Quentyn

The loot from the Meereenese and Yunkai'i camps was almost beyond imagining. Gold and silver in all manner of forms, from goblets to mirrors, to finely shaped armour, everything inlaid with rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, pearls, lapis lazuli, and dozens of other jewels and precious stones. Fine cloth was just as abundant, silk, cotton, and marvelous wool. Robes, bolts, yards, and pavilions of the fine material. Fine and exotic foods that he couldn't even begin to describe. The Ironborn ransacked the camp, everything that wasn't nailed down was stolen, and what was nailed down was pried loose. It was gleeful chaos.

Quentyn had been swept along with the tide of madness that had drawn him through the collapsing ranks of the iron legions of New Ghis and drawn him into the camp. It had been a slaughter, trapped between Ironborn and Unsullied the iron legions had stood their ground for only a few minutes before the inevitable rout began. A few elite companies had stood their ground for a while longer, but only a little bit before they had inevitably broken as well. Without any resistance left all sense of discipline or order had broken down as the Ironborn had flooded into the undefended camp.

Quentyn pushed his way out of a silk pavilion, half a dozen gold necklaces in his hand. He'd thrown his shield down, somewhere, he couldn't remember. He still had his spear, though he hadn't used it in the camp for anything more than a club to break open chests or boxes. He stopped short of running into another tent, his chest heaved up and down as he took deep breaths. Where's Urri? The question came to his mind from out of the blue. Somewhere in the chaos he'd become separated from Urri and the rest of Swift Blow's crew. Now his head was suddenly clear, he could feel the weight of his mail, the ache of bruises and small cuts, and his ankle was flaring with pain. He grimaced at the sight of the camp, the chaos didn't seem so gleeful now. Half the tents were broken, some were burning, and people were screaming, so many people.

"There you are, lad!" Urri's big hand clapped Quentyn's back, making him jump. "I thought I'd lost you. And I see you've gotten some booty for yourself, haha!"

Quentyn turned. "Ye, yeah," he said dumbly. A different flavour of shouting drew his attention back to the edge of the camp. "What's going on?"

"That why I found you, that dragon queen and her guards left the city. Rumour is she, and Lord Victarion are going to meet. Now that's something worth seeing eh."

"Queen Daenerys…" Quentyn murmured. "Yes, I need to be there."

"Then come," Urri waved a hand. "Let's go see this great beauty."

Quentyn followed. Urri led them back out of the camp, out to the flat plain that divided it from Astapor. Hundreds of other Ironborn were rushing out of the camp as well. In the middle distance, Quentyn could see a company of Unsullied advancing, a small number of riders were in the centre of the formation.

Quentyn rushed forward, causing Urri to curse and run after him. Throngs of Ironborn were rushing toward the queen, throwing jewels, silver, and gold over the heads of the Unsullied that surrounded her like flower petals. Victarion pushed his way through the crowd, taller by half a head than most of the others and followed by Moqorro the red priest, the Ironborn parted before them like the sea. Urri and Quentyn followed in his wake.

"Your Grace!" Quentyn shouted as he rushed forward, pushing his way through the crowd, desperate to get Daenerys' attention.

"Lewyn!" Urri grabbed Quentyn by the shoulder. "Take it easy, that can't be the first pretty girl you've seen."

Quentyn shrugged the hand away. "I'm sorry, but I have to do this," he pushed closer toward Daenerys. As he did he heard Urri curse and start following him again. At last, he reached the cordon of Unsullied that separated Queen Daenerys from the Ironborn. "Your Grace," Quentyn shouted again, hoping to catch her attention. She either didn't hear him or ignored him. "Seven Hells," Quentyn cursed.

"Lewyn," Urri caught up. "What are you doing?"

Quentyn squeezed his fist. "I- I wasn't entirely honest when you rescued me."

Urri put a hand on Quentyn's shoulder and squeezed. "Be careful what you say next."

"I was sent by my liege to Slaver's Bay, I did not lie about that. But my liege is Prince Doran Martell, I was sent to deliver a message to Queen Daenerys."

Urri's eyes were like the cold sea.

"And my name isn't Lewyn, it's Quentyn, Quentyn Martell."

"Fuck me," Urri said. "Why'd you lie?"

"I panicked," he said honestly. "With the wars," he shook his head. "I didn't know what you'd do." Quentyn waited, wondering what Urri would do.

"By the Drowned God," Urri said and relaxed his grip. "I can't really blame you. If you'd told me then, I'd have given you to Lord Victarion."

"And now?"

Urri smiled. "Well, now I know you. Let's get to that queen of yours." Urri seized Quentyn by the shoulder and dragged him through the crowd. Daenerys was riding a silver mare and was flanked by a white-haired knight and a fat man with an arakh. Three Dothraki in brightly coloured vests rode not far behind her as well. Lord Victarion came up short against the ranks of Unsullied looking over their heads at Daenerys Targaryen.

Queen Daenerys looked at Victarion Greyjoy and his red priest with a carefully blank face. A look that reminded Quentyn of his father when he was truly angry. "Lord Victarion Greyjoy?" She asked.

The Iron Captain nodded. "I am he."

Daenerys spoke in Valyrian, too fast for Quentyn to catch, and the Unsullied stepped aside to let Victarion and Moqorro pass. When the Unsullied didn't immediately reform their ranks Quentyn and Urri followed him.

Victarion stepped forward, his heavy feet leaving deep prints in the ground wet with blood, Moqorro, clothed in robes of black and gold instead of red followed him. "I have sailed far, throughout the Sunset and Summer Seas to come here, through storms and doldrums, under blazing suns and burning winds, I have come," he stopped a few feet from her. "To claim your hand as mine."

Queen Daenerys shifted in her saddle, but before she could speak Urri pushed Quentyn forward, and sent him stumbling to his knees between Daenerys and Victarion. Quentyn looked up, they were both staring at him. Quentyn fixed his eyes on Daenerys, took a breath, and pulled off his helmet.

"You are no Ironman," the knight in white said.

"I am not," Quentyn said, not once taking his eyes off Queen Daenerys. "Your Grace, I have been sent by my liege lord to ask for an audience with you and bring good tidings."

"Your liege?"

"My father," Quentyn sucked in a breath and spoke loudly for the benefit of the crowd of listeners. "Doran Nymeros Martell, the Prince of Dorne and Lord of Sunspear."

"You lie!" Victarion growled stamping forward as if he expected to just crush Quentyn into the dirt.

Urri stepped forward. "I pulled him from the sea myself, he fought at my side during the battle, I trust him with my life."

"Ser Barristan do you know him?" Daenerys asked of her knight of the kingsguard.

"I met Prince Quentyn twice," he said. "Once during King Aerys' reign when Prince Doran and his family came to King's Landing to celebrate the first nameday of Princess Rhaenys, but that was long ago, and Prince Quentyn was still a babe at the breast. Later I went to Sunspear with Jon Arryn to secure peace, but I remember little of him for he was still very young. He has some of Prince Doran's look, but so do many in Dorne."

Quentyn bowed his head, he'd been only three years old when Jon Arryn had come to Dorne, and he remembered nothing that would be of use to prove himself.

Daenerys turned her attention back to Quentyn. "Let's say that I believe you're speaking the truth, why have you come? What tidings does the Prince of Dorne send to me?"

"I do, Your Grace," Quentyn stood and raised his eyes to meet hers. He suddenly found himself tongue-tied, too many seconds passed before he managed to force himself to speak. "Prince Doran, my father, gave me a letter, signed and sealed, by my uncle Prince Oberyn, your guardian Ser Willem Darry, and witnessed by the Sealord of Braavos. In it was written a secret pact, an alliance, between House Targaryen and House Martell. An alliance that was to be sealed by the marriage of my sister, Princess Arianne would and your brother Prince Viserys once they were both of age. Together, it was agreed that when the time was right Robert Baratheon would be overthrown and the rightful king restored."

Daenerys rose up in her saddle. "And where is this letter?"

Quentyn grit his teeth. "Lost to the sea, along with all my other companions. Knights and lords of Dorne in their own right."

Daenerys scoffed and shook her head.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said. "If Robert had known of this, he would have smashed Sunspear as he once smashed Pyke, and claimed the heads of Prince Doran and the Red Viper… and like as not, the head of Princess Arianne as well."

"If," Daenerys said. "If, if, and if again. Everything you say is built on if," she said to Quentyn. "Particularly, if I believe you."

"He speaks the truth," Moqorro said suddenly, the red priest had quietly come closer, and finally stepped around Victarion Greyjoy's wide shoulders. "We first met in Volantis, upon the passing of their friend, I offered them news of a ship to Slaver's Bay. We shared passage on that ship for a time before the storm came, but I did not fear, for I had seen in the fires that we three," he motioned to himself, Victarion, and Quentyn. "Would stand here before you dragon queen."

Queen Daenerys looked down at Moqorro for a second before glancing back at her entourage.

"Maegi," one of the Dothraki said, swinging his arm decisively, the other two had their hands on the hilts of their arakhs. The fat-bellied man only shrugged his shoulders. Ser Barristan stayed silent as well.

Daenerys looked at Moqorro her eyes narrowed. "And why would you want to come to me."

Moqorro smiled, making his yellow and orange flame tattoos on his cheeks stretch and distort. "I have seen visions in the flame, dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. I have seen krakens, suns, stags, and crows as well. And above it all, looms ice and fire."

Daenerys didn't look convinced, but she turned her attention from the red priest and back toward Quentyn. "What else do you have to say?

"My father had some hopes you might find a betrothal with me acceptable, in place of our siblings, but that is not the greatest reason I have come Your Grace."

"Then why? If not to seal the alliance between Martell and Targaryen then why come?"

"There are other ways to seal the alliance," Quentyn said. He bit his tongue, he'd hoped to say this in private. "Before my journey began, messengers came to Dorne from a Pentoshi magister named Illyrio Mopatis," Quentyn was not as skilled at reading faces as some, but even he could see Queen Daenerys and Ser Barristan jump at that name. "The messengers brought letters of their own, the sworn testimonies of a maester, a septa, an exiled lord, and Varys the Spider himself. They claimed that in the dying days of the War of the Usurper Varys had smuggled Prince Rhaegar's son Aegon, out of the city and had hidden him in the Free Cities."

"What lord?" Ser Barristan demanded, his eyes wide with shock.

"Jon Connington."

"I don't know of him," Daenerys said.

"He was one of Prince Rhaegar's closest friends, for a time he was even Hand of the King to King Aerys, he was exiled after he lost the Battle of the Bells."

"Just so," Quentyn said. "Jon Connington claimed to have raised Aegon as his own, educated him, trained him in arms and in kingship. With the wars having torn Westeros apart, and the support of the Golden Company, Jon Connington and Illyrio Mopatis believed the time was ripe to lead an invasion of the Seven Kingdoms, with the aid of Dorne. I have come to ask that you return to Westeros, return with your dragons to bring ruin upon the enemies of both our houses." Quentyn forced himself not to bite his lip at the silence that followed.

Daenerys shifted slightly in her saddle. "We will see," she said to Quentyn. "We will see, about both of you," she said to Victarion and Quentyn.

Arianne

The nightmares came again when she went to sleep. Crows screamed in the sky, in such numbers that they seemed to make up the clouds of the storm whose lightning crackled overhead. She was up to her knees in water, facing a huge wall of steel, flame, wood, and blood that spat arrows and spears at Arianne, and the hundreds of armoured men that were with her. The water rumbled, screams rose all around her, she looked to the east and saw that the river had risen into a flood that washed away all that stood before it. She was barely able to scream before the water hit her, and then she woke. Arianne sat up immediately, breathing heavily, trying to control the shaking. After a long minute, she rolled onto her side and slid from the sleeping mat. She rose to her feet and in two quick steps was at the side of the tent she'd claimed for her own. Dawn was still many hours away, and even the scouts were only now beginning to ready themselves for this day's march. Arianne sighed and let the side fall back into place, she disrobed and began putting her riding clothes on, leather and silk and copper disks, she knew she'd find no more rest this morning.

Hours later, with dark bags beneath her eyes, and a headache born from exhaustion building behind her forehead, she joined her guards and uncle at the van. Prince Oberyn had argued for the honour of leading the van, saying that as the most mobile of the three contingents it made the most sense. Who better to find a trap, to bring word of the enemy, or to skirmish with them than the swift riders and sandsteeds of Dorne. King Aegon had been convinced, as had Ser Harry Strickland who instead led the Golden Company as the rearguard. The Reachmen foot led by Lord Mathis made up the centre of the army, and also organized the baggage, neither of which were tasks the Lord of Goldengrove had been enthusiastic in the undertaking, but from what Arianne saw he doing them well.

The valley leading out of the Red Mountains, and into the Reach was choked with smoke. Farms and villages were burning by the score, the people who lived there had been driven from their lands, or else having no other recourse had started to follow the army that had ruined their lives. If they could keep up that is. The army of Reachmen, Dornishmen, and Golden Company sellswords woke early each morning and marched all day. When they came upon a village or town, the sword and flame were unleashed. Livestock, grain, bread, wine, ale, and everything else of value was taken, treasures that smallfolk had likely hoarded for centuries were stolen.

Arianne shook her head as she passed through the ruins of a dozenth village. She remembered the words she'd had with her uncle.

"Do we need to put fire to every house and cottage between Stonehelm and Harvest Hall?"

"We don't need to but it's wise that we do," Oberyn replied. "We'll strip that land as bare as we can to impede Stannis' march. If we're lucky he'll even stop to try and help the smallfolk," his tone left no doubt that he thought doing so would be foolish.

Arianne shook her head, who was she to challenge the wisdom of men who'd warred longer than she'd been alive. This devastation was one of the few things Jon Connington, Harry Strickland, Prince Oberyn, and Mathis Rowan could agree on. In her mind, that alone meant it must be the right action.

Night came more quickly than she'd hoped it would, perhaps it was simply the long days, or perhaps the sight of ruined hamlets, and the constant smell of smoke bothered her more than she cared to admit, but of late her sleep had been far from restful. Again and again, she woke from terrible nightmares shivering, sweating, or both. She rubbed her eyes and pushed on into the village. One of the houses collapsed with a cloud of sparks and smoke as she passed it. The smallfolk who'd lived there had long since been driven away, their sheep had been stolen by the same Dornish riders who'd lit their home on fire. The few houses left standing were already being claimed by lords, knights, and captains, their troops jealously guarded the meagre shelter for their masters.

The sept that stood near the centre of the town was perhaps the only building that seemed to be entirely undamaged. The handsome foundation and walls were made from red stone, the very same stone from which the Red Mountains took their name, and marked the building as a major sept for the region, a centre of the Faith and probably the beneficiary of dozens of gifts and incomes from pious lords who sought the Seven's favour. The tall peaked roof was made from clay tiles that were supported by strong oak beams that peeked out from underneath. The beams themselves were ornately carved with scenes and sayings from the Seven Pointed Star. Ser Rolly Duckfield in his white cloak stood guard outside the double doors, well leaned guard against the double doors.

Arianne rode up to sept and hitched her horse to a tall wooden pole and walked to the door. "May I see the king?" She asked.

Ser Rolly straightened and let his hands rest on the buckle of his sword belt. "Matter of fact he asked for you," he pushed open the door.

Arianne entered after a moment, the high ceiling was again carved with scenes from the Seven Pointed Star, these ones were brightly painted. There was Hugor on his hill, the Crone peering through the door of death, the ships arriving on the shores of Westeros, and knights victorious over the First Men, and many more.

She found Aegon sitting on a roughly hewn wooden bench that faced the seven wooden statues, which stood beneath a stained glass window that must have been a gift from some lord long ago. The window faced east, and when the sun rose Arianne guessed that the light would shine upon the statues, and the seven pointed star would glow. The septon was inside, kneeling before the statue of the Father, as Arianne entered he slid over to kneel before the Warrior. No doubt he's praying for Stannis to deliver the Seven's justice upon us, she thought, I wonder if he knows that Stannis worships a different god now? I wonder if that would change anything? Arianne walked through the rows of benches to where Aegon knelt in silent prayer. He sat before the statue and altar of the Crone. She sat down beside him. "What wisdom are you asking for?"

Aegon didn't speak for a moment. "Are we," he stopped awkwardly. "Are we formally betrothed yet? I, I know Illyrio and Lord Jon, spoke of doing so, but are we?"

"No," Arianne said after a moment. "Though I never truly know what my father thinks, he has plans within plans. Why do you ask? Are you worried about saving yourself for me? Heh, I'll let you know now that I am no maid."

Aegon blushed slightly.

I wonder, has he even laid with a woman?

"No," Aegon said. "Not that, no. I. I guess I want to know if I can speak freely with you, about things."

"Like what?"

"Like what's happening all around us. Burning every village, every home, every farm in our path," the words came out roughly from this throat.

She repeated her uncle's words. "Every man and woman sent fleeing to Stannis is a mouth he has to deal with in some way, every barrel of grain stolen or burned is one Stannis' men can't eat."

"These are my people," Aegon said.

"They're Stannis' people," Arianne said. "Stormlanders, they're the enemy, for a thousand years Reachmen, Dornishmen, and Stormlanders have fought, and it was Stormlanders who made up much of the royal army during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I don't doubt that every man in this army has some kind of grudge against the Stormlands."

"Am I to be lord of the six kingdoms then?" Aegon asked.

Arianne said nothing.

"They are my people as much as the Reachmen and Dornishmen in this army are," Aegon continued.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Arianne asked. "Walk up to Lord Jon, Ser Harry, and my uncle and demand that stop? Demand they stop fighting?"

"This isn't fighting," Aegon said quietly.

"This is what armies do. It's what they've always done," Arianne repeated more of her uncle's words.

Aegon stayed silent for another minute. "Where were you planning to sleep tonight."

"No doubt all the good buildings have been taken already," she answered. "I'll need to find where my servants have set up my tent," Arianne said.

"There are spare rooms here in the sept," Aegon said. "If you'd rather sleep in a real bed. I know I would."

Arianne smiled. "Your Grace, are you trying to seduce me?"

Aegon blushed again.

"And beneath the roof of the Seven too?"

"I uh no, please," Aegon stuttered.

Arianne smiled. "I'll stop," she chuckled. "Where's that bed? I just want to sleep."

Sheltered within the sept Arianne's sleep was free of nightmares, her dreams had no darkness, no storms, and no crows, instead, there was only rainbow light and the sound of seven bells ringing.

Daenerys

A dragon's blood always ran as hot as flame, or so Viserys had told Dany when they were young, he'd also claimed that the beasts were immune to all mortal diseases. But the only way Dany could describe how Rhaegal looked was fevered and sick. For three days Rhaegal did nothing but fly in circles above Astapor, until finally he collapsed in exhaustion and landed atop Dany's pyramid. Inside the same garden, he'd been summoned from days ago. Since then Rhaegal had curled himself into a ball and refused to let anyone come close, snapping and spitting flame even at Drogon and Viserion when they tried to approach. Viserion had shied away almost immediately but Drogon and risen to the challenge resulting in a minute long bout of lashing claws, whipping tails, gouts of flame, and biting teeth that had turned the once pristine garden into a small reflection of the city below. Despite his greater size Drogon had eventually fled, leaving the feverish looking Rhaegal to his victory.

The only ones able to approach Rhaegal were Daenerys, and to Dany's displeasure, Victarion Greyjoy. The Ironmen leader in whose name the horn dragonbringer had been blown. They were there now, only minutes before Dany had hosted Victarion, his captains, lords, and the stowaway Prince Quentyn in the great hall of the pyramid, now far below them. She'd eaten in silence, save for when she needed to make a toast to someone's courage, or a great deed. A silence that had been joined by many in the hall. The Ironborn and her Unsullied had little in common as they rubbed shoulders,

She opened the iron gate and entered the garden where Rhaegal slept. Victarion, Moqorro, and Ser Barristan followed her. Rhaegal was shivering, curled into a ball, the last light of the sun and the torch Ser Barristan carried revealed shallow bite marks along his legs, tail, and wings. Rhaegal had been gnawing upon himself, putting into flesh the pain that was tearing him apart from within. A low and very undragonlike moan escaped Rhaegal as he shifted slightly at their approach.

"A dragon can have only one bond human at a time," Moqorro said after a moment. "One rider for one dragon." He tapped his staff on the ground, green sparks flew from the roaring mouth. "This one is drawn between three."

"Three?" Dany asked. Victarion crossed his arms and frowned.

"Yes, Daenerys who nursed Rhaegal from hatching, Victarion in whose name a horn was blown, and another distant from here who ensorcelled the horn to bend its true purpose.

"You doesn't make sense that priest," Victarion grumbled. "You're magic was supposed to give me the dragon."

Dany glared at him.

"It was a well made spell, wrought with blood, fire, and darker things. I've looked for answers in the flames but all I see are crows."

"Euron," Victarion spat. "The Crow's Eye."

"Euron?" Dany stood and glared at Victarion. "Who is Euron?"

"My foul brother," Victarion growled. "He stole the horn from Valyria itself and sent me to take the dragons. All his gifts are poisoned."

"But instead you tried to claim them for yourself, how?"

"It was my work," Moqorro said. "Blood and fire, the magic of Old Valyria, to bind the horn to Lord Victarion. Then only a loyal man was needed to blow the horn in his name. This Crow's Eye must have foreseen the possibility, and put more spells in place upon the horn. It's as much his and yours," he said to Victarion.

The Ironman growled, the sound reverberating from deep within his massive chest.

"How do you fix it?" Dany asked.

Moqorro looked askance at the stars above them. "I don't know. This is beyond my ken."

Rhaegal whimpered and curled tighter into himself and Daenerys shed quiet tears.

Unable to save her child Dany through herself into other, nearly as pressing matters.

"You must return to the west!" Victarion shouted. "I demand it! I did not sail across half the world to fight a band of slaves and slavers!"

"I did not ask you to do so, Lord Victarion," Dany said cooly, ignoring the Ironman's outburst. "My people need me here, to secure their freedom."

"With respect Your Grace," Prince Quentyn spoke, looking far more like a man of his station now that he was dressed in silks and silver instead of leather and iron, though Dany thought she might have preferred him before. "Your people need you in Westeros as well, the Baratheons, Starks, Lannisters," he glanced at Victarion. "And Greyjoys are tearing the Seven Kingdoms apart. Some of the maesters have already named it the War of the Five Kings. It's the bloodiest war since the Dance."

Ser Barristan shuffled his feet behind Daenerys. Whatever he has to say can be said later and in private. "Westeros is a land I've barely seen, and if what you say is true that my nephew has already moved to claim the Iron Throne."

"Your Grace there is only the word of a few that this Aegon is the Targaryen that he claims to be," said Quentyn.

Dany let her hands fall from the table.

Victarion grumbled. "What use is Slaver's Bay?"

Little and none, Dany thought bitterly, but instead of answering she asked. "Would you prefer to go back to your brother like a beggar?"

Victarion growled again and stomped out of the chamber, slamming the door as he left. Grey Worm glanced at Dany for instruction. She waved her hand. "Let him go, he has nowhere to go. You may go if you wish Prince Quentyn."

Prince Quentyn stood. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said before he left. A minute later Daenerys left as well.

"I am torn between two duties Ser Barristan," she said to her queensguard once they were alone. "Two peoples that beg for my aid."

Ser Barristan stood quietly before speaking. "Your Grace I am but a knight of your queensguard. My oaths, deeds, and thoughts, are of service and honour. I am the wrong man to ask questions of duty to whole kingdoms."

"But you have a duty to your oaths do you not? A duty to uphold them?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Your oaths as my queensguard demand you do all that I command, your oaths as a knight demand that you protect the innocent. If I ordered you to kill someone innocent, would you do it? Which duty would you choose to uphold?"

Ser Barristan was silent for a moment. "Your Grace, as kingsguard to your father, to King Aerys, I would obey. I obeyed, even when I watched innocents be burned alive. When the chance came I would beg mercy for those that I could, for the first time after the Defiance of Duskendale, when I begged for the life of a child. As time passed King Aerys listened to my pleas less and less, but I still had hope."

"In my brother?" Dany asked.

"Yes, in Prince Rhaegar. I hoped that he would change the realm for the better."

"And then he died."

"And then he died," Ser Barristan said sadly.

"What would you do then?" Dany asked. "If I did as my father did?"

"I don't know Your Grace," Ser Barristan the Bold said quietly.

"Please leave me."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan's armoured footsteps faded quickly, leaving Dany alone.

She didn't hear Prince Quentyn approach nor notice his presence until he said. "Your Grace, may I join you for a moment?"

"Of course, my prince," Dany said.

Prince Quentyn stepped up beside her, leaning on the still warm red bricks of the pyramid looking over the star sprinkled sea and sky.

"You want me to go to Westeros," Dany said. "You're here to try and convince me in private."

"Yes, Your Grace," Quentyn said after a moment's hesitation.

"On the battlefield, you swore to serve me."

"I did," his tone betrayed the confusion he felt.

"Are you a knight?"

"Yes, Lord Anders Yronwood knighted me a moon past my eight and tenth nameday."

"So you swore oaths to protect and defend the innocent?"

"As all knights must do."

Almost word for word she asked Prince Quentyn the same question she'd asked Ser Barristan. "Would you?" She asked the stunned prince. "Would you do it?"

"No," Quentyn said quietly but firmly, shock obvious on his face. "I would never."

Dany bit her lip. "My bloodriders, Aggo, Rakharo, and Jhogo would do it without question, so would Strong Belwas, and Victarion too. They're all killers, this I know. Only you would refuse it seems."

"What about Ser Barristan?"

"He said he doesn't know," she laughed bleakly. "Barristan the Bold, greatest craven of them all."

Quentyn took a half step closer. "This isn't just about my answer isn't it?"

"It's about duty," Dany answered. "I have a duty to Westeros say you and Ser Barristan, over and over again, but what about my duty to my people," Dany squeezed her hands. "They put their trust in me, their hopes in me, I can't betray that," she shook her head slightly. "Run away when things get hard. I can't abandon them for a land I don't know."

"I understand," Quentyn said. "I think," he bowed. "Goodnight, Your Grace," he left Dany alone again.

She stayed awake another hour, watching the starry night, before returning to her bed. When morning came she called her council again.

"My mind is made up," Daenerys said to her council and allies. "I will stay in Slaver's Bay until the freedom of my people is secure. I will not leave Slaver's Bay until I can guarantee that. What kind of queen would I be if I gave up when things became hard, when the world didn't bend itself to my whims. Once this war is done, however it may end, I will go to Westeros."

Prince Quentyn stood and bowed. "As Your Grace commands."

Victarion growled, but stood at last. "I will not return to the west empty handed," his fist slammed against the table. "My Iron Fleet will burn Yunkai and Meereen to the ground before I let myself suffer such a humiliation."

Daenerys was careful not to let her relief show. Without Victarion's fleet and warriors, she hadn't the strength to keep fighting. Her only hope was that his pride wouldn't allow him to leave and thank the gods she'd been right.

Tyrion

The wildlings kept their camp at Castle Black for the greater part of a fortnight. Thousands still had to pass beneath the Wall. The raiders and scouts sent south, east, and west returned daily with news and loot, the herds swelled as cattle, sheep, and goats were stolen from the North. Rumours spread like wildfire through the camp, though Tyrion and the other deserters heard only half whispered stories days out of date. By and large, the wildlings shunned the deserters, almost every wildling had lost some kinfolk to the men of the Night's Watch, some more recently than others. However few of the wildlings did anything more than shoot dark looks and the occasional gob of spit. Tormund Giantsbane had taken them under his protection, and Tormund's warriors were among the most loyal in the host. Before long the first wildlings from Eastwatch and Shadow Tower began to arrive, many bearing the trophies of victory against the garrisons at those two castles, adding a dizzying litany of tribes, nicknames, and titles to the already chaotic host.

In the weeks since he'd descended the Wall for the last time, Tyrion was finally managing to figure out the politics of the wildling host. Mance Rayder was king, but he was king by the acclaim of his peers, the other chiefs, and he ruled by right of strength and guile instead of by blood. If he failed or fell the other chiefs wouldn't hesitate to find a new king. That was not to say that they were all sharpening their knives for that day. After Mance, the greatest chief was Tormund Giantsbane, and he seemed truly loyal to the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Morna White Mask, a witch as well as a chief to hear some say, commanded respect from the most pious of the wildlings. Sigorn, the new Magnar of Thenn had the absolute loyalty of his own folk, a tribe nearly as different from the other wildlings as Tyrion was, but had little sway over the others. Harma Dogshead, The Weeper, and The Lord of Bones were all vicious in their own little ways but their warriors shifted allegiances. There were other lesser chieftains as well the Great Walrus of the Frozen Shore, Ygon Oldfather, Soren Shieldbreaker, Harle the Handsome and Harle the Huntsman, and Howd the Wanderer, whose loyalties and allegiances shifted like driftwood on a beach. The only one to worry Tyrion was Varamyr Sixskins, who moved around the camp on the back of a great snow bear, wolves and a shadowcat following him, and an eagle on his shoulder. Tyrion had half managed to convince himself that he and the other skinchangers around the camp were nothing more than charlatans with well-trained animals, but then he'd woken with a shadowcat looking hungrily at his throat.

"Fuck me!" Tyrion swore, scrambling on hands and knees to get his throat away from the razor sharp fangs.

"That's the last thing I had in mind," someone said. A short thin man dressed in fine furs walked around the shadowcat, his hand running along the beast's flank. An eagle rested on his shoulder, its head bobbing this way and that.

Tyrion heard a snarl behind him and turned to see three wolves licking their jaws. Their sounds woke Jon and Pyp who both came to their feet, quickly kicking Lancel, Grenn, and the others awake.

A low growling drew attention back to the man, the huge snow bear, taller than Grenn by a head at the shoulder, lumbered into view. Jon and Lancel were the first to draw their blades, the others quickly followed suit, Tyrion being the last to bring his axe to hand. The wolves snapped their jaws, the shadowcat's tail swished this way and that, the eagle's wings spread wide, and the bear's growl grew louder.

"How good to see you again Jon," the small man said with a feral smile.

"Varamyr," Jon replied. "I have no quarrel with you.

"No, but Orell did, and now so do I," The eagle spread his wings and screeched. "Did you like the present we gave you?" Varamyr made his fingers look like talons and scratched lines along his face, a mirror to Jon's scars.

Tyrion's hands tightened around his axe. The wolves snarls abruptly changed to whimpers, and they parted around the black brothers to take a new position behind Varamyr. Tyrion heard almost silent feet pad the ground behind him. A white wolf as big as a pony walked through the group and affectionately pushed his huge muzzle into Jon's stomach.

"Ghost!" Jon shouted. "How did you get here?"

The silent direwolf, of course, didn't answer but instead leapt onto his hind legs put his weight on Jon and pushed him to the ground to lick his face instead. A growl from the snow bear quickly reminded everyone of their uninvited guest.

Ghost stepped away from Jon and snarled silently. A moment later Jon was on his feet, sword drawn and ready, soon the rest of the black brothers were backing Jon up. Tyrion stood behind Lancel, his axe at the ready. The wolves started growling, readying their haunches to leap, the snow bear's deep growl was felt more than heard.

"Varamyr!" Tormund shouted as he came forward, followed by a gang of wildling warriors armed with spears, axes, and bows. "Come for some fun? A drink mayhaps?"

The skinchanger's eyes flashed white for a moment and the eagle on his shoulder flew into the air. "Just came to say hello to our new recruits," the snow bear knelt on the ground to let the small man clamber onto his back. "And remind them of their place in the natural order of things." The bear growled and turned away, the wolves and the shadowcat followed.

Tormund spat. "Nothing natural about that bastard," he said.

Jon stepped up. "Thank you Tormund, I-"

A wildling pushed past Tormund, who offered startled shout. The wildling, a red-haired woman, ran at Jon, who stood with a stupid looking grin, then she punched him in the face. Tyrion winced as he watched Jon collapse. The wildling woman spat on him then turned on her heel and left.

"Har!" Tormund laughed. "Come, Mance wants to talk to the lot of you."

The King-Beyond-the-Wall was tending a fire when they arrived. He knelt by the flames in the centre of a circle of roughly hewn logs covered in thick furs served as seats. Facing the meeting place was the open awning of a great tent made from the pelts of snow bears, topped with the antlers of an elk. Tormund took a seat without any preamble, and the black brothers followed. A baby's cried out from inside the tent, causing Mance to jerk his head back instinctively to look. Tyrion took the long way around the fire to get a better look inside the tent. Two women, sisters by the look of them, were inside, one abed in a pile of furs of such quality that they'd put even some of Cersei's to shame, she held a babe in her arms. The other one, the prettier one Tyrion thought, knelt beside her holding a bowl and a rag.

Mance gave the fire a final poke and satisfied took a seat beside Tormund. He reached into a leather case and pulled out a bundle of letters and parchment. "Most of my people have no use for parchment or letters," he said. "Save a few who still know the old runes and the spells they can carry." He shrugged. "But they aren't foolish enough to burn whatever a maester had in his tower. Most of them anyway."

"Har," Tormund chuckled and had the grace to look a little embarrassed.

"But I was raised in The Shadow Tower," Mance continued. "The maester taught me my letters, and it's been a while, but I remember enough to read these scratchings. I know the Iron Throne is being fought over, I know Robb Stark has claimed a crown," Jon shifted slightly at the mention of his brother, Pyp patted him on the shoulder. "I know of Roose Bolton and that he serves a different king. I know Ironmen raid the western coast with impunity. What I don't know is who these people are, they're just names on a page."

"The last news that reached Castle Black said that Roose Bolton had bent the knee to Stannis Baratheon, and had been rewarded," Tyrion began. "Stannis made Roose his Warden of the North."

Mance nodded. "How likely are they to join forces against," he smiled slightly. "A wildling invasion?"

Tyrion glanced at Jon before letting him speak.

"I'm not sure," Jon began. "My brother no doubt sees Roose Bolton as a traitor. If you and the Boltons go to battle, Robb may just wait to fight whoever remains."

"House Glover," Mance began. "How many men can they raise, them and the Wolfswood Clans as well?"

"A few thousand at most," Jon said.

"I don't know about the clans," Tyrion started. "But House Glover sent many men south with Robb Stark," at Jon's glance, he said. "I saw their banners at the Green Fork."

"And the Mountain Clans?" Tormund grumbled. "They'll be trouble."

"The Mountain Clans have already marched south to join Robb Stark," Tyrion said. "The Night's Watch called out to the clans for aid, but they were already gone."

"The path to Winterfell is open then?" Mance asked. "Snow? You've been quiet anything to say?"

"Theon Greyjoy sacked Winterfell," Jon said, his voice was dark, and his hands had tightened around Longclaw. "There's no one to defend it."

"Good," Mance said. "Tormund go tell Morna and the rest to get ready."

"Aye," the big-bellied wildling chief replied.

Mance looked back to the deserters. "You can go now. If I have any more questions I'll find you."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Tyrion said as he stood, provoking a smile from the wildling king.

The other deserters stood seconds later and slowly filed out of the king's presence. Once they were out of earshot Grenn put a hand on Jon's shoulder but the bastard shrugged it off, hand deep in the scruff of Ghost's neck he rushed away from the group, heading off into the camp.

"What's with him?" Pyp asked.

"How would you feel if you'd been forced to help plan the invasion of your home?"

"I wouldn't know," the big-eared boy said. "I've never had a home to invade."

They made their way back to their own section of the camp and whiled away the day with empty talk and wildling ale. A few of the wildlings, mostly from Tormund's followers, joined them for a few hours. That's when they heard the news, tomorrow was the day, the march south would begin.

"Mance will start waking us up before dawn," the wildling called Longspear Ryk had said.

"That way we'll be on the march around noon," one of Tormund's sons had japed. Torwynd was his name, Tyrion thought.

Jon eventually came back, well after nightfall, drunk as all of the Seven Hells and smelling worse than King Robert's bedchamber. The bastard curled himself into a ball and went to sleep in seconds, Ghost laid down beside him.

True to the wildling's words horns began to bellow before dawn, waking everyone, even Jon, from their slumber.

"Cheer up!" Tormund ordered as he made his rounds. "Today's as good a day as any to go to war!"