Dragons of Ice and Fire

by Diablo Snowblind

There are things hidden in the far north, secrets buried under ice. Jon Snow faces the white walkers early, and stumbles upon a power that could change the world. It forges a new path for him and everyone around him - and a new journey south, a journey as a dragon. The world begins to change - with steel and snow, fire and blood…

28. The kings of the realm

The kings in the realm, and the tyrants trying to destroy it. The war of five kings come again

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The Imp

The Golden Company's western warcamp was bustling, filled with light tents and campfires and men, surrounded by horses grazing in the fields, hectic from beginning to end with activity.

Every day of this campaign had been constantly mobile, a westards strategy of deep strikes and rapid retreats that could have only been possible with the Company's well-trained cavalry. The Company's cavalry had moved from one victory to the next, often without even the loss of even a single fighting man. Every second or third day, they had met and broken House Lannister's forces rallying to the crownlands from the west, breaking up the forces of local loyalist riverlords and ever moving westwards.

His warcamp was nestled by a curve of the Tumblestone River, north of Lord Harroway's Town, near the southern bank of the Trident. The muddy earth was covered in a faint slush of dirty snow stomped by boots and hooves. There would be no time to set up stakewalls around the campsite, but the men of the Golden Company were experienced enough to patrol and watch diligently. They would move on from this place within a day or three.

Tyrion saw the riders come from the north. Three chargers galloping down the road. "Is it true?" the dwarf asked eagerly, as they approached his command tent.

"Aye," one of forward riders said. His eyes were grim and his face exhausted. "It's true. We followed the river north and saw it ourselves; the castles really have been turned to rubble. I swear, I've never seen aught like it. Shattered foundation stones and mass graves."

"Survivors?" Ser Franklyn Flowers asked harshly. Tyrion was trembling with excitement.

"Few. Not many at the Twins made it out at all, and then Bastard King's monster chased down those who did." The man in golden armor, one of the Company's Westerosi exiles returned home, had all the demeanour of a veteran, an experienced, hard-faced sellsword, but even after a several day's hard ride from the site of the disaster, he still sounded unnerved. "We saw riots from Fairmarket to Oldstones. Mobs mad with panic, empty castles, people abandoning towns - even moving to live in caves."

"Dragons," Tyrion murmured, so quietly the words didn't even escape his throat. It's true, then.

Laughter broke from Tyrion's mouth, jagged and cackling. The sound caused a few men to jump. "Dragons! That is brilliant! Come, let us raise a toast! To Walder Frey, the Harren Hoare of our age - and the legacy he will leave behind!"

A dozen commanders and fighting men gave him strange and disconcerted looks. The news of the dragon had left the riverlands in disarray and its lord panicked, even the men of the invading Golden Company had been shaken. For days, the ravens were flocking around the sky in panic - demanding answers where there were few to be had. It had taken the better part of a week for fact to be sorted from fiction, for a letter written by a northern bastard boy turned Bastard King to be copied and recopied a thousand times, now making the rounds throughout the kingdoms. The destruction of the Twins, nobody could have expected such a thing - and now it was just gone as if by nothing less than an act of gods.

In so many ways, this was a setback to the Golden Company's plans, to his plans. Still, Tyrion just had to smile.

Walder Frey worked with my father, Tyrion thought viciously. All their conspiracies, all their schemes, and now this is the consequence. The destruction of the Twins is just another bit of my father's legacy broken to pieces. And by the time I'm done the realm will remember Tywin as the great lord who broke everything.

These last months had been… revitalising . Tyrion felt like he had a purpose again.

"Dragons," he muttered out-loud, as he waddled back to his tent. "Dragons!"

"Just the one dragon, it seems," said Ser Franklyn Flowers, walking next to him. Ser Franklyn was a big-bellied, shambling hulk of a man with a seamed face crisscrossed with old scars. His right ear looked as if a dog had chewed on it and his left ear was missing entirely. He was an extremely formidable fighter, and a loyal lieutenant, so Tyrion quite liked having the man with him. By comparison, Tyrion was one of the few men who could make Ser Franklyn seem handsome.

"But it's a big one," Tyrion chuckled. "Do you not see the jape? I go halfway around the world for Queen Daenerys' dragons and it turns out there's one right here at home. Our king declares himself a dragon returned, but, no, a real dragon has already beaten him to it!"

"How the hells can you even laugh about that?" Ser Franklyn said incredulously. "That dragon ain't on our side, you know."

"We should all be laughing. We might as well laugh rather than cry."

In his tent, a letter waited for him where he left it. Such a glorious letter too. Tyrion had read the letter several dozen times already, and his reactions had slowly turned from incredulous shock, to baffled confusion, then laughter, and then harder laughter.

For the breaching the laws of men, for treason and breaking guest right, for murder and kinslaying, the Freys of the Crossing have faced the highest punishment. Their lands are razed, their lord is dead, their castles and crossing destroyed. The guilty are punished, and yet more of the guilty remain. I will see justice for the all crimes committed against my family.

Jon Snow, King-Beyond-the-Wall, King-On-the-Wall. Son of Eddard Stark, brother of Robb Stark. Dragonrider of Sonagon.

When Tyrion put the letter down for the thirtieth time, it still hadn't stopped being fucking hilarious.

Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, now King-Beyond-the-Wall and dragonrider, Tyrion thought, with an internal cackle. Sonagon, what kind of broken High Valyrian even is that? Hah! The beast the riverlords call the White Doom, named Winter by a boy who doesn't even properly know to spell the word!

Tyrion remembered Jon Snow, he had even befriended him during that trip to the Wall three years and a lifetime ago. Who would have ever guessed what he would become?

"What does this mean for us?" Ser Franklyn grumbled.

"Means?" Tyrion scoffed. "It means that our king may well be scorched - sorry, frozen - to a crisp should a certain bastard wish it. And there's absolutely nothing we can do about that possibility either. The whole realm stands at the wildling king's mercy; we are somewhat lacking dragons ourselves."

"We have a dragon," another sellsword said harshly. A tall, hard-faced serjeant called Chains. "King Aegon is a dragon."

"But not the flying sort, I'm afraid." Tyrion grinned.

"I don't bloody understand," Ser Franklyn grumbled. "How can there be a dragon in the north? Why is it here?"

Tyrion chuckled as he scrambled up onto a seat. They were no chairs with them, so instead he just used a barrel. "Oh, it's quite simple really; it's here because the gods are cunts," he explained, with a cheerful, bitter laugh. "All of them - vicious little cunts. The powers-that-be heard of Aegon's return, a young boy with a very good chance of actually reclaiming his throne, and so they decided to ruin that plan with another conqueror with another dragon. They are gods - they'll stamp on your face every single time."

There were a few glances shared between the Company serjeants. Tyrion didn't really care what they thought of him, so long as they obeyed, and he knew they would for so long as they kept winning.

Lord Tywin had been obsessive about preserving his reputation, staying stiff and prideful. Tyrion didn't have a reputation - he had infamy. Regicide, patricide. Kinslayer, traitor. Drunken, fiendish, whoring dwarf. Herald of sin and corruption. Even before his downfall from Westeros' grace, there had been mummers' plays of the evil Imp of Lannister being performed on the streets of King's Landing itself.

Might as well lean into it, make the rumours real, had been his logic, viciousness is a better shield than predictability. So instead, Tyrion had resolved himself to wear his infamy like a mask, like armour, to drink and to jape, to cavort and amuse, and yet be every bit as ruthless as his father had ever been.

The sad thing was, it worked. It worked so easily. Once, he would have been horrified by what he had become. But now? Now, the mask was so easy to wear, so effective at making the tall men do what he wished, more effective than respect and appeals to law and decency and rationality had ever been. If he'd known his father's cruelty was so effective for a leader, he would have started playing the fiend years ago.

"Remind me," Tyrion asked, "We got the letter from Harrenhal, did we not?"

"Aye." The Golden Company had taken Harrenhal a week past, and easily at that. The castle supposedly belonged to Lord Baelish, but it had been held by Ser Bonifer Hasty and the Holy Hundred. Then Ser Bonifer left for King's Landing for the 'Holy War' brewing between Crown and Faith, which had left Harrenhal so poorly held a token force of the Golden Company managed to seize it easily.

"If Harrenhal received a raven, then it's a good bet that Storm's End has too," Tyrion said. "Oh, how I wish I could be there to see King Aegon's reaction when he reads it." Though, truthfully, it's Jon Connington's reaction I'd be more interested in. Perhaps one of the spies I left behind could relay it?

How did my dear sister react to this letter? The thought made him cackle all over again.

"We can't fight against a dragon," Chains grumbled. "If this bastard Jon Snow has also declared himself king, where does that leave us?"

Tyrion stopped to think about it. He shook his head. "It doesn't change a thing," he said finally. "Our plans remain the same for now. Read the letter; Jon Snow has not declared himself king of the Iron Throne - his interest appears to be in the north." But how long will that last? He paused, biting his lip.

"I know of Jon Snow. I met him, travelled with him for a time," Tyrion admitted. "I remember a young, brooding boy so bitter about being a bastard that he ran off to take the black. Nice lad, though a bit sullen, naive and arrogant. I have difficulty matching him with the king declared in this letter. And yet I suppose war changes us all." Idly, Tyrion ran his finger over the scars of his face, feeling the mutilated skin, the missing nose.

His commanders and lieutenants were all looking at him, uncertainty in their eyes. "No, we must use this to our advantage," Tyrion said. "The Riverlands have lost both their major forces, and the west is now lacking its warden." I must raise a toast to my poor cousin Daven. We Lannisters seem to be dropping like flies. "If Aegon has his wits, he'll use this chaos to his advantage as well. The people are panicked, they should be calling for a strong Targaryen leader to save them from the savages and dragons."

"And if the Bastard King flies south to raze Aegon and Storm's End?"

"I'm not so sure that he will. But if he does, we will negotiate." I wonder what type of man Jon Snow has become? What things has he seen, to become this? "We will stall him with talk and empty words, and we will do so for as long as we can without fighting him. Remember that sooner or later, Queen Daenerys will be coming from the east, and she will bring three dragons versus his one. When she arrives, Aegon Targaryen must be sitting on the Iron Throne, and of course Daenerys will support her own family over a northern pretender."

Hopefully, with Queen Daenerys' reinforcements, they could convince Jon Snow to bend the knee. If not, he'd have to die to secure the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion wouldn't be happy to see the boy dead, but, well, Tyrion had lived with worse deeds.

The thought of Shae's gasping face flickered across his eyes. He wished he had some fucking wine.

The sellswords didn't look convinced. Tyrion knew that many of them wanted to return east, now.

"This changes nothing," Tyrion insisted. He needed to assuage them. Left to their own devices, these fools would turn right around to defend their king from a dragon with, what, swords? Shouting at it? "Our war is in the south, we leave the north alone. We need only take King's Landing and then the rest of the realm will declare for us. And when Daenerys arrives, it will be simple maths; three dragons is greater than one."

"Aye, if you say so, my lord," Chains muttered, stepping out the tent.

Tyrion grinned. My lord. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. Yes, that sounds good. This dragon changes nothing of my plan.

"Should we prepare to move out?" Ser Franklyn asked.

He mused. "Not just yet. Let's give our guest one more day to arrive," he said. "But bring me the letters we have on Riverrun, Darry, Fairmarket and Pinkmaiden. Let us see if we can forge any alliances while the ruins are still warm. Or cold, as the case may be."

Tyrion settled in, exhaling deeply. He reread the northern letter one more time, just because it was still barely sinking through. A dragon of ice, larger than Balerion.

"I should think that House Bolton will be able to fill a moat from their collective shit after they read this," Tyrion announced in his tent, to no one in particular. "Oh, what a grand letter. I shall frame this letter and mount it over my fireplace: in the lord's chamber of Casterly Rock, right next to where I place my father's skull and my sister's crown."

So much work to be done. Thousands of men to command, and a war to be won. This is my campaign, he thought, and gods it feels exciting.

It was Tyrion's first true campaign; the only experience Tyrion had with an army was his short-lived tenure alongside his father's host, up to the battle on the Green Fork. Even then, his lord father had denied him any true command. As for his hasty defense of King's Landing at the Battle of the Blackwater, that hardly counted. Now, though? He was the commander of his own force; he was a fairly inexperienced commander, true, but Tyrion had read many books, and he felt like he was learning quickly.

Now then, how will the riverlords react? What are the most crucial places to control? Who will muster forces first? My aunt still holds Riverrun, but her options are limited. Houses Blackwood and Piper are lacking lords, so Pinkmaiden and Raventree will be wide open. The Brotherhood without Banners and other outlaws are sure to take advantage. Wayfarer's Rest will be stirring, Fairmarket is in frenzy, and the Saltpans were raided to all hell. Harrenhal is already ours, and House Darry…

Tyrion paused with the thought. After only a brief hesitation, he picked up a quill and started to write a letter. Three letters, all in a swift hand.

"Ser Franklyn," Tyrion called. "I have a letter here. I want five good riders to head for Castle Darry with all haste."

"Darry?" Ser Franklyn frowned as he stomped into the tent. "What is there in Darry?"

"An opportunity. This letter is for Darry, addressed to Lady Amerei Frey. These two are for Storm's End, one for our king and the other for Ser Tristan Rivers," Tyrion explained. The man looked confused. "I do believe we could a broker a marriage here."

"A marriage," he repeated dumbly. Not the sharpest tool, Ser Franklyn, Tyrion thought, but not that I need him to be.

"Yes. The male line of House Darry went extinct during this war," he explained. "The castle and lands were named instead to my cousin Lancel Lannister when he married Amerei Frey, whose mother was a Darry. The marriage was never consummated, and poor Lancel abandoned his newfound house to go join the Warrior's Sons. It seems that bedding my sister drove my cousin to a vow of celibacy." Tyrion chuckled.

The knight still didn't understand. "This all leaves Lady Amerei Frey, wed but not bedded, in a very precarious position, sitting in a castle that she has little claim to," Tyrion continued. "However, in the ranks of the Golden Company we have Ser Tristan Rivers, a bastard of Darry who fled Westeros after Robert's Rebellion. A strong man, a well-seasoned and loyal knight. Such a bastard could be legitimised by the king, to provide Lady Amerei with the claim she needs to keep her castle, and I think that in light of recent events, we could broker a union between them quite quickly." He paused, and then added, "Very quickly, if half the rumours I hear about Lady Amerei are true."

"But why bother?" Ser Franklyn shrugged. "Darry ain't got no men to bring."

"It's not about men," Tyrion said irritably. "House Darry is traditionally a Targaryen loyalist house, among the most loyal of all. Famously so, even. If House Darry declares for Aegon, then that means something - another part of the Targaryen's legacy reclaimed for Aegon."

By the look on his face, it seemed Ser Franklyn was beginning to understand. "But wait," he said with a frown, "why would this Lady Amerei even want to wed a bastard anyways?"

"Because it's become very, very unhealthy to be a Frey in these kingdoms," said Tyrion. "She will be looking to ditch her family name as soon as possible, I think."

Between Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood without Banners and now this ice dragon, it seemed that any Frey survivors now had short, exciting lives ahead of them.

Ser Franklyn agreed to gather the riders. "And tell them to bring back a casket of wine from Darry, as payment for brokering the marriage!" Tyrion called. "I have gone the last four months without ever being sober and I don't intend to start now!"

If they didn't bring the wine, that was also fine. He'd just have to have the men liberate some from a village or two, though he would prefer to avoid that. Better to be seen the liberator, not the tyrant.

Tyrion retreated into his command tent, and a grin spread over his face as he went through the letters and maps, a grin wide enough to make his scar ache. Yes, many riverlords will be panicked and looking for new allies. The Golden Company is in a very good position to make some friends. Let's see how many I can make.

He could already imagine Lord Connington's fuming, yet the man would be unable to object over yet another service Tyrion had provided for Aegon. It was getting to be a very lengthy list.

Now aren't I a devoted ally to the king?

Tyrion waddled over to his desk, which was covered left to right by maps of the Riverlands and the Westerlands, and further altered in notes and scribblings by his own hand, showing alternate approaches through the lands jotted down from his own memories. But, in the solace of his tent, where no one else could watch, he soon found himself staring forlornly into the depths of an empty bottle of Arbor Gold, as if it held the answers he sought.

Connington, that petty whoreson, had ordered that no drink be given to this entire detachment of the Company, no doubt to prevent Tyrion access. The entire detachment of the Golden Cavalry, just to get at Tyrion personally. Who else but a dying man would be so fucking mad? He'd order the Cavalry to buy or raid some, but supplies on the campaign trail were scarce, and what little drink they had found had a habit of 'disappearing' before reaching the Cavalry's commander.

…Gods, but I'd trade all for a drink right now.

Unfortunately, the western campaign could not be called brilliant, not by its commander. On paper, the military successes had been resounding, and any man trained in warcraft would have called it a fine campaign - but its commander, however, found the campaign wanting for an altogether different reason.

His men were barely loyal to him, and would only follow as long as he kept giving them victories. As a paymaster, coinmaster, spymaster, he was respected. Leading a detachment of hardened, veteran cavalry was al altogether different story. That he had succeeded so far…

And yet despite it all, despite all the lack of creature comforts and simple fucking loyalty to be had at the leading edge of the western warfront, somehow the lack of wine caused Tyrion Lannister more grief than all his other problems in total.

He paused in his examinations of the company's maps when his finger traced over Riverrun's place on the parchment. Tyrion debated the wisdom of visiting his Aunt Genna - she had loved Tywin, which would make for a hilarious visit - but he decided against it. Riverrun sat astride the River Road, which was tempting, but Tyrion would be an idiot to take that path with his cavalry; they'd only run into the Golden Tooth. There were less defended paths to the west, he had nearly three thousand men under him, and a campaign in the westerlands awaited.

Still, taking alternate paths might bring him near the forests that were reputedly haunted by the Brotherhood without Banners, which was a complication. He didn't bear them any ill will per se, but if they had truly killed Jaime, they would have to die. Not out of a desire for revenge, not exactly, but out of a sense of… propriety, he supposed. Jaime was mine to kill, not yours.

It was dark when his guest finally arrived. The patrols saw the horses coming, and a runner called for him. Tyrion had just left his tent when he saw an old, familiar face dismounting and walking guardedly through the perimeter of his command tent.

A tall, well-worn man with dark hair and narrowed eyes strode through the camp. The Golden Company's sellswords all watched their commander's guest enter.

Lord Bronn Stokeworth of the Blackwater wore castle-forged steel and lord's finery rather than his old leathers and ringmail. He wore a steel breastplate, and a surcoat showing a black lamb on a red field, drinking from a silver chalice. The coat of arms of House Stokeworth, but inverted. Bronn wasn't just hired muscle now, instead he had two guards of his own walking behind him. He's come a long way from being the sellsword I picked up at the crossroad's inn, Tyrion noted. Oh, doesn't war change us all?

"Lord Bronn!" Tyrion greeted, his voice jubilant, but his eyes were ice. "Such a pleasure to see you again."

Bronn's eyes were cautious. "Lord Tyrion," he muttered. "So it's true; you are behind this invasion. I didn't think I'd ever see you alive again."

"Evil men never die, my lord," Tyrion replied. "There's too much bitterness in us, the Stranger won't go near. Come, come into my tent."

'Lord' Bronn followed cautiously. His hand never moved far from his sword. Ser Franklyn kept by Tyrion's side, staring suspiciously. "And I see you've got yourself some new muscle," Bronn said, with a nod at Ser Franklyn. The burly knight only grunted.

"It's a profitable position, is it not?" Tyrion said. "Why, Ser Franklyn, just ask my former muscle here and see what heights he's achieved."

Ser Franklyn only grunted. "You sound bitter," Bronn said warily, eyes flickering between knight and dwarf.

"What, because you abandoned me in that jail cell to be executed? Never."

"You've done alright for yourself."

"As have you. Selling out friends appears to be good business."

"As is murdering your father, it seems." For the first time, Bronn cracked a wry smile. There's the old dark sellsword I know.

Tyrion raised his hands. "I'm an opportunist."

"I didn't think I'd ever see you with a head again," Bronn muttered, shaking his head incredulously. "Tell me, how the bloody hell did you manage all this? The Golden Company? Invading Westeros behind a bloody Targaryen?"

"I have too many debts to be repaid, old friend, and you know what they say - all the good men die young, and I've got too much hate in me to ever die. Pray tell, how have the Seven Kingdoms been in my absence?"

"Falling to pieces. Did you know your sister tried to have me killed?" Bronn said, shaking his head. "She manipulated my new goodbrother to try and kill me. Bloody fool he was. I mean, honestly; the murder plot is bad enough, but sending an assassin that crap is just insulting."

"Of course. You know Cersei would never rest easily with an old friend of mine sitting so close to her in a position of power."

"Yes, well." Bronn just shrugged, dropping onto a barrel cross-legged. "Oh, and I named my son after you."

"I heard. Little Tyrion Tanner? The bastard born after his mother's rape by a hundred men? Aww, I'm honoured," he said with chuckle.

Bronn chuckled too. "I thought you'd like it. I don't think your sister was laughing, though. Lollys originally wanted to call the babe Tywin."

"Hah! That would have been better." Tyrion nodded. "How is your lady wife?"

"She's sweet enough, aye, so long as I don't talk to her," he said. "Ain't got the stomach to fuck her, though. But I'm Lord of Stokeworth now, so who cares?"

"So I see. The black sheep on a bloody field is a fitting personal sigil for you." Tyrion leaned forward, resting his head on his hands. "But let's be frank; we both know that any opportunities you have in a realm where Cersei is in power are fairly limited. There'll be more catspaws to kill you, more lords to replace you. Do you really want to keep suffering my sister's meddling?"

"From what I hear, your sister isn't going to be in power much longer. She's not in much power right now, actually." Bronn shrugged. "My guess is that the Queen Dowager will be removed and sent away somewhere remote, after the mess she's made of things. She'll probably be exiled on Dragonstone, I expect."

"And will the Tyrells, or whoever comes after, treat you any better? Do you expect them to share their influence with you, or invite you to their court?" Tyrion challenged. "You'll always be just an upjumped sellsword to them, someone to be shunned from their games. Wouldn't you be better off joining us?"

Bronn bit his lip, pausing. They both knew why Tyrion had invited him, and he rode a long way to get here. The Golden Company could use support. "Hells, I like you. Twisted little thing that you are. But I'm Lord Stokeworth now, I got a castle and everything. So you aren't buying a blade anymore, you're dealing with a noble house. Why should House Stokeworth commit rebellion for you?"

"Because you're a sellsword at heart. And the rewards are great," Tyrion scoffed. "Don't act noble; you would sell your own wife for enough gold to buy a prettier one."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

"Do you take it as one?"

"Not really." Bronn shrugged. "But I got a status at stake now. And I won't get a damn thing when you lose."

Behind him, Ser Franklyn stiffened. Tyrion held up his hand. "'Wait. Really?" Tyrion asked curiously. "You think we're going to lose?"

"Well, yeah." Bronn nodded. "Your sellswords are putting up a good fight, I'll give them that. But they ain't going to be able to take the city, and I can't afford to back the wrong side here. But," Bronn hedged. "I know you, I know you wouldn't be doing this without a plan. So. What's the plan? What're the odds?"

"Every war is a gamble, you know that more than most," Tyrion said. "But let's go through the odds, then. How many men are holding the city?"

Bronn paused to think of it. "Five thousand men under Kevan Lannister. Fifteen to twenty thousand under Mace Tyrell. Anywhere between four to eight thousand from the city itself, including gold cloaks." Bronn would have more experience than most in holding the city. "And you have got - what? - five thousand sellswords marching up the kingsroad?"

"Seven."

"Alright, seven." Bronn shook his head. "It still doesn't work. Stannis had twenty thousand, and he couldn't break the city walls. And Stannis was up against fewer defenders too - we didn't have Lannister and Tyrell men to support us against Stannis' siege. You're not going to win that battle without some serious reinforcements."

"Except those numbers aren't right, are they?" Tyrion argued. "Do you really think the Lannister men and Tyrells will still be on the same side when the Golden Company arrives?"

Bronn didn't reply. "My dear sister holds Queen Margaery hostage in the Red Keep," Tyrion said softly. "The Red Keep is besieged by the Faith Militant. Neither Mace Tyrell nor my uncle Kevan can even get through the city without triggering riots. This High Sparrow has declared that the Red Keep is on lockdown until Queen Cersei comes forth to stand trial, and she refuses to do so." He grinned. Thank you Cersei, for your beautiful assistance to my war effort. "Ser Kevan is trying to keep the peace, a difficult task when the king and his wife are being held hostage by his mother.

"So let me share how we are going to win the battle, Lord Bronn, it's fairly simple; we are going to convince the High Sparrow to declare for King Aegon."

The man frowned. "The High Sparrow? That pious stick of a septon? Why would he support your contender king?"

"But why wouldn't he?" Tyrion challenged. "Three hundred years ago the High Septon fasted for a week, and then declared Aegon the Conqueror as the anointed and rightful ruler of the realm; do you think this one couldn't do the same for the rightful Targaryen ancestor? The High Sparrow is a man who cares for the smallfolk, who wants a more devout and dutiful crown, while Aegon VI could be the king he requires. What would a pious septon appreciate more than a young man of humble upbringings, rising up to accept a greater duty?" Tyrion smiled sweetly. "Yes, I think the High Sparrow could be convinced, especially when considering his other options. My sister has proven herself corrupt and unworthy, Stannis is mad and nobody else seems to care about the smallfolk that he holds so dear. Meanwhile, Aegon, sixth of his name, young, bold and earnest, will prostrate himself before the Faith and pledge to uphold his duty to the people. Once the High Septon and the Faith Militant declare Tommen as illborn and unrightful, then I think the tides in this war will very quickly change."

Poor Tommen, the thought made Tyrion feel a little guilty. The boy was one of the few innocents in this whole game. Still, killing him would be worthwhile just to hear Cersei's screams. I will destroy your legacy, father. I will pull down everything you ever built, brick by brick. When I'm done, no one will even remember your name.

Bronn was looking a lot more interested. "Alright then." Bronn nodded. "That would get you a hundred or so Warrior's Sons, but gods-know-how-many thousands of the Poor Fellows. Smallfolk with pitchforks. There'd be riots in the city like you'd never seen before, and the whole Tyrell-Lannister alliance wouldn't be looking so good after that. But your young king still needs to beat an army at least twice his size, and he just doesn't have the numbers."

"Not so when Dorne declares for us. Do you think that'll even the odds?"

He looked surprised. "You have Dorne on your side?"

"I spoke to Princess Arianne myself," Tyrion said smugly. "She is with King Aegon right now. Yes, there'll be Dornish spearmen fighting alongside the most formidable company in the world. We will take King's Landing, King Aegon Targaryen takes the Iron Throne to the jubilation of the people, and suddenly the lords of the realm will racing each other to be the first to bow to our young dragon. Does that sound like an opportunity you'd want to be a part of?" He cocked his head, meeting Bronn's gaze. "This is a golden opportunity for you, Lord Stokeworth. A chance to hedge your bets on the dark horse early, and reap the greatest rewards."

"Alright," Bronn said, eyes sharp. "And what are you offering me?"

Tyrion smiled. "What castle would you like?"

"What are you bringing?" Ser Franklyn spoke up suspiciously from behind him. "From what I hear, you are nothing but a mercenary who bought a dim-witted highborn wife."

"I'm Lord Stokeworth. I've been recruiting for a while; I've got two hundred good men," Bronn snorted. "Maybe up to five hundred once I round up some of the local boys."

"Five hundred farmer's boys and sour sellswords?" Ser Franklyn scoffed. "Ain't worth it."

"And he also controls Stokeworth - a castle of crucial importance right outside King's Landing's western gate," Tyrion argued. "When King's Landing is under siege, they rely on Rosby and Stokeworth to provide food and aid. You control them, and that is another notch on the noose."

"Aye," Bronn said with a smug smile, "and I could bring you Rosby too. The late Lord Rosby's ward - the one who controls the castle – now he ain't so fond of Lannisters, that one. Your sister's been trying to steal his castle. You buy my services, promise him solidity for his inheritance, and I promise you that no aid from Duskendale or anywhere else will be getting through to King's Landing."

Ser Franklyn looked unconvinced. "He's a fiend, but he's good for it," Tyrion promised. "House Stokeworth's declaration will be the start of a crownlands rebellion, undermining the throne where they should be strongest. And Bronn led the defence of King's Landing during the last siege against Stannis; who could be better to lead the second siege?" Tyrion turned to Bronn. "Let us go through the numbers, Lord Bronn. Let's see what your contribution is worth. If you want a second castle or a second wife, I'm sure there'll be lands and widows to spare. I pay my debts, you know I'm good for that."

"Shouldn't it be King Aegon that I speak to?" He said suspiciously. "He's the one I'm fighting for."

"I'm the King's Master of Coin," said Tyrion. "Aegon appointed me as a commander in his army, to be Warden of the West under his rule. You fight for me."

Bronn shook his head, but he looked impressed. "Well, you've got yourself in with him good and proper, haven't you? How the bloody hell do you manage it? I sell my sword, sure, but somehow you manage to sell your words."

"His Grace was very appreciative when I helped broker the alliance with Dorne," Tyrion said. Princess Arianne had been somewhat reluctant to agree to such, but Tyrion helped persuade her. "Come on, walk with me. Let us enjoy the night's air."

They stood up and walked out of the tent. The sound of water gushing and crickets chirping sounded in the night, but the camp was restless with the stomping of boots and stirring men. "I want Claw Island," Bronn decided finally. "You make me the Lord of Claw Island and I'll declare for you."

"That is the seat of House Celtigar." One of the Targaryen's Valyrian bannerhouses, that is an old and ancient seat. He's still ambitious.

"It was, until Stannis Baratheon raided that island to the hells and set it on fire," Bronn explained. "I take Claw Island and all of its lands. I reckon if they're looking for a new lord they could do a lot worse than me."

"Hmm," Tyrion considered. "The problem is that Aegon is a Targaryen king, and Celtigar is a Targaryen house. Most our good king's counsellors would refuse you out of hand. But, it occurs to me that old Ardrian Celtigar testified against me at my trial, said something about me threatening Joffrey. It also occurs to me that he's still a prisoner in the Red Keep, and that he has a daughter of thirteen or so who is not imprisoned – she's currently holed up somewhere or another in the city, last I heard." Tyrion paced, thinking. "Lord of Claw Isle. This is not impossible, I think, so long as you don't mind becoming Lord Bronn Celtigar. Do you?"

"What's a name?" Bronn shrugged. "Sounds better than Stokeworth, anyways. Find a way to set aside my marriage, all legal-like, and I'm good." Tyrion nodded, then paused, frowning.

"So, you say Stannis is still in this fight?"

"Yep, he's been strangling ships from Dragonstone, and starving the city by sea," Bronn explained. "They say Stannis went half mad after his defeat on the Blackwater, and then went the other half after his second defeat up north. He doesn't have the forces to fight any true battles, but he sure has been hacking away at the corners."

"Last I heard he had less than a dozen ships." Tyrion shook his head. "How could Stannis even compare against King's Landing's half of the Redwyne fleet?"

"He can't. But I'm not surprised Stannis is still fighting, I am amazed that his men are still following him," said Bronn. "Most men, even loyal ones, would desert their commanders when their cause becomes that desperate, but his men are fanatics, from what I hear. And he has the luck of a devil with him too; in every raid or ambush he has the wind behind him, but no other vessel does. Stannis burned three galleys off the coast of Dragonstone just the other week."

"Beautiful." One more knot in Cersei's noose - a relentless force blocking travel by sea too. Cersei won't risk fleeing by ship, and her Royal Navy had been rather lacking ever since Cersei's 'Grand Admiral' Aurane Waters had fled the city along with three dozen of their vessels. That's another fine decision I must thank her for.

Tyrion stopped to enjoy the view the rivers. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, but the sound of boots and horses filled the quiet din. There are thousands of experienced men camped here in the riverlands and ready for war under my command. Let Lord Connington besiege King's Landing, I have a campaign of my own to lead.

"One thing I don't get," Bronn commented as he looked around the camp. "You have, what, three thousand men here?"

"Twenty-five hundred," he clarified. "All of them mounted men. We went ahead of the main force to secure areas of the riverlands, heading west." A tactic borrowed from the Young Wolf's playbook.

"Why the riverlands? Doesn't Aegon need all the men he can get to take the city?"

"Unfortunately, it seems I will have miss that battle. There is the fear of reinforcements gathering from the west, and so Lord Connington wants to be ready. I was sent ahead of the main host to lead a sortie, as well as to potentially rally any riverlords to our cause."

That was true, but there had also been something of power struggle between Lord Connington and Tyrion. The Lord Hand was insecure in his position, and he feared Tyrion's influence. Lord Connington couldn't get rid of him, of course (the dwarf had nestled himself in too deep), so instead he had resolved to send Tyrion away. Tyrion ended up named as the commander of near three thousand cavalry going west. Tyrion had never commanded cavalry before. It was absurd on its face.

Lord Connington wants to take the lion's share of the victory, he thought with a scoff, he doesn't want me around in King's Landing when they take the city, he doesn't want me sharing in the glory.

Still, in this case Tyrion was all too happy to lose the political game. There were opportunities that Tyrion intended on exploiting in the west.

There had not even been a whisper of news concerning his brother Jaime, his trail ended along with Brienne of Tarth's after they had allegedly been taken by the Brotherhood Without Banners, which did not bode well. But Tyrion had been preparing to fight against Ser Daven when the news of the doom of the Twins had first emerged. What's more dead family to me, now?

The thought made Tyrion grimace. If anyone should have killed Jaime, it's me.

Tyrion spun an entire yarn for Bronn, explained their plan and the progress they had made. Bronn didn't look convinced. "Does Lord Connington expect your twenty-five hundred men to fight off the entire westerlands and riverlands for him?" Bronn said doubtfully. "Seems like a waste to me. Whatever force they rally will be more than you can beat."

"Oh, Lord Connington doesn't expect me to win anything. He simply requires that I harry and delay any reinforcements heading east until his victory in King's Landing is complete. The Lord Hand does not want to risk getting caught between two hosts, and the Young Wolf proved that a small force of mounted cavalry moving swiftly in enemy territory can be quite effective," Tyrion explained dryly. "Ser Franklyn Flowers over there joined me as second-in-command on the off-chance that we would be raiding Cider Hall, while most the other sellswords here joined for the plunder. None of them are the Golden Company's best, I admit - many of them are unreliable recruits from Lys. No doubt Lord Connington expects to win the war with Aegon before I even play a major role." Which was doubtless the intention, Tyrion mused. The Lord Hand only allowed me the command because he trusted Ser Franklyn to take command should I prove unreliable.

Tyrion paused, pursing his lips. "Nevertheless," he continued slowly as the smile spread over his face. "It occurs to me that there may be an opportunity here. Ser Daven died at the Twins, Ser Kevan is very much distracted in King's Landing, and my brother Jaime is nowhere to be found. That means my home is currently being held by the old master-at-arms, Ser Benedict Broom." He felt the smile twist his scar. My father's creature, who I suspect knows precisely where it is that whores go. "So, why shouldn't I march straight for Casterly Rock itself?"

There was a pause. Bronn looked at him like he was japing. Yes, if Lord Connington thinks to reduce my contribution to this war, then let's prove him wrong. "You expect to take Casterly Rock with less than three thousand men?"

"Take? Of course not. A siege or an assault would be pure folly - even dragons would struggle to take that castle. But I am the rightful Lord of the Rock now," Tyrion mused. "I expect they'll open the gates, and let me right in."

---

The Lioness

It was my brother. It was all my brother. He's behind everything.

Cersei sat stiffly on the hideous iron chair, feeling the world fall to pieces around her. There was another set of petitioners today. Firstly, a snivelling envoy from Ser Kevan pleading for her to negotiate, and then from the fishermen's guild reporting the lack of food. Then, Lord Adrian Celtigar, a gnarly and sour old man, came before the throne sweating and shivering to demand retribution against Stannis after his crimes on Claw Island. She dismissed them all and made no commitments. After that, there were more of those pathetic Warrior's Sons who demanded that she surrender herself to face trial in the Great Sept of Baelor.

She told the Warrior's Son the same thing she said every time; the Queen and the realm will not dance to the twittering of sparrows.

If not for Ser Robert Strong standing diligently by the throne, it might have ended in violence. Her champion was as silent and as strong as stone. The whole court was quiet, tense, as she gave her decree. Ser Robert stood toweringly in armour thick enough for an elephant.

The final petitioner was her own Master of Coin, Ser Harys Swyft. He came to her in front of the whole court, looking twitchy and panicked. "Your Grace," Ser Harys said with a slight stammer. "Please, Your Grace, reconsider your position. There are women and children in the castle, highborn daughters and sons that long to see their families. The stores are dwindling and the situation only grows more dire. Please, Your Grace - let us open the gates and make peace."

Cersei sat silently. Two months ago, she had been a lioness, proud, beautiful and strong. Now, she felt cornered and betrayed. Enemies everywhere, allies dead, and treachery around every corner. It was my brother, he forced me to this.

Even her own body had betrayed her. Where once she had been slender and beautiful, now her waist was growing thick. She felt fat, bloated and weak.

"I am aware of the plight," Cersei said to the court. "And yet treachery and corruption invades our city. The enemies of the Crown are camped outside our gates. Men who plot conspiracy and rebellion under the banner of the Faith. I cannot allow anyone to leave until such wickedness is destroyed."

There were no replies. Ser Harys gulped, but backed away as Ser Robert Strong stepped forward. Her tone and the presence of her champion left no room for protest. They all knew that everyone in the Red Keep was a hostage. My son included, she thought foully. They have left me a prisoner in my own castle.

My brother did this. This is all the twisted little Imp's fault. They are all working together.

The Tyrells, the Martells and Tyrion Lannister - a conspiracy to steal her throne.

It was obvious, really. She had known that Martells and the dwarf were allied from the beginning; that became clear when Tyrion sold her precious girl Myrcella off to Dorne, and it was only further proved when the Red Viper chose to champion the Imp. Cersei had also known that the Tyrells were untrustworthy and ambitious, but she realised too late that they were all in the plot.

First Tyrion killed Joffrey. Joffrey was strong, proud, a true lion, and so Tyrion killed him on behalf of House Tyrell, using that little slip of a Stark bitch as his catspaw. As for the Tyrells, they wanted their little slut to marry Tommen instead, as he was weaker and more easily manipulated. Her father Tywin might have challenged the Tyrell conspiracy too, so Tyrion killed him next.

She should have realised sooner. She should have seen it all sooner. Her guards had even found the gold coins of the Reach, used to pay for Tyrion's escape from the black cells. How could there be any clearer evidence?

But Cersei had only truly realised the full extent of the scheme when Tyrion returned to Westeros, leading the Golden Company. That was when she knew; the dwarf didn't have the coin to hire mercenaries like the Golden Company. Not without the Tyrells and the Martells bankrolling him.

It had taken months, long slow months of realisations, but now she recognized the shape of Tyrion's conspiracy. Unfortunately, by the time she had even started to see the teeth of the trap start to close, it had already been too late.

The prophecy is coming true. The valonqar - the little brother - is coming to kill me.

Everywhere she walked, she kept Ser Robert Strong by her side. She saw dark eyes staring at her from the corridors. My true allies could be counted on one hand. Why am I so alone?

Cersei didn't even know why she bothered holding court anymore; every day it was the same. The same whining, the same petty demands, the same simmering defiance. I should let Moon Boy hold court next time, for all the use it will be.

She met Lord Qyburn as he climbed the stairs from the black cells. The former maester had grey hair, a lean frame, and looked fatherly, slightly stooped with crinkles around his soft blue eyes. He was garbed in white robes with golden whorls around his hem sleeves and high collar. There was just the faintest scent of dried rot about him. Her spymaster was one of the few friends she had left. And a capable one, at that.

"Your Grace," Qyburn said, bowing deeply as she approached. He pulled out a bundle of letters from his thick sleeves. "I have sent out your letters as you required, and replies were quickly received. There is a message from Lord Mace Tyrell. He demands the release of his son and daughter. He gives three days before his men break the walls and take the city."

"Margaery Tyrell has been placed under arrest for murder and treason," she said stiffly. She would not use the title queen.

"Indeed she is."

"And Mace Tyrell made the same threat a week ago."

"Indeed he did, Your Grace," he smiled apologetically. He had a sweet smile. "But now Lord Randyll Tarly is in position outside of the city as well. They have twenty thousand men between them."

Cersei bristled. "Make sure they understand the stakes. If they will resort to barbarity then I will meet them in kind." Her voice turned dangerously low. Tommen, I am doing this for you. "I have over two hundred highborn hostages with me in the Red Keep. Should they break the city walls, I shall drop Margaery's ladies-in-waiting - Megga, Alla and Ellinor Tyrell - over the walls. Should they pass the Street of Sisters, it will be the Redwyne twins. And should they reach our walls itself, I will return Lady Margaery. By trebuchet." They won't risk it, they won't. "Let there be no misunderstanding. Make sure that Mace Tyrell knows the consequences his rebellion brings."

He hesitated. "That is a drastic ultimatum to put to ink."

"These are drastic times," Cersei said stiffly. "Walk with me, Lord Qyburn."

"Yes, Your Grace." They set off down the corridor. Robert Strong was a silent shadow behind them, strangely light-footed for such a big, heavy man. "And I have a letter from the High Septon too, Your Grace."

"Call him what he is. A sparrow," she said in a low voice.

"Very true. But he and the Most Devout have reached a verdict," Qyburn continued, reaching for the letter. "He has declared that you have seventy-seven days to present yourself to the Great Sept to be tried before the Seven. Else your sovereignty will be renounced and you will be judged in absence." The maester hesitated. "Your Grace, I do not believe that the High Sparrow is a man to make a false threat, or to back down on an ultimatum like Lord Tyrell will."

"An ultimatum," Cersei repeated. "He issues an ultimatum to me. He presumes to have the authority to judge me? I am Queen Regent."

"He has a confession from Ser Osney Kettleblack that you gave the orders to assassinate him, Your Grace," Qyburn said softly. "As well as Ser Osney claiming to have murdered the previous High Sparrow on your behalf. Charges of infidelity and accusations from Ser Lancel Lannister have also been levelled."

That was a mistake. I should have never have trusted Ser Osney with the task. Not only did he fail, he allowed himself to be caught and interrogated. "A confession brought about by torture." Her posture didn't even twitch. Cersei just felt dead inside. "A sham of an accusation. The High Sparrow is no holy man, he is just another one of my brother's catspaws."

"As you say, Your Grace." His voice was level.

"The High Sparrow is working for Tyrion too," she continued. "Of course he is - the Imp has shown in the past that he can buy and control High Septons, and he used the same trick again. The Imp brought the man into further weaken my rule, and the fool I was for not noticing it sooner. Dwarves are cunning, wicked creatures."

"And yet the man has decreed that you must fast until you see the path of redemption. The Faith Militant will not allow food or supplies to enter the Red Keep for the duration, until you relent for a trial."

Her shoulders felt tense. "Any trial will be a sham orchestrated by my brother to shame and strip me of power. No, I will not do so. I will not leave this keep." Seventy-seven days, she thought. Time enough for this stalemate to end.

The Red Keep was under Cersei's control. She had over two hundred hostages, and strong walls and enough loyal men. But even outside on Aegon's Hill, the Faith Militant were camped in the streets. Cersei dared not allow a single soul to leave the keep for fear of losing control altogether.

She saw a figure across the grounds. One of her family's principal bannermen. "Ser Harys!" Cersei called. "Walk with us, Ser Harys."

The Knight of the Cornfield looked worn and weak. He has lost weight these weeks. If the High Sparrow intends to starve us, I expect he will lose more. Ser Harys wheezed, glancing up at Ser Robert Strong fearfully. "Your Grace?"

"Tell me, Ser Harys, why has your goodson not acted?" she said coldly. "He has been given explicit orders on how to act, and still he replies with defiance. He replies with inactivity and negligence to his duties."

He looked pained. "Your Grace, Ser Kevan is trying to maintain peace—"

"He is doing nothing," she said sharply. "I ordered Ser Kevan to take the Great Sept and remove that charlatan of a High Septon from power, and still he does nothing. Ser Kevan leads five thousand men in the city, does he not?"

"Ser Kevan is a precarious situation, Your Grace," Lord Qyburn soothed. "He is caught between Lord Tyrell's demands and the High Sparrow's. He is trying to negotiate a peace."

No, she thought. Ser Kevan will not march against the Faith, not when Lancel fought alongside the Warrior's Sons. Ser Kevan refuses to fight against his son. His inactivity may doom us all.

The city could well turn into a battlefield any day now. Battle lines were being drawn. The Faith Militant was fortified in the Great Sept of Baelor on Rhaenys' Hill, while Ser Kevan Lannister's forces were being garrisoned in the Dragonpit on Visenya's Hill, and the Crown in the Red Keep on Aegon's High Hill. A city-wide stalemate, where no force dared to act.

My uncle is a weak fool. If it was my father and not my uncle outside then this would never have happened. "Ser Kevan proves himself a fool. He is negotiating between two enemies," she said, looking between the men. "House Tyrell is allied with the Imp. The High Sparrow is the Imp's puppet. Tyrion murdered Joffrey and Tywin for them, and in return the Tyrells bought his release. And then the Imp returned with the Golden Company - a force paid for with Reach gold." Her voice was a growl. How many times do I need to say it? "An invasion to justify a coup. Or do you think it's a coincidence that this pretender appeared at the same time the Tyrells tried to steal the kingdom?"

Ser Harys looked pained. Qyburn kept his face blank. "Aegon Targaryen, Your Grace."

"A mummer's puppet. Some boy hired in Lys most like. A farce to get rid of the rightful king Tommen Baratheon so that they can steal power through Margaery. House Tyrell steals the kingdom, House Martell gets revenge against my family, and my brother gets to hurt me."

"Your Grace…" Ser Harys wheezed. "How could you possibly know that?"

Because it was prophesied. My little brother is going to kill my children and choke me. "Because I know the Imp, I know his puppets," she growled. "And because I see the strings. If not for Lady Margaery, how do you think the assassin managed to infiltrate the holdfast to murder the Lord Hand, his wife and the Grand Maester?"

Neither of the men could meet her eyes. This is all that is left of my small council, she realised suddenly. My weak treasurer and spymaster. Aurane Waters, her Grand Admiral had betrayed her, her brother, the Lord Commander, had abandoned her, and her Hand of the King and the Grand Maester had been murdered.

It was two months ago now. They might have murdered Orton Merryweather too, but she knew the real target was Lady Taena Merryweather. As far as anyone could tell, Grand Maester Pycelle had only stumbled upon the scene - but he had been killed too.

The death of Taena still pained her. A kindred soul. An ache in her chest. It had been one of the rare times that Cersei had truly wept since she was a girl.

Cersei had ordered her friend and confidant Taena to keep a close watch on Margaery Tyrell and report back to her, and then she was found dead with a crossbow bolt in her stomach, right in the middle of the Red Keep itself. Taena must have found something about Margaery and the Tyrells, and she was killed for it. The assassin must have come into the keep along with the House Tyrell guards, and that was when Cersei knew that there were knives hidden all around her. Thorns crawling up the walls, fleas crawling over her body.

Margaery murdered my friend. No, Taena was more than just a friend. The Tyrell slut deserves to be imprisoned, the evil bitch that she is. Tommen wept and wailed, but her babe didn't understand. Cersei needed to keep Margaery hostage; the girl was the only leverage she had to keep the Tyrells at bay.

Cersei didn't have a choice. It's all Tyrion's fault.

Qyburn paused. He drew another parchment out of his sleeves. "Your Grace…" Qyburn said slowly, glancing quietly between her and Ser Harys. "I must… I fear the letter from White Harbour demands more attention. What of the reports of the white dragon and Bastard King in the north?"

Cersei hesitated. Her eyes twitched slightly. "I know not how my brother managed it," she said finally. "But these false claims of a dragon are just another way he seeks to ruin my power."

Qyburn didn't reply. Ser Harys' eyes widened. "False claims?" the man exclaimed. "Your Grace, do you truly believe that the reports of the Twins are false?"

"Hearsay or rumours or blatant forgeries of a noble house's signatures. The letters cannot be trusted even if the lies spread like wildfire." Cersei's face flickered. "Or do you seriously believe an ice dragon just happens to appear at the same time as the Imp leads an invasion of the realm?"

"But, Your Grace, there have been hundreds of letters. How could your brother possibly even…?"

"Imps are cunning creatures, Ser Harys," she said sharply. "And treachery is thick in the realm. I know not how he managed it, but he has; the tales are false." They must be. Cersei paused. "And a detail returns to me; I remember that this Jon Snow and Tyrion travelled together. My brother escorted Jon Snow up to the Wall, three years ago now. Doubtless they were planning betrayal together even then. Tyrion recruited Jon Snow into his schemes - parallel plans that work together." Cersei shook her head, flicking her blond hair back. "No, these reports of 'ice dragons' are just another way the Imp seeks to hurt me, by inciting mass hysteria and panic in the realm. He recruited his sour bastard traitor friend to do so. There must be hunters shooting down the ravens from noble houses, and then replacing them with false messages dictated by the Imp, false testimonies of dragons. Doubtless the Twins were raided and razed by wildlings, the deed ascribed to a dragon such that the rumours might aid their cause. Words are wind, Ser Harys, and the Imp has been blowing them. My brother could arrange it so; this conspiracy must have been a long time in the making." She shook her head again, more forcefully.

Neither of them replied. Qyburn looked down at the ground silently, and Ser Harys stared at her, mouth agape. This is all my brother's doing, why can no one else see it?

That clueless look on Ser Harys' face made her eyes narrow and her lips purse. She stepped forward warningly, lowering her voice. Behind her, Ser Robert shifted slightly.

"You asked me to open the gates, Ser Harys?" Cersei said coolly. "Allow me to tell you when the gates will open and this will end: Ser Kevan is going to attack the Great Sept and put those blasted sparrows to the sword. He will remove the High Sparrow from power permanently. Mace Tyrell is not going to be allowed into the city lest his son and daughter suffer for it. Instead, Lord Tyrell will fight the Golden Company for us - to fight the very sellswords that he himself hired. Afterwards, once both threats have been vanquished - when my brother and his schemes are finally dead - I will open the gates and Lady Margaery can be tried properly. That is the only way this will resolve. Is that understood?"

Ser Harys nodded, weak chin flapping. "Then I suggest you write to your goodson, ser," she ordered. "Make sure you convince Ser Kevan of the need."

Ser Harys bowed and stammered away. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him run.

"Do my warnings fall on deaf ears?" Cersei murmured. "The murders, the invasion, the schemes. There is a conspiracy afoot and for some reason I seem to be the only one who can see the strings. It all leads back to my brother."

The castle felt silent. Cersei saw the Redwyne twins, Horas and Hobber, staring at her suspiciously from the far side of the courtyard, but none dared to approach so long as Ser Robert Strong stood behind her. Her gaze met the Redwyne boys, and they backed away.

Treachery behind every corner. "Is the keep secure?" Cersei asked, keeping her voice low. "I do not trust our hostages not to try and overpower the guards to escape."

"They have no weapons to speak of, Your Grace," Lord Qyburn reassured her. "But the soldiers have been warned of the possibility. Due precautions have been taken."

"Any hostage that seems rebellious goes into the cells," Cersei ordered. She paused. "And what of the soldiers themselves? Are they loyal?"

The sack of the Red Keep had posed a problem. It had to be done swiftly, but there had been many guests and guards inside, while Cersei couldn't even trust any of the gold cloaks. All of House Tyrell's men had to be captured, killed, or removed from the Red Keep, and that required manpower. Lord Qyburn had proved invaluable in arranging it.

"Many of the soldiers were formerly sworn to Ser Gregor Clegane, Your Grace," Qyburn explained. "The Mountain's Men, as they were called."

"Good," she nodded approvingly. "Seasoned, loyal Lannister men."

"Indeed. There are also what remains of your household guard, some handpicked sellswords. I also recruited two dozen Tyroshi mercenaries that do not speak the Common Tongue - it makes them very difficult to be bought. All of the men were vetted by me personally, Your Grace: three hundred in total to hold the castle and the walls." He smiled, with just a hint of quiet pride. "And then, of course, there is Ser Robert Strong. Ser Robert will be eternally loyal, and as formidable as ten men, Your Grace, I guarantee it."

She nodded. "Loyalty is most important attribute in times like these. There must be no catspaws left in my house."

"As you say, Your Grace. Alas, none of the men are the most… shall we say… disciplined soldiers," he said apologetically. "But they are of a certain simple nature and low barbarity, they will remain loyal, though they do require certain entertainments. They will not falter no matter how long this siege lasts, I just fear we may have to allow them a certain leeway with respect to the stresses they face."

"Barbarity has its uses," Cersei nodded. Desperate times. she would take Qyburn's simple soldiers over all of the treacherous knights in the realm. Even the kingsguard had to be vetted and secured.

Ser Loras Tyrell had tried to protest when she secured the castle. The Knight of Flowers killed two men who tried to take his sword, and it took Ser Robert himself to overpower Ser Loras and place him in the black cells. Ser Loras suffered two broken legs and a shattered arm after Ser Robert Strong threw him physically against a wall.

Ser Osmund Kettleblack had abandoned his white cloak and fled when the Faith captured his brother, only to be captured himself by the Warrior's Sons. All three of the Kettleblacks were tortured and became more witnesses against Cersei.

Tommen only had two white cloaks left in the castle - Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount. Both of them guarded her little boy constantly, but she had to keep Tommen restricted behind a locked door for his own safety.

I can keep my castle secure until the crisis is over, Cersei thought with a deep breath. My child will forgive me so long as he is kept alive.

"Your Grace," Qyburn said cautiously. "I must ask; what is the intention should Ser Kevan not raise swords against the Faith Militant?"

"He will. His king commands him to." Everything hinged on Ser Kevan, his was the only force Cersei could call upon to act. He is a follower, he must obey.

"I fear that if Ser Kevan was willing to, he would have done so by now," Qyburn shook his head sadly. "Your uncle seems more concerned trying to keep the peace within the city. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not believe he will act as you command." Her jaw tightened, but she didn't speak. "I fear Ser Kevan will be more inclined to wait out the High Sparrow's deadline, until you are forced to surrender," Qyburn continued. "The situation is… volatile. Should either the Faith or Lord Tyrell move against you first, matters may quickly spiral out of control."

"I am aware. And I will not let power-grabbing schemers break this kingdom. I will not allow it." Tommen, I'm doing this for you. She turned away, and walked towards two men-at-arms in motley grey armour, standing guard by a doorway. "You. You two. What are your names?"

They both looked surprised. One of them was a younger man wearing a yellow surcoat, with a mop of sandy hair. "Um, Raff, Your Grace," he said. His voice was softly spoken. "They call me Raff the Sweetling."

I see why; he is handsome, Cersei thought. Though there's something in his eyes. The other guard was the opposite; he was gruff, unkempt, short and portly, with hard eyes and a scarred, pockmarked face under his grey helm. "Craster, Your Grace," the man grumbled, in a deep, hard voice.

She looked between them. Yes, they'll do. "Lady Margaery Tyrell has been arrested for treason. She conspired to steal the throne. She arranged the murder of Lady Taena Merryweather, Orton Merryweather, and Grand Maester Pycelle. Her scheming threatens the whole realm," Cersei said curtly. "She is restrained in the Maidenvault. She must be interrogated and then tried. Are you fit to question her?"

Raff the Sweetling looked panicked briefly. Craster grunted. "Your majesty," the heavyset man rumbled. "She is the queen."

"Was the queen." Her voice was cold. "The marriage was not consummated, it has been annulled. She is naught but a traitor to the realm. She will confess to her lies and her treachery. Do you understand?"

Raff the Sweetling blinked, and then smiled. "Yes, Your Grace. Yes, of course." Craster just nodded, his gaze hard. "Aye."

"See that a confession is drawn from her. Keep her presentable. Recruit whatever aid you require," Cersei ordered sharply, and then walked away. She motioned at Qyburn, while Ser Robert trailed behind. "Lord Qyburn, Margaery Tyrell committed treason. She fucked the Kettleblack brothers and sent them to the High Sparrow to slander me. She coerced them into a false confession that they revealed under torture, using my name instead of hers. That is what Lady Margaery will confess, and she will admit her crimes to the realm and beg for mercy in her punishment. In return, the throne will give… leeway." She might keep her pretty little head, if she concedes, Cersei conceded, but not her crown. "It'll be a generous sentence - one of exile or imprisonment rather than execution. Lord Tyrell will be humbled and shamed, but unable to object. Can you see that it happens?"

"Of course, Your Grace." The white-robed man bowed again.

"And then the High Sparrow will demilitarise the Faith Militant, or they will all face the sword as they did in Maegor's day." I should never have tolerated those ungrateful sparrows. Her red satin dress brushed against the stones as she turned towards the staircase. "Lord Tyrell will be forced to deal with the mummer's king and the Golden Company, the forces in the Reach will defeat this Euron Greyjoy, and the Boltons will overcome the Bastard King. Stannis will be destroyed as soon as we can rally a proper force to deal with him." She kept her voice low, a quiet growl in the cavernous staircase. "They will not steal my son's throne, Lord Qyburn. None of them will. I refuse to allow it."

"Very wise, Your Grace. I shall assist of course."

"I will need you to keep my castle secure. As well as to take over the duties of maester since our late Grand Maester's demise. You report to me directly, nobody else." Cersei winced slightly, stretching her shoulders as she walked up the stairs.

If Qyburn was uncomfortable with the added duties placed upon him, he didn't show it. He kept his expression humble and neutral. "However I can help."

"You could help by providing me a treatment for my back," Cersei said irritably. "Sitting in that damnable chair has left my spine aching constantly."

Qyburn bobbed his head, and then appeared to hesitate. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I cannot help but notice…" His lips pursed. "It is of a sensitive nature, but I would be remiss in my duties if I did not broach the subject." His eyes were soft, grandfatherly. "Your Grace, you are gaining weight."

Cersei froze. She had worn the same red satin dress for the last week because none other would fit her. Her handmaidens still had to restitch the others. She spun around and snapped. "You dare?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace, I mean no insult," he said quickly. "I spoke to the serving girls. They say you have not had your moonblood for at least two months."

She stiffened. "It is stress. The stress of running a kingdom takes its toll on the body."

"That is true, Your Grace," Qyburn nodded. "However, I fear you may be pregnant."

The corridor turned silent. Cersei's hands clenched so sharp her fingernails dug into her hands. "No."

Qyburn didn't reply. He just lowered his head, respectful. "No," Cersei repeated.

I cannot be pregnant, she thought firmly. How long has it been since my brother left the city? The dates do not match up, it's impossible, I can't…

And then she remembered Ser Osney Kettleblack, and the 'reward' she had granted him before sending him off to kill the High Sparrow. She remembered his unsatisfactory kisses and rough thrusts. I told him to come on my stomach. I told him to come on my stomach.

"No…" Cersei muttered. She felt the colour draining from her face.

Qyburn stepped forward. "Your Grace, I can provide a simple tonic to ensure—"

"Leave," Cersei ordered. He looked uncertain. "Leave! Get out of my presence!"

Qyburn bowed, and very quickly turned to trot back down the stairs. Cersei was panting, head spinning. Not here, too many watching eyes. She turned and very quickly walked upwards to her quarters. Ser Robert Strong stood like a sentinel at the base of the stairwell.

As soon as she closed the door, she collapsed into a fit of wheezing breaths. She felt herself groan.

It's impossible. The prophecy. Maggy the Frog foretold that I would have three children, not four…

Unless I do not survive to term carrying the babe. Seventy-seven days.

I'm pregnant. That cursed, treacherous sellsword's babe.

She saw Ser Osney Kettleblack's mocking grin. With a sudden jolt, she realised that she might finally be carrying a black-haired child.

She could feel herself gasping, struggling for air. Her legs buckled and she fell. No, she thought. I am a lioness. A queen. Not a fat, bloated woman begging on her knees. Still, no matter how hard she tried she couldn't control her breathing, or pull herself to her feet.

It's all coming true. My brother. The younger queen. My dead children. Joffrey is already dead, Myrcella is in the grip of the Dornish, Tommen is trapped in a city besieged. My little brother is coming for me.

She felt tears stinging her eyes. My son, my babe…

The valonqar will wrap his hands around my pale white throat and choke the life from me. Just like he did with that whore.

Her plans were nothing more than grasping at straws. She could barely control the Red Keep, let alone a kingdom. Her allies were treacherous, her friends gone. Her enemies everywhere.

This is all the Imp's doing. And I cannot stop it because it has already been foretold.

Cersei spent the next two hours weeping and wailing on the floor.

Then, she stood, straightened her dress and cleaned her face. When she left her chambers, her face was once again stiff like ice. She motioned at Ser Robert to follow her.

I will not allow them to hurt my son. I will defy them all, I will defy the gods, I will defy the fates to keep my little boy alive.

She met Lord Qyburn again in the Grand Maester's chambers, sorting through Pycelle's vials, papers and medicines. "Lord Qyburn," she said curtly.

"Your Grace." He bowed quickly. "I apologise if I crossed any line, I meant only to offer assistance—"

"Enough. We will not speak of that matter." The thought scared her, she couldn't even begin to handle it. For some reason, she couldn't even swallow the thought of drinking moon tea. No, I will have to. I must get of rid of the babe before any talk starts. "What of the tunnel that you discovered under the Red Keep?" Cersei demanded.

He blinked, off-guard. "Yes, Your Grace. You ordered to seal any secret exits, and so I had the castle searched from top to bottom. We discovered the tunnel built into a well in the lower dungeons, it leads out towards the sewer, and then the river. A relic from King Maegor's construction."

"And does anyone else know of it?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Keep it that way," Cersei ordered. "But have the tunnel unsealed. We will need a secret tunnel into the city. There is much work to be done."

Lord Qyburn bowed. "Whatever you require, Your Grace."

"Firstly, I shall need a hundred more just like him," Cersei said, motioning to Ser Robert Strong's hulking mass. He stood at the doorway stiff like a stone titan. "Apply your skills, Lord Qyburn, and make your soldiers. There are… tasks to be at, I will need their unwavering loyalty."

His eyes widened. "Your Grace, my methods are still so rudimentary!" Qyburn exclaimed. "Ser Robert was the first of his kind and he required months of labour! To create a hundred more? I am but a blind man studying a whole new field, I cannot make such a promise."

"Whatever resources you require, you shall have them. Draw your work out of the black cells if needed. You require additional bodies, reagents? The castle is at your disposal, as is Maegor's tunnel and the treasury's gold. Whatever it takes." Tommen, I am doing this for you. "I require one hundred soldiers of Ser Robert's quality. You have seventy-seven days."

Qyburn blinked, bit his lip, and then bowed. She caught his eyes flash as he lowered his head quickly. "I shall devote myself to the task, Your Grace."

"Good. And then bring me Lord Hallyne of Alchemist's Guild," Cersei demanded. "I will require him and his pyromancers too."

---

The Godly Man

"Do you ever wonder what it might be like to lay with a mermaid, Urgard?" Euron mused. "Are they are fair or hideous, do you wonder?"

The grim-faced man never replied. He had two flame-shaped brands on each cheek, and crisscrossing scars over his face, deliberately made, intersecting over the bridge o his nose. "You may answer, Urgard," Euron insisted.

"I cannot say, my king." Urgard's voice was a monotone. He didn't turn away from the candles. He didn't even blink.

"It is strange, is it not? I have never met a man who has truly met a mermaid, I think, yet they all talk of mermaids as though they were beautiful. Why?" Euron was looking at his enslaved mage, but not at him—rather, though him, beyond him, reminiscing, wondering.

"No matter what flag they fly or what god they worship, sailors the world over are a superstitious folk, fearful of the unknown. Why are seen mermaids differently? But men do like to idolise the unknown, I suppose." Euron paced the dark cabin, ignoring his bedmate, his other sacrifices who were bound in the darkness just beyond the light of the glass candles.

His collection of obsidian candles burned all across the far wall, flickering, showing stronger and weaker possibilities of the future - not the far future, but the future of the next few minutes of the ritual they were about to work. The Silence rocked against the waves, the wind and ocean a low howl in the background.

"And yet," Euron's voice turned lower, "if mermaids truly are fish women, then I would say they would have to be hideous. Have you ever seen a sea creature that has any care for beauty? Does a shark or a tuna look pretty? I find that even the biggest, scariest creatures of the sea generally want to be left undisturbed, save for when they wish to feed. And if mermaids are just ugly fish things, then a part of me thinks they would also be fairly benign."

Euron paused, as he picked up a glowing hot poker from the low fire, working it deeper into the coals. Not hot enough. "But," he continued, voice even lower. "I do not think mermaids are fish, not at all. I think their hearts are not so dissimilar from our own. Tell me, Urgard, do you remember those strange folk of the Thousand Islands?" A pause. "Answer, Urgard. Near Nefer and N'Ghai."

"Aye, I remember," Urgard muttered, voice dead and eyes deader.

"Those people, they looked a bit like fish, did they not? That green skin, those webbed hands and feet. Their eyes, set too far apart. Their sharp teeth. Yet no matter how strange they were, they were near enough to human, weren't they? Their women fucked like any other woman, certainly. They were no mermaids, I think. Still, they feared the water, and lived in the shadows of their grotesque, forgotten gods. Why? What kind of half-mermaid fears the water?"

Water dripped in the Silence's ritual room, silent and fluid. With one hand, Euron thrust his poker deeper into the coals, while with the other he eyed a certain mixture one of his alchemist thralls had prepared, a beaker containing several ounces of pitch-black blood and bile, congealed and fermented with sorcery.

"You are familiar with the concept of incest, Urgard? Yes, you must be, being from Myr. It is reviled the world over, yet Valyria's dragonlords made it a regular practice - because they knew how to preserve the power in their blood, how to hoard it, how to spend it. Yet even they knew not to push it too far, for too many generations. Lest they begin scrape too deeply at the human bone of their bloodline, and begin to see the dragon's marrow beneath. It is… curious. How incest weakens, but also reveals."

Euron watched the poker in the fire slowly heat and begin to glow, black iron turning to a cherry red. Meanwhile, a low, soft moaning echoed from the chainbound prisoners and thralls, still waiting in the dark for their time. Euron's eyes passed over the images the glass candles were showing, how the possibilities were beginning to coalesce. Soon.

"Do you know, Urgard, of the Three Sisters? That bleak archipelago in the Bite, not far off from White Harbour and the Vale of Arryn?" Urgard didn't respond, but that was fine, the question had been rhetorical.

"Strange fruit is sometimes born of incestuous unions on the Three sisters, at least among their older and lordly bloodlines. Strange fruit indeed," Euron laughed softly. "Children. Children who look a little like those queer folk in the Thousand Islands, Urgard. Children with webbed hands and feet, strange eyes, teeth that are a little too sharp. Even their skin might be a little… off. By itself, a curious phenomena, nothing special. A single location. But it is not an isolated phenomena, not at all. It happens in the older Ironborn families too, the Harlaws and Stonetrees, for instance. Harren Hoare had an uncle lost to most histories who only lived to boyhood, a bastard born of incest… who had slits on his neck that resembled gills. It goes deeper, even to the Greyirons of old."

Euron eyed the black beaker he would soon use, it was a… formula, refined across tens of trials. It held of an active component of amalgamated bloods sourced from the strongest, oldest sea creatures he could find, balanced against a control component of human bloods, including his own, including captured fishfolk. A control component that acted as a bridge between man and beast, between present and past.

"Once is nothing special, some strange mutation of blood limited to one small set of isles. Twice, though? That's a pattern, Urgard. Three times? A trend. Thirty times? A truth unexplained. I've seen this pattern elsewhere, the world over. Fifty, a hundred times. The Basilisk Isles, the dead cities of Sothoryos. Ib. Sarnath, Yeen. The low gutter-folk haunting the ruins of the Great Library of Carcosa, and their kin of the Hidden Sea. And, of course, in the city of Asshai. In the highborn families of Myr. So many more places still, bleak little haunts of old blood sitting astride the oceans. They live the world over, Urgard. People in whose veins runs the blood of the sea."

Euron shook his head, sighing. "It makes me regret that Asha fled, she would have been useful." A quick grin flit across his features. "But I will find her again, when time permits."

The candlelight flickered faintly. Urgard could have been a statue carved out of oil, his skin seeming to meld into the murky dark of the room.

"The world over, I have seen other patterns too, Urgard. Stories, told by the children of the sea. Folk tales, shamanic mythos, fairy stories. Hero's sagas, creation myths, destruction myths. Children's parables, villain's apologues. Runestones, books, clay tablets, scrolls writ in a hundred different languages, under the auspice of a hundred different gods. And yet, no matter their source, their moral nature or local character, the stories all share a common spine, the same greater history." Euron took a breath, and his eyes went faint, as he peered deep into the depths of memory.

"They speak of the long night and the Last Hero, but they also speak of another time, a time when the sea waged war with the land and won. The seas rose, covering the cities of the gods of old." Euron paused, then chuckled. "My brother Aeron, godly man that he is, would tell you that the ironborn are not descended from the First Men, that we instead came from the watery halls of the Drowned God beneath the sea. Now isn't that just… interesting?"

Euron paced, eyeing the poker, the myriad visions that had nearly coalesced into one path, flickering all across the wall. Soon.

"What was this age lost to deep time, Urgard? Did it come before, during, or after the Long Night? Or was there more than one age of the sea? One, two, or many?" Euron shook his head, smiling. "I think the answer is simpler, Urgard. I think all these peoples across the world have but different perspectives of the same event, traceable to the same age beyond time. And that whenever it was, it was a time when those of the deeps walked the earth." Euron chuckled softly. "It feels the most honest conclusion, at least, he said, pacing in the murk of the cabin.

"There are a thousand different paths by which men find their gods, Urgard. They pray, they sacrifice, they make war, they grow crops, dance for the rain, and love and hate. They give their faith, and they give their hearts. But these are all… an imperfect way to chase the shadows of the divine. I believe there is a better way, a path to trace the steps of the gods with knowledge, and to summon them by certainty. What is god but a frontier man hasn't yet conquered?"

Urgard didn't reply. He kept his back turned, staring blankly at the obsidian flames. Now they all showed only one path, one most certain path towards success in the ritual. Euron just smiled, memorizing the particulars. He nodded to the shadows beyond the candlelight, towards the rear of his ritual cabin.

"It is time," Euron said, gripping the handle of his poker. It was now well and truly heated, yellow-hot and shimmering towards the end. "Bring her."

One of his mutes stepped forward, bringing the chained form of Falia Flowers, bastard daughter of Lord Hewett of the Oakenshield Isle.

His bedmate's eyes were bloodshot and wide, and her wrists were chained. Her dark hair was coated in salt and the grime of the sea.

Falia Flowers begged, mouth flapping open and closed. She had no tongue with which to speak. Euron might have preferred her able to speak, but he knew from experience that his women would never understand, never appreciate the measures he took, the ambitions he held. So he contented himself with silence, knowing that someday, soon, the time for silence would end, and that he would have a wife truly worthy of the title.

Euron stroked Falia's cheek. She had been good company to him, a girl of whimsy and easy laughs, a maiden particularly eager to learn how to please a man. He had rewarded her for that. Her stomach was now swollen, pregnant with another of his children. She tried to squirm, to escape to, to cry out. Euron just smiled, as he continued petting her hair.

"You are very beautiful, Falia," Euron whispered. "You are confused? I will explain. You are… a field, a fertile garden into which I sowed my seed. That is your role in this. Your womb carries a promise, a potentiality, a girl with a trace of the sea in her blood. My blood. I have seen her, in the flames. Our daughter. And I wish to test my theory on whether the sea's blood can be quickened. Do you understand?"

Falia shook her head frantically, mouth flapping as she begged soundlessly but for her desperate breathing.

"I will explain, then, Falia," Euron sighed, then grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "The glass candles tell me that our child will be a girl, pretty, with your features. You bore the fruit I desired." Her mouth begged, but Euron ceased her begging with a tightening of his fingers. "If my theories are correct, if somewhere in deep time, our ancestors, my ancestors made love with the sea's heralds, be they mermaids, or deep ones, or something else entirely… then, I think they left a trace of that legacy behind. An echo of their nature, branded in the blood itself and passed down through the bloodlines of their descendants. Do you understand, Falia?" Euron's eyes flickered, almost with a trace of hunger. A desire to be understood. "Urgard?"

Only silence answered him aboard the Silence, which was a bit sad, but was overall fine. This was as much for his benefit as theirs, a way to give shape to his focus.

"The path my ancestors left behind in their blood tells the story of how they left the sea and conquered the land. So, Falia, how can we retrace those steps back to the sea? What if it were possible to find that trace of the sea, hidden beneath blood and bone? What if we could isolate it, quicken it?"

Falia's eyes were lost, uncomprehending.

"You were so excited to see our child, Falia. So, now I ask - what if our daughter were even prettier, Falia? What if she were born a mermaid? Wouldn't that make you happy?"

Falia's eyes widened with realization. She opened her mouth and let out a long, wheezing moan that might have been one long, terrible scream, if she'd had a tongue to give shape to her terror. As it was, it was more… amusing, than anything. Her mouth flapped open and closed like a fish. She struggled against her fetters, her eyes sliding to look everywhere, anywhere other than at him. As if she was begging the world itself to save her.

Euron sighed.

"It's time, Urgard."

Euron grabbed her jaw, forced her to drink the sea's black blood.

Beside Falia, his sorcerer cut the neck of a captured thrall. Urgard started chanting in High Valyrian, channeling the power in the air, focusing it. Then he put the burning brand to her cheek. A Valyrian rune bubbled and hissed, a rune that more or less translated to 'mutability', or perhaps 'change'.

Falia's mouth gaped. Her chains went taut, rattling as her limbs stretched out as far as they would go. And yet, but nothing came from her mouth but a choked, frenzied wordlessness, a pathetic breeze of sounds that could not ever be called screams.

Urgard then placed a second rune of High Valyrian low on her belly, just above her channel. It translated to a complex word for a concept that didn't have an equivalent in the common tongue. A glyph of High Valyrian that had connotations of 'refinement of flesh', and 'halcyon gestation', but above all meant 'separation and reunion of potentialities'.

High Valyrian. That was the mistake so many lesser practitioners made. The newer languages lacked the same power, the same… weight of the language of the dragonlords. Because High Valyrian was a language had been embedded deeply into the bones of the world, by the untold millions of souls who had lived and died speaking the language throughout the world. For thousands upon thousands of years,

Even if a hundred million people spoke a newer language for a thousand years, it would still lack the power of High Valyrian. Because the forefathers newer, weaker languages had not lived and died for ten thousand years. The bones of men and women who spoke the dragonlord's language were buried deep in the world's soil, buried so deeply and for so long that the language had repainted the bones of the world itself. That was power. That was a claim that even the powers beyond the veil respected. A song of death and life for generations, overprinting the aria of the world itself.

At least, that was the theory of the dragonlords who noted the increased potency of spells cast in their language over time. Small wonder they had imprinted that language into their dragons, and forced it on all their colonies.

He couldn't see the changes, not as long as he kept his crow's eye covered. But, still - he didn't need it to be able to sense the movement of the world, the traces of power whispering through the room, trembling with Urgard's chants and crystallizing into the forms of the branded runes. They began to slow with a faint, bloody light, only for an instant before darkening again.

"Yes," Euron grinned.

The power had taken root in her womb. As for what would emerge, success or failure… he would just have to wait and see. There had been failures before, tens of them, but that was what it meant to progress. To walk on, despite failure, to refine success out of the mistakes of the past.

When he was done, Euron kissed his pregnant bedmate on her burned lower stomach, and let the slaves drop her to the ground.

"This is a good thing, Falia," he whispered gently. Her hair was burnt from her scalp, her skull black and red with deep blisters. "Pain opens the doors of the soul. There is strength to be found in suffering. The more our bodies are cut away from us, the closer we get to the root of mortality, and begin to see glimpses of what lies beyond. Divinity does not watch from the heavens above, it lies beneath the flesh, somewhere beneath bone and marrow. By cutting away the unnecessary, it becomes possible to open doors, and create miracles. This is, at least in some small part, how Valyria's blood mages learned to breed power to potential. Their methods have been lost, I fear, but I've found enough fragments of their lore that I can begin to recreate. Isn't that amazing?"

Falia could only whimper. Euron pressed his hand against her pregnant stomach. Valyria of old had built their empire from harnessing the power of suffering, and though their arts far, far surpassed his current middling attainments, he was now much farther along than he had been only a year before. Perhaps this time, something worthwhile would be born, a babe that might live long enough to draw breath.

Even if this was another failure, there was still value to be found in failure, so long as he learned from his mistakes. The formulae of the black blood could be adjusted, weighted more towards humanity. His initial attempts at a solution had been entirely blended of the sea, and had never succeeded in quickening. Only by melding the blood of human and monster, using fishfolk as a bridge had there been any success at all.

In any case, even if this was a total failure, that was still fine. Cruelty was just another skill to be mastered, he was still far from certain if these methods of pain were the most efficient. Pregnant women were the carriers of the womb, which made their bodies a container of potentialities, and it was at the climax of their pain, at the crest of the trembling of the soul itself that the fetus was made most malleable to outside alchemies and blood magics.

There was an art in maximizing pain inflicted without risking the pregnancy itself, however, and Euron was far from certain if physical pain was the most effective method. There was a certain crudeness in base torture. Euron did not believe Valyria's bloodmages had used such crude methods. The old fragments of lore he had stolen, bartered, bargained for across the seas had spoken of certain poisons, drawn from sea snakes and jellyfish, manticores and certain snails. If Falia was another failure, perhaps it would be time to change his methods.

Euron sighed softly, and walked away.

"Urgard," he said finally, turning away from his distraction. "How goes it? What do you see?"

On the black wall of the cabin, three dozen dragonglass candles blazed across the shelves with quiet, flickering black flames. The art of scrying through obsidian fires was a delicate and subtle skill. Fire was power, and power gave knowledge. Skilled men could see across the entire world using a glass candle, they could see into dreams and into the future. Past, present and all possible futures all flickering in the candlelight, refracted in every spark of light. The same power existed in every flame, or so the red priests claimed, but dragonglass was a distillate of fire; it focused the power far more efficiently than mundane flames. With dragonglass in hand, there was no need to borrow power from the creatures beyond the veil that called themselves gods.

Urgard had been a red priest, once upon a time. Euron wasn't sure what he was now, but any faith the man once had had been whipped out of him. Now, Urgard was one of the many sorcerers and mages that had been brought upon the Silence, and one of the few who still had their tongues. It took great skill, focus and patience to use the glass candles; Euron had the first two, but he was often lacking in the third.

"I see naught but snow and ash," Urgard muttered hoarsely after a pause. "The flames are out of balance. I shall attempt to refocus them."

Euron sighed. That might take weeks, even months. The refinement of glass candles was an extremely difficult art; he could do it himself, but it wasn't a good use of his time. It was easy to light a fire, easy to cast a wide net and catch the world's possibilities and potentialities at random. It was far, far more difficult to focus the candles to a specific line of questioning, especially if the movement of the world's magics changed during the interim, which always required a refocusing. Better to order a sufficiently skilled slave mage to manage the task.

"Just do it. Find me dragons. Show me my brother's progress towards Slaver's Bay. Show me when my bride-to-be is coming home," Euron ordered. "Do it, and I will give you a new woman. Fail, and, well… don't fail, Urgard." Euron's eyes flickered, and he looked more closely at one of the nearer glass candles. He reached out, focusing on a nearer target. The upper deck of this very ship. "So, they are finally ready up above," Euron muttered.

Euron left the ritual cabin. As he walked through the Silence's rocking lower hull, Euron passed lines of warlocks, red priests, holy men, shadowbinders, spellsingers, firemages, hedge mages, maegi and necromancers. They were all bound in chains with their eyes covered and their mouths gagged. On quiet seas, you could hear the strained, muffled gasps from his hull. Sorcerers and the like are useful things to have, Euron thought, but it's important to keep them contained. Like a blade, you must sheathe them when not in use.

The Red Oarsman, his closest thing to a vice-captain met him in the lower hold, apparently to give warning of the gathering up above. But the Oarsman fell silent when he saw his captain, instead following in Euron's shadow as they made for the stairs.

Euron kept all his mages chained constantly at the very bottom deck of his galleon, blind and manacled and always under watch. Euron's collection of mutts and murderers from the far east kept a close eye on their prisoners, and they carried barbed whips and daggers. His crew was on-guard against magic to point of paranoia; they had to be, to survive in the places where the Silence had sailed. They had all learnt to watch for flickering shadows or lingering hexes, or any sign of a prisoner trying to use their skills against them. No exposed flames were allowed anywhere near the spellbinders, except under close supervision. It left the decks of the Silence in constant gloom, but that was fine, there was a certain comfort in darkness.

Euron was something of a collector. He cared little for riches or gold, except insofar as they had the utility of purchasing power. He was far more an avid collector of old magicks, monsters and myths. Ever since he was a boy, and had been shown the first steps of how to fly, he had been obsessed with chasing gods. That was why he had sailed away from the Iron Islands so long ago; the shadows of the divine in this weak era were too weak in Westeros, he had to seek out what he needed in the lands beyond.

Knowledge is the path to the divine, Euron thought silently, remembering the words of a particularly insightful scroll of old Valyria, his ransom prize for several Volantene highborn. It is how men can walk the steps beyond mortality, and see what lies on the other side.

His ship was the silence before the storm. His crew of mutes, mongrels and mages thought that they brought fear to the entire world, and they were not wrong, not exactly, only… premature.

No, he thought. Not yet. The world does not know the meaning of fear, not yet.

It was raining when Euron stepped out onto the Silence's crimson deck. On either side of the Silence, the Thunderer and the Dusk rocked on the choppy seas. So both the Drumm and the Knight of Grey Garden are here, then, Euron thought, as a wiry smile stretched over his blue lips. How the flames love showing the folly of man.

A sharp wind howled down through the Redwyne straits. Rain scattered down across the bay, and the coast was ringing with the sound of thousands of men and hundreds of ships. The sky was grim, and he saw a crowd of grimmer faces waiting for him as he stepped out into the rain.

Raindrops scattered across Euron's black Valyrian steel armour, water dripping down to the red blade at his hip. He stepped past Harren Half-Hoare, Rodrik Freedborn, and Left-Hand Lucas Codd all standing stoically by the door. Euron's grin widened as he saw his guests. Dozens of hard-faced men, visitors who had walked over from gangplanks to stand aboard the deck of his Silence.

Ser Harras Harlaw, Lord Denys Drumm, Lord Maron Volmark, Lord Gorold Goodbrother, Lord Germund Botley, and Andrik the Unsmiling all stood waiting for him. All powerful and influential men of the Iron Islands, Euron thought. And all of them are bitter and coming here in defeat.

"My lords!" He laughed, raising his hands in the rain. "Happy days! It seems the Drowned God blesses us with more water yet!"

In the distance, thunder rumbled over the Arbor. Across the bay, hundreds of ironborn longships scattered over the beaches, the entire fleet docked and fortified on the northern edge of the island, nestled around a collection of wooden thatch houses and barns. The ironborn had taken and occupied an Arbor fishing village, but there were far too many ships to fit in the small harbour.

Three hundred and sixty-six vessels, Euron was told. Once, they had been over five hundred, but then Victarion's best one hundred longships of the Iron Fleet had left for Slaver's Bay, then there had been battles besides. Now, the ironborn had more ships than they had men to comfortably sail them - his armada was nine thousand strong. On average that meant twenty-five to a boat, Euron mused, but there were many smaller longships that were holding only ten or so.

Nobody spoke. Silence has come to the Silence, Euron thought, chuckling. "Lord Botley," Euron called, looking to the man. "What news from Lordsport? Are these rumours that I'm hearing true?"

Eyes flickered, men eyeing one another. The lord wiped the rain from his brow. "Aye, they are true. The whole realm is up in arms about it. There is a dragon in the north, it is confirmed beyond doubt now. The riverlords are calling it the White Doom, a huge, white beast larger than Balerion the Dread. It is ridden by the Bastard King come from beyond the Wall. Sorcerer, warg, oathbreaker. The Freys of the Crossing are dead, the dragon destroyed the Twins, both castles shattered to the foundations in a single day."

Euron felt laughter rising from his throat. Around him, the waves howled. "Well, isn't that just typical?" He chuckled. "I send my brother halfway around the world to fetch me dragons, but it turns there was one right next door the whole time! Ha! Oh, how the fates like to tease us, don't you think?"

In truth, Euron had suspected the dragon for a long time now. Months ago, all of his glass candles had suddenly started burning brighter and clearer. Magic returning faster, older powers were stirring and Euron was likely one of the first know about it. All of the magicks aboard the Silence had become… clearer. Sharper.

Yes, another dragon, he thought. Another great elemental force to move the world, an ice of the west to match the east's three fires. The beasts cause ripples of power through the world as naturally as fish splash, causing the rising tide to rise faster. This is only good news, a fourth dragon for my collection.

His guests didn't look so amused. "We are at war with the north, and now they have a dragon!" Lord Goodbrother growled.

"I know, brilliant, isn't it?" The taste of shade of the evening on his lips made his head feel tingly. He danced softly over the rocking deck. "Call it irony, call it fate. It does indeed look like I sent Victarion and the Iron Fleet away for no reason. Typical."

"We need to return to the Iron Islands," Lord Goodbrother insisted. "If there is a dragon, we need to return to defend our lands."

"You cannot. I will need the whole force of the Iron Islands for our assault on Oldtown," Euron said, shaking his head.

There were mutters. Ser Harras Harlaw stepped forward, frowning. "So, it's true. You really intend to raid Oldtown."

"Of course. Have I not been announcing such?" Euron said with a smile. "I hope the entire realm knows my intention. We will gain such wealth, no ironborn for thousands of years will have known such plunder!"

"This campaign of yours becomes more moon-addled by the day!" Ser Harras Harlaw shouted. The Knight of Grey Gardens sounded angry. He had his hand on the black Valyrian steel blade at his waist, Nightfall, it is here. "The Shield Islands have been retaken by the thorns, and you move on to your next folly?"

"The Shield Islands were supposed to be our launching point for this campaign. You named us the lords of them, yet abandoned them at the first chance," Lord Denys Drumm accused. Lord Volmark and Andrik the Unsmiling looked bitter too. Yes, they had all been my potential enemies, and they lost their strength trying to hold the lands I handed to them. "We've lost our foothold in the Reach."

Euron just shrugged. "Then you should have defended them better. That is your failure, not mine."

"You dare—" Ser Harras bellowed, before Lord Drumm held up his hand.

"How could we defend them, when you took the fleet south with you?" Lord Denys Drumm shouted over the waves. "You left us with a half a dozen ships each, to defend against Highgarden itself!"

"Ships that you use to flee upon," Euron noted. "Do you really care so little about the newfound lands that I gave you that you would flee from battle?"

Lord Denys Drumm's face twisted. The young Bone Hand was a stout and strong fighter, clad in grey armour with skeletal white bones painted upon it. His iron helm bore a white skull. "My father perished trying to defend Southshield! We barely held them back, but Oakenshield had already fallen! Once two out of four isles fell, there was no choice but to retreat." His eyes flashed. "We escaped those islands, and then I find that you had your men steal my father's blade!"

Euron cocked his head, looking at the young lord. The newly-named Lord Drumm had none of his late father's patience or wits. Euron's hand lingered on Red Rain on his hip. It was a fine Valyrian steel blade of shining crimson metal, with a white hilt carved like a skeletal bone, but it was no masterwork. The dragonlords had only sold their second-rate workings to the world's outside powers.

Red Rain was the ancestral weapon of House Drumm, true, but this was not a blade known for its loyalty. If there were any blade whose history could be said to be writ in blood… this sword had been known to change hands. The Drumms themselves had bought it from House Reyne, paying the iron price, as they themselves had previously won it by blood, and so on through a few cycles of families before.

"You accuse me of thievery?" Euron scoffed. "Lord Dustan was old. He fell on one of our raids, some rat looted his sword. I found that rat, and I bought this blade off him with the iron price. You should be thanking me. Would you prefer the sword, or the father? But, truth be told, Red Rain has quite taken my fancy."

"That sword belongs to House Drumm," Lord Drumm said darkly, stepping forward.

Harren Half-Hoare and Left-Hand Lucas Codd took a step to block him. Euron raised his hand to stop them. "I told you," Euron repeated, with a mocking smirk. "I paid the iron price for the sword. Do you want to try and buy it back with the same?"

Lord Drumm's face twisted. He didn't back down, but he hesitated. Everyone was watching. "Forget the bloody sword," Ser Harras growled. He was a tall and dark man, fearsome in full grey armour. He was glaring at Euron too. "You insist on this folly of attacking, not just the Reach, but Oldtown itself. You leave the iron isles undefended from the Bastard King. Why? Do you even care? The taking of the Shields was just the beginning of your perfidy. You claimed those lands but you had no intention of defending them, did you? You let the lords you raised linger as an 'advance guard,' a 'foothold' only to allow them to be defeated. I see a design in it. You send our greatest commander to the other side of the world, and maneuver the rest of us, your critics, to die."

Yes, actually, Euron thought, smirking. That was completely my intention - I took the credit for taking the isles, and then I left you to take the blame for losing them.

Still, he had to control the narrative here.

"Why would you obsess over that bunch of cold, dreary rocks?" Euron laughed. "You're afflicted by paranoia and conspiracy. This is a war, plans change, objective shift. Look around you, my lord! I am offering you the whole Reach itself. The Arbor is undefended, go pillage and rape to your heart's content! Lord Orkwood has already conquered Three Towers, soon Oldtown itself will be wide open! We could be feasting on lands that have grown fat and rich for hundreds of years, where no ironborn have raided since the days of High Kings of old." Euron looked at Lord Drumm and smirked, keeping his hand on Red Rain. "They will sing songs of us for a thousand years, loud enough to reach the Drowned God's own halls! Surely, what is a little sword compared to that?"

"You dare to steal my family's ancient weapon and laugh?" Lord Drumm growled. He had a war-axe in his grip, a hefty, well-rounded weapon. Many of the other lords were looking angry as well. Oh, they are mad. What, just because I abandoned them to die?

"It is better than not laughing at all, is it not?" Euron smirked. "Come now, have I ever led you to defeat? We have seen victory after victory, I have given you plunder, more than you could have ever found up north! Why are we squabbling? We are all ironborn here! How many of the Arbor's villages have we raided these weeks? How much gold, silver, gems do you all have now? How many salt wives have you all taken? Five to a captain? Ten? Why are you even here, threatening mutiny? You surely haven't had your fill yet of raping your salt girls! We're all ironborn here, we all know what it is to be iron, don't waste my time on these petty grievances." The sound of Euron's chuckles carried over the wind, his grin stretching wide and blue. Euron spun, motioning to the great island of the Arbor, filled with rolling hills and grape fields.

"I promised the ironborn victory, and here I am providing it! We will ravage the green lands, just as the Drowned God promised to us when he brought the first flame from his halls beneath the tides, and sailed the seas with fire and steel! I am leading you towards a victory the likes that Balon or Victarion couldn't even begin to imagine!"

A few of the Silence's guests began to look uncertain. Lord Volmark and Lord Botley had stepped back, and were now staying very, very quiet, but Ser Harras and Lord Drumm refused to back down. Unfortunately, Ser Andrik the Unsmiling, the great grim giant of a man, looked ready for a fight too.

"What of the Damphair?" Lord Goodbrother said suddenly. He was an aging, portly, white-haired man, but still strong. His eyes were narrowed, dark.

Euron just shrugged. "What of him?"

"How do you expect us to follow your orders, 'king'?" Lord Goodbrother grumbled. He pointed towards the front of the boat. "When you have the leader of the drowned men - the Drowned God's chosen priests - tied to your fucking prow?"

He chuckled. "My brother seems to like the ocean. I thought he would appreciate being closer to it."

Aeron Greyjoy was all rags and bones, frail and pale, fastened to the prow of the Silence by chains. On the prow of Euron's ship was a mouthless maiden of black iron with long legs, slender waist, high breasts and mother-of-pearl eyes. The Damphair was left chained against the iron woman's bosom, dangling metres above the cold water. Probably the first set of tits my brother has touched in years, Euron thought with a quiet scoff.

Every time a high wave hit the prow, the salty water splashed hard against the man. At first Aeron had been sputtering and coughing, but now he just hung limp and weak. I hope he's not dead. It would be no fun if he's dead.

"I placed him there for the battle against the Hightower and Redwyne ships," Euron explained. "My brother spent weeks bleating cowardice, now he will have a better view of the battle than any of us. And I thought it would be lucky - surely it must be good fortune to hang the Damphair as a figurehead, to gain the Drowned God's favour?"

Truth be told, Aeron Greyjoy fascinated Euron. Religious and devoted men, there was something riveting in their blind belief in the hereafter. Euron considered that sort of true faith to be only one step down from magic.

Lord Goodbrother looked appalled. "The Damphair was right about you. I should never have supported your claim." He shook his head, raindrops splattering from his whiskers. "No, I will have no part of this madness."

"Aye," Ser Harras agreed darkly. "You are mad, king. You talk of madness. Aeron spoke the truth; you are a godless man."

Euron saw the his crew take insult. One of his best, the Red Oarsmen looked ready to move forward, spear in hand and start killing. Euron just shook his head and kept his men back. "Godless?" Euron laughed. "I am the most devout man you have ever met."

The deck was tense. There were men clutching axes on the Thunderer and the Dusk, to either side of the Silence. Reavers were preparing for a fight, Euron turned his smiling eye between the group. The lords hesitated, and Ser Harras shared a look with Lord Goodbrother.

"We will be taking our men and leaving," Lord Goodbrother announced. "Try to stop us, and half the lords here will abandon you as well. We will return to our seats and leave this madness in the Reach behind us."

"Madness is a word for concepts greater than feeble minds can understand." The rain pounded around them.

"Enough of this. Our ships and our men are leaving your fleet," Lord Drumm grumbled. "Do what you want with those fool enough to keep following you."

Hmm, that's not very good. Houses Drumm, Harlaw and Goodbrother have a hundred and fifty vessels between them. He saw the Red Oarsmen and Qarl the Thrall move to block them, but his guests had men of their own. Euron held a hand, still smirking as his crew paused.

"Do not stop us, Crow's Eye," Ser Harras warned. He had Nightfall drawn, sleek and black like obsidian with a moonstone pummel. Nightfall is a fine blade too. "If you wish to start a battle here, you will suffer for it. Let us disembark."

"Disembark," Euron mocked. "Cravens running from a fight."

Dark eyes all around him. "Crow's Eye," Ser Harras warned. "Do not—"

"What of you, Lord Drumm?" In a smooth motion, Euron drew Red Rain from its sheath. The blade seemed to growl bloodthirstily in the gloom. "Are you really so happy to walk away and leave your family's blade behind?"

Lord Drumm stiffened. "Your father would be ashamed," Euron continued, his smirk widening into a blue grin. "Not only would you shame his memory by fleeing from his battlefield, you would abandon your own family's, what did you call it, your ancestral weapon?"

Euron took a step forward, motioning the others to keep back. Lord Drumm had his axe tightly held in both hands. Andrik the Unsmiling was clutching his great blade too, standing head and shoulders above all others.

"You are a fiend," Lord Drumm growled, body shaking.

"Why not settle this the Old Way?" Euron offered, as he danced backwards and forwards over the rocking deck. Black armour and a red sword, glimmering with the wet rain. "You and me, here and now. Pay the iron price and start acting like a man, drum lord. Or is flapping your mouth with your sheep's bleating all you can do?"

Lord Drumm hesitated, and then turned to step forward. He was a stout and strong man. Ser Harras' face flickered, and then he stepped forward too. Lord Goodbrother looked more interested in fleeing, but he paused uncertainly. Lords Volmark and Botley stepped backwards.

"Asha would have been the better ruler, better than you ever could be," Ser Harras growled. "If you die, could our queen take the Seastone Chair?"

Euron only laughed.

Lord Drumm charged. A wordless battle roar broke his throat as he swung his axe, hard and strong. Euron fell backwards. A chant broke out across the Thunderer calling for their lord, but the crew of the Silence didn't make a sound. Ser Harras stepped forward anxiously, but no one interfered.

Heavy boots clattered over the red deck. Euron kept on falling backwards, moving almost idly, while Lord Drumm hacked and slashed. Euron's bright blue eye didn't stop mocking him, even as the axe slashed and the Bone Hand grunted and roared. Red Rain hovered and waited.

"You are a godless man!" Lord Drumm bellowed. The skeleton on his armour rattled. The axe struck downwards.

Somewhere in the distance, lightning flashed.

And Red Rain moved like a viper. There was a crunch of metal, and then blood splattered against the decks. Valyrian steel carved through steel plate.

"I am the most godly man you've ever met," Euron whispered as the Lord Drumm fell with the downpour. "Can you not hear the gods crying out for my victory?"

Before Lord Drumm even hit the ground, Ser Harras jumped in and struck. Red Rain was still embedded in the Lord Drumm's chest, Euron couldn't pull it out in time. The Knight of the Grey Garden lunged at him with Nightfall slicing in the gloom, as fast as a shadow.

Euron dropped his sword and rushed to meet him. He didn't try to block, instead he shoulder-barged against Nightfall's swipe, and the blade rushed towards his breastplate. Valyrian steel clanged against Euron's armour. It didn't pierce, it just bounced off and jarred the knight's wrist. He saw Ser Harras' eyes widen in surprise, as the sound rang out like a bell's chime.

Men who wield Valyrian steel are always surprised when their blades don't pierce, he thought smugly. My armour is worth everything I sacrificed for it.

He didn't even need a sword for this. When Ser Harras cut out with Nightfall again, Euron just grabbed the falling blade in midair with his gauntlet. Ser Harras' eyes widened with fear—then Euron reached out, took advantage of Harras' poor balance, and pushed him down to the deck as easily as toppling a rotten sapling.

In the next moment, Euron was kneeling atop Ser Harras with all his body's weight, grabbing the knight's arm and twisting it around. The knight tried to wrestle, but then Euron's armoured knee slammed into his throat. Ser Harras could only gurgle and thrash, pinned to the ground. The knight's arm flailed, yet Euron grabbed it by the wrist and twisted. Euron slowly forced the blade around, still grasped in Ser Harras' own hand.

"Godless man, you call me," Euron scoffed, his voice low and gentle, whispering in his ear. "You have no idea how false such an accusation is. I know more of god than any priest ever will. You all just delude yourselves into thinking you know of god. You look at the waves and imagine something greater, but me?" Nightfall crept closer to Ser Harras' throat. "I've seen god itself with my own two eyes."

The blade cut through Ser Harras' neck. Blood wept and gurgled, disappearing into the rain and soaking into the red planks. The deck turned quiet.

Euron grinned, dropping Ser Harras' arm. He moved his hand up to scratch at his eyepatch. Euron would never forget that moment he sailed into Valyria itself, deeper, further and darker than any man ever had. He had seen something… something divine, and it had burnt his eye out of his skull just by laying his gaze upon it. From that moment onwards, it… it had defined him.

I am a godly man. I will become god.

The bodies rolled with the waves beneath his ship. Two lords of the ironborn, killed by their own blades. Euron picked up Red Rain in his right hand and Nightfall in his left, spinning both Valyrian steel swords at once. The old men say the Drowned God made the ironborn to reave and rape, Euron mused, to carve out our kingdoms and to make our names known in fire and blood and song.

Fools. Gods are but one fractal of something far greater.

Euron looked between the other men, and laughed. "What of it, Andrik the Unsmiling?" he challenged. "Do you wish to challenge me too?"

The giant of the man hesitated, face twitching as he looked at Lord Drumm's corpse. After a long pause, the giant of a man lowered his axe. "No, my king," he murmured.

"Throw the bodies overboard," Euron ordered to his men. "And then send word to Donnel Drumm and Hotho Harlaw. Congratulate them on their new rank." He turned towards Lord Goodbrother, and smiled. "My lord, you seem to have lost your allies. Are you sure you wish to proceed with your defiance?"

Lord Goodbrother twitched, but didn't speak. Euron looked around the ships. Two of his mutes dumped the bodies into the churning waves. "What is dead may never die," a few of his men chanted.

"Oh yes. What is dead may never die," Euron agreed. "They are given to the Drowned God, are they not? To be served and pleasured by mermaids, I'm sure."

Ser Harras' and Lord Drumm's men looked unhappy, but Euron's crew were all around them. He gave orders for the Red Oarsmen to seize the Thunderer, and for Harren Half-Hoare to claim the Dusk. Lord Goodbrother was escorted below deck, to be held hostage as his ships were secured. The Lord of Hammerhorn would be kept safe in the hull, to make sure his sons followed their king's command.

Whatever rebellion they were intending died as swiftly as Lord Drumm and Harras Harlaw. Euron gave orders to seize their men and ships.

Then, Euron walked before Lord Volmark. He was curious to see how the young lord would react.

Lord Volmark bowed quickly, kneeling down against the blood-soaked wet wood. "My king."

"Come, stand! The wealth of Westeros is stretched out before us!" Euron said cheerfully. "I promised to deliver the ironborn the entire realm. For glory like we have not seen for an age!"

Lord Volmark was pale. He was young, pale and beardless. "My king, those men…"

"Fools with no sense of ambition," Euron dismissed. "They squabble and they fight with no concept of something greater than us all."

"They were scared, Your Grace," Lord Volmark said with a gulp. "They've seen the forces of Highgarden. I know you mean to attack Oldtown, but the latest raven from Three Towers said that there are nigh forty thousand Tyrell and Hightower men mustered to oppose us. And the Redwyne fleet must only be weeks away."

Euron paused. "Forty thousand? Truly?"

"Aye, Gormond Bluetooth reported it so. They are gathering forces in strength, from Highgarden down to the marcher lords. A huge force led by Garlan Tyrell, he says. And then when Paxter Redwyne arrives from around the Cape of Dorne, they will have ships to support them too."

"Forty thousand. Hmm, that's not very good for us," Euron mused, scratching his lip. He paused for a while, thinking about it. "No, let us delay by another fortnight, then, before launching our assault. There could well be ten thousand more by then."

"Ten thousand more?" Lord Volmark looked confused. "How could… Wait, you mean ten thousand more enemies? You want to give them more time to prepare?"

"But of course. What is the point in taking riches if you can't kill for them?" Euron chuckled.

He sounded panicked. "We are outnumbered four against one!"

"Aye, and I've always thought that an ironborn is worth at least five green landers. Let us also attack Blackcrown, so they will be certain of our intent. Once the bay of the Whispering Sound is secure, we will sail up the Honeywine in strength," Euron commanded. And slowly. No point moving too quickly; the most devastating storms are those that have time to simmer. "In the meantime, let us enjoy raiding the Arbor. I feel like we should be taking more thralls and salt wives - let every captain indulge himself. Let each warrior take several slaves. Let us take them all, actually."

Lord Volmark's mouth trembled, staring at him as if he were mad. Fools with no sense of something greater. "My king… !" he protested weakly. "Once the Redwyne fleet arrives we will lose what little advantage we have!"

"Well, yeah, we need to give them a fighting chance," Euron said, a cruel smirk spreading over his lips. "Come now, Lord Volmark, why not enjoy the day? The Arbor is rich and populated. Find yourself a salt wife to warm your bed. Find yourself several. Let us pillage and reap, as is our right. Do you forget? The Drowned God granted us supremacy over all that we could take, so let's take it all."

The young lord looked ready to object, but the glint in Euron's smiling eye caused him to pause. The lord was left shaking as Euron walked away. Euron was still holding the two blades. Red Rain was sleek and bright, while Nightfall was far more ornate and sublime. Nightfall's blade would ripple, while Red Rain's edge glinted. Yes, Euron thought as he stared out over the stormy waters. Two decent blades. They won't channel spells, not like the dragonlords' masterworks, but this is good enough for now.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. The storms had been brewing through the Redwyne straits for a while now, but it could simmer for just a bit longer. His mages had promised him so, and Euron could be patient.

This is my age. In ten thousand years, the singers will still remember the destruction I bring to the Reach. And I will be there, listening to them sing.

There are so many more conquests beyond. This is only the first step of many. I wish even one of these fools could understand, I do.

A few hours later, his mage Urgard walked up from the bottom of the deck. His eyes were raw. "My king," the scarred man muttered, bowing his head. "The glass candles have responded."

"Aye? And what did you see?"

"I saw your brother Victarion in the fire. His fleet has taken losses, but they are heading into Slaver's Bay now. A fleet of ships has blockaded Meereen, though the Lord Captain is intent on cutting through them to reach the city."

"Grand. Let my brother bring my wife to me."

Urgard hesitated. "My king, I have seen more. The flames showed me Victarion's intentions. He doesn't plan on bringing Daenerys Targaryen to you, he intends on claiming the Targaryen and her dragons for himself."

Euron gasped. "Oh no. You mean my own dear brother plans to betray me? To ruin my ambitions so. How shocking." He laughed raucously, grinning as he looked around his men. "Well, I certainly didn't see that coming."