Princesses and Kings
No ship in the harbor was more impressive than her father's. The Fury was Stannis Baratheon's flagship, triple decked with three hundred oars, bristling with catapults and scorpions under sails of gold emblazoned with a crowned black stag. The Northern boats were a different breed than the war galleys of the royal war fleet. Many were small and wide, with a shallow draught to navigate rivers and a mix of square and lateen sails to cross the Narrow Sea. More ships were being constructed in the yard but these were cogs. Some had new designs - three masts, high rounded sterns, forecastles, aftcastles, even iron supports in the frames.
The Baratheon men scoffed that the growing Northern fleet consisted entirely of merchant vessels, fit only to transport wool, iron, timber and furs to the Free Cities. Shireen did not think that was true. There was an enormous amount of building at the mouth of the Weeping Water. The town was too young to have a name, but the port had miles and miles of protected coastline, the water was calm and deep, the winds and tides modest. Barrier islands protected the sprawling docks and wharves from storms. Taverns and inns were packed with settlers, craftsmen, and traders. Roads, surfaced with stone and wide enough for multiple wagons, criss-crossed and converged on the harbor. Storehouses stocked ample amounts of lumber, nails, pitch, rope, iron and canvas to supply the hardworking builders.
Thousands of years ago, Brandon the Burner torched the shipyards and remains of the Northern fleet, ensuring the North would stay a backwater, isolated from trade and the other Kingdoms. The Burning happened long before House Manderly left the Reach and settled White Harbor. For now, the Northern ships were dwarfed by the mighty triremes of Dragonstone. That might well change in a decade.
Shireen sat on a seawall, her toes dipping into the chilly water of the Shivering Sea. Above her, a crude wooden ringfort sat on a grass hill, fortified with ballista, scorpions and catapults. Stark archers and crossbowmen patrolled the high ground. The Baratheons outnumbered the garrison but any conflict would be futile and bloody. Signal beacons were strung on watchtowers along the Weeping Water, and guest right had already been invoked. After the treachery of the Freys, the Northmen did not trust easily.
No matter the tensions, she was certain there would be no outbreak of hostility. Her father was a hard man, but proud and protective of his honor. The North held the laws of hospitality sacred. Robb Stark had granted safe passage, and the Lord of Winterfell inspired loyalty in his soldiers and bannermen. That afternoon, Shireen had wandered off with Patches. The jester, quiet and subdued, stared over the blue waters and hummed without sound.
"Shireen, you should be more careful." Edric hurried over from the docks. Her cousin wore a thick doublet over a mail shirt. "The Starks have no love for us."
She shook the water off her feet and put on stockings and fur boots. "Lord Stark has no quarrel with us. The trouble lies with my father's knights."
News of Daemon Targaryen reached the town before the Dragonstone fleet landed. Her father's face tightened after reading the raven, but he gritted his teeth and made no further remark. The Baratheon bannermen were not so discreet. Godry Farring and his toady Clayton Suggs declared Snow a lying bastard with delusions of grandeur. Alester and Axell Florent recounted the bloody deeds and dark arts of the White Wolf in the war. The queen's men denounced him as an abomination to the Lord of Light. None of these comments sat well with those who had fought for the North in the Riverlands.
"We have been invited by the Knights of the Vale to dinner." Edric said with excitement. Her cousin was eager to hear more tales of battles.
"They swore fealty to Winterfell. They are not Valemen any longer." The knights from the Vale that fought for Robb Stark had been rewarded with land and titles. No doubt that angered her father's followers. Then again, the Florents and other highborn Baratheon supporters wanted more than holdfasts along the Weeping Water.
"But they are still knights though. Robin Peasebury says that makes the Valemen better than the Northmen who worship trees." Edric said.
Robin Peasebury abandoned the Seven to worship a god of fire. Shireen did not see how that was better than a weirwood tree. Dragonstone lacked a godswood but Aegon's Garden had tall trees, towering hedges, and wild roses. She felt more at peace there than watching Melisandre burn statues at night.
"The North lacks knights because only a few houses worship the Seven. But just because they don't have a title, doesn't mean they can't fight. Lord Peasebury should be more careful with his words." Shireen took Edric's arm and left the harbor.
Dinner was a modest affair in the taproom of a tavern. A roaring fire blazed in the hearth, and servants brought out cold brown beer and warm black bread. Shireen sat with Edric while her father faced a tall man with short brown hair. Despite his youth, he led the half a dozen new Northern lords.
The main course was sister's stew served in plain earthenware crocks. The stew was thick with leeks, carrots, turnips and potatoes, bursting with clams, chunks of cod and crabmeat in a stock of heavy cream and butter. The meal was simple but well suited for a wet, cold night.
A tall pretty girl with deep blue eyes and dark black hair smiled. "You must be my half brother."
"I am Edric Storm but I do not know your name."
"Mya Whitestone. Lord Mychel and I took the name for our house when we married. But I was Mya Stone in the Vale before coming North."
"I am happy to meet you, big sister." Edric's eyes twinkled. "This is our cousin, Shireen."
"A pleasure, Lady Whitestone. Is it true that House Whitestone serves as castellan over all the Bolton lands?" Shireen asked.
Mya laughed, the bright and cheery sound of someone quite pleased with her change in fortune. "We are castellans but the Bolton lands are being divided among Mychel's fellow knights. It was a wonderful surprise. After the Battle of the God's Eye, I left the Gates of the Moon, thinking that the Starks would grant us a piece of land. Imagine my shock when we received such a large dominion in trust. It was more than my wildest hopes."
"But the territory will be reduced over time. There will be more lords and knights along the river." Edric had spent much of the past few days listening to gossip about the North.
"And that is perfectly fine. Better to share success than be greedy. We can ship wool, whiskey, cloth and steel down the Weeping Water. House Whitestone will prosper along with the North. Mychel plans to build a stone keep on the river."
"Build a keep? Why? The Dreadfort is a mighty castle." Edric said.
Mya shuddered. "And a horrid one, full of dungeons and torture chambers. There is a room with the flayed skins of their victims and rows of human hands, the flesh gnawed off by rats. I don't mean to speak ill of the dead but I wonder whether Ned Stark knew of these crimes."
"No great lord can control all of their vassals. They say Lord Bolton was a cunning man. He must have kept these secrets well hidden." Shireen said.
"Robb Stark and Jon Snow discovered that he was a traitor. Every single Bolton man was killed in the Battle of the God's Eye. Snow crippled Roose Bolton's legs and then he burned the Leech Lord alive before the other prisoners." Mya said.
Shireen wondered if Snow had already known that he was a dragon, to pass such a sentence of death by fire. A bastard could do things that his trueborn brother could not. So could a Targaryen. The singers talked about good kings like Jaehaerys and Daeron and bad ones like Maegor. All the Targaryen rulers, except Baelor the Blessed, were hard men, willing to kill to defend their throne. The banter was interrupted by a more fractious exchange.
"How dare you insult his grace?" Peasbury squeaked.
"I merely called him Lord Stannis." Mychel Redfort said.
"He is the king, you fool." Godry Harring cried.
"Stannis might be a king in Dragonstone or Storm's End, but this is the North." The dark haired man at Mychel's right said. He wore a sigil of iron studs bordered by runes with a river running through the center. A Royce, Shireen thought.
"A king is a king. His grace is a champion of the Lord of Light." Godry sneered.
"How do you know? Did the god whisper that in your ear?" Robar replied.
"R'hllor has chosen Stannis Baratheon. He is Azor Ahai reborn, and he will defeat the Great Other and drive back the darkness." Melisandre said.
"We have a priest of R'hllor as well - Thoros of Myr says that Jon Snow is Azor Ahai, and that was well before anyone knew that Snow was a Targaryen." Mychel said.
"Thoros of Myr is a drunk and a fraud. I met him in King's Landing." Alester Florent said.
"So? He follows your Lord of Light. What makes the ramblings of your priestess any better than ours?" Robar said.
"Azor Ahai is the Warrior of Light. When the Long Night comes, the Prince Who Was Promised will draw the Red Sword of Heroes to defeat the darkness. King Stannis has already drawn a burning sword out of the flames." Melisandre declared.
"Thoros of Myr has a burning sword too. I saw him at the tourney for Prince Joffrey's twelveth name day. It was a colorful spectacle - the priest in his red robes with the blade bathed with pale green flames. My father, Lord Yohn, brained him with a mace when the fire gutted out. That Lightbringer did not do much for Thoros." Robar said.
"You are impertinent, Ser." Stannis glared at the Valeman.
"I am. I was at Bitterbridge serving your brother. I was there when King Renly met you in the Stormlands. He died that night at the hands of your ghost. Had it not been for Robb Stark, I and the other knights of the Rainbow Guard would have been hung for treachery. But it was not our plottings that murdered Renly." Robar said hotly.
"I had nothing to do with that. I was sleeping in my tent, and ready for battle the next morning.' Stannis retorted.
"Your forces were greatly outnumbered. There were thousands more marching to join us from the Reach. Renly would have crushed you, had it not been for the shadow assassin. We all know this, and so does Robb Stark." Robar said.
"I see that we will not get a fair hearing in the North." Alester Florent said slyly. "You have already decided for this Targaryen pretender, and slander the rightful king."
Mychel Whitestone gazed at the Baratheon men with disgust. "We have not decided anything. It is not our choice to make. At the Twins, Jon Snow honored me as the Castellan of the Dreadfort. I swore a vow, before the old gods and the new, to be his man. Snow corrected me, pointing out that my oath had to be made to House Stark. He was right of course, and I pledged myself again to Winterfell. The Starks will decide on who the North follows."
"And when will that be?" Stannis gritted his teeth.
"Lord Robb will arrive in a few days. A raven arrived from White Harbor. Jon Snow is also on his way by ship. You will see them soon enough, my lord."
The priestess was not dead yet but the disciples had already lit the incense. It was richer and more pungent than the seven oils at the Great Sept of Baelor. The sticks, blessed with prayer and stored in small iron holders, burned over hot coals. Warm fragrant smoke rose to the sky, an aromatic earthy scent - like pine trees mixed with orange, lemon and peppers. The incense was far more expensive than any wood. Burning so much at a funeral would be lavish even for a king, yet the bier also was covered with purple dyed fabric, garlanded with flowers, circled by beeswax candles and suffused with oils and unguents.
The Martell family had ridden to Planky Town with three hundred guardsmen. Many lords and knights attended as well, the Dalts in Lemonwood, the Tolands from Ghost Hill and Ser Ryon Allyrion, Daemon Sand's father. On the surface, everything appeared normal : the great and mighty of Dorne paying last respects to a high priestess. But underneath, Myrcella detected a frisson of fear and doubt.
The roads to Planky Town were full of pilgrims, making their way to the mouth of the Greenblood River. Large crowds thronged around the boats, ships and barges that made up the settlement. That was nothing compared to the armada of painted rafts on the Greenblood. Myrcella had thought there had been a large number of pole boats four weeks past. Today, she realized her error. The orphans of the Greenblood had come out in force, dancing and singing. The music soared, men and women singing in unison, harsh but beautiful, rich and grand in scope.
"What language is that?" Myrcella asked.
"Ancient Rhoynar." Trystane said. "They are singing about Mother Rhoyne. I cannot speak but I understand the words. The orphans have never given up their old tongue."
Myrcella had read that the language was banned by princes of Dorne centuries ago. Perhaps the famous words - Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken - belonged not to the Martells, but to the spirit of the Rhoyne. House Martell claimed the legacy of Nymeria and the Princess of Ny Sar was famous for the long difficult journey from Essos. She burned the ships after landfall, declaring that there was no path back. It seemed that not all of the descendents of her followers agreed.
"Prince Doran. I have prepared medicine." Caleotte held the blue green vial up.
"The priestess is old, not sick." Arianne snapped.
The prince's reproof was milder. "There is no sign of plague at the temple, Maester."
"The elixir cures more than the plague. Alleras writes that Jon Snow's creation could be useful for wounds and infections. It may not prevent death but might ease her suffering." Caleotte said.
"Very well. You may try." Prince Doran said.
As the maester went to work, a pair of young female attendants brought out a wooden tray inlaid with gold. A silver goblet rested in the middle next to a sharp double edged knife. The handle was black and there was no hilt. This was a ritual blade - an athame - and the chalice would catch the blood of the offering. Something like this would never be used in a sept.
"You must excuse us. Only House Martell can perform this ceremony."
"Of course, my Prince." Myrcella sat demurely as Trystane and Arianne left with their father and the other priests. The younger Sand Snakes followed at a respectful distance, along with the other nobles.
The chamber quickly cleared out, leaving her with the high priestess. Even the two maesters had left, once the medicine had been administered. Myrcella almost fell asleep. There was something hypnotic about the heat and fragrant scents in the room.
"Water. Water!"
The old woman had awakened. Myrcella scrambled to pour water from a clay jug. The priestess snatched the cup and drank everything down. Myrcella poured again and again, until the old woman finished the entire jug and wiped her mouth.
"Should I call the Maester? Do you wish to see Prince Doran?"
"Why? What good are they? Useless fools." The priestess sat up, cross legged on the wooden frame. She pushed away the candles, and tossed off the burial shroud.
"Do you need anything else?" Myrcella said.
The old woman raised her withered hands. "More time, girl. Six moons perhaps. Twelve would be enough. I have waited so long, dreaming about this day. And now that it is here, I do not have the strength. I will die in Dorne, and never see the Rhoyne."
"Is that so bad? The Rhoyne is still haunted by the Sorrows and people say that the waters are infested with pirates, slavers, and stone men."
"Mother Rhoyne has nourished her children since life began. She suffered for a thousand years but all curses must end. It is almost time. The dragons will fly, Prince Garin will return, and woe to the enemies of the Mother." The old woman spat. Flecks of blood appeared on the venerable lips. The cloudy eyes closed again, and the shriveled face trembled.
It must be terrible to be old, Myrcella thought. She dipped a towel in the remains of the jug, and pressed the cool moist linen into the crone's hands. "Rest, my lady. I will ask a servant for some food or drink. Perhaps, the maester can give you more elixir."
"It is too late for that, child. Death is knocking at my door. He will not be denied." The priestess opened her eyes again and gave Myrcella a shrewd look. "You are kind, lion girl. Most princesses are not. You deserve a better fate."
"I am happy to serve the crown. Prince Doran and his family have been kind. I find Dorne an interesting place."
The priestess snorted. "Dorne is a wasteland - sand and scorpions and a sun that bakes the land. The Martells are no different than other highborns. They will smile at your face but stab you from behind. Vipers ambush their prey. Sunspear is a pit of snakes."
"King's Landing is not much different."
The old woman laughed. "Yes, the world has always been a cruel place. Old Ghis was a brutal land. The Valyrians learned slavery from the Ghiscari and applied it to their empire."
"Were the ancient Rhoynar any better?" Myrcella asked.
"Not as much as Dornishmen like to believe. We were not conquerors like the Valyrian Freehold but we had slaves. All of Essos did. At least, the cities on the Rhoyne grew rich from spices, trade and ironwork. The Rhoynar fought to stay free from the dragons, but they never dreamed of ending slavery." The priestess said.
"Not even Nymeria? Or Prince Garin?"
"Nymeria fled Essos. You know her story as well as I do. As for Prince Garin, he was a great man, but not a good one. He was proud, petty, and vengeful. Had he bent the knee and made peace, he might have lived an easy life. He loved glory too much for that."
"How do you know, my lady? That was so long ago, and there are few stories about Garin."
"The stories in the books are all about Nymeria. She deserves much credit for saving the remains of the Rhoynar people. But Garin was named the Great for a reason." The priestess pulled out a necklace. A shimmering ruby in a golden setting emerged from hiding.
"What is that?" Myrcella asked.
"This is Garin's Jewel. The priests found it in the waters of Chroyane after the Sorrows came. They say that the Mother gave it to him to perform great magic. I can not use it, but it is a relic of the Prince : his great deeds, his foolish valor, his vengeful curse."
The ruby gleamed against the priestess's pale mottled hand, throbbing like a beating heart. Myrcella reached out and touched the stone with wonder.
In the House of the Red Hands, Mira Forrester recalled her happy childhood in Ironrath. She had grown up with her three brothers, dutiful Rodrik, rebellious Asher, and little Ethan, playing in the ironwood groves of the wolfswood. She would have gladly stayed in the North. That was not meant to be. Her mother, Elissa Branfield, second daughter of a minor crownlands house eradicated after the Targaryens fell, wanted Mira to learn the ways of a southern court. She had gone to Highgarden to serve Margaery Tyrell as a handmaiden.
Mira was not the only Forrester to leave home. Her father, Lord Gregor, and her brothers, Rodrick and Ethan, went south to fight for Winterfell in the Riverlands. Ethan even hinted that they had won great glory for their house and were held in high esteem. The same could not be said for her second brother. He had been exiled after a secret affair with Gwyn Whitehill was discovered, igniting a blood feud with their rival house.
Asher lay on the bed before her, his eyes closed and his breath shallow. Her wild brother was a born warrior, skilled at sword, bow and spear, and happy to fight from horse, on foot, or even brawl in a tavern. The plague had brought him low. Dark swollen spots covered his neck and armpits, and when not delirious, he complained of fever and chills. Asher was not alone. Hundreds of patients were crammed into the hall, and the vomit and blood combined to create an overpowering stench of death and decay.
"How is your brother?" A gray haired woman asked. Sarra Snow commanded the Company of the Rose. A capable warrior, she could trace her lineage to Aegon's Conquest, but her olive skin attested to the many generations spent as a sellsword in Braavos and the Free Cities.
"No improvement. The healers do not think there is anything to be done." Mira had been at Asher's side for weeks. He was weakening and might die far away from home.
"Hundreds of temples, and none of these priests can do a damn thing." Sarra spat.
In plain robes of gray, white, blue, and black, clerics from different shrines joined the Healers of the Red Hands. The hall was full of followers of the Lord of Light, the Moonsingers, the Great Shepherd, the Great Stallion, the Lord of Harmony and more exotic faiths. Holy men and women of every sect claimed their faith could heal the sick through divine intervention. So far, the gods of Braavos were noticeably deaf.
"How are things outside the city?" Mira asked. Like many, the Company had sheltered in a villa just outside Braavos to escape the plague.
"Worse. There may be no cure but at least here, the healers do their best to keep the sick alive. In the country, I hear the cries of mothers weeping, and children hungry for bread. Mummers have abandoned playhouses, farmers have left the fields, and sea captains are unwilling to sail. Even thieves do not loot the dead, for fear of the plague."
"I should write a letter to my family in Ironrath, so that they know Asher might never return." They burned the bodies of plague victims in Braavos. The large pyres billowed smoke in the day and glowed red and orange at night.
"Do not give up hope. Your brother is too stubborn to die. He will fight for his life, like a proper man of the North." Sarra said.
The door burst open and six swaggering bravos walked through, rapiers at their hips and dressed in colorful sashes and garish shirts and pantaloons. They guarded a young man who wore a blue robe so dark that it seemed black. His purple cloak bore the sigil of the current Sealord's House, five red balls and one blue on a gold shield.
"I bring good news." Niko Antaryon announced.
"Has the Sealord fled the city in his pleasure barge? Perhaps that might appease the gods." A fat man hooted. Even sick, the Braavosi loved their politics.
"Quiet! Lord Ferrego has done everything he could. The Sealord has given gold and silver from his own vault to the House of the Red Hands." a merchant shouted back.
Before the verbal sparring could become more heated, Niko thrust a glass vial full of a green gold substance forward. "The cure for the plague. It arrived at the harbor this morning."
"A trick!" the fat man screeched.
Others joined in the derision. "Quackery from Pentos." "Is House Antaryon now a peddler of pills and potions?" "Do you expect us to bend over for the Sealord so he can administer this cure?"
One priest, an old man with a long beard and a blind right eye in gray robes, stepped closer. "How do we know the cure works? Any man can lie for gold."
With his left hand, Niko brandished a scroll. "Here is the most remarkable thing. This elixir will cost nothing. The sea captains also gave away instructions for brewing the medicine!"
Confusion broke out in the crowd. "How can this be?"
A crone in a pale gray robe held up her hand. "Niko, how many ships carried the cure to Ragman's Harbor? And where do they sail from?"
"Three, Madame Moonsinger. But the harbormaster has sighted more sails close by. They come from Maidenpool but the claim is that the cure has spread far and wide."
"Then this truly is the end of the plague." The old priestess said.
The words were greeted with surprise, silence, and then a growing belief. A healer from the hospice opened the scroll. "The directions appear simple. Mold, corn liquor, a large barrel, mixing in air. The hardest part is harvesting the medicine."
More priests and priestesses came forth, eager to examine the scroll. The three moonsingers held back, the young girl and dark skinned woman offering arms to support the crone. She turned her eyes upwards and then back to the Sealord's son. "You have forgotten something. What else did the captains say?"
Niko Antaryon nodded. "The cure to the plague has been sent to all of the Free Cities, to be distributed to princes and paupers alike. These are the orders of Daemon Targaryen."
"Daemon Targaryen?" A thin man with a hawk-like nose cried. "But Prince Daemon died over a century ago. He fell in the Dance."
"Not that Daemon. This one comes from the North, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Daemon is the true name but he is also known as Jon Snow." Niko said.
Mira wondered what that revelation meant for the North, the Reach, and her mission for Lady Margaery. How exactly could she hire the Company of the Rose without any idea of the North's intentions? Life had become more complicated but then Asher might be cured. Mira was quite happy with that outcome.
Shireen liked the North. In Dragonstone, she had been lonely, with only books, Maester Cressen and Patches for company. Part of that was the greyscale scars but even had she been whole, there were few children her age in the castle. That was not true in this unnamed port with the extensive but still empty docks. She had met a few Winter Town Boys and Little Birds, who told an awestruck Edric about the escape from King's Landing. A few highborn ladies hesitated, but the approval of Mya Whitestone, the wife of the Dreadfort's castellan, carried great weight. Most importantly, she could explore the town, without any scrutiny from her mother's staff.
"How many ships are you building?" Edric asked, as they walked about the busy yards.
"Four, Ser. Two carracks and two caravels. The caravels are smaller ships, fast and easy to sail, with lateen sails so you can zig zag into the wind. The carracks are larger vessels, and roomy enough to carry a large amount of cargo in the hold. The carracks have both square and lateen sails, so the ship will do well windward and leeward." A Winter Bow boy replied.
"And they can cross the Narrow Sea?" Shireen asked.
"And much further. Once the maester determines the right trade routes, these ships will travel to Asshai and beyond. We have Ironborn prisoners working in the yards but our ways are better than the Iron Islands. The caravel's length will match the longship. The carracks can be built larger than even your father's galley. Easier to sail, stable in the high seas, and able to carry provisions for long trips."
"Don't you worry that others will steal Jon Snow's ideas at seacraft?" Edric said.
"Let them, Ser. The Northern fleet is only beginning. Our prince is not afraid of anyone."
The Winter Town boys sang sea shanties as they returned to work. They were true believers - excited about the ships and loyal to their absent leader. Shireen could not help but compare these children to her father's followers. The Florents and Farrings did not match the dedication or competence of Jon Snow's crew.
"It is a pleasure to see you, princess." A gruff voice spoke from behind her back.
"Ser Davos!" Shireen smiled warmly. The weathered face appeared tired but then the Onion Knight was always like that, except as captain of his ship.
"The Starks haven't harmed you then." Edric declared.
"No, they didn't feed me to their dire wolves." the smuggler quipped.
"I am glad you are well, Ser." Shireen said.
"Thank you, Princess. I must leave you two soon. The Starks are here now, and your father will want to speak with Lord Robb."
"Will the Starks bend the knee?" Edric asked.
Davos grimaced. "The Starks are a great house. Lord Eddard Stark was close to your father Robert. I doubt that Robb Stark feels any such ties to Dragonstone or Storm's End. His loyalty is to the North and his brother, Jon Snow."
"But they are cousins." Edric said.
"Cousins in name but brothers in blood. You will see that when you meet the Starks."
There were three Starks but only two dire wolves. Most of the attention was paid to the oldest. The Young Wolf did not seem so young to Shireen. He might only be one and seven or one and eight but Robb Stark stood shoulder to shoulder with the other highborn. He greeted the Northern bannermen with courtesy and dignity, speaking to them about their holdfasts and families. Robb's brothers were more restrained. Rickon was very young, a boy of five name days, who preferred the company of his black dire wolf over knights and lords. Bran Stark sat in a wooden chair with wheels, pushed by a giant of a man, who seemed slow of wits but gentle. The middle brother spoke little, but his deep blue eyes judged everyone.
All three Starks had the Tully look - a stocky and strong build, bright blue eyes, auburn hair. None of them smiled though. Years ago, Shireen had seen Ser Edmure at a tourney in the Crownlands. The young knight drank and cavorted with an entourage of laughing Rivermen. These Starks were not like that, and eager to attend to business.
A stone building with a slate roof in the ringfort hosted the meeting. Freshly cut boards covered the floor, and weapons decorated the drafty walls - shields, swords, spears, bows and more exotic arms - hand crossbows, curved knives and pikes that reached nearly to the high ceiling. Her father faced Robb Stark at a large table close to a roaring fire. Lady Mya offered a tray of bread and salt, and Stannis grudgingly took a bite.
Shireen and Edric squeezed into an alcove near the kitchen. Winter Town Boys made room for them in the small space and offered warm black bread. Shireen dipped a slice into a crock of butter. They were hidden by shadows and servants but near enough to overhear.
"Davos claims that visions caused you to come North." Robb began.
"Dark forces are rising in the North. Beyond the Wall, the enemy grows stronger. When the stars bleed and darkness gathers, the One whose name may not be spoken will bring the cold and the night that never ends. Unless true men fight now, the world will end in ice. Another Long Night comes and only Azar Ahai can bring back the dawn." Melisandre proclaimed.
"You have seen this in your dreams?" Robb asked.
"I have seen this in the flames. It is written in prophecy as well. When the Long Night comes, Azor Ahai will be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. The bleeding star has come and gone, and Dragonstone is a place of stone and salt. Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai reborn."
"You cannot be certain of that. That is one interpretation, but there may be others." Bran said.
"R'hllor allows his Faithful to glimpse the future in the flames." Melisandre replied.
"Jojen told me that dreams show the truth but that men often do not understand them. My brother Jon says that you cannot trust prophecies, even when they come true." Bran said.
"The founder of House Stark built the Wall in the Long Night. The first Brandon must have done that for a reason. The vows of the Night's Watch talk about the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the shield that guards the realms of men. Is it so hard to believe that the Great Other will come from beyond the Wall?" Stannis said.
"The Long Night was very very long ago. When something has not happened for eight thousand years, you do not expect it to occur next winter." Robb retorted. "Say we believe in this vision. How large are the enemy forces? How will they breach the Wall?"
"I see towers crumbling into the sea as the dark tide rises from the depths. Dead things will shamble out of a hundred caves, beneath a great cliff and under a rain of fiery arrows. A cold wind will blow and a white mist will sweep over the field, extinguishing all the fires on the wall. Only skulls will be left, and great winged shadows will fall over the earth."
"Yes. But what is the size of this army? And how will they attack? And who or what is the One Who Must Not Be Named? Does he lead these dead men?" Robb pressed further.
"She is a priestess, not an outrider. You cannot expect her to be a scout."
"You are not a Northman, Lord Stannis. My father has taken me to the Wall many times. The Wall is seven hundred feet high and three hundred feet thick. It stretches for hundreds of miles from the Shadow Tower to Eastwatch by the Sea. There are over a dozen abandoned castles along the Wall. If these dead men can cross everywhere, we cannot hope to defend the border. If they can cross only at Castle Black, then they must either scale the heights or go through the tunnel. That passage has three iron gates with murder holes and a guardhouse overlooking the outer door. If your Red Woman cannot tell us how they will attack, then how can we defend?"
"These are good questions, Lord Stark, but can they not wait until Castle Black?" Davos asked.
"We must go North. Who knows when the dead will attack?" Stannis said.
Robb shook his head. "You cannot mount an attack or defense without knowing your enemy. How will your forces be supplied? You need provisions, weapons, and likely reinforcements. There is little to forage past the Last Hearth. Dead men do not need to eat, but your armies will. This plan to go to the Wall is not much of a plan."
"The Others are coming. This is the war that truly matters - Life Versus Death. Azor Ahai will strike against his enemies. The sword Lightbringer will give us victory." Melisandre said.
"If you want the living to not become dead, then we will need more time and preparation. Flaming swords will not win battles if your men starve. Jon will be here in a few days. I will speak to him about the best way forward." Robb said.
"I do not need your bastard brother's help." Stannis gritted his teeth.
"If this is truly the Long Night, we will want every bit of help. My brother is good at war. His thoughts and plans were valuable in the Riverlands. We will need more than prophecies of Azor Ahai to defeat a real army."
"I see you have already chosen your side. In the Stormlands, you did not support my claim to the Throne. Did you always mean to place the bastard on the Iron Throne?"
The Lord of Winterfell turned cold and hard. "Jon bled for the North. He fought for House Stark. He has never asked for lands or titles though he is very deserving. He did not tell me that he was a Targaryen, so he did not scheme and plot for the crown. Your witch says that Azor Ahai will wake dragons out of stone. She interprets that to mean Dragonstone. That might be your castle but it was built by Targaryens. My brother is the only dragon in Westeros."
This was the first time Myrcella dined on a houseboat. She had eaten aboard the Seaswift, sailing from King's Landing to Dorne. That was a royal war galley, and the food was simple - bread, porridge, boiled salt pork supplemented occasionally by fish. Officers were supplied with fresh goat milk and cheese but meals were cooked on a giant iron stove set in sand and tin to protect the deck. The houseboat was different.
The Lady Alia was named after a ruling princess famous for poisoning her consort with a plate of bacon. In size, it was as long and wide as a galley with a thatched roof over a wooden hull. The boat had no nails at all - long planks were joined with coir rope made of coconut fibers and the walls coated with resin of boiled nut shells. Bamboo was used in the roofing, floor mats, poles, and window screens that allowed in light, air, and the scent of spices from the busy and spacious kitchen. As the boat drifted down the Greenblood, Myrcella marveled at the comfortable interior, the tranquil waters, and the wonderful food.
Servants took away the plates of roast chickpeas, cheese and figs, and fiery stuffed peppers. The main dishes followed - olives simmered with orange and chilis, marinated white anchovies with pickled red onions on toast, peeled shrimp in an earthenware pot fried with garlic and oil, and a large shallow platter of rice with rabbit, chicken, snails, and three types of beans. Only a finger width of rice covered the wide pan, creating a slightly charred layer of crunchy rice on the bottom. The food of Dorne was exotic and flavorful, much like the people. Myrcella dipped a piece of flat bread into the garlicky oil of the shrimp.
"Why isn't she dead already? She was dying four days ago." Arianne complained over a plate of golden rice and a glass of lemonsweet.
"Patience. The priestess will pass soon. Maester Caleotte says that she barely clings to life." Prince Doran responded.
"But until she does, the crowds continue to gather. A hundred more boats arrive every day. Planky Town has doubled in size. That does not count the thousands making the journey on foot. Drey says a convoy of wagons passed by Lemonwood, heading North."
"Father, do you think we are in any danger?" Trystane asked. The Martells had a formidable guard - dozens of knights, and hundreds more men at arms. The other lords came with large retinues. All these numbers paled though to the followers of Mother Rhoyne.
Doran shook his head. "The priestess has said nothing, and there is no whiff of rebellion here. Mother Rhoyne has never been a militant goddess, ready to smite other faiths. The worshippers are mostly smallfolk who come to pay their respects. The priestess is not our enemy."
"She is not our friend either." Arianne said. "The orphans tell me that the clerics preach that the Return comes soon. Mother Rhoyne is still in their hearts and minds."
"But that has been true for hundreds of years." Trystane said. "What has changed now?"
"Excuse me." Myrcella said calmly. "I know the Return is going back to Essos and the Rhoyne. But why? What is so great about a river?"
Doran put down a blood orange and wiped his thin lips. "The Rhoyne is not a river. It is THE river. Half a dozen tributaries, the Daughters, flow into their Mother. Tens of millions lived, played and loved on the Rhoyne. Chroyane was richer and more splendid than any city now. Prince Garin's fortress, the Palace of Love, was ten times the size of the Red Keep. His army was the largest the world had ever seen."
"These are just legends." Arianne said. "A millennium has passed since Chroyane, Ny Sar, Ghoyan Drohe, Ar Noy, Sar Mell and Sarhoy fell. We don't know what is true or false."
"The tales of the great city-states are true. I took a tour of the Free Cities and met your mother during my travels in Essos. Norvos is a wealthy city, with mines, tapestries, and a great fortress temple built out of marble and stone. Norvos sits on the Noyne, the Wild Daughter of the Rhoyne. So does Ny Sar. I only saw the remains from the river - the galley refused to approach the banks. Nymeria's palace is colossal - pink and green marble, statues and frescos, domes and spires greater than the Tower of the Sun. Norvos is a shadow of Ny Sar, and Ny Sar is less than Chroyane. These were beautiful cities." Doran said.
"But they are all ruins now, thanks to the dragonlords and the Sorrows. Surely, the orphans and the priests know that. The glory is gone from the Rhoyne." Myrcella asked.
"But not the magic. Tell her, Father." Trystane said.
"Idiot! House Martell does not share this with outsiders. Even many of our lords do not know." Arianne said.
"Myrcella is not an outsider. Father said she will be a Martell." Trystane replied stubbornly.
Doran sighed. "The Orphans still believe in the Mother – not the Mother Above of the Seven, but Mother Rhoyne. Prince Garin had strange uncanny abilities granted to him by the goddess - to raise walls, to summon great waterspouts, to bend the river. This was not the sorcery of the dragons, based on air and fire, but some say the magic still remains in the Rhoyne."
"Some fools." Arianne snorted. "Magic has faded. The Targaryens are all that remain from Valyria but where are they now?"
"One is in the North. Another is in Meereen with her dragons." Doran said. "Magic is a strange thing. It is stronger in certain places. Stannis' red witch came from Asshai. There are stories of skin changers north of the Wall, and legends of water magic."
"But Father, no one has seen water magic since the Spice Wars. Garin's curse was the last manifestation of Mother Rhoyne's power." Arianne said.
"That is not entirely true. When Nymeria landed in Dorne, Mors Martell ruled over the Sandship, a barren stretch of land. The Rhoynish water witches knew spells that made dry streams flow again and deserts bloom. That is why her enemies called Nymeria a witch queen until she defeated them and sent six kings to the wall." Doran said.
"But those spells would be incredibly valuable in Dorne. Was there no way to preserve them?" Myrcella asked.
"Nymeria ruled for twenty six years. By the time she died, those ways were lost. Water Magic belongs to the Rhoynar, not the Dornish. That age is gone."
The Martells returned to the food, eating and drinking quietly. Myrcella thought again about the priestess's shimmering ruby. Was the relic truly Garin's Jewel? If so, perhaps the magic was still there, lurking in the stone.
Stannis Baratheon refused to meet the ship. Shireen disagreed but understood why her father stayed away from the wharf. In Westeros, kings had never gotten along well with other kings. The Storm Kings of old fought the river kings for control of the lands north of the Blackwater. Argilac Durrandon, the last Storm King, had been feuding with Harren the Black, the King of the Isles and Rivers, when Aegon and his sisters landed. By the end of the Conquest, three kings were dead and three had bent the knee. Only the Princess of Dorne remained independent.
Only two Baratheon knights accompanied them to the docks. Her father's other followers had loudly declared that they would never accept a bastard. Ser Davos Seaworth and Ser Andrew Estermont had more sense. They wanted to see the Targaryen prince with their own eyes, not second hand accounts and wild guesses.
"I won't bend the knee." Edric declared mulishly.
"Probably a good idea, lad. Even the cleanest harbor is dirty. You would get mud on your new breeches." Davos said.
"I meant I won't kneel. No matter what the Northmen demand, I will stand tall and proud. Even if Jon Snow orders me to bow down."
"Snow doesn't know your name, Edric." Ser Andrew, the tall brown haired man, said. "And the North do not hold much to the customs and courtesies of the South. The Valemen tell me the Starks are a relaxed bunch, particularly with each other."
Edric grimaced in thought. "But if Snow is a Targaryen, wouldn't he insist on such things? Ser Axell says that Aerys the Mad burnt men alive for the slightest bit of defiance. What was true of the grandfather, might also hold for the grandson."
"Ser Axell says many things. He once told me of his vision in the flames of beautiful young dancers spinning and swirling before Stannis. He should leave prophecies to the Red Woman." Davos replied.
"Some Targaryens were mad, but many were not. If Snow cured the plague and gave that away, we should all be thankful. That does not mean we need to accept him as king, but Snow is hardly the second coming of Aerys." Ser Andrew said.
The chattering stopped when the Wolf Wind, the sails displaying a white merman with green hair, beard and tail, reached the docks. The Starks waited with the two dire wolves, flanked by Mychel and Mya Redstone, several knights from the Vale, and Wintertown boys. Shireen held her breath, wondering if the men, in particular Lord Robb, would bend the knee.
A fat man in rich blue green velvet boomed out orders on deck in a jolly voice. Before sailors could tie the Wolf Wind down, a sleek dire wolf with gray fur and a white belly leapt off. The dire wolves at Robb Stark's side sprang forward and were joined by a great white wolf with dark garnet eyes. The four wolves capered about and in the happy chaos, Shireen missed the arrival of two figures who looked quite alike, with dark brown hair and gray eyes. Five year old Rickon ran forward and jumped into Jon Snow's arms, and Arya embraced Robb. There was much laughter and little ceremony. Snow greeted his siblings with affection, and the Valemen and children with warmth. No one kneeled except two smaller wolves frolicking with their pack.
"My brother has returned to us. Let us celebrate that." Robb Stark said to the cheering crowd.
A young voice cried out. "Maester, are the stories true? Are you a Targaryen?"
"They are. I am a Targaryen and also a Stark. Whatever my name or title, I will always be a man of the North."
Shireen was still watching the sailors disembark when a boy came over with guards. She recognized Sandor Clegane with the burned face but not the woman in the gray plate armor.
"Ser Davos, my master wishes to speak with you." The boy with a white wolf pin said.
The Onion Knight hesitated. "Shouldn't that conversation include King Stannis?"
"We are looking for him now, Ser. But Lord Stannis and his Red Witch are not near the docks. You may come. Our prince has no time to waste."
"May I bring my companions?" Davos asked.
The boy shrugged. "If you wish. Jon Snow has nothing to hide."
The taproom was dominated by the fat man from the boat. Wyman Manderly had an enormous tray stacked before him – pork pies, boiled eggs, fried sausages, capons, and a large bowl of porridge drizzled with crushed nuts and honey. He sat opposite Snow and Arya Stark, and his booming voice recounted to the Starks the state of affairs at White Harbor. Shireen heard a few words about the Old Mint, barrels of whiskey, and trade with Essos.
"Ser Davos, thank you for coming. Please sit down." Snow said.
Lord Wyman struggled to stand, offering up the cushioned chair. He had the biggest belly and the most chins Shireen had ever seen. His sausage-like fingers were stained with grease and crumbs. Two servants came over to help but stopped at Snow's glance.
"My lord, please stay. You are one of my most capable and leal counselors." Robb Stark said. The lord nodded gratefully and fell down on the seat.
As chairs were brought over, Davos introduced their group. "This is Ser Andrew Estermont of Greenstone. Edric Storm. And Princess Shireen."
Robb nodded. "You know my brother Bran and Rickon. Lord Mychel and his lady Mya, and Lord Robar Royce and Ser Andrew Tollett. Lord Wyman sits with my brother Jon and sister Arya." Greetings were exchanged as the Stormlanders sat down.
"Ser Davos, tell us everything about these visions of the North." Snow said.
"I only know what I have heard. I have not seen things in the flames but some worshippers of R'hllor have. Melisandre talks of demons made of snow and ice, armies of dead men, and a cold that drives men mad when the Long Night comes."
"What about the Wall? Has she ever mentioned how the dead cross the Wall?"
"She speaks about the Others gaining strength beyond the Wall and how dark forces are rising in the North. But she has never spoken about the crossing." Davos admitted.
"Lord Snow, you must understand. Witches never speak clearly. The Red Woman hides behind riddles and mystery. Perhaps the Lord of Light does show her visions. But what is real, what is mistaken, and what is a lie - none of us know." Ser Andrew said.
"When did the Red Woman first speak about Azor Ahai and the Others?" Snow asked.
"She arrived in Dragonstone some years past. Queen Selyse was one of the first converts to the Faith of R'hllor. After that, the Red Woman began to whisper that Stannis was Azor Ahai reborn. We did not know the prophecy but thought it meant that Stannis would be King. As for the Others, I am not certain but much later." Davos answered.
"Azor Ahai was a hero, not a king. The First Men had a similar legend - a last hero who fought the Others with only a dozen companions. He had no army." Snow said.
"Then how did he win?" Davos said.
"He allied with the children of the forest. Their magic defeated an enemy that men could not." Bran said.
"That sounds hard to believe. Little forest men saving the world?" Ser Andrew said.
"Is that much less plausible than a flaming sword? Do you really think Stannis will slay one monster and the entire army of the dead will disappear?" Snow shot back.
"Armies break when commanders fall. We must believe Melisandre's tale that Stannis is Azor Ahai and will lead us to victory. You have not seen her sorcery. The Red Women can summon fire and bind shadows to her will. His grace had an army but no soldier fought at the siege of Storm's End. Blood magic took the castle." Ser Andrew shuddered.
"That is true. Cortnay Penrose was the castellan of Storm's End. Stannis told me that Melisandre had seen his death in the flames. He said the night is dark and full of terrors. A day later, the knight had died." Davos said.
"How did Ser Cortnay die?" Robb asked.
"No one knows." The Onion Knight avoided the eyes of Jon Snow and Robb Stark.
"My Lord." Wyman said. "This talk of magic troubles me. Witches and warlocks cannot be trusted. Relying on sorcery and prophecy never turns out well."
"What else can we do? An army of dead men threatens the Wall. That's dark magic too, and if they cross the Wall, everyone in the North is in danger." Robb said.
"The Others may be a grave threat, but what does anyone know about this Red Woman? What does she want?" The Lord of White Harbor continued. "She declares Stannis to be Azor Ahai. His men believe that means Stannis will claim the Iron Throne. When that fails, the Red Woman starts to speak about dead men at the Wall. A curious sequence of events."
"There is trouble at the Wall. The wildlings have chosen a new King, and the Lord Commander writes that corpses have come back to life, and killed rangers of the Night's Watch. Her visions sound fanciful but I believe are likely true." Robb said.
"But can we trust her? Who does she really serve? Priests care more about faith than kings. She may have beguiled Stannis but her true loyalty is to R'hllor. And what does R'hllor care about the North?" Wyman said.
"The Lord of Light's enemy has always been the Great Other. The dark god is also known as the Soul of Ice, Lord of Darkness, and the God of Night and Terror. If these Others serve that god, Melisandre will do her best to destroy them." Shireen said.
"So she says. And perhaps she might even believe that. But I would be cautious about priests and odd religions. The lives of non-believers do not matter to fanatics. I have little faith in this Red Woman and her fire god."
"Lord Wyman is right." Robb declared. "Trust should be reserved for those who have earned it. This story of Azor Ahai may be a lie, and even if it is true, Stannis may not be this prophesied Prince. We cannot rely on a flaming sword to defeat an army."
"We will need allies to fight the Great Other. Beyond the Wall… ." Bran said.
"There are other allies." Snow interrupted. "We just need to find them."
The Starks waited but her father made no appearance at the meal. The Winter Town Boys were refused entry to the Baratheon camp. Shireen wondered if Melisandre was performing a sacrifice to R'hllor that night. In this Northern port town, there were no statues of the Seven, so any ritual would appear to be only large bonfires and nothing more sinister.
As they walked back, her cousin stumbled and sat down hard, like a man in the cups. That surprised her - Edric was no sot. Shireen waved forward the two knights, staying with her cousin. Under the light of the full moon, she could see tears in the deep blue eyes.
"Edric, what is wrong?"
"Ser Cortnay. He fell off the battlements of Storm's End that night. Lord Elwood claimed it was an accident but it wasn't. The Witch killed him."
Her cousin had grown up as a ward at Storm's End. "Did you know Ser Cortnay well?"
Edric rubbed away the tears. "He was my guardian. I was the King's Bastard, so no one mocked me but I never spent much time with Renly or saw my father. Ser Cortnay was strict but kind. He made certain I attended my lessons with the maester and master at arms, and would take me hawking as a reward. He was a good man and true."
"We don't know if Melisandre killed the castellan." Shireen cautioned.
"She must have. Stannis tells Davos that Ser Cortnay will die, and then he falls from the walls that night. I am not clever but how else would your father know?"
Ser Cortnay and Uncle Renly had both died in suspicious circumstances. Shireen wondered who else the Red Witch had targeted with her magic. "Edric, I am sorry for your loss. Terrible things happen in war."
"It was not war. He did not die fighting. This was murder."
The dire wolves leaped across the icy water, their keen senses detecting prey behind groves of oak trees and sentinel pines. A bright moon shone down on the forest and the hills, the silver light reflecting off floating branches and half frozen stones in the tributary of the Weeping Water. Two years ago, this might have been just two brothers, hunting boar in the wolfswood. But now, Robb was Lord of Winterfell and Jon was rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Grey Wind was dead too, one of the two littermates slain South of the Neck.
"Lord Beric should return in less than a moon. We will see how the Vale Lords receive news of Baelish's death." Jon had finished recounting the events of Maidenpool. It was a winding tale, full of Tyrells, Martells, the Kingslayer, a Faceless Man, and Littlefinger.
"Have you heard from either Beric or Thoros? I wonder also whether the Martells and Tyrells will attempt to contact you." Robb said.
"If they send a raven, the letter would go to Winterfell and not here. With the cure to the plague, alliances may be shifting. Lady Olenna is a force but she will need to speak with the other Reachmen. The Red Viper will consult with his brother. With less urgency, they might send a messenger in person, not a raven."
"Jon, tell me the truth. Do you want to be King? You gave no hint of that when we were fighting in the Riverlands."
"We were busy with the war, and I only was certain that I was a Targaryen after the Red Fork."
"But you must have given this a great deal of thought. Your blood cannot be ignored, when you announce it to the Seven Kingdoms after walking through a fire."
Jon Snow sighed. "I never wanted a great title. I would have been happy being a knight, and after the Citadel, a maester. All I desired was a life with honor. I suppose even that is too much to ask from the gods. I thought we would have more time. In a few years, the North will be much wealthier, and the forces replenished."
"Did you rebuild the North for House Stark or to fight a war for the Iron Throne?"
"I had no intention of starting a war. A strong North is a good thing and the proper reward for our bannermen. I planned to tell you about Rhaegar and Lyanna in a few years. Alleras thinks that Joffrey will be a bad king. If he clashes with Tywin or fights with the Tyrells…"
"Then it would make the conquest of the South much easier." Robb finished the thought. "Your friend Alleras is right. Joffrey is a bad king. Perhaps Renly would have had a peaceful reign but he was a terrible war leader. He was more fit for feasting than fighting. And as for Stannis —- what is it about the Iron Throne that makes men so mad?"
"It is not just the Iron Throne. Kings have never been easy to deal with. The weak ones invite failure and chaos. The strong ones become tyrants and force themselves on others. Both weak and strong are prone to war, and long wars are never good."
"Stannis has been here several days before you arrived. He is not a man given to easy courtesies so I had his knights watched. Mya Whitestone saw them lighting a great circle of fire. The Red Witch cried "One realm, one God, one King" and the honor guard took up the cry, beating their swords and spears against their shields." Robb shook his head.
"Was Stannis there?" Jon asked.
"He was in the middle of the bloody circle. Mya says that at least he did not join the chant. That would be even more mad."
"He is caught up in this tale of Azor Ahai. Stannis has gone too far and cannot turn back. Because if the story is not true, his men will abandon the cause. What does Stannis have to back his claim to the Iron Throne? A few castles, and not many men." Jon said.
"Two of those castles are Dragonstone and Storm's End."
"Dragonstone has few sworn houses. Storm's End is richer but the Stormlanders will not follow a kinslayer. The forces he brings to the Wall are not enough. House Karstark and Umber have more men, and they are used to the cold. If the White Walkers and Others can be beaten by a few thousand men, it is not much of a threat. But if the enemy has a great army that can bring down the Wall, then Stannis and our bannermen will be overrun."
"You do not believe that he is Azor Ahai?"
Jon shrugged. "I have not met the man yet, but I know the legend of Lightbringer. Azor Ahai forged the sword by thrusting the hot blade through his wife's breast. He gave what he loved most in life to defeat the Others. What has Stannis given up? A few statues of gods that he no longer believes. The witch twists the prophecy for her benefit. People can believe their own lies. The words are when the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai will be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone."
"So?"
"Where are the dragons out of stone?" Jon pointed out.
"Stannis sailed from Dragonstone. Dragonstone was the seat of Aegon before the Conquest."
"Aegon had real dragons, not stone carvings or statues. Stannis has not woken any dragons. Only one person has in the past hundred years - Daenerys Targaryen."
"Her dragons are young, and she is thousands of miles away. And why would she come? She is a queen in her own right."
"She may not. But if the Long Night comes again, this war will not end easily. You remember Old Nan's stories – a night that never ends, White Walkers in the darkness, riding dead horses and hunting with packs of spiders as large as hounds. If those tales are true, a Red Witch and a would-be-king are not enough. If the Wall comes down, we will need all the allies we can find, near and far, in the North, the South, and Essos as well."
Author's Notes
There are three basic types of medieval ships. The galley, at least three thousand years old, is propelled mainly by oars and is fairly narrow. The longships appeared in the Viking heyday, 9th to 13th century AD. They used both sails and rowing, and could travel rivers and seas. The cog relied only on sails and developed into the carrack and caravel. The Northmen are building cogs and carracks for trade and war. All three types of ships lasted through the Middle Ages but the sailing ship became dominant with longer voyages and gunpowder.
With the exception of Davos, Stannis's followers are mostly an obnoxious and ambitious bunch. Ser Godry Farring and Ser Clayton Suggs are some of the worst. Stannis's men are divided between worshippers of the Seven (King's Men) and followers of R'hllor (Queen's Men.) The Queen's Men are more repellent. Davos and Ser Andrew are King's Men.
The burning sword is an interesting motif. The whole story of Lightbringer doesn't make much sense to me. And there is an excellent passage where Sallador Saan notes that Stannis's sword was burnt and not burning. That's when Davos remembers Thoros getting his arse kicked at the melee. Notably, both Maester Aemon and Jon Snow know that Lightbringer emits no heat.
It is never truly resolved whether Stannis ordered Renly's death or not. Did he know that Melisandre was sending the shadow baby assassin? Or did he somehow just close his eyes to all of that? The fratricide is shocking because Stannis did bear some love for Renly. There are passages where he says he had nothing to do with Renly's death. Is Stannis just tricked by a witch? How complicit is a king in evil done in his name?
Incense was widely used in funeral rites and rituals. In fact, the eastern Roman Empire that ruled Syria and Turkey was much richer than the western because of incense. People and priests had to buy large amounts of myrrh and frankincense from the Middle East.
Slavery was everywhere in the ancient world. In Athens, the cradle of democracy, a third of the residents were slaves. Slavery existed for a long, long time. As late as the 1800s!, European countries paid annual tribute to the Barbary pirates, who are estimated to have captured and sold over 1 million Europeans in North Africa over several decades. It took the US, British, French and Dutch naval powers to end these raids.
In the books, Ferrego Antaryon is only known to be sick. The Sealord of Braavos rules for life, although his enemies may try to cut that short. The sigil of House Antaryon are the Medici balls. It is still a mystery today what those balls signify.
The moonsingers are the priests who prophesied where the escaped slaves could find shelter. The secret location became Braavos. Thus, the moonsingers are the most important, even if there are many different religions and temples.
There was a major revolution in ship building in the 14th and 15th centuries. I might save this for later chapters but effectively carracks/caravels are the next step in evolution and the ships that Europe used to trade with Africa, Asia, and the Americas. The Viking longships disappeared except for the North Sea and the coasts of Scandinavia, Scotland and Ireland. The galleys hung on for a bit longer but they were obsolete compared to the newer, more versatile vessels.
The characters are slightly more aged in the show but it is remarkable how young they are in the books. Robb Stark dies at the age of sixteen in the Red Wedding. Sixteen! I get that youth was important for the journey of Arya and Sansa - both traumatized and becoming hardened. But Robb and Jon leading huge groups of men before they become teens? I suppose there is historical precedent - at the age of 16, Edward the Black Prince was a leader in the Battle of Crecy. But his father, King Edward the III, was overall commander.
"Infantries win battles, logistics win wars." Of course this was said by an army general, John Pershing in WWII. It makes sense for Jon Snow as Commander of the Night's Watch to fight the Others. But Stannis's presence up North is much stranger. There is some notion that Stannis hires mercenaries and gets a line of credit from the Iron Bank, but how do you sustain a large army in the freezing cold where there isn't much food up North? There is no way Stannis can go North without Robb Stark's permission. He needs logistical support.
Logistics is one of the great secrets of the Roman armies. Europe didn't match those logistics until the 1600s. Caesar talks about requisitioning supplies from Gaulish allies.
Melisandre has only one POV chapter (Dance with Dragons) but it is always an open question whether she is duping others. In the chapter, her visions fill her with doubt but she has to keep making cryptic comments and pushing forward. While the insight into her thinking is intriguing, the backstory is confusing - the slave of the Temple, the long life, etc.
The Lady Alia is a kettuvallam, a houseboat from Kerala, a province on the Malabar coast, the southwestern part of India. The Malabar Coast has exported spices since 3000 BC, attracting merchants from Egypt, Arabia, and Rome. The Romans reached India much later than the Middle Easterners. The boats are gorgeous and used for tourism now to travel around the canals and lagoons. Think of a gigantic Rhoynish pole boat. Lady Aliandra Martell was a Princess of Dorne, described briefly in Fire and Blood.
The relationship between religion and rulers is an interesting thing. In certain places, like the Byzantine empire, the emperor had authority over the church. In Western Europe, that wasn't the case and the two sides clashed quite a bit over authority, taxes, and sources of income. Say the orphans are 5% of the population. That could still be a hundred thousand people. That is enough to trouble any medieval ruler.
Like Bran the Builder or Garth Greenhand, Prince Garin is a legend in the distant past. Like the Night King as well! The life expectancy in the Middle Ages is 30 years. 33 generations is far away.
I think of water magic a bit like skin changing in the North. It is an urban legend that is dismissed, until you see it happen. It is a secret known to the Starks but not to most of their bannermen. The same thing could be true for the Rhoynar water magic.
In the books, Andrew Estermont took Edric Storm to Lys so that Melisandre would not burn him. Unfortunately the result was that Shireen was sacrificed instead.
Davos isn't being entirely truthful. After Stannis tells him that Melisandre has seen Ser Cortnay Penrose die, he orders Davos to row her to the castle. She then gives birth to a shadow assassin and the book is quite graphic in saying the crown of the head passes through her legs. It is heavily implied that the shadow is Stannis. "He knew that shadow. As he knew the man who'd cast it." Clash of Clans, Chapter 42.
Ned Stark tells his kids that "When the snow falls and the cold wind Blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives." Usually that advice is interpreted as united we stand but divided we fall. It is certainly true for Ned and Robb, but it is their isolation that allows Arya, Sansa and Jon to make their journey. Of course, canon Jon bungles it by not listening to Melisandre "knives in the dark" and dying in a mutiny.
I am not sure I totally buy the unity argument. In Season 7 and 8, they carry that out with the wight in a box plot, but besides Daenerys, who joins them? Jaime Lannister and six guys from the Riverlands. Daenerys gets completely screwed for helping - one of the main complaints about the plot, and even then, the North is ungrateful. Robb should be skeptical about this prophecy. Wyman is shrewd enough to know what people say is not what they do. Robb has also seen what happened to Renly.
The chant "One Realm, One God, One King" is from Dance with Dragons, Chapter 10, at the Wall. This is when Melisandre burns fake Mance before the Free Folk. Jon tried and failed to convince Stannis to grant mercy. The scene disgusts most of the Night's Watch and the Free Folk, showing 1) Jon had some political smarts, and 2) Stannis is too severe to rule. Book Jon knows he can't refuse King Stannis but he is quite wary of the king and Melisandre.