Tommen stormed into the council room, expecting some good news. He wanted to hear about how Daenerys Targaryen's head had been delivered that morning on a gold plate. He'd mount it high on the Red Keep's walls to act as a message to anyone who considered supporting someone other than him. Then he'd set in motion plans to rid Westeros of Stannis Baratheon, who would be the only competitor left to the throne. He had been belittled all his life, the forgotten son for so many years until he was suddenly made king. Then people started respecting him, wanting to actually listen to what he had to say now. The same people who had dismissed him so often now bending down in front of him. He wanted to show them that it was his destiny to be king. He wasn't here just because his brother had died earlier than he should have. He was the king.
Judging by the sombre atmosphere that had settled over his council, he realised he would not be hearing such joyous news.
"What happened? Was our mission a success?" he asked the group as a collective. None of them looked willing to speak. Kevan Lannister had his eyes set on the table in front of him, seemingly examining the wood with acute precision. The Tyrell women shared a worried glance between themselves before Margaery stood up and guided Tommen to his seat at the head of the table. The High Septon wasn't even there. Probably off preaching to another crowd again, Tommen thought to himself. He should be prioritising his king, not the commoners. The only person in the room who appeared remotely content was Pycelle but Tommen presumed that was just because of some form of medication the Grand Maester had taken beforehand. Eventually, it came to his Hand to break the solemn news to him.
"We've received word that our fleet was completely destroyed upon their arrival at Dragonstone. Only one ship remains. They were able to get away just in time. One of the Greyjoy ships, I believe."
"And I assume the men on this ship were the ones who sent you this message?" Tommen inquired.
"...yes? Why?" Kevan asked hesitantly.
"All ships sunk to the bottom of the sea apart from one. There's only one way that can happen and that's down to them fleeing when they were attacked. I won't have cowards fighting in my name. When they return, I want them killed on sight."
Olenna gave him a wary look. "Do you think that's necessary, boy? Your army has just been decimated and you want to weaken it further? It doesn't make good sense to me."
Tommen's expression grew dark whilst he was questioned. "I find that removing such lack of honour is the opposite of weakness. And it will show the rest of my men how it is expected of them that, when they fight for me, they fight to the death. I expect nothing less." His lip was curled into a cruel smirk, so reminiscent of his dead brother. "And I am not a boy. I am your King and you will speak to me as so." Olenna kept her mouth shut, which Tommen took as a small victory. "How much damage did we manage to cause to her numbers though? It must have been fairly considerable."
"It seems that the majority of her fleet wasn't at Dragonstone so little damage was done to her in that regard. The castle itself was mostly ruined by our ships so she will be forced to move." The oldest Lannister didn't enjoy giving such grim reports.
"Her ships weren't there? Then how did we lose?" He shouted the last part, slamming his fist on the table.
"She...has dragons. They say three. They wiped out the majority of our ships before a rogue contingent of Greyjoy ships, believed to be instructed by the two relatives of Euron Greyjoy that joined with Stannis Baratheon, came from behind and finished the job."
"A new set of ships intercepted our attack, which tells me one thing. We made our plans and acted upon them as quickly as we could, yet they managed to reach us. They were informed of our plans. A spy in our midst. I want them found within the week or I'll randomly pick one of the flea-ridden scum from the streets below and kill them as an example."
"Yes, your Grace," Kevan intoned. Tommen was about to speak again when a brilliant flash of blue light filled the room, prompting them all to stand up. As quickly as it had come, it was gone. In its place was a pile of burnt and smoking bones. They could tell they were human.
"What just happened?" Margaery was the first to find her voice. None of them knew how the remains had got there.
"I think the Targaryen has aligned herself with a practitioner of dark magic," Pycelle reasoned. "This is a warning to us all." He wanted Tommen to see sense but it was all for nought.
"It is an act of war. Our best course of action is to start bringing our men and allies together." he couldn't look away from the skull facing him. "You said that Daenerys Targaryen will be on the move. Her only option is to go North and join with the Baratheon camp. I want my army ready to crush them." As he finished speaking, he stood up from his chair, turned on his heel and was quickly gone from the room. The members of the council eyed one another tiredly and they seemed to let out a collective sigh. This couldn't be allowed to continue. None of them went near the bones. One of the servants would sort that out.
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Bruda woke with a start, sitting upright in the bed he found himself in. He was in a cabin, on a ship, judging by the way the room was gently swaying. Or was that just him, waking up from his daze. No, no it was definitely to do with the waves. He couldn't remember much about what had transpired after they had emerged from Dragonstone and definitely didn't know how he had gotten himself here. The most recent memory he had was saying farewell to Samwell. That brought up emotions he didn't need right now. He racked his brain, trying to piece the fragments of his memory back together. Daario had been waiting for them, as he had told him to. They had boarded and then...darkness. Magical exhaustion, he thought bitterly to himself. It was a sign of his age. A few decades ago, he could have taken part in their battles three or four times over before he began feeling his energy drop. He brought a weary hand to his face, slowly dragging it over his rough skin. He probably had one more battle in him and he knew which one that would be.
He observed the cabin. It was small, simplistic, everything you would expect to get on a ship, he reasoned. Yet there were two commodities that he hadn't expected to see. Jorah and Davos were asleep in chairs either side of his bed. He examined them for a moment, noticing both had cuts and bruises over their faces and arms. He wondered why they had waited by his bedside. He wondered how long they had been waiting. He was grateful to see that they had cared enough to do so but also felt a sense of guilt over making them worry so much. He decided to put them out of their misery, even though they looked so at peace. He coughed louder than he normally would, smirking at how they shifted at the sound.
Jorah was the first one to properly wake from his slumber. Although initially bleary eyed, he shot up when he noticed Bruda sat watching them with thinly veiled amusement. It was almost an exact repeat of steps when Davos opened his eyes too. "So you're alive," Jorah pointed out, although the warlock could hear the relief in his voice.
"It appears that way. Although my body is aching quite a bit at the moment." He lifted his arm and noticed for the first time that he was dressed only in a plain beige shirt. He spotted his cloak draped over the back of a chair by the window.
"We were worried about you," Davos said, his voice grave.
"Surely you had more important things to think about." Bruda was trying to lift the spirits of the room but, when he noticed the glares from the other two men, he dropped his smile. "I had to stretch myself a long way today...it was today, right?"
Jorah shook his head. "You've been out for a couple of days. We set sail for Westeros straight away. We thought that our best option was to get to Winterfell." Bruda nodded, taking in this new information.
"Well, as I was saying. I had to stretch myself during the battle. Each piece of magic I do takes up a part of my energy. That doesn't impact me on a normal day because I don't usually need to use my magic. But I'm old now and fighting like that was bound to have an impact on me."
"Before the final fight, you told me that you needed to rest," Jorah reminded him. "What happened to that?" Bruda didn't care for his accusatory tone.
"Our good friend here Davos was in a spot of bother, so I stepped in to help him." Davos frowned at him.
"While I appreciate you saving my life, you shouldn't have if it put yours at risk. I'm not worth it."
"Listen to me, Seaworth. Just because I have these powers doesn't mean that I'm remotely more important than anyone. I told you that none of you would die on my watch and I'm a man of my word." That ended the brief debate. Bruda shifted in his bed, groaning as he did so. "So...two days, huh? Any word from Daenerys?"
Jorah shook his head. "None. We saw her fly off with her dragons heading for Westeros. At least we presume she is. I don't know what this means."
"It means trouble. Hopefully it doesn't affect our standing with Stannis Baratheon, especially with us heading to his keep earlier than we anticipated. But for the time being, we need to focus on a larger concern."
"Another concern? What else could have possibly gone wrong recently?" Davos asked despairingly.
"Think about it. Those soldiers that got into Dragonstone didn't exactly go through the main entrance. They knew that there was another way to get in, specifically through the door we escaped from."
Davos and Jorah shared a look. "So?" the Scot wondered. Maybe Bruda had banged his head when he collapsed.
"So...use your brains. Dragonstone was home to the Targaryens at first before it was then held by Stannis. Meaning no one else has been there. Yet we were attacked by soldiers sent by the Crown."
"Meaning someone must have told them about this weakness beforehand," Jorah finished. Bruda raised his arms slightly in celebration that they had figured it out.
"Exactly! Now, there's the distinct possibility that this could have come from someone in Stannis's camp but I don't see the benefit of any of them betraying us. After all, we're the only thing that's going to help him survive the wars to come."
"You don't think it's someone amongst us, do you?" Davos inquired. Bruda nodded his head slowly.
"We need to be careful from now on. For me, there's only one candidate. But it's best if I don't tell you two at the moment. The last thing we want is for them to grow suspicious." They both seemed content with that for now. "I say we try and get everyone together and discuss what we do next." He began getting out of bed but Jorah quickly stopped him. Bruda gave him a perplexed stare.
"You said it yourself, you used up a lot of your energy the other day. We think it best that you be put on bed rest for the time being. Then, once you're approximately back to normal, if you ever have been that, we'll let you out and about and you can go back to terrorising everyone." Bruda's glare shifted to Davos. To be fair to him, he made sure to maintain eye contact with the mage.
"Did you know about this?" Bruda asked him accusingly.
"It was mainly my idea." They both stood up and began walking towards the door. "Look, whoever you think has been sending information to the capital is on this ship. We're not due to land on Westerosi soil for another few days so we're all stuck here. That means that this person can't go anywhere so you can't do much at the moment. In your state, you'd hardly be able to do anything anyway." They reached the door and opened it, giving the warlock one last look. They were met with an angry scowl. As they stepped outside, they chose to ignore the sound of a glass being thrown and smashing against the door where they had stood just moments ago.
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Walder Frey sat alone in his large dining room. His aged and withered hand shakily grasped the metal spoon as he brought some of the meaty broth to his lips. Most of it dribbled down his chin as he clumsily fed himself. He didn't care one jolt. This was his time, his favourite time of the day, when he could sit alone and enjoy his meal with nothing but his mind for company. The Twins had been quieter than normal due to the absence of a part of his army. He had only agreed to help the young King because it was surely a definite victory. The size of the fleet that had been sent wouldn't be matched by anything the Targaryen girl possessed. He smiled to himself. Making the Crown believe his allegiance was theirs when his actions would come at no cost to him. It was the perfect situation to be in, he felt as he sat there smugly.
But then he heard a dreaded roar come from the skies above the two towers. Screams and yells touched the dusty air of the room from outside. He dropped his spoon. His hands grasped the arms of the chair he was sitting in and pushed his old body out of it. Unsteadily, he made his way over to the nearest window and he peered out of them. Strange. He could see nothing apart from grey clouds slowly drifting across the sky. Those awful noises he had just heard had disappeared in an instant. Maybe he had been imagining it. His eyes widened as the clouds were parted by a horrendous beast. It seemingly dived towards where he stood, frozen still in fear. His world was soon filled with the orange colour of scalding flames.
Drogon and her other two dragons appeared to have known where she wanted to go, even if Daenerys hadn't known where exactly that was. It had been a long journey to get to the Riverlands and she was becoming sore after sitting on the dragon for so long. Yet she hardly felt that pain, especially when her target had come into view. The anger she had felt at seeing her ancestral home tumble, at knowing her advisors and friends were in mortal danger, rose through her once again when she saw the two towers. As they neared, she had given the simple instruction to her animals to enact the same destruction the people below had seen fit to bestow upon her.
With each swoop and breath of burning flames, chunks of each stone building were ripped from the walls, tumbling into the wild river that flowed between them. She relished in the screams of her enemies as they tried to escape the clutches of the fire. She knew that there was no escape though. Some of them attempted to fight back. Archers fired arrows at the dragons. Any that reached their required target bounced harmlessly off the hard scales that covered their skin. She didn't know whether those who did this were brave or foolish. They burned all the same.
It didn't take long before one of the Twins crumbled to the floor, sending a cloud of dust and ash spreading around the surrounding marshes. It didn't stop Drogon from flying through the carnage. The bridge collapsed into the rushing water, sending multiple people sprawling down with it. She looked across and saw Rhaegal and Viserion finishing the job on the remaining castle. Her children doing her bidding. It gave her a sense of power. The people of Westeros would learn to respect such power. For a moment, she wondered if that would be out of fear. She quickly removed these doubts from her mind; the only ones who should fear her would be those who opposed her.
She shouted an order to the two smaller dragons and they came soaring over to where Drogon hovered in the sky. She could see some people who had somehow managed to survive the chaos and destruction. She'd let them live. They would remember the day they faced the Dragon Queen and how she had shown them mercy in letting them survive. Their stories would spread throughout the kingdom. She wanted people to know that she had returned and how she had come to get back what was rightfully hers.
Seeing that her objective had been achieved, she set off on Drogon once again. They would rest somewhere soon, in the hills or mountains somewhere. She'd find a farmer and trade a piece of jewellery for some food. It wouldn't be luxurious or comfortable but she wouldn't mind. She was filled with a sense of euphoria, although this was dampened with the thought of Jorah and Bruda, as well as all the others she had left behind. She knew deep down that they would have found a way to survive. That warlock had too many tricks up his sleeve. How she wished she could be sat with him, watching his face light up as he recalled some far fetched story of his. She wanted to be in the company of her Old Bear, his reassuring voice telling her that she had chosen the right path, that she would succeed. She vowed that she would do that once again. But it would be different this time. She had stepped up her involvement in Westeros and Bruda's words rattled through her head as they so often did. It was time she made her way to Winterfell.
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Jon was sat by Arya's bed as he had been ever since they had set sail on this ship. He had barely eaten, worry over his sister's state wearing away at him from within. Missandei had visited a few times to provide him with food. When, on her second visit, she had seen that he hadn't touched anything on the plate, she had sent Davos in to have a stern word with him. From that moment, he had forced himself to eat.
Arya had come in and out of consciousness whilst he had been sat there. When she was awake, the quiet reassurances he had provided for her had done little to assuage the sheer amount of pain she was in. She had constantly been dosed with Milk of the Poppy in an attempt to lessen her suffering. Jon was beginning to lose the little hope he had. The problem with giving her such a large amount of pain relief was that it meant you couldn't get an accurate measure of the condition she was in. It was a miracle that she had lasted this long. The sword to the stomach she had received would likely be fatal. Her tiny sword compared to the great weapons the soldiers had wielded was a mismatch. He felt it was his fault. He shouldn't have let her fight in that scenario.
He took comfort in watching her chest slowly rise up and then lower down gently in a cycle that showed some promise of her survival. But, left alone with his thoughts, watching his own blood in this agony, his mind had soon turned dark. He thought back to that moment he had been made to choose between his best friend and sister. That fucking warlock had made him make that decision. Such a lack of sympathy wasn't normal. He had cursed his name a number of times. He had shed so many tears the first night, thinking back to the young boy he had met at the Night's Watch. All he could see now was his pale, dying face looking into his eyes for the final time. He'd smashed a lot of things that night. Everyone else on the ship had sensibly left him to act out on his grief. If anyone had come in at that time, he didn't fully know what he would have done to them.
All the suffering his family had been a part of. His father, brothers and mother dead at the hands of their multiple enemies. His oldest sister had been put through psychological torture by so many men. And now his youngest sister lay slowly dying in front of him. She hadn't woken at all today, which greatly worried him. He held her tiny hands in his, gently stroking them. He hoped that it somehow gave her comfort. He caught a glance of himself in a mirror. He looked broken. He had wished to see his sister once again after he had departed Winterfell all those years ago. He wanted to laugh at how cruel fate could be. He had eventually got his wish but now she was being taken from him once again.
He was so lost in thought that he failed to notice that her chest had stopped moving. When he looked at her again, he realised this development. He shot up from his chair by the side of her bed and moved to grab her limp form. He started shouting her name in anguish as if it would somehow bring her back. Tears started flowing out of his eyes as he let himself cry. He bent over her and just brought her body to his, holding her in a tight hug. He didn't care that some of the blood that had tarnished her most recent bandages began to coat his own clothes. All he cared about was that he had lost yet another member of his family. All the thoughts of the oncoming war vanished in an instant. This was the only thing that mattered at the end of the day. He was sure that one day the pain he was feeling right now would lessen but, for now, he embraced it. It made him human. It separated him from those monsters that he would soon face. At least Arya would never have to look one of those White Walkers in the eye.
He barely took notice of Missandei rushing into the room, attempting to pry Arya from his arms to see if his cries were true. He eventually gave in and, from the grave look that soon filled her face, he knew that it was too late. He made eye contact with Tyrion, who was standing at a respectful distance away in the doorway. He gave the Stark boy a sympathetic look. He didn't know how he'd cope if he lost Jaime. Jon just gave him an expressionless gaze in response. He didn't want other people seeing him like this but he realised that it had to be done. Everyone went through this and he knew people would be wary around him for the next few days. Although he didn't look forward to that, he was glad he had this support and that they were on their way to Winterfell. Arya was finally returning home.
But then the anger took ahold of him once again. He had left Sam behind to take Arya instead and now both were dead. And that was down to one person. The warlock. And he vowed that he would make him suffer as much as his sister had.