Content warning: Body horror via medieval style execution.


The necromancer was already bleeding when they dragged him up the steps to the gallows. His white robes were badly stained, the golden whorls spattered with slush and mud. Blood dripped from his wrists and onto his hands; the ropes had chafed and torn his skin as the horses dragged him through the crowded streets to Old King's Square.

King Aegon had decreed that Qyburn should die in the same place where he had once tortured Queen Cersei's enemies. As the old gallows had burned during the great fire, the goldcloaks had been forced to raise a new one, though it stood in the same spot near the center of the square. Already the plaza was packed to bursting. Some jeered, some cursed, the clamor of voices so loud he could barely hear the bells tolling four. Guild masters and apprentice boys, old matrons and young maids, all shoved forward for a closer look, intent on blood.

And they will have it, Olyvar thought grimly.

Qyburn's crimes were beyond count, beyond belief. It was only fitting that he be given the same cruel sentence which he had carried out with such relish. The necromancer had already been drawn; now he would be hanged, gelded, flayed, disemboweled, and beheaded.

Beneath his kingly mask, Olyvar's stomach roiled as a goldcloak strung a noose around Qyburn's wrinkled neck. He gripped the reins of his palfrey tight, trying to focus on the pressure of his fingers, the feel of the smooth leather of his gloves. No one deserved to die like this, no one. But the city needed vengeance, vengeance for the dead, for the burned and maimed, for the children and babes smothered by smoke.

His lady wife did not agree. Although even Sansa had allowed that beheading was too merciful, she had proposed the usual penalty for firesetters instead. Why shouldn't Qyburn be burned at the stake, or by Viserion's golden flames?

"Because such a death is far too quick, my lady," King Aegon said, firm but gentle. "The wrath of the city must be appeased."

Or so he had told Sansa before his council. It was the truth, but not all of it. Only later, when they were alone, had Olyvar spoken to her of Aerys and his pyromancers, of the night Volantis went up in flames. Though she still misliked his judgment, Sansa had understood.

At a nod from King Aegon, the goldcloaks moved. The trap dropped; the body dangled; the crowd roared. A broken neck would have been a mercy, but the goldcloaks knew their work. Olyvar watched as the old man clutched desperately at the rope around his neck, the wind making his robes fly up to reveal scrawny legs kicking frantically as urine sprayed the snow.

His mare whickered; Olyvar's stomach churned. Thank the Seven that Sansa need not see this. He did not want to see it either. Father or uncle, Prince Oberyn still knew him well; he had offered to do the honor of having the sentence carried out, to spare his nephew this gruesome burden.

Olyvar had wanted to accept, but Aegon could not. I am the king, Seven save me, and King's Landing is mine. It was his duty to see that justice was done, not only here but across the realm. From the coasts and fields of the Crownlands to the orchards and sands of Dorne, from the forests of the Stormlands to the rolling fields of the Reach, from the mountains of the Westerlands to the Mountains of the Moon...

His belly clenched. The North and the Riverlands were not his concern, not yet, anyway, but the Vale was another matter. It was over a moon's turn since His High Holiness beseeched King Aegon to fly to the Eyrie, to rescue little Lord Robert Arryn and the folk trapped with him atop the Giant's Lance. High Septon Paul had taken his oath, and Olyvar intended to keep it, as soon as he could.

Yet despite his best efforts, the events of second moon had conspired against him. When he set out for the Vale after defeating Lord Tarly, the winds had blown him to Dragonstone instead, to find his cousin dead and his lady wife in the depths of despair. The moment he finished seeing to his lady wife, he had returned to his army, and led them south as far as Rosby.

Only then had Olyvar permitted himself another attempt. The march from Rosby to King's Landing would take at least a week. It was only a day's journey to the Eyrie on dragonback, if the weather was fair, which it was when he set out.

The weather did not remain fair. Viserion had just reached the Bay of Crabs when black clouds began to gather; they barely made it across the bay to Wickenden before the squall came. Lord Edmund Waxley had given King Aegon a very courteous (if rather nervous) welcome, followed by a remarkably fine dinner and a soft bed for the night.

Alas, the weather the next morning was even worse. Sheets of freezing rain pelted the shutters, and the winds raged so fiercely that Viserion would not set claw outside of the hastily vacated barn in which she had taken shelter. A few freshly shorn sheep served to placate the she-dragon, though not the quivering stableboys charged with keeping her water trough filled.

In the end, Olyvar remained at Wickenden for several excruciating days. He mostly spent them losing at tiles to the very gossipy Lady Waxley. When she paused for breath, Lord Waxley was happy to fill the silence. He expounded at length upon the superiority of his ancestry, the inferiority of the fellow lords of the Vale with whom he was quarreling, and the purity of his beeswax, which he declared so exceptional it was fit only for a king.

Olyvar was so pleased he could have wept when the weather finally cleared enough to send off four battered ravens. Two had flown to King's Landing, to bid Queen Sansa to arrange a parley. King Aegon had followed the next day, arriving only just in time.

The other two had flown to the Gates of the Moon, and this morning, at long last, he had received a reply. Lord Nestor Royce, High Steward of the Vale, declared he was pleased to welcome King Aegon beneath a banner of peace. Lord Nestor lamented that he had not sent a raven sooner, but the weather had been doubtful; only now was it at last agreeable to the honor of such a visit.

Olyvar would already be on dragonback if not for Qyburn. Not that that made it any easier to watch the necromancer gasp and choke as the goldcloaks cut him down, removing the noose to reveal a wide black bruise around the old man's neck. When King Aegon jerked his head, a goldcloak removed the old man's robes, then his breechclout, leaving him naked and shivering.

"Now, the gelding," Prince Oberyn muttered.

Olyvar allowed himself a brief glance away from the gallows. His father had not taken kindly to the news of the death of Lord Uller and the rest of the Dornish lords and ladies in King's Landing. There was a thin smile on Oberyn's lips as he waited, watching intently. Ser Daemon Sand was watching too, motionless save for the flapping of his white cloak. Lord Edric Dayne was less composed; he winced and looked away as the knife descended.

King Aegon did not look away. The necromancer screamed, the crowd gasped, and Olyvar choked back bile as blood spurted from the wound. When he felt the horse beside him draw closer, he was so grateful he could have wept.

"You can look away a little more, Your Grace." Ser Deziel Dalt kept his voice low, wary of the many ears around them. "No one will think less of you; they might not even notice."

"Someone always notices." Metal gleamed as a goldcloak drew a flaying knife. "And even if they didn't, I would know."

Then the goldcloak set to work on Qyburn's right arm, and there was too much noise to talk. Horrible as they were, somehow the old man's screams of agony did not trouble Olyvar half so much as the way he had behaved during his trial.

It had taken two days to hear all the witnesses testify against Queen Cersei's lord confessor, master of whispers, and pet necromancer. First came the nobles who had heard dire rumors of what went on in Lord Qyburn's domain. Then there were the patricians who swore they had been sharply questioned without cause, and only released upon proving their loyalty to the queen. Next came the armorers who had forged queer instruments for Qyburn's use, the porters who had delivered sundry goods into the hands of guards and servants who said no word and stank of death, even a pair of whores who claimed they had serviced Qyburn and heard him boast of his deeds.

Qyburn listened to every voice in silence, smiling all the while. When it was his turn to speak, he confessed his crimes proudly. All he had done was in the pursuit of knowledge; his only regret was that he would be denied the chance to write a full account of all that he had learned.

"You might have had that chance," Olyvar had said, barely keeping his temper, "had you not set fire to the city. Were you mad?"

"Mad?" Qyburn looked faintly indignant. "The Citadel called me mad, for daring to consider matters their small minds could not grasp, for daring to delve into the mysteries of life and death. Nay, I am not mad, I am loyal. Queen Cersei honored me with her patronage; I had not failed her before, nor could I fail her in her hour of need."

Onlookers cursed and gagged and retched as Qyburn explained, at length and with great relish, all the wonders that he had done for his beloved queen. Sansa managed to endure his recounting of the golden veil he had made with Wisdom Hallyne, but had to excuse herself when he boasted of how he had "saved" King Tommen and Ser Addam Marbrand. She was not the only one; much of the crowd had cleared by the time he reached his role in the Great Fire of King's Landing.

All the wildfire Queen Cersei possessed was already atop the three high hills, to be used as defense against Viserion. Following the queen's orders, Qyburn had sent his dead henchmen to the Dragonpit, the Great Sept of Baelor, and the Red Keep. "Wildfire makes men nervous," the necromancer said, smiling. "I knew no one would object to my men removing it from the walls."

And so they had, piling all the wildfire in the center of the Dragonpit, in the undercroft of Baelor's, and in the cellars of the Red Keep, with orders to set it off at noon. When the bells tolled twelve, the poor dead thralls had done as their master commanded, their torment ended by the blazes they had helped set.

"The wildfire was even more potent than I anticipated." Qyburn sighed, his eyes twinkling. "I suppose I shall never know how there came to be wildfire elsewhere in the city; Her Grace was most firm that the pyromancers reserve all of it for royal use."

Olyvar's eyes itched from staring; he rubbed them as the goldcloak finished with Qyburn's hand and moved onto his fingers. The necromancer had finally screamed himself hoarse; he dangled, almost limp, between the two goldcloaks who held him fast. Whether from loss of blood or from a burst heart, he should have been dead by now. The Seven must be very angry, to prolong his suffering so.

Mad King Aerys had not suffered. Jaime Lannister had slit his throat in one stroke, just as he'd slain Lord Rossart the pyromancer. Brienne of Tarth had cringed as she told that half-forgotten tale, ashamed she had not known its import until it was too late.

After such easy victories against Ser Arys Oakheart, Euron Greyjoy, and Lord Randyll Tarly, Olyvar had expected a roach in the pudding. He had planned accordingly, trying to anticipate what might go amiss, whether it be the arrival of a blizzard, plague, or hostile army. He had not planned for the fucking city to catch on fucking fire because his fucking grandfather somehow managed to surpass himself and achieve new heights of villainy. Were it possible to descend into the seven hells for a day and return unharmed, Olyvar would have gladly hunted his grandfather like a deer; kinslaying didn't count when the man was already dead.

Olyvar did not doubt that Aerys's shade would be quite pleased with the fruits of his long-delayed vengeance. The Great Sept of Baelor was gone; High Septon Luceon and almost all his Most Devout were dead. The few surviving septons and septas were broken creatures, desolate at the loss of the many rare and holy artifacts and books which had been lost to the flames. The Dragonpit had collapsed in on itself; Flea Bottom was a scorched ruin, its people made homeless.

But the worst of the damage had befallen the Red Keep itself. Most of the top of Aegor's Hill was gone, as if some immense giant had crushed it in his fist. Shattered chunks of red stone littered the broken hilltop and the slopes below; a vast lump of mottled steel was all that remained of the Iron Throne.

And yet, somehow, one soul had survived. They had found Talla Tarly beneath the heart tree, which stood lonely atop a small spire of earth that jutted from the craters below. The leaves had been burnt away by the fire, the branches cracked and mangled, yet still the weirwood endured, its carved face weeping bloody sap onto the girl sheltering beneath its trunk.

To the amazement of all, Talla was unharmed, save for a shard of rubble in her belly, and for the grief which lingered long after the shard had been removed. Dickon Tarly had arrived at the Red Keep soon after it went up in flames, screaming for his sister, only to perish when the rubble shifted and he plummeted into a cellar. All Talla had left of her brother was his bones, that and a hound he had given her. The faithful beast had refused to leave her side since they found her; no doubt it would accompany her when she departed for Horn Hill, to rule as Lady Tarly over the few lands King Aegon had permitted her to keep. It was not Dickon or Talla's fault that Cersei Lannister had escaped, nor that she had refused to abide by her small council's surrender.

All of the small council was dead too, save for Grand Maester Gerold, who had decided to quell his nerves by getting so drunk he had blacked out inside the finest tavern in the city. He had not awoken until late the next day, when the city was already on fire. Once the fires were out, the grand maester had turned himself in to the first knight of the Golden Company whom he had seen.

The knights of Tommen's Kingsguard had not been so lucky. Ser Addam Marbrand, Ser Lyle Crakehall, Ser George Graceford, and Ser Jason Hill had perished in the throne room with their king, and Ser Balon Swann's corpse had been found at Qyburn's manse. As for Ser Lyn Corbray, Lady Talla swore she had not seen him since the queen and the small council returned to the Red Keep after the parley. Whether he had escaped or been blown to bits, no one could say.

But Qyburn had not escaped, thanks to the Seven and a goldcloak captain named Ser Woth. A fat purse for his men and a fatter purse for himself was not enough. There would be further rewards in store for good Ser Woth, once Olyvar had time for such things.

King Aegon meant to be openhanded, but he was not emptyheaded. He needed to carefully ponder the allotment of lands and titles, the wardships of young heirs and the marriages of heiresses. Olyvar could not hand them out on a whim and begin his reign by setting thoughtless precedents. Giving presents can wait; at present, more weighty concerns require my presence.

Olyvar might have smiled at his own bad jape, were he not watching a goldcloak flay Qyburn's left hand, having finished with his right. He ought to have grown used to the sight by now. Yet, if anything, he felt even more queasy than before.

There had been no time to be queasy during the fire. After the explosions, the flashes of green and the first shock of terror, his memories were a blur. Olyvar recalled bellowing orders at his lords and knights; he recalled leaping onto Viserion's back, taking her up over the city to survey the spreading flames; he recalled the she-dragon's fear and fury as Sansa suddenly plunged into her skin and yanked, pulling her out of the way moments before a fresh pillar of wildfire erupted without warning.

After that, Olyvar had not dared to try making firebreaks. Instead he had flown to Blackwater Bay, and carefully used Viserion's dragonflame to melt away the largest chunks of floating ice, enough to open the harbor. Most of the ships had managed to weigh anchor before the sparks from the fires reached their flammable sails and timbers.

Once that was done, Olyvar had swept in circles over the rooftops, using the view from dragonback to guide his men toward the most dangerous outbreaks of fire. Thankfully, some of the wildfire had been in older manses made of stone. The infernos burnt so fiercely that the timber frames of the manses collapsed, the falling stones smothering the fires before they could spread. And Ser Jacelyn Bywater's goldcloaks had acquitted themselves well, directing the water wagons and helping form chains of men and women to pass buckets between the fountains and the fires.

The hardened men of the Golden Company had proved less helpful. Sellswords were made for battle, not keeping the peace. True, their discipline had helped prevent the great fire from turning into a sack, but there had still been looting and rapes amidst the chaos. King Aegon had bade his commanders try and punish every thief and raper, but it was an order which some lords took more seriously than others.

Up on the gallows, Qyburn collapsed, finally overcome by the pain. As the goldcloaks doused the necromancer with water, Olyvar glanced at the lords who surrounded him. Dez gave him a subtle nod of encouragement, which Olyvar returned. Prince Oberyn was still smiling thinly; Lord Edric Dayne was dabbing at his sweaty brow, looking quite green; Lord Mathis Rowan was muttering something to Lord Garlan Tyrell, who frowned.

"No, my lord," Lord Garlan said quietly. "My men have found no trace of them on the gold road, not yet."

Olyvar clenched his jaw as the goldcloaks hauled the necromancer back on his feet, still trying to revive him. Damn the Kingslayer, damn him to the deepest of the seven hells. Queen Cersei might have given Qyburn his orders, but it was Ser Jaime who had given her the notion, Olyvar did not doubt. He should have struck the Kingslayer's head off after the parley, as Prince Oberyn and a dozen other lords had urged. But no, King Aegon had insisted that the man face a proper trial, that Jaime and Cersei Lannister's crimes be exposed to the light of day, their sentence carried out before the eyes of gods and men.

Instead, Olyvar had been in the midst of making love to his wife when Prince Oberyn burst through the flap of their tent. Sansa squeaked with dismay, blushing so red she almost glowed as she hid beneath the furs. Olyvar was less overcome. Too furious to worry about modesty, he had risen from the bed, seized his uncle by the collar, and reminded him in no uncertain terms that he was his king, not his son, and an interruption of this kind would not happen again.

"Noted, Your Grace," Prince Oberyn had said, jerking free. "But this news cannot wait. The Kingslayer has escaped; I thought you should know before the guardsmen rouse the entire camp."

The Kingslayer was no stranger to murdering men; it was almost fitting that he should murder any hope of sleep. Olyvar had been up the entire night, directing the search for the missing hostage. His mood briefly improved when Dickon Tarly rode into camp beneath a peace banner, bringing the welcome news that both Jaime and Cersei Lannister were being held in the Red Keep, and that the small council would be opening the gates at dawn.

Of course, no sooner had they entered the city than Ser George Graceford of the Kingsguard appeared to inform King Aegon that, inexplicably, both the Kingslayer and Queen Cersei had vanished from the Tower of the Hand. King Aegon had quickly sent the knight back to the Red Keep with orders to have it searched from top to bottom.

Only later would they learn that the Lannisters had already fled the city before daybreak, damn them. It made no matter; soon or late, they would be caught. There were few travelers in winter, and even fewer one-handed knights traveling alone with beautiful golden-haired women. If by some miracle the Lannisters were not taken on the gold road, they would find Lord Lydden and his host stood betwixt them and their precious Casterly Rock. Unless they have the wits to flee elsewhere. The gods knew it would be cursed hard to find them in the Free Cities, no matter how generous the price on their golden heads.

Qyburn's head lolled as a goldcloak shoved a vial under his nose. The hartshorn reeked so badly that Olyvar's mare snorted at the stink. Let him be dead, gods, let him be dead, Olyvar prayed. To no avail; another whiff, and Qyburn's head jerked up as he gasped for air, wheezing and shaking, his lips contorted in silent screams of pain.

King Aegon nodded at the goldcloaks, and Olyvar said another prayer to the Father Above as the vile business at last came to an end. A flash of a knife, and entrails spilled forth, wriggling like snakes, to be burned before the necromancer's eyes as the crowd cheered. They cheered even louder when the goldcloaks shoved Qyburn down onto the block, and loudest of all when the axe descended, cleaving his head from his shoulders.

Their bloodlust quenched, the mob began to disperse. To Olyvar's relief, the necromancer's body was limp and lifeless when the axe descended again. With brutal efficiency the corpse was hacked into seven parts, one for each of the city's seven gates upon which they would be displayed. When each sad piece was mounted atop a spear, Olyvar finally looked away. A quick kick and his mare broke into a trot, the crowd parting before him as he made for the King's Way.

As usual, the royal procession was infuriatingly slow. A king could do nothing simply, not even ride home. A standard-bearer rode ahead of them, the halved dragon and phoenix banner hanging proudly from his staff. Ser Daemon Sand kept close to the king's side, as did several of his most trusted men-at-arms. King Aegon tossed coppers to the smallfolk as he rode, as did many of his lords, who had taken to following his example. An escort of goldcloaks kept the crowd from drawing too close, or from overwhelming the servants who trailed at the tail end of his retinue, passing out blankets and loaves of bread stamped with the queen's seal.

The Street of Flour and the Street of Looms were kept busy day and night by King Aegon's command. Not that either the bakers or weavers were especially thrilled about the king's custom. He had directed Ser Gulian Qorgyle to strike hard bargains, paying fair prices rather than generous ones. The royal treasury was not limitless; he could not risk emptying his coffers faster than he could refill them.

When he turned onto the Muddy Way, there was less throwing of coppers. King, lord, or goldcloak alike, all had to watch the road carefully, lest their horses miss their footing. Though the floodwaters had receded back to the Blackwater Rush, they had left behind puddles and pools that quickly froze over, only to be buried by the half foot of fresh snow which had put an end to the last of the fires.

With the Blackwater Rush no longer frozen over, and so high it overflowed its banks, the royal party required ferries to pole them across the river. Why no one had bothered building a bridge, Olyvar was not sure. Mindful of his duty to make conversation, he posed the question as soon as the ferry pushed off, and listened attentively as his lords pondered the answer aloud, some more thoughtfully than others. Lord Celtigar thought it had to do with the width of the river and the strength of the current, Lord Rowan thought a bridge would make the city more vulnerable to attack, and Lord Edric Dayne just shrugged and blamed the expense.

The discussion continued when they reached the southern bank, and as they rode toward the hill which lay between the kingsroad and the shores of the sea. A forest of pavilions surrounded the base of the hill; on its flat-topped summit perched a wooden fort. Phoenix and dragon banners flew from its walls; with the Red Keep so much rubble, King Aegon had taken the fort as his seat, at least for the time being.

Olyvar would have liked nothing more than to ride to the top of the hill. Instead, he made for the pavilions, dismounting before one of the largest, an extravagance of silver silk blazoned with a golden tree. A septon and an altar awaited inside, and Olyvar knelt before them even as the bells tolled six for the Hour of the Smith.

Of course, he could not pray alone. No, his courtiers knelt behind him; almost all of those who had followed him to the execution had also followed him inside the tent. Save Oberyn, who only prayed at the Hour of the Warrior and the Hour of the Father, and Edric, who already knew Olyvar well, and preferred to spend his time elsewhere. Annoying Princess Arya for a spar, most likely.

As usual, Lord Rowan knelt closest to the king. No one dared object, not when he had given up his own pavilion to serve as the king's sept. The little statue of the Smith which took pride of place had come from Lord Celtigar, just as the other six statues of the Seven had come from the personal altars of sundry other lords and ladies. So had the altar itself, as well as the embroidered cloth and ornate candlesticks which sat upon it.

Olyvar watched the candles burn, their flames soft and steady. He was grateful for the peace and quiet, though he would have preferred a nap. He still had to play the king at dinner, no matter how drained and dreary he felt. Small wonder Daenerys and Aegor had run themselves ragged, and they didn't have dozens of lords and ladies and knights all clamoring constantly for their time and for their favor.

Hopefully the flood of flattery would lessen once he finished filling his small council. Ser Gulian Qorgyle was proving an adept master of coin; already the next fleet of ships were on their way from Pentos, their holds packed with grain. Olyvar was equally assured of his choice for master of laws. Lord Willas Tyrell was of a scholarly bent, and it would take a scholar to untangle the mess Queen Cersei had made, not to mention poring over the follies made during King Robert's reign and that of Aerys before him.

With Dorne and the Reach already represented, Olyvar was inclined to choose his master of ships from the Stormlands. Or perhaps the Vale, if he should succeed in winning their fealty. His master of whispers might come from anywhere; all he required was a lord of amiable temper who would not get in the way of Princess Rhaenys. Meria had spent long years honing her skills; he intended that his sister continue to use them.

No, it was choosing a Lord Hand which would pose the most difficulty. He would have liked to appoint Deziel Dalt; the man was steady and thoughtful, amiable but firm, and above all, capable. Of course, he was also Dornish, which would displease every lord not from Dorne. More importantly, Dez would see the appointment not as an honor but as a burden; Olyvar would not inflict the handship on a friend who had already done so much for him.

King Aegon required someone else he could trust, someone who would follow the king's will whilst he was away. More than a sennight into third moon, and there were still no ravens from either the King in the North or from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Olyvar wished he could share Sansa and Arya's blind faith in their brother Robb and their half-brother Jon Snow, but the silence troubled him more than he could say. Winter had already lasted for over two years; Seven forbid it should last ten years as summer had.

Then the septon began a hymn, and Olyvar's scattered thoughts fell by the wayside as he raised his baritone voice in supplication to the Smith. He did his best to focus on the words, on the simple tune, though it was hard not to be swayed by the chorus of voices around him. Meria would have wept at the Ser Walys Mooton shouted the words, even though he did not seem to know all of them, not to mention old Lord Crabb's tuneless mumbling. Though perhaps the rich bass of Ser Bennard Brune would have soothed her; it contrasted nicely with Lord Rowan's middling tenor.

When Olyvar emerged from the pavilion, he found a bear cub waiting for him.

"Your Grace." Little Samrik bowed, or tried to; he was bundled in so many furs it was a wonder he could bend at all. "Queen Sansa says dinner is ready, whenever His Grace wants it." The boy frowned, his breath steaming. "Whenever Your Grace wants it?"

Olyvar ruffled the child's dark hair. "You did well," he said quietly. Then, more loudly, "Her Grace is too kind; tell her I shall attend her presently."

Samrik nodded, bowed again, then spun on his heel and started jogging back up the hill. For a moment, Olyvar watched him go. Though only five, Samrik was a clever lad, bright and curious and eager to please. It was a shame he would soon have noble squires and pages to attend him, but such was life.

King Aegon remained outside the pavilion a little longer, to bid farewell. Any delay to his dinner was unwelcome, but as he would not see his lords until he returned from the Vale, such courtesies must be observed. Mother Elia said a gracious liege had less trouble with his vassals, even if they didn't always agree with his edicts. Olyvar hoped she was right; he hated wasting his time, especially when his stomach was growling so loud he feared Lord Rowan must hear it.

Mercifully, Olyvar was soon riding up the hill, bound for the wooden fort. Unsure of how long the siege would last, Garlan Tyrell had kept his men busy. A three-story royal hunting lodge had already stood atop the hill; Garlan's carpenters had built around it, raising a timber keep, watchtower, longhall, and stables. It was there Olyvar left his horse, tossing a copper to the wide-eyed stableboy before striding away.

He found Sansa in their chambers on the third floor, already gowned and crowned, with her thick auburn hair caught up in a silver hairnet. She wrinkled her nose slightly when he embraced her; his lady wife's sense of smell was even more sensitive of late, as if she had the nose of a bloodhound rather than that of a wolf.

"I can wash, my lady, if the scent bothers you," Olyvar offered. What scent he did not say; neither of them wished to think of how he had passed the afternoon.

"No," Sansa sighed. She reluctantly drew away. "Our guests are already in the hall, my love. The sooner we dine, the sooner we can retire for the evening."

All too soon they were at the doorway to the stone hall which stood on the lowest floor of the hunting lodge. Everyone in the hall stood as King Aegon escorted Queen Sansa in, leading her to their seats at the center of the table on the dais. Really they ought to have sat at opposite ends of the table, so as to converse with more of their subjects, but that was a sacrifice neither was willing to make, not after spending the long day apart.

Besides, no one could object to them sitting together. Such behavior was commonplace for newlyweds, as was drinking from the same cup. It was only right and proper that King Aegon should feed his wife the choisest morsels of each dish which struck her fancy. Although Olyvar could have done with less innocent smiles from Deziel. He might as well shout "I told you so" and make an end of it. At least Dez had Brienne to distract him; else he'd have been insufferable. Just to spite him, Olyvar pressed a quick, courtly kiss to Sansa's fingers, a smug reminder that a husband could take far more liberties than a mere betrothed.

Of course, Olyvar could not focus all his attentions on his wife, or on the faithful hound and cat curled up under their chairs. A host must be hospitable, or there was no point in dining in company rather than in their small solar.

Yesterday, it had been the lords of the Crownlands who followed his banners from Duskendale. Lord Crispian Celtigar had drunk far too much, when he was not speaking quietly to his wife. That was no surprise; he was still disconsolate from the death of his elderly father, who had served as Queen Cersei's master of horse and died in the destruction of the Red Keep. Lord Staunton and Lord Crabb and their wives had been in better humor. So had Lord Rosby, possibly because he had left his wife at home. The various Brunes were never in good humor; Olyvar appreciated their constancy.

The night before that had been the lords of the Reach. Olyvar had spoken most with Garlan, whom he had placed in charge of helping Ser Jacelyn Bywater and his goldcloaks restore order to the city, and with Lord Rowan, whose brusque manner was more welcome than the honeyed words of his fellow lords and ladies. Sansa was better equipped to deal with them, thank the Seven.

She had not done quite so well on the night previous. It had begun promisingly enough. The northmen and the rivermen were fond of Princess Arya, and despite their mingled feelings toward King Aegon, they were quickly growing just as fond of Queen Sansa. Ser Marlon Manderly spoke eloquently of White Harbor's beauty and prosperity, and Lord Artos Woolfield was much more pleasant than when they had met long ago at Sunspear. The young Flints and Mootons were practically boisterous, and Lord Hugo Wull (who appeared to be better known as Big Bucket, to Olyvar's bemusement) was delighted when he learned that Sansa could speak northron, albeit not as fluently as Arya.

The trouble had come with the sweet. Sansa had worn a gown of Tully red and blue in a show of familial respect, and when the spiced cakes came, she had offered the first one to her great-uncle, Brynden Blackfish. He had accepted it, with a rare smile and a "thank you, little Cat." Both Sansa and her uncle stiffened, then the moment passed unremarked. Save by Lady Smallwood, who suddenly saw the need to seek a private word with the queen. When Olyvar returned to their chambers later, Sansa's cheeks were red from weeping, and neither of them had seen the Blackfish the next day.

Tonight, their only guests were a dozen or so Dornishmen. Deziel and his betrothed Brienne of Tarth sat to Olyvar's right; to his left sat Sansa and her sister Arya. Princess Elia sat in her wheeled chair at one end of the table, speaking to Lady Aliandra Jordayne whilst keeping a beady eye on little Elia. She sat between their cousin Quentyn and his wife Gwyneth Yronwood, who was now one of Princess Elia's ladies. Olyvar was not sure whether to be relieved or concerned that little Elia seemed much the same at twenty as she had been at fourteen. An Uller who stood heir to the Hellholt could not be as wild and reckless as a Sand; he only hoped his mother's firm hand would triumph over her namesake's stubbornness.

Olyvar eyed Prince Oberyn, who sat at the other end of the table with Ser Ryon Allyrion, Ser Dickon Manwoody, and a few others. Elia had come by her stubbornness honestly; her father was worse than a mule. Promptly legitimizing Ellaria Sand and her daughters by royal decree and declaring Ellaria as Lady Uller of the Hellholt had pleased Oberyn... until King Aegon informed him that he must return to Dorne.

"Mother Ellaria's cousins are likely to dispute her claim, as you well know," Olyvar had reminded him. "She needs you far more than I do. How long has it been since you've seen her, or Doree and Loree?"

"Less than a sixmonth," Oberyn said. "When I returned to Dorne to bring you a mighty host."

"For which I am duly grateful," Olyvar said, rubbing his temples. "You have served my cause long enough. I cannot go home to Dorne; I thought you would be pleased to return in my stead."

"I miss Dorne every day." His uncle's dark eyes were almost soft. "But Ellaria understands that duty comes first, even before her."

"And I say your duty is to go home, to wed Ellaria and defend the Hellholt." Olyvar stood, his belly flopping queerly as he realized he overtopped his fath- uncle by several inches. "I am not sending you into exile. When I return from the north, I hope you and Ellaria and my sisters will come to court. But for now, my lords must see the son of Rhaegar, not the Red Viper. You will go to Ellaria, not leave her to mourn our dead alone."

A wave of grief washed over him, sudden as a squall. Ellaria was not the only one who mourned. Her father Lord Harmen Uller and her uncle Ser Ulwyck had died in good company. Ser Gulian Qorgyle mourned for his brother Ser Arron, and buried his grief in his work as master of coin. Lady Jynessa Blackmont and her brother Perros were inconsolable over the loss of their mother Lady Larra Blackmont, so much so that they had declined his invitation to dinner.

Unlike the Blackmonts, Princess Elia hid her sorrow. He had not known how bereft she was at the loss of Cedra Santagar, not until Olyvar sought out his mother for comfort with his own grief. It was to her that he had poured forth his regrets over the deaths of his cousin Trystane, his bannerman Ser Symon Wyl, the faithful Dornishmen who had been slain in the Red Keep. And all the while, his mother had held his hand in hers, her grip as stiff and familiar as the way her words slurred when she spoke.

Another squeeze of the hand returned him to the present, as gentle as the reproach in Sansa's eyes.

"I beg your pardon," King Aegon said. "My mind was elsewhere. Pray, say on, Ser Dickon. I trust Lady Desmera's recovery from childbed fever proceeds apace?"

Ser Dickon Manwoody huffed, but soon forgot his displeasure as he rambled on about yet another dispute with his brother Mors, now the Lord of Kingsgrave since the death of their father Lord Dagos in the black cells.

"Lady Desmera may have been born a Redwyne," Dickon fumed, "but my brother must have been drunk to allow her to name my nieces when she was feverish. By the Mother's soft—" he remembered ladies were listening "—er, hands, Paxta is no fit name for a Manwoody, nor for any child!"

"Paxta?" Edric Dayne choked back a laugh as he poured the wine. "Gods, what did she name the other one?"

Dickon crossed his arms, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "Having honored Paxter Redwyne with a namesake," he said, "she decided it was only right and proper that both of her twin girls be named for their grandfathers."

"Dagosia?" guessed Deziel.

"Dagora," ventured Arya.

"Daga?" said Sansa, clearly trying not to smile.

Dickon held out his cup; when Edric filled it, he drained it in one swallow.

"No." He wiped his mouth with a look of disgust. "No, nothing would do for Desmera but that my brother's eldest daughter, my niece, the heiress of Kingsgrave, be named Dagos. Mors thought his wife was like to die; the sentimental fool summoned the septon and had the girls anointed within the hour. A girl named Dagos!"

Olyvar glanced at Deziel, who quirked a sympathetic eyebrow. He knew Olyvar was struggling manfully with the unkingly impulse to point out that a man named Dickon Manwoody could not rightly object to ill-considered names. Brienne was less amused. She sipped at her cider with a look of vague unease, no doubt pitying poor Lady Dagos's rotten luck. Arya did not share Brienne's discomfort; her smirk was as wide as it was improper.

"I think—" there was a pause; Sansa must have either kicked her sister under the table or had Buttons bite her "—that Dagos is a lovely name," Arya finished, as sincere as a cloistered septa.

A moment later Arya slipped a bit of meat under the table. Sansa must have kicked her, then. Buttons was an incorrigible beggar, even though both king and queen did their best to ignore him. A soft whine from Holdfast, and more meat disappeared beneath the table. Never mind that feeding animals at table was unseemly. No doubt his lady wife would scold her sister yet again once they were alone, and yet again, it would not work.

Arya could be petty when the mood struck her, and she had not been pleased when Sansa forbade her from bringing Nymeria into the hunting lodge. The direwolf frightened most of the courtiers, and every servant who had not come from the hollow hill. Not to mention the direwolf was near the size of a horse, and apt to show her fangs at the least provocation.

"Nymeria was only teasing," Arya had said, defensive. "She thinks it's funny when two-leggers squeak. It's not her fault Lord Staunton wet himself when she snuck up on him."

Regardless, the direwolf did not seem to mind being banished to the Kingswood. Nor did the northern lords make any protest. Most of them had laughed uproariously at the southron lords' discomfort with their princess's she-wolf, at least until whispers of warg and beastling began to spread. Then there had been several very quick, very bloody duels, thankfully between young mountain clansmen and household knights rather between their liege lords.

King Aegon could not intervene in matters of honor, at least not when they were decided before he caught wind of them. He could, however, make frequent, pointed remarks about his respect for the old gods of the northmen and his approval of Princess Arya serving as her sister's sworn sword.

Of course, water dancer or not, Arya was still a girl of fifteen, and she never protected Sansa by herself. Four of Arya's sworn swords always accompanied the sisters when they left the hunting lodge, along with at least a dozen men-at-arms. Not that they left often. Whilst Olyvar spent most of his days riding around the city, Sansa spent them in their chambers.

When they returned to their chambers after dinner, Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard stood guard, with a squad of goldcloaks around him and the greatsword Heartsbane slung over his back. A few pleasantries from King Aegon, and then they were through the door. Olyvar breathed much easier when it was shut; he could almost feel the tension dripping away.

Knowing the bells would soon toll nine, Olyvar sank to his knees before the small altar they kept in a corner of their chambers. It was too much bother to ride down the hill in the dark; he could pray to the Warrior just as well with no company save Edric. And his lady wife and her attendants, of course. They always helped Sansa change for bed behind a carved wooden screen; the gods knew otherwise Olyvar would have found it difficult to focus on his prayers.

By the time Edric lifted Aegon the Conqueror's crown from his brow, Jeyne Poole was already tucking the crown of sunstones and moonstones back into its velvet-lined casket. Olyvar rolled his neck, trying to work out a crick that had started to irk him during dinner. He almost groaned with relief when he felt his lady wife's hands, so soft and warm as they kneaded the ache away, as he clasped one hand in his and tugged.

Sansa giggled as Olyvar pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her with a contented sigh. He pressed a kiss to her brow, to her eyelids, to her cheeks, to her lips. Only then did he release her, impatient to get undressed so that they could send everyone away. Edric knew what he was about; the king's clothes were soon back in the wardrobe, and Edric was following Jeyne Poole and the maids Meri and Gilly out the door.

That was his cue. Olyvar flopped back on the featherbed, clad in naught but a sleeping shift. A moment later, Sansa lay down beside him.

"C'mere, my love." He raised an arm, so as to allow her to snuggle into his shoulder as was her wont. She promptly obliged, tucking herself against his side, her sleeping shift riding up as she draped a long leg over his belly.

"You need to choose squires."

"I missed you too," Olyvar teased. "Who was pestering you today?"

"Who wasn't?" Sansa huffed. "Lady Celtigar told me about her grandson for half an hour before Arya frightened her off by telling her what she did to Ramsay Snow. I'm sure Arthor Celtigar is a lovely boy, but..."

"You could have sent just Lady Celtigar away yourself," Olyvar reminded her.

"No," Sansa said, snuggling closer. "Lady Celtigar is prickly, and besides, it put Arya in a good mood. She actually behaved herself at luncheon, even though Lord Staunton was still sulking about Nymeria. Also, don't change the subject, you need to start choosing squires and pages."

"I know," Olyvar sighed. "But as I'll be stuck with them for years, I mean to choose carefully."

He would miss Edric Dayne, but it was not fitting for a knight to act as a squire, and he needed to return to Dorne with Prince Oberyn anyway. His Aunt Allyria was to be wed, and she had strongly urged that the Lord of Starfall return to rule his own lands rather than find a castellan to replace her when she departed. Olyvar agreed; Edric's duty to his house and his bannermen must come first.

"But my place is with you," Edric had objected this morning as he helped the king dress. "If we are to fight the Others—"

"And risk Darkstar inheriting if you should fall?" Olyvar would sooner entrust his sister Elia with a lit candle and a bucket of wildfire than entrust Ser Gerold Dayne with both High Hermitage and Starfall. "Absolutely not. If you need something to do, work on begetting some heirs."

"I'd need to be wed first," Edric pointed out. Then, abruptly, "Princess Arya looked striking last night."

Arya's short hair did suit her long face, and Olyvar supposed her grey eyes were pretty, when they were not suspiciously mild or filled with the threat of imminent violence. When little Elia declared herself the best horsewoman in the city a few days past, his sister and his goodsister had nearly come to blows. Thank the gods neither girl was stupid enough to try racing in the snow—

"Olyvar?"

He blinked at his wife. Whilst he woolgathered, Sansa had doused the candles; there was no light save for the fire in the hearth. When she began to take off her shift, he did the same, tossing it aside before closing the drapes around them.

The sheets were cold, the conversation warm. They curled up together beneath the covers, face-to-face, to talk of the day in low whispers that would not disturb the rare quiet.

Lady Celtigar was only one of many who had sought the queen's attention while the king was busy. Before her it had been Ser Podrick Payne, come to beseech that a certain Dornish boy be chosen to serve as a page for the king. No doubt Prince Oberyn thought his former squire might charm Sansa with his blushing and stammering.

A clever ploy, but a waste of time. Olyvar had already told his father that he did not intend to surround himself solely with Dornishmen, and he and his lady wife were of one mind on the subject. King Aegon was king of the entire realm, not just Dorne; he had no intention of repeating the follies of Daeron the Second. Besides, most of the Dornish boys in the city were aghast at the mild cold; Olyvar could hardly take them with him into the bitter northern winter, unless he wished to be attended by—

Olyvar snorted.

"What?" Sansa demanded, slightly annoyed at being interrupted. Not that Olyvar felt any guilt; a laugh always lifted her spirits after a tiring day.

"What do you call a frozen squire?"

Despite the darkness, Olyvar could feel her brow furrow, her eyes glance side to side as Sansa tried to anticipate the jest.

"A squicicle."

That earned him a peal of laughter. High and sweet, it rippled through the air, covering his own low chuckles at the awful jape. Sansa was far easier as she recounted the rest of her day, the ladies seeking rewards for the gallant deeds of their husbands and sons and brothers, the septons wanting aid for the almshouses, the patricians and guild masters with their questions and doubts.

"And all day, I could not shake the feeling that I've forgotten something," Sansa sighed. "I cannot recall what it was, only that it was important."

Olyvar cupped her cheek, stroking gently with his thumb. "I'm sure it will keep," he soothed. "Were it urgent, either my mother or Jeyne would have reminded you."

"I suppose," Sansa said uncertainly. "How was your day?"

"Unpleasant. I had rather not speak of it."

A pause, then he felt Sansa shift, rolling over onto her side. Olyvar required no further invitation. He pressed against his wife's back, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest, their legs tangling together. One hand grasped a soft breast; he could feel her heartbeat flutter slow and steady as she drifted off to sleep.

Lying spooned around his lady wife was familiar, trying to fall asleep with her less so. Usually Olyvar would be awake for hours yet, reading in their solar and jotting down notes. Not tonight, though, not when he must rise before the dawn.

It seemed Olyvar had barely shut his eyes when he roused to the sound of the bells tolling twelve. With a yawn he rose and padded over to the altar, led by the dim glow of the hearth. Holdfast and Buttons perked their heads up from their rug beside the fire, then returned to ignoring him as he murmured prayers and lit candles to the Stranger.

The last candle hurt the most. King Aegon could not yet send ravens, but he had begun to receive them, and yesterday there had been a raven from Sunspear. Though Arianne's firstborn daughter Eliandra was at last recovering from the grippe, her secondborn had been less fortunate. Olyvar would never meet her, not unless it were in the seven heavens. Delonne was not even one yet. Children were so frail, so quick to take ill, and babes were even more delicate...

Olyvar blew out the candles with a pang of fear, the same fear that clung to him as he clasped Sansa in his arms once more. He knew his wife's mind, just as his hands knew her body, knew every inch of her. The faint lines on her arms, the dimpled scar on her knee, the little cluster of moles on her spine.

The growing curve of her belly, though, that was new, as new and as frightening as the sudden lack of headaches which portended her monthly moonblood. Sansa had not spoken of it, not yet. That was for the best, when it was too early to be certain. He could still recall how Ellaria had wept to lose her third babe, the one who ought to have come between Obella and Dorea. And poor Daenerys, rising from her bath... no, do not think of that, not now.

Olyvar opened his eyes, and the bright red of blood yielded to a darkness black as pitch. There was nothing here. Nothing, nobody, only the body pressed against his own, skin to skin, as if he and his beloved were one. His breaths slowed, his heart calmed, matching hers beat for steady beat, until at last the vast emptiness embraced him and he knew no more.

Their parting the next morning was as bitter as it always was. The world was still dark when Sansa woke him with kisses and caresses, delicate as the dawn. Olyvar could not help but return every touch; soon they were making love, soft gasps in the blissful silence. They had only just finished when the knock came at the door, forcing them apart long before either wished to let go.

King Aegon's crown weighed heavily upon his head as chained himself into Viserion's saddle. Olyvar would have rather stayed abed with his wife, or brought her with him. But no; he would be gone for several days, perhaps a sennight; he could not deprive the city of both their king and their queen, not yet.

And so when Viserion leapt into the air, it was with only one rider on her back. The city dropped away beneath him; rooftops and charred ruins gave way to snow-covered fields. Thousands of men and horses had tramped down the Rosby road; it was easy to find. Olyvar followed the road toward Duskendale, keeping close watch on the winds.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon when the she-dragon flew over the southernmost arm of the Mountains of the Moon. The day had been dim and grey; when the clouds briefly parted, the snow was bright enough to blind, so bright Olyvar could have sworn he saw giants moving atop the peaks as he blinked the stars from his eyes.

Thankfully, his vision cleared long before he glimpsed the square towers of the Gates of the Moon. As promised, a peace banner flew from atop its walls, flapping above the heads of guardsmen who gaped and shouted when the dragon descended, landing in the snowy yard with a dull thud and a sharp screech.

"Be nice," Olyvar scolded as he unchained himself.

A dragon's presence was threat enough; she did not need to show off. Not that Viserion agreed. She wanted to blow her golden flames, and might have, had he not swatted her flank as he climbed down. The Valyrian steel greatsword Ash was already slung over his back, but the spear Ember hung from his saddle. Olyvar freed it, and managed to pull his own peace banner over the sheath just before the lords of the Vale came out to greet him.

Thanks to Lord and Lady Waxley, Olyvar knew them all on sight. Lord Nestor Royce, bald and barrel-chested, was the first to bid him welcome, his manner as proud and stern as if he were the Lord of the Vale, not merely the High Steward. King Aegon accepted his offer of bread and salt with grave courtesy, mindful of which eyes were upon him, and which were upon his dragon.

Lord Andar Royce and Lady Anya Waynwood kept their gaze on the king, watching as he sipped Lord Nestor's wine. Lord Horton Redfort and Lord Gerold Grafton glanced from king to dragon, unlike Lord Benedar Belmore, who had eyes only for Viserion as he openly gaped, his fat face almost as purple as his cloak. Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, had rather more dignity. He looked down his beaky nose as if the dragon were merely a queer sort of horse, although there was the shine of sweat upon his brow.

"What a fearsome beast."

The speaker was a handsome lordling who stood behind Lord Nestor, his sandy hair dancing in the breeze. His cloak was fastened by an enameled brooch in the shape of a shield, quartered with the heraldry of House Arryn, House Waynwood, and House Hardyng. So this is Harry the Heir.

"She is indeed, Ser Harrold," King Aegon agreed.

"Lord Harrold," Lord Redfort corrected mildly.

"That is not yet decided," said Lady Waynwood, stern and unyielding. "But come; it is too cold to talk of such things in the yard."

Instead they talked in the Great Hall, where yet more lords and ladies awaited, those unwilling to brave the ice and snow. "The view from the windows was enough for them," Lord Jasper Melcolm told him. A cane rested by his hip; the old blind lord had needed it to find his way to his seat upon the dais.

"I could describe Viserion to you, if you like," King Aegon offered.

"No need; my son already has. Jon has keen eyes; he painted quite the picture. No, I had rather hear tell of King's Landing, and how you came to take it."

The whole table listened with rapt interest as King Aegon recounted all that had transpired since his landing at Dragonstone. The ladies seemed especially fascinated, perhaps because the tales of battle were unavoidably gruesome. Lady Ruthermont stared at him the entire time, barely blinking, as intent as a hawk upon a mouse, a gaggle of maidens who sat below the dais kept bursting into nervous giggles, and Lord Nestor's twice-widowed daughter Myranda kept making gasps and sympathetic noises and offering to fill his cup, even though he had barely drunk any wine whilst he was talking.

It was tempting to drain an entire flagon once Olyvar finished. Lady Waynwood and Lord Redfort needed no prompting to resume their argument, the same one which had consumed their hours since the coming of the new year, or so the Waxleys said.

"You see," Lady Waxley had mused, pondering where to place her next tile. "It was only a matter of time until poor little Lord Robert died, and now he's likely dead already. When was the last raven seen leaving the Eyrie, a fortnight past?" She did not wait for her husband to answer. "No, a moon's turn, I should think. Well, now, everyone knows that Harry the Heir is next in line, but what he'll do once he's acclaimed, ah, that's less certain. Will he heed Lord Redfort, and declare himself King of Mountain and Vale, or heed Lady Waynwood, and do homage to the King in the North?"

Olyvar would prefer that the Vale pay homage to King Aegon. There were hopeful signs as he focused on his meal and let the conversation flow around him. Lord Redfort and his partisans spoke little of crowning Harry, instead focusing on their many grievances against the King in the North, claiming he showed far more favor to the North and Riverlands than to the Vale.

Though truth be told, Lord Redfort seemed far more displeased about the fact that Robb Stark had offered a place in his household to Lord Redfort's son, whom he had disinherited. Lord Belmore was extremely vexed that King Robb had invited his daughter Jessamyn to the North, with a betrothal all but certain, only to promptly wed Margaery Tyrell instead. Ser Eustace and Ser Harlan Hunter were oddly displeased that their childless elder brother Gilwood sat upon the king's council, rather than remaining at home where he was needed; Ser Symond Templeton bore a grudge over the deaths of his two nephews, who had died at sea on their way to defend the Wall.

"You cannot blame King Robb for that," Lord Andar Royce insisted gruffly. "No more than I blame him for the death of my own sire."

"True, true, my lord," Ser Harrold agreed, turning away from Ser Symond and toward Lord Andar.

"You can blame him for the loss of your daughter," Lord Redfort said. "My grandson Adrian and your daughter Lorra would not have gone to the Eyrie if King Robb had not commanded Lady Lysa to foster highborn children as companions for her sickly son."

"For our liege lord, you mean, Robert Arryn, the Defender of the Vale," Lady Waynwood said sharply.

"King Robb could not have foreseen Lysa's stupidity," objected Lord Melcolm. "Her folly was all her own."

"And yet whoever is to blame, I will never see my Sharra again," said Lord Grafton, his voice quiet instead of booming.

A moment of silence fell.

"You shall see her, my lord," Olyvar said. "On the morrow, I mean to fly to the Eyrie at first light."

"You'll find naught but bones," Lord Lynderly said, breaking his long silence. Doubtless he's right; I delayed too long. Hot guilt washed over Olyvar; were he in private, he might have wept. "Though whether starved or slaughtered only the gods can say."

King Aegon furrowed his brow, utterly thrown. "Slaughtered?"

Lord Nestor explained, brief and to the point. No amount of gold could persuade any servants or smallfolk to attempt the path to the Eyrie, not with the Giant's Lance cloaked in ice and snow. Then, a fortnight past, a band of Burned Men had appeared. The winter had hit their villages hard, so hard that the Burned Men were willing to serve their hated enemies for the sake of food and shelter for their folk should they succeed.

"A futile quest," Lord Redfort said impatiently. "Even if the wildlings could manage the ascent, Lady Lysa would never trust them with her son's life."

"She might have," blustered Lord Belmore. "My youngest boy is up there too," he told King Aegon.

"As is my nephew; an attempt had to be made," Ser Symond Templeton agreed. "If you find these Burned Men have played us false, their villages will burn in the spring, when our Young Falcon descends to avenge his kinsman."

When dinner finally ended, Olyvar had much to think on as Myranda Royce— "please, everyone calls me Randa," —escorted him to a tidy chamber. What on earth were the vale lords doing, sending wildlings up the mountain?

"I fear the chamber is a bit drafty, my lord," Lady Myranda warned him. "I should hate to see you suffer any discomfort."

"Hmm?" Olyvar had not been paying attention. "My pardons, Lady Myranda, you were saying?"

"Has the cold gotten to you already? You must be so weary from your journey." Lady Myranda gave his arm a friendly if improper pat. "I asked if you would like your bed warmed."

"Oh, no, I don't need any hot bricks, thank you, my lady."

Olyvar could feel no hint of a draft; besides, the cold barely seemed to trouble him. A few layers of fur and wool during the day, a good blanket at night, and he was as comfortable as his northern bride. And there was a hot bath already waiting for him, along with a body servant. Lord Nestor had insisted on sending his own man to tend King Aegon's needs, a gesture of courtesy as appreciated as it had been expected.

That's it, Olyvar realized as he bathed. Expectations matter to him.

The High Steward was expected to put his duty to his lord above all else. No matter his displeasure with Lysa, Lord Nestor was loyal to House Arryn, and to the Vale, which he had ruled for nigh on twenty years. If anything could be done to rescue Lord Robert and the other worthies atop the Eyrie, then it must be done, even if it meant allowing wildlings to scale the Giant's Lance.

And no matter the outcome, the lords would win. If the Burned Men succeeded, the lords would have their children back, and the sickly Lord Robert would be in their hands, not Lysa's. If the Burned Men failed, they would die in the attempt, and the lords would be rid of them. And on the off chance that the Burned Men decided to wreak bloody vengeance against their ancient foes, the lords would have an excuse to make war when spring returned, the sort of war where their new Lord Harrold could prove his mettle.

Olyvar wondered what Harrold Hardyng would do when King Aegon brought back Lord Robert's bones. Hardyng was utterly ordinary, the sort of impressionable young lordling who spent more time in the practice yard than in a solar. He had not asked to be the heir, but he bore Lord Robert no ill will, though he had spoken disparagingly of the boy's frailty. It was commonly known that the boy suffered from the shaking sickness; Lady Lysa had nursed him far too long in the belief that it would prevent his fits.

Hardyng had never suffered a fit in his life. He was tall and clean-limbed and comely, and well aware of it. Even though Hardyng and Olyvar were the same age, Meria's letters said Harry the Heir had already had three bastard children before he took Lord Redfort's niece to wife. Not that he had seen any of them since he wed Anya Redfort, a fact of which Lady Waxley had approved.

Olyvar had not. Paying coin to the mothers was not enough; a man ought to take care of his children, even if he could not raise them himself as Oberyn had. Hardyng had certainly been quick enough to boast over the imminent arrival of his first trueborn child. His wife Lady Anya had been absent at dinner because she was like to have the babe at any moment. Olyvar could have sworn he heard faint screams as he was rising from his bath; he hoped they were the sounds of a woman in labor, rather than of a rising wind.

The morning dawned cold and noisy. Lady Anya had taken to childbed; the Gates of the Moon buzzed with excitement even before they were treated to the sight of a dragon taking flight. The clouds were gone; the sunlight glimmered off of Viserion's creamy scales and golden horns as they climbed up the sides of the Giant's Lance.

Up, up, up they flew. Past the fat round towers of the waycastle Stone, past the timber keep of Snow, past a deep crevasse with edges of broken rock. Once there had been a high stone saddle there, a yard across and eight yards long; now there was only a crude rope bridge, which swayed and swung in the wind. A blink, and they were past it, still rising, following the path up the mountain. Here and there dark blots lay in the snow, some alone, some huddled together, some cloaked in furs, some bare as babes, all of them still.

But then, just when all hope seemed lost, Olyvar glimpsed a sight that made his heart leap almost as much as the cold thin air. Smoke, grey plumes of smoke, rising from Sky. And there, six hundred feet above, another plume of smoke, rising from the Eyrie, whose white marble walls perched atop the mountain's shoulder.

Viserion landed in the smallest godswood Olyvar had ever seen. A garden, really, not even a godswood. There was no heart tree at its center, only a short empty plinth where some statue must have once stood. From here he could see there were two plumes of smoke, not one as he had thought. One rose from what looked to be the kitchens; the other from a set of apartments whose balcony overlooked the garden.

Olyvar cupped his hands to his mouth. Once, twice, thrice he hailed the balcony, until at last the door creaked open and a pair of scrawny, hollow-eyed squires came out. Both looked to be about twelve; the one clad in purple could only be Victor Belmore, just as the boy in red and white had to be Adrian Redfort. Their eyes were wide as boiled eggs as they gaped at the dragon, whose flanks rose and fell as she panted. After a full day's journey the day before, such a steep ascent had wearied Viserion. It did not help that the scar on her neck was troubling her again, nor that the air was so cold and thin.

Unsurprisingly, Olyvar had to patiently introduce himself several times before either of the boys grasped a word of it. Or Victor did, at least; he ducked inside, leaving Adrian to keep gaping whilst Olyvar dismounted. He waited in the cold for long minutes, unsettled by the quiet of the Eyrie. Some knight or retainer should have come down to escort him, not Victor himself, who shuffled through the garden on legs as skinny as sticks.

"The snow is too deep here," King Aegon said, keeping his voice light. "It might be easier if I were to carry you."

Victor hesitated, then raised his arms. It was far too easy to lift him; Olyvar barely felt the weight when he settled the boy on his hip.

"Sweetro— Lord Robert's apartments are this way, Your Grace," the boy said.

"Lord Robert is my kinsman by marriage," Olyvar told him as he strode in the direction the boy had pointed. "I'm wed to his cousin, Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Have you ever been to the North?"

Victor had not, but he had been to Gulltown once. King Aegon asked him all about it as they crossed the garden, through a door, down a hallway, and up a set of winding stairs. When they reached the door of Lord Robert's apartments, Victor slid down, landing with a wince before knocking a pattern on the door.

When the door opened, Victor led him through the solar and into the bedchamber, where they were greeted by three skinny girls. As they curtsied, Olyvar marked their gowns and jewels; the short girl in red and black blazoned with a burning yellow tower was Sharra Grafton, the long-faced girl with the broken wheel necklace was Jennis Waynwood, and the girl with bronze runes at her ears could only be Lorra Royce. Adrian Redfort had come in from the balcony; he held one end of a heavy log, which he threw on the hearth with the help of the pockmarked boy in yellow and black who had let them in, and who must be Tim Templeton.

And in the featherbed, propped up against the pillows, lay the Lord of the Eyrie. Robert Arryn was a boy of twelve, with sandy brown hair and enormous blue eyes. His skin was splotchy, his cheeks hollow, but there was more flesh on his bones than that of his companions, though he looked small as a baby bird in the blue velvet robe trimmed with fox fur that he wore. His mother's, no doubt. Where is Lysa?

"Are you the Winged Knight?" Robert asked, his voice thin and weak. "Mother said the Winged Knight would come for us."

"I am King Aegon," Olyvar said. "I've come to take you down the mountain, my lord, down where you'll be safe."

"Down the mountain?" Robert shrank back, trembling.

"To the Gates of the Moon." Olyvar grasped the boy's hand gently. "Your lords will be glad to see you."

"No," the boy sniffled. "No, they won't. Mother said, she said they want their Harry."

Olyvar winced, but King Aegon did not. "Only because they feared you lost, ever since the ravens stopped two moons past. What happened?"

Robert said nothing, only trembled, his eyes welling up with tears.

"Maester Colemon died of a burst belly," Jennis Waynwood said, drawing a kerchief to dab at Robert's eyes. "There, there, Sweetrobin, don't fret, he's gone to the seven heavens."

So had the rest of the Eyrie, Olyvar gathered as he carefully pulled the story from the children. With the maester gone, there was no one to send the ravens. The maester's assistants were long gone, sent down the mountain with the other servants to try and build a bridge over the crevasse between Sky and Snow. None had returned. Nor had the knights Lady Lysa had sent after them, nor the ladies-in-waiting who had gone as a last desperate resort.

The Burned Men had come, though, crawling up the handholds of the rocky chimney which led from Sky up into the undercellars of the Eyrie. The trapdoor had been latched tight; the wildlings had almost smashed their way through when the noise drew the notice of Septon Allard.

"The Warrior gave him strength," Tim Templeton said solemnly. "He dropped a slab of stone over the trapdoor and shoved a heavy crate over it so they couldn't break in."

"Where is Septon Allard?"

"I can fetch him, Your Grace," Sharra Grafton offered. Whey-faced, the girl rose from her chair, and almost immediately stumbled.

"No need, my lady," Olyvar said, catching her before she fell. "Just tell me where the septon can be found."

The septon was in the kitchens, tending a hearth over which bubbled an enormous kettle of pork stew. Septon Allard was even skinnier than the children; his hands were knobbly, his eyes dull, his legs so weak that when he fell to his knees at the sight of King Aegon, he could not get back up.

Septon Allard was the only one left, save the children. The cook had thrown himself out the moon door some weeks past, rather than steal food from the children's mouths. By Lady Lysa's command, the septon had taken up his post, minding what little remained of their once vast stores of food and preparing it as best he could.

"Even with the cook gone, there was not enough," Septon Allard said hollowly. "The grain was gone, and almost all of the meat. I prayed to the Seven, and the Mother came to me. She said the children mattered most, more than anything. When I told Lady Lysa of my vision..."

The septon sighed.

"Lady Lysa already gave most of her portion to Sweetrobin. After that, she gave him all of it, and pretended she had already eaten. When the hunger brought on a delirium, she believed all seven children were hers, not just the child she had born, and that it was her holy duty from the Mother to protect them. Lady Lysa bade me do whatever must be done to save them. When I swore I would see the children safe, she smiled and was content, and on the morrow, she did not wake."

"Whatever must be done," King Aegon repeated. He eyed the kettle over the fire.

"Whatever must be done," Septon Allard agreed. "The Mother is merciful; she guided my hands as I laid Lady Lysa to rest. Her bones are interred in the same tomb of those of her lord husband, Jon Arryn." He hesitated. "The children... Lady Lysa did not watch her tongue. They knew the meat was almost gone before Lady Lysa passed. Sweetrobin alone does not know; the others have protected him, shielded him, as well they should."

"He suspects nothing?"

"By the grace of the Mother, the stew was transformed; it looks and tastes of naught but pork. We told the little lord that we found a frozen hog in a forgotten corner of the cellars. That is the tale the children will tell, lest men prove less understanding than the Seven."

When King Aegon swore to tell the same tale, the fear went out of the septon's eyes. Olyvar left Allard on the floor, to let him gather his strength. Alone, he returned to the children, his steps echoing through the empty halls. He quickened his stride when he glanced outside a window to see the sun was gone, hidden behind pale grey clouds that billowed in the rising wind.

When King Aegon told the children a storm was coming and they must make haste, Sweetrobin began to shake again. He shook even harder when King Aegon explained how he meant to get them all down the mountain.

"We can't trust the Burned Men," Sweetrobin protested. "Mother said they were savages, that they couldn't be reasoned with."

"Not even with a dragon?"

"A big one," Victor Belmore added. Adrian Redfort nodded fervently, as did the other children; they must have staggered to the bacony whilst he was gone.

"I guess," Sweetrobin said with a doubtful look. "But take the others down first."

Septon Allard did not like the plan any better than Sweetrobin had. He muttered prayers under his breath as Olyvar chained him to the pillion saddle, grabbed him by the waist when Viserion leapt into the air, and squeezed even harder when they promptly landed beside the crescent-shaped wall of Sky.

"The Seven sent you a dragon," Olyvar hissed under his breath as Burned Men emerged from the waycastle. "I trust they will preserve you from mere wildlings. Or would you have me leave the children at Snow without any protector to keep them safe?"

Septon Allard stiffened, sat up straight, and let go of his death grip. Nor did he attempt to interrupt as King Aegon parleyed with the Burned Men's leader, a fierce one-eyed young man named Timett son of Timett.

"I can get the children down to Snow," King Aegon said, "but you'll need to take them the rest of the way, before the storm passes if you can."

Timett son of Timett laughed. "The Burned Men men have skith, and we have carried packs heavier than your children are like to be." He spat, and placed a hand upon the silver chain that he wore. "We will have them down the mountain before the sun sets; I swear it by the old gods and by my mother."

Whatever that meant, Olyvar did not have time to ask, just as he did not have time to ponder why a mountain clansmen should swear upon a soaring sapphire falcon who perched atop a broken wheel. That was a puzzle for later, after he had left Septon Allard at Snow, after he had coaxed Viserion back up to the Eyrie even though she wanted nothing more than to find somewhere warm to curl up and sleep.

The children needed coaxing too. Victor Belmore went first, to prove it could be done, though he vomited when they landed at Snow. Tim Templeton was next; he whooped and screamed so loud Olyvar feared he might go deaf. Adrian Redfort was too terrified to scream; only manly pride persuaded him to make the descent before the girls. Jennis Waynwood was petrified, Lorra Royce was grimly determined, and Sharra Grafton was so giddy when they landed that she asked if she could fly again someday.

Last of all was Sweetrobin. Viserion panted as Olyvar carried the boy out into the garden, her jaws open wide to show teeth long and sharp as daggers. Sweetrobin recoiled at the sight, burying his face in Olyvar's chest with a whimper.

"Is she going to eat me?"

"No," Olyvar soothed as he set the boy in the saddle. He could not have the boy start to shake, not now. "A dragon cannot sweat; she is weary, that is all. Once we reach the Gates of the Moon, Viserion will eat a fine meal and sleep for at least a day."

Sweetrobin trembled as Olyvar wrapped the chains about his scrawny frame, checking each one thrice despite the darkening clouds. He could not rush, not with this, even though fat snowflakes were beginning to fall.

"The Arryn sigil is a falcon," Olyvar remarked, keeping his voice calm. "Is it not, my lord?"

"Everyone knows that," Sweetrobin sniffled. "It's been our sigil for thousands and thousands of years."

"My sigil is a bit newer, I'm afraid. What do you think of it?"

Olyvar opened his cloak for a moment, to show the regalia he wore underneath. Sweetrobin stared, his nose running as he bit his lip until it bled.

"The three-headed dragon is for House Targaryen, but I don't know the orange bird."

"It is a phoenix," Olyvar said as he returned to securing the chains. "A bird of legend who cannot die, for it rises from the ashes of its own funeral pyre. So you see, we are both Winged Knights."

"Winged Knights," Sweetrobin muttered. "And knights have to be brave."

"Can you be brave?"

Sweetrobin's eyes filled with tears; he nodded. "Mother said I have to be brave," he whispered as Olyvar turned to securing his own chains. "Mother said I had to be strong for her, when she was gone, but that she'd always be with me." He sniffled, hugging himself. "Mother was very brave. I know she was, even if the others think I don't."

"I'm sure she was," Olyvar said, ignoring the feeling of dread trickling down his spine. "Hold tight to my waist; yes, like that. Are you ready?"

"Wait! I forgot, I have to—" the chains clinked as Sweetrobin wiggled "—the Vale is yours, Lorra said I should kneel—"

The wind howled, swallowing up the boy's words as Viserion braced herself with an angry hiss.

"There'll be time for that later," Olyvar shouted. "Now grab my waist and whatever you do, don't let go."

The boy obeyed, burying his face against Olyvar's back. Gods, he would have to be very careful when he chose Sweetrobin's foster father. Lady Lysa's sacrifice must not be in vain; he could not entrust a frightened, sickly boy to just anyone. But who? Sweetrobin needed delicate handling, else he would die from either malice or neglect, and the lords would have their Harry as they had planned.

The boy will live, Olyvar swore as Viserion spread her wings with a screech. He could only pray that his affairs in King's Landing would keep; it seemed King Aegon would be remaining in the Vale longer than he had planned.


I can't wait to see what you guys think sound off in the comments!

This one got away from me a little; chonky boy Reminder, you can get chapter updates at my tumblr; my ask box is always open :)

Next Up

163: Jon II

164: Arya II

165: Sansa II

166: Cersei II

NOTES

1) Qyburn's execution is mostly based on the medieval penalty for high treason of being hanged, drawn, and quartered. Weirdly, the order is not the same as the term, or fully accurate. The victim was drawn, THEN hanged, then tortured, then beheaded, THEN quartered. The point of the brutality was to discourage people from committing high treason by making the penalty so heinous no one would risk facing it.

Interesting side note: being hanged, drawn, and quartered was only a penalty for *men* convicted of high treason. For reasons of public decency, women convicted of the same crime were "merely" burnt at the stake. If they were lucky, they might be strangled first, and only burned after they were already dead, or the king might show mercy by commuting the sentence to a quick and painless beheading.

While there is no hanging, drawing, and quartering in ASoIaF (to my knowledge), Joffrey did mention he could have had Ned "torn or flayed" instead of showing mercy by having him beheaded, hence me adding flaying to the process.

2) Smelling salts have been used since Roman times. They are usually ammonia based; one medieval method of making smelling salts involved the use of shaved deer horns and hooves, which led to the name hartshorn. The stink is so vile it triggers the inhalation reflex, increasing oxygen flow.

3) The tragic events atop the Eyrie drew inspiration from the real life story of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, which crashed in the Andes in 1972. The survivors of the crash were trapped in the mountains at an elevation of over two miles.

Out of options and desperate, the survivors resorted to consuming the remains of fellow passengers who had already died. The decision was made collectively, and with much reluctance, but it saved their lives. All of the survivors were Roman Catholic; some of them made their peace with the cannibalism by viewing the act as like that of the Eucharist. Even so, the survivors were skin and bones by the time they were finally rescued over two months after the crash.