Author's Note: Hello again, hope you enjoy this update. Bit of worldbuilding and scene setting for the next few chapters, which I am very excited about.

Also, because a few of you will riot if I don't, a bit of Damon too ;)

I hope you enjoy!

Aegon Targaryen woke to a woman's quiet sobs.

His first thought was how blessedly warm it was. Last he remembered he'd been shivering so violently he'd thought his teeth would break, stumbling through unfamiliar woods in half a daze. Now he was in the rich comfort of a featherbed, engulfed in a heat so divine it seemed sinful. He lay there a long while, wherever it was, just reveling in the warmth.

Then everything came crashing back in, and purple eyes snapped open.

The source of both the heat and the quiet sobs was Arianne, holding tightly to his side with her swelling belly against his hip. Thank the Seven, she survived. He recognized their temporary chambers of Maidenpool, the only light that of the candles and the burning fire in the hearth. It's night, then. We've lasted at least one day without burning for our sins. Turning his head slowly, Aegon saw a figure slumped in a chair at the foot of his bed. He felt more relief to see Jon Connington had survived the fiasco as well, though a spark of anger ignited in his belly as well.

He tried to speak with the relief. Instead, he spoke with the anger. "Who?"

Arianne started at the fierce bite in his tone, head jerking up from where it had been laying on his shoulder. Her quiet sobs became loud, full-bodied ones as she crushed herself against him hard. Aegon slipped a sore arm around her waist, letting her break down against him, but he kept his eyes on Jon.

His Hand of the King had jerked awake at his voice, eyes blinking away sleep. Jon looked old and worn out in the flickering lights, his black tunic rumpled, white and red hair frazzled. His face was drawn, almost pained. "Aegon?"

"Who died, Jon?" That question made Arianne's sobs deepen and her grip tighten, but Aegon couldn't focus on her right now. It was out of character for both them, her to fall apart and him to ignore her need for comfort. He couldn't help it, his blood seething in his veins.

Jon composed himself for a moment, then answered in the same even tone he always used to convey bad news. "Obara and Nymeria Sand. Will Cole. Harry Strickland. Sers Rolly and Duncan. Renfred Rykker and his daughter. Most of the men-at-arms and servants who came along, including half the women who fled as decoys."

Aegon felt each loss like a blow. All dead due to my stupidity and weakness. "Who found me?"

"Black Balaq and his scouts, five miles down the coastline where you were staggering through the woods half frozen. I don't know what you were thinking to enter the water in such—"

"I was thinking we'd failed and were all going to die, Lord Hand," he snapped. Aegon found he was truly enraged, angrier than he had ever been in his life. He knew it was anger at himself, but Jon Connington would have to bear some of it for the nonce. "I was thinking we betrayed my aunt under a flag of truce and then failed to kill her, and that I had only one chance of escaping my own folly."

Jon's face tightened in anger of his own, though he kept a much firmer grip on his than Aegon had. "We don't know that, Your Grace." Your Grace. He only calls me that when he's truly angry. Good. To hell with him for championing that plot, and to hell with me for going along with it. "You know as well as I that Nymeria had coated her blades, and manticore venom kills the moment it reaches her heart."

Arianne hadn't stopped sobbing, but Aegon disentangled himself from her crushing grip. He knew he would feel horrific for treating her so in her moment of need, but right now he had to stand or he would burst into flame. To move was to hurt, but his ire was up and soon so was he. Nudity forgotten, he tore into Connington harshly. "Half her councilors are Essosi, Jon. They know poisons far better than we do, and they have the blades Nymeria carried. If they put two and two together—"

"They won't have time."

"We don't know that! We-" Aegon stopped himself a hairsbreadth from fully losing his temper and took a deep breath. I am at fault, I must remember that. Whoever's idea and whoever championed it, I was the one to approve it in the end. I cannot blame others for it going poorly when I was as involved as they.

Aegon turned back to his wife, who had turned into a sobbing mass on the bed, arms still splayed out as if she was holding him. She's lost two women who were all but sisters to her. What's more, she's likely blaming herself for their deaths. She would partially be right, the bitter side of Aegon pointed out, but it was an unfairness. He slipped back into the bed, body aching, anger blunted, and pulled her against him as he rested his back against the stone wall. He kissed the top of her head, stroking her copper skin as she clutched desperately to him.

Jon hadn't moved, unfazed by either Aegon's anger or the state of undress of both his monarchs. He's likely shouldering blame himself, though he never speaks of such things. When Aegon spoke again his voice was calm and measured, the raging tempest inside him firmly in hand. "We need to strike while they are in disarray. Muster our strength here, all of it. The Reach and Tywin Lannister do not matter, not right now. Recall every sword and spear we have to Maidenpool, save Oberyn and a holding force in King's Landing." He's lost two daughters. I will have hell to pay there as well, but I can't focus on that now. "Scouts and skirmishers out. If Daenerys is dead, they'll be fracturing. If she lives, she'll at the least be wounded, and we must hit them before she is well enough to regain the sky."

Jon rose. "I'll send the ravens at once." He nodded to Arianne. "The queen?"

Aegon stroked her back once more, considering, then shook his head. "I'd rather she be with me, Jon. If we win she can be here to share the glory. If we lose and must retreat, I'd rather not have to worry about a wife miles away."

Jon Connington nodded, then rose to go. He hesitated at the door, though, turning in its frame. "It was worth the attempt, Aegon. You are an honorable man, and I understand your hesitation and regrets now that it has failed. But it was worth the attempt."

Aegon nodded. "I know, Jon." Connington turned and left.

They were both quite good at lying.

Barristan the Bold sat by a living corpse.

I failed Rhaegar all those years ago at the Trident. I was wounded, yes, but I should have died in my Prince's place. Father above, please don't let me fail the sister as I did the brother.

The queen's savior—if she lived—stepped into the chamber. Skahaz mo Kandaq, the Shavepate, was perhaps the ugliest man Barristan Selmy had ever seen. The Ghiscari nobleman had heavy bags beneath his eyes and a broad nose dark with blackheads, his brawny build marred by a sizeable paunch. He and his closest followers—the Shavepates, as they were unoriginally called—had supported Daenerys when she'd taken Mereen all that time ago. When she had left it, they had come along, for none were hated more in that ancient city than the Shavepate and his fellow 'traitors to the Harpy'. "They are ready, Ser Barristan."

Barristan had not trusted Skahaz back then. He did not trust Skahaz now, truth be told. But the Essosi had acted at once amidst the chaos of the assassination, out of a suspicious nature learned and perfected by the vicious plots of the Great Masters of Mereen. Rhaegal and Viserion were still swooping through the ruins of Saltpans, burning indiscriminately, when he'd crawled through the mud and snow to the wounded queen. He'd pulled the septa's dagger from Daenerys' body, tasted the bloody blade, then immediately spat out a red glob and begun shouting.

Manticore venom, the Shavepate had claimed. It killed the moment it reached the heart, and could not be cured. It could be diluted though, if one moved fast, perhaps enough to save the queen's life.

Barristan had hesitated, not knowing if he could trust the Ghiscari fully. Daenerys, despite being in pain and the beginnings of shock, had not. She'd commanded him to act at once, and the Shavepates had, even as the world around them burned with dragonfire.

The Mother of Dragons had slowly gone unconscious during the mad retreat into the Vale. She had not woken since, comatose in Wickenden for nearly a fortnight, in the tallest of the six towers of Castle Waxley. When she had survived the first full day Barristan had rejoiced. That joy had been muted, however, when the veins of her left arm began to blacken. The flesh had followed, and after that Barristan had been the one to not hesitate. The maester's had removed the arm at the shoulder, and the awful stench that permeated the chamber the moment the saw began to cut had been worse than any battlefield the knight had ever set foot upon.

His queen was still not out of danger. She was pale, far paler than was normal for even a Targaryen, and while there was no more blackness to her veins, she would occasionally break out into a soaking sweet and cry out in her sleep. Time would tell.

And Seven help us if she dies.

Skahaz cleared his throat, then spoke again. "Ser Barristan. All is ready."

Barristan Selmy, Hand of the Queen, had held her armies together while she lay at death's door, hoping above hope she would rise. But he could wait no longer, not with enemies in the field. "How many have gathered?"

"In addition to the Unsullied and the Dothraki, twenty thousand of these Lords of Sheep."

Baelish appeared in the doorway behind the Shavepate. Barristan may not know if he could trust the Gischari, but he knew he couldn't trust Littlefinger. "Houses Corbray, Sunderland and Hunter are slow to the call, but a victory would prove instrumental in solidifying their support."

Barristan hated flower words. "So we need to kill one of the queen's enemies to convince them they should help us kill the rest of the queen's enemies."

Littlefinger shrugged. "Yes. Forgive me, Ser Barristan, but some in the Vale question young Lord's Robert's decrees."

Meaning they question yours. Baelish was a plotter, a planner, and very smart. Barristan was not surprised the man had managed to turn a war into first Harrenhal, then the Vale through marriage. And now… "How is the boy, after his mother's death?"

Baelish's face grew suitably pained, though Barristan questioned just how deeply Baelish felt his supposed pain. "He is struggling, as any young boy might."

Those are perhaps the first words Baelish has spoken in years that I have no trouble believing. Lysa Tully Arryn had become…unstable since Jon Arryns death, of that there was no doubt. To her credit, however, she had acted quickly to protect her son when Aegon's treachery began. She had shielded young Lord Robert from a blast from one of the dragons with her own body, not hesitating a moment to place herself in front of the flames.

The young Lord of the Vale would bear burn scars on his right arm and leg for the rest of his life, but he had lived. His mother had not, dying screaming as she burned nearly to ash in front of him. Barristan had seen much in his life, but he had seen nothing like that. The Seven help the boy. He already struggled, and now with Lysa gone and only Baelish to care and speak for him...

A problem for later, not for now. I have more pressing issues. He was a simple man, most likely out of his element with the power his queen's sleep had given him, but he knew someone was needed to fill the gap in Daenerys' absence. It could not be Baelish for a thousand reasons and one, and it could not be one of the Dothraki or Unsullied or the Shavepate for just as many. That left Barristan, overmatched though he might be.

At least this part is a business I know.

Barristan Selmy stood, gently patting the sleeping Queen's shoulder before turning to the window of Lord Waxley's chamber. Lines of Dothraki, Unsullied and Westerosi waited there for an order, his order, bearing arakh's and spears and axes and all manner of death.

A business I know well.

"To war, then."

Technically, he ruled all of Westeros.

In truth, his life had become a hole in the ice.

His council had long ago stopped asking him to leave the tunnel. Damon respected them for it, though he knew he looked worse than the dead he was fighting. Much worse, if Tyrek was anything to go by. His cousin had lost any trace of excess weight left to him, leaving just the hard muscles of two years of war and little else of substance. His eyes were only partially human anymore, hard and wild with deep bags beneath them, and his cheeks were starting to hollow. Damon knew he looked the same, if not worse. I don't remember the last time I truly washed, or slept for more than an hour at a time.

Or went more than a couple hours without killing a dead man.

He couldn't leave the tunnel, though, couldn't spare any more time than this daily council required. The king's presence there, at the tip of the sword for weeks of near constant fighting, had grown larger in legend than Damon the man was in substance. The wildlings spoke of it with fanatical reverence, and the Northmen were not far behind. Even the southrons, pernicious and scornful by nature, revered what their king was doing. Damon wasn't sure why, for it was in truth incredibly stupid. He was a king, the king despite other claims, not some faceless foot soldier whose death would go largely unnoticed. That death grew increasingly more likely the longer he stayed in the tunnel and the deeper his fatigue set in. He should do the logical thing and withdraw, he told himself daily.

But even Damon could see his actions mattered very much to all those present. When he left the tunnel once a day and made the trek to Castle Black's main hall, the lines of soldiers and camp followers behind the Wall would grow deathly silent. Thousands of eyes would watch him from the grounds around and the top of the Wall seven hundred feet above. Sometimes they knelt, even some of the wildlings. Once they had cheered him. But mostly they just watched, parting like water before a keel as they bowed their heads in respect at his passing.

No, Damon Baratheon did not truly understand why, but he no longer bothered with that question. The truth was that his presence in that tunnel gave heart to men and women fighting death itself, and right now nothing else mattered.

Damon stepped back into the dim daylight, not having seen the sun in moons. The meeting had gone quickly, for all of them had the rhythm of it down by now. Jaime gave him reports from the top of the Wall and beseeching looks. Robb Stark and his brother Jon Snow gave him nods of respect and reports from the scouting teams they both led, though those forayed shorter and shorter distances as the snows grew and the supplies dwindled. Ser Loren Lannister gave updates about the Southron camps and flatteries, the Lady Val gave reports from the wildling camps and smiles. Others gave updates as needed, each of them vital to the precarious position Damon held at the edge of the known world.

He listened to each of them, gave input where needed, returned the bows and nods. Then, Damon and Tyrek returned to the hole in the ice and the fight.

His companions roused themselves from where they had sat or lay waiting, attendants—there was no other word for them—rushing to take back the bowls of stew or flagons of ale they had earlier rushed to give. Thirty-eight men, six women and four children, from areas both north and south of the Wall. The Shadows, the king had heard them called, another indicator of the significance Damon's shadowskin cloak held to the wildlings and now, seemingly, the southrons as well. Thirty-eight of them formed the ranks of pikes that held the tunnel alongside Damon and Tyrek, while the remainder scouted the killing field in front of it to warn of the dead.

At the beginning, units had rotated in and out of the tunnel while Damon and Tyrek remained. The Shadows had started joining him of their own volition, not on any order of Damon's or their liege lords. The first to do so was a broad, muscled man-at-arms in the service of Lord Fossoway called Big Boson. Some weeks into this nightmare—Damon wasn't sure exactly how long—his rotation had retreated and left the king and his cousin in its wake, as was usual.

They'd also left Big Boson.

The big man hadn't said anything before or after. He'd just stood with his shield and waited, eyes on the icy floor. After three more rotations, it was clear he had no intention of leaving and Damon had no intention of ordering him away

His younger brother had joined shortly thereafter, called Little Boson. Damon wasn't sure why, as Little Boson was even bigger than his brother and his name was Garth. Next had been a lordling from the Westerlands, Ser Lann Clifton, sheathing his sword and taking up a pike to stand beside his king. Then a wildling spearwife in her fifties, Geya. Torreg, the young scout who was so good at anticipating what came next, had come with her. Landed knight Ser Willis Lyberr and his squire Ablar Converlon had taken a place on the first line of pikes that same day.

Damon conscripted no one and turned no one away until they numbered fifty, counting himself and his cousin. Only then did the king stop the sudden rush of volunteers, and despite their being men stronger and more skilled among that number, Damon and Tyrek had kept those first forty-eight. They rarely spoke, any moment not spent fighting instead spent sleeping or eating or tending nature, and Damon knew nothing about most of them save their names.

But they stand with me, when they don't have to. They remain, knowing they might well die.

Some had. The dead had nearly broken through a fortnight ago when a giant managed to grasp three in the crucial front row of shields and pull them apart in every aspect of the word. The dead had rushed the sudden gap with a ferocity, clearly a planned strike, but Damon had drawn Widow's Wail and filled the breech. The sword was almost unfamiliar in his hand, so used had it grown to a pike, but his skill had not diminished, and he held the line while Tyrek reformed it. Three more volunteers took the place of those who had been lost, and the battle waged on unending.

They stand, as do I.

As if on cue, they heard shouted warnings ahead, reports of the dead coming towards the block of men who had taken the Shadows places while Damon met with his council. Damon and Tyrek broke into a jog, the Shadows falling in around them.

He called out as they neared, as he always did. Most days they were the only words he said outside of the council, repeated before every attack. "To the death."

His Shadows answered, the only three words they would say for days on end. "To the death."

And to the tunnel they returned.

A/N: *tease* Dothraki in an open field, Ned!