The Dance is not over Chapter 59: War Tide, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

Chapter 59

War Tide

The Dance of Dragons began as a tragedy which ultimately tore the Seven Kingdoms apart.

Few men and women have dared said the same about the events which led to the Westerosi mustering their warriors to intervene in the First Narrow Sea War.

Yes, assuredly, many souls died.

Unlike what happened during the Dance, both Black and Green Crown would see battles fought on the very first moon facing their enemies; it wouldn't be limited to whispers of alliances, dragons dancing, and assassination in dark rooms.

But when looking at the events, the historian's eye can't help but feel an extremely powerful emotion of pity.

This was not a tragedy but a bloody mummer's farce.

And it was one which was going to consume everyone in fire for a century before the play was finally declared over.

Letter of Historian-Librarian of the First Rank Benjen Manderly, written to one of his peers living in the Vale, 324AC.

Lord Alyn Velaryon, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Marahai Bay

The few sailors who lived on the Isle of Elephants had called it the Fever Run.

Alyn at the same time had thought they were exaggerating, as every sailor did more than one hundred times in his life. As long as they didn't land on Sothoryos, fever and diseases should stay reasonably limited, with all the fruits and other supplies they had bought during their latest port of call's visit.

It had only been when the first storm had darkened everything around them that the realisation had come.

It wasn't disease or lack of drinkable water which gave this trade route its name.

It was the unending series of giant storms ever threatening to swallow your ships.

Suddenly, the hesitation of the Sea Snake to never try sailing south of the Jade Gates made far more sense.

It was like being hunted by the Gods of the Winds and the Sea.

It was like fleeing with all your sails out, and praying.

Praying that the black storms on their tail didn't catch up with them.

They hadn't been completely successful.

On the fifth day after leaving the Isle of the Elephants, one of the Corsair-crewed ships had lost its foresail riggings, among other things.

It had disappeared like devoured by an insatiable maw, and there had been nothing he could do about it.

It was like fleeing while a fever devoured your mind and your soul...thus the name, he supposed.

And now it was over.

His ship and its five consorts were cruising in a bay which felt like paradise itself. It was nicely warm, and the furious winds had stopped.

"Marahai, the Isle of Tigers," the silver-haired Admiral said reverently, "we did it."

"The large mountains reaching to the sky look like they're protecting this island," his second commented with a grimace.

"Yes. This crescent form with all the mountains on the south must shatter the storms before they hit here. The Bay is protected."

And for those who thought the 'mountains reaching to the sky' was an exaggeration, Alyn was eager to disabuse anyone who uttered that. The peaks which rose over the luxuriant jungle as far as he could see were indeed that huge. By comparison, the Wall and the Titan of Braavos could take lessons of humility.

"That's a magnificent anchorage." The veteran sailor of House Velaryon drily stated. "It doesn't matter if the storms come from the south, the west, or the east, these mountains will stop most of the elements before they cause devastation. Kings have sold entire fleets worth of treasure for far less than that."

"Given the number of ships we see, Admiral, I can tell plenty of foreigners agree with you."

Alyn smirked.

It was good no one among his flagship had lost his sense of humour during their tiring journey eastwards.

But his second made an excellent point.

There had been little clue in the Sea Snake's log books about what would they find at Marahai, as Corlys Velaryon had never visited it.

Well, House Velaryon was correcting this now.

And Alyn was certain that if Corlys watched this from wherever his soul had been sent, the old Snake would feel regret to not been here with them.

The waters were so beautiful it took an effort of will to not jump and verify if the sensation was as divine as promised. There were luxuriant forests wherever the eyes fell. Everything was shining, like in a golden dream.

Then there were the foreign ships.

Half of them were small fisher cutters, the kind you could find on every coast of Westeros and Essos, though those he saw here were painted and richly decorated to a degree that he had never seen elsewhere.

Their presence in Marahai Bay was unsurprising.

The presence of the other ships wasn't that evident for his poor head.

In fact, nearly all the other ships were built with styles Alyn could truthfully affirm he had never seen them before in his life.

One, however, was something he had heard when the Sea Snake recounted his exploits.

"We have the attention of the biggest ship, Lord, they're saluting with two flags, one azure, and one of golden green...do you think they have Tyrells aboard?"

Alyn exploded in laughter.

"No, no! This is Yi-Tish tradition. The first flag is the merchant's flag, and the second, the azure one, is to signal this ship is trading under the eye of the God-Emperor of Yi Ti."

Alyn lowered his spyglass.

"Return the salute, sailors. This ship is a Treasure Junk of the Empire."

It was a rather elegant ship, and it wasn't small; Alyn estimated it was over seventy-five feet from bow to stern, and twenty-five feet abeam.

"Teak construction, you think, my Lord?"

"It definitely looks like it."

"But Admiral! Weren't they rumours that the God-Emperor had forbidden all his merchants to ever leave the Empire, under pain of death, while at the same time expelling non-Yi Tish merchants?"

"That's what the rumours said," the Lord of Driftmark replied with a chuckle. "Fortunately, it seemed the rumours were wrong."

Damio Ludiax, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Iron Bank Headquarters, Braavos

"I think we all spoke while influenced by a lot of extraordinary emotions at our last meetings."

Well, Damio wasn't going to disagree with that kind of opening statement.

But given how cold and bland the office of Bruno Vespasian was on the best of days, it made the point all the clearer.

His fellow Founding Keyholder was not the kind of man who got cold feet easily; in his youth, he had fought many pirates in the Jade Sea, and soaked his clothes with their blood.

"It was a highly emotional meeting," Damio admitted with a courteous nod. "But since I know you, I am going to remark it is not the emotions which bother you."

"They don't. It has more to do with...everything else, really."

"Continue, please."

"First of all, there is the little problem of our hierarchy, Damio. We Founding Keyholders were always supposed to stay masked and in the shadows. It was the duty of the lesser Keyholders to take the risks and give the orders. That's why I am the Permanent Advisor of the Office of Financial Records, not the Head. Yes, one in four men and women of the Office know I am in charge, but that's a far cry from saying 'all of them'."

"If you begin to bark suspicious orders, plenty of voices are going to be raised, asking under which authority you act."

"Exactly," Bruno Vespasian grimaced, attracting attention upon old facial scars his well-kempt brown beard wasn't able to hide. "And since we can afford to be pretty much honest with each other, plenty of our employees don't share our view that things are going very badly. Our warships are still winning many small-scale battles against the Pentoshi and raiding in the south of the Narrow Sea, after all."

"Everything is fine, until suddenly, it isn't anymore." Damio Ludiax said philosophically. "It isn't a surprise, but it is an inconvenience. Your point is indeed a good one. Continue."

The fervent worshipper of the Red Bull shrugged.

"There isn't a lot left to be said on that front. The omens are all bad, and the figures I can see every day are worse. I am less and less confident we can pay for our expenses of the next two years. We have the confidence of the public for now, but if the typical Braavosi trader rushes to our doors in order to withdraw his money, times are going to be...difficult."

Difficult and violent, but it wasn't like it was unexpected. The Iron Bank had never encountered such difficulties since its founding, but the same couldn't be said about Myrish, Tyroshi, or Lysene establishments, which regularly went insolvent when their quarrels lasted too long.

Damio thought carefully.

"You are more worried about the problems tied to the evacuation of the assets which are vital to the preservation of the Iron Bank."

"Worried is exactly the right word, Damio. Do you have any idea how many books, ledgers and other records there are under our feet? An entire hall, and that's just the Record library we need for our day-to-day operations. There are two other halls near our ancient roots, plus a few more things which other non-initiated would rightfully call 'Great Libraries'. The great families think wood is the greatest resource Braavos needs, but from my point of view, it is parchment and everything our quills need to write our records."

The Founding Keyholder had known, intellectually, this was going to be problematic, but he hadn't thought it was that bad. When you looked at it, it was something on par with building a new Titan.

And they had to do it in secret.

"Leaving aside the risks caused by the destination itself, no single ship will be able to transport so many books and precious 'goods' at once," the Office of Financial Records was guaranteed to have the largest amount of things to move, but the others would not come with empty hands either. "The journey must be short. That way a single ship will be able to do plenty of rotations."

"These are indeed my thoughts."

Damio Ludiax tried not to show too hard his consternation.

"Unless we want to place ourselves at the mercy of the dragonlords on the Narrow Sea-"

"And I do not," the 'Permanent Assistant' spoke bluntly.

"Their current Queen seems rather sane." No, Damio was not going to defend a descendant of the Fourteen; he was just describing the situation as it existed right now on the ground.

"Until the next one," Bruno Vespasian sniffed. "Anyway, dragonlords worry me far less than the Andals they rule over. Every time there's a military crisis, the Falcons and their Andal warlords tax their merchants to the point it is to us they turn within a moon's turn."

There wasn't any spiritual retort one could find to deny the truth.

"Then it will be Lorath."

It was the closest Free City. It wasn't a particularly powerful entity, but that could work to the Iron Bank's advantage, if they played their cards right.

"I can propose an expansion of the branch we have there," the other Founding Keyholder assured him. "It shouldn't be difficult to convince the rest. We already had problems in that direction due to the housing and the working facilities having only the minimal amount of funds and ledgers to work with. Now that trade with Pentos is nonexistent, plenty of men and women will agree with me we need to increase our activities in a Free City that hasn't barred its doors to us."

"I'm glad you think it that way." Damio waited for ten heartbeats, then made his most delicate proposal. "I would prefer you to be in charge of the whole operation, that said."

"You mean...me, taking control of the Lorath Branch itself?"

It wasn't often he saw incredulity breaking through the bearded facade. It was the case today though, of this there was little doubt.

"Yes."

"But...I am the Permanent Advisor of the Office of Financial Records! And the situation is..."

The sentence wasn't completed. Yes, the situation wasn't that dire, but they had so little warning these days between each disaster that it was very little comfort.

"At the moment we're speaking," Damio said aloud what they had refrained to declare in whispers until this moment, "the sixteen of us are all operating in the canals of Braavos, and Zalyne knows or at least suspects the identity of six of us. I don't think he has discovered each and every one of the Sixteen, but if he does, or he releases his mob and they get horribly lucky, he can really decapitate us in a single day."

"I see your point." Bruno didn't look happy...and honestly, Damio wasn't sure the shadow of fear in his heart was any better. "I can move with my family and the first records within the next fortnight. Making a true branch of our noble Bank in front of the Lorathi mazes shouldn't raise too many questions. Just...don't expect me to be happy about it."

There was a vehement grumble.

"You still dislike Lorath, don't you?"

"I hate it."

"This is just another Free City."

"Spoken like someone who has never been forced to anchor in front of this wet rat hole where sheep and goats look like prettier than their women..."

Princess Aliandra Martell, Tenth Moon of 140AC, northern bank of the Greenblood, Dorne

The ritual was simple, and yet incredibly long to accomplish.

But if it had been done in a turn of hourglass, it wouldn't have had any value, no?

It still hadn't been easy.

Aliandra was the Princess of Dorne, and visiting every river of Dorne to pour a jug of the Greenblood waters in them was a long affair, one she had done by visiting the Lordships of both friendly and unfriendly Houses.

But for all the years it had taken – close to an entire year, really – it was worth it, both to visit the lands she was the Princess of, and to rediscover part of her Rhoynar inheritance.

Aliandra was taking some water from every river, while she was giving some in return.

This was what it meant to be a Rhoynar Queen.

This also was what they had forgotten as a people.

Many Westerosi and Essossi love to repeat the story of Nymeria's quest to find a new home as the old one perished in the flames of the dragons, praising the legendary feat of mustering ten thousand ships together.

These voices often chose to forget how few of these ships had landed on the coast where Sunspear would eventually be built.

"We lost so much both as Rhoynar and as women...forgive us, Mother."

Aliandra prayed, and opened the last jug of water.

Drop after drop, the water fell into the Greenblood, as a cold win caressed her visage.

The Princess of Dorne waited.

When it came, she felt her heart beat faster.

There was a small splash akin to a fish trying to dance over the water, but it was not such an ordinary thing.

It was a turtle.

Except it was a turtle of bright green and blue, and it wasn't...it wasn't a real animal.

Aliandra had not been witness to the kind of mirages plenty of Dornish travellers recounted in the markets where they could impress customers, but she knew it wasn't that.

The turtle was real, but it was no ordinary animal.

There was a splash, and though the turtle continued to look at her silently, it faded away, until it was nothing but ten thousand drops of water united by a common will.

Then the drops disappeared too.

Silence fell, on the shores of the Greenblood.

Behind her, her uncle coughed.

"This was...certainly something," the ageing Lord admitted, his assurance of the previous days entirely vanished. "Was it?"

"It was a manifestation of Mother Rhoyne, yes."

Aliandra smiled.

"It was a very good omen. And it was confirmation the books we bargained from the Myrish were indeed the real heirlooms taken at the end of the Last War from the libraries of our people."

For this alone, the alliance she had pledged with the Myrish envoys was worth more than gold.

"It is a blessing."

Manfrey Gargalen, Lord of Salt Shore, chuckled in a way that was half-respectful, half-surprised.

"It is certainly something. And if you can show some bigger things, the Orphans will love you. I can't say the same thing for the septons, of course."

The young Princess snorted, and it was only her lessons at Sunspear who gave her the poise to not reveal what she was truly thinking.

"Some of these priests are getting...rowdy."

"They think alliance with the Free Cities is a sin." Her uncle reminded her gently, as if she had possibly forgotten.

"I'm very happy they have no chance to ever sit on my throne, then."

No names had been given, but Aliandra was sure her uncle and she thought about the same souls. Plenty of men among them would be incredibly happy to reject their Rhoynar inheritance and bend the knee before the dragons, until they were nothing but good Andals with a darker shade of skin.

"The alliance is providing us with everything we need." Aliandra said, her eyes continuing to stare at the Greenblood River. "It's a pity we weren't able to convince Lys to commit itself to the alliance too, but what we have has already given us gains and reasons to be very proud of."

"You have turned the eyes of your subjects eastwards, and they are impressed by your successes."

"Is it a voice of caution I hear, Uncle?"

There was a laugh.

"I suppose it is, your Highness. You are fierce like Nymeria was. You are the Queen of the Rhoynar. But soon enough, you will have the power to close the Stepstones with a word alone."

"A word and the ships the shipbuilders of Myr sold us at ridiculously low prices," Aliandra said innocently.

"Yes, that," Her Uncle coughed. "I don't think the Green King is going to be very happy with that possibility."

"We all know it is not a possibility, my Lord." The descendant of Nymeria gave a smile which she was sure was revealing all her teeth. "Evidently, we weren't going to close the Stepstones while there was a war going on. But once Tyrosh was in its rightful place, that was to say disarmed and forced to pay a significant tribute, the Green captains of King's Landing and other harbours would scream as the tolls increase moon after moon."

Aliandra wasn't going to say she was the only one to have had this idea. The Myrish envoys had gleefully told her the same thing without any incitation coming from her or one of her advisors.

"But the Greens are finally realising what kind of a disaster the fall of Tyrosh is going to be for them. They are going to react, with fire and blood."

"Then it falls to me that they react too late, no? With Lady Ysolde besieging the Tyroshi on their last fortresses of the Disputed Lands, the Stepstones are wide open for our new spears...and possibly more."

There were plenty of risks. Aliandra wasn't foolish enough to pretend the contrary. But unlike the stupidity engineered by Wyl and his allies, Dorne could win splendid prizes from it, and a dragon had far more difficulty finding ships on the open seas than an army in the Marches. And of course, a dragon was far from home was one the Greens didn't have to protect King's Landing and Blackwater Bay. During the last war, it had been a small problem, but now the northern part of the Narrow Sea was seeing fleets clash with other fleets, the same thing couldn't be repeated in the streets.

"I am going to war, Uncle. It's time to remind everyone that the Rhoynar have a Queen, and she is a warrior."

Lady Maris Baratheon, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Storm's End

The entire affair felt uncomfortable at best, very embarrassing at worse.

They were only the two dining in the dining hall, and yes, it was as much a waste of space and greatness as you could imagine.

To be fair to him, it hadn't been the King's idea. It had been his Kingsguards'.

Maris really hoped they were satisfied by their insistence and their devotion to duty, she really did.

When she had suggested they withdrew for a private supper in her quarters, it had not been due to nefarious intentions.

It was just because with most of her Lords and other bannersmen absent, there was absolutely no reason to waste the pomp and everything on futilities.

Idly, the Lady of Storm's End wondered if her sister's husband kept the heavy pomp of the court in all circumstances. Today's events suggested a positive answer, and Maris would be lying if she told she found it good.

They were the most important highborn of the Kingdom, yes. But there was no need to organise a supper for two in front of scores of guards leaning against the walls!

It wasn't going to impress anyone.

"My Queen wanted to visit you, but I managed to convince her to wait for a moon until she regained some of her strength."

"I'm glad you did," Maris had plenty of reasons to want to speak to her eldest sister, but she didn't want her dead. Travelling in the middle of winter from King's Landing to Storm's End with two newborn children was not the greatest of ideas, to put it mildly. "I thought it would be better to visit her myself at the capital, however. I can't do it this moon, but I think that for the next one, it might be feasible."

"This would be something appreciated." Sometimes, the Green King was incredibly bad at hiding his emotions. It wasn't just the purple eyes; it was...everything.

"My nephews and my niece are family, and I know the birth was particularly difficult; it was the first time she had to dictate the words to a Master instead of announcing me the news herself."

"It was...taxing, yes. The Maesters thought it was because there were twins, but it may be the other pregnancies taking finally their toll too."

It was not that surprising. Their eldest was born, what, six years ago? There had been a lot of royal dancing in the king's bed to result in five children. Maris was already glad her sister had not suffered the fate of some other Queens. Viserys' first wife had died in childbed, to the realm's sorrow.

"Twins' births are said to be a happy omen, but also very difficult."

Fortunately or not, there were plenty of them in House Targaryen in the last decades. The Black Queen was one, and then according to the rumours, the Heir of Winterfell had also sired them in her twin's belly. This felt too many for it to be isolated events.

"As I say, I will visit my sister before the end of this rainy year. I will just require the time to finish some affairs," to purge the last men loyal to Staedmon instead of her, "and to order some presents for the small army of nephews you gave me."

"It is good to hear." The King's jaw clinched. "Now we must speak of a different matter."

Maris drank from her silver cup before nodding. She had expected it to come sooner than it was spoken, to say the truth. With the constant rains and the unpleasant winds, the King flying in all haste with barely a few days of warning was something that no one at Storm's End, including herself, had really foreseen.

"There is a Dornish army in the Disputed Lands, and the fleet they convinced the Free Cities to sell them in on its way to ravage the Tyroshi holdings before joining up with the Myrish squadrons."

Maris had anticipated it would be about her re-marrying, now that the Staedmon's sword-swallower was freezing his balls on the Wall. It was a rather pleasant feeling to be wrong, for once.

"I was aware of the army, of course. It's the Sword of the Morning commanding them." Ysolde was clearly as gifted on the field of war as she was at jousting, and had humiliated Godric Arryn several times now. "The remnants of the Tyroshi forces are besieged at Kyrenia, I believe."

"This is indeed what is happening." Daeron Targaryen confirmed. "Myr and Dorne are on their way to expel the Tyroshi from Essos, and Lys is cheering and swallowing the southern Disputed Lands while the fighting is going on."

Maris didn't have to remember the fiery letters of Ysolde to know where it was going.

"You think Dorne is going to take over the Stepstones, or at least divide them with Myr and Lys."

"The Myrish have been incredibly arrogant these last moons, dictating humiliating terms to the Archon."

The Daughter of the Storm shrugged. If the Tyroshi felt defeat was such a bad thing, maybe they should have prepared for war more seriously. It wasn't like they couldn't be aware they were vulnerable. Six or seven Durrandon Kings in the past had raided the island of Lesser Tyrosh and ravaged their towns. There was a reason Greater Tyrosh had such tall Black Walls of fused dragonstone, and it wasn't because they shivered at the name of Volantis.

"The Archon is begging you to save him." She guessed.

"Yes."

"I am hardly a woman well-versed in the traditions of the Tyroshi, but I know the Archon is elected by the Magisters." She was already surprised they hadn't dismissed this one and elected another. Tyrosh wasn't Pentos, but still. "His successor may be more malleable-"

"The Archon has imposed his authority upon the Magisters. Some of them lost their heads. Political opposition to his rule is not what it was."

That was not without risks, but Maris accepted the point.

It did present a rather interesting set of new problems, though.

"The Archon may prefer to be the bannersman of King's Landing instead of Myr, but the Kingdom may not be able to win a war against the Free Cities. The last dragonrider to declare himself King of the Stepstones needed years of campaigning before being able to exert some measure of control over these rocks, and it collapsed as soon as he flew back to Westeros."

"I won't repeat the mistakes of the Rogue Prince. The goal is not conquest, but preventing the Dornish from closing the Stepstones to our trade."

This was already ambitious enough. Aside from a few sellswords like Godric Arryn, there were precious few Westerosi on the other side of the Sea, and even fewer were Stormlanders.

"Assuming a single campaign is capable of convincing the Myrish and Sunspear to abandon their projects," Maris began, "I am not convinced the realm will benefit from it. The Free Cities are ruled by profit and that alone. Once he has no use for us, the Archon of Tyrosh will discard his alliance with you and once again change sides."

It was what the Tyroshi and the other Quarrelsome Daughters did all the time, after all.

"Not this time," the purple eyes stared with the shade of ferocity found too often in the dragon's irises. "The Archon wants a marriage."

Oh, great. Why had she thought the matter of her hand in marriage was going to be something that wouldn't be mentioned tonight?

Lord Alyn Velaryon, Tenth Moon of 140AC, the Isle of the Temple, Marahai Bay

To Alyn's great surprise – and most of his crew, for that matter – the biggest revelation of the day hadn't come from the presence of the Yi Tish ship in Marahai Bay.

No, that 'honour' was won handily by the fact the Captain of the Treasure Junk was speaking the Westerosi Common Tongue!

Of course, Alyn reflected, he shouldn't be really surprised by that. After all, Merchant Zheng of Tang spoke the Volantene dialect of Valyrian, the Tamil used in the waters of Marahai, and plenty of other trade-tongues.

It was to the point Alyn was feeling very uncomfortable having only mastered a few of the Low Valyrian dialects of Eastern Essos.

And yet, Merchant Zheng, for all his knowledge, remained of an impressive humility in all circumstances.

This was...this wouldn't happen in any Westerosi harbour, to be sure.

He would attract a lot of attention there, if he ever visited.

And not just because the Yi Tish had a long elaborate moustache that was shaped like an improbable snake. Gods, it must be a nightmare to ensure it was able to endure the sea weather.

"You are going to try to complete the Trials of the Tiger," Zheng replied with the horrible accent that came with his mastery of the Common Tongue. "Yes, that explains everything. The Priests of the Isle of Elephants are known to advise the silver-haired sailors to come here. They are so reliable about it I sometimes think they have prophecies about it."

"I was told a man of my talents could find success and glory here."

The Yi Tish gave a discreet glance to his right. Alyn chose not to; the giant Temple of ancient stones that was half-buried by the lianas and other trees would still be here by the end of the day.

"The challenges are done by mortal men, and winning them is indeed something many young champions have done." Zheng replied, caution evident in his voice, something that was at odds with the flamboyant clothes of green silk he wore. "But if the gates of the Temple open...no, no need to trouble your mind as the sun sets and the Gods are watching."

"And the Trials?"

"They change every time, to prevent cheating."

Several of his sailors groaned around the fire where the dinner was cooked.

"Does it work?" Alyn asked lightly.

"It removes most of the fools quickly," Zheng said serenely, playing with one of the gold rings that had been upon his left hand several heartbeats ago. "Sometimes, I think that the first competition is done only to remove the souls not willing to take the majesty of the Great Temple seriously."

The Yi-Tish shook his head.

"But you have given your word to the Priest-Caller, and I respect this. On the pleasant side of the Gate, it will keep you busy for the next moon, while the storms rage outside."

"Time to explore the trade possibilities Marahai has to offer humble merchants?"

"You are not that humble, Alyn of House Velaryon," Zheng gently chided him with his atrocious accent. "And if you intend to trade here, you arrive a bit too early. The gold from Ulthos will arrive in two or three moons, not before. There's a reason few are...daring to ever try the Fever Run during the Season of Storms."

"The profits are greater if you are not ransomed by the Qartheen toll-takers," Alyn decided that honesty was the preferable strategy here.

"It's a lesser risk than have a ship disappearing forever in one of the storms bringing the monsoon to our shores. Great profits mean great risks, and the wise know what to take and what to leave if his hands aren't strong enough to hold the treasures he is tempted with."

The words were correct, but sounded a bit wrong nonetheless. Alyn guessed it was a Yi Tish proverb Zheng had tried to translate in a hurry.

"Alas, avidity of the Qartheen knows no bounds. Many like you will try to sail through the Storms in years to come, I have no doubt. It doesn't help that Yin is closed to them."

"So there has indeed been some sort of...trade interdict in the last years? In distant harbours, we heard whispers, but we couldn't decide what was true and what was false."

"I suppose this entirely depends on what you heard," Zheng smoothed his moustache. "Emperor Bu Lu, He Who Held the Mandate of Light upon Zhong Guo, was...he was the God-Emperor. And in his last moon of reign, he indeed forbade all merchants who didn't prostrate themselves before his rule to trade in his cities."

"That must have created plenty of...discontent?" Alyn cleared his throat and tried to stay as polite as possible.

"We will never know," Zheng sighed, "for the next fortnight after these edicts, the God-Emperor's eyes fell upon the forbidden treasure, the High Priestess of the Maiden-made-Light herself. He tried to make her his concubine. The Eunuchs made a barrier of their bodies, and gave the Holy time to flee back to Her Temple. Bu Lu had always known to be filled with wrath, but on that accursed day, he seemed to be possessed by a demon. He slaughtered twenty thousand Eunuchs and all his Ministers who dared protesting or get in his way."

Twenty thousand? In a single day? Gods, Maegor the Cruel had needed the Black Dread to butcher and burn so many men, and most of the time, he had done it upon the battlefield, against the Faith Militant which rebelled against his rule.

Twenty thousand...it was insane.

"As the red sun disappeared over the horizon," Zheng continued grimly, "Bu Lu suddenly became livid, for all the city of Yin was beginning to spread that he had lost the Mandate of the Light. He was now a mere Emperor, and so he fled to his Palace, hoping to endure the night. He called the soldiers of the Azure Banners to rush towards the city, before taking refuge in his quarters. No one save his concubines and a few of his children were admitted in his presence. Three thousand spears and swords defended his Palace."

Alyn had a depressing feeling he knew where it was going.

"When Dawn rose, the Emperor was not among the living anymore. And the sacred tile where Bu Lu had written the name of his successor...it cracked and turned into sand in front of the last Eunuchs."

"This must have displeased the sons of your Emperor."

"It did," Zheng assured him. "And since that day, the Golden Empire is divided, with some Princes encouraging to trade, and some who don't."

That was a very polite way to say that Zheng had pledged his ships to trade in service of one Prince who supported trade and profit.

"How long will this...war for the Mandate go on?" Alyn asked respectfully.

"Who can say?" Zheng said enigmatically. "The empire, long divided, must unite; long united, must divide. Thus it has ever been."

That was a strange philosophy indeed. But looking back at home...who was to say the Yi Tish were not the wisest of them all?

Queen Baela Targaryen, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Stone Hedge

"This was the worst weather in my life!"

Baela snorted loudly.

"Now who is exaggerating?"

The children, naturally, all chuckled around the table.

"I'm really sorry, your Majesty," Nettles drawled with disobedience burning in her eyes. "But the weather is really that abominable. Or did you miss Sheepstealer rushing to his large lair-stable while forgetting to plead for his favourite treat?"

It was true the mud-coloured dragon had been particularly hasty and eager to obey her dragon-handlers today. On the other hand...

"I wouldn't be surprised if within the hour Sheepstealer remembered his desire for sheep, Nettles."

"Oh, he will," the other female dragonrider confirmed. "But as I was saying, the weather is really bad everywhere. We already have one foot of snow upon the ground, and it's going to get worse tonight."

"I suppose the Riverlands will be beautiful tomorrow morning, with a white mantle covering all the western Lordships."

Naturally, Daena fidgeted and her eyes shone with excitation. This promised a lot of snowball battles to come by the next morning.

"But won't Sheepstealer feel alone?" Her cousin Daenaera asked in a concerned voice, before blushing when her eyes turned towards her. "I mean, your Majesty."

"You can dispense with the royal address when we're in private like this, cousin." Baela replied with a smile. It was sweet to see one of her Velaryon cousins so innocent and all, but it let her wonder what sort of vision Daeron and Daemion had of her court. Daenaera had arrived to court with splendid gowns and queenly clothes, enough that her trousseau was most expensive than plenty of things Baela herself owned, but she had little in terms of riding clothes or anything for activities which didn't involve the court and other formal appearances. The two of them had clearly had very, very different upbringings.

"And no," the Black Queen continued. "It isn't a good idea to bring another dragon into another's lair at the best of times. The only occasion you may be able to do it is if two dragons have mated before. Otherwise, our flame-breathing mounts get violently territorial. That's assuming there's enough space to put two dragons together, of course. It is not the case here. The lair-stables here are not the Dragonpit or Dragonstone."

"But Sheepstealer must feel really alone, no?"

This time, it was Nettles who spoke...after laughing copiously.

"Sheepstealer loves the company of sheep, young Lady. Of goats too, if there's no sheep around. Sometimes of pigs, if the animals have offended him somewhat."

"But he is going to...ah..."

The understanding was delicious to watch.

"The mighty Sheepstealer," Baela stated while trying to keep a serious face, "doesn't desire much company, save food and a way to bring him more food. He's really lazy, all things considered."

The silver-haired sovereign sighed.

"And it is a real shame, because I would have loved to get more eggs he played a part in conceiving."

"You want a lot of sheep-stealing dragons, my Aunt?" Daena said mischievously.

"I would settle for more eggs, young rogue," Baela replied. "It isn't like they can misbehave more than Trickster, don't they?"

All the other children laughed, and plenty of jokes were launched all around the table.

Baela kept a happy expression, though in many ways, this touched way too close to one of the big problems she had right now: the number of eggs that could hatch were now dramatically few and far between. This wasn't to say she was lacking of dragon eggs in general; it was just that many of those in her and her sister's custody were fossilised, and thus as useful as jewels upon a crown.

The conversations continued for a time; but soon all the energy began to abate. The children had played hard running in her courtyard before the snow came today; it had burned a lot of their energy, and now, like Laena in her crib, plenty were deciding it was way too hard to keep their eyes open.

Some of the adorable boys and girls had even decided not to wait for their bed, and had their visages meeting the wood of the table. Fortunately, the plates of supper had been removed one turn of the new clock's needles ago.

"I believe," her husband cleared his throat, "that we have burned enough candles. It is time for everyone to go and enjoy a warm bed."

There were groans of protest, sworn proclamations of little dragons that they were strong and absolutely not sleepy.

Those words were immediately proved to be a bit too ambitious, as yawns and manifestations of tiredness proved all too common.

"The bedroom?" Addam asked, Laena's crib already in his hands.

"I will find you there, I must tidy us the room of maps first." The young Queen gave a off a small grimace. "I'm afraid that with all the distractions of today, I didn't bring back everything in the secure lockers as I should."

It shouldn't be a problem, not with potential thieves having to brave a huge snow storm to find Stone Hedge in the first place, but when she didn't tidy up everything immediately, Baela was misplacing things. Every time.

"I will wait for you. Don't spend too much time locking up old maps."

Baela sniffed.

"I note you have chosen the easiest duty tonight, my Consort."

"Was there any doubt I wouldn't?"

The Head of the Black branch of House Targaryen shook her head and left the room, knowing that she wouldn't get any victory on that battlefield.

As she did, the noise of the wind raging against the stones of Stone Hedge became more and more evident. Nettles had really not exaggerated at all; it was really a dangerous winter storm out there. Hopefully, it was a not a warning sign things weren't going to get as bad as next winter. Baela didn't anything wrong about letting the children play in the snow, but when things got so bad as to prevent humans from walking anywhere, it caused really a lot of trouble...and she wasn't fond of the cold.

The map room wasn't that far away, and as the proud owner, she found it exactly in the same place as she had left it.

For a couple of heartbeats, Baela was really, really tempted to leave the mess and go to her royal bed; the maps and all the documents that were piling up in front of her would still be there tomorrow. Duty won past that moment of draconic idleness.

Then she blinked.

The candle was burning.

The obsidian candle in the room was burning, and Baela knew for sure she hadn't used it today, or any of the last three days before that.

"What is happening? There shouldn't be any magic without blood of any kind to-"

But the black glass was definitely burning, and it was burning with a ferocity that she had never been able to achieve in all her attempts.

Baela bit her lip.

This may be a trap. It felt...extremely convenient that in the middle of winter, someone could do what she herself couldn't, in a room that had been locked and no one could have opened without raising suspicions.

In the end, her curiosity won out.

"Show me," she hissed in Black Valyrian.

The flow of visions came like a flood; it had never happened before, and Baela gasped.

The first heartbeats were ones of surprise; the second were of pure horror.

For as the world changed before her purple eyes, it was to show her a massive fleet of carracks and large cogs, all sailing east of a lighthouse that she remembered being maintained by House Celtigar of Claw Isle. Under a torrential rain that masked their approach, two scores of warships were sailing forwards the entrance of the Bay of Crabs, the scorpions and the catapults ensuring they couldn't be mistaken for anything else.

And then it ended with a snap. Baela was pushed out of the vision like an outside force had decided she had seen too much.

"Gulltown...what is an enemy fleet so close to Gulltown? And who sent it?"

As the words left her lips, as the flicker of the glass candle died, Baela acknowledged it was a stupid question.

Unless the fleet of King's Landing had left anchor without raising suspicion or the Pentoshi had suddenly decided to declare war against her because she wasn't selling them enough iron, the biggest fleet of the northern Narrow Sea belonged to the Braavosi, and the Sealord paid a lot of Captains who owned Carracks that had their hulls filled with pirates.

Baela hadn't had the time to study everything in detail, but some of the biggest hulls had clearly sailed with purple sails.

"Gulltown doesn't know...and I have no one to warn them." A raven would take too much time. Glass candles permitted to send a message to someone at the speed of thought, but there was no one at Gulltown trained in their use.

The wrath of the storm outside chose that moment outside to howl and bring a new expression of distaste.

"And with the snow and the storm, no dragon can hope to fly and survive...or not get lost in that nightmare."

With Sheepstealer, Moondancer and Trickster here, it meant effectively all the dragon which could have played messenger, rider or no, were effectively unable to intervene.

Baela cursed.

"I don't know who by the Burning Summer Lands sent me this vision, but I swear this is a very poor form of jest."

There was nothing she could do. Baela felt her lips snarl in anger and distaste, but it didn't change the truth.

It didn't matter if there were fifty or two hundred enemy ships at the gates of Gulltown and the Bay of Crabs. The dragons couldn't fly in that abominable weather, and with it, no rescue could come until morning...and even for the latter, she had to pray the weather improved.

"Gulltown is on its own, the Gods be with them..."

Lord Gael Bar Emmon, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Carrack Swordfish, past Crackclaw Point

"What are these bastards of Essossi doing?"

Gael Bar Emmon had never felt more triumphant. By his deeds and words, the Blacks were going to suffer, and suffer mightily!

All it had taken was to convince a desperate Admiral of the Bastard Daughter and all the corsairs listening to his words, and the fate of the Gulltown was sealed!

It was supposed to be the night House Grafton and all the traitors who had bent the knee to a whore-usurper were going to learn the price for breaking their oaths to the true King!

And it was all getting out of control before the first enemy was in sight!

"They are not following us, my Lord!"

"Yes, I can see that, Navigator!" The young Lord of Sharp Point shouted as a wave washed the deck and his sailors rushed to help the ship endure the freezing winds as best as they humanly could. "Which is strange, because I would have thought we were the one with the best knowledge of the Bay of Crabs, Sharp Point, and all of Gulltown defences!"

Gael was sure he roared the last words to the skies.

"My Lord! I think...I think they mistook the Piccolo for us!"

The highborn commander almost tore his hat out of frustration.

"How could they mistake this insult to a cog to my splendid flagship?" He made sure he added as many insults as possible under his breath. "Besides, it doesn't even have the same number of lanterns as we do! And they don't have the same colours!"

"I don't know, my Lord, I can only report-"

"Stranger damn them all!"

Gael Bar Emmon thought over the matter quickly.

It was entirely possible that the Piccolo had interpreted a change of course incorrectly, and the rest of the corsairs and these insolent would-be pirates had decided to follow, deliberately or incorrectly.

The big problem with that was...well, the Piccolo had only been fourth or fifth in the 'line of battle' that they had agreed upon.

If the Captain of that pathetic armed cog had made such a mess where his sailors could barely assess the damage to his plans, what other disasters had they missed it?

"Lord, their course is not a good one. The currents and the winds are going to continue to push them westwards."

"Yes." He gritted his teeth. "They will go deeper into the Bay of Crabs than we ever intended to."

Gael intended to make the traitors scream and to storm the sole city the Vale could boast of, he was honest about that.

But he had never planned for some vengeful raid deeper into the Bay of Crabs.

The big reason why his plan was so good was that Gulltown was on the doorstep of the Narrow Sea; the affair could be done in a single day, and then they would loot all they could before escaping with treasures beyond his officer's imagination.

Beyond that, there was another problem.

"Gulltown can't be far away. And this Stranger-damned Treasure Ship must have beaten us here."

"Maybe another squadron managed to intercept them, my Lord?"

"And if your uncle was the King of the Vale, I would be the heretic High Septon of the traitors!" Gael sneered. "No. No one caught that ship. They would be all too busy asking for a piece of the gold and the spoils of the Jade Sea right now! These Velaryon ships have the luck of the Seven Hells! Damn them!"

The men who had raced back from Lys had been vehement about the sheer wealth which was going to be delivered to Gulltown. Gael had known immediately this was the opportunity of a lifetime. Without it, the Blacks would be coinless right at the moment a new war of liberation began to free the Riverlands and the Vale from their illegitimate rule!

All of this was going to fail if these Braavosi idiots sailed in the wrong direction!

"Your orders, my Lord?"

"We have to catch up with the Piccolo, and bring back the fleet on the correct course!"

"But my Lord, we can't exactly place more sail, not with this wind!"

"I know!" Gael Bar Emmon seethed, wishing there were some Braavosi nearby so he could strangle them with his bare hands. "I know!"

Ser Ronnel Egen, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Artys' Sept, the Vale

"Bless you, Father. Bless you!"

"Oh, hush," the cheeks weren't crimson, but Ronnel could tell Father Osric was embarrassed by the effusion of gratitude from the young woman. "It is what I am here for, isn't it? And your child needed some medicine, I agree with you this cough wasn't pleasant at all."

There were still many thanks uttered in the next seven heartbeats, before Mya and her baby child left to return to the village, accompanied by a very amused guide.

"I apologise for keeping you here long past dusk, Ser Ronnel." The old septon – and Gods, it did say something, for Ronnel himself wasn't a young man anymore.

"Think nothing of this, Father. Mya's young son needed some help, and I know you're the only one who could provide it."

"True," Osric conceded with an expression of lassitude. "I would prefer they send us a true young man with Maester skills. I don't really care what they call the grey robes these days, just that they send one. I am not in my prime, and the ring of healing I forged in my youth before finding my true calling was a long time ago."

"I still personally think you underestimate your talents, Father," Ronnel proclaimed cheerfully. "I will trust your healing lore far above any hot-headed young fool coming from the city."

"I note you aren't saying anything about my age." Osric chuckled as he took the candle and they walked through the empty chairs of Artys' Sept, the marvel of the Seven which had given the village below its name.

For all that he had seen it thousands of time, in every season, and at different times of the day and night, Ronnel couldn't help but feel awed by the glory of the Sept.

It had been one of the three Great Septs House Egen had built under the first Falcon King, and they had been embellished many times. Hundreds, maybe thousands of ceremonies had been celebrated on the sacred ground. It was here the Relic of Artys was kept.

And unfortunately, it was a jewel of faded glory. By all traditions, seven knights of House Egen should have guarded its doors, with seven times seven Septons and Faithful to maintain it and celebrate the holy days of the Seven-Who-Are-One.

Instead there was only Ronnel to swear the oaths of protection in the name of House Egen, and the village sent one day out of seven some of its boys to help Father Osric.

There was no one else.

"It is..."

"It is all right, Ser Ronnel. I know it won't be long for me now."

It was true that the old Septon had aged more in the last couple of years than in the fifteen before those, when Ronnel had first met him.

"I have made my peace with it." Osric breathed out. "The Father Above is just."

"And I know you will be praised for your just efforts." Osric was a pious and gentle man; Ronnel couldn't imagine a single heartbeat the Mother and the Father would refuse him the Seven Heavens.

"I am unworthy of such praise." Osric coughed, and it hurt his body, Ronnel could tell it.

"Let me close the Sept, Father."

"I am not so old-"

"Better my knees and arms hurt a bit next morning," the sole knight of House Egen left guarding Artys' Sept argued back, "than you exhaust yourself furthermore."

Ronnel must have been more right than he thought, for Father Osric let him fulfil this holy duty. And when the old and venerable door shut down at last, the Egen knight breathed out in relief. His back and his knees were indeed going to feel it. Hopefully, a good night of sleep would replenish his strength.

"Speaking about both of us getting old, I thought I could send a messenger to Lord Redfort in a few days. I'm told there are plenty of squires...Father?"

The old septon he respected so much seemed to not have listened to him.

"My son...I think there is a ship approaching."

"This is..." Ronnel at first didn't understand the words. When his mind started to consider them, he rejected them at first. "Why would anyone-"

But while Father Osric's body often lacked strength, there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and if he really did think there was a ship near the coast where the smallfolk of Artys' Sept lived hard but faithful lives...

"The waters are dangerous, and we are a small village here!" It was why House Redfort had never raised a voice to protest the knights of House Egen still protected Artys' Sept despite the House having moved to a different holy land.

"Yes, it is, Ser. I think you should-"

Father Osric didn't have the time to finish. Lanterns and many other burning things began to illuminate the dark sea before Artys' Sept.

There were a lot of lights, hundreds of them, and as Ronnel tried to count them, they became thousands.

"Warrior protect us! Father, I-"

"Sound the alarm, my son," Osric said grimly. "Sound the alarm! The Faithful of Artys' Sept must flee immediately! I don't know why some enemy has come...but we must tell everyone to flee! They must save the children and what they can carry, and run!"

Captain Vysario Bombardo, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Village of Artys' Sept

Vysario had not even shared it with his crew, but when he had seen the Captains assembled by the Admiral, he had known it was going to end in a very bad way.

Many of the Corsairs had loose ties with Braavos to begin with, and at least four or five didn't understand the trade language the Sea City used on day-to-day basis, requiring translators to do so.

Most of them had also been totally unconcerned by the consequences, and more interested in taking loot and spoils of war. In some instances, Vysario intended to watch over to make sure there weren't any slaves taken while no one important watched.

All of this, sadly, had likely been inevitable. Without thousands of well-disciplined Braavosi sailors, the best you could hope from the bunch of corsairs and ex-pirates was an uncoordinated mess that would overwhelm Gulltown by the numbers.

Unfortunately, it seemed his optimism had been unjustified.

"What in the name of the Gods?"

Before him, a hundred houses were pillaged and the scenes of destruction and death. The peasants who had not fled as fast as they could towards the hills were regretting it, as rapes and atrocities were committed by the rampaging sellsails and other sailors.

There wasn't any leadership anymore; a column was climbing towards the largest edifice above the village, with the intention to plunder it like their brethren were doing to the homes in front of him.

"Err...Captain? This is not Gulltown!"

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Vysario Bombardo replied acidly. "I had not noticed. What could possibly have given you the hint? The absence of stone walls? The size of this coastal village? The presence of four fisher boats which if we're generous, may carry three or four sailors each?"

This was a catastrophe.

Vysario had disagreed about many things Admiral Laskarys had said, but he had agreed about at least one point: sinking or capturing the warships based at Gulltown would indeed prevent the sailors of the Sunset Lands from intervening in this war.

The dragons could rage and threaten to burn all they wanted, but if their ships were sunk or in Braavosi hands, it was going to be a bit difficult for them to cross the Narrow Sea.

Moreover, if the greatest harbour at the entrance of the Bay of Crabs was forced to disgorge a large ransom, the corsairs would force the servants of the dragons to rebuild for decades, a period Braavos would use to become stronger than ever.

All of it, however, relied upon attacking Gulltown and winning, grabbing the Velaryon Treasure Ship, among other things.

And it seemed they had screwed up so epically as-

"The Swordfish has just arrived as part of the third wave, Captain."

"That at least explains we didn't follow the correct ship." Vysario grimaced. "Of course, that leaves the interesting question of why someone didn't shout about it before! The Swordfish had three lanterns to make sure we followed it! Why didn't the other Captains say something?"

"At a guess, they saw some lights on the coast, and decided it was Gulltown?"

Vysario groaned.

"Stupidity, all of this is...stupid."

It was bad enough that there was no discipline and bloody chaos everywhere he watched, but this attack was worse than many nightmares he'd ever had.

In the distance, there were two large hills burning.

Someone from the village had thrown torches on prepared piles of wood, and now the entire coast was going to know they were there, and muster their warriors to kill them.

Knowing the bloodthirsty nature of the Andals, Vysario had a feeling mercy was not something that would burden their hearts.

"But on the morning, we will know where we have landed, Captain. Once we know where we are, we will be able to make a new plan to go after Gulltown-"

Stupid. Stupid. There was enough stupidity to drown all the crew of this entire fleet!

"No, we can't! The Treasure Ship must be at Gulltown by now, and has no doubt informed everyone of our fleet is here! And with these fires," Vysario waved at the hills and mountains, most of them were now answering the call of the doomed village, "we are going to have thousands of men-at-arms converging on this part of the coast! This entire affair is foolish, and whoever changed course and convinced the first wave to follow him deserves to be whipped to death!"

And the worst part?

With no one in control anymore of this grand enterprise of pillage, there was no way to enforce discipline and force the sailors back to the ships.

"No, Gulltown and the entire Vale coastline, no matter how far we are from our target, know that we're here now. And I expect they have bloodthirsty ideas how to greet us as we speak."

Captain Baelor Tide, Tenth Moon of 140AC, the Docks of Gulltown

When Ser Daeron had told him with some wariness to unload the Red Tide as quickly as possible while he went to find some reinforcements, Baelor Tide had nodded and not asked any questions.

He was, to be honest, thankful enough that Lord Alyn's cousin had taken his warning very seriously.

But as armsmen of House Velaryon reappeared, the carrack's captain suddenly understood why the Driftmark highborn had been so hesitant, despite the House's words including 'bold' and 'brave'.

It was like staring at a giant coming out of the legends.

Or, if you were less poetic, an angry bear. An angry bear smelling like he had emptied several barrels of ale at a nearby tavern.

"Fifty ships of war, you say?" the growl was threatening, and Baelor was thankful it wasn't directed against him personally.

"Yes, Lord Umber. All the corsairs and the pirates of the northern Narrow Sea are on their way right now to attack Gulltown. They want the gold and the goods the Red Tide transported, and if they feel they can storm Gulltown, I can guess they're not going to stop at the harbour."

"By the Hear Trees and the Runes of the Old Gods, they will have to taste my axe before that!" The Northman bellowed, the fury of winter evidently waking up his blood.

Daeron Velaryon cleared his throat.

"I was under the impression, Lord Umber, that many of the men Her Majesty gave you command of had yet to reach Gulltown."

And the Northern Lord went to an expression of 'I will slay them all by myself' to 'this is going to be hard work'.

"That's true." The descendant of the First Men growled. "But I still have a thousand men here. They will enjoy some fun, as soon as my Captains drag them out of the taverns and the inns where they drank all the ale!"

As the rain poured all over the harbour and turned everything into a cold and miserable mess, Baelor wondered if the rumours about Lord Umber were true. Before meeting this half-giant, they had felt ridiculous, but now that he had met him...well, one wondered. It was said that once in his youth, the savage-looking youngster had decapitated a mammoth in a single blow. Several men who had participated in the Dance told that most of the Night's Watch men were aghast at the idea of deserting, because if they did, they had to fight the Umber in a duel to the death with nothing but their fists and their wits, and the Northern Lord had never lost.

It was whispered that Lord Umber was the one who had slain personally Lord Baratheon during the bloodbath of Bosworth, and that the skull was still used as a cup in the dining hall of Last Hearth, with the Umbers drinking to the damnation of the Greens.

"I have no doubt your men are worth three or four pirates, but-" Daeron Velaryon began diplomatically, only to be rudely interrupted.

"My men are each worth ten corsairs, and we will wade in their blood!" The Northman roared. "By the Gods, Lord Stark gave his approval, and I did walk south because I was bored, Velaryon!"

It was...it was-

Yes, Ser Daeron was trying not to grimace after the 'enthusiasm' was shouted for everyone to hear.

Baelor had some sympathy for the knight, no matter how many tensions they were between Lord Alyn and his cousins.

The men of the North were really something best endured a few times in your life, weren't they?

The Captain of the Red Tide opened his mouth-

"The alert fires! The alert fires west of Gulltown are burning!"

"What? This is ridiculous!"

"All the hills west of us are burning! The enemy is attacking!"

"This can't be! Gulltown has to be their goal!"

But the harbour of the city and its approached, while wracked by terrible winds and rain, hadn't seen a single enemy nearby.

Baelor felt only incomprehension.

Why had they hunted his ship with such bloodthirstiness? What had he missed?

"They dare raiding the coast of the Vale?" Lord Umber exploded. "I am going to send them to the graves they richly deserve, Old Gods be my witness!"

Ser Ronnel Egen, Tenth Moon of 140AC, the Heights north of Artys' Sept, the Vale

The night was dark, and the eyes of Ronnel had never been compared to those of a falcon, except in derision.

As feeble as his eyes were, he was still able to see the nest of pirates which was busy destroying the village of Artys' Sept.

The old knight couldn't miss either the column of monsters climbing up the stone stairs to sack the holy Sept.

"They're bringing a makeshift ram, Ser," one of the boys who could have been his grandfather said plaintively. The poor boy was shivering, trying to warm himself up with the hen he held to in both hands. Both animal and boy seemed as lost as he was.

Ronnel wished he could give them his coat, but he already given it to another child before that, and though he didn't regret it-

No, what was done was done. Regrets...he would speak of regrets when he was in front of the Father Above.

"Yes, they are." He confirmed. "I would have thought axes and a few warhammers would be enough to break the old door, but the pirates appear to be drunker than I thought."

As heavy as it was, the venerable and holy wood was old, and had been eaten by termites during summer. And Father Osric had no silver to pay for its repairs. The only precious thing were in gold, and integral to the holy altar of Artys' Sept itself.

"Ser...why is this happening?"

"I don't know, son. I really don't know." Ronnel answered.

Artys' Sept was a poor village, and a lightly populated one at that. If you counted the pigs, the chicken, and the other animals with the men, women, and children, you might reach a thousand, but in all likelihood, still fall short of that.

On the humid rocks that no one had ever called a proper beach, there were easily two or three thousand pirates and other Faith-forsaken monsters.

"Ser, the Sept-"

"We can't do anything, son."

Ronnel almost cried as he said the words.

He had sworn vows, damn it.

Old as he was, he remembered the words that had been on his lips so many years ago.

He was to be just and honourable. He was to defend the sanctity of Artys' Sept, for the glory of the Seven-Who-Are-One and the Faithful of the Vale.

He was to guard the Relic, to oversee the proper prayers were heard with an anointed Knight.

All of that, he had sworn, and more.

And in the winter of his life, when his bones hurt and his knees grew weaker and weaker, Ronnel suddenly faced the nightmare he couldn't fulfil his oaths.

"I wish...I could go fight these heretics. But I can't."

He was the only knight of the Sept. Two other grey-beards of the village had experience fighting bandits as he did, but they were too busy carrying Father Osric, who had collapsed as the murders and the pillage of the village began.

Ronnel was the only knight of Artys' Sept.

One against thousands.

If he tried to rush to the defence of the Sept, Ronnel knew deep inside it would be his end.

It didn't matter if he could enter unnoticed and take a defensive position inside; no one save the Warrior Himself could beat that many pirates.

And if he did...

Ronnel's eyes fell upon the small boy shivering. Nearby, a little girl was trying to convince a pig to move ever forwards, in direction of the trail which ultimately led to the lands of House Redfort.

Seven forgave him, he couldn't abandon the children and the people who had run fast enough to escape the enemy.

"Let us go. The alert fires are burning bright; House Redfort is going to send men, good knights all."

And hopefully, they would have coats and warm clothes for everyone. As unhappy as he was to say it, Father Osric and himself had been the best prepared, since the holy ground was on the heights above the village.

At times, Ronnel had grumbled this hampered the smallfolk from being assiduous attending the mass as the strictures demanded; now it had been the only reason so many people were alive.

This was the only good sign in this night of dark omens.

Ronnel swallowed heavily, cursing his weakness, and struggling to hold back his tears.

The Sept and the village were all his life, and he had failed.

Father Above, he couldn't stop them, he had failed his vows.

"Let us go."

Ronnel gave a push to the recalcitrant pig, and went on to serve as the rear-guard of the little column.

He had to protect the children and the innocent; this was the only thing left to him now.

Lord Gael Bar Emmon, Tenth Moon of 140AC, Carrack Swordfish, anchored off Artys' Sept cove

The night was dark and hid many disasters.

Dawn revealed them and killed the dreams.

"The Sword of the Tempest and the Insolence are stranded on the sandbank, my Lord."

"And the Leviathan is busy sinking, courtesy of this accursed reef." Gael gritted his teeth, cursing the sheer lack of intelligence of the average pirate and corsair.

Honestly, who tried to rush into a bay they didn't have a map of? The Bay of Crabs was not as dangerous as some other places in the Narrow Sea, but like every coast, it had its perils.

And by rushing like fools, it was beyond evident now that they had paid the price.

The Lord of Sharp Point spat overboard, and didn't bother hiding the disgust the anger he felt for his so-called 'allies'.

His plan had been perfect, of that there was no doubt. The Treasure Ship had escaped temporarily the hunt, but if they had followed it like hunting dogs on a boar's bloody trail, it wouldn't have mattered.

It took time to unload a large cargo, and the fifty-plus ships here would have stormed the harbour and Gulltown long before a single coin could be sent to the Gates of the Moon or some other Vale castle.

But it wasn't going to happen.

The surprise was gone, and for what? A village that even his father and his grandfather had marked as an afterthought on their maps!

"They're still bickering?"

"It appears they found some gold and other precious objects in the Sept they pillaged, my Lord."

Gael Bar Emmon wanted at this moment to kill someone.

The Sept of Artys built for this poor village – because the Gods forbid the Valemen called only a single Sept by that name – was massive for the location it was supposed to provide holy blessings for.

It was little known, but it was still a Sept of the Seven-Who-Are-One.

It shouldn't matter, Gael knew. These men and women were traitors. They had failed to revolt when the High Septon and the Most Devout declared King Daeron the legitimate King of the Seven Kingdoms.

And yet-

"Please tell me, Master-at-arms, that it's the only thing they're arguing about."

The face of the black-bearded sailor of House Bar Emmon said it all.

"Some of them are shouting it that it might be a good opportunity to raid deeper into the Vale, my Lord."

"What?" He had heard some stupid things during the last night, but this one beat them all. "Can these people read a map? Oh, wait, they don't, that's why they've started this like the imbeciles they are!"

"Yes, my Lord."

Gael Bar Emmon sneered before deciding it was best to calm himself. There wasn't a corsair anywhere nearby to strangle with his bare hands, to his eternal frustration.

"We can't raid here. We're incredibly close to the Redfort, and given all the fires we saw burning into the night, I'm willing to bet three hundred dragons that all the knights of the Vale are on the way to slaughter us."

The ground here wasn't ideal for cavalry, to say the least, but the rabble the corsairs had brought ashore was lightly armed and had no discipline. The Knights of House Arryn's bannersmen didn't need to be clad in plate or muster three times as many men for a good charge.

And if the corsairs broke upon the hills, Gael didn't want to imagine the panic of everyone trying to get back to the ships while their bellies were filled with fear and dread.

"My Lord?"

"Yes?"

"I apologise in advance, but...I don't like the looks of the sky westwards. We've got so far a good winter sun from the east."

"But?"

"But the sky is really, really black in direction of Saltpans and the Land of the Rivers."

Gael turned his head and seized a spyglass. Unfortunately, it became tragically obvious that his subordinate was right, and the spyglass was useless.

Much as the light of dawn was allowing him to see the entire fleet at anchor around the Swordfish, it made clear that the fingers of the sun were unable to pierce the dark shroud assembling westwards.

"And here I was wondering why despite a favourable wind, the galleys of Saltpans and Maidenpool had yet to appear."

Gael tried to see a silver lining; alas, he didn't find one.

"This is a bad storm, my Lord. It will bring plenty of snow...if we're lucky."

"And if we aren't," the Lord of Sharp Point added cynically, "it will be a damn blizzard which will tear our sails apart and throw us against a reef or a sandbank of the Bay of Crabs."

In this season and with the absurd misfortune that had been everywhere so far, Gael felt it in his bones what the most likely outcome was.

"We're leaving."

"My Lord?"

"This expedition is a disaster, and our allies have failed to accomplish anything we wanted. We're leaving."

"If we do that, we're abandoning our part of the loot, my Lord. The Admiral made it clear in his orders and Letters of Marque."

"True...but it's not like the spoils they took from this unimportant village are worth very much once divided between fifty ships."

And that was assuming the pirates crewing many of them were inclined to relinquish their prizes in the first place.

Gael Bar Emmon shook his head.

"No. It is time to leave. A bad storm is about to hit us, and I want to be out of the Bay before that. Who knows, we might also catch some ships which haven't been warned the approaches of Gulltown aren't safe."

"It will be done as you said, my Lord."

Gael gave a brisk nod, but his mood didn't improve.

"Oh, and find my squire."

It was time to burn some compromising documents. With the Braavosi having proven as incompetent as slaver Essossi, he doubted the King was going to be impressed enough to declare a military alliance with the Sealord.

It was best to get rid of plenty of the letters he had received in the last three moons.

"Tell the other Captains that have been of tolerable company the storm is upon us, and that this small cove won't protect the fleet against its fury. We're leaving."

The opportunity of a lifetime had slipped through his fingers...but damn it, the Gods of the Narrow Sea be his witness, Gael Bar Emmon would make another one on his own if he had to.

Hasturo the Unspeakable, Tenth Moon of 140AC, somewhere in the Pentoshi Heartlands

Hasturo stopped dreaming and opened his eyes.

As could be predicted, his back ached, and everything in his chest, beginning with his ribs, was painful.

"I am not getting younger," the Captain-General of the Company of the Goat removed the blanket his men had given him and tried to stand. This he achieved without help, though it wasn't easy. "What a dreadful thing the wheel of time is."

Old wounds of course were inflicting some mild pain again.

The sorcery, naturally, made everything worse.

"The storm you summoned is a great and terrible thing, Master."

"I haven't done anything, Jo."

Hasturo wouldn't have admitted something like that in front of the Prince of Pentos, but in front of his men, he could afford to speak blunt and cold truths.

"Be they storms coming from the West or the North, everything that happens now is the fury of winter and the Will of the Gods." The High Priest of the Black Goat breathed out, before drinking the milk he enjoyed so much. "Though I doubt a lot of my enemies will see it that way."

"As you say...Master."

"Captain-General will do, for now, I think." Hasturo said in a low tone. "Our unfriendly anonymous friends?"

"They were kept at bay, but I fear this was only an attempt to test us in the middle of the night. They will wait until they think we are weak and vulnerable."

"Yes, they will. The servants of the Nameless Circle are really predictable once you survive a few of them."

Admittedly, few men and women ever did. There was a reason the 'Faceless Men' were so feared in western Essos and beyond.

"Did it work?"

"I made a candle burn, and I extinguished the light of a lantern."

Hasturo kept his smile, though there was really nothing to be really proud of. In his youth, he would have been able to do it on his own and fight a battle on the same day.

Now? Now, he required a large amount of blood and death to fulfil his goals, and even simple rituals were exhausting him for several days.

Most of the time, he had to give commands and hope the men he had trained were able to fulfil their divine-ordered purposed.

"But...Master, will it be enough?"

The smile of Hasturo grew wider.

"I believe it will. I can't be certain now; the next two days are going to be decisive in that regard."

His back ached again.

"Two days, Master?"

"Two days, yes. When they will be over, we will know for sure if the war of the Narrow Sea will accomplish its purpose...or if we failed."

"What will happen if it's a success, Master?"

Hasturo grimaced.

"The war tide will break many things, and convince the Gods and Goddesses of the Narrow Sea to play their part."

Or so Hasturo hoped.

Even for a man that had been nicknamed the Unspeakable, there were a lot of uncertainties. The future was a dangerous thing, and the past was carved in stone.

"There will be fire; this is all I can promise."

"Praise the Goat, All-Mother of the Woods!"

"And may Her Bleating terrify our foes."

Author's note:

The events of the Blacks and the Greens entering the Narrow Sea War will continue next chapter, which may be titled (or not) Oaths of Vengeance.

Thanks to the Lord of Sharp Point, blood has been shed enough to turn a river crimson, and it is going to have important consequences both for Westeros and Essos as a whole.