April-Mid May, 305 AC

King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, 305 AC

By ohnoitsmyra


"This," Olyvar said, his heart aching, "is why I will miss you so."

"Oh, hush," said Deziel. "I did it to amuse myself, not to please you. Well, not just to please you, anyway."

Olyvar looked at the parchments that lay on the table in front of them. The illuminations of trees and flowers were as numerous as they were carefully drawn and colored, each labeled with a scribbled note. Other pages were covered with rough sketches of circles and triangles, squares and seven-sided stars.

"As my original draft was drawn with the Red Keep in mind, I had to start over from scratch," Deziel admitted. "But I'll be able to make more progress once the plans are drawn up for your new seat."

"As soon as they're finished, I'll have them sent to you," Olyvar promised.

"I look forward to seeing them," Deziel said. "Though the Long Summer may come first, at this rate."

"Mayhaps." Olyvar laughed ruefully. "My lady mother wanted me to hire her Braavosi architect. She was not pleased when I told her that I intend to solicit proposals from the finest architects in the realm and across the Narrow Sea. I had rather take my time, not make a decision solely based on convenience."

"Of course you would," Deziel said fondly. "Seven forbid you make anything easy for yourself."

Olyvar frowned. "When a choice seems easy, that always means there's a trap hiding in it somewhere."

Deziel snorted. "Not always, surely."

"At any rate," Olyvar said, "we have happier things to discuss, such as your wedding gift."

As many seeds as Deziel had acquired during their travels, there had been some too rare and costly for the limited purse of the Knight of Lemonwood. It had not been particularly difficult to bribe one of Deziel's servants to keep an eye out for such seeds, nor to go purchase them later. Granted, that had only worked on their journey to Meereen, before Deziel went ahead as his envoy to Winterfell.

"On the way back, I had to guess," Olyvar apologized as Deziel crouched to examine the chest full of little boxes. "So you probably already have some of the seeds I found in Naath, and—"

In one fluid motion, Deziel rose and pulled him into a hug. "There is no need to apologize," he said, with a squeeze as fierce as his words. "Oh, my dear, dear friend."

Olyvar hugged him back just as fiercely. For a moment it was as if they were boys in the Water Gardens again, not men grown. But they were men grown, and the moment could not last. They broke the embrace at the same moment, Deziel with a grin that belied the shine in his eyes, Olyvar with one hand already wiping away the wetness from his own.

"Thank you, from the bottom of my heart," Deziel said. "I shall miss you every day, almost as much as I miss Lemonwood."

"High praise indeed," Olyvar said with a watery chuckle. "How soon do you travel there?"

Alas, that happy day was as yet uncertain. Much depended upon the health of Lord Selwyn of Tarth, whose recovery from the grippe remained slow. If the Seven were good, he might be strong enough to give the bride away. If not... then Brienne must take up the burden of the Evenstar, a burden her new husband could hardly leave her to handle by herself, let alone whilst in a knee brace and on crutches.

"Once you get to Lemonwood, I hope you can stay there as long as you wish," Olyvar said fervently.

"Careful, now," Deziel teased. "I might stay forever. Lemonwood is so much more beautiful than King's Landing, after all, and far more peaceful than court."

"You could stay forever, if you wanted," Olyvar said, ignoring the pang in his chest. "I would never order you to court against your will."

"No," Deziel said slowly. "I don't think you would." He clapped Olyvar on the shoulder. "Gods, you haven't changed, and I hope you never do."

But I must, Olyvar thought sadly that night, as his squires helped him prepare for bed. Or rather, Owen Costayne prepared him for bed. Sweetrobin was on the floor, playing with Holdfast again. Thankfully, Owen was sure and steady, unlike yesterday, when he had managed to spill wine on Lord Rowan's snowy doublet. Never mind that his arms had been shaky from an arduous morning in the practice yards; Owen had been mortified even before King Aegon gently reproached him, and sullen after.

"This would go faster if I had help," Owen grumbled as he unlaced the king's tunic.

"In a minute," Sweetrobin whined.

The hound's tail thumped happily as the boy scratched his ears; when he flopped to the ground and rolled over, Sweetrobin promptly set to bestowing belly rubs. Well, at least the boy wasn't scared of Holdfast anymore. Hopefully his terror of other dogs would fade sooner than later. It was hardly becoming for the Lord of the Eyrie to start with fright every time some lord's mastiff or lady's lapdog came trotting through the halls of the Aegonfort.

The Aegonfort would not be the same without Dez. So few of his courtiers had known Olyvar before he took up the mantle of King Aegon, and whilst that was for the best, it still made him sad. He would have gladly kept Deziel by his side forever, but... Dez had his own desires, his own obligations, his own life to live. Only the Seven knew when next they would meet again.

Sansa was almost as bereft at the loss of Brienne. The Maid of Tarth would never be her sworn sword again. Whether or not her knee healed well enough to permit her to wield Lady Forlorn, Brienne's marriage must come between them, as must her duties to her father and to Tarth.

"She told me that the godswood at Evenfall Hall hasn't had a weirwood since the coming of the Andals," Sansa confided once they were finally alone, spooned together in their bed with the drapes drawn. "Even the stump was torn out, hundreds and hundreds of years ago. But Brienne said Deziel can plant one of the seeds I gave him, if Lord Selwyn will give him leave."

Olyvar raised an eyebrow, surprised. Much as Deziel had enjoyed the challenge of taking cuttings from a weirwood for Sansa's wedding gift, that had been when he still believed the trees to be no more than a queer rarity, the tales of their power mere superstition. He had been quite unsettled by the revelation of Sansa's connection to the trees and the magic they had granted her; thank the gods he had not witnessed her change her skin as Robett Glover had. Even so, Deziel had only tended to the heart tree atop Aegon's Hill after Sansa asked, and he had spoken of the mangled yet still living weirwood with a mixture of awe and disquiet.

Awe and disquiet aptly summed up how Olyvar felt as he clasped Sansa in his arms, one hand on the growing bump of her belly. That is our child, he thought, for at least the thousandth time. Maester Perceval judged her to be almost four moons gone; within a few short weeks, the babe should quicken and begin to kick. But he would not be here to share that moment, not unless things went badly awry.

"I hate that we must be parted," Olyvar whispered, his eyes stinging.

"I know, silly," Sansa said, her voice as fond as it was sleepy. "Now rest, my love; you will need all your strength for council tomorrow."

That was true enough. A mere landed knight like Deziel could come and go at his leisure, but only the most arrogant or foolish king did the same. Olyvar might not wish to abandon his lady wife, but King Aegon must not only fly north into the teeth of winter to fight monsters out of legend, he must fight for the privilege of doing so.

When they first landed at Dragonstone, Olyvar had hoped to fly north as soon as possible, perhaps in third moon. Not to stay, of course. No, he had meant to meet with King Robb and Lord Snow, take the measure of the war that lay ahead, and return south to gather his forces. Then Cersei and Jaime Lannister had blown up King's Landing with the help of his grandfather Aerys's malevolent shade, and Olyvar had been putting out fires ever since.

When I am not forced to start them, Olyvar thought, his stomach roiling.

"My love?" he whispered.

"Hmmm?" Sansa said drowsily.

In answer, he kissed her shoulder. When she responded with a soft, happy sigh, he continued, kissing his way to her neck. Then she rolled over to press her lips to his, and his troubles melted away like snow beneath a summer sun.

The next morning, he woke sated and refreshed. No dreams had marred his slumber, though the same could not be said for Sansa. Another nightmare had come for her, one of icy winds and darkness and eyes that burned like frozen stars. Though barely conscious, Olyvar had comforted her as he always did and soothed her right back to sleep. She slept well of late, now that the exhaustion which plagued her had finally passed.

His queen was bright-eyed and glowing as they knelt together before the altar of the Crone, bowing their heads in prayer as the bells tolled six. Olyvar begged the Crone to share her wisdom, just as several hours later he begged the Father to show him how to balance the scales of justice. He needed all their help to handle his small council.

Although rank and reputation mattered, King Aegon had considered ability just as important when he selected the members of his small council. Goodbrother or not, Lord Willas Tyrell was far better suited to serve as master of laws than as the King's Hand. That plum had gone to Lord Mathis Rowan, who was blunt, capable, and renowned for his loyalty. Much as he liked Ser Gulian Qorgyle, he was only master of coin thanks to his skill with sums and ledgers, just as Lord Gerold Grafton would not have been chosen as master of ships if not for his many years of sailing in and out of Gulltown. King Aegon needed men who could be trusted to help rule his realm, not muttonheads or lickspittles.

Alas, muttonheads and lickspittles would have been less vexing.

"If I did not know better, I should think Your Grace was jesting with us," huffed Lord Mathis. "Eighth moon was already far too soon. But now you speak of departing in fifth, only a fortnight hence? When so much and more remains that must be done to set the realm aright?"

"My lord, setting the realm aright will be the work of years," King Aegon replied. "But such work will be for naught if the Others and their wights descend from the north to kill us all. There has been no word from the Night's Watch since the solstice, nor from King Robb since he marched for the Wall. Does that not trouble you, my lords?"

King Aegon glanced around the table, meeting each man's eye. Ser Clarence Crabb, his new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, yawned and scratched his neck. Lord Gerold shifted uncomfortably, Ser Gulian frowned, Willas tugged thoughtfully at his beard, and Lord Mathis gestured for Sweetrobin to fill his cup. Sweetrobin obeyed with careful dignity, pouring without spilling a drop. When finished, he withdrew, with a look of smug satisfaction on his skinny face that made Rhaenys quirk an eyebrow and Sansa cover a smile.

"Aye, it troubles me," Willas said at last. "Just as it troubles me that my sister Margaery lies in harm's way should the battle at the Wall go ill. But I did not bend my knee and swear the fealty of Highgarden to the King in the North."

Olyvar bit back a groan of frustration, knowing what was coming.

"Your Grace, reuniting the Seven Kingdoms cannot wait until after the end of winter," Lord Mathis said, gruff as ever. "This talk of summoning a great council is folly. Lord Robert Arryn may have brought us the Vale, but Robb Stark will never give up the Riverlands, not unless you force him to yield his crown. Stark needs them too much, just as we do."

"I know the worth of the Riverlands, my lord," King Aegon said evenly.

The borders of the Riverlands touched not only those of the North but those of the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Vale. Her many rivers flowed with fish and with trade; her fertile fields had served as the breadbasket of King's Landing for centuries, just as her prosperity had fed the royal coffers. And one must not forget Harrenhal, which might yet become the new center of the Faith if Paul the Pious had his way.

"However," King Aegon continued, "the terms were already sent and agreed upon months ago. My lords, I will not break my word."

"Break your word?" Rhaenys feigned confusion. "Surely no one would ask Your Grace to do such a thing. Your council merely suggests that you negotiate new terms, unless I mistake their meaning."

"Princess Rhaenys has the right of it," agreed Willas, giving his wife's hand a fond squeeze. "The original terms were far too generous, and offered before you had a small council to advise you. Now you have claimed your birthright, and you have fleets, gold, armies, and alliances far beyond Robb Stark's wildest ambitions. Fly north, I say, and Stark will realize that he must bend the knee. Once he does, you may fly back to King's Landing to rule your realm and gather any additional help which the North requires."

"And if my brother does not kneel?" Sansa asked, oh so softly.

Ser Gulian Qorgyle shrugged. "Then it is not our problem unless Robb Stark loses."

"He won't," Lord Gerold Grafton boomed, "though the war would likely be far longer and more devastating without King Aegon's aid."

"Stark will kneel," Lord Mathis said, impatient, "just as Torrhen knelt to Your Grace's namesake. True, Viserion is not the equal of Balerion, but she is still a dragon."

"And?" King Aegon said. His mouth felt dry as ash. "Robb Stark and I have already sworn an alliance against the Lannisters and the Others. Even if we had not, I am wed to his sister, and he to my goodsister. He knows full well that I cannot burn him."

"Certainly not," agreed Ser Clarence Crabb. "Nor any of his bannermen, unless one should be so foolish as to break Robb Stark's truce."

"Your Grace is a man of honor," Ser Gulian said, in a tone of affection mingled with exasperation. "But Stark does not know you as well as we do. If you let him believe that Viserion poses a threat—"

Sansa stiffened, and Olyvar stared, appalled. "And sully the negotiations by playing him false? Seven forbid. We must place our trust in diplomacy, not dragonfire."

Thank the gods he would not have to use Viserion against Casterly Rock. Willem Lannister's surrender had prevented that, though the boy had not prevented his vile cousins from escaping his grasp. Lord Lydden was still hunting for them in the depths of the Rock, unsure whether they were dead or fled. They ought to be dead, given the labyrinth of flooded tunnels into which they had recklessly descended, but Olyvar would not believe it until their bodies were found.

Ser Gulian was having rather better luck finding men to run the treasury. There were a dizzying number of positions, from the four lofty Keepers of the Keys down to the hundreds of tax farmers, wool factors, toll collectors, and so on. Rather than scour the city for new men capable of such service, Ser Gulian had sensibly kept on the old ones. Oh, a few of the highest officers had been dismissed, those who had been Lannister lapdogs. Not the lowlier officers, though. Most were men of middling birth and long experience, who had toiled away at their duties since the days of Robert Baratheon.

"We might replace them all, if Your Grace wishes," Ser Gulian offered.

"We have other concerns more worthy of your time, ser," King Aegon replied.

Sending a host of men north would be costly, never mind keeping them clothed and fed. And then there was the matter of finding the coin to start work on a Sept of Remembrance; such a project was like to take twenty years or more, not to mention however long it would take to build a palace worthy of taking the place of the Red Keep. The expense of so many masons was like to be staggering, not to mention carvers and carpenters and all the other craftsmen required for so vast an undertaking.

Whilst his master of coin spent the rest of fourth moon busy with ledgers and accounts, King Aegon busied himself with his court. There were dozens of minor offices which must be filled, from the master-at-arms to the master of revels to the master of the kingswood. King Robert had chosen keen drinkers and huntsmen; Queen Cersei had preferred flatterers and those willing to obtain honors by honoring the royal coffers with generous donations. Olyvar was not surprised that Rhaenys's letters had said few troubled to actually fulfill the duties of their offices beyond the least that would be expected.

As for King Aegon, he chose as best he could, given limited time and knowledge. The largest portion came from the Stormlands, Crownlands, or Vale, whose support was most fragile. Only then did he turn to men from the Reach or Dorne. Willas Tyrell could hardly complain, not with a small council seat for himself and Lord Rowan as King's Hand. The Princess of Dorne did complain, already offended that he had passed over Ser Daemon Sand for Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

In response, Olyvar sent cousin Arianne a long letter. He reminded her that firstly, it would not be prudent to favor Dorne too highly until his crown was more secure. Secondly, he informed her that Ser Daemon Sand, despite his usual good temper, refused to cease his constant bickering with the headstrong Ser Loras Tyrell. One would think they were squabbling squires, not knights of twenty-nine and twenty-three. Ser Clarence Crabb, on the other hand, was as forthright and sensible as befit a widower in his forties, and well suited to serve as Lord Commander.

By early fifth moon, Olyvar could turn some of his attention towards the host which would sail north. Truth be told, it was a much smaller host than he would like. Asking only for volunteers had seemed prudent at the time; calling the banners so soon in his reign was sure to be met with suspicion if not hatred. No one fancied a winter war, let alone one in the North. His own small council still doubted the seriousness of the threat, and they knew far more than most of his bannermen. Still, he had hoped that plenty of men would willingly rise to defend the realm.

Those hopes had not proved fruitful.

At first, things seemed to be going well. Lord Olyvar Rosby was nearly bursting with excitement at the chance to rush to the aid of Robb Stark, as were the three young Mootons. Almost all the petty lords and knights of Crackclaw Point had pledged their swords, firmly convinced that the Others and their wights were both real and exceptionally dangerous. That was the work of Lord Crabb, to whom Olyvar was duly grateful, although he wished the old lord would stop muttering about squishers.

But when Garlan Tyrell departed with his host, the largest in the city, only a few lords and landed knights had remained behind, young men eager for honor and glory and old men keen on a noble death. There were a smattering of Dornishmen, those with kin in the Night's Watch who had written to them of all they had seen, only to suddenly go silent after the end of the year solstice. Some had marched up the Boneway with Prince Oberyn and stayed in King's Landing when he left; they would sail with Sansa. The rest, those still in Dorne, would have to make their own way north.

Homeless Harry Strickland refused take the Golden Company north, not for any price. He preferred hunting the remnants of Tarly's broken host, those who had turned outlaw and now plagued the Crownlands. At least the sellswords were being useful; there was no point being angry with them.

Olyvar was angry when his ravens to the Stormlands and Westerlands were answered with naught but excuses. He should not have been surprised; raising men in winter was never easy. But that so many should utterly disregard the dire peril which lay ahead... that disappointed him more than he could say.

Sansa had rather better luck with her raven to White Harbor. Lord Manderly was delighted to welcome a daughter of Eddard Stark, and quite effusive in warmly sharing the praise he had heard of her. By contrast, the portion of his letter regarding King Aegon was positively frigid. By King Robb's explicit command, Lord Manderly must permit the southron host to stop in his city before continuing on to Eastwatch, and so he would. However, his king had said nothing of welcoming any dragons. Should Viserion come within five leagues of White Harbor, Lord Manderly would be most displeased.

"I fear my smallfolk would panic and run riot," Sansa read aloud as they waited for Sweetrobin and Owen to return to their solar with dinner. "I'm sure King Aegon recalls the madness which possessed the mob who assaulted the Dragonpit in the days of the Dance of Dragons. My city guard are not equal to quelling such disorder, not with Ser Marlon and so many of my best men away."

Olyvar grimaced. "I've heard more subtlety from your sister." And from Lady Celtigar, who kept pestering him ever since he returned from the Stormlands.

"Arya does have her moments." Sansa put the letter aside. "Love, did you do something to offend Ser Marlon?"

"Not that I can think of?" Olyvar scratched his head, grateful they were alone for once. "But... Ser Marlon's men-at-arms are a nosy lot, and Rhaenys says he rewards them for choice gossip. If one of them found out that I mean to ask your brother to kneel..."

Sansa's lips tightened, but mercifully, it was at that point that dinner arrived. Even better, the cooks had remembered not to send anything which would offend his lady wife's sensitive nose. This sennight, it was onions. Olyvar had not realized how much he liked onions until he could not have them. But then, it was a small sacrifice to ensure her comfort. Pregnancy was hard enough already, though Sansa seemed to bear it well. At present only her nose and leg cramps bothered her; otherwise, she was happy as a lark in a sandbeggar tree.

Olyvar wished he could be happy when the raven arrived from Casterly Rock later that evening. Yet as he read the words written in Lord Lydden's bold hand, he felt numb. Two corpses had been found, near frozen by the cold water and covered in filth. But it was not the water which had killed them, or so the men discovered once the bodies had been washed clean. The man's temple had been caved in by a terrible blow; a dark, vivid bruise ringed the woman's pale neck.

That should have shocked him, or roused some scrap of pity. Instead, Olyvar's numbness turned to rage. Only the Father could judge Jaime and Cersei Lannister now. There would be no trial, no public reckoning, no gruesome execution. They had escaped the justice of men, just as they had escaped King's Landing.

But Olyvar could not dwell upon the fates of fallen enemies, not when more treacherous foes awaited him.

It was the eleventh day of fifth moon when King Aegon finally took to the sky. Viserion screeched as they turned northeast, following the Rosby Road. Olyvar had half a mind to screech with her, if only to give vent to the pain he felt from saying his farewells.

His parting from Sansa had been the first and most bitter. His lady wife could not watch him fly away; at the moment she could not even come near Viserion without being nauseated by her stink. It was in bed that they kissed and talked and wept before the coming of the dawn, careful to dry their eyes before their squires and maids appeared. Whilst the king dressed, the queen bathed, finishing just in time to put on a shift and join him in praying to the Crone at their little altar.

When they were done, Olyvar helped his lady wife to her feet. Sansa's eyes shone with unshed tears; he could not resist pulling her into one last embrace. Her hair was wet and cold, the thick locks clinging to her skin. Olyvar gently brushed them away from her face, her rounded belly bumping into his as he cupped her cheek and pressed a kiss to her brow.

"Give my love to my brothers," Sansa told him, "and take care of yourself."

Olyvar could only pray that the Mother would take care of Sansa whilst he was away. Maester Perceval had sworn no harm would come to the queen, but a maester should know better than to make promises he could not keep. Mother had the best midwives and maesters a woman could want, but Princess Elia had still been bedridden for half a year after birthing Rhaenys. Birthing Olyvar had almost killed her, and left her unable to bear another child.

But this morning, she had felt well enough to have little Elia push her wheeled chair into the yard. Mother had looked at Viserion with quiet pride, the same way she looked at Olyvar when he bent to kiss her cheek. He stayed there for a moment, so they could speak privily without the crowd of onlookers overhearing.

"Remember," Princess Elia said, "you must always think before you act." One stiff hand reached up to adjust his crown, twitching the circlet of Valyrian steel until the largest ruby was once more centered on his brow. "There, now you are ready. Go with my blessing, and may the Seven grant you victory."

"Fly safe, little brother," Rhaenys whispered in his ear when he came to hug her. "Remember, you are the King of the Seven Kingdoms. This is your realm and your hour, and you had better fucking act like it." And with that she stepped away, with a smile as innocent as if she'd said the Traveler's Prayer.

Last of all had been Sweetrobin. All of the king's squires and pages had helped ready Viserion's many saddlebags, albeit with close supervision. But only Robert Arryn dared approach the dragon as King Aegon prepared to mount. Worse, he had wrapped his skinny arms around the king's waist and begged desperately for the honor of accompanying him on his travels.

There was no time to be gracious. King Aegon's sharp rebuke had made Sweetrobin weep, to the awkward embarrassment of the other boys and to the exasperation of Arya, who had swooped in to help pry her cousin away from him. Poor lad. Olyvar would have hugged Sweetrobin back if he could, would have spoken to him gently and explained all the reasons why he was not bringing anyone with him, let alone a sickly boy of twelve whose health would not tolerate such a long journey.

But King Aegon could not do that. Not when he needed to leave right away, and certainly not in front of a bevy of courtiers and servants. Everyone knew a soft-hearted king was almost as bad as a soft-headed king, and Olyvar could not be either. The realm depended upon him to be fair and firm, steadfast and strong, wise and worthy; in short, to possess every virtue which his predecessors Cersei, Robert, and Aerys had so conspicuously lacked.

For now, though, all Olyvar had to do was fly.

His first night passed at Brownhollow on the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs. Dusk had not yet fallen when Viserion landed; Olyvar might have continued across the bay to Wickenden, if he had wanted. He had not. Olyvar could not endure another game of tiles; better to be hosted by dour Brunes than gossiping Waxleys.

Ser Bennard Brune's wife was not so dour when he finished praying to the Smith in their little sept. The Smith himself might have made the guest gift he had brought to thank Lady Matrice for her hospitality. The vase had come all the way from Myr, the glass a brilliant blue-green, the swirling handles as elegant as they were delicate. Thank the gods it had not broken; carrying costly, easily damaged gifts in a dragon's saddlebags felt wrong, no matter that the vase had been wrapped in silk and packed in straw.

His second night, King Aegon stayed at Coldwater Burn, a keep near a river west of the Fingers. This time he gave his hosts a Myrish flagon, tall and narrow, with white filigree patterned over glass that was as clear and colorless as crystal. Lord Royce Coldwater agreed to share a cup of wine from it, but otherwise, his courtesies were as chilly as his name. Like the Royces of Runestone to whom they were sworn, the Coldwaters were staunch supporters of King Robb. When he woke at the Hour of the Stranger to a howling gale rather than tolling bells, Olyvar was aghast; he did not wish to pause his journey, let alone spend another night beneath an unfriendly roof.

Perhaps he ought to have stopped at Harrenhal instead, inconvenient though it would have been. Paul the Pious's letters were warm, albeit more forceful than Olyvar would like. Mighty as they were, even the Seven could not bestow more hours in the day. He meant to read the voluminous notes the High Septon had given him, he did, and to respond at length, but there were so many urgent matters which kept interrupting him. Now and then he snatched a quarter hour to peruse them, but...

Fortunately, the Seven did not appear to be offended by the delay. The gale which had begun before midnight dropped soon after breakfast, and Olyvar was able to say his midmorning prayers to the Father from dragonback. Viserion flew over a spur of low-lying mountains, over a river, over another, taller spur, and then they were over the Bite. The she-dragon hissed her displeasure; though the sea was queerly calm, the air was growing colder.

It was just as cold at Oldcastle, where they spent their third night. It was the lord's widowed sister who greeted them, as Lord Varly Locke had called his banners to follow the King in the North to the Wall. Lady Gilliane was a quiet, nervous woman, who shook with shock when she came to see the dragon which had landed beneath her walls. She was still twitchy at dinner; when King Aegon presented her with a Myrish goblet and asked her to share a cup of wine, Lady Gilliane drank almost all of it, barely noticing the colorful designs upon the bowl or the ornate stem which she gripped so hard her knuckles turned white. Feeling rather guilty, Olyvar sought and received permission to send ravens ahead to Hornwood and Last Hearth.

The fourth host of his journey was the most pleasant thus far. Lady Rhialta Hornwood did not seem particularly bothered either by Viserion or by the absence of her husband. She was far more interested in showing off her children, Halys, a boy of two and a half, and Emphyria, a girl of ten months.

"Named for my sister; we call her Emmy," Lady Rhialta explained.

Even after the nursemaid and the wet nurse took the chubby cheeked children away, they were the subject of most of the dinner conversation. Lady Rhialta had little interest in other affairs, not when she had frequent letters from her sisters and cousins to keep her well informed. That was a lucky coincidence, as her gift was a quill rest from Yi Ti made of fine porcelain. Lady Rhialta gasped and marveled as if he'd given her a dragon's egg, and when she excused herself to check on the nursery, Olyvar felt welcome enough to ask if he might come with her.

The lady gave her enthusastic assent. And so Olyvar happily spent the rest of the evening watching Halys demonstrate his mastery of sentences such as "me want ball", whilst Emmy circled the nursery on wobbly legs, clutching hard onto her mother's finger, her little face screwed up in concentration. Then a bell tolled nine, and the nursemaids came to put the children to bed, whilst Lady Rhialta offered him the use of her own little altar to say his prayers to the Warrior.

That night, Olyvar went to sleep wishing for a daughter of his own. King Aegon might need a male heir, but Olyvar's heart stubbornly hoped that the babe Sansa carried was a girl, one with his eyes and her hair. The boy could come later. After all, they were young and healthy. Queen Alysanne had managed to birth thirteen children, though Olyver would never ask such a thing of Sansa. No, they had agreed that a few girls and a boy or two would be plenty; there were not enough hours in the day for more than that.

When he spent his fifth night at Last Hearth, every hour seemed like an eternity, even though dinner was as brief as it was tense. Lady Marna Wull might have been kind to Arya, but she was positively frigid to King Aegon, to the extent that her son Hoarfrost, the heir to Last Hearth, seemed faintly embarrassed. When he gifted them a porcelain plate from Yi Ti and asked that they use it to share their bread, Lady Marna curtly refused, though her son did not.

Viserion was in an even worse temper than Lady Marna. She was sick of flying, of landing in snow and sleeping for only a few hours before she must take flight again. Never mind that she could devour a sheep and then sleep from dusk to dawn, rather than spend long hours playing the gracious guest regardless of how his host behaved. No, Viserion would have slept all day if he allowed it, perhaps longer.

It was before dawn when a serving man named Pate came to wake him. Mindful of the less than subtle hint, Olyvar dressed quickly, ate his stingy breakfast, and took his leave. Much as he dreaded the end of his journey, an early start would not go amiss. He had looked at the maps last night; Castle Black was perhaps seventy-five leagues away. They should reach it long before nightfall.

"Almost there," Olyvar told the she-dragon as he mounted up. Grey clouds shrouded the sky; the sun was only just creeping over the horizon.

Wise Crone, I beseech you, he prayed, though it was not yet her hour. Lend me your knowledge and your prudence. Guide my tongue upon this day, just as you guide my steps upon the path that I must walk.

As if in answer, a ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds. When it fell over Viserion, her scales gleamed gold and cream. She blew a tiny gout of flame, pleased by the hint of warmth. Then, as the dragon stretched her wings, some instinct made Olyvar turn. In the corner of the yard stood a bent old woman. One hand held up a lamp that burned brightly amidst the gloom; the other rose from the folds of her cloak to point northeast.

The Crone could not have given a clearer sign if she had sent a letter by raven. It seemed Castle Black and his meeting with his goodbrothers would have to wait.

His first glimpse of the Wall was no more than a line on the northern horizon, drawing closer with every resentful flap of Viserion's wings. As the distance lessened, it seemed to swell, until it became a vast cliff of blue ice that loomed over pale snow and dark trees. Olyvar shivered, his crown cold against his brow. Wondrous it might be, but even with magic, how could such a thing exist?

The men of Eastwatch seemed to feel the same about the dragon when she descended from the sky. Some stared, too stunned to do aught else. Others screamed and ran, to Viserion's gleeful amusement. She was less pleased with the careworn men who ran toward the dragon to form a broad circle around her. The valemen in colorful cloaks far outnumbered the northmen in furs and the sworn brothers in black, but when the men parted to let their commanders through, there were only three of them.

Though smallest of the three, it was the lean, wiry black brother who pushed furthest forward. Cotter Pyke was his name, the commander of Eastwatch and of the men who defended her. In short order, he managed to make curt, uncouth introductions, a complaint about the insufficient number of men King Aegon had sent from the south to take the black, and an insult about Viserion's size and ferocity.

"Way those bloody buggers went on, I thought she'd be t' size of the Black Dread," Pyke said, rolling his eyes.

"Perhaps someday," King Aegon replied. Gods, he hoped not. Viserion was already enough of a menace, and though he loved her, foul temper and all, he did not trust her to submit to another rider when he was gone. "She is still young."

"How young?" asked Lord Harrion Karstark, giving the dragon a wary look.

"Viserion is six."

"Six?" Ser Wyl Upcliff's eyes were as big as eggs. "Six?"

Cotter Pyke did not give a rat's arse about the dragon's age, only the use he could make of her when night fell. As Olyvar had expected that, King Aegon readily agreed. He did not expect to learn that since the solstice, Eastwatch had lost of half its garrison either to sickness or in battle as they defended the wooden palisade which surrounded the crack in the Wall. And yet despite how many wights they had slain, the host only seemed to have grown bigger of late. Olyvar hoped Cotter Pyke's steward had miscounted; after fighting every night for over four months, the men looked like they had been chased through the seven hells. That would be enough to kill most men; of course the survivors would exaggerate the number of dreadful foes.

Then the sun sank, and Olyvar learned how wrong he had been to doubt.

When the burning blue eyes emerged from the darkness, it was as though the winter itself seized hold of him, wrapping his limbs in freezing chains. He could only stare, motionless, as Viserion lashed her stubby tail. She did not want to go any closer to those cold dead things, or to the nasty wall of ice that stood between them. Why had she let her rider bring them here?

I don't want to be here either, part of him wanted to shout. Olyvar wanted to go home, to dote on his pregnant wife and dole out justice to his peaceless kingdoms. Why must it be his lot to deal with ice demons?

Because someone must, another part of him answered. The haggard men at the palisade had not asked for this fight, but they fought on all the same. How can a knight, a king, do any less?

And so, with gritted teeth, King Aegon took Viserion up.

The crack in the Wall was a jagged, cruel gash, lined with shards of ice that jutted out like teeth. Viserion screeched as she flew through the gap; in a heartbeat, they were above the mass of wights. Their terrible eyes shone as they looked up at their doom, a last blaze of blue before the dragon unleashed her fury and the world turned to golden flame.

For a moment Olyvar heard nothing but the blood pounding in his ears and the fire roaring from the dragon's mouth. Then a clamor went up behind him, an onslaught of shouts that soon turned to screams. Smoke stung at his eyes; through his tears he glimpsed orange flames engulfing row after row of caement apartments, green flames leaping from roof to roof, pale golden flames devouring the top of a tower crowned with a maelstrom banner—

King Aegon clenched his fists. There were no screams, not here, not now, and he had a job to do.

When Viserion finally landed, it was amongst a cheering throng. King Aegon ought to have given some grand speech, or at least stayed put to bask in the applause. Olyvar though, Olyvar could barely manage to keep himself upright, boneless with exhaustion. Better that King Aegon should let Ser Wyl Upcliff help him stagger to a chamber than risk falling face first in the snow.

Instead, he fell into a nightmare. One moment his sooty face was buried in pillows; the next, it was sweating beneath a steel barbute. Viserion's wings rose and fell, keeping her within earshot of the tall battlements. Upon it stood archers, men-at-arms, and a lord garbed in blue-green and gold.

"I had no part in my father's treasons," said Lord Willem Wylde, far too amiable for a man in his position. "Come, Your Grace, be merciful. A feast awaits us within, one worthy of a king. I ask for nothing, only to keep the ancient lands of my house. Grant me that, and I shall bend the knee, and be your most leal servant thereafter, I promise you."

"I have told you my terms," King Aegon replied, implacable. Surely he cannot be such a fool. "You have until sunset to strike your banners. If you do not..."

And Lord Willem laughed and laughed, until his eyes turned to molten jelly and the flesh charred and shriveled from his bones.

Olyvar jolted awake, his mouth acid with bile. He almost tripped over the chamberpot in his haste to find it in the dark. His gut was a nest of snakes; his chest heaved over and over as he brought up what seemed like a week's worth of meals. He had only meant to slay Lord Willem. How was he to know that the dragonfire that consumed the lord's chamber would spread through half the tower before it was put out? His lady wife, his children, their attendants... so many innocent lives lost, and for what? Lord Willem was not even going to lose the Rain House, only a large portion of its lands.

The Fells had not been so stupid. The instant Viserion began circling above Felwood, they had struck their banners. Young Lord Buckler was less obliging, irate at the death of his father at the Battle of Bitter Winds. The pimply youth did not even manage to finish spitting on King Aegon's terms before his own men-at-arms seized him whilst his knights looked on, unwilling to intervene.

If only Lord Wylde's men had acted thus. But no, they had stood by their lord, staunch and faithful to the end. There was nothing else to do; King Aegon had to carry out his threat. A king must not show forbearance to his enemies, his father Oberyn had taught him that. If only he learned the lesson sooner, Jaime Lannister would have lost his head, and King's Landing remained unburnt. At least the Mertyns had surrendered meekly, cowed by King Aegon's sudden appearance at Mistwood with the soot of the Rain House still streaking Viserion's wings.

Though he finally dozed off, Olyvar slept fitfully, waking and going back to sleep half a hundred times. Yet somehow, it was well past noon when a steward came to rouse him. Olyvar had to pray to the Crone, the Father, and the Mother before he could enjoy a hot bath and a lukewarm breakfast, a heaping bowl of creamy porridge laden with chunks of crab and slices of onions and topped with a knob of butter. King Aegon had not dined half so well with his hosts last night; no doubt he had Viserion to thank for such generosity.

A crowd of worshipful onlookers gathered to watch King Aegon feed Viserion her well earned meal. Cotter Pyke's men had provided several wheelbarrows heaped full of fresh-caught fish, which he tossed to her one by one so she could roast them with a spurt of dragonflame before gulping them down. To his dismay and surprise, Viserion did not even try to show off as she usually would. The moment she finished her meal, she curled up in a tight ball and went back to sleep.

"Is she sick?" Ser Wyl Upcliff asked, concerned.

"Merely tired," King Aegon told him. The scar on Viserion's throat had not troubled her since Sansa last healed it; it must be the journey and the cold which wearied her. So much for flying on to Castle Black. The she-dragon never slept for less than a few hours, and by then it would be too late to arrive before dusk. "A day of rest is all she needs."

There was no rest for King Aegon. He could hardly hide in his chambers until dinner; no, he must be social. His hosts were eager to hear his stories and share theirs in return. They had time to spare; tonight's battle would be practically easy with so much of the wight host burnt to ash. Thank the Seven for that; he did not think he could wake Viserion even if he blew a trumpet in her ear.

Getting her up the next morning was as difficult as he expected. Viserion "accidentally" flung a pile of snow at him with her stubby tail as he fetched her breakfast, wasted time by showing off tossing fish in the air and bouncing them off her snout several times before eating them, to the delight of the crowd, and, when Olyvar finally mounted up, took flight the instant he finished securing his saddle chains rather than waiting for his cue.

Ill-tempered beast, Olyvar thought irritably. He did not need Viserion's nonsense; he was nervous enough already as they followed the Wall west. Hopefully she would follow his command not to tease the direwolves. Olyvar did not need Sansa to tell him that Robb Stark and Jon Snow would not shrug at his dragon taunting their wolves the way Arya shrugged off the she-dragon's little spats with Nymeria.

But there were no direwolves at Castle Black. There was no one, no one at all.

Olyvar's hands shook as he tried to drink from his wineskin. When he swallowed, the noise was unnaturally loud; all was quiet save for the wind whistling across the empty yard. It battered at the empty stone towers and timber keeps, it shook the bare poles which should have flown proud banners.

At least they did not leave in haste, Olyvar thought as he strode to the nearest tower. Panicked men fled as fast as they could; they didn't pause to retrieve their lords' precious banners. They had even taken the chamberpots; he had to try several rooms before he found one forgotten under a table.

Once done with it, Olyvar turned to tidying himself. He could do nothing about the soot which clung to his blue and black regalia, but a spare rag served to shine his new breastplate. The front was graven with his halved sigil of a rising phoenix and three-headed dragon, studded with orange topaz and red rubies; the back bore images of the Seven. That gave him the strength to return to Viserion and mount, though not after a last look at one of the parchments in his saddlebags.

A blind man could have found the host's trail. The kingsroad which led south had been trampled flat, leaving a broad sheet of ice which ran between tall drifts of snow. As Viserion flew on, they began to pass broken wayns; now and then they saw clearings amongst the trees marked with the remnants left behind by a broken camp.

Olyvar girded himself, aware the tail end of the host might appear at any moment. Surely his goodbrothers would be pleased when they heard what King Aegon had done at Eastwatch. That ought to help. And Robb Stark of all people ought to understand the burdens of kingship, just as Aegor had. He and his kinsman had become fast friends despite everything, and though it had been much harder to win over Daenerys, he had managed it. He would win over his goodbrothers too, and if the Seven were kind, the Crone would lift her lamp and show Robb Stark the wisdom of bending the knee.

The sun was directly overhead when the ants appeared, dark and small against the snow. There would be no time to finish his prayers to the Mother. The lone stragglers were already behind him; now he looked upon a mighty host, thousands of men marching south as one. As Olyvar aimed for the banners which flew at the head of the column, he suddenly wished that he could have had a peace banner made to stream from Viserion's tail. Then he made the mistake of imagining it. The sight was so ridiculous, as was Viserion's indignant horror at the very idea, that he nearly burst out laughing as he circled overhead.

But King Aegon's face was solemn when he landed on the kingsroad just ahead of the host. Horns and trumpets blew; everyone halted, save for a pair of men on garrons and, oddly, a wayn which followed close behind, the oxen's breath steaming in the cold. King Aegon watched them approach, doing his best to ignore the rest of the host shouting and pointing.

He could not ignore the direwolves racing toward him. All three were the size of horses, but there the resemblance ended. One could have almost been Nymeria's twin, though his fur was a darker grey. Grey Wind. Beside him ran the largest wolf, one with fur white as snow. Ghost. As for the last- wait, why were there three? Rickon was at Winterfell, and Shaggydog was black, not grey and missing a foreleg. Olyvar's heart leapt; Sansa's prayers to the old gods had not been in vain.

The sons of Eddard Stark looked much as he had pictured them when they drew near. Robb, King in the North and King of the Trident, handsome and broad-shouldered, with the Tully hair, high cheekbones, and a vicious scar across his cheek. Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, sullen and lean, with brown hair and a long face, so like that of the portrait Sansa kept of her father. And sitting on a wayn driven by a wide-eyed black brother was a boy who could only be Bran, Prince of Winterfell. He looked more like Sansa than like Robb. Fortunately, his lady wife had never had so many pimples, nor peach fuzz shrouding her chin, nor, puzzlingly, a scowl so fearsome it could have curdled milk.

"Well met!" King Aegon hailed his goodbrothers.

"Your Grace," King Robb answered coolly. "I would offer you bread and salt, but as you can see, I have no roof to shelter you. Nor can we march onward with a dragon blocking the road, and it is far too early to make camp for the night."

"Of course," King Aegon replied. "I would not wish to delay you. I shall fly ahead, then, if you will tell me how far you mean to go."

"Another five miles," said Jon Snow. Prince Bran said nothing, too busy glaring.

A few more words, and then Viserion was in the air again, though not for long. She landed beside the kingsroad in a likely spot for a camp, happy to be away from the wolfstink and done for the day. Olyvar wished he could share her rare good humor. What had gone wrong? He had said nothing to offend; he had not even had the chance. But then, Arya said King Robb was always busy doing something; perhaps he was merely irritated at being interrupted. Olyvar winced; the sight of a dragon would certainly distract men who ought to be focused on marching as far as they could before making camp.

Indeed, it took longer than expected before the host appeared. Whilst King Robb and Lord Snow were occupied giving orders, King Aegon managed to get the attention of one of Lord Snow's men, a dour grey-haired fellow whose left arm ended at the elbow.

"I can get Your Grace a brazier and a nice big kettle," the black brother told him, "but the red wine we've got won't taste any better hot than it does cold." He gave a mournful sigh.
"And you'll want to make it in the king's pavilion, not the lord commander's tent. Unless Your Grace fancies not having enough room to swing a dead chicken without hitting yourself with it."

King Aegon's lip twitched. He jerked his head in a nod, manfully strangled the urge to laugh, and turned on his heel to stalk away before the man could say anything else.

It was Perros Blackmont who had told him of the ancient First Men custom of a guest thanking his host for bread and salt by bringing a drink to share. Olyvar had never heard of such a thing before, nor had Sansa, though she vaguely recalled a lord from the mountain clans who once brought mead as a gift for her father. Still, there was no harm in trying.

As forcing Viserion to carry casks of wine was as impractical as it was suicidal, Olyvar had instead brought all that he would need to make mulled wine. The scents of oranges and honey, cinnamon and clove, cardamom and ginger came as a pleasant relief after smelling naught but dragonstink, cold and snow. Greatjon Umber took a great whiff and gave King Aegon an appraising glance when he came in, which was something, at least.

More appreciative was the fellow who carried in Prince Bran, a burly mountain clansman in blue and white. A Burley or a Harclay most likely, but which had a knife, and which had moons? King Aegon wished he had his parchment, the one Sansa had covered with illuminations of all the northern sigils she knew and the houses to which they belonged. At least he could recognize Lord Daryn Hornwood, Lord Galbart Glover, and Ser Edmund Belmore by their colors without any trouble, though he did not know the two black brothers who accompanied them.

The mulled wine was just ready when King Robb and Lord Snow finally appeared. King Aegon poured a cup for each guest at the table. He was about to offer a toast to friendship when Prince Bran spoke for the first time in his presence.

"Meer- Lady Meera should have some too," the prince declared, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at the clansman who had carried him in. "You should take her a cup, Artos."

"Of course," King Aegon said graciously, to cover his annoyance and confusion. Why was a lady here? Then he remembered. Two of Lord Reed's children had gone with Bran, a girl and a boy. "Will her brother be joining us?" King Aegon asked. "If not, there is enough wine left to send a cup to him as well."

"No," Bran snapped, his scowl even deeper than before. Now that he had a closer look, King Aegon misliked what he saw. Boys of fourteen were supposed to be plump or gangly, not have hollow cheeks and bony hands. It was not hard to guess why one of his companions might not be joining them, even before he saw Lord Snow shake his head.

"I am sorry for your loss," King Aegon said. "Winter is cruel, as is war. Let us toast to the memory of our dead. May the gods grant them rest, and give comfort to those they left behind."

"Hear hear," said King Robb, much to his surprise.

When King Robb lifted his cup, so did everyone else. Silence fell as every man took a sip, then a chorus of quiet sighs echoed through the tent. That was even sweeter than the taste of the wine as the flavor of orange and honey and spices blossomed on his tongue.

The wine was the best part of the dinner. The portions of stew and bread were modest, though there were jars of rosehip jelly and butter and a little casket of black pepper to add flavor. If this was how the king dined, King Aegon cringed to think of how the common men were eating.

Olyvar wanted to cringe a thousand times during dinner as he hid behind his kingly mask. After a round of thanks and compliments for his mulled wine, the conversation soon went downhill. The tale of his triumph at Eastwatch was as well received as a marcher lord in Dorne.

"A useful trick," King Robb said. "Had you come earlier, it would have saved many lives lost in the defense of Castle Black. We had expected to see you sooner, given the promises made by Ser Deziel Dalt, and by the letter you sent to Eastwatch."

"I came as quickly as I could," King Aegon said. Much to the displeasure of my small council, not to mention the folk of King's Landing, he resisted the urge to add. Whining and excuses was not seemly. Better to make a gesture of goodwill.

"No doubt you will be glad to hear tidings of the winter wolves you so generously sent south. Several asked me to bring letters for their king and their kinsmen, as no ravens seemed able to reach the Wall." He looked at King Robb and Lord Snow. "I also have letters for you from my lady wife, who sends her love."

"Our sister," Prince Bran said sharply. "Her name is Sansa."

King Aegon inclined his head. "Yes, from Queen Sansa. Princess Arya also scribbled short notes on each letter, I believe." He gave Bran a sympathetic look. "Though I fear there is no letter for you, my prince, as we did not know of your return. Sansa will be overjoyed when she learns you are well; she prays for you at the weirwood every night."

Not tonight, though, Olyvar abruptly realized. It was the eighteenth; her ship ought to have set sail for White Harbor today. Gods, what was he thinking, letting Sansa come north? The realm mattered more than his own desires; he ought to have told her nay, never mind his terror that something might happen to her whilst they were parted. But... surely the small council ought to be able to manage without her. And Mother and Rhaenys would keep an eye on things, as would Jeyne Poole—

Someone had started talking; King Aegon yanked his attention back to the conversation at hand.

"—Lord Snow slew a dragon last year," Black Jack Bulwer said, ripping off a chunk of bread. "Or had Your Grace not heard?"

"I heard of it," King Aegon said. "A demon born from ice and blood magic, if the tale I heard was true." He lifted his cup in a toast. "To Lord Snow, dragonslayer."

Everyone toasted, though not before several glanced at him, baffled. Even Lord Snow's face was as stiff and stern as ever. What, was he not supposed to acknowledge his goodbrother's bravery? Facing a dragon with a sword was an act of suicidal heroism, the stuff of songs.

"My brother is a dragonslayer," Prince Bran said. He gave Lord Snow a proud look, then turned and gave King Aegon a look that would have peeled paint. "No one else has killed a dragon, not for ages and ages."

King Aegon blinked at him, too bewildered to think before he spoke. "Ah. That's,uh, not quite true. Not that you would know, I suppose. I fought the dragon Rhaegal, which Euron Greyjoy had stolen and ensorceled—"

"No, you didn't," Bran said scathingly. "Unless you were the one who shot them with arrows when they attacked Volantis, and you don't look like an archer. And you definitely didn't do anything to help Oldtown, that was an old man and his daughter."

"Bran," Lord Snow chided, looking slightly unnerved. "What are you talking about?"

King Aegon stared at the boy, poleaxed. "How did you know about Lord Leyton and Lady Malora?"

Bran said nothing, only crossed his confusingly muscular arms over his chest. If the boy noticed the way the rest of the table was staring, he gave no sign.

After that, Olyvar felt he had no choice but to explain. He began with Daenerys and the dragonhorn on a beach outside Meereen, continued with Greyjoy's senseless attacks on Volantis, Pyke, and Oldtown, and concluded with the battle over the Isle of Faces. At that point, Lord Hornwood proposed a toast. All lifted their cups, save Greatjon Umber.

"You should have finished the job in Volantis," the big man rumbled. "King Robb never leaves a battle until the field is his."

Then why are you retreating? Olyvar thought.

"King Robb's prowess as a commander is well known," King Aegon said. "The Whispering Wood, Oxcross, Sweetroot, all victories worthy of a song. Has my lord heard of the Battle of Bitter Winds?"

Lord Umber had not, save a few scattered rumors. King Aegon was more than willing to enlighten him, though he made sure to give due credit to Ser Symon Wyl, who had devised the plan of attack, and to Ser Loras Tyrell, who had led the cavalry after Ser Symon was slain. Then, remembering a knight of the Vale was present, he glossed over the taking of King's Landing so that he might get to his visit to the Eyrie. Ser Edmund Belmore was pleased to learn of the rescue of his young kinsman, though not so pleased as King Aegon had hoped.

By then, the meal was long since finished. It was no surprise when King Robb and Lord Snow dismissed their guests so they might speak privily with King Aegon. Even burly Artos and glum Dolorous Edd were sent away, though not before receiving orders to fetch a Septon Josua and someone named Pyp.

King Aegon was ready to learn of how the war against the Others proceeded. He expected Lord Snow to tell him how the Wall came to be cracked, or for King Robb to explain his dispositions and strategies, not to mention why his host had abandoned Castle Black. He did not expect both the king and the lord commander to turn to their little brother, whose blue-grey eyes were suddenly fey and far away.

"The Others were a mistake," the boy began. "They were men, once, who lived in ancient days. When the Long Night came, they were in the midst of a war against the singers—"

"The children of the forest," King Robb corrected.

"Let Bran tell it," Lord Snow said softly. "I'm sure King Aegon will ask questions when he has them."

Olyvar was too horrified to ask questions as Bran continued, speaking of bloody slaughter and skies turned dark for months on end. Magic was no man's plaything, but the men who became the Others had never learned that lesson. How could the gods allow men to become demons? How could a demon be made of ice and magic rather than flesh and bone? How could such demons survive for thousands of years, wreaking havoc upon the seasons at their whim, changing helpless babes to more of their foul kind?

"So they mean to kill us all," King Aegon said at last, his lips as numb as the rest of him.

Bran frowned. "No. They like playing with men. Killing all of us would spoil their fun."

"How comforting."

"Isn't it?" Lord Snow agreed dryly. "Almost as comforting as knowing they do not need ravens or couriers to enact their plans. Their minds are knit as one, their thoughts shared no matter the distance between them. The Others have scattered across the North, but the moment one saw our host, all knew."

"The Others have attacked the host?" King Aegon asked, his stomach like lead. "When was this battle?"

King Robb clenched his fist. "There was no battle, damn them. The Others come at night and linger beyond the edges of camp like the cravens they are. And then..." he grimaced, and called for Septon Josua and Pyp to come join them.

They came at once, pushing aside the drape which separated the king's sleeping furs and makeshift solar from the rest of the pavilion. Septon Josua had a covered canvas, whilst Pyp had nothing but a browbeaten expression. When the septon unveiled his canvas, the black brother looked away, shuddering so hard that he might have been having a fit.

King Aegon wished he could look away. He had never seen anything so terrible as what was painted upon the canvas.

The Other stood alone, upon a barren field. Moonlight shone upon crystal armor, reflecting back as if it were a mirror. Its sword was crystal too, sharp and delicate, a shard of ice forged to deadly perfection. And the face... there was an uncanny beauty to it, an unnatural symmetry, as if a sculptor had carved the ideal man only for his statue to come to life. But no living man had ever had skin pale as snow, nor ice-blue eyes that burned like stars. The worst part was the Other's smile, wide and mocking and filled with malice.

"It still isn't quite right," Bran muttered at the septon's back.

"The prince's assistance has been invaluable," Septon Josua said in a tone whose serenity belied his scowl.

"I apologize for my brother's lack of courtesy." King Robb eyed his brother sternly. Lord Snow did not, too busy putting an arm around Pyp's shoulders and muttering to him.

"I'm sorry, septon," Bran said, clearly trying not to squirm. "You're a good painter," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Truly, the Other is so lifelike it looks as though it might step off the canvas," King Aegon agreed, wondering why the black brother was here.

But Pyp did not turn around until after the canvas was covered and the septon had taken his leave. Then King Robb prompted him to speak.

The tale he shared was ghastly, and only came in fits and starts. Olyvar listened, his pity and his dread growing in equal measure. Then Pyp faltered and fell silent for long minutes. He did not speak again until after Lord Snow put an arm around him and made him drink a bit of leftover mulled wine.

"Next thing I knew, I was on the ground, with Sam on top of me," the black brother finished.

"And yet he still fought," Lord Snow murmured. "He begged, he pleaded, he promised Sam that the Others would bless them both. All they must do was go to them and bend the knee, and all would be well."

It did not seem to matter that the King in the North and the Lord Commander had ordered all their men to sleep with rags stuffed in their ears. Each night a few men either forgot or did not stuff their rags tightly enough. And when the Others called to them on a whispering wind...

"I have sent all my couriers out, bound for the largest keeps and holdfasts they can reach," King Robb told him. "Most of their folk will already be gathered for winter, but they must be warned of the danger nonetheless. And I have ordered them to send messengers to the smaller holdfasts and villages lest they be taken unaware. The Others might strike anywhere they please, and each wight adds to their power."

"There is something I do not understand,
" King Aegon said. "The Wall defended the realms of men for thousands of years without suffering so much as a rathole. How did it come to be cracked?"

Jon Snow turned white; Bran turned red.

"Because you didn't kill Euron Greyjoy," the boy spat. "He got the Horn of Winter and blew it from atop the Hightower, and I only barely shattered it before the whole Wall came down."

Olyvar was lost. "You were in Oldtown? How?"

Bran crossed his arms. "I wasn't there," he said, almost as rude as Arya in a temper. "I was greenseeing."

As Olyvar had no idea how greenseeing worked, beyond a weirwood being involved, that made more sense than it didn't. "Was Greyjoy the red star that Sansa spoke of, the one from her dream?" Sansa was certain that her little brother had destroyed the malignant thing, whatever it was, but—

"No," Jon Snow answered. "That was Lord Brynden Rivers, who lured our brother beyond the Wall to teach him greensight."

"To use him as a puppet, more like," King Robb growled.

Outside the pavilion, the direwolves snarled. The hair on Olyvar's arms prickled, as did the hair on the back of his neck. He dared not ask how a sorceror who had been dead for at least fifty years entered into this, not tonight.

"I am sorry I was not able to slay Greyjoy earlier," King Aegon said instead. "However you shattered the Horn of Winter and slew Bloodraven, the realms of men owe you a great debt." He bowed to Bran, who blinked at him as if he had started speaking YiTish. Oh, of course, how rude of him. "And I should be glad to give my thanks to Lady Meera, and say prayers to the Stranger in honor of—" King Aegon struggled, groping for a name he did not know.

Tears welled in Bran's eyes; he rubbed them away angrily. King Robb stepped to his brother's side, hiding him from view. A moment's pause, and then his brother was in his arms, his shrunken legs dangling.

"His name was Jojen," Lord Snow said when they were gone. "Jojen Reed, son of Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. I am not sure how he perished. Bran will not speak of him, other than to say that he died bravely. I cannot ask Lady Meera, and Theon doesn't know."

"Theon?" It couldn't be Greyjoy; surely there must be plenty of other northmen and ironborn named Theon.

It was. Of course it was. Seven forbid anything make sense. When King Robb returned, Olyvar half expected him to announce that Lord Eddard Stark was waiting without, his head under his arm, here to provide council in this time of need. Or perhaps Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, or the last hero himself. Why not?

"You will not upset Bran," King Robb said fiercely. "Did you not see how frail he is? It is a miracle he lived to return to us, let alone bring the knowledge he gleaned from the children of the forest, and from Lord Brynden, damn him. Bran may act stern and solemn, but he is a child still."

A child who has gone beyond the Wall and lived with the children of the forest, he thought. "I will keep that in mind," King Aegon said. "For now, however, I would rest, if it please Your Grace. It has been a very long day."

Given the utter failure of an evening, there was no chance that King Robb would ask him to be his bedfellow, goodbrother or not. When offered the choice of sharing the king's pavilion or taking a tent which had been set up for his use, King Aegon chose the latter. No doubt Robb Stark would prefer some privacy; Olyvar himself felt more than weary of seeing and being seen.

An honor guard of black brothers accompanied him to his tent, led by Ghost. King Aegon gingerly offered a hand to the white direwolf, who sniffed it, snorted, and then trotted off, seemingly satisfied. Mayhaps he smelled Nymeria, though Olyvar had not been near her in weeks.

Exhausted beyond measure, Olyvar fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The rags stuffed in his ears must have worked; though he suffered fearsome nightmares, when he awoke in the middle of the night he felt no urge to leave the warmth of his tent. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and ponder, ponder how to he could possibly rally his kingdoms against a foe more dreadful than his worst imaginings.

Olyvar was still pondering when Dolorous Edd came to wake him. He pondered as he dressed, he pondered as he said his prayers, he pondered as he fed Viserion. His head ached; he yearned to go back to bed. But no, King Aegon must break his fast in the king's pavilion so that they might talk some more whilst the men broke camp.

Only Lord Snow was at the table when King Aegon arrived. Prince Bran would not be joining them, and King Robb was busy with his commanders. Probably discussing how to fight a dragon if talks go poorly, Olyvar thought resentfully. He had done nothing to be received with such suspicion and ill humor; how could he have known Greyjoy meant to blow the Horn of Winter? He could almost hear Rhaenys shouting at him for just standing there and taking every gibe without so much as bristling at the offense. Well, there would be none of that today. If King Robb and his brothers could be forthright and direct and not trouble overmuch with courtesies, well, two could play at that game.

And so, after a few brief pleasantries when King Robb appeared and breakfast was served, King Aegon dropped the tidings most like to give offense, the ones he had withheld last night.

"After I rescued him from the Eyrie, Lord Arryn knelt to me."

He might as well have dropped a jar of wildfire. So much for hoping King Robb had meant it when he told Deziel he wished them well with their attempts to win the Vale. No, King Aegon was a liar, for seeking the submission of the Vale now, rather than after the winter as they had discussed.

"I am not a liar," King Aegon said firmly. "Sweetrobin knelt of his own accord; I did not ask it of him."

"Oh, he knelt of his own accord," King Robb scoffed. "More like he fell to his knees for fear of Viserion eating him if he did not."

"I beg your pardon?" King Aegon stood, so abruptly that his camp chair fell and hit the floor. "I am not the sort of man to threaten children, nor feast my dragon upon human flesh. Whatever else you think of me, I am a man of honor."

"So Sansa claimed in her letter," King Robb shrugged. "But my sister is an innocent, blinded by love." His frown deepened. "And now she is with child, though Ser Deziel Dalt swore you had not yet touched her when he left Meereen."

"I hadn't," King Aegon said, his cheeks and ears suddenly hot. "The marriage was consummated during the crossing of the Narrow Sea. Did you not receive the letters we sent from Dragonstone? Sansa read me her letter before I wrote mine; she made her wishes very clear."

"Oh, I received them." King Robb's eyes were cold; he did not even seem to notice when his brother laid a hand on his arm. "But you had no right, not without my blessing. But then, I suppose you cannot help your blood. I should be grateful you have not done worse. You might have abandoned her to die as Rhaegar did Lyanna, or slaughtered my brothers and I as Mad Aerys slew my grandsire and my uncle—"

"Aegon is not his father," Lord Snow interrupted. "And he came north, when he might have left us to fight on alone."

"True," King Robb allowed. "Though I see no host, only a dragon arrived too late."

"Late?" King Aegon's fury burst forth like dragonflame, sudden and white-hot; outside, he heard Viserion screech. "You speak to me of being late?" He yanked at his left sleeve, shoving it up to reveal the mottled flesh beneath. "I won these scars serving as your sister's champion against the Mountain. Should I reproach you for not being there to save her from the Lannisters? It was I who spirited her from King's Landing, not you, just as it was I who sailed across the world to treat with the dragon queen."

"Daenerys—"

"Is no threat to the Seven Kingdoms," King Aegon said, ruthlessly cutting him off. "Because I convinced her to remain in Meereen. I claimed Viserion, I fought Euron Greyjoy twice, I fought Tarly, I dealt with King's Landing going up in fucking flames... the south is an utter mess, my small council didn't even want me to come for at least a few more months, and I came anyway, because I swore to come as fast as I fucking could!"

King Robb's face was thunderous; Lord Snow stared, his expression unreadable. Gods, what was he doing?

"I should not have lost my temper," King Aegon forced himself to say. "You have fought long and hard, I know. You should not have to fight on alone. I would gladly share your burdens, if you will let me. I am sworn to defend the Seven Kingdoms. Is the North one of them?"

"Never." King Robb's voice cracked like a whip. "You may have gotten the Vale to kneel, but the North and Riverlands never will. While you were sitting on your arse in Dorne, I was defending them from Lannisters—"

"Prince Doran judged it better to wait, rather than take so great a risk. I was a boy of seventeen—"

"And I was fourteen when I left Winterfell to lead my northmen south," King Robb said, implacable.

"I would not ask you to kneel unless I must," King Aegon said, frustrated. "I would have rather left such matters for later, but I must answer to my small council and my bannermen—"

"So do I! Do you think the Greatjon is eager to bend his knee to some stranger? Do you think my Uncle Edmure would abandon—
"

"ENOUGH!" Jon Snow roared, leaping to his feet. "Damn your crowns, may the Others take them! And they will, if we fight amongst ourselves rather than side by side! Petty politics can wait until the war for the dawn is won, because if we lose, none of this will matter!"

Both kings stared at the lord commander. Dimly, Olyvar heard the sound of men breaking camp. He took a deep breath, unclenching his fists.

"The lord commander is right," King Aegon declared.

"My brother often is," retorted King Robb.

"However," King Aegon went on, "my lords will not like this. Before coming north I was only able to muster a small host. Viserion cannot be everywhere, and I will not give commands which will be obeyed halfheartedly at best." He paused, hesitant, thinking of Arianne and of High Septon Paul. "But if we can convince them that this threat is real..."

"How?" King Robb asked. "You could summon them to see for themselves, but..."

"That would take far too long," King Aegon agreed. "The proof must be brought to them on dragonback. Whatever evidence you can gather, and a witness to explain it, one who has seen the terrors that wake in the dark."

Lord Snow laughed without humor. "Just the sight of a pair of kings on dragonback ought to be enough to convince some of them."

"His Grace didn't mean me." King Robb smiled wolfishly, his eyes glinting. "Who better to speak of the Others than the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"

"No," Lord Snow said flatly. "I cannot leave my men."

"Oh, yes, you can," King Robb said. "Do you not trust your officers? Do you not trust me?"

Lord Snow reddened, trapped as neatly as a hare in a snare. "The dragon will not abide a second rider," he protested.

"Oh, she will," King Aegon told him. "She's carried Sansa before, and Viserion was smaller then." Viserion would not be pleased to resume their travels, but that could not be helped. At least they would be flying south; that ought to soothe her temper.

Indeed, Viserion was almost friendly when they prepared to leave the next morning. She waited patiently as Olyvar loaded her saddlebags with Lord Snow's heavy cloth-wrapped jars and the few other things he had brought, and only snapped at his direwolf once. Ghost paced back and forth, his tail drooping, watching with bright red eyes as Lord Snow nervously mounted up and Olyvar chained him to the saddle.

"I'll be back soon, boy," Lord Snow called down. "Watch out for Bran for me?"

Now that Olyvar thought of it, the three-legged wolf Summer was almost never with his master. Not like Grey Wind, who was always beside King Robb during the day and stretched outside his pavilion at night. Lord Snow watched as his white direwolf tilted its head, then trotted off toward the wayn being readied to leave. Was that wistfulness, or was it nausea?

"If you think you might vomit, do it now," King Aegon warned his new passenger.

"I won't," Lord Snow said, grimacing. There were dark circles under his eyes; mayhaps he was just tired.

They had not gone three leagues when he heard the clinking of chains and felt a weight press against his back. Jon Snow slumped against him, dead asleep. With a pang, Olyvar wondered when the man had last had a good night's rest. Well, let him sleep. The gods knew they would both need all their strength for the journey that lay ahead.


Can't wait to see what y'all think in the comments

If you want to see the proper author's notes with images and links, go to Ao3.

You can also find me on tumblr.

Rhaenys Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, 305 AC

Robb Stark, King in the North, 305 AC

By ohnoitsmyra

Up Next

169: Jon III

170: Sansa III

171: Arya III

172: Bel II

NOTES

1) For dragon travel, I aimed for 500 miles/day. For distances, I used the privatemajor timeline or estimated using Atlas of Ice and Fire.

2) GRRM refers to "guest gifts" twice. In ACOK, Jeor Mormont gives an axe to his host Craster. In ADWD, Wyman Manderly gives palfreys to his Frey guests when they depart.

Gift giving was an important medieval practice. Here's an article about an exhibition of medieval gifts. I was also intrigued by an article called Princely entries and gift exchange in the Burgundian Low Countries.

Read the Abstract

This article treats the first entry of a new prince as the start of a series of exchanges between the prince and his subjects. On the occasion of an entry, gifts in all kind of forms, subsistence, luxury and symbolic goods, were exchanged with the intention of establishing a bond between the new ruler and the subjects. These gifts were not standardised in the Burgundian Low Countries. There was a wide range of gifts, from wine to silverware and from money to horses. Some gifts can be linked to the princely right of lodging in places he passed on his itinerary, whereas others refer to marks of honour offered by the host. However, not all gifts were given spontaneously, but were the result of a negotiating process between the town and the prince's officials on the one hand and between the different towns of a principality on the other. Those officials benefited as well from entry gifts that trickled down to lower levels in the official hierarchy. Therefore, the gifts can be considered as personalised items in a bigger process of exchange and as a confirmation of the outcome of political negotiations.

Alas, the full article is paywalled.

3) The glasswork from Myr was inspired by 16th century Venetian glass.

Murano vase, around 1600, Hermitage Museum

Covered Filigrana Beaker (Stangenglas), 1550–1600

Enameled cristallo stem glass, around 1500

4) The porcelain from Yi Ti was inspired by Chinese ceramics from the Ming Dynasty era (1368-1644)

Plate with Lotus, China, 15th century

Brush Rest with Persian Inscription, China, early 16th century

5) Here's the inspiration for Olyvar's breastplate.

Armor of Emperor Ferdinand I (1503–1564)

6) I invented the First Men ritual of a guest bringing alcohol as a gift to be shared with his host. I decided to have the ritual be uncommon outside the mountain clans as a way to work around the ritual not popping up in canon.