around swaying all the while.

This… This was the way to the Maester's chambers… right?

He stopped and thought about it.

Then winched.

It hurt to think.

Gods, why had men invented alcohol…

As he stood there, holding his head and cursing his foolishness, suddenly there was a sound in the corridors.

It was a strange sound, like music, but also… something else. It was wonderful. The music of everything good in the world.

He turned in the direction the sound was coming from.

It was down the corridor to… to… the main gates. That's right. This was the way to the outside.

He hesitated.

All the while, the music kept playing. Mocking him with it's beauty.

He began walking.

As he opened another door, he came into the great room by the entrance, where he found the doors to the great drum tower wide open.

By the sides stood two men in armor, leaning up against the doors on each side.

They had been talking, but immediately stopped when Cressen stumbled into the hall.

"Oh, it's just the maester." One of them said in a relieved tone.

"Grand Maester." The other corrected him.

Cressen frowned.

Grand Maester… Hadn't Robert said something about that? Him and… And… Something….

No matter…

"Whhhrrr… Where is... the music from…?"

Both of them looked at him, whatever their expressions hidden behind the masks of steel.

"Um… It's from the musician." Robert's soldier said, hesitantly.

He pointed his thumb to the side.

"He's been playing for the last half hour in the Godswood."

He shuddered.

"Creepy bastard that one…"

Cressen didn't hear him though and instead walked out into the night.

Storm's end's courtyard was massive. Surrounded by massive curtain walls on all sides, all of smooth black stone which no force could rip asunder, or break.

Nothing could come through these walls once the gate was closed… Not unless you could fly.

As he walked across the yard, along the western wall of the drum tower, the music became louder and louder.

As the dark shadows of tree arms began to rise into his line of sight like the arms of some great and terrible beast in the darkness, Cressen began to hear the music in full now.

He stopped, and just listened to it all.

It reminded him of so much… Of better days… of days of his youth… the first time he had known a woman, the day Robert, Stannis, and Renly had come into the world. His three sons. Of times when he laughed alongside Steffon and Aerys when the two were but young boys, So full of life alongside their silent companion Tywin.

Then, the music suddenly stopped.

Cressen blinked, feeling like he'd been shot by an arrow, the feelings of good times vanishing like they had been cleaved off with a mace.

He began moving again. Forward his eyes went wide as he looked from side to side. Where was the musician? The man with such skills?

He walked there between the old gods of the children and the first men, their faces looking as if they were in great, and horrible pain.

The winds blew. Hard, and cold. Cold? This was spring. The winds should be warm, a pleasant breeze to warm the skin.

But cold it was as they blew through the ancient wood. He shivered.

Why… Why had he come out here? It was hard to think… he should be inside, where there was warmth… Yes… He should find a nice... warm… comfortable bed to rest in.

Then, as he turned to leave, laughter came from above.

He froze, then he whirled around, but his legs gave out from under him, suddenly as if all power had vanished from them, and he promptly fell on his knees.

His head went upwards though, and there, in the darkness sat a man, coated in shadows.

Then, the skies that had covered the moon vanished, and the glade of ancient, ancient weirwoods was bathed in moonlight.

Cressen recognized the green and red face, the tattoos that crisscrossed it in a checker pattern.

"P-pachfase?"

The simple man laughed. It was high and sharp, far, far different from the usual silly laughter the fat man produced.

"For a song, you came my Maester man eh?"

"I… I… Well… Yes. Yes I did."

"Well then, a song I shall give to you my friend, a thanks for days of old. When I was but the seaweed and cruel Harbert wished me foul!"

The jester laughed again.

He was not dressed in his usual clothing.

The poor man that long ago had washed up on shore with a broken mind usually wore a checkered yellow and black garment. Tonight, however, the man had dressed in… in… wait… Was that a Northman's lord's vestment?

He blinked, but… But yes, it was.

The fat fool was dressed in hunting leathers and about his shoulders, he wore an enormous fur coat that could only have come from a snow bear.

In his hands, he held a box… No not, or… Well, it was a box. A music box, a large instrument from the free cities with a crank at the side, and wooden blocks you pushed while cranking it to produce sounds.

Robert had once been gifted that thing his drunken mind recalled.

No one in the castle had ever been able to play the thing though.

Patchface's fingers moved to the side of the crank, while his other one went to the wooden squares.

Then the music began again.

This time, however, it was not the images of his youth and happier days that came to the old man's mind.

It was the images of stories he had read and been told.

Violent stories of old, myths and legends.

In his mind's eye he saw the story of this castle, he saw the first Durrandon, and his bride as the storm destroyed their first keep. He saw the terrible destruction of their second keep, the third keep, the fourth keep, the fifth keep, and the sixth keep.

He saw the terrified and desperate smallfolk beg their lord to abandon the coast, but he refused. He was a proud man, who would rather see all his work crumble and fall before he would yield to the storms.

Then a boy came from the West, and with him came knowledge and power. An unlikely friendship was struck then, between the Wolf and Stag.

He saw Valyria at it's Height, millions of lives lost to the flames and fury of uncaring slave masters… Then came men with no faces… and then the doom.

He saw the dance of the Dragons when dragon riders clashed in the sky above Westeros, and the Riverlands burned, and Tumbleton was annihilated, and the maesters were joyful.

He saw the two betrayers, rape and murder, and kill as they pleased. Then came brave and true Addam Velaryon, to stop the Greens march and save King's landing from the sack. And 3 dragons clashed in the broken ruins of what had once been a home to countless lives.

He saw brave, valiant, and chivalrous Daemon Blackfyre on the red grass field, as he and his young boys were cut down by arrows by a cruel, and inhuman monster of a man, with roots that went deep, deep into the earth.

A man that was half human, half tree, surrounded by evil ravens with 3 blood-red eyes.

He saw Daeron the Young Dragon, betrayed under guest right, and the dornish snakes laughing as they ran him through with his own peace banner, breaking all the laws of guest right.

He saw the Ironborn, as they clambered their way onshore from their countless longships and the destruction of countless innocent lives.

He saw the krakens, every one worse than the one that came before, as they climbed their way on land… until the only one remained beneath the blood-filled seas, larger, and more terrible than any that came before.

Only one eye it had, and it was red as a blood moon, and towers and castles and men crumbled as it reached forth it's mighty tentacles from beyond the seas.

All of these danced before his inner mind. But then began the singing. Calm and melodious, as if the singer was a castrated young boy in a choir.

"The mother burns… The smoke there came… The stag beyond the waves… The eastern winds there carried them… The smells of death and pain…"

"North goes gold, the blackened mane... The queen of seas and storms… Second child of the she-wolf… And behind her nine eyes strong…"

"The black goes east, to conquer all... To break the bloody chains… The third child, she abandoned us… For to hell with kings she says…"

"The green went west… To the fertile fields, to the burning broken land… Knights will rally to him… The red and black shall stand…"

"The blue one went with iron… The crow above the waves… The red-eye knows the future… And waits upon this day…. The west shall burn in azure flames… The land in scarlet bloom…"

"The red one went from the burning sands… to lay about his foes… Bloody red the kingslayer… Poisoned foes engulfed…"

"The grey one, he went north… Along the one, he shared a womb… The union of frost and flame… Against cold and icy doom…"

"The final one… The broken boy, the beloved second son… Purple wings shall carry him… Over fields of duns…"

The song and the music ended, and with them, the sight of what had been.

He did not see the jester land on the ground, but he must have, for suddenly he was there leaning above Cressen.

He smiled down at the old man, but Cressen's watered eyes went to something else. To the walls of the great tower besides the glade, lit up by the light of the moon so far, far away.

For there, the shadows Danced.

Wolves and dragons, Stags and vipers all tore into each other with abandon, and behind them, ensnaring all of them, and tightening around their throats, was the arms of a Kraken, with a single terrible eye of red and black.

Then, out of the mass of darkness, a stag rose. A stag as black as the vilest sins and wrought in flames, with eyes as blue as the sky above, burst from the shadowy beneath, and smashed into the Kraken.

They battled there. Tentacles and beak, against horns, and teeth, and hooves. Then they moved beyond a tree, and they and the shadows beneath moved beyond a tree, and… And they were gone.

The music faded, and Cressen lied there, with tears upon his cheeks, his breath ragged.

The man, no, the Thing in human skin laughed above him.

"Seven come to dance my lord, Seven come to stay my lord, Seven there shall be my lord, the day there comes no morning~"

Cressen knew nothing more then, for, at the sides of his vision, darkness crept in.

Fear took his heart and soul as the darkness claimed him.

Cressen awoke with a pain unlike any he had ever experienced in his life.

It was like someone was beating his head with hammers, and exceptionally violently at that.

"It's been a while since I found someone drunk out in a godswood. And the Grand Maester of all people." A cheery, and Jovial voice said above him.

Cressen opened his eyes… Then immediately shut them closed again from the pain of the bright light.

The man with the jovial voice laughed.

Then, two enormous hands closed about him, and with enormous strength lifted him up.

The man, whoever he was, whistled a tune as he walked.

As he did so, Cressen's beaten and battered mind began to slowly, slowly recover, until finally, he managed to open his eyes without it hurting too much.

The man, whoever he was, had slung him over his shoulder and judging by how far it was to the ground, the man had to be at least over 6 feet tall.

Cressen groaned.

What had happened last night? He'd gotten drunk obviously, and then there was… patchface? He'd gone out to the Godswood and… No, he could not remember. Not more than flashes of moments.

"You waking up there old man?"

"Y-Yes… and you are…?"

"Theon Umber."

Umber. He searched his throbbing mind until he remembered.

"The Giants of Last Heart."

The man laughed again.

"Close, but not quite. This giant is of the King's Guard now."

Yes… that would explain why this man wore a white cloak Instead of a red one.

"Anyhow, his grace wanted his Grand Maester in the council for the planning of how to end this war."

Grand Maester…?

It suddenly came back to him.

Right… Robert had named him the Grand Maester of Westeros and had practically forced him to celebrate it with him, with wine and beer and mead.

He winced as another bolt of pain shot through his mind. Yes, Robert was still Robert, that much was plain.

"How did you find me?" He croaked.

The man laughed again. He seemed to like to laugh this Theon Umber.

"I asked around if anyone seen you, and several Northmen told me they saw an old man in robes sleeping in a drunken stupor against a weirwood. Wasn't hard to take it from there."

He supposed not. Oh well… It would seem he would not get to sleep off his hangover before his grace called him to service. Yet as Umber carried him, Cressen couldn't help but feel like he was forgetting something.

Something… Important.

Jon Arryn sat at the chair that for the moment was taking the place of the Iron Throne that was slowly being dismantled behind him.

It had taken a bit of trial and error for them to figure out how to do that.

At first, they'd wanted to dismantle it from the bottom, but that would have made the entire thing eventually fall sideways, and the Gods only knew what kind of damage that would do to the floor and walls.

So they'd resolved to do it from the top to bottom. That had required quite a lot of wood and steel, and ladders just to let them reach and walk comfortably around the top of the huge behemoth.

Originally, they'd done it while wearing regular workers' clothing. Then one man had accidentally fallen and impaled himself. Ever since they'd been equipped with mail and steel… Which made the job even more tedious for the poor workers.

Right now though, they were given a break as Jon held court in Robert's name.

Before him knelt a man in blue brigandine armor, with a swordfish on his chest, it's nose like a sword, and it's fins like massive sails.

"I, Aegon Bar Emmon, swear to follow Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar and the First Men, the one true King of Westeros."

Well, at least he managed to say it while talking like normal.

Several of the lords had practically gritted their teeth as they swore their wows. Especially the lords of Crackeclaw point.

Bar Emmon was the last of the mainland crownlander lords. He was technically sworn to Dragonstone, but that had not prevented him from coming to the capital to pledge fealty, just like all the other mainlander lords.

Many had come grudgingly, reluctantly, or with gritted teeth.

But they HAD come.

Which was not surprising. The crownlands… were spent, as a military force.

The region hadn't been that strong, to begin with, only capable of raising some 15 000 men, but during the war, Robert, Jon, and Hoster had smashed crownlander force after crownlander force, before finally destroying them once and for all at the trident.

They had no way to resist the Tully army currently encamped outside of King's Landing.

Walder Frey's troops had been rather useless for them as a whole during the war, as the wretched old man had refused to come to their aid. But his 4000 extra men had a use.

Namely making the army of Riverlanders look far, far more formidable than it might elsevise have looked.

The crownlanders had yielded. And on remarkably good terms.

Personally, he would have said the terms were too good in fact.

No hostages, no taken land, no fines, or punishments.

If they came to bend the knee without taking up a sword, they would be accepted back into the fold with no questions, or punishments.

It was the carrot and the stick treatment.

All or nothing. You were either accepted back into the fold, or you were stripped of all lands, titles, and incomes if you fought at all.

Other than the unfortunate house of Connington(Robert could forgive much, but it seemed even he drew the line at the way Jon Connington had hunted him like a dog at Stoney Sept), that offer was granted to absolutely everyone.

There was only one faction left in the crownlands that had not yielded. But thankfully, neither had they taken up arms to fight.

That faction was the islands of the Blackwater bay.

Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, and of course, their overlord, House Targaryen of Dragonstone.

The former royal house still had a massive shield in the form of the Royal Navy, which drastically outnumbered his own fleet, which was the only fleet their side had had in the war.

The Greyjoys had declared for Robert after the Trident, but they were on the other side of the continent and composed of longships. The longship had many uses, but naval combat against war galleys was not one of them.

And so, the Targaryens were able to sit untouched on Dragonstone. For now.

He had already sent a message regarding the destruction of the Tyrell army at Storm's end, but he doubted that would be enough.

Not as long as they didn't have the ships to threaten the ancient island stronghold personally.

"And these wows, I, Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King of Robert Baratheon, first of the name, hear and accept. Now rise my lord."

After that, there was some talk and questions.

The man looked relieved when he was informed he would require no hostage to the crown.

He was rather surprised when he was informed that Robert might be willing to grant him a city charter for his castle town. Provided Bar Emmon proved an honest and true vassal of house Baratheon.

After that, he was eager enough to assure Jon that Bar Emmon would be as loyal to the King as Jon himself was.

It was a dance Jon had danced enough lately.

Lords would come hesitantly, but they would come, rather than risk Robert's displeasure. The war was effectively over, and they knew it.

Oh, there was still fighting, and there would still be sieges… But the war as a whole was over. Anyone with eyes could see that.

Those sieges and battles would be Robert's job, however.

Jon's job would be to reknit the realm.

And in that at least, Robert's plans for countless cities had proved remarkably strong at bringing previous enemies to the Stag's cause.

William Mooton of maidenpool had proven the most blatant of those. Upon hearing that all he would have to do to get a city charter was to support Robert, and give his affirmative vote in a certain great council Robert intended to hold in the near future, by asking Robert to foster one of his sons as a squire, but he was hardly the only man who'd reacted to it by singing Robert's praises.

Men would do much and more for a city charter, and Robert was willing to hand them out like they were nothing… In exchange for loyalty of course.

The ones who had fought against Aerys from the start had already received a city charter as rewards for their support. Those who had not would have to support Robert when the call to vote came.

Robert had a lot of plans for this great council of his, this… Parliament.

And he wanted to make sure that for the first time he called it, he would get the votes for all he planned to bring up.

And he had much and more planned for when that time came.

It was one of the reasons Jon had put his support behind the city charters, despite the obvious danger they posed.

For Ned, it had simply boiled down to the simple fact that more cities meant more trade, and more trade meant more food for when winter came.

For Hoster Tully, it had taken more convincing, but Robert had eventually brought him to his side on the matter when he'd learned of Robert's plans to make the Riverlands the center of two grand Canals, and his plans to build a new, much better capital for the province to take full advantage of the incredible amount of trade and taxes that would flow through these Canals.

For him though, he had supported it for the simple reason that he believed in Robert's grand plan to rebuild Westeros anew.

He had understood Robert's vision for Westeros in a way he didn't think Ned did.

Robert wasn't planning on simply replacing the Targaryens. He was planning to make this country better than it had ever been, in a way that it had never been under the Dragons and their ideas of Kings who were beyond the law.

Donal Noye, newly knighted Ser of the Ancient and Most Honorable Guild of Castlewrights, looked down upon the map beneath him with a frown.

The former blacksmith of Storm's End was annoyed.

It was a feeling he felt often these days, after losing his left arm. There wasn't a bloody day when there wasn't something that forced him to recall how inconvenient it was to only have one.

Today, it was the fact that he required weights to hold down his map as he wrote and drew, rather than just using his left hand to steady it.

The former blacksmith of Robert's seat had once forged Robert's Warhammer. Some lords might have forgotten that, but not Robert.

So, when he had finally broken the blasted siege, he'd "Rewarded'' him with a knighthood… And the title of the Grandmaster for a long since dead order of Knights, now reborn under the Baratheons.

The Ancient and Most Honorable Guild of Castlewrights was an ancient order from the stormlands. There was a lot of nonsense about their origins, like that they were made by Durran Godsgrief himself, or maybe it had been Brandon the Builder before he left for the North.

It was all folktales and legends.

What was not legend had been the order's purpose and power.

They had been invested by the Storm Kings of old with the "responsibility for inspecting and maintaining the castles of my kingdom", and lots of power to commandeer both labour and materials for the upkeep of castles, and the order had trained countless builders and planners that had played a large role in making sure that the Stormlands castles as a whole were the best that Westeros had to offer.

It might not have had the prestige or might of the order of the Green Hand, but it had served it's Kingdom very well regardless.

And so it had gone for countless years… until the dragons came.

Aegon had not killed the order, but it had been the start of it's sharp decline, as it no longer had direct monarchical power behind it.

The order had officially been disbanded by Aegon's Grandson, Jaehaerys, regarding them as a threat to his taxes for castle building.

Or so old Cressen said.

That Robert would want to revive an old mythical order of knights from the Stormlands did not surprise Donal.

That his choice as it's First Grandmaster was a smith with no experience with castle designs, did surprise him, however.

He had very quickly learned Robert's true goal.

Because this new order didn't just have jurisdiction over castles, but also roads, city walls, and more important than anything else… Mills.

Robert and his maesters had unveiled a new design for mills. Smithing mills, that used the mighty force of rivers to hammer steel in a way that far exceeded any human arms.

It was a brilliant, and yet incredibly simple idea.

And Robert had tasked him with making sure every single mill he was planning to build ran swimmingly, and that their defenses were up to stuff.

Also, he wanted Donal to gather together every single blacksmith of worth that he knew to man his many mills.

There were a lot of those. Traveling Blacksmiths, castle blacksmiths, smiths from villages and towns too small to have guilds.

Robert wanted to funnel as many of those non-guild-related smiths into his water smithies as he possibly could.

All well and good.

Except for the fact that his order had very few members at the moment, leaving him with only half a dozen pages to help him out with the paperwork of trying to note everywhere in the seven Kingdoms where Robert might find blacksmiths. At least those that Noye knew about.

Provided they hadn't all been killed in the war. That was a distinct possibility.

"Ser, you've repeated Jon of Dun twice on this paper." One of the pages Robert had lent him piped up.

"Then bloody cross it out, boy. You can do that I trust?" He replied annoyed. Storms, these children asked him about every single thing. A mistake on his part? Ask before they corrected it. Had he repeated himself? Rather than just crossing out the unnecessary mention, they just had to ask about it. Did he mean this town in the reach, or this one in the north(as if he had ever visited the North) that had the same name?

And on and on it went.

The 13-year old blushed. Then hastily bent over the table and scribbled.

He supposed he couldn't blame it all on the lads. He doubted they had much more experience in their field than he had being a grandmaster.

At the moment he was doing relatively well. However, in the long run, he would need to study castle doctrine, castle designs, the designs of roads, and on and on.

He'd brought that up to Robert, only for the king to laugh, and told him he had complete and total faith in his ability to learn all he needed to.

At least one of them did.

He continued scribbling out names on maps, and dots to mark roughly where the villages the smiths could be found were at.

Sometime later, the door to the room opened behind him, and a loud voice announced.

"Time for food and time for rest, my Noble knights of stones~"

He knew the voice, and sure enough, Patchface walked past his chair and placed a giant tray of food on the table.

Right on top of his maps.

"We can eat in the bloody hall, you know." He growled.

Patchface merely shook his head.

"That you can not, I'm afraid to say. Today the Prince hosts lords of cheese, and spice, and Eggs of blue and grey."

Oh right… The Pentoshi were still here.

The cheesemongers had come to speak with King Robert about something, though what that was he had no idea. Unfortunately for them, they had come 2 weeks after he'd ridden west to the Reach.

Why they hadn't just gone to King's Landing to speak with Jon, he also didn't know.

To his great annoyance, rather than leaving after having placed down the food, the jester instead went over the window sill, where he promptly plopped down, and put his right leg across the other and struck a pose as if he was a noblewoman of high birth, and not an obese half-mad jaster, all the while looking Donal Noye in the eyes with a grin on his face.

"Um…. Can we eat?" One of his pages asked carefully, as he lustily looked over the massive tray. The other lads did the same.

"Aye, since we have it here anyway. Mind getting us some water too?" He asked the jester.

"As a matter of fact, I do! My orders from on high was to bring you food a plenty! But there were no command of water, or wine of which we have a plenty."

He sighed.

Steffon, you run down to the kitchen and get us something to drink. The rest of you, pack away your papers before we eat. I don't want grease stains on them when we hand them on to the king.

As they did ao and began eating, the jester kept looking at them with that same entirely too happy smile.

He supposed he should feel happy for the man.

You were not supposed to recover from madness after all. No more than you did from a cut-off arm.

The mentally damaged were a lot that could never be healed and was beyond any form of help or salvation.

And yet… That was exactly what had seemingly happened to patchface.

Many years ago, Robert's father Steffon Baratheon had bought Patchface freedom in the slave markets beyond the narrow sea, so that he could serve as a jester.

A boy of incredible wit the lord had described him in his letters.

If so, that wit had seemingly deserted him, after he and all the men and women on Steffon's ship had broken in a Storm in the bay outside the castle.

Everyone had died. Except for Patchface, who had woken up on the beach several days later. Mad and insane.

He had made a rather poor jester thanks to that fact, but he had been allowed to stay in the castle nonetheless.

He had been an annoyance to the people of Storm's end, with his inane babble and song.

And so it had seemed he would remain… all the way until the day Robert had come and broken the siege.

Ever since that day… Well... He'd changed.

Oh, the madness had not gone away. He still sang and jested inane songs at the slightest provocation, but it seemed his cleverness had miraculously begun to return.

Why no man knew.

While Robert had been busy getting drunk with Maester Cressen, Patchface had entered into a card game amongst some of the drunk smaller nobles along the end of the lower bench.

Few had cared, until after it was all over, for the fool had walked away with his winnings on the bets, which was quite the sum… which the mad jester had then given away to a fat northern squire in exchange for his clothes, leaving him with nothing but a set of basic, regular clothing, but also a bag full of coin.

After that, he'd taken to walking around the castle with a music box from the east, and making some truly spectacular pieces of music with it.

It would seem the clever boy that Steffon had met was returning after all these years. Still, his madness still made him a poor jester.

But at least you could kinda have a conversation with him now. It was something at least.

"You just gonna bloody sit there until we're done eating?"

"So I shall, for I was called to bring the food tray back to he! By royal decree, it was ordered to be!"

He sighed. Then he put away his papers before he began eating along with his lads.

He supposed he could order his guards to throw him out but… That would not be very knightly. So he supposed he would suffer the man as he ate.

When Roose Bolton had been ordered by the King to scour the Prince's pass alongside 300 other mounted Northmen, he had expected to have to dive deeply into the Prince's pass, and risk the hostility of it's neighbors as they searched for this "Tower of Joy".

Instead, they found it at the very edge of the northern pass.

Had they not known what to look for, the strange tower would have been taken as nothing more than a fancy watchtower, or the home of some landed knight, and been passed without a second thought.

Knowing their target, they had immediately identified the goal.

As he trotted up, slowly and deliberately, his 60 men had already dismounted, drawn back the strings of their crossbows, and loaded the bolts.

Now they followed by his side up to the tower, where three men in white armor, and cloaks about their shoulders, stood.

He stopped his horse well outside of the range of his enemy's swords, and his crossbowmen fanned out around them, forming a tight circle.

Then they aimed.

The three were all large men, their devices and features were absolutely foreign to him, however. One wore a helmet with horns like a bull, another had a black Bat on his with wicked black wings, and finally, one man wore a plain helmet.

"Lord Eddard wondered where the three remaining Kingsguards were." He said in his usual, soft tone.

"He expected to find you on the Trident, guarding your prince."

"We were not there." The Bull knight said. He was the tallest, and largest of the men and the large sword he carried in one hand was unmistakably valyrian steel.

That would make him… The Hightower knight. Why did he have bull horns on his helmet?

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been." The bat knight exclaimed harshly.

He shifted in his seat, as he looked down on the 3 of them.

"I would not recommend calling his grace that. Not if you wish to live. The king has ordered me to offer you a pardon. All he requires is that you bend your white knees, and surrender his queen."

"Our knees do not bend easily." the final knight said, the one with the plain helmet. In his hands, he carried a sword that was almost as massive as Ice, but this blade was not made of Valyrian steel. It's metal gleamed in the sun white as snow.

He was sure there was some story behind that.

"That is Father's Wroth you carry in your belt." He said with a sad tone, looking at it through the visor of his plain helmet. "It belonged to Arthur Falltoun. He was a better man than you."

Roose cocked his head, then carefully, he drew his sword.

The red and black danced across the blade in rippled waves.

"Is it? I must admit, I did not care much about the name of my knife. We looted 27 such weapons outside of Storm's end. Robert took 12 for himself. The rest went to the lords who took them."

His eyes went from the rippling steel to the 3 knights.

In the distance, the sound of galloping hooves was heard. The three knights perked up, as well as several crossbowmen.

Roose did not smile, but he felt something akin to satisfaction.

"There are currently 300 Northmen converging on this tower. I was merely the first. We shall have the King's stolen bride. Whether you live or die is of little importance to me."

He stared down at them coldly.

"So, what shall it be sers? Kneel... or die?"

The answer was a charge.

60 crossbows immediately loosened and slammed into the three knights… or rather two knights.

The third, the one in the plain helmet, instead threw himself flat to the ground.

His companions were riddled with bolts. They all wore plain steel, but at this close range, they might as well have been wearing copper for all the good it did them.

They fell without ceremony.

The third one, however, was unscathed as he rose to his feet with the speed of a cat.

Then he charged like a leopard at the ranks.

With one mighty swing of his greatsword, he cleaved the men in front of Roose in twain.

4 men dropped to the ground, screaming as their upper bodies were separated from their lower half, as blood and entrails coated the sand and stones.

His horse reeled, then... Pain. Monstrous, horrible pain.

The greatsword cleaved the horse in half, taking both Roose's legs off at the knees.

The Lord of the Dreadfort screamed, as what had held him to the reeling horse no longer was there, and he crashed to the ground.

His dying horse did not fall upon him and crush him beneath it's weight. The blade, however, hit his head like a meteorite from the heavens.

The sounds of screams woke Lyanna from her slumber.

The screams of dying men.

She forced herself to her feet, as fast as her stomach would allow.

As she quickly threw a robe about herself, then went out the corridor to find what was going on, the servants were at the windows, looking absolutely terrified.

"What is happening?" She exclaimed loudly.

In response, several of them bolted away from the window, leaving her to look out.

Below, a battle raged.

Gerrold and Whent were lying on the ground and… dozens of bolts were sticking through them.

They were dead.

It took her a moment to realize that the knights, her friends, were dead.

Around them were over three dozen men. Men in pink, and mail.

Dreadfort men she realized.

Northmen.

Her father's men.

Come to take her home by force.

In the distance, she heard the sound of galloping hooves.

Arthur Dayne was laying about himself with Dawn, the enormous greatsword having killed a score of men.

The rest were either desperately trying to reload their crossbows, or attacking the knight with maces, swords, and hammers.

Rats had a better chance of killing a bear.

The crossbowmen had more success, as four different bolts found their mark, one after another, one taking him in the left, arms two in the sides, while another glanced off his helmet.

And yet, the knight fought on, desperately swinging Dawn with one hand, as he killed man after man.

Right up until the thunder of hooves became too loud, and he swirled around, but it was too late. The lance of the charging rider took him in the eye.

So died Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, the deadliest of Aerys Kingsguard.

Lyanna just stared down as the Glover men began dismounting, and the various Bolton men scrambled about in shock.

Part of her had known this would happen. Ever since the news of the trident and… And Rhaegar's death at Robert's hands, she had known her father's men would one day come to take her.

But to actually have it happen… That was something else.

Fear gripped her then. Fear for her child, who Robert would surely put to death.

Fear of having to meet her father's angry stare.

Fear of what the future had in store for her.

Ethan Glover seemed… different than Lyanna remembered him.

She remembered her brother's squire as a cheerful, talkative sort, always with a smile on his face.

The man standing before her had gaunt cheeks, several scars, a haunted stare, and he looked as if he would never smile again.

"Your grace." He greeted her as he stepped into her chamber, flanked by two men in stark clothing which she did not recognize.

He did not stare down at her stomach, which Lyanna wasn't sure how to read.

"Hello, Ethan. Gods man, what happened to you? You look like utter shit."

Both the men at his sides frowned. Neither were familiar with her. More worryingly was that Ethan did not even crack a smile. Nor did he make a witty quip about her appearance.

"I am well aware." He said sadly.

"As for what happened to me…" The man shuddered. "I went to the fourth level."

"I don't know what that means."

"Good. You will be better off not knowing."

She glanced at the guards.

"I don't… Could we talk privately?"

"Sorry to say… But no. I no longer feel safe without guards with me." He said in that sad tone that seemed to be his new normal.

"That sounds…" she stopped. She had been about to make a quip about how that sounded awfully similar to what a craven might say. But as she looked into Ethan Glover's eyes, something made her stop.

He was a broken man, she realized.

Instead, she said.

"So… Are you going to take me back to my father? Or will we be heading straight to King's Landing?"

For the first time, Ethen frowned.

"Your father? Do you not know… What am I saying, of course, you do not know."

She put her arms together across her chest the way she'd always done with her brothers when she wanted to be authoritative. The effect was kinda spoiled by her enormous stomach, she suspected.

"And what, pray tell, is it that I do not know?"

"I shall tell you. But only we sit down first. It's been a long day."

He nodded towards a set of chairs around a table she and Rhaegar had used many a time.

She took his meaning and both of them sat down by the table. The guards thankfully remained at the door, giving them some privacy.

She'd have preferred them at the other side, but she understood that Ethan would not bend on that issue.

"Tell me, your grace… What do you know about what has happened in this past year since you were… Spirited away by Rhaegar?"

"I know Robert rebelled against what happened, and that there was a battle. Robert… He killed Rhaegar, and marched on King's Landing, only to find it taken by the Lannisters."

She fought to keep the rage out of her voice, though she failed rather spectacularly in that regard.

Ethan did not showcase any signs of being taken aback by her anger though.

Before he could speak, Lyanna continued.

"Did Father and... Robert have any plans regarding… If I were with child?"

Her hands went down instinctually, to cradle the unborn babe, desperate to protect it.

"Yes. We have brought along 8 different Maesters experienced both in caring for women about to give birth, as well as a man from the east, experienced in… The worst cases. After the boy is born, he is to be fostered at Winterfell under his uncle. When he becomes an adult, he'll be granted a keep somewhere in the North."

She blinked.

Completely taken aback by what Ethan had just said, she missed two important implications about what the man had said. The implications that they had expected to find her pregnant, and had prepared for such, and that her brother was in charge at Winterfell.

"Really?"

"Yes. King Robert is not a man to harm children. He proved that rather decisively at King's landing."

Before she could ask about what he meant by that, Ethan continued.

"Not to mention the boy will be of the house of Stark, as well as Targaryen. It would be very, very poorly done of him to do harm upon the child. Do not worry your grace. Prince Eddard will take good care of the bastard at Winterfell."

Right… Bastard. It was best that no one knew the boy had been born inside of a marriage bed.

So long as her baby was a "bastard", no one would ever wish to seat him upon the Iron Throne.

Wait…

"Prince Eddard? Since when did my brother become a prince? And what about father? He is the lord of Winterfell, and Brandon is his heir!"

The man looked at her with sad, sad eyes.

"I was getting to that… In any case, where to begin..."

He stopped for a moment, obviously considering where to begin his tale.

"Well… The journey to the capital is as good as any place… After you were kidnapped by the dragon prince… Brandon… Did not take it well your grace… He stormed off to King's Landing alongside us… His trusted friends and companions…"

"You can call me Lyanna you know."

"If it pleases you, my lady… Anyhow, we went to the capital, to demand your safe return. That was the plan anyway… Then Brandon declared that Rhaegar should 'Come out and die.'"

Oh no.

She felt ice running through her veins.

"King Aerys… Took that about as well as one could expect… He sent word for all our fathers to come to king's landing and ransom us… And when they did so… He executed everyone, father and sons alike… All except me. I'm Sorry Lyanna…"

No… No, no, no, no!

Lyanna Stark just stared at him, in complete shock, as her entire world came crumbling down for the second time in less than a month.

Clifford Swann was bored.

Riding about the reach, smashing levy army, after army was getting both stale and tiresome.

The invasion of the Reach had started out as a grand adventure.

Over twenty thousand men marched and ridden forward from Broad Arch in what was going to be the Stormlands final triumph over the Reach, as they destroyed their nobility and replaced them with other lords.

Then they had split the army into 5 groups.

Most of the cavalry had gone with Robert.

The infantry had split into five under the commands of Eddard Stark, The Lords of Hornwood and Manderly, and his brother Gulian Swann.

While they went forward to capture castle after castle, be it Knightley tower, grand fortresses, or noble manors, Robert's host had the more exciting task.

Crushing every single army the Reacher lords tried to put into the field before they could link up and pose a threat.

And they had.

They had gallivanted up and down the Reach, smashing into peasant levy after peasant levy.

It had been ridiculously easy.

There were a few knights here and there, but the men they led were both unarmored and armed, barely trained for war, and most were old greybeards at that.

All the nobles and knights they fought were stripped of arms and armor and forced to march back to King's Landing with their hands tied behind their back, alongside an armed escort.

Robert was very thorough regarding this conquest. He didn't want any attained reachers around to raise a rebellion against him after everything was all said and done.

That wasn't to say there hadn't been shown any mercy though.

There had been several lords who had not had the misfortune to have kin or troops at the siege of Storm's End.

And most of those had come to pledge their swords.

Oakheart, Crane, Florent. Strong and powerful Reacher Lords, who had all declared for Robert. Either due to fear, seeing which way the winds were blowing, or just despising their Tyrell overlords.

The one house amongst these potential pardoned lords who had chosen to fight was lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove.

At least that had been his plan.

There were two problems with that.

The first was that like every other Reacher lord, his motley band had not stood up to Robert's army of knights and lances.

The second was that rather than join him, all his lordly vassals had turned on him, and declared for Robert.

When all was said and done, the Rowan army was slain, and Goldengrove had yielded to a siege of it's own former bannermen.

The surviving members of house Rowan(all women), had agreed to yield the castle if they were allowed to go into exile with their valuables intact.

Robert had allowed it and even sent 20 knights to escort them, and their riches to the capital, unmolested.

Taking the castle without a storming( A strong, monolith manor sitting in the middle of the river) was a far, far greater price.

There had also been other peaceful handovers.

The lady of Horn Hill had the rather good fortune of being a member of House Florent, and as such, Robert had come to a deal with her. Her son's father had been attained, and as such, his right to his lands was forfeit.

However, given her family had been brought into the fold, Robert had been merciful so long as the lady cooperated… At least after he had crushed the remainder of the Tarly Levies.

If she yielded and renounced her family's claim to Heartsbane, he would allow her and her son safe passage to Brightwater keep. Her son would be stripped of his title as a Marcher lord, but if he lived to see his 16th name day, Robert would reinstate Samwell as Lord of Hornhill.

Being of the weaker sex, she had taken that offer. Which was absolutely great, because Horn Hill was a magnificent fortress.

More importantly, it was the last great fortress between Highgarden and Oldtown. Which meant that when Eddard Stark was done with Starpike, it was finally time to end this invasion once and for all.

Which was all well and good as far as he was concerned. Whatever kind of adventure this might have been, it had devolved into smashing peasant levies by the score and taking an endless sea of castles.

It hadn't been the only castles their section of the army had taken either.

Hastwyck had yielded without a fight, as the lordly family that shared their name had become extinct at Storm's End.

The same went for the Merryweathers of Longtable, the Leygoods at Leygood Keep, the Oldflowers of Summerset,

Alysanne Wythers had fled the stronghold that bore her name as the army approached, and she was not alone. Ser Edmund Ambrose had fled with his one-year-old nephew(the new lord) rather than face either Robert or the Swann army.

He was glad this invasion was nearing it's end.

He was looking much more forward to going north and dealing with the Rebels of the westerlands.

They had an actual army from what he had heard. He really hoped it would be better than this joke of an invasion.

Tom looked the knight up and down.

They had been out foraging, when they'd spotted a man on a horse in gold and yellow, making his way across the plains, on the course for the army camp. A massive black horse it was too, and he wore a full coat of chainmail under a surcoat.

At first, he'd taken the man for one of their own, the colors having tricked him.

If it hadn't been for Beren, he wouldn't have thought twice about him.

"...The hell?"

"What?"

"That knight…"

"What about him? He's a Baratheon man."

Beren scowled at him.

"That's not a fucking Stag on his coat. He's got 3 black dogs on his chest."

"Any lords with that sign?"

"None that I know.

He sighed.

"Hedgeknight then." He sighed with an annoyed but resigned tone.

"Come on boy's, let's go pick him up."

After that, they had ridden over and called out to the man.

"Hedgeknight! You looking for the army?"

The tone had been friendly.

The man had reacted like Tom had loosened an arrow at him.

The massive black beast swirled around, to face him, and the man had immediately drawn his sword out and ready.

Tom had not blinked an eye at that. He'd seen plenty of large, angry lordlings.

Then he saw the man's face.

The entire right side of the man's face was a mass of scars. He wore a helm with an open visor, so it was easy to see it all, it's Full grotesque glory.

It was a grown over and ugly mass, full of craters, deep cracks, and from the place he sat on his horse Tom could see he had no ear either.

The right of his mouth had no lips, which made the snarl he gave Tom look downright demonic. Under his cheek was just a hint of bone, clearly visible just beneath the skin. The scars went down to his throat too, all the way to where the skin was hidden by metal rings.

He halted his horse, as his men(13 in total), did the same. He clutched the spear in his hand hard as he gazed into those smoldering orbs.

"Now now friend… No need to get violent. We're all men of King Robert here… You are Robert's man are you not?"

Instinctually, he felt his lance lower so it's point pointed straight at the man.

For a moment, he expected him to say no.

Instead, the man responded positively.

"Aye, I am. And you call me a knight again, I'll gut you like a fish!"

He just stared at him.

So did the rest of them.

"That's what you took offense to?"

"I'm no fucking knight! I'm the Master of Clegane Keep, and I'm here to kill for Robert Baratheon."

"I… See… And Clegane Keep is where exactly?"

He really hoped this man wasn't from one of the keeps they were going to take from their owners. That would make this very, very awkward, very soon.

"It's in the Westerlands, southeast of the rock."

He felt the tension go out of him.

"I see… Well, in that case, welcome to the host." He turned back and looked at the amount of food they had with them on the horses.

"I think we have enough forage for the trip soooo…. We'll be escorting you to the host. You'll have to announce yourself once we get there… right… What's your name, master...?"

"Sandor Clegane." The man answered.

"Right, Sandor."

As they began riding back, he felt the tension in the air.

His men had all positioned themselves around Sandor as if they expected him to turn rabid and lash out at them at any moment.

Sandor for his part seemed completely unfazed by being outnumbered by a dozen other riders.

Eventually, Tom felt the need for small talk.

"So… You come a long way, Sandor. And alone at that. Where're your men?"

The man grinned.

It was so sudden and took Tom completely by surprise.

It was a hideous thing too, the way half his face didn't have lips, and the way the other side grinned in a way as if he was thinking back at the happiest moment of his life.

"They all died at King's Landing. Along with my father and Brother."

The silence that followed was one of the most awkward things Tom had ever experienced.

"So… You… Inherited the keep… That's why you came all this way to swear your sword?"

The response was a dismissing snort.

"I couldn't care less about that fucking keep. I came here to kill, and to see the man who had my brother put to death with my own eyes."

He grinned again.

"Now there's a man I can follow."

"I'm… Not sure Robert wants men who are happy when their kin die. Especially not when… When…"

Clegane. The name suddenly popped into his head.

Clegane.

"Clegane…"

"What?"

"No, I mean- I mean… Your brother, he was…"

"Gregor Clegane? Aye, he was.

At that, everyone turned to look at him. The name Clegane might be a relatively unknown one, but Gregor was not.

Gregor Clegane. The man who had butchered the Princess Elia of Dorne and her son.

"Holy shit…"

The man laughed, though it was rough, and strangely… childlike. A mix between a bark and an unwilling sob.

"A real piece of work Gregor. An anointed knight, knighted by the Prince Dragonstone himself."

"Wait…" Walder said. "Rhaegar was the one who anointed him?"

"Oh, yes he did. He tapped him on the shoulder, and said 'Arise, Ser Gregor.'... Later he repaid that, by smashing his poor little baby son's head against a castle wall, and then raped and murdered his wife while the boy's brain and blood still covered his hands. A real knight."

Sandor's tone was contemptuous, though whether the bile was for his brother, knighthood, or the foolishness of the Targaryens was hard to say. Maybe it was all of them at once.

More silence followed for a while after that... Until finally, Eddard spoke up.

"Well… I can't really say I disagree with you… I've never gotten point of knights."

"Y-y-yeah." Walton piped in.

"I mean it's just some pompous southern thing, isn't it? Aren't knights devoted to your gods?"

Clegane scowled.

"You're Northmen? I thought Northmen were tall, with long shaggy hair and beards."

He snorted.

"The Umbers are, aye. We're from the Rills me'lord. Horsemen of the dales."

"I really couldn't care less about that but… You don't have Knight's in the North?"

Though the gruff voice remained, he sounded genuinely curious, as if he had never even considered the idea of a world without knights.

"Well, there are the Manderlys… and the Barrow knights, but… They are a queer, and bizarre lot."

The man laughed.

"Sounds great, this North of yours."

There was more talk, but honestly, he could not wait, to hand the master over to the lords.

The man was abrasive, angry, mocking, and all-around unpleasant.

He even called them thieves for requisitioning food for the army, as if they were murderous brigands!

"CRAAASSSSHHHHH"

The rock hit the battered tower with a sound like echoing thunder in the valley, it's rocks splitting to pieces and falling down around the walls below.

For a moment, it seemed like the tower itself would stand, but then, finally it crashed down in a cacophony of sound.

"Hah!" Wendel Manderly laughed. "Seems you owe me 40 Stags after all Forrester!"

The lord of Ironrath took the loss of the bet of how long it would take to bring down the tower with a goodhearted smile, as he reached down, and began plucking out the coin.

Eddard Stark did not smile.

Instead, his eyes went to the rest of the battlements.

Starpike was a formidable fortress.

44 massive towers, and a gigantic, thick curtain wall, built directly into the red mountainside.

There was only one way to assault the fortress, and that was by charging up an open, narrow causeway, a corridor of 10 towers flanking both sides.

And before the gate, there was a drawbridge over a massive hole going deep, deep into the earth and stone.

No, he was not planning on taking this castle by storm. He would have to siege it down.

Starpike was a powerful fortress, in sharp, sharp contrast to most of the castles of the Reach.

Wyman had told him that no less than 19 of his ancestors had died trying to siege this castle. Through it's long, long history it had killed 4 kings as well, the last of which had been Maekar Targaryen.

Eddard had no intention of adding to it.

So, he would simply stay here, well beyond the range of the ballista on the wall, and bombard it with 7 Trebuchets, until it's walls was rubble, and either the garrison betrayed the Peakes, or they surrendered.

Whichever came first.

The siege had so far lasted near a month and seemed likely to last much longer.

While his lords kept chatting as in the distance, the next volley hit the walls, Eddard retired to his tent, after leaving command to Manderly, who was eager to bombard his future seat into oblivion.

Over a thousand years ago, the Manderly's had been banished from the reach by the Gardners on the behest of their hated rivals the Peakes of Starpike.

They had fled the Reach, and sought refuge far, far away, in the frozen North, where his ancestors had welcomed them into the fold.

Now, that banishment was about to be reversed, as house Manderly would partake in the complete destruction of it's hated rivals of old, and this time, the lands that would be taken and then granted was the peakes own beloved Starpike, along with the Manderly's old seat of Dunstonbury.

Wendel would get Starpike, while Wyman's cousin Marlon would get Dunstonbury.

No Wonder the Mermen was in such a good mood.

Most of the army was.

The reason was pretty blatant and stared him in the face as he sat down in his chair.

On the table was a large and incredibly detailed map of every single castle in the entire Reach.

A golden pin had been put over every single one they had taken, and most had been handed out to new lords. And there had been many a lordship to be handed out, and countless newly minted landed knights.

Every single castle east of Starpike and Highgarden had fallen to the Baratheon host.

Taking those castles had been easy. They had been lightly defended, and not by particularly many men at arms.

The land the shattered hosts had left behind them was undefended, undermanned, and led in large part by children and inexperienced regents, defending a land whose castles generally paled in comparison to the likes of the Eyrie, Storm's end, and Winterfell.

Conquering it had proven easy.

Controlling it was hard.

When the army had split up, he had set with 4000 men.

His job had been to take the actually strong castles, while Manderly, Hornwood, and Swan had been charged with focusing on taking the countless smaller keeps of lesser lords, and towers of landed knights.

And he had done so.

He had taken Tumbleton, Bitterbridge, Cider Hall, Ashford, Holy Hall, Darkdell, and Bardshome.

Some had yielded without a fight, upon seeing his army. Others had resisted, and been conquered, either by valyrian steel cutting open postern gates in the night or having to put the castle under the rain of trebuchets until the yielded or the walls were utterly broken.

The end result was that he had taken most of the great castles of the Eastern Reach. And after taking all of them, and then having to leave men behind to garrison every castle, was that his army of over 4000 had been whittled down to barely under half that number.

Manderly's army was no better.

When he had linked back up with his liege lord's army for this siege, he had also lost half his men to stormings and garrisoning.

Leaving their army with only 3000 left to siege.

He wondered how many men Hornwood and Swann had left by now.

And yet Highgarden and Oldtown remained.

And so did the treacherous Westerland Lords, who had to be put down.

Though, it wasn't all bad.

They still 12 000 mounted warriors with Robert.

And another 10 000 foot at King's Landing, that sooner or later would march west.

No… in the reach, there was only 1 thing that worried him, and that was the Arbor.

He could only hope that Braavos would come to their aid. Robert had originally wanted to hire a fleet of sell sails. But he and Jon had thankfully convinced him that it was a better course to just ask the free city to help directly.

If Robert insisted upon such ludicrously good terms for his canals, he could at the very least take some advantage of it, by getting them to help them out with finishing this war.

As he sat and contemplated it all, the tent flaps opened.

For a moment he just sat there, eyes still closed. He wondered which of his friends had come to talk, for it was only them that the guards would have allowed in without question.

He opened his eyes and found it was the little crannogman Howland Reed.

The man had a wineskin in his hands, and after sitting down in a chair opposite his, he handed it over without a word.

He took it, thankful, and took a draught. It was good Arbor gold, which he had become very familiar with at Storm's End. Robert was rather fond of the vintage and had a tendency to have them drink what felt like a barrel every day.

After he had had his fill, he closed the lid and handed it back to Howland.

"Thank you."

"You're tired, my friend. I see it in you."

"... Yes."

There was little point in denying it.

"I'm tired of it all, Howland. The marching… The Sieges… Robert might be able to live the thrill of it all, but I cannot."

He was tired. He was tired of War.

And yet his duty compelled him to see it through to the end.

He knew fully well that if they needed even more men to put down the Westerlands, Robert would probably command him to set sail for white harbor once more and rally the remainder of the North.

He had had 16000 men at his back when he marched south, what could be gathered in all haste.

He had taken all the North's cavalry with him, but there were still wast amounts of fighting men in the north. Men he might have to rally, then march south all over again.

That would take another year.

This war was nowhere near done.

And he would have to do his duty to the very end.

"You could go to her, Ned. Leave Manderly in charge and take a horse and a company of guards eastwards. No one would care."

"No... I cannot." He said in a tired, tired voice.

That, more than anything, was what he wanted to do. Saddle his horse and go meet Lyanna at the tower.

That he could not do, however.

He could leave his army in the hands of anyone else.

At least not for the weeks it would take to get there and then back.

What if they were attacked, and he was not there to lead? Or worse, they took the castle, while he was gone. And against his explicit orders, they slaughtered everyone inside.

He had heard enough about how Swann conducted war up north, to know how savage an army could be without a firm, strong commander at the helm.

If that happened here…

No, he could not risk it. Not while it was in his power to prevent it.

He still dreamt of King's Landing. And sometimes… when they were talking about it… It was as if he was there again, smelling the blood, hearing the screams of children, seeing babes butchered everywhere he went.

He could not risk another such bloodbath while it was in his powers to prevent it. He could not.

That was the curse of duty he supposed.

You could not do things you wanted to do.

What he wanted, and what was reality, was in stark contrast.

"Do… Do you think she's come to terms yet?"

There was a hint of fear in the question. Fear that something might go wrong. That the Maesters and the healing man from the east wouldn't be enough.

"Probably. It took a month for Ethan's message to get to us. And she was nearing the end when they set out. So… Nearly 3 months since then."

Eddard didn't answer.

Thought of something going wrong with the birth as Robert had feared it might, flowed through his head.

It would be the most cruel of all ironies if, after all this, all the fighting, all the deaths, Lyanna would die anyway.

And while he wasn't there to protect her either.

The gods could not be that cruel. Surely not.

"It'll be fine Ned. She'll be fine."

The Crannogman took a draught of the Arbor Gold himself, before continuing.

"I must say, Ned… For being so tired, I'm surprised you didn't take off your crown."

Eddard blinked, wondering what he was going on about… Then he remembered the circlet around his head.

"Truth be told… I'm starting to forget it's even there half the time."

Howland nodded.

"Aye… It's becoming part of you. Just another limb on your body. That is good. You'll make a good Prince once this is all over."

He rather hoped the Crannogman was right.

There was something… Different about being royalty.

From a legal perspective, other than the legal ability to legalize bastards, little had changed from when he was simply the Warden of the North.

In actuality, however, much had changed.

He saw it every single time he talked to someone. Everyone treated the crown he bore differently, but they did treat him differently.

Greatjon Umber had laughed and invited everyone to a night of drinking to celebrate. He'd subsequently never failed to both refer to him as "His grace", but he also wasn't above clouting someone across the ear, if they failed to do so as well.

Ethan Glover had been frightful when he looked at it, though that seemed to be his new normal now.

Maege Mormonts(The newly minted lady of Harpshire) had taken to calling him the prince of winter.

The lesser ranked members of the army had also come to treat him with far more reverence as he walked past than they had before.

It was daunting.

Worse, however, was the whisper in his ears, and the shadow in his heart.

This was all meant for Brandon, not for you. What are you doing here Eddard? This is your brother's place, not yours.

He was born to be a prince and marry the daughter of a lord paramount. It was his place to command great hosts and armies. Yours was to be a second son, with a small keep.

Why are you here?

It was a silly notion. He was here for duty, for honor, and for the love of his family and king.

And yet… He just could not end that voice in his ear, that told him that this was not his place.

Davos Seaworth(gods it felt queer to say that.) sat in his seat as he desperately struggled to master the simple art of reading the words from the paper beneath his finger.

The Septon that had been charged with teaching him looked utterly bored.

"That's an… R… And that ring is an… O…"

He recognized the word suddenly, having seen it a lot.

"Robert, that's Robert."

The Septon sighed.

"No my lord, that is robber. Not Robert. Robert doesn't Have two b's in it. Not to mention the T at the end."

"Right… Robber. Of course."

He suddenly felt an incredible wave of shame wash over him. What sort of Lord mistook the name of his king for a robber.

"You… Do know the difference between a capitalized R and a small one right?"

"Yes… the small r is…" which one was that again. He glanced down at the paper.

"It's the stylized v right?"

The Septon once again sighed loudly.

"That is one to describe it, I suppose. The point I was leading to, is that names always start with a capital letter. So, if you want to differentiate between say… A man being stark, and someone referring to someone of the Stark family, you'll be able to tell the difference by whether the s is large or not."

"Thanks… I'll keep that in mind."

Along with half the other arbitrary rules about reading he had to keep inside his head, as he tried to master the magic of reading.

Gods it was too much.

Davos Seaworth had smuggled onions into Storm's End because he assumed he'd get a good price for them. And he had. Far beyond his greatest dreams.

Robert Baratheon, The new King of the Seven Kingdoms had nonchalantly made him the new lord of the Arbor and the Shield Islands as a reward for saving his brothers and his castle from starving.

Him. A smuggler. Now the lord of one of the richest lordships in all of Westeros.

Once Robert conquered it anyway.

That was by his own admission probably half a year away at the very least.

The only thing Robert had laid on him was that he had to learn how to read before he took his lordship.

A daunting challenge in exchange for becoming the lord of half a million people.

Provided he could learn how to differentiate the word Robert from robbers anyway.

It was a daunting task.

The idea that he would rule, and be responsible for hundreds and thousands of lives was… Terrifying. More terrifying than anything he'd ever contemplated.

He'd visited the Arbor on many occasions. He understood just how large and populous it was. And he knew better than most just how much coin flowed through it from it's incredible vine production.

He would have to manage that and build up a navy of his own to replace the Redwyne one.

Him. He would own hundreds of ships before he died.

His sons would be raised as knights, and when they came of age, all of them would be lords in their own rights. Dale would inherit the Arbor after him, Allard would get Greyshield, Matthos Greenshield, and Maric would get Southshield.

And if he and Marya sired another son, Oakenshield would go to him.

Him and all his family were set for life. As lords. All thanks to the generosity of Robert Baratheon, and a ship filled with onions.

The Regencies of the Westerlands 283 A.C

Golden tooth, Alysanne Lefford, Age 9

Goldshire, Eleyna Garner, Age 9

Sarsfield, Eldrick Sarsfield, Age 6

Oxcross, Marq Broom, age 7

Golden hills, Alyn Algood, age 15

Banefort, Fenton Banefort, age 3

The Crag, Raynald Westerling, age 5

Maunhill, Dennis Plumm, age 14

Kayce, Tywin Kenning, age 7

Feastfires, Arnaud Prester, age 5

Myatt, Martyn Myatt, age 1

Silverhill, Jon Serrett, age 10

Wyndhall, Gwenna Estren, 3

Drox, Halbert Drox, 2

Thurrock, Ryanel Ferren, 5

Brent Brook, Steffon Stackform, 8

Rebels:

Leader Lyonel Lefford, Regent of The Golden Tooth.

Golden Tooth, Pendric hills, Nunn's Deep, Bramhope, Hornvale, Deep Den, Drox, Riverspring, Peckledon, Silverhill, Redbramble, Greenfield, Cornfield, Lonmont, Cornfield, Crakehall, Greenmoat, Hawthorne, Falwell.

Beneath the names, were a map of all their castles and territories. Also, a few troop movements scribbled in a rough, and obviously untrained hand.

Well… It's certainly something." Dustin commented.

The young master of Clegane Keep had knelt before the king, after handing him several maps.

The man barked. It sounded like a hoarse dog.

"I thought you'd like it."

Robert, seated in his chair, armored head to heels in plate, leaned back and smiled upon the man beneath him.

"Something? This is GREAT! We finally have a good report on exactly is revolting against the rock, and my rule, in a desperate and futile push for vengeance. The reports Jon has had, have been confusing and have had to be updated once a week. With this, we have a good, clear picture of who our foes are, and who will be attained. You've done me a good service with these… But are you truly the only man from the west to come here?"

"Aye. The scarred lion is marshaling his remaining forces around the rock. He's gonna east when he's done. He has to since they wanna chop his head off. The ones not revolting are children, and lords dumb enough to have sent kin to the rock before all this."

He barked another one of those unpleasant laughs of his.

"It's gonna be plenty of bloodshed up there, as they throw peasant levies against each other with no cavalry to back them up. Probably gonna be a real fucking bloodbath."

He grinned a hideous, scarred grin.

"I don't give a shit though. I can get my bloodfill here, on horseback, as we slaughter Reachmen. Also… I don't suppose you kept my brother's skull did ya?"

Robert looked bemused.

"No, I sent it down south to Sunspear. Why, did you have something in mind for it?"

If Robert was trying to be polite about asking him if he wanted to put his brother to rest, he was sadly disappointed. Dustin however, was utterly shocked and horrified at Clegane's response.

"Aye… I was planning on putting it in my brazier until it was nice and black… then grind it into dust, and throw it out with the shit."

There were murmurs all around from the various knights and lords that were there with Robert.

Lord Dustin was amongst those. By all accounts, Gregor Clegane had been a vile, vile monster but… There was such a thing as loyalty to one's family.

Something this Clegane obviously lacked in abundance.

"Bad blood between you aye? Well, in any case, you came here of your own free will, to pledge yourself to me…"

"I'll kill for you. Anyone you name enemy, I'll put a sword through their gut. Knights, lords, peasant levies… Don't matter to me who it is. But know this, king. I won't swear Knight vows for you. Not for you, not for anyone."

Had this been Aerys, this defiant declaration would probably have ended with fire. Robert however was amused.

"That so?" He chuckled. "Well, that should be fine. I've got plenty of Northmen who aren't knights at all. You'll fit right in I think. That said… You need some better armor."

He waved to one of his knights.

"Bolt, go help this ladd find some armor from the baggage train. Then settle him in with the rest of the men in my wan."

"As you say, your grace."

The gathering managed to keep quiet until the boy was out of earshot.

"Robert… I don't think this is wise of you."

"No? Well, lay it out then."

"He could be a spy for the Lannisters, or mayhaps he plans to assassinate you for killing his kin. Get close to you as the only westerlander to join your cause, then attack you while your back is turned."

Robert seemed unconcerned.

"I doubt it. I read Varys' old reports about the Clegane family. If even one-tenth of what they say are true… Well. Sandor would hate him harder than anyone else in the world. And if he is Tygett's spy… He is still a boy. And I, do not kill children. You guys should know that by now."

Blank stares.

It was a Bolton master who spoke up.

"A boy? The man's as near as tall as you, your grace! If he's a boy, I'm a dwarf."

Robert chuckled.

Tall or short, the ladd is a mere 14 years old. By all the laws of Westeros, he's a child. More to the point, he's sworn himself into my service, which effectively makes him my ward."

Robert took a draught of ale before he continued.

"And given his bloody and monumental height, I'm guessing that when fully grown, he's going to be… Well taller than he is now."

He turned to Jorah Mormont, Lord of bear Isles.

"Mormont, you were the one who actually killed that damned brother of his… How bloody tall was he again?"

The man shrugged.

"Well over 7 feet your grace. He was taller than even you!"

"Aye, a real bloody mountain that one. But hey, mayhaps his brohter will become just as big." He shrugged. "Either way… I have big plans for the ladd. Better than what he'd get if that bastard Tywin was alive at least."

Larra walked past, whistling as the woman on the ground screamed, and begged.

"Not my baby, NOT MY BABY! PLEASE!" she wailed, as the weak Reacherwoman desperately fought against the men holding her down, and was ripping off her garments.

She heard the weak wretch scream a worldless scream of pure agony to accompany the squelching sound as Arthur slammed the infant down on his spear from above.

She did not give it a second glance, though she knew her men would have their fun with her. Then, one of them would take her as his own, and bring her home across the mountains as his spoils, where she would pump out children that would be raised in true, propper dornish fashion.

That was how it always worked when the Dornish raided the reach and the Stormlands in days of old, before Daeron and his marriages.

But the Blackmonts of Blackmont had taken it to another level. There was a reason their flag was a vulture preparing to murder a babe.

Today though, they weren't "officially" here to raid.

Larra Blackmont, like many of the Dornish lords, had gotten an ultimatum after the battle of the trident.

In her case, that message had been "Bend your knee to Robert Baratheon, call your remaining banners, and invade the Reach or your husband Tuprin dies."

Doran Martell's decision to leave half of the Dornish troops at home had proved a rather terrible decision, not only likely costing them the decisive battle, but also leaving a whole bunch of Dornish hostages in the hands of the Stag in the aftermath of the great battle where Rhaegar died. In her case, it was her beloved Tuprin.

She had waited for the prince to officially kneel before she invaded, but she had made up her mind long before that.

So had both the branches of house Dayne, who wanted both Dawn, as well lord Ulrick of Starfall, as well as Alister Dayne and the Gerold Darkstar returned.

Even if Doran had wanted to rise, he would have had a hard time convincing his lords to do so, with half of them having family currently confined at the red keep.

Not that he would. The prince was famously cautious, almost to the point of cravenly.

Maybe his brother Oberyn might have been willing and able to rouse Dorne against Robert, but as it happened, he still had a few months left before his contract with the mercenary company he served across the narrow sea, expired.

So, threatened by Robert's threat of attainment, he had folded.

And so, the Blackmont army had marched forth from the dornish passes, and invaded the southern reach, to pillage and plunder, and capture as many Knightley towers and keeps as they could. All while putting every farm, and village they hit to the sword and then a torch.

After plundering them of course.

As she walked to her tent, she heard the screams and lamentation of the Reacher sows behind her as her men were enjoying themselves rather mightily.

And really… Was there a song better to go to sleep to than the suffering of filthy reacherfolk?

She would get her husband back, get plunder the Reach, and inflict horrible casualties upon the Reachers, as well as bringing home sows to help their manpower recover from the losses on the trident. Really… life was good.

The Martells might care mightily that the Targaryens were ousted, but what did that matter for Dorne as a whole? So long as Robert did not try to enforce Andals laws upon them, it mattered little for most of them, which foreign king ruled at King's Landing.

"The free city of Braavos has seen fit to join the stag in this war." She announced, then the silence of the room.

"My spies claim they number some several hundred warships, as they began putting dragonstone to a blockade.

More silence. Likely they were considering that.

"We… We cannot win against Braavos." Paxter Redwyne noted with worry in his voice.

"Is the Arsenal really so dangerous?" One of the shield island boy's asked hesitantly. Stupid boy. His mother really should have given him a better education, because clearly, she had not been attentive enough.

"Aye… It is. But it's Not their ability to conjure up another warship in a day that's the problem. It's Resources. We might beat the first fleet. It's a long way around dorne, and they'll be weary and tired and won't have much supplies by the time they reach us. But the thing is, even if do best all of them, they can just build another fleet from scratch and hire on another navy of sailing men. We cannot."

"Aye." She agreed. "Now that the oaf has cut off any access we have to the rest of the Reach, we have no access to more lumber, or woods to repair our navy. Sure we can take our forces… All 5000 of them… And retreat to the Arbor and Oldtown. But now that Braavos had deigned to join the fray… Well… We'll die eventually. As surely as if we stay here for when the final siege begins in earnest."

She pointed down on the map.

"North we have the Traitors from the North West, by all accounts they have near 400 men or near enough it makes no matter. How they mean to cross the Mander, is a mystery but, I doubt they came this way just to stand on the bank and glower at us.

She pointed to the east, where Robert's enormous host was currently.

"The oaf has well over 10000 knights. He has been spectacular in preventing any more reinforcements from reaching us so far, and if they haven't already, I think we can all agree that they are not going to reach Highgarden."

She pointed at Starpike.

"The fools in Starpike decided they'd rather hole up in their castle than come to Highgarden. They'll extend the siege by mayhaps half a year, but in the end, they will die all the same. Gallantly I'm sure."

She snorted.

Starpike was close enough that they might actually have reached them before Robert came. But no, they had gone their own way. And so, that left them with nothing but 5000 men. Mayhaps 7000 once they had picked up the garrisons at Oldtown, the Shield Islands, and the Arbor.

"Either way, once Stark is done there, he and Robert will doubtlessly link up and put us to a siege here. We have to be gone before that happens. Highgarden does not have a direct port from the castle, as you are all well aware. Once the siege comes, there will be no escape."

"So… We go east. And then what?" The lord of Oldtown complained. "Should we contact the Golden Company and offer to join them? To become sellswords for hire?" He said scornfully as if the thought itself burned him.

"Yes, we will contact the Golden Company. But not to sell our swords. No… I have something else in mind."

She slowly, and methodically turned her head, and then pointed at a spot on the map. Much farther east.

"After all. We have men, we have coin, and we still have a mighty navy. Why should we spend the rest of our lives in a sellsword camp where we'll inevitably shit ourselves to death… When we can still be lords."

The queen of thorns grinned.

"There is, after all, a place that has no real fighting men, no navy, several cities, a fair and nice climate, and lots, and lots of flat, open land. Perfect for cavalry."