Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 24: Ours is the Fury
"There is only now, and what comes next."
– Prince Suko Lóng
A man had to stifle his amusement as they hurled the Direwolf up onto the Wanderer's deck along with the rowboat, as if the beasts didn't like the boat enough already; they certainly didn't like when it was hauled out of the sea. Suko had no such restraint, as the man laughed aloud when Wraith leapt out of the rowboat and onto the deck the very second it seemed safe-ish to do, quickly followed by Flash. The only wolf at peace appeared to be Summer, who laid beside his master dutifully.
The deck was stained, he could see; though the blood had been mopped up hastily – blood was quite the bitch to wash away.
"Had some trouble?" Willam's eyes darted around.
"Us?" Suko scoffed at that. "What in the dawn happened to you, Stark?"
Where to start? Things had done from bad to hopeless in between two beats of a heart.
"Lord Beric," Willam introduced his unannounced guests. "Lord Dayne, Ser Rolland…"
"The Stormlanders," Suko wagered, humming absently. "The fire mage too, I see – and a child…"
"Prince Suko wasn't it?" Thoros was one of the few among their group to hold a smile, the fat bald man reaching out with a hand.
Suko didn't take it, simply eyeing the man and the child Dayne as a blur darted past.
"Father!" Arya Stark came rushed out onto the desk then full of hope for seeing her lord father safe.
She found only Aedan, standing vigil in silence holding onto Ice's scabbard. Eddard Stark was nowhere it be seen.
"Where's my father!?" She demanded of them all as a king might his subjects.
"I'm sorry little wolf but-"
"No!" Arya snapped at the man holding her father's sword. "Where is he!?"
"What happened?" Jon Snow demanded, with more fire than he knew he had.
"The Goldcloaks betrayed us," Willam said with a scowl. "Petry Baelish, I assume – your father trusted the man; though I didn't…"
"Then why didn't you stop him!?" Arya demanded, hitting Willam's leg with her small childish fists.
"I tried little wolf," Willam's frown didn't fade.
"TRY HARDER!"
Rolland Storm eyed the girl with understanding in his eyes.
Arya hadn't stopped punching the prince, though it hardly hurt; it helped stopped her tears some.
"Your father lives my lady," Lord Beric spoke warmly, smiling at the young girl in some attempt to calm her fury.
"How-" Jon mumbled, pulling his little sister back and letting her cling to him.
"I'm a wary man," Willam began honestly. "I didn't like Baelish, don't think your father did either; but he still trusted him…"
"We had a contingency plan if things went to shit," Suko added helpfully.
"It went to shit. We got your father out of the hall, but he was wounded and wouldn't have made it this far."
"About that," Suko pointed out with a glare. "You were supposed to come via the damn River Gate, so what happened?"
The plan had been simple, really – though ideally it wasn't one that needed fulfilling – still he'd had Rowana send her eagle ahead with orders to be ready to leave at a moment's notice; and they had. If all went well, they'd have been able to dock again without a fuss. If not, well, here they were.
"Ivar couldn't hold them," Aedan answered for his prince, as Willam's mind drifted off into doubts.
"He didn't make it," Edwyn muttered the fact and looked to his wayward cousin.
Ivar had been a loyal one, through and through. It would haunt Will more than he'd show. They'd all been loyal.
"Not only him," Willam said with no hint of emotion. "Harry held the door – alongside others; they're likely all dead too…"
"My brother is dead," Ser Rolland declared ruefully, an anger still eating at him. "I'll have their heads. Mark my damn words… they'll pay for this…"
Lord Bryce Caron had fought bravely and better than most, cutting down a Kingsguard before he fell; but heroics were poor compensation to the man's brother.
Harrold had been nobody, truly; a fresh Greycloak that had never so much as spoken to royalty until they washed up on the Stoney Shore. The man's friend was present, he knew; Genrik if he could recall the names correctly. "Shit," it was the man, Genrik to curse at that. "What about Vel?"
"Wounded, but I don't know for certain," Willam answered honestly. "It's little consolation but-"
"It's alright Prince, the lad was proud to have yee know his name – yet alone fight for you… and Vel is a strong one…"
That was the grim truth of it. Greycloaks were loyal through and through, in part tradition, in part pride; but mostly gratitude.
"And now they're all dead," the voice of doubt spoke at the back of Will's mind. "Thanks to You."
He should've left sooner. He should've left Ned Stark to rot when he refused. He should've taken up Renly's offer himself! Should've, could've…
It didn't bode well to dwell on paths not taken. He'd decide to stay, he'd failed to… to do what exactly he didn't know… it wasn't like he could baselessly demand Ned refuse Baelish's offer. Assuming the man knew the Goldcloaks true allegiance, they'd have been their enemy no matter what he'd said or done…
No. He'd decided to stay, now so many were dead that might not have been.
Still, at least Ned's children were safe…
"Will?" Aedan nudged him then.
He'd drifted off into his doubts again. Damn it.
"I'm sorry, my mind was wandering…"
"We'll get him back," Arya Stark looked up at him with large watery eyes. "Right?"
He couldn't promise that. He shouldn't, really… but…
"Aye," he gave a promise he knew might be unkeepable.
"With an army little whelp," Suko added with a smile. "A damn big one, you'll see."
"Promise," Jon said easily, smiling hopefully at his little sister.
Arya Stark seemed to only half believe them.
"Where's the other one?" Edwyn chipped in then. "Sansa?"
"She's in her cabin," Jon looked lost. "She won't come out and I-"
"Give the girl time," Willam said with a sigh as he walked across the deck with Wraith at his heels. "See our friends to their cabins Ed…"
The other direwolves were all greeting each other, though it was calmer than one might expect; it seemed the beasts were as lost as their masters now. It was only Wraith who steeled himself – though Ghost sat brooding at Snow's side – as Lady sulked with her master; Summer had seemingly tried in vain to cheer up his packmates.
Willam could hear Edwyn say "this way" as he led the Stormlanders to cabins. He couldn't pretend to care about them at the moment.
The captain's cabin was large, with a candle burning on an oaken table and many books laid out. He took a seat and absently stroked Wraith's hair.
"We'll be at Dragonstone sometime tomorrow," Aedan was the first to follow him into the cabin without announcement.
"And what then?" Suko followed too, caution wrapped on his features. "What of this stag lord? How's he any different than the others?"
"Ned trusted the man…"
That wasn't exactly high praise now; was it?
"Ned trusted your Baelish friend too," Suko countered.
"Aye but this stag is their lawful king. Ned aimed to support him…"
Suko walked over and held out a wine skin for Willam, a smirk now on his lips.
"Thanks," he replied gladly, grabbing the wine and taking a swig. A weight almost seemed to lift with the wine.
How long had it been since he'd had a drink? Too long. Far too long…
"Prince Willam, may I enter?"
Jon Snow was at the door, polite as ever; even in the face of all this.
"Come in lad," he got his answer as Will took another gulp of wine.
Jon Snow still looked like a lost sheep, his face forlorn, the wolf at his feet silent as the grave.
"Lord-" the boy seemed to stumble, thinking his words. "Father sent me away. Why?"
Willam looked at the boy blankly as he took another gulp from the wineskin. "Why do you think, lad?"
Jon only muttered "I don't know" with a frown. The boy was emotionally drained, one could easily see it – the look of a man with too much on his mind.
"He worried for you," Willam said with a sigh, putting aside the wine for now – he pushed the skin across the table. "We'd planned to spirit away the day before, that was the plan; but your father discovered a truth that his honor demanded he not ignore. He refused to abandon Robert after he'd learnt it…"
"And what truth was that?"
The boy didn't know all the details. Why would he? Nobody had told him yet.
"King Robert was given a set of horns fit for a stag," Willam explained with a scowl.
"I don't understand-"
"Queen Cersei is fucking her brother Jaime," Suko explained without an ounce of tact.
"The 'royal' children are bastards born of that union," Willam finished for him.
Suko had been one of the few souls he'd shared that information with before everything.
"I-" Jon paused in thought, his mind racing. "What does this mean…"
"Stannis Baratheon is the lawful heir. Ned meant to seize the throne so that Stannis could arrive and claim it."
"I could have helped," Jon grumbled, grasping a patch of Ghost's fur in his frustration.
Willam eyed the boy closely at that. He could see the doubts, the fear, the shame of it; all things he knew too well.
"I told you once that nothing scares so well as choice, well; here you are Jon. Your father made his choices and men died for it."
"And none failed their duty," Aedan added simply to soften the blow some.
"Don't dwell on this lad," Willam sighed. "If I could change it, I would; but we cannot."
Jon Snow would hear none of it. "I should have been there to protect him! I should have-"
"Should have?" Suko raised a brow at those words. "That'll bring you nought but madness, Snow, until you're consumed by it – just as He is…"
"Cunt," Willam said with a half-hearted grin. "He is right though Jon. It's rare, but it happens."
Suko scoffed, rolling his onyx eyes and smiling at the banter.
"There is only now, and what happens next."
"But I could have-"
"Nope," Suko said, popping P for effect.
"Look forward lad," Willam got to his feet. "Do as I say, not as I do. You'll live longer."
He walked from his desk, taking the giant scabbard of Ice from Aedan and holding it out with one hand.
"I-" Jon looked at the scabbard with wide-eyes. "I can't-"
"You can," Willam shoved the blade into Jon's hands. "And you will."
Memories of quiet dreams lurked in Jon's mind, recalling how as a child he had dreamed that Ned Stark would give him Ice and name him a Stark. The dream brought him shame, as if everything Catelyn Tully claimed him to be suddenly became true. "It belongs to Robb, not me; never me…"
"Then hold it for him," Willam decreed. "You're his brother. Ned's son. Stark in all but name. Keep it safe, understand?"
Jon Snow managed a nod, putting a brave face. "Aye, just until I can hand it to Robb…"
"Good lad," Willam gave the boy a smile, fake as it was.
"See to your siblings Jon," Aedan bid him leave. "They need you."
Jon Snow bowed slightly before he left, exiting the cabin.
Willam had gone straight back to his seat, grabbing the wine skin and emptying it in all with a few gulps.
It was strong stuff; a Dornish Red he thought – though his knowledge of Westerosi wines was limited – the stuff packed a punch. "You've also not eaten in like two days," the nagging voice in his head pestered with that nugget of information. The wine had already made his arms feel heavy.
"It's not your fault," Aedan spoke only after Suko had left them alone.
Prince Lóng had said something before he'd left, but Willam hadn't been paying attention.
"Will?" Aedan pressed him slightly.
"Aye," He waved it away. "I know Grey, it's just-"
What was it? He'd lost people before; this was nothing new really. He'd saved Ned's kids, wasn't that enough? He felt not…
"We've been here before; we'll be here again, it's only a matter of time."
The voice taunted an old phrase, smiling at him from the darkness of his thoughts.
"Get some rest," Aedan insisted with a frown. "It'll be smooth sailing to Dragonstone, gods willing – so try to sleep, eh?"
He hadn't slept well in years, so why start now? The man had a point though, even an hour of sleep seemed tempting.
"Alright," he waved Greystark away again in defeat. "You win. Ship's yours while I'm out, so try not to sink her…"
Not that sleep ever brought peace for him truly, but he was tired. Aedan had a point. He usually had a point.
Shireen Baratheon stood on the windswept balcony outside her chambers. She watched the ravens come, their droppings speckling the gargoyles that rose twelve feet tall on either side of her, a hellhound and a wyvern, two of the thousand that brooded over the walls of the ancient fortress. The army of stone grotesques made some uneasy, but to Shireen they were merely statues. She thought of them as old friends. They watched the sky and sea together with a longing to be free and souring.
She leaned against the battlement, the sea crashing beneath, with black stone rough beneath her fingers. She thought of talking gargoyles and prophecies and the open sea. What else was there to do, except read and ponder and daydream of things beyond? She'd rather do such things than sleep. Nightmares plagued her there…
There was a strange ship on the horizon now though, she'd gone a double-take to be extra certain in fact – it was there; like a swan ship… only a little bigger…
She ran then, out of her chambers and through the halls; by servants who said "m'lady" as she passed, wholly used to her antics by now.
"Maester!" Shireen yipped, rushing into the man's rockery. "Maester Cressen!"
The Maester was not far from his eightieth name day now, his legs frail and unsteady. Two years past, he had fallen and shattered a hip, and it had never mended properly. Last year when he took ill, the Citadel had sent help out from Oldtown, to 'help' him in his labours, it was said, but Cressen knew the truth. Pylos had come to replace him when he died. He did not mind. Someone must take his place, and sooner than he would like…
"Who comes to see us so early, Pylos?" Cressen said, teasingly with a smile.
"It's me, Maester." Shireen's guileless blue eyes blinked at him. Hers was not a pretty face, alas. She had her lord father's square jut of jaw and her mother's unfortunate ears, along with a disfigurement all her own, the legacy of the bout of greyscale that had almost claimed her in the crib. Across half one cheek and well down her neck, her flesh was stiff and dead, the skin cracked and flaking, mottled black and grey and stony to the touch. "I saw something," she declared happily. "A ship!"
"Indeed," Cressen answered. "There's many, is there not? Your lord father has locked down the bay…"
"I know that," she muttered, her excitement giving way to a shyness she'd been known for all her life.
She would be ten on her next name day, and she was the saddest child that Maester Cressen had ever known. Her sadness is my shame, the old Maester often thought, another mark of my failure. "Maester Pylos, do me a kindness and leave me with the Lady Shireen."
"As you wish Maester Cressen," Pylos was a polite youth, no more than five-and-twenty, yet solemn as a man of sixty.
If only he had more humour, more life in him; that was what was needed here. Grim places needed lightening, not solemnity, and Dragonstone was grim beyond a doubt, a lonely citadel in the wet waste surrounded by storm and salt, with the smoking shadow of the mountain at its back. A maester must go where he is sent, so Cressen had come here with his lord some twelve years past, and he had served, and served well. Yet he had never loved Dragonstone, nor ever felt truly at home here.
Of late, when he woke from restless dreams in which a certain red woman figured disturbingly, he often did not know where he was.
And then there was the fool – mercifully absent now – who often haunted his troubled dreams with his fools. His bells ringing as he'd sing "Under the sea, the birds have scales for feathers," the dream mummer would sing, clang-a-langing. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."
Even for a fool, Patchface was a sorry thing. Perhaps once he could evoke gales of laughter with a quip, but the sea had taken that power from him, along with half his wits and all his memory. He was soft and obese, subject to twitches and trembles, incoherent as often as not.
Shireen was the only one who laughed at him nowadays, the only one who cared if he lived or died.
An ugly little girl and a sad fool, and maester makes three; now there is a tale to make men weep.
"Sit with me, child." Cressen beckoned her closer. "This is early to come calling, scarce past dawn. You should be snug in your bed."
"I had bad dreams," Shireen told him. "About the dragons. They were coming to eat me – so I sought air, just like you said…"
The child had been plagued by nightmares as far back as Maester Cressen could recall. "We have talked of this before," he said gently. "The dragons cannot come to life. They are carved of stone, child. In olden days, our island was the westernmost outpost of the great Freehold of Valyria. It was the Valyrians who raised this citadel, and they had ways of shaping stone since lost to us. A castle must have towers wherever two walls meet at an angle, for defence. The Valyrians fashioned these towers in the shape of dragons to make their fortress seem more fearsome, just as they crowned their walls with a thousand gargoyles instead of simple crenelations."
Shireen frowned at the lesson. "But the ship, it wasn't a dream. I saw it; promise – it was bigger than any I've seen Maester…"
Cressen hummed in thought, the smiled. "Show me then, my lady; let us find your ship."
She led him to the balcony and Cressen expected to find find a Swan Ship at most, with a whole lecture prepared on the ingenuity of the Summer Islanders and their vessels; plus the use of their sought after bows. Instead, he saw it too; closing in on the port town at the base of Dragonstone. It was bigger than any Sawn Ship…
"Well," The Maester smiled down at the young girl. "It seems you've found quite something my lady."
Shireen beamed up at him, despite the ugliness of her greyscale; she looked wholly normal in that moment. Just an innocent child.
A voice came from behind them, at the doorway to the rookery, singing another queer haunting tune. "It is always summer under the sea," it intoned. "The merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver seaweed. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."
Shireen giggled, turning to the voice; her mummer's fool. "I should like a gown of silver seaweed."
"Under the sea, it snows up," said the fool, "and the rain is dry as bone. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."
"Will it truly snow?" the child asked aloud then even as the maester frowned at the fool's arrival.
"It will," Cressen said. But not for years yet, he prayed, and then not for long. "Shall we see your lord father?"
"The shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord," the fool sang, hopping from one foot to the other and back again. "The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord, stay my lord." He jerked his head with each word, the bells in his antlers sending up a clangour.
Shireen seemed to grow smaller. "He sings that all the time lately. I told him to stop but he won't. It makes me scared. Make him stop."
"And how do I do that?" Cressen wondered. Once he might have silenced him forever, but now…
Patchface had come to them as a boy. Lord Steffon had found him in Volantis, across the narrow sea. The king – the old king, Aerys II Targaryen, who had not been quite so mad in those days – had sent his lordship to seek a bride for Prince Rhaegar, who had no sisters to wed. "We have found the most splendid fool," he wrote Cressen, a fortnight before he was to return home from his fruitless mission. "Only a boy, yet nimble as a monkey and witty as a dozen courtiers. He juggles and riddles and does magic, and he can sing prettily in four tongues. We have bought his freedom and hope to bring him home with us."
It saddened Cressen to remember that letter.
"Robert will be delighted with him, and perhaps in time he will even teach Stannis how to laugh."
No one had ever taught Stannis how to laugh, least of all the boy Patchface. The storm came up suddenly, howling, and Shipbreaker Bay proved the truth of its name. The lord's two-masted galley Windproud broke up within sight of his castle. From its parapets his two eldest sons had watched as their father's ship was smashed against the rocks and swallowed by the waters. A hundred oarsmen and sailors went down with Lord Steffon Baratheon and his lady wife that day…
And for days thereafter every tide left a fresh crop of swollen corpses on the strand below Storm's End.
The boy washed up on the third day. Maester Cressen had come down with the rest, to help put names to the dead. When they found the fool, he was naked, his skin white and wrinkled and powdered with wet sand. Cressen had thought him another corpse, but when Jommy grabbed his ankles to drag him off to the burial wagon, the boy coughed water and sat up. To his dying day, Jommy had sworn that Patchface's flesh was clammy cold.
No one ever explained those two days the fool had been lost in the sea. The fisherfolk liked to say a mermaid had taught him to breathe water in return for his seed. Patchface himself had said nothing. The witty, clever lad that Lord Steffon had written of never reached Storm's End; the boy they found was someone else, broken in body and mind, hardly capable of speech, much less of wit. Yet his fool's face left no doubt of who he was. It was the fashion in the Free City of Volantis to tattoo the faces of slaves and servants; from neck to scalp the boy's skin had been patterned in squares of red and green motley.
"The wretch is mad, and in pain, and no use to anyone, least of all himself," declared old Ser Harbert, the castellan of Storm's End in those years. "The kindest thing you could do for that one is fill his cup with the milk of the poppy. A painless sleep, and there's an end to it. He'd bless you if he had the wit for it." But Cressen had refused, and in the end he had won. Whether Patchface had gotten any joy of that victory he could not say, not even today, so many years later.
"The shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord," the fool sang on, swinging his head and making his bells clang and clatter.
"A fool will sing what he will," the maester told his anxious lady. "You must not take his words to heart. On the morrow he may remember another song, and this one will never be heard again." He can sing prettily in four tongues, Lord Steffon had written…
It did not bode wel to dwell on such things, but in his old age Maester Cressen found he reflected on a lot in life.
"Pardons, my lady, let us speak to your lord father."
She gave a nod, a brave girl, but sometimes it seemed that her father frightened her. Stannis had been a foul mood of late.
"Pylos, give me your arm. There are too many steps in this castle, and it seems to me they add a few every night, just to vex me."
Shireen followed them out, but soon grew restless with the old man's creeping pace and dashed ahead, the fool lurching after her with his cowbells clanging madly.
Castles are not friendly places for the frail, Cressen was reminded as he descended the turnpike stairs of Sea Dragon Tower. Lord Stannis would be found in the Chamber of the Painted Table, atop the Stone Drum, Dragonstone's central keep, so named for the way its ancient walls boomed and rumbled during storms. To reach him they must cross the gallery, pass through the middle and inner walls with their guardian gargoyles and black iron gates, and ascend more steps than Cressen cared to contemplate.
Young men climbed steps two at a time; for old men with bad hips, every one of them was a torment. But Lord Stannis would not think to come to him, so the maester resigned himself to the ordeal. He had Pylos to help him, at the least, and for that he was grateful.
Shuffling along the gallery, they passed before a row of tall arched windows with commanding views of the outer bailey, the curtain wall, and the fishing village beyond. In the yard, archers were firing at practice butts to the call of "Notch, draw, loose." Their arrows made a sound like a flock of birds taking wing. Guardsmen strode the wallwalks, peering between the gargoyles on the host camped without. The morning air was hazy with the smoke of cookfires, as three thousand men sat down to break their fasts beneath the banners of their lords. Past the sprawl of the camp, the anchorage was crowded with ships.
No craft that had come within sight of Dragonstone this past month had been allowed to leave again. Lord Stannis's Fury, a triple-decked war galley of three hundred oars, looked almost small beside some of the big-bellied carracks and cogs that surrounded her now. And this new arrival dwarfed the lot of them.
The guardsmen outside the Stone Drum knew the maesters by sight and passed them through. "Wait here," Cressen told Pylos then.
"It is a long climb, Maester."
Cressen smiled. "You think I have forgotten? I have climbed these steps so often I know each one by name." Halfway up, he regretted his decision. He had stopped to catch his breath and ease the pain in his hip when he heard the scuff of boots on stone, and came face-to-face with Ser Davos Seaworth, descending.
Davos was a slight man, his low birth written plain upon a common face. A well-worn green cloak, stained by salt and spray and faded from the sun, draped his thin shoulders, over brown doublet and breeches that matched brown eyes and hair. About his neck a pouch of worn leather hung from a thong. His small beard was well peppered with grey, and he wore a leather glove on his maimed left hand. When he saw Cressen, he checked his descent.
"Ser Davos," the maester said. "How is his lordship?"
"Troubled I fear, Maester Cressen," It was said that no one had ever handled a ship by night half so well as Davos Shorthand. Before Lord Stannis had knighted him, he had been the most notorious and elusive smuggler in all the Seven Kingdoms. "King Robert's death has struck him hard…"
It wasn't Robert's death that taxed on Stannis, he knew; sad as it was a thing to admit. It was something else entirely.
"Thank you, Lord Seaworth," the old man hummed, taking another step.
"Do you need a hand Maester?" Davos asked of his struggle.
He was a kind man, this smuggler-lord. Kind and loyal.
"No," Cressen denied. "I'll manage, but my thanks again."
Davos Seaworth continued his decent with little but a nod and a smile.
The air smelled of sulfur, salt and brimstone – but it was a marked improvement over the smell of shit and death that clung to the air closer to King's Landing. Willam wasn't sure when or even how they'd 'gotten used' to such a stretch, but the whole crew was glad to be away from the capital and those calling it home. It hadn't been long at sea before it became apparent that Stannis Baratheon wasn't letting any ships pass through Blackwater Bay without inspection, though breaking their barricade wouldn't be so farfetched an idea; that wasn't their purpose. They'd accepted the escort of small galley's and sailed into dock without fuss. Stannis wasn't their enemy, in theory.
Dragonstone itself was a volcanic island at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, damp and dreary, the castle of the same name loomed over a modest fishing village nestled in the foothills under the Dragonmont; the port naming itself Dragonport in an unimaginative manner. Everything was 'Dragon' on this island of rock and sulfur.
Sansa Stark had refused to come ashore, the girl stayed in her cabin; clinging to her direwolf and sulking. About her father and everything else, one assumed.
The village was filled with lowborn folk of an array of looks, but most striking were those with purple eyes in differing shades; of violet and lilac pale blue – with one in every hundred seeming to boast silver-gold hair that shined in the sunlight. "Dragonseeds," one of their escorts had called them. Arya had jumped at that.
"Aegon Targaryen lived here," she'd rambled as they walked through the town. "And his sisters too. Visenya and Rhaenys, they were!"
The saying of "Dragon's Seed is strongest where they roost" was commonplace among the smallfolk here, who were seemingly proud of their blood.
Willam knew the names from what books he'd read out of Luwin's library when he'd sought to know more about the Dragon King that forced Torrhen Stark to bend the knee. Those books called the man a coward, but Willam couldn't help but wonder what He'd have done. Fight and burn, or bend and spare thousands?
King Torrhen had chosen to value his people over his crown. It was noble of him, a choice that few kings would make; at least without being burnt first.
"The Dance ended here," Arya hadn't ceased her talking, walking beside the young Edric Dayne who seemed to cling to the girls every word as they ascended the winding path up the mountain. "King Aegon II had Queen Rhaenyra killed here, eaten by his dragon Sunfyre. It's said he was beautiful…"
"King Aegon?" The Dayne boy asked, blinking in question.
"No, stupid," Arya rolled her eyes. "Sunfyre!"
"Oh," Edric smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Sunfyre died though, and King Aegon didn't rule for half of a year before he died too…"
Lord Dayne knew all of this. He was a lord, even at the age of twelve name-days; but he rather liked how much Arya Stark talked. Most girls were boring, in his opinion – and gods how Beric had once teased him for that thought. He'd told him how he wouldn't think that when he was older… but Edric had his doubts…
"There were three kings then," Arya just kept rambling excitedly; uncaring if the boy or anyone else was actually listening to her or not. "Trystane Truefyre, a bastard of King Viserys I was crowned in the Red Keep. Another was only four namedays! Gaemon Palehair, a bastard son of King Aegon, was crowned atop Visenya's Hill!"
"And-" Edric stumbled a little, then chuckled nervously. "And what happened next?"
Arya's eyes darted to the boy, narrowing for a moment in suspicion, wondering if the boy was mocking her before she shrugged and said "Lord Baratheon had Truefyre executed, but spared Palehair; who turned out to not be a Targaryen bastard at all! And then King Aegon died too.."
"And then Cregan Stark came!" Edric said bravely, hoping that mention would please the girl.
"Mhmm," Arya hummed aloud. "The Hour of the Wolf! Lord Cregan ruled as Hand of the King for only a day of trials; before he resigned."
"Like your father," Edric said, instantly releasing his error.
"Stupid," Arya's face had turned, her smile dying as she rushed ahead.
"Wait!" Edric called out, but she'd gone ahead. "I didn't mean to…"
Lord Beric was smiling at the boy from his side as others chuckled.
"What!?" The boy asked, aghast – shrinking under all the attention.
"Nothing lad," Beric stifled a laugh of his own, ruffling the young lord's hair.
"Young love," Rolland muttered at the boy's expense.
Edric Dayne huffed in his apparent failure, eyes downcast as he mumbled about how he was "just making friends" that only made Beric smile wider.
He eyed Arya, walking alongside Jon Snow. The girl had seemingly completely forgotten her brief anger with him; returning to rambling at her half-brother just out of hearing. Edric wondered if Jon Snow knew they were milk brothers? His wet nurse Wylla, who was a servant of his family for many years, was Jon's mother.
Or so he was told, but he'd never questioned it. Why would he? He even had the nickname 'Ned' for how close his aunt Ashara had been to Ned Stark.
Ned Dayne shook his head at that, sighing; deciding it was best to not pry – as he'd already upset Arya and didn't wish to risk upsetting her brother too. The sulfurous air burned inside his nose then as white smoke poured from numerous cracks and vents that seemed to burst out of the Dragonmont.
Arya had yelped "COOL" when that happened, practically jumping with excitement as the mountain seemed to breathe like a dragon.
Bran Stark by comparison seemed oddly calm, looking around; the boy almost looked like he'd seen all of it before. That was impossible though.
"It's alive," Edric muttered as they neared the castle itself; built into the very side of the great mountain. As formidable as it was daunting.
Rolland Storm scoffed at that notion, muttering how "rocks aren't alive" with a roll of his eyes. Edric didn't like the man much, he decided.
"It's only a mountain lad," Beric was grinning. "Dragons lived here once though – might be they liked the heat?"
Dragonstone opened to them without a fuss as they approached the great gates of fused black stone engraved with dragons and wyverns and hellhounds. Ned eyed Prince Willam as they entered under the portcullis and he didn't quite know what to make of the foreign Prince who Thoros seemed so interested in.
He'd cracked a jest when they'd first met, but since then he'd been a stone wall of brooding quiet – except for his telling of the family called Frost and its sword – the man was distant, with an ice-cold glare more akin to a gargoyle than a man. Ned thought that he looked like how one of the ancient Kings in the North might've looked.
The wolf at his side didn't help. Wraith, he'd called it; kin to Ghost – and both names seemed rather fitting to Dayne. They were both quiet beasts.
"Welcome to Dragonstone," one of their escorts muttered as they entered.
Ned's eyes went wide then, and he blocked out Arya's squeals of excitement. This was the home of Dragonlords.
Forged by fire and arcane and dark sorcery, it was said; the Valyrians were capable of liquefying and reshaping stone with dragonflame – shaping the architecture throughout Dragonstone. They passed by claws holding torches, wings that spanned over an armoury and smithy, then dragon tails that formed archways above their heads. All of it was wrought with black stone, the doors were in the mouths of stone dragons. Dragon statues littered every wall they passed by…
Among their designs, spanning the high walls; basilisks, cockatrices, demons, griffins, hellhounds, manticores, minotaurs and wyverns watched them.
The yard they passed through was wide open to the sky and the air smelled fresh, yet still hinted of smoke and brimstone.
"Dragons landed here!" Arya Stark blurred out as they passed, pointing over at the yards edge; a wide-open space… large enough for dragons…
The Great Hall was carved in the shape of a huge dragon lying on its belly; with heavy red doors set in the mouth.
They entered beneath the gateway of teeth and through the dragon's maw.
"His Lordship," a herald called out as they entered the hall. "Stannis of the House Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and the Narrow Sea."
Prince Willam said nothing as they stepped forward, Ned Dayne noticed; the man hadn't said much since they'd landed.
"Your Grace," Beric knelt then as they came to a halt; an action Dayne was quick to follow – as was Rolland Storm.
Stannis Baratheon looked at them with an odd glare, leaning forward on his dragon fused stone throne.
"My brother is king," he told them with the ghost of a frown.
"King Robert is dead," Prince Suko spoke, uncaring for the stag's wrath.
Stannis's glare turned stonier at that, his eyes darting to his council as if to question them.
"Is this true?" A woman spoke from beside Stannis, sitting in her own seat; one of the two carved below the high throne of Dragonstone.
"I'm afraid so my lady," Beric answered with his head lowered.
"Poisoned by that bitch Cersei Lannister," Rolland scowled at the notion.
Dayne wasn't sure if that was the truth; wasn't it just a suspicion? Then again… he supposed it wasn't so hard to believe…
"King Robert is dead," Prince Willam spoke then, his voice void of care. "Joffrey and his ilk are born of incest; with no claim to the throne – but you knew that..."
The hall fell to quiet whispers and the Lady of Dragonstone leapt up from her seat and yelled "You dare speak to your King in such a manner!?"
Ned Dayne eyed the Stark Prince with worry as he tilted his head, but the man looked as if he were carved from ice to match Stannis's stone.
"Not my king," is all he said. "Never has been; nor will be for that matter."
"You dare!" The Lady practically screeched like a harpy.
"Enough," Stannis spat, grinding his teeth. "Leave us. Now…"
The hall obeyed, except for the man's wife; who remained glaring daggers.
"All of you," Stannis didn't so much as look to his wife for her to move.
It was eerily empty now in the great hall of Dragonlords. Stannis Baratheon looked twice his age atop his throne of black stone.
"You knew," Prince Willam once again declared, a hand absently stroking his direwolfs head.
"I knew," Stannis wasted no time denying it. "Yes."
"And you ran," Suko added with a scoff. "How gallant."
King Stannis frowned, if stone could frown at all – Dayne knew it would look like this man now.
"Jon Arryn died for the truth," he said simply. "I left, before the same fate could befall Me…"
"It doesn't matter," Willam dismissed with a tired sigh.
"You bring the Starks with you…"
"Ned Stark's children," Willam confirmed. "I am seeing them safety back North, as he wished of me."
Stannis hummed at that, sitting uncomfortably in his throne.
"My father remains a captive," Jon Snow stepped forward then; briefly adding "Your Grace" as he finished.
"Eddard Stark is no friend of mine," Stannis scowled, warily eyeing the boy's large white wolf.
Snow's features tightened at that, holding back his sister from angrily leaping at the man.
"Nor is he your enemy," Willam countered easily. "The man sought to secure your throne…"
"Robert named him Hand, a position that should've rightfully been mine. Not the first slight I've been dealt."
"What does that manner now?" Prince Suko scoffed with a roll of his eyes.
"Robert is dead," Willam repeated bluntly. "The past is done; we're the future."
"We, is it?" A feminine voice appeared from the shadows behind Stannis's throne.
She had long hair the colour of deep burnished copper, with unsettling red eyes and pale unblemished skin.
"I told you to leave," Stannis growled at the red woman.
"I live to serve you my king," Melisandre said, all smiles and silk.
"And who's this?" Suko asked, eyeing the woman in long scarlet blood-red satin velvet.
She was a beauty in a scarlet cloak and a red gold choker fitting tightly around her neck.
"I am called Melisandre, little serpent Prince…"
"Nothing little about me red woman," Suko smirked at his own genius.
Her eyes turned onto another then.
"Thoros of Myr," she said smoothly, her voice haunting.
"My Lady," the fat red priest managed his best bow.
"What are you doing here?"
"Serving our gods will," Thoros insisted fearlessly.
"Enough," Stannis sighed, rubbing his forehead as if feeling a headache coming along.
"Your Grace," Lady Melisandre bowed. She walked past Prince Willam as she left, her red eyes glinting; like rubies in the dark – with a smile of malice on her blood-red lips. It was the first time Edric Dayne ever saw a glance of fear in Willam Stark's eyes. For a second, ever so briefly, the man's stone mask had cracked for this woman.
"Lord Dondarrion," Stannis called on the man, then eyed his companion. "And you? I do not know you…"
"Ser Rolland Storm," the man was knelt.
"Where is your Lordly brother?"
After a moment, Rolland managed to growl the word "Dead" and "Your Grace"
"I see," Stannis frowned. "His killers will be brought to justice, Ser Rolland; this much I swear."
"Thank you, Your Grace…"
"Ser Balon Swann also assisted us Your Grace," Beric added, his head raised. "He bought us time to escape…"
"Along with many others," Willam said fiercely. "My own people and yours too…"
Stannis eyed the wayward Prince then, judging; staring at the man and his friends who had still yet to kneel.
"I shall bring justice to all," King Stannis declared; equal parts promise and threat. "I promise you this, Willam Stark…"
"We're not your enemies," Willam insisted plainly.
"But you will not kneel to your King."
"He is the descendant of King Brandon the Shipwright," Aedan stepped forward then, hand on his pommel; voice clear and loud. "By law, we owe you no allegiance Stannis Baratheon. None of his nor my ancestors have sworn to your throne, now nor in the past. You have no right to demand we kneel…"
Words that might've had most kings in a fury, Dayne thought; having knelt beside Beric already.
"Rise," Stannis bid his lords. "What's your name boy?"
"Aedan of House Greystark," he declared proudly. "Shield to Prince Willam of Winterhold."
Names and titles from beyond Westeros. The point was an obvious one…
"You are correct," Stannis managed, though he was frowning still. Ned Dayne wondered if the man was capable of smiling.
"We share a common enemy however," Prince Willam decreed then and there.
"House Lannister," Aedan added with a nod. His wolf, Flash, sat silently in vigil at his side.
"I led many good men and women to their deaths in support of Ned Stark," Willam said with a blank look, though a fire burnt behind his grey eyes. "I tried all I could; every option except for fleeing – or knocking Ned Stark out and carrying him from the damn city. People died, yours and mine; because of the Lannisters…"
King Stannis remained sitting quietly as the prince spoke. He was judging the man as he spoke, Edric thought.
"I have no obligation to you King Stannis," Willam continued as Wraith growled. "The Iron Throne is yours by rights however, this I acknowledge freely; you are welcome to it – and so long as your enemy is House Lannister then we share a common goal. If not by my sword, then by my kin's, Casterly Rock shall crumble to dust."
"We swear it by wrath and winter," Aedan Greystark spoke then, clear and proud.
"We swear it by salt and stone," Edwyn Fisher stepped forward beside his cousin.
"By the sun and stars," Prince Suko added his peace, oddly serious sounding.
"I swear it by Ice and Fire." Prince Willam had ended the oath there, staring at the Stag King.
King Stannis looked at them oddly from atop his black stone throne but seemed to ease; or so Edric thought as he watched.
"You will rest for today," the King decreed simply. "We will talk again tomorrow; there is must to be done…"
Ned Dayne knew a dismissal when he heard one. Those kneeling made to stand.
"Your Grace," Lord Beric stood and bowed his head alongside Rolland Storm.
They exited the throne room then, leaving Stannis Baratheon alone with his thoughts and the weight of a new crown atop his head.
Prince Willam said nothing as they left, except for one rather flamboyant bow from Suko; turning on his heels to follow afterwards – the Starks left with direwolves at their backs and a stag kings eyes glaring. Ned Dayne wasn't sure what to make of the new King, for he seemed blunt, bordering on rude; yet promised justice for the fallen.
It was a rare king who delivered on his promises but Dayne thought that, perhaps, this one just might. Still, Ned mused, it wouldn't kill the man to smile a little.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered and powerful in appearance, with purple eyes and short-cut silver-gold hair. Once more Bran dreamed of him, but only now he was afoot – with black wings of dread at his back, he spoke, "Yield now, and your sons will live to rule after you. I have eight thousand men outside your walls."
"What is outside my walls is of no concern to me," said an old man in void black armour. "Those walls are strong and thick."
"But not so high as to keep out dragons." The tall man spoke with a grin. "Dragon's fly."
"I built in stone," said the old man. "Stone does not burn."
"When the sun sets, your line shall end."
The world burned then, as a great castle tall as mountains crumbled and melted; fading from his sight into fields of burnt wheat and kneeling lions, only for gold roses to grow amongst the blood-stained grass as winged dragons flew overhead. Bran was used to their roars by now, but at first; he had fell backwards from the dream.
A great bronze scaled dragon was souring above the field now, flying no more than twenty feet above a great battle when another dragon of pale silver-grey slammed into the bronze from above, driving it shrieking into the ground. Men ran in terror or were crushed as the two dragons rolled and tore at one another. Tails snapped and wings beat at the air, but the beasts were so entangled that neither was able to break free. The bronze's size and weight were too much for the grey to contend with and Bran fought for sure – watching from atop a hill; overlooking the field – that the bronze dragon would easily rip the grey one apart soon.
Then, out of the sky above a roar pierced the air like a spear, wings of cobalt and claws of bright beaten copper dived down to join the fight.
Her flames were cobalt blue in color as well, Bran saw; as the three dragons fought a bloody struggle.
They fought amidst the mud and blood and smoke. The grey dragon was first to die, when the large bronze one locked his teeth into its neck and ripped his head clean off. Afterward the bronze tried to take flight with his prize still in his jaws, but his tattered wings could not lift his weight. After a moment he collapsed and died.
The beautiful blue dragon lasted until sunset. Thrice she tried to regain the sky, and thrice failed.
Bran watched her in sadness until a lone archer sent three shafts into the dragon's eye, ending her suffering.
The field faded then, the red grass gone; the fallen dragons turned to bones and dust in the wind – into to the annuals of history.
"And Silverwing?" asked a woman with silver-gold hair. "Our sister-"
"Had no part in this. I will not put her at risk."
"I will not allow Valyria to rise again. No one must know of this but we three..."
"Targaryens are Valyrian to the bone," a voice wholly foreign spoke. "Sail far. Sail fast."
"Younger and fiercer than my Winter Wolves."
"He does not know. My son, my sweet, my son…"
A boy plunged to the earth, breaking his spine; dying with a whimper as he whispered "Mother, forgive me."
"You died in the battle," A voice spoke in the shadows, drawing steel of black valyrian mist. "My condolences…"
Bran felt tired now, as the dream shifted once more; showing him Dragonstone. He knew this place, unlike the field he'd seen this castle with his own eyes – sleeping there now, with summer resting peacefully beside him. The dream placed him face-to-face with a dead man and another dying dragon.
Its scales shone like beaten gold in the sunlight but sprawled across the fused black Valyrian stone of the yard, it was plain to see this dragon was a broken thing. Its wing all but torn from his body, jutted at an awkward angle, whilst fresh scars along its back still smoked and bled when he moved.
The golden dragon was coiled in a ball when Bran first saw it, but it stirred and raised its head, to reveal wounds along his neck, where another dragon had torn chunks from his flesh. On his belly were places where scabs had replaced scales with a right eye that was only an empty hole, crusted with black blood.
Bran had seen this dragon before, in an older dragon; before its wounds. Sunfyre, he knew it as – once the most beautiful of the dragons.
"How has it come to this?" A woman stood before the ruined Sunfyre with silver-gold hair in a long braid graced with a simple band of yellow gold ornamented with seven gems of different colors. She looked tired, angry; and for a brief moment she looked broken. Bran thought she might cry then and there.
"Sister," her brother called down from a balcony. Unable to walk, or even stand, he had been carried there in a chair. A shattered hip had left him bent and twisted, with once-handsome features now puffy from milk of the poppy, and burn scars covering half his body.
Yet the woman knew him at once, and said, "Dear brother. I had hoped that you were dead."
"After you," the burnt king answered. "You are the elder."
"I am pleased to know that you remember that," she answered, her smile strained; looking at the rider who was in near as bad a state as his dragon. "It would seem we are your prisoner's dear brother, but do not think that you will hold us long. My leal lords will find me..."
"If they search the seven hells, mayhaps," the burnt king made answer, as his men tore the woman from her son's arms.
The Burnt King delivered his half-sister to his dragon. Sunfyre did not seem at first to take any interest in the offering, until the smell of blood roused the dragon, who sniffed at the women then bathed her in a blast of flame; melting flesh from bone and the crown atop her head too. Her son watched it all in horror.
Bran watched the woman raise her head toward the sky and shriek before Sunfyre's jaws closed round her, tearing off her arm and shoulder.
The dragon devoured her in a single bite. Or at least, what little remained of her from the golden flames.
Dragonstone faded too then. "The time for hiding is done," the voice of the Burnt King declared in the darkness.
"The king is dead," another cried out in the dark, "long live the king!"
"Who told you the war was done?"
"Why must I stay in my chambers?" A boy's voice asked, though Bran couldn't see his face.
"This city is a nest of vipers," Another man spoke, his voice northern; with a face oddly similar to his own fathers. In his dream, at that thought the mans faced shifted to exactly that of Eddard Stark. "There are liars, turncloaks, and poisoners in this court who would murder you as quick as they did your uncle to secure power."
"I shall," the boy's voice said, now a man grown. "You are sitting in my chair."
"There must be one more. The dragon has three heads."
Rubies fell then like drops of rain from the sky, dropping into a river suddenly at Bran's feet, the waters a dark red with blood, as he saw a man with silver hair and deep purple eyes sink to his knees in the water and with his last breath, he murmured a woman's name.
"Lyanna…"
Bran was ripped from the dream then.
A wave of fire crashed into existence, flooding the world; washing over him like a tide.
"Burn them all!" The words echoed all around him as the fires turned green-and-black.
"Wake up Bran," Lyarra's voice nudged him.
He could see her, watching; smiling sweetly as she always did.
"Wake up," again she said; though the pitch changed some.
He heard Summer whine. He felt the dampness of cold grass.
"Hey," the voice called. "Wake up."
Bran Stark opened his eyes.
"Lady Lyarra?"
No, the eyes were wrong…
Ocean-blue eyes looked down at him curiously.
"Who's that?" Shireen asked, her head tilted to the side. "I'm Shireen…"
Bran saw her clearer then, rubbing his eyes from sleep; he stroked at Summer's fur as the wolf laid by his side. Shireen Baratheon was standing over him, with her square jaw and large ears; half coated in Greyscale, cracked and flaking, gray and black. She wasn't a pretty girl, but Bran knew better than to judge her for that.
"Hello, my Lady," he managed, still slumped by against the weirwood.
"Princess," she said shyly. "Mother says I'm a princess now…"
"Princess then," Bran said, smiling.
The Princess looked around her garden then.
"Why are you sleeping here Lord Bran?"
Lyarra had told him to, was the answer – but not one he'd give.
"I was praying," he decided instead, eyes darting to his feet only briefly.
Shireen hummed, trying her best to not too obviously be staring at the boy's wolf.
"You can touch him if you like," Bran said as he got up from the floor.
"I-" She hesitated, putting her hand out slowly; expecting the creature to bite. Summer didn't though, letting the little girl stroke his fur and scratch behind his ear. "He's so soft," the princess muttered in awe, smiling. Bran watched her quietly. "I always wanted a pet… but mother says ladies don't have those…"
"My sisters do," Bran countered simply. "Arya and Sansa, and Lady Rowana has an eagle…"
"I saw!" Shireen said, though her excitement faded quickly.
Summer stirred then, head shooting up from the grass.
"The castle is looking for you," the Princess explained with a frown.
They were in Aegon's Garden – though one supposed it was Shireen's Garden these days – a place down the tail of a dragon; secluded from the rest of the castle. It had a pleasant piney smell to it, with tall dark trees on every side. There were wild roses as well, and towering thorny hedges, and a boggy spot where cranberries grew.
At the centre though, stood an ancient weirwood; white as bone – though it had no face. Bran thought that a sad thing. How could the gods see, without eyes?
"Brandon Stark," the voice of Prince Willam came from down the dragons tail path. "Never were you're expected, are you?"
The man looked grim. The cheerful jesting Prince that spent two years at Winterfell was lost in King's Landing it seemed, replaced by a much colder, tired and older man; but for moments when his true self would shine through. He was two men now, Bran thought, one a Prince of Summer and the other a Prince of Winter.
"Lord Bran was praying under the tree," the Princess Shireen informed him shyly. "I found him here Lord Stark…"
Willam Stark eyed the boy, then the tree, then the girl. "Praying," he hummed, doubting. "We're due to leave, Bran; come…"
Up the dragon's tail and under the dragon's wings, they entered the higher courtyard, vast and open; overlooking the sea at the castles edge – a place designed to house even the largest of dragons roosting. Arya had been right in that, the creatures had landed here once upon a time, very long ago.
"Cooool!" Arya Stark was the first thing they heard, an eagle on her outstretched arm; protected from its talons by a leather brace.
"Now," Rowana was teaching the girl, all smiles as Arya beamed with excitement. "Tell him to fly…"
She wasn't really controlling the young eagle, truthfully; but Arya didn't need to know that.
"Fly!" Arya commanded, her skinny arm barely holding up the bird.
Talon leapt free and gave flight, souring through the flies above Dragonstone like a dragon of old.
Rowana was smiling as the young Stark girl looked up at the sky in awe.
Ashlyn Amber was clapping for the girl to the side of the yard.
"He'll come back?" Arya asked, hopeful.
"When he wants to, or when I ask," Rowana explained.
"Talon know when his master needs him," Ashlyn added helpfully from the side.
Unlike common hunting birds in falconry, the eagle and Rowana were bounded at the soul.
"You found the boy," Qrow Ryder saw them first, eyeing Bran Stark with a neutral look.
"Aye," Willam replied with a nod. "Praying, isn't that right Bran?"
He knew. Bran could sense the prying in his eyes… he'd known it for a lie…
"Yeah," he nervously grinned, looking anywhere but at the Prince's eyes.
"Under the sea, smoke rises in bubbles," a voice came into the courtyard, with a company of men.
"Prince Willam," the one leading them called out as he approached. "His Grace's letter for you…"
"Flames burn green and blue and black. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."
Willam merely stared at the odd man singing his tunes, with tattoos covering his broad face and bald head, marked in a pattern of green and red squares.
"Ignore the fool," the man said with a heavy sigh, looking as tired of the singing as everyone else.
"Is something wrong with him, Ser-"
"Davos," the man said, without a hint of pride. "Seaworth."
"Ser Davos," Willam continued, eyeing the odd tattooed man who was staring at him intently.
"The man's simple," Davos said sadly. "He was capsized years back I'm told. They fished him out of the sea, but he's never been the same…"
The obese fool looked dough-soft and slump-shouldered, walking with an unusual sideways walk and twitching randomly.
"Black blood, blue blood, blood on the ocean floor, but green for the guests and grey for the rest, no more no more."
Prince Willam ignored the fool, taking the letter marked in the king's seal from Ser Davos's hand and slipping it away safely.
They left Dragonstone then with little fuss, down the narrow spiralling path from the castle and back to the Dragonport below where the Wanderer awaited them impatiently; all too eager to be gone from these waters. King Stannis had parted with them as 'friends' though, Willam found that a loose term at best.
My Note(s): I admit, I have a soft spot in my heart (what's left of my heart these days, isn't much I assure you) for House Dayne :) so bringing lil Ned Dayne along for the ride here is rather 'because I want to' buuut then again it was recruiting him via Will or leaving him to be basically never mentioned; where he'd have probably been recruited by Renly instead or stayed in KL like Balon Swann… only unlike Balon one thinks Beric's sense of honor would've gotten him in a lotta trouble…
We meet Stannis who is his usual grumpy blunt self, gotta love the guy; so loveable. I enjoy the idea that Thoros is an annoying tag-along that Willam would rather be without; since he really isn't one for religion, even with the Old Gods; he often feels they're screwing with his life… because they sorta are soooo… oops… but at least he's rid of the Stormlanders. I'd have loved to bring Ned Dayne n Beric along for the ride up North but that wouldn't have made any real sense for the story sadly.
I also haven't forgotten about telling Jon what his father said about Greywater, but Will's got a lot on his mind, so he simply hasn't cared enough to mention it yet.
Those wise few readers among you may have started figuring out all the wide-reaching changes by now. The stones have been cast, just gotta follow the ripples, and there's a damn lot of ripples at this stage. I don't care to list them all and some are secret/haven't been revealed quite yet that'll further effect the story. Spoilers.
Tertius711: I wouldn't worry about that so much, this re-write has exceedingly little in common with the old story outside of the basic concept of Sunset Starks. As should become more and more apparent, there's little to no comparison between the two versions. The old version had under 80k words in 23 chapters compared to the 200k words in 24 chapters here :) though it's more accurately 180/190k without all my notes and responses; it's still an impressive difference in story length alone.
Willam is an entirely different character compared to his old counterpart. No character of mine is untouchable, but the old story has no basis on the new.