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Important Note: My tweaking of all previous chapters to fix errors/make very minor improvements is still underway – it's not you'll need to re-read the story for – the largest tweak is changing Frostbite to Frost simply because I think its cooler than more in line with the relation between the sword Frost and the sword Ice. It'll take me quite some time to finish all these lil tweaks, so rather than delay new chapters forever while I do that, we'll simply do it on the fly :) Ty for reading. Enjoy.
Chapter 66: Fire and Blood
"You pay your debts…"
– Prince Willam Stark
Take a rest and the world had some stubborn way of catching up with you in the quiet hours. Willam had rested too long, it seemed, too quietly and too comfortably; to the loss of too many lives that ought to have remained. He'd told men not to follow when following might break them, but stubbornness and courage were brothers of a kind. It was that stubborn courage and broken bravery that kept fools alive so long, when others fell, some might name it luck. Willam named it a grand mummery of the gods.
What else could it be that urged him to accept madness? The world shook like rumbling thunder, dust and dirt assaulted their eyes as Prince Oberyn cursed low.
"Safe he said," the Viper scowled in the dark – for no flame would aid them here. "We should turn back. The Spider is playing us for fools…"
Willam only smirked in the dark. Grand mummery indeed, be it of spiders or gods.
"Then why agree to follow," he asked the dornishman. "If you know it a ploy?"
Oberyn scoffed. "Can't let you have all the damn fun, Stark…"
The viper reminded him too much of Lóng. It wasn't the worst thing.
Again, the ground rumbled; walls shook – threatening to become their grave.
The tunnel was narrow and so short that Willam had to crook his neck or drag his forehead across rubble and rock.
"They'll bring the city down on us," Fisher growled his complaints, brushing dirt from his hair with a blind hand in the dark.
"Come now Thorim," Willam put one foot in front of the other carefully. "Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Back home cousin," the Fisher heir replied with a sigh.
"It's just like old times, no? At least we're dry this time…"
"And no fish men," Thorim supposed aloud. Silver linings.
"Fish men?" Oberyn would receive no answer, except for the rumbling of the earth.
Above them were the city streets of King's Landing, with its walls being pelted by catapults.
Varys had convinced them all – somehow – that crawling through secret tunnels was quicker than a lengthy siege.
Aegon had agreed because the spider's plan meant to save lives. Rodrik had counselled patience to counter the boy, content in the fact that their foe had nowhere to run and no friends to call upon. They could, by rights, sit pretty beyond the walls and starve the defenders out. Goldcloaks lined their great walls with bow and arrow and boiling oil if they'd come close enough – coupled with pots of wildfire the damn fools had begun flinging from great trebuchets atop the highest walls.
Any foe could man high walls and hold for so long as courage remained and stomachs were full, none fool enough to abandon such blatant advantage.
The Three Whores, the trebuchets were called. Two now since one had burnt such a pretty emerald against the night. Wildfire was treacherous indeed.
King Aerys had littered his own city with the mixture if Varys could be believed. Thousands of jars were gathered and placed in key positions under King's Landing, he'd revealed, hundreds placed under the Dragonpit and the Great Sept of Baelor, under every one of the city gates and the Red Keep itself. All of this, if the Spider was true.
At the meeting Oberyn had raged something fierce against the bald man, while Aegon looked troubled to hear just how far his grandfather's madness had spread.
"You knew," the Viper had darted in an instant, holding up the spider by his fine silks and getting a nose full of perfumes. Vary did not seem to be concerned in the moment, nor afterwards. "You knew and said nothing! You let that mad bastard plot to destroy it all – to murder my sister and her children! You Knew!"
He'd known. He'd been there, after all, with the Mad King and his pyromancers… and Ser Jaime Lannister, who the King kept close…
The Kingslayer had known and done nothing. Or, then again, having killed the mad man in the end; perhaps he did a great deal more.
"It is the key to the city," Vary explained with no emotion, even as the Viper held a knife dangerously close to his throat, the Spider showed no fear.
The Gates. Aerys Targaryen, for all his madness, would have set off the wildfire expertly as the rebels entered his fair city. They'd have won nought but ash.
Varys spilled his secrets like a man carrying the weight of years. He spoke to Aegon almost pleadingly, like a father might to convince his wayward son back home, the man spoke of secret tunnels, of his grand design, of the hour at hand and how – while he'd done nothing to stop Aerys – the wildfire could open the gates of the city for Aegon. And by opening, the Spider meant blown wide and high. The substance was volatile at the best of times, but it grew unstable with years and thick with the cold.
This part it seemed was news to even Varys as winter came to the city. Wildfire in the cold became thicker and burnt… well…
It seemed they'd finally found something Varys didn't know. How did Wildfire burn when it was thick with cold; more porridge than water?
They'd soon find out, if the tunnels didn't collapse on their heads and kill the lot of them. Varys was certain they'd hold. Willam wasn't so sure.
Getting into the city had proven a strangely easy feat, as Vary knew every secret passage and tunnel; narrow as they were – so many hundreds had slipped into the streets of King's Landing under cover of a cloudless night – under and up onto the mud and gruel of Flee Bottom. The city was chaos, even before the armies arrived, with half the Goldcloaks using the siege to exploit the very souls they'd vowed to defend; while common thieves and average brutes exploited the other half all too freely.
A stark contract from Winterhold, with its trained guard and regular patrols. Whoever wore the cloak of Commander nowadays cared nothing for Fleebottom.
Flash's nose led them through the dark as his cousins did for the other groups set to task in hunt of what could lay waste to armies if left unsecured.
"Empty," Willam mumbled at when they found it – the room of damp frozen cold – where jars and a hundred barrels ought to greet them nothing but the quiet spoke as his voice echoed off cold stone walls. There was none of the substance here, here Varys claimed it to have laid for years. "Why the fuck is it empty?"
"I told you," Oberyn hissed. "Spider lied, there's nothing here!"
Flash pawed at the dirt with a low attentive whine.
It was too dark to see clearly, but by hand he could feel it.
They'd been dragged away, parting the dust and the mud; down into the far dark tunnels.
If the wildfire wasn't here – the question lingered unsaid – then where the hells was it taken?
A man should never be so focused on picking a lock that he forgets kicking down the door is also an option.
It placed with a thud on trodden ground without any taste of ceremony, as Greycloaks cracked open the lid to reveal blackened sand that ran through young Aegon's fingers – rough and course – it smelt of sulfur and earnt no shortage of doubtful glances; none so open as Griff nor as blunt. "Sand," he'd scoffed at it, picking up a handful himself and letting it fall gracefully back to its resting place. "This is your solution, Stark? I'm surprised it's not a barrel of Snow…"
"Imperial Powder," the King of the Starks named it, uncaring for Jon's tone.
Aegon fought the frown on his face. They'd not become the friends he'd hoped.
"This powder," the young dragon pried. "It'll open the gates, if what you say is true?"
King Rodrik gave a nod. "It is, and it can; placed by the portcullis and set alight – it'll open the way."
Not the original plan, nor one the Stark seemed thrilled to even consider truth be told, yet Prince Willam hadn't returned.
The powder was meant for the Shipwright's great weapon, too far and too inaccurate to be of use so far ashore with the fleet.
Varys claimed the wildfire beneath the capital was perfectly positions to blown open the gates for their army. It was all part of his plan after all, this grand scheme he'd hatched so long ago and the cause for his secrecy. When questioned, the bald man said how it would save so many lives by opening the city for his king.
"Gates can be rebuilt," the Spider spun his web of unending words. "Lives cannot, Your Grace, you know this…"
Jon hadn't taken kindly to the knowing tone, as if Varys knew him better than anyone – yet they'd barely met at all.
"Why tell us now," Jon was pushing the wolves as usual. "You kept this secret, Stark, let us risk the Wildfire? Why not use it right away?"
Rodrik's sigh was that of a tired father sick of a child's mewling, rolling his eyes at the questions as if it where wholly stupid a thing indeed.
He would humour the griffin. "It is expensive beyond measure and far more dangerous, Lord Connington, than your fancy green wild water..."
That the man claimed as such having seen the devastation brought by what little of the substance their enemy had flung across the walls, either spoke to the height of such dangers, or spoke of great arrogance. Aegon did not think Rodrik Stark said or did anything in truth that was much beyond blunt and with purpose.
"I believe him," Aegon declared, eyeing the black sand before nodded to the Stark.
"Egg-" Jon caught himself. "Your Grace, if it is as dangerous as Stark claims then we-"
"How many more must die to batter down those gates, Jon? How many more innocents?"
At that, his father by nurture looked blank – as if he'd seen a ghost – bowing his head to memory.
"King Rodrik," Aegon pushed aside his feelings. "I trust you and yours to undertake this mission, with my thanks…"
The King of Winter hummed in reply, then a smirk grew ever so faintly. "As you wish Young Dragon – we'll open the way for you."
The fields beyond King's Landing were black and cooked where once Greenland stretched, the grasses long caught light, farmlands ruined; homes lost forever and forgotten under the weight of the siege. A few hundred bodies littered the ground, burnt or filled with arrows and bolts, the unflattering price of any siege and a reality left free of any bard's song; for no one wished to feast to the sounds and memory of nameless faces. It stopped here… or least, one stage of things…
Getting the powder to the Iron Gate was no small task in of itself, although they'd chosen the gate closest to the shore to haul the powder to land.
In an ideal world, the Shipwright could have bombarded these high walls from the safety of shore; were it not for the Whores atop the battlements; where one lucky shot could set the fleet alight. Instead, a siege ram was brought about, acting decoy to risk rains of green fire while the true threat was hauled on quicker feet shielded by steel and luck – further down the shoreline where the walls hugged the sea – men held shields above their heads and kept stone wall to their shoulder.
Rocks landed on their shields with thuds, the shouts of andals above; fewer than expected… but there was little time to thank the gods…
One bolt found its way through their shields, felling a man through the top of his skull. They left him there in the mud. No choice about it.
Lord Tyr Towers held their charge with one great arm, while his other wielded an even greater shield above his head, shrugging away the rocks and arrows raining down from those above whom bothered to take notice. Around the curved bend of the walls, he laid eyes on the advancing force of familiar banners.
Wright, Fisher, Mormont, Seastark, Sunstark…
And there, in the far centre, the direwolf of King Rodrik Stark flew proudly.
"Come lads," Towers bellowed for his men. "We can't let the pup have all the fun!"
As fine a distinction as they could muster as Rodrik lead a force of some thousands just within range of the enemy archers, taking sheltered behind makeshift barricades to trade arrow and bolt for every one of their foes; most atop the walls focused on the thousands instead of the few stalking under their eyes.
Men had narrow vision in war, more oft than not, and these andals in their full-plate helms were especially blind.
Lord Towers had no helm at all, his grin stretched out across his face – eager and impatient for the fights ahead.
The Iron Gate was just as its name suggested, bland, crude, thick with wood and iron casting; strong as its namesake.
"Cunts," Tower mumbled as another of his men took an unfortunate bolt from above.
Approaching the gate, he hauled the barrel over-shoulder and picked up the pace.
Up against the iron, the Tower's men formed a circle around their lord as he cracked open the wood and began throwing handfuls of black sand across the floor – littering the grass frantically – the order of "MOVE!" bellowed in the air like thunder from his lungs, and the Lord of Towers and his band returned to hugging their walls.
King Rodrik watched from a distance atop his white destrier as the giant of a man led his merry men away, far enough for comfort now.
"Bran," the King of Winter called upon the boy, never taking his eyes off the city.
"Aye your Grace," Prince Brandon stepped forward, his cloak fluttering behind him.
His longbow at the ready, arrow dipped in tar set alight, he aimed – withheld breath – knocked, drew, then loosed…
A flaming star drifted through the sky, souring above the battlefields of King's Landing like an eagle spreading its wings.
The Iron Gate flung wide with spectacular light, black smoke and red hot flame, thunder shook the ground and the Islanders roared victory; none so loud as Lord Tower's and his band, the first through the breach, charging through the dust and the smoke like demons from the andal seven hells.
With his greatsword the size of a tree trunk, the giant of a man cleaved andals in half; roaring and terrifying.
He roared "Tall and True!" as he carved a bloody path through men in gold cloaks and crimson both.
Dazed, lost, confused; half of them broke ranks before Rodrik's cavalry had time to gallop over their bones.
Atop his white horse, the King Winter halted by Towers side; head-to-head with the giant man – the Stark held a smile about him – as Towers rested his greatsword shouldered and muttered "Your Grace," with an unimpressed hum. "You're late, missed all the fun! Should've seen the cunts faces!"
"Winter is never late my lord," Rodrik scoffed, leaning in the saddle as a thousand horses stormed by the pair with fluttering banners.
"Starks," Lord Towers scoffed right back at his king, though the giant chuckled in departure, stalking into the streets to find a worthy fight.
King's Landing was lost now, as Stark banners rode through the streets; cutting down anyone or anything fool enough to stand before them – tides of chaos washed across the city – ruinous slaughter gripped it in hands of molten hot iron. It would squeeze and crush King's Landings until no more breath remained.
They heard the thunderous crack of air from so far as the narrow and curved street of the Hook beneath Aegon's High Hill.
Willam's head snapped to it like any other man, a crack of thunder without rain, striking into the heart of every man, woman and child in the city. Where the lockpick failed, Willam knew, kicking down the door was always an option. When the original plan failed, he'd always known what the backup plan involved. Rodrik would bring ruin to this place, letting that boiling anger of his pour over the sides, scolding and melting anyone within reach. In this, he was their father, ruinous and unforgiving.
If Willam was any different, he could not say, as memory of Antler's came to mind… of the crippled Rykker boy… of all those he'd lost…
No. He was no better, truth be told, he felt no shame or judgment for the death Rodrik would bring about upon this city – innocent or not.
Honor was for times of peace, not War…. Not…
"Stark," Oberyn nudged him away from wayward thoughts.
"I'm fine," Willam shrugged the Dornishman away. "Are we ready?"
Oberyn huffed at that. "Oh yes, you weren't kidding about your signal…"
Wait for the thunder, he'd told them – its meaning known to all except Martell.
The Hook was awash with panicked lowborn, men, women, children all; pushing their way past or trampling over poor souls stuck beneath the feet of the crowd – packed tight in the narrow one-man wide street that angled steeply up towards Aegon's Hill. Willam found himself shoved this way and that as they made their way through.
"Mmm," the voice of the child in Thorim's hands made a groaning noise and pointed towards one of the hovels littering the Hook.
Willam grabbed the handle of the door without hesitation. These little birds of Lord Varys made up in knowledge what they lacked in tongues.
Now there was a crime he'd see punished before the end. He could ignore a thousand fowl deeds, time taught, yet the mutilation of children for whatever end – no matter how morbidly useful – could not be forgotten. One highly doubted that young Aegon was aware of the details behind the little birds… since Varys hadn't shared it…
Willam had asked the child how it happened only for the boy to hold out his hands, as if a common beggar, the child smiled as Oberyn handed him a gold coin.
And how the Viper pained to see it, with a frown as deep and dark as the greatest sea. Lord Varys would not live long to see their victory here, one way or another.
Inside the hovel they found a family, common as you please; the young daughter dropped her basket of wet clothes and screamed for her mother; darting behind the woman's messy dress of brown tatters. "W- Who are you," the mother held her daughter back as men poured into her shack of a home. "We don't have any gold!"
"No gold," Willam dismissed in his best andal, trying to muster a kind smile for the daughters terrified sake.
"Fair lady," Oberyn's own smile beamed like the sun. "We mean you no harm, but you must be quiet now, yes?"
"I-" still she held back the daughter.
A "Mmm" taught her attention, eyes darting.
"Robert," the woman gasped. "Please," she begged. "The boy is-"
"Helping us," Willam cut in sharp. "We mean you no harm, isn't that right kid?"
Little Robert groaned, nodding his head, he handed the woman his golden coin.
She held it with shock, looking between the mute boy, her daughter, then the strangers.
The boy headed for a nearby shelf, pointing with a "Mmm" and a smile towards the woman.
"Fine work kid," Willam ruffled his hair, giving the shelf a push with Fisher's aid; it slid with great ease.
If the woman and her daughter were surprised, they seemed the opposite… almost gladdened by the action…
"You work for him," the woman said 'him' with such venom it put even the Viper to shame.
"No," Oberyn denied immediately. "We are King Aegon's men, and the Spider won't trouble you."
"M'lords," the woman bowed, ushering her daughter away and closing the far door to their bedchambers.
"She knows of Varys," Thorim pointed out the obvious as the mute boy stepped behind the shelves.
"Bribed," Oberyn hummed. "For her daughter, no doubt… to keep her mouth shut about the tunnel…"
How far did the Spider's web stretch across the city? How many little birds were there, with clipped wings?
As they walked through tunnels held up by wooden beams and barely enough room to breathe, the mute boy led in the dark with Flash sniffing at his heels; no time to wonder on the wisdom of plans nor roads not taken – plagued him as the thoughts did – in no time at all the dirt gave way to stone. The further they went, the quieter the world dimmed, until after an eternity the mute child halted them from stumbling into a great pit on spikes on either side of a walkway.
Traps, pitfalls, this place was not welcome to any who hadn't walked the steps a thousand times… or had the damn maps...
Varys had been kind enough to provide one, rough as they were; they'd still have lost a man or three to those spikes if not for the child.
King Maegor's tunnels had been expanded by numerous descendants and Hands of the Kings over three hundred years; forgotten by most – assumed by others – for while no doubt the Lannister's had stumbled across the pathways in the Tower of the Hand, they'd seen only the distant unreachable horizon of the network.
Silence gave way to stone and muffled whispers, avoiding pressure plates and old worn away ropes meant to set off darts long rendered useless.
Flash's tail wagged happily as the shadows departed, up from the tunnels and out into well decorated quarters, with silken curtains, fox skins on the walls and a great feathered bed in its centre. To whom this room had served once upon a time, who could say, except that little birds fluttered within its walls like scurried rats underfoot. The mute boy departed as they left, back to the safety of his shadows; uninterested in whatever task laid ahead. The final task. The only one that still mattered.
Thorim was by the door in a heartbeat alongside the men as one by one they flooded into the room, with gold cloaks dirtied – each soul aware of the dangers – each willing and able to serve the whims of their Prince. Thorim Fisher came because his father had demanded it, less for duty, more for family. As fair a reason as any, one supposed in the moment, men oft did strange and often maddening things for the ones they loved, or to punish those they vehemently hated…
"We should be close," Willam spoke in hushed whispers. "Once we're out in the hall, you make for the gatehouse; seize it at the signal."
"We'll be there," Thorim vowed, frowning after a moment. "You're plotting something stupid cousin; I can feel it in my damn bones..."
"You know me so well cousin..."
"Gods," Thorim sighed. "Should I ask?"
His Prince shrugged, smirking innocently.
"You could try," he supposed. "Give it a shot…"
"You'd only lie," came the truth with another sigh, a roll of Fisher blue eyes.
Fisher knew the wolf to be set in their wayward ways. Family. They knew too much.
"Stick to the plan," Willam clasped the man's shoulder as the others got into position. "I'll see you again Fisher."
"I'll hold you to that then, Stark..."
Thorim was away, out with a flutter of his golden cloak; all the easier to move about unquestioned... and if not, well...
The cloaks were easily enough to procure from dead men.
Act like you belonged and most men assumed it the case.
"So," Oberyn hummed curiously, waiting. "What's the plan Stark?"
Willam eyed the viper cautious, thinking if he'd perhaps go with Fisher if bid to leave, but that didn't seem likely at all. Ah well, he supposed, one couldn't ask for a better spear by his side. Flash brushed up against his leg, whining low, knowingly and anxious for the path ahead of them.
"Something stupid," Willam told the viper, who's smile beamed like the sun. "This is the part of the tale where the wise men run..."
Nobody ever excused the Red Viper of wisdom. Courage however…
Suko once said that bravery was simply another shade of a broken man.
"And miss out on the fun!?" Oberyn chuckled softly, quietly, dangerously.
Again, the wolf whined at Willam's side, anxiously pacing before finding itself face to face with its charge... with his Prince...
"One last advantage little brother," Willam held a hand atop the wolf's head, looking straight into knowing eyes. Vengeance would not bring back the dead to him, the Prince of Winter knew reality all too well, but it was equal parts justice he sought, equal parts the undying madness in his heart. Brave. Broken.
The Great Sept of Baelor sat atop Visenya's Hill, surrounded by a white marble plaza where a tall statue of Baelor Targaryen stood tall and serene upon its plinth; his face a study of benevolence. Large gardens, capable of holding a hundred people, surrounded the sept like curtain walls. The step itself was an admittedly impressive marble dome structure with seven crystal towers, each of which has bells that rung now at their approach from atop the lofty dome made of glass and gold and crystal.
As the bells rang out, a small and ragged horde of men in rags with stars carved into their foreheads stood between them and the great Sept.
They wore little but leathers and chainmail, with axes or cudgels and surcoats with red stars on bleached white.
It would not no challenge in the slightest for them to ride these fools down, were it not for Aegon's halting them.
"See," the Young Dragon beamed at the sight of it. A single white banner fluttered atop the great stairs that lead to the sept.
"It's a trap," Jon Connington was the first to protest as usual. "They cannot hope to best us in battle, so they turn to daggers in our backs…"
Rodrik sat beside the boy atop his own saddle, leaning forward, he eyed those lining the steps – stark in contrast – these fewer in number bore rainbow cloaks and inlaid silver armour, alongside elegant swords with star-shaped crystals in their pommels. They lined the stairs like silent sentinels, and one stood beside a ragged bald man.
Whatever their cause here, this was a poor ambush in truth… and yet…
"The Griffin is right," Rodrik declared, to the man's apparent shock. "Let them come to us, Aegon."
The boy frowned but hummed with a nod as one lucky knight was tasked with approaching under a white banner of their own.
The rainbow knight and his charge descended after a moment, colours in the wind, they stepped for marble steps as if on ceremony.
"Your Grace," the old man spoke first. He was small, thin, with a sharp face and tuffs of grey hair looking half-starved and wearing nothing upon his feet.
"Grettings," Aegon spoke in his most kingly voice.
The rainbow knight spoke next, with "His Holiness, the High Septon."
"Sparrow to some," the High Sparrow seemed pleased. "Ser Theodan is ever true."
Ser Theodan bowed his head at the praise, saying nothing, he eyes their guests warily.
"Your Holiness," Aegon bowed his own head only briefly, his role to play. "Why do these holy men carry steel?"
The Sparrow beamed brighter. "The Swords and the Stars have been re-formed. Let the wicked tremble, Your Grace."
"Militant," Connington all but mumbled, eyes narrowing, darting about… they could handle them, he noted in the quiet of thought…
"I have come to save my realm," Aegon declared as planned. "House Lannister has brought suffering to my people for too long. Do you not agree?"
"We do," the High Sparrow nodded. "Adultery sits the throne, and perhaps worse; her champion has not come to trail so that we might discover the gods mercy."
"You will join then us," Aegon hoped, hesitant. "We could use the swords of the Faith at our side, Your Holiness, where they belong; doing what is right."
"We answer only to the gods, Your Grace," came Ser Theodan the True.
"As do we all," Aegon replied, for they'd agreed piety was the path to these hearts.
"Well said," the Sparrow seemed pleased. "Well said, Your Grace, the Faith and the Crown are the two pillars of the Realm."
"And the Realm has suffered long enough," Aegon felt a gladness fill him. "I thank the seven for guiding us to this moment, together."
Jon Connington shifted uncomfortably while Lord Tarly scoffed audibly beside him, with Heartsbane resting bloodied on the man's shoulder.
Rodrik held his tongue, if the boy meant his words or merely danced to please the Sparrow, he could not say for certain. These rainbow knights looked a mixture of sellswords and polished nobility, inexperienced and experienced both. Religious zealots, likely to try burning them all on stakes if they knew half of their secrets.
They'd known of the zealots, of course, the idea they'd take up arms against the lions wasn't dismissed.
"Your Grace," a new and softer voice spoke from behind Ser Theodan, removing her white hood and curtsying.
She had thick, soft curling brown hair and large brown eyes, with a slender but womanly figure and smooth unblemished pale skin.
"Lady Margaery," Tarly named her, without a bow of his head. The woman was beautiful – as the Young Dragon failed to hide his lingering gaze – the daughter of Highgarden smiled kindly at him, and the boy grew a little redder. "We'd expected to find you in the Red Keep… not amongst the Sparrows…"
"I felt safest amongst the faithful," the Tyrell played her role with practiced elegance.
"The Maiden smiled upon her," the Sparrow declared gladly. "The gods turn none of the faithful aside."
"And I shall never forget their kindness," the girl spoke so well it almost seemed to be the truth, her smile genuine.
It was her relief that sold the mummery, Rodrik noted as he eyed the young woman; she was eager to all but leap into Tarly's protection once more.
She'd been smart enough to seek out the Sparrows protection after her trial rather than imprison herself amongst the lions in the keep. She was a dangerous one.
"My Lady," Aegon snapped free of his blushing, offering out a hand to the Tyrell girl with his charming smile.
"Your Grace," Margaery took his hand, and every banner and faithful man took notice of them.
"Cute couple," Prince Brandon hummed, only to get nudged by his uncle.
"No matter of ours," Rodrik dismissed it. "Stay quiet around these zealots, Bran…"
The last thing they needed was this Sparrow opening a rift between their two kingdoms.
King Aegon walked with the girl's arm wrapped around his own, alongside Connington, Tarly, Theodan and the Sparrow.
The Islanders lingered behind, shifting uncomfortably under the judging gazes of these faithful rainbow knights, who took pained note of the wolves about Rodrik's men, of the birds circling the city. Wargs, from what Rodirk knew of these andals, were hunted and burnt alive by the original andal invaders, once upon a time.
"The sooner we take the keep the better," Rodrik all but whispered, turning his eyes up towards the Red Keep.
"Uncle Will should be there by now," Brandon supposed quietly as the army became to move onward.
"Aye," the King of Winter agreed. His brother should be up there now, probably doing something stupid.
White cloaks littered the marble floor with puddles of blood, discarded by a lion's claws – torn and found wanting – seven dead men laid still as the grave at the Iron Throne; twisted and monstrous as ever, it loomed over the loss with silent judgment as no man living could find their words. Atop the throne a boy king sat motionless and pale as snow, blood dripping down the jagged steps of the throne, drip drip driping down to the feet of the Kingslayer, in his arms a messy mop of golden locks.
Ser Jaime Lannister's own cloak was red wet with blood and sorrows, his golden head hung, eyes locked on the still form in his arms; pleading emerald eyes wide.
Her neck was a sickly mix of blue, purples and reds; strangled as her own son Joffrey once met the stranger – though no poison took the mother's life – her own brother's hands held her embrace and the lion wept in silence as footsteps approached. If he heard them, he made no move to stir, no notion of a care remaining in his heart.
The great hall of dragon kings lingered in the quiet, all besides the faint echo of clashing steel beyond the holdfast's walls. This war had ended, for all blood paid.
"Kingslayer," Oberyn broke the peace between them all with an amused scoff; if only to mask the confusion that lurked in them all.
Jaime Lannister did not stir, eyes locked, he brushed a stray hair from his sister's pale face.
"Your own sister," the Viper held a strange venom for that notion; a deed he couldn't fathom.
Still, the lion did not stir from his stupor, emeralds cloudy – he held the Queen as one held a child; fearful she'd break.
From the marks on her neck the woman had been strangled, by her brother no less… or some unseen assailant… or her own Kingsguard?
Willam dismissed the thoughts, uncaring for the options as he stepped over a bloodied white cloak and drew Frost from its runed scabbard.
The frozen blade traced a haunted arc through the air as it lowered.
"Stand," the word came as a growl as Frost rested hungrily at his side.
The lion's head did not raise to meet the challenge, fixed down, careless.
Frost met his chin, chill biting, Jaime Lannister's eyes a dull green on empty features.
"Stand," again Willam demanded. "Stand now, Kinslayer, I've waited long enough already."
Lannister released a breath in reply, still alive; though there was little light behind those eyes.
Frost nicked at his throat as the man found his feet, uneasy, almost lazy in uncaring for the threat.
A man with nothing left to lose…
"Stark," he uttered with indifference.
"Lannister," Willam echoed with a snarl.
"Martell," Oberyn added with snark as he circled.
"He's mine," the wolf told the viper, only to earn a flamboyant bow.
The others lingered at a distance – swords out – obedient yet reluctant in qual measure.
There were a thousand questions that Willam wagered many would've asked of the man, but none seemed important in the moment.
As the viper tossed a bloodied sword to the lion's feet, he knelt to pick it up on numb legs; golden blade thick with crimson – he did not so much as raise it high.
"She," Jaime began with a frown on his lips. "She was-"
"I don't care," Willam countered, pointing Frost at the man.
Lannister's frown faded, replaced with a flash of old scarred anger.
"No," he all but chuckled the word. "You wouldn't, would you Stark?"
The Lion raised up on swaying legs, mumbling a curse for his own ears alone.
"Careful now Stark, he might stab you in the back," the Viper was smirking wider than ever.
"Oh no threat," Willam scoffed at the sight. "He's only good for stabbing old men and sisters."
Jaime's lips twitched at that, his frown twisting into a snarl; in a heartbeat the golden-red blade swung.
Frost raised in a flash to meet the gold, clashing and locking together as Lannister's dead emerald eyes came alive.
"Angry eh," Willam only smirked at the sight of it as he held ground. "Your sister replace you with a younger brother?"
Jaime Lannister pushed back hard, following into a flurry of hurried blows impossibly lightning quick.
"Oh wait," Willam parried and twisted with practiced effort. "Your little brother was eaten by wolves…"
That did the trick. Anger meant mistakes. Those emerald eyes burnt with a newfound fire where before nothing lingered.
Frost traced a glistening arc as it caught every blow with its crystalline blade; inhumanly sharp, elegant and dangerous – screeching a thin sharp wail at every clash of the claws – the Kingslayer roared now as he fought with purpose and heart behind every flashing strike of his golden sword.
"Is that how the dwarf ended up," Oberyn was full of mockery as wolf and lion fought, leaning on his spear amused.
The pair circled a tightening spiral as they traded blows, fast and fluid, each searching for an opening to end the dance.
"Wolves," Oberyn teased all the while; to pull the lion's tail or amuses his viper's tongue – neither could say nor cared to ask.
Frost swung for a hard blow just above the lion's hip, that ought to cut the man in two; yet the crystalline sword roared in deflection.
"Must've been gamey," Willam supposed aloud of the dwarf's fate, tugging the lion's tail himself to the music of Oberyn's laughter all while Lannister remained quiet and composed but for the fire in his eyes. A man talking in battle was a man not paying attention, it was said, yet Willam had never been grand at following his own advice.
Ser Jaime hadn't relented, hadn't tired, even as Willam kept on the defensive and allowed the lion his rage; they could dance this way for an eternity.
In a fight, it was oft the wisest who allowed your foe the momentum at first, to tire themselves out before striking a decisive and well-thought killing blow.
Any fight beside this. The lion for all his faults was not the type to tire easily… though the rage that fuelled him when nothing else remained, could not burn forever…
Nor could his sword withstand the frost that lingered even now, with every parry and every deflection – many as they were – the cold gripped and choked at gilded steel and ran along its filler to coat andal might in winter's grasp. It would win out as winter always did sooner or later. It was only a matter of time…
Jaime all but leapt at him then, crimson cloak fluttering, his golden-frosted sword flashed as its target jumped back; sliding over a parry.
The wolf attacked instinctively, Frost on-edge and fast as flight; only for Jaime to deflect and slash for his foe's smug smirking arrogant face.
Willam barely parried and backed away, dodging the dancing blade and jumping aside yet again.
The lion fell on him, slashing flatly from short range, spinning as Willam span with him to avoid the blow.
Oberyn's mockery had ceased, nought but the sound of steel and thin screeching echoed across the hall of Kings.
Willam felt a twinge of pain yet ignored it as he turned to deflect the blade flying towards his temple, then made a swift feint and attacked yet again.
Jaime sprang away as if to strike from above as Willam lunged and swiftly slashed the lion's coat with the very tip of Frost's blade – as a hot knife through chainmail like butter – the lion did not cry out; snarling with heavy breath before he roared like the beast on his banners and swung with twos hands and all his remaining might.
Time flowed as it always did, but for Willam in the moment; if it were possible for swords to feel glee – Frost did just that – as Willam swung to meet lion's claws.
He turned his head as the blades met and a thousand cold shards of gilded andal steel shattered here and there and into Jaime's awaiting wide eyes.
At this, the lion screamed, sword hilt discarded and knees to the floor with a thud; he roared curses and cried watery blood.
Oberyn's laughter returned with a vengeance as he witnessed the once great Kingslayer on his hands and knees screaming in pain.
Willam stood in the quiet, watching the man; Frost at his side as devoid as the cold magic forged it – he was breathing heavily – with a great gash of red across his face from the lion's claws that even now bled freely and threatened to drown an eye in crimson as the Red Viper slammed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"You toyed with him," Oberyn said, part question, part pride for the results.
"At the start," Willam admitted. As for the rest… the lion was fast… even tired as he'd been…
Any other blade, he wagered in thought, and the dance might've gone poorly. Frost had won this day.
Ser Jaime groaned as Oberyn sent a swift boot to his ribs, sending the blinded lion groaning to the marble.
"Leave him," Willam said with no heat at all, eyeing the sight with some brewing conflict buried under tides of snow.
"No fun," Oberyn only rolled his eyes as he strolled away and began looting the fallen Kingsguard members for whatever he fancied.
Ser Jaime Lannister had ceased his mewling, struggling to his feet only to stumble and remain knelt – looking towards the voices with bloody eyes.
"Lannister," Willam called for the man to look his way, that he did – eyes or no – the lion somehow managed to look proud despite it all. The crimson of his coat masked the blood that leaked from his wounds; as Frost had traded two cuts for every one Jaime dealt. They were thin things yet stung and blackened the lion's flesh.
The sword drank greedily, freezing, taking as it pleased.
"Stark," Jaime groaned through the pain, his breath shallow.
"You killed my brother," no other words seemed appropriate.
Jaime only smirked. "You killed mine. I suppose that makes us even."
No. They would never be even, either of them, even now of all times.
"Strange," Willam mumbled. He'd longed for this moment yet felt very little.
It was almost pity, to see the man on his knees without his sight; smirking despite it all.
"I stopped it," Jaime all but whispered. "I had to stop it… or what was it all for in the end?"
"Stopped what, Kingslayer?"
Jaime chuckled at the damn title.
"Kingslayer," he spat blood. "Queenslayer…"
Willam watched him, eyes darting to Oberyn only briefly.
The dornishman was a world away, uninteresting in the dying words of lions.
Oberyn walked the steps of the throne of twisted steel and laid a finger on the boy king's neck.
"I saved him," Jaime chuckled again, hollow and joyless. "In the end, the honourable fool was Me…"
"Honourable?" Willam scoffed at that, curious, Frost hungered in hand impatiently… starving… willing…
Jaime looked up at him. His eyes were closed shut against shards of steel, red and bloody, ruined beyond hope.
"Defend the king," the Lord of Casterly mumbled, tired and lost at the end. "Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. No matter what, you're always forsaking one vow or the other… it's all too much…"
Frost met his throat again, holding his chin up high as Willam said nothing.
"What if the Queen massacres the innocents? What do you do then, Stark?"
"You pay your debts," Willam answered. That was one vow Jaime had forgotten.
Frost flicked in a sudden motion with inhuman speed and Jaime Lannister's world spun to memory.
He heard the sound of his mother's laughter, the rare sight of his father's smile, then the pale blade of Dawn touched his shoulder as Dayne spoke "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent" fading as the Prince's words lingered in the dark. "When this battle's done," he said with such certainty, "I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but… well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return..."
Rhaegar never returned. He'd left him alone to defend his wife and the children… just another broken vow… yet he'd fulfilled his oath in the end. He'd protected the innocent, twice over, saving the very city that spat on his name while saving the ghost of the son. That he had done. Jaime doubted it was enough.
If death allowed him, he would ask forgiveness of Princess Elia, of her sweet girl and of Rhaegar as well. He'd ask for that talk; long overdue.
And if Cersei was there to forgive, then surely, they were in the seven hells and Jaime would laugh until the Stranger grew tired of the sound.
The Kingslayer's head fell from his neck, rolling across marble floors to leave a trail of crimson as his body stayed knelt and limp – like a puppet without its strings – his killer stood over him with his eerie blade of winter and nought but a frown on frozen lips as Oberyn picked up the lion's head by its golden locks of hair.
"Justice," the Viper called it merrily, tossing the head aside to join the hall of littered corpses.
Willam searched for the feeling of joy he'd hoped to find, only to find the cold shadow of apathy. A fool's hope…
"Poison took the boy," the Viper revealed, though Willam was not listening. "He's cold, no sign of a struggle… the tears perhaps…"
Aedan was avenged. King's Landing was theirs, the Lannisters lost; what few remained in the West doomed to be crushed or likely overthrown by their own banners if they were wise. Kevan Lannister and his ilk were locked up in a frozen cell at Winterfell, leaving gods knew who in charge of Casterly Rock.
Victory however tasted bitter, like grey ash on his tongue. It had not brought back the dead to him. It had not-
Stained glass of every colour burst inward with a crash and every window shattered with the crack of sudden thunder.
As if the gods had cracked a whip at the Red Keep, its walls shook and rumbled; followed by a deathly silence as Willam moved a hand away from shielded eyes and brushed wayward glass from his shoulder. Oberyn held his spear readied, as if expecting a fight to come; by instinct alone posed to strike.
Nobody came. No great force charged through the doors to the throne, no enemy aside the glass, only the quiet eye of a storm.
"What was that!?" Oberyn broke the silence with his thoughts, all that merriment replaced his worry.
"Dragonfire," Willam said aloud, guessing, for it had the sudden crack of the imperial powder; only tenfold.
The magnitude of force required to shake the very keep and shatter every window however was… simply unthinkable…
"Dragons?" Oberyn frowned at that notion. It did not bode well if the girl sought to start another Dance. "The girl has come?"
No. Willam doubted that. All the books he'd read on the matter spoke of dragonflame as almost a liquid sticking to plate and flesh to melt in a heartbeat leaving nought but ashes in its wake – growing hotter and fiercer as the dragon aged – the flames were every colour of a rainbow and melted stone or steal.
A dragon's flames did not shake the ground, history spoke; it melted and twisted and turned flesh to ash.
"Come," instead Willam beckoned the viper, stepping over dead men and crimsoned marble.
"If it's the girl," Oberyn was quick at his side. "We can't fight a dragon in the open…"
"Says who? Willam the Dragonslayer has a fine ring to it, no?"
"Oberyn," smirked the Dornishman. "A finer ring, Stark…"
It was not dragons in the end, although, it was hard to tell.
The Red Keep was a wash of chaos, and few tried to halt them.
Most fled or huddled in corners – behind doors and under tables – the guards too shaken to care who was who anymore.
Frost cut down those who'd tried until finally they entered the courtyard of the Red Keep. Thorim's men stood beside Lannister's grasping lowered swords and blank faces scarred with shock and dread. The Tower of the Hand was rubble, with the far gate opened and scorched an ugly darker red as an ocean of black and green smoke blotted out the sky beyond them. If there were dragons up there amongst the clouds, they were amongst the ash and smoke and far beyond mortal sight.
The silence had long since passed into the screams and wailing of so many desperate souls. There was no battle here, nor banners left to rally.
In the smoking eighth hell that was King's Landing there were only two sides in the burning and the living.
Prince Willam felt the heat on his face, the smoke in his lungs, and he heard the girl's voice echo through it all.
"Green for the guests and Grey for the rest," her voice a haunted melody of fire and blood. "No more no more."
My Note(s): A chapter that has taken awhile – given its length, importance and my ever-chaotic schedule – it has been a long time coming and is one of those chapters that stand out to me as being a defining page of sorts. This chapter has undergone many adjustments and changes that've even tweaked how my original plans for Willam are going to play out; because to be honest I was totally going to explode him this chapter :) ultimately it didn't plan out that way, with too many pothole's while also robbing Jaime of his final moments as the Valonqar in Cersei's prophecy. Jaime is a few minutes younger than her. I believe he'll end up stopping Cersei in the books as well.
And thus we've gotten Jaime exit, that meant he stops Cersei from blowing up the Red Keep… so Willam makes it out alive thanks to the advantage of Frost in his duel (not to mention Jaime was hardly in peak condition) coupled with what is frankly dumb luck; killing the man who killed Aedan but also the man who is solely responsible for saving his and everyone else's life in the Red Keep. Jaime died thinking he'd saved the whole city. Alas, this doesn't end up being the case. Too little, too late…
The Wildfire is fascinating/difficult from a fanfic point of view: does Varys warning them about the Wildfire prevent it from exploding the city? I don't think so, especially since Cersei also knows about the stuff, we'd also be assuming Varys would consider Cersei mad enough to destroy everything and assuming Cersei wouldn't move the stockpiles out of paranoia, assuming, assuming, assuming. Varys knew about Aerys and the wildfire… but I believe Varys is totally a Blackfyre… ultimately no decision I make in this chapter is going to avoid the "IT WOULDN'T HAPPEN LIKE THIS REEEEE" comments; I really don't write to avoid such things – it's detrimental :(
Cersei wanted her enemy inside the walls to burn them all and Cersei always gets what she wants. Jaime tried to stop her just as he stopped Mad Aerys.
I actually love Jaime as a character. He loves his sister (incest weirdness aside) even if she was only ever using him, she forgets small details of their past together, while Jaime remembers it clearly; because at the end of the day Cersei never loved him. She only ever used him and he was blind for the longest time – it takes losing his hand in the books and going through hell to realise that he loves her far more than she ever loved him. In the end, Jaime isn't a "bad guy" he's still the same boy who Arthur Dayne knighted; twisted and worn down by the Kingslayer and all the insults it bore him. He saved the city, protected the innocent, and everyone hated him for it.
In another life Jaime and Willam might've actually made for fast friends, ironically, but that life was not this one. Maybe next time Jaime. Valar Morghulis.
Speaking of the dead :D Willam might've made it out of the fire unburnt, but everyone else wasn't so lucky. Wildfire is an interesting thing, growing more volatile with age, the noteworthy detail for me is this: that it Thickens when cold… and in the books the last time we left the capital it was being layered with a blanket of snow. I foresee (in a million years when GRRM writes the book) that if Wildfire gets cold enough, it'll turn so thick and it's basically jelly-explosive. Think of a giant stockpile of C4 just littered all around King's Landing all going off at once… only the fire from the explosion doesn't just burn… it consumes… everything… and it cannot be stopped…
This is one of those chapters I cautiously expect some "hate" for as people tend to dislike the killing of characters… in a ASOIAF fanfiction… weirdly…
Ultimately however if you've made it this far then you should know sometimes things just don't go according to plan. The attackers knew there was Wildfire – even knew the location of what they assumed was all of it thanks to Varys – who doesn't consider that Cersei might've moved it or even Know about most of the locations. He certainly didn't suspect that Cersei would go full Aerys and explode the city… but they DID send forces in to secure the wildfire just in case. It just wasn't there to secure.
Cersei knew Varys was with her enemy and knew that he knew about the wildfire, so she had it moved; planning to give her enemy nought but bones and ashes should they take the city. She had no friends left, no allies to call upon, defeat was frankly guaranteed sooner or later. She was never going to surrender in a million years.
Whiskeylovingbibliophile: I like how you go from calling this "another Robb Stark Wank story" to praising Robb and Jon for being written in character :D the whole "Stark Wank" argument is strange; since my story kills Starks all the time and people get upset about it – not to mention my OC Starks are So far removed from the honor stereotype. What makes something Stark Wank? From the criticism I've seen… you just have to have Starks exist in your story and that's all it takes lol
246vili: I've told him this via PM because I knew how long writing the chapter was going to take, but the giant bones Jorg finds in the volcano aren't a mysterious giant race or connected to the oily black stone – might want to edit out the oily part to avoid this confusion – but they're Dragonbones! What dragon you ask? Figure it out…
Force Smuggler: Glad to hear you're still enjoying things, as slow as updates are these days; we're heading towards the ending now.
Finkarhu: Thanks for reading and leaving a comment :) always much appreciated.