Chapter 36 Asha, Catelyn, Jon, Melisandre, Sansa, Daenerys
Asha
King Mance's outriders met Asha, or rather met Morna Whitemask, as she led her folk out of the Wolfswood. Their leader was a squat woman with a dog's head as her banner two dozen riders in boiled leather with spears and lances flanked her on either side. Morna's wildlings had no fear and simply ignored the riders as they carried on toward Winterfell.
Asha, her Ironborn, and the Bear Islanders marched slightly separate from the wildlings and from each other. Asha kept a close eye on the outriders as their leader rode up to Morna Whitemask. The wildling leader stepped out of the loose column to speak to the riders. They conversed for perhaps a minute before the outrider turned her horse around and drove it toward Asha.
Asha stepped out of line, flanked by Qarl and Grimtongue. Her thumbs tucked casually into her belt but close to her axe and dagger.
The outriders came to a halt five paces away, and they stood silently for a few seconds. Asha watched blood drip from the impaled dog's head to land on the muddy snow. It must have been very fresh, for it hardly smelled at all.
"I am Harma Dogshead," the squat woman said bluntly. "Mance will want to talk to you, kneeler."
"I look forward to it," Asha replied easily. "My men will come with me."
"Fine," Harma said. "But quickly. There's a storm coming."
Asha nodded and returned to the column. She mounted one of the few horses that remained, and she had Qarl hoist her banner high, the gold kraken on black rippled gently in the wind. Then, with Morna, Harma, Qarl and half a dozen of her crew, Asha rode into the camp.
The wildling camp was more chaotic than even the Kingsmoot had been. It spread for close to a mile around the walls of Winterfell with the massive castle in the centre. No sentries were standing at the watch, no defensive palisade, not even a ditch. The tents made from wood, bone, and hide simply started and ended without any order.
Dogs ran free, men and boys wandered wherever they willed. Many stared and pointed when they saw Asha's banner. The wildlings were a sea of hides, furs, and wools blending into each other in a cacophony of strangeness. Among the wildlings', Asha caught sight of a gang of men all in black. Asha watched one of them drop his bastard sword in shock when he saw the kraken banner.
"The Night's Watch joined you?" Asha asked Harma.
Harma shrugged and tapped her heels against her horse. "Turncloaks," she said. "Many crows have flown down from the Wall to join the Free Folk, Mance among them."
Asha sniffed and looked back at the deserters. The one who'd dropped the bastard sword had picked it back up and was glaring at Asha. Dark hair framed his long face and was clouded in anger as he looked at the banner. Asha turned and paid no more mind to him.
A huge and hairy figure stomped past in the distance.
"Drowned God's watery halls!" Qarl swore.
Asha's horse must have caught the smell, for the mare shied and tried to flee, but Asha gripped the reins tight and forced the horse to steady.
The column of giants and mammoths walked past thirty yards distant. Both giant and mammoth were huge and hairy beasts with beady eyes. Some of the long-limbed giants carried trees as clubs, while others bore only their massive fists. The wildlings at their feat moved out of the giants' way but otherwise paid them no mind. Asha could feel the tremor of their steps even from her saddle.
"How many of those do you have?" She asked.
Harma looked unimpressed. "Enough to break the Wall," the wildling chief replied, then laughed darkly. "More than enough."
The sprawling camp continued to roll by until they passed through one of the gates of Winterfell, the one called the Hunter's Gate if Asha remembered right. The inner courtyard was filled with more wildlings and their tents. These, however, were larger and were adorned with skulls, antlers, claws, furs, and other hunting trophies. The warriors had fine furs around their shoulders and gold rings around their arms and necks and fingers. Some of the women were armed as well, just like the men, those that weren't wore what must have been stolen finery, silks and clothes from the south and delicate jewelry made of ivory and amber.
In the centre of the large courtyard, before the doors of the burned-out great hall, was a big white tent made wholly made of white fur from snow bears that would have cost a small fortune in the Greenlands. Gathered around the entrance of the tent were dozens of wildling chiefs. Some were big hairy brutes, while others looked small and wiry and lethal.
One man stood as Asha approached and dismounted. He had a black wool cloak striped with red silk, shaggy fur breeches, and a brown doublet. Asha glanced at Harma, who gave a simple nod of confirmation as she took her place among the chiefs. Asha turned back and focused on Mance Rayder. He had no crown, be it golden like a Greenlander or driftwood like Asha's father. His clothes were plain save for the silk stripes, though his tent was kingly enough, Asha thought, and his brown eyes were hard like old rocks.
"So you're the Queen of the Iron Islands," Mance said casually. "You're far from home."
"So you're the King-Beyond-the-Wall," Asha said as she stepped toward him. "And you're on the wrong side of it."
"Har! I like her already," one of Mance's chiefs laughed. He was a big man with a broad chest, a huge belly, and a long white beard.
Mance smiled. "That is Tormund. That is the Great Walrus," he pointed at another man and then at the woman who'd lead Asha here. "Harma Dogshead you've met already," he moved on, pointing out faces and names one by one. "Alfyn Crowkiller, Lord of Bones, Soren Shieldbreaker, Styr Magnar of Thenn, Devyn Sealskinner, Howd Wanderer, The Weeper."
The names went on, the various famous and infamous chiefs and heroes of the wildlings. They reminded Asha of a gang of hoary old pirates. Established in their infamy and pleased to know that everyone they met knew of them.
Asha spat. "That's a lot of names I've never heard of. We don't hear much of wildlings on the Iron Islands."
"Why is this bitch here?" Lord of Bones asked. The wildling had a knobby chin, thin mustache, pinched cheeks, and yellow eyes, all barely visible behind the giant's skull he used for a helmet. His bone armour rattled and clattered with each movement.
"This bitch will break both your skulls if you call her that again," Asha said sharply.
"Har!" The great bearded and big bellied man called Tormund laughed. "I like this one," he slapped his knee and hit Soren Shieldbreaker on the shoulder.
"We have no need for kneelers here," Lord of Bones insisted, his bone armour rattled as he moved and spoke.
"Peace Lord o' Bones," Mance said. "Peace, Asha is our guest."
"Guest," Lord of Bones sneered. "This bitch-"
Asha moved, quick as a snake, as furious as the sea. Axe to hand, before a man could blink, stepping forward, Lord of Bones was turning and starting to shout, reaching for a dagger at his belt. The blunt side of Asha's axe cracked the giant skull helm. Old yellow bone broke and splintered beneath good Iron Islands steel. The Lord of Bones stumbled, and Asha hit him again. This time the giant's skull split entirely, and she felt it reach the living bone beneath.
The wildling collapsed to the ground like a limp fish. He moved slightly, groaning softly under his breath. Asha spat on him and turned to face the other wildling leaders. "I warned him," she said.
Qarl and Grimtongue were both chuckling.
Harma Dogshead was the first of the wildlings to start laughing. Tormund and the Great Walrus quickly followed suit, and soon every one of them was laughing save for The Weeper, Styr of Thenn, who both didn't seem to care, and Mance Rayder himself was stone-faced.
Asha slid her axe back into her belt, stepped away from Lord of Bones, and turned her attention back to the King-Beyond-the-Wall. "So," she said. "The two of us so far from home, whatever will we do?"
Mance met her eyes. "Take a seat," he commanded.
Ashe slipped her thumbs through her belts and took the Lord of Bones' seat. A pair of warriors picked up the groaning chieftain and dragged him away.
"So, Asha Greyjoy, what brings you to my humble home?"
"We both know the answer to that," Asha said, the heat of her little triumph over the Lord of Bones was quickly fading. "They came over the Bay of Ice. The whole sea was frozen solid. The Others and their wights walked across it."
"How did you escape?" The Magnar of Thenn asked. His accent was thick and strange to Asha's ear.
"They let us go," Asha said. "My crew, the Hornwoods, the Mormonts, and Morna Whitemask and your people. They let us go. Maybe they want to catch all their prey in one bag," Asha theatrically looked around her at the tall grey walls of Winterfell. "Or maybe they just like the chase."
Tormund spat on the ground. "The White Walkers do like their fun. The bastards."
"So you fled?"
"Yes," Asha said. "I'm no craven, and neither are my men, but it would have taken all of Aegon the Conqueror's dragons to fight that and live."
"You're more right than you know," Mance said bitterly. "So what then? You say it yourself you've marched yourself into the trap, now you want me to lead us out?"
"That was my hope," Asha admitted. "I'll admit the certainty of a freezing death did make me a little shortsighted."
Tormund laughed again, but the other chiefs were quiet. They all seemed tired. Half are ready to run at a moment's notice, Asha thought, some of the rest might try to fight.
Mance seemed to be chewing on something to say.
"So what will you do, oh great king?" Asha said to push the wildling king to a decision.
"The North is marching to us," Mance said. "Robb Stark and Roose Bolton."
"Bah," the one called the Weeper moaned. "The kneelers can't fight the cold. Those cravens will break and run the second the snow starts to fall. We can't trust them."
"I'm not asking you to trust the kneelers," Mance said. "I'm asking you to trust me."
"Aye, and look how that turned out? Soren Shieldbreaker growled. He was a tough-looking bastard, Asha thought, lean and muscular with a dozen scars on his heavy fists.
"If you have a problem, then go with Morna," Mance said.
"Har!" Tormund spoke up again. "Go run away with the women and children. That's the best place for you."
With that, the chiefs quickly descended into bickering and shouting and accusations of cowardice.
Asha took the opportunity to cross the circle and sit directly next to Mance. "Stark and Bolton coming to drive you out of Winterfell?"
"They claim to want an alliance against the White Walkers."
"And do you believe them?"
Mance stood. "Let's take a walk," he said.
Asha stood and followed him. Her warriors and Mance's shadowed them. They walked their way through the maze of walls and courtyards to the base of the walls that they climbed stair by stair. Silent save for their footsteps on the old stone steps.
"Trust is hard to come by in the best of times," Mance said when they reached the top of the walls. "And these aren't the best of times."
"That doesn't answer the question," Asha said.
Mance sighed. "I've no choice but to believe them. I'm no fool. I know every time the Free Folk have gone south, the Northmen have driven us back."
"Aye, well, I've seen fishing boats with more discipline than this lot."
Mance shrugged.
"Why not keep going south?"
"Oh aye, I'll be having Morna keep going with everyone she can take. But we can't outrun them, not without bait."
"Drowned God's Watery Halls," Asha swore. "That's your plan then? Sit here to bait the Others while Morna and her rabble run away?"
"You haven't seen what the White Walkers can do," Mance growled quietly. "What they will do to anyone they can get their icy hands on."
Asha sighed. "Then why are you even here? Why not keep running?"
"A time comes where a man must make a stand, and this is as good a place as any."
Catelyn
Catelyn's escort rode south until they reached the White Knife. The largest river in the North was frozen solid. People crowded the river from bank to bank. Highborn and lowborn alike were using the river of ice as a road. The Kingsroad made again, and the river banks provided shelter from the wind and the ice made for a smoother ride than the road.
When word of her arrival and status spread, the masters, knights, and lordlings amongst the almost numberless people fleeing the advance of winter came to see her. Catelyn held court for landed knights and the minor lords of the North's many villages. She heard their stories one by one, and all too many of them had similar stories. Robb went south, and then the Ironmen came, so men rode west to meet them. The young highborn of the North mounted up and attacked the reavers wherever they found them. Then Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell. Then war broke out over the Hornwood as Wyman Manderly and the Bastard of the Dreadfort contested the title. Hundreds of Northmen died fighting each other beneath the boughs of the Hornwood, and then hundreds more fell at the Battle of Winterfell. Though few agreed on who the doer of the deed was.
"Twas the Ironmen," one lord said.
"Nay, Ramsay the Bastard who was the killer," claimed another.
Regardless, the North had suffered in Robb's absence, and that was before the Wildlings had come. Fire and ruination had come with them as their savage warbands had spread far and wide across the North, raiding villages and fighting the men sent to stop them. But fight them they had and all of the lordlings boasted of their own petty victories. They all went quiet when they spoke of what had happened next. The wildlings had left with the cold, the burning and hungry cold, and endless snow that presaged the returning Others.
Few of the lordlings had seen neither hide nor hair of the Others, those who had spoke little of them, but their silence filled the air louder than any horrified warning could have.
As they neared the final miles to White Harbour, Catelyn had herself seated on the front of that cart. She would not let herself be hauled into the city in the bed of a cart like a sack of grain.
White Harbour was full to bursting with smallfolk, and the fields outside were as well. Tens of thousands of people crowded around the base of the walls, the banks of the White Knife, and on the river itself.
As Catelyn's guards pushed a path to the gates, she wrapped herself in cloaks and scarves and peered into the crowd. Thousands were gathered in huts made from carts, tents, branches, and other less recognizable things. She thought she even saw a dismembered ox.
The gates were shut, closed tight against the cold and those who were crowding outside the walls.
"Who goes there?" A guard from the walls shouted down.
"The Queen Mother," her guard responded. "Catelyn Stark."
Catelyn pulled her hood and scarf back so the guard could see her clearly.
"Open the gate," the guard shouted.
The gates opened and then slammed shut as soon as they were inside the walls. A trident armed Manderly guardsman joined them to see them safely to the New Castle.
The streets of White Harbour were as packed as the land outside. Thousands crowded the once clean roads and alleyways that were now filthy with old snow stained with human and animal waste. Countless hungry eyes peered out of the wintery dark as Catelyn passed by the alleys. Her escort passed over the Mander and headed toward the New Castle when a hew and cry roused the people from their sleeping places. They filled the streets, and the passage of riders, wagons, and carts alike fell to a crawl as thousands of dirty and desperate smallfolk pushed their way through the city.
"What's happening?" Catelyn asked the guardsman as the flow of people moved toward the harbour.
"Ships m'lady," he answered. "Whenever a ship comes to port, the smallfolk crowd around it, begging and bribing for passage south."
"Will things become dangerous?" With so many people crushed together, a crowd could become a mob with but the smallest spark.
"Most days, things are fine, but Lady Wynafryd has us prepared for the worst."
Catelyn peered down from her seat as people began to push each other out of the way to get to the ships.
The crowds delayed her passage to the New Keep but didn't stop it. Within the hour, Catelyn was safe inside the warm castle.
"Has there been any response from the south?" Catelyn asked her good daughter and Lady Wynafryd over their crab soup.
"No one has answered our ravens," Lady Wynafryd told Catelyn. "We've sent close to a hundred south."
"There's almost none left," Wylla added from across the table.
Catelyn nodded. "Has there been nothing from the south?"
"Just rumours and whispers. More war, in any case, sailors say that the dragon banners of House Targaryen have been raised," Wynafryd said.
"I heard a sailor say it was Rhaegar himself, returned from the dead!" Catelyn's green-haired good daughter Wylla crowed. "That he'd sworn to destroy the Baratheons with ancient Valyrian sorcery!"
Catelyn smiled slightly. "I can assure you, Wylla, that Robert Baratheon made sure Rhaegar was dead."
"Others said it was Princess Daenerys, and another claimed it was Rhaegar's son Prince Aegon."
Further talk was cut short when a guard opened the door. "My ladies," he said. "More ships have been sighted on the horizon. They fly Valeman and Baratheon banners."
Catelyn joined Wynafryd and Wylla in the New Castle's great hall, the Merman's Court, as they waited for the visitors. Valeknights, the Manderly captains had said. Their fleet was of a trio of war galleys accompanied by a dozen large trading cogs loaded with salted cod, twice-baked bread, and hard cheese. Provisions that White Harbour was in desperate need of. Trident armed and sea-green cloaked guardsmen stood in ranks on each side of the Merman's Court.
The doors opened, and the Valeknights entered. They were half a dozen strong and wore their arms proudly on their surcoats. Catelyn made a note of their leader as he entered the Merman's Court. His arms were a blue pall with white borders on red. House Coldwater of Coldwater Burn, sworn to House Royce of Runestone, Lord Royce sits on Stannis' small council. She whispered as much to Lady Wynafryd, who nodded her thanks.
"My ladies," knight fell to one knee. "I am Ser Ben Coldwater, cousin to Lord Royce Coldwater."
"House Manderly welcomes you to White Harbour," Wynafryd said pleasantly. "We welcome you to the Kingdom of the North, ruled by the King in the North whose name is Stark."
"Thank you, my lady," Ser Ben said. "I come bearing a message from King Stannis Baratheon, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm." Ser Ben reached into his belt and pulled forth a sealed piece of parchment which he offered to a Manderly knight.
The knight took it and presented it to Lady Wynafryd of inspection, who then passed it to Catelyn. It was heavy parchment, thick and high quality, and sealed with blue and red wax. "This seal is that of House Coldwater, not House Baratheon," she said.
"His Grace sent a raven to Coldwater Burn with instructions and a missive to be sent to the North, to King Robb. But, unfortunately, it was damaged, a hawk attacked the raven, or so our maester thinks. Nonetheless, we had it copied for clarity and brought the copy and the original for you, my ladies."
One of Ser Ben's knights presented a second sealed and waxed letter. A servant took that copy and gave it to Catelyn. "The stag of House Baratheon," she said to Wynafryd when she saw the seal.
Wynafryd nodded, opened her copy, and began to read out loud. "King Stannis Baratheon writes that he has received word from many places in the North. Received our warnings that the Wall had fallen and that…" Lady Wynafryd paused to clear her throat. "And that the Others have returned. King Stannis writes that the silence thus far has not been caused by ignorance or doubt but simply because," she paused again. "But because the ravens simply refuse to fly north anymore. They are afeared by what is happening and refuse to go to the North. Instead, I have sent ravens to castles of the Riverlands, the Vale, and those parts of the Iron Islands that have bent the knee following the Storm at Oldtown. Both myself and King Aegon Targaryen hope to send what aid we can while occupied with the myriad troubles caused by the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, Euron Greyjoy."
Storm at Oldtown, Catelyn repeated to herself. What does that mean?
"Am I to take this as meaning that a dozen ships of food are what King Stannis considers all the aid he can send?" Wylla asked boldly as was her wont. Catelyn was privately surprised she'd stayed silent this long.
"There are more," Ser Ben said uncertainly.
"And what is this madness of Ironmen bending the knee to Stannis? What of Aegon Targaryen? And the Storm of Oldtown, hah, what singer came up with that?"
"Peace, sister," Wynafryd gently chided Wylla. "Let good Ser Ben a moment or two to answer."
"Thank you, my lady," the knight said. "I was not at Oldtown, I did not see what happened with mine own eyes, but ravens and letters and rumours all agree that something terrible happened there at the command of Euron Greyjoy. Sorcery most claim," Ser Ben shrugged awkwardly, and Catelyn sympathized.
Magic was a thing long dead. Its death had begun with the Doom of Valyria and had finally faded away when the last dragon died. There were always whispers and rumours naturally, hedge wizards, fortune tellers, and clever alchemists, but always the next town over, or in some distant place, and always the stories fell apart when looked at too closely. Magic had faded from the world, or so the maesters had long claimed. But the chill that crept through stone and seeped past fires into the Merman's Court revealed those claims as false. Even but a few months ago, Catelyn would have thought rumours of an Ironman sorcerer to be nothing more than that. Now she wasn't so sure.
Ser Ben continued. "King Stannis and King Aegon made common cause after Oldtown, some Ironmen, joined them as well, led by Lord Rodrik Harlaw."
"House Harlaw is joined to House Greyjoy by blood and marriage," Catelyn said quietly to Wynafryd. "Lord Balon's wife is Lord Rodrik's sister."
"And King Aegon," Wynafryd asked. "We had heard some stories from merchants and sailors that the dragon banners flew once more in the south. Some said red, others that they were black. Regrettably, fewer ships come to White Harbour than before the seasons turned and the wars spread."
"The banners show the red dragon of House Targaryen, my lady. This Aegon claims to be the son of Prince Rhaegar that he was rescued from the sack by loyalists and raised in Essos. He has brought the Golden Company with him."
"And what do you say?"
"I have not seen or met him," Ser Ben said.
A carefully neutral answer, Catelyn thought. He's not sure what to think.
"But he and Stannis have made cause together against Euron Greyjoy?" Wynafryd asked.
"Him and the Others," Ser Ben continued just as awkwardly.
He doesn't believe, Catelyn thought. He comes here only because he was bid to do so.
Wylla put those thoughts into words. "You think we're jumping at snarks and grumpkins!" She bowled over Ser Ben's protests. "We in the North are not fools to mistake mere wildings for the Others come again! Just ask the Night's Watch or the Umbers! But you can't. They're all dead!" She was standing now, shouting down at the Valeknights. "Dead, dead, dead! The Karstarks send word as well but are lucky enough to live. Even Roose Bolton and his turncloaks are wise as to what is happening!"
"Thank you, Ser Ben," Wynafryd said when her sister stopped for a breath. "Thank you, Ser Marc, please show our guests to their rooms for the evening. See that they have food and drink and a hot bath."
Ser Ben and the other Valeknights wasted no time in following the guards away.
Wynafryd tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair.
Wylla stood and began to pace from one side of the Merman's Court to the other. Servants and guards passed quietly from the hall, leaving the three women alone with a crackling fire.
"We must send all aid we can to Robb," Catelyn said.
"Yes!" Wylla cried. "We will ride out and crush the Others!"
"We barely have enough soldiers to keep order," Wynafryd reminded them both. "There are too many people in White Harbour. A house cannot stand on foundations of sand."
"We can't let our king rely on wildlings!" Wylla countered. "Or Bolton and his traitors either."
Wynafryd stood and walked to the fire to warm her hands. "With the river frozen, we cannot send ships."
"It makes a good road, though," Catelyn offered, still seated in her chair on the dais. "I saw as much while I travelled south."
"That would work. Sleighs and sleds would travel it easily enough."
Wylla stood and walked past Wynafryd and Catelyn toward the heavily curtained window. She pushed them aside and looked out. Catelyn saw that it was snowing more heavily again, not quite a blizzard, but later perhaps it would be.
Wylla tugged her braid again. "Any help we send north won't leave much for them," she said.
"The smallfolk?" Wynafryd asked.
"Yes."
"If the Vale is sending supplies," Wynafryd said quietly. "But not," she shook her head. "Not enough. There are too many mouths at White Harbour."
"Send people back with them," Catelyn said.
"What?" The Manderly sisters said as one.
"We have too many people and not enough food. So send the smallfolk to the Vale with the ships. That will care for some, the lucky ones mayhaps, the rest," Catelyn shrugged. "They must go another way."
"But who will till the fields when spring comes?"
"Who will till them if the smallfolk die and then rise as blue eyes wights? We cannot feed the people here, so they must go, by ship to the Vale, or by road to the Riverlands or anywhere else. West to Widow's Watch, east to the Rills, it matters not. They cannot stay here, lest it paint a target on White Harbour for the enemy."
"They're our people," Wylla said, pulling tightly on her green braid.
"Lady Catelyn is right," Wynafryd said. "They must go, and go now before desperation drives us all to destruction."
"We must give them what we can," Wynafryd allowed.
"But no more than can be spared," Catelyn warned. "They must go and be gone before the snow buries every road a hundred feet deep. If the best should happen and Robb be victorious, then their departure will set them on the path to home." Catelyn's heart skipped a beat as she continued. "And if the worst should happen… then White Harbour is nothing more than a feast waiting for the dead to seize it."
Jon
No one bothered to try and keep the news of the Others a secret. Trying would have bought perhaps another hour before the entirety of both armies knew. The mood was bleak. A sorcerer who summoned storms was one thing, but the Others, the frozen demons who haunted the nightmares of children and adults alike for countless generations. Everyone in Westeros had been raised on stories of the Long Night and the Last Hero. The ravens had flown, and for better and for worse, every castle and keep in the Seven Kingdoms would know soon enough if they didn't already. It made Jon sick to think of them, the Seven damned Others. He was angry, for it was as if all the gods and demons of the world were conspiring to keep Aegon from his rightful throne.
The twin march through the Reach had continued. A rest, fresh supplies, and fresh soldiers at Highgarden had refreshed them, and then they'd marched onward. The last of the Reach's levies had been called to arms and had filtered their way into their liege lords' respective armies. Jon had counted banners, tents, and fires to the point of exhaustion as he sought to keep track of Stannis' army respective to Aegon's. So far as he could tell, Stannis retained a slight advantage in numbers, no one but the gods would truly know exactly how many men were in an army, but Jon thought Stannis' host to me around forty thousand, to Aegon's five and thirty thousand. Nearly the same numbers that had met at the Battle of the Trident under Robert and Prince Rhaegar, though it was now House Baratheon that had the numbers. If they were green troops, it would be one thing, Jon thought, but the wars have blooded each and every man among them. They won't just run like chickens should a battle come. Jon grimaced slightly as he remembered the storm and the all-consuming panic. A true battle, he thought, not whatever that was.
What concerned Jon more than the numbers was Stannis' advantage in dragons. The big metal tubes were hauled by teams of oxen or elephants for Aegon's forces. Those huge beasts the Golden Company had brought from Essos could have proven decisive on the battlefield, but they had failed to prove their worth so far. The Battle in the Red Mountains had been too cramped and crowded to deploy them, or so Ser Harry Strickland claimed. At the Battle of the Mander, they'd been in the rear with the baggage and hadn't been able to be deployed in time. Then before the walls of Oldtown, the race had been hot, and everything was so chaotic he'd lost track of where the dragons and elephants even were. Thankfully they'd been spared the depredations of the Ironmen.
Jon wondered if the Ironmen had even known what the dragons were. Word of Beikango traders here and there came in every day. From Lys to Lorath and beyond, the strange traders were spreading their influence. Jon spat, a worry for another day, he decided. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled his heavy cloak around his shoulders. It was snowing again, and the further north they went, the worse it got. He hated to even think of what was happening in the Riverlands, the Vale, or the Seven Hells damned North.
The column passed over a low ridge, and the rest of the army came into sight. Jon kicked his spurs in and pushed ahead. The camp was well on the way to being set up already. Tents had been raised, and latrines dug. A mile or so away to the northeast was a similar camp being prepared by Stannis' army. He cursed himself, the Hand of the King, banished to the rearguard. Aegon was unhappy. Even from beyond the grave, Varys caused more trouble than he was worth. I should have killed him when Aerys made me his Hand. It would have been worth it. It would have saved the Targaryen cause. I might have saved Rhaegar.
He reached the summit of the ridge and found himself next to Mathis Rowan for a few seconds.
"Bitterbridge again," Jon heard Mathis Rowan sigh. "There and back again and again."
Jon ignored him and shouldered his way past into Aegon's tent.
Aegon was alone save for Rolly Duckfield and Haldon Halfmaester. The three of them were looking over a pair of maps.
Jon knelt. "Your Grace."
Aegon ignored him and continued speaking to Rolly. "We can follow the Roseroad through the Kingswood on the path to King's Landing. If Stannis brings supplies in from Fawnton and Bronzegate, we shouldn't have problems."
Jon stood and approached.
Haldon tapped a finger on King's Landing. "The Riverlords and Crownlands have suffered much during the war, and the capital must be struggling."
"The Vale can't feed itself and King's Landing."
"Feeding King's Landing is Stannis' problem," Jon said.
Aegon pressed a hand against the table. "Haldon, Rolly, would you pray excuse me for a minute?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Haldon said with deliberate correctness.
Rolly picked up his sword and left without a word.
Once alone, Aegon rubbed his temple. "What do you want?"
Jon bristled slightly. "I want you to be the king."
"I am a king."
"A king, one of two, not the king," Jon growled. "Every second Stannis wears his crown is an insult."
"I made my decision," Aegon said. "When Euron and the Others are beaten, Stannis and I can come to an agreement."
"An agreement?" This was the first Jon had heard of anything more than a temporary truce. "His brother killed your father!"
"Robert, not Stannis."
"Stannis is no innocent. He was a man grown and defied King Aerys for the whole war. Tied down thousands of troops at the Siege of Storm's End. He led the final assault of the war on Dragonstone itself where he would have killed Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys if they hadn't escaped."
Aegon slammed his hands on the table. "What do you want, Jon? You want me to attack Stannis as Varys wanted? Hmm? If so, then why did you kill him?"
"I… that's not."
"Enough, my lord! I will be meeting with Stannis soon and must prepare."
Jon didn't move. "I don't want what Varys wanted. I simply don't want you to forget the blood between Targaryen and Baratheon."
Aegon stopped and turned to listen.
"I loved your father," Jon said. The words were clipped and curt and cut deep to his heart. "I still love him. I would have gladly died for him, but instead, I failed him. I had one chance, one moment, to end the Rebellion at Stoney Sept, and I squandered it. My army was crushed by Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully while Robert was whoring his way through a brothel. Seventeen years have passed, and I still dream of it. I'm alone, sword in hand, running from house to house, smashing down doors, racing up stairs, leaping from roof to roof. And the bells, the never ending bells, booming bronze and chiming silver, every time I hear bells, they drive me mad."
Aegon had folded his hands and was listening. Jon had rarely spoken of the Rebellion and almost never of the Battle of the Bells.
"I could have ended the Rebellion then and there, but instead, the bells tolled for House Targaryen that day. I wanted honour and glory, to slay Robert Baratheon in single combat. I was a fool. I failed my Silver Prince, but I will not fail you."
Aegon swallowed. "Jon… you… you have protected me my whole life. How could you fail me?"
Jon nodded his head. He tried to speak but only took a deep and shuddering breath. He tried again after a few seconds. "I see the shadow of disaster around every corner, Varys and Illyrio, Harry Strickland, and every other fucking lord and knight in this camp. What do they care of you save for what you can give them in victory? Stannis can match every offer you can make."
"It's a king's duty," Aegon said. "The burden I must bear. Besides, I don't think it's in Stannis' nature to do such things."
"He killed his younger brother for an army," Jon said bluntly. "Oh, he didn't do the deed but have no fear he commanded it be done," Aegon turned sour for a moment. "I'm not saying you must betray him, but we, you, cannot trust him. Euron isn't the only man in Westeros in consort with sorcery."
"The Red Woman," Aegon admitted.
"Aye," Jon said. "Stannis cannot be trusted, so stay on our guard, and be ready the war will begin again."
Aegon nodded. "I understand. I hope and pray you're wrong, but I see the wisdom in what you say. Thank you."
They left and mounted their horses. The rest of Aegon's Small Council quickly joined them as they made for the Baratheon camp. They crossed the snow and mud strewn fields at a quick pace. Baratheon guardsmen didn't bar their passage but watched them closely. It made Jon's back tingle as if anticipating a dagger.
Stannis kept his pavilion near the centre of his camp as he always did. Aegon's council filed in and took their seats.
An attempt at starting quickly and avoiding the perfunctory courtesies stalled when a white-cloaked kingsguard entered. "Your Grace, Lord Beric Dondarion of Blackhaven has arrived."
The kingsguard turned to allow an unarmed knight to stride forwards. He looked old. His surcoat was damaged and had been stitched poorly together. He was missing an eye and had grievous wounds throughout the rest of his body. "Your Graces," he said.
"Lord Beric," Stannis said. "I heard you were dead."
"Only briefly," the grizzled Stormlord said.
Beric Dondarion, Jon had to force himself not to gasp in surprise. The Lord of Blackhaven couldn't have been more than four and twenty but looked more than twice that age. His shock grew as he finally recognized the grey-haired man in pink as Thoros of Myr. The jolly red priest had been sent to convert King Aerys, a task the priest had quickly learned was futile and had become a patron of every wine sink and brothel in King's Landing. Gone was the fat and jovial man Jon had once known. He had been transformed into a creature of loose skin, sunken eyes, and bitter looks.
He was not the only one. The Riverlords were aiming their own bitter and angry looks at Lord Beric and Thoros.
"Please have a seat, my lord," Stannis said, as stone-faced as ever. "There is much to discuss."
Melisandre
She left the council meeting walking side by side with Thoros of Myr. They left the arguing kings and lords to their own business. Twilight was near, but it wasn't nightfall yet. There was still time to light the nightfire. The two red priests followed a track of muddy ground away from the kings and their council.
Once outside and at sufficient distance, Melisandre bowed her head and said In High Valyrian, Melisandre said. "R'hllor sees you Thoros of Myr."
"Melisandre of Asshai, R'hllor sees you also," Thoros returned the bow and spoke in the same language.
The pair faced each other for a couple of seconds, standing in the mud beneath the darkening sky. Melisandre glanced at his robes, so faded the red was barely even coloured enough to be called pink.
Thoros noticed her look and shrugged. "The Lannisters stole all the red cloth in the Riverlands. Then the wolves came and stole a little more," he laughed sadly. "Then the lions went through one last time and burned the rest."
"And you were busy, or so I've heard."
"Very busy," Thoros said. "The Brotherhood is eternally busy."
"I do not recall banditry being one of the noble purposes our God demands of men."
"Defending the innocent is always a worthy cause."
"Is that what bandits do now?"
"One man's bandit is another man's hero."
Melisandre sniffed a little derisively, but Thoros showed no offence, and their walk through the camp continued. It was Baratheon men they walked past, so men bowed their heads as Melisandre passed, either from respect or fear. Those who came to her nightfires did so quickly and earnestly, while others who clung to the Seven did so grudgingly, perhaps only for her place on Stannis' small council.
"I had heard the High Priest sent you to Westeros to convert King Aerys. Was he not famous for his love of fire?"
"I think infamous would be a better way to put it," Thoros said. "Aerys loved fire, yes, but only because he loved to burn people," Thoros said. "There was nothing in him for R'hllor. I think even the Great Other would find little to love in Aerys."
Melisandre ignored that small blasphemy and listened to Thoros as he continued.
"I was always a terrible priest. I spent my days drinking, eating, and fucking whores. Running around in my red robes like a jester, reciting prayers like jokes, I was just a spectacle for the locals. King Aerys ignored me, and King Robert loved me when I was drunk, but he had no interest in our God. Neither did I to tell you the truth."
"You lost your way, you lost your connection to the Lord of Light," Melisandre said. "What changed?"
"That first time Lord Beric died, he had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, and I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good God's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul."
"The last kiss."
"Aye, to send our Lord's servants on their way as they died, but die he didn't. I felt a dead man shudder as the fire filled him, saw his eyes come open. It was not me who raised him, my lady. It was the Lord. R'hllor is not done with him yet. Life is warmth, and warmth is fire, and fire is God's and God's alone."
"Lord Beric, how many times has the Lord of Light brought him back?"
"Six times."
Melisandre was stunned. She stopped in place, heedless of the crowd around her. "Impossible," she said.
"Not if our God wills it," Thoros said piously.
Chastened, Melisandre said. "The Night is dark and full of terrors."
"But the fire sends them all away," Thoros finished. "I remember my prayers. His light has woken in my heart. There are many powers long asleep that are waking, and strange forces are moving in the land. I have seen them in my flames."
"As have I. There is one I have seen again and again of late. A burning crown."
"I have seen it too."
"Is that why you came?"
"I saw dragons and a stag and a wolf stop fighting and gather all manner of beasts to them. I knew then that our Brotherhood must march to join them. Then, on my way south, I saw in the flames a vision of a burning crown. I thought it would be Stannis, but I sense nothing from him."
"Fires showed Stannis to me in Asshai," Melisandre said. "I thought Stannis was Azor Ahai reborn. I was wrong," she admitted. "He is not."
"But he still has a role to play?" Thoros asked.
"We all have a role," Melisandre said. "But whether it is big or small is not for us to decide."
They walked in silence for a few more steps and entered a knot of campfires and tents, men sworn to House Frey by their banners. The snow fell and melted into the mud or sizzled in the open flames of thousands of campfires.
"I have seen other things," Thoros said.
"As have I. The black and bloody tide."
"The storm and the dragons."
"The tree with a thousand faces and tears of blood."
"The crows in the sky."
"That I have not seen," Melisandre admitted.
They continued walking as Thoros explained his vision. "Two crows fight in a stormy sky alight with blood red lightning. One crow has three eyes, and the other has only one. As they fight, the one-eyed crow grows stronger and starts to win. Then the storm begins to grow and grow until it consumes all. Then I see a girl's face, she is made from the storm, and red lightning is her hair."
"Whose?"
Thoros shrugged. "I do not recognize her. Would that our God would make things so easy, but if He did, there would be no need for faith."
Melisandre hummed her agreement. They continued their walk in silence as she pondered the visions. They had passed from the wealthier part of the camp. Nobles' pavilions and silks gave way to small tents, cook fires, and tired soldiers.
Soldiers stared suspiciously and uneasily as the two red priests walked on their winding way.
"Do you think the dragons and the crows are connected?" Thoros asked. "Both are seen in a storm."
"It is possible, but who or what are the crows?"
"Euron Greyjoy is called Crow's Eye by some," Thoros said after some silent thought. "And after Oldtown… well, it is safe to say he has a way with storms."
Melisandre nodded. "Yes, that seems right, but who is the girl?"
Sansa
The Ironborn made landfall on the coast of Lys a dozen miles from the city. A burning Lysene fleet sank behind them, flames flickering like a mockery of sunset.
Euron flew overhead, laughing from his dragon's back. The beast had come from the east last morning. It had landed on Silence, almost dead from exhaustion, hunger, and thirst. It had ridden on the highest and strongest winds of the world, never stopping for food and barely stopping to drink. Sansa could feel the desperation burning inside it for food and freedom, burning like the heart of a volcano.
Euron had let it feed on the prisoners from the depths of Silence, a place so deep and secret even Sansa hadn't visited it. They were mostly men, some in septon robes, others in blue, and some in red. The dragon feasted on them one by one.
"Why?" Sansa asked. It was a force of will to ask even that, to speak even.
"So the beast gets a taste for human meat," Euron laughed.
The last priest was clad in rags made from wool and died like seaweeds. "That which is dead cannot die," the priest fiercely as the mutes dragged him forward. "For he who has tasted death once needs never fear again. He drowned, but he came forth harder and stronger than before, with steel and fire."
"Will you do the same, brother?" Euron asked. "I think not. I think if I drowned you, you'd stay drowned. All gods are lies, but yours is laughable. A pale white thing in the likeness of a man, his limbs broken and swollen and his hair flipping in the water while fish nibble at his face. What fool would worship that?"
"Madness," the priest spat. "Release me or face the Drowned God's wra-"
The dragon struck, teeth like daggers and knives ripped priestly flesh asunder. Blood filled the air. Euron laughed.
Sansa laughed too, but she didn't know why.
A day later, the Lysene fleet had approached Euron's Ironborn. The Lysene fleet was one of the mightiest in the world, and it burned in dragonfire. The triumphant Ironborn scattered those that didn't burn and reaped a bloody slaughter on the seas.
Sansa hardly noticed, her mind was foggy, and it didn't clear until the Ironborn longships were crashing onto a beach of white sand and being pulled onto the shores. The larger vessels came in as close as possible before dropping their anchors and sending boats to the shore. For a few minutes, the fog around Sansa's mind lifted.
The ocean was beautiful, so light and shallow that she could see the coral and schools of fish swimming just beneath the surface with the bright sun reflecting off the waves. A hundred yards of warm sand separated the sea from the orchard, a dozen miles of fruit trees in every direction. Lemons and oranges, plums and pomegranates, and some Sansa didn't even have a name for.
And the fleet… it seemed so small. She could see it in her memory. The memory of the ships at Lannisport there'd been so many then. Now there were so few, each day another ship was gone, another crew, another captain, abandoned Euron's cause. Then, the fog began to descend again, and she lost the memory. She started to cry but quickly stopped because she couldn't remember why she'd started.
Euron landed, the dragon crashed onto the sand near the trees, an ungainly landing of a mad beast and a madder rider. Euron dismounted by jumping from the makeshift saddle and landed awkwardly. His bad leg almost collapsed. The dragon snarled at the weakness but didn't strike. Euron struck it nonetheless. His fist beat the dragon in the eye, and the scaly creature recoiled.
The dragon's limbs began to thrash and spasm. Sand and dirt went flying, and the dragon leapt away and into the trees. Flames ran from the fanged mouth, and soon the orchard was burning.
Sansa licked her blue lips. The smoke and burning juices smelled so good, and they made her stomach growl. When was the last time I ate? She didn't know the answer. Confusion and fear swelled like a wave but were quickly scattered as Euron gently reminded her to drink shade-of-the-evening.
In the shadow of burning fruit trees, Euron addressed his remaining captains. "The Lysene fleet is no more, and the city of Lys lies open. Rest and let this fire burn itself out. Tomorrow you'll all have more treasure than you know what to do with."
The captains nodded, and Sansa realized she only recognized Andrik the Unsmiling, all of the rest were unfamiliar. Had she forgotten them, or were all the other faces gone? Where were the mighty lords of the Iron Islands?
Gone, she realized, all gone. So alone. She wanted to cry but didn't know why. She felt lost but didn't know where she was supposed to be. She felt broken but didn't know where the missing pieces were or what pieces were missing.
Euron was speaking, the captains were shouting, Sansa heard them but couldn't understand.
She closed her eyes and opened them, a blink a moment of a and hours had passed. The orchard fire had turned to smouldering embers and hazy smoke. The sweet blue sea and brilliant white beach were gone, replaced by cooling embers and charred wood. The wind carried ash and dust instead of salt and sand. She didn't remember where the mule she rode had been found or even when she'd mounted the animal. Time was so fluid, moments made minutes, and minutes made hours, and hours made seconds.
Lys smelt different from the Shadow City, or Oldtown, or… or where had she been before that, a city of lions in the shadow of a mountain, and before that a red city. But there had been lions there as well. Was it the same city as the other? She didn't remember. Did it matter? She didn't know. She knew that two hours ago, Lys had smelled like perfume, but now it stank of ash and burned flesh. The wind blew and brought with it a cloud of smoke that filled her nose and burned her eyes. Her lungs burned, but she didn't care. She'd forgotten pain. Euron's promise was fulfilled.
Ironborn, mutes, and other weak men coughed and blinked and tried to cover their faces trying to escape this littlest consequence of Euron's handiwork.
Euron's green dragon banked and turned, wings twisted, and the monster and his steed dived low to burn a streak of emerald flames across the walls of Lys. Sansa stared, she poured herself into the fire, she watched the flames dance, heard the screams of the people inside, she thought she saw things in the fires, images of people and places and things. She tried to keep track, but they went past and changed.
Twenty paces away, Andrik the Unsmiling broke ranks and vomited on the ground. Other Ironborn looked just as sick. So weak, the thought pushed its way up through the depths of Sansa's mind. A thought that wasn't her own. It felt like someone was watching through with her eyes. Maybe that should have bothered her, but it didn't. She ignored Andrik because the flames were all that mattered.
She was still watching the flames dance when Euron landed. The one-eyed crow was laughing from his dragon's back.
Andrik rose unsteadily to his feet and stared at the dragonlord clad in armour forged from Valyrian steel. Metal as dark as smoke, scales edged in red gold, patterns on the metal whorls and glyphs, and the arcane power of Old Valyria forged into the metal. All worn as easily as a silk shirt.
"The city is yours," Euron said. "Take it."
"This isn't the Old Way," someone said.
Sansa turned to face him, but his face was like a shadow. Despite the flames illuminating the night, she couldn't see his face.
Euron laughed. "I fed the Damphair to my dragon. The Drowned God has no power here. Words are wind, but blood is power, and I have sent more into the sea than any others in more than a thousand years. I am your god," Euron spoke softly but without even a pretension of respect. "Now go sack this city. Take every man, woman, and child and put them on the slave ships the Lyseni loved so much."
"Yes, my king," Andrik said quietly. He took a step and stopped. "All of the people?"
"All of them," Euron confirmed, his words tainted by cruel mockery. "I need them," Euron whispered as the Ironborn marched into the city. "I need them all."
Andrik nodded once and kept walking.
Euron slid from the dragon and approached her. He gave her a skin. "Drink," he commanded.
Sansa did as she was bid.
"Drink," Euron repeated. "And sleep. And forget."
Darkness took her mind, and suddenly she was adrift in a sea of boiling blood. Storm clouds roiled overhead with clouds like laughing faces. Black lightning cracked the sky and revealed stars and darkness. The starry darkness was pierced in turn by a bleeding star that streaked across the sky. Its trail widened and revealed Euron sitting upon the Iron Throne. Demons and monsters cackled at his feet atop a field of skulls.
Darkness flashed, and Euron was no longer human. He seemed more squid than man, a monster fathered by a kraken of the deep, his face a mass of writhing tentacles. The blades and barbs of the Iron Throne were twisted and bleeding. Impaled upon the blades were the gods. Mother, Maiden, Crone, Father, Warrior, Smith, and Stranger. Shepherd and Black Goat. Three-headed Trios and the Pale Child. The Red God and the Drowned God. The heart trees of the Old Gods were cracked and bleeding from a thousand wounds in their many trunks. Leaves like red hands lay scattered across the earth. A red sun hung behind Euron, eclipsed by his form and the Iron Throne, and its light cast all the world in a bloody haze.
She shivered because it was growing colder by the second. The sun faded and disappeared and all there was, was darkness and cold and ice that glowed with its own frozen blue light without warmth or source. Only Euron remained, a one-eyed king frozen to his throne, covered in frost. His eye was dark and hollow. Lifeless. Only the blue cold remained. Then not even that. The darkness consumed it all, heralded by laughter like cracking ice.
She closed her eyes and prayed, for she feared her heart would freeze and break.
She woke. There was light, daylight, she thought. Maybe. She couldn't quite remember what daylight was. She rose from a bed she didn't remember laying to sleep in.
Something was watching her, a one-eyed man with black hair and blue lips.
Who am I? What is my name? She wanted to ask but the words caught in her mind. Her thoughts were like honey. Slow and sticky. Hard to think. Impossible to remember. Why did she want to ask? What was the question? How did she get on this ship? Why was there smoke? Why was the city burning? Why was she crying?
She felt something pass over her mind. She had the sensation of one closed eye and the another shining with darkness and glimmering with malice and the ancient stars of deepest night. She felt her own hands wipe her tears away at someone else's command.
"Who are you?" A man asked.
She didn't recognize him. He was handsome and terrible, with a single eye, the other hidden behind a patch, black hair framed his face.
She couldn't answer the question, she couldn't. Tears came, tears for something lost that she didn't remember.
"I'm no one," she said at last.
The one-eyed monster smiled.
And no one went forth blindly into the dark.
Daenerys
Dany had been to Lys twice before. Both times in the company of her brother Viserys. She hardly remembered the first time. She'd only been five or perhaps six, and it hadn't been long after Dany and Viserys had been forced to leave Braavos. Forced to leave the House with the Red Door, where a lemon tree had grown beneath her window. The second time she'd been one and ten and had come at the invitation of a Lysene magister. They'd only stayed a few weeks, but Dany remembered being entranced with the sights and the smells and all the beautiful people. Beautiful slaves she now knew. It was the smells Dany remembered most of all perfumes of a thousand kinds, some sweet like fruits, others like flowers, some savoury, some that stank like sweat, and some that brought to mind all sorts of sensual thoughts.
Lys smelled nothing like that now.
It smelled like Astapor. Like Astapor after all the battles and bloodshed. Lys smelt of fire and smoke and death and rot. Dany's fleet met no resistance as they entered the harbour. The towers and chains that guarded it had melted. Stone and metal had flowed like water, then cooled. Marble columns and obelisks carved like grasping lovers that had once stood in almost every open space, each a shrine to Lys' love goddess, now stood blacked and broken, a relic of what was.
Balerion passed through the channel between the tall towers and into the large natural harbour inside. No warships met them, no ships at all, save for the ruined remains of a few that floated beneath the surface.
"What could do this?" Quentyn asked from his place beside her.
"Dragonfire," Daenerys answered. "Rhaegal did this."
Thankfully the devastation was less severe in the heart of the city. Though in places, even the streets were burned and cracked. Bodies littered the streets as well, many were barely more than scorched and ashy marks on the ground, but others showed the signs of human violence. A few skinny dogs scattered at the sight of them, but the carrion birds were braver and flew from the ruined roofs to finish the meals.
Balerion docked at one of the few piers that remained. Dany and her entourage, Quentyn, Ser Barristan, Strong Belwas, and ten Unsullied departed. They waited a few minutes for Lord Victarion, three of his captains, and Moqorro to join.
"There are no people," Quentyn said.
"Fled most likely," Barristan said.
"There would still be some," Quentyn returned. "And where are the ships?"
"Gone!" Victarion shouted harshly from the deck of the docking Iron Victory.
Obviously, Dany thought.
"But where?" Quentyn asked out loud.
"If Rhaegal was here then so was Euron Greyjoy," Dany said. "They did this, but why?"
"Ironmen have a deep love of gold and prisoners," Ser Barristan said. "Thralls they call them, but they are slaves in all but name."
"Gold and people," Dany murmured. "Two things every Free City has in plenty."
Moqorro and Victarion joined them. The Ironman's armoured boots tramped on the ground while the red priest's bare soles slapped on the stone.
"North," the red priest said. "The one-eyed shadow goes north to the crowned city."
Ser Barristan straightened. "King's Landing," he said confidently. "You're saying Euron Greyjoy is going to King's Landing."
"Why?" Quentyn asked. "What could there be at King's Landing?"
"Kings," the Red Priest said. "There is power in kingsblood."
Dany's guts clenched as she remembered the pyre where she woke her dragons from stone. There is power in blood. "Fire and blood," she said. She looked around at the ruined city. I cannot leave my people here. "How far is Sunspear?" She asked Quentyn.
"Two days sail," the Dornish prince replied. "Maybe less with a good wind."
"Prince Quentyn, will your father take my people in and care for them?"
"Yes, my queen, I think he will."
"We need supplies," Victarion growled.
They had planned to resupply at Volantis, but the Triarchy had refused them access. "Yes," she said. "Take on what supplies we can from Lys, but prepare, tomorrow we sail on to Sunspear on the morrow."
Victarion shrugged by way of acknowledgement and waved his axe to order his crew into the city. Like crows after carrion, the Ironmen hurried into the city.
"Prince Quenytn," she said as the Ironmen departed.
"Your Grace?"
"You will take our fastest ship and depart for Sunspear tonight so that my coming will not be cause for alarm."
"Of course, Your Grace," the plain-faced prince bowed.
Dany nodded, then turned on a heel. She was not eager to spend any more time than necessary inside of Lys. There was a strange feel to it.
Quentyn departed that evening aboard an Ironman vessel called Swift Blow. Meanwhile, the bulk of her fleet spent a day at rest. Then two more at sea brought Dany to the shores of Dorne. She saw the Spear Tower first, tall and slender with a pointed top that glinted in the afternoon sun. Before long, the Tower of the Sun revealed itself as well. It was shorter and stouter than the Spear Tower and topped with a huge dome that shone like its namesake. For a few minutes, she could pretend that Sunspear was like some castle out of the stories she loved as a little girl, a place where things were always warm and safe, where righteous knights and honourable lords and beautiful ladies danced and feasts in the great halls. For a few minutes at least. Then the black marks on the walls became clear to sight, burned buildings and ash spread out from the Winding Walls of Sunspear. Dorne had suffered as well.
Her fleet entered the harbour, gliding on smooth waters past the remains of burned and sunken ships. Balerion pulled up to a long pier. A crowd had gathered to watch her arrival. Among the crowd, she saw the orange and yellow tabards of Martell guards. Though she was still too distant to pick out any faces, she imagined she saw Prince Quentyn among the crowd.
When Balerion docked, Dany was the first to step off the ship and onto the piers' warm salt-stained wood. Ser Barristan, Strong Belwas, Lord Vicatrion, Moqorro, Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo followed her. Her bloodriders seemed happy to be on land regardless of what land it was.
From the wood of the pier, she stepped onto cobblestones so warm she could feel it through her slippers. Then, in a fit of childishness, she slipped her slippers off and let her bare feet touch the ground. Westeros, her home that she had hardly seen and didn't remember at all. Taken as a babe by Ser Willem Darry to be raised in exile, first in Braavos and then in every other Free City, sold to a Dothraki Khal who she came to love, then left to wander the east when he died. Across the Red waste to Qarth and then to Slaver's Bay, where her quest for freedom had almost consumed her. She'd lived, loved, and lost, but her path had led her here. The stones were warm, but nothing else. What did you expect, a part of her asked, for the sky to open and the Seven themselves to come and greet you?
Prince Quentyn and a middle-aged knight approached from the crowd of guardsmen to welcome her. The knight's skin was dusky, his hair dark, and he bore a passing resemblance to Quentyn. Is this the Prince of Dorne, she wondered. He looked young to have fathered Quentyn. She glanced to the prince, and his plain and honest face showed no apparent signs of filial affection.
"Your Grace," the Dornish knight knelt, prompting the rest of the crowd to do the same. "I am Ser Manfrey Martell, cousin to Prince Doran and Castellan of Sunspear. I regret my prince is not here to welcome your return to the Seven Kingdoms, but the attack on Sunspear has left him ill at ease, and he has retired to the Water Gardens for his health."
Daenerys awkwardly slipped her slippers back on, took Ser Manfrey's hands, and raised him back up to his feet. "Thank you, ser," she said courteously. "It..." she shook her head. "I'm sorry I can't quite seem to find the words to describe what it's like to return to the Seven Kingdoms." For all that I was born on the isle of Dragonstone, Westeros seems almost as foreign a land to me as Qarth in some ways. "I'm sorry to see what has been done to Sunspear, though I thank the Seven you were more fortunate than Lys."
"We would not have had time if it weren't for the deserters."
"Deserters?" Victarion growled the question.
Ser Manfrey nodded. "Euron Greyjoy's fleet sheds ships and men like a dog sheds hair. Thus we were warned of the impending attack, and the Shadow City was evacuated."
Daenerys nodded. "That is well."
Prince Quentyn moved up from behind Ser Manfrey. "Welcome to Sunspear, Your Grace."
"Thank you, Prince Quentyn. I regret that I will not be able to stay long in Dorne to help look after my people, but the Usurper's brother, and other enemies, are still at large."
"I have had Ricasso, my father's seneschal, arrange for shelter and supplies for the people," Quentyn said. "Though my father is not here to greet you, he sends his regards and invites Your Grace to join him at the Water Gardens."
"How far are the Water Gardens?" Dany asked.
"Three leagues, Your Grace," Quentyn replied.
"We have swift sand steeds ready," Ser Manfrey said. "The Water Gardens are not but a few hours distant."
Dany frowned for a moment. Is it right that a Queen should ride to an audience with her bannerman? She glanced at Ser Barristan, who was standing impassively in freshly polished white armour. Well, he is in ill health, Dany decided. "Thank you, Ser, yes that would serve us well," she looked back at her court. "Lord Victarion, you will see to the fleet, Grey Worm, see to my people."
Victarion bristled slightly but did not complain. Grey Worm tapped his spear on the ground. They slowly departed to see to their tasks. Moqorro, however, stayed.
"The mounts will be ready within the hour, Your Grace," Ser Manfrey bowed his head. "Until then, please take advantage of all the hospitality Sunspear has to offer."
"Lead on Ser Manfrey, Prince Quentyn."
The castellan led Dany and her court into Sunspear. Moqorro followed, and Dany gave the red priest a wary look, but he paid no mind, and she decided not to make a scene demanding that he leave. They passed on foot beneath the portcullises of the Threefold Gate and then into the sandstone halls of the Old Palace to a small dining room where refreshments awaited. Sliced oranges, grapes, and chilled wines. Dany ate little while Belwas, Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo snacked at their leisure during the wait. Prince Quentyn had accompanied them and fretted and paced as they waited.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said quietly. "That my father could not be here to welcome you to Sunspear and Westeros."
Dany hummed but said nothing, content to wait for the horses to be ready, and impatiently drum her fingers on the table.
Quentyn made a few more awkward attempts at making conversation, but they all died just as quickly as the first.
Dany was first up and through the door when a page came to tell them the horses were ready. Her bloodriders were close behind, Ser Barristan, Strong Belwas, and Moqorro filed behind them, and Prince Quentyn came last.
Their eight horses waited in the courtyard alongside an honour guard of thirty mounted Martell guardsmen.
Dany's bloodriders hurried over to the horses and quickly began chatting in Dothraki as they examined the horses, highly impressed by their fine muscles and beautiful coats.
The road from Sunspear to the Water Gardens took two hours to ride but felt like far less, especially compared to the wait beforehand. Her borrowed Dornish sand steed was not as magnificent as her silver filly at her prime, but her silver would take time to recover from so long confined at sea. The red sand steed would do for now. Her bloodriders wasted no time rushing off, their braids whipping in the wind in tandem with their horses' tails and manes. Dany shivered reflexively as she rode. Though the air and sun were just as hot as in Slaver's Bay, there was a strange chill from the northerly wind.
They arrived at the Water Gardens as the sun was just starting its descent. Low walls guarded the approach from land, but toward the ocean, the Water Gardens were open to allow the salt sea breeze to blow among the gardens and fountains. They passed through the open gates and entered a despoiled paradise. Many of the trees were charred and blackened, and fruit lay crushed underfoot on the pink marble paving stones where they mixed with old blood. The water in the fountains and pools were also dirty with ash. The sickly sweet smell of rotting fruit failed to disguise that of rotting flesh and smoke. If anything, it made it worse. Servants by the dozen were busy with brushes, soap, and buckets of water.
Daenerys and her entourage dismounted and followed a servant to where Prince Doran was sitting on a wheeled chair on a terrace, overlooking the fountains and pools of the Water Gardens, and past it the Summer Sea. He was peeling a blood orange. A white-bearded man with a longaxe stood guard over the prince.
"Welcome to Dorne, Your Grace. I fear the Water Gardens are not up to their usual beauty," he motioned to a seat set in front of him. "Please seat yourself, my queen."
Dany took the seat while her entourage stood around the edge of the room, save for Prince Quentyn, who took a place near Prince Doran's bodyguard.
"I regret that this has come to pass," Dany said. "It is terrible, and I only wish I could have been here sooner."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Prince Doran said placidly.
Dany curled her tongue, carefully controlling herself not to let her impatience show itself.
Prince Doran set the half-peeled orange aside and bent forward, wincing in pain slightly, as he put pressure on his knees, which even hidden beneath a blanket were obviously grossly swollen with gout. He took her hands and kissed them, and pressed his forehead to them. "I Doran Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, and Lord of Sunspear, I swear to you my fealty. I swear it by the Seven Who Are One and the Old Gods of the First Men, I swear it by sun, by salt, by sand, and by stone, and I swear, be it winter or summer, night or day. I swear this oath to Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
Prince Doran kissed her hands one more time and then straightened upright in his chair. He looked tired, his dark eyes were weary, and his soft body rested uneasily in the chair.
Dany sat quietly, at a loss for what to say. She knew not the propper oaths to make in return, so she said. "Thank you, Prince Doran. I accept your oaths of fealty and swear to rule well and wisely."
The Prince of Dorne smiled slightly. "I will hold you to that."
Dany smiled slightly as well. "My Prince, if I may be so bold, let us speak of politics. I have been at sea for some time and in the east for far longer. What news is there of Westeros, of Stannis and my," she coughed slightly. "My nephew, Prince Aegon?"
"When word of Prince Aegon's landing came, I wasted little time, my brother Prince Oberyn and my daughter and heir, Princess Arianne, rode north with ten thousand spears to join the Golden Company at the siege of Stonehelm. Now Princess Arianne writes to me from the Reach," Prince Doran answered. "She rides with Prince Aegon and King Stannis, and I believe the march has taken them up the Roseroad, though I know not where she is exactly."
"Aegon and Stannis?" Dany asked. She still had difficulty believing that this Aegon was anything more than a pretender, but even so, if he marched with the Usurper's brother.
Doran nodded, either oblivious to or ignoring Dany's anger. "After many months of campaigning and battles large and small, Aegon and Stannis agreed beneath the walls of Oldtown to make common cause against Euron Greyjoy."
"Has my nephew forgotten that it was House Baratheon and their dogs that killed his father, his mother, his sister, and his grandfather?"
Silence ruled the Water Gardens. It was a long minute before Prince Doran spoke. "I cannot speak for my nephew," he said. "But I have not forgotten what was done to my sister or her children. I have not forgotten, and I will never forgive it." The prince's voice was cold and hard, his eyes narrow and focused like a viper's.
Quentyn stood awkwardly, head held low between his shoulders.
Doran closed his eyes. "But Robert Baratheon is dead, Gregor Clegane is dead, Amory Lorch is dead, Tywin Lannister is dead, and all his hopes dreams are dust, and so are his children, dead or disappeared at any rate." The prince's hands clenched into tight fists. "Prince Oberyn died at Oldtown," he said. "And all agree that it was Euron Greyjoy who killed him. I hardly believed what stories I heard, rumours that boggled the mind, but even my own spies in the Reach said it was true."
"What was true?" Dany asked. She had heard almost nothing of what had happened at Oldtown.
"That Euron Greyjoy is a sorcerer who called down a storm upon the city and the armies of Stannis and King Aegon that duelled outside it." Prince Doran continued before anyone could interrupt. "I did not believe it, so I commanded House Dayne to send riders from Starfall to investigate. They said the city was deserted, empty of all life, not even vermin. The Citadel was a burned shell, the bulk of the city the victim of fires and floods, and even the Hightower itself had fallen. They said it now laid at the bottom of the harbour," Doran closed his eyes. "They found Oberyn's spear, but not his body," he sighed and quietly said. "Vengeance and justice."
"Upon the Usurper's Dogs," Dany said. "They killed…" she shook her head. "My whole family save for Viserys died at the hands of the House Baratheon and their dogs." Her heart struggled with the immensity of loss, a whole family she never knew, the hungry hard years in the Free Cities all at the hand of the Usurper.
"I know," Doran said. "I know, for I have felt the same loss," he lifted his eyes to look out over the balustrade to the ocean. "But it was not Stannis Baratheon who descended upon Sunspear and the Water Gardens to kill and steal everything he could and despoil what he could not," Doran rubbed his brow. "We found bodies," he rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, my words fail me."
He was crying, Dany noticed, no great exaggerated weeping like the Qartheen were fond of, but a few quiet and genuine tears of real pain.
"What was done here," Doran's voice caught. "Done to children… My brother Oberyn liked to boast that in Dorne, we don't hurt little girls. I fear our history often proved him wrong, but it was something I tried to live up to."
Moqorro was nodding as Prince Doran spoke, and when he finished, the Red Priest said. "It is as the fires show. The one-eyed shadow commands a black and bloody tide."
"And now he has a dragon," Doran said. When he saw Dany's surprise, he added. "Lyseni refugees have already arrived on our shores to tell their tales."
"I cannot forgive House Baratheon, or the Starks, or the Tullys and the Arryns."
"Your Grace, I can never forget or forgive what was done to Dorne by the Usurper and his followers, but I beg of you, we must act now, or the world will pay the price in blood."
Dany closed her eyes, trying not to imagine the horrors visited upon children barely younger than herself that drove Doran Martell to tears.
"There is more, Prince of Dorne," Moqorro said. "More than just the black and bloody tide. But you know this, worse things than one-eyed crows and little storms."
"Enough, Moqorro," Daenerys said sharply. "Whatever you have to say can wait."
The red priest silenced himself, with good grace, he bowed silently.
Dany looked back to Prince Doran. "This news does not sit well with me," she said. "But Euron stole one of my children from me, one of my dragons, little perhaps compared to his other crimes, but he will pay for all of them. In fire and blood."
