Tyrion
A night on the Wall was not a night well spent. The freezing north wind cut through furs, clothes, and flesh to chill one's bones. The last black brothers in Castle Black spent their night huddled in a single pile, warmed only by the heat from each other's bodies and the feeble flames burning in the braziers. Flames that died one by one as the cold wind raged from the north. Tyrion shivered himself to sleep, curled into a ball between Lancel and Zei. The wind seemed to malevolently try to tear away cloaks and furs from the pile of sleeping men. I swear this wind is trying to kill us, Tyrion thought as he woke shivering and freezing for the dozenth time.
When the morning sun finally breached the horizon, they did not wake to a pretty sight. The wildlings were passing beneath the wall in a huge snake that stretched from deep within the Haunted Forest. Once through the tunnel most marched south of Castle Black, out into the fields and hills that stretched away from the Wall. It took the wildlings the better part of two days to pass beneath the Wall. The first to make the journey was not their warriors, but instead, the women, children, dogs, and livestock. The warriors were the last to pass beneath the Wall. The giants passed under the Wall as well, though some of them remained north of the Wall with their mammoths, which were unable to pass through the tunnel. These giants then travelled west or east, perhaps hoping to cross instead at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea or Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. In all that time the wildlings made no attempt to attack the men on the Wall. Without the great switchback stair, the only path to the top was by the lift, which made a deadly bottleneck for any would be attacker. Atop the Wall, it was another two nights spent in a freezing pile of bodies and furs, with braziers surrounding them. Their little food was soon gone, and hunger began to fray their nerves, water they had at least, as long as they had fuel for the braziers they could melt pieces of the Wall for water. But fuel was running was quickly short as well.
The nights themselves were troubled by more than just the cold. Terrible dreams haunted Tyrion as he slept. In his dreams, the Haunted Forest froze to death. The trees exploded as their sap grew so cold that it turned to ice. Tyrion himself was fleeing through the dead forest, through snow that was deeper than he was tall. Things chased him, things with blue eyes and cold souls, things with laughter like breaking icicles. He could hear other men, black brothers, and wildlings, fleeing and screaming, but the laughter rose and drowned them all out. Black hands reached out of the snow and grabbed at Tyrion as he floundered. They grabbed at his cloak, his boots, his furs, his legs. "Help!" He screamed. "HELP!" But only laughter answered him. The black hands dragged him down into the cold.
Tyrion was one of the last to wake, already most of the wildling horde finished their crossing and made a huge sprawling camp spread over the lands south of Castle Black. Tens of thousands of wildlings blanketing the land in their numbers. Without the Haunted Forest to conceal their numbers the Black Brothers were struck by the sheer weight of humanity that had come crashing through the Night's Watch and the Wall.
"I've never seen so many people in one place," Grenn said.
"Nor me," said Pyp.
"Lannisport, Oldtown, King's Landing, Gulltown," Tyrion listed names off his fingers one by one. "The wildling horde. Be happy now you can say you've visited the fifth largest city in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Rather, say the city came to us," Pyp said with a smile despite the cold and the horde.
As the morning passed and the sun rose into the sky, they sat and watched the movement of the wildlings. Riders on shaggy ponies or on the dog-pulled chariots of the Frozen Shore pulled off the main encampment and rushed south, east, and west in war bands of a few dozen or several hundred. Around noon over a thousand warriors gathered outside Castle Black and turned to travel, half went west and half went east.
"They're going to take Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower too," Jon said glumly.
"Why?" Emrick asked.
"They're already past the Wall," Arron, Emrick's twin, finished.
"Often when wildlings pass the Wall they become trapped between Northmen and the Night's Watch," Jon said. "So they'll destroy the watch."
"Securing their rear in other words," Tyrion said. "The King-Beyond-the-Wall is clever at least."
"He is," Jon said bleakly. "Very clever."
The march of the wildlings continued. Small parties, scouts or raiders, peeled off of the horde to travel to the edge of the horizon and back. Within Castle Black itself, the greatest of the war chiefs had taken the towers for themselves their ragged standards mounted from the battlements, or standing upright outside. They formed no sensible pattern or heraldry that Tyrion could follow, but Jon could name them all, the chieftains of the wild. Sigorn the Magnar of Thenn, had taken the Shieldhall for himself. Harma Dogshead had seized Hardin's Tower, while Tormund Giantsbane had taken the Lance and had all but carpeted the whole length with dozens upon dozens of ragged banners. According to Jon each one referenced one of his legendary deeds. Jon pointed at the Tower of the Guard. "That's where Mance Rayder is," he said.
"King Mance," Lancel whispered. "The King-Beyond-the-Wall."
"King-of-the-Wall now," Tyrion said, he was greeted by silence from the others.
"We should run," Zei said. "Get off the Wall and run south."
"No," Jon said. "The wildlings will be looking for stragglers. They'd pick us off in a few days at the most."
"Then what do we do?" Grenn asked.
"We see what they have to say," Tyrion said. He pointed a stubby finger, far below a crowd of wildlings had gathered to operate the lift. The black brothers crowded on the edge of the Wall and watched as a small party of wildlings, two or three perhaps, entered the cage.
They were ready when the lift ground to a halt level with the top of the Wall. Each of the black brothers had a longbow or crossbow, and every one was fixed on the lift. The three wildling warriors inside looked unafraid. Two were armed with bronze axes and were armoured in leather, bronze, and furs. The third was unarmed, though his broad chest and broader belly, were protected by black iron ringmail. A huge and heavy, fur cloak hung from his shoulders, and a big white beard covered his chest. Golden arm rings covered his arms from hand to elbow.
"Har!" The wildling boomed when the black brother's longbows relaxed, and their crossbows were lowered. The cage doors opened, and he stepped out onto the ice. "Jon Snow the crow. I feared I'd seen the last o' you."
"I never knew you to fear anything Tormund."
That made the wildling grin. "Well said lad. I see your cloak is black. Mance won't like that. He half hoped Ygritte was telling tales."
Jon shook his head. "I imagine Mance will recover from his disappointment."
"Har!" the wildling, Tormund, laughed. "That he will. Ygritte still wants to put an arrow in you though, can't say I blame her."
Jon said nothing at that.
"Why are you here?" Grenn shouldered his way forward as he asked.
Tormund looked up at the taller, and just as wide, Grenn. "Gods, you're a big one, what do they call you, giant?"
"Aurochs," Pyp supplied and received a dirty look from Grenn.
"Har!" The wildling laughed again.
"Why are you here Tormund?" Jon asked quietly.
"You aren't going to introduce me?" Tormund pouted, Jon sighed, but the wildling ignored him and plowed on. "I am Tormund Giantsbane, called, Horn-blower and Breaker of Ice, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, and Father of Hosts," he rested both huge gnarled hands on his broad belt as he finished.
"You forgot Tall-talker and Husband to Bears," Jon said quietly.
"Bah," the wildling waved his hand.
Tyrion stepped forward. "What does King Mance want that he should send one of his lords to treat with us?"
Tormund leaned down. "Didn't know they let little boys join the crows."
"I didn't know fat men could live beyond the Wall," Tyrion replied.
"Har! The boy has a tongue about him."
"Mind your tongue, you speak to a lord of House Lannister," Arron said.
"A lord eh?" The wildling chuckled.
Though before he could say more Jon asked. "Why are you here Tormund?"
The big wildling stretched and said plainly. "Mance doesn't want any crows attacking us from behind."
"So where does that leave us?" Tyrion asked.
"Fly down from the Wall," Tormund said. "Like Mance did and hundreds o' other crows had done before. Fly down and shed your black cloaks." Silence greeted the wildling as the last men of Castle Black shivered in shock. He smiled. "I'll let you think about it." He turned on the heels of his big boots and reentered the lift which then began its slow descent.
Tyrion strode to the edge to watch the lift creak its way down the Wall.
"What do we do now?" Pyp asked once the wildlings were halfway down the Wall.
"We go to Eastwatch," Jon said. "The Wall is all but straight from Castle Back to the Bay of Seals, so that's the faster path."
"Travelling on the Wall is too slow," Arron said.
"And too cold," Grenn added. "We won't survive a journey on the Wall."
"It'll be too cold, and we don't have enough food," Emrick agreed.
"Then we get off the Wall once we're far enough from the wildlings," Jon said. "At one of the other castles. Spend the night there and then move on atop the safety of the Wall."
"Travelling on the Wall's too slow." Tyrion shook his head. "The wildlings will have killed everyone in Eastwatch before we make it halfway there," he said. "The same for the Shadow Tower."
Jon rubbed his face with his black gloves. "We travel on the ground then. Just a day or two on the top of the Wall and then we-"
"Die," Tyrion said. "If the cold doesn't kill us on the Wall then the wildlings will once we're off the Wall."
"You said it yourself," Pyp said, and he pointed down the Wall at the wildlings. "They'll be looking for us if we run. They'll kill us in minutes if we leave the Wall."
"We're almost out of fuel," Grenn said. "Not even enough to get us through today let alone another night."
Tyrion nodded. "If we stay we'll die," he shook his head. "I'd rather not give my life for pride and a huge mound of ice."
"I can't," Jon said, his voice almost breaking. "I can't break my oath. I swore my vows, and I mean to keep them. I won't be what Ser Alliser accused me of being."
"Jon," Grenn said. "What you're saying it's certain death."
"Dying in a battle," Pyp said. "That's one thing but this..." He shook his head. "Jon you're asking us to march to our deaths." The other leftovers of Castle Black nodded and muttered in agreement, including Tyrion and Lancel.
"I joined the Watch so I wouldn't die," Arron said. "Not so I could freeze to death up here."
Jon stepped back in silent shock and slid down to sit on the frozen ground, his back against an icy rampart, and his head in his hands. "Without honour, without our oaths, what do we have?"
"Family," Tyrion said into the cold wind. "You have your family to think of."
"What are you talking about?" Jon asked, looking up with tears already beginning to freeze on his cheeks.
Tyrion stepped away from the brazier and approached Jon. "Robb's returned to the North," he said. "Donal Noye told me weeks ago."
Jon's mouth fell open in shock. "Why? Why didn't he tell me?"
"He meant to," Tyrion lied. "But didn't want to distract you. "Not at a time like this."
"Distract?" Jon stood. "What's happened?"
"Robb returned to the North," Tyrion said. "He returned in defeat. Beaten on the battlefield and in every other way," Tyrion continued brutally. He held nothing back he told Jon everything every detail that he knew, that he could guess or invent to make Robb's fate all the worse. "Last I heard he was outnumbered and under siege in White Harbour." When Tyrion finished, he knew from the look in Jon's eyes that the bastard had made his decision.
When they reached the bottom of the Wall Jon was the fifth to leave the lift and traded his black cloak for a sheepskin. The gathered wildlings cheered and jeered in turns as they deserted the Night's Watch. One of them a slender man of middling height with brown hair gone to gray and a black cloak slashed with red silk, stood by atop an overturned wagon and smiled silently.
"That's him," Jon whispered to them. "Mance Rayder."
As the deserters of the Night's Watch gathered with their sheepskin cloaks, the man raised his hands, and silence slowly spread among the gathered horde. As one the deserters fell to their knees save for Jon, who remained standing. Laughter spread like a wildfire among the wildlings, loudest of all was Tormund Giantsbane.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall smiled slightly, but his eyes were hard as he stared at Jon. He said nothing to them all, he simply turned his back and passed through the crowd of wildlings. What need for him to say anything? Tyrion thought, whatever speech he made would pale in comparison to the last men of Castle Black kneeling at his feet.
Beyond the crowd, a hundred wildlings worked to seal the gate with stone and ice.
Melisandre
Storm's End loomed like a shadow over the Stormlands appearing like a terrible predator ready to strike down unsuspecting prey. The truth was far more terrible, even from several miles away Melisandre could feel the ancient spells woven into the rocks and mortar of the castle. The sorceries were ancient blood spells of the First Men. Knotted around the older sorcery, was the younger but still ancient, magic of the Andal priests, who had made Storm's End a centre of their faith. The unique combination was a different sort of power than what Melisandre had experienced in the east, less obvious, but no less terrible or potent. The stronger Melisandre's spells were, the harder the ancient wards pushed back against them. Melisandre's glamours could be taken within the walls with only slight discomfort on her part. But any other sorcery would need to be born inside, or else it would be destroyed, and the backlash would harm her as well.
Melisandre rode at Stannis' side. Azor Ahai reborn had travelled half the length of the long column today, showing his stern face to the marching soldiers, and ensuring that his commands were being followed. That his soldiers had not raped or looted as they crossed the Stormlands, that his commanders had kept order in the ranks. Over twenty thousand men had departed King's Landing with Stannis and had they had been joined by thousands more of their comrades, men whom Stannis had left in the Reach to secure the western frontier against the remnants of Joffrey's army or rebel Reachmen. Some few Stormlanders had joined as well, mostly old men and boys, and Lord Edmure Tully had joined the host with some five thousand Rivermen under his command. The rest of Lord Edmure's bannermen were still in the Riverlands securing it against the brigands and bandits that infested that region, and guarding it against the threat of renewed attack by the rebel Northmen or Ironmen. All told the army that marched to Storm's End numbered nearly five and thirty thousand men.
The gaping maw of Storm's End's gate was barred with newly made doors worthy of the walls that held them. They were over a foot thick at the thinnest and were reinforced with long and wide bands of iron and bronze. As Stannis passed beneath the gatehouse Melisandre detected a shift in him, his fires seemed to brighten slightly, his shoulders became less tense, and he even stopped grinding his teeth for a few spare seconds, before resuming upon the sight of Ser Erren Florent. The huge courtyard that separated the walls from the central tower was already filling quickly with men and horses. While her eyes surveyed the stone and the men her other senses were drawn outward to the sorcery beneath. The sense of strange blood magic unique to Storm's End disturbed her. Melisandre blinked once and then pushed it from her mind and focussed her senses on other matters.
"Your Grace," Ser Erren Florent, King Stannis' goodbrother, called as he ran toward the king. "I've gathered the reports from the Stormlords. Those about Lord Mathis Rowan's host."
Stannis nodded curtly. "Give them to Maester Pylos I'll review them before the war council."
"Yes Your Grace," Ser Erren said as Stannis and Melisandre rode past him and toward the stable.
Stannis' war council was convened in a chamber high in the drum tower. Five narrow windows, barely more than arrow slits and barred with eight-inch oaken panels gave a view over the dark waves of Stormbreaker Bay. The centre of the room was dominated by a huge oval table carved from golden oak with a black stag inlaid with polished ironwood in the centre. Melisandre stood near one of the windows as she waited for the others to arrive. There is a harsh beauty to this place, she decided, as she watched the endless waves crashed onto the rocks beneath Storm's End in an eternal song of water and stone.
The doors of the chamber opened, and King Stannis entered, followed by Devan Seaworth, Maester Pylos, and Ser Richard Horpe. Stannis and Maester Pylos sat at the table, Ser Richard and Devan Seaworth stood ready and waiting. The king and the maester pulled letters and missives from Stormlords and knights and scouts, reading and taking notes. The two men read in silence for the better part of an hour. A silence interrupted only when Maester Pylos read something worth telling Stannis immediately. An armed party spotted here, banners of a Dornish house near Crow's Nest, pirates had taken Estermont, or were they something else?
After an hour a long parade of lords, knights, and commanders entered the chamber. They were dressed in all their finery, fine wools, silk surcoats, and colourful cloaks all emblazoned with the banners of their houses. The long oval table seated them all comfortably, in times past the Storm Kings convened their own councils of war and peace here. The lords, knights, and commanders seated themselves and silently waited for Stannis to begin the meeting. Melisandre slipped away from her place by the window and took her seat at Stannis' right hand. The expected faces had come to the meeting, chief among them, Masuro Kichashiro the leader of the Beikango, Ser Mark Mullendore, Lord Renfred Rykker, Lord Justin Massey Commander of the Dragons, Lord Owen Fossoway, Lord Alesander Staedmon, Lord Lester Morrigen, and Ser Erren Florent Stannis' goodbrother. There were other, less familiar, faces as well. Lord Edmure Tully had joined his king and had brought his own chief commanders to the meeting. Lord Jonos Bracken, Ser Marq Piper, and Ser Walder Frey, the one called Black Walder, had all come with their lord to King's Landing and hence to Storm's End.
The two newest faces both belonged to Stormlords. Lord Hugh Grandison had roused himself from Grandview and had brought nearly two thousand men from the Red Mountains with him. They were Grandisons and Dondarrions mostly, plus some others that had fled north from the Dornish and other invaders. The other newcomer was Lord Gulian Swann who had fled the fall of Stonehelm with a few hundred men, gathering more as he travelled north from his own lands and those of other houses. Less than a thousand had accompanied Lord Swann to Storm's End, less than half what he could have raised in better times.
Stannis placed the last letter on the table and raised his hard blue eyes to face the lords. "Lord Selwyn of Tarth writes that he will lead five hundred men to Griffon's Roost and join us there," Stannis ground his teeth for a moment. "Lady Mary Mertyns writes that her woodsmen have seen thousands of men marching west from Weeping Town. The Maester of Blackhaven writes that Dornishmen have laid siege to the castle. And we have all seen what Mathis Rowan and his rebels have wrought in the north. These are our enemies my lords, what have you to say?"
"Your Grace," Lord Hugh Grandison leaned forward, his long white beard hanging down to the table. "The Dornish are more than rebels, men I trust have seen the banners of House Martell among the Dornish and the personal arms of Prince Oberyn."
"This I can confirm," Lord Gulian said. "I met the Red Viper myself and Princess Arianne as well."
"When you surrendered your castle," Ser Erren Florent said.
"To Dornishmen and pirates," Lord Own Fossoway added.
Stannis frowned at the two Reachlords for a moment before shifting his focus to Gulian Swann. Melisandre herself watched Lord Gulian's face contort slightly as anger flushed his face.
"They were not pirates," he said slowly. "The Dornish have allied themselves with the Golden Company."
This raised much concern from the lords. "The Dornish are no friends of the Golden Company," Lord Casper Wylde complained.
"How can you be sure!" Black Walder shouted.
"Did you see Harry Stickland?" Lord Steffon Varner asked.
"Quiet!" Stannis commanded. "What else Lord Swann?"
"Thank you, Your Grace." Lord Gulian bowed his head. "The banners flown by the enemy are a matter of grave concern, Your Grace."
"What about their banners?" Lord Renfred Rykker asked, speaking for the first time, and asking the question everyone wanted to be answered.
Lord Gulian's eyes darted to Stannis' first before he spoke. "Above them, all flew the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen."
"Seven Hells," Ser Mark Mullendore swore. "When will this madness end?"
"You're certain?" Lord Casper Wylde asked. "Targaryen banners? Not Blackfyre's perhaps?"
"Absolutely certain," Lord Gulian Swann said. "I saw the pretender myself, silver-haired and purple-eyed he was, and calling himself Aegon Targaryen the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell."
"That's impossible," Lord Steffon Varner gasped. "It's," he shook his head. "It's ridiculous."
"How old was he?" Melisandre asked.
"Six and ten, or close enough," Lord Gulian said. "He looked the proper age at any rate."
"He must be a fake," Alesander Staedmon said incredulously.
"Does it matter?" Edmure Tully asked. "Fake or not he has thirty thousand men or more at his command."
"Of course it matters," Justin Massey retorted with a smile. "Some silver-haired bastard whoreson out of Lys would never be able to lead a host like this."
The other highborn chuckled, but only for a moment, Stannis' glare and his grinding teeth quickly silenced them. The king leaned forward his knuckles white as he clenched his hands together. "He is a rebel and a usurper, no matter his parentage. He will bend the knee or be destroyed."
Justin Massey bowed his head. "Yes, Your Grace," he said quietly.
"There is more Your Grace," Lord Gulian said quietly. "Targaryens, Dornishmen, and sellswords are not enough to make me surrender my ancestral home," he shifted in his seat. "They had dragons as well."
Ser Erren Florent pursed his lips. "Uhm, wha, what kind of dragons?" He tapped his fingers nervously.
Lord Gulian raised an eyebrow. "Not the kind that can fly," he said without humour. "Dragons of iron and bronze like Your Grace's own."
"You're certain?" Lord Lester Morrigen asked.
"Absolutely," Lord Gulian Swann said. "Dozens of dragons, just like the ones in this army. They would have destroyed Stonehelm in an afternoon had I not surrendered."
Stannis ground his teeth for several seconds.
"Your Grace," Lord Edmure spoke. "Had he not then we would know nothing of the enemy's dragons."
Stannis said nothing but he did incline his head slightly in Lord Edmure's direction. "Lord Gulian," he said. "What is your estimate of the enemy numbers, their cavalry, their infantry?"
The Lord of Stonehelm frowned slightly and twitched his fingers. "Near thirty thousand, Your Grace, the majority of them on foot. About a third each of Dornish, Reachmen, and the Golden company going by the banners."
"Did you see any hand-dragons?" Justin Massey asked.
"I didn't no, but I'll confer with my men first."
"If they have dragons it would only make sense that they have hand-dragons as well," Lord Jonos Bracken said. "Wouldn't it."
"Assuming the men who sold them the weapons were anything like Ser Masuro," Justin Massey glanced at the Beikango knight.
"They would not be like me," he said. "But yes the daitomi would sell anything to anyone."
"Lord Justin your report on the dragons," Stannis said. "Give it now."
"We've recouped our losses from the battle at the Cockleswent," he said. "Two hundred men from King's Landing, another hundred from Dragonstone, and some Lannister deserters. Most of their weapons were scavenged from the Lannisters after Bitterbridge or from our own dead. With those bought when the Beikango visited King's Landing. We have far more hand-dragons then men to use them."
"And how are the new recruits faring?" Stannis asked.
"Still getting used to marching," Justin smiled. "With the veterans to give them a spine they'll fight well enough. We have ten dragons now, nine that survived the Cockleswent and one bought new in King's Landing."
"And the powder?"
"Lady Sato made it a priority," Ser Masuro said. "Her workers have laboured ceaselessly."
"There is enough for two or three engagements," Massey said.
Stannis tapped his fingers on the table. "Does anyone else have anything important to say?" No one said anything. "Be ready to march at dawn two days hence, Lord Edmure I give you command of the van I expect you to be ready three hours before dawn. You're dismissed."
Edmure Tully rose and bowed. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Stannis' other lords did likewise. When they were gone Stannis rose to his feet. "Maester Pylos send word if any more ravens come." The king left the chamber, Devan Seaworth at his heels. A moment later Melisandre rose and followed him.
When night fell, Stannis was sitting at a desk across the room from his bed, still reading notes and letters. Melisandre stood in silence for a moment before she approached. Stannis answered without her needing to ask. "Swann's men report seeing few hand-dragons," he said. "Less than a thousand most likely." Her king had read reports for the rest of the day, pausing only to eat a short meal at the small feast held in the great hall. A waste of time and food, he'd called it, but it was his duty to entertain as the host. Melisandre stayed at his side watching the flames and the lords, many were still nervous in her presence, despite the success R'hllor had brought King Stannis. When Stannis, at last, went to his bed Melisandre joined him.
Hours later, Melisandre rose from Stannis' bed, from their bed. Her body was still warm from their coupling, so she did not bother with her cloak as she strode across the bedchamber to the hearth. Sheltered within the stone were a few weak flames still rose from the embers. Melisandre fed the fire with a skill born from decades of experience, once it was awake and crackling she laid the poker aside and stared long and hard, for hours and hours as the night passed by.
The visions came fast and furious, layering atop each other a confusing mess that Melisandre struggled to make sense of. The flames showed a crown stabbed by eight daggers, though two were broken. They looked as if they'd been gnawed upon by some sharp-toothed hound. She saw a dragon rise from the sea to fight something the flames did not show. Melisandre frowned and tried to concentrate, looking for symbols of the upcoming battle, but there was nothing but rocks and fire. A maid had her eyes plucked by crows and wept tears of blood as she screamed. A wolf and a doe chased a lumpy white ball on the deck of a ship. Melisandre leaned back, away from the fire, and looked away. She spent some few minutes looking out with sleepless eyes upon the waves, refocusing her inner flame. When she looked back, a single vision came to her, strong, steady, and clear. She saw a black dragon and a golden stag locked in a furious battle over a river. She leaned in close as the battle played out before her eyes. The dragon lashed out with claws that cut, fangs that tore, and flame that scorched. The stag countered with hooves that beat, and antlers that stabbed. Melisandre felt her heart begin to race as the stag was forced back step by step. At last the proud golden stag fell, and the black dragon tore open his throat, letting blood as white as ash pour forth.
Melisandre rocked back on her heels, murmuring prayers and platitudes. This cannot be, she thought. Abed, Stannis stirred in his sleep, unaware of what R'hllor had revealed.
Arya
"Dunsen," Arya said, so quietly she barely spoke at all. "Polliver, Raff the Sweetling," she breathed in. "The Tickler, the Hound, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, King Joffrey, Roose Bolton, Harrion Karstark, Gendry." Arya shook her head and bit her lip, Gendry's name still hurt her. His betrayal almost two months ago would still come up fresh in her mind.
"Who are they?" Shireen asked quietly.
Arya forced herself not to jump with surprise she'd thought Shireen was asleep.
"Who are they?" Shireen asked again.
"Names," Arya said. "The names of people who hurt me, who hurt my family or my friends, or who hurt others. People I want to die," she said a few seconds later.
Shireen shifted slightly. "But Lord Roose is my father's loyal man, I've heard him say so, and my mother too. Why would you want him to die?"
Arya shook her head. "He betrayed my brother, he slaughtered my brother's loyal men, he threw me into a dungeon cell. If I hadn't been able to prove I really was Arya Stark. He would have killed me," she shivered at the words.
Shireen was quiet for a short time. "Ser Meryn is dead. My father executed him after he took King's Landing from the Lannisters."
"You're sure?"
"I watched him die," Shireen said sadly.
Shireen turned away and put her hands beneath her head as she went to sleep. Arya looked over to the pallets where their captors slept. Bonifer, she thought, Guncer, Triston, Osmund, Osney, and Osfryd. She added their names to her list, though she dared not say them out loud just yet.
After that exchange, the two girls quickly fell to sleep. The next morning Arya woke to the sound of footsteps as Osney and Osfryd left the hidden room. The Kettleblacks returned after what Arya thought had been several hours, absent sunlight it was hard to tell for sure.
"What news?" Guncer asked.
"The city isn't locked down, but the watch is on alert. They've tripled the guard at each gate and nearly doubled the number in the streets," Osfryd said before taking a deep drink of wine. "Officially, the story is that traitors tried to kidnap the princess, failed to take her captive but did injure her. For now, the princess is recovering in her chambers, tended to by only trusted maids and the kingsguard."
"And there was no word about the Stark girl," Osney added. "No mention about her at all."
"At least they won't be looking for them," Ser Triston said.
"Not openly at least," Osmund corrected him. "The more trusted officers will have an eye out at least."
"They do have the word out for the rest of you though," Osfryd kept speaking. "No mention of us though brother, guess we aren't important enough for Lord Alester."
"Lucky us," Osmund raised his wineskin in a silent toast.
The Kingslayer smirked. "So?" He asked. "All we need to do is throw some gold cloak a dozen gold dragons then he'll let us do anything we want."
"There's no gold cloaks anymore," Ser Bonifer said. "Stannis disbanded them after taking the city."
"Most of the men are still the same," Triston added. "Only the worst were hanged, but the officers are almost all men from Dragonstone or the Royal Fleet."
"And the men quickly learned that bribes weren't to be taken," Osmund said.
"A few missing hands will do that," Osfryd snickered.
"We'll need to get someone to smuggle you outside," Osmund finished.
"What about the mutes?" Ser Triston asked. "We could try to contact the Spider."
"It's possible-" Ser Bonifer began.
"If those brats were going to be of any help they'd have found us already," Osmund said. "We're on our own." The others nodded in agreement.
Two more days passed by in the hidden room, the three Kettleblacks left daily and returned with supplies, food and wine mostly, Osfryd brought some dull brown cloaks for the others on the first day. Despite their solitude Bonifer, Triston, and Guncer did not once cease to plan their escape from King's Landing.
Ser Bonifer tapped his dagger below the cup that represented King's Landing, then let it trail toward the edge of the table. "We should head south and follow Stannis' path then meet up with Varys and Baelish here," he tapped the dagger next to a coin that represented something Arya didn't know.
"Too risky," Guncer Sunglass said. "Stannis' outriders could catch us. I still think out best bet is to take a ship in King's Landing and," he stretched over the table and laid a finger next to a ring. "Go to Braavos or Pentos. I still have friends in the Royal Fleet and city watch."
"And if they decide Alester's gold means more to them? Or if they fear Stannis' wrath too much?" Osmund Kettleblack asked. "Our heads would be on the walls before sundown." He ate a spoonful of porridge. "We should go north," Osmund said around the mouthful. "Take ship at Duskendale or Maidenpool."
"And cross the Narrow Sea there," Osfryd finished for his brother.
Guncer nodded. "That makes sense," he said. "But the question of how to get out."
"You three mentioned getting a smuggler," Triston asked the three Kettleblacks. "Any progress in the battle?"
"Little," Osney admitted. "The only smugglers left are the smart ones," he shrugged. "And as one would expect they're hard to find."
"Heh," the Kingslayer snorted. "On and on you talk, in circles and circles. Cross the Narrow Sea," he laughed quietly. "Why not just go west? My lord father would surely welcome any who rescued me." Silence greeted him. "What? What don't I know?" Worry was in his voice.
"Ser Jaime," Ser Triston said slowly. "Much has happened while you were in the cells of Riverrun and King's Landing."
The Kingslayer shook his head. "No no no no. What are you saying?"
"Your father's dead," Osmund said harshly. "Lord Mace killed him in a fit of rage."
"Fuck you," Jaime said dangerously. "The Fat Flower wouldn't have the balls for that."
"Fuck me?" Osmund stood slowly, dangerously, hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Osmund," Osney cautioned. "What are-"
Osmund cut off his brother with a wave of his hand. He looked at the Kingslayer and shrugged. "The only one fucked here is House Lannister," he grinned cruelly as Jaime Lannister took the bait and stood to match the hedge knight. Osney and Osfryd stood as well, backing up their brother against the Kingslayer.
"Ser Osmund," Bonifer stood slowly, his hands resting on the table, close to where his sword rested in its sheath. Beside him, Guncer had already drawn a blade, a narrow-bladed dirk.
"Stay out of this old man the Kingslayer needs to learn a lesson in manners." Osmund stepped toward Jaime Lannister. "Your father's dead," he said. "Your brother's freezing his balls off on the Wall." Jaime's hand settled on the hilt of his sword. "And your sister's an Ironman's whore."
Jaime's sword had come more than halfway from its sheath before the Kettleblack brothers tackled him. The Kingslayer managed to cut Osfryd on his arm before he was slammed onto the ground. Osfryd and Osney held Jaime's arms and legs down, despite the Kingslayer kicking, punching, and struggling the whole time. Osmund knelt on his chest and punched him, twice, in the face. "House Lannister is dead. You're bastard's dead. Your dungheap of a castle's been taken by the Ironmen. House Lannister is dead, and all you are is a remnant of what was. Without your name and your gold," Osmund took a deep breath. "You're just a hedge knight like us now." The Kettleblack brothers each gave the Kingslayer a final blow before they stood up and stepped away from him.
"In a fair fight, I'd gut you," Jaime wheezed through bloody teeth and a broken nose.
"Our father taught us that only fools fight fair," Osfryd spat at the Kingslayer.
"Best get used to not fighting in tourneys anymore," Osney snickered. "The rules are a little different in the real world."
The Kingslayer moaned and turned onto his side, he moaned in pain, but as the day wore on his sobs took on a different tone. The kingslayer grieved for his fallen family. Tensions between the knights and the brothers simmered through the day but failed to erupt into anger.
When night finally fell Arya stayed awake until everyone else was asleep. Everyone save for Osmund who remained awake to tend the little fire and watch the door. "Is it true?' Arya asked quietly. "Is King Joffrey dead?"
"Heh?" Osmund muttered through a bite of salt beef. He turned around to look at her. "What's that?"
"Is King Joffrey dead?"
Osmund chewed softly and glanced at the Kingslayer. "As good as," he said quietly. "Stannis sent him running like a whipped dog, straight into the Ironmen in Casterly Rock," he shrugged. "He's as good as dead."
"And Queen Cersei?"
Osmund shrugged. "Probably alive, though I bet she wishes she was dead right now."
Arya nodded and turned back around. There was one less name on her list that night.
More days passed, enough that Arya and Shireen began to lose track of the days they spent beneath the earth, in the still and fitful firelight of the hidden room. Then, without word or warning from their captors, it all changed at once. The two girls were pulled out of the earth and into the alley above. Arya blinked against the shock of the sunlight, scarcely able to see the stone walls around her for the brightness of the world above ground.
There was a small covered wagon hitched to a team of mules, in the bed was a load of pottery. A skinny man with brown hair and a crooked chin hopped out of the driver's seat. He walked around to the back and started taking the pottery out of the bed. "Help me," he asked of the watching knights. "There's a false bottom, room enough for cloth bolts, but a man and two girls should fit. If not comfortably."
"Where will the rest of them hide?" Osfryd Kettleblack asked.
"There are five more wagons waiting in the market," the driver said as he passed around brown cloaks and homespun wool shirts to the knights, smallfolk's clothing.
Ser Bonifer stepped forward and accepted his disguise. "Shouldn't they have come here with you?"
"Risks too much attention," the driver explained. "Just those three they're the ones the watch is looking for most of all. The rest of you will get hidden in the market square." He took the last pot out of the wagon and jumped inside. He pulled back the thick rug that hung from the seat and opened a trapdoor, that revealed a compartment beneath the seat. He crawled inside and pulled open another, better hidden, trapdoor. "Come on girls we don't have all day."
Arya and Shireen were lifted into the wagon and made to crawl into the trap. From the compartment beneath the seat, they slipped through the other trapdoor into a hidden place beneath the bed of the wagon. It was dark and cramped, and Arya thanked the gods she was so skinny as she crawled through the dust and the grime. Shireen followed, grunting as she wiggled through the trapdoor. Behind them, the Kingslayer cursed and swore as he forced himself inside. "Fuck. "Fucking cut myself." When the trapdoor closed behind them, the sun's light abandoned them again.
The heavy pine planks above them quivered slightly as the heavy clay pots were put back in the wagon's bed. A few minutes passed by as the knights and the driver spoke outside, though Arya couldn't hear what was being said. At last, the wagon dipped slightly under the driver's weight and began to move. The pots above them clanked against each other as the wagon shook and rattled as it rode over the cobblestones. The Kingslayer cursed quietly as Arya's knee hit him in the ribs again and again. "Move you little-" Shouting outside silenced him. The three of them spent several long seconds in utter silence as the sound of voices rose and fell like waves. The heat swelled, and the air became hot and stuffy, soon the hidden place stank of sweat. Shireen sniffled quietly in discomfort.
At last the wagon stopped moving. The sound of people around them was deafening. "We must be in the market," Arya whispered.
"Shut up," the Kingslayer growled. "And move your knee."
Arya shifted slightly, not for the Kingslayer's comfort, but for her own, his elbow was in her stomach. Shireen started to move as well, and the Kingslayer struggled too. A sudden pounding on the wood, not far from Arya's head, made them all freeze. Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Arya slithered forward, dust coating her as sweat poured from her body. It was getting hard to breath. Arya heard a shout and the crack of a whip. At last, the wagons started again, and the journey over cobblestone and brick continued.
"What's in there?" Arya heard someone say when the wagon stopped again.
"Pots," the driver said. "And some cloth."
"Search it," the other man commanded.
We must have reached the gates, Arya realised as she felt more than heard the back of the wagon opening and then the stomp of boots as one of the watchmen jumped into the wagon. For a few seconds, Arya tried to pull back her leg in a kick, but the Kingslayer's hand wrapped around her leg and he squeezed.
The watchman stomped around above them, opening pots
"What's in here?" A watchman asked as he noticed the trapdoor beneath the driver's seat.
"Blankets," the driver said. "See."
Arya didn't hear the watchman's response, but she heard him stomp out of the wagon and close it.
Once they left King's Landing, the wagon rattled over the ruts of the road for hours until at long last the trapdoor was opened, and the three were finally released. Arya gasped fresh air as she struggled free from the wagon, flopping off the back like a boned fish.
"Get them some water," someone said. A second later a skin was being pressed into her hands. Arya ripped the stopper free and drank deeply, so deep her stomach began to hurt a little.
They made preparations that night. The Kingslayer, easily the most famous and recognizable of them all, shaved his head with Triston's help. They also washed and bound the scrape he'd taken while entering the wagon. It was a wide but shallow wound on his left side that was crusted with blood and dust. They cut Shireen's hair as well, her black hair now only fell to her shoulders instead of to the small of her back. They did nothing to disguise Arya save to give her a skirt and a shift to wear, half the girls in the Seven Kingdoms had brown hair and long faces.
In the days that passed, Arya rode in the wagon after that, a brown wool skirt and a brown wool shift made her seem like a smallfolk girl. "You're my daughter," Ser Triston of Tally Hill had told her. "Just as Shireen is Ser Osmund's. We're hedge knights hired to protect these merchants in these troubled times."
"Yes father," Arya said bitterly.
Travel was relatively quick, the roads in the Crownlands were well maintained, and the amount of traffic was small. This part of Westeros had hardly been touched by war, so the smallfolk hadn't learned to run when they saw armed men, nor were the roads choked by those fleeing the killing. The wagons rattled northward passing merchants and smallfolk traveling south with carts and wagons of their own loaded with sheepskins, wool, and grain for the most part. Three days of travel north and the flow began to change. The smallfolk were heading north as well now, toward Duskendale.
"Have you ever been to Duskendale?" Arya asked Shireen after the camp was made and all others were asleep, she hoped.
"Once," Shireen said. "With my father and mother, I don't really remember it I was really young. I think they were trying to arrange a betrothal with Lord Rykker's son."
"How big is it? How busy?" Could we escape there?
"Small," Shireen whispered. "About twenty thousand I think. I don't know how busy it is."
"I think we could do it," Arya said. "Run once we get inside where it's busy. They'll be scared of the guards," Arya reached out and took Shireen's hand. "Okay?"
Shireen reached out and squeezed Arya's hand. "Okay."
They never even got a chance to try running. Their captors sat them down in the bed of a wagon and wrapped them in too large cloaks. Osney Kettleblack and Jaime Lannister sat between them and the back of the wagon. Ser Bonifer sat by the driver, and so blocked that route of escape. Osney looked relaxed and calm as if this was just another day. The Kingslayer was pale, sweaty, and kept touching his wounded side. They waited in the long line to the gate, and when at last they reached it the watchmen didn't even look inside the wagons before waving them along. Once inside the wagons trundled along the cobblestone streets toward a market square that was only a stone's throw from the crowded harbour.
Osney grabbed Shireen by the waist and lifted her out of the wagon. Jaime Lannister did the same for Arya. Arya looked around the buildings were mostly made of wood, and few rose higher than twenty feet above the clean stone streets. White chalk cliffs rose to form a headland south of the town that protected the harbour from Blackwater Bay. A squat stone castle overlooked the town and the harbour. Osfryd took Arya's shoulder and pushed her forward around the back of the wagon, and toward the ships the bobbed gently in the sea. Arya saw Ser Bonifer and the driver exchange a few words, and several gold coins before the old knight joined them. Jaime took up the rear with a hood pulled over his shaved head, he limped slightly and had a hand pressed to his side.
Guncer and Osmund spoke to the sailors and captains while Arya and Shireen waited with the others. Arya's stomach rumbled as the sun continued to pass by overhead.
"Any luck?" Bonifer asked when Guncer and Osmund returned.
"Most are heading to Gulltown, Maidenpool, or King's Landing, a dozen to Myr or Tyrosh, three to Lys, two to Braavos, and a whaler headed back to Ibben by way of Lorath."
"None to Pentos?" Bonifer asked.
"No," Guncer replied. "The season's off wool won't sell in Pentos when their own flocks are getting sheared."
"Any of the Free Cities would work," Triston said.
"Pentos would be best," Bonifer insisted.
"Braavos will have to do," Osmund said. "From there we can still travel overland to Pentos or take another ship."
Bonifer nodded. "Alright, Braavos it is. What were the ships like?"
"A Braavosi trading galley and a King's Landing cog," Osmund said. "The latter is cheaper."
"The galley," Triston said quickly. "We can't risk any ship from King's Landing."
Osmund nodded. "Fine." He took Shireen by the arm. "Come along girls."
The Braavosi galley was shorter and wider than a fighting ship, purple paint on the prow marked it as Braavosi. The two sailors by the plank stood up as they approached, clearly having expected Osmund and Guncer to return. One was tall and thin, the other short and dark with tattoos.
"Silver?" The tattooed man asked.
"Silver," Guncer said. "Thirty pieces."
Bonifer stepped forward and counted out thirty silver stags into the tattooed sailor's hands.
The tall Braavosi glanced at Arya and Shireen in their too big cloaks, even so, he could see Shireen trembling. "What's wrong with them?" He asked in a thick accent.
"They're afraid of the sea," Ser Triston said quickly.
The sailor didn't look convinced, but he nodded and silently stepped aside as his comrade took Bonifer's silver aboard. Arya, Shireen, and their captors followed. As Arya watched the Braavosi sailors, she felt a sudden pang for the iron coin Jaqen had given her. She'd lost in Harrenhal when Roose Bolton had imprisoned her. The tall sailor led them underdeck and showed them their cabin, a small square near the front on the ship, divided from the rest of the galley by two sheets of canvas. There was only one other passenger, a plump man in a fur coat had a hammock for himself, he watched them with sad round eyes as the knights marched past him.
They settled into their accommodations, six hammocks over three straw pallets, with wool blankets piled in a corner. Two heavy chests waited for their belongings. Arya sat beside Shireen in a hammock as the men set themselves up.
"How long until the ship leaves?" Osney asked.
"An hour," Guncer answered. "Why?"
"I want to get some wine. I hate the sea."
"Be fast brother," Osfryd said.
"I'll go with him," Triston said.
"Fine, just don't be late."
The two men left, and before long the others did as well, save for Ser Bonifer and Jaime Lannister, who chose to lay shivering and sweaty in his hammock, while Ser Bonifer tended his wound with sour red wine and a cloth. Arya wrinkled her nose the wound was beginning to stink. After he changed the dressing Ser Bonifer left as well, and not long after a bell rang above them and a steady drum began to beat. Arya and Shireen looked at each other as they felt the ship begin to back oars and leave Westeros behind. Shireen started to cry as she held on tight to Arya.
Skahaz
Hills, mountains, and rivers divided his armies from the enemy. Despite the natural defences, his position was poor. He was outnumbered for a start and low on cavalry, elephants, and catapults. All of them squandered against his opponent's skilled defence. Even his dragons, those fearsome weapons of war that could shatter cities and ravage armies had failed to bring the enemy to her knees. Now that same enemy was poised with her own dragons to sweep down on his armies and turn the mountain passes in which they sheltered into a hell of dragonfire and blood. Skahaz raised his eyes from the cyvasse board and looked at Missandei her golden eyes were fixed intently on the board. Skahaz's slave was biting her tongue in concentration as she planned her next move. He watched her eyes flick this way and that to different parts of the board. Skahaz returned his own focus to the board and slid one of his last catapults to where it would guard his flank from Missandei's dragons.
Missandei reached immediately for her dragons but then hesitated and pulled her arm back. After a moment she instead shifted her heavy cavalry forward, well within range of Skahaz's archers.
Skahaz waited for a moment, scanning the field for any traps or tricks the girl might have prepared. He saw none. His archers weakened the heavy cavalry and then a charge by his own cavalry swept them from the field. Skahaz tapped a finger on his table as he watched Missandei consider her options. After a moment she reached out to advance some of her spearmen against Skahaz's heavy infantry, a move that opened her flank to Skahaz's heavy cavalry.
"Stop," he ordered.
Missandei froze in mid-move her eyes flickering between Skahaz and the board. She put the piece down. "This one is sorry for whatever this one has done."
Skahaz picked up the piece. "Why move this and expose your flank, or let your heavy cavalry be slaughtered by my archers?"
Missandei said nothing for a moment. "This one wanted to attack your flank," she said. "This one didn't see the archers," she finished lamely, he golden eyes downcast.
"No," Skahaz said. "No, you saw them. You wanted to let me win," he shook his head. "You're a terrible loser, but an excellent cyvasse player nonetheless. Tell me, what move would you have made if you weren't trying to lose?"
Missandei said nothing.
"Speak," Skahaz commanded.
"This one would have burned the Great Master's archers with this one's dragon and then sent light cavalry into the gap."
Skahaz nodded, seeing the moves play out in his mind's eye. "To which my heavy infantry would need to respond exposing their flank to your heavy cavalry."
Missandei smiled in excitement, her hands pointing here and there as she spoke. "And once they were broken I'd send my spearmen to reinforce them and roll up your-"
"I?" Skahaz asked suddenly. "Your?"
The girl stopped, suddenly aware of her words. She paled and let her hands drop to her side. "This one is sorry Great Master. This one forgot her place."
Skahaz said nothing, he tapped his finger on the board, once, twice, three times. The girl bit her lip and trembled slightly. "Fetch the maids I need to be dressed for the day."
"Yes Great Master," the girl stood quickly and all but fled the pavilion. Skahaz quietly chuckled and a moment later, Skahaz's maids, a pair of grey-haired slaves, entered.
"The blue tokar today I should think," Skahaz commanded as he stood. "The one with the red fringe. Shape my hair like a helmet today, open-faced if you please." The slave women bowed and went to work.
They did his hair first, as the gels and oils would need time to set. First, they lathered Skahaz's thinning hair with gel and then began to form it in layers, and folding the long locks back onto themselves. They worked from the bottom up, creating the sides and back of the helmet before moving upward, raising Skahaz's stiffening hair into a pointed top. When the gel had set, and Skahaz's hair was almost as solid as stone, they applied the oils that would help it sheen and shine with a small brush. Any drops were quickly cleaned by the small silk rags the slaves carried. Once the oil had been absorbed the tokar was taken out. Skahaz raised his arms and allowed the slaves to clean his body. They started with a damp sponge, and soap to wash away the sweat, dirt, and oils of the previous day and night, they pushed and pulled and scrapped the sponge on his skin. Then came the dry cloths, made from rough fabric that rudely scraped the remaining dirt away and absorbed the water. Then the tokar was wrapped around his clean body, under and over arms, around his neck, and around his chest. The soft silk comforted to his skin after the abrasive cleaning. The slaves took out a six-foot-tall bronze mirror for Skahaz to look at himself. He gave his appearance a cursory look and then dismissed the slaves with a twitch of his fingers, and left his pavilion.
The late morning sun was rising high in the sky, and already the oppressive heat was beginning to beat upon Slaver's Bay. His palanquin waited outside for him, eight slaves in loincloths and straw hats to carry it. Missandei waited beside the palanquin and as Shakahz approached she pulled back the silk curtain to let him enter. Skahaz ducked under the frame and sat down in the padded chair, careful not to disturb his still fragile hair. "Come," he commanded the girl when she hesitated outside. Missandei clambered inside and sat cross-legged at Skahaz's feet. "To the command tent," he ordered. With a deep breath and a heave, the eight slaves lifted the palanquin and began to walk.
Beyond the silken curtains rested the largest army Slaver's Bay had seen in more than a century. Nearly five thousand sellswords imported from the abroad, the Company of the Cat, the Windblown, and the Long Lances to name the greatest of the free companies that had been hired. Three legions had come from New Ghis. The iron legions, lockstep like those of Old Ghis, nearly fifteen thousand men, with twenty elephants between them. A company of Tolosi slingers had come with their lead bullets. Forming the vast bulk of the army were the tens of thousands of slave soldiers and militias from Meereen and Yunkai. The two city's forces could have been more different.
The hordes of Yunkai were a disappointing menagerie of deranged and deluded experiments by the poorly named Wise Masters. Battalions of slave soldiers, naked men with erotic images on their shields, men with stilts built into their armour, slaves chained together so they wouldn't run. Each of the Wise Masters commanded their own disparate force under the supreme command of Yurkhaz zo Yunzak, in theory. Skahaz had spat in disgust when he'd seen the Yunkai'i begin their march, Yunkai had always been the least of the three cities of Slaver's Bay, its masters consumed with lust and pride. In comparison, the slave battalions of Meereen were uniformly arrayed with cheap padded jackets, and weapons drawn from Meereen's huge armouries, crossbows, slings, spears, and javelins. Their commanders were lesser masters and officers from the city watch. All told perhaps fifty thousand men were outside the walls of Astapor, though Skahaz privately thought only half would be of any use to storm the city if it came to that. Still, numbers by themself were often of use.
As the palanquin moved over the summit of the hill the Yunkai'i camp was brought into view. It was a mess, thousands of tents, wagons, and shelters spread around a few dozen massive pavilions. Farther away the sellswords and iron legions had their own more organized camps. The Meereenese camp was behind the hill, far from the Yunkai'i camp. Skahaz frowned when the wind changed and brought the stink from the Yunkai'i camp to his nose. "That camp is ripe and ready for a plague," he said to himself. "The pale mare is ready to ride."
The sound of thunder filled the air as the Beikango dragons roared and the walls of Astapor crumbled. Red bricks and red dust flew into the air after each roar. Over a dozen of the huge bronze and iron weapons had been painstakingly taken off the ships and hauled onto land where they faced four separate points of Astapor's walls. For two weeks the dragons had demolished the red brick walls. Now, all that was left was a pile of rubble.
Calling it a command tent was a misnomer it was far grander than a mere tent. A dozen silk pavilions had been stitched together to make a wall around a central area of clean red sand. Large chairs and couches lay in the shade, while tables stacked with wine, honeyed locusts, suckling pork, fruit bread, and spiced meat waited to be eaten. Skahaz's slaves lifted the palanquin off their shoulders and gently placed it on the ground. Skahaz stepped outside and walked into the command tent, Missandei followed at his heels.
Many of the masters had already come to the meeting, the sellsword companies had sent their own captains, and the supreme general of the New Ghissian force, Grazdan zo Qalgaz, had come as well. The Wise Masters of Yunkai were already feasting, while Skahaz's Meereenese compatriots spoke quietly in a corner of the tent, he ignored them all. Though Skahaz had been named supreme commander of the Meereenese forces by the council of the Great Masters, a title he had spent many favours to receive, his enemies in the council had foisted a supervisory council on him. They were lead by a fop, Hizdahr zo Loraq. The handsome boy smiled as he met Skahaz's eyes. A cunning fop I must admit, Skahaz thought as he took his favoured place, next to the Beikango sellsails and not far from the Tattered Prince, the captain of the Windblown.
The Beikango were speaking in their queer tongue, chittering over a plate of raw olives, some were taking whole handfuls and were rudely gobbling them up. The foreigners had discovered olives a month ago and had quickly gone mad for them. Many among the Beikango were willing to trade almost anything for even a small jar of olives. Skahaz had traded for twenty of their hand-dragons in exchange for one week's worth of his groves' produce.
Skahaz sat down and looked over his shoulder to watch the game of cyvasse that was underway between the Tattered Prince and Yurkhaz zo Yunzak. The game had been introduced by sellswords from Volantis and had quickly become one of the more popular pastimes of the masters that commanded the allied army. As he watched the old hero of Yunkai quickly found the field of battle turning against him, in less than a dozen moves the Tattered Prince's armies had overrun Yurkhaz's lands, prompting the old man the flip the board over in disgust and stalk away in a huff. The Tattered Prince was still for a moment before he leaned down to pick up the pieces.
Skahaz snorted and leaned back on his padded couch. Gods of Old Ghis preserve me from fools like him.
"How may this one serve you?" A slave asked.
"Spiced ants," Skahaz ordered. "With salt." The slave bowed and left to fetch Skahaz's food. An hour passed as Skahaz snacked on the spicy insects, waiting for the rest for the masters to arrive. The last to come was Yezzan zo Qaggaz, the hugely fat wise master, and one of the few Skahaz thought to have any sense at all.
Yurkhaz zo Yunzak stood once everyone else had sat, but before he could speak his foolishness, likely an invitation to some game or another that would waste even more time, Skahaz spoke. "Let us dispense with the pleasantries today, the dragons interrupted my sleep, and I'd prefer to retire early tonight."
A chuckle rose from the masters and commanders, Bloodbeard, captain of the Company of the Cat, laughed loudest of them all, and Hizdahr sent Skahaz a sly look.
The leader of the Beikango, a captain named Minato, took the opportunity to stand, and to speak. He bowed twice, once to Yurkhaz, and once to Skahaz. Then he spoke in halting and strongly accented Bastard Valyrian. "The walls are broken. The, uh, the city is ready for attacking."
"Yes. Yes," Yurkhaz interrupted. "Astapor is ready for conquest let us take the city for ourselves now, in glorious battle."
The sounds of agreement rose from the Yunkai'i and even from the Meereenese, and the sellswords, who no doubt tired of siegecraft and wished to loot Astapor for themselves.
"Perhaps," Skahaz said. "Or perhaps now is the perfect time to speak with her at last."
Yurkhaz laughed his chicken laugh. "Now! Now you wish to speak? Does the thought of battle so unman you Skahaz?" The other Yunkai'i masters laughed nervously as well. Sycophants, Skahaz thought dismissively.
All of the Yunkai'i save for Yezzan zo Qaggaz, who instead calmly raised a flabby hand. "What?" He wheezed. "Do you suggest instead?"
Skahaz rolled his shoulders and leaned forward. "For three weeks now we have rebuffed the dragon queen's attempts to parlay, only now that her defences are crumbling, and her mob is going hungry will we deign to speak with her," Skahaz said. "Let her know that she has already lost before we speak with her. Let her know that the best fate for her is to flee Slaver's Bay, that she has no hope of victory."
"And if she refuses to parlay, or to surrender?" Young Malazza mo Rhaez asked.
"Then she will be destroyed, the brave sons and daughters of Yunkai will crush her as they charge over the walls," Skahaz said with a smile.
The sellswords laughed, the Meereenese laughed, Malazza laughed, most of the Yunkai'i laughed, save for the wisest among them who rightfully winced at the trap Skahaz had laid for them.
The envoys were sent and negotiations arranged, a pavilion was raised halfway between the camp and the walls. Skahaz and Daenerys were each allowed to take three others with them. A number that did not include the sellsword and Unsullied guards that would keep the peace, the slaves that would provide refreshments and other comforts, or little Missandei who would translate. It piqued her anger last time to see her, he thought, perhaps it will work again, any advantage is worth seizing. Skahaz took a Grazdan zo Dethk, a New Ghissian officer, Malazza mo Rhaez to represent Yunkai, and Hizdahr zo Loraq so the Great Masters could be assured Skahaz did nothing to betray Meereen's interests.
Beneath the red silk of the pavilion eight chairs were arrayed, two in the centre and three in the back on each side. Two small tables loaded with fried insects, nuts, and dried berries were present for any who wanted them.
Daenerys and her companions arrived not long after Skahaz. Strong Belwas, the old champion of the fighting pits, was at her side again, as was the old Sunsetlander, though he had shaved his beard and traded his staff for a sword. An Unsullied commander was present as well his spear tapping dangerously on the ground as he stood by. Her dragons had not come with her this time, perhaps a good sign that she didn't push the terms of their meeting or perhaps not. I will have to think about that, he decided. The dragon queen herself was just as beautiful as Skahaz remembered, with shining silver-gold hair, moon-pale skin, and eyes of violet. However, upon closer inspection Skahaz could see the impact of bags, imperfectly disguised with makeup, beneath her eyes.
"Lord Skahaz," Daenerys said in Valyrian. "I hadn't thought you would be sent again."
"Oh khaleesi, after the pleasure of our last conversation I could hardly miss another chance."
The fighting eunuch huffed and fingered the hilt of his arakh. "Shall Strong Belwas take his impudent tongue?" He asked in the Common Tongue of the Sunset Lands.
Skahaz controlled his features and let no sign of his understanding slip through, instead, he leaned down and put an ear next to Missandei's head and waited for her to translate. Once she was done Skahaz smiled and chuckled as though he only now understood.
"No," Daenerys said in the same language as the eunuch. "Safe passage was promised to us both," she switched to Valyrian. "Why have you come, my lord?"
Skahaz smiled slightly. "The suffering of Astapor has gone on long enough the time has come to end this folly, end the hunger and the bloodshed. The time for war is done, let the peace of the Good Master's rule return to these lands."
"It's a trick no doubt," the old man said in the Common Tongue. "All slavers are treacherous by nature."
Skahaz schooled his features at that but made note of the fierce glare the dragon queen shot at the old knight.
"A peace ruled by whips and chains you mean?" Daenerys asked. "I do not mean for Astapor to return to a realm of blood, tears, and suffering. Would you have me abandon my people?" She asked. "When your camp stinks of filth like nothing I've ever smelled before? How long before disease ruins you I wonder?"
"All I can smell is the stench of desperation and fear that rises from Astapor like a mountain fog," Skahaz said. "You have lost," he said plainly but without anger. "You hide in Astapor like a rat in a hole." Daenerys' hands tightened on the arms of her chair. "Be thankful that the masters are generous enough to give you this chance for negotiation," Skahaz finished.
"Offer him your terms," the old man advised Daenerys who raised a hand to silence him.
"I doubt he would accept them," she spoke in the Common Tongue. "He is here only to insult me."
"I am here," Skahaz leaned forward and spoke in the Common Tongue of the Sunset Lands. "To bring peace to Slaver's Bay. What are your terms?"
To her credit, Daenerys didn't let her shock show for more than a moment, though the same could not be said of her companions. She stood silently for a second before speaking. "My terms are thus. Your armies will leave Astapor in peace. I will be acknowledged as Queen of Astapor and a treaty of twenty years will be established between all combatants."
"Time enough for your dragons to grow?" Skahaz asked. "I think not. There can be no peace while your dragons live and grow in Astapor, kill them or send them away."
"It is an easy thing for you and yours isn't it? To strip children away from their mother or kill their babes in front of them."
"Many sacrifices must be made for peace," Skahaz replied.
"And what sacrifices will you be willing to make?" The dragon queen asked. "As part of the peace, any slave that escapes to Astapor will be allowed to remain here as a free man or woman."
Unacceptable. "That could be considered," Skahaz said slowly. "Provided that suitable compensation was provided to the aggrieved masters. Compensation that would also need to be applied for all the slaves you've already stolen. Though there is still the matter of your dragons."
"A both matters to be discussed later," Daenerys said. "Can a ceasefire be agreed upon for these next few days?"
"It would need to be discussed with the masters. I am an envoy, not a tyrant. I can provide you with an answer by nightfall at the latest."
"Very well," Daenerys stood and left. She and her companions had left their food untouched.
Skahaz stayed in his seat, watching the dragon queen and her men leave.
"You can't mean to accept her demands," Malazza all but shouted. "Her arrogance disgusts me."
Skahaz sighed. "Do you really think I meant anything I said?"
"Then this day was worthless," Malazza sneered.
"I think not," Grazdan zo Dethk said.
"We have learned much of her wants," Skahaz said. "Daenerys thirsts for peace, she thirsts hard enough to control her temper even when I demanded that she kill her dragons."
"She knows she's finished," Hizdahr realised.
"Just so," Skahaz said. "We will have no peace, not yet."
"I will send word that the bombardment is to continue," Grazdan zo Dethk said with a smile as he stood to go.
"Just so," Skahaz smiled as the gates of Astapor closed behind Daenerys. Skahaz stayed in his chair while the other envoys left to return to the council. Once they were gone, he put a hand on Missandei's shoulder. "Come, we have a game to finish."
"Yes, Great Master," she bit her lip. "Great Master, may this one ask a question?"
"Yes," Skahaz said, he was in good spirits.
"If Great Master can speak the Common Tongue then why is this one needed?"
Skahaz smiled and looked down at the little golden-eyed girl. "You're clever," he said. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."