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Preface:

But they are wrong, it's just a trick of perspective. An illusion, false magic.

The old man rose from his cot to the beat of raven wings. It turned out to be another letter from his great-grandnephew. Even if the old man was not yet totally blind he did not care to read it. Rhaegar Targaryen's conduct fell far short of the standards Maester Aemon held his friendly associates to. If his brother Egg still sat on the Iron Throne, Prince Rhaegar would have been shipped North already to keep Aemon company forevermore. His brother should have named sweet Rhaelle his heir. Then, at least, the kings would know of duty.

How the mighty had fallen. It was a rare day that Aemon wished for another Bloodraven to rise to power; to set the Seven Kingdoms right again, by any means necessary. Aemon looked to the other letter again, the one he had received almost a sennight ago now. It still sat on his bedside table, the paper worn from the many times Aemon had read it. Dear cousin Aemon. She was kin, too…

It did not do to dwell on these thoughts again as Aemon had again and again over the last week. He had made the trip to Shadow Tower for business, he needed to be focused. Twenty days ago the skinchanger Haggon had sought refuge with the Watch, grievously injured and half mad according to Maester Mullin. A patrol had picked him up at the Bridge of Skulls after recognizing him from Westwatch-by-the-Bridge.

The old wildling could count himself lucky he had been a friend of the Watch for decades and was well known to most brothers. Maester Mullin knew he was incapable of curing the man of his wounds and asked for aid from Castle Black. Aemon had asked Commander Qorgyle directly to be sent over. Mullin had written that Haggon seemed to have been attacked by his own bonded wolves. All that Aemon knew of skinchanger, which was admittedly very little, left him with a gut feeling that something had gone terribly wrong for Haggon.

Only inexperienced or weak skinchangers tended to lose control of their beasts like that, and Haggon was neither. Haggon's wolves had been his family, their warg bond should have pacified the animals even if the man was not in direct control of his wolves. The most plausible conclusion - a quite terrifying one – was that a more powerful skinchanger had wrested Haggon's control of his animals from him and used Haggon's own pack to devour him. Neither a powerful skinchanger that was openly opposed to a declared friend of the Watch was a good option, nor was a skinchanger that did not observe the tenet not to consume human flesh while wearing the skin of an animal a good alternative.

Yet it was another event that drove Aemon to ride to the Shadow Tower in haste. Around a moon past it had happened, out of nowhere. His last keepsake from his life as a Targaryen prince, his cream and silver dragon egg had suddenly combusted in a spitfire. Qorgyle had been incensed at the event, yet Aemon could not bring himself to care for his commander's wrath. All that Aemon knew of dragons, which was probably more than any other person alive in the whole world, did not help him find an explanation for his egg's destruction. For his dragon's death.

Then Mullin's letter arrived, and Aemon deduced that Haggon must have been wounded around the same time his egg went up in flames. It left him with a shadow of a doubt, yet even the possibility was worse than a rogue skinchanger. A dragon was fire made flesh. Living, breathing magic. And a skinchanger's bond with his animal was the only working of magic that Aemon could observe in all of Westeros, aside maybe from concoctions of wildfire. What if something had changed with magic itself?

Today Aemon would finally receive his answers. Haggon had awoken yesterday, yet the man had been to weak and frightened to hold a proper conversation with. Not so this time as Aemon entered his patient's chamber. Now Haggon only looked catatonic. He looked at Aemon blankly when he was addressed.

"Haggon. I am glad you are awake. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Aemon only got an empty stare in return, so he continued asking.

"My brothers found you injured at the Bridge of Skulls, barely clinging on to your life. They say your own wolf pack was stalking you."

There were tears in Haggon's eyes now, the vacant void was being replaced by deep despair. Haggon turned to look at his left leg. Or rather, to look at where his left leg used to be.

"I am sorry, Haggon," Aemon spoke quietly, "we could not save it. The lacerations cut down to the bone, we had to –"

"Greyskin attacked me there. He bit into my ankle and sliced into my knee with his claws."

Haggon words came out like a whisper, yet his voice still cut through Aemon's.

"We had been together as long as I remember. I fed him by hand. Greyskin was the first animal whose skin I ever wore. I lost something greater than a mere leg that day, crow!"

When Haggon looked up again and met Aemon's eyes, all the Maester saw was rage for a second before the emotion seemed to collapse in itself again.

"Did your brothers find Lump, too?"

"What is Lump?" Aemon knew only Haggon had been found. Not even his beasts of burden were found, the ones to carry his goods.

A desolate chuckle escaped Haggon before he answered.

"Not what is Lump, Maester, who was Lump. Lump was a young skinchanger I recently took under my wing, kicked out by his family. I was guiding him on how to break an animal, and he had slipped into his first rabbit when I… When I lost my gift.

"It was... My bonds, my partners, they are just… gone. Can you believe I was the lucky one between Lump and I? My pack turned on me and the boy, yet Lump did not even return to his body as the wolves tore into his flesh. We use pain to bring back skinchangers to their bodies as they learn, you see. But Lump didn't return. Couldn't return, I fear. He lost his gift while he was wearing the skin of a rabbit. I doubt the critter survived the wolves' carnage either, though."

Aemon did not know what to say to that and a lonely silence settled on the two of them. After a fashion Aemon checked on Haggon's health again before leaving. Aemon almost did not dare ask when the attack occurred. In the end he did, leading to Haggon's question how long he had been asleep for. Aemon saw the man's heart break again when Haggon realized that, even in his dreams, Haggon would never run with his wolves anymore. The broken wildling did not say another word after, just staring into the emptiness, lost to his thoughts.

Left to his own ruminations after his conversation with Haggon, Aemon went on to write a letter addressed to Maester Marwyn of the Citadel. The man had approached Aemon already when he was but an acolyte. At first Aemon had felt bemused to be treated as something between an idol and a research subject at the same time. After engaging with Marwyn on dragon lore, however, they had started a friendly correspondence on many things Valyrian and all things magic. Maybe the Department of Higher Mysteries had observed other phenomena relating to magic recently.

Over the next three days Aemon tried to get Haggon to open up more about the disappearance of his powers but the wildling seemed a husk of man now, alive and awake but barely responsive. He did try to get out of his bed often, though, and Aemon decided the man was healthy enough to not need any of his attentions anymore. On the fourth day he set out to ride for Castle Black on the Wall's crown.

He did not expect to meet Haggon standing on the top of the Wall, though, looking south. Haggon spoke to him then, though it did not seem he was wanting for Aemon to respond.

"I have always wondered what the promised lands look like, Maester. Us skinchangers make poor raiders, our abilities lie elsewhere. Laid elsewhere. Did you know a skinchanger could not cross the Wall wearing the skin of a bird? I tried. I slipped into Whitewing many a time, yet it almost seemed like the Wall repelled me."

Haggon's profile looked most somber, an air of melancholy about him.

"I loved flying. I always wavered between Greyskin and Whitewing for my second life. There is nothing freer than soaring over the Whitecaps or seeing the infinity of the Haunted Forest beneath you. Standing up here on the Wall reminds me of those times. I am glad I came up here for the sun rise."

Finally, Haggon turned to look at Aemon before finishing his soliloquy.

"I am a little disappointed though, to be honest. The south side of the Wall looks just the same as the north from up high. All of this –", Haggon said as he made a sweeping gesture encompassing both the North and the True North, "– is just the same. Why do you hunt and kill us with impunity when there is no difference between our sides, crow?"

Aemon could not answer in that moment, and neither could his guard. The silence between all of them was deafening. Haggon merely looked resigned as no reply came forth before crossing the walkway to look north into the over the Haunted Forest.

"And what fools we all are, for dreaming it is greener on the other side. It is all just the same. Will you do me a favor, crow?"

Haggon's words were barely understandable before he spoke up at the end, his eyes transfixed on the land of his birth. He did not stop to look at Aemon for confirmation.

"Scatter my ashes beneath a heart tree in the True North, will you?"

There was a look of infinite yearning as Haggon said his last words and fell forward, falling down the Wall into the lands many wildlings desperately wanted to leave. Aemon did not even hear a sound as Haggon the skinchanger met his end in the home that he loved.

The ride east after passed Aemon and his companions like a blur. None of them were in the mood for talking and they made good time, arriving at Icemark by nightfall. Before dawn the next morning they broke camp, intend on reaching Castle Black before the sun set again. 49 years on the Wall had left Aemon an able horseman on icy ground. Neither he nor his companions wanted to spend another night in one of the abandoned castles, even if they had stocked enough fire wood for the patrols.

The sun rose before they reached the Nightfort. On the snowy field between the Haunted Forest and the Wall stood a lone rider, only flanked by a beast of burden. Next to it a pole of weirwood had been rammed into the ground, and knew a face to be carved into the stake. It was a First Man custom, a way to establish a peaceful negotiation ground for talks between warring parties.

Of course, Aemon could not see the weeping face from the top of the Wall, nor the rider next to it. However, he had brought his Myrish far eye along for his astronomical observations. It came in handy to discern the situation in front of them. After all, the free folk knew that the Nightfort had been abandoned for more than 200 years now.

However, what Aemon did manage to see through the far eye made him feel as if the blood in his veins froze over. The rider was not mounted on a horse. The creature that came for parley sat on a giant spider, bluish-white like snow on a frozen river. Before them stood a myth in the flesh. And even though it should be impossible to discern movement on the Wall from the bottom, the Other's head was turned towards their galloping horses above him and the rider stepped down from his abominable mount, preparing to receive them at the weirwood stake.

Aemon was left with a difficult choice. By right he should ride on to Castle Black to inform Lord Commander Qorgyle of the situation. But it would take two days before the commander could meet with the Other if they left now, and who was to say the creature below the Wall would wait that long. Could they risk the possibility of obtaining information on the mount and its rider? Would the Dornish commander even believe them? Aemon's worries were further compounded by the conviction that - despite his experience in his position – the commander was a rather conventional general that would probably be at least a little overwhelmed by the situation and reveal himself a bad spokesman for this situation.

The Maester of Castle Black knew he could force the issue with his companions; he was in command of their riding group after. He could decide that it would be him that went down to talk with this creature waiting for them. Yet he did not. All his guards were experienced rangers; so he put the matter to the vote, presented his position on their options and left them all to confirm his words with his far eye. After an hour of talks with grim faces, the 13 men voted ten to three that Aemon should speak with the Other accompanied by two guards. Four brothers were immediately send ahead to Castle Black to inform Commander Qorgyle of the situation.

Deaf Dick Follard and Qhorin Strongarm flanked Aemon as they approached the Other after the three of them were let down from the Wall with the stocked pulleys and rope kept in a secure compartment at the Nightfort. The first thought Aemon had as he finally stood face to face with the Other was that it was gracefully fair and frighteningly foreign. Almost transparent skin stretched like corporeal fog over a web of blue veins and a skeleton of crystalline bones, looking sturdy and fragile at the same time. It was disconcerting. Impossibly blue eyes seemed to uncover all secrets in Aemon's soul.

Aemon almost greeted the man – at least it appeared to be male - in the Common Tongue. He was about to offer up greetings in the Old Tongue instead, yet he hesitated again for a second. Would this language be understood by his opposite? For all he knew the Other's had not been seen for eight millennia. Who knew what language they spoke? The Old Tongue was still his best bet to establish communication, so Aemon started speaking.

"Greetings, stranger. I am Aemon Targaryen, the Shield that guards the Realms of Men. Who are you, and why have you come to parley with the Night's Watch?"

"Greetings, Aemon Targaryen. I am ҉ðϗϡÞЖ؈Ǯא₪₰҉," the being spoke. Its name sounded like black ice cracking on a lake and hail pelting the Wall in a snowstorm. Aemon almost thought the being looked at him differently after hearing his name. "In your tongue it means He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow. But please, call me Snow. I have come to negotiate peace terms on behalf of He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter, god-king of the Lands of Always Winter and the King in the North whose name is Stark."

Aemon had not known what to expect, but definitely not this. Aemon tried to consider all the information contained in that introduction. One, the Others were unified in a nation under a ruler that claimed dominion over the most inhospitable place in Westeros.

Two, this nation was to the Other's knowledge either at war with the old Kingdom of Winter or had an armistice agreement in place. In other words, a kind of diplomatic rapport existed between the Kingdom of Winter and the Others. A relation the Iron Throne had not inherited when it absorbed the Kingdom of Winter into the Seven Kingdoms. At that Aemon almost thought in expletives.

Three, the Other's intelligence was a horribly outdated. Well. That last was a welcome surprise. It made sense, though, considering the Others had not been heard of for 8.000 years and, apparently, the Wall blocked magic. All in all, two pieces of bad news and one piece of good news. Dear cousin Aemon. Two pieces of good news.

Aemon decided two things in that moment. He would accept the wedding invitation his second cousin thrice removed had extended him. After all, the Starks seemed to have held their greatest cards in the game of thrones close to their chest for millennia and now seemed finally ready to flip the whole board, so a visit would at least be interesting. And Ashara Dayne, great-great-great-grandniece of his mother Dyanna Dayne, had promised Aemon the protection of his great-great-grandniblings Rhaenys and Aegon to the best of her ability without condition attached.

And he would bring the most information about the Others he could squeeze from this one meeting as a wedding gift. In one moon's time the Stark's would become Aemon's kin by marriage. Besides, he owed the Starks a debt for not seeing his great-grandnephew Rhaegar's descent into madness, nor did he try to discourage the crown prince's foolish notions. House Stark could have been almost extinct by the fits of a mad man on the Iron Throne.

… besides, Aemon doubted any of the lords south of the Neck would even believe his report of White Walkers, and with the imminent civil war ahead, the united North was the best chance for the whole world to combat whatever was in store for them. Monsters from the age of heroes reappearing was bad enough. If they descended on the south in the worst throes of the civil war, Aemon could not even imagine what chaos and destruction they could bring. So Aemon smiled, and made merry, and lied to He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow.

"He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow, I am most surprised by your visit. King Stark will be, too, when I go to report to him. What has happened that has left god-king He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter dissatisfied with the current arrangement? We have noticed a disturbance within the realms of magic, could that have been the cause?"

Aemon was spinning his yarn from thin air and flimsy conjectures but it did not seem to confuse Snow. At least, Aemon thought so. Far be it from Aemon to claim that he could read the face of an Other for lies. Yet the Other in front of him simply answered.

"You are mistaken, Aemon Targaryen, the disturbance in magic is not the cause. Rather, it was He-who-Ruled-the-Winds-of-Winter who has caused the disturbance, together with the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest. It is most curious, Aemon Targaryen, that it is you I meet. It must have been the last thing he has seen. King Stark must hold you in high regard. The-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest asked as his last request to bring you a gift and a message. The one thing a Raven needs less than teeth is a tongue. He did not say more. I hope it tells you everything you need to know."

Aemon had to swallow at hearing his uncle's favorite phrase. The one thing a Raven needs less than teeth is a tongue. A raven only needs ears to hear a secret, and wings to carry it quickly. His uncle's tenets for his spies, from the time that Bloodraven was still the Master of Whisperers of the Seven Kingdoms. Aemon was sure his voice was wavering slightly as he addressed Snow again.

"Is the gift my uncle has asked you to bring to me perchance a sword of grey and black?"

"Aye," Snow replied before walking over to the massive elk that stood behind him. He returned with a bundle wrapped in oiled furs and the elk in tow. Aemon felt his hands trembling as he unwrapped Dark Sister from the furs and beheld the Valyrian sword in its splendor. Afterwards Aemon bound the sword in its furs again and handed it to Qhorin for safekeeping. Yet before Aemon could address his opposite, the Other spoke first.

"I bring another gift, this one is for your king."

At that Snow pulled back the cover of the other bundle on the elk's back, this one a lot bigger. Aemon found himself face to face with a dead man, thin and gaunt with skin as cold as ice and as black as night, and broken eyes of the same color. The corpse was clutching weapons of translucent blue ice to his chest, weapons of the same make as Snow the Other carried. Aemon merely stared at the dead man, uncomprehending.

"This is the body of Brandon 'the Broken' Stark, twin brother of Brandon 'the Breaker' Stark. He has done his penance in death, upholding the oath he broke in his life. This is the body of Brandon 'the Broken' Stark, 13th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, King-on-the-Wall, the Night's King and thief and death of She-who-Danced-with-Snowflakes-in-the-Storm. And now, his Watch has ended."

Aemon drew a sharp breath and heard Qhorin behind him do the same. Qhorin Strongarm almost pulled his sword, and would have if Aemon had not turned around fast enough and grabbed Qhorin's hand on his pommel, keeping it down.

"Don't, Qhorin! We are under a banner of truce!"

Aemon knew he did not have the strength to prevent Qhorin from breaking parley, but luckily, his brother obeyed. As Aemon turned around he found Snow watching him with an unreadable expression. A little rattled, Aemon spoke to break the tension, the first thing to come to his mind that did not concern the most infamous villain of the Watch, whose body Aemon now found himself in possession of.

"Can you tell me of my uncle, of Brynden Bloodraven? I haven't seen him for almost 30 years now, ever since he went north of the Wall."

Aemon did not know the connection between Brynden Bloodraven and the king of the Others, nor the meaning of the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest. Maybe Snow would expose even more information. After all, Snow suddenly looked shocked as Aemon asked his question.

"You mean to tell me the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest has taken on the incarnation of Brynden Bloodraven for over two decades? But that is… You mean to tell me the Man had enough willpower left to overpower the Crow and the Forest after such a long time?"

Well, the tense situation of the Night's King's body was seemingly defused. Sadly, Aemon had no idea what Snow was asking of him.

"I'm sorry, can you explain what you mean? I fear I do not understand what being the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest meant for my uncle." Aemon saw suspicion cross the Other's face. Was he supposed to know what the name meant? Aemon almost seamlessly continued talking. "King Stark has not told me of my uncle's fate. I do not know whether the information was too sensitive for me to know or whether my king wanted to spare me the pain such knowledge would bring."

At that, He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow looked at Aemon almost with pity before answering.

"It is a great sacrifice to take on the mantle of the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest. It is – was – a being of great magic. It was the champion of the gods of the forest, yet also not. You see, the gods of the forest do not let their champion fight in their name, they possess him and take his will away so they may take action in the world themselves. The one-eyed man you knew as Brynden Bloodraven was also the three-eyed crow and the forest of infinite red eyes.

"To find their champions the gods of the forest look through their eyes of blood for a greenseer, to lure him into their embrace and bind him with their grasping white hands. However, the gods' actions contain great risks for them beside many advantages.

"The first weakness lies in the greenseer's body, for it needs to remain connected to the weirwood network at all times. But the trees found a way around the dilemma of having to keep their champion confined. While the champion is bound to one place, he can see through the eyes of the weirwoods that are everywhere and the eyes of the three-eyed crow, who can go anywhere. Still, the body of the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest becomes weaker and weaker. After some time only the trees keep the body alive, until even they cannot prevent inevitable death anymore.

"The second weakness lies in the greenseer's spirit. For while the trees control what the greenseer sees, the greenseer can withstand the corruption of his mind with a strong will. Yet men are not made to see through uncountable eyes, see uncountable things. It breaks their spirit, and the gods of the forest simply wear the husk that remains. Brynden Bloodraven is truly remarkable, to withstand the gods' assault on his mind for decades. I have not heard of another Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest that ever retained his will beyond five years."

"Yes, Uncle Brynden was, for all his faults, a man of iron will", Aemon spoke almost softly, "yet you are wrong about him. He hasn't seen the world through one eye for a long time. Brynden Bloodraven had a thousand eyes, and one. They even sing a song about it."

Snow was quiet as he listened, and solemn.

"He was a man worthy of songs."

The Other did not fill the silence that followed his words, and Aemon left it to linger as he remembered the great things his uncle had wrought, and the few good memories that remained between Aemon and his uncle.

"How did he die?"

Aemon only noticed it was him that asked the question after the words had rung between him and Snow.

"He sacrificed himself, to bring an end to the Crow and the Forest. To bring an end to Those-who-Sing-the-Songs-of-the-Earth. To bring an end to Those-who-Lurk-in-the-Deep. To bring an end to Those-who-Saunter-in-the-Shadows. To bring an end to Those-who-Linger-in-the-Light. To bring an end to Those-who-Fly-with-Fire. To bring an end to It-that-Feasts. To bring an end to us, to Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold. And to bring an end to all the magic in the world."

Aemon thought of his dragon egg, then. Of his dragon egg that had burst into flames. When Aemon was young he had sometimes dreamt he flew his dragon Skyscraper through all the Known World and beyond. He had dreamt of raining fire on those that were evil.

Yet as Aemon grew older he saw that all that remained of the dragons of old was not the destruction of evil. Only destruction remained. His uncle Brynden had once more prevented possible calamity from striking the Seven Kingdoms, just as he had when he killed Aenys Blackfyre to stop the Blackfyre cause from retaining supporters. Just as he always had, uncompromising in his conviction and without mercy for anyone. Not even for himself.

This time He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow did fill the silence as it persisted.

"Around a moon ago our king He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter, for the first time in 8.000 years, felt the stirrings of prophecy. Of the prince who was promised to come into being, of Azor Ahai being reborn, of the last hero rising again, of the Second War for the Night to start. Yet something… happened. The strings of fate snapped, a moon, a sennight, a day away from setting it all into motion once more. And our king grew tired of waiting, of all the strings to align once more. It was not living, what he did, the last of us that remained awake.

"But our king also grew fearful. As you know, magic has been waning in the world for 384 years now, and more so for 129 years. If this continued, our king feared we would be too weak to even mount up a proper fight in the Second War. That we would have no chance at victory or that what people remembered of us would be a shadow of who we are, not Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold at the height of our power. That we would be a footnote in the annals of men, or be forgotten entirely, with not even songs remaining.

"To prevent such a fate, He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter sought out the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest to strike a bargain, to once more let you humans know of our power, so you may never forget us."

"And what bargain was struck?"

This was it. This was the lynch pin, the information Aemon needed to prepare for what was to come. Yet He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow did not answer Aemon's question. Snow merely smiled, and in that smile Aemon only saw hunger, and winter, and death.

And when He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow spoke once more, Aemon shivered.

"My king will tell the terms of the bargain he struck to your king himself. Here, once in five moons and once in ten moons time, He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter will be present to welcome the King in the North whose name is Stark. After they have talked they will find themselves either at war, or at peace. Only know this:

"We, Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold, hereby break from the armistice agreement we made with the Kingdom of Winter 8.000 years ago, when the Long Night ended and Brandon the Builder helped us build the border wall to separate the domains of Winter and Ice Eternal."

As the last words left the Other's mouth, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing up the snow around, shrouding Aemon and Snow in a veil of flakes. When it settled not ten seconds after the Other had disappeared from the parley ground, blown away by the breeze along with his spider of ice. Left behind were only Aemon, his two guards, the elk and the corpse of the Night's King, shivering from something that was not the cold.

Riding hard they reached Castle Black at the hour of the wolf, and yet shivering still, Aemon and Qhorin left for Winterfell at the next dawn.

Notes

MOAR FACTIONS!
There can never be enough!
There's been a request for a list of factions and loyalties by SerBronnoftheBlackwater. I'll do that at the end of the next chapter because the idea is fantastic. However:
-The list will be incomplete, as there can never be enough factions.
-Suspect all alliances and loyalties to be suspicious.

FEEDBACK PLEASE
I wasn't sure whether to cut the White Walkers, or not. Tell me what you think.
Also, the last part of chaos will be very monologue-heavy. The content inside I really want to get across, yet I fear I overdid it with Tywin's monologues. Did I strike a good balance? Tell me what you think after I've posted it tomorrow. I just imagine Charles Dance schooling Cersei in ruling, and I'm good with the monolugues. Yet I think that skews my perspective.

Review responses

Daude4592d: Flooding Essos with gold and setting Essos up for a huge continental war has the added bonus of keeping the rest of the Westerosi parties from acquiring Essosi support, both in the form of sell swords or direct support from a free city. But more on that in another chapter. Also, it's not really Tywin's concern if his spending huge amounts of gold benefits Rickard. If it even is Tywin meddling… OK, yeah, it is Tywin, should be obvious by now. You gotta wait for the revelation of his reasons for the next chapter though. I'd see it in the way that Tyrosh had a small problem in the form of Balon. It seems revolved by the time we get to Xaro Xhoan Daxos. Is it really? Tywin's bad at the religious part of the game. The other septs, though… Stannis isn't really coming into play yet, as Robert's the one in charge of Storm's End and a Penrose castellan in his absence. Though, we already met a septa (?) at Tarth, didn't we? Glad you like the chapter

Guest: Read on to find out

iMTheStormKing: Thanks. And there you go, next update. One more is coming up, but after I gotta write again. Great to see people enjoying Vic's diary as well.

-Black-Riddle-Malfoy: Thanks! Glad you like my story.

Guest: Yi Ti's keeping out of the war to come. Had to draw the line somewhere.

00-night-eyes-00: There you go J

Guest: Insurances aren't a thing here. Haven't heard of any in the books. Difficult to track in a medieval society, too. Also, why do you believe Tywin would share any gains he made through trading with Rickard? Mansa Musa is a great comparison, though, which I took together with the Spanish Price Revolution as the basis for this plot line. Keep reading to see the full plot unveiled.

Greatazuredragon: Great to see Vic getting all the love. Though he'll probably my only diary writer, diversifying that as well would get too convoluted, if I think to include all my plotlines. Also, it's a nice comedic callback to the start of this story. Might work from Oswell's or Rickards perspective as well, buth they aren't so wonderfully idiotic. I keep bouncing titles around in my head, and though "The War of All Kings" is the top contender, I'm now also thinking "One king, two kings; mad kings, more kings". I'll take my time, because I don't want a perfect title. I want the perfect title #MargaeryQueenForLife

Max20.7: Thanks. Conspiracies are like factions; you can never have eough.

ayienne: Happy to see a long-time fan! We'll return to the day after the feast in the Riverlands in chapter 22, until then it's all flash forwards with guides to the timelines hidden in each POV. The war in Westeros has a grace period before it breaks loose, where all the important players are now consolidating their power. Several resolutions for set ups I've planted in the story so far are coming up, but also some surprises are in store for you, my dear readers. Stay tuned for Chaos to the West coming up next.