The halls felt empty without his father's presence looming through them. The servants bowed, his courtiers wheedled, his lords chafed and questioned him at every turn. He didn't feel like a lord. Half the time he wanted to don the white armor once more and be done with it all. He had even come close, had nursed a dream of… who in the seven hells could say. Handing things off to Tyrion? It was a cowardly thing to do, he knew. Still, he nursed the thoughts, walking through halls that felt both familiar and foreign. Had the statue of a lion always been at the corner of this hallway? Was that tapestry always there? He had been gone scarcely three years and he still kept finding things that felt new.

He had hoped to take comfort in the old, true. When Cersei had been sent away from the court with him, he'd been damn near giddy. No father looming overhead like an executioner's axe, no mother and her disapproving eyes… some part of him wanted to cast aside secrecy and be done with it. Just marry his sister like the Targaryens.

Would that she would agree. Oh, they had their quiet trysts, finding some unoccupied corner of the Rock, but every time he brought it up Cersei's face screwed up. "And be left to do what, Jaime? Sitting in a circle sewing with dull, ugly women?" Her bitter voice rang through his mind. His response had been stopped before it could even start, as she ranted about the Stark girl for the hundredth time. He could practically recite it by memory. "He was supposed to marry me, Father promised. I was supposed to be queen, even after he married that wench. Imagine it, Jaime. Our golden haired children sitting on the throne… finally, I would have the power to prove myself," She said.

"Having our children sit the throne of Casterly Rock would do me just fine," he had replied. The scowl that crossed her face then marred her pretty face.

"Don't be stupid," she had hissed, gathering up her skirts and swishing away. He hadn't felt like he'd said anything stupid at all.

His attention turned to the door ahead. Uncle Kevan was undoubtedly waiting - though he wouldn't comment on Jaime's lateness - but perhaps Uncle Gerion and Tygett would be there too. He tried to count the days it would take to ride up the coast and back.

He entered the solar. "Apologies for my lateness, Uncle," Jaime said, rubbing his neck. His uncle looked as composed as ever, though his eyes flickered upwards thoughtfully as he put a letter down.

"Do not apologize," his uncle said, in that even tone of his that somehow managed to chide him. "I am your steward. I wait at your pleasure," he said, and Jaime flushed a little, turning to sort through the letters stacked on Fath- his desk. The letters swam before his vision, trying devilishly to rearrange themselves, but the sigils were clear enough.

"Another from the King?" He murmured, picking up the opener and slicing cleanly through the wax. I can still make a clean cut, he thought sardonically. He read it, and reread it, but the letters were stubborn. "What do you make of this, Uncle?"

It took a long moment for his uncle to reply, his hand running along his neat beard. "Not only does he wish us to be vigilant, now he wants our fleet prepared. I do hope he won't ask us to join that expedition of his," Kevan noted, shaking his head. "Still, it is sound advice after all. The letter I was reading when you entered was from Lord Farman. His towers report another forty longships passed nearby, heading for the Islands."

"Forty?" Jaime asked incredulously, leaning forward.

"Forty," his uncle confirmed. "The greater part was made up of Harlaw's fleet, returning from Essos."

"Why so many?" Jaime asked, rubbing his forehead.

"Lord Rodrik may be cautious, but his sons are not. All of the Ironborn grow more bellicose, now that Quellon is dead." Kevan shook his head. "I could not have imagined the day I would miss an Ironborn," he said.

Jaime tapped his fingers against his chin. "There is no harm in gathering the fleet and making sure the men are prepared. If it proves to be snarks and grumpkins, at least they won't grow soft with peace." He pulled a piece of parchment from his stack, dabbing the quill into the ink for a moment as he thought about what he needed to write. Finally he began, treating each stroke like a slice of the sword. It took some time, but his writing came out precise and neat, his order simple and straight to the point. "I'll have the maester copy that and send it to the lords on the coast," he said, putting it to the side and letting the ink dry.

"Of course," Kevan replied easily, taking a sip of his wine and watching from over the rim.

The next two messages were offers of marriage, which he put to the side. His uncle read them over and, though he said nothing, his gaze was burdensome enough. He had urged Jaime to marry inside the west and ensure loyalty, especially with Tywin on the wall. Jaime's continued refusal seemed to burden his uncle. I know who I want to marry, damn you, he thought.

The final letter was marked with the black seal of the watch, though his father's handwriting was unmistakable, venerable and precise. Jaime opened it with a sigh, knowing vaguely what the contents would say. Demanding revenge, as if Jaime had the ability let alone the will to rebel. Tyrion was practically a hostage in King's Landing, though he seemed to be enjoying himself and making plenty of friends. Father didn't care, of course. His pride was wounded. Jaime tossed that letter aside as well, giving up on reading it. Uncle Kevan stroked his beard. "How bad is it?"

"No doubt as bad as normal." Jaime said, shrugging his shoulders. Suddenly he wanted wine, or perhaps a sword in his hand, or Cersei. Anything but this, sitting in a stuffy chamber with his Uncle's oppressive gaze doing a fine job of replacing Father's.

The shuffling of paper gave him a bit of warning, and Uncle Kevan's brow furrowed as he read on. "Well, he's sounding closer to his old self. Now he wants to see if Hightower could be turned against them both. At least it's not knives in the night or poison again. Or, gods forbid, open rebellion." Kevan sounded displeased with that last thought. No doubt he was thinking of his family. His wife, little Lancel, even the babe in her belly would likely lose their heads once Robert crushed them.

"What in the seven hells was he thinking?" Jaime asked. His father had promised to teach him to be a lord when last they had met, but after that his letters grew more and more cryptic.

"I cannot say," Kevan admitted, shaking his head and drinking once more from his cup.

Jaime shook his head, polishing off his own wine. "Well, no matter. Would you bring that order to the Maester, uncle? I think I'd like to go train."

"Of course," he said, though his tone seemed to imply that he should be focusing on lordship. Jaime left, training long and hard. Once he felt satisfyingly soaked with sweat and his sparring partners were thoroughly bruised, he went to find Cersei.

Perhaps if he arranged his words in the right way, she would finally agree with him.

…

Gemmer the Grim watched from the high watchtowers of Pyke as another handful of longships drifted in. Fewer than Balon had hoped. The other guards spoke in hushed murmurs, always vigilant for their Lord, who seemed eager to punish traitors. Bad enough that the greenlander king had come and interfered in Ironborn affairs, now Farwynd was challenging Balon's authority - and just when their Lord needed him most, Euron had fled North with his ship, to raise mutiny if their lord was to be believed. Three captains sworn to those wretches had been killed in a fight down at the port, and now both men were mustering captains to their cause. Gemmer ran his fingers through his long beard, moving to the next side of the watchtower in his slow patrol.

Every captain was king on his own ship, all the Ironborn knew that. But now Lord Balon seemed to be regretting that, as handfuls flocked to the Farwynds. Men of the New Way, adventurers, all had turned towards the west because of the new islands. They claimed it folly to cling to a crown that had been lost three hundred years ago when new lands were open for the taking. Gemmer wondered if they were right. Once, when the kingdoms were disunited, they had slipped up the rivers and streams and conquered vast lands for themselves. But that had ended with the line of Hoare.

His thoughts were solidified when one of the other guards was killed for mutinous talk. Old Lem had always been a blusterer, but that was all he was; everyone knew that. The next morning, he had signed onto one of the ships making for the isles in the west. Men who were good with an axe would be needed for cultivating the wild isles, after all, and Gemmer didn't care to die in battle against fellow Ironborn.

…

Jerys looked out across the full hall, enjoying the hum of chatter. The new king was a fine enough fellow, he decided. The roads outside his tavern had been made better, and with it came a lot more folk on the road. That had attracted brigands after a time, but then one day a handful of riders all in plate and the same cloak had ridden past. Jerys had never seen the sigil in his two and twenty years of running the place, and when he learned they were making for Fairmarket, he assumed he wouldn't see it again.

He had been proven wrong a moon later when the bandits returned. Different men in the same cloaks had come down, cleared the bandits out, and left. It was true in other parts of the Riverlands, apparently. One merchant claimed there were a thousand of them, another that there were five. One of the local farmers claimed they needed only fifty men to match the brigands easily. Jerys wasn't sure of the truth of it, but most of the stories agreed: the King had made them part of some knightly order like out of the tales, so that they could fight brigands wherever they went. A singer from court confirmed that, and even tried to recall the oaths, though some of them sounded more fancy than the others.

Jerys simply shrugged his shoulders. It was good that the King was doing all that, no matter the reason. Perhaps with the business doing so well his second son could go study at Fairmarket like he wanted. After all, Jerys would be able to hire a few maids. If what he heard was true, folk who studied up in Fairmarket got good jobs working for the King. Imagine that, an innkeep's son becoming a King's man.

Jerys shook his head ruefully and went back to serving mugs. After all, he would need to save up first.

…

Pate wiped the sweat from his brow. Digging this ditch was harder work than the roads, admittedly, but it also paid better. They had managed to dig a lot last moon, apparently more than the King's man expected. They'd all been rewarded with a real, honest dragon. Pate had bit the thing just to be sure. They'd all celebrated that night, flooding the local inn and downing the horsepiss the old man called beer like it was Arbor Gold.

Everyone worked with renewed vigor after that, and the King's man seemed pleased with the progress. Soon enough they'd get more rewards, Pate figured, and he would be able to save up enough to buy a mule and some land up in the North. His father had worked himself to the bone to send Pate off to apprentice under Joryn, gathering herbs after the day's work was done to count up coppers. That more than anything had shamed Pate when Joryn dismissed him, knowing his father had worked himself to death for nothing. But now… now he might well have enough to buy a farm of his own. The first in his family to do so, even.

So Pate worked on, shoveling dirt with the rest, for that sweet promise of gold. The days melded together, until the moon turned once more. When the men sought out the King's man, he flushed a bright crimson. "There's war in the Stepstones," he explained, as if that would make up for the missing dragons. Instead they were given two moons each. Pate hadn't often seen them, but when he compared them to the shining dragon in the campfire that night, they seemed pitiful by comparison.

For some it was enough. Yorel and Danny put up their shovels, bidding farewell to their comrades of the past few moons. Pate promised to visit their farms when he went North, but he wondered when that would happen.

More men filled the ranks, looking for work like the rest of them. Pate taught them what he knew, the tricks he used to get through the sweaty days without being too sore. Moons passed, and the coins piled up. Pate counted them every night, when the campfire was burned to embers, the feeling of the coins all too familiar to him.

He dreamt of fresh tilled soil, and a little home to call his own. A copse of trees, bearing ripe fruits, and the smell of fresh baked bread. The dreams were made all the more bittersweet by their distance.

…

Lord William Mooton watched as his steward tallied up the sums for the fourth time. As if it would change the numbers on the parchment, make them pleasant to look at somehow. What had he been promised? Wealth and glory? Every sennight more of his peasants slipped away, looking for the easy work the king offered. "Seven thousand four hundred and sixty two dragons, My lord," his steward said, his voice bleak.

"Two thousand dragons less," William said, rubbing his temples in some halfhearted attempt to ward off the coming headache. The goblet in his hand felt cold, and the liquid inside seemed more bitter than ever "How many did the farms lose this time?" He asked.

"Seven and twenty, my lord," His steward said, his voice trembling.

"Seven and twenty," William said, considering the silver goblet in his hands. A flash of rage overtook him, and the goblet slammed against the wall, making an unsatisfying clanging sound.

"My lord?" came the venturing voice of his steward, looking up at William.

"Out." When the man did not move quick enough, he bellowed it. "OUT, DAMN YOU!"

He hurried after that. Once he was safely gone, William took up the chair the other man had been sitting in, slamming it against the wall. It cracked once, twice, before it shattered into splinters. Soon the rage left him and he found himself sat in his own chair, looking down at the rivulets of crimson running down his hands. I should see the Maester, he thought, but he did not move.

When he did, it was not to the Maester's turret. Instead he plucked up a torch, venturing down into the depths of the Maidenshield. There he found the arms his brother had borne, all he had left of the man. Even the wood of the shield was charred from the heat of that day. "I was a fool to ever consider bending my knee to the likes of him, Myles," he said, his voice low so as not to carry. "If only you had not died… I know you would have struck that usurper down on the Trident."

Then he knelt, unlocking the lockbox only he had the key to. Within he found the banner of the Targaryens, and the melted dagger his forebear had taken from the Field of Fire. He had been a fool to believe that blustering oaf. Snuffing noblemen, allowing upjumped merchants in his council… William was not a brave man, and he had suffered these injustices long enough. But if the ruinous policies continued, he would not even be able to pay his knights. He would leave the legacy of his father and his forebears in tatters.

A creeping thought grew in the back of his mind. Aerys had been mad, aye, but things had been stable under his reign… and Rhaegar would have been better, William knew it to be so. The Targaryens were not yet extinguished, though. They may have failed at the Great Council, but some two hundred noblemen had stood behind them. How many of them would stand again for the Targaryens?

William imagined the faces of the Royal Family, their gratitude at his efforts. Perhaps they would make him Hand…

…

Lord William was not the only man with plots and intrigues. Lord Hightower watched over the city, breathing deeply of the salty smell rising from the sea. Somewhere out there were the first Hightower ships making their way west. Oh, aye, the King had promised the Ironborn their due, but if what Wyman said was true, the Ironborn were already tied up in a feud over scraps.

Oldtown had long been the richest city of Westeros, and if things went well, it would grow even richer. Tying himself to Robert Baratheon had been worth it, then. He knew the man only wanted his house as a counterbalance to the Tyrells. In fact, he counted on it.

Soon enough the Tyrells would overextend themselves in trying to match House Hightower, and Leyton would snap at the opportunity. The Hightowers would have their own Lord Paramountcy to match his goodson, centered on the Honeywine.

The Hightowers had been kings once, and aspired to the throne before. That had been folly, and had forced their retreat for a century and a half. But soon enough young Stannis Baratheon would return from the Stepstones and marry Alysanne, and the influence provided would no doubt see Lynesse well wedded. When Baelor took up Vigilance and the Hightower, Leyton would ensure it was as a Lord Paramount with all the wealth the east could offer. His son was a better man than he, and he would see the house ushered into its zenith.

King Robert would leave soon enough, so as to coordinate his war in the Stepstones from much closer. Speed is of the essence, the King would say, all youthful vigor and zeal. He had sent the fleet forth for that same reason instead of waiting for the Gulltown and White Harbor contingents, after all.

Not that Leyton was complaining. There would be a greater share of the spoils for his house because of it. Perhaps a keep for Humfrey when he finished squiring…

House Hightower was no longer in retreat, that was for certain.

And so the wheel turned, and the game entered a new stage.

…

The village of Frostgrove barely warranted the title. Half of its folk were clustered in hide tents, hiding from the summer cold and the creatures that haunted its depths. In recent moons, even as the dread winter had receded into the slightly warmer spring, folk had continued to disappear. First it was hunting parties, then warbands, and then entire camps. Some wondered if it was the foe in the dark, striking forth mindlessly.

Darys hefted her spear, watching from the hill as the chill night stretched its fingers across the land. Her torch guttered in the wind, and she cupped her spear in the crook of her shoulder to shield the flame. It took only a moment for the silent shapes to appear and approach. She thrust forth her torch, taking up her spear. The creatures eyes were not the pale blue spoken of in hushed whispers by elders around campfires. Most had normal eyes, and she wondered for a brief moment if it was a warband. They walked with slow, jerky motions, and she noted the frostbite across their extremities, blackened ears and noses common to them all.

She raised the alarm, not that it did any good. She jabbed once, twice with her spear, testing the defenses of the attackers. Her foes' eyes glinted in the light of her torch, one blue and the other black with red tinged the edges like blood, or the leaves of a weirwood. He was fast, and his sword was proper steel. Her bone spear shattered blocking it, and she desperately jabbed the splintered remains into his gut. There was a soft whoomph, air being forced out more than anything, and when she looked up his eyes were a dull brown like earth. Then the back of her head exploded with pain, and she collapsed.

She woke when they forced her to her feet. Her hands were bound, her spear gone and her torch guttered out. They marched in silence, without even torches to light the way. She heard Torghald cry out, some fierce shriek resembling a war cry, and the line stopped for a moment, the silent air filling with cries from a few other villagers before they went silent once more. Then their silent march continued, and she was forced to step clumsily over the corpses, their blood steaming the air as their bodies cooled. She watched mutely as silhouettes at the back picked up the corpses, carrying them jerkily along. The night was long, and many of the older folk collapsed on the march, carried along by the creatures the rest of the way. A few tried to get out of walking by pretending to collapse, and found a sword in their throats instead. The rest learned quickly.

Her legs were ready to give out when they finally stopped again, and the achy chill in her hands had given way to numbness. Even if she had a spear, she doubted she could wield it. The sun was only just beginning to crest over the horizon, and she watched as the last were corralled into the clearing. The weirwoods, she realized, though their faces had never smiled so cruelly.

The dread that had been spooling in her stomach churned as the… creatures brought forth the dead and the weak, dropping them before the weirwood and drawing forth long knives. She watched with horror as they dragged forth their guts, stringing them along the weirwood tree's branches, some of them still barely alive and shrieking all the way. So engrossed was she that she barely noticed the man, though the crowd parted instinctually for him. He stood before the wretched sight, before chuckling lowly and turning to them.

Her heart nestled in her gut when she saw his eyes, the same ones she had seen earlier in the night on another man. Warg, her mind hissed, putting it together. Most in her village knew of Varamyr Fourskins, though they lived outside his realm. He might have been handsome, were it not for his dreadful eye and cruel smile.

"This simply won't do at all," he said, with a lazy grin and a shrug. "No, we'll certainly need more, won't we, Dagon?" He asked of the man stood next to him. The man simply stared forward, mindless.

"Too true. Very well. Pick three from amidst yourselves, and the rest of you may go free," he said, with that callous grin. The villagers looked to each other warily now. Soon the talking began, in a low hush. The outsiders, they decided. Those who were least close to the village. Her heart sunk further, somehow. She had made few friends in the village, and they were decorating the tree now. When she joined Luka and Harvys, the tension in the villagers seemed to ease. She closed her eyes to reflect on her bitterly short life, listening only vaguely to the conversation.

"We picked our three, now let us go," Walgys said, his voice gruff. There was a long moments' pause, and she opened her eyes. The man stroked his dark beard.

"Did I say that?" He asked, his cruel smile widening. "I lied." Then he lazily waved his hand, and the circle of creatures closed, lifting their weapons almost mechanically as they slaughtered them easily.

When it was done, the creatures began decorating the trees of the grove. The man paused, closing his eyes and taking in a deep, loud breath. Then he turned, offering a smile that might have been charming had it not been for the scene around them. "I've spared you three for a very important reason," the man said with a gesture to the trees around them.

"This will not be the last great act I do, and I will need more blood. Scatter yourselves and tell all in your path that if they do not surrender sacrifices, they shall suffer the fate of your village," He said, beckoning to the horrors behind him. Then he shooed them away. Luka was the first to walk away, his steps shuddering as he made for the east. Harvys went south then, and she was left to walk towards the Frostfangs. Her legs were numb with cold, but some force propelled her forward, out of the cursed clearing. The forest was eerily silent for a long moment.

Then the chanting began.

…

The air was filled with smoke and blood. The heat of the wildfire was like a furnace blasting against him even from a hundred paces away, and the shrieking of the men caught in the green flames made even Stannis Baratheon think of the Seven Hells. He turned to the captain of the ship. "Bring our ballistas to bear on the flagship there," Stannis said, pointing towards the galleas near the outskirts of the pack of pirates. The foremast had caught fire - orange flames, and Stannis was almost thankful for that - and the pirate's efforts to stamp out the fire were rapidly turning to efforts to clear the mast entirely, so as to flee quickly. Stannis would not allow it. He had been given command of all but the reserves, and he would use them well to wipe the pirate scum away.

The twang of the ballistas filled the air, their bolts slamming into the side of the ship. Forced to fight the fire and the water pouring into their ship, they were not ready for the volley of crossbow bolts that tore through them. Stannis felt a quiet satisfaction at that. The less pirates left after this battle, the better.

The battle was turning quickly in their favor regardless. Even as he watched, more of their ships closed in from the north, tacking their sails to descend like wolves on the fleeing pirates. He had to offer credit to Robert, the idea was working quite well. Once the reinforcements arrived, the odds would be near two to one, and that wasn't including the handful already burning bright green.

"My Prince!" screamed one of the men, and Stannis turned to look in that direction. What he saw made him grind his teeth. The clear weather was giving way to a fierce looking storm, the malevolent front sweeping quickly over the islands to the south.

"Finish this up quickly! If we fail now, they might escape!" He called, letting his voice carry across the ship. One of the men blew two trumpeting blasts on the horn, and the signal for double time carried across the fleet.

Stannis gripped the railing with white knuckles, ordering the ballistas to fire at choice targets. The last handful only needed to be cleaned up… yet even as he thought it, the stormfront swept across them with rage, the howling wind covering up commands and even the screams of the dying. It carried the wildfire burning in the center of their arena north, into the handful of ships fighting there; whether the shrieking was the wind or the men, he could not say. He moved to the fore of the deck, where his commands could be heard a little better, and worked to finish the battle quickly.

The chaos of the battle was giving way to victory. The last of the pirate ships were about to be finished. He turned to one of the soldiers. "Tell the captain to signal the fleet. We retreat for the safety of Bloodstone's harbor!" He said, grinding his teeth anxiously as the man rushed. Even as he watched, the howling wind grew louder, drowning out all noise. The waves, which had been growing wilder, were now pouring over the side of the smaller ships. Some had managed to turn and face the tides, and others capsized. The Hammer moved in to pick up some of those flailing in the water, but the waves were making it difficult. Glory swooped in on the other side, but the oars of the dromond smashed against the flotsam of the battle and many of them cracked.

He watched as the Fury's crew worked to bring them around and back to Bloodstone, though the wildfire that was raging on the sea made even that difficult. Hopefully when Robert arrived with the White Harbor and Gulltown contingent he would find the fleet mostly intact. Stannis would not be shamed, not on his first proper assignment.

All thoughts of duty went out the window with a harsh gust of wind. It was worse than before, and Stannis was knocked to his knees, holding desperately onto the railing which seemed weaker than ever. He managed to get his feet under him, barely, but he could do little else. Screams filled the air, and he turned his head against the wind, his eyes harshly stinging. The screams were coming from Fury's riggers, who were struggling to hold on as the foremast splintered and cracked, falling over with a great crackling sound. He managed to dodge the first splinter, but the second hit him somewhere below the waist; it was hard to tell with how numb his skin had gone from the wind and the frigid water.

Then something hit him on the head, and he knew no more.

A/N and there's another chapter! Anthology ones like this take me longer since I have to work with so many viewpoints to feel satisfied with the length. I do apologize for the generally nasty Euron part, but doing him justice is difficult. (Edit: I have updated the chapter a little to clarify that Euron went north. Make of that what you will.) As to the other parts of the chapter, I wanted to convey the messy nature of ruling a kingdom even when you want to do it benevolently, and the reaction that changes will often present. Hopefully this was satisfying enough. Now, I do admit fault here - Robert did not mobilize all the forces he could in the last chapter. Hopefully I've offered a glimpse into my mindset with regards to that. I am entirely fallible when it comes to writing these chapters, so I welcome criticism in that area. As to Stannis, I rewrote the section a few times and settled on this - generally the plan was laid out so I wanted to show how it went wrong. Even if Robert is somewhat cunning politically, he will have to reckon with the magic side of ASOIAF - hopefully sooner rather than later. Regardless, I hope you all enjoyed reading; if you did, please leave a review!