Author's Note: Happy New Year folks.
I've actually been working on this a lot of late, going back and editing the first ten chapters. I intend to do so to them all, fixing grammar and spelling and reworking a few paragraphs or sentences that, in hindsight, don't sound right. While doing so, I had a bit of inspiration and managed to put it to paper. Though not overly long, it helps us both catch up on a few world events and also really start moving the story into it's next phase. Hopefully some of you are still here to give it a whirl haha.
Also, we broke the 2,500 follower mark! Thank you all for the continued support, even though this has taken literal years.
I hope you enjoy and review this update.
It was chaos, but an organized chaos.
Damon had come North well over half a year ago, though it seemed to him like a lifetime had passed. He'd been at or near the Wall for much of that time, originally there to battle wildlings and now to battle death itself. He and his commanders had been anticipating that confrontation and planning for it for moons. Now that it was here, the army knew what to do and how to do it.
But there are thousands of men from both sides, and even if they are every single one moving with a purpose, that proves hectic.
Damon and his contingent of twenty bulled through the mass easily enough as southerners and northerners alike formed lines of march, commanded by their knights and lords. This exact moment had been discussed so often in the war council that there was no need for orders from Damon himself, and the southern army—dormant now for months—had a sense of almost relieved energy about them. They would feel no relief if they knew what we are about to face, but I cannot fault them for their ignorance.
Damon knew, though. He'd been seeing dead men and women in his dreams for months, which was further proof of the idiot he had been.
Whatever his thoughts on Loras Tyrell, the king was infinitely relieved to have him as Margaery's personal Kingsguard. His goodbrother was death with a sword and quick on his feet, and while Damon didn't fully trust the Knight of Flowers with his own life, the king trusted him implicitly with the queen's. And my heir's.
Loras met them before Damon had even escaped the camp, working against the mass of soldiers marching past them towards the Wall. The man in white led the procession, with two columns of ten men in Tyrell green behind him. In the center of their number, protected on all sides, rode Queen Margaery Tyrell, wearing a cloak of white fur gifted to her a week ago by the Lady Val. Her cousin Megga accompanied her, as did the short, energetic Maester Kerwin. Damon let out a sigh of relief at seeing her, then again mentally berated himself for not sending her away sooner. You waited until the enemy was upon you. You're a thrice-damned fool, risking your wife and unborn child. Damon the Fucking Dumb indeed.
He said nearly as much as he pulled his roan to a stop in front of the Tyrell party, Margaery slipping around her brother and reining her own palomino up close to Damon's right stirrup. "I should have sent you back to Winterfell the moment we were married."
His wife smiled at him, laying a hand against her middle. "I think we are both glad you didn't, Damon."
He glanced down at her belly, a dozen emotions assaulting him as they always did at the thought that a child—his child—grew there. A future queen or king of the Seven Kingdoms. "Aye, you're right there." He brought his eyes back up to hers. "But for that same reason you need to go. Take your ladies and Loras and a hundred Tyrell guards and make haste for Winterfell, Margaery."
Margaery kept her face calm and collected, always the queen. He thought he could hear concern in her voice when she spoke, but he'd always been utter shit at such things. "You are going to the Wall."
It wasn't a question. It never had been. Unlike his council, he and his wife had never spoken of this moment, never said anything about her leaving or him staying or what might happen while they were apart. They'd spoken of their child and its future, of possibilities and alliances. It'd been mostly her talking and him listening, but Damon had enjoyed her rambling in a way he never thought he would.
They hadn't talked of the very real possibility of his dying. Of their child being a king or queen the moment it was born, it's father long ago having perished fighting death itself. Of what might happen to all of them, child included, if Damon lost.
You may never see her again. Damon didn't love Margaery yet—part of him still saw her as a stranger and a danger—but he did care for her more deeply than even he'd realized. He'd always found her attractive to the point of distraction, but now there was…more to it. There had always been a draw he couldn't describe, not even to himself, but it was all the more potent now, a firm pull at the very center of him.
He wanted to haul Margaery out of the saddle and into his lap and kiss her. He wanted to tell her how much he already loved the child she bore, and how he felt one day he would love her the same. He wanted to pull her to him and hold her until all of this—war, the truth of his parentage, this dark winter of fear—passed them by. Knowing she was his, that the child she carried was theirs, brought a thousand sweet words to Damon's lips.
He managed none of them. Instead, he gently reached and took her wrist, stroking the doeskin glove gently with a thumb. Even Damon the Dumb couldn't miss what the desperate grip she answered with meant. The king brought her hand to his face with one hand, slid the sleeve of her cloak aside with the other, and pressed his lips to the strip of skin between dress-sleeve and glove.
"I will find you when it is all over, my lady. You have my word."
Margaery smiled calmly, but her eyes told him much of what wasn't said. "I will await you at Winterfell, Your Grace."
"Damon."
She smiled at him, though her eyes were suddenly teary. "Damon."
He wanted to say so much more, but the king let her hand drop and turned to the Knight of Flowers. "See they make it there safely, Ser Loras." Without another look at his wife, Damon kicked the roan into a canter, his men following closely behind.
Tywin Lannister did not like being made a fool of.
Euron Greyjoy had a habit of making men look foolish.
Tywin had a dozen archers in easy range of the meeting spot, and a bodyguard of fifty standing within earshot.
Euron had brought six, counting himself.
The new King of the Iron Isles was tall and well-built, with pale skin and dark hair. Dressed in scale armor and a black and red cloak, the man's pale blue right eye was a sharp contrast to the dark-as-night patch over his left, and even more so to the red eye and black pupil adorning his personal coat-of-arms. He wore a crown of black iron, and a smile that he centered on the Lion of Lannister.
Tywin wanted him dead on principal. Euron had Greyjoy had burned the Lannisport fleet at anchor at the start of his brother's rebellion years ago, a personal insult to Tywin, who had been asleep in Casterly Rock a mere mile away.
But my grandson needs him, now. I will have my vengeance, but it must wait.
"Euron Greyjoy," he said in greeting as the rest of Greyjoy's boat emerged from the thick fog. Above them both rose the walls of Seagard, and Tywin knew the approaching Ironmen could see the Booming Tower over Tywin's right shoulder. The great bronze bell inside had only rang once in the last three-hundred years, when Euron's nephew Rodrik had led an assault shortly after the Lannisport fleet had burned.
That Greyjoy died here. Rodrik had been slain by Lord Jason Mallister, and the reavers had been thrown back into the sea. With most men, Tywin would think the symbolism of this place would amount to a subtle advantage for the Lion of Lannister.
Not so Euron. While he had few spies in the Iron Islands, word had already reached Tywin that the mysterious death of Balon was rumored to be at Euron's hands, either literally or through some dark magic no one could rightly explain. Even outside the Iron Islands it had been common knowledge that none of Quellon Greyjoy's other sons liked Euron, nor he them. The Lord of the Westerlands imagined that distaste extended to the rest of the family as well.
Sure enough, the Crow's Eyes was all smiles as he stepped out of the small boat just as it collided with the bank, a move that would have sent most flying to the ground or into the water. He made it look easy, stride never faltering. "Tywin Lannister. It's King Euron, now, in case you missed the crown."
Tywin was not amused. "My grandson is the only king in Westeros."
"Your grandson is very likely dead, or else he'd be the one here meeting with me instead of you." The man's wicked eye gleamed. "Actually, he wouldn't. If you had his army, you wouldn't have to meet with me at all."
The Hand of the King didn't let the Ironborn see how angry the statement made him, especially since it was true.
Things had taken a poor turn in the south. Tywin had known of Oberyn Martell's hatred. He had known a betrayal was possible. But he had not, at any level, expected a Targaryen to benefit from it.
Aegon Targaryen was dead. Tywin knew this; he had ordered the deed done and had seen the child's bloody body in the aftermath. Rather, Tywin knew an Aegon Targaryen was dead. Varys had, it seemed, gone over to this new one. Tywin was not foolish enough to discount that the Spider might have, all those years ago, switched the babe with another hapless whelp. Even if Tywin had known the babe well enough to recognize him, Clegane had smashed the boy's head in, making the corpse unrecognizable beyond a child of the right age with silver-gold hair.
Whatever this new king's birth, be it truly Aegon the Sixth or some hapless pawn with the look of Valyria about him, Tywin had begun rallying forces to Harrenhal to handle him. While the majority of men had gone North with the true King of Westeros, thousands of others remained in the south. Most had been spread among the keeps of the Westerlands, Reach and Riverlands that touched the Sunset Sea, wary of Ironborn attack. Those attacks had, however, waned in the aftermath of Balon's death nearly a year ago, and Tywin had felt confident in recalling those men to face the Golden Company and their claimant.
Euron Greyjoy had chosen that moment to unleash hell on the coast again.
The Shield Isles had fallen, as had Fair Isle and a dozen other keeps and towerhouses. This second offensive had been brutal and merciless, and very, very fast. Before the ravens had even started pouring in to Harrenhal, the Crow's Eye and his men had plundered half a hundred villages and towns.
Those men loyal to Damon who had already reached Harrenhal remained, for Tywin forbade them to flee and men did not tend to disobey him. Those en route, however, had turned around and rushed back to defend their homes. Lord Mace Tyrell and ten thousand Reachman, the reinforcements he'd needed most, had been among the latter, and no amount of prodding would bring the rest of the Tyrells out of the Reach while the Ironborn threat remained.
So Tywin had done something he detested, for the good of his grandson's reign. He had sent a messenger to the Ironborn, asking for parlay. A parlay he needed much more than they did, and Euron Greyjoy knew it.
Tywin had no choice but to move forward. "I will not get into an argument of semantics with you, Greyjoy."
"King Euron."
"Greyjoy. Forget for a moment our own quarrels, past and present, and look to the future. We have a common enemy."
The Crow's Eye snorted. "Aye, one the whole of Westeros away. Your lands and people are right here, and lightly defended."
Tywin bulled on. "Why fight for gold when I can offer it to you. House Lannister and House Tyrell are two of the richest families in the world, much less in Westeros. House Greyjoy can join us in wealth."
The Crow's Eye raised his unpatched brow. "Oh?"
"Stop your raids on the Reach, the Westerlands and the Riverlands, and that gold will be given; you won't lose another man to a Tyrell arrow or Lannister sword."
Greyjoy laughed aloud, the sound grating against Tywin's steely resolve. "We're Ironborn, Lannister. We don't ask for or beg, we take. And we kill." The man's insufferable smile grew predatory. "Not just so we can take what is left behind, but because killing is half the fun of it. It makes no matter to me if the man I kill is gold or silver, so long as he dies and his daughters are pretty."
"Then take gold from one and blood from the other. You can find blood aplenty with the silver man and will be the richer for it."
Euron cocked his head knowingly. "Until the silver man is gone, and then I'm left just with the gold. Except, by then, the gold will be ready for me." Greyjoy shook his head. "This desperate move is beneath one such as you, Tywin. I'd be a fool to agree, and we both know it."
The Hand of the King's chin rose. "It is the best terms you will ever receive from me or my grandson, on this you have my word. If you deny it, the only recompense I'll accept for your debt is your head."
Euron Greyjoy outright turned his back. "And a Lannister always pays his debts, right?" He called over his shoulder, then deftly leapt back into the boat. He waved his hand and his men shoved off, while Euron turned back to face Tywin from the prow. "I think I'll take that chance."
Tywin nearly ordered his archers to draw and fire. Instead, he let his irritation win out and asked one more question, though he kept his tone cold and reserved. "Why did you even agree to this meeting?"
Euron Greyjoy's good eye was glowing. "Too much stolen wine and too many women can make a man soft. I needed to break up the monotony." He laughed again as his boat faded back into the mist, the awful sound growing eerie as Tywin lost sight of him. Euron's disembodied voice shouted out a moment later, bouncing off the walls of Seagard. "You can keep your gold, Tywin Lannister. I'll take it for myself soon enough. And mayhaps some silver, too!"
He woke with a start, feeling…something.
Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, gently disentangled himself from shapely olive limbs and climbed from silk sheets. Arianna Martell stirred but fell back asleep without waking, her circlet of rubies and sapphires—a wedding gift from Aegon—still atop her head. She liked to ride him while wearing the crown, and…well, Aegon certainly didn't mind.
But something is...
The king wasn't sure what the feeling was, but it drew him from his bed and out onto the balcony, overlooking the city below. The wind was frigid against his bare flesh but he did not retreat for a cloak, his eyes drawn as they usually were to Narrow Sea below. The moon was full and huge tonight, still rising from the sea this early in the night, and it reflected beautifully on the water below. On this side of the Red Keep, the smell of the ocean overrode the stench of King's Landing. Here, at this time of night, was Aegon's favorite spot in the entire castle.
But why am I awake? Something was different, neither good nor bad but certainly unusual. He was lost in thought, pondering what that could be, when a great shadow darkened the water below.
Aegon Targaryen looked up on instinct, his blood freezing.
There, over the Narrow Sea, a great black figure with soaring wings eclipsed part of the moon. And atop its back, shown only as a slip of darkness against the moon itself, rode a woman.
A/N: *tease* Zombies are ugly, dragons are scary, men are stubborn.