AN: Who needs sleep when we can have another update? Tonight, in news at eleven, we have an Allister Thorne being a complete bastard. A loyal one at that, but arguably even more of a bastard than OTL! Betrayal, kidnapping, murder, grand-theft, he's an overachiever!
Obligatory reminder about the Force and warnings: Why warn someone that an attack is coming before the last possible moment if said attack won't be a danger to them unless they kriff up by the numbers? On the other side, trying to mind-fuckery on a Sith is not a stellar idea...
Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, the Game of Throne or the Star Wars books, TV series or games. They belong to their creators, publishers and/or copyright owners. This story is not for sale or rent.
Chapter 9 Part 5
=Sith=
291 AC
Greywater Watch
Jon stood on the edge of the moving castle, staring off into the swamps concealing Greywater Watch, brooding.
Ever since he learned the truth, anger burned in Jon's heart. He once heard Master Luwin speaking about knowledge, the truth, and setting your mind free. If anything, it put Jon into a cage.
Knowing that his mother loved him for the brief time she held him was bittersweet. Whatever Jon expected of the truth, this wasn't it.
He was no bastard, though those south of the Neck wouldn't care. King Robert would kill him, bastard or true, no matter that he proclaimed to be Uncle Eddard's best friend. He would murder the rest of the Starks, too, if given the chance.
His father was dead, killed by the king at the Trident. The man's obsession and Lannister's ambition took his siblings from him, a brother and sister Jon never got to know. That same obsession sent him here, hiding from the world and away from his other brother and sisters. Sansa, Arya, and Bran would be his brother and sisters forever in his heart, no matter if they were cousins in truth.
How could you hate people you've never met, Jon wondered? How could you not, when your heart burned with hatred, stoked by every day he remained in hiding?
Finding out he wasn't a bastard, a stain on Lord Stark's honor, should have been a relief. Instead… Jon shook his head and clutched his fingers into fists, glowering at the mist.
"Brooding again, Jon?" Lord Reed appeared, silent like a ghost. He stalked to stand beside the young Targaryen and looked into the rolling mists.
"It's not that I'm ungrateful for everything you do for me, my Lord…" Jon sighed. "It's just that…"
"This wasn't supposed to be your life. It would be one thing if you came here to foster and learn in a proper way, but you are here hiding," Lord Reed shrewdly noted.
"What was ever supposed to be my life?" Jon grumbled.
"Prophecies are tricky things. You know that unlike you and my young children, I lack the greensight," Lord Reed spoke softly. "What you see is hard to interpret. There are always cold winds blowing in the North Jon. The words of your mother's House are apt. Winter always comes."
"I dream of beasts moving in the night, my Lord. My heart burns while ice flows into my veins," Jon watched the Lord of Greywater Watch. Despite the cool morning, there was sweat on his brow. "I don't even know who or what I am anymore!"
"You are the Pact of Ice and Fire, Jon," Lord Reed spoke gently. "Too much knowledge has been lost, even here. I know there was an ancestor of mine beside King Torrhen Stark when he knelt. When Brandon Snow offered to cross the Trident and try to kill the dragons, my ancestor advised King Torrhen to treat with the Conqueror and kneel instead. And I know he was a greenseer. But I don't know why."
"You've seen my mother and father's letters. Prince Rhaegar was obsessed with prophecies. With a Promised Prince," Jon scoffed. "That was supposed to be my brother Aegon. He pursued my mother for a Visenya!" Jon spat.
"If you want to speak with someone who would condemn your mother's choice, you need to bare your heart at someone else," Lord Reed noted. "Princess Lyanna was my friend, Jon. There are few people I respected more than her," Lord Reed looked at Jon with knowing eyes. "No matter what else happened, you wouldn't be here if they didn't run off together."
"Everyone and everything might be better then!" Jon snapped.
"That is not something you can possibly know, Jon," Lord Reed shook his head chidingly. "Things would be different. Aye. Many who are dead might be alive, or perhaps not. King Aerys was mad. He might have triggered a war anyway. Remember, Robert's Rebellion didn't begin when your mother and father ran off together; it began in King's Landing because of Aerys."
"My grandfather, who murdered my other grandfather and uncle!" Jon shook in revulsion at recalling that particular truth.
"We won't know for sure if your father was right in pursuing his prophecy as he did until the song is sung and the ink is dry. You might not be here, learning how to harness your gifts. Your aunt and uncle might not be in Astapor, as its Sorcerer rulers and a growing army at their back."
"There is going to be another war. How is that a good thing?!" Jon demanded, even if deep down, he could understand, for his heart burned with hatred.
"Good? Nay. But perhaps necessary? Your parents' families are steeped in ancient magics and prophecy, for what else is the greensight?" Lord Reed pointed out.
"What am I even supposed to do!?" Jon demanded.
"You will learn everything we can teach you here in Greywater Watch. After that? You do your best, for no one could ask you to do more. Now come, let us break our fast. You have training after that."
=Sith=
291 AC
the Silence
Slaver's Bay
Twelve Ironborn ships tore through hungry waves as they sailed past the Isle of Cedars. A storm was brewing, and the sea rocked in a testament to the Drowned God's wrath.
Dhampair kept praying, speaking in tongues, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Their god's minions were cooped in the holds, sleeping until they reached Astapor. The beasts feasted well on any creature on Pyke's docks that wasn't faithful to the Drowned God before priests led by Aeron swore the remaining Ironborn into secrecy. The truth couldn't reach the mainland now that the Iron Fleet was all but gone.
For all his power, the Drowned God was apparently limited in how he could influence the world of the living, or so Dhampair claimed. A thousand monsters to slaughter their enemies and a distraction to allow them to strike were all the boons Euron had to rely upon to reach the Targaryens. The Drowned God needed their blood spilled in the water to give them more.
The Crow's Eye kept his mouth shut and agreed with the madmen, for he saw an unparalleled opportunity for greatness and power. However, what use was a god when you had to do all the hard work yourself? Euron never doubted that the Drowned God existed. He had seen too much of the world for that. It was another question of how much any god could do in this world of men.
Dhampair stared knowingly at Euron, and he was sure something else was looking at him through his brother's eyes. The Crow's Eye grinned madly at the creature observing him and was elated when Aeron nodded. They had an understanding. The Iron Price. Blood and death for all the power you can grasp and hold. That was what the Drowned God offered and demanded, which went both ways. Euron would soon see if the Drowned God could pay the Iron Price, for the Crow's Eye knew he could.
It was never a question of whether Euron was worthy of the Drowned God. The question was if the Drowned God was worthy of someone like him.
The storm broke, leaving behind high waves. Unnatural fog rose from the sea, cloaking the Ironborn ships as they silently glided toward Astapor's harbor. They slid past patrol squadrons, leaving no one the wiser. In their holds, hundreds of curled figures stirred, exiting their hibernation. Clawed fingers uncurled and checked on chitin armor and tough, serrated coral weapons.
Soon, it would be the hour of the Wolf. It was fitting time for the Drowned God's own to reap their fill from Astapor.
=Sith=
Chapter 9 Part 6
=Sith=
291 AC
Castle Black
The Wall
Months ago, Maester Aemon awoke sweltering with fever in a room where the fire in the hearth had died out sometime during the night. By mid-morning, the fever had broken. From then on, the ever-present chill near and on top of the wall no longer seeped into his bones, sapping his strength.
Some called it a blessing from the Old Gods. The few who remembered his family name whispered about Targaryen sorcery, either in awe or with venomous disdain. Curiously enough, no one was opposed to receiving treatment from a revitalized Maester. Imagine that.
Aemon was just glad that his joints ached less due to the cold, and that he was warm now like he had never been since before coming to the Wall.
News were slow to reach that far North. They usually came with supply ships docking at Eastwatch-by-the-sea and with new recruits either shipped or marched to the Wall. Often enough, the wretches in question were not interested in the latest gossip spreading throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Thus it was no surprise that the Wall was likely the last place on two continents that learned about Viserys Targaryen suddenly becoming a Sorcerer, then murdering his way through Pentos until the Magisters paid him a literal king's ransom in tribute to fuck off their city.
Aemon, like everyone else on the Wall, thought those rumors were pure madness and tall tales spread by those who brought the Targaryens low. Ser Allister Thorne was heard to curse whoever bastard started those dastardly rumors. In the following months, Castle Black's Master at Arms was even more of a menace than usual, creating more work for Maester Aemon.
New recruits kept trickling in, carrying more and more rumors of the last Targaryens. They were in Astapor now, with an army at their name. Viserys had proclaimed he would return to claim his crown, too! The Beggar Prince was no longer a joke.
At first, people laughed and raged at those tales, yet the rumors persisted. In eight years, many of the loyalists who chose the Wall instead of facing exile or bending the knee died. Life at the Wall was never easy; if you were tough enough and lucky enough, you could survive for many a decade there, as Maester Aemon proved. Or you could die on your first ranging beyond the Wall, no matter how tough a bastard you were.
However, over a hundred Black Brothers were left whose only crime was keeping their oaths and refusing to blow down to a usurper. Ser Allister Thorne was the most senior among them left.
For eight long years, he had kept to his oaths, for they were the last thing he had left. Now, after Maester Aemon miraculously became better after ailing for years and all the news coming from far-off Essos, Ser Allister felt uneasy. He got to thinking and talking with his fellow loyalists. One evening, late in the year, he faked an injury and visited the Maester's rooms.
"Your mummery leaves a lot to be desired, Ser Allister," Aemon chided the knight. "You are as hale as you were yesterday."
"In body? Sure. Not so in mind or spirit, Maester," Thorne admitted.
"I am not a Septon," the Maester pointed out.
"I don't need one. It is you I need to speak with."
Aemon sighed at that. If anything, he was surprised that Ser Allister had waited this long since the rumors from the East reached them.
"Events across the Seven Kingdoms have tested my oaths many times," Aemon admitted. "Nevertheless, I've given an oath like you do."
"A King can release us from our oaths if he so desires. For many of us, our oaths were given under duress, as you know. They weigh on us far less than oaths freely given!" Thorne revealed. "Swearing ourselves to the Watch didn't suddenly invalidate our old oaths. They still matter!"
"It should have," Aemon gently reminded him.
"It would have if it wasn't for the Usurper swords aimed at our throats," Thorne countered.
"What do you want, Ser Allister? Advise? Permission? Absolution?" Aemon inquired.
"All of those and more. You still have living kin, Maester. No one can have too much sensible advice."
"What did I do to deserve such temptations, Ser Allister?"
"You are a decent man in a fucked up world, Maester."
A week later, a fire broke out in the Maester Tower in Castle Black shortly after Ser Allister Thorne took over a hundred Black Brothers ranging beyond the wall.
=Sith=
Eastwatch-by-the-sea
the Wall
A disgruntled Maester Aemon glowered at the hundred loyalists who happily kidnapped him despite his determination to uphold his vows. The bastards had the gall to look contrite at him, too!
"End this madness, Ser Allister, I implore you! What do you think will happen when we reach the edge of the wall? How do you think you'll get us a ship to Essos?! Your people are no sailors!"
"I beg to differ, Maester. A few enough of us are good Celtigar men, and we weren't knights or Men-at-Arms," A wiry man with Valyrian features happily waved a hand at the Maester. "We can get a ship to Braavos, even if it will be tough. We can sell it there and buy ourselves passage to Astapor."
If they were lucky enough, it might even work, Aemon lamented. "No one will just give you a ship, Bartimos!"
"I am afraid you are right, Maester. The Usurper taught us one thing. If you plot treason, you better do it right," Ser Allister grimly proclaimed.
Late next night, sixty deserters rode into Eastwatch-by-the-sea.
"Ser Allister?" Commander Pyke exclaimed in surprise. "What brings you here?"
"We've got news about the Wildlings. As you can see, we've paid in blood to bring them to you. We must talk in your solar," Thorne demanded, glowering balefully at the small group of Black Brothers with the Commander. "My people can use something warm to eat and drink."
"All right. Myles, see to it!" Pyke barked and waved for Allister to follow him. Black Brothers scurried out of the castle to help their comrades settle their horses and gear while the cooks went to work.
Thorne drew a dagger when Pyke led him deeper into the castle, and they were away from prying eyes. Thorne took a few rapid steps forward and grabbed the commander's throat from behind before plunging the blade into his side. What followed was brutal knife work in the night. The Night Watch garrison at Eastwatch was tiny, bulked up by the ships' crews. Only a few of the Rangers stationed there reacted in time, drawing weapons and facing the traitors with naked steel. It was too little, too late, even if it cost Thorne a few of his men.
The little fortress fell rapidly before anyone could send a warning by raven or try to escape, for no one had contemplated this kind of treachery.
The deserters spent the next day stripping Eastwatch of anything of value before boarding the ship in the best condition and leaving with the evening's tide, all the while Maester Aemon berated them as craven traitors.
=Sith=
291 AC
Astapor
Viserys was trying to relax after a particularly irritating court session by reading histories of the Valyrian Freehold he found in the libraries seized by Good Masters now in exile. Dany was in her rooms, having a girl's evening with her Ladies-in-waiting and handmaidens, and the Green Grace was busy doing her job as Astapor's spiritual leader in preparing people for war. By now, it was crystal clear that the slavers at large didn't like what Viserys was up to and were gearing up to destroy him before he could become too much of a problem. Now, it was a race. On one side were Yunkai, Meereen, and company gearing up for an attack. On the other side were the ongoing training programs in Astapor, racing to produce sufficient numbers of trained infantry and administrators to make taking the rest of Slaver's Bay a practical option.
Viserys knew he could march his Unsullied out immediately and take Meereen and Yunkai within a month. Holding the much larger cities was another question, for the hostile coalition forming against him was larger than them. His merchants and envoys heard whispers stretching to Tolos and Mantarys. New Ghis was toying with a proxy war, and for now, it was hiring mercenaries. Thus, they were all on his to-deal list. Viserys would prefer to take and hold Tolos. Due to its location, holding New Ghis wasn't practical. He would need a window of opportunity of a few months to go there with a few thousand Unsullied and remove the threat.
Mantarys was going to be a tougher proposition to handle. Ideally, Viserys wanted it as well as a part of his New Valyrian Freehold, which he would proclaim as soon as the wars began, likely right after taking Slaver's Bay. However, Tolos shielded that city, and the logistics of an overland campaign that far from Astapor would be anything but a trivial exercise.
Mantarys, Tolos, and New Ghis might be targets for another campaign or a future war because Viserys knew he would have his hands full securing and incorporating Yunkai and Meereen. Stretching his military and attention too thin could invite disaster.
Viserys looked over the bay from the terrace where he was resting. His eyes skipped over the rolling thick fog, and he returned to his book, trying not to think about his strategic situation for a bit. Without the Force and all the time spent as a Sith, he wouldn't have noticed something unnatural scrape at his mind, lulling him into a false sense of security like a sheep for the slaughter.
The Sith's head snapped up and drew on the Force, reinforcing his mental defenses. The fog snapped into focus, and there was nothing natural or calming about it. It looked wrong. To his Force-enhanced senses, it stank of something foul and not quite dead.
Viserys jumped off his chair and threw the book on the table, spilling lemon water. He summoned his sword, which lay nearby with its sheathe in a belt, and strapped it to his waist.
"Lonmouth!" the Sith roared, enhancing his voice with the Force. "Raise the alarm and secure the pyramid! We are about to be attacked!"
Inhuman roars and screams carried over the still air from the direction of the docks. Viserys snarled at sensing the fear and death of his people. He drank deeply from the raging well of power that was the Dark Side, enhancing himself. A single Force-powered vault had him land on top of the pyramid, now free from a harpy. He ran, further enhancing himself, and jumped off the ledge toward the docks.
Whoever dared attack his city under the cloak of sorcery would die screaming.