May-August 31, 304 AC


For what he wished was the last time, Olyvar looked down upon the city of Meereen.

The plaza beneath the Great Pyramid hummed with activity. Whilst laborers painted doors red, men and women went about their business, no doubt eager to return home before dark. When Olyvar looked west he could see the sun low on the horizon, sinking slowly into the waters of Dragon's Bay.

Oh, how he wanted to sail into the sunset.

Olyvar had hoped to leave in fourth moon, when the Summer Islander fleet finally returned from the Jade Sea, their holds packed full. But whilst the sale of those goods had swelled his coffers, it was not enough. Ser Gulian Qorgyle should have been back from Braavos by now; they knew his ship had arrived safely, but there was no word since. The backing of the Iron Bank would change everything; Olyvar would not let his impatience drive him into folly. Unfortunately, that meant he was stuck here until Ser Gulian returned.

With a heavy sigh, Olyvar left the terrace. He might be stuck, but his envoys would depart upon the morrow, bound for White Harbor. Nothing could be left to chance; the friendship of the King in the North must be secured before his conquest began. With storms wracking the northern end of the Narrow Sea, he was sending two ships, in hopes that one might survive the journey. Robett Glover would sail upon Bitter Clove, whilst Anise Breeze would carry Ser Deziel Dalt.

Olyvar had intended to send Sansa with Glover. His lady wife was a natural choice, perfectly suited to the task of winning her brother to his cause. But to his dismay, Sansa had refused to even consider the idea.

"We left together, and we will return together, ser," she had insisted, stubborn as a mule. "What if you need my aid with Viserion? What if you take a wound that needs healing?"

Pointing out that most men survived wounds with the aid of a maester failed to persuade Sansa; if anything, it only made her more determined. Olyvar had known his lady wife could heal a cut with a song; he had not known she'd saved half his arm after the Mountain crushed it in his grip.

He would have sent her with Glover anyway, had she not threatened to change into her wolfskin in public. That had forced him to back down, afraid of how his Dornishmen might react to her secret. Gilly and Samrik had taken it in stride, being of the wild lands beyond the Wall, but Deziel and Brienne were very unsettled when they were first entrusted with the knowledge. Across the Seven Kingdoms men might swear by the old gods and the new, but even so...

"The tales of skinchangers are writ in blood," Deziel had said grimly. "Danelle Lothston was accused of far less, and they burnt her alive."

At the moment, Dez was occupied in more mundane matters, checking his reflection in a looking glass. His deep purple doublet complemented his dark brown skin; his thick, tight curls shone with the oil he used to keep them from growing brittle.

"Ready?" Olyvar asked, resisting the urge to check his own appearance yet again.

"I suppose," Deziel sighed, frowning as he fastened his half cape with a lemon brooch.

The farewell feast was held on the same level of the pyramid which held the empress's council chambers, its terrace being larger than those of the guest chambers occupied by the Dornish. The apex garden was not fit to use, not with repairs still underway. After their argument over Viserion's eggs, he had feared returning from Vaes Vishaferat to find Empress Daenerys had claimed the vicious Drogon. He had not expected to see the dragon lying dead amongst the ashes of the garden, slain by Daenerys herself.

The empress seemed almost serene when she graced the feast with a brief appearance. Her husband Aegor stood by her side; her son Daeron sat on her hip, his thumb in his mouth. At the empress's heels followed one of her Dothraki bloodriders, Ko Jhogo, and his wife Morriqui. Their babe had the chubbiest cheeks Olyvar had ever seen; for a moment he imagined returning from a council meeting to kiss his wife and take their child from her arms, blowing raspberries on the babe's belly—

"Aegon?"

Olyvar forced himself back to the present. "I beg your pardon," he said, giving his aunt a polite smile, as if he had not wandered a thousand leagues away. "You were saying?"

"You look very kingly tonight," Daenerys said.

Her eyes trailed up and down his form, taking in the regalia which he had donned for the first time in honor of the occasion. Olyvar's silk doublet was parti-colored, with an orange phoenix rising against a vivid blue sky and a red three-headed dragon sinister on black, with golden flames below.

"What are the flames?" Aegor asked. "A rising sun?"

"A hearth fire?" Guessed Daenerys.

"You are both right," he told them.

"I have never seen you wear our colors before," Daenerys said. "You spoke of Rhaegar with such loathing, I thought you might put them aside entirely."

He had considered it, though only briefly. Olyvar could hardly claim to be a trueborn son of House Targaryen if he scorned the coat of arms which was his due.

"No, Your Grace," he said. "Our house is like every other; it has produced heroes and monsters."

It was a truth it took him too long to acknowledge. As a boy he was bent on hating the Mad King and his faithless son forever, and all of their ancestors with them. Yet Aegon the Third had knit the realm together after the Dance; Baelor, awful as he was to his sisters, had made peace with Dorne and fed the poor; Aegon the Fifth, though he failed with his children, had still succored the smallfolk for years before his folly at Summerhall.

Olyvar could not deny half his blood; he was Aegon long before he was Olyvar. And so he halved his sigil, with the dragon for his house and the phoenix for himself. His valyrian steel sword and spear he had named in the same fashion. Ash and Ember he called them, for fire might bring death or life.

"Would you care for some wine, Your Grace?" He offered, realizing he had remained silent too long.

"No, Your Grace," Daenerys replied with a gentle smile. "We shall pay our respects to Ser Deziel, and take our leave." She rose on her tiptoes; taking the hint, he leaned down so she might kiss his bearded cheek, a courtesy which he returned.

Thank the Seven for the empress's friendship. Nym was still angry with him; she hovered at the edge of the terrace, staying close to Jenn. Olyvar could only pray that his sister someday forgave him. His own anger was finally beginning to fade; though as a younger brother, he appreciated his sister's protective streak, as a king, he could not have her trying to kill people without his leave.

With the feast over, the musicians had begun to play a tune better suited for dancing. Olyvar watched as Ser Symon Wyl led Sansa onto the floor. Despite the slight stiffness which suggested a budding headache, his wife's smile was still breathtaking. How she loved to dance! Her eyes crinkled; dimples bloomed in her rosy cheeks.

"You're staring," Deziel said dryly.

Denying it was no use, but if one could not parry, one could still slash. "As if you're any better about Lady Brienne."

"Accurate, but still rude." Deziel leaned against the terrace wall, his hands in his pockets. "The rest of my plants are safely packed aboard ship, by the way, so kind of you to ask after them."

"Except for the gladiolus?"

That won a tentative smile; Olyvar clapped his friend on the back. "See, I told you she would say yes."

"Oh, she didn't." Deziel shrugged, unbothered, his eyes resting on Brienne's tall form. After a moment she turned at met his gaze, blushed, then turned away again. "But now Brienne knows, and whilst I am gone, she may consider whether she might one day feel the same. You know, the gladiolus was almost as blue as her eyes, but not half so sweet to look upon."

Olyvar thought of another pair of eyes, blue as the sea rather than the sky.

"Pray excuse me, I think I shall join the dance."

Thankfully, as with most dances, the partners changed often. He clasped Sansa in his arms only briefly before passing her off to Edric Dayne as Jynessa Blackmont whirled to take her place. He danced with an amiable Lady Toland, with a polite Jenn Fowler, even with a sullen Nym, before Sansa at last returned to his arms.

"If you have a headache, you should retire to bed, my lady," he whispered, never missing a step.

Sansa bit her lip, her eyes darting to the rest of the dancers. "Are you sure?"

The song ended; the lords bowed to their partners, and the ladies curtsied.

"Quite sure," he said, shaking his head at the musicians before they struck up another tune. "There will be plenty of time to say farewells on the morrow."

When Sansa left, most of the others soon followed. Olyvar and Deziel were the last to remain, leaning against the terrace wall in companionable silence as servants cleared away the dishes and the musicians put up their pipes and fiddles.

"You will be missed," Olyvar confessed once they were alone. "This parting could not be helped, but I hope it will prove brief."

"May the Seven make it so," Deziel said softly. "I shall do my best with Robb Stark; the rest is up to you." He looked at him sharply. "Speaking of which, before I leave, I should like to know where you stand with your lady wife. Perhaps you might begin with why you decided to take up sleeping in my chambers?"

"Sar Mell."

Deziel stared at him, unimpressed.

"I should have told you earlier," Olyvar admitted. "When Sansa fell into the Rhoyne... after, she was weak, covered in bruises, too sore to ride dragonback." Odd, that. He had dived from a greater height, yet suffered nary a bruise himself. "She did not recover until the beginning of third moon, and when she did, we spent a fortnight on the Rhoyne. We saw the ruins of Ny Sar..."

Knowing he would never return to Essos, Olyvar had not been able to resist the chance to see Nymeria's city. Hand in hand they had strolled along the empty streets, marveling at the beauty hidden amongst the mud and overgrown purple moss. Her towers might be fallen, her domes broken, but there were still graceful fountains and faded mosaics; almost every arched doorway bore carvings of flowers and leaves and suns in splendor.

Much as she loved wandering the city, Sansa did not enjoy her time spent in the saddle. Her fall into the Rhoyne had made her anxious of heights; she would not even bathe in the river, unless in wolfskin. Apparently she was not a strong swimmer; that had always been her sister Arya's talent. As a slender maid Sansa feared being swept away by the river's current, but as a direwolf near the size of a horse she could tolerate the rushing waters long enough to cleanse herself.

"Sar Mell, Ny Sar, what does that have to do with anything?" Deziel demanded.

"When we returned to Sar Mell, Viserion was in a mood, and flew straight through a cloud, soaking us to the bone. The way she looked..."

He swallowed at the memory of Sansa scolding the dragon when they dismounted, heedless of the tunic and breeches clinging tightly to her skin, the sodden fabric outlining the curves of breast and hip as if she were bare. Olyvar had never realized how long her legs were, nor imagined how they might feel wrapped around him. Their kiss over a year past had left him warm and wanting, but he had resisted those urges so long, only to have them come back even stronger.

As a hotblooded youth he never felt such lust, not even during his unsuccessful attempt at sex with a tavern maid soon after his sixteenth nameday. They were both bare when Olyvar suddenly remembered that while bastards might indulge in such wanton behavior, princes should not. He had fled the girl's bed with mumbled apologies; he could not even recall what she looked like, save for dark hair.

But the thought of his lady wife, of Sansa, naked as her nameday... once that got into his head, it would not leave him be. Nor would the memory of their kiss, the thought of what would have happened had they not been interrupted, nor the vivid dreams which haunted Olyvar both waking and sleeping, the ones that led to long baths which ended in relief mingled with shame.

"I could not trust myself," he said, almost choking on his guilt. "A sword between us was not enough. Not that night, nor those that followed. So I left her the tent, and slept under Viserion's wing."

"And then when you got back to Meereen, you abandoned her bed for mine," Deziel groaned. "Of course. At least you're a decent bedfellow; Brienne—"

A ginger cat brushed against their legs. Eyes narrowed, Olyvar watched Buttons for a moment, wondering whether his lady wife was inside the cat's skin. As if feeling his stare, the cat looked up, tilted his head, then walked away, tail held high.

"Sansa?" Deziel asked in a low voice, watching the cat sit down beneath a pomegranate tree.

When the cat began washing himself, Olyvar relaxed.

"No," he said, relieved.

If Sansa were there, the cat would be twining about his legs, begging for attention, for pets and caresses. Really, his lady wife was not as subtle as she thought she was, bless her sweet innocence.

Innocence? A part of him whispered. It was not innocence that made her eyes shine and her cheeks blush when she begged you to sleep beside her, the bedroll laid out with the sword nowhere to be seen.

Every night Sansa asked, from Sar Mell to Meereen, and every night he shook his head, smiling as if nothing was amiss, as if he knew nothing of desire. Olyvar could not trust himself to speak his denial lest his tongue betray him, lest he beg her leave to seal their vows with the act that would make them one flesh, one heart, one soul, until their dying day.

"As I was saying," Deziel continued. "Brienne does not enjoy taking your place as bedmaid. Every few nights she awakes to Sansa trying to curl against her, and when she wakes, Brienne says she looks so guilty and bereft it would break a man's heart. I know the japes did not help matters, but this has gone on far too long. You leapt from dragonback into a river for her sake; can you possibly doubt the depth of your regard for her?"

"Doubt it?" Olyvar looked away from the cat, whose steady gaze unnerved him. Instead he stared up at the stars, his heart in his throat. "I cannot begin to compass my regard for her; that is what troubles me. When I slept beneath Viserion's wing, each morning I woke with my hand outstretched, as though seeking for her even in my sleep."

"When we were young, I thought little of marriage, beyond how I might serve to make some alliance as a bastard son of House Martell. Oh, I meant to be kind to my wife, but I never listened to the singers and sat dreaming of a love worthy of a song. And now..."

The Moonmaid glimmered beside the King's Crown, her shy beauty piercing him like a dagger.

"And now you have a love worthy of a dozen songs at least," Deziel said, covering a yawn. "Why should that trouble you? I should think it a blessing, to have found the other half of your soul."

Olyvar frowned. His soul was his own, just as Sansa was whole without him. Yet how could he explain that together they were more? Meat and mead, pipe and fiddle, all of them might be enjoyed alone, but were thrice as sweet when paired with their mate. No, he could not say that, not even to Deziel.

"A blessing, aye," he said instead. "A bitter blessing, to suffer love I cannot have. Though I wake yearning to find her clasped in my arms, I cannot put my heart before the realm. Sansa is my strength, but she is my weakness too. It was neither impulse nor instinct that made me undo my saddle chains, but willful folly. I knew I should not jump after her into the Rhoyne. I knew, and leapt anyway."

"To be fair, I suspect you would have leapt for anyone," Deziel remarked, watching the cat stretch, then begin sharpening his claws on the tree. "Well, almost anyone. Were it the Kingslayer, I daresay you'd gladly watch him drown."

"And why is that, pray tell?" He paused as if thinking, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes, because the Kingslayer's love for his sister has led to nothing but death and sin and ruin."

Deziel snorted; the cat hissed, trying to yank free a claw which had gotten caught in the bark.

"Were you not my king, I'd slap you upside the head for trying such a witless argument. There is a bottomless chasm betwixt committing adultery with one's sister and consummating a marriage with one's lady wife. If you had let Sansa drown, what sort of king would you be?"

"A living one," Olyvar said, trying not to think of a world that no longer held his lady wife. "Years of scheming and plotting, all for naught. I would have died if not for the Old Man of the River smoothing my fall, and I cannot expect countless miracles to save me from myself. If anything the fault lies with me; I endangered Sansa by bringing her. Were she to have died..." His breath caught in his throat. "Bad enough that she almost perished at Harrenhal for my mother's sake, and that was before- that was before—" Olyvar swallowed. "That was before I loved her, and she loved me."

"Seven forbid, your wife loves you?" Deziel threw up his hands, feigning a look of shock. "Has anyone informed the Citadel? There might be a crab at the bottom of the sea who hadn't noticed yet. Everyone else certainly has, and yet you refuse to see sense. By the Smith's hammer, I've seen mules less stubborn than you two."

"She loves me now," Olyvar said softly. The cat had freed his claw, but still stood on his hind legs, motionless, as though he would fall without the tree to hold him up. "But love can fade. Mellario and Uncle Doran loved each other, until they did not. Sansa longs for Winterfell with every breath she breathes, and King's Landing is long, long leagues away. Were our marriage annulled, Sansa believes her brother would wed her to a lord of the Vale; she might visit Winterfell every year. As queen her duties would allow few such visits, she would be trapped. I had rather see Sansa happy than see her by my side."

"Well, you've convinced me of one thing, at least." For a moment Olyvar was hopeful, until Deziel shook his head, disgusted. "You've convinced me that you're a fool who thinks too much."

And with that, he strode away. As if in agreement, Buttons soon followed, taking a swipe at Olyvar's calf as he walked by before vanishing into the darkness.

"Better a fool than a knave," Olyvar whispered to himself. "Men suffer broken hearts every day and live to tell the tale." And in the end, what was a king, if not a man? For a long while he watched the stars, but they told him nothing, nor soothed the sorrow writ upon his heart.

The way back to Deziel's chambers passed by Sansa's door. Like the fool he was, Olyvar entered, to see if her headache had improved. He found his lady wife already asleep, with tears clinging to her cheeks. The headache must be a foul one. Sansa had gone to bed without allowing Gilly to change her day shift for a sleeping shift, or tidy her hair into its usual braid. Instead her long auburn hair spread across the pillow like gossamer, like a soft cloud made radiant by the first light of dawn. Olyvar pressed a gentle kiss to her brow, placed a flagon of water and a cup upon the bedside table, and then left, as though he was never there.

With Deziel gone, the rest of fifth moon passed slowly. Olyvar's nights were restless, his sleep marred by nightmares that made him wake covered in sweat. They had not been so bad when he slept beside his lady wife, nor when he slept beside the man he counted as a brother. But now he had neither of them, and the featherbed was empty and forlorn. Oh, Ser Edric slept on a pallet by the door, the better to guard his king, but his presence did nothing to staunch the blood soaked visions that tormented him.

His days were not much better. Hours dragged by like years as Olyvar swam with Aegor, sparred with his Dornishmen, hosted them for meals with his lady wife, and did whatever else he could to keep them content whilst they awaited news from the docks. All the while, Olyvar pretended to be serene, confident, resolute that their conquest would succeed whether the Iron Bank said yea or nay. It was hard to keep up his kingly mask, when he itched so badly to be gone. Impatient as he was, though, there was little he could do about it.

Most arrangements could not be made until he had whatever gold which Ser Gulian could secure from the Iron Bank. Much of what Olyvar had on hand had gone to fill the coffers of the Golden Company, whose contract he had secured. A small part had gone toward banners and badges with his sigil and luxuries to gift to the first lords who bent the knee; all the rest had gone toward grain and other supplies. But it was not near enough, not unless he was willing to forage on the march. Seven forbid it should come to that. Foraging in winter was hard already, and he dreaded the thought of stealing food from the mouths of his subjects.

It was a rainy morning in sixth moon when word came from the docks of a Braavosi fleet upon the horizon. Olyvar would have leapt into the saddle immediately, but a king should not rush to the docks like an eager boy. Instead, he sent for his queen, dressed in his regalia, then paced Deziel's chambers, thinking how sad and lonely the chambers and terrace looked without most of the garden which had adorned them.

Less lonely, with Sansa, and when Ser Gulian Qorgyle arrived with an emissary of the Iron Bank at his side. Olyvar received them sitting in the largest chair in the solar, the spear Ember clasped in his hand like a sceptre, its blade sheathed. His lady wife sat by his side in the next largest chair, her waves of auburn hair loose and flowing beneath a diamond and silver hairnet, her gown cloth-of-silver trimmed with crimson weirwood leaves embroidered upon white silk.

Tycho Nestoris was a tall stick of a man, made taller by an elaborate three-tiered hat. Though his command of the Common Tongue was elegant as his robes, Olyvar quickly gathered that the Iron Bank felt some unease at the thought of allying themselves with dragons. Of course, that was before Cersei Lannister decided to take vast loans and then refuse to pay a single cent of usury.

"Not until winter passes, the queen said, as if the Iron Bank were a common moneylender." Tycho's eyes were hard. "Ser Gulian assured us that you take debts more seriously."

Olyvar inclined his head, careful not to let the spear tilt or sway. "Your usury will be paid promptly, Lord Tycho, I promise you that."

Tycho smiled thinly. "Your Grace is as wise as Ser Gulian promised. It is our great pleasure to lend our support to King Aegon, the Sixth of His Name."

When the banker was gone, Ser Gulian told them all that had transpired in Braavos. Months of waiting for an audience, mostly, followed by a sudden about face once the Iron Bank realized it would receive no coin from the Iron Throne. Then the bankers feted him like a king, the negotiations as prompt as they were arduous.

"Another matter, Your Grace," Ser Gulian said. "I learned that Lady Shireen Baratheon was in Braavos, and took it upon myself to speak to her. It took a week of daily visits before Lady Seaworth would even let me over the threshhold, once I convinced her I meant no harm. I found Lady Shireen most overcome by grief; her voice was hoarse, her breaths strained."

"When I suggested Lady Shireen might claim the Stormlands should a new king take the throne, she had me thrown out of the manse. I returned some days later, and Lady Shireen informed me that she would never return to the Stormlands. Further, she had just come from the sept, having wed Devan Seaworth lest we think to carry her off and use her hand in marriage as a prize."

Though she had remained quiet before the banker, that was enough to make Sansa finally break her silence. "As if my lord husband would do such a thing," she said, frowning. She looked to Olyvar. "I had thought we were hoping the Penroses might suit."

"We were, my lady. Their claim was strongest, aside from that of Stannis and Shireen." He turned back to Ser Gulian. "Speaking of which, how fares Stannis at the Wall?"

Ser Gulian's face fell. "Your Graces had not heard? I thought by now word would have reached Meereen— Stannis is dead."

The tale that followed was so wild Olyvar would not have believed it, were he not wed to a wolf. Stannis and his sorceress had sought to wake a dragon. Instead, they woke a demon of ice and shadow who devoured them both before being slain by the Lord Commander, Jon Snow. Sansa squeezed his hand even harder at that, her eyes wide with both pride and fear.

Despite the death of the demon, a host of wights now besieged the Wall. Day turned to night, yet they did not sleep, nor eat, only stand and stare up at the rangers, their ice eyes aglow in the darkness, a nightmare that would not end.

The dire tidings only worsened Olyvar's need for haste. Sixth moon and seventh moon crawled by like eons as he flung himself into the preparations for his conquest. Whilst Daenerys had her routine of court, council meetings, time with her adopted son, and time with her newly hatched red dragon, Olyvar spent his days buried in meetings with the Golden Company.

Though the Golden Company were the worst of villains in old Lord Tremond Gargalen's tales of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, there was no denying their usefulness. War made strange bedfellows, and he could not afford to place his scruples above being well prepared. Olyvar did, however, amend the rules of the contract before signing it, laying out strict terms for the good behavior of those who chose to follow him to Westeros.

Homeless Harry Strickland argued with him, but in the end he yielded, when he realized Olyvar would not be moved. He meant to conquer Westeros, not pillage it, and the men of the Golden Company would act accordingly or find their necks meeting with Ash's sharp blade. Nor would he guarantee them the lands of their ancestors. Lords who bent the knee would keep their titles; only lords who supported King Tommen after Aegon raised his banners would be attainted.

Thank the Seven that the Golden Company's quartermasters were well used to dealing with the acquisitioning of supplies, if never before in such vast quantities. Olyvar had possessed a vague idea of the provisions needed for a campaign, but he had never imagined the dizzying array of items which a host required. Oh, he had known he would require regular shipments of grain, and all the wool which could be had, not to mention weapons, medicine, and general supplies such as soap and shoes and wine, but that was only the beginning.

A host required many things when in the field. Smiths must have their forges, and carts to carry them, along with iron and steel ingots for their work. Bakers must have ovens and mills, along with exorbitant amounts of flour. Carpenters must have boards and nails and chisels, fletchers must have wood and feathers, washerwomen must have lye, and so on, and so forth, until he thought his brain might leak out of his ears.

Thank the gods for Sansa, who sat at the desk and jotted down notes whilst he received the quartermasters in Deziel's solar. One of the Golden Company's scribes also took notes, but those were just lists of what had been discussed, not thoughts and questions for later. Some were things Olyvar had already thought of himself, but others were sensible ideas and prudent notions which had not occurred to him.

For instance, his lady wife had opinions about ensuring proper treatment of the many women who followed the Golden Company, both those employed in cooking, laundering, and nursing, and those who made a living tending the baser needs of soldiers. At her behest, rosters were drawn up not just for the men, but for the women too. The king also gave orders that cloaks of heavy yellow wool be made for them to wear over their roughspun gowns. The cloaks would mark the women as part of the host, and keep them from freezing when they reached the cold shores of Westeros.

Once such matters were well in hand, the next problem was getting the host across the narrow sea. Olyvar wished they had a better idea of what they would be sailing into. Their letters from Sunspear and King's Landing and Winterfell were over a year stale, and Ser Gulian's reports from Braavos were, while extremely welcome, not particularly detailed.

Ser Kevan Lannister was dead, and the new Hand of the King was Lord Randyll Tarly. King Tommen had wed Lady Margaery, a crushing blow to their hopes of a Tyrell alliance. Lord Robert Arryn and his mother Lysa were trapped in the Eyrie atop their mountain; peasant revolts roiled the Westerlands; a massive fleet of pirates plagued the Stepstones, sinking and burning every ship to cross their path, as if seizing plunder was not worth their while.

That news was the worst Olyvar had heard since that of the Wall. He knew who led that fleet, and the thought of a second meeting haunted his nightmares. Ser Gulian's treasure fleet had gotten through, but only at the cost of losing half the warships who served as their escort. And the Stepstones were not the only difficulty they must face. Many ports opposed Meereen and the Empress of Dragon's Bay, and would thus be closed to their fleet. New Ghis did not dare attack Daenerys, but stopping there was out of the question. Nor could they risk docking in Volantis, where war raged between the freedmen and an immense host of sellswords hired by Triarch Alios.

Daenerys was determined that the revolt in Volantis succeed. Her Unsullied were training thousands of Meereenese freedmen, and upon arriving in Volantis, they would train the Volantenes too. In the meantime, her Dothraki allies were raiding the slavers' armies, cutting their supply lines, stealing all that could be carried and ruining the rest.

It would be the work of a lifetime, to keep Volantis free when so many stood against her. To his surprise, Daenerys seemed undaunted by the challenge, now that she had the heir she had always wanted. Not only that, but she had a new sigil too. Though his aunt had kept the three-headed dragon, red on black, its coils now wrapped around an olive tree. Thank the gods the empress had given up her claim to the throne so easily.

Granted, Olyvar also could not fathom why the gods had chosen him to rule. What were the Seven thinking? He would do his best, of course, but he would never have asked for such a burden, not in a thousand years. Somehow Olyvar kept thinking of the vows of knighthood, of how duty might be an act of love, of how sacrifices could be born so long as one was free from doubt.

Did the same thoughts run through Robb Stark's head? His lords had crowned him at fourteen; he had not set out to conquer. Now his goodbrother held three kingdoms, whilst King Tommen held the other four. Dorne would declare for Aegon the moment he landed, but the others he must win to his cause. Whilst his lady wife worked on her songs and stories, the occasional strains of music gladdening his heart, Olyvar spent hour after hour reviewing the notes from Meria's letters. Mostly he focused upon the Reach, Stormlands, Crownlands, and Westerlands, organizing the lists of high lords and key bannermen by how likely they were to turn against the Lannisters.

The Riverlands and the Vale posed different problems. Edmure Tully was uncle to both Robb and Sansa, but it was the King in the North who drove the Lannisters from the riverlands. That said, the High Septon of Harrenhal seemed likely to support a faithful king over a virtuous unbeliever, and the Vale were already fractious with Stark's rule. Meria and Prince Oberyn both believed they might be won over, leaving Robb Stark to rule over the North alone. The North had always followed their own way; whilst they paid taxes to the Iron Throne, they did little else. Nor had the Targaryens troubled the North much, save for giving away the New Gift, and driving away the ironborn once or twice.

"And it would be one less realm to feed, with such a terrible winter," Olyvar sighed one evening in their solar. Whilst Sansa sat by a window and played her harp, Brienne sat by the fire, stroking the purring cat who sat in her lap. As for Olyvar, he sat by the desk, slumped heavily in his chair. He had been reading for half the night; his eyes watered, his head pounded. "Let that be King Robb's problem, we have enough of our own."

"I beg your pardon, ser?" Sansa's voice was ice as she looked up from her harp, her fingers gone still. "Feeding the North, a problem? Would you have my father's people starve?"

Olyvar frowned, confused, then winced when he realized what he had said. "I must beg my lady's pardon. I meant that as the lord of Winterfell, King Robb would best know what must be done for his people. My head is swimming with names and numbers; the last page took four tries to read. In my weariness, I chose my words poorly."

"Oh," Sansa said. "Better a fool than a knave," she grumbled under her breath, with a venom he had never heard before. Though the phrase seemed oddly familiar, he had no time to ponder it. "I wish it was snowing," she continued, with a glance out the window at the pouring rain.

"A strange wish, when my lady keeps having nightmares about blizzards," Olyvar pointed out, bemused.

"That's different, ser, and you know it," she said, cheeks dimpling as she resisted the urge to stick out her tongue, even though they were alone save for her maid. "Summer snows are fun. Some of my happiest memories are of watching the snow fall, then running outside to make snow knights and throw snowballs.

"The only snows I've ever seen were in the distance, atop the tallest peaks of the Red Mountains."

Sansa made a face, appalled, and returned to her harp. Her song was of a snowy morning, of frost covering the world like a lacy veil, of ice that shone brighter than diamonds. The first few verses were enchanting, the verses about two lovers meeting beneath a weirwood tree even more so.

Against his will, Olyvar found his thoughts drifting to a locked chest which sat in Deziel's chambers. Within its depths hid an ornate jewelry box, the pale wood carved with weirwood leaves inlaid with garnets, the inside lined with velvet. Aegon the Sixth could not choose his crown; it awaited him in Oberyn's keeping. But Aegon's queen might wear any crown she liked, and, like an idiot, he had not been able to resist having one made by the finest goldsmith in Meereen. His gaze drifted to Sansa, imagine the graceful crown atop those waves of thick auburn hair-

"The air grows late, Your Graces," Brienne coughed nervously. "And my lady sleeps little enough as it is."

Sansa kept playing as if she had not heard, but her cheeks and neck flushed a dark red. He had forgotten himself, again; thank gods for his wife's sworn shield. With a bow Olyvar took his leave; as he pulled the door open, he could hear the music cease as Gilly began to fuss over her lady.

"Not a wink last night, m'lady," the maid tsked. "And the screams being back too—"

Olyvar's heart sank into his boots as he strode back to Deziel's chambers. His lady wife had not screamed in her nightmares for ages; was it an ill omen of what awaited them in Westeros? He should ask, he should, but if she told him, he would want to comfort her, and if he comforted her... well, once he could embrace her without fear, but no longer. Even if Olyvar kept his nerve, he could not trust that his lady wife would do the same; a single kiss from her would unman him, as the last one almost had.

Eighth moon began with a storm that lasted two days, drenching the city once called Meereen. Of late men were beginning to call her Mele Nernar, the city of red doors. There were other changes too; the Empress had declared years would no longer be counted by the Doom of Valyria, but by when she conquered the harpy's city and made it the dragon's. Aegor said the scribes were overwrought at all the work to be done, but the freedmen were more than pleased with the change.

Olyvar would miss his kinsman when they left. The day for their departure was set for the end of eighth moon, when all would be ready, and when the priest Moqorro assured fair skies and fresh winds. Little though Olyvar liked taking the word of a red priest, Septa Lemore claimed the Seven also looked favorably upon the end of eighth moon, when there was a holy day sacred to the Smith.

That was fitting, he supposed. The Father brought justice, the Warrior victory, but it was the Smith who mended broken things, and the realm was broken half to splinters, even without the threat of demons from legend invading from beyond the Wall. Olyvar would have liked to land part of his fleet at White Harbor or Eastwatch, but he dared not, not with gales raging across the Bite and the Shivering Sea. He could only pray the swan ships carrying Deziel and Robett Glover got through unscathed, but a fleet of stout carracks, fat-bottomed cogs, and trading galleys was another matter.

And so instead, the fleet was bound for Dragonstone. However well the island was defended, from Viserion's back he should be able to force surrender. His lady wife would ensure no ravens flew to warn of their coming; the fleet would prevent any fishermen from fleeing to warn Varys the spider.

"Varys will be a problem," Aegor warned him as they climbed down the many steps of the Great Pyramid, bound for a visit to the kennels. "My father— Griff said that the eunuch worked hand in hand with Illyrio, but that he could not be trusted, not for a moment. I know your sister says he has been sowing doubt in the small council that dragons have truly returned, or that Daenerys is a threat, but to what end I do not know."

"To smooth the way for your coming, surely," Olyvar said. "If Illyrio still knows nothing of our plans, as you claim."

Aegor's lips tightened. "I cannot say for certain, coz. He must have heard of your fleet being gathered, and that the Golden Company has sworn their swords to Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, but more than that..."

"If we face trouble in Pentos, I will not blame you," he said softly, his voice almost drowned out by a chorus of barks as they entered the kennels.

"Hmph," Aegor replied, and went to speak with the kennelmaster.

When he returned, it was with a dog trotting at his heels. Not a lady's lapdog, nor a stout mastiff, but a common hound, the same kind that usually followed Aegor everywhere. His ears were silky brown; his long nose twitched when Aegor bade him sit so that Olyvar might examine him.

"I thought he might help," Aegor said in a low voice. "His sister Nosewise is my dearest companion, save Dany, and you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

Olyvar squatted on his heels, holding out a hand for the hound to sniff. His eyes were a warm dark brown, his tongue bright pink when it darted out to lap the tip of Olyvar's nose. No one was around save Aegor, so he allowed himself to laugh, taking the dog's head in his hands and ruffling his ears.

"Does he have a name?" he asked. The dog flopped to expose his belly, which Olyvar promptly scratched.

"Holdfast, they call him. As stubborn as you are, I fear," Aegor smiled. "When he seizes hold of a stick, he brings it to be thrown, yet will not let go of the stick, nor chew it, but just holds it, drooling."

"Perhaps it is a very nice stick," Olyvar said absent-mindedly, still petting the dog's soft belly. "Chewing it would ruin it, and if he lets go of it, he might never get it back."

Aegor gave him a very odd look. "I suppose? At any rate, he's yours, and we should probably go get ready for dinner with our lady wives. It does not do to keep queens waiting."

That was true enough. A quick word and a gesture had Holdfast following at his heels, and Aegor explained the dog's commands as they climbed the many steps back up the pyramid. Olyvar would not miss climbing so many steps, though the exercise had turned his legs to iron as he descended each morning to check on Viserion and her clutch of eggs. The she-dragon guarded them quite aggressively, warning men away by blowing smoke and growling deep in her throat.

For once they dined not in the Daenerys' solar, but in the chambers which they had used for the farewell feast for Deziel and Robett Glover. The Empress had invited them to dinner so many times, it was only fair that they return the courtesy.

With the prince consort's help, Sansa had directed the cooks to prepare all of those dishes which the empress loved most, along with those favored by Aegor. Daenerys was delighted by sausages grilled with garlic and hot peppers, Aegor by the duck glazed with a sweet ginger sauce. To his surprise, most of the other dishes were Dornish; there was an aromatic chickpea and lamb soup he'd always loved, there were crisp asparagus with lemon and coriander, and the qatarmizat made from lemons, orange blossom water, and honey which both he and his lady wife enjoyed.

"Tart and sweet," Daenerys said approvingly when she tasted it, after it passed the test of Unsullied and their taster rats. "Not so fine as lemon wine, but fresher, somehow." She gave him a wistful smile. "I suppose you have this in Dorne all the time. Your Grace is lucky."

"We do, and I am, Your Grace," he said. He reached for his aunt's hand, a gesture she accepted. "I am lucky to have such an aunt, and to have won your friendship. I hope we shall meet again someday, when winter ends."

Daenerys squeezed his fingers, then let go. "I pray your winter is brief," she said. "It will be long years before my red hatchling grows larger enough to bear riders; who knows when Aegor and Daeron's eggs will hatch."

"Probably before you have a name for your hatchling," Aegor jested.

"Names are important," said Sansa, her voice soft as a kiss. "A name should suit its bearer, for they will carry it all their days."

"And a name may shape one's destiny," Daenerys said. Her mouth twisted, her eyes glancing at the ceiling as though she thought to see a black dragon perched atop the pyramid once more.

"A name may portend good or ill, but destiny?" Olyvar shook his head. "It is the gods who hold the scales of fate, and men who choose the paths they walk."

"Are the paths on the scales, or next to them?" Aegor raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Neither," Olyvar said dryly. "I wonder, were you named Aegor because a bull gored your head? It would explain rather a lot."

"Like why on a clear day I can see sunlight through his ears?"

Daenerys and Aegor stared at Sansa, who put a hand over her mouth, horrified. Then something much stranger happened than his lady wife forgetting herself. Daenerys, Empress of Dragon's Bay, giggled.

"My husband is outmatched, I fear," she said, still giggling whilst Aegor chuckled. "Were you not a king, you would make a fine Florian the Fool, and your lady wife the loveliest of Jonquils."

Though the rest of the dinner passed in amiable conversation, the words still cut him to the quick later as he readied himself for bed, and were the first thought upon his mind when he awoke, better rested with the dog to keep him company. Frustrated, he occupied himself inspecting the ships. Holdfast trotted at his heels; Ser Edric and Ser Symon Wyl guarded him, accompanied by an escort of Unsullied.

The Feathered Kiss was much as he remembered. Captain Chatana Qhoru showed him the cabins which had been prepared, the wood polished until it shone, the furnishings replaced with finer than was usual for a trading ship. The captain's cabin boasted a bunk with a plush featherbed, blankets, and pillows for Sansa and Brienne, with a hammock to one side of the cabin for Gilly; the first mate's cabin boasted a narrow bunk and featherbed for himself, and a hammock for Edric.

When he returned to the pyramid, he found Ser Barristan Selmy waiting outside his door. He stood tall in his gleaming white armor, his white beard neatly trimmed, his blue eyes sharp despite the milky cast to one of them.

"If I might have a word, Your Grace?" The old Queensguard asked.

"I suppose, ser," Olyvar allowed, trying not to show the misgiving that had awakened at the old knight's words. A few words of his own sent Edric running to fetch Sansa; he would need her counsel if Ser Barristan was here for the reason he feared.

Unfortunately, once Sansa arrived and they were both seated in their usual chairs, Ser Barristan quickly proved his suspicions correct. The Empress no longer relied upon him, favoring the young knights he had trained; the Empress no longer listened to his tales of Westeros, for she had heard them all; the Empress meant to stay in Meereen forever, a decision he respected, but he yearned to return to the land of his fathers, to die in service to the true king.

"The true king?" Olyvar asked.

Ser Barristan nodded. In one smooth motion he drew his sword, and knelt to lay it before Olyvar's feet.

"My sword is yours, sire," the old knight said. "If you would have me."

Olyvar rose to his feet. "Rise, ser."

For a moment the knight smiled, until he saw Olyvar made no move to take the sword. "Your Grace?" He asked, still kneeling.

"I would have you wait in a chair, or standing, not upon your knees."

"Wait, Your Grace?" The old knight rose slowly, his knees stiff, his eyes confused.

"I must needs confer privily before I decide. The terrace, my lady?" Olyvar gestured to Sansa. She rose, gathered her skirts, and followed him outside, though not before giving the old knight a gentle smile as he sank into a chair.

"What is it?" She asked when they were alone. They stood beside a fountain, its waters burbling softly, birds chirping in the trees. The sun shone down upon her hair, waking echoes of fire.

"Am I a fool if I say no?"

Sansa stared at him, nonplussed. "I- why would you say no? The smallfolk love him as dearly as Aemon the Dragonknight."

"And why do they love him so?" He asked. "For a joust in his youth, for slaying Maelys the Monstrous, for saving Aerys single handedly at Duskendale."

"And many other victories," she reminded him. "He rescued a lady from the Kingswood Brotherhood, and fought bravely at the Trident, and led the attack on Old Wyk during Greyjoy's Rebellion. Ser Barristan could advise you in your battles, and lend legitimacy to your claim."

"Will he?" Olyvar frowned. "Men will believe my claim based upon my dragon and my mother's word, or not at all. Would they believe Ser Barristan, if they doubt such proof? They might name him a pretender; it is more than five years since he left the Seven Kingdoms. And even if not..."

"What truly bothers you?" Sansa asked. Her eyes searched his as she clasped his hand.

For a moment Olyvar thought. "Rhaella," he said at last, thinking of the grandmother he never knew, who suffered decades of torment while brave knights stood by and did nothing. "And Aerys. I... I do not want men reminded of the last Targaryen king he served. Barristan closed his eyes and ears to what Aerys was, even unto the Trident. Dishonorable though he may be, the Kingslayer could see Aerys was not worthy of the throne he sat."

"Then do not accept his sword."

He looked at her, thrown by the ease of her reply. "You say it as if it were simple."

A less elegant woman would have shrugged; instead, Sansa tilted her head to the side.

"It is simple. My king should be able to trust his Kingsguard, as the empress trusts her Unsullied. Ser Barristan might follow every order you gave until the bitter end, but you would never stand easy with him to guard your back." She smiled sadly. "And he is no longer well suited to guarding kings. The empress says he can barely see out of one eye, but will not own to it. Daenerys does not wish for him to die in her defense; he is the closest thing to a grandfather she has ever known."

"Thank you, my lady." Olyvar kissed her hand, trying not to hear the way her breath caught in her throat.

"For what, ser?" She asked, breathless.

"For reminding me that the obvious path is sometimes the right one. I was thinking too much, and would have made a mountain of a molehill."

And so with a clear head and a calm heart, he returned inside, Sansa following behind. Ser Barristan rose at his approach, and would have gotten on his knees again, had not Olyvar stopped him.

"Your sword belongs to Daenerys," he told the old knight. "And for the love I bear her, I will not tell her what happened here today."

After what he had done with the blood bride murders, Daenerys would rightly take offense to this final insult. Barristan might deserve to lose his white cloak, but his aunt did not deserve to have her happiness marred by betrayal.

"Death will come for you when it will; treasure the days you have left. Live for Daenerys, and serve her as she would have you serve. Aegor says you cannot stand to speak much of Rhaella; perhaps you might write all you recall of her, so that Daenerys may know the mother that fate so cruelly denied her."

Ser Barristan's face was bloodless, the wrinkles deeper than ever. Finally, he bowed, and picked his sword up off the floor, the metal ringing as he slid it back into the sheath.

"I will, Your Grace," the old knight said, and strode from the room, head still held high.

Alas, Olyvar still had to deal with another of Aerys Targaryen's seven.

It was a conversation he put off until a week before they sailed. The Kingslayer might be bound to the Great Pyramid, save for when Brienne took him for their heavily guarded rides through the city, but Olyvar misliked giving the man more time to think than was necessary.

Rain drizzled outside as he awaited the Kingslayer, sitting on the chair in his solar. Olyvar could not be bothered to wear full regalia, though he did wear a silk tunic halved blue and black, blazoned with the phoenix and dragon of his sigil. Ember he clasped in his hand, the spear's blade unsheathed, the golden sun shining brightly upon the socket above the twining snakes, the howling wolves hidden upon the wings. Ash hung upon the wall, prominently displayed, the sapphire pommel as blue as the sea.

The chair beside him sat empty. Sansa should not have to endure the Kingslayer's presence, though she had offered to do so, a faint tremble in her voice. No one else would have heard it, he knew, but Olyvar had. That tremble made him want to convene a court and hold trial then and there, but kings could not rule according to their selfish whims, even though Jaime Lannister's crimes were so many that executing him would be more than just.

"We need him," Olyvar had told his lady wife, watching the anger bloom in her cheeks. Holdfast perked up his head; he scratched the dog's soft ears. "Long years have passed, and too many men have ignored the accusations of adultery and incest made by Stannis and by your brother Bran. Perhaps if we had some of Robert Baratheon's bastards on hand it might be different, but..."

"But what, ser?" Sansa flared. "But men will trust the Kingslayer owning to his misdeeds? His word is worthless; men will say we forced him to testify at swordpoint."

"We are forcing him to testify at swordpoint, my lady," Olyvar said, bemused. "Were he free, the man would never own to his crimes. But the Kingslayer is known for being bold and brash. That he would choose to speak against Cersei rather than die defending her virtue will speak volumes."

When the Kingslayer appeared, he came in swaggering, a mocking smile upon his lips. Ser Edric kept close watch as Jaime Lannister sank into a chair, an insolence Olyvar had expected.

"Your Grace," Lannister sneered, derision in his voice. He glanced at the spear, then at Olyvar's bare head. "What, no crown?"

"It awaits me in Westeros," Olyvar said, keeping his face implacable.

"Ah." The Kingslayer curled his lip. "And I suppose that means Aerys' daughter is giving you my leash as a farewell gift."

Olyvar raised an eyebrow. "A leash? You've been well treated here, Kingslayer, though I suppose we could have some suitable chains made ready."

"Why, I'm hurt," the Kingslayer drawled. "What, is my word of honor not good enough? Is there no trust among knights so far from home?"

"Oh, I trust you," Olyvar said pleasantly. "I trust you to be a selfish beast with no concern for anyone but yourself."

The Kingslayer's smile vanished. "Fuck you, Aegon or Olyvar or whoever you are. Whatever you call yourself, you're a witless weakling, dragon or no. All I do, I've done for Cersei."

Was it for Cersei? Olyvar wondered but did not say. It seemed to him that Cersei would have preferred her brother by her side the past four years. Illyrio Mopatis swore the Kingslayer had crossed the narrow sea willingly, and though Olyvar trusted the man little, there was no other explanation for his vanishing from the Red Keep without a trace. And that he had vanished on the same night Tywin Lannister was stabbed through the heart...

"Whyever you did it, I offer the chance to make amends," Olyvar said. "We both know the parentage of Cersei's children; testify to it publicly, and all of you shall live. Myrcella and her mother shall go to the Faith, Tommen and his father to the Wall. Casterly Rock shall pass to Ser Kevan's eldest son, so long as House Lannister bends the knee. If not, House Lannister shall be attainted, and Casterly Rock given to a worthier lord."

"You would put Cersei in a motherhouse?" Lannister threw back his head and laughed. "What have the poor septas done to deserve such misery? My sister would claw their eyes out and lick the blood from her claws. No, let her live out the remainder of her days at the Rock."

Olyvar rose to his feet. He looked down upon Lannister, Ember still clasped in his hand, candlelight flickering off the valyrian steel blade.

"This is not a negotiation," Olyvar told him. "Those are my terms, take them or leave them."

"Are these my thanks for all I've done for you?"

Lannister stood; to his surprise, Olyvar overtopped him by a few scant inches.

"Your lady wife could have been squirming in my bed these past few years, had I not told my lord father I would not take an unflowered girl. Tywin meant to wed her and bed her himself, and would have, if not for his... unexpected death." The Kingslayer smiled. "Come now, surely that's worth better terms; I'm sure Princess Sansa would be most grateful."

"I doubt it." Olyvar gripped his rage tight, so that it did not show, and allowed himself a shrug. "Her Grace wanted your head, for her brother Bran's sake."

Lannister's smile froze; Olyvar continued.

"I am inclined to give it to her, if you refuse my terms. There would be a trial first, of course. Sansa is well able to testify to several of your crimes, though not all of them."

"And if I demand trial by combat?" Lannister's green eyes shone like wildfire. "Every knight has that right."

"In Westeros," Olyvar allowed. He would need to have that law changed; how many men like the Kingslayer had used martial prowess to escape justice for their crimes? "But we are not in Westeros, ser. We are in Mele Nernar."

"A spar, then," Lannister snarled. "You and me, you arrogant pup."

"A spar?" Olyvar pretended to hesitate. "Only if you agree to the terms."

"For the chance to put you in your place?" The Kingslayer's smile was a flash of white teeth. "Gladly."

The training hall was quiet when they arrived. Ser Barristan's squires had already trained for the day; there was no one about save for Lady Brienne of Tarth and Perros Blackmont, whose incompetence with a sword still annoyed both student and teacher. And, of course, for Olyvar's Dornishmen, who had followed them down the steps. To his dismay, Sansa arrived just before they were to start, and rushed over to tie one of her kerchiefs about his arm, ignoring the Kingslayer as he smirked at her.

"My lady," Lannister drawled, but she made no reply.

"Try to thrash him at least a little?" Sansa whispered.

Olyvar winked at her, and raised his wooden sword.

"Too scared to face me with blunted steel?" The Kingslayer mocked, taking a graceful stance as Sansa retreated to watch from a safe distance.

"Why bother?" Olyvar replied. He raised his own sword, holding it loosely.

Lannister frowned, then charged. Unlike most knights, he bore the sword in his left hand, the only one he had. Fighting even the poorest left-handed swordsman would prove somewhat of a challenge; Lannister was one of the greatest knights ever born, Olyvar competent at best.

How amusing, then, that he did not intend to fight.

When the Kingslayer's sword came at him in a sideslash, it was a wooden blur. Olyvar's sword went flying from his hand; the Kingslayer pressed the tip of his wooden blade to Olyvar's chest.

"Oh no," Olyvar said, in the same tone of mock defeat he once used with little Elia. Behind him he could hear his Dornishmen laughing. "I yield."

"Again," the Kingslayer demanded, glaring.

Ser Edric fetched the wooden sword; the Kingslayer took several steps back. When they began again, this time Olyvar made a few half-hearted parries before letting the sword go flying.

"Again," the Kingslayer snapped.

"Why?" Olyvar asked. "Clearly you're the better swordsman."

"Are you too craven to even try to face me?"

"I'm already facing you," Olyvar pointed out; in the distance he could hear Sansa give a snort of laughter. "Would you prefer I turn around?"

He spun slowly in a circle, then back to face the Kingslayer. He was not surprised when the Kingslayer lunged for him, this time attacking in earnest. Olyvar at last responded in kind, the wooden swords clacking like thunder from the force of the blows being rained down upon him, hacking, slashing, their feet always moving. Olyvar's steps were quicker, his legs stronger, but the Kingslayer moved as though he danced, making swordwork look almost beautiful. Already Olyvar's arms began to tire, yet the Kingslayer appeared fresh. When he parried too late, the Kingslayer sent his sword clattering to the floor.

"You lose," the Kingslayer said, his sword pointing at Olyvar's throat. "Even trying your best, you could barely withstand me for five minutes."

"As well we both knew," Olyvar said, unashamed. "I was never more than a fair sword, and I am not the one who has spent years living in the training hall. You, though, your skill was renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms; almost any man would lose to you, especially now that you fight left-handed. I had rather be left to the rest of my work in peace; we are finished here."

He turned to Sansa, who stood amongst his Dornishmen like a flower in a meadow. "Alas, he accepted our terms, so I cannot give you his head."

"A loss worth bearing," his lady wife replied. She gave Lannister a cold look. "If he keeps his word."

The next sennight passed in a flurry. The ships in the harbor were stocked full of cargo, first the supplies, then the camp followers, then the men of the Golden Company. Olyvar's fleet boasted dozens of ships, and more would join them in other ports. All the Dornishmen's chambers in the Great Pyramid were scoured to ensure no baggage went astray; Olyvar and his lady wife made their last farewells with Daenerys and Aegor, a parting that left nary a dry eye.

It was the last day of eighth moon when Olyvar escorted Viserion and her eggs into the hold of The Feathered Kiss. A high-walled wooden box served to keep the eggs from rolling all over the deck; heavy iron locks served to keep any foolish crew member from the temptation of disturbing the dragon.

Of course, no lock in the world could keep Sansa from his side for long.

"Is she happy?" He asked his lady wife, eyeing Viserion as she circled the cargo hold, sniffing and growling low in her throat. Holdfast followed her, a stick clenched tight in his teeth.

There was a long pause. "She hates the stink of salt, and mislikes that the hold is smaller than last time."

"What?" Olyvar frowned. "No it isn't, it's the same size. Viserion is the one who keeps growing."

Another long pause; he could feel the dragon's resigned annoyance even before Sansa spoke. "Viserion says you better let her out to fly every day, not every three days. Unless it's raining, then she'd rather stay dry."

The she-dragon paused her circling, stopping right next to Olyvar. He stroked the dragon's long neck, noting the faded scar on her throat against her creamy scales, the golden horns and spinal crest that somehow shone even in the dim hold. He yawned; it was the middle of the night, and they would sail on the morning tide.

"I should go speak to Chatana," he said, once Viserion had laid down, her long though still slightly stubby tail wrapped around her eggs.

"No, ser." Sansa's voice echoed through the empty hold. "I would have words with my lord husband. By your leave?"

"Granted, my lady," he said, confused. "Though could it not wait—"

"I've waited months," she flared, her pale hands balled into fists. "I know you must focus on your conquest, and I've done my best to help, but whenever I try to speak with you privily, you vanish!"

Olyvar wished he could vanish right now. He might have tried it, if not for the low rumble in Viserion's throat.

"You swore, whatever decision I made, you would enforce at spearpoint. Yet at Sar Mell, when I- when I- you could have come back to our bed, and you wouldn't." Sansa's voice turned plaintive. "Why wouldn't you?"

"I swore we might consummate the marriage in Westeros," he replied, glad the dim light meant she could not see his blush. "Not here. What if you changed your mind, and it was too late?"

"I won't," Sansa insisted.

"I wed you without your brother's blessing," he reminded her. "And without asking your leave before Oberyn proposed the match to the queen. Were my sisters in your place, I should want their husband to seek my blessing, so that I could ensure their husband was worthy."

"And what if Robb says no?" She demanded.

"A risk I am willing to take," Olyvar said softly. He resisted the urge to take her in his arms. "Rather than leap into folly."

"What if I—"

"YOUR GRACES!" The first mate roared. "Captain's ready to weigh anchor!"

Seven be praised. When they reached the deck, Olyvar found the first mate with the lungs like bellows. Xhothar was rather confused when he pressed a silver coin into the Summer Islander's hand, but took it just the same.

Lady Brienne, Ser Edric, and Gilly were already on deck, murmuring prayers to the Seven with their hands clasped. Olyvar and Sansa joined them; his lady wife slipped her hand in his before he had the wits to place himself between Brienne and Edric. Lacking the resolve to let go, he held on, his grip warm and firm.

All was chaos as they prayed. Sailors shouted in a dozen different tongues as anchor chains shrieked and rigging creaked. Wind filled the sails and gave them swollen bellies; behind them the sun rose, her splendor turning the sky to gold, the sea to purple. As the ship left the harbor, he could feel his heart lodge in his throat, his pulse racing. For good or ill, he'd thrown the dice. In three moons, if the winds and seas were fair, they would land upon Dragonstone.

One by one, his companions went below deck. Olyvar remained, though he walked from the stern to the bow. From there he could better watch the waves part beneath the swan ship's graceful prow, resting a hand on the figurehead of a buxom maiden kissing a bird in flight. Long he stared at the horizon, and when he turned away, it was with a heart somewhat at peace.

Whatever happened now, he had done all he could; the rest was up to the gods. With one last look at Mele Nernar behind them, Olyvar went below.


And we're off, finally sailing west into the sunset! Cannot WAIT to see what y'all think :D

The scene with Olyvar pouring out his heart took a massive number of revisions to perfect the prose; I hope y'all enjoyed it :D

Next up

Chapter 145: Jaime III

Chapter 146: Arya VII

Chapter 147: Sansa VI

Chapter 148: Bran V

Chapter 149: Jon VII

Chapter 150: Epilogue (Theon)

And then we're into Part V!

NOTES

1) Not a lot of history/medieval stuff this chapter, beyond all the conquest logistics. There are so many???? Good lord. Thanks very much to Erzherzog and SioKerrigan for their assistance in what Olyvar and his host would need.

2) Olyvar is, in fact, practicing some "benevolent" sexism. Because he's still a Westerosi dude, albeit a very goodhearted one. Also, he's a big chicken and mostly a virgin and terrified of finally consummating after TWO YEARS of build up. Stay tuned for Sansa VI, because girl is about to go feral.

3) I debated whether to include more Dany this chapter, but it didn't really fit with Olyvar's intense focus on LEAVING NOW PLEASE. The glimpses of her are promising, though :)

4) Another discarded idea was having Olyvar and Aegor roadtrip on Viserion to Pentos to yell at Illyrio Mopatis. Alas, there wasn't room for it, and it was a mess for travel times/plot reasons. Oh well, still funny to imagine.