Prologue
The sun was still rising over the mountain peaks when they told him of the horsemen.
Mago loved to watch the sunrise from Barca's Peak. It was the closest mountain to his village, towering above the scattered village and small outlying farms.
The village was nestled in Barca's Valley, named for some ancient Andal adventurer who had journeyed into the mountains and claimed that fertile valley for himself. Old stories persisted about Barca's achievements, but Mago had stopped believing them when he was a man grown. The only achievement which he perceived Barca could claim was putting his name on a beautiful valley and the mountain which overlooked it.
Beautiful it certainly was; an oasis amidst the rust-coloured rock, one of many such places to be discovered if one ventured far enough.
The northern rains which greened the Stormlands never reached Dorne. By the will of the gods, they dropped all their water onto the mountains and produced the lush valleys which men had farmed for countless generations. The Dornish sun was always strong, but here in the Red Mountains, it was dampened by the mists and showers which routinely cascaded down.
"Grandfather!"
The old Dornishman groaned as he turned his body away from the sunrise. It was Hallia, the eldest of his grandchildren. "What is it?"
"Riders! They wish to speak with you."
Mago frowned. "Who are they?"
Hallia shrugged her shoulders. She had always been a bold girl, climbing mountains as if she were half a goat. She hadn't fallen since she was nine. Now she was fifteen years old and being courted by the valley's vintner. He was known as Gisgo Grape to distinguish him from Gisgo the crofter and Gisgo the sheepherder.
With a groan, Mago forced himself to stand up and walk over to her. "How many of them?"
"Just two," Hallia answered. "They're riding mountain ponies and they wear armour."
Strangers had always been looked upon with suspicion in the valley. More often than not, they did not come with peaceful intentions. The traditional invaders came from the Dornish marches, marching beneath the black stag banner of House Baratheon. Others came from the sea, seeking slaves and plunder. Still more were outlaws and broken men; they had dramatically grown in number since the Blackfyre Rebellion.
Mago tried to comprehend the riddle before him. These two were men of substance, judging by their armour's quality. However, the pieces were mismatched, which led Mago to wonder whether the armour had been stolen or plundered. Still, whatever threat they might be, they were unarmed and waiting patiently by his door.
He was not the only one observing the strangers. Mago noticed a dark-eyed woman standing nearby, eyeing the two strangers with an expression that he could not glean. All the same, he was filled with mislike; he had ever been suspicious of Agripina. She was a bastard daughter of Mago's blacksmith, taken in as a servant. His eldest son, Bodo, had been utterly besotted with her. When he discovered this, Mago had sent Bodo away to be squired with House Drinkwater. His son might be the heir to a humble estate, but he could expect far better than a baseborn peasant. He had married Gerris Drinkwater's cousin, but he had perished at Wyl just six years later. His widow had died that same year, birthing Hallia's younger sister.
"What do you wish?" Mago's tone was mild, but suspicious. "Why do you summon me?"
"Ser Mago Melaine," one of the men declared, giving a respectful nod. "Might we have a moment?"
"You already have it," Mago observed wryly. He could not place the man's age, but he appeared to be past thirty. Like Mago, he had lost the hair on his head. A thick rust-coloured beard hid most of his jaw from view. "The briefer you make it, the better pleased I'll be."
"As you say," the man replied. "All the same, mayhaps we should enter your hall and discuss this more privately?"
Mago grimaced; the man spoke courteously, but something about him felt jarring. His soft words were too lightly spoken. Mago began to wonder if he was being mocked.
However, he did not wish to make a scene. Several folk had noticed the strangers and were gathering in a wary group. Men, women, and children were eyeing the exchange from a distance.
"Anything you wish to say, you can say before my people," Mago countered.
The first man glanced at the second, who reached into a pocket and pulled out a small bag. The clink of coins was unmistakable as he jangled it in his hand. Do they hold me so cheaply?
"Words are wind, as they say," the first man remarked in a colder tone. "But gold is not so lightly brushed aside, as any sensible man would know."
Much as Mago wanted to spit in his face and turn him away, he could not deny his need for coin. The war had impoverished him; even now, after all these years, he was worrying how to provide Hallia with the dowry that she deserved. Thus, he took the gold wordlessly, trying to ignore the sour feeling in his stomach. Why not? If a man is willing to pay me for the privilege to speak with me, who am I to turn him away?
He led them inside, where they sat about his hearth in flimsy wooden chairs. Mago took the best one for himself, even as the second man handed him the bag of gold.
"Now," Mago began again, "what is this all about?"
"We have come on behalf of a benefactor," the first man explained. "We cannot yet name him, but he is not a man whose friendship is lightly given."
"How fortunate for me," Mago remarked dryly. "And what does this man want of me that he cannot acquire from Lord Wyl?"
"Lord Wyl is no friend of ours. Nor do we suspect that he is a friend of yours, liege lord though he may be."
Mago considered throwing them out of his home. He was also alarmed that this stranger would make such an assumption. He did not come blundering to my village. He has spoken to somebody. He thought of Agripina, wondering if she was more familiar with these men than she'd pretended.
It had been almost ten years, but Mago still recalled it as though it were yesterday. Lady Jayne Wyl had always been a warrior, and she had called her banners to fortify the Boneway. Mago had not fully understood which side Jayne intended to fight for; even now, he still did not comprehend how she had made her decision. No amount of reasoning could explain what had convinced her to throw so many lives away, including her own.
The castle Wyl had been besieged, and taken by storm. All four of Mago's sons had fallen in battle, brave and foolish in equal measures. Mago would have been there too if he had not decided to manage the valley whilst his grown sons were away. He had already retired his responsibilities before the war was over, intending that his son take charge, but he resumed his old title when he'd received word of his sons' deaths. It had fallen to him to help raise his grandchildren.
"You speak too presumptuously for my liking," Mago warned. "Give me your true meaning or get out."
"Very well," the man conceded. "It is the wish of our master that you can be counted as an ally."
"To what end?"
"We would protect this valley from attacks. We can provide you with whatever you and your smallfolk require."
"Very generous, but how would we earn such protection?" Mago was already convinced that these men were not to be trusted, but he wanted more details for his letter to Wyl.
"Our master, or any one of his followers, may require shelter. Or supplies. Or aid of some other matter. If such was ever required, we would hope that our friendship would be repaid in kind."
"And who is your master? I cannot forge a friendship with men whose names I do not know."
"You need only know him as the Vulture King, ser."
Mago had expected some sort of bold name that a brigand or hill-captain might take for himself, but that name sent a shudder down his neck. Only a fool would ever claim such a cursed title.
The first Vulture King had crowned himself during the reign of King Aenys Targaryen, the Conqueror's son. The young successor had been weak where his father had been strong, else the Vulture King would not have been so bold or so powerful. Thousands had fought for him, gleefully attacking the Marcher lords whilst Princess Deria Martell had sat on the sidelines, neither supporting the Vulture King nor attacking him.
In the end, the Marchers had fought back, their martial discipline prevailing against numbers. Orys Baratheon himself had come south to lead his forces on the Vulture Hunt. The self-proclaimed monarch had been captured, stripped naked, tied between two posts, and left to die of exposure.
The title did not die with the man, however. Other men rose up, fancying themselves as the new Vulture King, with diminishing results. One of them had been cut down by another Baratheon lord. Another one had ended his life in a crow cage; his bones were kept on display in the Stormlands for a generation. With such examples as those, Mago could not conceive what drew any man to claim such a title for himself.
"Madness. Rank madness." Mago stood up from his seat, glaring at the two men. "I'll not have your sort in my valley."
"You refuse too hastily, old man." The second man lacked his companion's courtesy. He too arose, considerably taller than Mago. Yet there was something about his stance, or his voice, that led Mago to think his threatening manner was feigned somehow. As if he were an actor playing a part.
Nonetheless, Mago was unafraid. Neither of these men were armed, and Mago could summon aid with one shout. "Begone from my abode. I am no traitor!"
"Traitor?" The bald man also arose, still composed and soft-spoken. "Your sons died as traitors, did they not? Or was it heroes?"
Mago paused; as always, he felt himself growing wroth at the mention of his sons. His hands balled into fists. "My sons kept our oaths. We have been many things, aye, but we are loyal first."
"Loyal to the family who led your sons to their deaths? Loyal to the Targaryens who cut your boys down?" The mockery was evident in the man's tone. "You choose strange allies, ser. What offence or insult did the Vulture King ever cause you?"
This man was more dangerous by far, Mago realised. He spoke well, almost nobly, and he was clever enough to threaten him without uttering a single threat. For one instant, Mago paused. Shame at his own weakness, however momentary, caused him to speak more wrathfully than before.
"If you think I ever had a choice, then you are as mad as this Vulture King, whomever he may be." Mago pointed a gnarled finger at the amused-looking men. "Now for the last time, get you gone!"
Neither man moved, except when the tall man turned to look at the bald one, as if awaiting an instruction. What is this farce?
"Very well." The mockery in the bald man's tone was unmistakable. "I figured you should have a chance to join us. But now let the gods witness your choice."
Panic seized Mago; he pushed the men aside and strode back to the front door of his home.
It was as though he'd never gone inside. The gawkers remained in place; there was no sign of attack. Not even an ominous cloud in the sky.
He restrained a sigh of relief, but his suspicion did not diminish. He scanned the horizon, the village buildings, the faces of those who had gathered together before his home.
Hallia was staring at him in surprise, as was her sister and her cousins. The others shared in their confusion, huddled together. Others were approaching the main group. An anxious air seemed to be descending with the sweet mountain air.
Agripina did not stand with the others; she stood beneath the stable, amongst the ponies. Her eyes were narrowed when Mago's gaze met hers. Gisgo the shepherd stood with her, as did Alim the tanner, Tallip the ropemaker, and a crofter called Mickon.
Before Mago could process what he beheld, the killing began.
Arrows flew through the air, seemingly out of nowhere, sinking deep into leather, cloth, and flesh. Screams sounded out as smallfolk either clung to their dead and wounded kin, or else fled in all directions.
Mago cried out in terror, running towards his grandchildren. He was already too late. By the time he reached Hallia's younger sister, he collapsed with a yell of grief. Two arrows were buried in her back, and a third had pinned her hand to the ground after she'd fallen.
A cry sounded out, causing Mago to look up again. In the distance, Hallia was attempting to flee, leading her cousins by the hand. Several other smallfolk were with her, fleeing for a mountain pass which led towards Wyl.
Men emerged from their hiding places among the mountain shrubberies and red rocks. They were dressed in mail, leather, even animal fur. Their weapons, however, were all sharp.
The attackers formed up in front of the fleeing villagers, cutting them off from escape. Two men closest to Hallia were cut down immediately. Hallia shrieked in alarm as both her wrists were seized. She was forced to her knees as more men attacked those who had survived the onslaught of arrows.
"No!" Mago was an old man; his fighting days were long behind him; his weapons were gathering dust above his bed. Stunned and overwhelmed, he continued to cling onto his granddaughter's body where she lay, shaking with fear and despair.
A movement caught his eye and he turned his gaze to the doorway of his home. The two messengers stood impassively, watching the madness unfold. Agripina had joined them, grinning as she stood beside the bald man.
"You never came in peace," he accused wildly. "You were luring us into a trap! The gods will curse you for this treachery!"
"Curse us for what?" The bald man was smiling beneath his bushy beard. "We shed no blood beneath our host's roof. We are guilty of no crime."
Mago was shaking with wrath and anguish. He wanted to grab these two men and break them into a dozen pieces. He wanted to strangle Agripina, and watch these men hanged from his rafters. But even as he stood up to attack them, a blow knocked him back down to his knees.
The arrow had sunk deep in his back. Pain coursed through his body as he coughed, unable to muster enough air to scream.
As his vision blurred, Mago looked back up again. Dozens of these brigands gathered before his home, securing their prisoners with much jeering and calls of triumph. Hallia was one of them. Her clothes were stripped from her as the first man took her, cheered on by his companions. Hallia's eyes were wide, but her shrieks were muffled by a gag in her mouth as her limbs were held fast by these brutes. Mago closed his eyes, overcome with emotion.
Why, he tried to ask. What sins did we ever commit to deserve this calamity?
He was too weak to ask these things. His struggle to live was already lost. The only mercy afforded him was that the arrow had pierced something vital. He tried to think of his sons, awaiting his arrival to the Father's golden hall.
The screams were fading, as was the laughter, and even the pain. He wanted to pray for the gods to avenge him and his village, but speech had long ago been robbed of him.
The last words he heard was a voice which belonged to the bald man. He was shouting now, loud enough to break through his fading consciousness. "Have your fun now, lads, then make preparations. We have much work to do ere the day is over."
Whatever that work entailed, or the fun for that matter, was no longer Mago's concern.