Chapter 30 Sansa, Reek, Arianne, Melisander, Daenerys

Sansa

From the crossing at Waxley, the Ironborn fleet travelled back down the Mander with all haste to regather at the Shield Islands. Euron remained darkly sullen the whole time. He refused food and kept to his cabin, hiding below deck and letting his mutes handle Silence, and the captains and lords command the fleet. The Ironborn, of course, did not retreat quietly. Every town and village not already sacked on the journey up the Mander was sacked on the journey down. Salt wives and thralls and loot were taken in abundance. Morale that had been shaky after the battle had risen high again by the time the fleet docked at Oakenshield. The Ironborn rushed ashore to drink and feast the day away, save for a few unlucky souls, given the duty of standing watch for enemy fleets.

As night fell, Sansa sat down next to Cersei's cage. The queen was filthy, she was covered in dirt, and her hair was greasy and unkempt. Or is she a former queen now? Sansa wondered as she sat quietly for over a minute before speaking. "Did it hurt?" She asked. "Watching your son die?"

Cersei glared daggers from within her cage. "What mother wouldn't mourn her son?" she finally spat out.

Sansa sighed and pulled her dagger free of its sheath, relishing the brief moment of fear that flickered over Cersei's face.

"Put that away before you hurt yourself," Euron said as he stepped onto the deck for the first time in days.

Sansa quickly obeyed and stood to greet him.

Euron crossed the ship and brought her into his embrace. Sansa, stiff with shock, wasn't sure how to react. "I know you're eager," he said. "But Cersei's death must wait a little longer. Her children must be crowned and killed before she can die, so it was prophesied, and besides, she will suffer more that way."

Sansa nodded, taking a step back as Euron released her.

Cersei was pale as a sheet. "You do know," she said quietly. "That's… impossible."

"Nothing is impossible," Euron said. "One must merely open their eye," he laughed, and turned again, walking toward the forecastle. Sansa followed.

"Ah to breath fresh air again," he said, his eyes passed over the raucous celebration on Oakenshield. "Look how my subjects celebrate even the most meager of victories, ignorance is truly bliss."

"Where will we go now?" Sansa asked.

Euron smiled, not his cruel smile, but an alarmingly cheerful one. "Oldtown by way of The Arbor."

Euron wasted no time taking back control of the fleet. Two days after his self-imposed isolation ended, the Ironborn were taking to the sea. They travelled within sight of land, and each night Sansa watched a string of warning beacons burn along the coast. Euron wanted to be seen, to be feared. He demanded a murderous pace without stops for reaving or plundering, the sails were stretched to the fullest, and the oars strained against the waves. Euron and Sansa dropped a bloodstained corpse over the side every day to ensure the continued good winds.

The winds brought them south quickly, past the green coasts of the Reach and the fires that warned of the coming fleet. Past Bandallon and Blackcrown, through the edge of the Whispering Sound that led to Oldtown and into the Redwyne Strait, where everyone knew the vast fleet of the Arbour waited for them.

Euron gathered his lords and captain aboard Silence, his normally spacious cabin was crammed with dozens of hard-eyed Ironborn, and yet dozens more waited on deck to hear what would be said. Sansa sat cross-legged on a chair in the corner of the room, away from Euron but in sight of everyone.

"Tomorrow," Euron said. "We will meet the Redwyne fleet in battle offshore of Ryamsport."

"We're outnumbered," Lord Rodrik Harlaw said plainly.

"Bah," Jon Myre said. "Bah, Greenlanders on ships are still only Greenlanders. Sheep ripe for slaughter."

Rather than respond to Jon Myre, Dunstan Drumm said."There's a storm coming, I can feel it in my bones."

"Your bones always sense a storm coming." Alyn Orkwood of Orkmont said.

"And my bones are always right!"

"Quiet my lords," Euron lazily waved a hand for silence, he smiled charmingly. "A storm is coming," Euron said with a cruel smile. "I have seen it."

That brought a chill to the normal fiery furor of the Ironborn before a battle. "Shouldn't we seek refuge?" Rodrik Harlaw questioned. "If we're caught in the open sea, half the fleet could sink."

"And then we would feast in the Drowned God's watery halls, ha! Either way, we'd win." Euron said with mock piety. "Worry not my captains, we will ride the storm to victory. Do as I say, and only the Redwyne's will need to fear my wrath."

"Don't you mean the storm's wrath?"

"That's what I said."

"This is madness," Rodrik Harlaw spoke again, the grey-haired lord of Harlaw shook his head. "No one can command the storms. That is beyond the ken of mortal men."

Euron glared daggers at the greatest of his lords, before deciding to ignore him. "Go," he said. "You have much to prepare."

An uneasy silence filled the cabin, even Euron's most ardent supporters looked nervous. It was Lord Rodrik Harlaw who broke the silence. "As you command," he stood, and he left, leaving the silence behind him.

Euron stared at the Lord of Harlaw as he left. "All of you," he said to the others. "Go and make ready exactly as I have commanded."

One by one, the lords and captains of the Iron Islands filed out. After they were gone, Sansa uncrossed her legs and approached Euron. "You will summon a storm?"

"No… not yet, but I know where a squall will be, and I know how to raise it up, to make it a storm worth remembering, and how to direct it. For now, that's just as good."

The preparations were simple, each crew would tie a living woman, great with child, to the prow of their ship. "We will offer the storm a sacrifice of life and the creation of life so that destruction will reap my enemies," Euron said.

When the battle began, the day was calm. A warm breeze from the south lifted sails and hearts alike. The shadow of clouds in the south was the only warning of what would come. The Ironborn fleet spread itself into a line two ships deep and nearly a mile wide. The more numerous Redwyne fleet was arrayed just as wide but looked half a dozen ships deep, or more.

The Ironborn ships rushed forward like wolves. Water and foam sprayed up from the prows, soaking and drowning the women tied to them. Not every captain or ship had done as Euron had commanded, but most had done so, convinced that the sacrifice would please the Drowned God. As the two fleets closed the wind grew stronger, and the shadow of clouds drew closer and darker. Just as the first arrows began to fly between ships, lightning began to crackle and flash half a mile away from the two fleets. Then the winds blew even harder, the rain fell in sheets, and the waves rose to meet the sky.

The Redwyne fleet could have won, many of their ships were larger than the Ironborn, but their crews for all their experience at sea weren't fighters, and the storm Euron summoned made victory impossible. Waves crashed over the sides of the Redwyne ships, lightning shot down from the sky, and all the while, the Ironborn raced around the stumbling trading cogs like wolves around cattle. Many were almost untouched by the madness around them.

Sansa crept up to the prow, careful not to fall as Silence bucked and bounced atop the waves that rolled beneath it. Her long hair and dress were plastered to her skin, soaked through by the rain. Euron was leaning forward over the rail, almost hugging the mouthless maiden on the prow of Silence. The woman tied to the ship had long since fallen silent, perhaps she'd died already.

Sansa tried to speak, but the wind stole her words. Euron sensed her presence and turned toward her, he was laughing, and his smiling eye was bright with joy, Sansa began to laugh as well. She could sense the magic in the air. The magic that, with the power of hundreds of lives, had transformed a squall into a storm. The currents of air above them rushed faster and harder than they should have, lightning crackling and thunder booming, again and again, each one signalling a person losing their life to the terrible waves. Sansa watched as a great war galley with grapes on its sails rose and trembled in the air for a second that seemed to stretch for hours. Lighting struck it, and for a few seconds, Sansa was struck blind. When her eyes cleared, the war galley was gone, taken by the sea. Sansa laughed as the storm raged around her.

Hours later when the storm had faded, the Ironborn took possession of Ryamsport. The sky was still black when the longships slipped ashore, but the ocean had calmed itself. Despite the storm, the victory was not bloodless, the Redwyne fleet had fought their hardest, and more than a few Ironborn longships had been crushed beneath or smashed apart by the war galleys of the Redwyne fleet. Even those ships that hadn't fallen to the Redwynes had suffered in the storm, despite Euron's spells, the waves had taken ships and men from both sides down into the depths.

The few guards of Ryamsport retreated into the castle that overlooked the harbour, letting the Ironborn run rampant through the town. Neither Sansa nor Euron joined in the sack, both preferring to remain on Silence. When the violence and madness began to end, Euron came to her.

"Clean yourself of the sea and go to the castle for me," Euron said. "Offer terms to Lady Redwyne, whatever you think will end this quickly."

Sansa sipped from her skin of Shade of the Evening. "I will."

Sansa washed herself of sea salt, brushed her hair, and took a dress of red and black from Silence's hold. Ready, she approached the castle gates, escorted by half a hundred warriors.

"Come no further," a guard shouted down. When the warriors stopped, Sansa took several more paces to stand in front of them. "Who goes there? Have you come to offer terms?"

"I have," Sansa replied. "I would speak with Lady Redwyne."

"Who are you to speak for Euron Greyjoy?"

"I am Sansa Stark."

The gates opened quickly, and Sansa entered the seat of House Redwyne, and guardsmen in red and purple escorted Sansa to Lady Redwyne's solar.

"Lady Stark," Mina Redwyne, sister to the late Lord Mace Tyrell rose as she entered. "Oh my, are you ill?" Lady Mina asked.

Sansa's brows narrowed in confusion.

"You're lips… they're blue."

"No," Sansa said quickly. "I'm fine."

Lady Mina ran her hands down her dress. "Please sit my lady."

Once Sansa sat Lady Mina followed suit. "Have you been well treated?"

"I have," Sansa said. "King Euron is true to his word."

"He's an Ironman." Lady Mina admonished. "A raper, a pirate, the scum of the sea, and other even worse things."

"He is all those things," Sansa said quietly. "But he has treated me well, though he has no reason to do so. King Euron asks for your surrender."

"What does he offer in return?"

Sansa shrugged. "That's what I've been sent to discuss."

An hour passed before Sansa was able to leave the confines of Lady Mina's chamber. She could faintly remember a time when meeting the Lady of the Arbour would have excited her when she would want to stay as long as she could. She could barely remember why.

"Lady Redwyne has offered her surrender," Sansa said to Euron once she'd reboarded Silence.

Euron chuckled. "The terms?"

"Lady Mina, her guards, and her staff will be permitted to take a ship to Oldtown, and bring the treasures and heirlooms of House Redwyne with them."

Euron laughed. "Tell her, I accept. Tell her she can take ship tonight if she wants."

Euron didn't keep the terms of Lady Mina's surrender, of course. When she came down from the castle, he cut her throat and threw her into the sea, mere minutes after greeting her at the docks. The Ironborn warriors who'd escorted Lady Mina's servants slaughtered them seconds later, and then stormed the castle.

"That was ill done," Lord Rodrik Harlaw complained when the deed was done. "Who will surrender to you now?"

Euron rounded on the Lord of Harlaw. "Keep to your books old man. I'm not as forgiving as my brother to let you speak your mind to me. Bah, it hardly matters anyway, the seas are open now, and Oldtown is next."

Rodrik Harlaw said nothing, he simply left, and his heir Ser Harras followed him.

Euron chuckled mirthlessly. "Come," he shouted to the warriors at his side. "Let us sample what we have bought from Lord Redwyne with the Iron Price."

The warriors cheered and raced each other to the castle to drink and feast in the halls of their enemy.

Sansa stayed on Silence, not caring for the raucous madness that would envelop the warriors during the night. She remained above deck, watching the clouds clear, and the stars creep into the night sky. A splash caught her attention and brought her focus back to the harbour. It was filled with the Ironborn fleet, the moon was high, the skies were clear, the waters were calm, and she watched a shape cut across the still water, making waves ripple. A trio of longships were taking to the sea, their sails were up so Sansa couldn't know what house they were sworn to, but their oars were pulling hard. She heard a voice cry out to hail the three longships, but no one on board responded. Sansa did nothing but return to her bed.

When dawn came, it was discovered that a dozen more ships had disappeared in the night, including Sea Song, the flagship of House Harlaw, and Strong Hand, Dunstan Drumm's own ship. Lord Rodrik, his heir Ser Harras, and Lord Dunstan Drumm had taken flight along with their ships.

When Euron learned of this, he merely laughed. "Let him flee as far as he likes. Nothing is beyond the storm's reach. Soon all the world will see."

Reek

It was growing colder now, and Reek knew that winter must not be far away. It wasn't the stones or air that told him, the deep volcanic vents the Dreadfort was built upon kept them both very warm. No. It was the rats. In recent weeks the rats that crawled through the dungeons, gnawing upon old straw and prisoners alike, had multiplied thrice over. They'd fled the cold and sought the warmth that lingered deep in the Dreadfort, and Reek rejoiced because now, he could feast.

The rat squealed as he bit into it, squirming wildly in his hands, frantic to escape. The belly was the softest part. He tore at the sweet meat, the warm blood running over his lips. It was so good that it brought tears to his eyes. His belly rumbled, and he swallowed. By the third bite, the rat had ceased to struggle, and he was feeling almost content.

Then he heard the sound of voices outside the dungeon door.

At once he stilled, fearing even to chew. His mouth was full of blood, flesh, and hair, but he dared not spit or swallow. He listened in terror, as still as stone, to the scuff of boots, and the clanking of iron keys. No, no, please gods, not now, not now. It had taken him so long to catch the rat. If they catch me with it, they will take it away, and then they'll tell, and Lord Ramsay will hurt me.

He knew he ought to hide the rat, but he was so hungry. It had been two days since he'd eaten, or maybe three. Down here in the dark, it was hard to tell. Though his arms and legs were thin as reeds, his belly was swollen and hollow and ached so much that he found he could not sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he found himself remembering Lady Hornwood. After their wedding, Lord Ramsay had locked her away in a tower and starved her to death. In the end, she'd eaten her own fingers. A small part of him remembered that Lord Ramsay was gone and that Lord Roose had returned to the Dreadfort with all his armies, but only a small part. The greater knew the only terror of the knife. Lord Roose was a silent terror, heir to a millennium of horror, just as Lord Ramsay was.

He crouched down in a corner of his cell, clutching his prize under his chin. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth as he nibbled at the rat with what remained of his teeth, trying to bolt down as much of the warm flesh as he could before the cell was opened. The meat was stringy but so rich he thought he might be sick. He chewed and swallowed, picking small bones from the holes in his gums where teeth had been yanked out. It hurt to chew, but he was so hungry he could not stop.

The sounds were growing louder. Please, gods, he isn't coming for me, he prayed, tearing off one of the rat's legs. It had been a long time since anyone had come for him. There were other cells, other prisoners. Sometimes he heard them screaming, even through the thick stone walls. The women always screamed the loudest. He sucked at the raw meat and tried to spit out the leg bone, but it only dribbled over his lower lip and tangled in his beard. Go away, he prayed, go away, pass me by, please, please.

And they did. The tramp and jingle of men in armoured boots and coats of mail stopped near his cell but then turned away. He heard a cell door open, heard a thump as someone was dropped into the cell, and heard the guard begin to walk away. Even though his eyes were shut, he could still sense the light of the torch they carried through his eyelids.

He began to eat again, warm blood rolling over his lips and fingers, falling into his beard, and upon the ribs that stood from his chest.

He froze again when he heard the new prisoner moving. His eyes were open now, not that it mattered, without the torch, the dungeons were darker than a well at midnight. The new prisoner stirred again, moaning gently, it was a man's voice. Reek made no moves, save to continue gnawing at the rat.

"Who? Who's there?" The new prisoner asked.

Reek made no response.

"I can hear you. What's your name?"

My name. A scream caught in his throat. They'd taught him his name, they had, they had, but it had been so long that he'd forgotten. If I say it wrong, he'll take another finger, or worse, he'll… he'll... No, he wouldn't think about that, he couldn't think about that. There were needles in his jaw, in his eyes, and his head was pounding. "Please," he squeaked, his voice was thin and weak. He sounded a hundred years old. Perhaps he was. How long have I been here? "No, please," he mumbled, through broken teeth, and broken fingers. It's a trick it's a trick. "Please, you can have the rat, don't hurt me…"

He heard the new prisoner shift again and heard the bars creak. "I don't want your… your rat. My name is Pyp."

Reek shook his head. A test, he thought, a test and a trick, but I'll pass it, yes I will. Then he won't be mad. "Reek," he said. Reek Reek, it rhymes with weak.

The other prisoner took a shuddering breath. "Okay… how… how long have you been here?"

The question brought memories, and the memories brought tears and terror. "Reek," he cried again. "Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak." He cried and cried, the sound of his weeping drowning out even the squeaking rats. How long he cried he couldn't say, maybe minutes, maybe hours… maybe days. He ignored the other prisoner, pretending not to hear him, he had to stay good, stay good or he'd be punished.

Maybe it was days later, maybe it was only hours, but Reek heard the tramp of boots come down the hall yet again, and heard them take the other prisoner away. Then he heard them begin to open his cell, and he began to cry and scream.

The guards took him from the lower dungeons, following a path he'd followed many times before. Reek barely remembered the first times he'd been taken, he struggled, or so he thought, wriggling and fighting, cursing, threatening, and begging the guards to take him back to his cell. He knew better now, struggle only brought more pain.

He remembered what room this was, the cold stones, the cold air, the wooden cross where leather straps would dig into his arms to hold him still as the flaying knife descended. He scrambled to his hands and feet, running hunched over on all fours like an animal to the nearest corner. There he covered his face and wept.

"I'm sorry," he cried, though he didn't know what he was supposed to be sorry for. "I'll be good. I'll be good." Nothing happened. He expected Lord Ramsay to shout or roar, to kick or cut, to punish him.

He opened his eyes and looked around, only then realizing that someone else was tied to the cross. The man had clearly suffered already, one of his fingers was half flayed, and bruises covered his body. Also in the room was a red-haired maester, with close-set eyes and round shoulders, and Lord Roose instead of Lord Ramsay. The ice eyed lord of the Dreadfort looked at Reek with eyes dead to any curiosity or interest. After a moment, they panned back to the prisoner.

"Do you now see the fate of those who fail to cooperate?"

Reek shivered, and the prisoner didn't answer. He held his head straight and kept silent, but his legs were shaking.

Lord Roose sighed. "Come here," he said to Reek.

Reek meekly shuffled over to Lord Roose's side, half hunched and half crawling, unwilling to stand and make a target of himself. He reached the side of Lord Roose and flinched when a hand extended, but it was only to gently pat his head like a master would treat a favourite hound.

"Perhaps you need more information to make an enlightened decision Pypar? If so, then you should know who this wretch is."

"I know my name," Reek said immediately. "It's Reek, it rhymes with leek."

"Your cellmate is Theon Greyjoy."

"No," Reek shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "That's not my name." But Lord Roose ignored his protests.

"Heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands. Now think, if we would do this to the heir of one of the greatest lordships in the Seven Kingdoms. What would I do to you, heir to nothing, if you failed to cooperate?"

Pyp let his head hang low while tears made dirty tracks down his cheeks. "What do you want to know?"

Roose smiled like a man who'd tasted a particularly fine vintage of wine. "You came from Castle Black?"

"Yes."

"Who was in command there?

"Donal Noye."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead."

"How?"

"He died of his wounds not long before the Wall fell."

"Did you desert before or after that?"

Pyp paused for a moment, then swallowed. "After," he said. "A day after the wildlings overran Castle Black. I was at the top of the Wall."

"And was it your idea to desert?"

"No."

"Then whose?"

Another pause. "Tyrion Lannister."

Roose smiled. "Who else was there? Leave no one out."

"Arron, and Emrick, Grenn, Zei, Lancel Lannister… and Jon Snow."

Reek ducked his head he knew that name, he knew Jon, once at least, a thousand years ago.

"I see."

"The man with the bastard sword who fought my bastard. That was?"

"Jon Snow," Pyp confirmed.

"And did he lead the wildlings?"

"No."

"Who then?"

"A wildling named Tormund Giantsbane."

"Under the command of Mance Rayder?"

"Yes."

"How many wildlings crossed the Wall."

Pyp exhaled. "All of them."

Roose showed no shock or fear. "Where are they headed?"

"The horde split in two. One headed west into the Wolfswood, the other spreading south and east."

"For what purpose?"

"To pillage and burn as much of the North as they can."

The Lord of the Dreadfort smiled. "Maester Tybald, you will send a raven to every castle and holdfast in the North. Inform everyone that Robb Stark's bastard brother has entered an alliance with the wildlings and that he is leading them south of the Wall, in an invasion of the North in support of his brother."

"Yes my lord," Tybald bowed his head and made quick notes on the parchment with his quill.

Roose turned his attention back to Pyp. "You are still a deserter, and the punishment for that is death," he paused. "But a quick death, I think, has been earned." Pyp had hardly a moment to protest, Roose Bolton rose from his seat and with two swift steps was next to Pyp. In a single swift motion, Roose drew a knife from his belt and cut Pyp's throat. Blood sprayed from the wound, indiscriminately drenching the floor, the corpse, and the Lord of the Dreadfort. "Walton," Roose said.

"Yes, m' lord," a guardsman opened the door to peek inside.

"Feed the body to my bastard's dogs, and take this wretch back to the cell he came from."

"Yes, m' lord."

Reek shivered on the floor, watching the pool of blood spread toward him.

Arianne

The funeral had been a somber affair, as the Reachmen seemed proper. Lord Willas' body had been cleaned and prepared by the Silent Sisters, and the Septon had blessed him with the seven sacred oils. Then they laid him in the Sept where those who wished to, could come to pay their final respects. Her uncle had been one he'd known Lord Willas very well. They'd been friends, even though it had been Prince Oberyn who'd crippled Lord Willas in his youth.

Arianne had gone for appearance's sake, though she'd only met the Lord of Highgarden a handful of times, it would have been disrespectful to not have gone. Arianne had stood in silence for a few minutes and had then left.

Lord Willas had rested in the Sept for a day and a night before he went to his final resting place. In keeping with the traditions of House Tyrell, which in turn had been borrowed from House Gardener, Lord Willas was laid to rest in the famous gardens of the castle, so that even in death he might help make the castle even more beautiful.

The septon had spoken words from the Seven Pointed Star, and then each member of the Tyrell family had thrown a rose down onto Lord Willas before the servants began to bury him. Arianne hadn't lingered, she feared to impose on a family she hardly knew.

Lord Garlan wasn't given long to mourn, he spoke to King Aegon and Lord Jon that evening and the next day announced that he would ride with the king when he was ready.

Until the march began, the army gathered around Highgarden Banners by the hundred took to the Rose Road, barges flowed down the Mander, piled high with grain, smoked and salted meat, and dried vegetables. Enough to feed an army. They must have been forty thousand strong at least, half of them Reachmen, and the other half Dornish, and Golden Company. Despite the might and splendor, the host was divided.

Lord Mathis and Lord Jon had almost come to blows after the feast. In private, the Stormlord had fired accusations at Lord Mathis like arrows from a longbow only to be met with the fury of a father scorned. Arianne had to laugh at such foolishness. Let King Aegon and Lady Serra have their fun, she thought, it couldn't hurt. Youth, wine, and lust had taken them and brought them together, just as it had Arianne and Tyene and Andrey Dalt together when they'd had their first time. A few days after the feast, the furious Lord and Lady Rowan had packed their daughter into a cart and sent her back on the road to Goldengrove. Lady Rowan had followed four days later, having stayed to be witness to Lord Willas' funeral.

Even while the army stayed put outside of Highgarden, Stannis still lurked in the foothills of the Red Mountains. He was close to Horn Hill some of the outriders said, and he was gathering spears to him according to the rumours and whispers Varys slipped into the councils. Some were creeping down from the garrison at Bitterbridge, others were Tarly men, Florents, and Stormlander smallfolk from the marches hungry for vengeance, but Varys also said that for every sword Stannis gathered two came to King Aegon's cause. An exaggeration Arianne was sure, but it held a kernel of truth. All the armies that had crisscrossed their way through the Reach had left men behind, not just deserters but abandoned garrisons, outriders, and foragers that had fallen behind. Aside from them, many Reachlords had not sent all their forces when Renly and Lord Mace had called the banners, but loyalty to the dragons ran deep in the Reach, and now they were sending what they had left to King Aegon.

Not all of the army was waiting, thousands of riders, Dornish and Reachman alike patrolled the plains between Highgarden and the Red Mountains, constantly alert for any sign of Stannis Baratheon and his army. Today Arianne herself joined these riders.

Her sandsteed leaped the creek and bounded into the meadow. Yellow flowers went flying as the swift horse raced through the field, a dozen other Dornish riders leapt into sight close behind her. They had gone only a few miles east of Highgarden. Their short patrol meant only to confirm that none of Stannis' men had slipped past the outriders further south.

She'd joined her guards just before dawn, and had led them on a patrol that followed the Mander upstream before curving back around in a loop toward Highgarden. The north was where Stannis', and consequently Aegon's, outriders had been most active. The Baratheon garrison in Bitterbridge had been busy, gathering men, and reinforcements. Varys' whispers had it that Alekyne Florent, heir to Brightwater Keep had command there, but even he wasn't entirely sure, the war had done much to damage even the Spider's web.

Arianne was now on the way back to Highgarden, passing through golden fields of grain, verdant orchards, and other fruits of the Reach's bounty. The violence that had ravaged the northern Reach and the lower waters of the Mander had not reached the lands around Highgarden, and so everything was plump and ready for the harvest. Well, and good, she thought, because winter was not far away. The patrol had been quiet there'd been no sign of reinforcements from Bitterbridge or outriders from Stannis' camp in the foothills of the Red Mountains. Now it was well past midday, and they were almost back to Highgarden. She urged her sandsteed to go faster, almost as if she could will the gates of Highgarden to appear over the next hill. After half a minute, she slowed the pace, giving the horse time to recover as they entered the final stretch.

Her guards quickly caught up, and before long, they entered the large and growing camp that covered the fields around the seat of House Tyrell. They would need to march soon, else even House Tyrell's substantial stores would begin to feel the weight of feeding so many mouths.

Arianne led her guards through the host and to through the gates of Highgarden itself. The great gates were of fine oak and inlaid with hundreds of golden flowers, as much a work of art as a piece of the defences. Such were many things in Highgarden, the Tyrells, and the Gardeners before them had spent much of the vast wealth of the Reach to make their seat as much a palace as it was a fortress.

Her uncle met Arianne just inside the gates. "Enjoy the sun?"

"What sun?" She asked in turn. "I could hardly feel it," it might have been warm for the Reach, she supposed, but compared to the heat in Dorne, it was only mild.

"Ha!" Oberyn laughed and offered Arianne a hand to help her dismount. "You're wanted," he said.

"What'd I do?"

"Nothing this time," Oberyn joked. "It's a council of war."

Arianne quickly washed herself in cold water to cleanse herself of the road's dust and sweat. She donned fresh silk clothes and hurried to the council chamber. She entered the small chamber close to Lord Garlan's solar, where the rest of the war council was waiting on her. "Apologies, my lords for being late."

"No apology needed my lady," King Aegon said.

Lord Jon acknowledged her with a distracted glance before focusing on the Spider. "You have news Lord Varys?" Lord Jon asked wearily.

"A raven came from Oldtown," Lord Varys replied. "A raven from the Citadel itself." The Spider held up a small scrap of parchment, the kind that would be at home on a raven's leg.

"Care to share?" Lord Mathis asked.

"Of course Lord Mathis. It is from Lord Hightower, he writes of House Redwyne and the Arbor and the terrible fate they shared."

"Stop speaking riddles Spider," Arianne said.

Varys feigned insult more a second but quickly continued. "The Redwyne fleet was crushed in battle, Ryamsport was sacked, and the Arbor occupied."

"The pirate," Ser Harry Strickland spoke first. "The Greyjoy, only he has a fleet capable of crushing the Redwynes."

"What about Stannis?" Lord Garlan asked

"Not unless Stannis' Red God gave his fleet the ability to sail on land," Petyr Baelish said with a mocking smile. "Unless that's happened, his fleet is still somewhere in the Narrow Sea. Last I heard they were in the North or perhaps the Vale."

"Lord Petyr has the right of it," Lord Jon said. "Greyjoy must have gone south."

"Still," Lord Mathis said. "To destroy the whole of the Redwyne fleet with one blow."

"According to Lord Hightower," Varys interrupted the lords. "Euron Greyjoy deployed foul sorcery to win the battle. A storm that wiped out the Redwyne's and left his own untouched."

Arianne snorted. "Dumb luck then, the Redwynes were struck with poor luck, and the Ironmen struck like vipers."

"Fair points," Lord Mathis relented. "What else did Lord Hightower write of?"

"He begs His Grace for aid in defending Oldtown from the Ironman horde nearly on his doorstep."

"When Stannis is still at large?" Lord Jon huffed, provoking Aegon to frown.

"They are my people," King Aegon said. "They should be protected."

"The best way to protect them is to beat Stannis," Jon said. "As long as he's alive, this war cannot end."

"It would end faster with House Hightower's spears in battle rather than behind Oldtown's walls," Arianne said. Aegon shot her a quick look and smile of thanks.

"She has a point," Lord Mathis quickly added. "Besides, these Ironscum are a threat to all of His Grace's subjects."

"Lord Garlan, how do you feel?" Aegon asked. "We are speaking of your bannerman, and it would be your own seat left vulnerable should Stannis take advantage of our absence."

Lord Garlan shifted slightly, obviously still uncomfortable with Highgarden being called his. "Lord Leyton is my bannerman," he said. "And has always been loyal to House Tyrell," he paused. "He is my grandfather as well." Left unsaid was Lord Garlan's hope to lose no more family in this war, unsaid but not unheard.

"Ser Harry, what are your thoughts?" Arianne asked.

"In the Disputed Lands, when the Dothraki raided the region, most villages would cease to care who helped them, only that help arrived," Ser Harry said simply. "And House Hightower is desperate."

Littlefinger raised an eyebrow but said nothing, the implication was clear enough.

Lord Jon said it nonetheless. "Lord Leyton would never join Stannis, to fight his grandson and the rightful king."

"Men have done worse and for worse reasons," Prince Oberyn said darkly. Arianne's uncle had been silently lounging in his chair for most of the council.

"Then we're agreed?" King Aegon asked. "For all the reasons said, we should march to Lord Hightower's aid."

Varys smiled slightly but said nothing. Lord Mathis and Ser Harry both voiced their agreement. Lord Jon sighed but nodded as well. Arianne looked briefly at her uncle, but he was looking disinterestedly out the window. She spoke instead.

"As His Grace commands, Dorne will follow."

It took two days to get ready, and then the army was on the march again. Tens of thousands of men, horses, oxen, wagons, and carts. Dragons and elephants alike almost disappeared into the vastness of the marching army. From Highgarden they would march south and west, skirting the edge of Stannis' outriders, and then following the Rose Road, that would take them straight to Oldtown.

Melisandre

The great host of Azor Ahai Reborn rested in the foothills of the Red Mountains, far from the wild chase to hunt down the would be usurper, this boy men called Aegon Targaryen, King Stannis had been cautious. His army rested in the lands of House Tarly, whose old lord had been slain many moons ago beneath the walls of Storm's End, whose young new lord was held within the Red Keep, and whose ancestral sword was now reforged and hung from King Stannis' belt.

The men were growing restless, the Battle in the Pass had left them unsatisfied, and while the forced march afterward had exhausted them, they had had time to recover now, and when news had come of the Battle on the Mander, where the usurper had defeated the Ironmen and their false king, some had started to wonder why King Stannis hadn't marched. The questions were quiet for now, many had served the king since before King's Landing had fallen, and he had led them to many victories, so the men questioned and talked, but without furor.

For now, Melisandre thought as she stalked the camp. The moods of men are fickle, and while words are wind, even the mightiest walls strain beneath the fury of a gale. For now, the words were only a breeze, but it could be a prelude to something more. She knew of course, why Stannis lingered in the foothills. Her prophecy. The dragon slaying a stag, and the stag's blood flowing into a river. With Aegon ensconced in Highgarden, directly in the banks of the Mander, Stannis was hesitating, for he feared defeat.

Melisandre had hoped the fires of R'hllor would give some insight, but as yet, they'd shown nothing that could aid Azor Ahai reborn in his quest. The fires had not been silent though, but they only showed the same images again and again, snow falling onto a field of blackness, storms raging around a great tower while specs of darkness flew, dragons fighting in the sky, and a sunless day. Great portents of what was to come to be sure, great warnings of what should come should R'hllor's chosen not prove unflinching in the pursuit of his destiny.

Not all news was bad, however. For whatever reason, the bad dreams and poor sleep that had been plaguing many in the army had ceased. The benefit of many days of rest without fear of Dornish raiders some of the lords had said. Others claimed that the ghosts of warriors slain in the Red Mountains had been jealously tormenting their living counterparts.

Melisandre banished these thoughts from her mind as she dipped her torch into the dry wood of the Nightfire. "Lord of Light defend us from the darkness."

"Defend us," the worshippers intoned.

"Lord of Light guide us through the darkness."

"For the night is dark and full of terrors."

"For the night is dark and full of terrors."

Melisandre and her flock fell into silence, and she looked into the flames, praying for a vision, one came. It was the tower again, tall, and strong, and wreathed in storm clouds and darkness. After a few seconds, it faded from sight, leaving only the flames.

She kept staring, hoping, and praying that the R'hllor would reach through the flames to reveal another sliver of her god's plan for the world, but nothing came. One by one, the faithful departed until only she remained. With a sigh, Melisandre gathered her red cloak around her shoulders and left as well. The weather here was usually warm, but winds often rushed down from the Red Mountains, bringing the cold air of the mountain tops with them.

Melisandre walked slowly through the camp, turning here and there to better give the appearance of confident aimlessness. Inevitably her path took her to King Stannis' pavilion. She passed by Ser Timon and Ser Andrew, and the two vigilant knights of the kingsguard didn't question her as she pulled back the flap and went inside. Stannis was alone inside the pavilion, a pair of lanterns illuminated a table covered in maps and wooden figures. Two stood close together, a stag at Horn Hill, a rose and a spear at Highgarden, another stag was at Bitterbridge, and a kraken rested in the sea off the coast of the Reach. Beyond the Reach, there were other figurines of flayed men, wolves, stags, and more. Stannis watched Melisandre as she approached the table and picked up the rose sitting on top of Highgarden. "No dragons?"

Stannis ground his teeth. "The carpenters have been busy."

Melisandre replaced the rose, and the sound of the pavilion's flap moving again drew her attention to the entrance.

"Your Grace," Ser Richard Horpe interrupted them, and stepped inside, Justin Massey followed closely behind.

"A raven arrived at Horn Hill," Justin Massey said quickly before Richard Horpe could speak. "With a message."

"For me?" Stannis asked.

"It was addressed to Lady Tarly," Horpe cut in before Massey. "But she sent a messenger to bring it to you."

"Let me see," Stannis reached out, and took the piece of parchment from the white knight's armoured hand. Melisandre resisted the urge to lean over his shoulder as Stannis quickly read it, after a few seconds he put it down.

"What does it say?" Massey asked.

"It's from Oldtown. Lord Hightower reports that Euron Greyjoy crushed the Redwyne fleet, and has sacked the Arbor. He fears that Oldtown will be the next target."

"Oldtown's walls are strong," Richard Horpe said. "And the Ironmen have little skill at siegecraft. Surely he cannot be that craven?"

"Craven or cautious?" Justin Massey asked. "There is a fine line between the two."

Richard Horpe made a face.

"What else, Your Grace?" Melisandre asked.

"He asks for aid," Stannis said.

"From your grace?"

Stannis ground his teeth. "This is addressed to Lady Tarly. But I have little doubt that if he sent a raven to Horn Hill that Lord Hightower is sent ravens to everyone for help against the Ironmen. Every castle of note from Oldtown to Highgarden has likely received a raven. He's no fool, and our presence here is no secret."

"If Your Grace were to come to Lord Hightower's aid," Justin Massey began.

"With the Hightowers and their bannermen…" Ser Richard Horpe trailed off.

"If they can be raised in Your Grace's name," Justin Massey continued. "It would change the war."

"If," Stannis said. "If we can convince Lord Hightower to at last take a stand, he sent only token forces to answer the call of Lord Mace and my brother." He grimaced. "And no doubt this Targaryen will march south as well."

"It'll be a race then," Justin Massey said.

"His Grace is closer," Richard Horpe added quickly.

"Over worse roads and rougher terrain," Stannis complained. "And a race that can only end in victory or defeat."

"Your Grace," Justin Massey began. "The men are growing restless, a decision must be made."

"Do not speak to me of what I must do, Massey," Stannis growled.

"My apologies, Your Grace, I meant no offence."

Stannis glared at the message. "Spread the word," he said. "We will leave at dawn. To Oldtown."

Justin Massey smiled. "As Your Grace commands," he clicked his heels together and hurried outside.

Ser Richard Horpe snorted. "Peacock."

"Mayhaps," Stannis said. "But a useful one. You can leave me, Ser Richard."

"Your Grace," the knight of the Kingsguard bowed and left promptly.

"What have your fires shown?" Stannis asked once his knight was gone.

"Oldtown," Melisandre whispered. "The seat and home of the Hightower. A wonder of the world, a hinge of the world, and great was the power that raised it." I should have known, Melisandre felt so foolish, the answer had been in her fires all along.

"What have you seen?" Stannis repeated.

"The Hightower," she said. "Wreathed in and under siege by storms. Struck by lightning from all sides."

"Am I the storm then?" Stannis asked. "Am I marching to battle?"

Storms raging around great towers, while specs of darkness flew, Melisandre thought. She was about to speak, but Stannis interrupted her.

"It matters not," he said. "There will always be more battles." Stannis reached up and took hold of the small bag he wore around his neck. "Leave me."

Melisandre bowed. "Yes, Your Grace," she left silently.

Even as the dark of night closed in, Stannis' commands to Justin Massey were already taking place. Some men would work all night to ready the wagons and carts, stocking them with everything but the essentials. She returned to her own tent, not far from where she lit the nightfire, all the better to tend to it if she needed to.

Melisandre settled down before her brazier, she stirred the coals to life and added fresh wood. After a moment, the fire caught, and dancing yellow flames rose. Visions sprang to life as the flames did. She saw a storm crackling with lightning and saw the clouds take the form of a crow, a wolf, and then a crow again. She saw a tower topped with a great black eye with a red pupil, storm clouds circled it, and tendrils of darkness reached out into the storm. She saw a great wall of ice that held back a flood of darkness, a single figure in black stood upon the wall holding a spear made out of blinding light who turned back the darkness again and again, but there were cracks in the ice and they were growing wider.

Melisandre shivered at the sudden cold that almost overcame her. That last vision was clear, a hinge of the world was failing.

Daenerys

Over the same ground her army had marched twice over, it now marched across for a third time. The army Daenerys marched with was not the great horde she'd brought north the first time, rather it was her core of best troops, the Unsullied, the freedmen who had proven themselves in battle, and shadowing the coast road in their ships, the Ironmen. The lands between Astapor and Yunkai had long since been stripped of food and other provisions, had she tried to bring the great horde of freedmen, they would have starved.

Even with the reduced numbers, food was still an issue. Wagons and cogs continuously arrived from Astapor with more provisions. Weeks of planning were coming to fruition, as Lord Victarion and his Ironmen prepared and guarded supply dumps for her land forces. Perhaps, she needn't have bothered. After her last advance to Yunkai, Dany and her commanders had prepared for a continuous assault of sellswords raiding in the night, but none came.

"Perhaps the sellswords have deserted the Masters," she said to Ser Barristan.

The old knight, the commander of her Queensguard, didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached up to stroke a beard that was no longer there and had to settle for a chin. His hand dropped. "While I would never underestimate the craven nature of sellswords, I cannot help but feel concerned. Had the sellswords deserted, they would have made contact, if only to ask for a share in plundering Yunkai and Meereen."

"Unless they've already done our work for us. Hardened sellswords would make quick work of the mob the masters rely on."

"Aye they would," Ser Barristan allowed. "But we shouldn't plan for it. The hope that they've deserted does nothing for you, Your Grace. All our plans should assume the worst that the sellswords are still happily employed."

Dany nodded. "I understand." She kicked her silver onward, and for a few minutes, she was content to simply race her bloodriders through the open fields that flanked both sides of the road here.

Her army made camp for the night, as it had for a dozen nights before. It slowly gathered in on itself like a great serpent, while the fleet landed supplies onto the shore that were hauled to the camp by freedmen. The hundreds of wagons that followed in the army's dust caught up and delivered more supplies to be unloaded. Meanwhile, the Unsullied prepared ditches and small palisade walls to defend the encampment from attack. Dany met with her advisors and allies, Prince Quentyn, Grey Worm, Ser Barristan, Lord Victarion, and Moqorro. The red priest was never far from Lord Victarion's side. They spoke of supplies, of raiders, of pirates, and captured trade ships, of late it was Lord Victarion and the Ironmen doing the last three.

Such was the routine that would carry her army from Astapor to Yunkai. Or so she'd hoped, at midday, only thirty miles from Yunkai they found their way barred. Built across the road was a fort, trenches, ramparts, barricades, and bastions by the dozen built from packed earth and timber. It wasn't a solid wall but rather a network of interconnected fortresses. It stretched perhaps a mile wide, starting half a mile from the sea and heading inland before petering out near the line of low hills that would eventually rise into the mountains that separated the Ghiscari from the Lhazareen.

Daenerys ordered her army to make camp for the day and rode to the head of the force with her advisors, together, they studied the fortress.

Aggo shrugged. "We can just go around," he said.

"Yes," said Jhogo. "Let them sit behind their dirt walls while we take their city."

Daenerys shook her head slightly and turned to Ser Barristan. "Summon Lord Victarion and Prince Quentyn from the ships, and Grey Worm from the van. I would have a council of war."

"We can simply go around," Lord Victarion said once everyone had gathered. "Take to the ships and attack the city directly."

"He is right," Rakharo said with the support of Dany's other bloodriders.

"And leave our supply lines vulnerable?" Ser Barristan asked. "We would be trapped between Yunkai and this fort, our backs exposed, and our supply lines cut."

"Can you fight the fleets of Yunkai, Meereen, New Ghis, Tolos, Elyria, and whatever sellsails they've gathered?" Dany asked Victarion. "Fight them all in pitched battle while also guarding our supply ships?"

Victarion's face turned red, he clenched his fists, and for a moment Dany worried he might strike the flimsy folding table. Instead, he slowly relaxed. "No," he admitted. "The Iron Fleet cannot do all that at once."

"The fort must be taken," Prince Quentyn said quietly. "Intact if possible. It's close enough to the city for us to store supplies for the siege there. Safe where any raiders can't get to it."

"Prince Quentyn has the right of it," Ser Barristan said.

"How hard will the fighting be?" Dany asked.

"The walls are low," Ser Barristan said. "They could be stormed, but even a low wall offers the defender an advantage."

Dany considered. "Is there even another choice available?"

"Bah," Victarion growled. "Let us be done with this. We all know that the swiftest way to Yunkai is through these greenlanders. The men of the Iron Fleet will make short work of them."

Grey Worm spoke immediately. "This One would lead the assault."

Daenerys raised her hands to forestall an argument. "The Iron Fleet is needed at sea. The Unsullied will lead the assault."

Victarion fumed but did so silently.

"Grey Worm, be ready as soon as you can."

"The Unsullied will not fail."

Daenerys nodded. "Let me know when you're ready."

Preparations lasted the rest of the day and into the night. Daenerys and her advisors had foreseen the need for siege equipment, and so among the supply wagons was lumber, rope, leather hides, and the tools to work them into mantlets, battering rams, ladders, and other tools.

When dawn came, the Unsullied gathered themselves five hundred paces away from the fortifications. Their line extended around the edges of the fort to assault it from three sides. The rear of the fort would be left unassailed. An enemy with no hope of retreat might fight far harder than one that could flee. A few minutes passed before the persistent rat-a-tat-tat of the kettle drums began to fill the air. Siege equipment and Unsullied alike began their slow advance across the field. The Unsullied locked their shields together or sheltered behind mantlets as they drew close enough to provoke a storm of sling stones, arrows, and bolts from the defenders. The Unsullied continued their advance, but the left blood and wounded men in their wake.

Dany closed her eyes for a moment. How many will die here today? She wondered.

Once the Unsullied reached the palisades, they quickly scaled the ladders and began forming ranks on the ramparts. The enemy soldiers began to fall like wheat before a scythe, they stood for only a short time, before they began to flee. Still, it was hard work, the ramparts, trenches, and barricades turned the fort into a maze that slowed the assault, left the Unsullied vulnerable to sudden attacks, and disrupted their formation. Despite the difficulties, the fort fell fairly quickly, as most of the enemy fled rather than stand.

When word came that it was safe, Dany and her queensguard quickly entered the fort. The Unsullied were busy hauling corpses away, but the dead still littered the palisade walls, and the packed earth ramparts were damp with blood. While the bodies of slave soldiers were the most numerous, there were others as well.

"That is Goghor the Giant," Strong Belwas said, pointing at the corpse of a huge man with a bronze ring through his nose, he pointed at another with a leopard skin around his shoulders. "And that was the Spotted Cat."

"Other pit fighters?" Dany asked.

Strong Belwas nodded. "Good ones, almost as good as me. Ah, and there's Togosh," he pointed at another body.

"They fought well," Grey Worm said. "But not as one."

They rounded a corner that led to a ramp up to the next level. Here the corpse of a beast blocked their path. It was the queerest creature she'd ever seen, it looked to be part bird and part lizard. Or perhaps part dragon, she thought. It had grey-green scales and colourful feathers around its head, shoulders, and back. Each finger and toe ended in a long and sharp sickle-like claw.

"What is it?"

"A beast from Sothoryos," Strong Belwas said. "They fight in the fighting pits as well."

"They were set loose from cages when the first level fell," said Grey Worm. "These beasts and others lions, tigers, bears," he shrugged. "All kinds."

Dany hummed her acknowledgement and kept moving. The higher levels showed fewer signs of fighting than the lower ones. Perhaps simply because most of the defenders had been below, or maybe the defenders had simply fled. Ser Barristan waited for her at the top of the fort with Prince Quentyn.

"No sign of the sellswords," she said to Ser Barristan.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan. "Not in the fort but there," he pointed to where the road crossed a low ridge. Horsemen waited there, ready to sweep the ground between the ridge and the fort. "Hoping to catch us out of formation chasing down the defenders."

The defenders in question had already disappeared, having fled over the ridge and out of sight.

Dany pursed her lips. "They can't have gone far," she said. "By now, they may already be reforming."

"Letting an enemy escape is a mistake," Victarion growled as he reached the summit. "Now, we will need to fight them twice."

"They will break even easier than before," Grey Worm said. "If they even fight before these ones reach Yunkai."

Ser Barristan shook his head. "It makes no sense. The masters couldn't have thought that this fort would stop us."

"It bought them time," Prince Quentyn said. "At least two days, maybe three by the time we recover the wounded and let the men rest."

"Three more days to prepare the walls of Yunkai," Dany said.

"Wounded," Victarion grumbled. "How many of your eunuchs died to take this pile of dirt?"

Grey Worm stiffened and glared at the ironman, but Dany stepped in before an argument could begin. "Please, Grey Worm, what was the price?"

Grey Worm glared at Victarion for a moment longer before turning to Dany. "Over a hundred dead, and as many badly injured, and twice those together lightly injured. Near five hundred altogether."

"Eight thousand and six hundred Unsullied there were when I first came to Astapor," Dany said. "Plus, those who were in training."

"Seven thousand now," Grey Worm said. "The battles have been many."

"And those in training?"

"Four thousand," Grey Worm spoke again. "Some are fit to take their place in the spear wall. Many are not."

"Your Grace," Prince Quentyn spoke. "The sellswords are retreating."

They watched the horsemen retreat out of sight.

"Rakharo," Dany called to her bloodrider. "Take your riders to the top of the ridge and tell me what waits on the other side."

Rakharo smiled and ran to his horse.

Dany turned to her Grey Worm and Ser Barristan. "Gather the wounded and make camp for the night, we'll begin the march again tomorrow."

Orders done, Dany walked her way down the back of the fort, passing yet more dead and wounded not yet taken care of. "How many slave soldiers did the masters lose today?" She asked out loud.

"Hundreds," Prince Quentyn said. "It would have been far more if the Unsullied had given chase."

"You agree with Lord Victarion?"

"Dorne has often fought with a disadvantage in numbers. Fleeing enemies fall easier than fighting ones."

Dany's response was cut off by the sight of Rakharo rushing back into view with all haste.

"Khaleesi!" Rakharo shouted as he closed the distance. "There is another blood of my blood."

"Another?"

"A fort," Rakharo said. "Another fort, miles beyond the ridge. Just like the first."

"That's the plan then," Ser Barristan said when he joined Daenerys and her other advisors on the ridge. "To bleed Your Grace's army on these forts before we reach Yunkai."

"How?" Prince Quentyn asked. "How did they build these?"

"Slaves," Dany said. "Dig down, and I have no doubt you'll find bodies beneath the ramparts. Men who were worked to death. How many more can there be?" She wondered. "Will they make me fight every few miles?"

"Of that, I have little doubt," Ser Barristan said. "Build one and two, why not three or more?"

"And the longer we take to break them down, the stronger they'll become."

"This war is pointless," Victarion complained.

Dany turned abruptly to face the ironman lord.

"Your Grace," Prince Quentyn said. "Could we not negotiate with Yunkai and Meereen and then go-"

Daenerys cut him off. "You swore to stay here, to aid me in this war," she said furiously. "And barely a moon later, you try to convince me to leave once more?"

"Your Grace," Prince Quentyn began.

"Leave me," Dany said furiously. "Both of you leave me."

Victarion stormed off, back to his ships most likely.

"Your Grace," Quentyn said. He bowed before leaving to follow Victarion.

Dany turned her back on them, staring at the ridge, and the fort that waited beyond it.

The rest of the day was spent gathering the wounded from both sides, and occupying the fort, if the enemy would be so kind as to build it for them then Daenerys would use it. Arrows fell in the dark, some carrying burning oil-soaked rags to light fires, others without were almost invisible in the dark before they struck. No one was killed, and only a few people were even injured, and the fires did little damage to anything. But Dany knew that that wasn't the goal, it was the same tactic as the siege, the masters were trying to wear down her army with exhaustion.

When dawn came, Dany's army quickly made itself ready and advanced to take position around the next fort. It was just as strong as the first and just as well defended. The Unsullied advanced as they did before, and took it as they did before. When the defenders fled, the Unsullied tried to pursue but were forced to fall back when sellswords advanced, and threatened to charge the out of formation Unsullied.

A few hundred more injured and dead, and another day of exhausting combat was the cost.

"These ones need to rest," Grey Worm said when the battle was done.

"Every day we wait is another day for the forts to grow stronger, walls to grow taller, for the defences that must be overcome to become harder to take."

"These ones cannot take walls when they cannot keep their eyes open," Grey Worm said stoically.

Dany lowered her head. "Very well. Tomorrow is a day of rest."

The sellswords struck again in the night, again to little effect save to wake the sleepers. It was only later in the day that bad tidings came. The wagon train had been raided, supplies could still come by sea, but they wouldn't be enough.

"What are our options?" Dany asked her council.

Victarion, fresh from his ships, tapped his knee with a huge fist but had nothing to say.

"We lack the cavalry to protect the supply lines," Quentyn said. "Without enough supplies, we can't lay siege to Yunkai, or however many of these forts there still are."

"Retreat?" Dany asked. "Lord Victarion, can't the ships bring more supplies in?"

"Yes," he said. "But the Iron Fleet would be vulnerable."

"And without the Iron Fleet to maintain the blockade, there'd be no starving them into submission like as planned," Ser Barristan said. "Only force would take Yunkai."

"And at that, we'd already failed once," Dany said. "How many days of supplies do we have left?"

"A week currently," Quentyn said. "With what the ships bring, maybe two before hunger sets in."

Dany nodded. "Leave then and rest, we can speak more tomorrow."

Her advisors left and left her alone.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but when Dany went to sleep she was troubled. The slavers had their backs against the wall, and they were fighting like it. Vicious, cruel, and clever. Her dreams were troubled as well. She dreamt of thousands of wolves lying dead beneath a sky turned black by crows. She saw a dragon held up on stilts by a tree, a rose, a griffin, and a sun, but they walked above a field of spiders. She saw a wolf with the wings of a crow being tossed around like a leaf by a furious storm that crackled with red lightning. A burning stag reared high on its hind legs lashing out against numberless beasts that prowled ever closer. She saw a great wall of ice that held back a flood of darkness. A single figure in black stood upon the wall holding a spear made out of blinding light, who turned back the darkness again and again, but there were cracks in the ice and they were growing wider.

At last, she found herself walking in through a great hall. The stone was cracked and blacked, as if by tremendous heat, but everything was now covered in inches of ice, and snow was falling from above. Dany looked up to see the grey sky peeking through great holes in the tall ceiling. She looked around again and saw the Iron Throne looming over her. It was misshapen and mutilated like some great animal from the fighting pits that had fought a thousand battles. It called out to her. Come to me, it seemed to say, come to me Daenerys Targaryen, come to me Daenerys Stormborn, for I have saved this seat just for you...

She heard a roar from outside, a dragon's roar. Dany took one last look at the Iron Throne before she ran away, toward the sound, pushing past piles of ash and snow, and running through hallways that seemed to stretch forever. She pushed open dozens of doors in her search to find a way outside. At last, the doors opened to reveal a balcony that overlooked a black river that flowed into a black ocean. Chunks of ice and corpses floated in the waters. Dany looked all around but saw no sign of the dragon. She looked out over the ocean, and suddenly it was if hundreds and thousands of miles of water were rushing beneath her feet. Islands and holdfasts flew by almost too fast for her to see until she stopped mere yards away from the white walls of a great city. For just a second she saw how beautiful the city was, it had wide streets lined with palm and fruit trees, fountains, and statues stood in the squares. But, it was only for a second, mere moments later, everything was on fire. People screamed and cried in the streets, flames rose dozens of feet in the air, and black smoke rose even higher. Great columns of darkness that rose into the sky where they mingled with thunderclouds swirling above.

She heard a dragon roar again and then saw a shape racing toward her through the smoke. The dragon flew low over the city streets, breathing fire and burning people alive. Dany cried out as she heard the people scream. The dragon swept it's wings up and cleared the smoke enough for Dany to see the figure riding it. He was black like smoke, cloaked in storm clouds, and wore armour that shimmered in the darkness and shined with arcane runes and symbols. In his hand was a blade that dripped blood, and his one eye was a hole that swallowed light.

Daenerys opened her eyes and was greeted by the comforting darkness of natural night. Pale moonlight fell from the sky and made the sand glow. On all fours, Dany crawled from the nest her claws had carved from the hard earth. She moaned in pain, her skull near splitting as the horn called out and out and out, a neverending call. It was too much, she spread her wings and began to fly, flying toward the call lessened the pain. A shape followed, her black scaled brother. He was larger and stronger, but still struggled to catch up, so fast she was flying. Higher and higher she flew, and the black fell farther behind, as she climbed the winds on green wings. She flew up to where the winds rushed constantly, winds that could carry her across an ocean. She could sense the hornbinder far to the west, calling to her, she could practically see him tall, pale, handsome with black hair, his right eye was blue, and the other… the other was...

Dany screamed and jerked herself awake. The moonlight passing through the silk walls of her pavilion cast faint shadows on her bed. She hugged her knees to her chest, breathing heavily in the darkness. She turned her head to look at the shadow that sat in her chair. It was Quaithe, she sat in the darkness, illuminated only by the moonlight reflecting off her mask, giving her a ghostly glow.

"The glass candles are burning," Quaithe said. "The kraken and the dark flame and the sun's son, they're all here, and the storm calls for your child."

"If you have some warning for me, speak plainly. What do you want of me, Quaithe?"

"To show you the way," Quaithe didn't move, but somehow she was standing over Daenerys now. "They all await you, the stag and the mummer's dragon, the fish and the tree, the sun's daughter and the griffin, the wolf and the lion, the skinless man and the krakens. The storm calls for you Stormborn, and the cold winds are rising."

Dany blinked, and Quaithe was gone. She blinked again and opened them to see the sunlight beginning to pierce the silk walls.

"Did I go to sleep again?" She asked herself. "Or was it all just a dream?"

Her dreams were heavy in her mind as Dany dressed herself and left her pavilion. "Where is Rhaegal?" Dany asked.

Rakharo answered. "He left in the night."

"He flew west," Jhogo added. "Over the sea."

Dany closed her eyes and sighed. She looked to the east, the new line of fortifications the masters had built. It promised more blood, more death. II can't do it. She looked to the west where her child had flown, where the horn still called. "Send a rider to the masters," she hung her head. "Tell them I want to speak terms."