Hunched atop that dinky little horse of his, armor shimmering in the glow of the Erdtree and crimson mane ruffling in the breeze, Radahn looked ridiculous.

Imposing, sure – an enormous slab of muscle and steel, tall as a troll, with limbs thicker than a tree trunk, he could've snapped a man in two like a pencil – but nonetheless ridiculous. The demigod swayed and wobbled with his mount's every hoofstep, tooting out violet wisps of magic, and cooly regarded his surroundings with a stiff, stately pout.

Frankly, the first thing that came to mind was a gorilla trying to ride a housecat.

Not that anyone dared say as much to his face.

Indeed, the people of Leyndell cheered and waved as he waddled down the triumphal way, tossing flowers and blowing kisses and doffing their caps. And behind him, slinging coins, resplendent in their surcoats and mail, crests and tassels fluttering, marched the knights and footmen of his household guard; creatively dubbed the 'Redmanes' – and mainly recruited from Caelid, where Radahn had been living these last few centuries – they'd a marked reputation for reckless bravery and stubborn tenacity, as befitting their sworn lord.

The empire, you see, hadn't much in the realm of centralized governance, administered more through feudal obligation, religious dogma, and an ever-vigilant Inquisition. Really, what need did a god – a being with dominion over life and death itself – have for bureaucracy? Why bother with paperwork, or legislatures, or squabbling functionaries, when one's very words are divine commandments?

The local nobilities of the myriad constituent nations, therefore, so long as they worked towards the Queen's mandates, were more or less free to manage their own affairs. Even the Altus crownlands, Marika's personal demesne, was fobbed off onto the Elden Lord, her attention chiefly devoted to (especially in the wake of Godwyn's assassination) spiritual and philosophical matters – and the weaving of her grand conspiracy.

Predictably, within this framework, the demigods – Marika's descendants – occupied an exclusive station above the 'common' mortal aristocracy, having, on account of their relative sanctity, neither binding obligations nor direct responsibilities, at least beyond those that they assumed for themselves.

By far the majority, those scions of the Golden Lineage whose divinity was nominal at best, their godly blood diluted over millennia of miscegeny and inbreeding and simple genetic drift, bummed around the capital as socialites and sycophants. Dinner parties were their battlefields and layered pleasantries their arms, the victor decided by a calculated insult or well-timed titter, and the spoils a transient entourage of parasites and lickspittles.

Naught but the slightest scintilla of kinship held Marika back from culling them.

The important ones, on the other hand, only a generation or two removed from their progenitor, by and large buried themselves in individual pursuits – true power, it seems, was inverse to politicking.

Before the Night of Black Knives, Godwyn spent most of his time with his dragons, Ranni her moon, their respective obsessions tolerated syncretisms; Rykard, when not indulging in rank hedonism, lent his services to the Inquisition – though this was more a function of his 'eclectic tastes,' as it were, than any special love for the work itself, much less the law; Malenia, blind and crippled, mastered swordplay, counting on her strength to stem the Rot, while Miquella, the eternal child, scoured the depths of the Golden Order in the hopes of finding a permanent cure.

And Radahn, having long since mastered the power of gravity, waged a one-man war against the heavens themselves, slaying beasts and vanquishing champions, shooting meteorites out of the sky, before finally arresting the very motion of the stars.

With a resume like that, why wouldn't they cheer?

In this decadent modern age, after all, his exploits harkened back to the good old days of barbarous simplicity, and the idle masses leapt at the chance to share vicariously in his greatness.

At the end of a boulevard lined with trees and banners and victory columns, atop a wide marble stairway, loomed the uncovered terrace where, on the vanishingly rare occasions that she deigned to appear in public, Her Majesty held open court; and from her carved wooden throne, distinctly uncomfortable in her crown and jewelry and skimpy black dress, I watched the procession draw near. Hands clasped behind his back, Radagon (he and I had reached an understanding – not that either of us had much of a choice) stood close beside me, courtiers and retainers, nobility and clergy, cluttered along the margins.

Unplanned and unapproved – custom insisted on official recognition – the impromptu triumph all but demanded a royal welcome.

A hush fell upon the crowd, troops assembling in ranks at the foot of the stairs, as Radahn dismounted and ascended towards the dais. Bowing just a second too briefly and inch too shallowly, and refusing to even acknowledge his father, he resolutely met my gaze, his eyes blazing with undisguised wanting.

I don't think he ever truly forgave Radagon for walking out on Rennala; at the very least, the demigod's calculated emulation of Godfrey certainly hinted towards a smidge of parental alienation. By every indication, his bitterness and resentment and disillusionment had gradually transformed into a consuming ambition to supplant his father as Elden Lord, and rule through honest strength alone.

There was something decidedly Freudian about it – I thanked this body's superlative self-control for stopping me from grimacing.

"Mine heart warms, beloved child, to once more embrace you." Her knowledge of 'ye olde Englishe' was damn useful, too, though I ignored how a not-insignificant part of me was genuinely delighted to see him. Being so seldom born, the Numen, as a race, were obsessed with progeny and lineage, and placed a tremendous cultural emphasis on alternative means of reproduction, adoption and cloning and everything in between. While her apotheosis (much to my horror) did wonders for her fertility, those instincts never truly faded, and for however terribly she actually treated them, Marika loved all of her children – and stepchildren – dearly.

Largely as extensions of herself, sure, but she did, in fact, love them.

"I cannot but wonder, though, the occasion for this … spectacle."

Flashing a grin, Radahn took a step forward. "Radiant mother" – ugh – "I appear before thee as a victor expecting his just reward, and a son entreating the sublime burden of duty."

I can't say I liked the sound of that. "Speak, then."

He swept an arm over the crowd. "Not a man here is blind to my achievements. The Sundering of the Stones, the Humbling of the Onyx Lords, the Quelling of the Stars – I needn't belabor them. My courage and resolve are incontrovertible."

Radahn gave his assertion a moment to digest. "Men such as I are indispensable" – clever little parallelism there, 5/10, could be better – "in uncertain times like this." He started gesticulating, voice inflamed. "My brother, the crown prince, murdered in his bed! My sister, vanished! Blighted abominations rising from their graves! The enemies of all, Rot and Flame, battering at our doors!"

"Storm clouds, my friends, are rumbling over the horizon."

Taking a deep breath, he affected a sort of pensive reluctance, his attention once more fixed on me alone. "I am prideful, yes, ambitious too, I won't insult thee by denying it. I seek not, however, by coming here today, to further glorify myself – rather, I plead for the means to defend what I love. For though Leyndell and Caria shall always be dear to me, Caelid shall always be my home."

The Redmanes visibly preened, and banged the butts of their spears against the pavement until, with a wave of his hand, their general silenced them.

"In the earliest days of the empire, when the Erdtree itself was but a sprout, each new territory was assigned a governor, charged to regulate and integrate, and ensure the continued peace. The conclusive imposition of the Golden Order rendered these appointments obsolete; thus, the office faded into history."

A pause.

"But the desperate circumstances in which we now find ourselves bid extraordinary measures."

The crowd broke into gasps and murmurs.

"I ask – nay, beg – to be named Prefect of Caelid."

If nothing else, you had to admire his audacity.

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

"Do you mind, Lord Commander? I happen to be rather busy."

No response.

I stood up, hands resting on my hips, and met the bird's glare with one of my own. "Are you just going to stand there?"

The crow (or raven, couldn't really tell) irritably snapped its beak, then shrilly cawed.

"What. Have. You. Done!?"

I raised an eyebrow and crawled onto the bed, lining myself above Robert's crotch. It'd been years since my last good screw, damned if I let some undead albino get in my way.

"You're going to have to be a little more specific."

The king, at once bewildered and frustrated and horny, gawked back and forth between the voyeur and me; he tried scooting to his feet, but tendrils of grace tied him down to the bed.

"Fucking – "

I spared him a glance, gesturing in the bird's direction.

"Oh, yes. Robert, meet Bloodraven. Bloodraven, Robert."

Eyes widening in rage, it seemed a half-second from outright screaming, but stopped itself with a deep, shuddering breath.

"The. Drowned. God."

"What" – I hissed in pleasure – "of it?"

Not the best I've had, but good enough.

"Your. Ac-tions. Res-o-nate. Prop-a-ga – " Claws scratched against the windowsill when I gave an exaggerated moan. "WILL. YOU. STOP. THAT!"

"Please, this is nothing you haven't seen before." I rested a hand on my chin in mock consideration. "Then again, you were holding out for your sister, and I doubt that black cloak's done wonders for your prospects. Bit like eating" – exhale – "in front of a beggar. Terribly rude of me, then, I do apologize."

I also started bouncing around a bit.

"Shi-e-ra. And. I. Had – " Flapping its wings, it shook its head, steadying itself before continuing. "I. Can. Feel. The. Dark-ness. Stir-ring."

"Ominous. Will there be weeping, or gnashing of teeth?"

"It. Is. Too. Ear-ly! We. Once. Had. A. Dec-ade. Now. We. Have. At. Most. A. Year." The bird's eyes narrowed. "Be-cause. Of. Your. Stu-pid-i-ty. The. Oth-ers. March. Be-fore. Their. Time." It leaned in, feathers ruffling. "The. Prince. Is. Not. Read-y! They. Shall. Kill. Us. All!"

Robert didn't much like the sound of that, and loosened his grip on my ass, opening his mouth to speak.

"Did I say you could talk?"

He blinked, laying his head on the pillow, and I felt his member grow that much stiffer – seems he'd just discovered something new about himself.

"Good boy." Increasing my pace, I smirked. "Not if I kill them first. About time I paid the Wall a visit, eh?"

Birds aren't the best at emoting, but its flinch and gape fairly well communicated its horror – until I shot it with a pebble of magic, and it burst into a cloud of blood and feathers.

Ought to get the message across.

After a few more minutes, Robert limpened, panting and sweating, and I laid down next to him.

"Should I be worried," he wheezed, "about what the bird said?"

I shrugged, staring at the soot-blackened ceiling. "Probably not." A chuckle. "Certainly not about the Others, at any rate. I've dealt with worse."

My brow furrowed on its own. "Well, I suppose our guest did have a point. The Others, the Drowned God, they're symptoms – not causes. This world, its essence, feels … off. Like a field after a battle. You know, corpses rotting in the sun, scavengers picking at the bones. Obviously, something went terribly wrong, showered the earth in poison and decay, but I can't say what. Or why."

Robert looked decidedly perturbed; I smiled.

"And there's nothing more fun than a mystery.'' I sat up, and the grace binding him loosened its hold. "Right then, flip over. I want to try something."

As a firm believer in reciprocity, it only seemed fair.

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

The remnants of Pyke's garrison – having retreated to the offshore holdfasts, cutting bridges and raising barricades – held out for the first couple days following Balon's death; starved and isolated as they were, and seeing as I'd already had my fun, the task of flushing them out was fobbed off onto the infantry. After heavy fighting pushed the defenders all the way back to the castle's outermost tower, the royalists brought their siege engines forward, and sent the crooked, windswept spire toppling over into the sea.

During the weeks that followed, Robert held court in the ruins of the great hall, and between festivities and petitions and overseeing the rest of the invasion, sentenced the surviving Ironborn nobles for their rebellion against the crown. A few blubbered and groveled, kissing the king's feet as they begged for mercy, while others spat and frothed, struggling against their bindings – most, however, met their respective fates with dispassionate sobriety, and the dignity becoming their stations.

Outwardly, at least.

A solid majority were forced to pick between death and the Watch – by and large, the prouder ones and radicals went with the former, the cowards and schemers the latter. Their families might've retained their lands and titles, but all said and done, with so many lords dispossessed and so many heirs killed in the fighting, nearly a quarter of the islands' noble houses were rendered extinct, and many more reduced to female lines or distant cousins or – in one particular instance – a single bastard. Those who surrendered without a fight, meanwhile, or to whom Robert arbitrarily extended leniency, merely found themselves saddled with the usual outrageous indemnities, and a fifty-year prohibition on shipbuilding.

The Greyjoys themselves were attainted: their holdings liquidated, rights and privileges revoked, and very house stricken from the rolls of the nobility. Of course, given that most of them were already dead – Balon had been burnt and his ashes scattered, his sons slain (Theon, poor kid, went down with the tower) and his wife crushed by falling debris, while the uncles and cousins and such relations had sailed with the fleet – this was largely a symbolic gesture, the capstone atop an already finished work.

Asha, Balon's sole surviving issue, was only spared by societal expectation – the knight who found her clutching a sword and clad in mail was unwilling to kill a lady, even if said lady was trying to hack him to pieces. The Westerosi pitied her 'manly aggression' as a sign of desperation, and the Ironborns' innate savagery (mine was different because I was on their side), and after much debate, settled on shipping her off to a nunnery. In the meantime, she was remanded to the custody of the priests who'd accompanied the baggage train.

The Seven-Who-Are-One, it bears mentioning, didn't actually exist as a living, breathing entity, at least as far as I could tell – but man's belief in it (them?), being so widespread and generally sincere, had its own effects on the streams and currents of magic, warping and rerouting them in just such a way to repel the worst of the rot. I can't imagine growing up in proximity to the Seastone Chair, day by day exposed to that blackened abomination that called itself a god, was very good for Asha's soul; joining the faith, while hardly ideal, was probably just what she needed in the long run, a sort of spiritual detox.

Lastly, Robert declared to a shocked crowd that Pyke would be razed and the Paramountcy dissolved – the Iron Islands would be annexed by the Westerlands, for Tywin Lannister to govern and apportion as he saw fit. The mere thought horrified the Ironborn, who blanched and trembled, and even the mainlanders, underneath their schadenfreude, couldn't help but sympathize.

That still didn't stop them, mind you, from pestering Kevan to put a good word in.

It was a few days after the end of the fighting– Blacktyde, Orkmont, and Lonely Light, along with all the other islets comprising the chain, had by now issued their respective surrenders – that Thoros shuffled towards me and asked to discuss "matters of some import."

I studied him for a second – eyes bloodshot, fingernails chewed to stubs, he looked like he hadn't slept for days – then nodded and hummed, beckoning him over towards a corner alcove. The lords already sitting there bowed and scrambled away, and with a flick of my hand, the courtly chattering quieted to an indistinct mumble, thwarting any eavesdroppers.

Hunched over, Thoros bounced his leg and wrung his hands, and shook his head when I offered him a drink. "You are a goddess, yes?"

"Last I checked."

Something not quite a smile, but too placid for a grimace, passed his face as he swallowed. "You are not of the Great Other."

"As far as I'm aware."

From what I remembered of Melisandre's ramblings, the so-called 'Great Other' was the Red Faith's Satan analog, the obligate darkness for the prophesied savior to combat. An emphatically distasteful religion – far too fond of slavery and sacrifice, and drolly manichaeistic to boot – though there was, it seems, from the fiery presence all but draped around Thoros' shoulders, an actual method to the madness.

Or at least a being – charred and blistered, clinging to life, a tortured fragment of a once-greater whole – with its own agenda and will, doling out pyromancy in exchange for worship.

He rubbed his eyes, and I waited for him to continue. "I am not a good priest. Far too fond of wine and women, not nearly fervent enough." Sausage fingers rubbed a bald scalp. "The Lord R'hllor, you must understand is … tempestuous. Retributive. His is a cleansing hate."

So a fire and brimstone type – from the way the presence exuded pride and satisfaction, his description apparently hit the right notes.

"Three nights ago, I looked into flames for the first time in a decade." He fixed me with a stare. "The Lord saw what you did. At Lannisport. Here, at Pyke. The power, the fury, the destruction. He … it enraptured him."

Drumming my fingers against my knee, I tilted my head at him. "And I assume he wants something from me?"

He bit his chapped lip. "It is not my place to say. His wishes, his words, are inscrutable – they cannot themselves be gleaned from the flames. Merely impressions."

At this, the presence seemed rather annoyed.

"All I do know is you have his attention." Thoros leaned in, his gaze imploring. "Please, Your Grace, when you go North, allow me to accompany you. So I might serve as the Lord of Light's eyes."