Daven

Stannis Baratheon waited for them on the wide flat plains that surrounded Bitterbridge. His right flank was anchored by the Mander but his left was open. King Joffrey's army was mustering four miles south of the rebels, well out of dragonrange. I hope. Near a mile away from the enemy army was a large pyre that sent a pillar of smoke high into the sky.

Joffrey rested with his commanders atop a low hillock, barely a dozen feet tall at the summit, but in the wide flat plains of the northern Reach, it seemed like a mountain. Joffrey wore gold and crimson, plate armour, with stags and lions worked in jet and rubies. His helm was shaped like a snarling lion mounted with a stag's antlers. "We must strike quickly," King Joffrey declared. "Lest my traitorous uncle's dragons pound my army."

A muttering of agreement came from the assembled lords, knights, and other commanders. Save for Lord Mathis they were all armoured and ready for battle. The Lord of Goldengrove's leg still prevented him from fighting at all or even riding anything more than the calm little brown mare he currently rode. Gunthor Rowan waited beside his father on a gelding, holding the reins of his father's mare. Lord Mathis' wounded leg was bound in a great mass of white plaster to hold is still and safe while his bones mended.

Ser Addam Marbrand pointed a gauntleted fist at their right flank. "Brilliant Your Grace, if it pleases Your Grace, I might take our cavalry to the right so as to outflank the enemy."

Joffrey turned to look at the heir to Ashemark, for a moment he looked surprised that Ser Addam had even spoken. His pouty lips smirked slightly. "Yes ser, do that."

It hadn't taken long for many to discover the key to getting King Joffrey to agree with you was to flatter him, make what you were suggesting seem obvious, make it seem like you were doing a service by bringing it up so King Joffrey didn't have too.

A glint of light brought Daven's attention to Lord Mathis Rowan, who had brought his Myrish Eye with him and was getting a good look at the defenders. "If those banners mean anything," Lord Mathis pointed at part of the rebel's left flank. "Then they've received reinforcements from the Crownlands, but not many. Your Grace still has the advantage of numbers." His contraption shifted to the left. "Their dragons are at the center, they'll have command of the field from there."

Ser Creylen of the Red Hill, a hedge knight and one of Ser Bronn's men, snorted. "You worry like an old woman," he laughed at Lord Mathis' expense. King Joffrey laughed too, which meant everyone else had to laugh as well. Daven forced a chuckle out of his own throat.

As the laughter and forced chuckling died down Daven pushed his gelding up to be next to the king. "Your Grace, womanish as Lord Mathis' worries are he does raise a point of concern. The dragons could do grievous damage to your knights and other-"

"Ah yes the knights," King Joffrey didn't sound concerned. "The land's flat isn't it Ser Daven?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Daven said trying not to sound confused as to King Joffrey's intentions.

"Then just put the smallfolk," Joffrey pointed idly at the infantry. "In front of our good highborn knights. The dragons can't shoot what they can't see. Ser Raymond," King Joffrey turned to the Knight of Blackwatch Keep who waited with many petty lords of the Reach. "You and," Joffrey waved a disinterested hand at the rest of the Reachmen. "The rest of you will take your foot and make up the right flank under the command of Lord Tytos Blackwood," King Joffrey smiled graciously at the Riverlord.

The lord in question smiled silently in return and bowed in his saddle. "Thank you Your Grace."

The Riverlord had not done much of anything since he had bent the knee to King Joffrey at Goldengrove. Lord Tywin had not trusted him with a major command and in any case, Lord Tytos had less than a hundred men left to him. But he had been one of the first to reaffirm his loyalty to King Joffrey in the aftermath of the Cockleswent and now he was being rewarded.

"Ser Addam Marbrand will take command of the most all our knights," King Joffrey continued. "Ser Bronn you'll have the rear, Ser Daven, take your dragonmen to the left and take command of the left as well. I trust you'll know best what to do. As for the center," he smiled. "The center will be under my command."

"Yes, Your Grace," Daven said as he bowed in his saddle, but King Joffrey had already turned his attention back to Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Bronn Wolfsbane, waving a bored hand to dismiss him. Daven turned his gelding around and made his way to his appointed position on the battlefield. His Grace has given me leave to command the left as I wish. I'm not sure if that's wise or foolish.

Daven joined his dragonmen and their supporting infantry in the center of the army. For all that the Battle of the Cockleswent had been a bloodbath on both sides, casualties amongst the dragonmen had been blessedly light, only a few dead and a few dozen injured. The weapons themselves were all but undamaged, though powder and shot were running low. This will be the last of it, Daven thought, the last burst of Western dragonfire. I pray that one last burst is all that will be needed. Messengers peeled off from Daven's party as he led his small guard and the dragonmen onward to the left. They left with Daven's orders to the knights and lords now under his command. Ser Lyle Crakehall, Ser Harwyn Plumm, Ser Melwyn Sarsfield, Ser Garth Greenfield, and Lord Robin Moreland, Daven mentally recited his main subordinates. His orders were to begin advancing as soon as possible. The less time Stannis has to blast them with dragonfire the better.

As Daven rode down the length of the army, the great mass of infantry that King Joffrey had entrusted to him slowly rose to attention as the drums began to beat. Trumpets blared, and banners waved as the infantry slowly gathered their swords, axes, halberds, spears, poleaxes, longbows, crossbows, and half a hundred other weapons. Daven japed, waved, and shouted at them, but most of them remained silent. Morale's low, all of King Joffrey's executions, Ser Bronn's bullying, and fighting with the Reachmen. Daven clapped hands with an old pikeman sergeant to cover his dismay. How can you ask a man to fight when he can't trust the men standing beside him?

Daven rode onward, dismounted his gelding, and passed the reins to a page and in one smooth motion mounted an armoured warhorse. The knights and lords under his command were already starting their advance. From his place in the rear Daven could see the trails of dust, flattened ground, and refuse left behind by other contingents of the haphazardly advancing army. Daven pushed on his helm, raised the visor, and kicked his warhorse forward. He pushed forward to the front of the army where the dust didn't fill the air and he could more clearly see the battle slowly unfolding before him. For a time the army advanced solely to the sound of thumping boots, the beating drums, and the occasional blaring trumpet. But as they approached the pyre the dragons began to roar. A flash of fire and the sound of thunder was all the warning men had before a ball of iron cut them down like wheat before a scythe. Blessedly the enemy fire was drawn toward the right flank.

The flames of the pyre swelled before them as Daven's men advanced. The thickening smoke provoked a wave of sneezes and coughs from the men. The closer Daven came to the pyre the clearer it's source of fuel became. The Seven. Daven's stomach almost rebelled at the sight of the Father's burning face, the Warrior's sword reduced to a burning stump, and the Crone's lantern truly aflame. It's true then, Stannis has abandoned the Seven in favour of the Red God. As he watched, the Smith collapsed in on himself. Daven wasn't the only one to find his pace quickening after seeing what burned in the pyre.

Cries from the right flank of his contingent caused Daven to turn his head. He stood in his stirrups and stretched his neck in a vain attempt to see what was happening. "Go find out what's happening in the center," he said to a messenger boy. "And tell my commanders to be wary of an attack from the right," he said to another pair of messengers.

"Yes mi'lord," the trio of messengers said, quickly pulling their small, swift, geldings around.

What's going on over there? Daven wondered. I can't do much for it but what I've already done. Focus on the task at hand and do it well. Dragonshot thundered through a squad of crossbowmen turning them into a bloody mist. Daven turned to his trumpeter. "Signal for double speed," he commanded. What's made them decide to change targets? The trumpet call was repeated up and down the line. In fits and starts the mass of Westermen infantry pushed forward, toward the enemy. Ahead of them, Daven spied movement and he put spurs to his stallion, urging it forward through the lines of infantry and the dust they were kicking up. The enemy was advancing. Ranks of Stormlanders, Crownlanders, and rebel Reachmen, and amongst the ranks were companies of dragonmen.

There's hundreds of them. "Dragonmen! Crossbowmen! Archers!" Daven roared. "Forward as fast as you can! Don't let them get their shots off!" Trumpets blared, drums boomed, and men roared as the two armies marched into battle. It wasn't long before quarrels and arrows began to fill the air, casting their shadows upon the earth. Ranks of crossbowmen and archers gathered behind pavise shields to loose their quarrels and arrows from safety. Dragonmen rushed to get into position to fire their deadly lead balls. Infantry of various types rushed forward, from loose bands of smallfolk armed with shields and axes, to disciplined blocks of pikemen, to the sworn swords of noble houses armed with all manner of weapons. The nervousness that had been so prevalent mere minutes earlier was nearly gone, the men were eager for blood. Daven let the tide of men carry forward without him. If a commander ever has to use his sword then he has done something wrong, Tywin Lannister's voice echoed in Daven's memory.

The rush of Westermen was checked, not by Stormlanders, by rebel Reachmen, or by Crownlanders, but by the crash of dragonfire. Hundreds of enemy dragonmen fired into the dense formations of Westermen charging at them causing the entire host to flinch as one. But by either Daven's commands or the men's own instincts, the Western charge only redoubled their haste. They forced their way forward, clambering over their own dead, without giving the dragonmen time to reload their cumbersome weapons. As the dragonmen fell back their places were taken by Stormlander pikemen, fighting in dense squares with Reachmen and Crownlanders on their flanks. The battle quickly began to descend into a shoving match between the two armies as pike, halberd, sword, axe, mace, and hammer slid against armour and shield. Both sides struggling to gain a momentary advantage in the chaos. Every once and a while a flash of fire and rising smoke signalled the shot of a hand-dragon.

"Ser Daven! Ser Daven!" A messenger careened into the chaos. "Ser Lyle needs help!"

Daven pulled his horse around. "Help with what!" What does the Strongboar need from me?

"The center's breaking! Ser Lyle's being overwhelmed!"

"Has a message been sent to Ser Bronn?" Daven shouted at the poor messenger.

"I don't know."

"Then go there next, we need the reserve to move if they haven't started already. GO!" The messenger rode away. They won't make it in time. Sorry Lord Tywin but sometimes you need to get your hands dirty. Daven drew his sword and shouted at his personal guard. "WITH ME! HEAR ME ROAR!"

"HEAR ME ROAR!" They screamed.

Daven kicked back his spurs and led his guard into the fray.

Mathis

Gunthor slowly lead Mathis' pliant mare away from King Joffrey's war council and away from the slowly advancing army. Mathis took deep breaths as he fought to keep the pain from showing. He could feel his leg was swelling in its cast, particularly around the knee.

"Are you alright father?" Gunthor asked.

"Just hurry," Mathis grunted through the pain.

They plodded along a few seconds more before Gunthor spoke again. "You should have been given command of the right, father."

"And what makes you say that? Lord Tytos isn't a poor choice, he has many years of experience," it burned him a little to defend the Riverlord but, depending on how Gunthor answered, Mathis could take the opportunity to teach his son and heir something.

"He doesn't know them, the lords and knights I mean.

"And why do you think a commander needs to know the lords under his command?"

"He, uh, he needs to know which of them are cautious or reckless or craven or stupid."

"Why does that matter?" Mathis pressed.

"Because a lord can't be everywhere, he has to delegate, and he needs to know who works best where."

Mathis snorted and reached out to clap his son on the back. "You must've gotten your mother's brains. What else?"

Gunthor smiled as he continued. "And they don't respect him. How can a knight follow someone he doesn't respect?"

"Respect is a fickle thing, it can be lost, earned, and then lost again in a single day. Should Lord Tytos command well enough, and there's no reason he won't, then that will earn him a measure of respect."

"But why risk it when you could be in command?"

"Because I'm a cripple," Mathis said bluntly. "And a cripple isn't respectable, leastways not a new made cripple. In any case, if I stay on this horse much longer I'll be half unconscious from pain and poppy before the battle even truly begins."

Gunthor frowned and they carried on in silence.

Some minutes young Maester Copham tutted as Mathis' men lifted him into his wagon. "I warned you mi'lord that you were not yet ready to ride."

"Shut up and drug me," Mathis groaned as he leaned back on one of the stuffed pillows in the belly of the wagon. His leg was gently, but still painfully, lifted so it would rest upon a pile of goose feather pillows.

Copham snorted as he finished mixing an elixir of some kind in a large bowl. He poured some of the liquid into a cup and then poured some back out, then some back in, and then some back out again, until he was satisfied with the volume. "Drink this mi'lord."

"What is it?" Mathis asked even as he drained the cup.

"Diluted milk of the poppy. It will dull the pain, but if taken in moderation, won't dull your mind."

Mathis passed the empty cup back to the dark-haired younger man. "Thank you," Mathis paused as Copham accepted the cup without fuss and then turned to examine Mathis' leg. "Your accent, northern Stormlands?"

"Parchments to be precise. Does this hurt?" Copham prodded Mathis' big toe a small steel poker.

"Fuck!" Mathis swore as a sharp jolt of pain shot up his leg.

"I'll take that as a yes," Copham slid the poker back into a leather case. "That's good as long as you still have feeling that means the wound hasn't turned and the cast can be kept on," he used his long grey sleeve to dust the plaster. "I do hate it when my work goes to waste."

"I'll try not to get myself killed then, else your work on my knee would be for naught."

"I would hope that you'd try to prevent your death out of a sense of self-preservation."

"Well," Mathis shrugged and then regretted it immediately as the movement twinged his leg. "Self-preservation went out of fashion in my family centuries ago and I'd hate to disappoint family tradition by starting now."

"Of course mi'lord," Maester Copham stood upright and straightened his grey robes. "I fear there's nothing more that I can do today mi'lord. I've mixed a dozen doses of the milk of the poppy, take them once every four hours at most, and only fill it up to this line. No more no less. Do you understand?" The last question was directed at Gunthor.

Gunthor glanced sideways at Mathis before looking back to Copham. "Yes Maester Copham," he said with all the seriousness a thirteen year old could muster.

Copham nodded and bowed as he left. "Good day mi'lords."

Mathis waved a hand in acknowledgment. "And too you."

Mathis sighed in relief as the pain in his knee gradually lessened and the swelling began to go down. He reached down to his belt and pulled the Myrish eye out of its leather case. "Gunthor," he called and passed the device to his son. "Use those young eyes of yours. Tell me how the battle fares."

Gunthor wasted no time in clambering out of the wagon, which was fortunate enough to have a place atop a barely five foot rise in the ground. "Seems pretty even, everyone's just standing around," he called back to Mathis.

Mathis shook his head and smiled, Gunthor was a bright lad all things considered but he did have his moments. "That's because it hasn't started yet."

"Oh."

A few minutes passed. "They're moving now."

"Whose moving?"

"The knights, our knights, and the foot."

"Where?"

"The knights are going around the flank, the right flank, er uhm, to the southwest, opposite the river. The infantry are just moving straight forward."

"Can you see what Stannis' doing?"

"There's too much dust to see the rebels, but," thunder echoed in the distance. "I think the dragons are firing."

"Firing where?"

"At the right of the army, I think, at the infantry."

Mathis groaned. At the Reachmen, at my men. He grimaced. Fucking Joffrey. He rubbed his face. Do it for Elinor. Do it for her, suffer Joffrey and pray Tommen takes the throne.

Gunthor continued to regularly describe the advance of the army. How the knights were sheltered from dragonfire by the bodies of the infantry. How the advance left a trail of dead behind them. All of it as Mathis had expected, but as the armies began to close in on each other the unexpected began.

"All the dust makes it hard to see, but I think something's happening on the right."

"What do you mean by something?"

"They're falling back."

"They who? The infantry? The cavalry?"

"Both… and I think… I think there's fighting happening between different parts of the army."

"Seven hells. Send word to Ser Marton Broadtree, we need to start moving before Stannis' men catch us."

"Yes, father." Mathis heard Guthor clambered off the top of the wagon and begin running to find Mathis' bannerman.

Mathis waited in nervous silence for several minutes. The wagon started to shake and then roll forward. "What's happening?" Mathis asked. There was no response. "Gunthor? Gunthor answer me!"

"Your son is fine my lord," Ser Raymond Redding said as he and Ser Walder Yelshire clambered aboard the wagon.

"Just a bit bruised is all," Ser Walder said as he stood to his full height. Ser Raymond looked askance at his counterpart.

Mathis' eyes flickered between the two knights. House Yelshire's sworn to House Tarly and Redding to House Crane. Neither are likely to go over to Stannis. "What is this?"

"Stannis has broken through, we're retreating," Ser Raymond said quickly. Too quickly.

"Your lying," Mathis accused. "What's really happening?"

"I-" Ser Raymond was interrupted by shouting outside that caught the attention of all three men. Ser Walder poked his head out of the back of the wagon. "I'll handle it," he said as he leapt out of the wagon.

"What's he handling?" Mathis asked suspiciously.

"The retreat," Ser Raymond said.

"So you mean to tell me that Joffrey's bungled it then or was it Lord Tytos or yourselves who made a mess of this?"

Ser Raymond said nothing.

Mathis continued. "If Stannis had broken through then this wouldn't be a retreat it would be a rout you'd abandon this wagon and myself without a second thought. So I'll ask one more time what's happening?" Mathis felt he already knew but he had to make Ser Raymond say it. I pray I'm wrong. For my daughter's sake I pray I'm wrong.

"We, that is to say, Ser Walder, myself, and many of our countrymen have decided to leave Joffrey."

"You mean abandon Joffrey. So what have you done then?" Mathis fumed, struggling to keep control of himself. "Gone over to Stannis?"

"Never!" Ser Raymond said boldly. "That pyre on the field was what remained of the Sept of Bitterbridge. He's taken some fiendish foreign god as his own."

"Then what? You'll take Robb Stark as your king? Or perhaps you fools will bend the knee to Euron Greyjoy! Or is it to be rebellion for the sake of rebellion!"

"We've made our choice! The men of the Reach will not be party to Joffrey Waters and his cruelty. Nor will we make common cause with the worshipers of strange gods, be they drowned or red or old. We will make our own path, though where it leads I know not."

Elinor… "No." The Lannisters will never believe I had nothing to do with this. "No." Not my daughter.

"My lord," Ser Raymond seemed to be getting frustrated. "We are prepared to take you into our confidence, you would have a place on our councils but-."

"You damn fucking fool!" Mathis screamed at him. "What have you done!"

Ser Raymond almost fell backward at Mathis' outburst. "My lord?"

"You've killed her!" Mathis kept screaming. "You've all killed her! You stupid bastards!"

"My lord please be calm. What are you-"

"No!" Mathis screamed again. "No! You will leave me ser! Leave!"

Instead, Ser Raymond stood in stunned silence at this outburst.

"Get out!" Mathis reached for his sword, prompting Ser Raymond to trip backward in the moving wagon. Mathis pulled himself upright on one knee, his plastered leg lay at a painful angle, and he was forced to lean on his sword like a cane. He forced the pain away with anger and sorrow. "GET OUT!"

Ser Raymond fled.

Mathis collapsed in tears. "Elinor," he cried. "I'm sorry."

The wagon rattled on, further and farther from his daughter.

Melisandre

King Stannis stood atop a wooden watchtower twenty feet tall, hastily made from parts of wagons and palisades, gathered around him were lords, knights, and messengers. The three knights of the kingsguard, Ser Richard, Ser Timon, and Ser Andrew stood shoulder to shoulder, making a wall between their king and his councillors. Together they all stood in stunned silence, watching with disbelief as the enemy army disintegrated before the fighting had even truly begun. No one should be surprised it was foreseen in the fires and made certain by a sacrifice of false idols and the promise of more. This is the will of R'hllor. "The enemies of the Azor Ahai Reborn break and flee before him, praise to R'hllor."

"Praise R'hllor. Praise the Lord of Light," echoed the lords, captains, and messengers around Melisandre, Stannis said nothing.

"Your Grace, you have pleased The Lord of Light greatly with your sacrifices, look how He strikes fear into the hearts of your enemies." Melisandre smiled slightly after Cider Hall attendance at her nightfires had grown considerably, now, even more, would come, but far more importantly this meant that Azor Ahai Reborn reigned uncontested in his kingdom. When the time comes Stannis will draw Lightbringer and smite the enemy of life. The Great Other will be defeated once more and the night will end.

The Reachmen elements of Joffrey's army were moving due south in good order, though the edges of the formation were ragged and bloodied where they met the Westermen and Stannis' own forces. The Westermen, in turn, were rolling back from the fight, their cavalry was split between fighting the Reachmen and was trying to cover a retreat that might not even happen, while their center and left were in confusion, half in a panic, the other half still advancing under the weight of dragonfire.

Stannis ground his teeth. "Signal Ser Mark Mullendore, Lord Justin Massey, and Lord Renfred Rykker, to attack the Westermen if they haven't begun doing so already. The reserve will come with me and cut the two parts off from each other."

"Yes Your Grace," the courtiers said as one, before scattering to deliver and enforce Stannis' commands. Stannis remained unmoving, leaning forward on the edge of the tower.

Melisandre advanced toward the king, pausing before Ser Richard Horpe as the kingsguard remained unmoving. "Let her pass," Stannis said after a moment. The Lord Commander of Stannis' kingsguard shifted aside, bowing his eyes in respect, as Melisandre passed.

"The Lord of Light desires another sacrifice," Melisandre said to Stannis as the messengers and commanders rode away.

Stannis was silent, his jaw clenched, and his teeth grinding. "What sacrifice would you and your god have of me? Another sept or perhaps a godswood this time?"

"False idols can only go so far Your Grace. To retain the Lord of Light's favour you must go further. Give up a sacrifice of flesh and blood."

Stannis scoffed. "Am I to be Aerys the Mad come again?" He turned and began to make is way down the watchtower.

Melisandre followed and from the final landing said. "There will be many prisoners after today. Traitors and turncloaks. No one would see their deaths to be amiss."

Stannis stepped down from the watchtower and mounted his horse. He looked at her, from the back of his steed he could look her in the eyes. "Your god would be pleased to have false knights and traitorous lords sacrificed in his name? I thought the point of sacrifice was that what was sacrificed had to be worth something."

"Our god," Melisandre took a step toward the edge of the landing and extended a hand to take the reins of Stannis' horse. "The Lord of Light finds value and worth in the lives of all mankind. Even the false, the foolish, the traitors, and the turncloaks."

"I will think on this," Stannis said after a moment.

"You have taken R'hllor into your heart, Your Grace, I know you will make the wise choice."

Stannis turned and without a word, he rode away to his commanders, followed by three white shadows. Melisandre waited in silence, looking out across the field of unbelievers doing battle. A knot of resistance still remained but by and large, the battle was already won. This is the work of R'hllor. In silence, she left the watchtower and made the short walk to the fire she had lit before the battle, not the great pyre where the false idols burned, but a smaller fire where the faithful could find solace before risking their lives. The world is shrouded in darkness but in the cold flicker candles of faith that push back the darkness. Slowly the fire spreads consuming the darkness and spreading the holy light of R'hllor. Pleased by the valour of the faithful she stared into the flames.

R'hllor it seemed did not desire to send a great vision to her, not now in any case. Images and visions did come, but they were fragmented and haphazard, rarely lasting more than a second before being consumed. Nonetheless a few did strike a place in her mind as being significant. A dragon fighting a horde of rats. A shining forest grew inside a walled city. Men and women fell one by one off of a rock. Crows battled against wild beasts in the snow. Seven daggers surrounded a crown. She narrowed her eyes and concentrated on the visions but the more she did the faster they were burned away. Hidden by the hand of R'hllor, she pursed her lips, it's His will that shows me visions and His will that takes them away.

Hoofbeats caught her attention. She turned and saw Devan Seaworth waiting for her attention. The boy dismounted and walked up to her. "His Grace commands that you are to prepare another pyre," the boy said.

Melisandre smiled at him. "Of course," she offered a hand to him. "Come, look into the fire." The boy took her hand and she pulled him forward to take her place. "Look carefully Devan, pray to R'hllor, and you might see your father," she left him alone to do what Azor Ahai Reborn and R'hllor commanded of her.

Her servants built the pyre quickly, using broken barrels, crates, and scrap timber for kindling, the atop it they piled lumber, and all of it was built around a central post. When it was done all of the wood was soaked in oil. Torches were readied and set aside for when the sacrifices would begin. With her task done Melisandre joined Stannis where he held court on the open field, a camp chair atop a dais made of crates functioned as a throne, the kingsguard and dragonmen surrounded the king, and Justin Massey spoke for him. While most of the prisoners would be sent back to King's Landing to meet their fate, Stannis had decreed that there would be two exceptions.

"Lord Tytos Blackwood, you are brought here to answer for the crimes of treason and rebellion," the blond knight proclaimed as dragonmen led the captive forward. "What do you have to say for your defence?"

"Your Grace," Lord Tytos Blackwood knelt. "Please forgive my indiscretions."

"Indiscretions?" Justin Massey grinned. "I suppose it is a tad indiscreet to take up arms against the rightful king. Twice. Once in the name of a rebel and a second time for a usurper."

"My life was threatened," Lord Tytos protested. "Joffrey's cruelty is unimagin-"

"Hah!" Justin Massey interrupted again. "I squired for King Robert what Joffrey Waters can do is very imaginable to me and most everyone in His Grace's court."

Lord Tytos Blackwood rose to his feet. "I will not be mocked!"

"But you would make a mockery of justice?" King Stannis asked, speaking to Tytos Blackwood for the first time.

"Your Grace I-"

"Twice you and your house have had the chance to bend the knee. Your liege lord bent the knee, your neighbours bent the knee, and House Blackwood remained defiant. Even now Raventree Hall is under siege." Stannis stared down at the lord from his makeshift throne. "Tytos Blackwood, I attaint you, I strip you of all your lands and titles, and I condemn you to death. Take him," a pair of soldiers dragged the stunned former Lord of Raventree Hall away.

Ser Daven Lannister was brought forward next. The man's great blond beard and shoulder length hair was matted with blood. The Lannister knight said nothing as his captors forced him to his knees.

Justin Massey spoke in Stannis' stead again. "Ser Daven Lannister, you are named a traitor to the Iron Throne, do you deny this?"

Daven Lannister swayed in place. "I do," he said at last. "Joffrey is my king. He is the rightful king, his father's heir."

"Joffrey is no more a rightful king than my horse is," Ser Justin japed. He waited for Ser Daven to say something and when he did not he sighed. "If you have nothing more to say," Justin Massey turned to Stannis. "Your Grace?"

"Daven Lannister," the king intoned. "I attaint you, I strip you of your titles, and sentence you to die." Two soldiers took the former knight away. Stannis stood to his feet. "Lady Melisandre, begin."

"Your Grace," Melisandre bowed and followed the path already by Tytos Blackwood and Daven Lannister, Stannis followed her, and one by one the rest of the court followed. The two men were already being tied to the post. Faithful armed with spears surrounded the pyre and moved aside to let their priestess and their king pass by them and approach the pyre. One of them lit a torch and held it ready.

When the sacrifices were solidly tied in place Melisandre took up the burning torch and stepped forward. The sacrifices were beginning to tremble but their courage had not wholly abandoned them. The two men stood in silence as Melisandre approached with the torch. Melisandre stopped at the base of the pyre.

She raised the torch and shouted. "Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness," then she threw the torch onto the pyre.

The flames rushed red, orange, and yellow over the oil soaked wood. Melisandre remained in place as the flames erupted from the pyre. The heat did not bother her and she did not fear for burns. The two men stayed silent as the flames reached upwards, but they were beginning to squirm and cough as heat and smoke began to torment them.

Tytos Blackwood broke first. His coughs and groans turned to screams and he began to writhe in agony. Daven Lannister lasted a bare half minute longer before his own screams began. As they screamed the flames swept upwards leaping from tinder to wood to cloth. Searing flesh and boiling blood. Daven Lannister's long beard and hair caught fire. It almost looked like he had a halo shining around his head. To the rest of the crowd, these seemed to be only flames but Melisandre saw further. She saw the flames for what they really were. They are the fiery hands of the Lord of Light, come here to drag their souls to burning justice. A short time later and their screams were silenced as R'hllor's hands reached down their throats and turned their lungs to ash.

Sansa

One by one a line of men, women, and children in dirty shifts and ragged clothes took their places on the edge of the cliff. They were from the Reach, after weeks imprisonment more word of Reachman treachery had reached Casterly Rock, and Queen Cersei responded. With a single word from Queen Cersei dozens of men, women, and children were thrown to their deaths. Tossed by red cloaked guardsmen from the heights of House Lannister's mountain fortress. Their screams echoed over the rocks and through the still afternoon air before being suddenly silenced and replaced by the crash of far away waves, somber silence, and weeping. Weeping from the prisoners, many of whom were younger than Sansa, and weeping from Myranda Lefford, Sansa's goodmother, who wept for the death of her son. It was in Daven's name that these executions were being carried out, vengeance Queen Cersei had said. "Vengeance for a betrayed king and a murdered cousin. House Lannister always pays its debts."

While weeping, screams, and the crash of distant waves filled the air, Sansa's soul flew far above it all. I am free, she thought, free of Daven and free of weddings. Free for a time at the very least. A widow cannot be made to wed so long as she is in mourning and I will be in mourning for a very long time. She kept her face carefully blank as more prisoners were sent to their deaths.

Word of the betrayal had come by raven. King Joffrey claimed that in the moment of victory the Reachmen, led by Mathis Rowan, had abandoned him and it was only his own courageous leadership that had kept what remained of his army alive. Rumours of how large what remained varied, some said that only a few thousand remained, but others claimed that the greatest part of the Western host had escaped, some fifteen or twenty thousand men.

In the end, it mattered not those that Queen Cersei had taken prisoner only weeks before were now being killed. Distracted by the spectacle as they were Sansa was able to slip backward and into the maze of hallways that stretched within Casterly Rock. Sansa turned left where most everyone else would have turned right. She took another lonely turn and then another and then another until she was walking all alone. She walked down long halls carved from living stone. Some of them were tunnels really, old mining tunnels dug by ancient Lannisters or even more ancient Casterlys. Some of the tunnels and halls sloped upwards or else were carved with stairs. They led Sansa to the windy heights of Casterly Rock where the heart tree waited for her. There were easier ways to reach the Stone Garden, far easier, but they were filled with people. People who would want to talk about Sansa's deceased husband and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

The Stone Garden was deserted, as it usually was, in trying times like these most everyone in Casterly Rock preferred the solace of the sept. Occasionally some of the maids or servants would come to the Stone Garden but they came for a much different kind of worship then what Sansa had in mind.

Sansa sat before the heart tree, thinking of her last visit, her accusations and what had happened since. "My husband is dead," Sansa said, choking back a cruel laugh as tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. "Thank you," she said with uttermost sincerity.

For a moment as Sansa smiled as she stared at the roaring, almost leonine, face carved into the tree. She remembered those long ago days when her father would take all of her siblings to pray in the godswood at Winterfell. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as she remembered her father taking her and Arya to the oaken heart tree in the Red Keep to give thanks for Bran waking up from the wounds of his fall. She sniffed as her tears grew stronger. It's funny the face almost looks like Bran. Tearfully, Sansa reached forward and placed her hand upon the twisted heart tree's roaring face.

The world disappeared. Everything became clear and everything was shrouded in darkness. Light burned her mind. A wordless soundless scream ruined her ears. Her blood sang and her bones vibrated. Goosebumps prickled her skin. She saw the tree with her eyes but her mind saw more.

IT'S COMING, something said, something vast, terrible, alien, and freakishly familiar. Sansa felt it speaking, instead of hearing it, and saw, as though from a distance, that she was bleeding from her nose, from her eyes, and from her ears. The blood trickled down and fell upon the ground which shook like an earthquake was happening.

The drops of blood became hills, which became mountains, and then the blood congealed into corpses. Lions, bears, wolves, dragons, stags, and people, so many millions of people. Above the dead fought a pair of crows whose size rivaled that of Balerion the Black Dread. One had three red eyes and the other bore only one eye. Even as the crows fought the skies darkened to night, the wind rose to a howl, flinging the dead into the air, and with the storm came the cold. An evil cold that went beyond any winter the world had ever known.

She saw a man raping a woman, and for a moment she was the man, but then it changed and Sansa was the woman and the man was Daven, and then Daven changed, his hair turned black, his skin turned pale and clammy, and his eyes… Sansa tried to scream but she had no mouth and silence reigned.

THE STORM IS COMING. She saw blood and vomit in pour from her own mouth and saw it dribble down her chin and onto her breast.

She saw a storm building, a storm great enough to rip the mountains from the earth. A storm to wipe all the land away. She saw the Iron Throne laying at the bottom of the sea wrapped in seaweed and filth, while blue eyed demons crawled over it, and a black monster wrapped in tentacles sat amongst the barbs and blades, and all the gods lay dead amongst the blades. The Seven, the Drowned God, and even the broken faceless weirwoods of the Old Gods.

The black monster rose and was joined by a red monster and together they tormented a golden woman who lay in chains. The red monster wrapped her hands around the golden woman's throat and began to strangle her. The golden woman's face turned blue, then black, and her skin peeled away to reveal the maggots beneath, and the monsters feasted upon them, the maggots and the woman.

THE EVERSTORM COMES, it spoke again, it's voice all but breaking Sansa's mind as she wept tears of blood. She saw nothing and everything. Heard only an endless silence and the heartbeat of every creature in Westeros. Slowly flashes of something began to pierce the nothingness of sight and sound, fog and fire, ships and a shattered mountain, a cold north wind, and the endless cackling of crows.

The light faded and the sound quieted. Sansa's hand fell from the heart tree and she collapsed to the stone ground as every muscle in her body turned to water. Numbly she felt her stomach continue to release its contents. As unconsciousness took her she heard what sounded like two people speaking. One was distant yet familiar the other closer, stranger, and terrible. She tried to hear the familiar voice but it was too distant and overshadowed by the other voice. I am the storm...

Sansa woke in her bed, cushioned by pillows and a blanket so thick she felt like she was being smothered. She heard someone speaking, but their voice was muffled as if she was hearing them through a stuffed pillow.

"She's awake!" Myrielle shrieked as she saw Sansa moving. The blonde girl quickly came to Sansa's side. "We were so worried the maesters said they'd never seen anything like it."

Sansa pulled away from the Lannister by instinct. Her lips twitched in a momentary snarl, making Myrielle flinch, and then the darkness took Sansa again.

When Sansa woke again she was alone in her room. Dull sunlight and a cool wind poured through an open door. Sansa opened her parched mouth and moaned, her entire body ached and shivered, despite the warm blankets. She twisted and rolled, then pulled herself upright, and dragged herself out of the bed. Her head hurt, her mind hurt, and it swirled busily with half a hundred images. She bundled herself in blankets and crept across the room to her dresser and the pitcher that awaited her there. With trembling hands the reached for the pitcher of lemon water on her dresser and drank deeply. The crash of waves drew her attention and Sansa slowly shivered her way across the room and onto the balcony.

The sun was hidden from the earth by thick grey clouds and the sea was shrouded by a thick fog. Even as the noonday sun beat savagely upon her balcony the fog seemed to, if anything, only grow thicker as the day passed on. As the fog grew thicker it seemed to form a wall, a great rampart of shifting water and air, that separated the sea from the land. Sansa could see the harbour of Lannisport and the boats that moved within it from her balcony but not those that traversed the Sunset Sea. Not that there were many ships in such weather. The risk of running aground or hitting a rock was too great for most captains. Or so Sansa supposed as she saw no ships leaving or entering the harbours of Lannisport or Casterly Rock. Until a single strange ship came out of the fog. The ship looked oddly boxlike, it had queer ribbed sails, and it made its way directly to the open harbour only to stop in the narrow opening of the sea walls.

Suddenly flashes of fire appeared to come from the inside of the ship and puffs of fog appeared beside the ship. Or is it smoke? And a sound like distant thunder washed over her. Sansa watched in fascination as the towers that flanked the entrance and housed the great harbour chain began to collapse into the sea. A flash of light presaged a headache that quickly swelled behind Sansa's eyes. She leaned forward, trying to focus through the pain, and watch the goings on in the harbour.

The small Lannister fleet that remained to defend Lannisport was moving to counterattack, their galleys looked like insects next to a great fish when compared to the attacking ship. Sansa gripped the banister so tightly her hands turned white. Kill them! Kill the Lannisters! Slowly a half dozen of the Lannister war galleys surrounded the foreign ship hitting it with their rams and beginning to board it. Then an explosion tore the ship and the war galleys apart, sending pieces of burning wood across the tiny fleet and setting it aflame. Yes! Yes! It took all of Sansa's control not to shout and leap in joy as the Lannister fleet backed oars to try and escape from the burning ships. Soon the entrance to the harbour was a maze of broken, burned, and sinking ships. That's when Sansa noticed more movement in the fog. More ships were coming, small ones, long and thin, quick and nimble, they expertly moved through the burning maze and into the harbour attacking the larger, but panicked, Lannister galleys. Swarming them from all sides like a pack of wolves attacking a moose. There seemed to be an endless tide of these ships coming out of the fog. Who are they, she wondered, if the ships had banners they were too small for Sansa to see.

Then more movement brought Sansa's attention back to the open ocean, larger ships were coming from the fog, some of them were true war galleys with their sails unfurled for all to see, and from them, Sansa now saw who these attackers were. On the sails and banners were scythes, horns, silver fish, bone hands, grey trees, bloody moons, and above them all the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. As the ships advanced the fog descended upon Lannisport. A twinge in her mind caused a flash of pain and brought Sansa's eyes falling to where her hand lay upon the stone of Casterly Rock and a thought rose to the surface. Fog and fire, ships and a shattered mountain...

Sansa was laughing like a mad woman when Myrielle and Cerenna found her.