Mathis

Fire. Blood. Smoke. Death.

Mathis woke with a start, covered in sweat, and he felt a hand on his chest. Bethany looked at him concern in her deep blue eyes. "You were having a nightmare."

Mathis swung the linen sheets aside, rolled over, and swung his legs over the bed, letting his feet rest on the floor. He leaned on his knees trying to push the final shreds of the nightmare drift away as he forced himself to breath deeply of the crisp morning air of Goldengrove.

"Was it Ashford again?" Bethany asked crawling forward to lean against his back and wrap an arm around him.

"No," Mathis heaved an answer from his gasping chest. "It was Storm's End... and Ashford," he shook his head. "Some monstrous concoction of the two. Heh. The only thing worse than one Baratheon is two of them."

Mathis shook his head and stepped away from the bed, throwing on a robe as he stepped out onto the balcony of his chambers. From there he looked east over the godswood and the open air sept at its center, which was framed by the seven, ancient, still living trees that surrounded the weirwood stump. The Sapling Tower that dominated the eastern parts of the castle, though still smaller than the great keep. The tall curtain walls that enveloped the castle. The town which Mathis and his ancestors had allowed to branch off from the eastern edge of Goldengrove, and then beyond that onto the massive camp that dominated the landscape.

Bethany joined him. "How many men are there now?"

"Better than fifty thousand now. Reachmen, Westermen, even a few Riverlanders, and Northerners. And more arriving every day, Hightower men mostly, though I did detect a particular vinegary smell, almost like bad wine, some of those blasted Redwyne's I imagine."

Bethany aimed an absentminded swat at Mathis' head, which he easily avoided, but in so doing fell right into his wife's trap. A sharp elbow in the ribs.

"You know I don't like it when you say such things."

"Then why are you smiling?"

She sniffed. "A courteous lady always smiles at her lord husband's jokes. Even when they're terrible."

"Especially when they're terrible," Mathis added.

"Especially when they're terrible," she agreed, smiling as she did.

"It's part of my charm."

They stood in silence for a few long minutes watching the sunrise and watching Goldengrove come to life. From the balcony they could smell the fresh bread in the bakeries, see the smoke beginning to rise from the smithy, the guards replacing their tired fellows. If I could spend the rest of my life here I would, but the world is too dangerous for such dreams.

Bethany stirred beside him. "What happened in the hall yesterday. What the king did was… ill done," she said those last words so quietly they were nearly drowned out by the birds in the godswood.

Mathis replied just as quietly. "You'll have no argument from me on that part. Lord Jon was a lord of the realm he did not deserve to be cut down like a mad dog."

"Much less by a mad dog."

"His Grace is certainly... decisive at the very least."

"I don't think it was decisiveness that prompted him. I saw his eyes as Lord Jon died… they were like a man seeing a naked woman for the first time. It reminded me a little of Aerys. It scares me to think Elinor will even be married to his brother."

"I wouldn't worry about it. When we were on the road I saw Prince Tommen playing with kittens. That boy couldn't hurt a soul."

"That's not what I meant. Aerys didn't care for what others wanted not even Lord Tywin, who was his closest friend. Why should Joffrey care what his brother thinks? I've heard the rumours. Prince Tommen plays with kittens, while King Joffrey cuts their still living mother open. Bless your prudence, that you didn't try for Joffrey."

Mathis nodded in agreement. "That would have been a bridge too far in any case. Lord Tywin would never have accepted and even if he had it would have sent Lady Olenna to scheming."

Bethany let a silent chuckle ripple through her at the mention of her great-aunt. "She's not so clever as she thinks she is."

"All the more worry than, a clever woman knows her boundaries others might... overreach."

Bethany snorted. "Queen Cersei reminds me of her, albeit with fangs and claws instead of thorns."

"And not yet turned to vinegar by age."

"Was that a wine joke?"

"...It might have been."

His wife lashed out with another elbow to his ribs.

Mathis rubbed his poor bruised side. "I deserved that one."

Mathis turned and wrapped his arms around Bethany and said in a deadly and quiet voice. "If Joffrey hurts our daughter there will be nothing in the world that would stop me from taking my vengeance. Not Cersei. Not Tywin. Not the gods. Not even the Others themselves." Together they watched the sunrise.

A few hours later Mathis entered the Chamber of the Trees, a large open room at the top of a tower, the columns holding up the ceiling were shaped like rowan trees and the ceiling was formed like overlapping branches with golden leaves. The wide doors and windows opened up to a broad balcony, which circled the tower, and a table and chairs, set aside for the Small Council, occupied the center of the tower. Of the Small Council Lord Tywin was already present as was Lord Varys, but Lord Baelish and Grand Maester Pycelle had not yet arrived. The rest of the room was occupied by various lords and the captains of the army.

Mathis saw a tired Lord Mace in a corner conferring with his son Ser Garlan. Ser Addam Marbrand had been granted the use of a stool, on account of his injured leg. Ser Kevan stood just behind his elder brother, whispering in his ear. Even those lords who were newly returned to the King's peace were present. Though the assembled Westermen and Reachlords seemed to be ignoring their Riverlord and Northern counterparts.

"Good morning, my lords."

A chorus of courteous greetings answered him, while Lord Tywin gave only a silent nod, the Spider tittered a greeting of his own. "Good morning to you as well Lord Rowan, I trust you slept well."

Mathis decided to ignore what may or may not have been a revelation on the reach of the Spider's little birds. "Wonderful to be back in mine own bed and my own wife," he said with a grin taking a seat between Lord Tywin and Lord Varys, his jape provoking a small titter of laughter from the lords.

Mathis was still settling himself and trading polite bits of nonsense when both Lord Baelish and Grand Maester Pycelle arrived and took their own seats. Lord Tywin stood, motioning to his brother, and without delay the quiet murmurs that had filled the room vanished as Ser Kevan stepped forward and laid a great map of the southern half of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lord Tywin reached into a bag and began to place wooden markers across the kingdoms. A sun and spear in the Boneway and Prince's Pass. Damn Dornish. There were lions and roses at Goldengrove, two smaller lions at the Golden Tooth and Lannisport, and another rose at Longtable and Highgarden. In the east there was a small stag at Bitterbridge and a larger one at King's Landing. In the Riverlands there was a flayed man at Harrenhal and a smattering of smaller markers in a dozen castles, horses, twin towers, ravens, trout, dragons, and a single lonely wolf near Acorn Hall. With the map ready the meeting began.

"The Starks are done," Lord Tywin said with grim finality. "For all that Robb Stark yet lives he cannot continue to fight and now all that remains is to pick up the pieces." Lord Tywin spared a glance for Lord Blackwood and the Vances. "Already His Grace makes inroads into the Riverlands and the North, this must continue. Offers of clemency will be made to any lord who bends the knee."

"Such actions might require a more… personal touch," said Mathis but, before he could continue his line of thought and suggest himself for such a mission, Lord Tywin interrupted.

"I agree. Lord Baelish you were fostered at Riverrun, you know the Riverlords. In the name of King Joffrey you are charged with bringing the King's Peace to the Riverlands."

Littlefinger smiled. "An honour and a responsibility I graciously accept."

Well played Littlefucker. Well played. Mathis gave a mental shrug. No matter a royal marriage will have to do for now. I mustn't get too greedy.

Lord Tywin returned his attention to the map. "Bitterbridge shields Stannis' southwest flank and is a dagger pointed at the heart of the Reach. It must fall. Lord Mathis I'm told you know of what happens in the area?"

Mathis straightened. "Indeed my lord, my vassal Ser Marton Broadtree has been harassing the rebels and has been sending me regular reports. His last message says that there are near eight thousand men at Bitterbridge, with a similar number gathered at Longtable under Lord Orton Merryweather ready to be commanded."

Tywin tapped a finger on the table. "Then that is where the majority of our forces will go. Stannis know doubt sees the same as potential for the castle as a base of attack. It must be taken and taken quickly. Ser Garlan," he said suddenly. " You have proved his worth in battle. Thus in the name of King Joffrey Ser Garlan is charged to lead an advance force from Longtable and Goldengrove to recapture Bitterbridge."

Lord Mace gave a small, sober smile, while his handsome son stood and bowed towards the Hand of the King and said. "As His Grace commands my lord Hand, so shall I obey."

"Excellent. Ser Kevan, you are to take four thousand horse and move north and west to harry Stannis' flank along the Blackwater and south of it. Take Ser Amory, Ser Bronn, and Vargo Hoat with you."

Those were the first of many commands given by Lord Tywin, a thousand men here, two thousand there, men to watch the Dornish Marches, men to raid the Stormlands. Commands to summon reinforcements from the mostly untapped levies of the southern Reach, which were ordered to gather at Highgarden under the command of Lord Mace. With the military business done for the day the various commanders were dismissed, leaving the Small Council alone in the Chamber of the Trees

With the lords and captains gone Lord Tywin's face took on a more serious tone as he faced Littlefinger. "Lord Baelish, what is the condition of the treasury?"

Lord Baelish parted his hands apologetically causing Mathis to lean forward slightly. "I'm afraid," Littlefinger began. "That the vast majority of the treasury was left in King's Landing, we were far more concerned with speed and security than gold."

"And rightly so," said Lord Tywin. "The safety of the king is paramount. Still it leaves Stannis' position even more secure," he paused for a sip of wine, and Arbor gold from Mathis own stocks, before continuing. "Now the matter of Ser Gregor."

"What of it, he died in the battle," said Mathis. "Beaten down by a horde of northmen, or so the story goes."

Lord Tywin grimaced. "The story is wrong, Grand Maester if you would."

The old man leaned forward, putting his weight on the table. "After Ser Gregor's armour was removed it was brought to my attention that there was some kind of… substance, a film of powder caked to the inside of the padding of his helm. I conducted an examination so as to determine the nature of the substance and came to an unfortunate conclusion."

Is he saying what I think he's saying?

"It appears," continued to Pycelle. "That Ser Gregor was poisoned. Assassinated in fact. The poison is not one that is known to me by name, but its effects are insidious. It affects through contact with the skin and causes the heart to begin beating more and more rapidly until it explodes."

Mathis raised a hand to his brow to rub away an impending headache. "Why would someone assassinate Ser Gregor? The man was a great warrior make no mistake but he was hardly a vital part of the war effort," he waved his hand. "It makes no sense."

"Unless," added Littlefinger. "It is merely the first of many assassinations, perhaps a proof of concept that this method would work."

"But why reveal it?" Asked Mathis. "Far better to wait and kill us all at once, if it had to be tested why not try it on some nameless footman. It would be all but unnoticed."

"Perhaps someone with a personal grudge against the late Ser Gregor. He did have very many enemies and very few friends," the Spider interjected with a smirk.

"But how many of those enemies would have access to a poison that even the Grand Maester cannot identify," countered Mathis. "It would have to be someone of considerable skill or someone with the gold and the ability to hire someone of considerable skill. Of which I can think of only one at the moment."

"Stannis," Littlefinger finished Mathis' own thoughts.

"Lord Varys, have you any more to say on the matter? A potential culprit perhaps?" asked Lord Tywin.

"The Faceless Men of course come to mind immediately, but the costs involved would be extravagant. And to waste it on Ser Gregor, even if he was but one of many targets…" the eunuch Eunuch shook his head. "It would not be worth the time to get word to the Faceless men and then arrange the immense payment they would require," he spread his hands in apology. "The Sorrowful Men of Qarth are less expensive, but are even farther away. The war could be won or lost by the time. The only other option would be to have arranged for an assassination by a man of the Seven Kingdoms."

Tywin frowned even more. "I want Ser Gregor's squires put to the question. Find out who had access to his armour. And I want-"

Whatever Lord Tywin was going to say was interrupted as the door opened to reveal the eternally flustered Gavin, the maester of Goldengrove.

"My Lords," he bowed holding a letter in his right hand. "A. Hmph. Umm. A message from Casterly Rock."

"Give it here," commanded Lord Tywin.

Maester Gavin glanced at Mathis who simply waved him along.

Lord Tywin ripped open the letter and began reading. As he read Mathis began to notice something odd. The corner of Lord Tywin's mouth was twitching. It began slowly but it quickly progressed as muscles Mathis imagined had not been used in years, he could practically hear them creaking, set to work dragging Lord Tywin's face into a very small but very real smile.

Mathis glanced around to take in the expressions of shock and mild horror from the rest of the Small Council. Oh good it's not just me.

Tyrion

Time had no meaning in the black cells of the Red Keep, Tyrion didn't know if had been condemned to them a few days or a few weeks ago. The only light came from the torches of the guards, who came only irregularly. The food, if it could be called that, was barely fit to eat a measly bowl of thin soup and a scrap of stale, and probably mouldy, bread. More like flavoured water, and flavoured with shit at that. Still Tyrion forced himself to drink the shitwater and eat the bread. It's better than starving… I think.

With nothing but darkness to see and naught but silence to hear Tyrion retreated into his own mind and without wine to drown his brain the thoughts couldn't be stopped. An endless parade of images that all too often left him in tears. Tysha, Shae, and countless others some he'd kept for a few weeks or even months, others that had stayed only a night or an hour. What will become of Shae, he wondered, if it were anyone but Stannis she'd probably become a camp whore like she was before I found her. But if Stannis has changed his mind on whores then I'm in a Lysene pleasure house.

He remembered his family, his father, his sister, his brother, his aunt, his uncles, and even, for perhaps a moment, Tyrion thought he saw his mother's face, gasping in pain, in fear, with love… He remembered the good times and the bad ones. Uncle Geri teaching him how to tumble and jape. Father putting a stop to it. He and Jaime playing hide-and-seek and come-into-my-castle. The time Cersei had locked him inside a hidden closet and left him there for almost two days.

He thought of Pod, his tongue tied squire, I pray you lived boy. Tyrion had lost track of him in the battle, and he hadn't been seen since. Not even that day in court.

Long after Tyrion lost track of the days he heard the footsteps echo in the darkness, they stopped in front of his door. After what seemed a decade of darkness the torchlight that slipped in under to solid, iron studded, oak door, seemed to shine like the summer sun. When the door opened Tyrion covered his eyes as the light overwhelmed them. He felt a hand on his soiled doublet pulling him up and out of the cell. Tyrion half stumbled and was half pushed through the halls. As his eyes began to adjust to the light Tyrion was able to see that he wasn't alone, there were dozens, mayhaps over a hundred, others being escorted out of the cells beneath the Red Keep.

At long last the darkness and flickering light of the torches gave way to true sunlight. Tyrion's joy was tempered by the pain in his eyes and the foreboding sense that permeated the line of prisoners. Through the low halls of the Red Keep they were marched out into one of the great courtyards. With high walls on three sides and a tower on the fourth, there was no hope of escape even without taking into account the dragonmen and swordsmen that surrounded them.

Tyrion had been placed in a small area with a dozen other prisoners, including Lancel, all of them the lucky few who would be spending the rest of their lives dressed all in black at the Wall. From his place Tyrion could see the royal party atop a balcony in the overlooking tower. Stannis and his queen Selyse, their daughter Shireen. Davos the Onion Lord with some of the dragonmen captains. Lord Alester, Lord Eldon, and Lord Ardrian of Stannis' Small Council. Ser Imry, Stannis' goodbrother, and the captains of the Royal Fleet. And the Red Woman who Tyrion remembered from the session of court. However long ago that was.

And then the executions began. In groups of a dozen, names were called and then those men who bore the names were taken to the block. Some went without resistance, perhaps determined to meet the Stranger with dignity, while others were dragged screaming as they plead for mercy. Stannis did not give it. He stood silently, as strong as the dragon gargoyles of his castle, as over a hundred men met their fate. Most of the executed had been officers in the gold cloaks, a smaller number had been diehard loyalists to Joffrey. The last two to die were Ser Meryn and Ser Preston, who went silently to the block and died just as quietly.

As the bodies were cleared away, Tyrion's own party of prisoners were taken by the dragonmen, and led out of the Red Keep. The gates opened to a cheering crowd of smallfolk. I doubt they're cheering for me. Tyrion turned his neck and looked up to see the heads of the other, former, prisoners being spiked on the walls.

As the party made it's way out of the Red Keep, the crowd parted and began to jeer and throw their refuse at the prisoners. Tyrion raised his shackled hands to stop the shit and rotted vegetables out of his face. He was only partially successful as some of the filth began to drip out of his hair and onto his face and down his back.

Thankfully this soon passed as the gold cloaks forced the crowd back and, more importantly, the party passed out of range as they moved farther from the Red Keep and deeper into the city. They were marched down Aegon's High Hill, onto the Hook, down Muddy Way, and out the Mud Gate. Tyrion saw that Stannis had already put thousands of his men to work rebuilding the city walls. Through the freshly repaired Mud Gate they went and onto the docks.

Like the walls, there were work crews repairing and rebuilding the docks and piers to make them fit for the massive fleet that still occupied the Blackwater. Their guards forced them onto one of the less damaged piers and onto a ship, not a galley but an ungainly looking cog. Tyrion didn't catch the name of the vessel. They were led beneath into the holds which in most cases Tyrion imagined would be filled with all manner of goods, wool, leather, wine, cloth, mayhaps even animals or grain. But the usual thin wood and canvas walls had been replaced with iron bars separating the lower deck into a number of small unpleasant cells. Though they're an improvement over the black cells. They were rudely shoved inside, three to a cell, and then abandoned, save for a trio of sailors, armoured in leather and armed with wicked looking hatchets, who were playing a game of dice as they guarded the cells.

Tyrion found himself sharing his cell with a gold cloaks officer, a knight originally from the Westerlands named Ser Bartyn Morrin, and more interestingly with his cousin Lancel. Tyrion sat in a corner well away from his cellmates. Lancel sat in the opposite corner, his cousin started to speak but then went silent, preferring instead to stand and walk over to sit beside Tyrion. He was silent for a while before he found his voice.

"I was worried," he said.

"About what?"

"That Stannis would have had you killed. Even after he swore-" Lancel cut himself off.

Tyrion, his curiosity aroused, turned to face his cousin. "Swore what?"

Lancel grimaced and closed his eyes. "He wanted me to confess. He wanted me to say those things about the Queen and myself, about King Robert. Those lies."

"We both know they weren't lies," Tyrion whispered more to himself than for Lancel's benefit.

Lancel was silent again. "I refused," he said at last. "For the family I refused. But Lord Alester said that if I didn't confess they'd kill you. So I…" Lancel trailed off.

"Why?" Tyrion asked. "Why do that?"

Why would Lancel care if I live or die?

Lancel seemed confused his mouth gaping as he tried to find his words. "Be- Because we're family," he stuttered at last.

The world seemed to slow around Tyrion as he let those words sink in. "Yes we are... Thank you Lancel."

Davos

A dozen swords and axes rose into the air and at a silent signal fell, and with a sickening thump a dozen more heads landed on the ground. Without wasting a moment the undergaolers of the Red Keep took the bodies by their feet and dragged them away, while others collected the heads and set about putting them on the spikes prepared on the walls. In seconds those dead men were replaced with living ones, who were soon executed in turn. And on it went as over a hundred men went to their fate.

Davos stood atop a wall of the courtyard, not far from the king, the Small Council, and the newly arrived Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen. Davos struggled to avoid shaking his head as he remembered the queen's disapproval when she had discovered that the executions would be carried out by beheading, she had wanted the prisoners burned to death to appease her red god and the Red Woman who even now lurked not far from the Queen.

While King Stannis looked at the executions with his gritted teeth and stoney face, and Selyse sneered disapprovingly at the blood, it was Shireen who pulled on Davos' heartstrings. The young girl had closed her eyes at the start and had tried to push her face into her mother's skirts, only for both the king and the queen to sharply reprimand her. After that the princess watched with growing tears.The poor girl will need to get used to this if she is to be queen some day. But not too used I hope.

The last prisoners to be escorted to the headsman's block were the two former kingsguard Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield. To their credit the two men went to their deaths with dignity staying silent and resolute as their crimes were announced and their heads removed. With that the executions were done and the remaining prisoners were escorted to the docks where they would take ship for the Wall later in the day. As the party surrounding the king began to disperse Davos caught a glimpse of Tyrion Lannister waddling in the small herd of prisoners before he left to follow his king.

With King Stannis and the Small council at their head they made their way from the courtyard into the heart of the Red Keep towards the chamber of the Small Council. As Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen, followed by Ser Rolland, Ser Timon, and Ser Emmon, departed for the royal chambers Davos let a small smile and a wink escape as he caught the eye of the still sniffling princess. Her face brightened slightly and she returned the wink with a wave only to be chastened by her mother.

Not long after they arrived at the Small Council chambers. Davos took up his position behind Ser Richard and Maester Cressen, and he was not alone in his loitering, one of the leaders of the Beikango, Ser Masuro, was standing beside Davos. Ser Imry stood opposite to Davos, behind his uncle Lord Alester and Lord Eldon Estermont. Ser Aemon, Davos' former sergeant, stood guard with a squad of dragonmen. The only other person present who was not a member of the Small Council was Melisandre of Asshai who stood across the room from where she could face the king.

What has she done to earn a place here?

The Small Council itself was seated around the table, Lord Alester Florent and Ser Richard Horpe flanked the king, while Lords Eldon Estermont and Ardrian Celtigar took their places farther down the table. A great map of Westeros, from the Wall to Dorne, covered the table. With the Small Council seated Lord Alester, the Hand of the King, cleared his throat. "With your permission Your Grace, shall we begin?"

Stannis nodded in acknowledgement.

Lord Alester nodded in return, nervously shuffling his hands on the table. "More reports have come concerning the surveys you commanded, the locations of brimstone and saltpetre in the lands of most every great lord of the Stormlands."

"Most?"

Lord Alester grimaced. "Lord Tarth is being recalcitrant."

"Inform Lord Tarth that continued delays will not go unpunished. I will have these surveys done. The surveys are to continue and be expanded to the Crownlands as well. Have the reports copied and given to Lord Celtigar and Lord Seaworth. How grievous were the casualties in the battle?"

Lord Alester straightened. "Casualties were rather light all things considered a few hundred dead and a thousand injured at the worst. Maester Cressen if you would," Lord Alester gestured at the white haired and chained man.

"Most of the injured soldiers should recover in a few months time at most, Your Grace. The smallfolk who rose in your name were more gravely hurt."

"How many of them fell?" Asked the king.

"Near a half a thousand dead, Your Grace. Over twice that injured."

"See that they are taken care of. I will not have men say I care nothing for those who fight in my name. What damage was done to the city?"

"Little enough," answered Lord Celtigar. "Mostly buildings damaged by errant dragonfire, the fight was short enough that the men had little time to get their blood up. And those that did were stopped by their fellows, as per your commands, Your Grace."

"And the fleet?"

"Almost undamaged, Your Grace," the elderly Lord Eldon spoke slowly. "The Swordfish took some damage when it's ram became stuck in sinking ship, but nothing a few days in port will not be able to repair."

"I want the fleet ready to make sail inside the week. Three ships to escort the prisoners to the Wall, a dozen more to carry my envoys to the Vale and to Dorne. Three to Braavos to seek an audience with the Sealord and a representative of the Iron Bank to come back with them to King's Landing. Another dozen more to go to each of the Free Cities, let Essos know that there is only one True King of Westeros," Stannis turned his head slightly. "Ser Robar."

The kingsguard knight stepped forward. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"I would have you go to the Vale, to speak with your lord father and his fellow lords. Sway them to my cause," the king swept a letter from the table and reached out to give it to Ser Robar. "Give that to your lord father, if he would come to King's Landing I would make him my Master of Laws."

After a short pause Ser Robar accepted the letter. "When would you have me depart, Your Grace?"

"With the tide, Ser. You are dismissed, see to your quarters, Captain Dale Seaworth will be waiting for you at the docks." Stannis turned his attentions back to the Small Council. "The rest of the fleet under Lord Captain Imry will guard the Blackwater both the river and the bay from attack." The man in question bowed as the king mentioned his name.

Seemingly ignoring Ser Imry King Stannis turned towards his Master of Coin. "Lord Ardrian, how fares the treasury?"

The Lord of Claw Isle shifted in his seat. "It seems the usurper emptied much of the treasury before he fled, Your Grace. Though there still remains near a hundred thousand gold dragons. The books left by Lord Baelish are difficult to understand, he seems to write in some kind of code, and there are several books missing."

"Check the brothels, Lord Baelish," the king almost spat out the former Master of Coin's name. "Owns most of the brothels in the city and he keeps offices in the finer ones, he often did his work there. Search them, shut them down, and seize what funds remain. Use your own men for this, I don't trust the gold cloaks just yet."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Use the funds to pay for the repairs of the walls and to pay the soldiers. Lord Alester, have the host prepare to move out. We cannot rest, not after the Feast for Crows. The Reach must be brought to heel and Robb Stark's defeat leaves the Riverlands and the North open for attack."

"Your Grace," said Lord Alester. "Can we spare the troops to invest in such an attack? Lord Bolton maintains a not unformidable force at Harrenhal and the Ironmen reign over half the North."

"That is not the attack I had in mind. From Dragonstone I sent word that I was the One True King, I think it time that I remind them of this," Stannis held up a finger. "These Northmen and Riverlords shall have one chance to swear their fealty, but one more. After that any who resist will be destroyed. Maester Cressen, you will copy this letter and send it to every major castle in the Riverlands and the North."

With a creased and wrinkled hand Maester Cressen took the letter. "As you wish, Your Grace."

With that Stannis turned his attentions to the map. "Bitterbridge must be held," he declared. "And the usurper must be beaten. Every moment we waste gives Lord Tywin more time to gather the levies of the Reach to his banner. We must strike hard and swift."

The King traced the line of the Mander with his finger. "From Bitterbridge we must strike at Longtable, then Cider Hall and Ashford, and lastly at Highgarden itself. We will cut the Reach in two and the army will do so with dragons at it's head," the king turned his attention to Davos. "Your report, my lord."

Davos took a breath to calm himself. "Six hundred more men trained in the use of hand-dragons arrived from Dragonstone two days past. Though there are only enough weapons to equip fifty of them. They brought another five hundred barrels of black powder with them."

Stannis nodded once and glanced at Ser Masuro from the corner of his eye. "The production of more dragons is to be a priority."

"An excellent idea, Your Grace. Why there are some excellent locations near Brightwater," began Lord Alester only to be interrupted by the king.

"The smithing of dragons and mixing of blackpowder will be kept in King's Landing and Dragonstone," he waved to Ser Aemon. "Send them in."

With a bow and a grunt Ser Aemon had his men open the door and usher in a crowd of men. Davos recognized a few of them as smiths, including Tobho Mott and Ironbelly. The others were obvious on sight as the Wisdoms of the Alchemist's Guild. The last group took Davos a few moments to recognize as the masters of the Bellmaker's Guild. As one the assembled masters and wisdoms knelt before the king.

"Rise," said Stannis, he motioned to Devan and Davos' son quickly walked forward from his place behind the king and took a position not not far from the guilds, sheaves of parchment in his hands. He waited as the king continued to address the guilds. "I have summoned you all here for a single purpose. You have all heard or seen the power of the new weapons in my armies, the dragons. You all have a part to play in building them. The barrels and locks of iron for the hand-dragons," several pieces of parchment were removed from the sheaf and given to the smith Ironbelly. "Casting the great barrels of the larger dragons," another few parchments were given to a master of the Bellmakers. "And crafting the blackpowder," the final pieces of parchment were given to one of the wisdoms.

The masters gathered around to look at what was written on the parchments. After a few minutes Tobho Mott stepped forward and bowed. "Your Grace, this is a far greater task than we had ever dreamed you could have wanted," and then, more gravely. "It will be many months before the proper tools can be made and the proper techniques mastered."

Stannis waved a hand. "There is a person of some skill who can aid you, Ser Masuro will take you to her manse. Master Mott stay a moment."

At Stannis' word the Beikango knight bowed and led the bewildered group guild masters out of the small council chamber, save for an even more bewildered Tobho Mott, who waited as Devan ran into a small side chamber. Devan returned carrying a large case, which he placed on a table.

"When last we met," Stannis began. "I spoke to you of your apprentice, Gendry. What has happened to him."

Tobho Mott shifted his feet. "After His Grace, your brother, passed there was rumour of many attacks on black-haired children, I umm pressured Gendry to join the Night's Watch. Where he went from there I know not."

Stannis nodded. "I see. Now for the other matter," he opened the case. Inside was the shattered pieces of a greatsword, a sword with distinct dark ripples, and a pommel in the shape of a heart.

Heartsbane.

Tobho Mott stepped forward and took up a piece of the ancestral sword of House Tarly.

"Master Mott," began the king. "I would have you reforge the blade into something deserving of House Baratheon."

"Of course, Your Grace. I will do nothing else until it is finished."

"Very good you are dismissed."

Tobho Mott took the case and Heartsbane and left. From there the Small Council moved on to less unusual matters.

Though Davos had spent little time at court during the reign of King Robert, from what he remembered the council meetings of King Stannis' elder brother had rarely lasted more than an hour. King Stannis' council lasted for more than eight. It seemed the king desired to know every detail of the goings on of his kingdom. Over a hundred messengers from lords and scouts from along the Blackwater, and farther afield, came and went, and twice that many messages from ravens. Stannis poured over every report and every message, making notes as he went and asking each man a dozen questions. At long last they were freed from the council, and Davos walked on exhausted legs and aching feet to his own chambers for the night.

From sleep Davos was woken by a panicked knocking at his door. "Come in."

It was Devan who entered the room. "Thank the gods your safe!" Davos' son ran across the room and hugged him.

"Safe?" Davos asked. "Safe from what? What's happening?"

"Someone tried to kill the king. I. I was worried they might have tried to kill you as well." Devan sniffed, trying to keep tears from falling.

Davos pulled his son into a tighter hug. "It's okay lad. It's okay. I'm fine. Now," Davos calm tone grew more serious. "Take me to the king."

Devan did as he was bid, leading Davos through the halls of the Red Keep and to the Royal Chambers. Davos had to push his way through the lines of guards to get to the king. Devan being the king's squire helped with that. At last Davos saw his king, he was speaking with Ser Richard, who cradled an unloaded crossbow in his arms, and the rest of the Kingsguard. One of whom, Ser Rolland, had a dagger at the throat of a young boy. King Stannis was unhurt. But the same could not be said of Melisandre of Asshai who was sitting in a chair as Maester Cressen tended to a crossbow bolt that was stuck high in her thigh.

The King was saying. "-Take the boy to the dungeons and make him speak," he glanced to the side. "Lord Seaworth."

Davos bowed. "Your Grace, what has happened?"

"The boy tried to kill me. He came out of the walls with a crossbow and would have killed me as I slept," he turned and ground his teeth. "But... the Lady Melisandre intervened."

The Red Woman nodded her head in acknowledgment of the king's words. "It was the Lord of Light intervened, I am merely a servant of Him and of Your Grace," She turned her gaze to the would be assassin. "It is no use tormenting the boy, he will not speak Your Grace. He cannot, his tongue was taken by a Spider."

Stannis went still a moment. "Ser Rolland, open his mouth."

With a grunt the Bastard of Nightsong forced the struggling boy's mouth open. "She has the right of it, Your Grace."

How could she know that?

If anyone else had the same question they did not have a chance to ask for the Red Woman continued. "The fires of the Lord of Light reveal many things to those who know how to look."

Stannis turned away from the Red Woman clenching his teeth so hard Davos thought they might shatter. "Ser Rolland take the boy to the dungeons. Lord Alester, organize your men I want every room in the Red Keep searched for secret passages, and I want those passages mapped, have every servant in the Red Keep taken prisoner, then have them put to the question. The loyal must be separated from the treacherous. And Ser Timon... you will escort my Mistress of Whispers to Maester Cressen's chambers."

As men went to do King Stannis' commands the Red Woman smiled and Davos shivered.

Catelyn

Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth, Catelyn thought. House Tully's strength is the river and it is to the river we return.

They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, he was clad in shining silver armor, his cloak was spread beneath him, rippling blue and red, and his surcoat was divided blue and red as well. A trout, scaled in silver and bronze, crowned the greathelm they placed beside his head. On his chest they placed a painted wooden sword, his fingers curled about its hilt. His wasted hands were hidden within mail gauntlets, which made him look strong again. To his left was a great shield of oak and iron and on the right his hunting horn. The rest of the boat was filled with driftwood, kindling, scraps of parchment, and stones to make it heavy in the water. The leaping trout of Riverrun flew from the prow.

Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in honor of the seven faces of god. Men who had loyally served Hoster for years, in other times it might have been his lords who pushed Hoster into the river. But they were fighting in the south, with Robb, none of the great houses of the Riverlands were present.

The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Utherydes Wayn, an old gaunt man, was was gasping for breath as they shoved the boat out into the current. Ser Robin Ryger and Ser Desmond Grell, who had both served Hoster for years, were at the prow, standing chest deep in the river to guide the boat on its way.

Catelyn watched from the battlements, waiting and watching as she had waited and watched so many times before. Beneath her, the swift wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the broad Red Fork, it's blue-white current churning the muddy red-brown flow of the greater river. A thick morning mist hung over the water like a blanket of smoke in the light of dawn. It called to mind memories of mornings from long ago, when her mother and father yet lived.

Bran and Rickon will be waiting for him, Catelyn thought sadly, as I once waited for him. The slim boat drifted out from under the red stone arch of the Water Gate, picking up speed as it was caught in the headlong rush of the Tumblestone and pushed out into the tumult where the two rivers met. As the boat emerged from beneath the high sheltering walls of the castle, its square sail filled with wind, and Catelyn saw sunlight flashing on her father's helm. The rudder held true and the boat sailed serenely down the center of the channel, into the rising sun.

Beside her Edmure, Lord Edmure now in truth, stood with a bow in hand. And how long will that take to grow used to? He nocked an arrow to his bowstring, his squire held a brand to its point, and Edmure waited until the flame caught, then lifted the great bow, drew the string to his ear, and let loose. With a deep thrum, the arrow sped upward. Catelyn followed its flight with her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the water with a soft hiss, well astern of Lord Hoster's boat.

Edmure cursed softly. "The wind," he said, pulling a second arrow. "Again." The brand kissed the oil-soaked rag behind the arrowhead, the flames went licking up, Edmure lifted, pulled, and released. High and far the arrow flew almost vanishing in the mist above them before returning to sight. Too far. It vanished in the river a dozen yards beyond the boat, its flames winking out instantly. A flush was creeping up Edmure's neck, red as his beard. "Once more," he commanded, taking a third arrow from the quiver. He is as tight as his bowstring. She gazed concernedly at her brother.

"I can do it," Edmure insisted to himself and to her. He let them light the arrow, jerked the bow up, took a deep breath, drew back the arrow. For a long moment he seemed to hesitate while the fire crept up the shaft, crackling. Finally he released. The arrow flashed up and up, and finally curved down again, falling, falling... and hissing past the billowing sail.

A narrow miss, no more than a handspan, and yet a miss. "The Others take it!" her brother swore. The boat was almost out of range, drifting in and out among the river mists. From where she sat in her chair Catelyn saw her brother wipe tears from the corner of his eyes, and with a grunt he took aim with the longbow for a fourth time. This time his aim was true the flaming arrow struck the bed of the boat and in seconds the fire consumed Hoster Tully.

Catelyn reached out blindly for her brother's hand, but Edmure had moved away, to stand alone on the highest point of the battlements. She let her hand fall to rest on her useless legs. Without a word Septa Gisella pushed the wheeled chair next to her brother. Together they watched the little fire grow smaller as the burning boat receded in the distance.

And then it was gone... drifting downriver still, perhaps, or broken up and sinking. The weight of his armor would carry Lord Hoster down to rest in the soft mud of the riverbed, in the watery halls where the Tullys held eternal court, with schools of fish their last attendants.

No sooner had the burning boat vanished from their sight than Edmure walked off. Catelyn would have liked to embrace him, if only for a moment; to sit for an hour or a night or the turn of a moon to speak of the dead and mourn. Yet she knew as well as he that this was not the time. Edmure was the Lord of Riverrun now, and his knights were falling in around him, murmuring condolences and promises of fealty, walling him off from something as small as a sister's grief. Edmure listened, hearing none of the words.

Catelyn closed her eyes as the crowd of mourners began to disperse and head towards the great hall of Riverrun where the mourning would continue. "Take me to my bedchamber," she commanded of Septa Gisella who did as she was bid.

Hours later, she was sewing in her bedchamber when her brother's young, round faced, and freckled squire came running. Summons for supper?

"The king has returned," he gasped.

"Take me too him."

Robb was asleep by the time Catelyn was brought to him. Her son was in bed his head wrapped in bandages, and Maester Vyman at his side tending at a stump, which was all that remained of Robb's right arm. Septa Gisella pushed Catelyn so she was next to the bed, as Maester Vyman left carrying bandages stained with pus and blood.

The Maester stopped her from reaching for him. "Let him rest. He has had too much milk of the poppy of late," Vyman let a chiding tone enter his voice as he glanced at the lords. "Only true rest will help his fever now."

"Oh gods… What has happened to you my son?"

"The Mountain." It was Lord Jonos Bracken who answered. Catelyn had not noticed him in the room. With her attention drawn from Robb she saw the other lords and knights present, Black Walder Frey, Lady Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover, and of course her brother. She looked around, expecting to see others.

"Where is Lord Jon?" She asked. "Where is Lord Karstark, Lord Blackwood, or the Vances?"

"Dead," said Lady Maege. "The Greatjon and the Smalljon are both dead, along with my Dacey." Maege's voice was filled with barely controlled rage.

"And Lord Tytos has turned traitor," sneared Lord Jonos. "I warned you all, you can't trust the Blackwoods, treachery is in their blood."

"Both of the Vances have bent the knee as well."

"Bent the knee," echoed Catelyn. "To who?"

Black Walder answered. "Joffrey," he spat. "Lord Tywin attacked us. There was a battle and we lost. Badly and the flight that followed was near as bad. Lannister raiders and Dondarrion's bandits behind every tree. It was all we could do to escape with our lives and the king's. Most of the host is dead or fled, barely a quarter has returned."

"And my uncle?"

"Dead," said Edmure, his voice deadly quiet. "Grey Wind as well."

Catelyn felt a hitch in her chest as she heard a small sob. She turned in her chair to see Robb slowly blinking his way to consciousness. At once the room was filled by the shouts of lords and knights, each trying to speak over the other.

Robb spasmed in his bed, it took Catelyn a moment to realise that he had tried to slam his fist against the bed only to forget that he no longer had a right arm.

Robb seemed to realise it at the same time. "Wine," he growled at a servant.

"Robb," Catelyn said, reaching out to rub his cheek, but with a wolflike snarl her son pulled away from her. He breathed once and reached for a freshly filled goblet, which he soon drained.

He held out the goblet for more wine. "Get out!" Robb shouted. "All of you! GO!"

"Robb please," Catelyn pleaded.

"That means you as well," he turned his back to her.

"Come Cat, let's go." Edmure took her chair and wheeled it, and her, out of the chambers despite her protests. Catelyn turned to see Robb draining another full goblet. Edmure returned her to her bedchamber and aided Septa Gisella in moving her into her bed, he was about to sit next to her but a boy she didn't recognize came to bring Edmure to a council. It seemed Robb had changed his mind about being alone.

Late in the night Edmure came to her again. He was already deep his cups as he stumbled into her bedchamber, a jug of wine in his hand. He sat on the edge of her bed and began to weep his regrets about their father. "I shouldn't have gone out and whored. I should have been with him, as you were, I should have been a better son," he said. "Did he speak of me at the end? Tell me true, Cat. Did he ask for me? Did he ask of me?"

Catelyn closed her eyes to ward against her own tears. "No," she said. "He kept saying Tansy near the end, he was calling for her. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Edmure laughed hollowly. "No," he wiped tears from his eyes. "Mayhaps Uncle Brynden would know who Tansy was… We could ask him if he wasn't dead. If father wasn't dead."

"Maester Vyman thought it might be the name of a lowborn mistress."

"Who cares?" Edmure shouted. "He's dead! It doesn't matter anymore!" He threw his empty jug at the wall. It shattered sending shards of pottery flying. His eyes dropped and Edmure stared at his feet and took a breath. "Robb is going to march to leave for Harrenhal tomorrow. With what remains of his Northerners."

"For what purpose?"

"I don't know. He spent half the council drinking wine laced with milk of the poppy and staring into space, like nothing was real to him. The other half he spent yelling like a madman. But I think he means run north with his tail between his legs."

"Edmure! You should not say such things."

"I shouldn't speak the truth you mean," he laughed bitterly. "Robb took near seventeen thousand men south, and he's come back with barely three thousand. Heh. And most of them Freys at that. He's wasted our strength, what's left of it. He let the Riverlands burn, and now he's abandoning them!" Edmure was shouting at the end.

"You should not speak of your liege lord, your nephew, in such a manner!" Catelyn shouted back.

"He's not my liege!" There was silence as Catelyn stared at her brother in shock. Edmure closed his eyes and held his head in his hand. "Not for long anyway," Edmure said numbly, letting a letter slip through his fingers and fall the the ground. "I'm sorry Cat. But for my people... for the Riverlands… I'm going to bend my knee to Stannis."

"You?" Catelyn was stunned. "What?"

Edmure let out a bitter chuckle. "I'm taking your advice. Kneel to Stannis, it's what you said to me. To Uncle Brynden. To Robb. Well it's too late for one and the other is too drunk from wine and maddened by pain and poppy to see sense. So I'll do it." Edmure picked up the letter. "An offer from Stannis," Edmure held up the letter to read it. "One last chance to bend the knee," he quoted. "Those who don't… will be destroyed."

"Does… Does Robb know?"

Edmure shook his head. "No, and he won't. Not until he's left Riverrun at least when he learns that I'm not the only one to have received one of these," he waved the letter. "Please don't tell him. Not yet at least. Mayhaps he'll see sense later. Mayhaps you can convince him to bend the knee."

"I pray I can," Catelyn said, remembering how Robb had pulled away, how he'd seemed almost… scared, like a cornered animal. I pray I can.