Chapter 58: The Great Fork

There was a time where all Gelina wished was to bury her axe in the skull of the dragonrider of Winterfell. The silver-haired demoness astride the winged beast, raining death of fire through the blizzard that darkened the ground surrounding the Fist of the First Men. A death that killed her men and women, her warriors and spearwives. The ones that didn't die a fiery death had fled.

Not her, for she was captured. Vowing vengeance at the smug look upon the graceful Princess - nothing like a true warrior, as elegant as any imagined southern lady as Gelina could counter. A vengeance that would make the Targaryen scream and cry for mercy.

Gelina obtained what she wanted, her lips curled victoriously. But they were not what she intended.

Not that the former chieftess cared one whit in the heat of the moment.

Sweat covered the pale skin of Princess Rhaenys of Winterfell, all of it bared before the towering figure of Gelina. Cries not of pain but of ecstasy left her warbling mouth. Grinning down as she bucked her hips, Gelina suddenly felt a hand reaching up to grab her neck, pulling her down to level with Rhaenys. Their lips met in a passionate kiss. Gelina moaned and lost herself in the kiss, their tongues dancing against each other in a loving display of intimacy.

The wee hours of the morning, a morning of battle. Most were asleep, desperate to get some rest out of the darkness. But for the two women, they could sleep when they were dead. A different desperation filled Rhaenys and Gelina was happy to oblige. They hadn't slept a wink since retiring to Rhaenys' tent - their tent in all but name, as it had been for many weeks.

Legs locked together, Gelina relentlessly ground against the flood between Rhaenys' legs, her own golden tufts of hair scraping against the skin shaved bare. She could feel Rhaenys shudder with each movement, bucking harder and meeting her with ardor. Skilled ardor, as if they were something shattered that fit together so completely. Gelina was nothing like herself, the wild chieftess completely absorbed by Rhaenys, eager to demonstrate her unrivaled passion.

She gasped into Rhaenys' mouth as the Princess grabbed her arse. Urging her motions to speed up. Scrape harder.

Was it madness that Gelina desired to fill the void left in by the deceased Lord Stark? Aye, mayhaps it was, but she was beyond caring. Rhaenys needed someone to give her pleasure, to allow her to forget her pain. A balm to her sorrows and agony, and such a balm was found in Gelina's skilled hands that caressed her breasts and slid through her cunt. In the tongue that kissed her so fiercely and swiped through her heat. In the warm cunt that simply was a joy to devour.

At least Gelina was sure it was a joy for Rhaenys, considering her frenzied ardor in their couplings.

And to tell the truth, Gelina loved every moment of it. She loved dominating her, and being dominated when simple ecstasy wasn't enough for the powerful dragon needing to devour and conquer. Was it some weakness that made her quiver in delight as Rhaenys broke the kiss and started blazing a trail to her breasts? Sucking desperately at her nipple that made Gelina's jaw open in a silent gasp?

No. Rhaenys dazzled her. It was obsession, not weakness… and damn the old gods to say perhaps affection…

Gelina shoved those thoughts aside as she felt Rhaenys scream against her breast, sucking harder. A trigger for her own flood, cunts spasming and leaking out the evidence of their shared lust.

Collapsing on the Princess, Gelina breathed hard. Beating hearts against each other, breasts mashed together, as they cuddled in the wee light of dawn. It was her that broke the silence. "Best we should git' up now."

Rhaenys nodded breathlessly. "Feel… better?"

A shrug. "You?"

Rhaenys shook her head. "Not nervous, but still empty."

The words caused a tinge of sadness to fill Gelina's mind. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

They dressed in silence, the wildling helping her Princess dress in her armor before Rhaenys - surprisingly - did the same for her. As if they were true lovers rather than just a means to an end. But the moment was over soon, the outside air sobering her from her affectionate musings as the din of battle fast approached.

"Red Harren's gathered at the bottom of the hill," Lord Bolton immediately stated, his face grim. "They outnumber us at least three to two, mayhaps two to one."

"Our position is close to unassailable," replied Rhaenys. "Gather the forces in a shield wall, yours wherever their horse faces."

He nodded. "Aye, your Grace."

"Gelina, stick with me." Gelina didn't disagree. Rhaenys, when not mounted atop her dragon, needed a bodyguard. Axe in hand, the fierce wildling would serve the role well.

Deployed below them were the enemy, and they were as vast as Bolton suggested, armor glinting in the morning sun. Especially as a single rider rode out. "What's that fuck doin?"

"Seeking a challenge of single combat," Rhaenys replied. "Go, you're my champion."

Shrugging, Gelina relished a bit of combat to start the day. She mounted her horse and rode out into the field, letting the laughs and jeers from the opposing forces steel her. As the enemy knight held his lance, she dismounted. Readying her axe as he charged.

It wasn't even a contest. Strong but also swift and agile - a benefit to her feminine wiles - she dodged the lance and hacked at the cunt's leg. He fell from his horse, screaming all until she brought the axe down on his face.

Spitting at the foot of the corpse, Gelina was about to turn and head back to her horse when another rider trotted out from the lines of the Faith. From the distance his voice was muffled, but she could tell it was loud and irate. Profanities being spewed as the lines of men before him joined in the hurling of insults upon… she assumed both herself and the Targaryens she fought for.

Nonchalantly she rolled her shoulders, working out the kinks in her muscles and joints. If another duel of single combat was what these fucks wanted, she'd give it to them.

The rider approached and soon dismounted himself, ready to engage on foot rather than stay mounted as the first one did. Upon closer contact… this shit was completely different. Clad head to toe in plate armor and surcoat, not a single inch of skin was exposed. That wasn't unusual in the knights she'd seen, but the armor was gaudily decorated with a rainbow of colors. These colors were reflected by an array of crystal spikes at the top of his helm, while his long shield bore a similarly colorful sigil of a sword.

Gelina couldn't help but chuckle. "What er' ye? Some kinda' dandy?"

One didn't need to see the man's face to know her words enraged him. "Savage wildling! Today you die for your impertinence before the Seven and their champions!"

Blowing an errant lock of hair from her eye with a simple puff, Gelina hefted her axe. "Only seven ye' see are seven cocks in yer' arse. All the pretty colors make ye' feel lick' prancin'?" Oh, if she was gonna fight then she was gonna enjoy herself.

Bellowing, the knight charged, to which Gelina countered with a charge of his own. Swift, she closed before he could swing and bashed her axehead into his center mass, sending him reeling. A hack shattered his shield as if it were kindling.

Grinning, Gelina halted and leapt back, putting distance between herself and his wild swings. She wasn't as strong as this fuck, even if she was taller, and had to play it carefully.

She was stronger than she looked, so wished to keep that hidden.

Snarling at his failing to make an easy kill, the knight gripped his blade in two hands and advanced - less frenzied this time, carefully trotting forward and swinging at Gelina. She parried it barely, shoving it down with her axe. Hers was not a graceful weapon, and the opening was closed by quick swordsplay on his part. He was good.

But she was better.

Nimbly, Gelina circled out of the way of each of his thrusts, then shoving one back with all the force she could she crouched. Sweeping around and severing both his legs - the plate protecting them hacked through as if paper. He fell with screams, ones very unmanly. Gelina quickly yanked out his helm, revealing an ugly face.

Without ceremony, she swung down and beheaded him.

Carrying the head of her quarry in hand, blood dripping onto the ground and on the hide of her steed, Gelina suddenly found herself immersed in cheers from the northmen and rivermen. They exulted her, southerners shouting their praise for a wildling.

Oh, how greatly things changed, she couldn't help but think with quite a bit of smug irony.

Stark horsemen closing around her, one of them snatched the head and soon it was adorning a pike - hoisted high in the sky. It was marvelous to see her triumph displayed before friend and foe alike, but the beaming smile on Rhaenys' face was an even greater joy. "Gel," she remarked, using a pet name for the first time… Gelina found she liked it. "Do you know who that is?"

A shrug. "Some buggerer cunt, I 'spose." He wore a rainbow, how much more of a dandy could he be?

Another laugh, a merry one. Gelina loved seeing Rhaenys so happy. "That's Horys Hill, Captain of the Fairmarket chapter of the Warrior's Sons."

"That important?"

"Would be like me killing you North of the Wall."

Hmmmm… That made sense. "He went down like a fuckin' girl."

Rhaenys beamed. "No doubt, no doubt." Had they been alone, she was sure the Princess would've kissed her in celebration. The first bit of her revenge against the cunts that killed her husband, even if she had it through Gelina.

Gelina felt pride in herself that she was the one who delivered that first bit of vengeance.

Hornblows suddenly echoed across the landscape displayed below them on the ridge. "They're gettin' ready for battle, your Grace," said Lord Frey, trotting up on his horse. "Shall we match them with a shield wall?"

"Just pelt 'em with arrows. They can't fuckin' take this ground." Gelina was met with silence. "Princess?"

Rhaenys didn't respond, instead gazing back at her dragon. Brows furrowed and lips pursed as she did often with Arrax, locked in one of those strange conversations Gelina didn't understand. But Rhaenys rode a dragon, so she didn't question it. "No." Rhaenys turned back to them. "Full attack. Charge down the hill."

Even Gelina was surprised. "But we're outnumbered," Lord Frey cautioned.

"Princess… I'm as eager for the fight as anyone, but…"

"Just do it." Rhaenys gestured to the signaller. "Sound the charge." She turned to Gelina. "You lead it. And come back alive or I'll journey to the icy hells and kill you all over again."

Gelina smirked. "Who said the hells were ice?" She hefted her axe. "Alright ye' cunts! Ye' wanna live forever! Forward!"

For the first time, the southern fucks listened to her commands.


Rain. Seven Hells, did it have to rain?

The morning had been partly cloudy, but just as Gelina had dueled so expertly with the two champions Red Harren, Rupert Falwell, and the Tullys sent out to challenge her did the clouds blow out from the southeast and turn the field into a muddy slog. Used to worse, the Bolton phalanx trudged inexorably forward, while the Rivermen among her were unable to keep up. Baiting the army of the Faith to advance as well.

Leaving them sitting ducks, but the rain threatened to undo that. "Can you fly, Arrax?" she asked her dragon, stroking the back of his neck.

Arrax let out a loud grumble. 'Muna… I can fly but my fire is weakened.'

Rhaenys frowned. Arrax had grown big but was nowhere near the might of Balerion, Vhagar, or even her late brother's Quicksilver. He was more a swift beast, large enough to hold his own but relying more on speed and agility. Perfect for northern blizzards, but rain was not conducive to dragonfire.

Much like her namesake at the Last Storm - the rain and mud that so hampered Argilac the Arrogant had also made it possible for him to actually attack the Targaryen army.

She'd have to make do. "Soves," Rhaenys ordered. She was a dragon, and dragons were bold. Roaring, Arrax spread his wings and beat them forward propelling him into the air as the battlefield spread out in her vision.

What she saw was chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

Even as the duels were fought, a force of horsemen on the side of the Faith were far ahead of the other Rivermen knights under the command of the Tullys. Perhaps it had been an ambush force, or overeager zealots charging forth, but attacking the Mootons on her left they did. Rhaenys almost urged Arrax to dive on them, but the premature advance was lacking support from the main enemy horse trying to advance through the mud, and Lord Mooton was very easily pushing them back.

A good start, but the battle was nowhere near over. In the center the Boltons and Freys made contact with the bulk of the enemy, clustered around the Warrior's Sons and remarkably disciplined Poor Fellows. Watching her line shudder and be violently shoved back, Rhaenys clicked her tongue. "Dive!"

Arrax shrieked, beat his wings, and then folded them behind him as he dove. The Princess of Winterfell making herself known on the battlefield for the first time since the Fist of the First Men.

"Dracarys!" The order came as soon as she could pick out the individual enemy soldiers even as the rain pelted her face, hair matting to her forehead and her cloak and armor soaked through. Arrax's maw opened and - while lessened - his dragonfire emerged fiercely and doused everything in his path. Dozens, mayhaps hundreds were touched by the flames, scores felled in screaming heaps or felled still. The lines disrupted, Frey banners hurling themselves through with wild abandon.

Arrows winked up after her, hundreds of archers behind the lines of the Poor Fellows loosing their projectiles. Darts and bolts launched from crossbows and larger ballistae. Some were spears akin to that which killed her late muna and namesake, others… Arrax, trying to regain altitude, shrieked in pain as what appeared to be a grappling hook tied to a thick rope caught against the leathery hide of her wing membrane at the base of her arm. There were several shooting past, but only one scored a hit.

The shriek turned into a roar as Rhaenys found herself lurching in midair. Below, a winch tried to pull them down, Arrax's flapping growing frenzied to try and remain upright. It worked for a moment, yanking at the winch, but the ballista was heavy and Arrax not the castle-spanning wingspan monster Balerion was and Vhagar was growing to become.

Rhaenys drew her sword, hacking at the rope. Her hand gripped the saddle, arms straining as Arrax flew in circles, trying to stay aloft even with the winch pulling the two of them ever earthbound. Twice… thrice… fourth time was the charm as the rope severed and Arrax lurched forward. Soaring with an alarming speed away.

Heart pounding, terror turned to rage as Rhaenys bared her teeth in a snarl. "Dive, boy! Dracarys!"

Feeling his rage, his murderous zeal, Rhaenys' eyes glowed with dragonflame as he bathed the ballista crew in fire. Screams of pain echoing loudly even over the wind. It was glorious. Fire and blood indeed.

If Arrax brought terror to the Faith - who was still holding their own even as the main ranks of horsemen engaged each other in a crash of lance and steel - the earth-shattering roar of the greatest dragon seen since the Doom of Valyria would show the true meaning of fear to all. "Balerion."

At the vanguard of two thousand knights of his own, Maegor had arrived on the battlefield. Black as night, Balerion swept through the clouds like a demon from a child's tale. Shooting past the army, but not too quickly. Ensuring all could see him and his power. Banking around, slowly diving out from the high altitude…

The Faith broke. No amount of religious zeal could escape that of the Black Dread. The one that burned the great towers of Harrenhal, fires so hot that the stone melted. Some stayed, the most fanatical of the Poor Fellows and Warrior's Sons. Rhaenys swore she could make out Gelina herself dueling Rupert Falwell or someone like him next to the banner of his house. But it wouldn't be for long.

Hurling backwards, the inexorable shield lines and cavalry formations gave a wide berth for Balerion as Maegor guided him in an attack run. Flames the size of rivers simply incinerating all in their path.

Grinning, knowing that from the afterlife Brandon was content with the first of the vengeance she'd be delivering in his name, spurred Arrax on. Aiming for the fleeing Tullys, Brackens, and other Rivermen houses not willing to stand up to the Black Dread. "Dracarys!"

She would show them the mercy that Brandon was given.


Pounding his fist against his chest, Gargon Qoherys hefted the spear high in the air. Crusty flecks of dried blood fell from the neck of the severed head mounted atop it as the nephew of the current Lord of Harrenhal reveled in his bloodlust. "A toast to Red Fuckin' Harren! May he burn in the seven hells!"

While most of the keep tried to humor his excesses, this time loud and enthusiastic cheers roared out to his pronouncements. Watching from the balcony of the main keep - larger than many castles, a testament to Black Harren's own grandiose vision - Alyssa didn't blame the garrison or smallfolk of Harrenhal for their celebration. News of the disaster that befell the besieging army came quickly, leading to a massive sortie by the garrison. What detritus left by Red Harren to hold the siegeworks were slaughtered or scattered, capturing their food stocks.

Daeron, against his better judgment but himself relieved and wanting some sort of reward for his men for moonslong suffering, decreed a feast for the night. There would've been no stopping them, given the sheer intensity of their celebration below.

Hangovers would be brutal, so would the surfeit of food. Plenty of babes would be seeded and plenty of quick marriages made down the line - plenty of bastards too. Alyssa didn't begrudge them their happiness though. They deserved it.

She was sure Viserys was enjoying a night in with the maid he had gotten sweet on. A happiness she was denied. Both with the man she married and the man she loved, both unavailable to her.

Picking up a goblet of wine, one of Daeron's finest vintages that she did allow herself to enjoy on the night of the celebration, Alyssa savored the fruity taste as a knock rapped on her door. "Who is it?" She wasn't concerned with being indecent - her dress befitted a widow, even if she was still reasonably young and very beautiful.

"Lord Lucas Harroway, your Grace."

Brow rising, Alyssa made her way to the door, opening it. "Lord Lucas," she allowed, watching him bow. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Mayhaps she was feeling a bit alone and wanted someone to talk to - and yet, Lord Lucas was not someone she would've sought out if she had a choice.

His pleasant, small smile that was the hallmark of the shifty sorts of court that well hid their ambitions was one reason for her reticence. Alyssa was an expert in working her way through such courtiers and their plots. "I have not seen you on the grounds in the celebration, or in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths with Lord Daeron. Forgive me for worrying for you, your Grace."

Alyssa shrugged. "Viserys is in his chambers as much as I."

"Yes, but he is not alone." While Alyssa knew that, the fact that Lord Lucas did was… disconcerting. "His celebration is private, while I wonder why it is not the truth that you celebrate?"

A simple question but one with a complicated answer. Alyssa was careful in how she phrased her reply, hoping to head off whatever plot Harroway was making while also keeping her deeper emotions close to the chest. "Celebration of what, truly, my Lord? Will this victory end this war? Will it bring my husband back? Erase the trauma of my children and myself? I do not believe it will."

Waiting for her to sit down, Lucas took his seat across from her, that smile not leaving his face. "I can only imagine the level of mourning you feel. My Alys is not dead, but her being trapped in Castamere with your son as we once were here fills me with dread."

"Another reason I cannot celebrate." Aegon was still under threat, even though he had the blood on both sides to know how to work himself out of it when the time was right. "This war will produce no winners."

"In that I disagree, your Grace." He leaned back, arms folded over his lap. "The Faith fights for their liberation, and for the same control over the Lords of Westeros as House Targaryen had. House Targaryen, when victorious for they will win, will inherit a far stronger claim over Westeros. There will be no rival center of power that can compete, I can promise you that… The only question is which branch of House Targaryen holds dominion."

She blinked. "What do you mean?" Alyssa had an idea, but wished to hear it from him explicitly.

Lucas' eyes twinkled. He saw right through her. Her Grace, the elder dowager Queen oft speaks of the affection she held for the late Queen Rhaenys. How they loved each other as sisters and lovers, both in equal esteem in the eyes of King Aegon… and yet all that those alive remember was that after Queen Rhaenys' death, King Aegon and Queen Visenya grew close. Otherwise…" He rose from his seat. "The two sons of King Aegon may as well be considered as from different families, and the wife of one leaves her family for his. Forgive me for my Andal beliefs, but I've always felt more comfortable when inheritance sticks within the family. Otherwise is just so… Dornish." He stated the last with distaste.

She rose too. "What are you saying to me, Lord Lucas? That I betray my daughter?"

He met her gaze. "No, that you support your son, who by marriage is my son as well." Lucas bowed. "Or imagine a world where Maegor rules the realm through your daughter." With that he was gone, leaving the increasingly inebriated Queen to mull on such a reality.

Come morning, as the army of the North and Riverlands marched into Harrenhal with Rhaenys at the head, Alyssa watched with herself no closer to reaching a conclusion. Rhaena was strong - she was like her, and like her grandmothers, not her father the indecisive ruler. She could stand up to Maegor… couldn't she?

A bellowing roar heralded the most familiar sight in the realm. Balerion the Black Dread… returning to Harrenhal ironically enough. But this time brought not fire and blood, the remnants of the towers breathing a sigh of relief that they would not be finished off. The great beast landed in the courtyard, folding his wings as his rider descended.

Maegor.

They locked eyes, if but a fleeting moment. Alyssa felt a thrill through her body at their meeting of gazes, and for just a second she would've broken down. Wanting to throw herself at her daughter's husband and demand he ease her hurt in the best way. To ride him, to bend over and have him pound her. She missed it, the memories growing fleeter and fleeter till all she remembered was the intensity and pleasure of it all.

Desire gave way to shame, and then gave way to realization. Alyssa was strong, and Maegor could reduce her to a quivering mess if he wanted to.

Rhaena, her beloved daughter, could suffer the same fate.


They flew low, by the twinkle of starlight and whatever moonlight cast down from the half moon above. It wasn't enough, the ground below still too dark to properly make out. Ser Gawen, Jonquil, and Jorelle gripped Dreamfyre's spines, shaking from fear and trying not to gaze out at the ground.

Rhaena felt some of that fear, but stuffed it down in favor of focus. A single shadow of a tree in the moonlight, a patch of darkness far darker than the rest indicating a hill. Dreamfyre instinctively was far better at this than she, but a rider that left all to the dragon wasn't worth their salt. Her grandmother had taught her that.

"Gods, how much longer?" Jonquil groaned.

"Don't tell me you're frightened," Rhaena quipped back, her voice loud over the wind.

Jonquil, her eyes teary from the wind, cast a snarl Rhaena's way, one that made the Princess chuckle. "Not frightened, just trying not to throw up."

She rolled her eyes. "Do it if you want, just don't get it on Dreamfyre or she'll be mad."

The dragon growled. 'She does it and I'll toss her off.'

"What? Did she say something?" Now Jonquil looked fearful. Rhaena just shook her head, swatting her mount's scaly skin.

Trying to ignore the youthful banter, Gawen suddenly pointed ahead. "There, can see the signal." A series of campfires placed at specific intervals, preplanned beforehand by raven close to Tumbleton. Fires from a keep were present in the distance, but Rhaena couldn't make it out in the darkness as anything specific.

But the signal was the signal. "Down girl," she commanded, Dreamfyre hooting and making her descent.

They hadn't skidded to a stop on the grassy field before Jonquil was on the ground, leaning on her spear. "Thank the gods I am on solid ground."

"You're embarrassing yourself." However equally afflicted Jorelle was, she was a veteran of sailing on the rough Northern seas so the discomfort was less. "Be wary of an ambush." Ser Gawen had his sword drawn in the darkness, while Rhaena kept her hand on Dark Sister's hilt. Just in case.

Turned out to be for naught. "My Queen." It was Lord Samwell Tarly, Heartsbane slung across his shoulder as he bowed. "Welcome."

She nodded. "Thank you, Lord Tarly."

His expression under the torchlight of his guard grew worrisome. "My sister…"

"She's safe," Rhaena replied. "Waited out the initial moons on Dragonstone, now safe in the Red Keep with my Queen-consort, her grace Tyanna."

"I see." Samwell simply nodded. "Thank you for keeping her safe." Already his men were depositing a steer carcass for Dreamfyre to devour. From her puff of smoke and chewing with gusto, she seemed contented enough. "Lord Rogar has arranged us with Tumbleton to the rear. Lord Roxton's army is only days away from coming into contact."

Rhaena's eyes narrowed. "Take me to Lord Rogar, and wake him up if needed." If she was to fight a battle soon, then best she prepare.

Maegor wasn't with her, so it would be her and her alone to decide this battle. Grandfather, grandmother… see me through this.