Chapter 11

Hard Choices

King Daeron Targaryen

"House Bracken will never accept this!"

The voice of Lord Harrold Bracken clacked like a curse in the royal tent and his tone had nothing respectful in it. Only a glare from Daeron convinced the young red-faced lord to add "Your Grace" a moment later.

"Your lands are lost, Lord Bracken." Told the leader of the Green Targaryens. It was a blunt affirmation but since the first two 'subtle' attempts to convince Harrold Bracken had been unable to see him reason, the time of courtesies was done. "The Iron Throne has not the power to retake them."

"By the Seven Hells, no!" The shout was powerful and the eyes of the Riverlander had a light of madness in them. "House Bracken has fought and died for your cause, you will convince these bastards of Blackwood to give back my seat or I will find someone who will!"

The three Kingsguards guarding Daeron placed their white gauntlets on their swords. Harrold blanched, finally realising he had gone too far and that his anger, no matter how justified, could not be tolerated in front of his sovereign.

"Your Grace..."

One instant the River lord was of a temper hotter than a volcano, the next his lips were trembling and he was about to prostrate himself. Daeron thanked the Seven he had not had the opportunity to discuss his plans concerning the Brackens with anyone else. Because after a meeting like this, he certainly wasn't going to pursue them.

"Stone Hedge is well behind the frontier we have negotiated with the Blacks." Little words: Stone Hedge was in the heart of the Riverlands and the Blacks were in control of said kingdom. "Neither my cousin Baela nor House Blackwood have any reason to give back these lands."

"We were the greatest House of the Riverlands to follow your brother!" Daeron frowned; the Strongs of Harrenhal would have contested vehemently this claim a decade ago. "We fought-"

"And you were vanquished in a single battle, your servants surrendered your castle and the men of your family were sent to take the Black."

As far as a resistance could be judged, House Bracken had performed pathetically in the civil war. Besides House Strong – which for obvious reasons had followed Aegon – House Bracken had managed to convince two minor Knightly Houses to follow them. The rest of the Riverlands had followed Rhaenyra. It would have already been hard to force reconciliations if the Riverlords had been defeated by the Lannisters but the invasion of the Westerners had been a huge disaster. And then Aemond had to burn half of the Riverlands with Vhagar. The Blackwood Lady representing the lords of the Trident had stayed unbreakable on the point no Green loyalist would have his lands back. What they were going to do with the confiscated castles had not been revealed – or perhaps his cousin had not had the time to give her judgement – but Stone Hedge and Harrenhal were lost.

For House Strong, his Master of Whisperers had not been happy but had understood the problem. Larys Strong was the last descendant of his noble line. As he was the last of the original Green Council to be unharmed and working for the realm, appearances counted against him. The black-clad councillor had no children to continue his name thus it was not like they could have maintained their hold and their claims on Harrenhal for long.

But Stone Hedge was proving a monumental headache. Harrold Bracken had not been caught in the rout of the Bracken forces his father had led to defeat: the young man had rushed to King's Landing in order to bend the knee. Several of his cousins were visiting Oldtown too and after the Stormlands army captured the capital these landless knights had come back demanding revenge for their House.

"It was not my father's fault he was betrayed!"

The rumours I've heard say otherwise. Beating peasants and sleeping with their daughters was not going to give you their undying loyalty. I was going to propose you marry Lady Rosby but you don't deserve this girl.

"As compensation for your losses, the Crown gives you the lands of the defunct House Chyttering bordering the Blackwater Rush and the Muddy Rush." It was an important defensible position now that the frontier was mere leagues north of this lordship and the Gold Road was crossing these fields. At least with the Brackens ruling there the rider of Tessarion could be sure there weren't going to betray him for the Blacks. That the Gold Road was certainly going to have a more defensible and southern intersection once the kingdom was rebuilt was left unsaid.

"Your Grace...these lands have not the fertility of the ones we possessed..."

How could they when my dear brother took two days to burn them?

"I'm quite aware of this, Lord Bracken. But with the kingdom destroyed by this tragic war, we all have to make sacrifices."

I accepted at the peace I was going to rule half of a kingdom; you can accept you are going to rule a minor lordship.

The man who should be Lord of Stone Hedge had an answer to this sentence, but it had not to be very polite because he gritted his teeth, bowed like someone was at the same time tearing his guts and left his tent like someone was impaling him with a spear from behind. Daeron sighed loudly. He had known in his mind the Bracken-Blackwood feud was a poison many Kings, Lord Paramounts, warlords, septons and conquerors had desperately tried to find an antidote but he had hoped that at least with the two enemy Houses on different sides, the question was going to be solved permanently. The Seven had not agreed to this miracle alas.

Removing the horse banners from his preoccupations for the short-term, King Daeron I of House Targaryen watched the map of the new Westeros. An aberration the Conqueror and the Conciliator would have never imagined in the last years of their reign...but one he had been forced to accept.

Instead of a single realm from the Wall to Sunspear, there were now three: one governed by his cousin Baela, one for himself and the last was the Princedom of Dorne.

After pardoning Lord Rowan and several other minor Reach highborn, he had the Reach, the Stormlands, the Westerlands and the better part of the Crownlands. On parchment, this was an excellent position if he decided to take again the field against the Blacks.

The problem was that parchment did not show the dragons. As the year 132 after the Conquest was going to begin, he had the single battle-dragon of the Targaryens. But in a decade, both Baela and her twin sister were going to mount large beasts. Moondancer would be a match for Tessarion in four to five years and there was no way to know how big Morning was going to be. That the two Black sisters would have only the Riverlands, the North, the Vale and minor parts of the Crownlands didn't reflect the rapport of force. The Blacks held Cracklaw Point and Driftmark – he had sent messengers to Lord Velaryon to see if the old man wanted to return home or continue to serve – thus with a dragon they could easily attack King's Landing as the horns of war were sounded.

"And there's the thorn in our western flank. The Iron Islands."

Unlike the rest of the kingdom, neither Black emissaries nor the Green ones had been interested in this den of pirates. Perhaps with a reunified kingdom he could have dealt with them. An occupation would have been in order, but he could have tried to change the Ironborn. Their talks of Drowned God and Iron Price had no place in the Seven Kingdoms. None.

Instead I'm going to destroy them root and branch.

With the civil war with the Blacks all but over, the blood thirst of the Lannisters and the sailors of the Reach had to be stated one way or another. His rule had to be cemented before he came back to his capital. Bosworth Bridge had been a rude blow against his rule. It was Borros Baratheon who had lost most of the army but he was the dragonlord in command. There so few survivors of this mad charge and the smallfolk and the soldiers needed someone alive to blame. Daeron had the utmost need of a victory against a hated foe. The reavers of House Greyjoy more than qualified for the 'hated' part.

It will give us time to rebuild. We need years to avoid repeating the mistakes of our past and hatch a new generation of dragons. We grew too lax and overconfident and it was nearly our doom.

The successor of Kings Viserys I and Aegon II was under no illusion his reign's next years were going to be pleasant. Winter was here and every man having the access to a raven was writing to him, demanding men he didn't have, promising peace and obedience in exchange of gold the treasury hadn't the funds to pay. He almost regretted having won the last battle. Almost.

"Leave the tent." He ordered his white sentinels. "I need rest. Tomorrow I fly for the Iron Islands."

And we will see if the Ironborn are immune to dragonfire.

Queen Baela Targaryen

The Bay of Crabs was very different when the snow fell and the timid winter sun departed. The fog was everywhere and the water was taking a dark grey reflexion. The blue sky, the azure waves and the green pastures seemed to be of another age. The young Queen had never understood how different the seasons could be but she and all the children had never seen a hard winter. Now that it was here, Baela wanted summer back. The snow and the frost had begun their cold rule and the colours dominating the landscape were the black, the grey, the dark blue and the white.

This was the grey elemental tapestry Rhaena and she were watching silently hand in hand. Too long the war and the necessities of war had separated them; after the details of the peace the young Queen had decided it was not going to stand. A dragon was faster and safer than any ship and the Vale was not that far for a dragon. Rhaena had known a nice place a few hourglasses of ride west of Gulltown and now they were alone to speak and pour the content of their hearts to the others. It was it should be for these instants. They had come in this world together, separate but bonded by something unbreakable. And this would continue until they left this world.

Today the light tunics, the robes and the fine court clothes had been discarded. They wore furs, gloves, furred boots and warm winter clothes. The hissing wind and the cold coming from the large made this fashion of Northerners a necessity.

Before them, Morning and Moondancer played together in the snow. Or rather it was more accurate to say her dragon let the bonded of her twin sister mount on her back and amuse itself. Both dragons had grown tremendously, but whereas Morning had the size of a middle-sized dog, Moondancer was now close to ten feet from head to the end of her tail and it was getting more difficult to saddle and climb on her dancer without help. Yes, the dragons had grown fast...suspiciously fast indeed. That it had happened after their departure from Dragonstone and the moment they were both able to watch over their dragons day and night raised disturbing questions. Granted after the mutiny the new Black Queen had not been exactly tight-lipped concerning the lack of honour possessed by the garrison of Dragonstone but this was a betrayal far more ancient and terrible. Attacking the dragons was attacking the power of House Targaryen and the very stability of the realm. Who would be mad enough to risk that?

It was possible she was jumping at shadows. The dragons had not known war for too long and she had sometimes heard her father tell to the Queen in a few conversations that certain parts of the Targaryen lore should not have been abandoned like the Conciliator had wanted.

"The war is over." Three little words and yet her sister words had only a certain relief in them, not joy. It had cost them too much. Rhaena next sentence strangely echoes her thoughts. "It does not feel like a victory."

"The only victory I see is that we're both alive and haven't lost our dragons, Rhae." On the other hand except their cousin Jaehaera no dragon rider had survived the loss of their bonded for long. The Dance had just been too dangerous and the dangers of battle and politics had killed Kings and smallfolk indifferently.

"There's truth in that." Agreed Rhaena. They exchanged a tender glance and then came the terrible question. "What now?"

The eldest of the twins swallowed her saliva and almost bit her lower lip but refrained due to the cold.

"Much as I hate to say it...we have certain...obligations to fulfil. We are the last of the legitimate Targaryen line so we will have to marry soon. And Jacaerys signed this Pact of Ice and Fire with Lord Cregan Stark."

In other circumstances the prospect of marriage would have made her giggle but not this year. This would not be a union where they could wait to have children; the stakes were too important and with Daeron already married in the South and siring new Green dragonriders, the Black Crown had to be secured.

"What do you think Jacaerys was thinking?" Demanded Rhaena as Morning stopped squealing and went back for another series of caresses. "When he agreed to it we were the only two princesses of House Targaryen able to satisfy the pact conditions."

"We still are." The slayer of King Aegon II corrected her with amusement.

"Yes but right then you were betrothed with Jacaerys and I was supposed to marry Lucerys."

"Betrothals can and have been broken for far less important reasons, Rhae." The betrothals in question had been agreed at the age of two and the Seven Kingdoms had been a happier and calmer realm. An era where the many dragons possessed by House Targaryen had rendered the armies of knights obsolete and purity of the Valyrian bloodline was the only quality prized at court. "Signing this Pact gave us fourteen thousand swords and Lord Stark went south only with the old men and the green boys."

Her twin sister's eyebrows rose in amusement.

"So there isn't any truth to the rumours that Jacaerys bedded one of the Stark women?" Baela growled in mock anger. Of course these wild and outrageous whispers had reached the Vale. "For all we know it was you he wanted to break the betrothal with."

"Winterfell didn't send a raven to inform us we had a new cousin. If there had been a bedding it couldn't be proven...unless someone had kept the bloodied sheets."

"Keep telling you this, Bae." The large smile of her twin told the Black Queen she hadn't finished hearing these rumours. Then the expression of Morning's bonded grew more serious. "Lord Cregan Stark has a single son named Rickon to fulfil the Pact. If you marry him, you will unite House Targaryen and House Stark for the next generation."

Baela could have lived with that. The three kingdoms under her rule –since the lordships she had left in the Crownlands were small in income and men – likely wouldn't. If she married the Heir of Winterfell, the Vale and the Riverlords were going to argue she favoured the North and their lords too much...and they likely would be in the right. The new sovereign had plans for the North and some of those coincided with the new dragon hatchery they would have to build in a few years, Dragonstone being no longer available.

"I can't marry him...not if I want to have a lasting peace and keep these annoying children from murdering each other." Women were by far the most reasonable when it came to govern. Half of the lords and knights she had met to the present were utterly undeserving of their noble status and the war had eliminated a lot of them.

"Your loss if he's good-looking!" Exclaimed Rhaena and they both laughed. Moondancer intrigued by their discussion sent a lot of snow in their direction with his tail, fixing back their attention on the swift fire-breathing reptile. "Don't worry I will invite you in our bed if your husband isn't a good lover." The gaze of her twin became more piercing. "How many roguish knights are vying for your hand?"

"Scores." Replied Baela. The real number was unknown to her but somewhere around a hundred was her best guess. "But if I remove Rickon Stark from the list, then all Heirs of the Nobles Houses can't be chosen for the same reason. Ideally the husband I need is a second son having distinguished himself in battle and whose House has no grand enmity with its neighbours."

Rhaena hissed in consternation. "This must make a dent in your choices."

"Oh, yes." Before the war it would not have been the case. But after years of massacre and Houses reduced to a single boy of a cadet line, second sons had more often than not become Lords of their own lands. "But there are two who can check these conditions. Ser Allyn Melcolm and Ser Addam Frey."

"Was not his father Lord Forrest Frey one of the leading candidates for Queen Rhaenyra?" From her voice, Rhaena knew perfectly the answer to this question.

"He was." Baela affirmed before realising the trap she had just fallen into. "My decision has nothing to do with that!"

"Of course, you Grace." Her youngest sister could not have been more playful. With a large huff she placed Morning on her right shoulder. "But if men are not to your taste, Lady Frey will...hoof!"

The snowball Baela had launched was received directly on the face. Unavoidably Moondancer decided to join the fun and soon the two sisters were bombarding their large opponent while trying to avoid the snow gusts send by her dancer's tail.

Balon Pyke

They landed at Lordsport at high tide, under a dark sky. After long fortnights of campaign, Balon saw at last his home. In a manner of speaking, of course. The house where his mother had raised him wasn't the castle of Pyke, whose tall and black towers stood gloomily in the distance. It wasn't one of these timber constructions lining the quays or one of the princely taverns alongside the great forges. No, his house was much further than this, at the very limit of Botley and Wynch lands and could be described best as a small thing near the village of Cape Bone. He honestly didn't know the welcome he would receive upon his return there. It was not like Balon had had many choices when the old sea wolves had come at his house under the Red Kraken orders. But still, the looks his mother had sent him this day had been anything but warm. Or were they? After so much war, so many battles and the long moons of separation, his souvenirs were a bit...rusty.

Would he go back there tomorrow? The Bastard of Pyke didn't know. The longships weren't going to stay here eternally; everyone knew the next destination of the reavers and the captains was Old Wyk.

With the feeling of stones in his stomach, Balon waited for the Sea Ravager to finish its manoeuvres and allow its passengers to descend ashore. All around the great hull, other longships made similar moves and tried to claim the best place for themselves. The traditional shouts and insults were heard, but even with the best mood he couldn't find any joy in them. Because this was it. At the end of the journey, this was the end of the great reaving King Dalton Greyjoy had promised them. The Ironborn had come back home, but not as the true and sole masters of Westeros. The longships were terribly damaged, their sails bloody and torn, their bridges dirty of the crewmen souls who had died on it.

They were defeated. Despite having taken huge amounts of plunder from the Westerlands, crushed armies, sacked Lannisport and grabbed a mountain of gold, thralls and salt wives for themselves, they were defeated. That the quays of Lordsport were far adequate to house the entire portion of the fleet they had navigated with spoke of their own losses better than simple words. The Red Kraken had left Pyke with eight scores of longships, and these swift and deadly ships had soon been joined by full squadrons from Orkmont, Harlaw, Blacktyde, Saltcliffe and Great Wyk.

Today there were four scores of longships coming back home, led by the Lord of Orkmont and none of the great captains of Pyke were with it. Balon dearly hoped men like Lord Captain Tristifer Botley, Lord Urragon Goodbrother or Lord Harren Wynch were already gone for the kingsmoot or had had their progression slowed down by the tempests and the contrary winds. The Drowned God knew the Sea Ravager had had its share of problems from the Shield Islands to Saltcliffe.

In the two or three turn of hourglasses they waited the wind rose up. The waves grew larger out of the port and the skies went even darker. A storm was preparing, a sign of the disfavour of the Drowned God if there was one. The Ironborn had been defeated and now the Storm God was going to unleash its rains upon their heads. The winds were cold and despite having a coat and a cape over his tunic Balon could not stop shivering. Some of the warriors who had lost everything in the rout had their teeth clacking and were trying to keep themselves warm at all costs.

Finally they disembarked and what a sad sight it was. The Shield Islands hadn't been a nice sight, but before it the Iron Fleet had pillaged the Westerlands and their green hills – green before they spilled the blood of the greenlanders on them in the name of the Drowned God. Lannisport had been gold, silver and jewels before they sacked it. In the lights of autumn, the lands of House Lannister had been red, green, brown and something between these three colours. It had been good to have these hills and valleys under their axes. But Pyke was none of those things. There were not the powerful stone forts of the Western coast, not the cultivated fields of the Lions passes or the prosperous villages of the Golden Road. There was nothing of the Westerlands which could be seen here. Pyke was bleak, wet and cold. As a gust of wind struck his group, the half-brother of the deceased Iron King remarked with unease no one was cheering.

They were marching on the quays and approaching the warehouses and the forges of Lordsport, but no one was cheering. Oh, there were some acclamations here and there but as he watched some of these scenes, the exclamations came from old women asking from warriors they recognised whether they had seen a loved one. In a few cases, this was the case and the lucky elders shed tears when they had their child or their grandchild in their arms. But many, many times the answers were negative. And everywhere he looked, there were only sad and gaunt faces. Balon didn't understand. With the quantities of gold, silver and jewellery they had taken from the Lannisters, everyone in the Iron Islands should a King or a Queen!

The crowd grew larger as they passed before the harbourmaster and stopped before the wooden walls where House Botley mustered in times of war. Balon didn't like what he saw. The faces of the Lordsport dwellers were either too old or too young. There were girls who looked to be of marriageable age but no young man, no warrior of thirty or forty name days. And they were thin. Not starving, but they weren't eating three meals a day either.

"Bread, my lord." Begged an old man missing his right leg. The strangest part was the man had a sort of gold crown on his head and six rings with jewels around his fingers. "Please a piece of bread..."

"You have gold and rubies, cripple!" Answered a man with a cuirass decorated with a scythe and a sword crossed. "Sell them and eat your bread!"

The one-legged elder screamed. It took a long moment to Balon and the warriors next to him to realise he was laughing.

"Gold and rubies, you say?" The eyes of the man were terrible to behold. "Everyone has gold and rubies these days! But we have no bread!"

"Lies!" Shouted back a Botley man who had somehow managed to arrive next to the old man despite how packed the bodies were and seized him by the throat in an implacable grip. "Our granaries were full when we departed and thousands of reavers were away! You can't have eaten the provisions of several years!"

The old man wasn't able to answer with an iron fist grabbing him like this but then the reaver did not want one.

"And what of the thousands of thralls you brought here?" Screamed someone in the crowd. Balon and the survivors of the campaign tried to search for the speaker, but apart from hearing the woman's voice they couldn't see anything. "The thousands of men and women you took for your damned Iron Price!"

The crowd was thickening and the mood was worsening as each word was spoken. Women were arriving by the hundreds, some showing the collars and the tattoos of the salt wives. But there was no happiness in the green, blue, grey, brown and dark eyes. Only a deep anger. There was blame too.

"We gave you gold!" Screamed back the Botley swordsman, crushing the poor cripple's throat and throwing him to the ground. "We gave you victories! We gave you wealth! We gave you a kingdom in the name of the Drowned God!"

Another mounted voice mounted in the air. This time it was a man's voice.

"What do you want us to make with gold? We can't eat it and no one wants to trade with us!"

A Goodbrother screamed back in an even more exasperated voice.

"Then go back fishing or harvest the fields!"

It was getting out of control and in the ranks the young reaver wasn't enjoying this return. The mood of the crowd was furious.

"You took all our young men and you want us to work! In the fields and at sea! In winter!"

"The Drowned God and the Red Kraken have decreed we all have to play our part for the Iron Islands to gain our independence! The Kingdom of the Isles will be reborn anew!"

This declaration had come from a contingent of Greyjoy reavers and they brayed battle-cries, commemorating the memory of their liege. Axes were raised; fists struck the breastplates of the armours. It was like an agitated sea...but the crewmen were surrounded by an even greater flooding of cold silence.

"Where is the Red Kraken?" Asked someone.

"Yes! Where is he?"

The cries of support and the fake cheerfulness of the reavers went away like the wine at a celebration.

"He's dead and they're defeated!"

It was like a monumental storm was breaking all barriers and there was nothing to stop it. Warriors of countless campaigns went pale as their own women, parents and neighbours spit their anger and despair at them.

"Dead! Dalton Greyjoy is dead!"

"Dead! Dead!"

"Bread! We want bread!"

"The Red Kraken is dead!"

"Where is the kingdom the Drowned God promised us?"

A chain of men formed in the middle of the streets and Balon imitated them with the reavers of the Sea Ravager. They had to calm things. These were their fellow Ironborn and they didn't know the truth. But the crowd was screaming bloody things, demanding bread, asking where their children were. And then a last scream destroyed everything.

"The dragons will come!"

Balon felt his blood freeze in his veins. The dragons. The gigantic lizards they had all forgotten. Rumours from the greenlanders in the Reach were that most of the beasts were dead. But what if they weren't? Dalton had stopped listening to the Blacks and declared himself Iron King? House Greyjoy and the rest of the islands forming the Seastone Throne. They weren't sworn to the Targaryens. They would receive no mercy from the Targaryens after what they had done to the Westerlands.

"Damn the Red Kraken!" The young woman who had screamed this was Ironborn, no doubt about this. With dark hair and a rather pretty face, Balon would have bedded her without questioning his chance. She was on the front of the Lordsport populace and her visage was anger itself. "Damn the-"

The insult died on her lips as a dagger found its way in her belly and a huge reaver with Blacktyde colours kicked her in the head with enough force to kill a horse on the spot.

"Don't insult the Red Kraken bitch! You aren't worthy to even pronounce his name!"

Balon's mouth stayed wide open at the sudden death. It was not possible. Ironborn should not spill the blood of other Ironborn. Not outside of proper duels, finger dances and contests of strength. It was forbidden. It was madness!"

"Assassin!"

"Murderer!"

"Who will protect us when the dragons will come?"

"Assassin!"

"Coward!"

"Woman killer!"

"Rapists and degenerates!"

A Volmark warrior drew his axe from his belt. It was the wrong move to make.

The crowd pushed screams of vengeance and charged. And Balon and the other men found themselves fighting against the daggers and cudgels of their own people. It was chaos, blood and folly. It was war and most of the men didn't know for who and what cause they were fighting. Maybe they were battling in the name of the Drowned God. A moment to regain his breath and he watched his sword red of Ironborn blood.

Dalton...we have completely failed.

Nettles

Her beloved dragon had always loved sheep but under the present conditions, elk was a fitting substitute. After eating it to compare, she couldn't find much of a difference and she doubted Sheepstealer had, given how long he had roasted his meat.

It was fortunate, because there were not a lot of sheep in the area. Sheep were animals of the South, and stupid animals at that. The slightest movement of panic could kill scores of them and the smallest predators could feast on them. Sheep thrived in summer and raced back to the sheepfold when the weather went rainy or cold. A winter like this one would see them hid in the warm places of their refuge, bleating in contentment at the free food and water they were given.

Sometimes she envied the sheep. They did not concern with the problems of life, had no leader and they were eating and drinking where and when it was possible. Men were handling the big problems like cutting their wool and trimming their hooves. Sheepfolds with straw to serve as a mattress and a pillow were their required nightly accommodations where humans protested the floor was too hard for their backs. Sheep lived short and simple lives. Sheep were souvenirs of a better time.

If only I hadn't decided to become a dragonrider...

Sheepstealer growled next to her, as if he could sense her thoughts. Maybe he could. Nettles didn't know everything a dragon could and could not do, and this included the bond between those who rode the dragons and their mounts.

But when Prince Jacaerys had announced everyone who was a dragonseed could take his chance and try mounting the fearsome dragons, Nettles was forced to admit she had not hesitated long. A life of adventures on her own legendary mount? Instead of leading day and night her sheep on the dangerous slopes of Dragonstone? Between the choice of a Targaryen's power and a shepherdess life, she had chosen the former. In her veins flowed the blood of the dragonlords. According to her mother in her young years, her grandmother had been taken by a Prince once though she had never learned his name. Her mother had inherited the silver hair, but not her.

Unlike others, Nettles had not been willing to bet everything on the dragonblood. Magic or not magic, dragonseed could try their chance with dragons but many had been burned, eaten or killed. So she had waited and waited, watching the dragons, their nests, what they liked eating and how they behaved on Dragonstone. The one they called the Cannibal was too dangerous. This one had tasted human and dragon flesh alike. In the miraculous event she managed to mount it, her control would be forever threadbare and tenuous. Dragons were not dogs, cats or sheep. Having their confidence and their trust did not mean this was going to save you when they were furious or hungry. And when they were afraid or angry, they breathed fire. And when the dragonfire came, you were dead. No Targaryen or Valyrian had ever survived the hellish flames.

The Grey Ghost had been a far more suitable companion but the grey dragon only liked fishes. A lot of fishes and Nettles was only a young shepherdess. How in the Seven Hells could she catch enough fishes to attract a dragon? So only Sheepstealer had been left. The ugly, brown-coloured dragon everyone had refused when it proved too dangerous and too wild. But one ship every day for an entire fortnight and Sheepstealer was her new partner. That day the dragonseed-born girl had understood a valuable lesson: dragons were like armies, if you wanted them to obey you had to keep them happy and well-fed. Especially well-fed.

She had become a dragonrider. And she had learned new lessons. That both sides in this war were as mad and bloodthirsty as the other. That a young shepherdess of modest and illegitimate parentage was about as welcome in the games of the powerful as slice and dirt. The Queen she had sworn herself to was mad and deranged. Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen had been interested in her and she had willingly slept with him, his looks and the protection he granted her were too useful to throw away. But then the Queen had asked for all bastards and dragonseeds to be put down, everything had gone to the Seven Hells. Rhaenyra insanity and jealousy had finally destroyed whatever good there was in her. The young shepherdess had seen a portrait of a young Rhaenyra once. It was difficult to see that the obese woman screaming and shouting endlessly about traitors was the same young Princess who had been nicknamed the Realm's Delight.

It could have ended another way. In their last night at Maidenpool, she had tried to convince Daemon to fly away, ignore the Queen edicts and rally the last armies of the Black Dragon. Rhaenyra was not going to last long; her fat body and her horrifying traits were those of the Cruel. And cruel people did not last long when the dragons and the humans starved.

Lesson one to be a Queen: keep your sheep...sorry your people well-fed.

But Daemon hadn't wanted to live. Nettles had given him her heart, but the Rogue Prince's had never been in the palm of her hand. Rhaenyra. It had always been Rhaenyra. Daemon had gone to Harrenhal to die, leaving her alone and without protectors. For a turn or two of hourglasses, she had thought of raising her own banner in defiance. She had a dragon. She had royal blood. She had wits – something her previous Queen did not have a lot. But these were dreams of madness, she had known it. Queens, Kings, Princes and Lords died like leaves in the autumn wind. If she had tried to take the crown, then the result would be her death.

And so she fled.

First to the Mountains of the Moons. When she had seen their peaks and their flock of goats, she had thought to stay there for a couple of fortnights. Only to be attacked by the clansmen in the middle of the night. Sheepstealer had roasted a full score of them, but the damage had been done. This part of the Vale would not be a refuge but her grave if she stayed. She had debated continuing east and crossing the Narrow Sea, but the Three Sisters and the Free Cities were no friends of the dragons. If she wanted to live, she had to stay in Westeros. Taking the furs and the supplies of the clansmen killed, Nettles had ordered Sheepstealer to fly northwards.

To the North and security. She had waited in the savage hills north of White Harbor two moons, letting Sheepstealer eat the great animals inhabiting this part of the Seven Kingdoms while she made regular travels to the city. She had still a purse full of dragons from her battles fought in the name of the Queen and people loved to speak like the sheep were bleating. Two moons and she had known how much worse things had become. Prince Daemon and Prince Aemond the Kinslayer had killed each other at Harrenhal. The Second Battle of Tumbleton had provoked more human and draconic deaths. The Ironborn were ravaging the West and moving southwards. Rhaenyra –or Maegor-with-tits as the merchants and workers enjoyed calling her – was dead. Aegon the Pretender was dead. In fact except from a younger brother of Aegon and her lover's twin daughters, the rumours were that everyone was dead.

Nettles had now the biggest dragon of all the Seven Kingdoms – well the Cannibal was bigger but no one had managed to mount it and live. If she rallied the Blacks, the Northern and River lords could defeat the thousands of Reach and Storm troops the Greens would align on the battlefield. There was only a little problem with this happy ending. The nights of passion she had spent with her royal lover at Maidenpool had left her a present. One which was tending her belly and was now becoming impossible to hide.

Nettles the dragonrider of Sheepstealer could be accepted in service of a Black Queen. Nettles the mother of a royal bastard would never be able to sleep soundly again for the rest of her life. Assuming she managed to stay alive of the war, the assassins of both sides would receive the order to track and kill them, her and her child. She didn't want this kind of life. She didn't want her unborn child to have this life. Better go to a land where her fame and the news of living dragons travelled slowly.

Sheepstealer had flown northwards and they had passed over the Wall before camping in caverns west of the Haunted Forest. The climate was terribly cold, but there were a lot of animals for a dragon to hunt – the very cavern she was waiting now had been inhabited by a gigantic bear but the beast had been no match for a dragon. In one fortnight or two, she would try to find a village and someone to help for the birth of her child. There was still time, her belly was not fully swollen yet but better not to wait too long. Complications in childbirth meant death in these lands known as Beyond-the-Wall.

As for what she would do once her child was born...she hadn't decided. Perhaps she would explore this strange and cold forest. Maybe she would convince the wildlings to bend the knee. Anyway she had time.

As long as the other dragonlords tried to kill each other, no one would look in this direction and search a poor little shepherdess and her brown dragon.

Viserys Targaryen

The sun was hot and there was no wind. On the white balcony of the Rogare palace, Viserys knew with resignation this was going to be a day best passed in the cold rooms of his host, reading books and discussing philosophy with the tutor the patriarch of House Rogare had consented to hire.

The simple act of descending a series of stairs and watching for a short moment the harbour of Lys was enough to make him transpire. Sweat drops appeared on his forehead and under his arms. If he hadn't been informed of it, the young Prince of the Targaryen dynasty would never have believed this was winter. On Dragonstone and the coasts along the Narrow Sea, winter meant cold winds, terrible tempests, violent rains and this was if the season was short. If the winter was long and hard, lakes and rivers could freeze, entire fleets could be sent to the bottom of the seas, snow could cover the greatest castles and even dragons could die.

But here at Lys? There were from time to time gusts of winds, middle-sized walls and sometimes for several evenings a hot rain dropped on their heads. It was certainly not cold or freezing, though it could be dangerous: those who did venture imprudently at that time in the drowned quarters could be taken and shattered by the fury of the elements.

Lys the magnificent city of pleasure, lust, perfume and slaves. Lys where he was waiting as a hostage. Lys, a Free City at war. The alliance of the Triarchy had not survived the Battle of the Gullet following his capture. The Admiral and two-thirds of his fleet had perished – although they were calling it a victory since they had managed to sack Driftmark. Myr and Tyrosh had broken the alliance – or Lys had broken it first as it was murmured in backdoor dealings. Thus Lys was in a state of hostilities between Myr, Tyrosh and the Seven Kingdoms. They also had 'difficulties' with certain Tiger families of Volantis, the Braavosi, a trade interest of Pentos and the pirates and corsairs had never been more audacious in their raids and sea attacks.

The waters around Lys might be free of the predations of winter, but no Westerosi or Essossi would have described them 'safe'. As a result the length of his captivity, which should have been at worst a few moons – the time for Dragonstone or King's Landing to be informed of it – had become a year. One year had turned into a second and in a few moons it would be a third. With Tyrosh blockading the north of the Stepstones and the corsairs plaguing the Sea of Dorne, Lysene flags had no chance to reach a Black-controlled port – or the majority of the Westerosi harbours on both coasts to say the truth. There were news of Ironborn longships reaving as south as Oldtown in the west and many pirates of the Basilisk Isles had abandoned their usual hunting grounds to feast on the weakened Iron Throne. And unfortunately with the length it took for Essossi diplomats to negotiate a treaty at the best of times, the future for him did not look bright.

Viserys was treated with the consideration of a Prince of Valyrian Blood but he had recently become aware this protection would not prevent the Rogares from marrying him. Since they couldn't obtain a ransom from his family, maybe whoever was King or Queen when the war of the Free Cities ended would be willing to pay the ransom and the marriage. The second son of the union between Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon was unfortunately lacking enough information and precedent to know what the Lysene would do if they didn't get the money.

A last look and he went back in the shadows of the palace. Watching Lys was pleasant, but it always remembered him in the end all this gleaming marble, all these decorations, the artworks and the myriad of imposing machines like the gigantic mechanic clock tower at the centre of the city had been built by tens of thousands slaves. Because this was the real price for the 'civilisation' the Lysene were boasting in front of the non-Lysene. None of these things was built by the nobles and the merchants but by slaves. Slaves like the sailors and inhabitants of Driftmark they had waged war upon. For them, there would be no ransom, no promise of deliverance.

Viserys saw the treatment of these slaves close everyday and the violence they suffered was horrible. Any smallfolk at Dragonstone who was treated like this would have revolted but the men and the women endured with hard expressions. And he could do nothing. Nothing but hope news of his captivity arrived to friendly ears.