The Guns of Dragonstone

by no more names are left

The War of Five Kings changes irrevocably when a new weapon is introduced to Westeros from across the seas. A weapon that will change the rules of warfare forever. Gunpowder.

50. Chapter 50

Asha

"So my uncle will live?" Asha asked the maester.

"Oh certainly, my lady, the wound is not as severe as it first appeared and Lord Rodrik is in good health for his age. Now, there's no sign of infection, but It will be some time before he has the use of his-"

Asha pushed past the maester, ignoring whatever the grey rat was mumbling about.

"Should I wait?" Qarl asked.

"No. I want reinforcements," Asha growled.

Qarl sighed and followed her.

The Harlaw warriors standing guard let her pass without a word of protest. She angrily pushed the flaps aside, rushed inside, and nearly tripped over a stack of books. She swore and kicked them away as she stomped further inside.

"Careful with those, Asha," said Rodrik. Asha's uncle was lying down on his bed. His right arm was bandaged from wrist to shoulder, and he held a small book in his left hand. "Take a seat. You too, Qarl. Help yourselves to some ale."

Asha and Qarl both took one of the offered stools. Qarl filled drinking horns for them both."

Rodrik awkwardly put the book he was reading away with one hand. "You look angry, Asha."

"That's because I am angry, uncle."

Rodrik sighed. "You went to the lords and captains, didn't you?"

"I did," Asha admitted, her fists tightened.

"And they won't support you, will they?"

"No!" Asha shouted and rose to her feet, arms swinging. "None of the bastards will. Not even your friend Lord Drumm!"

"They still want Victarion to sit the Seastone Chair," Qarl said.

"Or are too craven to go against the rest. Bah," Asha took a long drink of ale. "They won't support me in another Kingsmoot. They don't even want another Kingsmoot. And what has he done to earn this devotion?" Asha asked the room. "Nothing. He's a fool who thinks with his fists, not his head."

"He's been Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet for years," Rodrik said quietly.

"And what has he done with that? Nothing. Nothing but carry out the plans of others. My father, Euron, Daenerys, and my grandfather," Asha threw her hands up. "He's been led by the nose like a bull his whole life," Asha fumed. "And yet the lords and captains of the Isles prefer my uncle to me," she finished bitterly.

Rodrik poured himself an ale and peered into his drinking horn. "Victarion is not entirely a fool, I think."

Asha almost spat out her ale, but Qarl did spit out his.

"Have you had too much milk-of-the-poppy nuncle?"

"Not a drop."

"Then you must be going mad."

"Not yet," Rodrik answered.

"Then why say Victarion isn't a fool?"

"I said he's not entirely a fool," Rodrik sipped his ale before continuing. "On some level, Victarion knows he's stupid, and at heart, he's always been a follower, not a leader. That's why he always let your father do the thinking for him. Led by the nose, as you said, by Balon, Euron, and Daenerys."

Asha frowned. "I'm not my father. Victarion won't listen to me. Nor any other woman."

"He listened to Queen Daenerys, from Slaver's Bay to Lys to King's Landing, she thought and planned, and he obeyed."

From the corner of her eye, Asha caught Qarl nodding as he listened to her uncle. "In case you've forgotten, nuncle, Daenerys had dragons, and I am dragonless."

"Times change, Asha, and you must change with them. Support Victarion now and you'll earn his trust, then gain his ear, and then while Victarion sits the Seastone Chair, it will be you who rules the Iron Islands."

"A puppet king, or lord more likely," she stumbled over her words.

"Lord?" Qarl asked.

"You think either Stannis or Aegon or wherever sits in what's left of the Iron Throne will let us leave without demanding the fealty of the Isle?" Asha asked.

Rodrik nodded his agreement and said. "The era of an independent Isles is over."

"For now," Asha said grimly.

Rodrik sighed. "Perhaps," he admitted.

Asha drank the rest of her ale in a single gulp and gently put the cup down on the nearest table. "I hope you recover swiftly, uncle," she stood and said. "We're leaving Qarl."

Her man finished the rest of his ale and followed her outside. Together, they walked past the Harlaw guards, into the greater Ironborn camp, and toward Asha's own crew.

"You still seem angry," Qarl said as he wiped the dribbles of ale off himself.

"That's because I am."

"Want me to make you feel better?" Qarl caught up to her, reached out, and ran his hand over Asha's thigh.

"Down, boy," Asha slapped his hand away.

"Ow!" Qarl snapped his hand back and laughed a little. "Then what do you want to do?" He asked. "Find Victarion like Lord Rodrik said?"

"Not yet," Asha said, "I need to bring something to Victarion first. No, we're going to go see the King-Beyond-the-Wall."

They found Asha's crew and gathered them first before setting out of the Ironborn encampment. They followed Asha in a narrow column, armed and armoured, though with their weapons in their belts instead of their hands.

They marched into the Wildling camp. Which was as chaotic a mess as Asha had remembered it being in the North. Though there were far fewer children, women, and old men than last time. Asha, Qarl, and the rest of her crew marched brazenly through the warren of paths and tracks beaten into the mud and melting snow, but the snow-bear skin tent of the wildling king was hard to miss. Half again as tall as any other and brilliant white against the grime surrounding it.

A dozen wildling warriors were sitting outside the tent. They stood to match the approaching Ironborn. But they only glared when Asha and Qarl stepped past them and entered the tent. It was crowded inside with the wildling chieftains and their closest advisors. Varamy Sixskins put a hand on one of his wolves when it began to growl. Tormund Giantsbane sat with hands crossed over his barrel belly. The Lord of Bones glowered and glared at everyone. The Magnar of Thenn and his men were all lumped away from the rest. And Mance Rayder sat beside his queen Val, who was nursing her babe.

"It seems we've interrupted a council of war," Qarl whispered in Asha's ear.

Asha said nothing, hooked her thumbs into her broad belt, and looked expectantly at Mance.

He sighed and stood. "And what brings Asha Greyjoy to the King-Beyond-the-Wall?"

"We need to talk," she said. "Alone."

Varamyr, Lord of Bones, and many of the other chieftains sneered. Others, like Tormund, laughed instead.

Mance kept his features smooth and calm. "And what do we have to talk about Greyjoy?"

"Peace," she said.

"Were we at war?"

"Not against each other, but against the Greenlanders. Southrons to you."

Mance shrugged. "True enough. Come, we'll go outside to talk."

Asha followed him through a slit in the back of the snow bear skin tent and back outside into the mud and melting snow.

Before Asha could speak, the slit in the tent opened again, and Tormund stomped outside. "Har," Tormund laughed. "You thought I'd leave you alone with these pirates?"

Mance laughed quietly and looked at Asha and Qarl with amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Two on two, fair enough," Asha said.

Mance nodded and crossed his arms. "So what about peace is so important you had to interrupt my day?"

Asha ground her left boot in the mud before speaking. "Have you given any thought to what will happen now that the Others have fled?"

"Thinking is all he does! Har!" Laughed Tormund.

Mance smiled and huffed. "You know I have Asha."

"Then I have an offer," Asha hooked her thumbs into her belt. "Wildling and Ironborn alike, we both want to keep our distance from the Greenlands," she bowed her head. "And we both know we can't win a war with them."

"Even one of my daughters could beat a dozen Kneeler knights!" Tormund boasted.

Asha laughed right back at him. "There are more Greenlander warriors than there are living Wildlings, you old fool. My father spent a decade building the fleet and power of the Isles and was beaten. Do you think your frostbitten rabble will do any better? Flee into the woods like your wives and children did with Morna in the North, and they'll hunt you down like wild game."

Tormund snorted "Bah!"

Mance raised a hand to forestall Tormund before he could say more. "You said you had an offer?"

"We stand together, not in battle, but in negotiations. Stannis and Aegon, bah! Neither of us cares who sits on the Iron Throne, but our support can be sold."

"Ironmen negotiating?" Mance chuckled. "What about your Iron Price?"

Asha shrugged. "Times change, Mance, and we must change with them."

"Wise words."

My uncle's words, Asha thought, and then, my father should have listened to his counsel. Outwardly, Asha only nodded, and silence ruled for a minute.

"It must be Aegon, of course," Mance said suddenly.

Asha nodded. "Stannis won't bend."

"Not just that, Aegon is young and young men are always desperate for people to like them."

"Jon Connington isn't young," said Qarl, speaking for the first time.

"He wants Aegon to rule more than anything, and he's not trying to hide it," Mance said. "We can make our demands, and he'll eagerly accept them."

"Aye," Asha said. "He'll seize the chance with both hands and never let it go."

"My people will make sense of our demands," Mance said. "You do the same with your people, and we can present them to Connington together later."

Asha already had ideas of what she'd convince Victarion to demand from Aegon, so she smiled at Mance and said. "I'll be back tomorrow."

Jon

The Red Keep. Jon still remembered the first time he'd seen it crouching like a hungry beast on Aegon's High Hill. His father had taken him to King's Landing, where he'd squired alongside and then for Prince Rhaegar. Jon remembered the day well. It had been a bright spring morning, and the red sandstone had shone like blood in the light. No one would ever see it like that again.

The Red Keep. The Great Sept of Baelor. All of King's Landing was a ruin now. The keep, the sept, and every other building inside the city walls were nothing but burned-out husks, if there was anything but ash left at all. The walls were not much better. They had melted in some places where wildfire had reached the walls. Even four days after the battle, smoke still rose from the city. Rising high until it disappeared into the cloudless blue-black evening sky.

Around the city, the Unsullied were still at their vigil. They'd been at it for four days and three nights and showed no sign of stopping. Rank upon rank around King's Landing as if they expected Daenerys to crawl out of the smouldering ash at any moment. They hadn't eaten anything either before some enterprising septons had organized things. Now the Unsullied were at least eating whatever the septons and septas were scraping together.

Good, Jon thought, we may have a need for them soon enough.

Tensions were high in the armies again. The sunshine, melting snow, and warm weather Some boasted that the Others had fled and been defeated. Fools the lot of them, Jon sneered. They aren't gone, not yet. This battle was too easy, too convenient. Was this a trap of their own? He wondered. He always wondered, and the constant worries rattled in his mind as he passed the outer guard around Aegon's tents. The sun was nearly gone as Jon approached his king's tent. Aegon was outside, with his back to Jon, standing near a fire and talking to Ser Rolly Duckfield. Jon walked up behind them.

"Your Grace," Jon touched the king on his shoulder, but when he turned around, it was Jon Snow.

"Lord Jon? Uh, my lord, King Aegon is inside," the Bastard flustered.

"Seven Hells," Jon cursed and pushed the Bastard who shared his name away, leaving the boy stuttering behind him. Strange they looked so similar from behind, Jon started to think but pushed the thought out of his mind. He pushed back the flaps and entered Aegon's tent.

"Your Grace," he bowed stiffly and immediately.

"Jon," Aegon looked up from the brazier. "You have news?"

"I do," Jon said. "Victarion Greyjoy sent his niece Asha to speak with me. The Ironmen are with us. Mance Rayder's Wildlings, too. They both have conditions, of course, but I think they can be negotiated with."

Aegon frowned, but Jon continued.

"I expect the Unsullied can be swayed as well. Their loyalty was to Daenerys, but the Targaryen name will hold weight. I think Robb Stark and his Northmen may also submit to you."

"You've spoken to them without me?"

"No," Jon said quickly. "Just," he sighed. "Speculation. But Stannis has few friends in the North. Only Roose Bolton and his lackeys are truly loyal."

Aegon pursed his lips and tapped his leg. "It sounds like you want to start the war again?" He asked.

"Some would say, why not?" Jon said. "That everyone is ready to stand against Stannis. That everyone has reason to fear his merciless nature." Jon leaned closer. "Some say that the snow is melting and the sun is shining Aegon, and ask what more proof is needed to know that the Others are beaten?"

"Do you say this as well?" Aegon asked.

Jon shook his head. "No, I don't think it's over. Half of the outriders we send never return. The Others' army might have been broken, but they are not yet beaten."

Aegon nodded, looking askance into the brazier for a second. "Until we're certain that the Others are broken and pose no threat," he stumbled over his words momentarily. "Until then. Until then, I will not countenance furthering the war against Stannis. Not never, Jon, but not yet. Have I made myself clear?"

Jon bowed his head. "Yes, Your Grace."

Aegon visibly relaxed and then sighed. "It's hard," Aegon said. "I've spent all my life hating half of Westeros. Baratheon, Tully, Arryn, Stark, Lannister, and more… But it's hard to hate men you've planned beside… fought beside."

Jon tensed and forced himself to relax. "That's… understandable… I suppose. But you can't let yourself get distracted from what matters. Your kingdoms and your rightful place on the throne."

"A throne that might not exist anymore," Aegon mused.

Jon closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. No one had yet managed to explore the charred ruin of the Red Keep to see if the Iron Throne, or anything else, had survived. He opened his eyes and continued.

"Even if the Iron Throne is destroyed, the idea of it still exists, and that has power. As much power as the banners you fly and the name your father gave you."

"And what do I have that's my own?" Aegon asked. "Even this army… it's just borrowed and bought. Not like…"

"Not like the other kings or your aunt's, you mean?"

"...Yes," Aegon admitted.

Jon frowned. "Don't be a fool," he said ungently.

Aegon jerked his head upward, but Jon continued before his ward could speak. His son, corrected a treacherous part of his mind.

"Every army is borrowed or bought, save the Unsullied I'll grant Daenerys that much. But this is simply how armies are raised. Bought with either gold or promises. Gold, land, peace, or glory. The price will be paid in time. You should know this."

"There's a vast gulf between knowledge and experience," Aegon said. "You taught me that."

Jon felt his mouth twitch in a half smile. "True enough. True enough."

"Speaking of knowledge," Aegon said. "I want to know where Quentyn Martell is. He's been missing for days," Aegon drummed his fingers on his thigh. "And I want to know where Drogon's corpse is. Days of searching King's Landing, and we've found nothing."

"Probably burned to ash-"

"Have you sudden proof that wildfire can even harm a dragon!" Aegon demanded. "If so, then tell me!"

Jon remained silent, shocked by Aegon's sudden anger.

"I thought not."

Aegon began to pace back and forth across his tent.

"Without the dragon, how can we hope for victory? What if," Ageon froze mid-strep. "What if the Others can raise Drogon as a wight? Septa Lenore told tales of ice dragons when I was young. Do you think they… that the Others could?"

"I have no idea what the damned Others can do. Maybe Stannis' Red Witch would know."

"Perhaps," Aegon said. "Yes, perhaps we should ask her, or maybe Jon will know?"

Jon frowned, confused for a moment, until Aegon left the tent and returned a moment later with the Bastard of Winterfell. Jon struggled to not let himself sink into his chair. The friendship between Aegon and the Bastard was getting out of hand.

Aegon sat the Bastard down and explained his question about the ice dragons. As Aegon talked, Jon could not help but note a strange resemblance between the two, but then the brazier's light shifted, and it was gone, so he dismissed the thought again.

The Bastard waited in thought for a moment before answering. "Old Nan used to tell stories of ice dragons."

Jon scoffed.

The Bastard glared at him. "Much of what she said about the Others was right," then he continued. "She said ice dragons lived far in the north around the Shivering Sea, that their breath was cold, and they were far larger than the dragons of Valyria."

"Were there any tales of turning dragons into ice dragons?" Aegon asked.

Jon shook his head. "No, none. She told some tales of ice dragons fighting other dragons but nothing else and never connected them to the Others."

"If the Others had ice dragons, we'd have seen them by now," said Jon.

"Most likely," the Bastard agreed.

"But we can't be sure what the Others could do with Drogon if they have him," Aegon worried. "What of the wights, Jon? The fire destroyed many, but how quickly can they recover?"

"Quickly," the Bastard said. "Their armies seemed inexhaustible at the Battle of Winterfell, and many of the wights were Northmen, not long dead Free Folk.," the dark-haired man sighed. "It's like what was said before the battle. The Others use the wights like a shield as well as a sword. Countless wights must have perished in the battle. I can only guess that they will try to grow their numbers again."

"Maidenpool and Duskendale are the nearest settlements of any size," Jon said. "Lords Mooton and Rykker both abandoned their towns during the retreat from the Trident. I doubt there are many smallfolk left there."

"Then it will be every farm and village between here and the God's Eye that will suffer," said the Bastard.

"So think we should pursue," Jon said.

"Yes," the Bastard said, his grey eyes were cold and serious. "Before they can rebuild."

Aegon nodded to them both. "We'll send out more outriders tomorrow. Wildlings, hopefully, if Mance can be convinced. They can pursue the Others as far as they can run."

"I will speak to the Free Folk," said the Bastard.

"You think Mance will listen even after you took back your black cloak?" Aegon asked.

"Tormund will hear me out, and Mance listens to Tormund."

Aegon nodded. "Very good," he looked back at Jon. "I will task you with talking to Stannis about a continued campaign."

"As you wish, Your Grace," he said.

"Good," Aegon said. "Very good. Have either of you anything else to say?"

The Bastard shook his head. "No."

"Just one thing, Your Grace," said Jon.

"What is it?"

Jon hesitated and glanced at the Bastard. "Alone, Your Grace," another hesitatation. "Please."

Aegon sighed. "Leave us, Jon."

The Bastard bowed and left gracefully.

"If we are to continue the truce with Stannis," Jon raised a hand to forestall Aegon from speaking for a minute. "Then I have a solution for our mutual Lannister problem I can propose to him."

Aegon glanced at Jon and then at the brazier. "I'm listening."

So Jon explained.

Tyrion

"More wine!" Tyrion shouted, and the men around him cheered.

Servants poured wine by the barrel into cups, horns, bowls, and even helms. It flowed like the Blackwater Rush and Mander combined. Lyle Crakehal was dancing on a table. Lancel was kissing a serving girl sitting in his lap. And Tyrion was laughing.

He was happy. The war was won or nearly so. The sun was shining. And people loved him. His shoulders were bruised from claps on the shoulder, and his arse was raw from being kissed. Tyrion chuckled at the thought and drained the rest of his goblet.

"More wine!" He roared and hefted his goblet high.

"More wine!" The Westermen roared in turn.

Tyrion laughed and held out his goblet for a page to fill, but the boy leaned down and whispered something he couldn't hear. Tyrion shook his head.

"Louder!" He ordered.

The page had to shout for Tyrion to hear him over the din. "There's a lord from King Stannis, mi'lord."

Tyrion grimaced, stood and pulled the page with him to a quieter corner of the pavilion.

"Explain," he commanded.

"He just arrived, mi'lord. He says he has a message for you, mi'lord."

"Did he say his name?"

"Seaworth mi'lord. Lord Dale Seaworth."

Tyrion rubbed his temple, trying to will away the wine clouding his brain. "Find my cousin," he told the page. "Find him and send him to me, and then tell this lord I will be outside shortly."

"Yes, mi'lord."

The page departed and left Tyrion alone. As he waited for Lancel, he ordered water from a servant, quickly drank most of it and poured the rest over his head. It helped a little. Before long, Lancel came, bringing Grenn, Lyle Crakehall, and a dozen other knights and lords with him.

"Stannis has sent a lord to me," Tyrion explained before anyone could ask. "He's waiting outside."

"What could he possibly want now?" Lyle wondered.

In the best case, Stannis would want me to bend the knee, Tyrion thought. In the worst case… he let that thought trail off unfinished.

"There's no point in wondering," he said instead. "Let's just get this over with."

"Tyrion Lannister!" Shouted someone as he walked through the pavilion with his escort.

More shouting erupted around Tyrion, but he ignored it as he headed to the exit and whatever intruder Stannis had sent to Tyrion's camp. He grimaced as he entered the bright light outside. Blinking rapidly as his eyes watered.

"Sorry to interrupt," someone said politely as the rest of Tyrion's entourage pushed past the pavilion's flaps.

Closer and in better light, Tyrion could see the man's face. It was a knight he'd seen at Stannis' side before, and he had faint memories of seeing him at court in the years before the war. Brown hair and a plain face made him hard to remember until he shifted his cloak, revealing two slips of parchment tucked behind his belt and a badge on his surcoat. It was a black ship with an onion on its sail. He remembered that badge and the plain-faced man it belonged to. This must be the Onion Knight, then.

"Lord Lannister," Seaworth said. He stood in the yard outside the pavilion and was flanked by a dozen armoured soldiers with hand-dragons and swords. Around the area further outside, the pavilion was crowded with soldiers. Baratheon retainers with hand-dragons and poleaxes formed a cordon around Tyrion's pavilion, separating it from the rest of the Lannister camp. The rest of the Westermen outside the cordon were shouting, clearly confused, angry, and very drunk. Tyrion's lords inside the pavilion were ignorant of what was happening and continued their celebrations.

Tyrion looked at the Westermen outside the Baratheon cordon and shouted to them. "Stannis has sent us his Onion Knight!" They laughed, and he turned back to him. "Are you here to join the festivities?" He frowned. This Onion Knight had no grey in his hair or wrinkles on his face. "Weren't you older, Onion Knight?"

"You think of my father, Davos Seaworth. He was the Onion Knight, you remember," the man said. "He was a lord before he died, as am I now. Lord Dale Seaworth, formerly of Rainwood Keep, and now," he paused to smile at Tyrion. "The Lord of Lannisport."

Tyrion thought his heart might seize in anger, but he kept himself outwardly calm even as the Westermen behind him began to stir. "Funny. I am the Lord of Casterly Rock, the rightful Warden of the West, and the Shield of Lannisport. I don't remember giving away Lannisport to you. Does Stannis intend to steal titles from all his lords?"

"You are the lord of nothing," Dale said. He took one of the pieces of parchment from his belt, opened it, and read it out loud. "By the command of His Grace, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm. House Lannister is declared attainted and stripped of all lands, titles, and honours. Tyrion Lannister and Lancel Lannister are declared traitors to the realm and deserters of the Night's Watch. They are to be taken prisoner in preparation for their just punishments."

Tyrion glanced down, thought for a moment, and looked back at the Onion Lord. "I was a sworn bannerman of Queen Daenerys. With her death, my loyalties remain with House Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen is my king."

Dale Seaworth nodded. "I see," he folded the parchment and put it away. "Well, it was thought that you might say such a thing," he pulled the second piece of parchment from his belt.

"By the command of His Grace, Aegon of the House Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, House Lannister is attainted and stripped of all lands, titles, and honours. Tyrion and Lancel Lannister are declared traitors to the realm and deserters of the Night's Watch. They are to be taken prisoner in preparation for their just punishments."

Dale Seaworth put the parchment behind his belt. "Before you try it, neither Robb Stark nor Mance Rayder care to claim you as their man. We checked."

There was nothing Tyrion could do but laugh. To do anything else would admit that he had no power. Never forget what you are. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you. So he laughed.

"So what now, then? You'll clap me and my cousin in irons again and just hope the West accepts whatever lapdog Stannis has in mind?"

"Don't let that worry you, Tyrion," said Dale. Tyrion felt the lack of title all too sharply. "You won't be around to worry about it."

The Westermen behind Tyrion were roaring their disapproval. A knight of House Swyft suddenly rushed forward with a knife. Two of the Baratheon dragonmen snapped their weapons toward him.

"No!" Dale shouted.

The hand-dragon fired with a deafening crack, and smoke filled the air with its sulphurous stink. Tyrion couldn't stop the whole body flinch that wracked him. The shouting had stopped, and the Swyft knight was lying on the ground, still breathing and unbloodied, thankfully. The hand-dragon was pointed at the sky, and smoke drifted in the breeze.

"His Grace!" Dale shouted. "Commanded that no blood be shed."

The Strongboar stepped up, sword in hand. "Try to take our lord!"

Tyrion's mind whirled as potential paths spread out before him. His Westermen were drunk and mostly unarmed. Any fight would be a slaughter. So he could fight and then certainly die. Stannis' soldiers surrounded him, so running also meant being caught or killed.

Tyrion put a hand on Lyle's sword hilt. "No," Tyrion ground his teeth. "I will play Stannis' and Aegon's little game. The war isn't yet quite over, after all," he justified. "And someone has to think of the good of the realm. No bloodshed."

For a moment, the Strongboar resisted, and Tyrion worried he'd insist on fighting, but thankfully, when Tyrion pressed harder on Ser Lyle's hand, he relented and let his sword drop.

Dale Seaworth sighed, his relief obvious on his common smallfolk face.

Tyrion tucked his hands behind his back before clenching them into fists and plastering a smile on his face. "Well, lead on, my Lord Seaworth, I'm sure you have other important things to do today."

Dale nodded, and at his command, two Baratheon retainers with poleaxes closed in on Tyrion and Lancel and took them by their shoulders. Tyrion followed Dale, and the cordon separating him from his bannermen gradually contracted around him.

Dale Seaworth led Tyrion and Lancel out of the Lannister camp, across the bare ground, and into Stannis' war camp. He never saw Stannis once during the whole march. The man didn't even give Tyrion the respect of being present when he arrived or was taken to his prison.

The exterior was a simple canvas tent guarded by a mix of stout Stormlanders and Golden Company men. A grey-bearded knight with a black eagle on his surcoat opened the tent for Tyrion and Lancel. Dale led them inside, where a cage waited. It was made of plain iron with two straw mats and buckets inside.

"What a shame, I was hoping for something a little grander," Tyrion japed. "The Eyrie's sky cells had a much better view."

Dale had no response to the quip and instead waited for eagle-surcoat to produce a key, which he passed to Dale, who unlocked the cage. Tyrion grimaced but stepped inside nonetheless, quickly followed by Lancel.

"I hope you enjoy the view," Dale said after he relocked the cage.

"It's not the worst I've seen," Tyrion said. He reached for an insult, but for once, words failed him.

Dale left, and Tyrion was alone with Lancel in their prison.

"After all this time, we're back in a cell," said Lancel.

Tyrion flopped onto one of the straw mats. "I didn't miss the last one."

"Well," Lancel sat down beside him. "What's your plan?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Pray for a miracle and hope someone decides to offend Stannis and Aegon by saving us," he sat down. "In the meantime, we wait."

Lancel sat as well and started to laugh.

"Well, don't be selfish, cousin. Share your jape."

"We're waiting for our inevitable execution, we have no powerful friends and no way out of the cell. Safe to say that things truly cannot get any worse," Lancel said.

"Hah!" Tyrion forced himself to laugh. "Now you've truly doomed us."

Melisandre

Many and more were Melisandre's tasks. Of late, they had been entirely within her domain as a servant of R'hllor, fitting for the times that were upon them. But now she fulfilled her duties to her mortal master as his Mistress of Whispers. House Bolton and the rest of Stannis' Northmen occupied the westernmost part of the Baratheon camp. It was well ordered, and the soldiers on guard knew her by sight and did not bar her path.

She rode through the camp on her red mare. Ten Baratheon guards led by Ser Clayton Suggs followed her. The last guardsman led a fine brown gelding by the reins. The Northmen, smallfolk and highborn alike, bowed their heads and muttered pleasantries as she passed. Melisandre did not care if they showed her respect or not. The duty she was set upon was a distraction from her greater duties to R'hllor, and the sooner it was done, the better.

The world around faded as she lingered on what she'd seen in the great fire three nights past. R'hllor had answered her prayers, and in the inferno that had consumed King's Landing, he had given her a vision. Lost in thought, she arrived at Roose Bolton's grand pink and red tent almost before she'd realized the journey was done. Four guards stood outside the large tent. One of them was a tall youth with black hair, blue eyes, and a bull-shaped helm.

Melisandre dismounted and approached with Ser Clayton Suggs at her side.

"Lady Melisandre, the Mistress of Whispers, requires an audience with Lord Bolton immediately," Ser Clayton said gruffly.

The youth wearing a bull helm, Melisandre knew his name to be Gendry, nodded. "One moment, m'lady." He stepped back and went inside the tent.

Shouting erupted instantly. Not Roose Bolton, he never shouted, likely his bastard Ramsay. After a minute or two of the shouting growing louder, it suddenly stopped. Gendry then emerged none the worse for wear.

He held the flap open, bowed, and said. "His Lordship will see you now."

Melisandre smiled slightly and silently entered.

The interior was sparsely decorated with only the bare necessities to preserve lordly dignity. Braziers in the corners heated them, and candles illuminated the tent. Roose sat comfortably in a padded chair while his bastard paced back and forth beside him.

"Lady Melisandre," Roose Bolton did not smile. He hardly ever smiled, and he spoke so softly that people strained to hear him. Two things that no doubt discomforted most people.

"Lord Roose," she said nearly as softly. Melisandre glanced at Ramsay. "Leave us," she ordered.

The Bastard of the Dreadfort stopped and pointed a finger at her. "No foreign whore commands me."

"Ramsay, you will leave us," said Roose.

"Father, this whore-"

"Ramsay!" Roose's voice cracked like a whip and then more softly. "Leave us."

For a moment, Ramsay looked about to argue, but then he stormed outside.

"Have a seat, my lady."

"Thank you, my lord," Melisandre slid into a folding chair opposite Lord Roose.

Roose raised a pitcher from the table beside him. "Hippocras?" He offered.

"No," she declined.

Roose refilled his cup and set the pitcher aside. "How may I help His Grace? That is why you've come, isn't it?"

Melisandre smiled. "King Stannis commands, and I obey."

"As do we all."

"There is a man in your service. Gendry is his name. You know him well?"

"Not well," Roose replied. "But he is known to me he guards this tent as we speak, as I'm sure you saw when you arrived."

"What do you know of him?"

"He's from King's Landing and was headed north with a wandering crow to join the Night's Watch when the Lannisters killed the crow and captured the rest. They were taken to Harrenhal and remained there when I took the castle from the Lannister garrison. When the Stark loyalists attacked me, he remained loyal, so I rewarded him," Roose paused for long enough that Melisandre thought he was done speaking before adding. "And he was a friend to Arya Stark when she was in hiding. May I ask a question from the Mistress of Whispers?"

"You may."

"Why does the King, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, care about a simple smith's apprentice turned household guard?"

"Gendry's mother worked in one of King's Landing's alehouses," Melisandre explained. "One that, for a time, was frequented by King Robert."

Roose paused with a cup halfway to his lips, his expression one of careful blankness. "I see."

"Did you know that boy's parentage when you took him in?"

The Leech Lord sipped his hippocras and shrugged. "With hindsight, the resemblance is so strong as to make it obvious, but I confess I did not know until now that I kept a bastard of King Robert in my service."

"His Grace has no great love for his nephew," Melisandre said. "But no great disdain either. They are of the same blood, and His Grace would be displeased were Gendry to suffer in your service."

"Please tell His Grace that Gendry has offered me nothing but good service. He has a strong arm, a quick mind, and is very dutiful. Much like his royal uncle. He will always have a place in my household so long as he wishes to be here."

"His Grace thanks you."

"Is the matter of Gendry's parentage to be kept quiet?"

Stannis hadn't said anything regarding that, so rather than answer, Melisandre stood from her chair. "Come," she ordered Roose and turned to leave. He followed her outside into the light of the setting sun.

"Gendry," Melisandre approached the youth, who turned with a start.

He glanced at Roose before bowing. "M'lady."

"His Grace once visited the shop of your former master, Tobho Mott. Do you remember him?"

"Uhm," Gendry glanced at Roose again. "No, m'lady, I apologize, t- to His Grace, I do not."

"His Grace remembers you and the good service you did for him, and he has heard of the good service you have wrought for his loyal bannerman Lord Bolton. For this, His Grace has decided to reward you," Melisandre signalled for one of her guards to come. The man approached with the reins of the brown gelding in hand. "This horse is a gift from His Grace for you, Gendry."

"I- uh, thank y- you, m'lady," the youth stammered. "I- uh, I fear I'm a poor rider."

"You will learn," Melisandre said. A guard brought her own mare over for her to mount. "Farewell and goodnight, my lord," she said to Roose.

"Good evening to you as well, Lady Melisandre," he said in turn.

Melisandre's departure from the Bolton camp was as swift and quiet as her arrival. The ride back to the main area of the Bolton camp was just as swift. Melisandre rode away from Ser Clayton Suggs and his guards without a word once they were inside the invisible boundary that divided King Stannis' camp between the faithful to R'hllor and those that held to the Seven. Though feelings were not as tense as they had once been, both sides continued to gravitate away from each other.

Stannis was waiting for her when she entered his pavilion. He sat next to a brazier but was not staring into its depths as he might once have done. Instead, Stannis' gaze was fixed on the plain yellow cloth walls.

"It's done," she said. "Lord Bolton knows your interest in the boy, and the boy has his gift."

"Good. The boy is my blood, even if he is only one of my brother's bastards," Stannis frowned and glared at the wall as if it had offended him. "The Ironmen have been talking to Jon Connington," he growled. "The Wildlings too, and no one knows what the Unsullied want."

Melisandre crossed her hands and remained silent.

"The Others still lurk in my kingdom but already the crows and vultures gather to pick on my bones," Stannis ground his teeth. "The rest of my small council advises me to be conciliatory. That I should be offering gifts and bribes to these carrion birds. What does my Mistress of Whispers say? What have you seen in your fires?"

Melisandre slipped close to Stannis and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Nothing that will help you," she said.

Stannis snarled and pulled away from her grip. He stood up and began to pace. "Then what good are you?"

"Have I not served you well?" Melisandre asked.

"Not since you disowned me as Azor Ahai Reborn," Stannis growled.

Melisandre blinked. It was true, she realized, since that day, she had spent almost all her waking hours serving R'hllor with her fellow priests. She bowed her head. "I fear, my king, that the recent crisis has distracted me."

Stannis stopped pacing, though his hands were still clenched into fists at his sides. "Much has happened to be worth being distracted by," Stannis admitted, and he loosened his fists. "Will you stay tonight?" He asked.

Melisandre approached, took his hands in hers, and pressed her body against his. "Yes."

Stannis leaned back into her, and hours passed in each other's arms. She stayed even after Stannis had gone to sleep. As always, sleep was unnecessary for her. It was nearly dawn when she finally left Stannis' bed, crept out of his tent, and began her walk through the camp to meet Moqorro and Thoros.

Melisandre couldn't remember the last time she had missed the lighting of a nightfire. Thankfully, Moqorro and Thoros had taken over her duties, and it was still blazing happily at the summit of a low hill. The eastern sky was only barely pink when Melisandre finally approached the nightfire. Her slippered feet broke the frozen crust of ice on the snow. The wind was blowing gently from the west and was surprisingly warm, stars shone in the cloudless sky above, and sparks flew from the blazing fire to join them.

She joined Thoros and Moqorro and their watch of the flames.

Melisandre pursed her lips and looked away from the fire.

"What is wrong, sister?" Thoros asked. "What did you see?"

Melisandre didn't look at him. She stared intently at the ruined city, imagining again what she'd fire when King's Landing was burning.

"Sister?" Moqorro asked.

"When King's Landing burned, R'hllor showed me a vision," she said.

The other two Red Priests' expressions became grave.

"In the city? What did you see?" Thoros asked.

"I saw the burning crown," she said. "I saw Daenerys die, but not in fire," she trailed off before finding the strength to continue. "I saw a black sky, a black darker than midnight, that lasted forever. I saw snow fall without end for ten thousand years."

"I see it," said Moqorro, his voice pulling Melisandre from her reverie. She looked and saw he was staring intently into the nightfire. "I see it now too."

Thoros moved closer to the flames and gazed down. "As do I," he said after a few seconds.

The wind shifted suddenly. The west wind died, and a north wind blew instead as cold as it had ever been. Melisandre shivered despite the fire of R'hllor that burned inside her and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. The ruby at her throat pulsed in time with her heart, but she still felt cold.

A sudden chill rolled up her spine, and she looked into the sky. "Something's happening…" Melisandre whispered.

Stars were vanishing from the sky in the north. Have the clouds returned? She wondered as she watched the shadows pour onto the sky out of the north. The pink sky in the east was growing dark again. Goosebumps rose across her skin as she watched them. "Those are not clouds," she said as the darkness passed over her. "Our work is not yet done."

Moqorro stared up at the too black sky. "Daenerys and her dragon are dead, and the last living dragon has flown beyond our reach," Moqorro trailed off.

"Only R'hllor can deliver us," said Thoros.

The three were silent for nearly an hour as they gazed into the fire.

"Brother, sister," Thoros called out. "Do you see what I see?"

"Yes," Melisandre and Moqorro both said.

Melisandre smiled despite the freezing wind.

"R'hllor has revealed the Burning Crown to us."

Daenerys

She stirred. The air was cold against her naked skin. She remembered falling. She remembered falling, an all-consuming heat, and then a soul-chilling cold. Then, only a timeless blackness, broken here and there by a few seconds of hazy memory. White fields, dead hands, and cold touches were all she remembered from those flashes. Her head hurt, and there was something in her hair. Dany tried to reach for it, but her arm wouldn't move. Her heart beat furiously with sudden panic. Her eyes leaped open, and she started to struggle but could hardly move.

It took a few more seconds for her to fully wake up before she realized that she was hanging upside down and was tied to a cold wooden stake planted in a courtyard, and what she felt in her hair was dried blood matting her hair and sticking it to her head.

She looked around her and saw she wasn't the only one tied up. There were dozens more, maybe hundreds of people, arrayed in concentric patterns that converged upon an enormous glyph of interlocking circles carved into the stone. All of them were tied upside down to stakes, which she saw looked like wooden beams and spars. Her own stake was made of old weirwood. Dany craned her neck for a better look and saw impossible tall towers and walls rising around her. Ruins whose stones had melted and run like candles.

"Harrenhal," she said. Her voice cracked, and she coughed. Her throat was so dry. Every breath made a cloud of fog in the air. It must be freezing, she thought, but… why don't I feel cold? Dany tried to make herself shiver but couldn't.

Movement flickered in the corner of her eye, and she jerked her head toward it. She saw nothing. The courtyard was empty. Dany grimaced and struggled against her bonds. Dany's fingers touched a jagged patch of the weirwood in her struggles. Almost. "Yes!" Dany could just reach it, and she rubbed her binding on it. Push and pull, push and pull, slowly she could feel her bindings begin to flex just a little bit more.

Something moved in the corner of her eye again, and this time, she caught sight of it when she jerked her head again. It was an Other, bereft of his colour-shifting armour and wearing only a black kilt. He walked bare-chested through the stakes and the prisoners tied to them. More movement. More Others. Dozens of them all without their armour or weapons save for knives at their belts, twins to the first she'd seen. They were checking on the other prisoners.

Daenerys reluctantly ceased her struggles and let herself go limp. Through half-closed eyes, she continued watching the Others. They stalked like predatory cats among the prisoners, checking the bindings and slicing small cuts in their scalps with their ice-knives. Occasionally, one of the Others would cut open a throat and leave the man's or woman's blood to pour out onto the courtyard.

Pour not pump, they're already dead, Dany realized. A few captives stirred here and there and were left unharmed save for the small cuts. It was the dead who were being bled out. For now, she thought.

So when an Other reached Dany, she refused to play dead and opened her eyes instead to glare in defiance at him. He was unlike the rest of the Others in that he was not identical. A black scar marred his otherwise perfect features. In her shock, it took her a moment for Dany's mind to catch up to her eyes. It was him, the Other, who'd attacked her and Drogon above King's Landing.

Dany didn't see the knife that cut her and hardly felt it either. It was so sharp. She only felt a sudden warmth and wetness in her scalp as her blood began to drip to the glyphs below.

"Bastard!" Dany spat, and she renewed her struggles against her bonds. "Where is Drogon! What have you done with him!"

The Scarred Other cocked his head but gave no answer. He turned away.

"No!" Dany growled, but she was ignored.

The bare-chested Others gathered in a circle around the centre of the glyphs. There must have been a hundred of them, at least. The Scarred Other screeched at them, and they sheathed their ice-knives in their kilts. The Others then fell to their knees and bowed their heads. All of them except for the Scarred Other.

A female Other appeared. She came from nowhere, appearing in thin air like she'd stepped out of the fabric of night into the real world. She was beautiful. Her crystalline hair fell in waves around her shoulders to her hips, shimmering in the moonlight like the northern lights. She wore a robe and cloak of snowflakes and twinkling crystals.

Dany was entranced and could only watch as the male Others began to murmur and whisper. It was unlike the shattering ice screeches and screams she'd heard until now. It didn't sound like a language. There were no syllables or even a hint of grammar she could grasp. And yet… it touched on the edge of her comprehension like words carried on a distant wind. The She-Other stepped through the males, ignoring their outstretched and reverent hands, and moved toward the Scarred Other. They met near the centre of the glyph. Their arms hung limp, and they touched their heads together.

A timeless second passed, and the She-Other stepped past the Scarred Other, leaving him behind. She walked toward Daenerys. As she approached, the She-Other doffed her cloak and robes and strode naked to Daenerys, crooning in a different tongue to the earlier murmuring. A tongue that Dany didn't know but could somehow understand.

"We thought we'd learned from last time," the She-Other said. "That we wouldn't repeat the mistakes of our old Mothers and old Sons," she shook her head. "And we did. But… you learned lessons too, didn't you?" She laughed like shattering crystal and grinding glaciers. "We were too content. We thought that the winter and war would snuff you out," she smiled and stroked Dany's cheek again. Daenerys struggled against the assault of cold it brought. She felt her skin burn and boil with the cold. The She-Other continued. "But life is stubborn, isn't it? Life survives, life endures, and life returns. We were too content," she repeated. "Your ancestor did me a service in creating this place of misery. There is power here that has waited raw and weeping for centuries to be used." Then she leaned close and whispered in Dany's ear. "You will understand, one mother to another, what we will do for our children. I've known that this day may come for centuries, and yet now it's here, and I am afraid," she touched Dany's cheek again, and it took all her willpower not to scream at that cold. "I want you to be afraid, too. I want to taste it in your blood." She dipped a finger into the blood dripping from Dany's wound and raised it to her lips.

The She-Other turned and spoke to the surrounding Others as she walked to the centre of the circle of glyphs. "And now we come to this moment, wars are not won by endless victory, but with sacrifice. Rejoice my sons. Tonight, in sacred darkness, you will see something that has not happened before and will never happen again. A wonder of the most ancient world brought forward. Rejoice for me, rejoice for the night, and await and rejoice for your new Mother of Night, who must, some night soon, step out from the snowflake's shadow. Rejoice, my sons."

She reached the centre, raised her hands, flung her head back, and screeched to the sky. The male Others leapt to their feet and copied her. Dany would have clapped her hands to her ears if she could have. The screeches cut the air like a razor.

As the terrible sound faded, two Others stepped out of the forest of stakes. Dany craned her neck and saw that they had something spiked through their crystal swords. It was a massive piece of meat, and Dany instantly knew what it was. Memories of the taste of raw horsemeat and still warm blood crossed her mind. Dany wanted to weep, but her tears froze instantly. What the Others carried was a heart, and from its size, it could only be a dragon's heart. Drogon was dead.

The male Others placed Drogon's heart down near the centre of the glyphs. The She-Other knelt down before it, tore a piece off with her bare hands, and bit into Drogon's heart. Steam and smoke flew wherever her skin touched dragonflesh, and darkness floated into the sky above them all.

The male Others fell to their knees around the glyph, where they murmured in their strange, almost language punctuated by sharp screams and shrieks. Blood began to fall faster from Dany's head wound. It dripped faster and faster onto the glyph's edge and began to flow down the swirling concentric lines where her blood joined flows from the other human sacrifices.

Like crimson rivers, the warm blood flowed toward the centre, where the She-Other's grisly feast proceeded. When human blood reached the She-Other, it flowed up her body and filled the wounds with new flesh even while other parts of the She-Other burst into steam and shadow.

Daenerys struggled against her bonds, but she felt dizzier and weaker with every passing second. Her blood was pouring from the wound now, and she could feel it moving inside herself. Like it was being pulled out of her.

Blood flooded across the ground now, bursting the channels of the glyph like a river in flood and flowing straight inward to the She-Other. She was melting away faster and faster. Bits and pieces of her flesh dripped off her body, exposing crystalline bones. Her flesh fell upward into the air and dissipated into black mist. The blood healed her, but the wounds appeared faster than they healed.

She's dying, Dany realized and soon after. There's power in blood and sacrifice. "No! No!" Dany redoubled her efforts against her restraints. Her blood was flooding out of her body now. It joined rivers of blood from the other humans. Many of them were screaming, and many were dead quiet already. The Queen of the Others drank the blood as she forced down more of Drogon's heart.

Dany furiously scratched her binding against the jagged patch. She pushed all her strength into those feeble movements and nearly cried for joy when she felt the fibres of whatever bound her start to tear. She muffled a joyous cry when she felt her bonds finally snap. With her hands free, Dany used all her strength to pull herself upright. It would have been a struggle even without her injuries and blood loss, and she just couldn't do it. She'd lost too much already.

Her strength gave way, and she fell back without reaching her feet. Her head cracked against the weirwood stake, and she saw stars. Dany rested there, too cold and too tired to move. The impact knocked her blood-wet hair free, and she could feel her lifeblood running down it like the heavy dew on grass until it touched the weirwood. When it did, a voice spoke to Dany in her mind.

It was weak, like a whisper carried over a great distance, like someone on their deathbed. It was a boy's voice. He had a Northern accent. But it was also a woman's voice, an old man's, a crone's, and a maiden's. A thousand thousand voices layered over each other, but the boy's voice was the clearest.

He said. Night gathers, and now your watch begins.

The fog around Dany's mind was suddenly gone. Her mind was clear, and the weakness was banished from her limbs.

The boy continued. It shall not end until your death.

Dany pulled herself upright, her muscles strained at the effort, but she pushed through and seized the bindings that tied her feet to the stake. By their look and feel, they made human hair. She tugged and pulled and strained at them as the boy spoke the oath to her.

You shall live and die at your post, he said.

Dany took up the following lines with him. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls."

The bindings snapped, and Dany fell to the cold stone ground. Air flew from her lungs, and the boy said the next part alone.

You are the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn.

Dany rolled over, half-crying as she left bits of her skin stuck to the frozen stone. She joined the oath again. "The horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men."

Do you pledge your life and honour to the Night's Watch? The boy asked.

"For this night and all the nights to come," Dany said as she rose unsteadily to her feet, leaning on the weirwood stake for balance.

The Others hadn't noticed her. They sat in circles around the She-Other, rapt and captivated, their heads thrown back in ecstasy as they screamed at the darkening sky.

A grey and white shadow rippled over the ground and around Dany's feet. For a moment, the visage of a strong warrior deep in age who spat impotent curses as the winter magic dragged him into the heart. Two more ghosts followed that looked much like the first. Both screamed as they were sucked into the Other. Harren Hoare and his sons, Dany realized. The ghosts of Harrenhal were consumed by the She-Other, along with another piece of Drogon's heart.

The She-Other was melting faster. A shimmering haze surrounded her now, like a fine rain that floated gently into the air. Dany looked up, following the haze as it floated impossibly high. She blinked and saw the true terror above her. The stars were disappearing, and the moon was growing darker with every passing moment. Before long, there would be only darkness.

Dany pushed herself off the stake and stumbled forward. Her bare feet splashed in the hot blood. She had no plan. There was no time to plan.

Dany picked up speed until she was running. The Others didn't move from their ecstatic reverie as she sprinted past them. Dany slipped in the blood and skidded for a second but kept her momentum and tackled the She-Other. Dany screamed part rage and part pain. She was so cold that Dany's skin stuck and peeled away wherever she touched the She-Other, leaving them both covered in blood.

They tumbled to the bloody ground, and Dany forced herself on top of the Queen. She grabbed what was left of Drogon's heart in both hands and used it as a bludgeon. She slammed it into the She-Other's face. Freezing steam exploded with the blow, and pale blue blood drenched Dany. She screamed but didn't let up her assault. She kept screaming and kept hammering her child's heart into the She-Other. The Queen of Night beneath her struggled, lashing out with spidery limbs. But she was weak now. All her supernatural strength was gone. She was helpless, and Dany took every advantage.

Dany ignored the ear-splitting screeches erupting all around her and kept swinging. Tears in her eyes, Dany screamed when strong, cold hands grabbed her. The male Others had finally woken and acted. They seized her limbs, neck, and hair and dragged her away from their Queen. An Other squeezed Dany's hands until the bones shattered, and she dropped Drogon's heart. One Other threw her onto the bloody stones and held her in place by the throat as their comrades rushed to the She-Other. Dany struggled, but the Others were too strong.

The She-Other's face was gone, exposing half-melted bone the colour of milkglass. Blue blood flowed from the open wounds, turning into black vapour that rose like smoke into the sky.

The She-Other, the Night's Queen, gasped and said. "Now I eat the living sun," then she dissolved into gaseous darkness that surged upward, expanding like oil on water to cover the sky.

Dany fell limp under the Other's grip. She was too late.

Or perhaps not.

In the dark ocean above her, there was still one twinkling star. It shone against the surrounding darkness.

The Other holding her looked away from the sky. It was the Scarred Other Dany had seen earlier. His blue eyes glowed with hate, and the hand around her neck squeezed tighter and colder. Darkness flickered at the corner of Dany's eyes more and more until she saw nothing but her star.

And then, not even that.

Skahaz

"Pass me that ledger," Skahaz asked.

Missandei did as requested, hopping to her feet as only the young could, leaving her blood orange half-eaten on a plate as she rushed to the other table to grab the sheaf of parchment Skahaz had pointed at. She returned it just as quickly, then returned to her cushions, folding her legs and chewing on the orange. No bowing, no masters or 'this one obeys'. Just quick and quiet effort. Skahaz sighed as he looked at the parchments spread before him. List upon list of estates, properties, and treasures taken from Astapor and Yunkai. All to be divided and fought over by the Great Masters of Meereen. The only masters left in Slaver's Bay. Oh, there were a handful of survivors from the battles and purges that devastated Astapor and Yunkai's aristocracy, but not enough to matter in Skahaz's plans.

"Great masters," Skahaz shook his head. "The way we fight over the spoils, they should call us the great vultures."

Missandei chuckled. Skahaz found lately that he liked making her laugh.

"That's what they call you," she said. "The Vulture."

"They who?"

"The other slaves," she said. "The ones like me, I mean."

Skahaz nodded and considered it for a minute. Missandei meant the favoured slaves. The slaves who slept in soft beds and ate good food. The slaves who were trusted to care for books and ledgers.

"I've been called worse things," he said and then chuckled as well.

Missandei smiled and bit into her orange again.

Skahaz poured over the ledger Missandei had brought him. It listed yet more properties from Astapor. These were owned by merchants from Qarth, Tolos, Elyria, New Ghis, and other trading cities. Their owners wanted their property returned or compensated for. Skahaz inked his quill and began to mark it up in the empty columns. He'd decide for himself which merchants and cities could be safely offended and have their former properties seized and which needed a more gentle touch.

"Tolos and Elyria can be safely ignored," he decided. "Qarth needs to be appeased, of course, lest they restrict shipping through the Jade Gates," he paused. "Missandei, what do you think we should do about Vhalaso Maegyr's claims on some Lyseni properties through his mother's bloodline?"

The girl thought quietly for a few seconds. "He's from Volantis?"

"Correct."

"And his… relative is a Triarch?"

"Correct. Old Malaquo won the election again. He's Vhalaso's great uncle."

Missandei nodded. "Well, it wouldn't be wise to offend the Triarchs of Volantis, but Lyseni law is likely different from Volanene law, isn't it?"

Skahaz smiled and nodded.

Missandei continued growing in confidence as she spoke. "Then you should deny the claim and announce that you will put the property in a trust and wait for a suitable Lyseni heir to step forward."

Skahaz watched Hizdahr zo Loraq step into his chambers from the corner of his eye but kept his focus on Missandei as she continued. She was oblivious to Hizdarh's arrival.

"You'll control the trust, of course, so it won't really matter that it hasn't been formally seized, and with the destruction of Lys, the chance of an heir stepping forward is almost nothing," Missandei rested her hands on her knees. "That's what I would do."

"Do you make all your decisions based on what a little slave girl tells you?" Hizdahr asked.

Missandei jumped, and Skahaz smiled.

"Wise advice is wise advice, whatever the source," he said.

Hizdahr snorted. "Wisdom from the mouth of babes," he strode to the couch. "Go slave, fetch me a plate of dates," he commanded Missandei. She reluctantly stood and left the chamber to fetch what was demanded.

Hizdahr watched her go with a sneer. "I've said it once, and I'll say it again, you give her too long a leash."

"How I treat my slaves is none of your concern," Skahaz said.

"You know that some are beginning to suspect that you make her share your bed."

Skahaz didn't try to hide the look of disgust on his face. "That says more about their preferences than mine."

"Of course, of course," Hizdahr said placidly.

Skahaz sighed. "This isn't a social call, Hizdahr. Either something's happening, or you want something from me. Which is it?"

Hizdahr frowned and visibly collected his thoughts. "The Beikango want to buy land in Yunkai and establish their own district," he finally said.

"Hmm, is that all?"

"Are you going senile?" Hizdahr snarled. "They want to buy part of the Queen of Cities."

"Qarth makes a far better Queen. Yunkai would be better named the Whore of Cities."

Hizdahr had the grace to laugh first before he continued. "Nevertheless, what kind of precedent is that? What would they ask for next? Part of Astapor, a district in Meereen, or land enough to build their own city?"

"The Beikango are the reason we are here. Without their dragons, Yunkai could never have held back the Unsullied during the first siege nor let us break the walls of Astapor during our own siege."

"Which we lost," Hizdahr pointed out. "Their dragons did nothing to help us there."

"No, they didn't," Skahaz admitted. "But with those battles, we had the influence to force ourselves upon Yunkai and perform our little coup. Neither would have happened without the Beikango and their weapons."

"And what happens if the Beikango iron dragons inspire the same ambitions that the Valyrians once held?"

Skahaz smiled. "There lies the difference. These weapons aren't dragons. There's no magic to them, just metal and craftsmanship. We must merely placate the Beikango while making our own dragons."

Hizdahr leaned forward onto his knees. "And who would wield them?"

"Unsullied, of course. Their training methods are well known enough for Meereen to make her own. Imagine it, our own Unsullied, new generations who have traded the spear and shield for shot and powder."

"I can imagine it," Hizdahr licked his lips. "I can imagine it very well."

"And the more Beikango who live in Yunkai, the greater the odds of finding one willing to teach us the methods and making of their weapons and the training of soldiers in their use," Skahaz crossed his fingers. "Have I allayed your concerns?"

"You have," Hizdahr admitted. "You really do have everything all planned out, don't you?"

Skahaz smiled and said nothing while he stared at Hizdahr until the younger man averted his eyes.

Missandei returned with a plate of dates, bowed, and placed it on the table. "This one brings the dates, Great Master."

Hizdahr looked at the fruits. "Suddenly, I'm not hungry," he stood up. "I will see you at the council tonight, Skahaz," and then he left.

Skahaz watched him leave and then popped a date into his mouth. "That boy is going to cause me trouble," he said with his mouth half-full.

Missandei returned to her seat. "Why him and not the others?"

"He's ambitious and clever, but not enough to not realize he lacks the experience to lead," Skahaz shrugged. "No matter, for now, he's well enough in hand. Hizdahr zo Loraq is a problem for tomorrow."

Skahaz reached for the plate of dates again, but everything became dark. He blinked, confused, not frightened by the sudden change. He didn't shout, nor did he hear Missandei scream. He was only confused. It was the middle of the day. Why was the sun not shining? It was so dark.

"Missandei, find a lantern," he commanded. He soon heard her start to move. "Or a candle," he added.

He sat and listened to Missandei stumble and fumble through the darkness for a few minutes, but eventually, he heard steel and flint strike sparks, and then light returned. Missandei lifted the candle and started looking for more. Alone, the candle was barely able to illuminate even the room they were in. Skahaz shivered and pulled his tokar close around him. Why is it so cold? He stood up to help Missandei find more candles.

Minutes later, and with dozens of candles lit, the darkness remained oppressive. It was like a heavy fog. It hung in the air and cloyed the lungs. With a candle in hand, Skahaz exited the chamber and went onto his private balcony, where the darkness was even more total. He gripped the stone balustrade to steady himself, and after gathering his courage, he looked up and stared at the sky. This was no eclipse. A part of him had hoped that it was one, even though the darkness had lasted too long and was too absolute. Up above, there was no corona of light around the moon. In fact, there was no moon. No stars shone their light in the darkness either. There was nothing.

He looked down and saw that across Yunkai, more fires and lights were lit, thousands visible throughout the city, and more every second. All of them were small and weak against the darkness. Barely even a pale imitation of the missing stars.

"What's happening?" Missandei asked.

"I…" Skahaz licked his lips nervously. "I don't know…"

The black sky above offered no answers. There was only night... except there. He spotted it just as Missandei cried out and pointed.

"There!" She said. "There's still one star right there."