A/N: Chap 20 review responses are available in my forums as normal. This chapter concludes Part 1 of Voluspa. I will be taking next Saturday off. Finally, I recommend reading this chapter to the accompaniment of The Light of the Seven, by Ramin Djawadi. It is no conincidence that two of my favorite younger composers do the soundtracks for the properties of these stories-Ramin Djawadi for GOT, and Bear McCreary for God of War.

And now...

Chapter Twenty-One: They Laws Did Make

The Lady Melantia Velaryon kept her apartments in the very same Maidenvault where she first imprisoned the wildling girl. She found the proximity convenient, and the Maidenvault was one of the few structures within the Red Keep that had tightly controlled access. It also allowed her to watch over Rhaella. After all, it was built to imprison three Targaryen princesses to protect one of the weakest and most incompetent Targaryen kings from their beauty. So while it was in essence a prison, it also served admirably as a shelter.

Before she finally sought her sleep, she ordered a tea to be brewed with willow bark and ground cloves. The wax was another thing entirely–wax was still a precious commodity, and not so common that she could order a bath be made from it overnight. But she did place an order through one of her agents to obtain enough that she might try the suggestion the soon to be dead wildling presented her.

She sat in her favorite settee near the posters of her bed, sipping her tea and reading reports from her various informants around the city and kingdom when a fist knocked lightly four times. A moment later, she heard the key unlock the door, and Gorge the Gold Cloak stepped into the room.

"Good evening, grandmother."

"Grab a drink and come keep an old woman company, boy."

Gorge Waters was the last living remnant of Melantia's branch of the ancient Velaryon family. Her husband died fighting the Blackfyre pretenders during the fourth of their rebellions, and their only son during the last. At Melantia's own insistence, her son married a Hightower woman who was as cold and unfeeling as he was hot-blooded. The marriage ended without issue; while the merchant's daughter that her son had become smitten with produced his only child.

Gorge did not inherit the Valyrian eyes common to the Velaryon family, though his hair was white-blond. But in everything but name he was a Velaryon. And Melantia had no doubt that if she pushed her king to legitimize Gorge's birth, he'd be dead a week later. The current Master of Driftmark owed his station to Melantia's branch of the family being done.

After pouring himself a goblet of the cooling spiced wine on her buffet, Gorge sat in his accustomed chair across from her. "Lord Tywin has prevailed upon the king to hold trial, just as you predicted. Aemon and Qargyle are to make the walk of shame at dawn, make obeisance before the gods, and then be returned for their trial before the king. They are to burn in the great hall itself when the trial is concluded; the king's alchemists have already been charged with preparing the wild fire."

Melantia allowed herself a relieved nod. "While Lord Tywin and I will never be friends, the man knows his business. The noble houses will not support a king who can, at a whim, order their deaths without trial. While Aemon is a brother of the Night's Watch, he joined for honor, rather than to escape any crime. I'm glad the Hand was able to convince our king. The wildling girl?"

"The Hand did not mention her, grandmother. I think he's content for us to handle her."

A not inconsiderable part of Melantia wanted the girl to live. And not just because the blasted tea was, indeed, easing the aches in her joints. The child just spoke with such open confidence that she proved to be a refreshing conversationalist. There was something about her that just made Melantia want to keep her safe and apart from the filth and treachery of King's Landing.

The Mistress of Whispers, though, could not allow a wildling in the Red Keep. Even if the child's purpose was benevolent, she was an ally of an enemy the king wanted dead.

There was not, however, a need to make her suffer.

"Behead the girl tomorrow, Gorge. See to it personally."

Her grandson raised a brow. "A noble death?"

"A quick and painless one. Something about the girl makes me uneasy. I've lived too long and seen too much to ignore such feelings. On the morrow, while Aemon and Qargyle make their walk of shame, have her head removed. Burn both head and body. I have no desire to make the girl suffer, but we can't permit her to live."

"I'll see to it, grandmother."

They spoke of Gorge's wife, whom Melantia had met only once. It would not do her station or office any good to be seen cavorting with a common seamstress. She was a pretty enough girl, though, with good birthing hips and better teeth than most. They were expecting their firstborn soon. Melantia's great grandchild, even if one she could not acknowledge.

Finally, he bid her a good night and left, making sure to lock the door in doing so.

The aged matriarch of House Velaryon made her way to bed. Like most soldiers she knew, she'd learned how to sleep when the opportunity presented itself. But that night, she stared up at the embroidered waves that filled the canopy of her bed as her mind wrestled with the strange wildling girl.

~~Voluspa~~

~~Voluspa~~

Gorge Waters did not even know the old Bailey's name; they just called him Bailey. He moved like a broken-back horse, and grumbled sourly under his breath. From his pale skin and rheumy eyes, Gorge had to wonder if the man had ever seen sunlight.

The morning of Aemon Targaryen's trial, he led Gorge and Horbau down the hall at the very bottom of the dungeons where the black cells were. His torchlight cast flickering shadows on the ancient stone walls as they moved. Past one cell, the torchlight flickered off something within an open cell that should not have been there.

"Hold, man," Gorge said. "The light!"

"What fer?"

Bailey obeyed even as he protested. Within the cell was an exquisitely made glass pitcher, Myrish from the blue and violet colors blown within the glass. Next to it lay a silver tray. Horbau stepped forward and knelt by the tray. "Gorge, it's the same tray!"

"Whose cell was this?" Gorge demanded.

"The Targaryen traitor, I s'pose," Bailey said.

"The girl? Take me to her."

"The fuck you thinkin' I was a doin', boy?"

They continued down the hall to one cell that was still closed and locked. Bailey flickered through the huge ring of iron keys until he found the one he needed. The door opened, and the torchlight illuminated the girl within. She sat cross-legged on the ground in her skirt, blouse and woolen vest. There was something on her back, but for some reason his eyes could not focus on it.

Nothing amiss, and yet…

She smiled up at him in the torchlight, as if they were friends. "Good morning, Gorge. Boiled Frog. How's Melantia? Did the tea help her?"

"Take her," Gorge said to his partner. He knew better than to speak to the condemned.

Horbau stepped past Bailey and grabbed the girl's arm. Her sandals were off, he noted, and she made no effort to put them back on as she stood. She said nothing as they led her out of the cell and back up the hall toward her death.

As they walked up the hall, the shadows cast by the firelight seemed almost to dance. Gorge found himself looking around for the source of movement at the edges of his sight, but only the flickering shadows were there.

"Why did you make Aemon walk naked through the streets this morning?" the girl asked. "What's the point of shaming him like that?"

Gorge barely caught himself from answering. How did she know? Horbau wasn't able to completely control himself. "Shut it."

They arrived at the central chamber of the lowest level. Torchlight illuminated the stairs up to the higher levels. In the center of the round, domed space stood a single stone table. Torture devices of various kinds hung from hooks set in the ancient bricks. The table was stained with old blood.

"So many people died here." The girl sounded sad. "For what? What is the point in murdering each other?"

Horbau gripped her by her wrists and pushed her forward violently against the table; with his other hand he grabbed her by the back of the head until she was bent over the table. "She's strong, Gorge. Be quick."

The Lady Melantia wanted the girl killed quick and painlessly. That was not sword work, but rather the headsman's ax. Nor did he trust Bailey to make a clean swing. He walked to the wall and took the massive ax, recently sharpened to judge by the cleaning blade's edge, and took it in his hands.

"In the name of Aerys of the House Targaryen, second of his name, you are sentenced to death," Gorge said.

He lifted the ax, but never swung. Without warning, it felt as if the air around him had become pure iron. His arms, legs and his entire body was locked in an unmovable vice. Fey, terrible blue-green flame burst about the girl's arms where Horbau gripped her. At the touch of the flame, Gorge's long-time friend and partner made a surprised expression before falling backward to the filthy, blood-encrusted flagstones of the floor.

The old Bailey made a mule-like scream, gripped his bludgeon and made to brain the girl as she straightened. The shadows from all around the room suddenly swirled about them like a silent tornado of darkness before slamming into the ancient man's face. He gurgled and choked and flailed his arms wildly before he fell to the floor.

Only then did Gorge see what they had brought into the Red Keep. For the girl they dragged out of the black cell had changed before his eyes into something terrible and inhuman. Cold, winter stars shone from her eyes. Symbols that made his head ache ran up the front of her neck to branch below her jawline and up behind her ears. Similar symbols ran down the length of her arms until her fingertips were black with them. When she stepped around the stone torture table, he saw her feet were the same.

A long weirwood staff inlaid with faintly glowing silver runes hung diagonally across her back, despite not being there just moments before.

Frozen as he was by the air, Gorge could do nothing as this unnatural creature removed the ax from his hand and studied him. Her gaze burned through his head and mind. "You didn't want me to suffer," she said. Somehow, despite how her appearance had changed, her voice was the same as the silly girl asking about the Sept. "A duty, not a pleasure. The Lady Melantia…I see. Your grandmother. A grandmother who can't acknowledge you because of the silly rules of feudalism."

She looked down at the table and frowned.

As Gorge watched, the ancient stone table–one that very likely predated the keep itself–shattered into a thousand pieces and spilled across the floor. "Tell me, Gorge. What will happen to your wife and babe if you die?"

"Leave them be, witch!" He did not know when the spell permitted him to speak, but he did so now.

"I'm not one of you southern barbarians, Gorge. I don't kill women or children for the sins of their fathers. I ask you honestly. What will happen to your family if you die?"

The thought of his Anani and babe without him forced his eyes to water. She was a seamstress; she would not starve, he hoped. But without him it would be a hard life. She would undoubtedly have to remarry, but doing so would put their child at risk.

The creature, who he knew had to be the very Telos the king feared, nodded as if he'd shared his thoughts aloud. "I know it's impossible for you to believe, Gorge Waters. But I hold you no ill will. You were never a threat to me. For the sake of those that love you, I'll spare your life. But only on one condition. When all this is settled, I charge you on your very soul to escort Aemon Targaryen back north. You will take him Beyond the wall to Wolf's Hall, and there leave him to spend the rest of his days among his friends and those who care for him. Do this, Gorge, and all will be forgiven. If not, then I'm afraid your child will be an orphan."

Gorge tried with all his might to break free from the invisible bonds that held him. He screamed from the effort, but for all his determination, he could not stop her from lifting her hand, and placing a finger between his eyes until…

…he woke. Gasping, Gorge scrambled to his feet. He was alone within the lowest dungeon. Horbau lay unmoving, dead eyes staring at the dome above. Old Bailey's face was coated in foul, steaming black slime, and the ancient table that had seen so much blood was nothing but shattered rocks.

He turned and ran up the stairs.

~~Voluspa~~

~~Voluspa~~

Some of the greatest sailors in the history of the world had claimed the title of Lord of the Tides, Lady Melantia Velaryon thought. Her grandfather was no less an august personage as Alyn Velaryon, the great Oakenfist, whose feats and voyages were still read and spoken of a century after his death. His grandfather was the mighty Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who married a Targaryen and fought in the devastating Targaryen civil war for the losing side.

Not the wrong one, Melantia believed, but unfortunately the losing one.

Which made her wonder how House Velaryon had come to such a state as to be led by the sniveling man who shared her breakfast with her.

Lucerys Velaryon, newly named Lord of Tides and Master of Driftmark, preened in his ostentatious cloth-of-gold overcoat. He wore it over a silk vest, with that in turn over a bleached and ironed linen blouse and breaches. He had about his neck a gold chain with the pendent seal of office newly appointing him Master of Ships following Lord Baratheon's death.

"I'm sure I could not have received such an honor without your help, Aunt Melantia," the young peacock said. He daintily sipped at his morning tea after demolishing a robust meal of jellied eels, candied walnuts and apricots, and boiled pheasant eggs.

"Serve our king well, and you'll have earned your title," she said dismissively. Her own meal consisted of a single pastry filled with candied dates.

In the distance, she could see the crowds gathering about the Great Keep to see the trial. She ignored it; her nephew did the same as he regarded her intently over his tea. "I heard an interesting rumor that you caught an actual wildling on the palace grounds yesterday."

Melantia fought back a sigh. "I did. She has lost her head already. It's of no account."

"The king's justice is swift. Still, what was she like? Did she still have the blood of her victims on her lips?"

"She was a young girl of unusual height and a respectable knowledge of herblore. But she came at the behest of the enemy and entered palace grounds without the king's leave."

Lucerys dabbed at his lips. "And she told you nothing of value? The king has commanded that I lead a new fleet North. We have begun construction on twenty new galleas. Lord Tywin has been called to raise levies of fifty thousand men. Anything I might learn from this wildling would be of use."

She very much wanted to point out to her nephew that she was sitting at the bloody table across from him last evening when their king screamed his orders to his Small Council. She refrained. "The child insisted that this Telos is some sort of god who commanded the sea itself to sink Lord Steffon's fleet. I'm not sure how that will help you."

The young lord put forth a sad sigh, as if her inability to give him what he thought he wanted was, in fact, a failure on her part. "A shame. Sadly, duty calls, Lady Melantia. It sounds as if the traitors have been presented to the court. Are you going to attend?"

Again she waved him off. "I've never had the stomach to watch people burn. You go, I have other duties to attend to."

With that, the young man stood and left. His numerous attendants–young high born who'd never actually commanded ships and yet thought to captain some of the new vessels being built–fell in behind him.

Her eyes turned with unease to the Great Hall. Not since the Dance with Dragons had one Targaryen killed another. The whole affair made her uncomfortable.

Gorge came running up the stairs. His gold cloak fluttered behind him; there was no sign of his helm or spear, and his face was flushed red from exertion. Something was wrong.

With effort, she gripped her walking staff and pushed herself to her feet as her grandson stumbled to a halt. He was sucking in air so desperately he could not find words. He gripped the back of the lady Lord of the Driftmark's chair to steady himself.

"The girl!" He finally gasped out words. "My lady, the girl! Telos! The girl is Telos!"

The girl showed no fear, not even when placed under arrest. Not a bit of fear, even when told she was to die. Not even when she was being dragged to the headsman's ax. "Mother help me," she whispered. "Did you kill her?"

"She killed Holdau and Bailey! She froze me with a look! I couldn't move! Grandmother, she was no mere girl!"

"The king's in danger! Go, boy! Warn the kingsguard! I'll follow!"

Her grandson turned and stumbled toward the Keep. In his heavy gambeson and tabard, after running up the serpentine stairs, he still moved twice as fast as she could on her best day. Still, she hurried after as fast as her aching knees and bent back allowed.

However, when she found Gorge being held at bay by Ser Harlan, the Kingsguard, she knew it was too late. "Ser, release him and let us enter in the King's name!" Melantia called.

The knight was only a few years younger than she was, but was still hale and hardy enough to have caught the exhausted and breathless Gorge by his throat. "My lady, the trial has begun!"

"Fool man! The king is in danger! Telos is inside the Red Keep!"

Melantia mentally kicked herself for not leading with that simple statement, for it finally broke through the old knight's hard head. He spun around with surprising speed considering his age and the sheer weight of his plate armor, and threw the great double doors of the throne room open. As they pushed their way through the press of courtiers, all come to see a Targaryen burn for treason, Melantia heard a tremulous old voice cry out over the press of the people.

"I am Aemon Targaryen, brother to your grandfather! And I shall not be claimed a traitor without proof! I demand a trial by combat!"

"No! Your grace, say no!"

Melantia's cries were those of an old woman driven breathless by her desperate walk and easily overwhelmed by the excited chatter of the crowds. Ser Harlan was pushing his way through the crowd, as always more intent on action than words.

On his iron throne, with his hands hidden within velvet gloves, King Aerys II scoffed. "And who would defend such a traitor against the Lord Commander of my Kingsguard? Who would you have defend you before the gods?"

"Telos of the Trees will defend me before the gods!"

Melantia did not have any more breath to shout, though her she tried anyway. Nothing but a whisper emerged. Curse her age! Caught in the wake of Ser Harlan and Gorge Waters, she finally broke past the line of stunned courtiers to see her king risen in rage to his feet. For that day he'd demanded the presence both his sister-wife and son, each standing to the right of the Iron Throne.

"You confirm your own treason! You speak it with your own lips!"

"I speak no treason, for none was committed by me," Aemon said. "I demand trial by combat, as is my right as a Targaryen. And I beg for Telos of the Trees to defend me. If she does not, then you have your answer, and before the gods I will perish."

The old Targaryen stood in a white penitent's robe, as did the disgraced former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. There was no sign of the girl anywhere.

Gorge was closer, and Ser Harlan closer still. But the king was lost to everything but his anger as he stared at his great uncle. "So be it! Pray to your wildling queen that she'll cross the kingdom to defend you from Ser Gerold! If she is so great and just, let her by herself stand before the mightiest of the Kingsguard!"

"I accept."

"Your grace! Telos is in the Red Keep!"

Ser Harlan finally thought to speak aloud what Melantia still lacked the breath to do, but the girl's voice rang through the hall louder than the peal of the city bells. Melantia heard her as clearly as if they were alone together in the Maidenvault, and as she looked around, the Mistress of Whispers could see that everyone else in the Throne Room heard her as well.

As if from thin air, Telos herself stood in the center of the Throne Room. She stood as tall as most men; her clothes were the same as when Melantia captured her, but her bearing was that of a queen. She held a weirwood staff in her right hand, inlaid with intricate silver runes of a language she could not describe.

Her eyes, though…they were even worse than Gorge described. The gathered courtiers and nobility of the city screamed in alarm when they saw the cold, brilliantly shining stars in the woman's eyes.

Ser Harlan's call just served to confirm what the wise had already guessed.

Aerys II Targaryen rose from his throne as the color drained from his face. For the occasion, he'd commanded his sister-wife and son Prince Rhaegar to attend. They stood to his left, while Lord Tywin and the other members of the Small Council stood to the king's right.

"Is this some foul jest?" The king snapped angrily.

"You allowed it, and so I am here," the girl said. Again, somehow her words rang directly into the ears of everyone in the Great Hall. "Before your gods, I declare Aemon Targaryen to be innocent of the charges leveled against him. If you are so sure about your cause, then send your champion."

The king slowly sank back down into the Iron Throne, his expression vacillating between outrage and fear. Finally, though, Melantia saw an animalistic cunning light his eyes. "You killed Lord Rickard Stark! You killed Lord Steffon Baratheon!"

"To be fair, the Free Peoples of the North killed Lord Stark when they destroyed his army. I just made it rain on him. Steffon was in the fleet, though? Right? Him I killed. I did keep a few of the ships for my people, though. Thank you for those."

Melantia battled a deep, almost primal fear as she continued to made her way through the crowd toward the queen and prince. The King did not seem to be able to bridge the sight of the girl with a creature that could sink fifteen ships on a whim. His anger did not let him reason why this child before him would have no fear.

"You admit it!" Aerys rose once more to his feet. He pointed at her with his gloved fingers. "You admit to murder!"

"I defended my home against a hostile invading fleet, little king. If you actually cared about this Lord Steffon, you would not have sent him to his death."

"Kill her! Guards, kill her now!"

No one moved. Melantia found herself frozen in place, not from within, but from a pressure without that pressed in on her. The king spun around, wild-eyed.

"They can't move, little king," Telos said. "Because you have not answered my challenge. Aemon Targaryen stands accused of treason, and by your own words I stand to defend him before your gods. You can certainly try to kill me after, but no one will move until the challenge is answered. Who will you appoint to stand for you as champion to determine Aemon Targaryen's innocence?"

"How are you doing this! Release my people!"

"You sent an army and a fleet to murder innocent people, little king. You sent good, decent men to their deaths for nothing. All you can do right now is to name your champion."

The king reached for his own sword, but hesitated to draw. Melantia knew for a fact that Aerys had received only the slightest martial education as a young man. He'd never tried very hard at anything, despite his great dreams.

Staring into the cold, glowing eyes of this northern witch, whatever courage his rage had granted him clearly fled. "Fine, damn you! Ser Gerold Hightower will stand as champion for the throne!"

The named knight found himself able to move, and did so quickly as he drew his great sword. His white cloak fluttered resplendently from the pauldrons of his perfectly burnished plate. The White Bull, the small folk called him. He moved forward until he stood just feet from the girl.

Just like when she spoke to Melantia, the girl showed no fear. Because she is in no danger. Melantia's old heart thudded painfully in her chest, echoing in her own ears. She clutched at Gorge's shoulder as her knees trembled. The king moved forward on his throne as fear once more clouded his once-handsome face.

In the tableau that followed–with the tall, northern girl facing the mighty knight of the king's guard–she tilted her head disarmingly. "I'll admit I'm not sure of the procedure here. The idea of fighting to prove guilt or innocence is so mind-numbingly stupid I've never had to do it. Do I actually have to kill you, Ser Gerold, or would it be sufficient for me to just knock you senseless until you can't fight any more?"

Whatever else might be said of the White Bull, none would ever question his bravery. "It is as my king commands!"

"To the death!" The king did not speak it as a command, he screamed it in desperation.

"Thus my king has spoken," Ser Gerold said. "Before the Seven and the Iron Throne, I shall prove Aemon Targaryen guilty of treason, or the gods will strike me down!"

The mighty White Bull stomped forward with a powerful overhand swing.

The girl made no effort to block it; she stepped lightly to one side on her bare feet, spun her staff around one-handed, and struck Ser Gerald's armored flank.

A flash of silvery light made Melantia blink. In that blink of an eye, Ser Gerald Hightower was not just lifted off his feet. Rather, the armored knight was blasted as if by a battering ram high into the air. He spun about, flailing in disconcerting silence, before crashing into one of the stained-glass windows of the Throne Room. He was far too large to pass through the narrow aperture, and so his body bounced down off the sill and onto the floor in a shower of broken glass, the clatter of bent steel, and the screams of those nearest.

Into the silence that followed, Telos stepped back to Aemon's side. She never took those glowing eyes from the King. "Before your gods, Aemon Targaryen is proven innocent. His friendship with the Free Peoples of the North was no crime, nor treason to you, because those people were no threat. The Free Peoples of the North have no navy, nor any need nor desire to move against the Seven Kingdoms. We wish only to live, and be free. It was you who attacked us, and so forced us to defend ourselves."

She slammed the butt of her staff against the tiles, causing the hundreds of gathered courtiers and highborn to jump at the sound.

"I come before you now to say this. If you, King of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, say that there shall be peace, then there shall be peace. If you swear on your gods and your throne to send no more men to attack my people; if you release my dearest friend Aemon and return Brandon Stark to his people, then we shall have an end to it. The Seven Kingdoms will know no fear from the Free Peoples of the North. Before your people; before your gods; on your throne and on your blood, what is your word, King Aerys Targaryen, second of that name?"

The king paled until he looked like a spirit. In his rising and falling from his seat, the king's crown had become skewered on the side of his long, colorless hair. He rose again, going so far as to step to the edge of the dais. The remaining Kingsguard quickly stepped forward to form a shield in front of him.

"You…you barbarian whore. You enter my home like a cowardly thief, and talk to me of peace? I AM WESTEROS! I shall drown your people in their own blood! I shall…"

The sky exploded. Melantia fell back with a cry in Gorge's arms; all around people screamed in terror as scintillating blue and white fire like moving tree trunks or snakes of sunlight struck down from the shattered dome of the great hall to the king and his throne. It was no mere lightning strike, because it continued for an impossible time.

The Iron Throne took on a fell red glow as the swords began to melt, just as if they were melting under the dragon's fire that first formed the throne. Aerys stood transfixed; his expression lost in the actinic, painful brilliance of the lightning.

Finally, after an infinity of seconds, the blast ended. The iron throne was reduced to slag that poured molten over the floor. The charred, blackened king collapsed like a sack of rotted parsnips, and not a single sound could be heard.

The Kingsguard, blasted from their feet, struggled to stand as Telos stepped past them toward the dais. She ignored the injured knights and the charred king, and walked directly to where Prince Rhaegar stood protectively over his mother. He held his knife before him.

Telos stood and regarded him intently. "You are king now, Rhaegar Targaryen. Aemon spoke very highly of you. He loves you, as much as any of his living family. For his sake, I do not wish to harm you. But for my people, I will do whatever I must. So what is your word? Do I need to summon the sea to swallow King's Landing entirely? Must I summon storms to crush your people's cities; deny the land so all your crops fail? What must I do to convince the King of Westeros that they do not wish Telos as an enemy?"

"You killed the king for Uncle Aemon?"

The prince's voice sounded high and young to Melantia's ears. With Gorge holding her arm, she tried to make her way toward the dais. Perhaps she could drive a knife into the witch's back or something. I am a fool for even thinking it, she realized. She shuffled forward regardless.

"Aemon is my friend," Telos said. "I have known him for twenty years, and in all that time I've never heard him speak a harsh word to anyone. I will do much for my friends. I will do even more for my people. And you have seen what I will do to my enemies. Will you call off your armies and your fleets, King Rhaegar Targaryen, or shall the Seven Kingdoms be my enemy?"

The young prince stood transfixed by her gaze. "What are you?" he finally said.

"I am whatever I need to be to protect my people," she said. "Mother, witch, or god. What is your word, Rhaegar king?"

"Peace," the prince declared. He didn't even hesitate. "So long as your people stay north of the wall. But you…you murdered a king, Telos. You killed my father. While you walk south of the wall, ten thousand gold dragons will be the price on your head."

Rather than show fear, the girl quirked her lips. "I'm honored. Well, I'm glad I won't have to kill all of you. Destroying cities can get messy. Gorge, remember my charge. I would hate to hear that you had a stroke and died because you did not uphold the price for your life."

With that, Telos walked calmly across the hall where the Kingsguard had regained their feet, if not their bearings. She moved past them without concern until she reached Aemon. "Go to Wolf's Hall," she told him.

"And you?"

"The answers I seek are far from here. So, I'm going to go and see. But you have my blessing, and I will know if you are betrayed. Anyone who raises a hand against you, or any lord who seeks violence against my people, will die a short, painful death."

With her intentions stated before the entire room, Telos swept her starry gaze across the Great Hall and all within it before simply disappearing.

~~Voluspa~~

~~Voluspa~~

Bells rang through King's Landing. The king was dead.

A tall, blonde woman with a strikingly unremarkable face walked calmly through the narrow, crowded streets of the city toward the docks. She watched as the people of the city cried in alarm, scared for their future. The death of a king was a terrible thing, she supposed, because the people had no way of knowing if the next king would be better or worse.

For the third time in the past hour, men in mail hauberks and gold cloaks moved through the streets stopping every woman they saw with dark hair. They didn't give the tall blonde a second look, and so she continued down to the fortress gate that led the harbor. The locals called it the Mud Gate.

The square just inside the fortress gate was filled with fishmongers selling their wares. The smell of the place would have been overwhelming, if her nose had not already become accustomed to stench.

Taylor fingered her weirwood medallion and the powerful enchantments she'd placed on it, and walked unhindered past the four guards who were stopping every dark-haired woman who tried to come or go. Past the River Gate, as it was officially known, she came into a rickety maze of wooden shops and buildings buttressed up against the outer walls of the city.

Ahead, a woman was leaning out the second story of a building, cupping her bare breasts at a group of sailors. They whistled and called back appreciatively. Across from her, an old man sat calling out various baits guaranteed to catch a great haul. All around, the people went about the business of living, while in the city beyond the bells tolled the dead.

Eventually she reached the harbor where the ships were loading or unloading. Taylor slowed her steps to admire the various craft. All were made of nothing but wood, iron, nails, tar and dreams.

Dad had loved ships. Some of the few books he ever read were about the golden age of sail. She never thought to ask if he was a part of that world, because by the time she found out he was a thousands-year-old god, they were already traveling to Africa. But as she walked past the many ships tied to the various quays of the harbor, she thought how much he would have enjoyed being there and seeing these pieces of a history long lost in their own world.

Toward the far side, though, she saw one ship whose spirit and lines brought a happy smile to her face. It was the largest ship there–with three central masts and lines for more. It was a lean ship, though long, with tightly fitted plants of a dark, stained wood. It had an aft and fore castle, though the aft castle was two levels high. At the prow was a beautiful carved and painted bird with a sharp, curved beak and wings spread back into the hull. It was an eagle, she saw. A sea eagle.

All the ships had spirits formed from the intent of the crew. This one's spirit, though, was strong and unusually well defined. It was a ship meant to fly over the waves.

"I have never seen a woman make love to a ship with her eyes."

Taylor blinked and found herself staring at a broad-shouldered man in cotton trousers and a brightly sequined vest that left his powerful, teak-colored chest bare. A short cape made of brightly colored bird feathers hung from his shoulders.

"I'm not sure I would say making love, but I was definitely admiring it," she said. "From its lines, it has to be the fastest ship here."

"Of course it is!" The man laughed. "The rest of these scows can barely stay afloat. I have watched you. Where are you bound?"

"Somewhere across the Narrow Sea," she said. "Where are you heading?"

"What a coincidence! We go somewhere across the Narrow Sea as well!" The man wasn't shouting so much as just speaking firmly, as if every word was a declaration of joy. He was, she saw from his soul, exactly where he wanted to be. "We sail first to Volantis, then Qarth and the Jade Sea."

Perfect. "Do you have a berth available?"

"For which place?"

"All of them," Taylor said with a smile.

"For you, lovely lady, I am sure we can find room! I am Quhuru Mo, first mate on the Cinnamon Wind!"

"Taylor Hebert," she said with a smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Quhuru Mo."

A/N 2: Previous chapters had a few typos of Melantia's name as Malantia. It is supposed to be Melantia, I just have typoes sometimes, and then get stuck with the typo spelling when I'm barreling along. And with my eyes in the state they are, I just don't catch the errors. Price of free fanfiction-typos happen.