A/N: Hello everyone! New month, new chapter. Firstly, I'd like to thank all of you who commented on the last Veron chapter, I was pleased to see that people enjoyed it. Several of you commented yesterday when you noticed I changed the story; I actually removed the Prologue as I decided I liked to leave some of the elements of the story a mystery. I think NOT knowing whether Gaemon is completely correct about his heritage is more engaging than knowing right away. Anyways, onwards with the story... I had a lot of fun writing this chapter so hopefully you'll enjoy some of the last pieces of *our* Dance clicking into place.

Gaemon IX

After a march that had lasted nearly fifteen days, the wintry and barren fields of Duskendale now played host to all those who still remained true to their fallen Queen. The scraping, screaming song of steel rang out over the makeshift arena that had been set aside for those whose blood ran too hot to await battle. Gaemon sat on the sidelines, gingerly nursing several bruises and cuts that he had earned over the last few days during his rigorous training sessions with a variety of tutors. Before him, Ser Morgon Banefort was locked in desperate combat with Lord Alan Tarly. The two had crossed blades before, but now that they seemingly had the measure of each other their battle had been reduced to a bout of pure endurance. Lord Alan was the elder of the two and matched Banefort's youthful energy with the practiced experience of a blooded warrior. Gaemon winced as the younger Lord brought a gauntleted fist downwards in a harsh strike atop the Huntsman's helm, the crash of steel reminding him of his own battles earlier in the day. All around men shouted, jeering taunts or cries of support to their favored candidate. Lord Tarly is at a disadvantage here; his fellow Reachmen are a rare sight amongst this host of Wolves, Falcons and Trout. Calls of support notwithstanding, the veteraned knight of the Reach was soon able to knock the younger lad off of his feet and into the mud. Scrabbling about, he found Heartsbane where it had fallen nearby, gripping it with both hands and guiding its point towards the slit in the younger man's helm.

"Yield!" His cry prompted silence in the arena.

For a few moments, the rasping sound of labored breathing was all that emanated from the steel of Ser Morgon's armor.

"I yield, Ser." The young knight's voice was strained, clearly in the midst of a battle with frustration.

Lord Tarly rose slowly to his feet, offering an armored hand to his fallen opponent. Somewhat surprisingly, the young knight took it, pulling himself to his feet before exiting the arena. He was greeted by a veritable horde of young Rivermen, all eager to offer conciliatory praises concerning his performance against such a seasoned foe. Lord Alan left the ring as well, finding a rough-hewn wooden bench to sit upon whilst he began to clean Heartsbane with a fervent yet gentle dedication.

Gaemon rose from his seat, draining the last of the cold cider from a wooden tankard he kept with him for watching bouts such as the one that had just transpired. His tongue somewhat recoiled at its exceedingly sour taste, and he could not help but recall with fondness the ciders that Wat had insisted on serving at his inn on Dragonstone. It was expensive to import such things from the mainland, given that Dragonstone possessed no orchards. But Wat would not budge. He would die before being denied his favorite beverage, shipped straight from Maidenpool or Saltpans. The ciders that could be found about this camp were of a decidedly less pleasing variety, likely made from the last apple harvests of the fall years. Sour or not, they still bring a welcome warmth to a cold winter's day.

A gravelly and stern voice pulled him from his thoughts. "It is a shame that such energy is wasted upon feigned combat, Ser."

Turning, Gaemon was surprised to see the Lord of Winterfell had joined him to watch the proceedings. His large beard barely concealed the faintest of smiles. His grey eyes, however, remained cold, cold like the winds that now blew constantly from the North.

Gaemon returned his smile. "I could not agree more, my Lord. Although I am pleased that we were able to take Duskendale bloodlessly. Its people have already suffered much, and our enemies would love nothing more than for us to pour out our men's lifesblood in pointless and costly assaults."

Cregan nodded, but did not speak, mulling over his words. Gaemon had found that he often behaved in such a way, wasting few words and only speaking when he felt it necessary. What he does not share are his thoughts regarding the Darklyns. Lord Stark is not one to look kindly on those who he views as turncloaks. Lady Meredyth had surrendered Duskendale and the Dun Fort when their forces had arrived, striking the golden dragon banners of Aegon II without the briefest thought of resistance. Gaemon was certain her people thanked her for it, but the Northerners were particular about sworn oaths. Even if she aids us, she knelt to another King. Were it entirely in Lord Cregan's hands, I have little doubt that Lady Meredyth would have been made to pay for her 'transgression'. Luckily for the Lady of the Dun Fort, the Lord Paramount of the North was only one of three commanders of the Queen's loyalists. Sers Elmo Tully and Isembard Arryn had welcomed the Lady Meredyth into their cause with open arms, and had eagerly taken up lodging in the Dun Fort itself.

Gaemon could not help but be curious as to why the Wolf-Lord had sought him out. Tilting his head, he opted for humor to break the silence: "To what do I owe the considerable pleasure of your presence, my Lord? I doubt that you have solely sought me out to comment on duels between southron knights."

Cregan shook his head, his northern war-braids swaying. "Aye, I did not. It seems Ser Addam Velaryon's brother has come to port. Lord Cerwyn informs me that he brings provisions, and is eager to discuss strategy."

Ah, so there it is. A welcome surprise, no doubt.

"Then we ought to go and give our thanks."

The Dun Fort loomed over the city of Duskendale like a great stone beast. Situated atop a natural hill that rose above the bay, it was no wonder that the ancient First Men had chosen it as a site to build a fortress upon. The Queen's banner's flew once more from its great stone walls, and were visible throughout the cobblestone streets of the port town below. While Duskendale itself no longer bore the scars of the Kingmaker's punishing sack, its wynds and septs were filled to bursting with crowds of starving poor, driven northwards by the near total anarchy that had temporarily consumed King's Landing and the campaign of terror that the Kinslayer had waged upon the Riverlands. Ominous grey winter clouds, heavy and threatening snow, hung above the city, casting a dark pall over its peoples and the army assembled outside. In the harbor sat a great many cogs and other seafaring craft, forced to do business in Black-controlled ports by the ever-watchful Velaryon fleet. It seemed certain that Gulltown, Maidenpool and Duskendale had not seen such traffic since the days before Aegon's conquest and the rise of King's Landing. Gaemon could only imagine the wealth that was currently pouring into Hull and Spicetown. While it was essential to strangle King's Landing of trade and goods, Gaemon had come to harbor some misgivings about the tactics employed by Alyn Velaryon. He felt for the smallfolk, tossed aside and abandoned to starve by the war. But it was more than that. The more time he spent in Duskendale, the more he had begun to harbor misgivings about the wealth that the Velaryons stood to gain by seizing shipping or diverting it to their own ports. This war was never supposed to be about lining one's purse. The Queen and her Velaryon sons died for nobler causes… didn't they?

From what Gaemon had gathered, House Velaryon had already stood proudly amongst the wealthiest houses of Westeros prior to the war. If they were to grow any more powerful, their influence would surely become unparalleled. Even the fabled mines of the West have been known to become bereft of gold and silver after a time. Trade, however, can be sustained so long as there are those with the wealth and the appetite to acquire the finest silks, spices, and furnished goods the East has to offer. As he and the Lord of Winterfell rode into the courtyard of the Dun Fort, he spotted one ship that stood proudly above all others in the bay, a massive dromond that sported sea-green sails and banners. The Queen Rhaenys: one of the finest ships in the Velaryon fleet, and flying the proud seahorse at that. Ser Alyn has indeed arrived, and is clearly keen on making an impression.

The yard of the Dun Fort was packed with scurrying servants and lordly retainers, all bustling about on errands for their masters. As Gaemon dismounted, he found himself fussing over his tabard, smoothing the creases in the brilliant red and black hues that made up his chosen sigil. He had initially been surprised at the muted reaction that his attire had been met with, expecting that more lords would protest his not-so-subtle message of paternity. Instead, few had even commented on the gesture. They likely feel other matters are more pressing. There is a war on, after all. The same went for his claiming of Dark Sister. While he had wielded it to spar with in past training sessions, crossing blades with the likes Heartsbane, he still had not gotten over the feeling that in his hands he bore a dead man's blade. While wickedly sharp and undoubtedly legendary, the rippling black Valyrian-steel blade brought up uncomfortable memories of its former owner. Gaemon was certain that the Rogue Prince would have been disgusted to know he now carried his blade at his side. That man is dead. I saw the wounds he left on Harrenhal's heart tree with this very blade before confronting the Kinslayer. His shade holds no power over me that I do not grant him. Besides, wielding this blade allows me to join the company of legends. I would be a fool to not embrace such power.

Lord Cregan dismounted nearby, striding forward with the ease and confidence that only a trueborn lord could muster, his grey cloak bearing a running Direwolf trailing behind him. Gaemon followed, intentionally straightening his back and bringing his full height to bear. He could feel the gaze of many upon him, and he was not about to present a less-than-impressive image to them. The Lord of Winterfell pushed the doors of the great hall open before them, revealing a chamber crowded with crowds of smallfolk petitioning for succor from their liege. The assembly parted before them, revealing the Lady Meredyth sitting upon the Lord's seat and presiding over the assembly. Offering a brief smile to the two of them, the lady of the castle motioned for them to continue past her, following the dimly lit ancient corridors of the Dun Fort to a smaller private hall where the Darklyns had held familial meetings for centuries, if not thousands of years.

The roughly hewn stone blocks that made up the walls of the chamber and ancient carved murals that decorated its walls were unmistakable of First Men origin, and betrayed the sheer age of the room in which they assembled to meet their honored guest. Within, a table sat upon a slightly elevated dais, upon which a vellum map had been spread, depicting the Royal crownlands and bearing the sigil of the King Viserys I. Seated around the table were the last and greatest champions of the fallen Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. To Gaemon's left sat Ser Elmo Tully, his bright red hair only beginning to show streaks of grey. To his left sat Isembard Arryn, wearing the finest cloth that could be purchased from Gulltown. The 'Gilded Falcon' was in the midst of a ringing laugh, evidently entertained by their new guest. To his left sat Maegor, who to Gaemon's relief appeared to actually be suppressing a slight smile at whatever tale Ser Alyn was in the midst of telling. Past him Ser Addam sat, his pale Valyrian features temporarily overcome by a brilliantly red flush. Completing the circle around the table were Lady Rhaena, Ser Corwyn Corbray, and Ser Alyn Velaryon himself. Two seats, one between Ser Elmo and Ser Isembard, and one in between the Lady Rhaena and Ser Addam had evidently been reserved for the latecomers. As Gaemon moved to claim his seat, he could not help but to overhear the story that Ser Alyn had decided to share with those assembled.

"... as it turns out, this Braavosi captain had brought his daughter along with him, intending to educate her on the details of shipping across the Narrow Sea. As acting regent for my esteemed grandfather, I offered to educate her on the specifics myself, intimately. Imagine my surprise when this fair maid proved no fair maid at all! With how possessive her father was, I assumed he had her locked up tightly to preserve her virtue for a suitor at home. As it turns out, she had developed quite a reputation of her own along the Long Canal and amongst the inns of Silty Town!"

Ser Isembard cackled. "Pray tell, how did you come to know about this reputation of hers?"

Ser Alyn smiled, his purple eyes sparkling mischievously. "I grew wise to the reality of the situation after she demanded that I remove her small clothes with my teeth! It turns out that little Braavosi morsel had quite the voracious appetite for sailors!"

Ser Isembard guffawed, and Maegor shook his head as he suppressed a grin. Gaemon had to admit that watching Addam's eyes jump back and forth between the Lady Rhaena and his brother in horror made the situation all the more humorous.

Ser Corwyn's frown had grown all the more pronounced, and it was only Rhaena's steadying hand on his forearm that had apparently prevented his intervention to this point. After Ser Alyn had made his last jape, however, it was clear that his Andalic sensibilities could no longer allow this affront to etiquette to continue.

"Ser! I think that is quite enough. There is a Lady of Royal Blood present. I will not entertain any more of this drivel in her presence!"

Alyn's smile faded noticeably. "Ser, I would think the Lady Rhaena more than capable of interceding on her own behalf. If all I have heard of her mother is true, she possesses all the strength necessary!"

Smoothing her dress, Rhaena offered a conciliatory smile. "Sers, I appreciate your intercessions on my behalf, but I would ask that we turn our discussions towards matters of strategies at hand. With Ser Alyn's arrival, we now have all the commanders of our forces present. We can coordinate our strategy to end the war with confidence now with no further delays."

Lord Stark cleared his throat. "As you all know, it was I that proposed taking Duskendale in order to prompt an intervention by the Greens. Their silence, however, is troubling. We have not even received threats concerning their hostages as a response. My outriders have watched the road south since before we arrived, and apart from minor skirmishes, report no movement from King's Landing."

Ser Elmo Tully ran a hand through a bright red beard. "Not all of our news is ill. With Duskendale in our hands, and the roads from Maidenpool clear, we can now reasonably expect to keep our forces provisioned. Excess grain from the Vale arrives in greater amounts by the day, and Pentos has offered to sell us salted meat at what they assure me is a reasonable price."

Ser Isembard Arryn scoffed. "To the Essosi, a reasonable price is akin to extortion! We ought to pay those slavers no mind."

Lord Cregan sighed. "Nevertheless, fighting men need some meat to sustain themselves. The countryside from here to Stoney Sept has been stripped bare. My own Ser Torrhen Manderly assures me that his trip was fraught with danger, and only the boldness of several knights in their party staved off utter disaster. I fear that our foragers will turn up empty-handed or worse if we send them far afield for provisions."

Ser Isembard frowned. "I will see the Pentoshi tomorrow, then. We Arryns of Gulltown can be relied upon to negotiate a fairer price!"

A fairer price would certainly suit his own coin purse better, Gaemon thought to himself. For he has effectively funded our army since we arrived at Harrenhal.

Ser Elmo Tully nodded. "If the matter of provisions is settled, we must needs discuss what forces we can bring to bear against the capital itself. As Lord Cregan has implied, it might be necessary to put King's Landing itself to siege in order to fully defeat the Usurper. While we command thousands, I fear that encircling the entire city would strain our numbers to the breaking point and leave us vulnerable to a breakout attempt."

The Lord of Winterfell nodded. "Aye. We ought to concentrate our forces north of the Blackwater Rush. The lands south of the river can be watched by our dragonriders. All that matters is that we prevent resupply or a retreat. Dragonflame can accomplish both." He turned to Ser Alyn. "How much support can we rely upon from the sea, Ser?"

Alyn Velaryon leaned back in his seat. "The Triarchy is beginning to tear itself apart. Sharako Lohar burned with the vast majority of their battle-ready ships at the Gullet. Merchants from the Three Daughters speak in hushed tones of privately owned ships being seized by the magisters and hastily equipped for war, and the High Council of the Triarchy has disbanded for what appears to be the last time. It seems the 'eternal alliance' is falling rather short of eternal." He smiled grimly. "All this seems to suggest that the Usurper will no longer be able to rely on any support from his friends across the Narrow Sea. I doubt he will even be able to hire mercenaries, for the going rates threaten to make beggars out of the magisters. I have little doubt that I will be able to use my grandfather's fleet to maintain a close blockade of King's Landing. I assure you, my Lords, that no ships will make it in or out of that city."

Gaemon had watched his friend's face closely as the discussion had unfolded. Ever since the treachery at Tumbleton, desire for vengeance had stalked Maegor as closely as his own shadow. While he had tried to hide it, Gaemon had known him for far too long to not see it. But for some time, Maegor had been different. Not entirely his old self, but less consumed by his hate. It is comforting to see that something had changed. While the war plans were discussed, Maegor watched studiously, but did not twist with malice as he had in the past. When he finally began to speak, Gaemon was eager to hear what he had to say.

"My Lords, my fellow riders and I can certainly assist in maintaining the siege from the air. But discussing these steps is preemptive. Are we truly prepared for what may come if we pursue this war fully, to its bloody conclusion?"

Alyn sneered. "Of what do you speak? All of us who sit here have been properly blooded. I will not have it said that any man here is a craven!"

Cregan's grey eyes regarded Maegor carefully for a few moments. "Ser Alyn, Ser Maegor has not called any man here a craven. He simply asks if we are willing to condemn our King to death."

Alyn's eyes widened with surprise. All those seated at the table turned, as if drawn by some unspoken magic, to the Lady Rhaena. Gaemon felt as though a blade were twisted in his innards. Maegor is right to ask such things of us. Would I trade Baela's life for victory? Would Rhaena?

He spoke. "My Lady, I feel it would be callous and unjust of us to speak of such matters without your consent. As the King's nearest of kin present, what say you? What say you of the strategy to put the capital to siege?"

Rhaena sat silently, watching him closely. The flames of the room's ensconced torches were reflected in her eyes. "I love my sister more than anything else in this world. I love my half-brothers, just as I loved my father, my cousins, and my grandmother. This war has already forced me to let go of so many that I have loved." A single tear ran down her cheek. "Even now, I am torn between my love for those that remain and my duty to the realm." Brushing a hand across her face, she straightened her back, defiant. "But I know that if I allowed my love to rule me this day, my sister would never forgive me. The dead cry out for vengeance. Their loss will burden me for the rest of my life. But if the Usurper chooses to heap one more cruelty upon the mountain he has already built and executes my brothers and sister, he will burn for it. Their blood will stain his hands, not mine." Rhaena stood, her eyes blazing gloriously with a mixture of pain, fury, and determination. Her next words came out in a whisper. "I pray that he chooses to see the futility of his resistance, and step aside for the sake of his remaining family. But if he murders my brothers and sisters, I will ask that you raze that accursed city to the ground in their memory."

Gaemon exchanged a quick glance at his fellow dragonriders, noting that both Addam and Maegor were nodding, their visages hardening with resolve. After a moment, Maegor spoke: "We will take that city for you, my Lady. Take it so that we might rebuild it anew, free from the horrors that have been visited upon it."

It was then that Addam Velaryon chose to speak, his voice quiet but strained. "My Lady, it pains me to ask this, but should we take this to mean that you will accept the Crown if it falls to you? We can ill afford a struggle over the succession if we lose the last of Queen Rhaenyra's children."

A cold chill ran down Gaemon's spine. A struggle for succession? Does he think that I would be so bold as to claim the Crown under such circumstances? A voice rose in his head, unbidden. Would you not? You wear your claim on your chest, and at your side. And you ride the largest dragon. Aegon was crowned King by right of conquest. Could you not be as well? Gaemon the Glorious could come again. He was immediately ashamed by such thoughts. If I did such a thing, I might as well build a throne from the smoking bones of my half-brothers and half-sisters. The black three-headed dragon on his chest only seemed to darken in response.

Rhaena nodded quietly. "If it comes to it, I will wear the Crown. I will do so in memory for those I have lost, and to keep the embers of my family alive."

Addam nodded, a pained look on his face. He doesn't wish to abandon Baela to the executioner's axe any more than I do. His own actions the next few days could condemn his own grandsire to death.

Lord Cregan Stark's words broke the deathly silence that had settled upon them. "It is settled then. We should attend to our men, and our lords. It will soon be time to march. May the Old Gods and the New favor our just cause."

As Gaemon watched the other lords stand, his blood seemed to boil all at once. "Is it over, my Lords? It seems callous to tempt the wrath of a man who has already lost nearly everything. We speak of dead that cry out for vengeance, but what of the Princes who had less than ten name days between them? Our Queen's hands were stained with their blood, blood just as red as that which covers the Usurper. A man with naught but slaughtered sons and brothers has nothing to lose. It might be prudent to speak of alternatives in the event that we lose the Princes and the Lady Baela, but I will not see them consigned to the grave so easily!"

Cregan Stark's eyes narrowed at his outburst. "Careful, boy. To compare our fallen Queen to the Usurper is naught but treason."

Gaemon stood. "I do not doubt the loyalties of any man or woman in this room. We have all sacrificed much to be here, and only those truly committed to our cause would do so. But I have heard enough of this talk." His mind was racing, as he was unused to speaking to those of higher birth in such a manner. I've no training for this and little mind for it. "Let us… let us test the enemy. Let us send a raven, offering to allow them to surrender and turn over their hostages. We have three dragons to their one, and half again as many men. Walls and keeps will do little to keep out dragonflame. Perhaps their King, when confronted with the gravity of his situation, will agree to take the Black to spare his mother, wife, and daughter."

Addam Velaryon rapped his knuckles upon the table softly, lost in thought. Speaking from across the table, he spoke: "such a peace offering would do much to persuade those who still have yet to declare for either side. It would show that we are just and merciful, and willing to accept a negotiated peace of some kind without risking the life of our liege."

Ser Corwyn ran a hand across his stubble-laden jaw. "There still remain some houses that have not declared their support for either candidate. The Tyrells are foremost amongst these, but many powerful Lords in the Reach have followed their example. The Oakhearts, the Cranes, the Meadows, the Florents; many and more have remained neutral in this conflict. Ser Waters' plan could be exactly what we need to demonstrate our leniency and expose the madness of the Usurper and his lackeys. If it becomes apparent that we are fighting for peace, we could negotiate for the support of the houses that still remain uncommitted."

Ser Isembard smiled, a cold and calculating expression emblazoned across his features. "We'd most certainly have the Usurper's dogs by the stones then, wouldn't we? Their own neighbors and liege would be wreaking bloody havoc across their supply lines, and potentially putting their own seats to siege."

Lord Stark leaned against the table, placing his weight upon his fists. His jaw was set in the manner that it usually adopted when he was deeply in thought. After a few moments of silence, he finally nodded his head in acquiescence. Ser Elmo Tully had remained silent whilst he had watched the exchange, but his bright blue eyes sparked with anticipation.

Gaemon allowed a small smile to drift to his lips. "It seems we will be needing a maester then."

As the commanders of the Black army rose and began to exit the room, Maegor had risen, his full height stopping only a few inches short of the ancient stone above him. He gave Gaemon a friendly pat on the shoulder as he passed, before adding that he would see to the dispatch of the raven personally, alongside Ser Addam. There will be nothing amiss about the missives we send this time. Maegor will ensure that. As his friend's massive form exited the chamber, Gaemon was left facing Rhaena and her guardian alone. Only after all of the others had left did she allow her impeccable posture to soften. He crossed the room quietly, placing a hand upon her shoulder.

He stood in silence for a moment, feeling the cold presence of Ser Corbray behind him, watching carefully for any sign of impropriety.

Ever so quietly, Rhaena spoke. "Ser Corwyn, might you leave us for a moment? I wish to speak with Ser Gaemon privately."

The knight of Bleeding Hearts left them quietly, respecting his lady's wishes.

Gaemon finally decided to speak. "When you spoke today, I saw a true Queen before me: brave and true and willing to do anything for her realm and her people."

Rhaena's small frame shook slightly, and it took him a moment to realize she was sobbing, ever so quietly. Turning, she embraced him, her whole form wracked with tears.

"I felt akin to a monster, Gaemon. Who could accept such a fate for those they love?"

He pulled away, holding her at arm's length so as to look her in the eye. "If the Gods are good, you will never have to wear the Crown. I swear I will do everything in my power to prevent it." His voice shook. "I too, care for those currently held in chains."

Rhaena laughed, a sweet interruption from the sadness. "I know, you dolt. My sister keeps nothing from me."

Gaemon could not help but laugh in return. "I truly am a dolt. I should have suspected."

Sniffling, Rhaena wiped her tears from her cheeks with a red-and-black laced sleeve. "Men can be surprisingly capable of missing the obvious. Nonetheless, I am ever so grateful that I can count upon you. I was terrified today before you spoke, it felt as though there were no options that remained to us."

Gaemon shook his head. "Baela lives. And so long as she does, I refuse to countenance any course of action that will not see her freed." A memory surfaced, swirling with fire and shadow. "Would you like to see her?"

Rhaena's eyes narrowed. "Of course I would. I have prayed to the Seven that I would see her again ever since we were separated from one another at the beginning of this accursed war."

Gaemon frowned. "I fear that is where you were mistaken. You may have been praying to the wrong Gods." He grabbed a torch from where it had been affixed to the chamber wall.

Rhaena pursed her lips. "Is this some sort of cruel jape, Gaemon? For it is ill-advised."

Gaemon shook his head. For the past several weeks, he had tried to replicate what Alys Rivers had shown him at Harrenhal with little success. He was not sure why he felt differently this evening, but he somehow knew things would be different. He held the torch out before them, gazing intently into its flames. At first, they flickered and danced without any discernible difference. But then the shadows grew. Almost imperceptibly at first, the light of the other torches throughout the chamber seemed to dim, whilst the shadows cast by their fading light seemed to grow in size and dance about them. The flames atop the torch burst into greater intensity, burning far more brightly than any torch ought to. He heard Rhaena gasp, and then he saw her. For within the brightest part of the flames, he saw Baela, as beautiful as he remembered her, sitting cross-legged in a stone cell. She seemed to stare intently at them, but to his disappointment her eyes made no sign of recognition. When she turned her face, as if to overhear some impercitible conversation, the gruesome letters 'SL' could be seen, apparently burned into her visage. Rhaena's hand instinctively darted out, attempting to caress her sister's face, but withdrew in pain the moment the flames licked her fingertips. The orange and yellow hues rippled and shimmered as though she had struck the surface of a pond the moment she touched them, and the image was lost.

As he attempted to turn and speak with her, Gaemon found that he could not move. It was as though he were held suspended by some great, unknown power. The heat from the torch became uncomfortably hot, and when he glanced at Rhaena, she remained motionless, still in the process of withdrawing her hand from the torchlight.

It was then that he saw that the flames had changed their images. The fires expanded until they had filled his entire vision, and shadows writhed in the corners of his eyes. A disembodied voice composed of crackling infernos and blowing smoke arose from their depths. Gaemon Waters, son of Dragons. There is much and more that the flames can show you. A servant of fire and shadow need not limit themselves so. A series of images assailed him, their scorching heat burrowing into the inner reaches of his mind.

… bloody curtains stirred the night air, and a woman's scream pierced his ears...

… two krakens struggled in a sea as black as pitch, whilst carrion birds soared above…

… a falcon fell from the sky, its heart pierced by three arrows...

… under the cover of stars, a faceless knight crowned a dragon that hatched from an egg of purple, gold, and green…

… a falling star fell across fields and orchards of green, and everywhere its light touched burst into flame...

… and a sea filled with corpses and as red as blood churned as seahorses danced upon its waves, as a burning heart rose in place of the sun…

The images grew more intense and more frequent, until finally the light became so blinding that Gaemon could see no more.

He awoke in the chamber having collapsed to the floor, the torch he had held spent and blackened beside him. Rhaena knelt beside him, eyeing him concernedly. Taking his hand, she spoke. "Who taught you such things, Gaemon?"

He blinked, his eyes still sensitive to the torchlight. Still shaken, he responded. "I'm not so certain anymore."

His dreams had been troubled for the next few nights. Ghosts and shadows circled about him, offering glimpses of the past and what might be in the future. Gaemon had returned to training in the fields below Duskendale with vigor, lashing out at his fears with Dark Sister's rippling steel. Somehow sending the raven to King's Landing had left him even less certain of the future. The silence from the enemy was deafening. Despite fighting foes with far more experience, Gaemon could tell that he had improved over the last several months. With the basics from Ser Lorent Marbrand to support him, he was slowly learning the finer points of swordplay under the exacting instruction of men such as Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Tom Flowers, and Ser Morgon Banefort. He trained to the point of exhaustion each day, retreating only after his muscles burned and mind cried out for slumber. Old faces and new arrived to watch his bouts, and it was not uncommon for the grey eyes of Lord Cregan to be upon him, nor the jovial and clever ones of Lord Stanton Piper.

On the morning of the third day after he had spoken with the flames, he found himself stepping into the ring with the younger son of the Lord of Riverrun. Lord Alan had recommended the Young Trout as an opponent after Gaemon had finally managed to duel Ser Morgon to a standstill. Gaemon had initially been nervous; the Tully lad had proven himself a vicious fighter with a strong desire to prove himself. He had chided himself quickly at the thought, however. If I prove nervous to face foes in the ring, how will I fare against them in the open field?

His opponent stepped over the wooden posts that marked the outer limits of the ring, pacing in anticipation and swinging his blade to warm his muscles. Both Tully brothers had great manes of blue and red horsehair that ran down the back of their helms, and Oscar had ensured his were fully cleaned for their duel. When offered a shield by an attendant, the Tully waved it away. Gaemon grinned beneath his black plate. He is wise. He knows full-well that oak is only a hindrance when facing Valyrian steel. Gaemon had also forgone the use of a shield, preferring to master the use of Dark Sister against an enemy fully clad in plate. Even Valyrian steel cannot hack through castle-forged steel, but it can bite through mail and leather surely enough, always eager to find the skin and bone beneath. This fight was to be all about finding and exploiting the gaps in his enemy's plate.

With the sounding of a battlehorn, their duel began. The lad from Riverrun exploded into motion, crossing the distance between them quickly and subjecting him to a flurry of blows; each was aimed expertly at finding gaps in Gaemon's swordplay. Gaemon wove a steel web with Dark Sister, taking advantage of its absurdly light weight to move it quickly to counter each strike. Slowly but surely he was pushed back towards the edge of the ring and disqualification. Planting his feet, he brought Dark Sister before him and locking himself opposite the Tully warrior. For a moment, they strained against one another, steel screeching and grinding as the blades locked. Gritting his teeth, Gaemon twisted his blade, using the the golden flames of its crossguard as leverage to twist Oscar's blade slowly out of his hands. His opponent resisted, but as he loosened his grip to readjust his hold, Gaemon lunged, seizing its handle with his own off-hand and wrenching it upwards and outwards from his grasp. The blade sailed through the air, landing several feet behind him. Almost instantaneously his opponent reacted, smashing his helmeted head against Gaemon's own and sending him backwards, eyes watering and head spinning.

There was barely any time to recover before the enemy was upon him, raining blows down with his gaunleted fists. Gaemon struck back, throwing his weight into Oscar and sending him staggering. Turning Dark Sister in his hands, he gripped the blade along its length, making certain his hold was firm, before slamming its crossguard down upon the Tully boy's helm. After the second crash sent the boy to a knee, the horn blew again, seeking to avoid any true damage to either combatant.

"Well-fought, Ser Gaemon!" Ser Alyn's voice sounded above the general cacophony of the onlookers. The boy-admiral grinned at him from beneath an impressive bearskin cloak, clasped at the neck with a shining seahorse.

Gaemon opened the visor of his helmet, offering a smile as recognition. As he stepped outside of the ring of stakes, squires that stood in attendance swarmed about, unclasping the many ties that held his plate to his form. As they removed his armor, the younger Velaryon brother moved forwards to speak with him.

"I was told that I could find you at the sparring rings." As Alyn spoke, he lifted a sword from where it had been placed in a barrel alongside many others. Giving it a few test swings, he smiled. "It seems my informants were correct."

Gaemon nodded. "I pray to the Seven above that you were not too delayed in your search, Ser."

Alyn chuckled. "Save your prayers, Ser Gaemon. I enjoy my walks within this city of tents. It seems that encamped armies never lack for diversions. Why, only a few moments ago I found myself embroiled in a fierce game of dice with a man-at-arms from Wintertown. I could scarcely believe my ears when he informed me that in all his thirty years, he had not once seen the sea til a few months past, when he rode with Lord Cerwyn to secure Saltpans."

A squire undid the final few straps behind his knee, allowing Gaemon to be fully freed from the black plate that had shielded him from Oscar Tully. He donned his tabard and black wolfskin pelt, glad for their warmth against the biting cold. "I can only wonder at the vastness of the North, Ser Alyn. As you know, for most of my life my world was only as large as Dragonstone. To think that the North is almost as large as all the other realms combined is nearly incomprehensible. I suppose then that it does not shock me overly much that your acquaintance had never seen the sea or smelt its salt."

Alyn nodded, placing the sword back amongst its brethren. "Now that you've been freed of your protective shackles, would you care to join me for a pint of ale? I was hoping to have a few words with you."

Gaemon gave his assent, and soon they found themselves slowly advancing through the well-ordered rows of tents that had sprung up in the days since Duskendale's capitulation. Smithies, fletchers, tanners, weavers, pot-shops, and impromptu brothels had all gathered to the great host as well, and he had even heard of a few bands of mummers performing for the soldiers in the cold winter nights by torchlight. An army is a living, breathing community of its own. He frowned slightly. But it is more locust than anything else. Even with the influx of supplies, many still grumbled at the lack of foodstuffs. The land was simply stripped bare, unable to offer any more of its fruits to those who still walked it. He and his companion eventually made it through Duskendale's gatehouse, navigating its narrow cobblestone streets, past inns and taverns and small manses whose capacities were stretched to the breaking point by the knights and Lords that had followed their commander's calls to war. Eventually, Alyn motioned for them to stop under a sign that read The Clawmen's Rest. Pushing the door aside, they entered the tavern, which smelled of pipesmoke, stale ale, and the salt of the sea. Gaemon drew his coin purse, placing four coppers in front of the bartender, a heavyset man whose lips bore the characteristic blood red stains of sourleaf.

Alyn had already sat at a table in the back of the establishment, and as Gaemon placed two cracked mugs brimming with ale before him, he smiled. "The next round will be on me."

Gaemon sipped his ale. The characteristic taste of hops was pervasive. "So enlighten me, Ser Alyn. What brings us to this forgotten inn. Were you yearning for Hull?"

Alyn shrugged. "I will always yearn for Hull. The years I spent underfoot whilst my mother ran her shipping business were amongst the happiest of my life. Alas, I did not bring you here to reminisce." He waved his hand, signalling for two men to join them from where they had been seated at another table. The newcomers sat to Alyn's right hand, and he introduced them each as they sat down. "Gaemon Waters, you sit in the esteemed company of Drako and Moredo Rogare, scions of one of the most ancient and honored families of Lys. They have come on the behalf of their father Lysandro, known as the Magnificent."

Gaemon studied the two men, noting their pale white hair and violet eyes. Drako, the elder brother, was a thin, wiry man who sported a wispy white mustache, whilst Moredo was heavily muscled, his broad shoulders evident from beneath his cloak. "What brings the two of them here, to meet with us?"

Alyn motioned for them to speak. After conferring to one another in what Gaemon assumed to be the liquid, flowery tongue of the Lyseni, Drako Rogare replied in common: "the Narrow Sea roils and froths, and will soon run red with blood. A storm is coming, and soon our Triarchy will no longer be able to contain it. The Conclave of Magisters is eager to… how do you say… steal a march… on the snakes of Tyrosh and manticores of Myr."

Gaemon crossed his arms, leaning back on his chair. "Stealing a march is well and good. But I fail to see why you have asked for me. I swore oaths to uphold the succession of my Queen and her heirs. I cannot become entangled in the woes of Lys."

Drako spoke several words to his brother, who nodded, before responding. "We have no intention of asking you to break your oaths, Ser Gaemon. We had hoped to help you fulfill them instead."

Gaemon raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Drako smiled, his lips pressing thin and the blood draining from them. "My father is a man of great ability, but his greatest gift has been his ability to amass wealth. Even now, the halls of the Iron Bank are awash with jealous whispers, for they fear our family's bank will supplant them and their coveted status." Absent-mindedly, he withdrew an oval shaped coin which depicted a nude woman, and proceeded to make it dance upon his knuckles. "We would offer you money, that you might feed your army and reclaim your Queen's throne. But beyond that, Rogare gold can ensure that you keep it."

Gaemon watched the coin dance. "If you meant to offer money, you would have had a better opportunity had you spoken with Ser Isembard Arryn. He is attending to the matter of financing our army." He sighed. "But I imagine you knew that already. So tell me, what really brings House Rogare to Westeros? You have no stake in our war. If anything, Valyria's Daughters stand to profit from our misery, and our empty granaries."

Both Rogares grew grim. Drako finally spoke. "I see you have little patience for the art of negotiation. Better then that I speak no pleasantries." He steepled his fingers, and the nude woman stopped her dance, disappearing down fine lace sleeves. "It has been nearly three hundred years since dragons have soared in the azure skies of Essos. Despite our best efforts, it seems the Targaryens alone have managed to keep the fires of Valyria alive. In the wars to come, a dragon could make all the difference in deciding which of the combatants emerges victorious." His eyes settled firmly on Gaemon. "We have heard much and more of you, Gaemon Waters. You profess to be the natural son of the Rogue Prince who gave us so much trouble in the Stepstones. When only a handful of our warships returned from the raid on the Gullet, we were told it was the work of Dragonseeds who descended from the sky to wreak fiery havoc on our warships. Yet when several of those very same seeds betrayed their Queen, you led the remainder to punish them for their treason. This war has been the death of many dragons and their riders, yet you have emerged unscathed, commanding one of the largest dragons that still live." His eyes came to rest on the black three-headed dragon that rested upon Gaemon's chest. "I can only imagine that you have wondered what awaits you at this war's end, Gaemon Waters. Your Queen might have made you a knight, but she is gone, and with winter's grip falling across the land the crown will be loathe to part with lands and titles that could be sold to pay its debts. I know not whether they have promised you great rewards, but words are wind, after all. House Rogare can be a true friend to you. Our gold can open doors, build castles, and buy beautiful things to put inside them. All we ask in return is that you remember your friends, for they too have many enemies."

Two sets of lilac eyes lay upon him now, and Gaemon could not help feel as though he was in the presence of two milk-white serpents. "You would have me fight your wars? Even after I burned hundreds of your own men?"

Drako Rogare laughed, a mirthless hiss. "Those men were not Rogare men. They were the lackeys of Haen, Pendaerys, Dagareon, and Orthys. We knew betterthan to try and beard the dragon in its den. My father aspires to bring all of Lys under his enlightened rule. The Magisters need his gold, for they lie awake at night, terrified that the Tyroshi and Myrmen will come for them and their wealth. Think on what we offer, and know that we would propose the same to your fellow seeds. When your war ends, consider our offer. We would grant you the wealth of Kings if you humbled our enemies and taught them to fear dragons as they once did."

Gaemon sat silently, contemplating their words. What does await me at the war's end? A few acres upon Driftmark, with no seat to call my own? I can offer little in the way of wealth to Baela. Maegor faces the same ignominy. He stood, and offered his hand. "I cannot swear any oaths, or make any promises, but know that I will consider your offer with the utmost severity."

Both brothers smiled, eerily. Drako spoke as he shook his hand. "In the Free Cities, it is common to utter the words valar morghulis and valar dohaeris, for they promise that all men must die and that all men must serve. The Valyrians might be gone, but there is truth in their words. I however, prefer the phrase valar ammaes nephas, for indeed: all men need friends." Standing, he raised his hood above his head to obscure himself. "My father will be most pleased to hear what we have discussed today." Humor and something else danced behind his eyes. "As will my sweet sister Larra. She has always hoped to see a dragon."

Standing, the two brothers left the tavern, a sudden snow flurry obscuring their departure. Alyn watched him, the everpresent humor gone from his features. Gaemon spoke first. "What was it that they offered you?"

Taking a deep sip from his tankard, Alyn replied: "When my grandfather left for the capital months ago, he promised to allow me to pick seven ships from his fleet, so that I might have the means to make my own fortune after my brother inherits Driftmark. He asked whether I might like to have some merchant cogs like his own Sea Snake. I said I didn't know. Now, I think I might take seven war galleys, that I might fight for gold and my own place in the world. The Rogares have offered me an opportunity to do so."

Gaemon nodded. "Odd, that we might serve the men who we fought once before."

Alyn shrugged. "In the Free Cities, it seems that men have shorter memories."

Finishing his ale, Gaemon stood. "I will need to discuss this with others."

The boy-admiral looked him in the eyes. "Tell only those who you trust the most. Even the Lords loyal to our fallen Queen would not need much reason to believe you a traitor. We bastards are cursed from birth to be mistrusted."

Gaemon nodded. Cursed indeed. Cursed by a sin that was not our own.

Gaemon walked silently under the boughs of the oaks and elms that made up the majority of the Dun Fort's Godswood. The winter wind whistled above him, causing the trees to speak in the creaks and groans of a tongue long lost. He had sent for Maegor, knowing that few would venture into the Godswood with so much else to do. It offered a privacy that the cramped conditions of Duskendale were hard-pressed to provide elsewhere.

A light snow had fallen, dusting the earth and fallen leaves with a shining adornment. The gnarled roots of ancient trees treacherously lurked just beneath its surface, threatening to trip the unwary. As he tread deeper into the wood, he heard the distant song of a bowstring. Curious, he followed the rhythmic sound of arrows soaring through the air until he came upon the clearing in which the great weirwood of House Darklyn sat, its morose carven face staring forebodingly across a deep black pool that gathered amongst its bone-white roots. A girl stood in the same clearing, firing arrow after arrow into a straw figure that had been tied with a rope to a nearby oak. The girl wore a red riding dress, atop which sat a mantle of sheepskin to ward off the cold. Long, curly black locks fell from her head, dark as midnight. The sleeves of her dress sported a murder of ravens, forever kept from flying by the threads that illustrated them. When Gaemon stepped into the clearing, a twig snapped beneath his foot, alerting the woman to his presence. Placing the arrow she had drawn back into its quiver, she turned to face him with a face that spoke of tears recently shed.

Concerned, he stepped down into the mossy turf of the hollow, raising his hands to indicate he had meant no intrusion or disrespect.

Eyeing the straw man, he could not help but notice he had been riddled with arrows in a manner that belied the utmost accuracy. The girl had evidently placed each shot carefully, starting with two for the eyes and then proceeding down the neck to the heart. Each of its arms were held in place by three darts, and the same held for the legs.

Smiling faintly, he spoke: "I have met few men in my time that could match your skill, my Lady."

Brushing her hair aside, the woman nodded in thanks. "I only knew one man who could match me with the bow. He's dead now."

Gaemon sat on one of the gnarled roots of the great weirwood. "You have my condolences. Did he fight in the war?"

The woman stood, watching him guardedly. "He fell at Tumbleton, or so they say. But before he left, he taught me everything I know."

His heart sank. "He fought bravely, then. I am ashamed that I could only avenge him."

Sitting across from him, the woman held her bow gingerly. "There's been a lot of that, of late. Vengeance, I mean. Seems to me it just gets more people killed. Both of my brothers swore vengeance, and they're both gone. I put an arrow in the eye of Amos Bracken the day he killed my brother Sam, but Sam stayed dead. I wonder now if Amos thought he was avenging someone that day too."

He tapped the pouch that still hung around his neck, lighter now that it held no dragon. "What are we to do, if not fight for what is right? In all the battles I've fought, I've burned men alive. I need to believe they died for justice."

The girl nodded. "I suppose we all need to believe that. Otherwise, what was it all for? Ben, my nephew, insisted that our House march to war once more. I came too, having sworn to put an arrow through the Prince Aemond's good eye for all those people he burned. But Aemond's gone now, and my arrows have no more use."

Gaemon looked her in the eye. "The Kinslayer is gone, and good riddance. I say we fight this war in the hopes that we find something better waiting on the other side."

Brown eyes stared back, contemplating. "I hope there is something better." Suddenly, she laughed, a heartbroken laugh that sounded half a sob. "I am certainly terrible company today, aren't I? Here I am, meeting one of the dragonseeds I've heard so much about, and all I can do is mope!"

Gaemon chuckled. "Far be it from me to ask you to veil your pain. I know of you, too, Lady Alysanne. Talk of 'Black Aly' has spread far and wide. But tell me, what could have wounded a brave woman such as yourself so deeply?"

The Lady before him stared blankly into the black pond between them, its depths unknowable. "I… I had to say goodbye to someone I held quite dear."

He cocked his head. "My apologies, my Lady. I knew not that House Blackwood had lost another of its number."

She sighed. "They're not dead, Ser Gaemon. Our love just couldn't be, is all. At least that is the way they saw it. Wouldn't be proper, they thought."

He could not help but sympathise with the girl. I understand more than you realize. "Forgive me for sounding like a singer who has only just discovered the majesty of Jonquil and Florian, but in my mind, love is worth fighting for."

She raised her brown eyes back to meet his. "Aye, Ser Gaemon. I agree. Love is worth fighting for. But it's no use fighting the one you love over it if it's gone."

The wind whistled through the blood-red branches of the weirwood above them. Lady Alysanne looked up. "I came here to see if Robb or Sam would speak with me. I thought they might know what to do to mend the wounds upon my heart. Mayhaps they spoke just now."

Gaemon looked up, watching the branches bend and sway in the winter winds above them. They did almost seem to groan and whisper in response. He sat in silence for a moment, listening for any words he could understand.

After the wind died down, the girl spoke. "If that was my brothers, they speak with the voices of the Gods now. I can no longer understand them." Smiling sadly, she stood. "But I know what they would say regardless. They'd tell me to get off of my arse and stop weeping like a fool girl."

Gaemon couldn't help but laugh. "That does sound like all the older brothers I've known."

He stood, and helped her collect her arrows from her target. Handing them over, he offered a quiet smile. "A wise old innkeep used to tell me that time heals all wounds, Lady Alysanne. I hope that it will prove such a balm for you."

The daughter of House Blackwood bowed her head. "I hope so too, Gaemon Waters. I hope so too. Mayhaps we shall be granted opportunities to speak again, that I might take advantage of more of that innkeep's wisdom."

With that, she turned and walked quietly from the clearing. Within moments the dark haired girl had disappeared entirely under the swaying canopy of the Godswood. Gaemon returned to his seat amongst the roots of the weirwood, listening to the creaking and whispering of its branches. In time, he heard the tread of footfalls in the shadowed paths beneath the trees, and saw Maegor striding from deep within the trees. His tall form, wrapped in bearskin and mail underneath, made him appear akin to one of the First Men appearing from the furthest reaches of history. Standing at six-and-a-half feet tall, Maegor had a full three inches on Gaemon, and stood a head taller than many of the lords they frequently dined and strategized with. Only Lord Cregan could claim to be close in height. Many took it to lend credence to his claims of descent from Maegor the Cruel, but Gaemon himself had always found it difficult to believe his kindhearted friend could truly possess the blood of such a man.

Seating himself where Lady Alysanne had sat minutes before, Maegor looked inquisitively at Gaemon, clearly curious about why he had been summoned. Gaemon waited a moment, enjoying the quiet of the Godswood and the presence of his oldest friend. Maegor too, seemed to understand, leaning against the great roots that surrounded him and watching the ruby leaves above sway. The sun was setting, its rays carrying a muted warmth akin to the memory of a lover's touch.

Gaemon finally spoke. "I have asked you here because I trust that we are men of honor, and that we count one another as friends." He sighed, his breath steaming in the night chill. "This war will soon end, one way or another. While it has consumed our lives for the better part of two years, it will be soon left to each of us to determine our paths and futures when we no longer have a cause to fight for." He blinked, and as he did so, the faces of two men surfaced in his mind's eye. One with hair of white and eyes of hazel, and the other with hair of pale blonde and eyes as blue as the sea. "When we slew the betrayers at Tumbleton, we did so to punish them for their treason. While I could never condone their actions, I believe that within them they carried a kernel of something worth consideration. Ulf the Sot and Hugh Hammer saw what I did not. They saw that the moment this war ended we would become liabilities, not assets. I fear that the three of us represent a threat quite unlike anything that has faced House Targaryen before: dragonriders who do not possess their name or their allegiances. While we are loyal, we all will be hounded by suspicion for all our lives. Therefore we cannot afford to let discord come between us. I have asked you here so that we might discuss what comes next, when the swords are sheathed and the bodies buried."

His oldest friend eyed him for a moment before speaking. "Nettles saw this too, Gaemon. She knew better than most that the love of lords is fickle. She saw the danger yet could do naught but run when she was betrayed by the very Queen she had killed for."

Gaemon nodded. "I have not forgotten Nettles, my friend. I swore long ago that I would find her, and make things right once we've won Prince Aegon his throne. But you and I must take care as well." He grabbed a handful of earth, letting it fall between his fingers. "I had half a mind to have Ser Addam join us tonight. But I feared that he might not truly understand what lies ahead of the two of us. Lord Corlys has ensured that Addam and Alyn will want for nothing at the war's conclusion, and will follow him as Lord and heir. They will not have to struggle and claw their way into wealth, power, and rewards. But we will. I fear that promises of further recompense will be forgotten in the war's aftermath, Maegor. I fear that knives in the dark and poison in our cups may await us. We will soon need powerful friends, and will need to amass wealth and power of our own to ensure our safety."

Maegor's face grew grim at the prospect. "You truly believe that our King will be so ungrateful? What of the Prince Viserys, who we rescued? What of Lady Rhaena?"

Gaemon smiled sadly. "They will remain our friends. But the Crown's power will like as not lie in the hands of others for a time before it truly becomes Aegon's. There will be other Lords in power who fear and detest us. Lady Baela remains the only true-blooded Targaryen who commands a dragon large enough to ride. The Usurper will soon be dead, and the rest of the legitimate Targaryens are too young or too mad to resist us if we choose to make mischief. Many will prefer us dead than potentially quarrelsome." Gaemon ran a hand through his hair, thinking of 'friends' across the sea. "Earlier Ser Alyn introduced me to envoys of the Rogares of Lys, Maegor. They promised gold in return for our support in their wars to come. Gold enough that we would never want for it again."

As he spoke, it seemed to Gaemon that exhaustion spread across Maegor's features. He sat in silence for a moment before speaking: "I grow tired of war and death, Gaemon. The blood and hatred has threatened to ruin what I once was. I fear that if I submerge myself in it without abatement that I will someday be consumed by it." He turned to look Gaemon in the eyes. "You are my oldest friend, Gaemon, and you can always count upon me. But while I will support you wherever your endeavors take you, I may not follow. You claim we will have enemies in court when this is all over. We have enemies now. Perhaps… perhaps if we show ourselves truly loyal, and end this war for good, we can find a way to rise high within the realm without resorting to Fire and Blood."

Gaemon sat in silence, contemplating his friend's words. "Perhaps it will be so, Maegor." He desperately wished to believe him. "Just know that options exist for you, my friend."

To his relief, Maegor nodded. In the distance, bells began to sound. Footsteps crashed in the undergrowth. As they both rose, Gaemon was concerned that Duskendale, against all odds, was under attack by the Usurper. Instead, Addam burst from the undergrowth, panting heavily, purple eyes jubilant.

"Sers!" He exclaimed. "A delegation has arrived. The Usurper is dead. His lords beg for peace!"