Song of A Northern Sorcerer

by ffdrake

Darth Nox crash lands onto the frozen land of the North after barely escaping an ambush from the Zakuul Empire. Alone and without resources and with no hope of rescue, Nox decides to make the best of his situation and attaches himself to nearest available option until he can rebuild his powerbase and influence. And with his arrival, the fate of Westeros will be forever changed.

43. Moving the Pieces

Welcome back everyone! Not much to say unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately depending on your point of view. RL has been a royal pain in the ass. So not a whole lot of time for writing. But, not giving up on this one! I'm fully committed to seeing this story through till the end. Even if it takes some time.

Big thank you to my beta reader and brainstorm partner Tellemicus Sundace, who personally wrote an entire section of this chapter, helping me immensely! Lastly, I do not own Disney, nor am I Lucas or Martin; I have no ownership of A Song of Fire and Ice, Game of Thrones or Star Wars. This is purely for fun with no profit being made. And with that out of the way, let's get to the chapter! Stay safe out there everyone!

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Chapter 43

Riding in the saddle with Jeyne behind her, Sansa Stark felt her heart beating up in her throat as they took a familiar path through the woods out into a clearing. The path was familiar only because they had traversed this same path not a few days past. After separating from Lady Nox, her sister Arya, and the Hound, the plan had been for them to head south a bit and let this Exalted Army pass them northwards before cutting west towards the Rose Road and later the Reach. But the day after they separated, Sansa felt something from the Force. Something…dark. It was the same feeling she'd had the day in King's Landing when everything had gone so wrong.

She'd hoped and prayed, to both the old gods and the Force, that what she was sensing was just nothing. But as they came into the clearing that held the small hamlet they'd stayed in for just a single night, her hopes and prayers were dashed. There were no children running about. No men working in the fields nor women tending the homesteads. There was just…silence. And even more noticeable was the fact that the Sept was gone.

"Shite," Osha growled, her sworn sword still trying to get use to controlling a horse beneath her, "somethin don't feel right about dis little lady."

"That's because it isn't right," Sansa replied tapping her horse with her heels and urging the beast forward as Jeyne whimpered and pressed her face into Sansa's back.

As they rounded the buildings, they caught sight of the Sept, or at least what was left of the Sept. But more than that, they found the Septon that'd been so nice to them. Dried blood covered his front and legs. His lifeless body swinging from the tree beside him by the rope around his neck. "By the gods!" Jeyne whimpered again, burying her face harder into Sansa's back even as Osha maneuvered her horse in front of them, her sword spear drawn and eyes searching the tree line.

But as disturbing a sight as the Septon was, his corpse was not what demanded her attention. No. That was the scorched ground and burnt remnants of the Sept that once was being erected in the center of the hamlet. Sliding off her horse, Sansa slowly approached the scorched ground on foot. With each step, she could almost hear…screaming? Yes. Screams. Screams of pain. Pleas for mercy. Yet…there were no mouths to utter them. These screams, these pleas… This pain… It was like a memory. An echo from the Force.

Arriving at the base of the Sept, a clear line of burnt and untouched soil, she knelt and gently brushed her fingertips across the soot-stained ground. Her head snapped back as the Force raced over her. Pain. Anguish. Fear. Despair. All rushed through her faster than Lady at a full run.

"By the gods old and new," Jeyne muttered from just behind her. She'd been so distracted that she hadn't even realized that Jeyne and Osha had drawn level with her, nor that the two had dismounted and tied off their horses. "Where…Where are the villagers?"

Sansa knew. Osha knew. And she was sure that Jeyne knew as well, though she was clearly in denial. Seeing something in the soot, Osha reached out with the tip of her sword-spear, flipping over a charred piece of wood. Beneath the wood was a pendant, a simple bronze Seven-star pendant. But it was one that she recognized. For she'd seen it being worn by one of the children of this hamlet just a few days before.

"And these kneelers call us Free Folks barbarians," Osha muttered, lowering her head and offering a quick prayer to the old gods. "Not even the worst of us would do…this."

Tears streaming down her face, something prickled at the back of Sansa's mind. Standing, she turned and stared down the path leading up to the hamlet. Walking towards them was a pack of men. A dozen men clad in golden cloaks. The Seven-pointed star displayed proudly on their chest.

"Shite," Osha growled as she saw that they were no longer alone. "You girls get behind me an – shite! Sansa!"

Sansa didn't hear Osha call out for her. Her eyes were fixed on the approaching dozen men in golden cloaks. Her ears filled with the screams of the Force. The men saw her and stopped. They all began looking at each other in astonishment. But the man in the lead didn't. He kept his eyes on her. Taking a few steps closer, Sansa stopped when there was less than a dozen paces separating her from the dozen armed men. No more than a year ago, standing like this would've frightened her. But now? Now she felt…nothing.

"You…You are gold cloaks. The guards of King's Landing… Yet you display the Seven-pointed star so proudly. Are you…part of the Exalted March?"

The leader's eyes passed over her from head to toe before shifting to over her shoulder towards where she knew Osha and Jeyne were standing. "Proudly," the lead man replied simply.

Unblinking, Sansa turned her head to look at the burnt remains behind her. "What…happened here?"

The leader's face didn't shift from the stoney look he'd been holding onto since spotting her. "They were punished accordingly on orders from the High Inquisitor."

"Punished?" she questioned.

The man gave her a curt nod. "A fate they deserved. They gave aid to heretics trying to flee. They were tainted and deserved their fate. It was my pleasure and honor to serve as the Seven's righteous hand and strike them down."

"Their fate?" The screaming of the Force grew louder and louder in Sansa's ears, her hands shaking by her sides. "They were women…children. Men seeing to their fields and their families. They did nothing but live their lives! And you…you all…did this?"

The man studied her closely. Then a small grin came over him as he rested his hand on the pummel of his sword. "Gladly, 'Lady' Sansa Stark." Upon having heard her name, the dozen men in gold all drew their blades. The leader, however, didn't. He just stared at her with a grin. "I thought I recognized you, girl. The little heretic slut strutting about the Red Keep like you belonged amongst us righteous followers of the Seven. I cheered when I heard your father was beaten near to death before being thrown in the Black Cells to rot. I gladly departed King's Landing with the Exalted March to have a chance to do the Seven's righteous work. And now, they have rewarded my faith and service to them by delivering you to me! It's a shame that you cannot be touched…but it will be my honor to watch as those two little sluts behind you are broken by the Inquisitors. Perhaps they will even allow me to join them in their education."

Sansa was near shaking. The screams of the Force. No. The screams of those who died here reaching a level that she almost couldn't hear her own voice speak. "Monster."

The man smirked. "No, I am not the monster. I am a faithful servant of the Seven. It is you, little heathen whore. You and your filth are the true monsters. And monsters deserve only one fate. To be hunted down and killed. Take the two whores through whatever means necessary. But the Stark girl is not to be touched."

The screaming ceased. Her shaking stopped. The world around her slowed. She could almost see the bits of mud splashing off the men's boots as they took a step towards her. Without thought, Sansa felt a warmth near her side. The distance between Sansa and the men disappeared as Sansa closed it in a blink of an eye. The world went green as her lightsaber cut through the air, through the man's armor and opening his gut before he was thrown backwards with a Force push from her outstretched hand.

She could hear the sound of men shouting and boots thumping on the ground. But it was strange. Like her ears were covered or she had her head under the water. Seeing one man charge at her with his blade tip pointed at her, she turned, her blade spinning around her body before slicing clean through the man. She wasn't her brothers nor her sister. She couldn't, and didn't, fight like them. Jon was agile and powerful. Robb was strong and skilled. Arya nimble and small. But, despite their differences, there was no doubting that all of them were incredibly skilled with a blade in their hands. But she was not. Even Master Nox told her that she would not be a swordsman, or rather swordswoman, like her sister and brothers. She could not fight like them. So, instead she danced.

Her blade was not a blade, it was an extension of her arm. Twisting and twirling through the air as she spun and moved around those near her as if she were in the midst of a ballroom dance. The men around her struck nothing but the air as she danced her dance. Her blade sung like a bard as she moved from one to the next, her feet daftly avoiding the slew of bodies she left in her wake.

Spinning one last time and stomping her foot to accentuate the end of her dance, Sansa breathed in short pants as she looked at the carnage around her. The dozen men were dead. Parts of their bodies; arms, legs, hands…even heads, laying a fair distance from the rest of them. And there was silence. No moans. No screams of pain. Nothing save for the sound of her breath entering and leaving her. She…She had killed these men. Killed them all. And she felt…nothing.

Hearing a single low moan, Sansa turned her eyes back towards where she started. The arrogant fool who'd led these men was clutching at his stomach while trying to push himself backwards away from the carnage. His eyes were wide with fear. Fear. He was scared. No, he was terrified. She could almost taste it.

Fully turning, she raised her hand, commanding the wounded man to rise off the ground and holding him in the air. She lifted him just high enough that his feet helplessly dangled merely a hands width from the ground. "Please…" the man groaned. "Wha…Wh… What are you…doing…to me?"

The man's plea did nothing more than to stoke the flames of fury within her. Curling her fingers in, the Force responded to her command and brought the man through the air towards her. "I'm merely doing as you said," she said, her voice like ice as she held up her lightsaber. "Killing monsters."

The man tried to fight, to scream. But it was useless. Her hold on him was too strong and he was powerless to do anything. He was pulled swiftly right onto the tip of her lightsaber. The green light sinking effortlessly into his chest and into his heart.

Deactivating her blade, she let the man's corpse drop to the ground. Just behind him were Jeyne and Osha. Her eldest friend was looking at her in wide-eyed astonishment and even a slight bit of fear. But Osha, her loyal shield, she was looking at Sansa with respect. Something that Sansa had honestly never seen from the former spear wife. At least not pointed in her direction.

"We have to search the bodies… They should have some silver or gold on them and it will help us," she said, calling back on the quick lessons on survival Lady Nox had given her before parting ways. "And they should have horses nearby. We'll remove any Lannister or King's Landing markers and use them. They're bound to be far better than our horses right now. We'll take them to the Reach."

Without waiting, Sansa slipped her lightsaber into its holster on her belt and went about scanning the bodies for their purses. Only half the men had one and while they were only able to collect a single gold dragon, a few pieces of silver, and nearly double in copper coins, it was more than what they'd had before.

Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Sansa turned and saw Osha standing just behind her. "You did good, girl," the former spearwife said, making Sansa feel proud.

Despite her pride though, she felt something…wrong. She'd killed these men. Looted their corpses. Yet… "I feel…nothing. I killed these men like they were nothing. Father said his first kill was hard. Jon and Robb said the same. Yet I feel…nothing."

"That's okay, Sansa." Her name drew a look from Sansa. Osha had never called her by her name before. It was always 'little lady'. "It's when you start enjoyin the killin, Sansa, that is when you should stop. But when doin somethin like this? These men deserved to die for what they did. Don't be feelin guilty for that, girl. You did a good thing here today. And showed that you are a true warrior. Just like yer brothers and sister."

Giving her one last pat on the shoulder, Osha went about checking the men's boots, seeing if any would fit any of them. Another tip from Lady Nox…and something Osha no doubt learned during her time as a spearwife. A good pair of boots were almost worth their weight in gold while on the road. Looking around, she saw a small pair of feet. They wouldn't fit her…at least not well. But given the current situation, she knew she couldn't be picky, so she took the boots off the dead man.

Jeyne looked more than slightly pale as she tried to pull a still fully intact traveling cloak off a man, only to cause his severed limb to roll away from his body and away from them. Moving away from her task, Sansa went over to her oldest, and quite frankly only, friend and put an arm around her shoulder. "We're going to be okay, Jeyne," she said quietly, pulling her friend in close. "I won't let anything happen to you. I swear."

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Riding with his head held high at the head of over ten thousand men at arms, Lord Tywin Lannister stared down in contempt and disappointment at the display laid out before him. Riverrun was surrounded. That was perhaps the only good thing he could note. But the attacking army was a mess.

The gates cutting the flow of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork had been raised, flooding the moat and making Riverrun all but inaccessible to an attacking army. Just beyond the rivers, he could see the army's tents were unorganized. Men milling about without seeming a care. Corpses strung up and swaying in the wind. Some had even started to rot which would no doubt soon lead to disease spreading amongst the camp. No one was pressuring Riverrun. No boats being constructed nor walkways or bridges to try and reach the castle. The attacking army was standing around with their dicks in their hands and doing nothing. And worse yet, at a quick count he estimated the attacking numbers to be around ten thousand. Which was nearly two-thirds what he estimated the army should have numbered.

He had only managed to collect ten thousand himself from the Westerlands before crossing into the Riverlands. But he knew that there were another ten thousand a fortnight behind him, with perhaps another twenty thousand that would be ready to march within the moon's turn.

"No proper organization. No attacks at the gates. No calls for talks. No outriders to greet an advancing army," his brother, Ser Kevan, noted. Making Tywin's jaw tighten.

"Raise the banners," he called out, only just able to keep the anger out of his voice. It would not due for a commander to lose his composure. "Clegane. Get the men situated into camps. Then do what you must to bring structure and discipline to that rabble. But keep the deaths at no more than five."

Clegane grunted before wheeling his massive warhorse around and ordering the men to make for the camp. As he did, Tywin dug his heels into his own horse's flanks, urging the beast forward with his own honor guard close behind.

To his further annoyance, no one rode out to greet him and his host until he was nearly upon the general perimeter of the camp. To his even further disappointment, it wasn't his son who rode out to greet him. But a minor Lord he had no intention of knowing. "My Lord Lannister," the Lord called out to him from atop his horse as the man, and four others bearing sigils of the Faith of the Seven and a yellow banner with three small creatures scattered about, "I am Lord—"

"Where is my son, Ser Jamie Lannister?" Tywin cut in, not caring nor wanting the man's name or platitudes. "Why has he not led outriders to greet me properly as commander of this army?"

The Lord bristled, but wisely kept his rebuke to himself. "Ser Jamie is…resting in his tent, my lord. I can have my men escort you—"

"No need," Tywin cut in again, urging his horse forward as he scanned the sea of tents, looking for a command tent.

It wasn't hard to find. The large red canvas which had golden trim and with the sigils of the Kingsguard and the Lannister Lion standing tall beside one another, almost begging for an assassin with a sharp blade to come and take his son's life. Even worse yet, as he approached the tent, he saw only two guards standing watch near the entrance. Two guards that hadn't even noticed him until he was nearly on top of them.

"Lord Lannister!" one of the guards shouted, finally recognizing him as he swung down from his horse but a few paces from them.

Fixing the two would-be guards a glare, he motioned a few of his men forward with his hand. "Take these two and have them publicly flogged for dereliction of duty. Then find my son a set of proper guards."

The two men yelled in protest, but Tywin did not care. Stepping around the screaming men and entering the tent alongside Kevan. If he was disappointed at the sight of and shape of the war camp…then he had no words for his level of anger at what he saw within his son's tent. Nearly half a dozen bottles of wine…all empty and none of any decent vintage lay scattered about the tent. And his son, his golden son, his pride, was sleeping in a wine induced stupor on the far side of the tent.

Not making a sound, Tywin grabbed the still half-full bottle from his sleeping son's hand and proceeded to empty the remaining half over his son's face.

"What in the hells?!" Jamie shouted, flailing about and falling off his bed as a result. "I will have you flogged for…for…"

His son's words failed him as his eyes finally cleared enough to see his father standing before him. At that moment, he looked more like a pathetic fish fresh out of water gasping for air than the proud lion that he should be. Holding up the empty bottle, Tywin inspected it, not wanting to look at his son out of a deep sense of shame. "I have come to expect such behavior from Tyrion. Not from you."

Finally managing to close his mouth, Jamie scrambled drunkenly to his feet. Despite being in the midst of a siege, his son was without armor or even chainmail. Just a simple woolen shirt and breeches. How easy would it be for a Riverlander with a sharp blade and enough courage to end him? "Father…I –"

Tywin didn't give him time to make excuses. Without warning he buried his gauntleted fist into his son's gut, forcing the air from his lungs and dropping him to the ground. The sight was…pathetic. Though he wasn't sure which was more pathetic. The fact that his son was heaving up wine onto his boots. Or the fact that he, a man well into his later years, had managed to land a blow on perhaps the greatest swordsman in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Unable to take the sight any longer, he turned back to the entrance and called for his guards to enter. Two men entered, and Tywin fixed them both with a look that made it clear that neither would be speaking of the sight before them. "You two will take my son to the river and throw him in to sober him. Then after you pull him out, throw him in again to cleanse the smell of wine from him. Then throw him in again to make sure the message is sent. After that, see to it that he is properly dressed, armed, and armored as befitting his status as a Commander of this army. And not a word of this shall ever leave your lips."

Turning his back on his son, Tywin paid him no mind as Jamie was dragged unceremoniously from the tent by his arms. Either because there was no fight in him, or he had indulged to the point where he could not properly fight back. Regardless, he would be having more than a few words with his son. He had raised Jamie far better than…this. Walking back over to the table in the center of the tent, he looked down at the blank map of Westeros that was laid out on its surface. A map that was being held down with empty wine bottles.

"Send the word for any Lord with sufficient rank that I am holding a war council. Now." Tywin called out to his brother Kevan as he began picking up and tossing the empty wine bottles off the table.

Kevan, knowing him better than perhaps any other, said not a word as he gave him a curt nod before leaving the tent and barking out orders to the guards to begin collecting the Lords of note.

'How did it come to this?' he thought with despair, as he threw the last bottle off the table. 'For decades I have worked to restore House Lannister to its rightful place as the premier noble House of Westeros. And I succeeded. My daughter became the Queen. My grandson the heir to the Iron Throne. My niece is now knowledgeable enough of the magic that has resurfaced with the Sorcerer's arrival that she had been gifted one of his weapons that puts even Valyrian steel to shame. A new source of wealth for the Westerlands outside of our goldmines with the production of fine paper and the printing presses. And now? It all stands on a knife's edge. My grandson declaring a holy war against a man that should not be trifled with and a land that was only cowed by the strength of dragons. My daughter doing nothing to control her son. My heir acting more like a drunkard rather than a Commander of a large host. It's…shameful…that the only one of my children and grandchildren that have proven their worth thus far is…Tyrion.'

Hearing the tent flap shifting, Tywin broke from his musing to see the Lord who'd greeted him at the edge of the camp make his way into the tent. The man made some passing pleasantry towards him, but Tywin said nothing. As time passed, a few more Lords began to arrive, each of whom offered some platitude towards him. And each of which was subsequently ignored as Tywin kept his gaze on the map laid out before him. The last to arrive in the tent was his son, now properly dressed and his hair still wet, with Kevan. Though with the two of them was a third. A Septon judging by the man's robes and the Seven-pointed-star emblem on his chest.

His son wisely, perhaps the first wise decision he'd made since leaving King's Landing, did not say a word to him. Turning his attention away from the Lords, Tywin grabbed a nearby chair, the only chair in the tent, and pulled it up to the table and sat down so that he was on one side of the table and the various Lords under his command were on the other. He did not have more chairs brought in. No, these fools had not yet earned the right to sit down with him.

"Let us begin with your failures," he stated stonily, leveling his gaze at each Lord in turn. "This camp is pathetic. No organization. No guards. No sanitation. No outriders to greet an approaching force. Nothing. Disease and disorder will kill us long before the Northmen get a chance to. Clegane is out right now setting the camp to rights. And he will set it to rights no matter who he must kill or maim. Am I understood?"

He didn't give the Lords a chance to protest or answer before pressing on. "Riverrun is home to House Tully, kin to the Starks. Yet Riverrun is not under siege. No talks are being held. You lot are standing around with your dicks in your hands, puffing out your chests and polishing those Seven-pointed emblems you are all so proud of. And with each day you waste, our enemies are given another day to prepare. An enemy that cannot be taken lightly."

Again, he paused to stare at each Lord in turn. "I estimated that after leaving King's Landing and traveling through the Crownlands and the Riverlands that this army would easily number at least fifteen thousand. A number which would swell to well over twenty-five thousand once I had arrived with my advance force. Yet as I arrived, I saw less than ten thousand. I will ask this once. Where are the other five thousand men?"

His eyes first sought out his son for answers, but Jamie refused to meet his eyes.

"They were zealous and eager to take the fight to the Northern heathens," the Septon answered, a smile on his face. "They continued up the Kingsroad and have by now reached Moat Cailin. By the time we join them, we will have a foothold in the North and our conquest of the heathens will be no issue."

Tywin looked closely at the Septon. There was something…off about the man. It took him some time, but he saw it. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way he held himself. The way he spoke. He knew it. This man—no, this beast—was a monster. Perhaps not a battering ram of a monster like Clegane. But he was a monster. Sure, there were many that called Tywin himself a monster. But he wasn't. No, he merely held the leashes of monsters and used them to do what needed to be done. And as the one who held the leash, he could tell that this monster before him in the clothes of a Septon needed to be dealt with immediately before he caused any damage. Or repair any damage that he had already caused.

Resting his elbows on the table, he steepled his fingers and leaned forward, staring at the Septon. "And who are you, a mere Septon, to speak with such confidence on matters of war?"

The Septon seemed taken aback. Apparently, none here had bothered to put him in his place yet. So, it was of no surprise to Tywin that the man puffed out his chest proudly as he announced himself. "I am High Inquisitor Ramsey Rivers. Appointed by his grace, King Joffrey Baratheon the Blessed to oversee the Exalted March, and act as his eyes and ears. And to educate the heathens and bring them into the light of the Seven through any means necessary."

Tywin said not a word as he slowly rose to his feet. "Your hand, High Inquisitor."

The Septon's face faltered only slightly, unsure of just what was going on. Slowly, the Septon brought his hand towards Tywin over the table that separated them. Grabbing the younger man's wrist in his left hand, Tywin slammed the Septon's hand against the flat of the table before drawing his dagger with his right hand and stabbing through the Septon's hand and into the table beneath. More than a few men gave of cries of alarm, and the Septon's eyes widened in pain and as his jaw flapped up and down as the man tried to hold back yelling in pain.

"You think you are in command of this army," Tywin said, slowly twisting the blade back and forth, spreading the bones in the man's hand with the flat of his blade, bringing enough pain to the Septon that cries of pain finally broke free from his lips. "You are not. I am Commander of this Exalted March. And when I am not here, then Ser Kevan is in command. When neither of us are here, then my son, Ser Jamie, is in command. Further chain of command will be determined before we march again. But know that you and your 'Inquisitors' will have no say in command, or any decisions made by this army. You will preach to the men. You will question traitors, prisoners, or heathens that are found. But only when you are given approval to do so. If you and your Inquisitors so much as try and command the placement of a latrine, I will have the lot of you whipped for your insolence. Do I make myself clear?"

Twisting the blade once more, Tywin roughly ripped the blade free from the Septon's hand, causing even more damage before wiping the blood off on the panting Septon's clothes. "Leave. And have a Maester see to your hand," Tywin stated coldly, sheathing his dagger and taking his seat once more.

The Inquisitor grasped his hand, trying to stem the bleeding and rose to his full height. Clearly, the man wished to press what just transpired, but Tywin kept his face stoney and unyielding. Unfortunately, the man seemed to possess some semblance of a mind and instead of pressing the issue, which would give Tywin cause to have the man killed outright here and now, he instead turned and fled from the command tent, leaving more than a few confused and fearful men behind.

"Lord Tywin," one of the Lords in the tent said slowly after the Inquisitor left them. "Forgive my saying and I mean no ill towards you…but I do not believe that was wise. High Inquisitor Ramsey is a man of the Faith. One chosen by the Seven to educate the heathens and bring them salvation. It is not proper to treat one chosen by the Seven so."

Folding his hands once more, Tywin met the eyes of each man in the tent. "Tell me. How long have the Seven tried to claim the North? How long have the Andal's tried to eradicate the faith of the Old Gods? How many times have armies that've marched against the North claimed that they were chosen by the Seven to do their work? And how many times have the Andals failed? Don't bother trying to answer. The answer is the same regardless. Each time the South has brought war to the North, either to claim the North or to eradicate the last bastion of the old gods, it has failed. Despite weakening during the reign of the Targaryen's, the strength of the North and the faith in the old gods is now greater than perhaps at any point in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Do not deceive yourselves. The Seven do not care about this war. If they truly cared about the eradication of the old gods and the conversion of the North to the Faith, then it would've happened centuries ago."

He let that thought sink into their feeble minds for a moment before pressing his point. "Make no mistake. Even without the powers of the Sorcerer and his Apprentices, none of whom should be underestimated, the power of the North has never been greater. They are united fully and wholly behind House Stark. And each foot we step into the North will need to be paid for with blood. We have two advantages that we must make use of. Our superior numbers. And the fact that the North was wisely not initially informed of the Exalted March. Though make no mistake. They do know. They may not fully believe it, but they do know. That slight advantage though is now lost to us thanks to those five thousand fools rushing headlong for Moat Cailin."

"But, if the North is not organized, then those five thousand should be able to easily take the Moat and give us a clear route North." Another lord spoke up.

Tywin wanted to roll his eyes. Surely, he was not cursed so to be forced to suffer such idiocy? "The Moat has stood since before recorded history you fool." Tywin countered, narrowing his eyes at the fool who dared to speak. "Even in disrepair, which is no longer entirely true as the Starks have been pouring coin and manpower into the Moat for years now, a small garrison could easily hold back a force of five thousand to allow for reinforcements to arrive. All those fools have done is make true the reality of the Exalted March to the North and cost us five thousand in the process."

The same Lord who'd spoken looked uneasy. "We…We could send a raven to the Twins? Perhaps Lord Walder could send a runner to the men and prevent them from reaching Moat Cailin."

Tywin scoffed. "There is no point. Those men are already dead. Or soon will be. No messages will be sent. Now, what is the situation with Riverrun. Have demands been made?"

All eyes turned towards Jamie, so Tywin turned his attention to his son. To his credit, Jamie did keep his back straight and his head up, but he could easily see the unease rolling off his son. "Calls were made upon our arrival. But Lord Tully had already flooded the rivers and raised the bridges leading into Riverrun before we arrived. All calls and…demonstrations have been met with silence."

Apparently, the lessons he had tried to impart upon his son and heir never took hold. "I see," he said calmly, rising from his chair. "Jamie, with me. The rest of you see to it that this camp is in order before nightfall. We will be leaving in the morning to continue onwards to the North."

He ignored the men nodding and bowing to him as he swept his way out of the tent, Kevan and Jamie on his heels as he walked towards the main draw bridge that would lead into Riverrun. Arriving at the river's edge, Tywin carefully examined the ramparts of Riverrun. He easily noted the dozens of defenders that were manning the walls. None of them had weapons in hand that he could see. Nor did there seem to be any urgency or panic amongst the men of Riverrun.

"Should we…announce you, father?" Jamie asked hesitantly.

Tywin didn't answer him. Instead, he just stood silent, watching the gates of Riverrun. He knew Hoster Tully. He'd originally planned on having Jamie marry Lysa once upon a time, so he'd had more than a few correspondences with the man. Through those ravens, and the few times they had met in person, he had a good measure of the man. So, he was unsurprised when the gate shook, and the chains rattled as the draw bridge slowly lowered and extended, forming the bridge over the Trident.

"Stay here and stay silent," Tywin commanded as he saw none other than Hoster Tully waiting on the other side of the gate. "Perhaps you will finally learn something."

Hand resting on the hilt of Brightroar, Tywin walked forward, uncaring of the Tully men at arms that were pointing arrows at him as he walked. As he reached the midway point, he stopped and waited.

Hoster was not nearly as quick in coming forward. Apparently, the news of the man's fading health held true as he required aid to start moving forward and could only apparently walk with the aid of a cane. Foolish. The man was showing just how weak he was in coming out in such a manner. He should have ridden out on a horse, at least then he would've been able to hide his weakness better.

"Lord Tully," he greeted the man as he finally came just outside of arms reach.

"Lord Lannister," Hoster greeted him back. "I trust that you are here to take this rabble off of my castle's doorstep?"

Tywin didn't bother to answer. They both knew the answer to that question. "King Joffrey Baratheon has called the banners against the North. You are sworn to the King. Yet your banners remain behind your walls. Ignoring the orders of your King is treason, Lord Tully. Are you a traitor? Or has this armies hasty march merely left you in such a state that you have been unable to properly assemble your banners for the march north?"

"Treason?" Lord Tully responded lowly. "Family, Duty, Honor. Lord Tywin. Family is first because it is the most important thing we have in this wretched world. And the commands of the King call for me to march against my family."

"Your grandsons only. Your granddaughters are still in the south. And your daughter, the former Lady of Winterfell, is dead and already replaced with a foreign woman," Tywin countered quickly. "Can they truly be called your family, Lord Tully? Last they visited, both Eddard Stark and Robb Stark bloodied and insulted you and your heir before leaving. And during the Tourney of Harrenhal, the Starks seemed perfectly content to ignore House Tully. You may consider them 'family', but it is clear that they do not return the sentiment."

Taking a single step forward, Tywin purposefully put the two of them within arm's reach of one another. "And here you are. You have known about the King's decree for some time, yet you have done nothing. No riders have been sent North. Nor have any of your men gone north either. It is clear that you no longer consider the Starks family. Understandable, as they clearly do not consider you family."

Hoster growled, a low sound in his throat that sounded almost like a cough. "They are still my blood."

Tywin could see the man teetering on the edge. He just needed a final push. "And with your help, you can save them," he said calmly. "Sansa is betrothed to Willias Tyrell, that union will go forward. Arya will be put into your care, so that you may educate her as to a woman's proper role as a Lady of the Realm. I will not lie and say that Robb can remain as Warden of the North, he cannot. But he can live in exile in Essos with his wife, who is daughter to a Triarch of Volantis so he will not go wanting. Bran will inherit Winterfell after he swears his allegiance to his King, King Joffrey Baratheon. And I will even convince the King to permit you to foster Bran for a year to teach him what he needs to learn in order to rule as a proper Lord of Westeros."

Hoster licked his lips. Tywin knew he had the man already. The idea of having a direct hold on the Stark children, two of whom were set to be or be married to future Wardens of Westeros, was enough. Giving him the chance to hold and use Arya as a bargaining piece to further his own influence, and the chance to impress himself upon Bran was enough to push him over the ledge he'd been holding out on.

"The Princess, Myrcella," Hoster said, looking at him. "She will be betrothed to my son, Edmure."

"No," Tywin countered easily. "It will not be easy to truly quell the North, even after they surrender. A direct line to the throne by blood will be needed. Myrcella will wed Bran once he bends the knee. Though through this marriage, your blood will be tied to the royal family."

Hoster, though clearly not pleased with losing the chance to have a direct marriage to the royal family, nodded. "Then Arianne Martell for my son."

This was not an offer Tywin had foreseen. And though he managed to keep himself indifferent, he was silent long enough for Hoster to push his point on the matter. "Her betrothal to that bastard is a sham and you know it, Lord Tywin. The Martells, if they haven't already, will join with the North in their own attempt for vengeance for what happened to Elia and her children. When this March ends and the North is properly taken to task, Dorne will still need to be handled as well. What better way than to have my son, uncle to the Warden of the North, take the would-be Princess of Dorne as his wife? And…I will not let my daughter's memory be tarnished so by letting that bastard draw breath a day longer. The bastard dies, and Arianne is presented to my son. Those, along with the conditions you presented, and the Riverlands will faithfully bend the knee to the King."

Tywin was not completely pleased with these demands, though he could concede the death of Jon Stark was a necessity. He still held out hope that he could sway the bastard to the cause of House Lannister. But with recent events and the Exalted March, he knew that gaining control of the boy would now be nearly impossible. It was regrettable losing such a valuable piece in the game. But he would much rather have a piece removed from the board entirely instead of risking the chance of him turning against House Lannister in the future.

"Very well," Tywin agreed, reaching his hand out. "Ready your troops, and I will have an official decree ready by nightfall. Come morning, I will march to the North with the Exalted Army while our sons ready the Riverlands as reserves to gather at the Twins."

Hoster grinned and took the offered hand. "We have an accord, Lord Tywin."

Not bothering to waste any more time, Tywin turned and marched off the bridge. On land, Kevan was staring at him completely at ease while Jamie was looking at him in surprise and a slight amount of awe. "Remove that look from your face, Jamie," he said as he stepped off the bridge, a bridge which didn't rise as soon as he was off it. "A commander cannot afford to look surprised to the men he commands."

"Lord Tully has agreed to our terms then, brother?" Kevan asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," Tywin nodded as the three marched back to the camp with an opened Riverrun behind them. "There were two additional terms. The death of Jon Stark. And the Crown's endorsement of Princess Arianne Martell to Edmure Tully once the North has been brought to heel."

Making their way back into the command tent his son had previously occupied, he was pleased to see that the camp hands had made the tent somewhat presentable and had removed all wine and ale from the tent. Walking over to the bed, his son's bed, Tywin sat down and began unlacing his boots. "Come morning, Ser Kevan and I will lead the remaining ten thousand of the Exalted Army, as well as five thousand of our own men north along the King's Road," he explained, taking off his boots and tucking them under the bed. "Jamie, you will lead this army like you are truly my son and not some simpering drunkard. You will march alongside Edmure Tully and the remaining five thousand I have brought from the Westerlands. Together, you two will bring the hold outs in the Riverlands to heel and swell your numbers with those from the Riverlands and the second wave of men from the Westerlands. By the time I reach the Moat, I expect you to have the Riverlands well in hand and have the additional fifteen thousand from the Westerlands added to a force of Riverland men at arms and heading towards the Twins, ready to reinforce our assault of the Moat. Do you understand these expectations, Jamie?"

Jamie swallowed and nodded. "I do, father."

"Good," Tywin nodded, laying down on the bed. "My son or not, I will not tolerate a second failure on your part. Now ready the army to march at first light. We have lost far too much time and manpower here. We will need to move with all haste to make up for it. Now go. And make sure I am not disturbed for the rest of the night."

---

Standing amongst the ruins of Moat Cailin, Robb was doing his best to ignore the cries of the injured and dying of those on the ground around him. The battle, if it could even be called that, had been a massacre. The Moat had once been one of, if not the, greatest stronghold in all of Westeros. Repelling invasion after invasion from the south. But after the unification of Westeros by the Targaryens centuries past, the Moat had fallen into disrepair. The twenty towers and the massive basalt curtain wall were reduced to little more than a wall barely three men tall with many parts sinking into the ground. Of the towers only three remained. And the once great keep was little more than a rotten husk. But despite its state, it was still a formidable structure. Even more so after his father had decided that Lord Nox would inherit the land and had since spent thousands upon thousands of dragons towards its renovation. And while it was not what it once was, it was still a formidable keep to assault. As these pathetic Southerners had learned the hard way.

The garrison that was stationed at the Moat, mostly smallfolk and builders, had put aside their tools and took up arms the moment the army was seen advancing on them. Despite their lack of numbers and lack of training, the defenders managed to hold out long enough, while only suffering minimal losses, for Robb and his small advance force to arrive. They were still outnumbered nearly two-to-one, but that mattered little when they were backed with the strength of the Moat.

The southerners were slaughtered nearly to the man once Robb ordered the gates to the Moat to be opened so that he and his men could ride out and meet the southerners head on. The southerners, having expected the north men to stay behind the safety of the Moat, were unprepared for the sudden charge, and were therefore unable to mount a proper defense before Robb and his men set upon them. Robb, his blue lightsaber alive and singing, cut through the southerners like they were nothing. While beside him Winter, Grey Wind, Lady and Nymeria set upon the attacking force like the wolves they were.

Hearing a man beg for mercy before being silenced, Robb looked over his shoulder and saw a heavily armored Stark man-at-arms with a spear, the tip of which was buried into the chest of a southerner who was wearing a mashup of ill-fitted leather armor. Watching the struggling man finally succumb, Robb could only shake his head. Granted, these southerners had come with the purpose of ending their way of life, but he couldn't help but feel some form of pity for these southerners.

Only perhaps a hundred or so had proper armor and decent weapons, let alone training. The rest were clearly smallfolk like farmers, stable hands, brick layers. Men from all walks of life, yet none of them were soldiers. And they didn't stand a chance against the well-armed and armored northerners. Robb's own armor, the same armor that his ancestor Bran the Builder wore, proved its worth. It was light, flexible, and gave him full mobility. Yet not a single blade nor arrow was able to even leave a scratch, provided he was struck.

Feeling a hand grab his boot, Robb looked down. A young face was staring up at him. The boy was his age…if not younger. His face was bloodied. His arm and leg mangled beyond all hope. And a large gash had opened his gut, his insides clutched desperately in his hand as he tried to keep them in. "P-P-Pleease…mo – mothe…"

Feeling his gut twist, Robb activated his lightsaber and swiftly ended the boy's suffering. 'This is the reality of war,' Robb thought morosely looking around as healers tried to heal who they could while others went about giving mercy with a sharp blade.

Feeling a surge of panic and anger from the Force, Robb turned sharply back towards the Moat. 'Talisa.'

All but running back to the Moat, Robb frantically sought out his wife. If he'd had his way, she would be back in Winterfell, caring for the potential child that was in her belly while seeing the day-to-day running of the North and educating Bran on how to be a proper Lord. But…Talisa was his weakness. And she was strong enough to stand alongside him, not hide behind the high walls of Winterfell while others risked their lives. It was something that he admired, and something that he knew won her great favor with their bannerman. But still…he couldn't shake the fear of something happening to her. He did manage to get one concession from her. Once they'd confirmed that she was with child and started to show, then she would stay at the nearest holdfast they had control of until they could secure a means for her to return to the safety of the North.

Entering the main courtyard of the Moat, Robb saw a dozen of Stark men-at-arms forming a wall in front of his wife and a man who was being pinned down by four other Stark men. He immediately noticed two things. The first was that his wife's darker complexion was slightly paler than normal. And second, was the dagger that was being wrestled from the hand of the man who was being pinned.

"What in the name of the old gods and the Force is going on here?!" Robb shouted, letting the Force enter his voice, a trick he had learned from Lord Nox.

Talisa looked startled. But after a quick meeting of their eyes, she looked down. Shame? Guilt? No, but…yes? The few emotions he could sense from her, something which had been amplified since their wedding to one another, were all a tangled web instead of her normally composed self.

"Forgive us, milord," one of the men said, bowing to him as the others kept struggling to hold the man down. "Lady Stark was seeing to the wound, milord. She…She began treating this fucker and…and he drew a dagger and made for her."

Rage. A rage even greater than the one he'd felt upon learning of his father's imprisonment at the hands of the Lannisters raced through him. The Force rang in his ears. All but demanding not just this man's death, but his painful death. But even as he was imagining a thousand and one ways to kill the man who dared attempt harm towards his wife, his thoughts were immediately put on hold when Talisa simply touched his arm.

Looking into her dark eyes, his rage calmed, though his anger was still very much present. "My wife, the Lady Stark, is perhaps the gentlest, most loving woman to ever have been born," he said calmly, though his rage still very much apparent as he turned his attention to the pinned man on the ground. "Despite all you have done, coming here to the North with the intent on killing us all and ending our way of life, my wife still offered to treat your wounds. And how did you repay her kindness? With an attempt to kill her."

The man had ceased his struggles, but his glare had not lessened in the slightest. There was no shame in him. No guilt. Only hatred. Disgust. "She's nothing more than a foreign heathen whore married to a barbaric heathen!" The man shouted from his place on the ground. "My only regret is not actually gutting the whore when I had the chance!"

Any chance for mercy left as soon as those words left his lips. Glancing up towards Talisa, he saw in her eyes that even she no longer held any mercy for this man. Glancing his way, she gave him the slightest of nods before turning her back and walking away. No doubt to see to others who would be more receptive to her care.

"Bind his arms and legs," he said, his voice as hard as ice.

His men didn't question his orders. They grabbed some rope to tie his feet together and his arms tightly to his sides. The man didn't stop glaring. "I am not afraid to die at your hands, heathen! For I do so in the service to the Seven-Who-Are-One!"

Robb side-eyed the man. "Whoever said that I would be the one to kill you?" he asked, motioning for his men to pick the bound man up and follow him.

As they walked, Robb listed the man's crimes. "You came to the North unprovoked and declared us all heathens. Marching with a force set on killing any and all whose only crime is that they do not owe reverence to the same gods as you. You killed my people. Raped our women. But I would not stain my hands with your blood."

Reaching the edge of the ramparts, Robb looked over the edge and down into the murky moat below. The waters were still, but despite the still waters one could not see into the water's depths. There was no telling what awaited in the waters. But he knew. Any true man or woman of the north knew what waited in the waters of the marshes of the Neck. And even if he didn't know through tales, he could sense them through the Force.

Without a word, he jerked his head in the direction of the moat. The man let out a yell of confusion and a cry calling him a coward as he was thrown into the still waters. The man splashed and cursed as he hit the waters, fumbling about as he tried to find some sort of footing despite his arms and legs being bound.

"This is how you mean to kill me! Fucking idiot, heathen!" the man laughed, managing to right himself and stand despite his binds with his head just barely above the surface of the water. "I can simply walk out of here, you dumb fuc – AHHH!"

The fool was only able to give off a single cry of pain as the water shifted and he was pulled under. He surfaced again, screaming in agony as the water turned red. The man now firmly caught in the powerful maw of a lizard-lion that began thrashing the man about while its serrated teeth dug deeply into his flesh. Then a second lizard-lion surfaced, snapping hold of the man's legs. The two massive beasts, each easily twice as large as their newfound meal, began tearing and pulling the man apart.

'I wonder,' Robb pondered as he watched the man being torn to shreds by the lizard-lions. 'Is this the same righteous anger that my ancestor Theon felt when he brought death and destruction to the Andals after their failed invasion of the North? It's easy to judge his actions as harsh when looking back… But now that I am in the same situation as him… Can I truly say that my ancestor went too far with his actions? Perhaps yes. But I think I understand just why he went as far as he did.'

Turning his back on the feasting lizard-lions, he turned to one of his men-at-arms. "Find Theon and inform him that I wish to speak with him. And then gather all able-bodied prisoners. I have a task for them that I want Theon to help oversee."

His men looked strangely at him. "What task, milord? Whatever you need done, we would gladly see to it rather than putting our trust in these southern cunts."

"No," Robb replied sharply. "Our men need to rest. These southern cunts can work. It's only right that they give back something after they tried to take what is rightfully ours."

The men seemed agreeable, and just as they started to depart, Theon showed up. "So, how many of these southern greenlander cunts did you get, Robb?" Theon asked, smirking as he looked proudly at his bow while fiddling with the string. "I managed to take down four of the cunts. Well, five if you count the one bleeding out over there. And seeing as how he isn't likely to make it to nightfall, he counts."

"Five?" Robb nodded. "Respectable, Theon. But war isn't a game."

Theon smirked wider. "So, I got more than you then?"

Robb shook his head. "No, I got eleven Theon. More than double you."

Theon's face fell. "Fuck. Well, the next battle I'll just have to double you then."

"We'll see," Robb nodded. "But first, I have a task that I want you to oversee."

Theon held his head up higher and puffed out his chest. "Name it, Robb. I told you I would march with you till the end. And I meant it."

Robb was grateful for Theon. Even though they weren't related by blood, Robb did consider Theon a brother. Despite how much of an arse he could be at times. "I want you to oversee the prisoners. Take whatever men you need and the prisoners and prepare a proper…northern welcome for Tywin-fucking-Lannister and the southern cunts who are coming our way."

---

The Last Hearth was like many other keeps in the North. The tall walls made of stone and wood were imposing and built to protect the people from both attack and the harsh climate of the North that threatened their lives. The keep, and the homesteads within the walls, were not ornate or ostentatious, but rather built for strength and practicality. And the Umbers who held dominion over Last Hearth and the surrounding lands, mirrored their homestead almost perfectly. The Greatjon and his eldest son Smalljon both stood as giants amongst men, literally. Even Nox with his well above average height could only come up to each man's shoulder. The only one who could match the massive men was Tormund, who was standing with Nox and the two Umbers as the group of four watched the Umber men finalize their preparations for war, all the while keeping a wary eye on the thousands of Free Folk that they now found themselves marching with.

"Never did I think I would ever be marching south with a band of fucking wildlings," the Greatjon grumbled, eyeing the mass of free folk making camp outside his holdfast. "My father, and his father all the way back to the Age of Heroes, would be turning over in their fucking graves if they could see this."

Tormund grunted as he raised a chicken leg to his mouth before proceeding to devour nearly half of it in one bite. "As would mine, Umber. But as the lovely Karsi put it years ago at Hardhome: 'Fuck em, they're dead.'"

Greatjon grunted but didn't say much in response.

"What news have you received from Robb Stark and the other Lords and Ladies of the North?" Nox asked. Despite his ability to contact Robb at will, they did not keep daily conversations with each other as using the glass candles were draining, even for one of Nox's power. And the other keeps did not have glass candles or Force sensitives, so he was handicapped to the agonizingly slow pace of travel this world was limited to.

"Everyone has gotten off their asses and is preparing for war." The Greatjon replied, with no small amount of eagerness in his voice. "All the keeps are readying their men and marching towards Winterfell or straight to Moat Cailin. Robb Stark is showing his Stark blood is stronger than his southern blood. He's already marched to the Moat to begin reinforcing it. Just hope that he leaves some of those Andals for the rest of us! It's been centuries since those Andal fucks last tried to claim the North. Never thought I'd see them dumb enough to try again. But I'm glad they decided to try while I still draw breath."

Nox nodded. During their last talk via the candles, Robb had informed him that not only had he already reached the Moat, but that they had not been alone. Some five-thousand southerners had apparently decided to strike out at the Moat ahead of the rest of the army. A foolish notion. And one they paid for in blood. But that was merely the warmup of what was to come. For Nox knew that Tywin Lannister himself would be leading the next wave to descend on the Moat. And given the rate of travel, the Heir of Winterfell would have to hold his own against perhaps one of the greatest Lords and battle-commanders currently alive in Westeros. Not a promising proposition. But he had faith in his apprentice.

"We'll let the men rest for one day," Nox stated, turning his back on the encampment. "At first light, we ride for Winterfell then onwards to the Moat. I set the pace of march. Anyone who falls behind will be left to deal with whatever scraps of fighting is left."

"Ha, no worries there, Sorcerer," Smalljon laughed. "Half our men will probably outpace even you to the Moat!"

Shaking his head, Nox made his way into the sturdy keep and towards the small room he'd been given for the night. It certainly wasn't the height of comfort, but after sleeping out in the elements or within a tree for months on end, it was a very welcome change. Closing himself in the room, he immediately drew out the glass candle he had and began to meditate.

His Force-sight shifted, no longer was he seeing the room around him, instead he had a bird's eye view of Last Hearth and the surrounding land. He could see the thousands of Free Folk he had brought south of the Wall, as well as the hundreds of men of the North that were staging themselves around the keep in preparation for their march south. Shifting his sight, he saw more and more men, and even some women, gathering around the various keeps of the North, readying themselves to once again fight off Andal invaders.

Venturing further south, he saw the Moat. Robb had made it, and judging by the piles of bodies burning he could see, the young Heir of Winterfell had not been the first to arrive, but he had held strong and thrown back the first wave of their enemies.

Pushing further south, Nox began straining with the effort of keeping his sight strong, but the further and further he ventured the fuzzier things became. The last image he could see before he was forced to break his connection was a large mass of bodies moving north along the Kings Road. The main force of this Exalted March no doubt. And this wave he was positive was being led by Tywin Lannister himself.

Forcibly breaking the connection, Nox took his time to compose himself. Despite his ire about this war and its waste of resources he felt could, and should, be put to better use. Part of him, the part that was still deeply engrained in the Sith way of life, couldn't help but feel excited. Not just about the chance to fight, but also the chance to go against Tywin Lannister. The one man in all of Westeros that could give Nox even the slightest moment of hesitation. Despite not being Force-sensitive, Nox had no doubt that had Tywin Lannister been born amongst the Sith Empire, he would've become one of the greatest Moffs in the Empire. He was tactically brilliant. And his cunning was only match by his ruthless nature. In short, he was everything that Nox, as a Sith, could wish for in an enemy. While not his equal, Tywin was as close as an equal as Nox was likely to find on this world. And that would have to suffice. If nothing else, Tywin would serve as a good way of knocking the rust off his mind before the war against the undead began.

---

Standing at the bow of the ship, enjoying the feel of the wind on her face and the sun warming her skin, Daenerys watched with a wary eye as the port of Astapor slowly grew closer. In truth, if she could choose any other place to sail to other than Astapor, she would. But now that she was without Drogo and the Khalasar, she had little to no support. She could've perhaps sailed back to Westeros, sought sanctuary in the North using her ties with the Sorcerer and her nephew. But that was not the life she wanted. She didn't want to be a burden, nor beholden to anyone. She'd lived that life once, and that was enough. But still, she needed support. A dragon, while powerful, was not enough to make her dreams come to fruition. She needed soldiers. And according to everyone she'd talked to, there were no better soldiers than the Unsullied of Astapor.

"Khaleesi."

Turning her head away from the sight of the port, she spied her sworn-sword, Ser Jorah, coming up beside her near the bow of the ship. "Ser Jorah," she responded cordially before turning her attention back towards the approaching port.

The two stood in silence until Ser Jorah broke it, "is your arm healed?"

The reminder sent a sharp stab of pain in her arm. The day after they had set sail her curiosity to fully explore her new blade got the better of her and she brought it out in the confines of her cabin. The white blade glowed brighter than any candle she had seen. She began carefully moving it around, taking care to keep the white blade far away from Rhaego and Droga. Unfortunately for her, despite the blade producing no heat that she could feel, she underestimated just how truly dangerous the blade was. And because of that, her small bed ended up being cut in half, and she ended up cutting deeply into her left arm.

After that single instance of stupidity, she decided that she needed to learn how to properly learn how to handle her weapon. Unfortunately, Jon could only talk to her and show her. He couldn't physically be with her to aid and their time was exceedingly limited. No. Her best options were to either ask Ser Jorah to teach her the blade. Or one of her bloodriders. After watching all the men train on the limited space provided on the ship, she knew that she couldn't ask Jorah. It wasn't the man's skill that was in question. But she knew from watching him fight that she would not be able to fight like him. He used his size, strength, and armor when he fought. Three things that she did not have. So, instead, she continued her lessons with Rakharo.

Her bloodrider was clearly hesitant to continue what they'd started back in the Dothraki Sea without Drogo still around to lead him. After all women, especially a Khaleesi, did not fight like the men. But she persisted and he relented quickly enough. So, for the entirety of their voyage, she spent every waking moment that wasn't with her children with Rakharo learning how to move, how to incorporate her blade into being just an extension of her arm. And he did not take it easy on her. Each night she went to bed, her entire body ached. Each morning was almost painful to rise from her bed. But after a few days, the aches began to fade. She could feel her body getting stronger, faster. And she felt a thrill when she practiced with her blade that she'd never felt before. And while she knew that she was nowhere near even a proficient swordswoman, she was confident that she could at least hold her own in a fight should it come to it.

"As well as can be for now," she replied, now able to see the docks and the workers thereon.

She couldn't help but frown as she watched the people on the docks. Those who were working were in little more than rags. Scattered amongst the mass of workers were a handful of men dressed in fine clothes, carrying whips. And they were not afraid to use them if they spotted any worker… no. Any slave not working hard enough to their liking.

Ser Jorah saw where her eyes were being drawn to, and her sworn sword growled lowly at the sight of it. The growl persisted in his voice as he said, "There are other choices, Khaleesi."

"No, there are not." Daenerys replied firmly. "I cannot return to Westeros. Nor can I return to the Grass Sea of the Dothraki. My brother burned all bridges we had in the Free Cities. No. If I am to see my dream come to fruition, I must start here."

Coming into the harbor, Dany noticed a large statue of what looked like a cross between a woman, a dragon and some manner of beast for legs and a long-curled tail. 'A harpy,' she realized, keeping her eyes on the statue as their ship slowly drifted past and towards an opening on the docks. 'The idol of slavers bay and a symbol of the Masters power over those they keep in chains.'

Watching as their ship slowly pulled up next to the dock, Dany tried to keep her face impassive as she watched the slaves on the dock work quickly to tie the boat off. Only to be whipped by a large man behind them for not working fast enough to his liking. Pushing down her disgust, she looked over her shoulder at Irri and Jhiqui, "Stay on the ship with my children. Allow none to come near them while I am speaking with the 'Good' Masters."

Once the ship was fully docked, Dany departed with Ser Jorah and Rakharo right behind her. Her remaining bloodriders, Aggo and Jhogo, were going to stay on the ship to protect her children along with Irri and Jhiqui. It took all of her power not to react as she carefully observed the slaves and the way they were being manhandled by the 'Good Masters' on the docks as she slowly made her way back onto solid land.

Just as she was about to ask Ser Jorah to see if he knew where to head, they were approached by a half a dozen slaves that were carrying a large, gilded palanquin on their shoulders. The slaves purposefully put themselves directly into her path before a voice from the inside barked out several sharp orders, bringing them all to a stop as they then lowered the palanquin off their shoulders and onto the ground softly as to not disturb whoever was inside.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Dany stood her ground as the curtain covering the opening to palanquin was opened and an older man stepped out. The man had hair white as snow, wrinkles covering every part of his flesh that was visible beyond the confines of the rich tokar he was wearing. The man straightened himself out before his eyes landed on her. He didn't smile, nor did he show any surprise at her appearance. The man barked out a command in bastardized High Valyrian before approaching her with a skittish slave breaking away from the others and walking to the man's left and a pace behind.

Walking forward, the man gazed at her, but didn't bow his head in greeting. "Welcome to Astapor, Daenerys of the House of Targaryen of the former Valyrian Empire. I am Good Master Grazdan mo Ullthor of Astapor."

Daenerys remained impassive as she let the slave by the man's side change his words into the common tongue. She immediately wanted to respond that the slave was not necessary, but she held her tongue as one of Lord Nox's lessons came back to her. This man clearly suspected that she did not understand High Valyrian. A weakness for her, in his mind. And if he thought she was weak, then he would underestimate her.

"I appreciate your welcome, Good Master Grazdan mo Ullthor," she replied in the common tongue, keeping her eyes on the Good Master as the slave translated in High Valyrian.

Dany kept her eyes on the Good Master. The man did not show his disgust. But his words spoke all that she needed to know now that his suspicions had apparently been confirmed. "The dumb cunt doesn't even speak the language of her ancestors. How pathetic. Ask the dumb cunt what she wants in our city."

Dany kept her face impassive, not an easy task, but she kept her pose as the slave translated, albeit in a much kinder verbiage. "I am looking to purchase the services of an army of Unsullied."

As soon as the words were translated, the Good Master's eyes changed. No longer was he so utterly dismissive and disgusted of her. Now he gained a greedy glint in his eyes. 'Amazing how much one can change when you go from being a simple passerby to a potential buyer.'

"At least the ignorant cunt at least knows where to come to buy the best. Tell her to follow. Send word to Kraznys mo Nkloz that we have a potential buyer. If he is not at the Plaza of Pride before we arrive, then all of you will be decorating the Plaza of Punishment. Tell the ignorant cunt that we will be walking around the city before viewing the Unsullied."

Dany accepted the invitation, biting her tongue the entire time as the Good Master Grazdan showed her around the city. He made a point of calling out the various pyramids that were scattered about, as well as the various plazas, grand manors, and fighting pits. By midday, they entered a bustling city market that the Good Master called 'the Plaza of Pride', while also stating that it was here that they would be meeting with a fellow Good Master before they go to view the Unsullied.

Making their way around the market, Grazdan led her towards a specific area where a large man…very large man with an oiled black and red beard. By the gods…she'd thought that Illyrio was large…but this man. She swore his breasts must've been larger than her own! And she was producing mother's milk! Standing beside the large man was a small girl, maybe the same height and size of Dany. Her darker skin clashed with the golden collar around her neck and the white tokar that clung loosely to her body. "So, this is the last of the Valyrian Empire?" the obese man snorted. "At least she looks the part. Though I can find a hundred better bed slaves in Yunkai in less than a day."

"This is her," Grazdan nodded. "She says that she's here to buy some of our Unsullied."

The fat man snorted. "Doubt she has any coin to spare. Probably hoping she can flash her tits or ass at us and get a pity sum from us now that her pathetic khal is dead as well as her Beggar King of a brother. I guess that makes her a fucking pathetic Beggar Queen. Missandei, ask what the cunt wants."

The small slave girl stepped forward, her voice soft and sweet. Though Dany could hear the undercutting of strength that stayed in her voice despite her station. "The Good Master, Kraznys mo Nakloz welcomes you, Daenerys of House Targaryen, to the great city of Astapor. He inquires as to what has made you voyage to Astapor."

Dany decided to keep the charade of her not speaking Valyrian for the time being. "Greetings, Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz. I am Daenerys of House Targaryen, Khaleesi to Khal Drogo. I have come seeking the Unsullied knowing that there are few, if any, fighting forces that can match the prowess of the Unsullied."

Missandei repeated her words exactly to the Good Master, who merely scoffed. "The dumb cunt thinks flattery will work. Fine, let's show her what she wants but will never be able to afford. If nothing else, it'll be gratifying to have this dumb cunt groveling at my feet for the worst we have to offer."

Again, Missandei translated for her, albeit not word for word and with a significant amount of flattery. Following the Good Masters, Dany along with Jorah and Rakharo were led into what she recognized as a training field. Men, although given their age she wasn't even sure they could be called that, were training under the unrelenting sun high in the sky. They were practicing with spears, bows, shields, short blades. Anything and everything. Even bare-handed combat was being taught. And more. Boys were running around in circles. Practicing different formations. Even some standing under the sun wearing two or more layers of arms and armor. Hundreds. No, thousands were before her. All under the watchful eyes of the Good Masters who were carrying heavy chain whips and were clearly not afraid to use them against any they felt were not trying hard enough.

She had to bite her tongue as she watched as one boy who was running stumbled and fell over. The Good Master overseeing the running whipped the boy repeatedly until his back was little more than a bloodied mess. All the while, none of the other future Unsullied stopped what they were doing. Eventually the Master stopped, but only when it was clear that the boy was no longer going to get up. A fact emphasized when the Master used his whip handle to raise the boy's head, only to let it fall back down to the ground lifelessly.

"The weak are purged before they have a chance to become Unsullied," Kraznys said, with Missandei translating into the common tongue. "Only a third of all slaves bought to become Unsullied live through the training."

Dany could not deny that the Unsullied were impressive. Having lived with the Dothraki for so long, she felt she had gained an eye for martial prowess. And the Unsullied were skilled. But what was more, they were disciplined. But the training was, well, extreme. Only a third lived through their training? That was wasteful. "They are impressive. But does losing a third of all recruits truly match the skills they obtain? Would it not be better to have three times the number of soldiers after their training is completed?"

Kraznys scoffed. "The dumb cunt lives amongst savages for a brief time and thinks she knows all there is to know about war. We would kill 9 out of 10 of these slaves if it meant producing better Unsullied."

Missandei hesitated for a moment before responding. "The Good Master Kraznys said that while the training is harsh, it is necessary to keep the high standards expected of the Unsullied."

Dany nodded, accepting what Missandei said while trying to ignore Krazyns' continued insults towards her. Motioning them onwards, Kraznys led them towards another area of training where dozens of Unsullied were standing still in full armor under the full heat of the sun. Walking amongst the lines of Unsullied, she noticed the visible strain many were under just trying to keep their positions. "How long have they been like this?" she asked, admiration and disgust warring within her.

Kraznys shrugged, and for once Missandei did not need to twist his words as he spoke. "This lot has been in position for three days and three nights without food or water. And they will stay like this until they are given the order to move or until they die. Such is the obedience installed in the Unsullied."

Kraznys made a move with his whip, and the Unsullied parted as one, giving them a path to walk through. "The Unsullied have had all individuality stripped from them. They know only orders and fear nothing."

Beside her, Ser Jorah snorted, clearly not pleased with what he was seeing. "Even the bravest of men fear death."

Missandei hesitated before relaying what Jorah had said to Krazyns. The Good Master wrinkled his nose and scoffed. "Tell the old man he smells of piss and shit."

Missandei hesitated. "Truly, Master?"

Kraznys sneered and backhanded Missandei across her cheek, turning her head but not dropping her. The action made Dany want to lash out, but she held herself in check. "No, not truly you dumb cunt. Are you a girl or a goat to ask such a stupid thing? Tell the dragon whore and the old cock that the Unsullied are not men. And therefore death means nothing to them. Tell the whore-beggar-queen to watch closely."

Walking away, Kraznys walked up to one of the Unsullied and commanded the slave to take a step forward. The slave did so, and offered no resistance as the Good Master moved aside his shield and spear before pulling out the slave's dagger. As he cut loose the straps exposing the man's chest, Dany's gut sank as she got a sudden suspicion of what was about to happen. "Tell the Good Master that there is no need—"

"She's worried about their nipples. She does know that we cut off their balls." Without hesitation, he slowly cut the man's nipple off before holding it up to show her the bloodied piece of flesh in his hand. "Now back in line, I have no further need of you."

Once the Unsullied stepped back in line, Kraznys spoke again with Missandei translating word for word. "To earn his shield. An Unsullied is given a single silver coin and then sent to the slave market. They are then to find a newborn and kill it before it's mother's eyes. This ensures that there is no weakness left in them. And to prove that they are no longer men and will obey any order given."

The practice was…so barbaric that it was all she could do to keep the contents of her stomach in place. She loved her son, her daughter. Should any take them from her and kill them before her eyes… The pain was not one she would wish on even her worst of enemies. "The coin they… Is it given to the mother?"

Kraznys scoffed after Missandei translated. "Why would we waste coin on a slave? No. The coin is given to the slave's master as repayment for the loss of property."

Dany's heart plummeted even further. Her course was now set. She knew what she needed to do. "How many do you have to sell?"

Missandei relayed her question, earning a curious look from Kraznys. In response, Krazyns held up eight fingers, to which Missandei vocalized. "Eight thousand."

Eight thousand. Eight thousand mothers who had lost their child. And for what? "Tell the whore-beggar-queen that she has until tomorrow to make her offer."

Missandei lowered her head. "Good Master Kraznys gives you till tomorrow to make an offer. There are many other buyers who are interested in purchasing."

Without another word, Kraznys raised his whip, causing the Unsullied before them to separate creating a pathway between them. Missandei bowed her head towards Dany before stepping down from where they were standing and quickly moving to follow after the departing Master.

---

Time had lost all meaning. There was only darkness. And pain. Unending. Throbbing. Pain. The pain of the blows he'd received in the throne room that fateful day. The pain of the gashes the blunted weapons had left upon his flesh. And the pain in his heart he felt for his failure. For there was no other word he could use to describe what happened. He failed. He, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had failed spectacularly.

Groaning with effort, Ned forced himself into a seated position and stared off into the endless abyss that was the Black Cells. Why had he not acted faster? Why had he not realized that Robert was the key to their survival until Nyra reminded him of the fact? Why was he…always such a fool?

Hearing latches clatter accompanied by the clinking of chains, Ned turned his head and saw something he had not seen in… Gods, he didn't know how long now. A low light that just barely outlined the door of his cell. Hearing keys jingle, Ned held up a hand to shield his eyes the best he could as the door was opening, the light of a single torch spilling into his cell and near blinding him as it chased the darkness away.

"Leave us," he heard a voice say, a voice he recognized.

Lowering his hand, Ned didn't try and keep the wolf's blood in check as he glared in hatred at the man across from him. "Baelish."

Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin…Cat's friend, stood just across from him with a smile on his face. Two guards standing silently behind him as Petyr took the torch from one of the guards and lowered it towards Ned's face. "Good, it seems like it has worn off enough for us to talk properly now."

"Worn off?" Ned growled. He would've strangled the man had he the power to do so. But, with his arms chained and his body still suffering from the beating he'd received, it was all he could do to stay conscious.

"Indeed," Baelish smiled, which made him look like the weasel many claimed him to be. "You see, as much good as you think you've done over the years, you have made numerous enemies. Enemies that I have meticulously gathered with one purpose. The end of House Stark. One such group are the Maesters that managed to survive your purge of the Citadel years ago. Amongst there were several great minds who have come up with a way to deal with yourself, as well as the sorcerer."

Still smiling, Baelish pulled out a small vial of dark liquid and held it before him. "This is a mixture of several things that I cannot name. But that doesn't matter. What does is the fact that this little potion addles the mind, leaving one unable to focus. And because they cannot focus properly, they cannot use your strange magic. While you may not be as powerful as the Sorcerer or your spawn, you have displayed several instances of using magic. So, you have worked as quite a decent test subject for the Maesters to refine this little potion. Ensuring that it will be enough to level the field against the Sorcerer and your spawn."

Ned made to lunge at the man, but his wounds along with time in the Black Cells had dulled his muscles to the point where he was nowhere near as fast as he once was. And because of that, Baelish was easily able to move back to avoid his strike. The two guards took a step forward, but Baelish held up his hand to stop them. "I see you still have quite a bit of fight left in you. I'll have to tell the Maesters of this. They assured me that you would be unable to move so well for some time after ceasing taking the potions. They will have to adjust the amount I believe."

Growling, Ned forced himself upright. A feat that was far more strenuous than he cared to admit. "What is your game, Baelish? Who do you truly serve?"

Baelish just laughed. "Have you not figured it out yet, Stark? I knew you were dimwitted, but I never realized you were this bad. I don't 'serve' anyone. I am my own man. As for my goals…I have only one. Though that has now changed."

Motioning towards the two men, one produced a stool for Baelish to sit upon. "You see, Stark…All my life, there has been only one thing that I have cared about. One thing I wanted. Catelyn. We were inseparable as children while we grew up together. She was everything to me. And I knew I was everything to her. Then, just as I gained the courage to approach her father about what we both desired… He informed us that he had sold her to your fool of a brother."

"So, you challenged my brother for her hand," Ned said, still wanting nothing more than to strangle the man before him.

Baelish pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes. Not my smartest idea by far. But I was young and foolish. Time has taught me that there is more than one way to skin a wolf. And as the years went by, I was surprised to discover that I was not the only one who wanted the wolves removed." Smiling Baelish leaned back. "It's amazing what one can find when they are in charge of overseeing the flow of coin throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And the Maesters, despite their cunning, did not have infinite coin to spend on their plot. But once I saw where their coin was going, I reached out to them and offered my support for your removal."

Ned's eyes widened. "Nox's wedding… You had a hand in it!"

"Of course I did," Baelish spat. "Despite years of planning, I was no closer to bringing House Stark down than I was when I challenged your brother for Catelyn's hand. The Maesters had a good plan, a scapegoat to take the blame, and the means to deal with loose ends. Of course I aided them."

Ned wanted to laugh. "You say you loved Catelyn… Yet you are responsible for her death just as much as those Maesters."

It was a testament to just how weakened Ned was that he was unable to react at all as Baelish stood up and took his stool in hand before bringing it down on his head. "No!" Baelish shouted, the sounds of the stool shattering against Ned's body echoing throughout the cell nearly as loud as his yell. "You! You are responsible for her death! You and Corbray! I sent him there specifically to make sure no harm came to her! And even if he had failed, you should have given your life to protect her! But you didn't! She still died! Because you failed her!"

Groaning, Ned spat out a wad of blood from his mouth as he glared at the fuming Baelish. "Are you truly so blind to think that she would go to you after what you did to me? To her children?"

Baelish scoffed. "She would never have known. But it matters not. Corbray failed. As did you. Cat died while the rest of you lived. And the only repercussions you and the Sorcerer suffered for your failures was the death of two children." Throwing aside what remained of the broken stool, Baelish fiddled with his cuffs. "With Cat gone, I lost the one thing I wanted. So, I vowed that, in honor of her memory, I would destroy House Stark, the Sorcerer, and all of the North. And that has been my one driving force…until recently."

Smirking, Baelish knelt so they were nearly eye to eye. "Sansa… She truly is her mother reborn and more. She…She has changed my plans. First, I planned on simply using the idiot King to wipe out the North. Then once you all had killed one another, I alone would be there to stand at the top of the pile of bodies. But now? Now that has changed. I won't be alone. Sansa will be by my side. But don't worry, you'll live just long enough to watch the two of us wed. After all, what lady doesn't want her father at her wedding to the King? And then, and only then, when I have taken the last thing you cherish, will I allow you to die, Stark."

The wolf's blood howled, and Ned would not be denied. Wounds, aches, fatigue be damned, he lunged for Baelish. Only this time the slippery weasel was not fast enough to escape Ned's fist as it connected solidly with his face, leveling the bastard out in the small cell.

His small victory was short lived as the two guards immediately descended upon him with clubs, striking his head, arms, chest, and legs. Wherever they could find purchase, they struck. Again and again, the clubs beat at him until his vision started to fade, and darkness threatened to overtake him.

"Stop. That is enough for now."

Had he the power to do so, he would've spat in Baelish's face. But all he could muster was to glare at the wretched man through bloodstained eyes. "Send for the Silent Sisters," he heard Baelish say as the man turned his back on him and walked away. "I don't want my future 'goodfather' to die before he can witness his daughter's wedding after all."

---

The Silent Sister walked with her veiled eyes firmly fixated on the tile floor of the Red Keep. Beside her were five others. Two other Silent Sisters and two guards wearing leather armor and full helms just in case their charges became unruly. The two gold cloaks that were leading them turned and started descending into the depths of the Red Keep, the tile floor replaced with stone as the light began to fade as they walked deeper and deeper into the part of the Red Keep that everyone ever hoped to never step foot in.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the Silent Sister almost had to strain her eyes to try and see in the dim light provided by the few torches as the darkness around them almost seemed to be trying to destroy all light. 'The Black Cells indeed. I had never thought to step foot again in this accursed place.'

One of the gold cloaks raised his fist and pounded on the solid wooden door barring their path. "Hey, turnkey! Get off your ass and the door already. Got the Silent Sisters here to treat the fuckers down here."

There was grumbling on the other side, accompanied by the clinking of keys before the door slowly opened. On the other side was a bare-chested man who looked as if he had not seen a proper bath in at least a month eating away at an apple. "Bout damn time," the turnkey belched before jerking his head. "Dis way. Lord Baelish's men did a number on one of em, need dat one alive. The rest don't matter. Just make sure they ain't dead."

Keeping her head down, the Silent Sister and her followers trailed after the turnkey deeper into the Black Cells as the two gold cloaks seemed content to stay near the entrance. 'Good,' she thought as the turnkey stopped at a seemingly random cell and opening it. Peering in, the Silent Sister nearly broke her silence at the sight within. Within was a single man, beaten and bloodied to the point of nearly being unrecognizable. His clothes, what few were left, were torn and soiled with blood, sweat and gods only knew what else.

"The Warden of the fucking North," the turnkey spat. "Fuckin traitor. Can't wait to see what the King does with him. Heard he's getting pretty creative with his executin heretics. But they want this one alive for a bit longer apparently. So, heal him up and then check that the others down here are still breathin."

The Sister said not a word as she walked into the cell, her two fellow sisters following her. Going to her knees, she gently moved the Warden's hair out of his face. Blood was covering most of his face and was dried in his hair. With her two guards setting up the torches, the three Sisters set to work. First, they cut away what few remnants of his clothes were left before washing away the dried blood as best they could with only damp cloth. The Warden's eyes flickered open briefly, his steel-grey eyes staring unseeing into the distance as he mumbled incoherently from the pain and exhaustion.

"Fuck, how long will this shit take?" the turnkey grumbled as the Sisters began bandaging the wounds as best they could given the circumstances. The Sister said not a word as they continued to work. "Right…'Silent Sisters'," the turnkey grumbled. "Well, I have to shit. Check the other cells to see if any of these fucks are dead yet. If they are, I'll open the cells when I get back."

Leaving them, the Sister listened carefully as his steps faded into the distance. Once she was convinced that they were alone she met the eyes with one of the guards and nodded. The guard didn't say a word, merely slipped out of the cell seeking out his target. Within moments, she heard a door being opened and someone trying to say something before the condemned man's words ended in silence. The door out in the hall then shut again as the guard moved back towards the entrance.

She heard not a word of what was said as she kept treating the injured Warden, but soon enough the turnkey marched angrily down the hall, passed their open cell and towards another. The rattling of keys and the grinding of the door opening against stone was soon followed by curses. "Shit, forgot this fucker was even down here," the turnkey growled. "Get him out of here before he starts to stink."

The turnkey almost ran away from them, shouting not to bother him again until they were done. Alone once more, the Sister shared a quick glance with either Sister at her side. Without a word, they began moving quickly, divesting the Warden of all of his clothes as their guard dragged in the corpse from the other cell. Working quickly, the two guards stripped the corpse down to his small clothes. As they were doing that, the Sister pulled out a small vial from within her robes. Taking the Warden's head in her lap, she tilted his head back and opened his mouth. Uncapping the vial, she quickly poured the liquid inside down his open mouth before holding his mouth shut.

He struggled for but a moment before the contents of the vial took hold and his movement ceased and his breath slowed as his skin grew pale. Placing her fingers to his throat, she let out a sigh of relief as she felt the slow beat of his heart. Lowering his head, she watched as one of her fellow Sisters pulled two small pins out of her hair and began undoing the shackles around the Warden's wrists and ankles. The moment he was free, they immediately set upon the two men, switching their clothes so that the now dead prisoner was dressed in the clothes of the Warden, and the Warden was wearing the dead man's clothes.

With the clothes changed, the Sister who'd unlocked the shackles replaced them onto the corpse as the other Sister tied a large piece of cloth over the Warden's face. A common way to treat the dead, and one that would provide them with the cover that they needed.

Saying a quiet prayer to the Seven, the old gods, and whoever else might be listening, the Sister got to her feet as one of her guards hoisted the now limp Warden over his shoulder. Violet eyes met old pale blue eyes as the Sister shared a look with the guard who was carrying Eddard Stark. Giving one another a nod of reassurance, the group quietly left the cell, making sure to shut the door securely behind them. The ruse would not last long. A day, perhaps two if they were lucky. But that was all they needed.

Passing by the turnkey, the Silent Sisters and their guards said not a word to the gold cloaks or the turnkey as they were let out of the cells. And none looked twice at the 'dead' man they were carrying out. 'Do not run,' the Sister urged herself. Forcing herself to walk normally as she led her small group out of the Black Cells and back up into the Red Keep proper. 'Do not draw attention. You are a Silent Sister. Nothing more.'

Either through blind luck or divine intervention, the Sister didn't care which at this point, they managed to make their way through the Red Keep and out into the courtyard where their cart waited for them. Climbing up into the cart, her guards deposited the limp body into the back with them before quickly making their way up to the driver's seat and urging their horses onwards. They were stopped just once as they reached the gate leading out of the Red Keep. But after just a single glance at the three Silent Sisters and 'corpse' in the back of the cart, the gold cloaks on guard let them pass through the gates without issue.

It was only when the gold cloaks and walls of the Red Keep were obscured from view did the cart divert away from the road that would lead them to the Sept of Baelor. Taking them instead down towards the docks. Sharing a look, the Sister nodded at the other two with her. Together they began divesting their Septa habits, revealing far sea faring clothes instead.

Throwing her habit out the back of the cart, the Voice stared down at the covered face of Ned Stark. 'Hold on, Ned…We're almost free.'

---

Walking slowly through the gilded halls of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden, watched on as the numerous courtyards of Highgarden and the lands around their keep bustled with activity. Smiths plied their trade day and night. Weavers and seamstresses turned away from dress or simply clothing to more robust jerkins and leather covers. Men drilled in the yard day and night preparing themselves. The realm had been thrown into war. And the Reach had no choice but to answer the call. 'Though we will not answer in the way most believe.' Margaery mused as she continued her slow walk through Highgarden, thinking back on to how they came to this point.

'Robert Baratheon dead. Though considering his lavish lifestyle I suppose many are surprised that he even survived this long. Joffrey being crowned King…and Lord Eddard Stark being accused of treason against Joffrey. A laughable notion if there ever was one. Everyone knows that Lord Stark not only despised the game of thrones, but that he had already passed on the chance to be King years ago when the Targaryen's dynasty met its end. But regardless, the people now 'know' that Lord Eddard is a traitor. And that Joffrey has declared a war on the North, and the religion of the old gods as well. The idiocy. Not even Aegon the Conqueror demanded the cessation of the worship of the old gods when he forced the North to yield.'

But Joffrey's stupidity would lead to House Tyrell's ascension. 'Renly is but a sennight away. A fortnight should he be delayed. And once he arrives, we shell wed, bringing the Reach and the Stormlands under his banner. The North will join with us the moment Renly declares himself as King and condemns this 'Exalted March'. And Sansa's betrothal to Willias will only solidify the alliance. And with the North will also come the Dornish, through Jon Stark's betrothal to Arianne. And the Riverlands and the Vale should join our ranks as well considering they are kin to the Starks. The Reach, Stormlands, Dorne, the North, the Riverlands and the Vale…against such odds the Lannisters will have no choice but to renounce their claim to the Iron Throne should they wish to survive what is to come.'

As she thought on the future, she slowly came to the realization that this 'war' would be the easiest part. It would be putting the realm back together after the war that would be an issue. Assembling a proper Small Council would be key. Perhaps Stannis as Hand of the King and reinstating him as Lord of Storm's End would help ease the inevitable tension that was sure to arise between the two brothers. Master of Ships would go to one of the Redwynes, however there was also the concern of giving House Redwyne too much control of the sea. Something to discuss. Master of Laws would undoubtably be given to someone of the North. During her time in the North, she'd come to greatly respect the northerner's sense of judgment and fair play under the law. Lord Eddard would be a prime candidate, should he survive his captivity. But there was a chance that he would turn it down, so she needed to be prepared for that eventuality. Perhaps ask him for a list of candidates should he turn the position down? And, of course, Master of the Arcane would go to Lord Nox. As much respect as she had for the man, she could acknowledge that he was an unknown. And he was someone that she would much rather have closer to her so that she could keep an eye on him.

Walking nearby one of the many gardens littered throughout the keep, Margaery was pulled from her thoughts of the future as she saw her handmaiden Mira sitting quietly and alone amongst the garden. Her heart leapt at the sight of her friend. She was from the North. The very land that was now being persecuted by the South…and here she was in the South. Her family's liege lord was imprisoned by the would-be-King. And her family was no doubt marching to war to defend themselves. She couldn't fathom what her friend was feeling right now. And truth be told, she selfishly never wanted to find herself in the position Mira now found herself in.

Putting plans for the future aside, Margaery made her way out into the open air and towards her friend. It was a testament to just how much the current situation was weighing on Mira that the northern girl didn't even realize Margaery was there until she reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

"My lady," Mira stuttered, her hands quickly wiping away the tears that Margaery hadn't even noticed were pooling in the corners of her eyes. "Forgive me. Recent events have…distracted me greatly and I've been neg—"

"Mira," Margaery cut in sharply. "There is nothing to forgive. If you weren't distracted by recent events, then I would be concerned."

Mira smiled, and while the smile did not reach her friend's eyes, Margaery was glad to see it. Gathering her dress, Margaery sat down next to Mira, all the while holding the girl's hand in her own. The two didn't say anything as they sat together enjoying a slight moment of peace together. A peace that was ended all too soon as the steady beating of armored boots against stone reached their ears. Turning her head, she saw two of her family's guards entering the garden. "My Lady Margaery," one of the guards intoned, bowing his head respectfully. "Your Lord father has requested your presence immediately. Lady Mira's presence has been requested as well."

Nodding, Margaery got to her feet while pulling Mira to her own. Giving her handmaiden a moment to compose herself, Margaery waited until she got a nod from her friend before turning and following the guards out of the garden. Though as she walked, she became slightly confused as the two guards led her not to the main hall, but instead towards one of the small meeting rooms that were typically reserved for intimate family gatherings. The ones that were meant to be out of the eyes of the smallfolk.

Entering the small hall, she was further surprised to find that she was the last of her family to arrive. Her father, mother, brothers, and grandmother were all in the hall waiting for her. "Well, now we're all here, Mace," her grandmother sighed as the guards shut the doors behind her. "So, what is this grand announcement you have to make?"

Her father glared at her grandmother, something which surprised Margaery. She knew that her grandmother could be, well, overbearing at the best of times. But her father never once showed any disdain for her. The look disappeared as he turned towards her, his face shifting into one of glee. "I brought you all here to announce that I have finalized an important decision for our family. Margaery shall wed and become the next queen of Westeros!"

Margaery felt confused. This was not some grand announcement. This was something that they already knew. "Of course she is, you dolt," grandmother sighed. "Once Loras arrives with Renly, we can have the ceremony and crown Margaery."

Her father blinked, then shook his head. "No. We will be traveling to King's Landing and she will be wed and crowned in the Sept of Baelor as is only proper for one of her future standing."

"That could take some time, father," Willias interjected. "And with the war against the North, it would be best to tie Margaery to the throne as quickly as possible to ensure our standing."

"I agree as well, father," Margaery added, agreeing with her brother. "I am aware that there may be some…challenges in marrying Renly. But I will ensure I do my duty to our House and the crown after we are wed."

At this, her father gave her a queer look. "Renly? No, no, my dear daughter. I will not have the Rose of House Tyrell wasted on Renly. You will marry his grace, King Joffrey Baratheon, the Blessed, First of His Name."

Margaery couldn't believe her ears. She was struck silent, unable and unwilling to comprehend just what her father had said. And she wasn't the only one. Her brothers were just blinking. And her grandmother was staring at her father with shock. The only one who seemed even slightly pleased with the announcement was her mother.

"Gods, Mace," her grandmother sighed angrily. "If I wanted to hear a dumb joke, I would get a proper fool."

The Lord of Highgarden's face contorted. "Enough, mother!" he shouted, surprising all of them with the anger in his voice. "I am the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South! Not you however much you might wish to pretend that you are! Margaery will marry King Joffrey and become his Queen. And through her House Tyrell will finally have control of the Iron Throne."

Margaery was still unable to form a proper response. Mercifully, her eldest brother was not as tongue tied. "Father…Joffrey has declared a holy war against the North, and the Starks and Sorcerer in particular. By aligning with Joffrey, you are forcing the Reach into this war as well. A war, honestly father, I do not believe we can win."

Her father nodded. "That he has. And that reminds me. Guards!"

The doors to the chambers were thrown open as half a dozen heavily armed guardsmen charged in, blades drawn. And pointing towards Myra Forrester. "Take this heathen witch to the dungeons, now."

Mira's eyes went wide in fright as the men grabbed her and began dragging her out of the hall. Her brothers overcame their shock before she could and took but a single step towards her to intervene before her father shouted at them to stop. Margaery was powerless, something she was wholly unused too, as she watched her closest friend and confidant dragged out of the room and to where only the gods knew.

"Father," Willias growled. "What is the meaning of this? You would –"

"Ensure House Tyrell not only maintains our proper place as Wardens of the South and Great Lords of the Reach, but also as the future royalty," her father stated firmly. "Tell me, sons, daughter…mother. How many of our bannermen will continue to follow us should we go against the Faith? You, mother, never fail to remind me of my failures regarding Robert's Rebellion and the Greyjoy Rebellion. The High Septon and the Starry Sept have given their support to King Joffrey's Exalted March against the heathens of the North. Half of our bannermen are ready to march on the heathens based on that fact alone! Many others have lost sons, brothers, or fathers when the North came down and butchered the Maesters and are eager for vengeance. Should we not march against the North, our own bannermen would rebel against us and not only would we lose our place as Wardens of the South and Lords of the Reach, but our family would go the way of the Gardener's before us."

Her father's reasoning was…not misplaced, much to her chagrin and shock. House Tyrell's position was unfortunately precarious. Which was one of the reasons why they needed a royal marriage, outside of wanting a Tyrell on the Iron Throne. But still, they could have worked through any religious discontent. They didn't need to go to this extreme.

"Father… Have you lost what little sense you had left?" Garlan asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously. And it was only then, as Margaery stared into the hard eyes of her brother that she remembered. Garlen had a son. A son born to a woman of the North. A son who was being raised in the faith of the old gods.

Their father's eyes hardened. "No, son, I have not. In fact, I have more sense now than ever. For I have…been blessed by the Seven themselves! The very night before I received Tywin Lannister's offer for Margaery's hand the Seven blessed me with two dreams of the future. One in which we followed the plan to marry Margaery to Renly. I had to watch as our family was destroyed by our own bannermen. I had to watch as each of you died. As Margaery and your mother were raped and brutalized before being discarded like cheap whores. The second, I watched as Margaery married King Joffrey and gave birth to the next generation of royalty. A generation where House Tyrell was held above all other Houses in Westeros in recognition of us being the cause for the downfall of the heathen old gods and the treacherous sorcerer and his ilk. Then the next morning I received Tywin's missive…and I knew what course we had to take. For one does not reject visions granted to them by the Seven so easily."

"And it is not just the throne we will win by siding with King Joffrey," their father continued, a greedy smile crossing his face. "Lord Tywin has assured me that Willias's marriage to Sansa Stark will be honored. And with her brothers either being forced into exile or meeting their ends, that means that while the firstborn son shall be the heir of Highgarden, the second born son will have a claim to Winterfell. House Tyrell will control the throne, the Reach, and the North!"

The plan…obscenely enough, was not a bad one. It would give House Tyrell more power and control than ever before. But there was a problem with it. One that her brother Garlan was more than happy to point out. "Sure, that all sounds grand. But, father, there is one significant aspect that you are conveniently forgetting about. For us to follow this path, we would have to directly confront a Northern force that is stronger than ever. And we would have to confront the Sorcerer himself on the field of battle. Neither of which is something one should seek out if they wish to live for long."

Their father merely brushed off the threat as if it meant nothing. "The sorcerer means nothing when up against the righteous cause of the Seven-Who-Are-One. As for the North, we shall take our time marching to King's Landing and will not commit our forces to the field until Margaery is Queen. By the time that happens, the North and Tywin will have bled themselves dry against one another. And the Reach will be able to move in with our fresh men and eliminate the Northern threat and take the credit for the end of that heretical faith."

Hearing a sigh, all eyes turned to their grandmother, who was tiredly rubbing at her eyes. "Gods, Mace. I swear the wetnurse must have dropped you on your head as a child or was drinking wine as she fed you."

Her father's face went red, but surprisingly he didn't back down. Something that surprised everyone, most of all her grandmother. "You are not the Lord of Highgarden, nor the Warden of the South, mother. Much as you seem to claim and think you are. I am. I will decide my daughter's future, and the future of the Reach. Not you. Aligning with King Joffrey will give Margaery the crown without a fight. From what I hear, the boy king is easily controlled, meaning it will not be the Lions or the Stags who control the Iron Throne, but rather us. And no matter how powerful the Sorcerer might think he is, he is still just one man. One man against the strength of the south backed by the power of the Faith of the Seven. Even should he prove resilient to defeat on the battlefield…there are other options. His wife, who is still in the south. Or a more direct method can be pursued. Regardless, the decision has been made and I will hear no more on the matter. Now, I suggest you all return to your rooms and prepare yourselves for our journey to King's Landing and Margaery's upcoming wedding to the King. For once Renly arrives, we will set out."

"And what of Renly, father?" Garlan asked pointedly. "He is coming here expecting to find allies in his bid for the throne."

Again, her father was dismissive. "He is a traitor. But one who might still serve a purpose. We will ensure that he is not given guest rights to not offend the gods. But then he will be taken into our care and given a choice. Renounce his bid for King and swear his allegiance to the true King. Or be brought before King Joffrey in chains as a wedding present and a show of House Tyrell's commitment to his cause and the cause of the gods."

"And what of Sansa?" Willias growled, truly growled like a beast ready to attack. A sound so surprising from her normally calm and composed brother that she had to give herself a slight shake to make sure she was still looking at her brother. "Do you truly think she will consent to becoming the next Lady of Highgarden? To be my wife when it was our family that was responsible for the fall of her family, her magic, and her gods?"

"Her feelings are irrelevant on the matter," her father replied dismissively. "If the Stark family line truly matters to her, then she will realize that marriage to you will be her only hope in preserving the Stark line. Now I will speak no more on this matter. All of you need to retire and begin packing."

"Father," Margaery called out tentatively. Honestly, she had never seen her father this assertive before and it scared her slightly. "What of Mira?"

Her father hesitated only slightly before sighing and shaking his head. "Best you forget her, daughter. You are to be Queen to King Joffrey the Blessed. You cannot be seen to have a lady-in-waiting that is a Northern heathen, let alone as a friend. She will be given the opportunity to repent her sinful ways. That is all I can offer you. Her fate is in her hands now and you best forget her." And with that, her father left with her mother on his arm.

Now alone, her brothers and grandmother were all left staring at the doors he'd just left through, still trying to come to terms with what had just transpired. Her grandmother was able to sum up all their thoughts on the matter with a simple word. "Fuck."

Her grandmother was never one to curb her tongue. But she still rarely resorted to such foul language. "I think we can use stronger words than that, grandmother," Garlan muttered. She could see the anger bubbling just beneath her brother's face. No doubt his mind focused solely and only on his paramour and son in the North. "Though I don't think any have been thought up yet."

Her grandmother didn't say anything as she paced a few times around the room. "There might be a means for us to salvage this mess," she said after a long pause. "But we will have to move swiftly and quietly."

"Salvage this mess?" Garlan scoffed, shaking his head. "How in the hells are we supposed to salvage making enemies of the most powerful man, and arguably the most powerful family, in all of the known world, grandmother?"

"Firstly, we need a few leal men that you trust implicitly to follow your orders Willias, and yours alone. Can you find such men?"

Willias turned his gaze towards the ceiling for a moment before nodding. "Yes. There are a few that traveled north of the Wall, who know what we are about to face that I could call upon."

"Then do so," her grandmother commanded. "Next will be difficult, but we must free Mira from wherever your father has her held and place her into these men's hands. They will then move to intercept Renly and divert him back to the Stormlands. Aiding him in avoiding a potential trap, even one of our own House's making, will force him to be indebted to us. A debt we will need to make use of soon. We will then travel to King's Landing and Margaery will take stock of the King. We will exert what influence we can over this foolish boy-King and convince him to end this farce of a war and bring the North to the peace table. Numerous concessions will need to be made for this slight against them. But in the end we will have peace in the realm once again, and it will be House Tyrell who will be known for ending this violence not through the strength of our arms, but rather through our strength of voice."

Willias frowned thoughtfully, "I doubt it will be that easy, grandmother."

Their grandmother scoffed. "Of course it won't. But this is the only course we have available to us that will avoid direct confrontation with the North and the Sorcerer. Let them bleed the Westerlands, Crownlands, and Riverlands dry. The loss of life is unfortunate. But, in the end, it will aid in strengthening our position. As much as it irks me to say, your oaf of a father is right in saying that he is the Lord of the Reach. It is his words that our vassals will follow, no matter how foolish they are."

"And what of the Faith?" Garlan asked. "They have regained a taste of power, and they won't be likely to give it back so freely."

Huffing, her grandmother nodded. "Indeed. There is a reason why people say the crown and the Faith are the two pillars that hold up society. Two pillars. Not one and the same. History has shown time and time again that the Faith cannot be trusted to hold power over the laws of men. And if they cannot accept the peace we offer with the North, then we will use our reforged Kingdom to remind the Faith of their place. With blood, if need be."

"And what guarantee do we have that the Northerners will even be willing to meet with us at the peace table to begin with, grandmother?" Willias questioned.

"That is why Mira will be vital to our success." Grandmother answered simply.

"Grandmother," she said slowly. "What of…Joffrey? What if I cannot influence him?"

Her grandmother tsked. "You underestimate yourself, Margaery. You are the rose of House Tyrell. You have beauty that could make even the Maiden envious and a mind as sharp as my own. You can ensnare this boy. And if for some reason his addled brain is not susceptible to your charms… Well, you just leave him to me. I will handle him."