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Chapter Text

Gaemon I

The sea was gray, and the waves strong. The small skiff was buffeted mightily by their passing. Its occupants scurried back and forth along the prow, checking their nets for fish. From what Gaemon could tell, it appeared their haul had been a decent one so far. Dumping the caught fish into barrels stored in the base of the boat, they worked quickly. Judging by the sun's position (or at least what he could glimpse of it through the clouds) it appeared that they had several hours left out at sea. Maegor is likely already ready to return to port, he thought with an internal grin. Just as I am ready to be released from my tasks for the day. Grimacing, he lifted the heavy clay container from the floor and carried it gingerly down the steps. Reaching the inn's first floor, he turned, taking a back exit, not wishing for the guests in the main room to be privy to the contents of the privy in his hands. Smiling at his own witticism, he continued out the back door.

Years of this thankless work had trained Gaemon well in the art of moving quickly without any spills. The contents of the pot itself were enough to dissuade him from spilling it, but suspecting he needed extra encouragement, Malda the innkeeper's wife had been generous with her beatings in order to ensure that no such spills occured. According to Gaemon's uncle, Malda had been stout even during his mother's childhood, and the years had not been kind to her. She had grown enormously fat during her years of relative opulence (at least for a member of the small folk), and what teeth she once possessed had fled with the remnants of her youthful vigor. Recently she had taken to sitting near the hearth, on a chair that protested loudly every time she graced it with her arse. Gaemon had taken to placing bets on how many days it would take until the chair would collapse with the other employees of the inn. Given how large the pot had grown, he was beginning to seriously consider loosening or even removing one of the nails that held the ramshackle piece of furniture together. So far, he had refrained from doing so, simply because the other employees would suspect him of doing just that the minute it collapsed.

Reaching the base of the hill, Gaemon carefully tossed the contents of the chamber pot over the cliffside, watching the piss soar magnificently through the air before splashing into the waves below. Turning around, he retraced his steps back to the inn. Once inside, he went back up the stairs, entering the room, and returned the chamberpot to its rightful place in the corner. Leaving quickly and closing the door behind him, he almost ran over Melyssa, the youngest of the inn's whores.

"Seven hells Gaemon! If I didn't know better I'd think you blind!" Melyssa said, as she gave him a friendly shove. "Are you really so foolish to make such a mistake? Or are you simply that eager to be the first of my customers this evening?"

Gaemon grinned. "We both know that's all you've been dreaming about since I last graced you with my presence. A young, beautiful dragonseed warming your bed is far superior to the usual Pentoshi fishmonger I would guess."

Melyssa raised a pale blonde eyebrow. "Still continuing the dragonseed lies Gaemon? It's really rather sad. Based on your looks I'd say I have several pints more of the dragon in me than you."

Gaemon grinned wickedly. "On that count, I would agree with you. Sadly those pints would not be found in your veins, Melyssa."

He was rewarded with another shove. "I ought to slap you. Instead, I think I may actually charge you one of these days. Perhaps I'll take that dragon of yours as interest."

Gaemon resisted the urge to wince. He really wished she'd stop speaking so freely about the dragon dangling around his neck. She should know better, especially after that last incident.

Instead, he grinned. "We both know you will never charge me, as only I can make that cold heart of yours flutter just a bit." He turned to walk away, but decided against it. Instead, he turned quickly to grab her by her shoulders and plant a kiss on her lips. Suppressing a squeak, Melyssa instead drew her arms around him, responding more fully to his sudden embrace. He was about to consider finding a more secluded location when he heard Alyssa clear her throat.

"Hands off the merchandise Gaemon. Melyssa needs to get that arse of hers downstairs and earn. Unless you wish to pay, get to work."

Pulling away, he gave Melyssa a wink. "Until we meet again, Lady Melyssa." Without a word, she responded with a wink of her own and hurried down the steps.

While on his way back down the mountain to empty the last of the chamberpots, the Seven had deemed it fitting to allow the rainstorm that had been threatening to begin all day to make good on its threat. Heavy drops poured from the heavens, soaking the path, the stones, and most unfortunately, Gaemon himself. He resisted the urge to quicken his pace, remembering well his last fall on one of these excursions. It had taken a week to beat the smells out from his clothing on a rock. Taking the path back, the hair on his neck rose. A deafened crack of thunder shook the sky above, and the waves began to pound the shore in earnest. Lightning lit the dark evening sky. In response to the thunder, Gaemon could hear the distant roars of Dragonstone's dragons, responding to the storm.

Marvelous creatures, he smiled as he thought to himself. My birthright, came another voice, unbidden. If only I could command such a creature. I could burn all the chamber pots of the world to ash. None would doubt my parentage then. His grandmother and grandfather had been reluctant to tell him about his father the moment he first asked about him. He could see the sadness in their eyes, mixed with what he had come to understand as fear. They fear for me if I try to claim what is mine. My mother lay with a dragon once, and I am his son. His mother had died birthing him, according to his grandmother. Originally they had thought to raise Gaemon without any knowledge of his true parentage. That hope had died the day Gaemon had found a gold dragon in the box his grandparents kept his mother's belongings in. Ever since, he had taken to carrying that coin in a small leather pouch around his neck, as a reminder of his heritage. You are born of the seed of the dragon, Gaemon. His grandfather had told him. Only the most blessed families on this island can claim as much. Gaemon sneered. Blessed my arse. I'd be whipped, or worse, have my head struck off if I traipsed into Dragonstone's citadel proclaiming such things. When he was younger, he had prayed- even dreamed- of his father coming to fetch him. He had eventually managed to force his father's identity from his grandparents. Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince. What a father he had! Dragonrider, brother to a king, husband to the Prin-Queen.

Word had spread like dragonfire throughout the village the day Princess Rhaenyra had been crowned. Most on the island had taken the news well; the Princess had lived on the island for years and was well-loved by many on the island. Others had simply nodded, and quietly began to sharpen their swords, knowing war was to come.

Gaemon remembered his initial excitement at the thought of war. If my father will not claim me, I will earn his recognition through a great feat of arms. He had thought to himself. But war had not come, not at first. The only news that filtered out of Dragonstone's citadel seemed to suggest that the Queen was looking for friends on the continent, powerful lords and ladies who she could count on if the time came for swords to be raised for her claim to the Iron Throne. Gaemon himself had been part of the crowd that watched the Queen's eldest sons depart from the citadel, one flying north, the other south. Riding Vermax and Arrax, he had whispered to himself. It had been a solemn day when word had spread around the village that only one prince had returned. Word had come down from the citadel that Prince Lucerys had been slain most treacherously on his way back to Dragonstone. Gaemon found himself mourning the loss of Arrax more. He had quickly recited the remaining dragons in his mind. Gaemon had long since compiled a list of every dragon on the island, as part of his fantasies of claiming his birthright. To his knowledge, only Vermithor, Silverwing, and Seasmoke remained unridden, if the local bards and guards could be believed. Aside from those never tamed, he thought: The Cannibal, the Grey Ghost, and the Sheep Stealer.

He turned to face the Dragonmont, still sending smoke towards the heavens. Somewhere above, deep within the crags and caves, lurked three dragons. Gaemon would be lying to himself if he denied ever considering climbing to look for those dragons. Once he had climbed far above his village, taking shepherds paths towards the rocky slopes and beyond. He knew from local tales that the Cannibal lived in a large cave above Dragonstone's citadel, and it had taken him the better part of the day to climb to where he believed it lived. He had kept his courage until the smell of sulfur and smoke was nearly overwhelming, but when he had heard a low hiss he had bolted down the slope. It was only later a shepherd had told him that the mountain often hissed and sighed as it released its heat from deep within the earth. His cheeks had burned at that revelation. He had been certain the Cannibal had stirred at his presence. Instead, it appeared he had taken flight for no reason at all. Turning away from the Dragonmont in disgust, he walked the rest of the way back to the inn, entering through the back door once more to take shelter from the inside, he put the thoughts of dragons out of his mind. From the hearth, Malda beckoned him to come sit at a nearby table, where a bucket of freshly caught fish awaited.

"Tis time for the evening's pottage, Gaemon. Work quickly enough and I may give you a bowl for yourself, as useless as you may be."

Gaemon nodded, thanking her for her profound generosity. Once he had turned away, he smirked, knowing she'd spend the next several moments thinking about his words, and weighing whether she should accept them as true or not. She'll probably decide on them being true, as she never was very adept at reading sarcasm. He took a seat in order to begin his work.

Piling the day's catch in front of him, he settled into the familiar routine to prepare each trout for its eventual destination in the pottage. First, he ran his knife along each fish, against the scales, removing them as best he could. Cutting each fish along their belly, he removed their innards gingerly so as to keep them from rupturing. Scooping out the dark membrane in the cavity, he then cut the head from each fish, and pulled the dorsal fins from their back, tossing each unwanted element within the bucket. Taking what remained, he then found the backbone of each fish, cutting the flanks of each fish off to filet them. These he chopped into smaller cubes in order to begin work on the pottage. Cutting three onions, several potatoes, and some celery, he added them along with the fish into the awaiting ceramic container over the fire.

Placing the lid on, he turned and began work on the parsley sauce that Malda would inevitably demand be served alongside the fish. After melting some butter in a skillet, he stirred in some flour and milk, then added the tiniest sprinkle of salt (a real luxury for most smallfolk). After allowing it to boil, he stirred the mixture for a few minutes. When it appeared done, he sprinkled in some fresh parsley. Setting the skillet on the edge of the hearth to keep its contents warm, he took the bucket of fish viscera and went outside. As he carried the bucket, it left a slight trail of blood in the dirt, bringing back some rather unpleasant memories.

He could still remember the stench of cheap wine on the Braavosi sailor's breath as he pushed him to the ground outside the inn.

"The whore said you had a gold dragon boy" he slurred through his thick accent. "I think a man like me could make better use of it than a little shit such as yourself. Give it to me. Give it to me and I won't have to cut you."

He had drawn a long knife from the belt around his distinctive Braavosi breeches. Gaemon was afraid. It was fair too late for there to be anyone outside, only the drunk or the destitute would be out, and they were unlikely to help. He tore the leather from around his neck, tossing it at the man's feet. As the Braavosi bent slowly and drunkenly to pick it up, the fear inside Gaemon ebbed away, only to be replaced by a white hot, burning rage.

My mother's dragon. All that remains of my birthright. How am I to prove my existence? If he takes it, I'll have neither the looks or the evidence to prove my heritage. Taking the fileting knife he always carried from its sheath, he knew what he had to do. His first enraged, but inexperienced slash caught the Braavosi on the side of his face, cutting his ear and trailing down the side of his head. He screamed, falling to one knee and clutching his face. Gaemon's next slash was more carefully aimed, drawing a deep red cut across the sailor's neck, as blood sprayed dramatically in pulsing beats from the deep gash. It reminded Gaemon of the waves beating the rocks along the shore, with its rhythmic spraying. The man made to scream, but this time, only a low gurgle could be heard. After what seemed like an eternity, but what must have only been a few seconds, the man fell face first into the mud of the street, motionless but for a few erratic death throes.

Gaemon gave him a kick to make sure he was truly dead, then quickly snatched the leather pouch from the street. Tying it back around his neck, he set to work. It took him the better part of an hour to drag the body to the cliffside, tossing it over where it was quickly subsumed by the powerful waves. A fate fitting for one so bold as to cross a dragon, he had thought to himself, as he began to shiver. It was then he realized he had truly taken a life. He had suddenly vomited over the edge of the cliff, heaving for several minutes until he was shaking with exhaustion. Standing, he realized he had much more work to do. He retraced his steps, taking care to drag a branch over the drag marks erratically so as to mask them in the mud. Eventually reaching the street, he found it deserted, as he suspected. He had poured water over the pool of congealed blood and mixed the mud over the spot until there was little evidence of the fight. So long as there was little evidence, none were likely to bother to investigate the likely murder of a Braavosi sailor. Many such murders happened on Dragonstone when sailors came to port, either looking to rob, rape, or fight. Gaemon knew the important part was simply to mask the evidence to an extent that a search for a murderer wasn't immediately warranted. Lastly, he had taken a long walk down to the stoney beach far below the town, using a shepherd's path. Swimming in the freezing cold water, he had washed the mud and blood from his clothes before returning, exhausted and shivering, to the cottage of his grandparents, in order to collapse in front of the hearth.

Staring down once more at the bucket of fish viscera, he once more felt sick to his stomach. This time he successfully resisted the urge to vomit and instead dumped it into the pile of refuse that was outside of town. Turning around, he walked quietly in the rain, absentmindedly turning the gold dragon in his fingers. My father would likely tell me there was nothing to be ashamed of. The man was scum, and deserved to die. He had threatened the dragon! Another voice surfaced. Are you truly a dragon? You don't look like a dragon, you aren't the master of a dragon, and most importantly, none have come forth to claim you as one. Gaemon scowled. One way or another he would claim what was his. Deep down, he knew himself to be a dragon. No, he thought. Enough of such metaphors. I am a Targaryen by blood and by deed. I will prove it with my deeds. When this war of ravens ends and the war of swords begins, I will fight to prove it. I have killed before and will do so again. Only then will my father recognize I am his. This I so swear. Reaching the inn, he left the bucket outside in the rain to be washed by the torrential downpour.

Once inside, he took a seat by the door in order to allow his eyes to acclimate. He thought it likely that the pottage required a few minutes to cook, so he went to the cellar in order to help Wat, the innkeeper, bring a keg of ale upstairs in order to prepare for the evening's guests. Reaching the cellar, he found Wat sampling a bit of the evenings wares, as was his want.

"Malda would be ever so pleased to see you approve of the selection for the evening, master."

Gravelly chuckling could be heard from within the wooden mug as Wat took a swig. "Tis a good draught as always Lord Gaemon" (Wat took great pleasure in this nickname he had devised, after Gaemon had insisted on his parentage particularly emphatically one afternoon). "Might ye like a taste?"

Gaemon decide he had nothing better to do, so he took a seat beside Wat on the bench. Wat was a big man, heavy from his years of drinking and eating heartily. He had lost most of his hair, only keeping some grey bushy eyebrows and some towards the back of his head. Setting his tankard aside, he dipped a second tankard in the barrel, filling it fully before handing it to Gaemon.

"We thank thee, Ser Wat, for thy leal service to our person." Gaemon said with a smirk. If Wat were to have his fun, he might as well make the most of it. His response elicited another hearty chuckle from the innkeeper.

"At times, you mimic our noble lords well enough I fear I might mistake you for one. How long do we have until the pottage is ready to be eaten, Gaemon? I can only remain hidden so long before Malda sends the hounds for me."

Gaemon took a deep swig, relishing the familiar warmth that always accompanied such drinks. "I'd wager that we have enough time to finish our drinks before we must needs return to the surface."

Wat nodded. "Best get to it then, m'lord."

As expected, Malda had been mightily displeased when Gaemon and Wat returned from the cellar after the majority of an hour had passed.

Carrying the keg to its customary place behind the bar, they had just finished when Melyssa approached, informing them that Malda was "starving and liable to attack one of the guests" if she "was't served a bowl of pottage right quick."

Gaemon had quickly grabbed a stack of ceramic bowls and a ladle, and began serving the fish pottage fresh, alongside a slice of bread and a spread of the parsley sauce. A fine meal, probably the best to be found on the island, outside the citadel. With the ferocity of the rainstorm outside, it appeared that the number of guests that would be arriving would be very few, all of them locals. After Wat's insistence, Malda allowed Gaemon to serve himself a portion of the evening's fare and begin eating. While Malda, ate by the hearth, in her customary chair (which, disappointingly, had yet to collapse and continued the thankless task of bearing her), Wat, Melyssa, Alyssa, and Gaemon had gathered around the table to eat.

"Any customers, fair ladies?" Gaemon asked with as innocent an expression as he could muster. Alyssa simply gave one of her characteristic smolders whilst Melyssa rolled her eyes before responding.

"The rain has kept any men with coin to spend further down the mountainside. The whores of the port must be making an excellent living this evening." Wat gingerly took one of her delicate hands into his own, giving it a friendly pat, whilst saying "Now now there Melyssa, envy sours even the fairest of faces. I'll not have it ruin yours."

Gaemon grinned, whilst nodding in agreement. "Such a fair face indeed, graced with features so near to our Valyrian masters. If only I had been graced with such beauty."

It was now Melyssa's turn to grin. "Even had you been so blessed, I fear you simply don't have the makings of a successful whore Gaemon. You're simply too, well, male, for my usual patrons. Perhaps you ought to take the next ship to Lys?"

Gaemon put on a thoughtful expression. "Lys is supposedly lovely. I may consider your sage advice, Lady Melyssa. Anything would be superior to the emptying of pisspots."

Melyssa snorted. "You're giving away your foolishness Gaemon. Anyone who has ever found themselves under a fat merchant who smells of sweat, piss, and cheap wine would prefer your job, I assure you."

Gaemon raised his hands in a gesture of acknowledgement and defeat. "Forgive me, my lady. I meant no offense. I am certain the realities of your work are far worse than my own. I hope you'll prove merciful enough to accept my apology." Taking her hand into his, he planted a kiss upon it in the manner he had seen nobles do previously.

Wat had been watching this entire exchange with a great deal of amusement, and finally interjected. "Bravo! Lord Gaemon, were I a fair maid I'd have already been game to go for a tumble in a haystack. Sadly, methinks there is not a soul on Dragonstone who'd mistake me for a fair maid. Besides, it seems you may soon have some competition for Melyssa's favor." Wat nodded towards the four men who had entered the room.

Gaemon recognized the four immediately. "If it isn't the three kings, and their esteemed sire." He said with a smile. Rising to greet the newcomers, he beckoned them to take bowls of the pottage and have a seat at the table. The first, a man in his early forties, offered his thanks before placing a bucket full of freshly caught fish near the entrance to the cellar. Turning back to face Wat, he grinned, his deep purple eyes flashing in the fire light.

"Me n' the boys have brought you a good catch today Wat, despite the storm."

Brushing, a silver strand of hair from his eyes, Silver Denys moved to fill a bowl. He was followed quickly by his first born, named Aegon, who possessed golden hair and eyes of purple. Next was Aenys, with his lilac eyes and brown hair. Lastly was Maegor, with eyes of stormy blue and brown hair. Denys was not subtle in proclaiming his draconic blood, but his detractors claimed behind his back that the power of his seed had diminished with each son. Maegor had been blessed with little and less of the fabled looks of Valyria. He towered over everyone else in the room, including Gaemon, who had previously been the tallest in the inn.

"Careful now Maegor, we wouldn't want you hitting the ceiling beams too hard and ruining our protection from the rain. Hasn't anyone told you the last giants died before the arrival of the Andals?"

Maegor nodded, his face an imitation of stoic thoughtfulness. "Mayhaps the messenger forgot to inform me. Or mayhaps like a giant of old, I simply ate him."

Gaemon chortled. "That would certainly not come as much of a surprise to me, you vile beast."

Maegor raised an eyebrow. "Dear Gaemon, I think you may wish to look in a mirror before throwing such words around so carelessly." To which Gaemon responded by chuckling and returning to his food.

As Silver Denys and his sons took a seat at the table, Aegon and Aenys quickly began to regale Melyssa with tales of their exploits at sea, where "they had braved many a wave and gust to bring her such delicious fish" while Denys negotiated the price for the fish with Wat, who was determined that he pay less in exchange for offering Denys and his boys a meal on the house.

Gaemon was so focused on finishing his meal that he barely took notice of the two guardsmen entering the inn. He was quickly alerted to their presence as they began to shout for ale. He rose and fetched two tankards, filling them and handing them to the guards in exchange for a few copper pieces. They fetched bowls and began to converse at the end of the table.

Gaemon had returned to his spot as one had, following a loud belch, raised a toast "to their comrade Ulf, the newest rider of Silverwing!"

Shocked, Gaemon sputtered out "The dragon?"

To which they "of course, are ye daft? The Prince of Dragonstone himself put out a call for dragonriders, claiming any who could master a dragon would be granted lands and riches and dubbed a knight!"

The other grinned. "A couple o' poor bastards tried before. 'Er Lord Commander Lord Darklyn tried mounting Seasmoke just last night. He'd finally stopped screamin a few hours ago. They said 'is burns were wicked. Damn near melted 'is armor onto his skin."

The other appeared to be pondering that image, before the grin returned to his face. "But one of our own lads did it! Of all the sots on Dragonstone, I'd have bet Ulf the White to be the last to tame a dragon. But I'd 'ave wagered wrong, for earlier today he returned, looking mighty glorious as he flew Silverwing into the keep's courtyard. True to form, he immediately requested a drink." The guard guffawed. "I was honestly surprised the man was sober enough to walk, let alone fly. Damn impressive work though. Makes me right proud one of our own managed it, instead of one of those lords."

By this point it was clear that the entire table was enraptured by their tale. Gaemon was trying to keep himself from shaking. Seven hells, he thought, this is my chance! A real chance to claim my birthright! He turned to face the first guard who'd spoken.

"Have any other dragons been claimed?" He asked, afraid to know the answer. He was terrified he'd be told all had been mastered.

"Hugh the Hammer, the blacksmith's boy, mastered Vermithor the other night after he had had his fun roasting the Lord Massey. Damn imposing lad, that 'un."

Gaemon blinked. That only left Seasmoke, the Grey Ghost, the Sheepstealer, and the Cannibal. I must needs hurry, he thought. The unridden will be my best bet. His stomach turned. There was only one dragon whose cave he knew the location of. Time was of the essence. Standing, he thanked Wat for the meal. He looked at Maegor, and an understanding passed between them.

Summoning his best grin, he spoke: "Good evening, honorable sers and ladies. I am off to tame a dragon." Those who knew him best paled.

The guards simply laughed. "Fool boy, only those with a drop 'o dragon in them can tame a dragon." The guard narrowed his eyes. "And it looks to me you've not got a single drop." Turning, he gave Melyssa a squeeze on the rump. "Seems to me this lass would have a better chance than you. At least she looks to have a drop or two."

Gaemon scowled. Without responding, he turned and left the inn, trudging off into the night. I have a dragon to tame, and no time to lose. The fool will eat his words once I return with a dragon in tow. To try is better than to live the rest of my days emptying piss pots and being mocked. I will claim my heritage, or die trying! A deafening peal of thunder split the sky. The dragons roared their response from the citadel once more. Gaemon began his journey up the Dragonmont.

Chapter Text

Gaemon II

Time was of the essence, but Gaemon could not ascend the Dragonmont without saying his goodbyes to the only family he had. It was for this reason that he found himself in front of their windswept hovel, situated in the cliffs above the town he called home. He arrived in what he assumed to be the midst of the Hour of Ghosts, which he was sure many would consider an ill-omen. Dragons fear no shade of mortal man, he thought to himself with a scoff. Hesitating, Gaemon regretted for a moment that he was about to wake his grandparents from their slumber (as they likely had assumed he would stay overnight at the inn as he had not returned by the Hour of the Bat). He considered leaving them to their peaceful sleep, not troubling them with his plans. They raised me, a voice emanated from within, and you might die in these next few hours. Leaving them with only regrets and loss would be cold. His mind's eye remembered the way his grandparents had described his father's treatment of his mother. I may be a dragon, but I am not HIM. He knocked on the door, clenching his fists as he waited. He found his hand gravitating towards the gold dragon around his neck, as it often did in times of apprehension. He forced it to return to his side, as he heard what he assumed to be his grandfather approach the door cautiously. The door creaked softly, with the wrinkled and cautious face of his grandfather appearing in the opening, clutching a candle. As recognition lit his tired eyes, the door opened more fully, and his hand beckoned him inside. Gaemon, beginning to shiver from within his soaking wet clothing, and from the relentless rain that fell from above, was only too happy to oblige.

Entering the hovel that had been his home for all his life, he took in the humble, but familiar features. The remains of a fire rested within the hearth, the embers still glowing and casting a hazy orange glow across the floor, meeting the dancing light of the candle in his grandfather's gnarled grasp. Pulling an ancient chair out from under an equally ancient table, Gaemon took a seat across from the bed his grandmother sat on, and that his grandfather had returned to. They both looked expectantly at him from where they sat. His grandfather was the first to break the silence.

"We did not expect you to return to us tonight, Gaemon. It had grown so late we thought you might have bedded down at the inn." Inquisitive eyes regarded him from under bushy, drooping eyebrows. "Does something trouble you lad? Have you come to seek our counsel?"

Gaemon sighed, and returned their gaze, making eye contact with each of them before speaking. "Earlier this evening, I was informed at the inn that Queen Rhaenyra and her firstborn, Jacaerys Velaryon, have issued a call for dragonseeds. They have promised titles and riches to any who can tame one of the unmastered dragons who have made their lairs on the island. I have come here tonight, because I intend to go and claim my birthright." His grandparents shared a knowing glance before his grandmother turned to regard him once more, her eyes saddened.

"Gaemon, we have known this day would come ever since you discovered the golden dragon amongst your mother's belongings. I, no we, prayed to the Seven that you would find reasons to stay in the village, to not risk your life pursuing such things. Your father may be a Prince, but you carry the stain of bastardy. Even if they let you within the keep, you would never be one of them."

His grandfather had been watching his grandmother while she spoke, but finally turned to face him once she had finished. "We knew the minute you began to carry that dragon 'round your neck that you wouldn't… no couldn't let go. Mayhaps it is the fire in your veins, or mayhaps it is simply that you were never cut out to farm, or herd, or fish, like us smallfolk have done for generations. I fear we cannot give you our blessing to go seek a dragon, but we will not seek to stop you either."

Rising, his grandparents crossed the room and embraced him. He held them tightly. His grandmother, muffled in his shoulder, spoke after a few moments. "If you are to attempt to tame a dragon, we cannot allow you to go in soaked rags. At the very least, please change, and dress warmly."

Gaemon smiled, some things never change, he thought to himself.

Trudging up the path towards the Dragonmont, Gaemon chewed on a crust of bread his grandmother had insisted he take "for the road." He was becoming increasingly nervous, but he knew he could not turn back now. I cannot go back, only forward. I'll never prove I have the blood of the dragon otherwise. If my father will not claim me, I will prove myself otherwise. The rain continued unabated, hammering down, turning the well-tread stoney path to a treacherous muddy slope. Gaemon climbed carefully, watching where he stepped and making sure each step he took found purchase. It would not do for this would-be dragonrider to slip and crack his head before he even reached his dragon, he thought with amusement. He was thankful to be dry, at least. His grandmother had been right to make sure he changed into a completely new set of garments that were warm and dry, still smelling of woodsmoke. He was doubly grateful for the sheepskin cloak that hung from his shoulders, keeping the majority of the rain from soaking his clothing and preventing him (hopefully) from catching a chill. Despite being warm, his hands were shaking, no matter how tightly he clenched them.

He stopped, having finally reached the top of the first hill he had to surmount. Below, he could see a few lights still burning in the village below. Melyssa is most likely entertaining one of those soldiers by now. If she is lucky, perhaps he has already spilt his seed and fallen asleep. Any other evening, he'd have traded roles with the soldier, convincing Alyssa or Malda that he would indeed pay his debts at some point, and that he'd be likely to eventually hand over his dragon to make good on what he owed for his several daliances with Melyssa. One mention of the dragon and they'd have let him do as he wished. He knew that they'd have let him play that game for at least a year before demanding him to pay up, especially with Wat covering for him. He forced himself to focus on the present. Standing at the crest of the first hill, he had reached the winding cobblestone road that led to Dragonstone's citadel. As he glanced up the road, looking for any glimpse of the imposing, dragon crafted citadel, all he could see was the rain pouring down and a winding road, lit by brief flashes of lightning. He was about to turn to resume his trek up the next hill when one such flash of lightning illuminated a man walking down the road towards him, bent over and clutching a cloak about him. Gaemon was immediately intrigued by this stranger; he couldn't imagine why anyone would be traveling at this time of night in a storm this intense. Unless… unless they intend to do the same as I? The thought made him nervous, he did not wish to give away his knowledge of the cave's location to any potential rivals.

Deciding he was being exceedingly paranoid, Gaemon stopped, and waited for the stranger to approach. I won't risk the ire of the Seven for turning away a stranger in need on a night as important as this, he thought to himself. After a few moments, the stranger became aware of his presence, and began to walk briskly towards him. Reaching a spot, only a few feet from him, he raised his head from beneath his hood, regarding him with a youthful, but drenched face.

"Well met my good man. Why are you traveling these roads so late, and in such a fearful storm?" He asked with an expression Gaemon could only assume was one of calculated, feigned disinterest.

If he hadn't been certain before, Gaemon was certain now that he was speaking with a lord. Now that he could see the man's accoutrements, it was clear he was well dressed, if not especially well-prepared for this particular bout of harsh weather. The lord (or knight) was wearing mail over his clothing, and over the mail he wore a white surcoat, which, although thoroughly drenched, still displayed a ring of seven golden stars, each with seven points. Gaemon tried desperately to search his memory for any memory of what House that particular coat arms signified, but he returned empty-handed.

Realizing he had remained silent for a bit too long, for the sake of courtesy, he responded: "I am bound for the Dragonmont. I have heard that the Queen's son has called for Dragonriders, and I intend to answer that call."

The knight scoffed. "I cannot stop you from pursuing your goal, but men of higher birth than you have tried, and failed, to accomplish that task. I myself, Runcifer Sunglass, am committed to the same goal, and will bring honor to House Sunglass when I return, having tamed the fiercest of the remaining dragons on behalf of her majesty, Rhaenyra the first."

Gaemon had to bite his tongue to prevent any disrespectful remarks, as he was painfully aware that he was lacking a true blade at his side, unlike the knight of House Sunglass. "Do you mean to tame the Cannibal then?" Gaemon asked, feigning innocent curiosity.

"Of course. Although once mastered he shall receive a new and more fitting name for so noble a creature. I would be loath to allow local smallfolk and their superstitions the opportunity to grant such a creature its name for posterity." The knight's eyes narrowed. "How come you are so knowledgeable about these creatures?"

Gaemon silently cursed himself for continuing the conversation for so long. There is no going back now. Fleeing is not an option. I must simply be honest and hope fortune lies with me. "I too hope to tame the Cannibal. As a younger man, I believe I stumbled across his cave. I aim to return there tonight and to master him."

Sunglass raised an eyebrow. "Well it appears we both have the same goal. If you guide me to this beast's cave, I will reward you handsomely. In return, I demand as an anointed knight to be given the first attempt to master the dragon."

Gaemon frowned. Realizing that he was unlikely to receive a better offer, he extended his hand. Sunglass, after attempting (and failing) to hide his disappointment to have to shake hands with a member of the smallfolk, gripped his hand firmly, pumping it twice. Their arrangement done, they began their trek up the second, and steeper hill towards the slopes of the Dragonmont.

Their climb took several more hours, and by the time they had reached the craggy slopes of the Dragonmont, Gaemon estimated they had reached the Hour of the Wolf, or perhaps even early in the Hour of the Nightingale. The rain, once powerful and unyielding, had died down to a soft drizzle, filling the air with cold moisture that seemed to sink through even the sheepskin and chill Gaemon to the bone. It was the most peaceful time of night, where the early predawn hours were still inky black, but somehow one could sense the coming of the dawn. Gaemon considered the soft rain amidst the silence to be peaceful. That was until he realized just how silent the entire area they had entered was. Dragonstone, despite being a rather grim volcanic island, was never truly silent, whether it be the distant baying of a hound, the bleating of sheep, the sound of human voices, or even the cawing of gulls. Where they had entered was well and truly silent, a detail that Gaemon found unnerving but also took to be a good sign, for it could herald the presence of a dragon.

Once they had reached the slopes of the Dragonmont itself, the grey slopes had become steeper and stonier, and the air had begun to smell of sulfur. Gaemon was able to begin retracing his steps from his earlier adventure, following a defile running between the craggy peaks that ran lazily upward until reaching the ledge he remembered from before. Reaching the ledge behind him, Sunglass hoisted himself up, grunting heavily from the effort. To Gaemon's ears, the sound of Sunglass' grunts and the scrape of mail on stone seemed deafening; he was certain they had already given themselves away. The smell of ash and sulfur was particularly strong on this ledge, and straining his eyes in the darkness, Gaemon could just barely make out the yawning mouth of a cave. Facing it head on, the entrance was far larger than he remembered. The stench of burnt meat emanated from it, and for the first time, he was certain that a dragon had made its lair within. Moving as quietly as he could, he took a position outside the mouth of the cave, and waited for Sunglass to join him.

Moving quickly, Runcifer Sunglass crossed the distance between the ledge and the cave quickly, though not as quietly as Gaemon would have liked. Once he was there, he opened a satchel hung from his waist and passed him several silver stags.

Turning to Gaemon, he whispered "I will now go. Do not follow. If the Seven are kind, I will return on dragonback." Without saying another word, he entered the cave.

Gaemon looked down at the coins in his hand. The thought did occur to him that he could leave this place. He didn't have to die for his birthright, or to earn the recognition of a father who hadn't claimed him. I don't have to… but I will. A dragon cannot be bought, no more than a storm, or a wildfire. A dragon does not fear other dragons. And most of all, a dragon does NOT step aside for lesser men. He tossed the coins aside and entered the cave. Either way, he needed them not.

The interior of the cave stank of sulfur and charred meat far more strongly than its entrance had. It was almost overpowering. If not for the slight sound of Runcifer Sunglasses footfalls ahead, Gaemon would have no idea if he was truly taking the same path. He followed the smells and the footfalls until the darkness seemed to expand above his head, growing blacker and deeper, seemingly signifying he had stumbled into a larger cave. As he followed Sunglass, he stepped in what must have been a pool of standing water, as his foot sank deep into the cool pool.

Ahead, Sunglass cursed, whispering "I TOLD you to stay outside, you fool! I'll have your head for this you idiotic peasant!"

As the knight turned to confront Gaemon, Gaemon noticed two bright green orbs above where he imagined Sunglass was standing. He strained in the darkness to make out what they might be. He feared somehow this cavern might be far larger than he expected, and that they had somehow woken the Cannibal at the far end of the cave. That cannot be right, for those to be its eyes, it would have to be hundreds of feet away, making this cavern so big that it would take up the majority of Dragonmont's peak, he thought. So what are those things? One more he strained to see through the inky darkness. Had Sunglass lit a torch? The two orbs did seem to be flickering slightly, but they were too high off the ground to be held by a man's arm. Sunglass himself was also not illuminated. Suddenly, a chill ran down Gaemon's spine. Two flickering torches, too small to be eyes, yet too far from the ground to be held by a man. Gaemon suddenly knew exactly what those things were, and he immediately threw himself into the pool.

Above the surface of the water, a piercing green sun bloomed. The water itself, which had been freezing cold a moment before, became uncomfortably hot after a moment of the blinding light. Gaemon surfaced, knowing he needed to move immediately. Once his ears had left the water, he regretted surfacing so quickly. The first sensation he experienced was the heat. The feeling was so intense he felt as though the air itself would catch him alight. Then he registered the screams. Runcifer Sunglass had transformed into a sickening, writhing torch. Flailing this way and that, his screams were nearly inhuman, guttural, the kind Gaemon imagined a man could only make after having his entire form set alight. Thankfully, the screams ended quickly. Sunglass, or what was left of him, collapsed into a kneeling position, the flames still dancing so brightly about him that his appeared to be a green candle. And just like a candle would, he began to melt. The sight was sickening, but Gaemon had little time to observe. The cavern that had until recently been blacker than night had been set alight in many places, and Gaemon quickly realized its floor was littered with bones. The most terrifying aspect of all was the massive specter that loomed behind the burning remains of Sunglass, a dragon with scales black as night and eyes that shone with a baleful green light. The Cannibal, thought Gaemon. He regarded it for only a single moment, before obeying the only command his body was giving him. He ran.

He had run for only a few moments when he realized that he had sprinted the wrong way. In his terror, Gaemon had run deeper into the cave. Cursing himself, he had to fight back tears of rage and desperation. I should never have come here. I will burn just like the other fools. Forcing himself to concentrate, he could see that he had run down a side passage. He could not hear much, other than the flickering and sputtering of flame, which he took to be a good sign. The Cannibal was far too large to move without disturbing the bones and stalagmites about the cave. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard what at first sounded like a series of twigs being snapped. His heart sank when he heard the subsequent unmistakable sound of crunching, which he now knew to be the Cannibal beginning its feast. The Cannibal is large enough that it could eat several men. I must needs hide, or I will be joining Ser Sunglass in its belly. Using the unnatural light of the dragon's green flames, he found a fissure in the rock, where after removing his sheepskin, he was able to wedge himself into.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, he felt he might go mad between his terror and his straining to hear any sort of noise that might betray the Cannibal's approach. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a noise akin to the scraping of a thousand blades on the cavern floor. As it grew louder, he realized with a sinking realization that the dragon was dragging itself closer to where he was. It can most likely smell me, he thought. Or if not me, that damned soaking sheepskin. After a few more moments where it could clearly be heard approaching, the noise stopped suddenly. Gaemon found himself clenching his fists, holding his eyes closed, preparing himself for the blast of heat that would signal his demise. Instead, he found himself waiting for what seemed like another eternity. His nails were digging into his palms so deeply that he had begun to tear rents in the skin, the blood running warmly down his hands. Despite himself, through the terror, he began to grow curious. What is that damned creature doing? Why can it not simply end my suffering already? At least Ser Sunglass was afforded a quick death. He could barely stand waiting. He realized he was beginning to inch ever so closely out of the fissure. When he had emerged enough that he was able to turn his head, he slowly, ever so slowly, turned it to gaze down the passage he had come to attempt to glimpse if there was any sign of the beast.

If he had expected to be rewarded with a glimpse of an open passageway, signifying a chance at freedom, he was to be sorely mistaken. Gaemon instead found himself gazing directly into those same baleful green eyes he had seen only moments before, even though it felt like ages. He returned to the fissure as quickly as possible. Gaemon had never placed much stock in the worship of the Seven, but he found himself praying now. He couldn't be certain that the creature had seen him, but he felt that it almost certainly had. He had begun to shake, despite himself.

Once again, he fought back tears of frustration, of disappointment, of grief. Frustration at his youthful foolishness, disappointment at his failure to prove himself a true dragon, grief for his grandparents, who were to be left without anyone to help to provide for them in their old age. Most of all, however, Gaemon began to feel a new emotion begin to flicker in the depths of his being. It began to make its presence known as a low smoldering heat within him. Once he became aware of his presence, the embers burst fully into flame. Gaemon was shocked to find the strongest emotion he was feeling at that moment was rage. I may have failed my father, my mother, my lineage, but I will NOT die a coward. I cannot stomach that. If this dragon is to be the death of me, I will die burning, but not with my back to it. I will face it, I must face it. Gaemon's other emotions made way for the conflagration that burned and raged within him. Looking to the exterior of the fissure he had hidden himself away in, he saw what appeared to be a human bone, one that would likely be from the leg. That will suit my purposes well enough, he thought with a grim smirk.

Taking the bone into his bloody hands, he took what he thought was likely to be his last breath, and stepped into the passage. The green eyes met his, and a low hiss emanated through the passage, carrying with the smell of fire and death. Tightening his grip around the bone, he screamed, letting his rage burn out of him, echoing down the passage.

"Bugger yourself wyrm, you will not cow me as you did the others. I will die a dragon."

With that he began running, screaming as he ran. He crossed the space of the passage quickly, and the dragon began to open its maw, revealing those flickering flames situated behind raws of razor sharp teeth half his own height. Crossing the last of the distance, Gaemon brought the thigh bone down with all the strength he could muster upon its snout, shouting as he did so. The bone rebounded, sending his arms flying back behind his head with the force of the reverberation. He accepted the end, hoping he'd feel little of it.

The end did not come. When he opened his eyes, he realized the Cannibal's mouth had closed slightly. It's eyes regarded him with a wary cunning, and if he was not imagining (which he supposed he most likely certainly was) there appeared to be something almost akin to shock emanating from those terrifying green orbs. He tensed again, certain that this had been only a momentary lapse in the dragon's attack. When the Cannibal instead closed its maw fully, it was Gaemon's turn to be stunned. At that moment, his knees simply gave out. Falling before the head of the massive creature, he simply sat, and stared, as it stared back at him. He waited for what seemed like hours, as neither seemed to be particularly interested in making the next move. Finally, Gaemon raised his hand, and began to move slowly towards the massive beast. It's eyes followed him every step of the way, and steam hissed from its nostrils. Crossing the last of the remaining distance, Gaemon placed his hand upon its head. A deep heat emanated from within the dragon, a primordial, terrifying heat, but one that seemed to resonate with a heat that he felt inside his own chest. He could not explain it, but his fear began to subside. Despite himself, he began to smile.

"Mayhaps I was a bit hasty. I may rescind that last command to bugger yourself."

The rest of the night he had spent within the cave, still in a state of complete disbelief. Despite apparently having resolved to no longer eat Gaemon, the Cannibal was by no means a creature that could be described as friendly or inviting. Everything had to be done cautiously, he knew when he was moving to quickly or suddenly when Cannibal snapped at him. Once, he had sent a gust of flame to his left when Gaemon had touched a wound that was still healing, smoking blood emanating from within. Even though he had not aimed to hit, Gaemon was fairly certain his hair had been close to being set alight. After that, he'd taken a break. After some time, he had fetched his sheepskin cloak and decided it was time for the real question. He approached the Cannibal slowly, but as confidently as he could. He walked slowly, maintaining eye contact as he began to circle to the right of the Cannibal's head. He then closed the distance, placing a hand on one of the spines that extended from the dragon's jaw. He began to lift himself, stopping when a low, gravelly growl emanated from the dragon.

When it appeared the Cannibal was not going to do anything worse than grumble, he continued his climb, until he seated himself in the base of its neck, between its two massive, leathery wings. They sat there for a moment, before the Cannibal lurched forward, the sound of his scales producing the familiar sound of swords scraping the cavern floor once more. Gaemon began to shake; he was still half convinced he had indeed died, and that this was some sort of vision he was experiencing immediately prior to his horrific death. Such thoughts were dispelled the moment the Cannibal cleared the cavern entrance, spread his wings, and beating them powerfully, began to lift himself into the air. Gaemon was giddy with excitement, but clung as tightly to two spines before him as he could. It would not do for me to have come this far, only to end as a splattered corpse on the Dragonmont below.

As they circled higher and higher, Gaemon was glad he had brought his cloak, for he would have never guessed the winds and air would be so much cooler amidst the clouds. He allowed the Cannibal to choose their path, reveling in a feeling he could have never imagined he would feel, soaring above the island he had called home for all his life. It was only after they had almost completed their circling the island from above that Gaemon felt the tears that had fallen down his cheeks. I AM a dragon. I AM a Targaryen! He realized with deep sadness that despite all he had said, he had not truly believed those words until this moment. It was one thing to hold a gold dragon in one's palm, and another entirely to ride one amidst the clouds. I have succeeded in mastering a dragon. I can take my place at Queen Rhaenyra's side, claim my birthright, and help to seat her on the Iron Throne!

He laughed, out of pure joy, with only his dragon and the wind as the witnesses to his joy. Eventually after circling the island a second time, he pulled as hard as he could on the spines he had been clutching, guiding the Cannibal in a lazy spiral towards the island. Surprisingly, the dragon responded, following his commands and arcing downwards. Gaemon felt for a moment a sensation akin to though he was falling, as though his stomach was falling out from his chest, but acclimated to it quickly. Guiding the Cannibal down through the clouds, finally resting his eyes upon the citadel rapidly approaching below him. He was able to make out what appeared to be hundreds of dragon themed gargoyles, and different buildings molded in ways to resemble dragons in various poses. Spotting a relatively empty courtyard, he guided the Cannibal towards it, and saw with some satisfaction that many people were scattering to avoid being landed on. Reaching the ground, the Cannibal beat his wings, slowly lowering himself to the stone floor. Gaemon climbed off, his legs aching and trying to keep himself from shaking. As the Cannibal cast baleful glances with its green eyes as the crowd rapidly surrounding them, Gaemon once more found himself smiling. It is time to meet my family, he thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Maegor I

Maegor was miserable. The early morning cold always bit bone deep, yet there was nothing to do but press onward, teeth gritted. Dawn hadn't come to Dragonstone, but the inky blackness of night had receded somewhat, leaving the sky painted in a deep purple that gradually grew lighter as the morning approached. His father and brothers had yet to wake, as they were still sleeping off the effects of last night's ale.

His father had decided the night before was a time for celebration, as there was now "a chance for me and mine to prove our blood!" The blood that he was referring to, of course, was that of Maegor's own namesake, the king known to many as The Cruel.

To the people of Dragonstone, the former king was a complicated matter. From what stories he'd heard from his own father and other villagers, the first Prince of Dragonstone had spent most of his youth on the island with his mother, the Queen Visenya, sister-wife to King Aegon. According to the bards' tales, King Maegor was a tyrant and brute who caused great suffering throughout the realm before both the people and the Seven finally saw fit to end his reign of terror. On Dragonstone however, King Maegor was spoken about in fearful tones to be sure, but also those of awe and pride. Before he was a King, Maegor Targaryen had been a Prince, and was well-respected by the people of the island he ruled over for many years before his exile and kingship.

Silver Denys certainly took pride in his heritage. He claimed that his own grandsire was a bastard son of the famously childless king, and that his blood still flowed strongly through the veins of his descendants. Whenever pressed about the fact that King Maegor's only trueborn children were stillborn monstrosities, and that any bastard of his would likely have been so as well, Denys would scoff, before pointing at his own strongly Valyrian features.

"The seed of dragons is strongest where they roost", he would say, "and King Maegor's true home was always this island." Most arguments would end there, and if they didn't, Silver Denys had three strong sons along with his own fists if needed to defend his honor. Upon learning of the call for new dragonriders, Maegor's father was ecstatic. Not long after Gaemon had left, Denys had ordered a round of drinks for all in the common room. As he put it, "I won't need to pinch coppers when my sons and I sup at the Queen's table!"

After hearing the guards' announcement, Maegor's mind had immediately begun to race with thoughts. He had hardly considered his tankard of ale or bowl of pottage after learning the news. As the others in the room drank and made merry, Maegor let his thoughts wander, a habit of his that his father and brothers certainly felt was not ideal in a fisherman. Dragging in nets for hours at a time was as dull as it was backbreaking, and Maegor had gotten more than a few clouts in the ear for slip-ups he made whilst paying more attention to his thoughts than the world around him.

"I need your eyes on the sea, not the clouds", his father would grunt, and Maegor would apologize sheepishly before getting back to work. Theirs was not an easy life, but Maegor never went hungry, and was experienced in a trade that would always be necessary on an island like Dragonstone.

Maegor found himself along the edge of a sloped bluff that overlooked a portion of Dragonstone's large rocky shoreline. Two boats sat on this bluff, at the bottom of a dusty footpath that led back up to the thatch-roofed stone hut that Maegor shared with his father and brothers. The larger of the two boats was a deep-bellied skiff that he and his family used when fishing, with room enough for its four occupants, as well as the nets and barrels necessary for catching fish. The smaller of the two was a much smaller rowboat, much more convenient for navigating shallow inlets along the shoreline, or for greater speed and mobility on the open water. It was this smaller rowboat that Maegor began to push down the bluff with a grunt, after grabbing a fishing net from the skiff and tossing it into the rowboat.

The boat alternated between sliding on the sand of the shore and bumping on the numerous dark rocks jutting from the ground, though nearly all were worn completely smooth by the endless persistence of seawater that flowed in on the high tide. Maegor kept his eyes open for any particularly large or jagged rocks that could damage the boat on his way to the surf. After the stormy seas of the day before, Maegor was relieved to find that the waters were significantly calmer. And let them stay that way, Maegor thought as he pushed the rowboat deeper into the water. He quickly clambered in, steadying the boat and grabbing its oars. Leaning his back into the strokes, Maegor quickly drifted away from the shoreline, watching it become enveloped in the early morning fog.

Though he was experienced on the water, Maegor felt tendrils of apprehension beginning to twist in his belly as the fog closed around him much more tightly than he expected. Any other time, and I would turn back for shore right away. It was only a foolhardy sailor that would continuously test his luck against an ocean with hidden dangers that could be lurking in the fog mere paces away. But this is no normal day. Maegor needed these fish for a plan he had concocted the night before in the inn. He had no assurance that it would work, but he had been unable to sleep throughout the night as he lay alone with his thoughts, listening to his father and brothers toss and turn in their sleep, and as Aenys' increasingly loud snores threatened to bring the thatch roof down upon their heads.

Pulling the oars back into the boat, Maegor grabbed the net from where it sat pooled at his feet. Securing it to the rowboat, he dropped the end weighted with stones into the water, allowing it to spread open beneath the water's surface. Opening a small, foul-smelling pouch, Maegor began throwing some of the bits of fish viscera he'd taken as chum from the village refuse pile into the water. He watched the water underneath the boat patiently, waiting for his chance. Seeing a small group of fish nearing his boat, Maegor grinned and waited for them to start nibbling at the bait. Then, he took one of his oars and began to vigorously beat the surface of the water, causing as great a disturbance and fright to the fish as he could. He then quickly sat the oar back down and began hauling in the net. Just as he'd hoped, many of the frightened and confused fish had swum right into it, and were now flopping vainly from within its sodden confines as Maegor returned the net to the bottom of the rowboat.

It was at that moment that Maegor saw slight ripples beginning to form on the water's surface. He's hungry. Digging through the net, Maegor found the fattest fish that he could, and gripped it tightly as it continued to weakly thrash against his grasp. Steadying himself so as not to accidentally use his size against himself and capsize the rowboat, Maegor threw the fish as hard as he could into the air. The rowboat shook slightly and several locks of hair fluttered against Maegor's forehead as something large passed above him in the thick mist, remaining unseen. The fish had vanished in the mist, and did not come hurtling back down to Maegor's boat or the sea. It seems that the Ghost has accepted my offering, Maegor thought with a grin. As the sun continued to rise above the island of Dragonstone, the mist quickly melted away. Gaining his bearings, Maegor turned the rowboat back towards the shore and began rowing.

As he pulled the rowboat back up the slope of the bluff, grunting from the exertion of it, Maegor thought about the visit he'd received out on the open water. That was the first time in a long while. The Grey Ghost never made his presence known to Maegor on the open water if he was accompanied by anyone else, and there always needed to be enough fog to ensure that Maegor was unable to actually see the dragon. Despite his vehement claims as a child, Maegor's father and brothers had never believed Maegor's story about catching a glimpse of the Ghost on Dragonmont. They chalked it up to that "imagination" of mine, and spoke no more of it. At first, Maegor had been very frustrated, and eventually began to think that mayhaps his memory was simply an embellishment that he'd built up within his head. And then I received another visit. It had been a morning much like the one he was currently trudging back to his family's hut through. I had no chores that day, and it was the first time da let me take a boat out on the water by myself. From that point on, everytime Maegor nearly began to lose track of his last encounter with the elusive dragon, the Ghost would visit him early in the morning when Maegor would sail out alone to catch fish and be alone with his thoughts. He'd be hidden in his shroud of fog, and I'd toss him some breakfast. Maegor had reached the door of his family's hut, and he opened it and stepped inside.

A savory smell filled Maegor's nose as soon as he entered. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadowed interior of the hut, and the slight smoky haze that hung throughout the room as a cookfire burned. His father and brothers were awake and sitting at the old wooden table situated in the center of their hut. They were eating rashers of bacon, which was a rare occasion. Meat from the pigs raised and slaughtered on Dragonstone was expensive, so Maegor would only break his fast on bacon for truly special occasions. The table and benches they were sitting at had been a gift from Maegor's grandsire to his daughter the day she and Denys became one in the eyes of the Seven. Some of Maegor's strongest memories of his mother were tied to that table. If he sat at it and closed his eyes, he could envision her cooking the evening meal while his father and brothers were out at sea. She would give him little bits of said meal as she worked, and laugh when Maegor would beg for more. Her answer was the same every time. Peace child, she'd say with a twinkle in her eye, sometimes we must needs wait for what we want.

Maegor made his way over to the hearth with his net of fish. The ash that had been spread over the fire to smoke the rashers still covered the fire crackling within, but Maegor scooped some more ashes off of the dirt floor outside the hearth and sprinkled them over the crackling flame. As he opened the net and grabbed a fish from within, the fresh ashes added to the flames deepened the smoky haze that filled the room. Maegor speared the fish on black iron rungs high within the hearth to smoke them, while squinting his eyes as they watered from the smoke. The heat of the flames and the hot iron rungs within the hearth didn't bother him, however. The blood of the dragon burns hotter in our veins than any cookfire, his father would say, and Maegor had found that fact to be true more than once.

Once he was finished hanging up his catch to smoke, Maegor sat down next to Aenys on one of the wooden benches, facing his father and Aegon. Grabbing a rasher of bacon that had clearly been placed out for him, he bit into it. It tasted as good as it smelled, and Maegor enjoyed the feel of the warm bacon grease dribbling down his chin. His father grinned across the table at him, his violet eyes flashing through the haze in the cottage.

"Starting early today, are we?"

Maegor nodded back at him as his teeth tore another chunk from the rasher. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and pointed at the hearth. "I believe that I'll have need of every fish that I caught this morning."

Aegon raised an eyebrow at that before speaking. "Why's that? Ya got an even bigger appetite than usual?"

Maegor grinned at him, for his brother spoke truly. It seemed that the taller Maegor grew, the larger his stomach did as well. His father and brothers were quick to jokingly remind him that he needed to leave enough fish in the sea for the rest of the island to eat.

"Not I, but I fear that the Ghost will have an appetite that rivals even my own. I plan on returning to his home with offerings of fish. That dragon seems to love fish as much as a lord loves his gold."

Maegor's other brother was quick to join the conversation. Elbowing him, Aenys shot a look across the table at Aegon and their father. "Would ya listen to that! Little Maegor is telling tales about his friend the dragon again."

He simply laughed as Maegor shoved a retaliatory elbow into his side, which due to Maegor's size nearly knocked his brother off his perch on the bench. Smiling, Maegor crossed his arms. "I'm not so little anymore, and the lot of you will eat your words when I fly down from the Dragonmont to light a fire under your sorry arse, Aenys."

The four of them laughed at that, but Maegor's father waved a hand in the air after a few seconds to get the attention of his sons. Maegor took note of his father's expression as it became more serious, but mirth still burned brightly in his eyes.

"The Ghost would be quite a prize if you can find him, but I plan on taming a less elusive mount."

Maegor raised an eyebrow. He had no doubts that his father would try to tame a dragon, but he hadn't expected him to set out so soon. Then again, who would sit and wait when an opportunity like this appears? There are many more people on this island than dragons, and from the sounds of it, many have already begun trying to tame them, though few have succeeded. Maegor wondered about Gaemon in that moment. His friend had wasted no time in setting out from the inn the night before, and Maegor knew exactly which dragon he would seek out. Only the largest and most fearsome dragon would do for the bastard of a prince. Seven hells Gaemon, haven't you heard the stories? The Cannibal was a nearly legendary creature on the island, a dragon that was feared by wise men and sought out by fools. But Gaemon is no fool. There is no middle ground when his mind latches on to an idea. By now he'll either be riding that beast, or his bones will litter the floor of his cave.

It was then that Maegor realized that his father was waiting for a response to a question that Maegor hadn't heard. Seeing that his son hadn't been paying attention, Silver Denys merely rolled his eyes before repeating himself.

"Most smallfolk on the island know where the Sheepstealer roosts. I plan to claim that beast before any others try to. The people will see once and for all that the blood of King Maegor flows as strongly in our veins as my da before me, and my grandsire before him! Will you join me and your brothers as I go to tame the Sheepstealer?"

Maegor felt his mouth dry out. His father and brothers were all watching him intently. "I-" Maegor began, but then looked down, feeling ashamed. I feel I must needs seek out the Grey Ghost now, but what man would I be to abandon my father and brothers at a time like this?

Looking back up at his father and brothers, Maegor was surprised to see them all smiling. Denys sat up straight, then nodded. "You'd rather seek out the Ghost right now, wouldn't ya? There's no shame in that, boy."

Standing, his father moved across the room, grabbing his traveling cloak. Aegon and Aenys did the same. The three walked through the door of the hut, with Maegor scrambling from his seat and tailing close behind. When he made it to the dirt path that led up to the village, and beyond it, the foothills under the Dragonmont, Silver Denys turned back to face Maegor. Clapping a strong and calloused hand on his shoulder, he smiled widely.

"The next time I see ya, we'll both be on dragonback. A great honor that'll be." With that, he turned and began walking up the path.

Aegon smiled, and pulled Maegor into a strong embrace. "Do us proud," was all he said, before he continued up the path.

Aenys smirked before pulling him into an embrace that was no less fierce than Aegon's. "I'll see soon enough whether or not you've been lying about seeing the Ghost. And if ya were, I'll give ya a good enough clout on the ear that it'll ring even that thick head of yours."

Maegor laughed at that, and soon Aenys was walking up the path as well. Maegor stood rooted in place, watching the cloaked backs of his father and brothers until they vanished over the crest of the hill at the edge of the village. Maegor felt an odd sense of melancholy as the last of them disappeared, that didn't dissipate even after he returned to the cottage to finish his rasher of bacon.

"I'll see them soon enough," he muttered to himself, taking another bite. The feeling slowly faded away, replaced by a growing anxiety as he considered the journey that now lay ahead of him.

Climbing the Dragonmont had been no easy task as a child, and Maegor found that it was even harder now due to his size. Clutching the ledge tightly, he hoisted himself up onto it, rolling away from it and leaning against a rock to catch his breath. Sweat was pouring down his face and back, and his muscles were clenching and unclenching wildly from the exertion of his first real ascent up the mountainside off of the sheer goat paths that lead a short ways up the Dragonmont from the surrounding hills. As he caught his breath, his thoughts wandered back to the circumstances that led him to this mountain so long ago in his life.

His father had tried to explain to him that birthing was never easy on a mother, and that there was always a possibility that she could die while bringing a child into the world. The death of his mother in the birthing bed had devastated Maegor, but he hadn't cried until he learned that his baby sister had not taken long in following their mother from the world of the living.

"The Stranger guides their way now," his father had said, his voice cracking. Denys had buried them not far from the cottage, under a small gnarled tree that offered some shelter from the rain.

Maegor stood, adjusting the musty rope that secured the sack of smoked fish to his back. He had set out as soon as the fish were done smoking. He'd put out the fire, and placed the fish in a large burlap sack before using a short length of fraying rope to sling it securely over his shoulder. He still had much of the late morning and afternoon to complete his ascent, if he moved with as much haste as possible. Running his fingers along the rock face ahead of him, Maegor found a hand hold. Grunting, he continued his climb.

Maegor didn't want to stay at the almshouse for orphans in the shadow of Dragonstone's castle. But there were no other choices for him. He was too young to go out to sea with his father and brothers, and he wasn't capable of doing mother's old chores either. His father had brought him there early one morning, and entrusted him to the kindly septons that ran the almshouse. As Maegor had cried and begged his father to take him back home that first day, Denys had hugged him fiercely.

"You know that I can't," he'd whispered, tears in his eyes. "Work hard and listen well, and you may have a better life than your da and your brothers yet."

Over the following weeks, Maegor did as his father asked. He worked hard at his chores, and did as he was told. When he noticed Maegor looking intently through a copy of the Seven Pointed Star, Septon Bennard had immediately begun teaching Maegor letters, and when Maegor took to learning them like "a fish took to swimming", Septon Bennard had Maegor begin reading and writing as well. Maegor read whatever he could find in his free time, for it was only while he was reading that he could truly escape the world around him. Septon Bennard was very pleased, and oft claimed that Maegor had it in him to be a Septon himself one day. While the other children played, Maegor read, and practiced scrawling out sentences from the Seven Pointed Star on whatever scraps of parchment that Septon Bennard gave him with bits of charcoal. Try as he might to befriend them, most of the other children oft ignored Maegor, while others called him names and hit him. Maegor's life continued in this manner for well over a year, before the dragon came to his dreams.

Maegor was getting close to his destination. The sulfurous air burned inside his nose, and white smoke poured from numerous cracks and vents that seemed to grow in amount and size the further he climbed. His ascent took on an almost dream-like quality, as half-seen shapes swirled in and out of existence within the fog. He breathed deep of the air around him that shimmered and smelled like fire, and a smoldering warmth grew in Maegor's chest, spreading throughout his tired body, lending his muscles a newfound strength that drove him onward. I'm nearly there. He could feel it. A small ledge gave way under his right foot, and Maegor felt terror bloom within him. Legs dangling in open air, Maegor clutched his shallow handholds tightly. The smoke swirled about him, its silvery tendrils wrapping around him as though they were tentacles of a kraken trying to pull him to his doom. The strength that he had felt was fading rapidly, and he knew that he would soon lose his grip. Gritting his teeth, Maegor hoisted himself up as far as he could, and blindly reached his right hand into the mist, praying for another handhold.

He hadn't dreamed of home that night, but he felt a familiar warm and comforting feeling throughout himself that started in his fingertips and toes and flowed into his heart as he took in his surroundings. He was surrounded by a swirling mist that revealed none and hid all. Stepping forward, he began to see a dim light, distorted by the mist and flickering tremulously. The closer he walked, the brighter it burned. Tall shadows began to dance within the mist, illuminated by the brightness of the hidden fire. Maegor felt no fear, even as the light seemed to burn brighter than the sun, searing Maegor's eyes and burning away the world around him. When he finally closed his eyes against the light's intensity, he stopped walking forward. Opening his eyes, Maegor found himself staring out over the island of Dragonstone to the sea. He was on its desolate eastern side, where the island's castle and many of its villages were hidden from view. Looking behind him, he was surprised that he didn't even need to squint to see the volcano's glowing mouth looming further above him. Turning back towards the sea, he took notice of a massive gash in the slope, billowing smoke that glowed with the unnatural light of the Dragonmont's fiery heart. Moving over to it, he dropped to his knees and peered inside of it. Seeing nothing, and continuing to feel no fear, Maegor crawled into the billowing vent. He began to fall, and as he fell further and further, flames began to envelop him, cloaking him in a robe of crackling reds, oranges, and blues. Looking through the flames burning all around him, Maegor saw the face of a dragon. Its features were indistinct, but Maegor could tell it was aware of him. It began to move towards him through the pillars of white-hot flame, and its visage was clear enough that Maegor could see its eyes were closed. And then, they weren't. Pale white orbs seemed to bore into his soul, and Maegor sat up with a start, sweating and breathing heavily within the darkness of the almshouse.

Maegor never wanted to climb this thrice-damned mountain again. Taking gasping breaths to fill his lungs with air, he slowly inched away from the ledge he had managed to scramble over. He knew he was in the right place. Collecting his strength as well as his thoughts, Maegor staggered to his feet and surveyed his surroundings. There was a small stone ledge leading up from the landing he was on to the upper reaches of the Dragonmont's eastern slopes. He remembered walking along that same ledge a long time ago, as a significantly smaller and scrawnier lad. Walking on to the ledge, Maegor pressed his stomach and face to the sheer rock, and began to inch his way upwards. Thankfully, nothing gave way, and after a slow but mercifully uneventful ascent, Maegor found himself looking up a less steep portion of slope, broken up by a large vent that billowed an eerie glowing smoke, owing its glow to the fires that burned deep within it.

After seeing the dragon within his dreams, Maegor could hardly think of anything else over the next week. He found himself frequently staring up at the Dragonmont, and it sometimes felt as though the imposing volcano was in some way calling out to him. Maegor made his decision quickly. Despite the great kindness of Septon Bennard, Maegor was tired of his life in the almshouse, and began planning his escape. Over the next several days, Maegor would wrap up small bits of his morning and evening meals in strips of cloth from a torn-up shirt and store them behind an old barrel at the rear of the almshouse positioned so that it could collect rainwater running off of the building's sloped roof. In addition, he'd filled and tucked away a large leather water skin. Exactly a week after he'd dreamt of the dragon, Maegor settled in for the evening, acting as though he was sleeping while he waited for the other orphans and Septons to turn in for the night. When the light of the last candle was extinguished in another room, Maegor fought the urge within himself to immediately begin moving.

In the darkness, he waited for what felt like an agonizingly long time, and to keep from growing tired, he practiced reciting his letters in his head. Eventually, he sat up silently, squinting to see within the darkness of the room he shared with several other orphans. He was already wearing his warmest clothes, and carried his blanket under his arm. Silent as a shadow, he crept across the room and out into the hallway. Placing his feet carefully to avoid stepping on any of the creaky floorboards that he'd memorized the location of, Maegor made his way to the carved stone steps leading down to the almshouse's common room. At the top of the steps, he hesitated one last time. Looking back, Maegor could see the outline of the doorway to Septon Bennard's quarters. Maegor knew that the man would worry about him, and for a moment considered forgetting about escaping and returning to his room. But the moment passed, and with it Maegor's indecision. Down the steps he went, as quiet as a mouse. In the common room, Maegor stopped to pet the guard dog of the almshouse, scratching it behind its ears. The large mutt wagged its tail silently, then licked his hand. Out the back door Maegor went, closing it slowly so that it wouldn't creak on its old hinges. Collecting his hidden food in a small sack that he'd brought with him, he wrapped it and the waterskin up into his blanket, before wrapping the blanket around his waist and tying it off tightly. Escaping the town beneath Dragonstone's castle proved much easier than escaping the almshouse, and as the moon reached its zenith in the night sky, Maegor had begun to trek around the base of the Dragonmont towards its eastern side.

Looking at the vent, Maegor hoped that he'd see some sign of the dragon that lived within it. Several minutes passed, and nothing happened. If the Grey Ghost was roosting in it at the moment, he had no intention of informing Maegor of his presence. Turning back to look out at the sea, Maegor marveled at how far he had climbed throughout the day. The setting sun was hidden in the western skies behind Dragonmont's peak, but the evening sky was a vibrant red and pink. Maegor was suddenly quite aware of how tired he was. Opening the burlap sack, Maegor retrieved two smoked fish from within. Creeping up as close as he dared to the massive vent's edge, Maegor placed the larger of the two fish on the ground. Maegor then made a meal of the other fish that he'd grabbed, providing some nourishment to his growling stomach. As he licked the grease from his fingers and tossed the bones aside, the moon had just begun to rise over the island. In stark contrast to the blackness of the night, the vent glowed redly, looking much more sinister than it did when the light of the sun still touched the world. Like some entrance to the Seven Hells, Maegor thought. Nestling beneath his cloak against a large rock sitting on the slope, Maegor decided to try and get some sleep. He closed his eyes, and sleep came quickly.

It had taken him two days to find the vent that he'd seen in his dreams. Climbing mountains was hungry work, and before he knew it, Maegor had eaten nearly all of the food that he'd brought with him from the almshouse. When he finally had found the vent, Maegor had been as excited as he was scared. He'd spent an entire day watching it from behind a rock, but nothing had happened. Disappointed, Maegor had gone foraging along the sparse slopes of the Dragonmont, and was pleased to find a small amount of bright red berries. Picking them, he'd eaten them along with the last of his food, forcing himself to only drink a small amount of water. The more of that he drank, the less time that he could spend on the Dragonmont looking for the Dragon. It wasn't until much later that night that he'd woken up with his stomach twisting in agonizing knots, and began vomiting.

Maegor woke early the next morning, and shook the moisture off his cloak that had collected throughout the night. He shivered, pulling his cloak tighter about himself. The mornings were less cold on the slopes of the Dragonmont, thanks to the warm mists constantly rising from vents and cracks in the mountainside, but the chill in the air had not completely vanished. That was when Maegor noticed that the fish he had left out had vanished. Gods be good! Is the Grey Ghost here after all? Grabbing another fish, he crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the vent. The steam rising from it was searingly hot, and Maegor did not risk injury by attempting to peer inside of it. He simply left the fish and hid behind a rock, watching. An hour passed, and nothing had happened.

Maegor decided on a new strategy, shimmying back down the ledge to the lower landing that he'd climbed to the day before. After watching the sun rise higher in the eastern sky for a good amount of time, Maegor climbed the ledge again. This time, the fish had vanished. Ha! My ploy worked! Maegor was very confident that no bird would brave the heated mist and air smelling of brimstone on the Dragonmont to steal the fish he was setting out, and felt that it could be none other than the Grey Ghost taking them. For the better part of the day, Maegor set out a fish, then climbed down to the lower landing. Each time, however, he waited a shorter amount of time before shimmying back up to see whether the fish remained where he had left it. Maegor was pleased each time to see that the fish had been taken, but grew increasingly frustrated that there was no sign of the Ghost himself. Maegor figured that he had only enough fish to see him through the rest of the day at the rate that he was using them. By evenfall, he was completely discouraged. The Grey Ghost clearly likes my fish, but he will not come for them if I remain too close. It was maddening, to know how close he was to the dragon he sought, but at the same time seemingly unable to reach it.

Eating another fish as the evening fell, Maegor found that he only had one left. My last chance. Staring at the fish in his hands, Maegor grimaced. All of this effort for naught. I guess I'll be getting that clout in the ear from Aenys after all. Maegor could only hope that his father had had better luck than him. This was a fool's errand from the start. Ever since I first came to this place, the Ghost has shown an interest in me, but kept his distance. It was arrogant to think that this would end any other way. Frustrated, hungry, and tired, Maegor fell asleep for a second night on the slopes of the Dragonmont, still tightly clutching his last smoked fish.

After spending half of the night vomiting and descending into delirium, Maegor found himself too weak to stand as the sun rose. The berries that he had eaten clearly were not safe to consume, but he had done just that. Now, as he lay ill and exhausted, his stomach empty from how sick he'd been, Maegor feared that he wouldn't be able to climb back down the Dragonmont, much less stand. More than anything, he just felt tired. Drifting in and out of consciousness for much of the day, his senses finally seemed to fully return to him as the evening sun glowed redly over the island. Maegor needed food, but he still lacked the strength to do anything more than crawl on his hands and knees. He then smelled charred meat. Looking in the direction of the glowing vent, Maegor could see several charred fish lying around it, as though they'd been haphazardly dropped and forgotten. Scrabbling over towards the vent, he grabbed one of the fish. Grimacing at how hot to the touch it was, Maegor blew on it desperately and waved it in the air, hoping it would cool enough to eat. Then, he tore into the fish with a starved desperation. He did the same with two other fish that he found scattered nearby. With a full belly, Maegor had lain down to sleep, resolving to descend the mountain the next day.

Opening his eyes, Maegor thought he was still dreaming as he began to take in the sight before him. Morning sunlight shone gently across the upper eastern face of the Dragonmont, sluicing through the plumes of white smoke to reveal a slender grey-white dragon sitting beyond the large vent's ledge, regarding Maegor silently with pearl-white eyes. Due to the color of his scales, it looked almost as though the smoke swirling around the dragon was in some way part of it.

"Grey Ghost", Maegor whispered, afraid that by speaking the image before him would melt away like morning mist.

When that didn't happen, Maegor rose slowly to his feet, legs shaking in anticipation and fear. Picking up his last smoked fish from the ground, Maegor slowly approached the dragon, terrified that he'd startle it and make it fly away, or retreat into the vent it roosted in.

The Ghost seemed tense to Maegor, and Maegor spent what felt to be a lifetime slowly crossing the small distance of slope between himself and the dragon. Stopping a few feet in front of it, Maegor hesitated. Shaking his head, he steeled his nerves and tossed the fish into the air in front of the Grey Ghost. Quick as a bolt of lightning, the fish was snatched out of the air by the dragon's large jaws. After consuming the fish in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, the Grey Ghost went back to silently watching Maegor. Taking the last few steps forward, Maegor found himself a mere span or so from where the dragon sat. With a tentative hand, Maegor reached out, praying to the Seven that the creature would not lash out at him. It didn't, and Maegor sucked in a breath as his hand came into contact with the smooth grey-white scales along the dragon's snout. The Grey Ghost's head shrunk back slightly at Maegor's touch, but the dragon made no attempt to flee. This will take some time. Smiling, Maegor took another step forward, continuing to run his hand along the dragon's snout. Sometimes we must needs wait for what we want. Maegor would take as long as the Grey Ghost needed to become acclimated to Maegor and his touch.

After his meal of charred fish the night before, Maegor had awoken the next morning feeling much better. Though he hadn't seen the dragon from his dream, Maegor wasn't completely discouraged. He had still found the place on the Dragonmont that he'd seen while sleeping, and that discovery alone filled him with a sense of pride, as well as wonder. Why had he dreamed of this place? Maegor wasn't sure, but he did know that his time on the Dragonmont had come to an end. As he began his descent, Maegor was surprised to hear loud wingbeats close by. Craning his neck and staring at the sky, Maegor was awestruck as a grey-white dragon flew over him, close enough that he realized it had the same look of the dragon from his dream. When he'd reached the foothills below the Dragonmont, Maegor had taken the path towards the village and home where his father and brothers lived, resolving to not live another day beneath the roof of the almshouse below Dragonstone's castle.

It had taken Maegor nearly the entire day to get the Grey Ghost comfortable enough with his presence and touch to allow Maegor to clamber up onto his back. The dragon had then taken flight, and Maegor had understood for the first time in his life how beautiful the island of Dragonstone and ocean surrounding it looked from high above as both passed by far below him. It was early evening when Maegor guided the Grey Ghost down into the largest courtyard of Dragonstone's castle, and as he slid from the Grey Ghost's back to the ground, he looked hopefully for a familiar face amongst the people gathering to watch his arrival, largely with expressions of extreme shock. Hardly any people on the island could truly claim that they had seen the Grey Ghost with their own eyes, and even then it was from a great distance. Now the dragon stood before them all in the castle courtyard, silently regarding them with its milk-white eyes.

Maegor hoped to see his father and brothers already amongst the faces, there to greet and congratulate him. How proud father will be that we both ride dragons in the Queen's name! They weren't there, however. He did see one of the soldiers from the inn on that rainy evening not so long ago, when Maegor had decided to try to tame the Grey Ghost. He was pale, and staring at Maegor as though he were the one more deserving of the epithet "ghost". Stepping towards the guardsman, Maegor called out to him with a friendly smile.

"Greetings friend!" Maegor said, before his gnawing curiosity brought a question from his lips. "My father intended to claim the Sheepstealer, and left several days ago with my brothers to do so. Have you heard any news?" The blood of King Maegor flows even more strongly in his veins than mine, and he looks as much a Dragonlord as any member of the smallfolk on this island. Has he truly not succeeded yet in taming the Sheepstealer?

Seemingly trying to compose himself, the guard stepped forward, his face still ashen. "We thought you was dead with the rest of 'em," he stuttered.

The murmurs of the crowd died down as Maegor stopped in his tracks as though he'd been slapped across the face. He was so stunned that he barely recognized the grinning face of Gaemon having just appeared at the back of the crowd.

"What?", Maegor whispered, though he felt that he already knew what dreadful answer he'd receive. "Some of the village folk followed your da and brothers out to the lair of the Sheepstealer to watch him try an' tame the dragon. They say that the evil bugger tore Silver Denys' arm off, then burned him an' his boys as they tried ta' stop the bleedin'."

It can't be. Maegor suddenly thought of a time as a boy when he'd fallen from his family's skiff and nearly drowned. The same feeling of constricting tightness clenched his lungs as he stared in disbelief at the shaken guardsman. The joy that had been filling Maegor had crumbled to ash within him, and he felt as though he couldn't move. Why? Gods be good, Why? There was no answer but a silent breeze blowing across the courtyard. 

Chapter Text

Gaemon III

The courtyard in which Gaemon had landed seemed to be Dragonstone's bailey, as there were several areas which caught Gaemon's eye immediately as he looked about. Covering what must have been an armory and smithy (judging from the smoke billowing into the air above it), were a pair of great wings, covering the otherwise open-air work area. Scanning the walls around him, he could make out the tops of several towers, one of which was molded to resemble a screaming dragon, and another that was decidedly calmer. Lastly, before him rose a massive central tower. He thought he spied faces peering out from lancets set high above the ground, but they were gone almost as quickly as they appeared. Everything was crafted of black stone, and there were an abundance of draconic gargoyles scattered about the walls and buildings. As if one needed several, constant reminders of the draconic heritage of the citadel's occupants. My ancestors certainly possessed an… eccentric taste in building appearances, Gaemon thought to himself with a smirk. Despite finding the interior of the castle to be a bit much, he was elated to have finally made his way inside its massive curtain walls, and was quick to drink in all he could of his surroundings. The air smelled of smoke, brimstone, and the distant salt of the sea.

His observations were cut short by a deep hiss from behind him, followed by a snap, and a scream. He turned to find the Cannibal still curled behind him, its mouth slightly open, regarding two young washerwomen who'd approached him a bit too closely in awe. Taking a bucket left in the muck of the courtyard, he tossed it at the dragon, watching with some satisfaction as it connected with its lower jaw. Let us hope our new relationship is strong enough that it might allow me to scold it so. A deep, rumbling growl emanated from the Cannibal, and it granted him the luxury of one of its baleful stares. It had, however, ceased its altogether disturbing fixation on the two washerwomen, which Gaemon took to be a good sign that it would not eat them. That would be a very unfortunate introduction, he thought with an internal grimace. The Cannibal, espousing a look that was equal parts terrifying but also clearly annoyed, curled into a massive, scaled ball, and began to sleep. From elsewhere within the castle Gaemon could hear the roars of dragons, likely sensing another draconic presence in their midst. Or perhaps it's simply time to break their fast.

By this point quite a crowd had gathered, with what appeared to be men-at-arms, household knights, and servants all gathered to stare in awe at the dragon and its recently dismounted rider.

The first to speak was an older man-at-arms, who must have already passed his 50th nameday: "Never in my life did I expect the Cannibal to be tamed. I have seen many men disappear after setting out to do so. Older than the Old King, that dragon. Meaner than Maegor the cruel, too. How'd you do it, son?" His crinkled eyes regarded him with a mixture of awe and respect.

Gaemon took a moment to relish in being given such a look, before speaking. "Honestly, I hit him on the snout with someone's leg bone. They clearly had no use for it anymore."

A high-pitched, exaggerated laugh echoed out from within the crowd. "He tames a big scary dragon, and is almost as funny as Mushroom? If his member is even half of the size of mine, I'd be hiding your lady folk, good sers!" With a giggle and a tumble, a dwarf in motley managed to squeeze his way through the crowd. He bowed, almost falling onto his face, before turning his fall into a roll. Rising before Gaemon, he placed a hat atop his head that completed his mushroom look. "What's your name, dragonseed?" He asked as he held out his hand expectantly.

Taking the dwarfs hand, Gaemon smiled. "Gaemon Tar… Waters. Gaemon Waters." He repeated himself with more emphasis.

He had hoped in the general commotion that no one had noticed his slip-up. It would be downright dangerous to make such a statement here of all places. To his relief, everyone was still too busy watching the Cannibal or laughing at Mushroom's entrance to have noticed. As he regarded Mushroom, a brief look of what looked to be interest, perhaps a low cunning, seemed to flit behind his eyes. As soon as it had appeared however, it was gone. Gaemon was uncertain if he had even seen it, as it seemed the dwarf was a bit, well, slow. As soon as he had stopped shaking Gaemon's hand, he had turned and begun to dance a jig. He was singing some off-tune ditty about how he had tried to tame a dragon himself. Before Gaemon could ask whether the song had truth to it, a long horn blast rang out, echoing around the courtyard.

"All kneel before his Royal Highness, Prince of Dragonstone, Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne and its associated titles."

As if in unison, the courtyard dropped to its knees, including Mushroom. Gaemon was so stunned and excited he took a half second to drop to a knee himself, thankfully being reminded by a friendly tug at his pant leg. Falling to one knee, Mushroom gave a quick wink. Keeping his head low, Gaemon couldn't believe it. He was about to meet his family. He had only ever known his mother's side, his grandparents and some more distantly related kin. He had imagined what his family might look like, if his father had a face akin to his own. At times, he had stared into the sea, imagining himself with deep purple eyes and silver hair that would have proven his parentage. He imagined himself astride a dragon, flying alongside beautiful and strong half-sisters and half-brothers, racing across the waves atop their dragons. If this is Queen Rhaenyra's son, he would be my distant cousin, he thought to himself, before banishing such thoughts. Do not put yourself in danger, Gaemon. For now you are Gaemon Waters, and only Waters. He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely heard the boy's voice.

"Greetings, good man. My men tell me you call yourself Gaemon Waters. I know not if you know my family's history, but you are named for a renowned ancestor of mine own. I am pleased to see that yet another seed has proven successful. Taming the Cannibal was long thought to be impossible. You should take pride in your bravery, and the blood in your veins."

Gaemon remained facing the dirt. He longed to speak, but knew it wouldn't be proper. It was all he could do from shaking in excitement. Today is proving more magnificent than any of my boyish fantasies. A firm hand came to rest upon his shoulder, which he realized with disappointment was still clad in sheepskin.

"Rise, Gaemon Waters, I wish to speak with you. Your arrival is a great boon to my house, and my mother's cause."

Gaemon rose, eager to gaze upon the Prince. Warm brown eyes greeted him, where he'd expected purple. Brown hair fell in lazy curls about his head, where Gaemon expected white gold. Forcing his feelings of shock deep into the recesses of his mind, Gaemon rose. The Prince was dressed in his mother's colors, with a black doublet over a black shirt, with black trousers to match. A red, three headed dragon had been stitched elegantly across the doublet, completing the look. His shock at the Prince's unexpected appearance having subsided, Gaemon did have to admit the Prince cut a noble figure, strong for his age, only a few inches shorter than Gaemon himself, and with an intelligent yet kind look in his eyes.

Realizing he had not yet spoken, Gaemon's cheeks reddened. "Your words are too kind, my lo-Prince. I am honored to serve."

Taking his hand, Jacaerys Velaryon shook it firmly, giving Gaemon a brief smile before turning, beckoning for Gaemon to follow him.

"As the newest member of the dragonseeds, you are welcome here within Dragonstone, as a leal servant of House Targaryen and my mother, the Queen. As I have done for the others, I have instructed the castle tailor to prepare some new clothing for you. I daresay a dragonrider might wish for a wardrobe that is a bit more fitting for their station. That is, if you do not mind giving up your sheepskin and other accoutrements."

Gaemon smiled. "I suppose I could be persuaded to part with them."

Jacaerys grinned. "I am relieved you are proving reasonable. I must say, you do not speak like any of the smallfolk I have ever met. I mean no offense, you simply speak more in the style of a highborn."

Gaemon scowled. He couldn't exactly share his real reasons for learning the highborn manner of speaking, something the other village residents had mocked him for. "I have always longed to be a knight, and I have tried to learn to speak well so as to fit in amongst those whose ranks I wished to join."

This seemed to satisfy Jacaerys, as he nodded. "Well whatever your reasons, you make a positive impression, good man. The castle smith and armorer have been instructed to equip you with the finest armor and armaments they can, as you will represent my family on the field of battle, not just within courts. There will be no rusty mail nor pothelms for our dragonriders."

Having passed under a gateway shaped to resemble the open maw of a dragon, they had reached a smaller courtyard, adjacent to the one Gaemon had landed within. Low lying buildings lined the walls within this courtyard, and Gaemon assumed they were home to the castle guards. Reaching a slightly larger building, Jacaerys stopped in front of it.

"This was once the home of the captain of the guard. He has graciously allowed his home to be used as the dragonseeds' personal quarters. Beds have been provided, along with basic foodstuffs. Servants will come by with supper later. I can only imagine you are exhausted from your taming of such a ferocious beast. I encourage you to rest."

When Jacaerys had finished speaking, Gaemon realized the Prince was right, he was exhausted. He said his heartfelt thanks to the Prince, and asked him to pass them along to the Queen. He wasn't sure if that was proper, but Jacaerys assured him he would. Entering the hut, he didn't see anyone else inside, so he entered an unoccupied room on the second floor. It had appeared the commander's former bedroom on the first floor was taken, along with the quarters which may have housed his lady wife. The rooms upstairs seemed unoccupied, so he took the one nearest to the stairwell. Entering, he stripped off his clothing (which to his chagrin he realized had reeked of sweat and smoke this entire time) and fell into the bed. He did not have to wait long for sleep to take him.

Gaemon awoke to a soft knocking at the door. "Are ye awake, m'lord?" A voice asked, sounding more than a bit scared.

He assumed this was a maid, or one of the other serving staff. He wondered what time it was. It was dark, but he felt well-rested.

"What hour is it?" He asked.

Responding just as timidly as before, the serving girl replied "the hour of the Nightingale is drawing to a close m'lord. Dawn approaches."

Gaemon blinked, shocked. Jacaerys' words had proven more correct than he had known. Standing, he wrapped himself in a blanket. "I am awake now, you may come in."

The door opened cautiously, and a brown-haired serving girl who looked to have been around her fifteenth or sixteenth nameday entered.

"The other servants had heated water for your bath, and they sent me to see if you were awake."

Gaemon laughed internally. They probably wished to see if I still drew breath. With how scared the poor girl is, perhaps they told her I feed maidens to the Cannibal, or some other nonsense. That would certainly be the sort of trick Wat would've played at the inn.

He gave the girl an encouraging smile. "I certainly would like to bathe. Please thank them and have them bring the tub up."

The girl nodded. She continued to wait in the doorway, wringing her hands ever so slightly. Gaemon didn't understand why she stayed, until another thought crossed his mind. Perhaps it's not a trick the servants are playing on her, perhaps it is experiences with the other dragonseeds that have her so terrified. He scowled, before putting on a smile when he noticed she paled at his change in expression.

"That will be all, thank you. Where might I find the food with which to break my fast?" The girl, looking visibly relieved, told him that it would be served at the table downstairs. Gaemon nodded. "My thanks… my apologies, what is your name?"

She hesitated, and then with a slight smile, answered. "Serra, m'lord." Before leaving the room.

After bathing, Gaemon had opened the trunk at the base of his bed to find a black tunic emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon, alongside some black trousers and black leather boots. To his amusement the smallclothes themselves were black. My family definitely has a favorite color, he thought to himself. The material with which the clothing was crafted was finer than anything he'd ever worn, velvet perhaps. Before leaving, he took the leather pouch and tied the string around his neck, tucking it underneath his tunic. Surveying the room one last time, something sitting on a table caught his eye. Standing before it, he realized it was a mirror. He had not seen such luxuries before, but now, standing before it, he gazed upon his reflection in the polished bronze. A tall, rather grim looking man stared back. He tried smiling. That helped a bit. His eyes glanced up, a faint hope lurking that somehow he'd spot some silver hair, or purple eyes. Instead, as with whenever he'd taken a look in still water, auburn hair and green eyes stared back. Mother's look, he thought to himself, reminding himself to not be dissapointed. Turning, he strapped an ornate dagger (the handle appearing to be molded to look like a dragon's claw, unsurprisingly) to his waist and exited the room.

He had broken his fast with a rasher of bacon, some (still warm!) freshly baked brown bread, and some ale. Still finding no sign of the other seeds, he had exited his new home into the castle yard. Retracing his path from the day before, entering the main courtyard where he and the Cannibal had landed the day before. His dragon was curled against a wall clearly around something. The Cannibal appeared to be breaking its fast as well, and Gaemon paled, hoping he'd not decided to eat one of the servants making their rounds. Or worse, a dragon from the hatcheries; he has been given his name for a reason. He was afraid to confirm his suspicions, but his fears were thankfully alleviated when a stable boy informed him that they had slaughtered an ox earlier, and dragged it close enough that the Cannibal had been roused by the scent of its blood. They had fled before it had uncoiled, before snatching the corpse into its maw and returning to its current position. Deciding he'd leave the Cannibal to its meal, he turned and walked the rest of the distance to the forge, ducking under its great stone wings into the dark and smoky space within.

Once inside, it was clear that the smith was preparing for war. Newly forged blades, spear tips, axe heads, and pieces of armor were all kept in their own distinct piles, and apprentices worked at adding the finishing touches to them while the smith himself was hammering what looked to be another blade into shape. Approaching the master smith, the man raised his eyes from his work, regarding Gaemon with an inquisitive look.

"The new seed, eh? Welcome to my forge. I've received orders from the Prince ta outfit you."

Approaching Gaemon, he went about taking various measurements, suiting him in various pieces of armor (and apologizing when he caught some of Gaemon's hair in a gorget), before finally taking a step back. Bobbing his head twice quickly, he crossed his massive arms before speaking.

"Well m'lord, I'll get to work on a suit of plate for yer needs. Do ya have any weapons that ya prefer to use?"

Gaemon had feared a question along those lines, having never actually wielded a true sword. "I suppose I will take a sword." He said, after feigning a look of contemplation.

The smith, looking rather amused, nodded in affirmation. "A good blade of castle forged steel won't let ya down. I'll get to work on it myself. Wouldn't want ya to have to use any of the plowshares these dolts have been making" he said, nodding towards the apprentices scurrying around the forge. "I'll send a runner when everything is done. Good craftsmanship takes time." Leaning closer to Gaemon, he whispered: "In the meantime, ya might want to head over to the practice yard ta learn the basics." Winking, he chuckled and returned to his work.

Leaving the forge, Gaemon couldn't help but be a bit disappointed in the fact that the smith hadn't been fooled by his facade. He had intended to begin practicing, but it was clear to him now that the matter was even more urgent than he had believed previously. He asked for directions from a guard, and was soon led to a courtyard to the north of the main courtyard, where the sound of grunting and the clashing of metal and wood could be heard. He was beginning to craft a mental map of Dragonstone's citadel, which had several concentric walls expanding outwards from the central keep, which was called the Stone Drum. The innermost wall was the highest, the space within was divided into four courtyards, with the forge in the largest, including a gate leading out of the first of the walls, into the space between the innermost wall and the next ring of fortifications. The maester's home, the Sea Dragon Tower, was located in that space. The barracks that served as his new home was located in the southernmost of the four inner courtyards, while the sparring yard was in the northernmost. The final of the four courtyards, the easternmost, was where the castle dragons were kept. It seemed none were particularly eager to attempt to encourage the Cannibal to move there. Perhaps it is for the best, Gaemon thought. He'd likely decide to eat one of the smaller ones, and I cannot always be around to throw things at him when he makes a poor decision.

Turning his attention back to the courtyard, he waited at the edge of the ring for the current sparring match to end. It appeared that there were two teams facing one another, composed of the members of Queen Rhaenyra's household knights. While Gaemon had expected them to use live steel in their mock fights, he soon realized their weapons were wooden. He supposed that made sense, as spilling the blood of your fellow brothers in arms seemed like a wasteful preparatory exercise. The current match looked to be drawing to its conclusion, as a knight with a grey gambeson emblazoned with the image of a burning tree struck his last opponent mightily over the helmet with his wooden blade. The other knight, cursing, stepped back, and raised his blade in a salute to his opponent, before stepping out of the ring. Cheers echoed around the yard as the knight with the flaming tree raised his wooden sword above his head, before bowing to his 'fallen' teammates and enemies. A young boy rushed out into the ring bearing a white cloak, and after the knight had affixed it around his shoulders, Gaemon realized with a start that he was in the presence of a member of Queen Rhaenyra's Queensguard.

Shouts of "Bravo! Ser Marbrand!" and "Well fought, Ser Lorent!" soon assigned a name to the knight.

Seeing Gaemon in the crowd, Marbrand approached him, the men in attendance to the spectacle parting to allow him to pass. Reaching him, he extended his mailed hand. "Taming the Cannibal was no small feat."

Shaking his hand, Gaemon nodded his thanks. "Kind words, Ser. I must admit however the process was decidedly less glorious than I had imagined it would be beforehand. I nearly became his supper."

Ser Lorent nodded, grimly. "Twas good that was not the fate the Seven had ordained for you. Mine own Lord Commander, Ser Steffon Darklyn, fell to the flames of the dragon Seasmoke. I mourn his loss, for he was a most puissant knight."

Gaemon nodded, remembering the guardsmen discussing Darklyn's unfortunate demise several nights before. He could scarcely believe all that transpired since then.

Ser Lorent's face then lightened a bit, as he spoke again. "Alas, to fixate on grim memories is not productive. Have you come to the yard to spar?"

Gaemon nodded.

"Well then," said Marbrand, "I will be your teacher today. It would not do for one of our Queen's newest champions to not know his way around a blade." Gaemon wasn't sure he liked the vicious smile Ser Marbrand gave him as he said those words.

The next several hours had been gruelling. Marbrand was a good teacher, but he punished failure harshly. Usually this meant the crack of his wooden sword across whatever part of the body Gaemon had left exposed. Wielding a blade is not as easy as he makes it seem, Gaemon thought to himself during one of his many breaks, as he greedily gulped down water from a flask offered to him. Gaemon was far more exhausted than he had expected to be; he hadn't expected simply maintaining his guard with a shield would require so much exertion. It doesn't help that I keep forgetting to breathe when the sparring actually starts, he thought with a frown. Ser Lorent had explained that that was often a mistake made by novices, one that often proved fatal. Gaemon was learning some important lessons, but he already could tell this was a process that would likely take years. It was also frustrating that he was so far behind in his training when compared with the knights and squires around him. If I had been a prince, mayhaps I'd already be a master. Pushing such unproductive thoughts out of his head, he rose, and returned to the ring.

After three more sparring sessions, Gaemon was pleased that by the end of the day he had managed to survive Ser Lorent's onslaught for at least two heart beats before being struck down. He'd only managed to throw his own attacks a handful of times, and Marbrand had always caught them on his shield effortlessly, but nonetheless he was still pleased with himself. It felt good to be taking steps forward with regards to his swordsmanship. And besides, it's unlikely I would be able to find a better teacher than Ser Lorent, a Queensguard member! He was lost in his thoughts as he stripped the sweat-soaked practice armor off, but was brought back to the present by the sound of horns blaring and echoing across the castle walls. He remembered similar sounds when he himself had been descending atop the Cannibal towards the courtyard. His suspicions were confirmed as a pale grey-white dragon descended from the evening clouds, circling the castle, before descending towards the courtyard to land. He strained to see who was atop the creature, but was shocked when he spotted such a familiar form atop the dragon. Maegor! Elated, Gaemon began to run towards the courtyard where his friend had landed.

As he approached, he grinned to himself. So his dreams of the Grey Ghost WERE true. He wasn't simply lying for attention as a child. Maegor's brothers had never put much stock in their younger brother's insistent claims, and Gaemon found himself regretting that he hadn't believed their veracity himself. Reaching the edge of the crowd, he found himself glad for his height, as he could see over the assembled smallfolk to where Maegor stood, looking quite pleased with himself. He appeared to be speaking with one of the two guards who had visited the inn the other evening. The guard's face was grim. Maegor was listening intently, and his expression began to change. Instead of elation, there was a terrible sadness etched across his features. He seemed to be pushing for more information, but the guard shook his head, sadness etched across his own face as well. Looking completely devastated, Maegor turned from the crowd and leaned against the Ghost, and was racked with sobs. When Prince Jacaerys emerged to greet him, Maegor managed to compose himself, but his features remained marked with grief.

From the murmurs of the crowd, Gaemon learned the truth. Maegor's father, Silver Denys and his two oldest sons, Aegon and Aenys, had gone in search of the Sheepstealer. Finding the dragon, they had failed to tame it, and had been devoured. Gaemon was shocked, but more importantly, he grieved for his friend. When the Prince allowed Maegor to rise, he seemed to offer his condolences, and led him off towards the barracks quietly, speaking softly to him. Gaemon couldn't hear any of their conversation, but it seemed the Prince was attempting to offer some words of sympathy. They disappeared beneath a draconic arch, and Gaemon was left with the shock of the awful turn of events. He couldn't imagine such loss. He had never known either of his parents, and had no siblings of his own. He wasn't sure if his condolences would be of much worth to Maegor, but he followed, determined to try to help somehow.

The next week had been marred by his friend's loss. Maegor had changed, becoming quieter, and had spent several days in quiet contemplation, often finding a secluded spot to watch the sea from the citadel's walls. They ate meals together, but spoke little. Gaemon wanted to help Maegor, but often couldn't find the words to say. His characteristic humor would be of little use. He continued to spar in the yard with Ser Lorent, but hadn't been successful in convincing Maegor to join the matches. He had hoped that at the very least that sparring would allow him to focus on something else. He had offered to take him to the smith, after he had received word that his armor was ready, thinking while he was fitted Maegor's measurements could be taken. Once more, Maegor had simply shook his head in the negative. Gaemon decided it was best to simply let him process his grief in whatever manner would be best for him.

In time, other seeds had proven successful in taming the remaining dragons. Addam Velaryon, the supposed bastard son of Laenor Velaryon, former husband to the Queen, had been brought from Driftmark alongside his brother Alyn. Each had sought to tame a dragon, but only Addam had proven successful in taming Seasmoke. Alyn had tried to tame the Sheepstealer, and only a timely intervention of his brother and Seasmoke had prevented him from suffering the same fate as Silver Denys. Addam and Alyn, being the acknowledged grandsons of Corlys Velaryon, had been able to live in the Storm Drum alongside their grandsire. Watching them enter the Storm Drum had stung. How lucky they are, to have a family that recognizes their parentage, he had thought. He had learned that his father wasn't even present on Dragonstone soon after; Daemon Targaryen had taken Harrenhal, the greatest of the castles of Westeros, during the beginning of the war and had been assembling a loyalist host there ever since.

Gaemon had also finally been able to meet the seeds who had tamed dragons before him, Hugh and Ulf the White. Their frequent absences had been due to their nightly drinking bouts at the tavern in the town below the castle. They had only returned to the citadel for funds to continue their drinking, when they had been told that the drinks on the house had run dry and they 'had best pay up.' Apparently Hugh had beaten the innkeep senseless, but had been reminded by a guard that they served the Queen, and were to maintain peace in her name.

Upon their return, they had sized Gaemon up, and when he told them he had tamed the Cannibal, they'd grinned and offered their congratulations. Their smiles had not reached their eyes, however. I suspect they do not enjoy being outperformed, Gaemon had thought to himself. They had nonetheless encouraged Gaemon to join them for a night of debauchery, and he had assured them that he would at some point. He had been sorely tempted, but had resolved not to go as he felt it would not be right to abandon Maegor.

Two weeks after Gaemon had arrived atop the Cannibal, another dragon had appeared in the skies above the citadel. Roaring its greetings to the dragons below, it had landed in the main courtyard, to be greeted by the smallfolk, as was customary by this point. The dragon was a mud-brown color, and was quickly identified by the crowd to be the Sheepstealer. Gaemon had rushed to the courtyard from his sparring alongside Ser Lorent to see the newest dragonseed rider. Many had speculated about whether the Sheepstealer would actually be tamed, as the dragon had claimed more victims than any other during the 'Sowing of the Seeds' as the previous few weeks had come to be known.

Mutters and shocked whispers had already begun to circulate amidst the crowd as Gaemon and Ser Lorent arrived at its edge. Gaemon quickly found the source of the people's shock. Sitting atop the Sheepstealer was a young woman, with brown skin, black hair, and brown eyes. Gaemon couldn't help but grin. Finally, someone has tamed a dragon whilst looking even less like a dragonlord than me.

The girl hopped down from her mount, and quickly surveyed the crowd with a serious expression, before cracking a grin that sported crooked teeth. She then spoke, exclaiming: "taming this ugly son of a bitch proved thirsty work. Who will be a kind ser and buy this girl a fucking drink?"

Exclamations rang out amidst the crowd, and many shook their heads at the girl's unladylike ways. She had begun to frown as she looked for volunteers until she and Gaemon made eye contact, and her grin returned when she saw he had raised his hand.

After the girl had knelt to Prince Jacaerys and been shown her new quarters, she quickly found Gaemon, where he had been waiting at a respectful distance, not wanting to intrude on her moment with Prince Jacaerys.

Approaching him, her characteristic grin returned. "So you're my noble knight, come to take me away for a night of drinking and celebration?"

Gaemon grinned. "My lady, there are quite a few things wrong with that fantasy. I am no knight, nor am I very noble. But I will certainly drink with you."

The girl nodded. "Knights are pompous arses anyways. Only knights I've ever seen have been atop horses, giving orders and acting as though they shit gold. I'd rather drink with other 'urchins' as they so like to call me."

Gaemon laughed. "I used to empty chamber pots myself. You'll find no greater urchin than myself."

The girl turned to face him, extending her hand. "They call me Nettles, by the way. That'd be because my words sting."

Gaemon shook her hand. "They call me Gaemon, because, well, that's not important."

Nettles shrugged. "It is nice to meet you Gaemon. Now are we to drink alone? Do you wish to seduce me? Or are we to have some additional boon companions?"

Gaemon smiled. "We have a few others to find. I mean for all the seeds to meet tonight, in celebration of the final dragon being tamed."

Nettles raised a dark eyebrow. "You're a seed?"

Gaemon nodded. "I tamed the Cannibal."

Nettles gave an impressive whistle. "Fuck me. I didn't think anyone was that stupid. Guess I was wrong."

Gaemon imitated Mushroom's voice, saying "Well, I always have a had a strong dash of stupid in me blood, m'lady."

Nettles laughed. "You sound like that dwarf that danced for me when I landed earlier. What a talented mummer you are."

You have no idea, thought Gaemon.

It took some cajoling, but Gaemon had managed to convince Maegor to join them. After asking a castle servant to pass on a message, they had waited for a quarter of an hour until Addam and Alyn had appeared in the entryway, descending the steps of the Stone Drum to join them. After some initial introductions, they had all made their way down the winding path, through the concentric curtain walls into the fishing village. Reaching the tavern, raucous laughter emanated from within.

Nettles was the first to enter, after declaring it appeared 'her type of place'. Addam and Alyn shared a look, grinning, their purple eyes shining, and entered after. Gaemon turned to Maegor, and beckoned for him to enter. After casting his gaze about, he did so, wordlessly. Once inside the source of the laughter became apparent. Ulf and Hugh were already well into their cups, each with a whore on their knee. Nettles, Gaemon, and Maegor sat across from them, while Addam and Alyn pulled stools up at the foot of the table, eerily mimicking each other's actions. Gaemon decided that even though they were not, in fact, twins, he found it hard to tell them apart. They were small, quick, and both had a gleaming intelligence behind their eyes. Addam, the older of the two, was taller, but still was a head shorter than Gaemon, and closer to a foot shorter than Maegor. They both shared silver hair, which they kept cut short. Of us all, they certainly fit the part of dragonseed the best. Ulf had white hair as well, but hazel eyes shown from beneath his locks. Hugh was massive, and pale blonde of hair. His blue eyes were the color of the sea. The Valyrian resemblance dropped off markedly after him, when considering the other seeds.

They had all quickly ordered pints to match those in the hands of Ulf and Hugh, while Gaemon, Addam, Alyn and Nettles had ordered meat pies to serve as their supper. They each began to share tales of their dragontaming experiences, with Alyn listening wistfully.

When it came time for Nettles to speak, she was already in her cups. Standing with a proud grin, she began. "It is honestly a great surprise to me that my Sheepstealer had not been tamed when I arrived from Spicetown on Driftmark. The key was in the beast's name. Each day, I fed him a sheep, and over time, he stopped acting as though he wished to eat me as well. Why that was so hard for the fools that tried before me, I will never understand. Sheepstealer certainly ate his fill of them in the days before my arrival."

Gaemon began to scowl as she spoke. His eyes looked into the faces of each seed, noting the laughter of Hugh and Ulf, then the quiet simmering anger of Addam and Alyn. Then he saw Maegor's face.

An odd light burned behind his storm grey-blue eyes. Gaemon saw the rage building, and it matched his own. Had Nettles truly not heard the stories of the victims of Sheepstealer? Or did she simply not care?

He considered speaking his mind, when Maegor spoke quietly. "Some of those 'fools' were my father and brothers."

The table grew silent, and Nettles paled, her grin faltering. Seeing four pairs of eyes looking at her, the rage simmering, she looked down at her tankard. A few moments passed before she spoke.

"I am sorry. I didn't know. The drink got to me." She looked first to Maegor, then to Alyn, whose bandaged scars were visible under his tunic. "I won't make that mistake again." The tension began to dissipate.

It continued to do so until Ulf spoke, slurring his words: "Bugger that, girl. I say shtick to your wordsh. Those men were fools. They're gone, we are here. We are the shtrong ones."

With that, Maegor rose, clenching his fists, staring enraged at Ulf. Hugh shoved the girl off of his knee, and sat up, less drunk than he appeared, his massive muscles tensing. Glaring, Maegor stood in silence at both.

Gaemon, gripping his dagger, turned to Ulf. "Speak like that to my friend again, and you will know what it is to be fed to a dragon."

After he had spoken, he realised the inn was deafeningly quiet. Addam and Alyn looked from Maegor to him, then from Hugh to Ulf, before gripping their own daggers. Gaemon noticed Nettles was tense, and held a blade of her own under the table. He wasn't sure which side the other seeds would take, but the likely fight was prevented by the arrival of a citadel guard.

"Gaemon Waters, your presence is demanded by the Prince of Dragonstone. I ask you to follow me immediately."

Gaemon, confused, stood, and after casting one last gaze and Ulf and Hugh, allowed himself to be led from the tavern. Behind him, he saw the other seeds leave and disperse in the night, leaving Ulf and Hugh to their cups.

Chapter Text

Baela I

From within the gatehouse, Baela straightened her leather jerkin over her shirt. Brushing a few motes of dust (or perhaps ash?) from it, she decided it was as spotless as it was ever going to be. Stop fussing sis. She could hear Rhaena's mocking tone in her mind, even if she wasn't physically there to infuriatingly point out Baela's signs of impatience and nervousness. Even from the Eyrie, my dearest twin still somehow makes her presence known, Baela thought to herself, amused. In the time since her sister's departure, Baela had found it difficult to adjust to just how empty Dragonstone had begun to feel. Since their birth, she and her twin had always been close, sharing their fleeting crushes on squires together, organizing pranks, and changing clothing to see if anyone would be able to tell them apart. Many hadn't realized that despite some rather obvious differences, they had always been more alike than different. Just because Rhaena likes dresses and I do not doesn't mean we are not close, she thought to herself. Which is why I wish she were here now. Rhaena would know what to do, or at least have good advice. The moment Baela had heard the rumors, she had known she had to meet this supposed 'half-brother' of hers. At first, she had been enraged. Apparently, in his home village, this upjumped peasant had been well known for claiming to be the son of Prince Daemon Targaryen. Baela could not believe it. Had father been privy to that, he'd have had his tongue out, she thought with a satisfied grin.

Another part of her was less eager to see the man punished. Father has always been a proud man, and I'd be a fool to believe he'd never sired any bastards. Nevertheless, it was humiliating to hear the seed had been speaking so. Is this man a fool? She had thought upon first hearing the rumors. The Queen was never particularly forgiving, but with her miscarriage and Lucerys' death her cousin Rhaenyra had become a shade of her former self. She had barely left her chambers, and most of the food sent up to her quarters returned untouched. If she were to receive word that one of the seeds was traipsing around proclaiming royal bastardy, her cruelty would be legendary. If this man really is father's son, he'd best learn to keep his mouth shut. Baela was thankful Mushroom had sung a tune of the Prince's seed in her presence first. If he had sung to anyone else of it, the dragonseed may have been killed long before Baela could discern if there were any truth to his claims.

I'll get to the bottom of this either way. She had initially been excited for this meeting, but now that she was actually at the designated meeting spot she found her stomach twisting in knots. If he lies, I must needs tell the Queen. Our enemies cannot be allowed any more opportunities to slander our Queen. She pitied him if that were to be the course she had to take. What if… what if he is my blood? A voice rose unbidden. Mother died giving birth to a younger brother for my sister and I. Aegon and Viserys are sweet boys, but their status as Princes means we have never been allowed to truly treat them as our brothers. At least not formally. She frowned. The Queen would never approve, and it was unlikely that father would either. Once more, she wished Rhaena was there to give advice. At least sister would approve of how smoothly I arranged this meeting, she thought to herself with a smirk.

Once Baela had decided upon meeting the dragonseed, it had been easy enough to sneak out, just as she would have on other nights to explore the citadel by night. As a Targaryen, even if she were caught she could simply cow any who found her, making sure they'd not reveal that she had broken her curfew. The last step had also been easy; she had found one of the guards she remembered her father had brought from King's Landing and simply asked him to deliver her message. The Prince of Dragonstone indeed, she thought with a smirk. If this dragonseed had any sense he'd have realized that my betrothed would never summon him at such an hour. Glancing at her candle she held, she judged she had only been gone from her chambers for perhaps thirty minutes. I have plenty of time, she thought.

Only a few minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door. The door opened to reveal the familiar face of her father's man. Pate is his name, if I remember correctly. I'll have to see that he is rewarded for this, as he has put himself in a great deal of danger for my own sake. Pate entered, nodded in respect to Baela, then motioned for a tall man who had been following him to enter. "Ya have but a few moments with the Lady, Gaemon Waters. I'll be listening, so mind your manners." Turning to Baela, he followed with "M'lady, one word, and I'll be back. This un' might be big, but I'll kick his sorry arse all the same if there's any trouble." Bowing, he closed the door behind him.

The man immediately dropped to one knee, his face facing the floor. When she bid him to rise, she was finally able to observe the dragonseed from up close, instead of from one of the Stone Drum's lancets. Baela had to stifle a laugh. THIS man was her half brother? She had known he had hair of an auburn color, but had at least assumed he'd have eyes of purple or violet to lend some credence to his claim. Instead, green eyes regarded her with a mixture of interest and surprise. Breaking the silence, he spoke. "Forgive me, my lady, but I fear there has been some mistake. I have had the honor of meeting the Prince of Dragonstone, and I daresay I believe he was decidedly less female."

Baela realized that he was jesting, and she found herself already annoyed with this dragonseed. "You speak true, good man. I fear that I purposely misled you here. I am not my betrothed, as you have so wisely deduced. Instead you find yourself speaking to Lady Baela Targaryen, the daughter of the Prince rumors say you claim is your father. I have cometo determine whether there is any veracity to those rumors. I would advise you to choose your next few words very carefully."

Her words had an effect on the man, as he pursed his lips in apparent contemplation. His right hand raised from his side, and began to play with a pouch he had slung around his neck. The humor that had danced in his eyes had faded, replaced with something akin to sadness. "I had hoped that the rumors would not have followed me from my old home." He began. "I mean no disrespect, my lady. But those rumors you have heard are true. I do claim to be the son of your lord father." Baela wasn't sure what she had expected him to say when she accused him, but she certainly hadn't expected an admission, at least not initially. Her initial wrath had subsided, and she wasn't exactly sure how to react. Once again, she wished her sister were there, to assist with this process.

"So you do not deny them, then." Baela began. "You must realize how hard I find it to believe you. Seven hells, I at least expected you to have eyes of Valyrian purple. Instead, you look more like a Trout than a Dragon." Pleased with her metaphor, she continued. "You must have some sort of proof, to back your claim. Otherwise you couldn't expect anyone to believe you."

Once more his hand flew to the pouch around his neck. He clearly was thinking about how to respond, and apparently made up his mind, as he began to speak. "I do have proof, my lady, but I fear it may not be the sort that would befit a woman of your station…"

Cutting him off by raising her hand, she spoke: "Save me the speech about preserving my virtue as a lady, I hear that sort of drivel from my septas. You either have proof, or you do not." The corners of the dragonseed's lips curled upwards, ever so slightly, before returning to rest in a neutral expression. Reaching to the pouch hanging from his neck, he opened it, pulling a golden dragon from within. Placing it in his palm, he held it out to her.

Grabbing the dragon from his palm, she held it in the candlelight. She could tell by touch it was real. On one side, her house's sigil was emblazoned, and flipping it to the other, she saw it featured the likeness of her uncle, the former king Viserys I. The coin had evidently been minted early in his reign, as he appeared much younger than her memories of him. Such coins were rare, as they were often recalled by the royal mint when it produced new coins every so often. Baela was certainly intrigued, as she did not expect a former member of the smallfolk to possess a coin of such value. Even so, he could have won it at dice, or stolen it. Turning to him, she pulled back her hood, revealing her cropped hair and Valyrian features. "Tell me dragonseed, what exactly does this coin prove?"

The dragonseed sighed. "Prince Daemon Targaryen is famous on this island amongst the small folk. Many maidens have dreamt of becoming his secret love, even for a night. My mother was lucky enough to be granted that request. What she did not realize was that the Prince was not looking for a lover, but a whore. When he was done with her, he paid her that coin. My mother was no whore. She died birthing me, but kept the coin. She must have known it was the only way I'd ever be able to prove my parentage. No small folk on the island possess such great wealth." He sighed. "I realize now that I was a fool to proclaim my heritage so boldly. It could only ever be taken as a slight or as a threat to the trueborn members of my father's house." Looking at her, his shoulders sagged. "You have my story, my Lady. What do you plan to do with it?"

Baela usually thought of herself as a woman with all the answers. She had none now. Silently, she handed the dragonseed the coin back. "If you are wondering whether I plan to tell the Queen, you may rest easy. I will not condemn you to such a cruel fate." She had heard the rumors about her father, and despite the dragonseed's appearance, he told the story with such strong conviction that she found herself wondering if it might be true. He did tame the Cannibal after all. He has the blood of the dragon, whether it be from my father's veins or another. "I would advise you to not tell your story to anyone else on this island. Few are as merciful as I when it comes to such indiscretions."

The man once more fell to one knee, nodding his ascent. "Thank you, my Lady, I will not forget your kindness."

Nodding, Baela placed a hand on his shoulder. "What is your name, dragonseed?" Returning her gaze, the man smiled wanly. "I am called Gaemon Waters, my Lady." Even his name isn't exactly a subtle proclamation, Baela thought wryly. Giving Gaemon's shoulder a squeeze, Baela spoke: "I ask that you serve our Queen well, Gaemon Waters. And please do be a leal servant of my betrothed. I fear he is in need of loyal men now more than ever." With that, she drew her hood back up over her head, and exited, nodding to Pate as she exited the tower.

Baela had not slept well the night afterwards. She had of course heard the rumors of her father's infidelities, but rumors were one thing, while a possible half-brother was quite another. The man who had raised her was fierce, but loving in his own way, and had made it clear he adored 'his princesses', which he insisted on calling Baela and Rhaena even after King Viserys had forbade that they be given the title. Eventually, during what must have been the midst of the Hour of the Nightingale, she rose and called for a servant. She decided she would start early with a bath, as the heat would help to wake her and clear her head for the coming day.

Once the water had been heated and the tub filled, she stripped her sleeping gown off and entered the water, which had been heated to the verge of boiling (just as she liked it). What others would have found harmfully hot, she found soothing. Waving her maidservants off, she allowed herself to relax, the steam rising off the water in silvery wisps and caressing her face. This must be how dragons feel within the Dragonmont, she thought to herself contentedly. She relaxed in the water until it had begun to cool, only then beginning to scrub herself with the bristled brush (she had long insisted she be allowed to bathe herself, she was too impatient to allow serving girls to scrub her). When she felt appropriately pristine, she rose from the tub and dried herself, noting with appreciation she still was maintaining her toned form. Let Rhaena have her womanly beauty, she thought. I will be the next Visenya. Drying her hair, she once more found herself appreciating how she kept it short. Convenient both for flying and drying it, 'conventional fashion' be damned.

She chose an outfit akin to what she had worn the day previously, but of finer materials. Despite the protestations of the courtiers, she always had gravitated to outfits that emphasized practicality, meaning that dresses almost never featured in her wardrobe. Today, it would be a black riding shirt, leather pants, and knee-high boots. As she made the final decisions on her outfit, she decided on wearing a ruby three-headed dragon pendant her father had given to her on her last name day. A bauble fitting for a princess. She allowed it to hang about her neck, and unbuttoned her shirt enough to allow it to be seen. I might as well give Jacaerys something to look at, she thought with a smirk. Perhaps that will provide him the incentive to go through with our marriage.

Exiting her chambers, she ascended the stairs of the Stone Drum in order to reach the chamber of the Painted Table, where she knew Jacaerys would be planning his next move. With the dragonseeds proving more successful than any had hoped for, Baela could sense her betrothed was eager to utilize their new-found overwhelming superiority to take King's Landing. When she entered the chamber, she found the room filled with more people than she had expected for an hour so early, as the sun had still not yet risen over the horizon. Maester Gerardys, his chain hanging about his neck, stood observing from the side of the table, alongside Lord Bonnifer Bar Emmon in his tabard of white and silver. Across from them, seated in an elevated chair where Dragonstone would have been depicted on the map, Jacaerys sat, pondering the crownlands where the Blackwater Rush entered the bay. Standing to Jacaerys' right were Lord Corlys Velaryon and his newly legitimized grandsons, Addam and Alyn. Completing the array of notable individuals were Ser Lorent Marbrand in his white cloak and Lord Bartimos Celtigar in his white tabard bedecked in red crabs.

Raising his head to acknowledge her entrance, Jacaerys smiled, his warm brown eyes glinting. "Welcome cos. We are just finishing up our plan to deliver nuncle Aegon a nasty surprise. We have chosen the first full moon of the new year as the date. My mother's reign will truly begin once she sits the Iron Throne, and I cannot think of a better time to topple the usurper than the beginning of a new year."

Smiling wolfishly, Baela nodded. "I'm sure the usurper will be very pleased to see you, cos. So pleased he might just shit himself." Maester Gerardys tutted, undoubtedly disapproving of her obscene choice of wording.

Lord Corlys, suppressing a smile, spoke: "That is certainly not appropriate language for one of your station, granddaughter. I'm fairly certain I met Qartheen sailors with mouths less than half as foul."

Jacaerys snorted. "My betrothed's choice of vocabulary aside, let us return to the plan. On the determined date, the newly assembled dragonseeds and I will fly alongside my mother to King's Landing. We shall be joined in the skies above the city by Prince Daemon, who has been informed of the date of our attack. If the sight of eight dragons above the city is not enough to cow the usurper, we will instead rip the three dragons he can muster to shreds. I do so hope the kinslayer chooses to fight. Avenging my brother upon dragonback will prove much sweeter than simply striking Aemond's head from his shoulders." Jacaerys' face darkened with anger. Sighing, he continued: "Lord Corlys, you will use your fleet to carry the men of Lord Bar Emmon and Celtigar to the city. The sight of so many dragons should prove more than enough to pacify any potential resistance, but boots on the ground can never hurt. Prince Daemon assures me that the Gold Cloaks are still his men, but I'd prefer to have men of proven loyalty around me. With any luck, the fall of the city will bring this war to a quick end. The traitors will have their lands and titles seized, and will then be executed, or allowed to take the black if they so choose. My mother will finally sit her rightful throne, and this bloodletting will be brought to a close."

Lord Corlys and the other assembled nobles nodded their assent. Baela was pleased to see how well Jacaerys had taken to ruling in his mother's stead; it appeared the Lords were pleased to still have a strong leader. Queen Rhaenyra was still noticeably absent; the death of Lucerys had been devastating, and she clearly still mourned for her second son. Perhaps the chance to take King's Landing and the Iron Throne will reignite some of that flame within her, Baela thought to herself.

"Is there any word of our brothers, Jacaerys? From what I can recall, they should be well on their way towards Pentos by now." Baela asked.

"As of yet, there has been no word. I wouldn't think that should be any cause for concern, though. The ravens kept on the Gay Abandon were only to be used in the case of a dire emergency. Besides, Lord Velaryon provided several escort galleys." Jacaerys responded.

Baela had opened her mouth to respond when horns began to sound from without the castle walls. Those horns mark the approach of a dragon rider, she thought to herself with a start. Surely the usurper would not be so foolish as to attack us here. The others must have heard the alarms as well, as Jacaerys hopped down from his chair, looking just as confused. He rushed through the doors of the chamber, with Baela and the assembled council in tow. After descending the steps, they excited the Stone Drum in time to see a young, darkly hued dragon descending into the courtyard, before crashing onto the cobblestone. Countless arrows protruded from its bleeding stomach, and a larger bolt had pierced its neck. The dragon hissed in agony, as black steaming blood poured from its wounds. It was as the dragon flailed upon the stones that Baela noticed the young boy finally release his death-like grip and fall to the cobblestone off of its back.

"Aegon!" She cried as she ran to embrace her younger half-brother. He was shaking, and as soon as she took him into her arms, he began to be wracked with sobs. His small body shook, and was nearly cold to the touch with terror.

"Th-th-they have Vis-Viserys B-B-Baela." He choked into her shoulder. "I f-flew away, but had to l-l-leave him." Upon uttering those words, Aegon's sobs became even more heart wrenching.

Warm arms wrapped around them both as Jacaerys took them both into his embrace tightly. "Don't worry brother, we will get Viserys back. I promise you that. You were brave to escape them! You showed our enemies you were a true dragon."

If Jacaerys' words had any effect, Aegon did not show it. He continued to sob, undoubtedly coming to terms with the abandonment of his brother and the death of his dragon, to say nothing of his terror.

As the three of them stayed locked in an embrace, Baela heard a voice she'd not heard in weeks cry out from the steps of the Stone Drum. Running, holding her skirts to allow her to move more quickly, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms hurried as quickly as she could down the steps of the Stone Drum, shouting "Aegon!" Reaching their group, she pulled Aegon into her embrace, holding him against her while she scanned the courtyard with eyes puffy from recent tears. None of said tears remained in her eyes, however. Her violet eyes blazed with a terrifying rage. Scanning the courtyard, she took note of Aegon's dying dragon, the assembled Lords, and the rapidly gathering crowd. As she ran her hands through Aegon's hair, she turned to Jacaerys. "Find the men who did this, Jacaerys. Bring them Fire and Blood."

Maester Gerardys had quickly gone to the Sea Dragon Tower, returning with messages from ravens that had just arrived. Paling, he spoke: "It appears the Triarchy has amassed a great fleet in order to strike us, my Queen. The outermost vessels of Lord Velaryon's fleet are reporting dozens of war galleys approaching the Gullet."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed with hate. "They will pay a thousand-fold for their crimes. If only my Lord Husband were here to see to it personally. He knows well how to deal with scum from the Three Whores." Once more, she turned to Jacaerys. "Son, my order stands. Bring honor to your mother and Queen, and flame to these animals. It is time to test the mettle of these dragonriders you have assembled."

Nodding, Jacaerys turned to the crowd that had assembled. Baela could make out the faces of several of the seeds she had glimpsed from within the Stone Drum previously, included a gangly white-haired man with a face that appeared to be perpetually flushed with drink, a massive man whose arms resembled those of a smith, Addam Velaryon, and the girl who was brown of skin and dark of hair. Lastly, she spotted the last two of their number, a tall man with brown hair and eyes the color of a storm, and of course, Gaemon Waters. Her eyes locked with Gaemon's eyes, and he nodded gravely, seemingly saying: you have my word that I will burn these men to ash.

Jacaerys, also having surveyed the crowd, appeared to be pleased that all of the riders had already assembled. "Dragonseeds, step forward" he began, "it is on a day as grave as this that I find myself truly grateful that you answered my call. Men from across the Narrow Sea have come to put Dragonstone and Driftmark to the sack and enslave their peoples in the name of Aegon, the usurper. Today I ask you to make good on your pledges to my house and my mother, the Queen. Together we will bring Fire and Blood to these men, these rapid dogs. We will help them to remember what their fathers and grandfathers before them forgot. We will teach them that they are never, ever to cross the Blood of the Dragon! When they see wings on the horizon, I want them to feel one thing, and one thing only: Terror! Will you fight with me today?"

The dragonseeds, having all stepped forward, all had adopted grave expressions upon their faces. They were silent, each grimly contemplating what they were about to do. Or perhaps regretting their commitments? A voice asked from within Baela's mind. Gaemon, casting looks at the other seeds, was the first to step forward. "I will fly with you today, my Prince. Fire and Blood!" He shouted her House's words, his eyes alight. "Fire and Blood!" Cried the other seeds. Jacaerys smiled grimly, and Baela saw his expression was matched on his mother's face.

The next few minutes dissolved into absolute chaos, as the dragons were all led into the central courtyard in order to be equipped. Many, such as Vermax, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and Silverwing accepted their saddles without complaint. For the three who had previously been untamed, the process was much more challenging. The towering seed approached his pale grey-white dragon, the so-called Grey Ghost, and after placing a hand on its head, beckoned the attendants forward, who were able to saddle the dragon without much incident. The ugly brown dragon, called Sheep Stealer by the smallfolk, initially snapped and roared at those surrounding it until its rider brought it a sheep to feed upon. It hissed as it was saddled, but made no further threatening movements.

The last dragon, a great black monstrosity with eyes of an otherworldly green shade, was the most resistant to the process. It roared, shaking the courtyard with its rage before rising and spewing a great gout of green flame that matched its eyes into the air. Snapping at the brown dragon that was nearest to it, it lowered itself to the cobblestones, hissing and billowing steam from its maw as it glanced balefully around. Gaemon approached it with his black dragon whip and cracked it about the dragon's head, forcing it to heel. Only after he had seemingly forced it back under control did he allow for the attendants to approach. The dragon lunged at the first attendant, but was once more driven back by the whip. Hissing ferociously, it finally allowed itself to be saddled. The Cannibal certainly lives up to its name, Baela thought to herself.

Once the dragons had been saddled, squires and knights emerged from the armory carrying the newly prepared sets of armor for the dragonseeds. They were quickly helped to suit up, putting on their black and red gambesons, followed by black mail, and lastly the dark black plate armor itself. All of the dragonseed's breastplates were fitted with a red three-headed dragon. The girl was given a modified suit of black leather and mail, on account of her small size. Once suited, they gathered in a circle, where Jacaerys joined them. Baela stood as close as she could, so as to overhear. The sun was rising as they discussed their plan of attack.

"Nettles, Addam, Hugh, and Ulf, you will fly north with me. The Triarchy has seen fit to divide its fleet into two pincers, one sailing north of Dragonstone, the other south. Their intent must be to break Lord Velaryon's blockade. Our goal will be to shatter their attack, force their retreat, and deal as much damage as possible to their fleet." Turning to Gaemon and the other dragonseed, he continued: "Gaemon and Maegor, you will fly South, and engage the other pincer. Since you fly the largest and fastest dragons respectively, you should have little trouble destroying the Southern pincer."

Each of the seeds nodded their assent to the plan, and donning their winged helms, walked to their dragons, where they clambered into the saddles with their whips. An attendant scurried up with them, chaining them into their saddles. Jacaerys turned to Baela, an oddly distant and melancholy look in his eyes.

"Cos, when I return, I must needs speak with you. There is something I should have told you before this, but I fear now that it must wait til after this fight. When I return, I promise I will hold no secrets from you any longer." He gave her a kiss on the forehead, before turning to receive a kiss from his mother, who hugged him fiercely. He then began to mount Vermax.

"Jacaerys!" She cried. He turned to regard her. "I will hold you to that! You'll feel my wrath soon enough!" Baela spoke in jest, but her stomach was twisting in knots. What has Jacaerys been keeping from me? Rage began to burn within her. I wish to know now. She almost called out to him again, but she knew better than to delay his departure any further. She blinked back tears of frustration as Vermax let loose a roar, echoed by the other dragons. Lifting into the sky the dragons soared in ever higher circles. Baela ran to the battlements to watch them, wishing her own Moondancer was large enough to join them. Her eyes watched the Cannibal and Grey Ghost turn south, before following Vermax as it led the others north. Baela Targaryen was not a religious woman, but she found herself saying a prayer to the Warrior. As they disappeared behind a bank of clouds, Baela whispered: "Be safe, Cos. Bring Fire and Blood to those bastards. But most importantly, come back."

Chapter Text

The Gullet

Maegor

Maegor felt the apprehension growing within his chest the further away from Dragonstone's citadel he flew. He occasionally twisted in his saddle to look back in the direction of the island, and caught a final glimpse of the Prince and the other seeds save Gaemon flying in the opposite direction, making for the waters north of Dragonstone. Clad in leather, mail, and plate, Maegor felt very uncomfortable. He was used to wearing loose clothing that would not tangle or weigh him down even after being soaked by spray from the sea, or dry so slowly that he would remain damp long enough to catch a chill. The armor added a significant weight to his movements that he'd never before had, and with every ponderous shift and turn that he made, Maegor felt as though he were one of Dragonstone's gargoyles, covered in vestments of solid and heavy stone.

From what Maegor understood of the Prince's quick description of the situation, the enemy fleet was split into two squadrons, one larger and sailing around the northern side of Dragonstone, while the other sailed around its southern side. With Maegor riding the fastest and most nimble dragon, and Gaemon riding the meanest and largest dragon, they had been chosen to deal with this smaller southern squadron. Maegor caught occasional glimpses of the Cannibal flying behind him with Gaemon perched upon his back through breaks in the clouds, as the sun began to break over the waves. Among the clouds, Maegor could almost convince himself that he was not riding the Grey Ghost into battle, but rather simply accompanying his mount as it searched for fish in the waters surrounding Dragonstone. Would that it were truly that. Maegor wanted to look down and see fishing skiffs, not ships of war. On many mornings since his arrival at Dragonstone's citadel, Maegor had watched these small vessels as they rode the waves to claim their morning catch. From so far away, Maegor could pretend that his father and brothers were on one of them, hauling in nets and looking forward to spending the evening at the inn, drinking ale and trading japes with Wat and other patrons.

He had occasionally flown around the island and over the sea atop the Grey Ghost, enjoying the fact that he could simply sit in silence, with nothing but his thoughts and the whistling winds. On dragonback, Maegor didn't have to make awkward conversation with curious servants or courtiers, and arrogant knights who barely veiled their jealousy behind a courteous veneer when asking Maegor about how he managed to tame such a "magnificent creature". He had never been a very talkative person before he'd tamed the Grey Ghost, but after learning of the deaths of his father and brothers, he had begun to shut himself off completely. He did as he was bid, visiting the blacksmith in order to be fitted for armor and choose his preferred weapon (a sword, for Maegor doubted that throwing nets would be as effective against men as they were for fish). Beyond what the Prince had requested, however, Maegor had done little and less during his time in the castle. Gaemon had tried to talk with Maegor when he'd taken his meals, but Maegor had kept their conversations brief, focusing more on his food than whatever words his friend was saying. Maegor just wanted to be left alone, but the gods had seen fit to curse him with endless visitors, fitting him for clothing, bringing him water to bathe in (when Maegor had asked a servant if he might make a trip from the citadel down to the sea to bathe instead, the girl had thought he was japing), or asking when he wished to eat.

When he'd finally acquiesced to Gaemon's attempts to get him to leave his quarters and travel with the other seeds into the village below Dragonstone's citadel for a night of drinking, Maegor had hoped that doing so would win him some peace from his friend's insistent pestering for a while. Mayhaps Maegor had even hoped against hope that he would enjoy himself, and at least for a time chase away the grief that haunted him incessantly. Instead, a seed named Nettles had insulted his deceased father and brothers. In that moment, Maegor had felt an emotion burning within him even stronger than the sadness that had dominated him for weeks. It was rage. A painful flame that burned within his heart, threatening to consume him and burn away all of his restraint. However, Nettles had apologized quickly and sincerely, and the flame inside Maegor had started to die. But then Ulf had spoken up, unapologetically insulting Maegor's family and all the other dead who had sought to tame dragons. The rage had come back twice as strong then, and in that moment Maegor had wanted nothing more than to beat the drunkard senseless. Maegor's restraint won out in the end, however, and he kept himself from attacking the drunken seed. The timely arrival of a guard requesting Gaemon's presence had further broken the tension within the inn, and Maegor had taken the opportunity to stalk out into the night, wandering into the dark streets.

He hadn't realized that his path led further down the streets into the village rather than up to the citadel until he found himself standing in front of a darkened two-story structure of crudely-cut stone and old timber. The almshouse. Maegor had only been there once since he had fled that night long ago. He had made the trip as an older lad, several years after he'd returned home from his time on the Dragonmont. Maegor felt he'd owed Septon Bennard an explanation for his disappearance, as well as to thank the man for all that he'd done for him. Though he looked even older than Maegor remembered him as a child, the septon still possessed a quiet strength that showed in his movements. Septon Bennard had wept and embraced Maegor upon seeing him standing outside the almshouse in the street, before bringing Maegor up to his modest quarters on the second floor of the almshouse where they could speak in private. Bennard had confessed to Maegor that despite his prayers to the Father to protect Maegor, his prayers to the Mother for her mercy, and his prayers to the Crone for her to guide Maegor, he had still feared that the worst had happened. Bennard was the only person Maegor told about seeing the Grey Ghost who believed him, and he declared to Maegor that his dreams about the Dragonmont and the Grey Ghost were blessed visions from the Crone herself. Maegor had left the almshouse that day with a feeling of peace and contentment.

Standing in the dark outside the almshouse that night, however, Maegor had only felt indecision and sadness. He had wanted nothing more in that moment than to seek out Bennard and speak with him, but a sudden fear had stayed his hand as he lifted his fist to knock on the door. In that moment, Maegor felt an irrational need to avoid speaking with the Septon about what had happened to his family. If I don't speak with the Septon, and never return to my family's cottage by the sea, it can be as though they're not really gone. The moment I speak with Bennard however, I'll know them to be dead within my heart, and I will well and truly be alone. Maegor knew that his thoughts utterly lacked any sense, but he just couldn't bring himself to accept that his family was gone. Hanging his head in grief and shame, Maegor had returned to the citadel.

The distant sounds of flame crackling and heavy crashes tore Maegor from the thoughts that had been claiming his attention. Maegor's chest tightened at the sight that appeared below him. He could see ships of the Velaryon fleet burning and sinking, and many war galleys sailing swiftly through their wreckage, chasing survivors of the initial skirmish as they limped into the strait between Dragonstone and Driftmark. The galleys of the Triarchy seemed to be making no attempt to peel off towards Dragonstone, and with horror Maegor began to realize why. They mean to assault Driftmark. Maegor felt the familiar white-hot rage begin to flow through him. He'd heard stories about the fleets of the Three Daughters, and how they attacked and kidnapped innocents on ships or vulnerable strips of coastline to use as slaves. They'll do the same with the people of Driftmark, or at least those that they don't butcher. Unlike Dragonstone, Driftmark had towns of considerable size in several places. Like Spicetown. He could see the indistinct shoreline of Driftmark appearing in the distance, and could barely make out the gleaming silver roofs of High Tide's towers. He knew that not far beyond that castle was Spicetown, with its famed wharves reaching out into the Gullet to bring in trade and wealth. Yet now they'll draw in naught but misery and death. Steeling his nerves, Maegor descended towards the war galleys of the Triarchy.

Though he was chained to his saddle, Maegor still felt an odd sense of weightlessness as the Grey Ghost descended rapidly from the sky, and Maegor guided the Ghost towards a massive warship that was much larger than any of the others entering the strait. A hail of arrows, crossbow bolts, and scorpion bolts whistled up towards Maegor, but the Ghost was a fast and elusive creature, and weaved between them, with only a scarce few arrows and crossbow bolts bouncing off of his scaled underbelly as the large flagship loomed in ever closer. "NOW!" Maegor screamed, clutching his whip tightly, and the Grey Ghost opened his maw and began to shoot white-hot flame from his gullet. The flames set the deck alight, and began to spread with a hellish ferocity as terrible, guttural screams pierced Maegor's ears. As the Grey Ghost banked and let loose with another jet of pearl-white hellfire, Maegor was taken aback by the heat of the flame that emanated from the fires burning across the upper deck and rigging of the flagship, and watched with horror as burning sailors writhed and convulsed among the flames, some flinging themselves shrieking into the waters of the strait. Maegor's mouth was dry as the Ghost flew towards another war galley, gracefully weaving amongst bolts and arrows. Flame was once again loosed, and another ship burned brightly, the unfortunate sailors on its burning deck twisting and turning as though performing some awful dance to a tune played by the Stranger themself. Just like my dream, thought Maegor.

He had dreamed of a dragon again not long after arriving at Dragonstone's citadel. He hadn't slept well since arriving, and what little sleep he did have was oft plagued with unpleasant dreams, some so nightmarish that he woke up in a cold sweat. But one dream was different than the others. Maegor once again felt the pleasant and comforting feeling of warmth that began in the tips of his fingers and toes and flowed throughout his body into his heart. He was floating weightlessly in a blackness as dark as any ink, and though he did not fall, neither was he able to move at all. He could hear the sounds of waves far below him, but was unable to see them. In the distance he could barely make out three large indistinct forms. Maegor began to float towards them, unable to control his own movements. His surroundings gradually grew lighter as he flew towards them, and by the time he found himself looking down on them from above, he could see that the shapes were three massive women in silken dresses, all standing silently in a ring up to their knees in a roiling sea of pitch. Their faces seemed similar enough that Maegor took them for kin to each other, but before he could consider them further, he was startled by a loud roar. A dragon rose from the waves of pitch in the center of the ring that the three women had formed, and they began a slow swaying dance around it as it writhed and roared mightily. The dragon shot jets of flame in all directions as it continued to roar, and the clothing of the dancers was set alight. As the flames consumed them, they danced faster and faster. Their faces remained serene and unconcerned, even as the flames turned them into pillars of fire. Their movements grew more erratic as they burned to ash, and as the fires consuming them died out, so did the light illuminating Maegor's surroundings. He was once again left in pitch-blackness, unable to see. A massive roar reverberated through the darkness, rattling Maegor to his core. Maegor sat up on his bed, trembling from an odd mixture of terrible fear and elation.

Maegor wasn't sure what the dream had meant, but he felt that it had to relate in some way to the carnage below him. The fight had been going on for hours. It seemed as though every time Maegor had burned a ship, two more had sailed into the strait to take its place. The waters had become a choked miasma of burning flotsam and corpses, and as Maegor passed low over another ship, he was startled by the appearance of a frightened sailor fleeing the jet of Grey Ghost's flame. His features bore a haunting resemblance to Maegor's own father, and Maegor was so stunned that he banked the Grey Ghost higher up into the sky in a panic, trying to collect his thoughts. That isn't my father, Maegor thought to himself. But he is likely someone's father, or brother, or son. You selfishly grieve for the loss of your own family while you burn the families of hundreds on dragonback. Maegor felt an intense guilt wash over him as he continued to circle the Grey Ghost in the sky above the chaos. He saw the Cannibal descend on another ship, setting it alight. Then Maegor remembered the panicked and tear-stained face of Prince Aegon as he arrived on the back of his dying dragon, Stormcloud earlier that morning. These same men likely killed one prince, while trying to drown another by shooting down his dragon. My father and brothers weren't the murderous rapists and pillagers on these ships below that seek to sack Driftmark and terrorize its people. With a hardened resolve, Maegor began to guide Grey Ghost back towards the battle below. In order to protect the lambs of this world, I must burn the wolves. Maegor didn't notice the tears flowing down his cheeks as he continued his descent.

Gaemon

The smell of burning flesh was powerful, and sickening. Gaemon had not forgotten its smell after he had witnessed Runcifer Sunglass' burning in the Cannibal's cave. A mixture between the savory smells of cooking meat and the acrid odor of burning hair and clothing. Each time the Cannibal swept down to burn the ships below, the smell of smoke and death became nearly overpowering. Gaemon had decided by this point that the opportunity to prove his heritage was not nearly as glorious as he had dreamed it would be. This isn't even a battle… it is a slaughter. It had been less than an hour since he and Maegor had departed from Dragonstone, flying south. The sea had been beautiful, its waves reflecting the rising sun. It had not been difficult to find the southern squadron of the Daughters' fleet; they had followed the wakes of its ships as the galleys had approached Driftmark. Their path was marked by the burning hulks of Velaryon ships left to sink, evidently the unlucky remnants of the defensive patrols that had been directed to provide early warning in case of an attack. The men aboard those ships had no chance, Gaemon had thought, their enemies had approached hidden by the rays of the rising sun. It would have been difficult to spot them, as the Velaryon soldiers would have been forced to stare into the sun. Luckily Maegor and Gaemon had caught their enemies as they had begun to break battle formation, preparing to land forces on Driftmark. Any later and they'd have begun to sack Spicetown. Our dragonflame would have been of little use if they'd managed to land their troops. We'd have been just as likely to burn Spicetown's smallfolk. The thought of the slaughter that had been narrowly averted hardened Gaemon's heart to the suffering of the men below him.

Maegor had been the first to reach the fleet; his dragon was terribly quick. It emerged from the low-hanging clouds like grey lightning, burning ships before ascending just as quickly. Chaos had spread immediately, as Maegor and the Grey Ghost had evidently burned the fleet's flagship first. From what Gaemon knew of war fleets, it was common for them to use flags and horns to communicate with one another in the midst of battle. A group of sailors that had visited Wat's old inn had regaled Gaemon with the stories of their battles within the Stepstones, and they had remarked on the importance of communication during battle. Evidently Maegor's crippling of the flagship had been extremely destructive for the sailors below, as many of the ships had broken formation and seemed to be manuerving in patterns that seemed to lack any sort of coherence. This had left them as easy targets for the Cannibal, which had roared mightily when it had finally joined the battle. While the flames of the Grey Ghost were shot in narrow streams of blinding heat, the Cannibal's flame were great gouts of dark green flame that burned with an unnatural glow. It usually only took a single blast to set an entire ship alight. Even when the flames themselves did not connect, the sheer heat often caused the sails and rigging to catch fire. The men on the decks of each ship were transformed into writhing, shrieking torches that quickly threw themselves into the dark waves lapping about the ships.

In the first few moments of the battle, several ships had coordinated their fire in order to try and bring one of the dragons down. Everytime the Cannibal or the Grey Ghost descended, a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts would sail up to meet them. From his seat atop the Cannibal, Gaemon had been mostly protected from these attacks, and could hear them clattering harmlessly off of the Cannibal's nearly impenetrable scales. When his initial fear of being struck had subsided, Gaemon had allowed himself to go away inside, wishing to escape the smells of burning flesh and the screams of the dying. He found himself thinking of the other dragonriders, wondering whether they were safe. It'd be a particularly tough loss to lose Nettles and that filthy mouth of hers, he thought to himself. Alyn Velaryon would be devastated to lose his elder brother, and the death of Prince Jacaerys would be an awful loss for Lady Baela. He hadn't any time to truly process his meeting with his half-sister, but he was certainly grateful she'd not decided to not share his claims of parentage with the Queen. Queen Rhaenyra's wroth this morning had been worthy of the Dragonlords of old, he mused. Having finally been able to experience the fury of the Queen, he was doubly grateful for Lady Baela's discretion. He hoped to be able to speak with her more in the future, as he desperately wanted to know anything more she could tell him about his family. I would imagine she is furious right now, unable to join Prince Jacaerys in his assault.

Lost in his thoughts about the other dragonseeds, Gaemon had been completely shocked when he felt the arrow strike his helm. The force of the hit forced his head back, and only the visor prevented the arrow from striking his face beneath. Forcing himself back into the present, he hunched further into his saddle, leaning into the Cannibal's neck as it burned the ship beneath them. I am such a fool, he thought to himself. In his mind's eye, he could see how he had allowed himself to begin sitting more upright in the saddle, presenting a much greater target for the men below. Faced with overwhelming odds, they still fight to win… and one just scored a hit that was closer to turning the tide. He knew it was his duty to win this battle, not just to the Queen, but to the people of Driftmark. How many of the people below have lived lives just as my mother, or my grandparents have? How many young men and women below would have been destined for the pillow houses had Maegor and I not arrived when we did? The thought of such things disgusted Gaemon, and he resolved to finish what had been started. I must needs keep burning til the screaming stops, he thought with a grimace.

By mid morning, the ordeal was over. Gaemon estimated that out of the forty ships they had caught, perhaps four or five had managed to navigate their way out of the conflagration and make their way back from whence they came. He had been eager to bring Fire and Blood to the enemy a few hours before, but now he found himself exhausted and feeling sick inside. All I have done was to save lives. Those I took today were worth taking if it meant that Driftmark could be spared. No matter how many times he repeated those words to himself, they still seemed to ring hollow. Circling the smoldering ruins of the fleet, he had flown the Cannibal towards the Grey Ghost, signalling to Maegor that they ought to land in order to confer with the garrison.

As they descended in circles towards the beach, a crowd gathered, keeping its distance, but cheering nonetheless. When the Cannibal landed, Gaemon took a few moments to undo his saddle chains, before dismounting and removing his helm. It felt good to breathe without his helm restricting him. On the beach, the smell of death was less pervasive than it had been out to sea. Maegor dismounted the Grey Ghost and similarly removed his helm. Gaemon wished to offer some words of encouragement to his friend, but could find none. Instead, they shared a moment of silence before sharing a nod and turning to the crowd, where several soldiers dressed in tabards sporting the colors of House Velaryon had gathered. The lead soldier, an older man, grim and scarred, stepped forward and knelt.

"Seven blessings, masters. We'd have never been able to repulse the fleet had you not intercepted it. They'd have caught the majority of our fleet at anchor. I have no doubts concerning Spicetown's fate had they been able to land. Driftmark is in your debt."

Gaemon nodded. "We are glad to have prevented them from visiting such woe upon your island. We landed in order to see whether the island was secure before returning to Dragonstone."

The soldier spit into the sand. "A few of the buggers have been washing ashore, but they were nothing we couldn't handle. We gave them the sort of welcome we imagine they'd have given us if they'd taken the city." He turned to regard the stretch of beach behind him, where Velaryon soldiers patrolled, executing the survivors who washed ashore. Gaemon had to suppress a scowl as a group of Lyseni sailors waded ashore, hands raised above their heads, evidently begging for mercy. The Velaryon soldiers wasted no time in putting their spears through the chests of the Lyseni, leaving their bodies to be gently buffeted on the shore by the waves. The waves crashed ashore blue, and receded a dark crimson. Turning back to face Gaemon once more, the soldier cleared his throat. "There is one matter the two of you will need to address. Forgive me for not saying more, masters, but methinks you ought to see this for yourselves."

Gaemon and Maegor followed the party of soldiers down the beach, before being led to a crowd that had formed in a ring around something. Hushed voices whispered in awe around whatever was at its center. The soldiers harshly cleared a path through the crowd, before reaching the center. In the center of the ring, a small boy sat, dressed in ragged, salt stained clothing, clutching a blanket about his shoulders. He looked up as the two dragonriders entered the circle, revealing pale hair that poked out from under his cap, and deep purple eyes that harbored dark rings beneath them. He shivered, looking exhausted from whatever ordeals he had just survived. What shocked Gaemon the most however was what lay curled in the boy's lap. Staring up at Gaemon was the tiny, yet fierce face of a dragon hatchling. The boy ran a hand along the hatchling's spiney neck, as it hissed at the crowd around it. Its scales along its neck and back were orange-red, with its stomach having scales of yellowish-orange. Its eyes were akin to red coals. The boy smiled wanly. "It hatched from its egg after I had swum to the shore." Looking down at the hatchling, then back to Gaemon, the Prince whispered: "I think I would like to return home now."

Gaemon had initially been unsure whether it would be safe to carry Viserys and his hatchling atop the Cannibal, so he'd approached his dragon with caution, keeping his dragon whip at the ready. When he had led Viserys and the hatchling closer, the Cannibal had hissed, baring its jet black fangs at their approach. Raising his whip, he cracked it over the dragon's head, which earned him a chilling stare. Eventually, the Cannibal lowered its head, and while not looking particularly enthused, allowed him to help Viserys and his hatchling into the saddle. He then climbed in himself, taking care to chain both himself and the Prince in safely. The hatchling hissed as the Cannibal rose, spreading its great black leathery wings, before beating them powerfully and lifting off from the beach. Behind them, the Grey Ghost also rose into the air. As they flew back, tracing their route from earlier, neither Viserys nor Gaemon spoke. As Dragonstone became visible in the distance, Gaemon realized that the Prince had fallen asleep. His small form had hunched forward, still clutching his hatchling firmly. The poor child is probably exhausted, Gaemon thought to himself. I'm not sure even the Crone herself would know how he escaped the men of the Three Daughters. Gaemon had tried to imagine how a boy that young could navigate a burning ship full of dying men well enough to find his dragon egg and manage to escape overboard. It is almost miraculous. Either way, the Prince is an amazing child. He realized as he glanced down at the sleeping child that the boy was his half brother, which came as quite a shock. Having never had any siblings, he found himself grateful that of all the horror this war had brought, it had also given him a family. He had to desperately resist the urge to embrace the boy. Even if this is my half brother, that would not be proper.

As the Cannibal reached the shores of Dragonstone, it let out a shattering roar, announcing its presence. Viserys jumped awake, and Gaemon put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. The Grey Ghost responded with a roar of its own as they soared over the shepherd's fields that enclosed much of the Dragonmont's foothills, before finally reaching the citadel itself. The two dragons arced in a circle about the citadel, gradually descending into the courtyard. After they had landed, Gaemon realized with some surprise that there were very few people in the courtyard. He hadn't necessarily expected an official welcome, but it was odd that there were hardly any people to be seen in the courtyard. Undoing his saddle chains, he dismounted, before helping the Prince to climb down, his hatchling now curled about his shoulders. As Maegor dismounted, he gave Gaemon a look as if to ask: where is everyone? Gaemon shrugged, starting to feel concerned. Normally, he had never had access to the Stone Drum, but given the circumstances, he decided to walk Prince Viserys inside to find his mother. He was about to start walking when he felt a slight tug on his arm. He turned to face Viserys looking at him, concerned, holding his hand. He gave the Prince his most reassuring smile, and took his hand as they climbed the steps into the Stone Drum.

Even after entering the tower, there were few servants or guards to be seen. Those they did pass bore looks of grief upon their faces. An older guard, upon seeing Viserys, directed them to the Great Hall, where they passed through great red doors that were set within the maw of a great stone dragon. Passing below its teeth, they entered the hall and immediately were greeted with the sounds of crying. Upon the dais, Queen Rhaenyra was hunched, sobbing, holding Prince Aegon tightly. Gathered about the throne stood several lords that Gaemon recognized vaguely, along with Ser Marbrand and Lady Baela, whose own face was darkened with rage, and puffy from tears. Standing further from the throne were Hugh, Ulf, Nettles, and Addam Velaryon. Each of their faces were grim. Nettles' smoke-stained face was stained where tears had traced their way through the ash. As Gaemon and Maegor entered the hall, faces one by one began to turn to regard them, their expressions changing from grief to shock. Ser Marbrand leaned down and whispered something in the Queen's ear, and she slowly rose, before her eyes widened and she rushed from the throne to where Viserys stood, holding Prince Aegon's hand the entire way. Gathering her two youngest sons in her arms, she cried tears of joy.

"I thought the gods, in their infinite cruelty, had robbed me of two sons today." The Queen choked. Wiping the tears from her face, Rhaenyra looked up at the two dragonseeds standing before her. "You have my deepest thanks for returning my son to me. I feared I would never see him again. Instead, you return him to me, along with a dragon hatchling. I would be a fool to not reward such leal service. I only wish Jace was here to see his men succeed so."

Gaemon found himself at a loss for words. The Prince's death came as a terrible shock. Without Prince Jacaerys, I'd have never had this opportunity. He clenched his fist. I swear that I will place your mother upon the Iron Throne, my Prince. He was so focused on how to respond to the Queen he was almost knocked off his feet when Baela crashed into him.

Hugging him through his armor tightly, Baela smiled fiercely through her tears. "I too wish that Jacaerys could have seen you return his baby brother safely." Standing on her toes, she leaned closer to whisper in Gaemon's ear: "Thank you for saving my brother… brother." At that point Gaemon couldn't help but return her embrace.

Chapter Text

Gyles I

Gyles Yronwood swatted a fly crawling across the back of his neck. He watched as a stout woman in brown roughspun clothing dropped a bucket tied to a length of rope into a well, before drawing it back up with a look of exertion evident on her face, even given the distance between her and Gyles. Pouring the water from the bucket into a crude clay jar, she picked the jar up and began walking the short distance back to the village from the well on its outskirts.

"What'll it be, m'lord?" Mors asked him. This wasn't the first time that the grizzled squire had asked Gyles that question. Given the significant amount of bad blood shared between the Dornish and the Stormlanders, Gyles knew that it was more than a valid question to ask.

Gyles and his squire had been keeping off of the main roads and taking side paths and tracks through the wide plains north of the Boneway, doing their best to avoid being seen by any scouts that frequently roved along the marches, searching for the ever-present threat of a Dornish raiding party. Though he was no raider, Gyles was fairly confident that the Stormlanders would sooner kill him than listen to any explanation that he could give for why he had entered their lands. Gyles' own grandsire had been killed in Prince Morion Martell's failed invasion of the Stormlands, burning to death as the fires of House Targaryen's dragons immolated the ship that he was aboard. Gyles hoped that the Seven had a kinder fate in store for him. Gyles' journey with Mors across the plains in the southern Stormlands had been a tense one, but they had thankfully only been spotted and chased but once by scouts bearing badges with the forked lightning of House Dondarrion not long after exiting the Boneway. Gyles had wounded one of the scouts with an arrow from his recurved bow, which slowed the other scouts down as they checked on their comrade. That had given Gyles and Mors enough time to ride further into the plains as night fell, losing the scouts.

As plains turned into forests, Gyles had found it much easier to avoid unwanted attention, using his bow to catch animals for he and Mors to skin, cook, and eat. They drank water and refilled their waterskins from the occasional stream. But Gyles had still not answered his squire's question.

"I suppose we should ride into the village and see how they react. I tire of sleeping on the forest floor, and we desperately need more information about this war between dragons."

Mors nodded with an affirmative grunt, and spit out the gob of sourleaf that he had been chewing on all morning. Walking back into the forest from its edge where they had spent some time surveying the village, Gyles tore a clump of grass from the forest floor, and made his way over to the tree where he'd tied up his sand steed, Evenfall. The magnificent horse was a dark gold color, with a burnished bronze mane, which to Gyles' eyes gave it the look of a sunset. Stroking its mane, he fed it the grass, then set about untying it from the tree. Mors was doing the same with his spotted rounsey. For a brief moment, Gyles considered removing his sand-colored silk doublet with the black portcullis sigil of his house, before deciding against it. The armor I wear is enough to set me apart from any knight north of Dorne, even in the eyes of the smallfolk.

His armor was crafted in a way that was different from the heavy plate common to knights throughout the rest of Westeros. They prided themselves on suits of shiny and heavy plate that dazzled the eye, and provided significant protection from most kinds of weaponry. Dornish armor was also crafted to protect and impress, but as the knights of the Reach had learned in the First Dornish War, heavy plate proved a curse when navigating the deep deserts of Dorne under a relentless sun. It was for this reason that Dornish armor was built with greater mobility and a lighter weight in mind. Gyles' own armor had burnished copper worked into the pauldrons, as well as bordering his breastplate, greaves, and vambraces. His visored helm was fashioned in a conical shape, with a sand-colored silk scarf wrapped tightly around its top to help stave off the heat of the sun. For the time being, however, Gyles left his helm within his saddlebag. His recurved bow was also unstrung and stored safely within its leather case that was secured alongside his saddle bag on Evenfall. Hoping for the best, Gyles rode out from the forest, crossing a small field of recently-hewn wheat before reaching the dirt track that led directly into the village.

It did not take long for the villagers to observe Gyles and Mors approaching their homes. By the time he had reached the village center, several stooped old men in rusty scraps of armor and young boys had gathered to halt his approach. A few carried equally tarnished and rusty dirks and swords, while most simply clutched hoes, scythes, and large sticks. A large-bellied man in a stained apron with a wooden right foot had leveled a crossbow at him. Hobbling forward, the man with the crossbow was the first to speak.

"That's close enough. My eyes may be getting old, but I still know a Dornishman whens I sees one. We'll suffer no raiding here."

Gyles lifted one hand from Evenfall's reins, palm spread wide in what he hoped was a placating enough gesture.

"Peace, good man. I am Ser Gyles Yronwood. My squire and I visit in peace. We simply request some food, rooms to spend the night in, and information. We have the coin to prove it."

The crossbowman's mouth had twisted into a deeper frown as Gyles spoke. "Forgive me for saying so, Ser, but when Dornishmen have come to visit our homes, it's never been for food and polite conversation. Raiders out of the Boneway is the reason I got a foot o' wood."

Gyles considered his next words carefully. He certainly hadn't spent such a significant amount of time avoiding roads and hostile scouting parties to just get a crossbow bolt through the throat. Looking beyond the assembled menfolk of the village to a large two-story stone and timber structure, Gyles nodded in its direction."Is that an inn?"

The crossbowman nodded warily, still pointing his weapon at Gyles' face. "Yes Ser. Tis the Bent Buckle. Been in my family for generations." He then transfixed Gyles with an accusatory glare. "Theres I go running my mouth again. What's that inn to you?"

Gyles looked back to the innkeeper with the wooden foot. "In Dorne, we hold to the custom of Guest Right just as seriously as anywhere else in Westeros. Allow me some of your bread and salt, to prove the truth of my words." The innkeeper and the other men and boys stood still, their faces rife with expressions of indecision. No matter where you are in Westeros, one does not take a request for Guest Right lightly, lest they fear the wrath of the Gods.

The innkeeper finally lowered his crossbow, with a less hostile expression gracing his features. Seeming to follow his lead, the other men and boys lowered their weapons as well. "Fine then," grunted the innkeep. "Come into the inn with your squire while my boys tie up your horses. I'll bring ya the bread and salt." Smiling his most charming smile, Gyles nodded his assent. My silver tongue wins the day again.

After he and Mors had eaten of the bread and salt, thereby observing Guest Right, the tense atmosphere had lessened considerably. While Mors and Gyles awaited more food, many of the villagers came into the common room to gawk at them. Their eyes seemed particularly transfixed on Gyles, and the armor that he wore. This is likely the first time they've ever seen a Dornishman up close, Gyles mused to himself. From the stories of us they were told as children, they're likely surprised that I don't have horns and breathe fire. The innkeep (named Dickon, like his father before him) brought Gyles and Mors some rabbit stew from the kitchens, along with more freshly baked brown bread and ale. At Gyles' request, Dickon and many of the villagers joined him and Mors at the long trestle table in the common room with their own bowls of stew and tankards of ale. Gyles began the evening by answering the many questions about himself and his home that they had (yes, the Dornishmen worshipped the Seven, no, they did not drink the blood of their enemies, yes, the sun was much hotter in Dorne, and so on). After Gyles felt that he had sufficiently spent time sating the curiosity of the village folk, he began asking questions of his own.

Though he could tell that much of the news and information he was being given was prone to embellishment by the excitable villagers, as night fell Gyles felt that he knew much more of the situation north of Dorne than he had since riding out of the Boneway. Apparently, the realm of the dragonlords was bitterly divided between support for the eldest child of the old king, a daughter, and the children of the old king's second wife, which included several sons. It seemed that none could agree whether an older daughter should inherit over a younger son, and the realm of the dragon was bleeding for it. Gyles could only grin to himself. In Dorne, such a question is much more easily resolved. If you're the eldest child of the Lord or Lady, it doesn't matter what you have between your legs, you're the heir. This type of succession was a custom brought by Nymeria and her Rhoynar to Dorne, and had not spread beyond the passes of the Red Mountains.

Though all Houses in Dorne were expected to follow this tradition without complaint, some of them, such as Gyles' own family the Yronwoods, were of much older blood and tradition in Dorne than the Rhoynar. It was not uncommon for older daughters of these Houses to be married off and disinherited so that younger sons could inherit. This was not always the rule, however. Gyles' own distant cousin, the current Lord Yronwood, had two daughters and several younger sons. However, he fully intended for his eldest daughter to inherit after him. Considering the war of succession being fought between the Targaryen family, Gyles shook his head. What a mess. But, mayhaps in all this chaos and upheaval, there is a chance for even a hated Dornishman like myself to rise high. Gyles certainly couldn't return home, not after what had happened at the wedding of Lord Alaric Yronwood's younger daughter to the heir to Wyl. The vengeful one-armed Lord Wyland Wyl would see to that.

As the night grew late, many of the villagers began to drift back home to their huts, and Gyles prepared to retire to his quarters for the evening. As he made to do so, he made eye contact with a pretty girl that had caught his attention the moment she'd entered the inn. He raised one eyebrow at her, then winked at her before giving his best grin. She giggled quietly, then looked in the direction of the stairs leading to the inn's second floor, before looking back at Gyles with an inquisitive grin of her own. Gyles simply nodded with a smile, and his smile widened as he watched her climb the steps before he'd reached them. This evening gets better and better. Wasting no further time, he climbed the steps quickly.

The tallow candle within his room was burning low, and by Gyles' estimation it must have been very close to the hour of the wolf. The cot that he currently shared with the village girl was barely large enough for the both of them, and the straw mattress made his back itch. Nevertheless, Gyles was more than content. Feeling the girl laying beside him shift to face him, he turned to meet her gaze.

With a soft smile, she began to whisper. "I've heard the tales that the merchants bring to our village about the Dornish and their paramours. Prithee, m'lord, take me with you when you leave. I'll cook your meals, clean your clothes, and…" her face took on a bright red color, and she bit her lip. "I'll gladly warm your bed every night. But please, take me with you. Nothing ever happens in this village, and with Lord Buckler taking all the able men of marrying age to fight in the war, I won't have anyone." She fell silent, watching Gyles' face with a pleading expression.

Gyles wanted to grimace, but he carefully kept as neutral an expression on his face that he could, as the flickering candlelight threw long shadows throughout the darkened room. Seven hells. Tread carefully here. You don't need any more potential problems than you've already got. Smiling warmly at the girl, he collected his thoughts. "My lady," Gyles began, taking note of how the girl smiled at the honorific, "my squire and I ride off to this war ourselves. As an anointed knight, I cannot in good conscience expose you to the dangers this will entail. However, you have my word that you will be the first person I seek out should my travels return me to this village."

He could tell by the way her smile fell slightly that it was not the answer she wanted, but all the same she seemed to accept it. A smile did return to her face, but it was much more mischievous than any she had given Gyles before. "Well then m'lord," she said, blushing, "I s'pose I'll just have to ensure that you remember me during your travels." Gyles grinned back at her. I won't be getting much sleep tonight.

Daisy, the girl that Gyles had shared the previous night with, was no liar. I will certainly never forget her. Gyles grinned, feeling more pleased than any other time since he'd left his home. He and Mors had set out early, thanking Dickon for the food, beds, and information that he'd provided them. Gyles had paid him handsomely, and assured Dickon that the silver Spears and copper Shields he'd given him were the same weight and worth as silver Stags and copper Stars. The Martells were a proud ruling family, and ensured that their own currency carried just as much value as the minted coins of the dragon kings. A golden Dragon or a golden Sun, both coins had the same weight. Gyles had also paid Dickon for extra provisions that he and Mors could carry along with them, so they wouldn't have to spend time hunting for their dinner as before.

With directions from Dickon, Gyles and his squire were making for the large thoroughfare known as the Kingsroad. If they followed the directions correctly, Gyles was informed that they would reach the road a short distance north of the castle of Bronzegate, the seat of House Buckler and the overlords of the village that Gyles and Mors had spent the night in. Once they reached the Kingsroad, Gyles hoped to make his way to the city of King's Landing. If I'm to swear my sword during these trying times, I might as well aim as high as possible. Given that they had nearly reached the furthest northern bounds of the Stormlands, and the news that Lord Borros Baratheon was gathering his levies at Storm's End, Gyles was less apprehensive about himself and Mors taking the main roads, and was now more focused on making good time than moving slowly with caution. His squire hadn't protested the change of tactic, and rode behind Gyles along the dusty dirt trail that led through the forests north of the village towards the Kingsroad.

As he rode through the forest, watching the early morning light sift between the branches and foliage of the forest surrounding him, Gyles' thoughts began to wander, and he thought of home. As the only living child of the steward of Yronwood castle, who was himself the cousin of Lord Alaric Yronwood, Gyles had been afforded an education and training as fine as that of any lord's son, training from a young age in arms and riding with the castle's master-at-arms, and receiving tutelage under the castle's maester along with the children of the lord, his cousins, who were largely of an age with Gyles. Gyles spent much of his free time with his own father, accompanying him as he performed his duties as the castle's steward. Gyles had shown a natural talent with his numbers, sums, and organizational skills, which had given Gyles' father hope that his son would one day succeed him as the steward of Yronwood. From the beginning, however, Gyles' true passion was archery, and it had not taken him long to begin winning every archery tournament hosted by the lords of the Red Mountains. Though he was skilled with both the longbow and recurved bow, Gyles greatly preferred the latter. On his eighteenth nameday, Gyles had been granted his knighthood by Lord Alaric, and Gyles' own father had given him an exquisite gift: a recurved bow crafted from Goldenheart wood of the Summer Isles.

If he was being honest with himself, Gyles largely didn't regret the circumstances that led to his exile. He did regret the pain that it brought to his father and mother, however. I'm their only living child, and it is likely that they'll never see me again. That was something that Gyles felt a great deal of guilt over, and likely would for the rest of his days. In the span of a single wedding, Gyles had gone from a life of ease as the future steward of Yronwood castle and celebrated archer, to a life running from the wrath of House Wyl, flinging himself into lands where he was likely to be executed simply for being born on the wrong side of the Boneway.

No woman is worth all this trouble, thought Gyles, but his exile had in part begun by the time he'd spent with one. Her name is Jennelyn. The exceedingly lovely daughter of Castle Wyl's captain of the guards, Gyles had been smitten with her the moment he'd seen her. Lord Alaric had brought much of his household with him to Castle Wyl to celebrate the marriage of his younger daughter to the son and heir of one-armed Lord Wyland Wyl. Gyles and his parents had been part of this group of visitors. The wedding itself had gone perfectly, and the feast afterwards as well. It was during the feast that Gyles had sought out Jennelyn, and she had enthusiastically accepted his offer to, as he had put it, "have a bedding of their own."

It was not until the next day that Gyles had learned that Jennelyn was the paramour of Lord Wyland's youngest son, a man who had taken great offense to Gyles spending the night with the fair Jennelyn. Heated words at the farewell feast had dissolved into a fight, started by Lord Wyland's youngest son, who had been deep in his cups. Gyles, who had also been in his cups, had been taken off guard, and found himself receiving a savage beating. Desperately trying to get free of the enraged man seemingly trying to beat him to death, Gyles had grabbed the first object that his scrabbling hands could find, and slammed it into his assailant's face, hoping to stun the man. Unfortunately, that object was a knife, and Lord Wyland's youngest son died the moment Gyles shoved the blade through his eye.

Though Lord Wyland had wanted Gyles thrown into the viper pits his family was known for keeping, Lord Alaric and Lord Wyland's own septon had reminded the enraged man that his own son had started the fight and broken the sanctity of Guest Right, while Gyles had been merely defending himself. Lord Wyl was implacable in his wroth however, and it was eventually decided that Gyles must needs leave Dorne as his punishment, never to return. Gyles had wanted to protest the unfairness of the verdict, but he was only a steward's son, distantly related to the main line of House Yronwood, while Lord Wyland had much greater status than he. In the end, Gyles had bid goodbye to his devastated parents, and continued north along the Boneway from Castle Wyl, along with a grizzled squire from Lord Alaric's retinue named Mors who had volunteered to accompany him and do his best to keep him safe. And to share in whatever successes I may have in the realm of dragons. Regardless of the old squire's true motivations, he had been loyal and helpful throughout the journey, and Gyles was grateful to him.

Gyles' attention returned to the path ahead of him as it began to widen, the trees around it becoming further and further apart in distance. Eventually, Gyles and Mors rode through a small field of tall grass up to a wide and dusty road flanked by massive and ancient trees that had stood long before the dragonlords had conquered all the lands of Westeros, save Dorne. Deciding that some caution was still necessary, Gyles fed Evenfall some grass from the roadside, then retrieved his helm from his saddle bag and secured it in place with Mors' help. He also took time to string his goldenheart recurved bow, and ensure that he could easily access his quiver of arrows from where they were attached to Evenfall's saddle. Turning to Mors, he nodded in the squire's direction as he climbed back atop Evenfall. "Onward to King's Landing," he said, and the squire merely nodded, adjusting his halfhelm atop his head, and pushing another piece of sourleaf into his mouth.

Of all the ways he'd envisioned the capital of the dragon kings' realm, Gyles hadn't expected the smell of shit to be this strong. It had taken him and Mors a further relatively uneventful two days of riding along the Kingsroad to reach the Blackwater rush, and another half of a day to secure passage across the river on a barge to reach the southern wall of the city. It had taken Gyles and Mors some time to gain access through the city's River Gate. From what Gyles could overhear as the gold-cloaked city guards conversed amongst themselves, they were under very strict orders to closely monitor each person entering the city, and as a Dornish knight, Gyles was sufficiently conspicuous as to arouse suspicion. Gyles had a feeling that something had happened to make the gate guards so distrustful of all new visitors, but he had no idea exactly what that was.

As he'd waited with Mors near the massive gate, he'd looked to the giant black banner flapping in the wind above it. A golden dragon? Gyles had thought. I thought it was red. Not long after, however, the guardsmen had decided to ask what his business in the city was. Gyles had told them that as a nobleman and anointed knight, he planned on swearing his sword to the royal family. The guards had laughed uproariously at that.

Wiping tears from his eyes, their serjeant had shaken his head in disbelief. "A bloody Dornishman serving the King? Right. I would get to fuck the Queen Dowager before a Dornishman is allowed into the royal retinue!"

Scowling, Gyles had asked if he had their permission to enter the city, and the still-laughing serjeant had merely waved a dismissive hand at Gyles and Mors, waving them through the gate. At Mors' suggestion, they had stopped at one of the inns just beyond the River Gate, where many sailors and merchants whose ships were at port in the city stayed. "Them's the ones with the most information to be found, and only for the price of a tankard or two of cheap ale," the squire had said, and Gyles had agreed with the man's sage advice.

Entering an inn known as "The Merry Shipwright", Gyles and Mors found seats in the corner of the foul-smelling structure, ordering tankards of ale from a sour-mouthed serving wench who ducked and dodged between lascivious stares and groping hands as she went to retrieve their drinks. They spent several minutes sipping ale that tasted like piss, watching for any people that piqued their interest. Mors eventually pointed out a man with the look of a mildly successful merchant, which meant that he looked only slightly cleaner and better-dressed than the majority of the people filling the cramped space.

Making their way over to the man, Gyles and Mors sat at the table that the man had originally kept to himself. Watching them with suspicious and beady eyes from within a sallow and corpulent face, the merchant eventually broke the silence.

"Whaddya want? I'm a busy man, and I don't got time for Flea Bottom scum." The man then took a closer look at Gyles through the haze filling the common room, or rather the quality of the armor that he was wearing, and a more calculating gleam appeared in his eyes. A greasy grin spread across the man's face, exposing crooked and mossy teeth that were as brown as mud. "Apologies, Ser. Clearly you are a cut above the filth that usually infests this establishment. How can I help you today?"

Gyles gave the man his charming smile, and waved the sour-mouthed wench over to the table. "Pardon me, miss," Gyles said, before nodding in the direction of the merchant, "but please get this man whatever drink he would like. I'll pay." During the exchange, the merchant's disgusting grin had grown even wider. Gyles allowed the merchant to enjoy several sips of the cheap wine that he'd ordered before speaking up. "My squire and I arrived in the city only just today. Our journey has been a long one, and I fear that I know little and less of the state of this city."

The merchant nodded thoughtfully, smacking his lips as he took a long swig from his wine. "I took you for a Dornishman the moment I truly got a look at that armor of yours. A nobleman too. I see sailors and merchants out of the Planky Town from time to time, but I've never seen a nobleman from Dorne in this land of dragons."

Gyles grinned. "I would say that Dornish knights are not oft a welcome sight within the dragonlords' realm. Were my circumstances different, I would wager that it would be much more beneficial to my continued health and prosperity if I had stayed in my home. Alas, I find myself in a strange city far from the land where I was born, and I now turn to you, a man of clear knowledge and ability, to help me understand how the city of King's Landing fares." Gyles took another swig of his ale, suppressing a grimace. I was mistaken. Piss would likely taste better than this.

The merchant chuckled, wagging a sausage-like finger at Gyles. "I'm not such a fool to fall for such clear flattery. But you bought me a drink, and offered me those flowery compliments all the same. I'd say that earns you some information." Taking another long sip of wine, the merchant continued. "The city has been in a tense state since the King's eldest son and heir, the prince Jaehaerys, was murdered. From what I've heard, the boy was beheaded right in front o' his siblings and mother. A nasty business, that. They caught one of the murderers, but t'other, a ratcatcher, slipped through their fingers. King Aegon in his wroth had every ratcatcher in the city hanged." The merchant paused to take another swig of wine. "Not too long ago, there was a fight north of the city, at the seat o' Lord Staunton. Twas the King and his brother against a princess on the side of Queen Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys. The three fought on dragonback, and the King and his brother emerged victorious, killing the princess and her dragon. I saw its head myself when it was drawn by cart through the streets of this very city. From what I hear, however, both the King and his dragon were hurt quite badly during the fight. Lots o' folk tried to leave the city following the battle, but the Queen Dowager barred the city gates for a time. Bad for trade, that, but I suppose I would have done the same if I were some royal on Aegon's High Hill." The merchant then shrugged. "That's about all that I know. Many thanks for the drink, friend."

Gyles merely nodded, trying to process all that he had just been told. Murder and dragonflame. I'm no maester, but that seems quite a dangerous mix to me. Dragons were fearsome creatures, and Gyles' forebears had stood no chance against them, instead fleeing from their seats until the danger passed. The only time I've heard of a dragon dying in battle was when those crazy Ullers shot down one of the old Aegon's sister-wives on her dragon. This war will be like none that Westeros has ever seen if dragons fight dragons in the skies. Leaving the merchant with enough coin to pay for his drink, along with a little extra for the useful information that he gave, Gyles made his way to the door of the inn. Mors drained the remainder of his tankard of ale before following.

Working as a hired sword for a brothel was not Gyles' first choice for employment, but he supposed that it would have to do for the time being. Atop Visenya's Hill, the House of Kisses was not located along the Street of Silk like many of the city's brothels, but as Gyles had quickly learned, the higher one traveled up any of the three hills, the higher the quality of the businesses and homes became, including the brothels. With their skill at arms, Gyles and Mors were both able to secure a place among the guards at one of the most prestigious brothels in the city. The job provided a bed to sleep in inside of a small room in which to secure his belongings, as well as meals and wine that tasted half-decent. In exchange for the food and lodgings, however, Gyles was paid no coin, and much to his chagrin, the services of the women in the House of Kisses were not free to the brothel's guards. In order to save the coin he had left, Gyles had to be content with nothing more than flirting with them.

When he wasn't working, it had become Gyles' custom to ride out into the city and seek information and rumors about the goings-on within the King's court. Gyles and Mors had been rebuffed at the gates of the Red Keep not long after they'd arrived at the city, and ever since then Gyles sought opportunities to access the court of the royal family. So far, however, he had been unsuccessful. Gyles sat in the common room of the House of Kisses, frustratedly nursing a bottle of wine between himself and Mors on one of the nights they had off. Unless the situation within this city changes significantly, it is likely that I'll never step inside that damn castle. Business was slow that evening, and Gyles' dark mood improved slightly as he observed two of the brothel's whores approaching the table that he and Mors sat at.

Both of them drew out the remaining chairs around the small table, seating themselves. Gyles spent a moment silently observing both. The first of the two had pale white skin, with a light splash of freckles on her shoulders and across her face. She had long light brown hair, along with sparkling green eyes and a sweet smile. Like all the whores at the House of Kisses, she wore a sheer silk dress that hid little and less of her curvaceous body from the eye. Her dress was green, matching her eyes. Reaching down, she lifted a small boy onto her knee. By the freckles on the boy's face, Gyles could tell that the boy was the child of the whore in green. However, he had bright eyes of lilac, and pale white-gold hair. The other whore had olive skin, with thick raven hair drawn into a braid. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, and gleamed with a calculating intelligence. She smiled at Gyles with white teeth, but the smile was sharp as a dagger. Wearing a sheer silk dress of deep purple, hers was a more slender beauty than that of the whore next to her.

The woman in purple spoke first, in a lilting tone that was common to the people of Dorne living along the region's coasts, having the most Rhoynish ancestry of any of Dorne's peoples. "You might be the very first Dornishman I've seen to make it this far north of the Red Mountains. It's good to see that I'll finally have someone who'll fully appreciate my wit." The woman held out a delicate, sun-kissed hand. "My name is Sylvenna Sand. Now what is your name, Ser Yronwood?" She grinned, clearly awaiting a response.

Gyles smiled back, pleased that for once he didn't have to explain what House the sigil on his doublet belonged to. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Sylvenna. As you correctly surmised, I am Ser Gyles of House Yronwood. Your surname indicates that you have some noble blood in your veins as well. May I ask what House you hail from?" He sipped his wine as the woman responded.

"My father was a Dalt, and the previous Knight of Lemonwood. I was born to a whore in the Planky Town, but my father took me to be raised at Lemonwood. Upon his death, however, his son and heir made it clear to me that I was no longer welcome, so I took passage on a ship out of the Planky Town and made my way to this city. I have resided in the House of Kisses ever since." Gyles nodded. It seems we're both far from a home that we're no longer welcome in.

Gyles nodded in respect at Sylvenna Sand before speaking again. "Well it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady." Turning to the woman with the child on her knee, he addressed her next. "And your name is?"

Smiling brightly at him, the woman responded in a cheery tone. "My name is Esselyn, m'lord, but everybody knows me as Essie." Patting the head of the boy on her knee affectionately, she continued to speak. "This here is my son Gaemon. He's been blessed with the look of the dragon. If not for Sylvenna having recognized your sigil, I would have taken you for having dragonblood as well!" The young boy had begun to suck his thumb, and looked around the common room in several different directions, seemingly becoming bored.

Gyles smiled kindly at her. "An easy mistake to make, miss. However, my family is known for their blond hair, and I inherited my eyes from my mother." Gyles' mother was born a Dayne of High Hermitage, and like many of her family, she had eyes of a deep violet color. Like her, Gyles' own eyes were a deep violet, and in his own opinion were one of his best features.

Sylvenna Sand politely cleared her throat, and Gyles turned back to face her. Steepling her fingers under her chin, she addressed Gyles once again. "If I may be so bold, Ser, what is your purpose in this city? I am sure you know as well as I that the Dornish are not well-loved beyond the Red Mountains, and I'm willing to wager that whatever journey you made to reach this city was fraught with risk." Gyles had refilled his cup with wine as she spoke, and took another small sip.

Considering her question a moment, Gyles spoke up. "It is my hope to join the court of the royal family, and swear my sword to them. However, I have had no luck in even gaining access to the keep. Mistrust seems to run deep in every part of this city." He sat back, feeling some of his earlier frustration return as he considered just how impossible his situation felt. I can't return home, and despite my family name, status as a knight, and skill at arms, the region of my birth prevents me from being seen as anything but an enemy in the eyes of most people in this damned city.

Looking back at Sylvenna Sand, Gyles saw that she had a small smile on her face. She stood from her seat, and Essie followed her lead, gathering her young son in her arms before standing as well. Walking to Gyles' side, Sylvenna Sand embraced him. To any throughout the room, it appeared as though she was merely showing a potential client some affection, but the Dornishwoman used the embrace as an opportunity to whisper a quiet message in his ear. "Take heart, Ser Gyles Yronwood," she whispered lightly. "In these trying times, it would be easier to predict which way the wind will blow than to guess at who will rule the realm by the war's end." Offering him one more sharp grin, Sylvenna Sand crossed the common room gracefully to the steps leading further up into the quarters of the whores of The House of Kisses, with Essie hurrying after her. Neither woman looked back. Gyles sat back, considering what Sylvenna Sand had said. I suppose I'll just have to wait a while longer yet, and see if my fortunes change.

Chapter Text

Maegor II

The servant gave Maegor a quick bow as she entered his chambers. Maegor had bid her to enter his room after hearing her light knock at his door. "The cooks are serving breakfast in the common room. Would you like some brought up to you, Ser?" That's right. I'm a knight now. The day after the battle at the Gullet, the Queen had called all of the dragonseeds into the Great Hall. Maegor, Gaemon, Addam, Hugh, Ulf, and Nettles had been bid to kneel before the Queen on her dais, flanked by her sons, the Princes Aegon and Viserys. Queen Rhaenyra's cousin, the Lady Baela, watched from the wings along with the Queen's Lords and knights.

For their leal service, and in the memory of the much-lamented death of the Prince of Dragonstone, all of the dragonseeds were to be knighted, with the exception of Nettles, who was instead promised an exceptional dowry from the Crown for when she chose to marry. Addam Velaryon was naturally knighted by his grandfather, Lord Corlys the Sea Snake. However, the Sea Snake also knighted Maegor and Gaemon, declaring that for their actions in saving Spicetown and High Tide the day previous, they were both considered "steadfast friends of House Velaryon." Ser Lorent Marbrand, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, knighted Ulf and Hugh. Afterwards, the Queen had declared that there would be a feast held in the evening to commemorate her son, the Prince Jacaerys, and to celebrate the great victory that he had led the seeds in winning, though he hadn't lived to see it. The seeds had been bid to return to their quarters and prepare for the feast.

Realizing that he had been letting his thoughts wander, as he was regularly wont to do, Maegor sat up further in his bed and faced the servant girl. "No thank you, Serra. I believe that I'll break my fast in the common room today." The girl nodded, and gave a quick curtsey before exiting his chambers, quietly closing the door behind her. Climbing from his bed, Maegor walked to the small window in his chamber and stretched, enjoying the feeling of his muscles tightening, chasing any lingering tiredness from his frame. The morning air was a refreshing caress to his face, and Maegor liked looking through the window, far beyond the castle and surrounding village out to the distant sea. At the end of the day, the open water was as true a home to Maegor as any other place that he'd lived throughout his life. Vaster than any castle in Westeros, and teeming with more riches than the vaults of kings.

Crossing his room, Maegor found a pair of black breeches, which he pulled on. He then dressed himself in a black silk doublet, with a proud red three-headed dragon stitched skillfully across its front. He pulled on a pair of supple leather boots, dyed a deep black color to match the rest of the clothing he'd been fitted for. Standing in front of a silvered mirror placed in one of the corners of his chambers, Maegor regarded his appearance, running a hand through his short brown hair. Stormy blue-grey eyes looked back at him from a face settled in a passive expression.

Standing at six-and-a-half feet tall, and weighing somewhere over sixteen stone, Maegor knew he was a striking figure. From a life previously spent at sea hauling nets full of fish, Maegor was quite strong and muscled, though had been somewhat lean. Though never underfed throughout his life, upon beginning to live at Dragonstone's castle and eating the fare usually reserved for lords and knights, Maegor's frame had begun to fill out more, making him look even more imposing than before. Of all the seeds, he was most similar in appearance to Hugh, the smith's bastard. However, though he was slightly taller, Maegor knew he was nowhere near as strong as Hugh, having seen the man win a bet made with a guardsman by twisting a steel bar from Dragonstone's forge.

Continuing to regard himself in the mirror, Maegor wondered if he bore any resemblance to his namesake and great-great-grandsire. From all the stories he'd heard, Maegor the Cruel had been a huge and hulking man, though Maegor assumed that his namesake had been blessed with the looks of Valyria unlike himself. Maegor's mother had brown hair and blue-grey eyes, making Maegor the only child of hers and Denys' to not in some way resemble the dragonlords that Maegor, his father, and brothers were descended from. "Mayhaps you are," his brother Aenys had said when Maegor had asked his father and brothers if they thought he was similar in size to their ancestor. "But methinks you aren't half as sour as he was. He certainly wasn't remembered as Maegor the Soft-Spoken, or the Gentle." With a grin, Maegor's brother had continued. "Such a shame. The body of a warrior wasted on a man with the heart of a Septon." Maegor found himself smiling at the memory, before it quickly twisted into a bitter frown as the sadness returned. Looking away from the mirror, Maegor exited his chambers and descended the steps to the common room.

As he approached the table, he saw that he was not the only seed making an early start to the day. Gaemon sat at the table, as well as Nettles. Gaemon grinned and made a joking flourish with his hand to an open seat, and Nettles simply gave him a friendly nod as she peeled an apple with a knife that she usually kept up her sleeve. Maegor took the seat that his friend had offered him, and thanked a servant when they offered him a bowl of honeyed porridge. Taking a bite of the porridge, Maegor was pleased at the sweet taste. Though simple fare for a Lord or knight, things like porridge with honey were a delight to Maegor. Chewing, he thought about the feast that had occurred the day he'd received his knighthood.

The food had been unlike anything he'd ever seen before, much less tasted. For their crucial role and heroism in the battle, the dragonseeds had been given seats of exceptional prestige and honor directly below the Queen's high table. Maegor was situated towards the right end of the seeds' table, with Gaemon on his left and Nettles on his right. Course after course was served, and Maegor couldn't believe how good all the food had tasted. To name a few, they included roasted pig drizzled in a honeyed sauce, capons cooked in a crusting of sugared almonds, and hearty soups tasting of spices that Maegor never knew existed. It seemed the flow of food would never end. Despite the celebratory nature and good spirits shared by most of the feasts' attendees, it seemed to Maegor as though a cloud hung over the high table, dampening the spirits of all who sat at it.

As he sat and ate, Maegor could only think of how his father had boasted that he and his sons would sup at the Queen's table. How excited he had been to hear those words. Yet now he kept company with none of his family save their lingering dreams and ambitions that haunted his thoughts. Looking up at the Queen's table, Maegor observed those who sat and ate at it. At the left end was Lady Baela, followed by Prince Viserys, and then the Queen herself. To her left was her son Prince Aegon, followed by Lord Corlys and his grandsons.

Maegor's gaze had lingered on the faces of the Princes, neither of whom seemed interested in the food being presented to them. Maegor realized that they had lost two brothers in a short amount of time, just like him. The Lady Baela ate with enough of the poise expected of a noblewoman, but there was no trace of anything but sadness in her features or demeanor. He knew that until the day before, she had been the betrothed of the Prince of Dragonstone, destined to one day rule as Queen herself. Maegor suspected that the only thing that the royal family truly wished to do was grieve, but their obligation to celebrate a great victory forced them to be gracious hosts, hiding their sadness behind polite toasts and acknowledgements of valor and service to their cause. The Queen's forces had won a great victory, but men died in great victories, and the price of this one had been a beloved Prince.

Looking up from his bowl of porridge, Maegor looked across the table at Gaemon and cleared his throat. When his friend turned to regard him, one eyebrow raised, Maegor began to speak quietly. "I feel that it is long past time that I accept your offer to accompany you to the training yard. Now that we're knights, I feel that I would be remiss to not have at least some knowledge of how to wield a sword." In the short silence following his statement, Maegor felt awkward, and a little ashamed. He realized that he had barely even spoken to his friend in the time since he arrived at Dragonstone's citadel. Much of the words spoken between the two of them had been Gaemon suggesting things that Maegor could do at the castle, with Maegor morosely refusing and continuing his self-imposed isolation whenever possible.

Gaemon simply grinned and nodded enthusiastically. "Alright then. I'm sure that Ser Marbrand will make a fine warrior of you. However, I must warn you that if we're to spar, I won't go easy on you just because we're from the same village!" Maegor's friend chuckled after his statement, clearly indicating that it was one made in jest and without malice. Maegor gave him a wan smile.

Gaemon then turned to Nettles, who had begun to eat the apple she had peeled. "And you, Nettles? Surely you must have found things to do in this castle beyond scandalizing the knights and their ladies at every opportunity?"

Nettles' face broke into a crooked grin, and she chuckled, taking another large bite out of her apple. "I'll be feeding another sheep to my Sheepstealer after I finish breaking my own fast. I'm worried that ugly bastard will start to forget who tamed him if I don't." Feigning a haughty look and accent that Maegor had seen and heard from many noblewomen throughout the castle, the girl continued. "You'll have to pardon me for not accompanying you to the yard to watch you train, good sers." Gaemon laughed, and Maegor found himself smiling at the jape. Nettles grinned, but it soured after a moment. "I'd honestly have preferred if the Queen had given me a damn knighthood like the rest of ya. The only reward I've been given is a dowry. Seems to me all that does is make my lowborn cunny a bit more appealing to those highborn arses." With that, the girl returned her knife to its sheath hidden within her sleeve, and gave Maegor and Gaemon a final smirk before standing and striding to the door leading out to the yard. Opening the door, she took another wet crunching bite from her apple, and disappeared beyond it into the morning light.

"Keep your shield up!" Ser Lorent Marbrand's voice rang across the yard, but Maegor had already fallen for his opponent's feint. Maegor grunted as the blunted sword struck his side. He'd overcommitted himself in an attempt to press an opening that he thought he'd found in his opponent's stance. Instead, he'd opened himself up to a quick retaliatory strike that would have been as painful as it would have been fatal had the swords been sharp castle-forged steel. He could tell that he'd have a large bruise from that hit. Maegor nodded in acknowledgement at the young man who had landed the blow.

The squire, only about a year younger than Maegor himself, inclined his head back at Maegor before speaking. "Well fought. Your size and reach will prove most useful as you become more experienced with a blade." He then turned and exited the dusty ring as Lord Commander Marbrand entered to speak with Maegor.

Pointing at the shield on Maegor's arm, Marbrand began to speak. "A shield is meant for more than simply displaying a knight's heraldry, young ser. I've been watching you as I've had you spar with different opponents. I can tell that you try to think out your moves, even in the heat of combat. That can be dangerous, when crucial decisions need to be made from moment to moment." Lord Commander Marbrand paused for a moment, before tapping a mailed finger on the shield strapped to Maegor's arm. "That's what this is for. A shield will buy you some respite from an opponent's attacks if you use it well, but we knights train so as to make our swordplay more instinct than calculation. With many more years of experience, the time spent making decisions in a fight will lessen until the correct thrust or parry comes as naturally to a man as walking."

The sun was beginning to get low in the sky, and many had begun to trickle out of the training courtyard. However, several men remained, including Gaemon. Marbrand nodded at Maegor approvingly. "That's enough for today. No man walks away from his first day of training as skilled as Ser Galladon of Morne."

Maegor nodded at the veteran knight. "Thank you ser. It is an honor to be able to train under a man of such skill." Marbrand inclined his head in return, and Maegor turned to walk from the ring. It was then that he heard a hiccuping laugh ring out from a shadowed corridor opening into the training yard.

Ulf the White sauntered into view, swaying only slightly. It was clear that the man was in his cups, and after a moment Hugh the Hammer appeared as well. The giant man's face was similarly flushed, but he seemed much more cognizant of his surroundings than the other seed. Ulf regarded Maegor standing in the ring, and a grin spread across his face. "Aha! The fisherman is learning to fight. I s'pose tis only fitting. It'd be a shame for a knight to not know how to wield a sword."

Lord Commander Marbrand had turned to regard the silver-haired seed, a slight frown upon his face. "That he is. All men must needs begin somewhere. I daresay no man has come from his mother's womb with a sword in hand."

Ulf chuckled at the Lord Commander's words. "Fair enough, I s'pose." The man's face suddenly lit up. Grabbing a blunted sword and shield, Ulf hopped into the ring. Maegor was surprised that the man staggered only slightly when his feet hit the ground. "Then let me be your last fight of the day, Ser Maegor. I swear on me da's bones that I won't be too rough on ya."

Ser Marbrand had opened his mouth to retort, a full-fledged frown now having spread across his face, but Maegor tapped the knight on the shoulder. When the knight turned to face Maegor, Maegor pointed at the shield still on his arm. "It's alright, Ser. I would like to try fighting more with my shield, like you've suggested." Marbrand pursed his lips, obviously hesitant at allowing a novice to fight a man with more experience in swordplay who was very clearly in his cups.

After a moment's hesitation, the knight nodded. "Fine then. But the fight ends the moment either of you lands a decisive blow on the other. You are both anointed knights, and I expect you to spar as such." The Lord Commander exited the ring, leaving Maegor standing and facing Ulf, who was unable to stand still without a small amount of swaying. The man gave Maegor an over-the-top bow, which elicited several chuckles from the men remaining around the ring, the loudest of which rumbled forth from the lips of Hugh the Hammer.

Maegor raised his shield and stood firm, waiting for the drunken seed across from him to make the first move. Ulf swung his sword forward, testing Maegor, but Maegor easily turned the blow aside with his shield, as Ser Marbrand had taught him to do earlier that day. Maegor gave a probing jab of his own, but Ulf side-stepped and avoided the attack with surprising grace, laughing. Each time Maegor attempted to attack, the silver-haired seed would merely dodge or block the blow, laughing louder each time. He had made no further attempts of his own to attack. Maegor was beginning to grow angry, and the increasingly loud snickers from Hugh and several other onlookers did nothing to cool the simmering anger within Maegor. What enjoyment does this sot get from trying to enrage me? First his comments at the inn about my father and brothers, and now this jape of a sparring match. If not for the timely arrival of the guard at the inn that night, Maegor did not know what he would have done. I don't think I'd ever been as angry as I was in that moment.

After a cackling Ulf dodged another attack, Maegor had had enough. Hugh Hammer and several of the onlookers were laughing uproariously, shouting taunts like "Ya have him now Ulf!", or "Come now, Ser Maegor, you almost struck him that time!" Out of the corner of his eye, Maegor could see that several onlookers had not joined in the laughter or taunting. Lord Commander Marbrand had a very annoyed expression on his face, while Ser Harrold Darke, the former squire of the deceased Lord Commander Steffon Darklyn, was frowning. Gaemon was glaring darkly, looking angrily between Ulf and the laughing spectators.

Maegor gave up fighting defensively, and attempted to force an end to the fight by rushing forward at the pale-haired seed across from him. However, by the way he grinned, Maegor knew that he'd fallen right into the other man's trap. Knocking Maegor's heavy overhead swing aside with his own shield, Ulf swung his sword in a savage downward strike against Maegor's right knee. The explosion of pain made Maegor grimace in pain and collapse onto his other knee. His sword had clattered away upon being knocked from his grasp by Ulf's shield. Panting, Maegor struggled to maintain his balance and gather the strength to stand while Ulf bowed mockingly.

The seed chuckled disdainfully. "Apparently the giant has a weakness after all." Maegor struggled back to his feet, and glared at Ulf as he continued with his mockery. "Such a shame. Truth be told, I expected more from one of the beloved 'Heroes of Driftmark'." Ulf said the title with such vitriol that it seemed to Maegor he nearly spat it out. "Oh well. I s'pose life is full of disappointment." He began to walk from the ring, but then halted in his movement, turning to look back at Maegor with a cruel smile as he called back loudly. "If the rest of that family of yours was as bumbling as you, it's no wonder that the lot of them became a dragon's meal."

Maegor closed the distance between him and Ulf in a heartbeat, and the man's nose crunched as Maegor's right fist connected with it. Maegor used his free hand to wrench the shield from his left arm while Ulf sprawled back into the dusty yard. The man tried to stand, clutching at his broken nose while it gushed blood, but Maegor kicked him in the stomach savagely, relishing at how the man coughed violently and fell backwards. Digging his knee into the sot's gut, Maegor began to pound his fists into the man's face. He insulted them once. I won't allow it again. He could vaguely hear voices shouting behind him, but Maegor paid them no mind. His vision was tinged red in its corners, and Maegor punched Ulf in the face again and again.

One for father. His fist slammed into Ulf's right cheek, snapping the man's head to the left and spraying blood along the stones of the yard. One for Aegon. The sot's head snapped to the right as Maegor's fist connected with his left cheek. The man burbled something up at Maegor as blood sprayed from his lips, and his hands clawed at Maegor's face. One for Aenys. Ulf's head slammed backward so hard from Maegor's punch that his skull rebounded back from the cobblestones. The man still struggled weakly, and Maegor continued to hit him. Ulf's fists weakly beat at Maegor's chest, and Maegor batted them away. The man's face was a bloody mess, and his hazel eyes were full of fear. Maegor raised his bloody and aching right fist high, preparing for his strongest punch yet. Die.

Strong arms grabbed his right arm, and another set of hands grabbed his left arm. Maegor was savagely yanked away from the senseless Ulf and dragged back several feet. He struggled mightily against the hands on his arms. I wasn't finished.

"ENOUGH!" A voice roared in his ear, and Maegor recognized it as Lord Commander Marbrand's through the haze of his rage. The man was holding his right arm, while Gaemon clutched his left. Harrold Darke and several others were standing beyond Ulf, who was on his knees and coughing up blood. Maegor saw that they were restraining Hugh Hammer, keeping the man from continuing his advance towards Maegor. Maegor stopped struggling, but he still felt as though his blood was boiling inside him. Somewhere within the citadel, the dragons were roaring. The sound filled Maegor with an indescribable vigor that burned away the throbbing pain in his fists.

Maegor was dragged to his feet, and Ser Marbrand stalked out between all the men in the yard as Ulf was helped to his feet, holding a cloth to his nose to try to stem the flow of blood. Glaring at both Maegor and Ulf, the Lord Commander spoke angrily. "Enough! I don't care that the both of you are knights and dragonriders. If something like that ever happens again, I'll have the both of you dragged into the yard and lashed!"

The fight was gone from Maegor. He just felt tired. "Let's go, Maegor," Gaemon muttered, and Maegor nodded his assent, allowing his friend to lead him from the yard.

The cool morning air on Maegor's face helped to chase away the lingering exhaustion of a sleepless night spent tossing and turning with indecision. Maegor had left the castle early in the morning, at least an hour before the sun was due to rise. His fight with Ulf the day before had forced him to confront a difficult truth. Your family is gone, whether you wish it was so or not. Though trying to ignore that truth may have saved him some pain in the moment, Maegor realized that the internalized grief and despair was slowly beginning to poison him. I was going to kill that man. Maegor could still remember the fear in Ulf the White's eyes as Maegor had pummeled him with his fists.

As a knight and dragonrider for the Queen, Maegor knew that the fates of many now depended on him. The newfound responsibility was terrifying to Maegor. From hauling fish to flying dragons. When he had first tamed the Grey Ghost, Maegor had felt an almost childlike excitement as he soared high in the air. That day, being a dragonrider meant being able to see the world as a bird in the sky would, and to be the subject of adulation of the masses. It wasn't until the fight over the Gullet that Maegor truly understood what it meant to be a dragonrider. To be a dragonrider is to be a harbinger of death. Maegor and Gaemon had without a doubt saved countless lives by burning the fleet of the Three Daughters off the coast of Driftmark. To do so, however, had meant immolating hundreds. In one battle, I have killed as many or more men than even the greatest warriors of the stories and songs slay in a lifetime of battle. Maegor knew that if he was forced to choose between burning hundreds of marauders to save innocents or doing nothing, Maegor would burn the marauders a hundredfold times. That didn't stop the occasional nightmares of the fires and screaming, however.

To meet the expectations of those who depended on him, as a knight and a dragonrider, Maegor knew that it was time to put his ghosts to rest. Chained into Grey Ghost's saddle in front of Maegor, Septon Bennard was still clutching the chains in a tight white-knuckled grip, but he had stopped mumbling prayers to the Mother for her mercy. When Maegor had visited the Septon in the pre-dawn gloom at the almshouse, he hadn't exactly known what he wanted to say. But as he had told the Septon of his grief and fears for the future, what Maegor needed to do became clear. The shades of my father and brothers should wander no longer.

The Septon had been gracious enough to agree to accompany Maegor back to Dragonstone's citadel as the sun had begun to rise, and the guards at the gate had made no protest to the elderly man of the faith being admitted inside. When he visited the seeds' quarters, Maegor was unsurprised but grateful that Gaemon agreed without hesitation to join him and Bennard. Making their way to where Grey Ghost and the other dragons roosted, Septon Bennard had clutched the crystal hung with frayed leather twine about his neck and muttered prayers as the unnatural glowing eyes of the dragons had regarded him and Maegor. Securing the Septon and himself in Grey Ghost's saddle, Maegor had begun to fly the dragon back towards the cottage where he was born and had lived most of his life. Gaemon followed behind closely on the Cannibal, having taken flight from the part of the citadel where his dragon was kept apart from the rest.

As the Grey Ghost slowly descended towards the cottage, Maegor supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised that everything looked the same as it did the day Maegor departed to climb the Dragonmont. The skiff and rowboat still sat on the bluff below the cottage, facing out to the sea. It was on this bluff that Maegor landed his dragon, before dismounting and helping the elderly Septon to the ground. Gaemon landed the Cannibal on the bluff as well, unchaining himself and hopping nimbly from his saddle.

As he looked out towards the morning sun glittering across the waves, Maegor remembered his first trip out to sea with his father and brothers. Maegor had been nervous the further away from shore the skiff sailed, and hadn't dared move from the center of the boat, fearing that he'd fall into the water. "Come here, boy," his father had said, and after a moment's hesitation, Maegor had joined him at the ship's prow. Smiling, his father had pointed at the water spreading out before them, glittering in the sun. "Look at how all that water catches the sun. There's not a more beautiful sight in this world than the sea on a sunny morning. But to experience the wonderful things in life, we can't afford to cling to the shore." Smiling, Maegor felt the fear begin to melt away. Reaching down to the water, he scooped some of it up in his palm, watching it glitter like gold, and felt richer than any lord.

Though it had taken Maegor and Gaemon some time, they had managed to gather enough driftwood to make a small pyre on the bluff outside the cottage. Making his way up to the door of the cottage, Maegor hesitated, feeling unsure of himself. There was a firm pat on his back, and when Maegor turned, he saw Septon Bennard standing behind him, a reassuring smile on his face. Not far behind him, Gaemon also gave an encouraging nod. Resolving himself, Maegor stepped inside. The cottage's interior was dark, and a fine layer of dust coated everything within it. It feels wrong to disturb anything within. However, Maegor refused to falter. The Sheepstealer had left nothing of his father and brothers for Maegor to cremate in the Valyrian funerary tradition, so Maegor had resolved to burn each of their most prized belongings instead. It is the best means of closure I'm likely to have.

Moving first to the mantle, Maegor found his father's pan flute. It was coated in an even greater layer of dust and grime than anything else within the cottage. They've sat there untouched since mother died. Maegor's mother had loved when his father would play the pipes for her and their children, and Maegor could vaguely remember his father playing jaunty tunes in the evenings after supper, to the delight of his mother and brothers. Father loved to play, but it did naught but remind him of the wife he'd lost. Wrapping the pan flute in a cloth, Maegor made his way over to Aegon's bed, and the trunk that sat at its foot.

Opening the trunk, he retrieved a fine leather cloak from within. It had simple and crude threading along its edges, in a vibrant red color. Without mother's help, Aegon had done his best, but his skills in needlework had been sorely lacking. Aenys guffawed when Aegon had presented the cloak to him, Maegor, and Denys. Wiping tears from his eyes, Aenys had begun to speak while Aegon flushed in embarrassment and annoyance. "You plan on placing that about fair Lyessa's shoulders? The threadwork on its edges looks like it was done by a drunken sailor at sea in a storm!" It was no secret throughout the village that Aegon and Lyessa, the tanner's daughter, had begun to grow more than fond of each other. Aegon hoped to marry her soon, and had been fashioning a bridal cloak for her, using expensive red threading to accentuate the blood of King Maegor that flowed in his veins. Maegor draped the cloak over his arm. I hope Lyessa didn't accompany them the day they sought out Sheepstealer, Maegor thought with a grimace. Maegor suspected that she still grieved for Aegon's death. Is it a mercy that she never knew Aegon was planning on asking for her hand in marriage? Maegor didn't know.

Making his way over to the trunk at the foot of Aenys' bed, Maegor hesitated. Of all the members of his family, Maegor and Aenys had been closest. When Denys had made the hard decision to send Maegor to the almshouse, it had been Aenys who had protested against it most fiercely. When Maegor had returned from his time on the Dragonmont, it had been Aenys who had been most overjoyed to see him, though he hid it behind japes. After his return, it was clear that father was not going to return Maegor to the almshouse, but even if he'd tried, he knew Aenys would never have accepted losing his brother a second time, and would have fought their father every step of the way.

Maegor sighed and closed his eyes, then forced himself to open the trunk. Reaching inside, he retrieved four smooth wooden balls from inside, each painted in a different garish color. Aenys had bought them from a visiting Pentoshi mummer after the man had taught him to juggle, and ever since Aenys took every opportunity to demonstrate his skill at it.

More than once, it had won him free drinks and meals at the inn. He would juggle and do tumbles across the common room floor to the laughter of its patrons, including his own father and brothers, Gaemon, Wat, Malda, Melyssa, and Alyssa. Whenever asked why he'd so willingly make a fool of himself for the amusement of others, Aenys would grin and give the same answer each time. "My family is descended from royalty, and every court needs its jester." Despite the humorous answer, Maegor knew the real reason. Aenys loved laughter, and cherished it even more when he could be the cause of it. He would have been happy if he could have spent his whole life making people laugh.

Making his way back outside, Maegor placed the flute, cloak, and painted wooden balls on the driftwood pyre. Bennard smiled kindly, and had retrieved a stick of incense from within his white robes. To Maegor's surprise, many of the people of the village had gathered on the bluff as well. Of course they have, two dragons just descended from the sky and landed right outside their village. They stood silently at a respectful distance, and Maegor realized that Bennard must have explained what Maegor was doing. Looking at them, Maegor saw many familiar faces. Wat stood there, and even old cantankerous Malda had left her chair at the inn and made her way down the hill. Melyssa and Alyssa had also made the journey. Maegor saw Gaemon speaking with his grandparents, as well as several of their other children, who had families of their own. Maegor then saw Lyessa, who smiled kindly at him even as tears ran down her cheeks. Noticing that he had exited the cottage, Gaemon turned and waited expectantly, watching Maegor in silence along with the other village folk.

Placing a hand on Grey Ghost's head, Maegor hesitated a moment as he faced the pyre. Steeling himself, he whispered "Now" to his dragon, and it released a short burst of flame, lighting the driftwood pyre. Bennard waited a moment for the initial heat of the flame to die down, before he stepped forward and lit his stick of incense off of the pyre's flames. He began reciting prayers to the Seven as the pyre and the objects on it burned brightly, turning to ash. Maegor watched it in silence, and for the first time in a long while, he realized that the sadness and pain within himself had receded.

When the flames had died out, and naught but ash remained, the villagers slowly trickled back to the village. Many stared at the dragons in wonder for a time, but hardly any words were spoken. Lyessa was the last of them to turn and walk back up the hill. Only Maegor, Gaemon, Bennard, the Grey Ghost, and the Cannibal remained on the bluff. Turning to Bennard, Maegor swept his hand in the direction of the boats and cottage. "Septon Bennard, I do not ever intend to return here. My family has been put to rest, and my father and brothers may now rest along with my mother and sister. However, it would gladden my heart if you would find a new family to inhabit this home. They are welcome to everything that remains within it, as well as to the boats and nets."

The old Septon smiled. "You are a good man, Maegor. These gifts that you give will mean the world to whomever receives them. I will begin asking among my brothers and sisters in the faith on this island about any who have a need for a home."

Maegor nodded his thanks, and helped the Septon back atop the Grey Ghost. He then turned to Gaemon. His friend had been looking out towards the sea, with an unreadable expression on his face. Upon seeing Maegor turn to face him, however, he turned in kind to regard him.

"Gaemon, do you-" Maegor began, but then hesitated, feeling a twinge of sadness. He thought about everything that had happened since he had parted ways with his father and brothers for the last time, the day Maegor had traveled to the Dragonmont. "Do you think they'd be proud of me, Gaemon? Of everything that I've done. Taming the Grey Ghost, flying into battle, receiving a knighthood?" There were countless other things, but Maegor thought he'd gotten his point across.

Gaemon thought for a moment, but then gave Maegor a kind grin. "That's where you have it wrong, Maegor. It seems to me that they were always proud of you." With that, Gaemon made his way over to the Cannibal, climbing into his saddle and chaining himself in. Maegor did the same, securing himself and Bennard in place with the Grey Ghost's saddle chains. Rising into the sky on his dragon, Maegor took one last look at the cottage that had been his home. There was a lump in his throat, but for the first time since he'd tamed the Grey Ghost, Maegor felt a sense of peace. Goodbye.

Chapter Text

Hobert I

Seven save us. Another arrow cut through the air past Hobert Hightower's face, and he yanked his helmet's visor down, having forgotten it in the chaos. As leader of the baggage train, he had not been expecting to see any action, a fact that more than suited him. However, with the appearance of enemy forces bearing the banners of Houses Tarly, Costayne, and Beesbury at the rear of his cousin's army, Hobert now found himself surrounded by utter chaos amongst many wagons, as soldiers and knights struggled to face the unexpected onslaught. Several of the wagons had been set alight by burning arrows, and enemy knights rode through the gaps between wagons, cutting a bloody swathe through the men under Hobert's command.

One of his family's household knights that had been assigned to him as an attendant galloped towards Hobert on his grey charger. The man wore no helm, and was bleeding profusely from a deep gash along his forehead. "What are your orders, Ser?!" the man screamed. Hobert felt his heart clench in terror. Looking around himself, the aging knight felt his throat grow dry, constricting tighter and tighter the more he tried to think of what to say.

Having turned to face their foes attacking from the rear, Hobert and his forces were in a bad spot. Ahead of them was the rest of their own army, themselves fighting a desperate battle against another enemy force further ahead. To their left was the Honeywine River itself, and behind them was their foe. Hobert was no great tactician, but even he realized that he and his men were in imminent danger of being outflanked. Turning to the bleeding knight, Hobert opened his mouth, listening to his voice grate forth, raspy and brittle with fear. "I need but a moment to collect my thoughts, Ser."

The knight regarded him with a look of incredulity, squinting at Hobert with his left eye, for his right had been blinded by his own blood as it poured down his face. "But Ser! The men need orders! We don't have enough knights, and the foot that had been marching in the rear with us are on the verge of breaking and fleeing!"

Hobert merely stared mutely at the man, his face frozen in fear and indecision. What to do, what to do? O Crone, please lend this poor soul your guidance. When no divine inspiration was forthcoming, Hobert had to fight back the urge to weep. I should never have left the Hightower.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats caught the attention of both Hobert and the household knight, and Hobert twisted in his saddle, watching as a knight approached them, dressed in a white surcoat bearing the black cross sigil of his house. Ser Tyler. Hobert's goodson and the head of House Norcross rode to meet them, leading a small force of his own household knights bearing his sigil, as well as mounted men-at-arms. "Goodfather!" the knight called out to him, and drew up his destrier alongside Hobert. "I came with my men to help stiffen your ranks. It appears the situation at the rear has grown as desperate as it is at the front!"

Hobert fixated his goodson with a pleading expression. "Ser Tyler, I beg your counsel. I am unsure what orders to give my men in this time of desperation!" Regarding the enemy knights wheeling and charging to devastating and bloody effect against Hobert's men, the knight nodded gravely.

Turning to Hobert's attendant knight, he spoke quickly. "Draw the surviving men from beyond the outer wagons, and push as many of them together as you can to form a barricade. We'll still be heavily outnumbered, but at the very least we can force the enemy to dismount and force through the makeshift barricade on foot." The household knight nodded curtly, still trying to blink his blood from his eyes, and charged his horse back into the fray beyond, shouting orders. Hobert accompanied his goodson as they rode to join the survivors of the baggage train while they desperately pulled wagons together in a loose and haphazard defensive ring. They quickly dismounted and joined the rear ranks of a solidifying curved mass of soldiers. In such tight quarters, remaining on horseback would do naught but present the enemy archers an easy target.

Ser Tyler's plan had worked. The enemy forces were unable to get through their ring of wagons on horseback, and quickly began to dismount and attack on foot, pressing through gaps between the wagons, while others stopped to pull entire wagons aside, allowing small groups of their comrades to charge through. Hobert's surviving men were able to cut down some of their foes as they were forced to break formation and fight their way into the ring in small clumps, while Hobert's ragged troops remained in a defensive crescent. However, the majority of the enemy soldiers were knights in plate, while Hobert's own men were comprised of lightly armored foot: wagon drivers, smiths, levies drawn from the smallfolk, and other less well-trained and armed individuals that one would expect to find in the baggage train at the rear of an army.

It therefore did not take long for Hobert to begin losing men at a far greater rate than the advancing enemy. Ser Tyler turned to regard Hobert grimly as he hefted his longsword. "It appears that our efforts were for naught. There are simply too many of them. However, I intend to meet the Warrior with blood upon my sword!" He rushed forward to fill a gap that had just appeared in the crescent. Hobert drew his own longsword. It felt heavy in his hand. I haven't sparred in years. Hobert feared that he wouldn't have long to regret that mistake. He thought of the Hightower, the home that he had spent most of his threescore years in. He thought too of his three daughters. He tried to envision their faces, but in his panic, found himself unable to. Oh girls, I'm sorry. Hobert began to move towards the savage fighting in front of him, each leaden step feeling as though it took a lifetime.

Reaching the chaotic melee, Hobert had to quickly raise his shield in order to block a heavy strike from a man-at-arms with a longaxe. The blow partially cracked the top of his shield, and Hobert felt the impact strum painfully through his shield-bearing arm. The axehead had lodged into the thick oak, and the soldier pulled at the long wooden haft, trying to dislodge it. Seizing the opportunity, Hobert thrust his longsword forward as hard as he could. The man-at-arms wore naught but a frayed gambeson, while Hobert's longsword was good castle-forged steel. Its tip punched deep into the man's chest, and Hobert staggered forward, having overcommitted himself to the thrust and losing his balance for it.

He found himself nearly face-to-face with the man that he'd stabbed. The man's eyes were wide and brown beneath his tarnished and dented kettle helm. Hobert could clearly make out a red striding huntsman badge sewed onto the man's gambeson over his left breast, though several of the threads were loose. The man coughed violently, and blood sprayed across the steel visor of Hobert's greathelm. To his horror, some of the blood had made it through the visor, for Hobert could feel small warm drops of it upon his cheeks. The man collapsed limply, and Hobert barely kept hold of his longsword as it nearly wrenched from his grasp. Pulling his sword free of the man's body, Hobert struck its pommel savagely against the axehead still buried in his shield, managing to dislodge it.

Looking up, Hobert saw a knight approaching him through the fray. The man was tall, and his dirty dented plate gave him the look of a hedge knight. Hobert was no warrior. He had killed the man-at-arms through sheer luck, when the man's weapon had gotten stuck in his shield. He knew that this knight would make short work of him. Feeling terror clutch at his heart, Hobert began to mumble a prayer for the Mother's mercy as the knight closed the distance. A loud roar seemed to ring out in answer to it.

The brutal fighting ground to a sudden halt as men on both sides looked to the clouds. A blue dragon was descending from the sky rapidly, and it opened its maw, loosing a maelstrom of deep-blue flame. Tessarion. Distant screams reached Hobert's ears. Prince Daeron's dragon soared over the heads of the Hightower army, flying so low that Hobert could see its copper-colored belly scales as it passed over his head. With another roar, it began to immolate the host of enemy soldiers beyond the ring of wagons. Shrieks and cries rang within Hobert's helm. With the sudden appearance of the dragon and its devastating flames, the advance of the enemy collapsed. With their fellows shrieking and burning beyond the wagons, the enemy knights and men-at-arms began to run for the gaps that they themselves had forced through the wall of wagons.

This immediately caused large bottlenecks as they pushed and shoved to scramble through the small spaces, and Hobert watched in a daze as his own men began to attack them from behind savagely. The large hedge knight that had been moving towards Hobert turned to flee, only to be hamstrung from behind by Ser Tyler. Falling to a knee, the hedge knight clutched at the torn and bloody doublet of Hobert's goodson, begging for succor. Ser Tyler drew a knife from his belt and shoved its point through one of the eyeholes of the man's helmet. His goodson was not alone in his wrath. Butchers, wagon drivers, smiths, and smallfolk levy alike had no mercy for the men that had been about to slaughter them, striking down without hesitation all those that they could get their hands on.

Beyond the wagons, the enemy knights who had survived the initial blasts of dragonfire had lost all cohesion. Hearing thunderous hoofbeats, Hobert looked to his left. Holding his family's ancestral valyrian steel sword Orphan-Maker high above his head, Ser Jon Roxton led a large mounted charge around the remnants of the baggage train into the stunned enemies at the army's rear. Many of the enemy knights had yet to climb back atop their horses, and were hewn down. Those that had not been killed in the initial charge led by Roxton began to flee, but they were closely pursued as they fled the field in disarray, continuing to take heavy losses.

Hobert stood in silence, trying to absorb all that had happened to him in a short few minutes. Tessarion had returned to the army's front, and was continuing to burn the enemy there. The men standing around Hobert began to cheer, many bleeding from half a dozen small cuts and wounds. Many more men lay unmoving on the ground, staining the dirt beneath them dark crimson with the last of their lifeblood. "It's over, Ser!" he heard a breathless voice call, and Hobert turned to see his attendant household knight. It appeared the man had survived, and though his face was still wet with blood, he had tied a ragged piece of cloth around his forehead to slow the bleeding.

Hobert suddenly found himself very short of breath. He had never been a man to take joy from the rigors of training and exercise that many skilled knights practiced throughout their lives in order to remain in impressive shape. Hobert had grown stout as he grew old, and his steel plate armor suddenly felt as though it were a mountain bearing down on top of him. Falling to one knee, he pulled open his blood-stained visor, taking gasping breaths to fill his lungs as the energy that had filled his veins during the heat of battle trickled away, leaving Hobert with naught but exhaustion and soreness.

With a look of concern, Hobert's attendant knight dropped to one knee next to him. "Are you alright, Ser?" the man asked in a worried tone. "I saw no wounds upon you as I approached." Hobert's left arm had begun to throb from taking the impact of the Tarly man-at-arms' longaxe.

Turning to the knight, Hobert began to gasp a question, "I beg of you, Ser, Ser…" he trailed off, having forgotten the knight's name.

"Ser Jared," the knight answered respectfully. He had grabbed a kerchief from a small pouch on his belt, and was trying unsuccessfully to mop the glistening blood from his visage.

"That's right, Ser Jared." Hobert muttered, feeling miserable. "I fear that I am in a fearful state. Would you please fetch me some water? I have a thirst." Though his entire body still felt sore (especially his shield arm), Hobert was beginning to breathe normally again. He desperately gulped water from a waterskin when his knight fetched it for him, and with the man's help got back to his feet. Retrieving his palfrey from a farrier limping from a bloody foot wound, Hobert was relieved to be back in the saddle. I fear my time on foot will have given me frightful blisters. Riding past several men moaning on the ground as a harried-looking maester prepared to amputate several of their mangled limbs, Hobert decided to find his cousins.

His lord cousin's pavilion was truly a splendid thing to behold. It was made of cloth-of-silver, and its entrance flaps had a proud white tower stitched across them in silk, and bordered in white pearls. Hobert had received word not long after the fighting ended that the army was to halt its advance and make camp, and that Hobert's presence would be expected as soon as Lord Ormund's pavilion was erected within the camp. Hobert had delegated the role of issuing commands to the remnants of the baggage train to his attendant knight, Ser Jarvis (or was it Ser Jared?), preferring instead to use the time to get out of his armor and change into a clean doublet.

Two guards with white tower badges sewn onto their jerkins bowed deeply as Hobert approached, and the one standing on the left lifted the flap up so that Hobert could step inside. Moving inside, Hobert was pleased that servants had already dropped incense within the braziers throughout the massive tent, which filled his nose with wonderful scents. Sitting at a large table across the pavilion was Hobert's younger cousin Lord Ormund, and at his side stood cousin Bryndon. Walking across the Myrish rugs laid across the pavilion's floor, Hobert moved to convene with them, wincing slightly from the blisters that had formed on the bottom of his feet.

Both cousins smiled as Hobert approached. With a grin, Ser Bryndon called out jovially. "It appears that the Seven have truly blessed our cause today! Our enemies lie burned and trodden underfoot while the rest have fled the field like rats, and not a single member of our family was lost in the fighting." Hobert smiled thinly back, and gratefully accepted a goblet of wine from a quiet servant. Taking a sip, Hobert was pleased to find that it was Arbor Gold. There is no finer taste than a good Arbor vintage.

Nodding back at his cousins, Hobert voiced his agreement. "It appears that fate itself is on our side." Taking another sip of Arbor Gold, Hobert considered the battle that had been fought earlier in the day. It seems a miracle that any of my kin and I still live, let alone as victors.

Lord Ormund chuckled, taking a sip from his own goblet of wine. "Fate and the Seven may have been on our side today, but it is our kinsman and my squire Prince Daeron that won the day. I mean to knight him for it tonight at the conclusion of a great feast to celebrate our victory. Though many Lords of the Reach, including several of mine own vassals, have proved false rather than true in supporting the pretender Princess Rhaenyra, I should think that their power within the Reach has been thoroughly broken after today." Smiling, Lord Ormund raised his goblet into the air, preparing to make a toast, and Ser Bryndon and Hobert followed suit, raising their own goblets. "To the victory that we won today! Let our allies in the Westerlands and the Crownlands bring fire and sword to the King's enemies, and uphold the precedents established by the Great Council of thirty years before!" Hobert drank deep of his Arbor Gold.

A household knight bearing the Hightower sigil on his doublet entered the tent. "My Lord, we have the prisoners."

Lord Ormund nodded curtly, setting his goblet on the table and standing. "Have them brought in, Ser. I wish to see and speak with them." Hobert saw the eyes of Ser Bryndon glittering with interest. Turning, Hobert watched as two men were led into the tent by a contingent of knights and men-at-arms. At their head was Bold Jon Roxton himself, with Orphan-Maker in its sheath on his hip.

Both men were forced to their knees, still wearing scraped and dented steel plate armor beneath torn and dirtied doublets. One of the two, a young man, wore a green doublet with a proud red huntsman stitched across its front. The other, an older man with short yellow hair receding into his scalp, wore a striped gold and black doublet with three golden beehives down its center in gold thread. Both men glowered balefully at the three Hightowers standing before them, and at Bold Jon.

With a small sardonic smile, Lord Ormund addressed the two men. "If it isn't my goodbrother, Lord Alan Tarly. And I dare not forget the heir to Honeyholt and mine own vassal, Ser Alan Beesbury. I missed the sight of your banners while gathering my levies outside of Oldtown, Ser."

Ser Alan Beesbury glared darkly. "I would never march under the banners of a false Lord, whose kin disobey a King's will and imprison my Lord grandsire for protesting. Mark my words, my Lord, I'll see him freed."

Jon Roxton snorted. "Not now, you won't. You'll be lucky to keep your own head after facing the King's judgement." Beesbury continued to glare at the men surrounding him hatefully, but said no more.

Turning to Lord Alan Tarly, Lord Ormund smiled sadly. "It's truly a shame. I had hoped that you were as wise as your sister. It appears that you both have a certain fire within you, but you, my Lord, do not seem to share an intellect with my lady wife."

Lord Alan Tarly's expression darkened as he retorted. "I see now that it was foolish of my Lord father to marry my sister to a scheming rat like you. Alas, it seems the true faces of you traitors weren't revealed until now." He then spit at Lord Ormund's feet.

Both Ser Bryndon and Ser Jon's hands leapt towards their sword hilts, but Lord Ormund merely laughed and held up his hand. "You are a fiery one, indeed. Mayhaps some time spent as a prisoner and traitor awaiting judgement will serve to temper you." Turning to Roxton, Lord Ormund raised an eyebrow. "Where are the others? I thought none of the enemy commanders save Lord Rowan escaped the field?"

Bold Jon laughed. "Lord Costayne won't be seeing anyone soon. My Orphan-Maker saw to that. The maesters said he won't make it to the day's end." He then shrugged. "As for the Bastard of Bitterbridge, I was informed that he received grievous burns along the left side of his body. Apparently his horse threw him in the Honeywine when both were set alight by the flames of Prince Daeron's dragon. I've heard he'll likely live, but he's unconscious and covered in ointments and bandages within the maesters' tent."

Lord Ormund nodded. "I want the Bastard of Bitterbridge kept alive if possible. His trueborn family hold him in high esteem, and he may prove useful in taking their castle." Clapping his hands together, Lord Ormund nodded. "Alright then. I want word sent out throughout the camp. Tonight we celebrate our great victory, and those to come."

Sitting at the high table, Hobert was able to look out with ease over the entire feast. The fare being served was about as good as one could expect on the road, but Hobert still missed the finer types of food that he had come to expect after a life lived inside the Hightower. Though they had not yet marched too far beyond the walls of Oldtown, this day was surely one to celebrate. As Hobert's cousin had pointed out, the battle had resulted in a decisive victory for the King's men, with much of the usurper Rhaenyra's supporters in the Reach having been killed, captured, or scattered; no longer able to stand against his cousin's army in the field.

Hobert sat with other family relations at the high table, to the right of cousin Bryndon. To cousin Bryndon's left was Lord Ormund, and to his left the Prince Daeron Targaryen. The young Prince and squire to Lord Ormund had landed his dragon to elation and cheers, and many toasts in his name and honor had been made throughout the feast. He surely won the day for us. Hobert had seen dragons several times throughout his life. The most notable memory of them that he had was when he had traveled to King's Landing as a much younger man to attend the wedding of his cousin Alicent to King Viserys, the first of his name. They were creatures as magnificent as they were fearsome, but Hobert had never seen their destructive capability until this fight along the Honeywine. One dragon turned certain defeat and slaughter on our side into a crushing victory. Hobert was more than glad to be alive, but he'd already had his fill of war, and wished to return home. But my commitment to the cause of my family is not nearly finished.

Biting into some roast duck, Hobert remembered the day that he had been dragged into the conflict. Hobert had finished his breakfast within his chambers as he was wont to do each morning. With the salt breeze blowing through his window, Hobert loved to look out over the city of Oldtown from his perch far up the Hightower. He had planned to make his way to the citadel that day. Archmaester Lomas was to give a lecture on his recently finished tome, a treatise on the history of raven training that he had been studying his entire life. Hobert oft would find himself attending these lectures. Much of the information made little and less sense to him, but if he nodded sagely when the maesters in the audience did, he found that it didn't seem to matter. He liked the air of wisdom and intelligence that attending the lectures seemed to give him amongst the members of his family, though he dreaded the times he was asked to explain the things he'd heard.

As a servant took his empty silvered dining tray from his desk and exited the room, cousin Bryndon had entered. "Cousin Hobert!" Bryndon had called with a smile, and Hobert had stood to meet him, surprised at his presence. He absentmindedly brushed food crumbs from his doublet, and ran a hand through the few thin gray wisps of hair that still clung to the top of his scalp. Hobert had thought that Bryndon would be in council with their cousin Lord Ormund, planning for the gathering army's march north and east towards King's Landing.

Bryndon leaned against the sill of Hobert's window, his grey doublet rippling in the breeze that always blew at this height. "As you well know, cos, the army is to march very soon." Hobert nodded silently, wondering if his cousin took him for a fool. Of course he knew that. All any in the Hightower and the city of Oldtown seemed to be talking about was the army of levies, sellswords, and freeriders gathering beneath the city's walls. Instead, Hobert gave his cousin a thin smile. Still grinning, Bryndon continued to speak. "Truth be told, as we were discussing which members of the family would stay and which would march, as well as what positions in the army they would hold, we had all but forgotten about you until this morning!" Bryndon laughed merrily, and Hobert hid his own chagrin behind a quiet chuckle.

Much of his family seemed to forget the fact that Hobert still lived, or that he even existed. As the youngest son of a Lord Hightower long dead and interred, Hobert had never been destined for any sort of title, and his overall lack of distinguishment in any subject meant that he would never win any fame as a knight, maester, or septon, which were careers that many younger sons within the Hightower family pursued in order to make a name for themselves. Hobert didn't mind though. What some would call a life lacking ambition, Hobert would call a life well-spent in peace and comfort. He had married a maid of House Cuy of Sunhouse, and had three daughters by her. His two eldest daughters had been married well, the eldest to the heir of House Bulwer of Blackcrown, and the middle to the Knight of Norcross. His youngest had been given to the faith, and became a Septa. He had lived a quiet life with his wife in the Hightower until her death years before, and hoped to continue living unassumingly until the Stranger came for him as well.

Hobert felt a sense of significant unease as he regarded the smile upon his cousin's face. That fear had been realized only moments later. "All of us must needs serve the family, cos," Bryndon had begun, "and as a knight, it is as much your duty as it is mine and Lord Ormund's to march with this army and see that cousin Alicent's son keeps the throne that is his by right, established by the precedent of the Great Council." Bryndon grinned and clapped a strong calloused hand on Hobert's round shoulder, making Hobert wince slightly. "Congratulations, cos. You've been given command of the baggage train." Hobert had felt sick. The Gods truly were cruel to curse him so.

The feast had gone on for hours. It seemed as though every knight and lord in the pavilion wished to make a toast, and their frequency only increased the further and further they descended into their cups. Hobert smacked his lips as he finished another goblet of Arbor Gold, beginning to feel the exhaustion of a terrifying and stressful day catch up with his ancient body. Hobert had been blessed with an exceptionally long life, but as each year passed, the harder Hobert found it to face daily rigors, much less fight in a battle in full plate.

In one day, Hobert had survived a savage melee, witnessed the presentation of the captive enemy commanders, and stood alongside his cousins as they had accepted the swords of captured enemy knights and soldiers to the King's cause. Nearly none chose the alternative, which was a swift death by sword. Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and a half-incoherent Ser Tomard Flowers had refused to be reconciled, and so remained prisoners of enough status and station that they would be transported with the army to face the judgement of King Aegon, the second of his name, himself.

Hobert watched with interest as Lord Ormund bid his squire, the Prince Daeron, to rise and join him before the front of the Lord's high table. With a wave of his hand, Lord Ormund's guards stationed throughout the pavilion began to beat their spears against their shields, drawing the attention of all present at the feast, and driving them to silence. Smiling, Lord Ormund placed a hand on the Prince's shoulder, and began to speak loudly, his voice carrying throughout the canvas walls of the pavilion. "Our army was in nothing short of a desperate state before your arrival at the field of battle today, my Prince. If not for your bravery and skill, we surely would not have been able to win this great victory today, and continue on our quest to secure your brother's crown against the usurper Princess Rhaenyra." He bid his squire to drop to one knee, which Prince Daeron did quickly, ducking his head. The Prince's silver hair gleamed in the red light given off by fires burning in braziers throughout the pavilion.

Drawing House Hightower's ancestral valyrian steel longsword, Vigilance, Lord Ormund placed it on his squire's shoulder. Hobert was filled with pride as he watched his kinsman and Prince of the royal blood be knighted by Lord Ormund Hightower. Now this is a moment worthy of the songs and stories. "Rise, Prince Daeron Targaryen, and henceforth be known by a title worthy of your valor." Lord Ormund smiled. "Rise, Ser Daeron the Daring!" A raucous and exultant cheer roared throughout the pavilion, and Prince Daeron, now a knight, rose with a shy smile.

Addressing Lord Ormund, but speaking loudly enough that all in attendance could hear, the Prince began to speak. "My Lord is kind to say so, but the victory belongs to Tessarion." The Prince's proclamation was followed by further cheers and toasts to the dragon Tessarion, known as The Blue Queen. Hobert smiled and found himself drinking more Arbor Gold with pride as further toasts were made. Moments like these are much more enjoyable when experienced in person as opposed to reading about them or hearing them in songs. Hobert still felt sadness when he thought of home, however. Raising his goblet of Arbor Gold to his lips, Hobert made a silent toast within his mind. To the true King, and ensuring that he keeps his rightful crown. And to home, which I hope with all my heart to see again before my time in this world reaches its end.

Chapter Text

Veron I

The storm had come. For years, since his return from reaving, Dalton had claimed that Westeros would tear itself asunder. The death of Viserys I had been the spark necessary to set off the conflagration. Perhaps Dalton truly does see what other men do not, Veron thought to himself. Most of the Ironborn seem to think so; they claim the Drowned God himself whispers in his ear. Even as a child, Dalton had always been different, always picking fights with older boys and volunteering to row aboard ships as young as five. Veron had idolized him in their youth, his older brother who could command the respect of men many times his age. Born only a year after his elder brother, the two of them had become inseparable. Dalton had encouraged him to row with him, fight with him, and explore Pyke with him, and Veron had been happy to oblige. In return for allowing him to join in his adventures, Dalton commanded obedience. Veron learned very quickly that he was to be his brother's right hand, and that there was no room for two to lead. I am fairly certain that my acceptance of those conditions is why we've remained close, Veron thought.

Since their childhood, not much had changed. As the 129th year since Aegon's conquest drew to a close, and the realm began to bleed, the brothers counted 16 and 15 name days respectively. As Dalton had built ships, assembled crews, and prepared his strategy, Veron had remained at his side. As Dalton had waited for ravens bearing offers of alliance, Veron had trained. Their preparations had finally paid off, as ravens did indeed come from King's Landing. The first offer came from the usurper, Aegon II, and had offered to name his brother a place on the Small Council as master of ships and of the admiralty if he would agree to sail his longships around Westeros and engage the Velaryons, who had declared for Rhaenyra. Dalton had handed the letter to Veron after he had finished scanning it, grinning a smile that sent a chill down his spine.

"The Greens must be desperate to offer an Ironborn a seat on the Small Council. It has taken over a century for the Dragons to beg aid from the Krakens."

Veron, having finished scanning the letter, raised his eyes to meet Dalton's. "Will you accept?" He knew the answer before Dalton had even spoken.

"Of course not, brother. Why lose men and ships to Dorne's whirlpools in exchange for a greenlander's titles? I'd much rather pay the iron price in exchange for something much more valuable…" Dalton drew a knife and stabbed it into a map that lay spread before both of them, its black blade swaying from the force of the impact. Veron followed the blade to where it had embedded itself in the table. It had pierced straight through where Lannisport was marked on the map. He nodded his approval. Dalton's lips parted to reveal another toothy grin. "The best part is, the Dragon Queen will be begging us to pillage her own lands. We will pay the iron price for every bit of gold wrenched from the hands of these Westermen. While their men go to die for the usurper, we will rule the Sunset Sea, as our forefathers did." Chuckling, he then added: "We will show their women what it is like to lay with true men, as opposed to those spineless milk-drinkers. I'm sure they'll be ever so grateful." He gave Veron a slap on the back. "There will be plenty of salt wives for the taking when we sail. I promise to leave some of the homelier ones for you, brother."

Veron nodded, smiling. He hoped his brother didn't catch the lack of enthusiasm at the prospect. He had learned very quickly to keep that aspect of himself hidden. We've always been close, Dalton, but every man needs a few secrets. Veron knew with the coming campaign that he'd finally have to stop putting off the taking of a salt wife. Or several, he thought grimly. He realized that he had been thinking for too long. "Perhaps this time I'll beat you to the comely ones. You cheated last time, taking that corsair king's daughter for yourself while I ran him through!"

Dalton nodded, his eyes glazing over as he clearly took a moment to reminisce. Veron let out a sigh internally. Good, nothing amiss. The corsair's daughter always does the trick. Her death had been unfortunate, lost overboard in a storm. Perhaps it was for the best, he thought. She did seem miserable. As Veron turned to leave, he felt Dalton's hand grip his shoulder.

"Give orders for ravens to be sent, brother. It is time for our fleet to begin amassing. I want to see at least one longship from every lord in Lordsport's harbor by the end of the moon. I expect the Dragon Queen's offer to arrive soon."

Dalton had been proven correct once more as a raven arrived, this time from Dragonstone. The Dragon Queen had indeed come to bargain with the Kraken. The words she used, however, pleased the Lord Reaper of Pyke and the Iron Isles a good deal more than her half-brother's had. Within, her request was simple:

Lord Paramount Dalton Greyjoy,

I have little doubt that my treacherous brother has written to you, attempting to sway you to his cause. I have little doubt that they mean to use you to break my blockade of the capital. In response, I have written to ask you to declare for my cause instead. While King's Landing is many leagues from Pyke, Lannisport and Oldtown are not so far. Bring Fire and Blood to my enemies and I will see you rewarded for your service.

Signed,

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

Rhaenyra's letter proved to be exactly what Dalton had wished to receive. When, seated on the Seastone Chair, he read it to the assembled Lords and Reavers within Pyke's great hall, their roar shook the stones of the keep. He stood and raised Nightfall, his Valyrian steel sword, its moonstone pommel glinting, and shouted: "It has been too long since the sight of longships off the coast of Westeros meant death and terror for the greenlanders! The Sunset Sea longs for its true masters to return. The Westerman have quit hiding behind their walls and have sallied forth for their King, but they have left their castles and cities open to our wrath. We shall make their riches, their lands, and their women our own! We are Ironborn! We DO NOT SOW! Follow me, and I promise I will make legends out of all of you, and we each will prove ourselves true sons of the Drowned God!"

Veron had never seen men raised to such a fever pitch. They began to shout his brother's name continuously, before clearing a path for him to walk out of the great hall. Veron strode alongside his brother as they exited, following just behind and to the right, as was customary by this point. Gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, Veron tried to maintain his composure. As excited as I am, it still wouldn't do for me to follow my brother out grinning like an idiot. Besides, the 'Grinning Kraken' sounds like the name for a fool, not the brother of the Red Kraken himself. Their journey took them across Pyke's great bridge, to the enclosed fields beyond, and past the kennels and outbuildings until they arrived at the stables. Mounting their horses, they rode the distance to Lordsport in what felt like a record time. Veron was pleased to finally be able to dismount; as he never felt truly comfortable in the saddle, especially compared to how he felt on the deck of his own Misery. Fortunately he could spot his longship's sails from where it was moored in the port. Soon we will be out to sea, he thought. The sounds of waves, gulls and the shouts of sailors preparing to embark never failed to make Veron feel alive.

Dismounting, the lords and captains gathered in a large ring near the quays housing their ships. Once all had assembled, Dalton began to share the specifics of his plan. "The greenlanders of the Westerlands are well-known for their riches. As I already mentioned, Lord Jason Lannister has departed Casterly Rock with thousands of his knights and sworn swords in order to invade the Riverlands. This presents a perfect opportunity for us, my lords. The Lannisters maintain a fleet of galleys at Lannisport. If we are able to take the city, and burn their fleet, we will cripple their ability to strike back, and will open the entire coast to our reaving. Once Lannisport is ashes, we will take Fair Isle, in order to secure it as a base for the fleet. After those two opening moves, I will turn you each loose to seek your own fortunes. Your reaving will bring honor to the Drowned God!" Turning to the Drowned Priests in attendance, he knelt, allowing one to pour salt water upon his head. Veron followed, feeling the cool seawater trickle down his cheeks. Each lord and captain in attendance repeated this process, before breaking into groups and seeking out their own ships. As Veron approached the Misery, his eyes narrowed.

"You three were not supposed to be here." He said, trying to keep his tone even and not betray the smile he felt tugging at his cheeks. His three younger sisters stood in a line, waiting on the quay that separated his Misery from Dalton's Red Tide. Each of them sported hair as black as the dresses they wore, their dark eyes sparkling mischievously. Alannys, the eldest, wore a golden necklace fashioned into the shape of a kraken around her neck. Closing the distance between them, Dalton took ahold of the necklace around his sister's neck. "And how did you come about owning this bauble, Alannys?"

Her cheeks flushing red, she mumbled: "I- I had it fashioned for your departure, brother." Dalton frowned, before letting it drop.

"Our house pays the Iron Price for such things, sister. Only Greenlander whores should bedeck themselves so. The next time you wear such things, I want to hear they were ripped from the hands of their previous owner."

Nodding her head quickly, Alannys showed she understood. Dalton, satisfied, nodded curtly to his three sisters before climbing the gangway onto his ship to supervise its launching. Veron stopped, facing his three sisters. Keeping his face straight, he faced each of them with a cool expression, watching them squirm under his gaze. Deciding he'd tormented them enough, his hands shot out to grab Morgana, the youngest. He lifted her into the air, swinging her around as she screeched with laughter. Asha and Alannys quickly began to sport grins, and when he finally placed Morgana back down, all three accepted his invitation for a hug. He gave each sister a kiss atop the head, before finally separating to climb aboard the Misery. I've never understood why Dalton must treat them so coldly. Mayhaps he thinks legends don't love their sisters. He smiled internally. It is a good thing I'm no legend, then. He gave orders for the ship to disembark, and it quickly did so, taking its place in the long line of longships slowly exiting Lordsport and heading out to sea.

It had taken the better part of a week to assemble the full fleet off of the coasts of the Iron Islands and to sail it to the outskirts of Lannisport. They had waited until nightfall to sail between Fair Isle and the mainland, in order to mask their approach. The Drowned God must have approved of their endeavors, as they had been almost entirely concealed by heavy fog that rolled off the deep sea as they sailed nearest to the shore. Once they had passed through the strait, the fleet gathered en masse just out of sight of the shore and organized itself into battle formation. They greased the oarlocks in order to minimize noise and rowed towards where they estimated Lannisport would be. Soon, lights along the shore became visible, with a large lighthouse standing tall above the bay. Veron strained, attempting to see the Rock in the distance, and was shocked to find that some of the stars in the night sky were actually lights shining from the top of the Rock less than two miles away. It was far bigger than he could have even imagined. It is good Dalton had no intention of storming the Rock itself. Our siege works would resemble the works of ants to those at the top.

The fleet broke into smaller divisions as it approached the harbor itself. Veron was pleased that all remained quiet. It seemed they had yet to be spotted. They had been ordered to maintain strict silence, as well as to only use the lights of the city to find their way to the target. The torchlit walls of Lannisport grew closer and closer, and Veron was able to make out that the beach was perhaps only fifty feet away. The fleet was large enough that many of its ships would be landing outside the walls, and tasked with scaling the walls and opening the gates to allow for the entrance of the army. Dalton had opted to lead around twenty longships into the harbor itself to neutralize its galleys and other vessels before securing the docks. At fifteen feet out, they withdrew the oars into the vessel. Merrick, a particularly zealous crewmate, jumped and disappeared entirely into the water. He resurfaced sputtering, and the crew had to suppress chuckles at his annoyed appearance. He is lucky he couldn't afford plate. Otherwise that'd have been the last we'd have seen of him. Veron had worn plate while they were out at sea, harboring no fear of the waves. If the Drowned God decides it is my time, no amount of effort on my part will undo that verdict. He had once more affixed his plate, its jet black appearance designed to inspire fear in his enemies. It was lined with gold to complete the Greyjoy colors. Alongside the armor itself he had chosen a sturdy shield and longsword, figuring that the extra protection would allow for him to make sure he didn't suffer any needless wounds in the upcoming battle.

Other men had begun to jump into the waves to guide the craft to shore, and Veron jumped in alongside them. The water was cold, but refreshing. Veron's heart had begun to beat quickly in anticipation for the coming battle, and as they guided the boat to shore, the rest of the crew disembarked, several nocking arrows in order to deal with any guards that thought to take a look over the ramparts. Alongside them, dozens of other boats were landing along the beach, disgorging thousands of men. Veron raised his sword, and ten groups of fifteen men each advanced, bearing ladders with hooked ends and throwing them against the walls. When the first several ladders went up, Veron heard the shouts begin from within the walls. Faces appeared in the battlements, and a horn was blown. Tommard, one of the best bowmen on the Misery, quickly loosed an arrow that found the neck of a guardsmen, who fell backwards out of sight.

Veron grabbed the nearest ladder andbegan to ascend, followed closely by Merrick, an axe in his teeth, who dripped salt water as he climbed. Reaching the top quickly, Veron heaved himself over the battlements onto the wall. Before him lay the body of the guardsman, still choking on his lifeblood as his eyes glazed over. Several other men in red cloaks and gambesons advanced, in order to stop the intruders from gaining control of the wall. The first rushed Veron, screaming, but Veron was able to catch his spear between his shield and side, and before the man could react had driven his sword into his throat. Gurgling, his opponent fell. The limited space of the wall assisted the Ironborn climbing up, as the Lannisport guardsmen could not advance more than two abreast to confront the attackers. Another guardsman advanced, bringing his sword down in a savage slash, but Veron turned it with his shield and responded with a powerful upward cut of his own that took the man's arm nearly off at the shoulder. By now, near a dozen Ironborn had reached the walkway, and the guardsmen were falling quickly.

Reaching the nearest guardhouse, Veron was shocked to find the door hadn't been bolted. He opened it, finding the passageway abandoned. He took the stairs to the ground floor quickly, opening the door, and was stunned to see the city guardsmen fleeing from the walls. A horn blasted in the distance, as the Greyjoy banner was unfurled at the gatehouse to the cheers of the men on both sides of the wall. The gate was unbarred and pulled open, and a tide of men surged through. Some guardsmen who hadn't lost their nerve rushed to intercept them, but against the better equipped and experienced Ironborn were quickly cut to pieces. This is pathetic, even for the Greenlanders, he thought, as the Ironborn quickly formed into their designated units (based off of what ships they had arrived on) and began to advance down the cobbled streets deeper into the city.

Veron himself led his own crew, along with Balon Wynch and Melwick Myre and their crews. Advancing down a wide street, they approached what looked to be a major market square. If the garrison refuses to fight, our army may begin the sack too early. It would be unwise to allow our forces to disperse too quickly. He gave orders to Wynch that the men were not to sack the city until an all-clear was given, but he was certain his orders were going to only be partially followed, as flames had already begun to dance amongst the buildings closest to the walls and screams had begun to echo along the cobblestone. Entering the square, Veron found the first major opposition to his advance. Across the square, a hedge of spears faced him, comprised mostly of city guardsmen, along with more heavily armored Lannister infantry (outfitted with mail). Atop a horse facing him was a Greenlander knight with a red cloak and red plate, with a golden lion embossed on the breast plate. A lion emerges from its den, he smirked. Let us see if it can dance with a Kraken. The knight raised his sword, then pointed it at the assembled Ironborn and ordered his spear wall to advance. Veron raised his blade. "Archers! Nock! I want as many of those spearmen dropped as is possible! Break up that formation!"

A chorus of "Aye, captain!" rang out, and arrows began to fly in deadly arcs across the square, many finding their targets. The spearmen began to drop, tripping up their comrades as they advanced. The knight was wise to present us with a spear wall. My men operate much better in open spaces, and aren't accustomed to fighting so closely. It is fortunate we have archers. After a second volley further diminished the cohesiveness of their enemy, Veron raised his sword once more.

"What is dead MAY NEVER DIE" he cried, and advanced towards the enemy. His men responded with cries of "but will rise again, HARDER and STRONGER!" and charged. It took a few moments to cross the cobblestones before smashing into the spearwall. Veron used his shield to deflect a spear thrust, worming his way between the upraised spears of two different men and bringing his blade down across the face of one. The man fell screaming. The other, his spear now useless for this range, dropped it to draw his dagger, but Veron had already driven his sword through the man's gambeson into his innards, dropping him. He advanced, a spear striking his breastplate before scraping off. To his right and left, his men fought their way through the spear wall, with Melwick Myre burying his axe in the head of a Lannister guardsmen. The men of the enemy formation began to waver, fighting a desperate battle that was rapidly turning against them. Their back ranks began to break off, running. The knight in the rear cursed and ordered them to hold, but only the professional soldiers had the discipline to do so. As Veron broke through, he advanced on the knight, who dropped his visor and urged his destrier to canter towards him. Veron picked up a spear from a fallen guardsmen and threw it with all his might at the horse, which screamed in agony as it pierced its neck, throwing the knight from the saddle.

The knight landed on the cobblestone with a deafening crash, and Veron cleared the distance between them quickly, jumping on top of the man before he could climb to his feet. Ripping the knight's visor open, he drove his blade into a terrified emerald eye. Roaring, he surveyed the scene. It appeared organized resistance was collapsing, as fires were spreading throughout the city and he didn't see any other groups of enemy soldiers approaching. The survivors are likely either preparing to defend their homes or gathering at the keep. Taking a deep breath, he stood. Time to find Dalton, he thought to himself.

He found the Red Kraken in the keep's courtyard. After securing the docks, his brother had made straight for the keep, using a broken ship mast as a makeshift ram to force the gates. Dalton was giving orders to the lords Goodbrother and Harlaw as Veron arrived. From their vantage point atop the hill, they could see Lannisport glowing orange-red as flames from untended fires spread throughout the city. Dalton turned to face him as he advanced, his war helm glowing in the firelight. The helm was a masterpiece, forged to look like the head of a kraken, its tentacles hanging golden like a grotesque beard. Dalton had had rubies set in the tentacles, so as to evoke the image of them dripping blood. His brother removed his helm, his dark eyes shining in the light of the fires below. "The city is ours, Veron. They were completely unprepared, as I expected. We even managed to capture the majority of the ships in the harbor, both cogs and war galleys. I plan to send them to the Isles tomorrow to be crewed and added to the fleet. The loot from their holds alone would make this sack worth our time. But that is just the beginning. My men tell me the city's storehouses are full of foodstuffs and other exports. Several wagon loads of gold have also been discovered, along with several armories of war equipment. Material and gold enough to have raised another army. A shame we took it first. I am certain the Drowned God smiles on us tonight."

Veron smiled. He may not have bought into the way many men worshipped his brother, but he would be a fool to deny his talent for command. Removing his helmet, he clapped his brother on the soldier. "Well done, brother. I am only ashamed that I couldn't have been present to take this keep alongside you."

Dalton shrugged. "It was barely a fight worth being present for. Most of the Lannister forces had already shattered before we reached the gates. Its most formidable occupant was its Lady. When we broke into the hall, she shot one of my men with a crossbow she had loaded herself, before 'cursing us to the Seven Hells' and insisting her son would take our heads. You can imagine how pleased I was when I got word my own brother had slain him. That shut her up." Dalton nodded towards a woman staring blankly into the distance a dozen or so paces from them. "She's a bit old for my taste, but you can have her if you wish, Veron. It may do you good for your first salt wife to be a woman of experience."

Veron forced a chuckle. "Despite your generosity, I would prefer someone who is not the age of our nan, Dalton. I'm sure somewhere in this city I can find someone a bit better." Dalton raised his eyebrow at the idea.

"I'll believe such things when I see them. For now, if you want to continue your search, you're welcome to accompany me. I've received word that one of the manses below is home to the mistress of Lord Jason Lannister himself. I simply must make her acquaintance." Turning, Dalton gripped the hilt of Nightfall, and began strolling out of the keep. He directed his men to continue to strip it of valuables in his absence. Once through the gates, they took the main road down from the keep to a wide street that was already strewn with corpses. The buildings along this street were particularly ornate; each was several stories, and sat within low walls that enclosed small gardens, greenhouses, fountains, and other displays of Greenlander opulence. Upon reaching a particularly ostentatious manse, they were directed inside by two men standing guard at the doors. Within, they entered a parlor bedecked with rich tapestries, Myrish rugs, exotic furniture, and lit by a golden brazier that was wrought to depict dancing lions. Four women had been forced to kneel on a rug. Each had hair of beaten gold that fell curly past their shoulders, and emerald eyes. Two had freckles splashed across their faces.

The three youngest flinched when Dalton spoke. "What fair lionesses you all are! Each a jewel of the West to be sure…"

He was cut off by the eldest woman. "You'll hold your tongue, scum, if you know what is good for you. You may have taken this city unawares, but the moment my lion returns, you will be forced to flee to your Gods forsaken Isles. I have the favor of Lord Jason Lannister himself, and I assure you, his wroth will be terrifying should we be mistreated."

Dalton chuckled, his dark eyes sparkling. "The lioness does indeed have a bite. I confess, I'd have been sorely disappointed if I'd not been so lashed. You see, I have never had the opportunity to bed a lioness, let alone four. And if the eldest was worthy of the Lord of Casterly Rock, I am sure she will not disappoint." He turned to Veron. "I'm sorry brother, but each of these morsels is simply too enticing to give up. I hope you can forgive me."

Veron breathed an internal sigh of relief. He gave Dalton a cold glance before turning to exit the manse, leaving his brother to his fun. Four more salt wives in one night. Good thing no one is keeping count except for Dalton himself. Wandering, he found his way into an abandoned manse and began rummaging around its halls. When he found an untouched wine barrel in the cellar, he breathed a sigh of relief. Pouring himself two full skins, he was pleased to find it was a spiced honey wine of the Lannisport variety. Making his way to a secluded garden in the rear of the manse, he unfastened enough of his armor in order to sit comfortably underneath the boughs of an apple tree. The night sky was black with smoke, and glowed orange from the light of flames. Drinking deeply, Veron could almost imagine he was somewhere else; a bonfire on the beach of a Basilisk Isle perhaps. Taking another deep gulp, he found himself taking solace in the warm drunkenness that he was settling into. Soon I'll have to take a salt wife of my own, he thought bitterly. It is either that or face blades in the dark. At times he wondered if he'd be better off leaving his brother's side for somewhere else. A harsh laugh escaped from his lips. I can only imagine my brother's face if I ever actually told him why I don't take salt wives. Since Veron had first begun to understand what it felt like to want someone, he had known he was different than the other boys around him. What a sick jape, he thought. The Red Kraken, the lover of a thousand women, and his brother, lover of none.

Chapter Text

Gaemon IV

The wait was the hardest part. When word had come that the Queen required their presence, Gaemon had been all too eager to oblige. He had arrived early, having practically flung himself out of his bed and into a suitable doublet (black, with red highlights of course). Eating quickly, he had made his way with Maegor and Nettles to the Storm Drum, waiting expectantly at the entrance. Given how quiet the weeks since the carnage at the Gullet had been, he had often found himself wondering what the Queen's next move might be. There had been whispers of surrender amongst some of the guards, but he suspected that was untrue. There would have been no need for lengthy deliberation if Prince Jacaerys' death had broken the Queen's will to fight. No, Queen Rhaenyra bides her time, and we stand at the ready to bring Fire and Blood to her enemies if they stir, he thought with pride.

While he had been waiting, Gaemon had decided to check on the Cannibal. Given its temperament, the dragon had been allocated a space in the main courtyard, close to where they had originally landed weeks before. With a name like his, it's a wonder they don't wish to keep him with the other dragons, he thought with a smirk. As he had approached, the dragon partially uncoiled, its scales rasping and gliding across the stone of the courtyard. A green eye regarded him from over a folded wing. As he approached, the heat emanating from the creature became hotter, and he took a moment to enjoy the barely contained conflagration that was his dragon. Reaching its side, he turned his back to the beast before leaning against it. It'd have never let me do this weeks ago, he thought to himself. With time, the two had grown more comfortable around one another, testing the limits of their relationship and learning what was, and wasn't, acceptable. The Cannibal had proven remarkably welcoming, as the amount of outright hateful stares it seemed to give had dropped precipitously. Honestly, I think it just likes to be dramatic. This bond is new for it too, and such things take time to become strong.

Ulf and Hugh were taking plenty of time to appear. It appears the sot and the oaf must needs be woken from their stupor. True to form, they appeared a few moments later, trudging through the mud of the outer yard, having presumably been summoned from the tavern in the village below. Both Hugh and Ulf looked to be in terrible shape, no doubt due to their prodigious consumption of wine the evening before. As they entered, a low hiss emanated from the Cannibal. It seems I'm not the only one who could've done without their presence. Gaemon smirked when he was able to start making out the fading bruises that Ulf wore across his face. Maegor definitely showed us all a bit of his namesake during that match. Gaemon had been ready to intervene the moment Hugh had, but luckily Ser Marbrand had done so first. Blood would have been surely spilled, and men killed, if that had continued, he thought grimly. I would gladly kill for Maegor, but even I am not such a fool as to like my odds against 'the Hammer'. Hugh might have taken a fittingly unimaginative moniker for himself, but it does sum up his most intimidating attributes quite nicely.

Maegor himself regarded them coolly, but he clearly kept his emotions guarded. He had been less morose since they had laid his family to rest, a welcome change in Gaemon's eyes. He had begun to worry dearly about his friend, but it appeared that the final visit to his home had provided some much needed closure. Gaemon had been glad Maegor had asked him along, and he himself had been relieved to be able to say goodbye to his extended family. They probably had no idea I was alive until that day, he thought as shame welled within him. Their pride and relief at his arrival had been obvious, and despite never having known his mother, he had found himself wishing she had been there to see it too.

Giving his dragon a pat on its scaled flank, Gaemon rose and returned to the assembled group of seeds. The five of them stood quietly, and Ulf's eyes dripped a barely concealed malice. The silence is deafening, he thought to himself. Even Nettles seemed uncharacteristically unwilling to break the silence. Luckily, that task was accomplished by a household knight who appeared at the top of the stairs, as he opened the great doors of the Stone Drum.

"Noble Sers, I have come to guide you to where you will attend the Queen. Please follow me." Turning with a flourish of his cloak, which revealed a Velaryon color scheme, he beckoned them to follow.

As they were being guided through the Stone Drum itself, Gaemon had relished the opportunity to subtly observe the quarters where his family actually lived. The place was grim, to be sure, and certainly had an overabundance of draconic art. But the halls and stones themselves had an undeniable power; it practically radiated off of them. Despite the earlier feast they had attended, he still hadn't had much of an opportunity to actually walk the halls of the Stone Drum, basking in the presence of his ancestors' home and energy. Needless to say he was extremely excited, and further elated when he realised that the audience was not to be held in the throne room, but instead in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Constructed on the orders of the Conqueror himself, the very sight of it had sent shivers down his spine.

The smell of the sea filled the uppermost room of the Stone Drum. Gaemon focused on keeping himself still, his eyes focused on the massive carved table that depicted the entirety of Westeros sprawled out before him. Rivers, mountains, fields, and castles sprung up across its entirety, and he could almost imagine that he sat atop the Cannibal, miles in the air, surveying an entire continent beneath him. He was so engrossed in the thought he had to repress the urge to jump as a guardsmen struck the stone floor with his spear to announce the arrival of the Queen.

"All kneel, for you stand in the presence of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms." Gaemon knelt, and saw the others do so out of the corners of his eyes. Keeping his eyes downcast, he heard the Queen's footfalls as she approached, but was surprised that the whisper of a dress dragging alongside them was not present.

"Rise, my dragonriders. I have summoned you to attend me for it will prove most auspicious in the future histories. I intend for my reign to begin in earnest on this day."

Standing, Gaemon found himself facing his Queen transformed. Gone were the courtly dresses, the cheeks puffy from tears, the tangled hair of a woman plagued with little sleep. Instead, he faced a Valyrian warrior-woman of old. Clad in gleaming black scale armor, wearing her father's crown, and her silver hair braided, the Queen regarded each of them, holding their gaze with purple eyes that burned with an unexpected flame. She then turned, and taking Lord Corlys Velaryon's hand, ascended the steps to sit upon the raised chair above the Painted Table. Others quickly entered the room. The Princes Aegon and Viserys entered, along with Lady Baela. Viserys' hatchling was curled about his shoulders, and he smiled shyly at Gaemon and Maegor as he followed his brother into the room. Baela made eye contact with Gaemon, giving him a quick nod, before joining her half brothers to the right of where the Queen sat, elevated. Next came Addam and Alyn Velaryon, who joined their grandfather to the left of the Queen. Lastly came Lords Bonnifer Bar Emmon and Bartimos Celtigar, along with Maester Gerardys and Ser Lorent Marbrand.

Once everyone had been assembled, they waited, their eyes on the Queen. Surveying the room, she began to speak:

"My noble Lords and Sers, it was the intention of the Prince of Dragonstone before his death that we put our preponderance of dragonriders to good use. Before my beloved Jace was taken from me, he planned in this very room to take King's Landing from the Usurper. The Essosi dogs may have cut his life short, but his sacrifice will not be in vain. Today I aim to have vengeance for both of my sons, and Princess Rhaenys." Gaemon observed Lord Velaryon nodding grimly in response.

Rhaenyra began to speak again: "Much and more has happened since my dragonriders brought Fire and Blood to the fleet of the Three Daughters. We have received ravens from throughout the realm, some bearing good tidings, others ill. In the Reach, those loyal to my cause have been scattered after the Usurper's youngest brother arrived atop Tessarion. From what little information has arrived, it appears Lord Rowan has been put to flight, and there is no word of Lords Costayne, Beesbury, Tarly, or the Bastard of Bitterbridge. We can no longer count on any significant support from the Reach. In the Stormlands, Lord Baratheon has declared for the Usurper by allowing the murder of my precious Luke, but has not stirred since. Perhaps he regrets his decision. In the Westerlands, Lord Jason Lannister, yet another traitor, has summoned his levies and invaded the Riverlands to bring flame and sword to my leal lords." Rhaenyra smiled grimly. "Instead, he marched to his own doom. I have received word from Lord Piper that although Lord Lannister forced his way across the Red Fork, he took a mortal wound in doing so. His losses in manpower were also grievous. Better yet, the Red Kraken has finally stirred. Word has arrived from Lannisport, sealed with a Kraken. The Westerlands burn for their treachery."

Those assembled in the room had grown still, but the atmosphere was one of resolve, not hopelessness. The Queen continued.

"In light of the scale of the victory achieved over the Three Daughters, and the Red Kraken's declaration of support, I feel that my presence on Dragonstone is no longer warranted. Lord Corlys has informed me that he will now be quite capable of maintaining his blockade without any need for support. It is time we took King's Landing. Word has come from Harrenhal. The Kinslayer and the Kingmaker have departed King's Landing with four thousand swords, intent in bringing my Lord Husband and the Riverlords to battle. Instead, they will find naught but an abandoned ruin. Prince Daemon has begun his flight to King's Landing as we speak. We must needs join him. The Kinslayer has deprived the city of Vhagar, and the Usurper's Sunfyre is missing. From what I have been told, Helaena is in no state to ride Dreamfyre. The city might as well be dragon-less."

With those words, Gaemon could feel the anticipation growing in the room. His own excitement was palpable. Prince Daemon flies to the capital, and I will soon be on my way to join him! He had imagined meeting his father countless times, but never in his wildest dreams as an accomplished dragonrider and trusted knight to a Queen. He forced himself to contain his emotions, as he saw the Queen opening her mouth to speak once more.

"My orders are as follows: Lord Corlys, send word for your fleet to prepare for immediate departure. I want your strongest ship to be prepared to carry Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon, along with Maester Gerardys and Ser Lorent. Have your men, along with those of Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon assemble and prepare for departure. Dragonriders, I want you ready to fly within the hour. Time is of the essence." Standing, the Queen was helped down from the chair by Ser Marbrand. As she turned to leave the chamber, Lady Baela's voice rang out.

"My Queen, allow me the honor to fly with you! I will never forgive myself for being unable to accompany Jace. But my Moondancer has grown since then. She is nearly ready to be ridden. Let me escort you to King's Landing as a true Targaryen!"

The Queen turned to face her cousin, and her hardened expression let up for a brief moment.

"Baela, I need you here. Moondancer grows larger each day, and we mustn't leave Dragonstone completely undefended. Besides, I will not make the mistake of sending young dragons into danger again." Rhaenyra approached Baela, whose face betrayed her emotional turmoil within. Placing a hand on her cheek, she smiled wanly. "I know what I ask of you may seem unfair, but it is for your own safety. Your father, my Lord Husband, would never forgive me if I caused you harm." Her face hardening, Rhaenyra's smile faded. "Besides, I have shed enough of my family's blood for my cause. From now on, only the Usurper will be made to pay such a price for his ill-gotten crown."

The Queen turned and left the chamber after those words, followed by her attendants. Viserys and Aegon each embraced Lady Baela, before being escorted back to their chambers. The dragonriders filed out last, as Gaemon hesitated. Baela dragged a clenched fist across her face, blinking back tears. "How am I to protect anything here? I've already lost my betrothed. The time will come when the Queen sends for my brothers; with their departure I will have nothing here to defend. Keeping me here does nothing but waste my dragon. I want to fight."

Gaemon shifted his feet. Even after he had spoken with Baela on a few occasions, he always found their conversations awkward. He never knew exactly what it was his place to say. Damn it, he thought, help her! Courtly precedent be damned! He sighed. "If I were in command, the choice would have never been in doubt. For what it's worth, this is a waste of your dragon, and more importantly, you." He hesitated, but decided to continue. "You've got fire, my Lady. Fire enough to burn all your enemies to ash. I can sense it. But you'll not be doing anyone any favors letting that fire be snuffed. You say Moondancer is growing. Learn to ride her. Develop your bond. Grow fiercer, together. When the war does come, as I'm sure it will, you'll be ready. And we will all rue the day we had to leave you behind." He gave his most encouraging grin.

Once more, he found himself ambushed by a fierce hug. It really is uncanny how quickly she is able to pounce like this, he thought to himself. He considered not returning it, but decided he might as well return the favor, given that he'd already abandoned the pretense of courtly etiquette. As he wrapped his arms around her, she stood up on her toes to whisper: "I really do grow tired of this 'my Lady' nonsense. From now on, you must needs call me Baela."

He held her for a few moments longer before letting go. "The next time I see you, I want you to be on dragonback." Her purple eyes glowed with resolve as she nodded, beginning to grin. He found himself grinning back. He turned, realizing he needed to hurry. Turning when he reached the door, he added: "I'll see you around, Baela."

As he exited the room and made to retrace his steps down the hallways, he was surprised to find himself ambushed by Maegor and Nettles. Cracking one of her classic crooked-tooth smiles, Nettles spoke first: "You're going to get yourself in really big fucking trouble one of these days, Gaemon. I hope you know that."

Smiling wolfishly, he turned to Maegor, who crossed his arms as he appeared to be suppressing a grin on his normally stoic face. "I may have put it differently, but Nettles has a point, Gaemon."

"Of course I have a fucking point. I just don't want to see a fellow seed lose his head over some spilt seed is all. Especially not the one who buys me drinks."

Gaemon made a point of sighing loudly. "You are both concerned over nothing. Baela is my half sister. I'm simply excited to finally have siblings is all. Your drinks aren't going anywhere."

Nettles raised a dark brown eyebrow. "Even so, I'd be careful. The walls in these sorts of places probably have big fucking ears. And I don't think they like what they're hearing." Maegor nodded, still suppressing a grin.

"Fine, fine. The barbed flower has made her point." Grinning, and clapping a hand on each of their shoulders, Gaemon led his fellow seeds down the stone steps.

Once they had assembled in the yard, it hadn't taken long for attendants to swarm them, in order to properly outfit them. Their armor had been recently polished and cleaned, and the plate gleamed darkly. A fierce rainstorm had begun, but underneath the layers of plate and padding, Gaemon could barely feel its effects, aside for the droplets hitting his helm. His armor appeared as pristine as it had been the day he had received it, except for the slight scar where an arrow had struck it during the Gullet. He ran a finger along the scratch, before placing the dark winged helm over his head and fastening it beneath his chin. Once he was ready, he nodded, and servants belted his sword belt around his waist. Afterwards, they handed him his dragon whip, its barbed length still coiled, and its dragonbone handle cool to the touch. Mounting the Cannibal, he fastened the saddle chains, and cracked the whip in the air. The dragon beneath him roared, his ears ringing with the sound and his frame shaking from the force. Rising onto its legs, the beast flapped its wings powerfully, sending gusts of wind forward and staggering those assembled before it. Turning them downwards, it beat them heavily towards the ground, rising incrementally into the air as the rain lashed it. I'm grateful to have mastered one of the largest dragons, Gaemon thought, as this storm would prove difficult for the younger ones to overcome.

They rose into the air and began to circle the citadel, as the other dragons climbed into the sky. Vermithor and Silverwing came next, carrying Ulf and Hugh, and just behind them came the Queen on Syrax, roaring it's greetings. The Queen's dragon was a huge beast with scales of yellow, close to the Cannibal and Vermithor in size. Next came the Sheepstealer, with Nettles' small frame perched upon its back in her black mail. Addam followed on Seasmoke, and Maegor and the Grey Ghost fought their way through the lashing rain to finally join the others. Dragons enough to conquer the world, Gaemon thought to himself. The Conqueror and his sisters took Westeros with less than half our number of dragons. Surely we can overcome the Usurper with numbers as great as these!

The Queen raised her arm and cracked her whip as the storm raged, and Syrax roared in response, sending out a great gout of yellow flame that hissed in the rain. She led the column, and the others took their places behind her as they flew into the storm. Gaemon cast a final look into the courtyard below, where the assembled crowds were the size of ants. He could barely make out Moondancer, roaring mournfully as the dragons departed. Her slender pale green scaled form struggled against her heavy chains, and her pearl-white horned head tossed in frustration. A small figure rushed out of the keep to the dragon, and somehow began to calm it. It seems your dragon is as incensed at being left behind as you are, Baela. Turning his gaze away from the sights below, Gaemon cracked his dragon whip. The Cannibal sent a blinding blast of green flame at the storm clouds above in protest and began its flight, carrying them across the rocky fields of Dragonstone below. When they reached the shore, he could just make out a great fleet assembling. Dozens of Seahorse banners flapped in the wind and rain as the Queen's army embarked. Rhaenyra flew Syrax low, urging it to light the sky once more with its flames, and hundreds of soldiers could be seen waving and cheering below. Climbing back into the sky, the Queen led her dragonriders out from the island, and they began their journey over the grey and violent waves below.

After several hours of fighting their way through winds and rains that lashed them, a long coastline finally came into view. By this point Gaemon was thoroughly soaked through and had begun to shiver. Truth be told, I'm not sure whether I am shivering from the anticipation or the cold, he thought to himself. They followed the coastline south, and soon a vast city could be seen. Seven hells, I had always imagined it would be big, but this is absurd. Gaemon hadn't ever really been able to comprehend what a city of over one hundred thousand souls would actually look like. The city loomed large beneath them as they banked over it, and as thunder rumbled the sound of bells ringing began to filter into the heavens. Slowly at first, the sound began to spread across the entire city, and soon it was ringing madly as every gatehouse, sept, and tower began to join the chorus. In response, the dragons roared, their challenges echoing downward into the streets below. Below, hundreds, if not thousands, of people were taking to the streets, running madly for the gates.

Gaemon and Ulf peeled away from the group and began to circle their assigned landing area, a square atop the Hill of Visenya, as they had been instructed to do before. Maegor and Hugh directed their mounts to do the same, flying towards the Hill of Rhaenys and the Dragonpit that sat imposingly atop it. Nettles and the Queen flew Syrax and the Sheepstealer towards the Red Keep, and as Gaemon watched their approach, a new dragon's roar split the skies. Emerging from the storm clouds, a huge red beast joined the Queen and Nettles above the Red Keep. That must be Caraxes, he thought to himself. His stomach began to twist in knots. Atop the Blood Wyrm sits mine own father. Caraxes landed within the Red Keep first, assumedly to ensure the surrender went smoothly. Gaemon took that as his own sign, and urged the Cannibal downwards, cracking his whip and urging the dragon to emit a great searing blast of green flame as it descended. Might as well give those below a show… and a warning.

Descending for the landing, Gaemon urged the Cannibal to what looked to be the statue of a former Targaryen king that sat at the center of the square. His dragon landed heavily in the clearing, and despite the crowds he had seen streaming out of the city earlier, hundreds had still managed to gather around the edges of the square itself. Behind him, in the northern corner, a great sept stood, its bells clanging noisily. We get the point already, he thought to himself. Bells signal a surrender! Do you really take us for the type of people that would burn innocents by the thousands? Freeing himself from his saddle chains, he coiled his dragon whip in his hand, fastening it to his sword belt as he dismounted. Grabbing a waterproofed leather container from his belt, he unclasped the seal and withdrew the proclamation he had been asked to read. Maegor's insistence on teaching me my letters for all those years has really paid off, he thought as he smiled beneath his helm.

"People of King's Landing, this is a joyous day!" He began. "Long have you chafed under the rule of a usurper, who stole the crown from his own father's dying grasp in order to crown himself and steal his elder sister's birthright. Today, that sister has returned, to reclaim what is hers, and see herself crowned the rightful Queen. Rejoice! A new day has dawned, and the Queen offers clemency to those who stand down peacefully and accept her most benevolent rule."

A few cheers echoed out from the crowd, but for the most part it remained silent. They are probably too scared or shocked, the poor souls. Rolling the parchment up, he gripped the pommel of his blade as he approached the crowd. Many stumbled backwards over themselves at his approach. Lifting his visor, he tried to show he meant no harm.

"Is there a crier among you?" He scanned the crowd, and eventually an older, heavyset and bearded man emerged.

"I have served in that role for many a year, master." The man said as he hobbled forward, clutching a roughspun cap in his hands.

"See that this information is spread throughout the city. The Queen will see you rewarded for your services." Gaemon handed the man the parchment before turning and walking the distance back to the Cannibal. Climbing up its scaled flank, he chained himself into the saddle once more, and giving a nod to Ulf, who had landed a ways away, he uncoiled his whip, cracking it, and urging the Cannibal back into the grey skies.

The Red Keep's main courtyard was absolutely crowded with dragons by the time the rest of the seeds had landed their mounts. Gaemon was pleased that he did not have to use his whip to dissuade his dragon from snapping at the others. It is refreshing to see him making friends, at long last, he thought, suppressing a chuckle. The Queen stood alongside Nettles, and was receiving a report from one of the city guardsmen, who Gaemon was able to distinguish by his gold cloak.

"Anyways, as I was sayin, the boys and I made sure to grab the Grand Maester, and we took extra care to make sure not to let 'im send any of those birds of 'is flapping off. We 'ave received word from Ser Largent, and he says that Ser Gwayne Hightower is no longer kicking. All of the gates 'cept the River gate are in our hands; some Hightower knights and men-at-arms 'ave been giving the lads some trouble down there. We've received word your own men are pourin through the other gates though, so the city should be yours, your Grace."

Nodding graciously, the Queen responded: "I shall see that you and your men are amply rewarded for remembering your true loyalties to my Lord Husband and I. Please see to it that the Red Keep is secured, along with any persons of note who may be lurking within its walls."

Bobbing his head, the goldcloak left. As he did, a man in black plate emerged from another group of gold cloaks, before coming to kneel before the Queen. Taking her hand, he lifted his helmet's visor and planted a kiss upon her fingers. "It has been far too long, my Queen."

The Queen smiled warmly. "Rise, my Lord Husband." Gaemon's breath caught in his throat. The man removed his helm, allowing for pale silver hair to fall to his shoulders from where it had been kept beneath his helm. He turned to face the dragonriders who'd assembled behind him. "So these are my stepson's prized dragonseeds? I have heard so much about the lot of you. Roasting a fleet from the Three Daughters is no small feat. I could have put each of you to good use in the Stepstones." His eyes passed over each of them, resting on each for just a moment before finally turning back to face his wife. "My Queen, before we enter the great hall, I fear there are some fools that need attending to."

The Queen's eyes narrowed, and she followed her husband to the entrance of Maegor's holdfast, where a small crowd had assembled. The crowd had gathered in the courtyard outside of Maegor's Holdfast, just beyond a lowered drawbridge that spanned a gruesome dry moat filled with wickedly sharp iron spikes. At the center of the group stood a tall man, unbent with age, his brown hair heavily streaked with grey, coming to a point in a widow's peak. He frowned beneath an aquiline nose, his lips pressed firmly together into a thin line. He wore a grey doublet with white accents, and a golden chain around his neck. Next to him stood a beautiful woman in a green silken dress, with a golden circlet atop her head and a golden choker set with an emerald about her neck. Her long brown hair reached her waist, and was braided ornately. Her face was twisted in a barely concealed fury, and her brown eyes sparkled dangerously. Next was a tall man, dashing in red and gold silks. His eyes were as emerald as the stone in the woman's choker, and he had shoulder-length hair of beaten gold. The last individual of note stood tall, so straight that one got the impression that he had a spine of iron. His hair had once been black, but was now mostly grey, and he bore a patch of a green swirl-like image on yellow sewn into his grey doublet. Behind the group stood an assortment of household knights, men-at-arms, and what appeared to be a septon.

The Queen was the first to speak. "It has been too long since I have been able to regard that malice-filled face of yours, step-mother. I see you have surrounded yourself with leal lords and puissant knights. A shame, then, that most of the legendary ones have taken their leave of the city. You must forgive my intrusion. The doors were practically left wide-open, as it were."

"Enough of this farce, Princess. I have no time for your gloating. Instead, I beg that you heed my next words. This war has gone on for long enough. Let us together summon a great council, as the Old King did in the days of old, and lay the matter of succession before the lords of the realm." That must be the Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower, Gaemon thought to himself.

Rhaenyra scoffed at Alicent's entreaties. "Do you mistake me for Mushroom?" She asked. "We both know how the council would rule. Instead, you have one choice to make today, stepmother. Yield or burn."

The Dowager Queen bowed her head in defeat. Wordlessly, she raised her hands, offering the Queen the keys to the city and ordering her sworn swords to stand down and drop their weapons. Raising her head, she spoke, her words dripping with hate: "The city is yours, Princess, but you will not hold it long. The rats play when the cat is gone, but my son Aemond will return with Fire and Blood."

The Queen gave orders for those assembled to be led away and detained, choosing not to grace the Dowager Queen's venom with a response. Afterwards, the assembled goldcloaks rushed into the now vacated Maegor's holdfast. Gaemon and the others stood waiting, expectantly, for what seemed an eternity in order to receive word the Usurper had been taken into custody. Eventually one emerged, looking decidedly downcast.

"We searched the entirety of the place, your Grace. We have found the Usurper's wife, Queen 'elaena, but there is no sign of the Usurper hisself. We broke the doors to his quarters, but found only his bed, empty, and 'is chamberpot full. Begging your pardon. 'Is children are gone too. The Princess Jaehaera and Prince Maelor are gone, along with two of the Usurper's Kingsguard, Ser Willis Fell and Ser Rickard Thorne. The former Master of Whispers, Lord Strong, is missing too. There is no sign of any of 'em, anywhere."

The Queen's eyes glowed with fury. "Seven curses upon my bro-the Usurper. Larys must have spirited them out while Alicent delayed us. Search the rest of the Keep. They may turn up yet." She then turned to face those still assembled. "As for the rest of you, I thank each of you for your service to my cause. We have struck a fine blow against our enemies on this day. I ask that you attend me for one final task." Turning, she strode imperiously out of the courtyard, retracing her earlier steps to where they had landed the dragons, before turning and approaching the largest of the pale red stone structures within the castle.

She bid some men-at-arms to open the great oak-and-bronze doors, revealing a cavernous hall. A long carpet ran along the center of the chamber, leading to a raised iron dais, upon which sat a towering and twisted construct of iron. The Iron Throne, Gaemon realized he had been holding his breath as the doors were opened. The seat of Kings certainly does not disappoint. Queen Rhaenyra entered, ordering for braziers lining the hall to be lit. As the flames began to dance in the great bronze structures, the skulls of the dragons of old began to glow with an otherworldly light. Balerion, Meraxes, Quicksilver, and Meleys. He had repeated the dynasty's dragons so many times to himself he could recite them by heart. Meleys' skull was less blackened than the others, and he realized it had been full of life and fire only a few months before. The Usurper must have had it cleaned and brought here after they paraded it through the city.

Scaling the narrow steps slowly, the Queen finally took her place, perched atop a mountain of melted steel. Gaemon's eyes followed Prince Daemon as he took a seat casually on the first few steps of the throne. Opening her mouth to speak, the Queen called for the black cells to be opened, and all prisoners to be brought before her for judgement. She also called for any and all prisoners of note taken throughout the day to be brought, in order to beg her forgiveness and swear renewed oaths of fealty. Messengers were sent, and after some time a huge crowd began to filter in, comprised of both men and women, young and old, wounded or simply possessing ruffled clothing. One by one, they began to kneel before the throne, professing their undying loyalty to the Queen and begging her forgiveness for oaths they had sworn to the Usurper "under duress."

While many of the lords and knights who had stayed true to the Queen's cause were rewarded for their loyalty with lands, offices and honors, none brought as much joy to the Queen as the appearance of an elderly knight, who was led coughing into the throne room.

The Queen's face lit as recognition dawned in her eyes. "Do my eyes betray me? Is that you, Ser Jarmen?"

The knight, reaching the base of the throne, knelt. "Your eyes do not deceive you, your Grace. The Usurper had me thrown into the Black Cells after I would not swear my sword to his cause. I have remained loyal to you since the beginning, as I was to your father and his grandfather before him. I ask now that you allow this old knight to swear his sword to your cause."

The Queen beamed down at the knight. Gaemon smiled beneath his helm, from where he stood with the other dragonseeds lining the path to the steps of the throne. When she smiles so, it is easy to see why they called her the Realm's Delight. A shame this war hasn't given her much cause for joy.

"Your wish is most definitely granted! Rise Ser Jarmen Follard, knight of the Queen. Prithee, my Lords and Knights, let us give three hurrahs for true loyalty, a trait most rare in these days of bloodshed and betrayal." The hall shook as a thousand voices cheered. The Queen rose, and spoke again: "I wish to conclude this evening's ceremony by rewarding my truest servants." She turned her gaze to Ser Lorent Marbrand, standing at the base of the Iron Throne. The knight had arrived earlier with Maester Gerardys, along with Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon on the ships of Lord Velaryon's fleet.

"Ser Lorent, you are the last of my father's true Kingsguard. For your leal and unwavering service as a member of my Queensguard, I name you Lord Commander, and charge you with finding six knights of great loyalty and ability to replenish your brotherhood." Ser Marbrand knelt, and "thanked the Queen for the greatest honor he could aspire to."

Maester Gerardys was called forth next. The Queen spoke, saying: "My dear friend and council. As your astute mind has undoubtedly already ascertained, the office of Grand Maester lies vacant with the traitor Orwyle having been confined to the Black Cells. I wished to inform you that I will be writing the Citadel to inform them that you, my leal servant, will henceforth be the only true Grand Maester." Gerardys bowed low, his aged voice thanked the Queen for her generosity, and swore he would continue to serve her to the best of his ability.

With that, the Queen rose and gave orders for the hall to be cleared. Gaemon estimated that they were in the midst of the Hour of the Wolf. As the servants, knights, lords and other members of the crowd left the great hall, the dragonseeds continued to stand at attention, alongside Prince Daemon and Ser Marbrand. The Queen descended the steps, allowing for her Prince-Consort to help her. When she reached the bottom, she turned to Gaemon.

"You may remove your helmet, Ser Gaemon. We have one matter that must needs be discussed before the evening is out." He could feel the eyes of the other seeds boring into his back, and the Prince-Consort cast an inquisitive glance towards his wife. Gaemon removed his helmet, and knelt before the Queen.

"How might I serve, your Grace?" He asked. What could she possibly want with me? His heart had begun to race, considering the implications.

"Certain rumors have come to my attention concerning claims you made in the past regarding your patronage. Is it true that you have claimed to be the natural son of my Prince-Consort? I have also been told that you hold proof of your claims. I would see it."

Gaemon's heart dropped. Did Baela tell her? This could mean my death! Struggling to keep himself from shaking, he pulled the leather string hanging from his neck out from under his armor and gorget. He held it upside-down over his open hand, allowing the golden dragon bearing the visage of the Queen's own father to fall into his palm.

"My Queen… the rumors you have heard are true. I have claimed that the Prince was my father. I was told from a young age that my mother lay with him years ago, and that he gave her this dragon in recompense. As a boy in my village it gave me great pride to…"

"Enough! I will hear no more of these calumnies. I could have your tongue out or your head struck off for uttering such words." Hissed the Queen. She turned to her consort. "What say you? Do these words hold any truth?"

Gaemon swore he saw a brief flash of recognition dance behind the eyes of the Rogue Prince. His face quickly changed into a sardonic grin, however. "My dear Queen, are you asking me to have kept track of every maiden I deflowered over the years? For if so, I believe that would be quite impossible. Are the boy's words true? Mayhaps. But he could have easily found or stolen such a coin."

The Queen studied her consort's face, before turning to Gaemon's once more. Her indignance had subsided, replaced with a look of calculation. Her face softening, she spoke: "I have not forgotten that you returned my youngest child to me." She sighed. "I will hear no more of this, from any of you. I will show mercy this once, for your service rendered unto me, and your future services rendered. Guards, see my dragonriders from the hall to their new quarters in the Dragonpit." Turning, she allowed herself to be led behind the throne, where a door to her chambers existed.

Gaemon stood, and allowed himself to be led into the night. He was stunned, and his mind was racing. None of the scenarios in his mind had gone like this. I somehow always thought he'd claim me. Instead, he turned his back on me. His armored fists clenched. If the Rogue Prince has no use for me, then I have no use for him. I will shape my own destiny from without his shadow. He exited the great hall, emerging into the courtyard with the other seeds. The wind carried the smell of ash.

Chapter Text

Gyles II

Life in King's Landing is nothing if not interesting. Gyles had been beginning to despair of his circumstances. The state of the city he was living in had grown stagnant, and from what he could gather in terms of information, it had been for some time. He had been rejected out of hand by the guards at the Red Keep's gate when he had requested an audience with the King, and Gyles knew better than to try again. King Aegon, the Second of his name, drew much of his support in the war from Lords within regions that hated Dornishman the most, Stormlanders and Reachmen. Gyles had learned much and more of what Lord supported which claimant during his time in the city, and King Aegon certainly seemed to be surrounded by men who felt that the only good type of Dornishman was a dead one.

I was lucky that I have such a small presence in this city that I'm not even considered as a possible threat. After the murder of King Aegon's eldest son, it seemed that the security of the royal family was of the utmost importance. Gyles knew that garnering too much attention for the wrong reasons would be a very effective way to get himself imprisoned, tortured, and killed. It was for that reason that Gyles silently bided his time living and working in the House of Kisses, where throwing the occasional unruly patron out into the street was the most action he was likely to see.

All of that had changed only a week before. At a time when many had feared for their lives, Gyles had finally begun to smell the sweet scent of opportunity in the air once again. Gyles woke quite suddenly. He had been in the House of Kisses' common room the night before, until it was nearly time for the sun to lighten the city with the arrival of dawn. There had been no problems caused by the patrons that night, and Gyles had been relieved when he was finally able to collapse into his cot. He felt as though his eyes had only been closed for a moment when he felt a hand roughly shaking him. Springing awake, Gyles grabbed a dagger from beneath his straw pillow and turned to face his assailant.

"Peace, m'lord, tis' only me," Mors said, and Gyles lowered the dagger, sitting up to better see his squire in the dim light of the candle that the man held. The old squire's wrinkled face had the look of well-worn leather, after a lifetime spent under the relentless Dornish sun and in the blustering winds of the Boneway.

It was then that Gyles noticed the clanging of the bells. "What is happening, Mors?" Gyles was exhausted and confused, and the eerie distant chiming did nothing to smother the growing apprehension inside of him.

"Dragons, m'lord," the squire grunted. Gyles noticed that the grizzled man was trembling slightly.

Gyles felt as though a pit had opened in his stomach. "How many?" he asked gravely, repeating himself when it became clear that his squire hadn't heard his words as the man cast fearful glances around Gyles' quarters.

Mors looked back to him. "Enough to burn this whole city to ash, m'lord," the squire began, "enough to make King's Landing burn hotter than the Seventh Hell." It was at that moment that Gyles heard panicked footsteps descending the stairs into the cellar of the House of Kisses, where foodstuffs were kept and the guards' quarters were located. Gyles could hear fearful voices and sobbing. Gyles leapt from his cot and dressed as quickly as he could, pulling on his sand-colored silk doublet with the black portcullis sigil of his House stitched into it. Dragging his leather boots onto his feet with shaking hands, Gyles stamped them into place as he crossed his quarters to its thin wooden door. If Gyles was to die, he would burn to death with his sword in hand, rather than suffocate in the cramped cellar of the House of Kisses.

He paused for a moment in the doorway of his quarters as he buckled his sword belt into place. Gyles didn't bother with any of his armor. He knew it would not save him from dragonflame. In the shadows, several whores clutched candles as they all cowered as far from the stairs as they could. Gyles saw Sylvenna Sand crouched in front of Essie by a musty wine barrel, seemingly trying to console the terrified woman as she clutched her weeping son to her breast.

Gyles made his way over to her, with Mors following close behind. Sylvenna turned to face them. Her dark eyes glinted in the light of the candle that Gyles' squire still held. "Ser Gyles Yronwood," the Dornishwoman said. Her voice was tight, but aside from that she showed no other signs of fear. The Dornish knew of the wrath of dragons better than any from the stories they had been told as children, and it seemed that Gyles, Mors, and Sylvenna faced their impending doom with more of a sense of resignation than the hysteria that surrounded them.

"Sylvenna Sand," Gyles began, "I mean to head out into the street above and try to make sense of the current situation. It seems that no burning has yet begun as we speak, so mayhaps there is hope for the people of this city yet. You are welcome to join me if you wish." The Dornishwoman hesitated for a moment, but then gave Gyles a quick nod.

Turning back to Essie, she gave the woman a strong embrace. "Wait for me here," Sylvenna whispered to her, and Essie nodded numbly, still clutching her son tightly. Sylvenna rose and smoothed her silken dress, giving Gyles a curt nod. The bells of the city continued to toll as the three Dornish exiles ascended the stairs.

The Street of Sisters was one of the longest and largest thoroughfares in the city of King's Landing. It was always crowded, but it seemed to Gyles that it only came truly alive as night fell over the city. It connected the Hills of Visenya and Rhaenys together, and one could take many side streets and wynds from the main street to practically any other part of the city. The sun was low in the evening sky, hidden from Gyles' view behind looming rooftops, but still providing enough dim golden light that lanterns and torches had not yet been lit.

Gyles had not brought much clothing with him on his journey north from Dorne, only what he had packed for the wedding at Wyl that felt as though it had occurred a lifetime ago. He had been able to get his garments washed not long after reaching the city, but by the way his doublets had begun to stink of long-dried sweat, he supposed it was about time for them to be washed again. He was, after all, wearing his best silk doublet this evening, and would need it to be clean if he was to ever be given an opportunity to present himself in court.

Gyles thought that he was riding far enough back that he would not be noticed by the three riders further down the street, descending the Hill of Rhaenys. It would not do for him to be caught too obviously trailing them. Though it had been only about a week since Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen's forces had taken the city, the small amounts of initial unrest had been thoroughly stamped out. The fears of only a week before had given way to the concerns of daily life for the people of the city. Mors was working as a guard at the House of Kisses for the night, and Gyles assumed Sylvenna would be finding patrons of her own soon enough. The city is ruled by a new monarch and court, but the cityfolk carry on as they always have. As he meandered Evenfall through the throngs of people in the street, Gyles thought back to the morning full of clanging bells and dragons.

The common room of the House of Kisses was completely empty as Gyles, Mors, and Sylvenna crossed its breadth to the main door of the establishment. The doors were of strong oak, with handles of brass fashioned to look like a plump set of lips puckered for a kiss. Grabbing the handles, Gyles pushed open the doors and stepped outside. Mors and Sylvenna followed on his heels into the street, still damp and slick from the recent rainfall. The sky was dark and grey, leaving everything in shadow even though dawn had long since come and gone.

Hearing a roar above, Gyles looked quickly to the sky. For a brief moment, everything around Gyles was illuminated by a terrifying green light as a massive black dragon shot a great gout of green flame into the air above itself. Gyles almost lost his nerve at that moment, but forced himself to stand firm as the black dragon and a second silvery one descended towards the square at the top of Visenya's Hill. The two dragons descended in a lazy circle, and as they did so, other brave souls joined Gyles, Mors, and Sylvenna as they walked towards the square.

The three of them stood near the front of the gathering crowd as both dragons landed in the center of the square, and Gyles watched as the rider of the black dragon unchained himself from his saddle and dismounted his fearsome mount, pulling out a rolled parchment from a leather pouch on his belt. Opening it, the dragon rider began to speak. Though his voice was muffled by his helm, Gyles was able to understand the important parts. King's Landing had a new monarch, and she meant her new subjects no harm. The dragon rider found a crier to take and continue to spread his message before climbing back atop his mount and flying away, followed by the other dragon that had accompanied him. Both riders looked almost comical atop their dragons as both were much smaller than the mounts that they rode.

Having finally seen a dragon, Gyles understood why his family back in Dorne spoke of them with such fear and respect. Such fearsome creatures had been the terror of Dorne's skies many times since the first Aegon and his sister-wives had conquered the rest of Westeros. Though Dorne had claimed the life of one and its rider, they had paid dearly for it. Dorne had burned, and Yronwood castle was by no means spared. Every time war came with the dragon Kings, their dragons did too. As Gyles re-entered the House of Kisses, his mind was made up. The Gods had seen fit to give him another chance at success, and he would not fail.

Gyles had discovered that some of Queen Rhaenyra's dragon riders were not official members of the Targaryen family, though they clearly shared some of her blood. Even in Dorne, it was known that none without the blood of the dragon had ever succeeded in taming and riding one. These dragon riders outside of the Royal family were known as dragonseeds, and Gyles knew that they would be his best chance at a place in court. They weren't Lords, and as far as Gyles knew, they held no lands, but only a fool would think that they didn't wield at least some influence as riders of dragons. And they have been spending time out in the city, enjoying the perks that being a dragon rider associated with the Queen brings.

It was for that reason that Gyles was following three of the dragonseeds as they rode further ahead. He had spent much of the early evening at the top of the Hill of Rhaenys, doing his best to look occupied by absolutely nothing as he watched and waited. The seeds had been quartered in the Dragonpit, and the chatter throughout the city had quickly informed Gyles that they all ventured out in the evenings to enjoy what King's Landing had to offer. Sylvenna Sand had told Gyles that two of the dragonseeds had gone out to brothels on the Street of Silk nearly every evening since the city had been taken, and that another three had made a habit of visiting different taverns along the Hill of Rhaenys to make merry.

Gyles expected that the two on the Street of Silk would not take kindly to being detoured by attempts at conversation by Gyles, so he had made it his mission to ingratiate himself with the other three during one of their tavern visits. Gyles cursed silently to himself as he nearly rode past the building where the three dragonseeds had stopped their horses. Handing off their mounts to bowing and scraping stable boys, they entered the structure. Gyles hadn't gotten a truly good look at any of the three, but he supposed he got a good enough look at their backs that he would be able to identify them inside the tavern.

Dismounting Evenfall, he waved over another stable boy. Many people had begun to enter the tavern in the wake of the three dragonseeds, but Gyles was able to get Evenfall tended to quickly because of his clearly knightly appearance, dressed in his best sand-colored doublet with the black portcullis sigil of House Yronwood, as well as his mail and sword. Though the mail was slightly uncomfortable to sit in, Gyles wasn't fool enough to venture out into the streets of King's Landing completely unarmored. Handing the stableboy a copper Shield from his own purse, Gyles walked into the tavern with as confident an air as he could muster.

Stepping inside, Gyles saw to his own slight chagrin that he needn't have bothered with such a dramatic entrance. All eyes in the tavern were on three individuals sitting around a table in its center. The three of them all wore black clothing with accents of red, clearly marking them as members of the Queen's retinue. They had all just been served tankards brimming with ale by a serving girl who was all smiles and giggles. The majority of the people in the tavern's common room around them showed enough courtesy as to not crowd around too much, but it was clear to Gyles by overhearing some of their half-hearted conversation that their attention was truly on the three dragonseeds.

It seems that I'm not the only one who sees the opportunity that they leave in their wake, Gyles thought with a small grin. Walking to the bar, he bought himself a tankard of ale, and sat himself in one of the few seats remaining along it. Sipping his ale, Gyles sat as comfortably as he could and waited for his opportunity. When the three dragonseeds were brought steaming meat pies from the kitchens, Gyles ordered one as well, expecting that they would remain for a while yet. They laughed, drank, and ate, and then drank some more. Gyles did the same, never feeling as though he had quite the right opportunity to approach them. Whenever he resolved himself to do so, some other knight or merchant did, all smiles and compliments.

As the night dragged on, Gyles spent some time observing the Queen's dragonriders as he continued to drink. One of them was a young man that Gyles reckoned had only a few less namedays than him, with auburn hair and green eyes that seemed to glitter and flash with every jape and comment that he made. The second was a thin girl with brown skin, black hair, and brown eyes, who with a crooked grin cursed foully enough to make even a grizzled sellsword blush. The third was a very large man about the same age as the other two dragonseeds, with brown hair and blue-grey eyes. He seemed much more reserved than the other two, but still he smiled and occasionally chuckled as the night continued. None of three seemed to bear any resemblance to the otherworldly beauty of the descendants of Valyria that Gyles had heard of, lacking any hint of silver in their hair or purple in their eyes. Seven Hells, I look more the dragonlord with my blond hair and violet eyes than they do.

Watching a small group of knights push open the tavern doors and step outside, Gyles could see that the world beyond was black with night. Enough. You haven't been spending what's left of your coin in this tavern to sit and watch them. Gyles rose from his chair, half-full tankard still in hand, and made to approach their table. He took a moment to steady himself as he swayed slightly. Perhaps I drank more than I expected to. Walking slowly, he crossed the common room towards their table.

Gyles wanted to curse in frustration as he saw another man approaching the table of the dragonseeds. The three had received so many visitors throughout the night that they barely took any notice of the two of them approaching. That man looks remarkably shabby for a tavern of this status, Gyles thought to himself. The tavern was not far from the top of the Hill of Rhaenys, and was therefore of a much greater quality and expense than those located towards the bottom. The other man walked quickly, and approached the large brown-haired dragonseed directly from behind.

Gyles saw a dull flash of steel as the man drew a rusty knife from his sleeve and arced his arm high, preparing to plunge the blade down on the unsuspecting dragonseed that sat with his back to him. The other two seeds' faces contorted into expressions of shock, and Gyles heard a woman somewhere else in the common room scream. Gyles' reaction was instantaneous. He flung the contents of his tankard into the man's face, blinding him. He cursed and spluttered as Gyles dove into him, sending them both sprawling. As he fell, Gyles struck the side of his head on a chair, and stars exploded in his vision as his already ale-addled mind tried to recover from the tumble he'd taken.

Blinking, Gyles saw that the catspaw had recovered first, mopping the ale from his eyes with a frayed sleeve. The man lunged at Gyles with his dagger, but Gyles managed to catch his wrist, before delivering a swift punch between the man's eyes. The man flopped backwards, flailing his dagger in front of himself. Batting the man's arm aside, Gyles drew a sharp steel dirk of his own and plunged it into his gut.

The man cried out, and his whole body convulsed. He dropped his dagger as Gyles leaned in close. "Who sent you?!" Gyles shouted, and when the man didn't answer, he pulled the dirk from his belly and plunged it into his heart. The man screamed before shuddering violently and going completely limp. Pulling his dirk from the man's chest, Gyles wiped it off on the catspaw's tattered cloak before sheathing it. Nearly all in the tavern were on their feet and shouting, and Gyles saw several people running through the door of the tavern into the night. Mayhaps one of them will fetch the Gold Cloaks, but methinks most are trying to avoid any potential trouble.

Pushing himself up to one knee, Gyles placed a hand on a chair to steady himself. The effects of the ale had quickly worn off in the brief but brutal melee, but Gyles' head was throbbing where he had struck it as he fell. Looking up, Gyles saw that the tall brown-haired dragonseed was standing over him. The man reached his hand down to Gyles, and he gratefully accepted it.

With a small grunt, the man pulled Gyles to his feet. "My thanks, Ser," he began, "if not for your heroic intervention I would have surely been killed." Though he spoke well enough, there was no mistaking the accent of a commoner. This man likely never stepped foot in a castle before taming a dragon. The towering seed continued to speak, looking at Gyles with some concern. "I am Ser Maegor, a dragonrider for Her Grace, the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen."

Giving a small smile of his own, and trying not to wince, Gyles inclined his head slightly at the dragonseed's praise. "The pleasure is all mine, Ser Maegor. I am Ser Gyles, of House Yronwood of Yronwood. Only cravens and cutthroats attack their foes from behind, and it appears that this catspaw was both." Hearing the doors of the tavern open, Gyles saw several Gold Cloaks enter the building.

Crossing the room, one of them kicked the catspaw in the side, grunting quietly when the man showed no signs of rising. "This'n is dead for certain." Turning to the three dragonseeds, he bowed. "The folk outside explained to us what happened, Sers. We'll handle this rat from here." The Gold Cloak gave a quick whistle, and two of his comrades lifted the body from the floor, carrying it through the door of the tavern.

Ser Maegor nodded at the other two seeds, who were assuaging the panic of the tavern keeper and assuring him that they would not report him or his establishment to the Queen. "If you'd like to accompany us outside, Ser Gyles Yronwood, I'll introduce you to my comrades." Gyles nodded quickly, wincing at how the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his head. He followed Ser Maegor into the street outside the tavern.

Walking to the small stable against the side of the structure, Gyles and Ser Maegor were quickly joined by the other two dragonseeds. At this hour of the night, only the four of them stood within the stables. "Ser Gyles Yronwood, meet two of Queen Rhaenyra's other dragonseeds, Ser Gaemon and Lady Nettles."

The red-haired seed, Ser Gaemon, nodded in respect at Gyles. "My thanks, Ser Gyles Yronwood. We are fortunate that you intervened on behalf of Ser Maegor. None of us expected such an attempt to be made on any of our lives."

The girl Nettles snorted, looking at the three knights standing around her with a grim expression. "We should all have seen this coming. I didn't think that the Sot had the fucking stones to try something like this, though." She merely rolled her eyes when Ser Maegor cleared his throat and gave her a pointed glare. It seems she said something that he thought I should not have been privy to.

Ser Gaemon grinned sardonically. "A few drops of ale and she's already running her mouth." He laughed when Nettles scoffed at him, holding up his hands in a mollifying gesture.

Ser Maegor had a small grin on his face as he watched the interaction between the other two dragonseeds, but quickly turned back to face Gyles with a much more serious expression. "My apologies, Ser. Make no mistake, I am in your debt for saving my life. Though I'm not a nobleman, and have only a small stipend from the Queen as one of her dragonriders, I will happily do what I can to repay the debt I owe." Gyles felt the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the dragonseed spoke. My chance has finally arrived.

The morning air was brisk and cool as Gyles ascended Aegon's High Hill on Evenfall. At his side rode Ser Maegor, and a short distance behind them was Mors on his spotted rounsey. Having spent nearly his whole life in the saddle, Gyles was a very skilled rider, and he felt as though he had an eye for the horse-riding skills of others. Though Ser Maegor was a dragonrider, it seemed to Gyles that he likely was more comfortable and confident on his dragon than the powerful gelding that he currently rode.

By the way he clutches his reins, it seems that the poor man is half-terrified that his mount will throw him at any moment. Many Dornishmen prided themselves on their eye for horseflesh, with the breeding and riding of sand steeds being a valued and cherished pastime south of the Red Mountains. Geldings were much less aggressive than stallions, and far easier to train and ride.

Though Ser Maegor rode a warhorse, Gyles could tell that it seemed to be a quite placid creature, with none of the tempestuous spirit and fire that had initially drawn Gyles to his own sand steed stallion, Evenfall. It is likely that Ser Maegor was given that mount for a reason. From what Gyles had observed, the dragonseeds were of lowborn or bastard birth, and therefore had little to no experience with more lordly activities like horseback riding. It wouldn't do for the Queen's dragonriders to be falling from their horses into the dirt, so they've been given some of the most well-trained and calm horses from the royal stables.

The Red Keep's main gates loomed above the three men as they reached and crossed the cobbled square at the crest of Aegon's High Hill. There was lots of activity within the square, made up mostly of Gold Cloaks keeping watch, as well as various knights, sellswords, and other individuals desperate for an audience within the walls of the castle itself. With a new Queen ruling from the Red Keep, many are desperate to swear their swords and win her favor. Gyles didn't blame them. I'm one of them, after all. Swearing your sword to a monarch in a time of crisis meant that you would be liable to receive great boons from them when the crisis ended, as the monarch expressed their gratitude to all of their leal servants.

Or your head ends up on a spike for fighting for the losing side, Gyles thought as he regarded several heads atop black iron spikes between the gatehouse crenels. Gyles knew that one of them belonged to the uncle of the usurper Aegon, a Hightower who had been second-in-command of the City Watch of King's Landing. According to rumors, he had been killed by his own commander as the city fell and the Gold Cloaks went over to the Queen and her husband, the Prince-consort Daemon. The other heads belonged to the City Watch gate captains who had been appointed by the usurper, and were similarly killed by their own men.

Reaching the raised massive bronze portcullis that was the main gate of the Red Keep, Gyles, Ser Maegor, and Mors reined in their mounts as a knight and several Gold Cloaks approached them. Inclining his head in respect at Ser Maegor, the knight began to speak. "Well met, Ser. How can I be of service?"

Nodding in the direction of Gyles and Mors, Maegor responded to the knight. "This knight that I am escorting, Ser Gyles Yronwood, saved my life the night previous when a catspaw attempted to murder me. He wishes to swear his sword to the Queen's service, and I am here to vouch for him personally."

The knight considered Maegor's words for a moment, before nodding and stepping aside, motioning for the Gold Cloaks with him to do the same. "Go right ahead then, Sers. The stableboys beyond the gate will see to your mounts." Thanking the knight, Ser Maegor rode beneath the Red Keep's gate, and Gyles and Mors followed closely behind.

As he passed beneath the bronze portcullis, Gyles felt a sense of elation. I've finally made it. As they handed off their mounts to several stableboys, a steward in black and red livery made his way over to the trio, bowing deeply. "If you'll follow me, Sers, I will take you to the Queen. She is currently holding court from the throne room." Gyles and Ser Maegor followed in the wake of the servant, who managed to walk in a hurry without losing an ounce of decorum or exquisite etiquette. So lost was Gyles in his own anticipation and jubilation, that the halls and stairways he was led through all seemed to pass by in a blur.

It almost came as a surprise to him when he rounded a corner and was suddenly faced with giant doors of bronze and oak. They were closed, and a sizable group of men was gathered before them. Some wore doublets and armor like Gyles, while others were dressed much more simply, in jerkins and ringmail. It seems I am only one out of many here to swear themselves to the Queen's cause.

Looking at all of the different sigils on the doublets of the knights before the doors, Gyles saw a multitude of different animals, objects, and other shapes. Some of the knights like Gyles had the look of men of noble birth, with high-quality plate armor that gleamed in the dim light of the corridor. Others were clearly hedge knights, wearing armor that was tarnished and dented from a life spent on the road.

Turning to face Gyles, Ser Maegor, and Mors, the steward bowed deeply. Nodding at Gyles, he gestured to the group of knights and other swords lining up before the doors to the throne room. "Those swearing directly to the Queen's service are to line up there. Their own attendants and sworn men, as well as observers, are to wait until the main group enters, before filing into the wings of the Great Hall to watch." Nodding, Ser Maegor and Mors stepped back to join a much larger pool of attendants, squires, and other courtiers wishing to observe the ceremony.

Striding up to the line in front of the doors, Gyles cleared his throat to get the attention of a frazzled-looking herald in black and red who was determining which man would stand where in the procession, asking each for his name and place of origin. The man turned to Gyles and looked him over quickly. The herald clearly recognized his sigil, based on the way that his mouth fell open briefly in shock before he schooled his face into a neutral expression. "Am I correct that you are an Yronwood of Dorne, Ser?" the man asked.

Gyles saw the other men in the line eyeing him critically as he responded to the herald. "That is correct, my good man. I am Ser Gyles Yronwood, from Yronwood in Dorne." Gyles heard several indistinct mutters and exclamations at his proclamation. A Dornishman is the last person that they'd expect to be fighting for either side, much less for the royal family. The herald considered Gyles for a moment, before gesturing for him to take a place towards the middle of the line.

Gyles had not been expecting to lead the group, but his placement in the line shocked him. It appears that I've been placed just before the hedge knights and sellswords. Gyles was not vain enough to expect to lead the procession, for surely there were knights from powerful Houses within the dragon kings' own realm that would receive the honor of standing in such a place. He was surprised, however, to be placed behind knights that had the look of younger sons of minor landed knights. The herald recognized the sigil of my House, which means he knows how powerful the Yronwoods are in Dorne. Despite that, Gyles had been placed behind any man who had even a hint of a family name, surely many of whom belonged to Houses of far less prestige and status as House Yronwood.

They mean to slight me. My House has ruled from their castle since the Dawn Age, yet they place me just before hedge knights and sellswords. Gyles could feel the rage growing within himself. To simply be allowed entrance to the castle, I had to save the life of one of the Queen's dragonriders. Even now, they mean to make a jape of the Dornishman. Nothing I do is enough to make these damn people treat me with any respect. Gyles was pulled from his thoughts as the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and he forced the anger and frustration deep within himself. They can try to slight me however they wish. Nothing they do will keep me from being the soul of chivalry and etiquette when it is my turn to swear to the Queen.

Gyles stood tall and proud as each man ahead of him was announced, at which point they would move forward from the line to kneel before the Iron Throne. And what a throne it is. Gyles had heard rumors of the seat sat by the dragon kings, forged from the swords of the warriors of the kingdoms that they conquered. I wouldn't find any Dornish swords among them, Gyles thought with a grim smile. Perched atop the throne was the Queen herself, Rhaenyra Targaryen. Now this is an heir of Valyria. She sat proudly and imperiously in a flowing black dress with patterns of red silk, and its bodice was awash with glittering red rubies. As each man swore to her, she would nod before stating a short few words to accept their fealty.

As the man who had stood just ahead of Gyles finished swearing his sword to the Queen, Gyles felt anticipation roiling in his gut. "Ser Gyles Yronwood, of Yronwood in Dorne!" the herald called, and Gyles strode forward, not feeling nearly as self-assured as he was presenting himself to be. He could feel the eyes of those in the hall boring into him as he approached the throne, and dropped to one knee before it.

Keeping his head low and eyes downcast, Gyles called out the words that he had been rehearsing again and again in his head. "My Queen, my sword is yours, if you will have it. I will be your leal man, if you will have me. I, Ser Gyles Yronwood, do solemnly swear myself to your cause!" Hearing no words of assent after several long moments, Gyles chanced a look up at the Queen on her throne.

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen was looking down towards him, with an unreadable expression on her face. Gyles met her gaze, refusing to look away. I am an Yronwood of Dorne. I will not cringe or cower, even in the face of dragons. The Queen then began to speak. "Rise, Ser Gyles Yronwood. I am told that you are to thank for the life of one of mine own dragonriders. Since my family has ruled this kingdom, Dorne and its noble families have been an enemy of all in this realm. But you yourself have already proven that you are willing and able to fight for my cause. In these times of uncertainty, a man of proven loyalty is worth his weight in gold. I will gladly accept your sword to my cause."

Stunned, Gyles numbly thanked the Queen for her kindness and praise. He stood and made his way over to the wings of the Great Hall, as the Queen regarded the next kneeling knight before her throne. After a few moments, Mors and Ser Maegor had joined him. Mors merely nodded at him, but Gyles could see the approval in his squire's eyes. Ser Maegor firmly shook Gyles' hand, before whispering quietly. "Congratulations, Ser. I am sure you will prove a great boon to our cause."

Gyles gave the dragonrider a genuine smile. "It should be I thanking you, Ser Maegor. This would not have been possible had you not vouched for me. It is now myself that is in your debt."

The dragonrider grinned back at him. "I shall have to keep that in mind, Ser." With that, the both of them turned back to continue watching the ceremony. At least Ser Maegor saw my worth, when all others refused to even consider it. He thought of the vow that he had made, and the commitment that it meant. Before, I was merely an outsider, an interloper looking in on everything from the exterior. He thought of the blood that was sure to be shed in his future. I'm well and truly a part of all of this now. I will live or die beneath the banner of the Dragon Queen.

Chapter Text

Maegor III

Word from the Riverlands had been scarce since the Queen had taken King's Landing, but Maegor had done his best to keep himself appraised of what had been happening there. Many of the Riverlords had declared for the Queen's cause, but from what Maegor had been told, they were strung out and disorganized. After the sound defeat of the Queen's organized support in the Reach, it was important that her support in the Riverlands not be crushed as well.

Though Lord Jason Lannister himself had been slain fighting at the Red Fork river, his host had remained intact and continued to march despite grievous losses. From the information that eventually reached Maegor's ears, the Westerlands host had fought and won a battle beneath the walls of Acorn Hall, but had lost their commander Ser Adrian Tarbeck only a few days later when he was killed by a hedge knight in a skirmish.

Aside from the Hightower army moving northeast through the Reach, one other great threat remained to the Queen. This was the possibility of Prince Aemond and Ser Criston Cole's army of Crownlands Lords loyal to the usurper Aegon joining forces with the Westermen in the Riverlands. However, that fear had been assuaged when news had reached the city of a great battle that had been fought along the Gods Eye's western shore.

Gaemon had entered Maegor's chambers within the Dragonpit with a large grin on his face. "What is it?" Maegor had asked, for the grin on his friend's face could have meant many different things.

"The Westermen are finished, Maegor. The word has been spreading down from the Red Keep all morning! The Riverlords were able to join their forces with an advance party of Northmen, and they forced the Westermen into the lake. Their entire army was destroyed!" Maegor smiled, and felt a sense of relief wash over himself. It seemed that the support that the Queen had gathered to her cause had finally begun to find its footing.

Maegor had never thought that there would be a day when he found a sense of relief in the death of thousands. However, his involvement in this war had changed him. By the conclusion of one battle, Maegor had killed more men than the most seasoned veterans would kill in a lifetime. That fact weighed on him, and at times had laid awake some nights wondering about what becoming a dragonrider had cost him. I could have just been a fisherman. It would have been a life without glory, but one that Maegor knew would have made him happy. By taming the Grey Ghost and fighting beneath the Queen's banner, Maegor knew that he had given away a part of himself that he would never get back.

When his self-doubts would begin to grow too strong, however, Maegor reminded himself of what he was fighting for. By riding the Grey Ghost in battle, I can save the lives of the common people, the people who are just trying to lead a life like the one I used to have. It was a flaw that Maegor had found existed among the nobility, from the most insignificant landed knights to the Queen herself. They think of battles to be won and titles to be given, but naught of those who suffer as their armies burn and sack.

When he had helped to burn the fleet of The Three Daughters in the Gullet, Maegor knew he was saving the lives of those in Spicetown and High Tide by burning the men who intended to sack and destroy their homes. If the Queen were to order him to bring Fire and Blood to her enemies in the Reach or Riverlands, Maegor would do so without hesitation. If I must have the blood of soldiers on my hands to prevent their predations, I will bear that burden without regrets. However, if the Queen asked him to burn a village, or a town? Maegor didn't know if he would be able to follow those orders. I pray that it will never come to that.

Maegor had been surprised at how quickly the city of King's Landing had fallen to the forces of the Queen. Because of the fact that both he and Gaemon could read, they were each tasked with landing on a different hilltop within the city to proclaim the Queen's occupation of her city and castle. Maegor had landed the Grey Ghost outside the Dragonpit, a great domed monstrosity of a structure. Even from outside, I could hear the dragons roaring within. For a city of such a large population, Maegor had been surprised when only a small crowd of the city's populace gathered to hear the proclamation given to Maegor by the Queen. Many feared the flames of Queen Rhaenyra's dragons, and it had taken over a day for most of the city's populace to finally come out from their hiding places.

The sun was bright in the sky as Maegor ascended Aegon's High Hill on the back of his gelding. He'd heard that many knights gave names to their mounts, but Maegor did not plan to give his horse a name. I already have a mount. Grey Ghost was the only creature that Maegor ever intended to ride into battle. The other seeds and I are a different kind of cavalry. It felt to Maegor as though the ride from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep was beginning to become a habit. Only a short while before, he'd escorted the man who had saved his life, Ser Gyles Yronwood, to the Red Keep to swear fealty to the Queen.

On most other days, it would be Maegor and Gaemon ascending the hill, to spend the better part of the day sparring in the yard with the Queen's knights, continuously working on improving their skills in swordplay. The best instruction that they received was from Ser Lorent Marbrand, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, but more often than not he was attending the Queen, so their sparring sessions with the knight were oft few and brief. It was more common that they would spar with other knights and squires of lesser note within the Keep. Ser Marbrand's own squire, another Westerman by the name of Morgon Banefort, was a skilled youth about Maegor and Gaemon's own age that Maegor spent most of his time sparring with. I should like to spar with Ser Gyles as well. Maegor wondered if Dornish knights fought differently than knights from elsewhere in Westeros.

After he rode beneath the massive bronze portcullis that was the main gate of the Red Keep, Maegor was able to quickly hand off his gelding to a stableboy after dismounting. He considered the official but brief summons he and the others had received early that morning in the Dragonpit. Beyond being provided with a time late in the morning that they were expected in the Great Hall, the only other instructions were to be outfitted in the black steel plate armor that had been provided to all of the seeds, save Nettles. She would be wearing her own black leather armor and ringmail. For whatever she is planning, the Queen expects all of her seeds to be present and in full martial attire.

The route to the Great Hall had become a familiar one to Maegor, and he strode towards it with purpose, his plate boots clanking in the stone passageways. Maegor had not fully adjusted to the way servants and other common folk in the castle would make way for him, uttering pleasantries and other respectful words while bowing. They were simply performing the proper courtesies that were expected to be given to knights of the Queen, but it still put Maegor slightly ill at ease. I'm just Maegor, he'd want to say as they bowed and made way for him, but he didn't. It would not be right for a dragon rider of the Queen to presume to do away with expected courtly formalities.

Entering the Great Hall through its massive oak-and-bronze doors, Maegor once again found himself stunned at the size and grandeur of the room. At its far end sat the Iron Throne on its raised dais, and golden sunlight shone into and lit the room. It was mostly empty, and Maegor saw that he was the first of the dragonseeds to arrive. The Queen had not yet entered the room and climbed the throne, and it sat empty, its countless swords glinting in the morning sun.

Standing at the foot of the long crimson carpet that ran from the doors of the Great Hall to the foot of the Iron Throne's dais, Maegor allowed himself to imagine for a fleeting moment that it was he who was the monarch. He walked along the carpet's length, watching the Iron Throne grow larger and larger within his vision. I'm sure that King Maegor walked the length of this hall countless times, Maegor thought with a hint of pride, as well as shame. My great-great-grandsire sat a stolen throne just as the usurper Aegon has, and the realm similarly suffered for it. Reaching the base of the dais, Maegor stood regarding the steps of the throne for a moment. He realized that his right fist was tightly clenching the hilt of his sheathed sword. Slightly perturbed, he released his grip on his sword's hilt before turning and taking his place to the right of the throne as one of the Queen's dragonriders.

As he stood and waited, Maegor continued to consider his heritage, and the throne that he stood beside. King Maegor was the only child of King Aegon and his sister-wife Visenya, and despite having six wives throughout his life, he did not sire a single living heir on any of them. Maegor had often wondered in silence about the heritage of his own great-grandsire, who claimed to be the bastard of Maegor Targaryen. Could a man who sired not a single living child from six wives successfully sire a bastard on a common woman? Maegor wasn't completely sure, but he also knew that magics of an ancient and unknowable sort existed on the island of Dragonstone.

Maegor had decided long ago that he did not care whether or not people believed he was a descendant of a bastard of King Maegor. I'd always believed it myself, and that had been enough. After taming the Grey Ghost, I've proved to everyone that I'm the blood of the Dragon. And his was a different blood than any of the other descendants of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wife Rhaenys. Mine is the blood of Queen Visenya, the elder sister. With the deaths of my father and brothers, I'm the last of Queen Visenya's line.

Maegor's thoughts were interrupted by the entry into the Great Hall of two more dragonseeds. Like Maegor, they were similarly dressed in their black plate and winged helms. Ulf White and Hugh Hammer walked the length of the crimson carpet, before taking places to the right of the Iron Throne next to Maegor. Hugh Hammer brushed past Maegor with naught more than a brief cold glance, but Ulf locked eyes with Maegor as he passed. His hazel eyes burned hatefully at Maegor through the slit of his helmet's visor, and Maegor returned a cold blue-grey eyed glare of his own. No words were spoken, but neither Maegor nor Ulf needed to speak to express their hatred for the other.

Frustratingly, Maegor had no evidence against the man. After his conversation with Gaemon and Nettles at the Dragonpit the night that Maegor was almost murdered, he was convinced of the Sot's guilt. The three had made their way to the massive carved alcove that contained the chained-up Cannibal. The massive black dragon was curled in slumber, and did naught more than regard the three seeds with a cold green-eyed glance as they neared it. They chose to speak near the fearsome creature for they knew it would scare away any possible eavesdroppers. Beyond Gaemon, the Cannibal tolerated the presence of Maegor and Nettles, but hissed threateningly at any other living thing that dared come near it, including Ulf White and Hugh Hammer.

Maegor was still stunned from his near-brush with death. He had been drinking in the company of friends for hours when he saw the horrified expressions of Gaemon and Nettles. He had realized that they were looking beyond him when shouting and screaming began behind him. It was only due to the quick action of a Dornish knight that Maegor was not stabbed and killed by an assailant that he hadn't even seen. After they'd arrived back at the Dragonpit, Maegor, Gaemon, and Nettles had gathered by the Cannibal to discuss the night's events.

Leaning against the alcove's curved opening, Nettles had regarded the two seeds standing before her, her brown eyes glinting in the light of the braziers throughout the Dragonpit. "It's too easy to blame the attack on the Greens. I guarantee you that's what Ulf wants everyone to think." She bit her lip, a frustrated expression flitting across her face. "The fucker has us caught too. There's no way for any of us to prove he had something to do with the attack."

Gaemon nodded gravely. "For us to imply that he planned the attack only calls our own motives into question." He was clutching the leather pouch around his neck in his right hand tightly, twisting and turning it as he tried to collect his thoughts.

Maegor turned back to regard Nettles. "It's not to say that I don't agree with you Nettles, but do you think that Ulf would be so bold as to attempt to have another dragonseed murdered by his command?"

Nettles nodded without hesitation, with an uncharacteristically serious expression on her face. "I do think so. Both the Sot and that aurochs Hugh Hammer have nursed grudges against you and Gaemon since the fight over the Gullet. The two of you were heroes, the saviors of Spicetown and High Tide, not to mention rescuing the Prince Viserys and returning him to his mother with a dragon hatchling. What did the rest of us do?" Nettles' mouth twisted bitterly as she continued. "We watched as the Prince of Dragonstone plunged into the sea and was killed. We burned much of the Triarchy's fleet, to be sure, but we couldn't even protect the Prince who gave us all the chance to master dragons." Nettles sighed, and after a moment, a bit of a wry grin returned to her face, and she nodded at Maegor. "Of course, it also didn't help that you beat Ulf senseless in the training yard. Twas' about time for someone to shut that drunken shit's mouth up, I say."

Maegor smiled at Nettles' statement, and inclined his head at her in acknowledgement of her praise. "When you put it all that way, I suppose it makes more sense." Maegor frowned as he considered his situation. Ulf the White seemed to be out for his blood, and the only thing that Maegor could do was watch out for any other catspaws that the seed would send against him. For a brief moment, Maegor wondered whether he would be able to find someone to kill Ulf. As quickly as the thought came to him, however, Maegor forced it from his mind. He would not stoop to that hateful drunkard's level by sending assassins after him.

Gaemon began to speak suddenly, and both Nettles and Maegor turned to face him. "It seems that you're not the only person that Ulf has tried to have killed, Maegor." His friend continued as Maegor waited expectantly, and Nettles silently raised an eyebrow. "I had been wondering as to who had told the Queen about my claims of paternity. After I arrived at the castle on Cannibal, I spoke to no-one of who I believed my father to be. Yet somehow, someone who either had direct access to the Queen, or knew someone who did, let slip to her my claims of parentage." Maegor's friend frowned. "It now seems all too clear. What better way for the Sot to rid himself of a rival for the Queen's favor than to have the Queen herself execute him?"

Maegor, Nettles, and Gaemon stood in silence for several moments. It seemed that Ulf the White was actively trying to arrange for the downfall of both Maegor and Gaemon, but even they themselves had no way of knowing if that was the complete truth. "So what do we do now?" Maegor asked. No-one had an answer for him.

As he had stood deep in thought, the Great Hall had become filled with people. Gaemon, Nettles, and Addam Velaryon had joined the line of seeds beside the Iron Throne, and the massive doors at the end of the Great Hall were shut a few moments before the Queen and her husband appeared from the small door behind the throne. The Queen gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to her assembled dragonriders, before she climbed the steps of the Iron Throne and sat at its top. Her Prince-consort Daemon took his place on the first few steps of the Iron Throne.

At a nod from the Queen, her herald announced that the day's court was in session, and the Gold Cloaks stationed throughout the Great Hall beat the butts of their spears on the floor to draw the room to silence. The large doors of the hall were then opened, and a procession of prisoners were led into the room by Gold Cloaks and the new white cloaks that had been appointed by Ser Lorent Marbrand. Out of the six new members of the Queensguard, Maegor recognized only the face of Ser Harrold Darke.

At the head of the group of prisoners was the Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, shuffling while fettered at wrist and ankle with golden chains. Behind her came the Princess Helaena. Though the woman had not been confined to the Black Cells like her mother or grandfather, she had the look of someone who had been in the confines of a dungeon cell. Her silver hair was matted and stringy, and her clothes were covered in grime and several stains. Her violet eyes darted in many different directions as she muttered indistinctly. Maegor had not learned of the murder of Princess Helaena's eldest son, the Prince Jaehaerys, until after he had arrived at the city. He was shocked and horrified to learn of the brutal and merciless killing carried out on behalf of the Queen, under the auspices of the side that Maegor fought for.

Maegor had been devastated by the loss of his father and brothers, but he at least had been given the mercy of not having to watch them die. Princess Helaena had been forced to watch as her eldest son, a boy of six, was beheaded before her own eyes. I'm sorry Princess, were the words that Maegor wished he could say to the Princess Helaena. However, he knew that such woefully inadequate sentiments of sympathy from a fisherman's boy would likely mean little and less to her.

Following the Princess Helaena was her grandfather and father to the Queen Dowager, Ser Otto Hightower. Behind him was Ser Tyland Lannister, and then Lord Jasper Wylde. Behind them came two noblemen, one with a doublet bearing three red chevrons on ermine, and the other wearing a green doublet with a white lamb holding a golden goblet. It seemed to Maegor that these were the prisoners of note that Queen Rhaenyra wanted all in her court, including her dragonriders, to bear witness to the judgement of.

The Dowager Queen Alicent was the first to be brought before the Iron Throne and forced to her knees at the foot of its dais. Queen Rhaenyra looked down at her step-mother with scorn, but it was the Dowager Queen who opened her mouth first and began to speak.

"If you mean to order my death, Princess, make it quick. I do not care to hear you speak at length on whatever so-called 'righteous judgement' you have in store for me." The Dowager Queen turned her face up to glare at Queen Rhaenyra in defiance.

The Queen merely laughed bitterly at her step-mother from atop the Iron Throne. "A fate that a cruel and manipulative woman like you undoubtedly deserves, step-mother. However, I have decided to spare your life, for the sake of my father, who loved you once." Waving a hand dismissively, the Queen continued. "Return her to the Black Cells." The Dowager Queen was pulled to her feet, and gave Queen Rhaenyra one last cold glare before being escorted from the Great Hall.

The Queen regarded her half-sister the Princess Helaena with sympathy, and ordered that she be returned to her chambers in Maegor's Holdfast. "She has been punished enough," the Queen remarked sadly as the muttering and incoherent Princess was escorted gently from the Great Hall.

The Queen was not nearly as magnanimous with Ser Otto Hightower or Lord Jasper Wylde, giving cold and succinct orders for each man to be dragged out into the yard and beheaded as traitors to the Realm. Ser Otto merely bowed his head at the Queen's judgement, but raised it again and strode proudly from the Great Hall amongst the guards surrounding him to meet his death. Lord Jasper Wylde stood and addressed the Queen when he received his verdict, however. "I am no traitor, Princess. Everything that I have done as Master of Laws has been to uphold the established laws and precedents of the Realm. By every law in this land, a King's son comes before his daughter in matters of inheritance. I will die a loyal servant to the true ruler of this Realm, King Aegon, the second of his name!"

Queen Rhaenyra looked down at Lord Wylde in a cold fury. "A king's will is the law of his Realm, my Lord, and my father, the King Viserys, first of his name, made me his rightful heir. No amount of precedent can contradict that. Take this traitor from my sight, I wish to hear no more of his poisonous calumnies." With that, Lord Wylde was escorted from the Great Hall, still protesting the Queen's legitimacy as ruler.

Ser Tyland Lannister was spared the headsman's block, but it seemed to Maegor that death would have been a kinder fate for him. In the hopes that he might eventually be 'persuaded' to help recover some of the Crown's treasure, Ser Tyland was handed over to the Queen's torturers, and returned to the Black Cells.

The other two Lords that Maegor had seen earlier, now addressed as "the Lords Rosby and Stokeworth", were brought before the Iron Throne and forced to kneel. Both proclaimed their undying loyalty to the Queen, and assured her that they had only gone over to the usurper's side so that they could live to one day rejoin the true ruler of the Realm, the Queen herself.

The Queen listened to their pleas in stony silence, before giving her own cold answer. "My Lords, it seems to me that faithless friends are worse than foes. I will not suffer your presence at my side, and I will certainly not allow your treason to go unpunished. Lord Stokeworth, your family's words are 'Proud to be Faithful'. I never took you for a jester, but surely you must be, for you treat your family's words as nothing more than a jape."

Lord Stokeworth bowed his head in shame, and Lord Rosby's face went pale as the scowling Queen delivered her verdict. "I shall have you beheaded as traitors to the Realm. But first, I will have both of your lying tongues torn from your mouths. Guards, see that my orders are carried out. I should like to see both of their tongues before I retire this evening."

Lord Stokeworth allowed himself to be escorted quietly from the Great Hall, but Lord Rosby had to be dragged out, kicking and screaming the entire way. There were more prisoners to be judged, and Maegor knew that there would be many more heads adorning the spikes above the Red Keep's main gate before the day was done.

It felt good to finally be free of his armor. The Queen's judgement of her prisoners had dragged throughout the day into the late afternoon, and Maegor was overjoyed when he was finally given leave to return to the Dragonpit. With the help of a servant, he was able to undo the many clasps and cured leather straps that held the black steel plate in place. He had taken a few moments to simply lay back in his cot and stretch out his limbs, enjoying the lack of restriction in his movements. Hearing a knock at the door, Maegor sat up on his cot and faced the door of his chambers. "Come in," he called, and the door swung open to reveal Gaemon and Nettles.

The two seeds walked into his chambers, with Gaemon leaning against the wall near the doorframe, and Nettles sitting in a chair beside a small desk along the wall opposite Maegor's cot. Gaemon was the first to speak. "We plan to head out again tonight and enjoy the city's hospitality. We must needs remain alert for any more possible threats to the three of us, but I don't plan on letting fear rule over the things that I do or the places that I go."

Nettles nodded in agreement with Gaemon's statement, before cracking a crooked grin and offering her own opinion. "Besides, there's nothing like a good couple o' tankards of ale to help ya make an end to a day of executions!" Gaemon laughed, and Maegor couldn't help but grin at the girl's decidedly morbid sense of humor.

However, Maegor had plans of his own for the evening. "It'll have to just be the two of you tonight. I do not plan to stop at any taverns this evening." Maegor paused, before grinning slyly at the two seeds across from him. "I'm sure the two of you will drink more than enough to make up for my absence."

Nettles grinned back at Maegor, before standing and making her way to the door of his chamber. "Right ya are, Ser Maegor. I've sworn a solemn vow to scandalize as many knights and nobles as I can by getting piss drunk as often as possible." With that, she walked into the hall beyond.

Gaemon hesitated a moment, giving Maegor an inquisitive look, but eventually he shrugged and smiled. "Suit yourself, Maegor. Enjoy whatever plans for the night that you have." His expression turned more serious as he looked back at Maegor from the doorway of his chamber. "Just remember, going it alone means you'll need to pay extra attention to the people and places around you." Maegor nodded at his friend's sage advice, and once again found himself alone in his chambers.

The roughspun clothing he wore felt more natural to Maegor than any of the silks and soft wools that he had been provided by the Queen's tailors. Maegor found it amusing how much one's clothing could affect their appearance. Wearing roughspun, hardly any gave Maegor a second glance. Aside from his size, Maegor looked much like any of the other common folk walking the streets of the city of King's Landing. Put most Lords of this Realm in roughspun, and I'd wager that they'd look no different than any other commoner. If Maegor had the looks of Valyria, blending in would have been a much harder task.

Maegor had given one of the servants in the Dragonpit a silver stag to fetch him clothing that would allow him to blend in with the city's populace. Maegor knew that he was likely giving the servant much more than was necessary, but he saw no need to be stingy with his coin. Paying him so handsomely ensures that he will be very grateful to me. One never knew when a friend in the right place could make all the difference. Maegor wore leather boots that were scuffed and muddied, but were well-worn and comfortable to wear. His clothing did not itch too much, which was something that Maegor was grateful for. In trousers and a loose long-sleeved shirt dyed a light green, and a hood dyed a darker green, Maegor supposed he had the look of an apprentice to a craftsman of moderate means.

Maegor had taken one of the lesser oak and iron entrances out of the Dragonpit as he left, hoping that the people milling around at the top of the Hill of Rhaenys wouldn't notice him leaving the structure. The Gold Cloaks and Dragonkeepers assigned to the Dragonpit knew Maegor's face, so he had no fear of being refused entrance when he returned. His ploy had worked, and Maegor decided to descend down the western side of the Hill of Rhaenys.

As he reached the Street of Flour, Maegor breathed out a sigh of relief. Any fears that he'd had of being recognized as one of the Queen's dragonriders had dissipated by the time he was clear of the square at the top of the Hill of Rhaenys. Maegor had never considered how good it would feel to just be Maegor again, not Ser Maegor, or Maegor the Queen's Dragonrider. Wonderful scents filled his nose as he walked along the Street of Flour, wafting from the countless bakeries along its length. Many would be closing their doors before the sun finished setting in the evening sky. Stopping at a small stall in front of a bakery, he paid the woman behind it a copper for a small sweet tart.

As he turned to continue, a small scrawny girl called out to Maegor across the street. "Flowers for sale! The sweetest ones you'll ever smell!" Maegor crossed the street towards her, looking around with some concern. What is a girl her age doing out in the streets all alone? Back in the village he grew up in on Dragonstone, children around her age weren't allowed far from their mothers' apron strings.

Looking up at Maegor, the girl displayed a battered wicker basket that had several flowers and bulbs inside. "Would ya like one? They're only a copper each."

Maegor smiled kindly at her. "Of course." As he looked into the contents of the basket to pick a flower, Maegor asked the question that was still on his mind. "Girl, where are your parents? Surely they'll be worried about you if you haven't returned by nightfall."

The young girl merely shrugged her shoulders, before turning her face up to regard Maegor with a dirt-stained visage. "Oh no, master. They shan't be worried about me. Ever since my da marched up Duskendale way with the King and was killed, it's just been me and my ma. She's dreadful ill, so I must needs sell these flowers to pay the apothecary. He won't brew her a remedy to make her better until I've the coin to pay for it."

Maegor regarded her for a moment in stunned silence. He was at a loss for words. The girl merely looked at him inquisitively, seemingly confused as to why her tale had elicited such a reaction from him. "Do ya want a flower or not? I must needs go home to check on my ma."

Maegor nodded at the girl, and picked a slightly crumpled and shriveled rose, lifting it from the basket. He then handed the girl a silver stag. She looked at Maegor with wide eyes. "Are ya daft? I said they's was a copper!"

Maegor merely shook his head. "Take it. Go fetch that remedy for your mother from the apothecary." He was surprised when the small girl crossed her arms, curling her lip in annoyance.

"Listen here, master. I am no beggar. That rose isn't worth more than a copper, and no one in this city pays anyone anything unless they mean to get their coin's worth!" Maegor was stunned at the amount of fire that this small girl was now displaying.

He considered a moment, then took two more crumpled flowers from the girl's basket. "I have two friends that I know will appreciate the beauty of these flowers as much as I do. Surely three flowers of such quality are worth a silver stag?" He waited a moment as the girl pursed her lips in consideration, glaring at Maegor suspiciously.

She finally sighed and nodded in agreement, and held out a dirty palm to accept the silver stag from Maegor. "You're not from around here, are ya?" the girl asked, looking at Maegor with traces of confusion still plain on her face.

Maegor smiled down at her. "No I'm not. In fact, I haven't been in this city long at all. Now go, get that remedy for your mother." He turned to continue down the street, but turned once again to regard the girl when she called out to him.

"Wait!" the girl had a sheepish expression on her face. "I'm sorry for gettin' so angry when you offered to help me. It's just that no one has ever done anything like that before for me and my ma. Prithee, what is your name? I wish to tell my ma the name of the man that paid to make her better." She looked at Maegor expectantly.

Maegor thought for a moment. Should I lie to her? I did not wish to be discovered, but my name is uncommon amongst the smallfolk. Many commoners named their children for Kings, in the hopes that their children would one day do great deeds like their namesakes. There's a reason that most folk don't name their babes Maegor. No one wants their child to grow up to be a cruel tyrant. Maegor made his decision, and called back out to the girl. "My name is Maegor."

The girl looked surprised at his name, but smiled. "Well thankee, Maegor. I'm Rosey, like the flower. I must needs go find the apothecary now!" Still smiling, the girl turned and hurried away, clutching her basket of flowers.

Maegor turned and began to ascend the Hill of Rhaenys, back in the direction of the Dragonpit. He took a bite of the sweet tart that he still clutched in his hand. He thought about Rosey, and the father she had lost fighting beneath the usurper Aegon's banner. Please, let the Greens see sense, Maegor thought, we have more dragons and the Iron Throne. Let this war end before any more fathers are lost. Maegor had a feeling that his silent plea would only be answered with more Fire and Blood.

Chapter Text

Baela II

Getting to Moondancer had been easy, once she had convinced Ser Robert Quince that she was going to remain in her chambers for the rest of the evening. They expected me to grow wroth the moment summons came for Aegon and Viserys, and I did not disappoint. She had spat something akin to "only cowards and fools would think the war could be won by guarding an abandoned castle" as she threw a goblet at Quince when he forbade her from accompanying her brothers to King's Landing. Baela giggled, despite herself. Poor Ser Robert really didn't deserve such a harsh lashing, but it had to be done. They'd have otherwise immediately suspected me of plotting my escape. Instead, they'd gotten what they'd expected: a Lady sulking in her chambers. It should still be another hour before the ever-suspicious Ser Alfred manages to convince Ser Robert to send someone to check on my chambers, she thought to herself with a wolfish grin.

Her brothers had departed Dragonstone's citadel that morning, sailing with several ships from her grandfather's fleet for King's Landing, where Cousin Rhaenyra had begun to consolidate her hold on power on the mainland. My brothers and father await me there. A dragon doesn't hide or sulk when its brethren take to the skies for war. She slipped out of the window in her chambers, using a makeshift rope she had crafted from her bedsheets to scale the black-stone walls of the Stone Drum to the tiled roof of a nearby building. As she passed one of the many rooftop draconic gargoyles, she gave it a friendly pat, whispering "mum's the word" and holding her finger to her lips. She was fairly certain it got the message, for it stayed silent.

The castle yard below was silent and dark, for at this hour the servants had been allowed to return to their own quarters, and were likely to be either asleep or enjoying their time to themselves. Moving quickly along the tiled roof, she found the spot she had surveyed earlier, where a wagon had been left beneath the overhang. The wagon and the barrels atop it still stank of the fish that it customarily brought up from the wharves to the citadel every morning. Making sure to stay light on her feet, she gingerly lowered herself from the rooftop to the wagon below, wincing as the boards creaked slightly when she dropped between two of the barrels sitting in the bed. Glancing around to make sure that no one was about, she hopped down onto the cobblestones of the courtyard and made her way quickly towards where Moondancer was chained.

Entering the courtyard, she could see her dragon was curled up asleep, seemingly not having moved since hours earlier when she had taken her for a ride to Driftmark and back. Her first few flights had been exhilarating, and she found herself addicted to the joy she felt as she soared amongst the clouds. The next time you see me Gaemon, it WILL be on dragonback. She had first been able to fly upon Moondancer only a week or so after the Queen and the dragonseeds had departed Dragonstone, and despite her triumph, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt as she passed over the waves beneath her. If only my dragon could have grown a bit faster. I could've flown alongside Jace. Perhaps it'd have made all the difference.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she brushed a few strands of silver hair from where they hung in front of her eyes. My hair is growing out again. After I reach King's Landing, I must needs have it cut. I can't have it whipping about as I fly. She quickly began to undo Moondancer's chains, and the dragon raised its head sleepily to regard her with what she would've sworn was draconic suspicion. It unfurled its pale green wings and flapped them quietly, seemingly relishing the ability to stretch. Glancing at the saddle, she realized it would be far too heavy to carry. She steeled her nerves. My ancient ancestors most likely flew without saddles, and the seeds had no access to them on their first flights either. I must needs make do the old-fashioned way. She climbed onto Moondancer's back, using the spines to hold tight, and situated herself between two particularly large ones. She pulled upwards on two pearl colored spikes at the base of the dragon's neck, and it beat its wings forcefully, fighting its way into the night sky. A few moments later, she was hundreds of feet in the air, soaring through the freezing night air. She clutched her furs tightly about her with one hand, using the stars to guide her as she flew towards King's Landing from her memory. Moondancer's pearl crest seemed to glow in the moonlight as they flew, and the only sounds came from the gentle movement of the waves below.

The rhythmic beat of Moondancer's wings and the quiet caress of the wind on her cheek had almost caused Baela to nod off on several occasions. Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she squinted and forced herself to refocus. When lights danced in the darkness of the horizon, she thought herself witnessing the sunrise. Except the Sun does not rise in the west. It had been years since she had been to the capitol, and even by night the city took her breath away. King's Landing must never truly sleep, she thought with awe as she began her descent towards the city below. The city glowed orange and yellow beneath her from the light of thousands of torches, and almost appeared to be alight as she circled Aegon's High Hill and made her final descent towards the largest of the Red Keep's courtyards. Below, Syrax stirred, identifiable from her bright yellow scales. Lifting its mighty scaled head, it roared a greeting, to which Moondancer responded with her own call.

Below, men were scrambling on the battlements, but luckily they appeared to be holding their fire. Internally, Baela cursed herself for not considering how much danger she could have just put herself in. Without announcing my coming, I could have received a bolt through the heart just as easily as a heartfelt greeting. Bringing her dragon down gently to rest on the stones of the courtyard, she dismounted, her thighs aching from clinging to her dragon so tightly. Stretching, she turned to face a muscled knight that approached her, flanked by two men in gold cloaks with spears. The knight himself wore a doublet that was half silver and half gold, divided diagonally down its center. He stopped before her, sizing her up with eyes that showed darkly beneath fiery red curls.

"Lady Baela, I presume?" He spoke, breaking the silence. She nodded, smiling. He continued: "We were completely unaware that you had decided to join the court. Next time, I would provide us with a notice. My men only withheld their fire due to my direct intercession. I am sure you're aware that we are fighting a war, and our Queen is not the only claimant with access to dragons."

Baela crossed her arms, and met the man's hardened stare with a look of defiance of her own. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" She asked, mustering her most persuasive and ingratiating tone.

The knight smiled a thin, cold smile, before speaking: "I am Ser Rayford Lothston, my Lady. And I assure you, the pleasure is all mine." Abruptly, he turned on his heel, and began walking briskly toward Maegor's Holdfast. He motioned for her to follow. As he walked, he stated: "I am going to take you to your father. He must needs be informed of his daughter's unexpected arrival."

Crossing the courtyard quickly, they traversed the drawbridge, over the cruel iron spikes of the moat below. Once they'd entered into the cool corridors of the Holdfast, the walls adopted a blood-like color in the torchlight. Winding their way through the passages, they took a stone stairway up, ascending to the second floor. Iron torches ensconced on the walls lit their way. Ser Rayford guided her to a set of lacquered black double doors, carved to resemble dragons roaring at each other. He gave the door in front of him a firm knock, before stepping back.

For a few moments, there was no sound. Despite herself, Baela had begun to grow nervous. Perhaps I was too hasty in my decision. Others would be punished severely for such a lack of obedience. She was in the process of reassuring herself that such fears were unfounded when the door opened slightly, revealing Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, and her father. Clad only in loose-fitting black silken pants, his lilac eyes widened in surprise at the group arrayed in front of him. Brushing a silver strand of hair back from his eyes, he crossed the distance between himself and Baela quickly, gathering her up in his muscled arms just as he would have done in her younger years. She found herself giggling with joy (and relief) as she returned his embrace. They paid Ser Rayford and the Gold Cloaks no mind for a few moments, before her father finally pulled back in order to address both his daughter and her escorts.

Suppressing a mischievous grin, Daemon spoke first. "I had not been informed that I would be receiving a visit from one of my beloved Princesses. I certainly would have made sure to be dressed more appropriately." Turning to Ser Rayford, he addressed the knight next. "Ser Lothston, thank you for delivering my daughter to me. I presume you were as surprised by her arrival as I?"

Ser Rayford bobbed his head, his blood red curls glinting in the torchlight. "It was a near thing, my Prince. I ordered my men to withhold their bolts, but the Lady Baela could have very easily been targeted for fear that she was one of the treasonous Princes."

Daemon nodded, his face adopting a concerned expression. "I would guess the Queen has not yet been made aware of my daughter's arrival?" Seeing Lothston's response in the affirmatory, he continued: "let us keep it that way, until morning. The Queen desperately needs her rest, and I wouldn't want to trouble her with such concerns now. The Princes are due to arrive tomorrow, and she will need to be fully prepared in order for Prince Joffrey to be officially instated as heir to the Iron Throne."

Ser Rayford gave her and her father one last glance, before nodding. He motioned for his men to follow him, and they disappeared around the corner from whence they had come, moments before. Turning to face her once more, her father's face was a conflicting mess of emotions.

"Baela, what were you thinking? You could have been killed. Aside from that, I have no doubts that the Queen will be incredibly displeased with your disobedience. As I understand it, your presence here represents a direct violation of her orders." He paused, in order to exhale a long, tired sigh. "I suppose that last bit can be addressed in the morning. For now, it is good to see you. Better than good. I have missed you and your sister dearly these past few months." His face brightened as the implications of how she had arrived dawned on him. Taking her hands, he smiled. "Does this mean… has Moondancer reached the point where she can be ridden?"

Beaming, Baela nodded. "Since the Queen departed, she has continued to grow. I was able to fly her for the first time a week or so ago. Since then, I have gradually expanded the distance traveled. Before today, the furthest I flew was Driftmark. I suppose I set myself a new record today." Her father's worry and disappointment had largely dissipated, revealing a face burning with fatherly pride. How I have missed him, she thought to herself.

As they stood speaking, the door had opened a bit wider, revealing a woman with skin as pale as milk, who looked inquisitively at the two of them. She wore a silken night gown that left little of her body to the imagination, and in the torchlight it seemed almost translucent. Her full lips drew back to reveal a beautiful, if somewhat sinister smile. "Who might this be, my Prince?" She asked in a lilting, foreign accent.

Her father's shoulders tensed. Looking over his shoulder, he addressed the woman: "Lady Mysaria, this is my eldest daughter, the Lady Baela Targaryen." Turning back to her, he seemed ashamed. "Dearest, allow me the pleasure of introducing Lady Mysaria of Lys. She… she is a dear friend of mine."

Baela's stomach seemed to drop through the floor. Father has taken a lover? Why now, of all times? She was well aware of the rumors regarding his predilections in his younger years, but she had always believed that he had reigned in his desires during his marriage to her mother and afterwards to the Queen. Does cousin Rhaenyra know of this? She would be furious, I imagine. She was at a loss for words, but she managed to force a smile, followed with the words: "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Mysaria."

Her father must have sensed her distress, as he asked for Mysaria to bring him a shirt. She returned with a black silken shirt that must have been intended to match the pants that he was currently wearing. "You must be exhausted, sweetling. Allow me to guide you to the guest chambers. The rooms have been prepared in preparation for the arrival of the Princes, and I am sure none will protest if one is given over to your occupancy." He led her down the hallway in the torchlight, taking a winding stairwell down back to the first floor. Reaching a firm oaken door, he opened it and motioned for her to enter. After she had done so, he stood in the doorway, hesitating. Finally, he spoke. "I'm sure Lady Mysaria came as quite a shock to you. Had I known to expect you, this meeting would have gone much differently, I assure you. For now, focus on getting some rest. After a flight like yours, I am certain you are in need of rest. I will fetch you in the morning to present you to the Queen." With that, he kissed her quickly on her forehead before turning and closing the door behind him.

Baela wasn't sure whether to cry or to rage. I suppose I should have known that I didn't know everything about my father. Even so, she felt betrayed. Once more, she found herself wishing her sister were present. Rhaena was always better at handling things delicately. She sat back on the four-posted bed, before laying back onto the downy pillows. Despite wishing to resist the urge to sleep, she found herself unable to keep her eyes open. The dark and calming abyss of sleep enveloped her; in her dreamless slumber, she found respite.

Servants came to awake her only an hour or so after the dawn. She bathed herself, despite their protests, and begrudgingly accepted the new clothing they provided, a dress that was the definition of extravagance. Crafted of black velvet, it had a red three-headed dragon sewn into the bodice, accentuated with small red rubies that glinted in the torchlight. Her family's sigil was bordered by a ring of black pearls sewn into the lining, completing the look. Father probably suspects the sight of me in a dress might help to placate the Queen; she always did insist my usual attire downplayed my 'womanly beauty'. She suppressed a scoff. As if a pretty dress will make my cousin any more forgiving. She also found herself torn with regards to her father's visitor the night before. Her loyalty to her father was unquestionable, but she couldn't help but feel guilty at concealing his infidelities from the Queen herself. She finally decided against speaking up about it, despite her own personal misgivings.

A few moments later, there was a knock at the door, and a moment later, her father entered. The Prince was dressed in an outfit very similar to her own. In fact, probably designed to match it. I wonder if there is another dress just like my own hidden somewhere in the keep for Rhaena. These were probably made for when father planned to introduce us to the court. He gave her an encouraging grin, but to Baela's eyes he seemed uncharacteristically tense. Taking his arm, she allowed him to lead her to her fate.

Walking the stone halls, she was grateful that her father chose to make the journey in relative silence, only uttering that "she looked stunning" and inquiring "how she slept". Beyond their limited exchange of words, she steeled herself for what was to come. A dragon does not run, she thought to herself. As they made their way to the center of the Holdfast, Baela realized they were not heading for the Great Hall. The Queen means to address me inside the Holdfast. Perhaps she wishes to keep her judgement a private affair. Eventually, the two of them reached two massive doors, carved and adorned in the same lacquered fashion as the ones of her father's chambers. Servants opened them, and a tall, perfumed servant struck a bronze-footed staff on the floor as they entered.

"Announcing the Lady Baela Targaryen, escorted by her father, the Prince Daemon Targaryen." Baela had to resist the urge to begin fussing with the pearls set in her dress as her father led her into the center of the room. As they approached where the Queen sat, they passed beaten silver mirrors that lined both sides of the hall. Torches were lit along the sides, their light amplified by the mirrors. The opulence was completed by the richly carved panels of wood that were placed in an alternated fashion alongside the mirrors. At the end of the hall sat the high table, and at the center of the table sat Rhaenyra herself, breaking her fast. She appeared to be eating lemon cakes, judging from the powdered sugar that had gathered around her lips. She finished the one she had been eating when they had entered, before brushing its traces from her face gracefully with a black handkerchief.

Judging from the dark circles forming beneath the Queen's eyes, her cousin had not been sleeping well. What shocked her the most was that in attendance to the Queen was the very woman she had seen the night before. Dressed in a black velvet hooded robe lined with blood-red silk, the Lady Mysaria gave her a small smile from beneath her cowl. Also present were the Maester Gerardys, Ser Lorent Marbrand, and her own grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon. Strangely, neither of the Seasnake's grandsons were in attendance, nor were any of the other seeds.

The Queen was the first to break the silence. "How dare you disobey my commands, Baela? Not only did you risk your own death during your landing, but you have sullied my own Royal Authority! How are the most powerful lords of the realm supposed to respect my commands when I cannot even command the obedience of one young Lady?" She drew herself up in her chair, as though she awaited an answer.

Her father spoke next. "My daughter has always had your interests at heart, my beloved. She flew to court in order to fight for your cause. Moondancer has grown enough to be ridden, and soon can take its place amongst our battle-ready dragons. Besides, she could not bear the agony of being parted from her brothers, the Princes."

"She must needs be punished, Daemon." Rhaenrya hissed. "I've half a mind to chain her Moondancer in the Dragonpit and toss away the key til the end of the war."

Daemon shook his head. "I agree that she should be punished. But imprisoning a battle-ready asset during a war is ill-advised." He paused. "Besides, there is no need for anyone else to know your Royal Authority was spurned. Announce that my daughter has come to attend Prince Joffrey's installment as the Prince of Dragonstone. Such a decree will be accepted by the people, and nothing will seem amiss. When the war is over, and the Usurper and his brothers appropriately chastised, we can decide on an appropriate punishment for my daughter's willfulness."

Rhaenyra's eyes had narrowed as her father spoke, but when he ceased, she remained silent, evidently pondering his advice. Oh please, please Rhaenyra. Please do not take my Moondancer from me! Baela thought, trying her best to keep her panic from showing. Finally, the Queen sighed, and began to speak.

"There is wisdom in your words, Prince-Consort. Your daughter will be announced to court as a guest for Joffrey's installment. Afterwards, she will spend an appropriate amount of time in the city to 'celebrate', as is custom. But after that, she will fly back to Dragonstone, for the remainder of the war. She will be permitted only to fly her dragon if the island itself is threatened. My word on this is final. Another transgression will result in the imprisonment of both her and her mount."

Baela suppressed the desire to sigh with relief. "You have my word that your command will be followed, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra scoffed. "I thought I had your word the last time. This time, I will expect your good behaviour by taking a hostage, as it were. It seems in times such as these only that will produce the desired faithfulness of my subjects."

Rhaenyra's words stung. Before Baela could prepare a response, the Lady Mysaria stepped forward, gracefully taking a position next to the Queen. "Your Grace, it seems that with the limited audience in attendance, now would be an excellent time to address the issue of rewarding your dragonseeds. I submit that we solve this dilemma now, without the court, or the seeds in attendance. We would not want for them to grow discontented at the lack of apparent reward."

Her father nodded. "The Lady Mysaria speaks true. I have given this issue a great deal of thought since we took the city, and I feel we are in an excellent position to reward our servants handsomely and make a statement to the treasonous lords of the Realm." He paused, before continuing. "During my campaign in the Riverlands, only two houses of significance betrayed their oaths to my brother. House Bracken and House Vance of Atranta declared for the Usurper. The other Riverlords quickly quashed their pathetic attempts at rebellion, whilst I took Stone Hedge and Lord Humphrey Bracken hostage. The former heir to Stone Hedge, Ser Amos, had only a daughter before his demise on the battlefield. Similarly, Lord Qarl Vance himself has a daughter of twelve and a son of three."

Daemon ran a hand through his silver hair as he made eye contact with the Queen. "Recently, my Queen, you rightfully struck the heads off of Lords Rosby and Stokeworth. They too have left daughters, older than their young boys. I propose that in the cases of Lords Vance and Bracken that they be sent to the Night's Watch for treason. We can then marry each of the dragonseeds to these girls, thereby punishing their treason and amply rewarding these seeds in one stroke. Perhaps something to the tune of Stone Hedge and the Bracken whelp for the rider of the Cannibal, Atranta and the Vance girl for the rider of Grey Ghost, the Rosby girl for Vermithor's master, and the Stokeworth lass for the rider of Silverwing."

Gaemon could be receiving Stone Hedge? Baela thought to herself, excited at the prospect. He'd receive everything he had hoped for and more. A powerful lordship and the hand of a Bracken in marriage is a magnificent reward indeed! I am… happy for him. She quickly realized that her grandfather had cleared his throat as he was preparing to respond.

"My Queen, the Prince's idea, while a magnanimous gesture towards the seeds, is plagued with problems. Forgive me, Prince Daemon, but you yourself stated that the former Lord Rosby and Stokeworth left sons. House Bracken and House Vance of Atranta each have a sitting Lord. While our precious Queen is her father's true heir, that was made so by decree. Her situation is unique. Disinheriting or displacing these Lords and heirs would overturn centuries of law and precedent, and call into question the rights of scores of other lords throughout Westeros whose own claims might be seen as inferior to those of their elder sisters. We cannot risk the loss of our support from our own nobility to reward these seeds so. Dragons are forces of great power, but they ultimately cannot occupy lands, castles, and cities, nor can they be made to pacify them. We'll need swords for that, and thousands of them. I propose instead that the crown reward the seeds with lands of their own. Driftmark has fertile fields and pastures aplenty. For their service, I would be honored to offer Sers Gaemon and Maegor small holdings on Driftmark, and lands could be made available along the Blackwater Rush for Sers Ulf and Hugh. The Lady Nettles will still be promised an ample dowry for when the war is over and she chooses to marry."

Her father's eyes had narrowed. "Traitors deserve to be made to take the Black, or better yet, to decorate spikes along the walls of this keep. They most definitely do not deserve to keep their seats. Besides, House Baratheon only exists due to the custom I described. My proposal does not lack precedent."

Rhaenyra stood. "I'll not have bickering amongst my closest advisors about this any longer. As I'm sure you'll remember from your studies under the Maesters, Prince-Consort, House Durrandon was extinct in the male line. The Houses you intend to marry our seeds into are not. While I am all for punishing traitors, Lord Corlys has the right of it. We simply cannot afford to lose the support of any more of our lords. I hereby decree that holdings will be made available for Sers Maegor and Gaemon on Driftmark, and holdings along the Blackwater Rush will be granted to Sers Ulf and Hugh." The Queen gathered up her dress and walked around the high table. As she approached Baela and her father, the servant beat his staff once more upon the ballroom floor.

"With great pleasure, I announce the arrival of the Prince Joffrey Velaryon, attended by his brothers, the Princes Aegon and Viserys Targaryen." Stunned, Baela whirled around with the rest of those in attendance. Strolling proudly in sea-green and silver silks, Prince Joffrey beamed at his mother.

"Did the court miss my attendance, mother? As I flew towards the keep, I saw my brother's procession up from the Mud Gate. I decided we would wait to surprise you, since it appeared you had matters of great import to discuss."

His brown eyes sparkled with mirth. Baela might as well have been seeing a ghost. He looks just like Jace. The Queen shrieked with delight as she hurried across the polished floor of the ballroom, tears running freely down her cheeks. Reaching Prince Joffrey, she buried him and his brothers, who stood shyly to his sides, in a warm embrace. The Prince, despite having grown, struggled to extricate himself, growing red with embarrassment as those in attendance chuckled.

"My sons, my pillars of strength have returned to me. I could not ask for a better present." Rhaenyra positively beamed as she spoke, extolling Prince Joffrey on how he had grown into such a fine young man.

"Have any young maidens in the Vale begun to vie for your favor?" She asked with a mischievous grin, to which the Prince's cheeks grew all the redder. Laughing, the Queen kissed him on the forehead.

"You'll have to tell me all about them. I just hope you've not done anything that would break the sweet daughter of Lord Manderly's heart."

Laughing, she demanded her court attend her as they swept through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, those in attendance growing rapidly. Eventually they reached the drawbridge, from whence it was a short walk to the Great Hall. Despite the Queen's harsh words earlier, Baela was happy for her. She glows like she did before her father's death, before this accursed war began. A large crowd had already begun to gather, evidently having been warned in advance that the Queen was to hold court. At the foot of the Iron Throne, the six dragonseeds stood in attention, their black plate gleaming in the morning light streaming in from the Hall's windows. They had removed their helms, and as the Queen entered, they knelt. As she passed, she beckoned them to rise, and as she ascended the stairs of the throne, they rose. Baela stood with her father and brothers in attendance, at the front of the crowd that had gathered. Looking back to Gaemon, she saw his eyes had widened in surprise at her presence. Giving him a wink, she turned her gaze back to Prince Joffrey as his installment ceremony began.

The ceremony itself had taken longer than expected, as many of those whose attendance was expected had not yet made their way to the keep. When all were finally assembled, the somber ceremony finally began, and her own presence was addressed according to plan. Baela couldn't help but note that the air was decidedly cool. Joffrey's new title seems to be a poor recompense for the loss of two brothers, she thought to herself. When the Septon had finished anointing him, Joffrey had taken his seat on one of the steps of the Iron Throne. From then on, court proceeded as usual. When the time came for the announcement of the seeds' rewards, the court had grown hushed with anticipation. Baela felt for Gaemon. He does not know it, but his reward pales in comparison to what was originally considered.

As the Queen had proclaimed their rewards, whispers filled the Great Hall. The seeds, who had once again removed their helms, hid their disappointment well, but there was still a perceptible tightness to their features. It seems they too expected something greater. After the rewards themselves had been dispersed, the Queen ordered her servants attend her as she descended the steps of the throne. The court dispersed after she had exited, and Gaemon nodded in her direction before turning to exit the hall. He had started a deep discussion with the tall seed who was brown of hair and the short girl who was brown of skin. I'm sorry, Gaemon. If it had been up to me, the reward would have been much more suitable. The huge seed and the one that seemed perpetually drunk exited next, and with the Queen gone they barely bothered to conceal the rage contorting their features.

She felt a squeeze on her arm. "I hope to see you later, my daughter." Her father smiled down at her. "For now, I must attend to the Queen and your brothers." Turning, he strolled out of the hall after the Queen and her sons. She found herself unsure of what to do next, seemingly forgotten as the court emptied, leaving her and only a few servants who were tidying up. As she turned to return to Maegor's Holdfast, a servant entered the hall, and glancing around nervously, approached her.

"Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but there's a man who wishes to speak with you. He says he'll pay you a golden dragon if you agree."

Baela smiled, and nodded, allowing the servant to guide her out of the great hall and into the courtyard. They found Gaemon sitting in a small grove of trees in the shadow of the great red curtain walls. Gaemon thanked the servant, paying him a silver stag for his trouble, before turning to face her.

"Where's that dragon I was promised? A lady's time is precious, as you know, and I certainly can't be seen to be frolicking with just anyone."

"I fear you and the Seven must forgive me for committing the sin of telling a lie. I never truly intended to pay such a mighty price." Gaemon said with a grin. "Instead, I've come with an offer that I thought might be of interest. In these past few weeks, I've had the privilege of exploring this city. I suspect that some places I've found would be of interest to you as well. Besides, I am dying to hear just how you were able to convince the Queen to let you come to the city. I seem to remember her orders being quite clear before."

Baela found her cheeks heating up. "I… may have not used persuasion. Think of it more as a surprise, in honor of the Prince's arrival." Pausing, she crossed her arms. "Now before I expire from the sheer anticipation, please do me the favor of sharing this offer of yours."

Gaemon nodded. "Your untimely demise is by no means my intent. I simply wanted to extend you an invitation to explore the city." He paused to chuckle. "Of course, if you are interested, you must needs find some more… elusive attire. As beautiful as you look, I daresay we would not be able to remain unnoticed for very long."

Baela could feel the excitement surge within her. My own father is famed for walking those very streets below. It would be amazing to see them for myself. Her decision was made, despite some misgivings, which she quickly stifled. "I accept your offer, noble Ser. Let us go, and see this city. I will even grant you a boon, in thanks. I shall find some Arbor Gold for us to enjoy, as I am certain a wineskin or two can be found lying about. When do we depart?"

Gaemon stroked his chin. "Meet me here the night of Prince Joffrey's celebration feast. Due to the celebrations and the abundance of wine, we should have a few hours after the feast has ended to explore without your absence being noticed."

Baela nodded, her excitement palpable. "It shall be done, noble Ser." She paused, and surveyed the courtyard. In the shade, it appeared that no one was either paying them any attention or was in earshot.

"Thank you for this, Gaemon. You have no idea how much I needed something like this."

She offered him one last smile before turning to hurry back to Maegor's Holdfast. Butterflies danced in her stomach. Thinking over their conversation, she found herself grinning. Perhaps dresses aren't intolerable all the time. He did say I looked beautiful, after all. She chided herself for the thought as soon as it arose. Rhaena would never let me hear the end of it if she could read my mind now.

Chapter Text

Gaemon V

The crack of the flail against the side of his helm sent Gaemon stumbling to the right. Cursing, he lunged at Morgon Banefort with his wooden blade, but his opponent was able to dance out of the way of his lunge. Whirling to follow him, he kept his shield out in front of him and planted his feet. His breath was thundering from within his helmet; despite training nearly every day he still found sparring at length to be exhausting. The squire across from him was breathing heavily too, his grey and orange tabard heaving up and down. He was keeping his practice flail aloft, its spiked wooden balls circling his head. They both took a moment to readjust their stances before reengaging. Gaemon had been encouraged by Ser Lorent to wear his plate during sparring, and over time he had realised the wisdom in such advice; he was gradually growing accustomed to the weight and feel of it. Wearing it more often also helped to develop his stamina; if he had trained without it he'd have quickly become exhausted when it came time to wear it for a real fight.

"Come now, dragonseed, I would've thought all that fire in your blood would give you the energy to beat one piddling squire such as myself." Morgon's friendly but mocking tone rang out from underneath his helm.

"One would think that with such an exotic weapon you should have no trouble defeating one of the smallfolk, plate-clad or otherwise." Gaemon responded.

Beads of sweat had dotted his forehead for much of the fight, but recently they had infuriatingly begun to flow down his face, following the paths of least resistance. This had unfortunately meant that the salty sweat had begun to sting his eyes, making it more difficult for him to keep a focused gaze. I need to end this now. He's got the edge in stamina, due to his greater experience, he thought to himself.

Gripping the hilt of his practice sword, he advanced. He feinted a thrust at Morgon's neck, which expectedly caused him to raise his shield to intercept. As he raised his shield, Gaemon threw himself into his opponent, leading with his own shield, hoping to force him off balance. His enemy stumbled, a half step, then a full, but was able to plant his feet. I've erred. Gaemon realised his mistake as Morgon put his back into pushing back. While he was physically larger than his enemy, Morgon was stockier, with a lower center of mass and more muscled besides. Gaemon was forced back a step, then another, as he was pushed to the center of the ring. He threw himself into one last shove, buying himself enough time to disengage and set up for an attack, but as he raised his sword, it was knocked from his hands by Morgon's flail.

He was just barely able to intercept the next crack of the flail by hefting his shield, and in the time it bought him, he dived for his training blade. As he reached it, the flail cracked once more across the back of his helm, harder than before.

"The victory goes to Squire Banefort, honorable Sers." Ser Lorent Marbrand had taken the opportunity to step into the ring. Gaemon pounded his fist in the dust.

"Seven hells. For a moment I thought I might actually emerge victorious for once." He sputtered, as he undid the straps beneath his helmet, removing it so that he could drink in the fresh air.

Morgon Banefort chuckled. Extending his hand, he helped Gaemon to his feet. "There is always next time, dragonseed. In the meantime, you really ought to take my offer up to become one of my thralls. I can only imagine what a Hooded King could do with a dragonrider." Banefort strode out of the fighting circle, calling for a pitcher of water.

Ser Lorent remained in the ring, his eyes on Gaemon. "You were not far from victory this time, Gaemon. Try working on outlasting your opponent. You grow aggressive during your bouts, and it often results in your defeat. The longer a fight lasts, the more opportunities will arise for you to learn. Besides, it will help you to develop your stamina. You've made good progress in these last few months. Always remember that every knight, no matter how skilled, began as a novice." He clapped Gaemon on the shoulder before exiting the ring, no doubt seeking his squire to give him tips of his own.

Gaemon finally left the ring. Ser Lorent is right. I usually press the attack to try and finish my opponent before my lack of experience gets me killed. He decided in the coming weeks that he would purposefully avoid going on the offensive, in order to see how long he could last. Sitting on a bench, he took a wet cloth from a bucket a servant offered in order to wring it over his head, relishing the cool water trickling down. After he had wiped the sweat from his face, he thanked the young boy, then stood, fastening his steel sword to his belt as he made his way towards the Red Keep's massive gate. With Prince Joffrey's feast due to begin in a few hours, he decided to make his way back to the Dragonpit in order to bathe and dress in something more suitable for the festivities. While some might've been annoyed at having to ride the great distance from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit, he enjoyed it. The city itself never ceases to amaze. As he passed under the gateway arch, he stretched. I think I'll buy an apple on the way back.

The Dragonpit was so huge that it could be seen across the entire city. Standing at the base of its massive bronze doors, Gaemon felt little larger than an ant. One of the attendant Dragonkeepers nodded, acknowledging his presence, before opening a small door to the side of the massive gates. There were many smaller doors leading in and out of the Dragonpit, as it would have been hugely inefficient to continuously have to open and close its massive gates to allow passage for visitors. Once inside, Gaemon went about making himself presentable for the feast. After he had done so, he stepped out from his quarters (the dragonseeds had been provided lodging within one of the empty Dragonkeeper barracks) and knocked on the doors of both Maegor and Nettles. Each opened, and their occupants stepped into the hall.

"Couldn't bear to be without my company for one fucking second, eh?" Nettles said as she stepped into the torchlit hall. She had chosen a black silk blouse with red highlights, matched by black leggings that looked to have been made of velvet. The outfit was completed with a pair of supple black leather boots. She appeared to have bathed recently, as her mane of black curls was not as unruly as usual, and she had tied it behind her head.

"You should be well aware by now that your company is simply enthralling my sweet. Especially given that you are capable of making a Lyseni sailor blush every time you open your mouth." He gave her his most innocent smile, which earned an immediate snort.

Maegor had crossed his arms, evidently quite willing to let the exchange continue for his own enjoyment. He too had dressed for the feast, wearing a black doublet with red dragons stitched into its high collar. The look was completed with black trousers, tucked into black boots.

Gaemon broke off his smile, his face contorting into more of a frown. "Before we go, we must needs discuss the ceremony yesterday." He beckoned for them to follow him, and they entered a cool, winding staircase that led them down from their barracks deeper into the Dragonpit, eventually emerging on the ground floor of the cavernous hall. The hall itself smelled perpetually of smoke, and housed fourteen separate gated pens where each individual dragon roosted, chained to its stall. They walked towards the back of the great hall, past the pens of Morghul, Shrykos, and two empty pens before reaching the pen allotted for the Cannibal. Given his dragon's temperament, Gaemon had not been shocked when he was asked to guide his dragon to such an isolated location. It turned out quite convenient, really. We are never disturbed when we speak here, and the beast himself would be sure to inform me if any strayed too close.

Once inside, he turned to speak. "Yesterday came as quite a surprise to us all, I'd wager. I will not mince words. The rewards we were offered for our services were not acceptable. We are a decisive asset to the Queen, and yet we are offered boons that would disappoint even a hedge knight."

Maegor and Nettles had both begun to frown. Nettles spoke first: "I may be no high born lady, but I don't need much of an education to see how costly this war has become. A promised dowry is nice, but something tells me such promises won't be worth shit if the Queen simply can't afford to pay."

Maegor nodded. "As far as I am aware, the lands we were given do not possess even a small keep, or tower house. If the crown cannot afford to pay a dowry, it certainly will not be able to grant us the funds we'd require to construct seats of our own. I'm sure you both have noticed, but Lord Celtigar's new taxes are highly unpopular with the people of the city. If the crown has been forced to raise taxes so highly, I expect it is in serious straits."

Before Gaemon could respond, the Cannibal raised its head from where it had been resting it under a black leathery wing. Hissing, its eyes glowed a baleful shade of green. We never receive visitors here, he thought to himself. He and the others turned to face the gate, and were shocked to see none other than Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer entering the pen, dressed in red and black doublets like the other seeds. The Cannibal raised its maw, opening its jaws slightly to reveal its razor sharp, jet black teeth. Small green flames danced at the back of its throat. Gaemon placed his hand on its snout to calm it.

Hugh cleared his throat. "We expected to find you here. While we may 'ave 'ad our… disagreements… in the past, I 'ope we can all agree that the bitch 'as really fucked us this time."

Ulf nodded, "We should've been made lords after the Gullet. Each and every fucking one o' us. We've bled for blessed Rhaenyra, and we've naught to show for it but a couple o' gods forsaken pebbles."

Gaemon scowled. How quickly they seek to emphasize our common cause once it suits them. He paused, thinking. They are not wrong about this, however. If our service so far has barely warranted us a reward, then what can we hope to expect at the war's end? He felt the familiar embers of rage deep within him. Besides, the Queen almost had my head struck off, for no reason other than being unwanted kin.

He glanced at the others. Maegor had not yet uttered a word, and a cold, dispassionate look had spread across his features. Nettles' eyes had narrowed, and she had crossed her arms. Ulf looked back and forth between the three of them, his bloodshot hazel eyes darting this way and that.

"If the Prince Jacaerys had been alive, this never would've happened. He was a good lad, honorable and true. He gave us the chance to master dragons. He'd have made sure our loyalty was rewarded properly." Ulf practically hissed those last few words, running his hand through his brittle white hair.

"It does no good to lament what lies in the past. It is one thing to whisper our discontent in the shadows, and another entirely to do something about it." Maegor crossed his arms as he spoke. His tone was cold, and hard. "We are servants of the Queen. We must needs make do with what we have been given. I am no more pleased about this than any of you, but I fail to see what exactly we can do about it."

Hugh's gravelly voice rumbled out a response: "We are the masters of over 'alf of the Queen's dragons. Eggon the Conqueror didn't ask for the other kings to submit, he took the Seven Kingdoms for himself. There are plenty of lords in the realm who 'ave committed 'igh treason. We should've been given their lordships."

"Fie on that," spat Ulf. "Casterly Rock, Storm's End, and the Hightower should be ours for the taking." His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "I see no reason why anyone should stop us from taking them. Great seats for great lords. And there are no greater lords than dragonriders."

Gaemon narrowed his eyes. To be lord of a seat as storied and powerful as Storm's End would be… magnificent. Orys Baratheon himself was a bastard, after all. And come to think of it, its current Lord has only four daughters…

He cleared his throat. "So what do you propose we do about this? We stand to gain nothing through betraying the Queen's interests."

Ulf and Hugh's eyes narrowed. Ulf spoke: "nobody said a blessed thing about betraying our beloved Queen's interests. All we ask is that you keep your eyes open for opportunities is all." He cackled. "After all, we small folk ought to stick together. Just because we planted our arses on dragonbacks don't make us any different in the eyes of the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom. We're less than the shit beneath their feet to that lot."

Gaemon looked to Nettles and Maegor. They seemed to be in agreement. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to keep our options open."

Ulf grinned, and a thin, cruel smile appeared on Hugh's lips. Bowing, Ulf laughed: "Strange times call for strange bedfellows. Until the feast." With that, the two seeds left the enclosure.

The three that remained were silent for a few moments, until Nettles spoke up: "I don't like those two. I don't like them one fucking bit."

Entering the Great Hall of the Red Keep, he was shocked to see how much preparation had gone into preparing it for the feast. Great black banners hung between the pillars, depicting the three-headed Targaryen family crest. Each of the massive bronze braziers were lit, and cast vast dancing shadows across the hall. Due to the flame, it was surprisingly warm, and he found himself loosening his collar reflexively as the first hints of perspiration began to bead on the back of his neck.

Tables had been arranged in rows down the length of the hall, with the Queen's table set at the base of the Iron Throne, perpendicular to the rest. The mountain of melted blades rose behind it, the flames and shadow dancing along its edges, giving it the appearance of still smoldering. The dragon skulls mounted along the walls also took advantage of this effect. Balerion's skull, the most massive of the dragon skulls in the chamber, had grown to resemble black crystal with age, and the lights of the braziers danced along its teeth, some of which were the size of men. Judging by its skull, the Black Dread must have been almost twice as large as the Cannibal itself. I hope Vhagar hasn't reached that size. Gaemon had little desire to face such a beast in combat, even alongside other riders.

As the guests filed in, the seeds were led to a table on the right side of the Queen's own table. Across the hall several great Lords, including Bartimos Celtigar had been seated at the table parallel to the seeds. Judging by our placement, the Queen is acknowledging our import. He suppressed a frown. I'd have preferred a castle to pride of place. Servants guided him to his own seat, where he was placed between Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White. He had to admit to himself internally that he wasn't exactly comfortable with such placement, but quickly forced his apprehension aside. There may be no love lost between any of us, but neither of them are fools. The chance to work a knife between my ribs isn't worth losing their heads. Maegor and Nettles were seated across from them. Addam Velaryon was seated, unsurprisingly, at the Queen's table. How nice it must be to be legitimized, Gaemon thought with a smirk. Corlys Velaryon had been seated to the leftmost side of the Queen's table, and from then the order was Addam Velaryon, Baela, Prince Joffrey Velaryon, the Queen, Prince Daemon, Prince Aegon, and Prince Viserys, who somehow had been allowed to bring his hatchling to the feast, curled about his shoulders. Prince Viserys' dragon has grown a bit since I last laid eyes on it, thought Gaemon with a smile. Soon it will be too large to remain seated atop his shoulders. Someday it will get to return the favor for its master.

After the guests had been seated, those at the Queen's table gracefully took their seats. The Queen herself wore her father Viserys' crown, and it glinted in the firelight. Gaemon's eyes settled next on Baela, who he realized had been watching him from her seat. She smirked before turning to respond to Addam Velaryon, who appeared to be trying to make conversation. Baela, shockingly, had chosen to grace the court by once again wearing a dress, which he thought must have broken some sort of record for her. It was less ostentatious than the one from the day before, but was crafted of black silk, with dragons embroidered in red that seemingly danced up the sleeves. Its plunging neckline was accentuated by a gold necklace she wore, which appeared to be in the design of a three headed dragon, its eyes crafted in rubies. All in all, she looks, well, beautiful. He thought to himself. He averted his gaze, hoping that no one of note had noticed his staring.

The hair on the back of his neck raised as Ulf whispered in his ear, the smell of wine gushing from his breath: "Seven hells, what a looker she is, isn't she? I bet if you were to get her out of that dress, everything would stay right where it is. I s'pose I'd prefer to have a little more meat on her, but you can't deny she's still got it where it counts."

Gaemon's fist clenched from where it sat on his knee under the table, but he forced himself to smile. "She… she is beautiful."

"Fie on that. She's bloody gorgeous. Too bad we lot have to keep to the whores of the city. We seeds aren't good enough for that." Ulf's eyes narrowed. "Excepting the golden boy of course." He nodded towards Addam, who along with Baela, appeared to be listening to a story told by Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Gaemon frowned, but before he could speak, a servant approached bearing a pitcher of wine. Hugh chuckled, a rumbling sound, before speaking, calling for her to "bring it 'ere". As she filled his goblet, he gave her arse a squeeze, which caused her to jump and squeal slightly. Both Ulf and Hugh found that to be funny, and guffawed.

"Be careful now lass, don't spill any of that wine. You won't like the Hammer when he is angry, and he is the sort to get very angry when someone stains his perfectly good doublet." Said Ulf between chortles.

"Keep it comin' my sweet." Hugh implored, as he drained the goblet and held it out for more. After she had poured him a second glass, Gaemon asked for his to be filled, and Ulf was next to demand a full goblet. Nettles and Maegor were next, and Gaemon realized that during this whole time they'd been oddly quiet. They each appeared to have been eating sugared almonds out of a silver bowl that had been placed at their table, ostensibly as an appetizer.

Ulf looked about the table as he took a huge swig of his wine, wiping the deep red droplets from his lip with his sleeve. "I don't believe I had the pleasure of showing the three of you lot my newest purchase." Setting his goblet down, he hefted his left booted foot from the rushes, placing it on the table, much to the chagrin of the nobles seated to their left at the next table. As they mumurred their disapproval, Ulf smiled and turned his foot to the side, revealing that he was wearing golden spurs. Grinning, he gave it a spin. "I just had to purchase a matching set. Cost me a bit, but when I told the goldsmith I flew a dragon for the Queen he was quite amenable to lowering his prices."

Putting his foot back down, he looked around the table. Hugh shrugged. "Me, I think gold and jewels belong on women. Only whores bedeck themselves so."

Nettles' lips spread in one of her gap toothed grins. "Ulf as a whore. Now that's a sight I'd like to see."

Ulf's expression quickly twisted from pleased to furious. Casting his eyes between both Hugh and Nettles, he downed the rest of his goblet while he muttered angrily to himself.

They were spared what was likely to have been an awkward silence by the Queen standing. The hall quickly quieted as all in attendance turned to hear her speak.

"My Lords and Ladies, I welcome you to this feast on this most auspicious of nights. Having wrested control of this grand city from the Usurper, I only yesterday had the pleasure of ensconcing my son, Prince Joffrey, as heir to the Iron Throne. We gather here to celebrate that triumph on this evening, and I ask that you sup with me in good faith as my leal vassals. Let us raise our voices in unison to cheer Prince Joffrey, the Prince of Dragonstone!"

The Great Hall shook as a deafening roar went up, with thousands of voices shouting their support for the Prince. Joffrey himself stood, a huge grin across his face, before bowing and returning to his seat. As the Queen herself returned to her seat, beaming, she clapped, and servants appeared from doors throughout the chamber, carrying great platters heaping with the first course. Judging by the murmurs and exclamations, it appeared to be huge pork meat pies, seasoned with salt, pepper and sage. The servants placed one at each table, its pastry a warm, golden brown. They carved each person seated at the table a generous slice, and Gaemon felt his mouth water as a slice was placed before him, its delicious vapors wafting up towards him. Being a dragonseed does certainly come with some perks, he thought as he prepared to dig in.

The feast had lasted several hours, with a total of seven dishes served throughout. Each was incredibly rich fare, and Gaemon was quite sure he'd never had anything quite so delicious. One of his favorite highlights was the capon served stewed in wine, orange and spices that had formed a delicious sauce. He found he loved the refreshing taste of oranges, which until that evening he had never eaten before. Dessert had come in the form of cream custard tarts, dusted with cinnamon and a drizzle of honey. As he downed the dregs of his fifth cup of wine and ate the last piece of a tart, he felt both full and comfortably drunk.

Ulf stood up next to him, his eyes bloodshot and noticeably paler. He shakily rose from the bench, using Gaemon's shoulder to brace himself. He muttered something akin to "time to go have shome real fun" as he drunkenly wandered out of the hall, his golden spurs clinking.

Hugh polished off his goblet of wine, before standing. Wordlessly, he left the three of them. All around the hall many of those who had been in attendance were rising and leaving, after they had bowed in the direction of the Queen's table. Some particularly enterprising lords had lined up to thank the Queen personally, and she accepted their thanks gracefully while snacking on the custard tarts. He turned to Baela, and when their eyes met, he gave her a nod. She smiled, and rose, curtseying to both the Queen and Lord Velaryon, before exiting the hall.

Gaemon turned to the other seeds, grinning. "My thanks for your grand company, but I must take my leave of you now." He took his time extricating himself from the bench at which he had been seated, not wishing to trip or stumble and make a fool of himself.

Nettles looked around the Hall, before raising a dark brown eyebrow. "I'm sure you have important business to attend to Gaemon. But if you thought the walls of Dragonstone had big ears, you should see the size of the fuckers here. Watch yourself." With that, she stood, downed her goblet, and walked from the hall, swaying only slightly from the effects of the wine. Maegor rose after her, clearly intending to make sure she made it back to the Dragonpit in one piece.

Gaemon himself strode from the hall casually, passing Gyles Yronwood who was locked in an intense arm-wrestling contest with one of Lord Velaryon's household knights. They both appeared to be well within their cups, and a vein bulged on the forehead of the hedge knight as he and the Dornishman held each other in gridlock. Gaemon paused to watch the contest, and thought it over as the hedge knight forced Gyles' hand downwards. With a shout and a great outlay of effort, the beleaguered knight was able to push his opponent back, and with much cheering, finally forced the hedge knight's hand down. Gaemon clapped, tossing him a silver stag for his impressive performance.

Reaching the great doors of the hall, he pushed one slightly open in order to slip out into the cool night air. The Red Keep's courtyard was full of torchlight and laughing people staggering their way towards their quarters or the city below. 'Twas good to see the keep like this, he thought to himself. For far too long now my thoughts have only been of Fire and Blood. Reaching the small copse of trees alongside the curtain wall, he leaned against one, remaining in the shadow to the best of his ability. As he waited, he took the opportunity to gaze up at the stars above. He had always been fond of stargazing, dreaming of what actually might be up there, beyond even the highest clouds. Now that I've flown amongst those clouds, I'm not sure if I'll ever know. In his previous flights, he had tried urging the Cannibal to soar ever higher, but eventually it became bitterly cold, and increasingly difficult to breathe. At that point he had been forced to turn back. Even so, I'd love to know what all those little glowing pinpricks truly are.

"You know, for someone of low birth, you certainly spend a great deal of your time staring at the sky." Hearing Baela's voice put an end to his ruminations.

"I suppose I've always been the type to want what's just out of reach." He responded.

"How very poetic." Smirking, she leaned against a tree across from him. She had abandoned her courtly raiment, instead choosing to wear a leather jerkin over a black blouse, with leather riding pants and supple black boots to match. True to her word, Baela had come with a wineskin.

"In another life, I probably should have been a mummer, or a bard. I'd offer to serenade you, but to my sorrow the bards were able to make their way to your side faster."

"Seven help me if I have to hear another perfumed man croon in my ear. I can only hear so many sing of the beauty of Princess Rhaenys or the wisdom of Queen Alysanne before I wish to dash myself against the rocks below the keep." Uncorking the wineskin, she took a swig, before offering it to him.

He tipped it back, relishing the sweetness. So that is Arbor Gold. It really did taste terrific. Much better than most wines Gaemon had had in his lifetime. Corking it, he handed it back to her. "Thank you for bringing that. I've never actually had the pleasure of drinking a wine of that quality."

Baela nodded. "That is one of the many advantages of befriending a lady of my station." She held out her hand. Smiling, he took it, kissing her ring.

"Shall we go?" He queried.

"I thought you'd never ask."

They had made their way out of the Red Keep relatively quickly, and from what he could tell it had been without notice. Baela had chosen to bring a hooded cloak along with her, which immediately proved valuable in concealing her unmistakable silver-white hair. They took Shadowblack Lane's winding paths down to the base of the hill, and to his relief they had no trouble with anyone as they wandered. Eventually, they made it to the destination he had wanted to escort her to. After his arrival in the city and his reading of the proclamation, he had made his way back to the square he had landed several times. After further inspection, he was quite taken aback by the beauty of its location. The wide square had originally been home to a larger sept, but Maegor the Cruel had destroyed it during his reign, and after the rubble had been cleared away it had been decided that a smaller sept would be built in its stead, with the space to be used instead to create a large square.

After he'd been able to explore it, he had learned that the statue in the center of the square was modeled in the likeness of Jaehaerys I, the King who had ordered for this square to be constructed. He decided to take Baela there, as the square itself was normally full of market stalls, but by night was cleared, revealing a well ordered square lined with trees and beautiful houses. If one were to sit at the feet of the statue of Jaehaerys in the center, you could get a wonderful view of the city from the top of the hill, as the Street of Sisters, ran directly down the hill from the square.

They didn't speak much as they climbed the hill, and Gaemon was grateful that they could both be comfortable with the silence. At this late hour, the streets were largely clear of people, and they were able to make their journey in good time. When they finally reached the square itself, Gaemon gestured with a bow at the stone feet of the Old King.

Baela took her seat, turning to admire the view of the city beneath them. A cool breeze was blowing off of the sea, and it rustled the branches of the trees around the square, almost as if they stood in the midst of a wood.

Baela smiled. "King Jaehaerys would almost certainly not approve of this outing. Then again, he had troubles enough with his own daughters… and sisters for that matter."

Gaemon smiled. "It seems that the Targaryens have never been able to handle the raising of perfect ladies."

Baela snorted. "Certainly not. Once a woman is given a dragon, it is nearly impossible to convince her to return to sewing and singing."

Gaemon sat next to her. "I suppose I should be grateful that our family has such willful daughters. I don't think I'd get along with you half as well if you weren't so adventurous. Besides, I am in your debt for deciding to meet with me in the first place. You've done me a greater service than you can imagine by accepting me as you have." He sighed. "I suppose that is why I brought you here. I felt it necessary to thank you personally."

Baela turned from where she had been looking out across the city. "When Jacaerys… when Jace put forth the call for the seeds, I would have never imagined I would meet you. As a matter of fact I didn't even expect that it would work." She crossed her arms. "Losing Jace was hard, it was probably the hardest thing I've ever experienced. If I had lost Viserys that day as well, I don't know what I would have done. What... what I'm trying to say is that we both have reasons to be grateful to one another." Pausing, she pursed her lips. "You and the other seeds have done wonders for my cousin's cause. Destroying that fleet from the Three Daughters, taking this city… I don't believe we could have done it without your help. That's why I was so infuriated yesterday." Taking a gulp out of the wineskin, she passed it to him.

"My… our father wished to reward you adequately. He asked the Queen to grant you seats taken from disloyal lords. You were to receive Stone Hedge and the hand of a Bracken in marriage for your service, had his plan been implemented. Instead, it was decided that you would be given lesser rewards so as not to infuriate the lords of the realm." Baela shook her head in frustration. "If I had been the one to choose, you'd have received such rewards and more. But the Queen chose differently."

Gaemon was stunned. My father wished to reward that handsomely? Why would the Queen deny us such rewards when she knows each of us is worth the support of a hundred lords? He felt betrayed. It is worse that such things were on the table and removed, than if they had never been offered at all. We are risking our lives for her. He realized that Baela was awaiting his response.

"Thank you for telling me this. Even if I am disappointed to hear it, I am relieved to know that there are those on the 'inside' advocating for us."

Baela smiled fiercely. "I'd have been much more vocal in my support if I hadn't already been in such trouble myself." Her smile waned. "The Queen had just decreed that I would have to depart after Prince Joffrey's feast. She wanted to keep up appearances, but refused to allow me to fight for her. It is so vexing; Moondancer and I are ready. We could make a difference."

Gaemon ran a hand through his hair. "It is the Queen's loss. I, for one, would have loved to fight alongside you. You're twice as fierce as me, even if you do have a dragon more than twice as small."

She had been grinning until the last part, when she delivered him a punch to the shoulder. "At least my dragon isn't old, cantankerous, and cannibalistic."

Gaemon laughed. "Give her time. I'm sure she'll get there some day."

Baela drew her hand back for another blow, but this time he was ready. He caught her wrist midway towards her strike. They sat silently for a moment, as he savored his victory and she gave him another one of her characteristic mischievous smiles. Ah, fuck it, he thought. He let go of her hand, bringing his to her cheek, and kissed her. At first, she recoiled slightly in surprise, but as the reality of the moment dawned on her, she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back. They held each other for a few moments, before finally letting go. It was easily the best kiss he'd ever shared with anyone.

It was a few more moments before she spoke. "I hate to say it, but Rhaena was right. That really was excellent." A wry smile spread across her lips. "I guess I shouldn't have judged it based off of the kissing games we used to play with the squires."

"That probably wouldn't have been the best way to experience it. I can only imagine the seductive appeal of a fumbling squire."

"It… left many things to be desired." She crossed her arms. "You know, if you were trying to console me about the fact I must be leaving, you picked the worst possible way to do so. I've half a mind to refuse to leave."

Gaemon laughed. "If you were to do so, our tryst would be laughably short. I'd lose my head over this for certain."

Baela shrugged. "Over the years, I have gotten quite good at getting what I want. Don't be so quick to write off our potential."

Our potential. He liked the sound of it. The thought excited him, but the implications sobered him.

He thought a minute before speaking. "The best thing then is to get you back to Dragonstone without incident."

She nodded. "Tis probably for the best. But I beseech you, if I must go, you'd best give me something to remember you by."

Their kiss that followed was better than the one moments before, which Gaemon found surprising. He had to tell himself to resist his inclination to take things further. Taking her hand, he gave Jaehaerys a pat on the foot.

"I'm sorry, wise king, for scandalizing you so." Baela giggled as they left the square, pulling her hood up once more to conceal her valyrian features. As much as it pained him, he had to take her back, before her absence was noted.

Before they headed back, she turned to Gaemon one last time to speak. "You have to promise me something, Gaemon." He turned, and waited for her next words. "I would give anything to fight alongside you. But since I have been robbed of the chance, you must bring our enemies Fire and Blood in my stead. Most importantly, though, be safe. This war has taken too many of those I held dear already."

Gaemon took her hand. "You have my word, Baela." He paused, before grinning. "Besides, woe be to any who try to come between us. I've not even gotten to see what's beneath all these beautiful dresses. The Usurper and his brothers won't know what hit them."

Baela grinned wolfishly. "It is nice to know I have such a powerful incentive at my disposal."

Chapter Text

Veron II

Dalton was mightily displeased, that much was certain. The veins of his neck bulged out dangerously as he cursed the Farmans for their truculence, and his own lords for their failures.

"Would that I had sailed from the Isles with real men, instead of mewling babes and shrieking maidens! Faircastle is nothing to us. It should have been taken during the first storm, let alone the second." His brother's dark eyes surveyed the room, looking for any sign of resistance or insubordination.

The room remained quiet, and the Red Kraken's lords appeared suitably chastised for their failures. Veron had personally overseen the second storming of Faircastle's battlements, and although he had slain one of the knights of its household garrison, the attack had faltered not long after the young Joron Blacktyde had taken a bolt to the neck. The defenders had taken heart and subsequently forced Veron's men from the walls. He had had to personally drag Merrick to the ladders after their position had been rendered untenable, the crazed lad screaming spittle laden curses the entire way.

Joron's brother still hasn't forgiven Dalton for the loss of his elder brother. Torgon idolised him. Veron sighed internally. Old Way or not, we cannot afford to keep throwing the lives of our reavers away so callously.

As he considered what to do, he watched as Dalton dismissed the assembled lords. Normally on an evening when he was filled with such rage, he would seek out one of his many salt wives, but the majority had been left on the Isles. As for the four lionesses, they had proven "too weepy" for his brother's tastes. He had distributed them amongst his captains after growing tired of their "lack of claws".

As the last of the lords had left the great black tent, Dalton quickly poured himself a deep drought of ale, and quaffed it down eagerly. Turning to his brother, he slammed his fist into the table he had been standing behind.

"Ah Veron, my stalwart sword, if I only had twenty men as true as you. We'd have taken this pathetic seat immediately. True men are hard to find these days, even amongst those who still follow the Old Way."

Veron resisted the urge to smile bitterly. Be careful what you wish for brother. Such 'true men' may not be exactly as you imagine them. Removing his helmet from where it rested in the crook of his arm, he set it down upon the table.

"I have an idea, brother, if I may?" He asked nonchalantly.

Dalton's eyes narrowed. They seemed to be weighing the benefits of accepting his brother's council. Veron was certain that his brother wished to order another storming the next day, but he hoped that his inner pragmatist would allow him to at least consider Veron's proposal.

"Speak, brother. Let me hear this idea of yours."

Veron inhaled, and began to speak. As he did, the rage slowly ebbed from his brother's face, replaced with a wicked grin. His black eyes gleamed like chipped onyx in the torchlight. Ah, good. He thought to himself. I have him.

It had taken until long after nightfall for the other captains to be informed of the plan, and although some were displeased at its unconventional nature, many were eager to take part in such a scheme. The Ironborn host was divided into two sections, and after they had been split, Veron led his host to the shore, where the boats and the stores of looted goods they had reached the shoreline, the men began to rummage through the piles of loot, finding pothelms, spears, shortswords, mail, and other accoutrements necessary for the scheme. Most importantly, they donned blood-red cloaks, some sewn with the badges of golden lions. Veron himself had already removed his prized black and gold plate. Instead, he silently thanked the Lannister knight he had slain weeks earlier in Lannisport for his generosity. If only he could have lived to see his garish plate put to such good use, Veron thought with a wicked grin. After an hour had passed, he walked to the shore to examine himself, and had to suppress a chortle at his ridiculous appearance.

His reflection stared back at him with an evidently pleased smile, as he examined the suit of crimson plate he now found himself in. He found that it fit fairly well, which was lucky. His long black hair that flowed from the back of the helm certainly did not fit the image, but as the 'saviors' of Fair Isle would be attacking under the cover of darkness, he thought that it was unlikely to matter.

Turning to the thousands of men assembled on the beach, he began to speak in his best mimicry of a Westerlands accent: "Dear men, this night we assemble on these fair shores to drive these foul and filthy scum from our lands. They certainly have no idea that we are coming, and I can assure you, neither does Faircastle! For the Warrior, the Maiden, and… ah… I'll be damned. Charge!"

A massive cackling roar went up amongst the men as he led them over the dunes, holding torches aloft and screaming bloody murder. Holding his blade aloft, he led this mass of grizzled killers in bloodstained red cloaks towards the Red Kraken's encampment beneath the walls of the enemy keep.

The enemy host of Ironborn, mostly 'asleep' was completely 'shocked' and soon calls to arms could be heard through, in panicked, hoarse voices. Men began to scream and fall as they were 'cut down' by those who they'd fought alongside the day before, and soon, several tents were aflame and a great 'slaughter' had begun. Veron himself 'cut down' Melwick Myre, who cursed hatefully as he fell, his wheezing laughter lost in the storm of battle. A few feet from him, Tommard 'knifed' a lad pleading for mercy. The most puissant men of the Westerlands had taken Dalton's host by complete surprise, and resistance quickly collapsed as the enemy army, exhausted from a day of battle, was slowly forced back from the field, before finally shattering and fleeing for the hills and the hinterland of the isle. The entire 'bloody' affair had lasted forty-five minutes or so.

Only a few moments later, the stunned occupants upon the walls of Faircastle found a proud 'lion' beneath their gate.

Veron, grinning beneath the helmet's visor, addressed them: "Good people of Fair Isle, your salvation is here. As soon as Lady Johanna heard of your plight, she sent all she could muster to relieve you, wishing to give aid to the most honorable Lord Farman and his people."

He almost couldn't believe his ears as he began to hear sobs of relief echo from the battlements, and calls were raised internally to "open the gates". After a few moments of silence, the great gatehouse of Faircastle began to creak and groan as the gate swung slowly open, revealing a bedraggled older man in a doublet that depicted three white ships. At his sides were what must have been two grizzled household knights. Veron strode forward, his chest puffed out, in his best imitation of a proud knight. As he passed through the gatehouse, his men close behind, many cries of "seven bless yee" and "thankee, m'lord" rang out from the smallfolk gathered within the courtyard.

The older man stepped forward. He looked exhausted, but his face was etched with clear relief as he greeted his 'savior'.

"Prithee, good ser, what might be thy name? I do so wish to honor such a bold knight who came during our hour of need, so that I might thank him properly."

As more and more of the host of the 'Westerlands' filed in, Veron knew the battle was over before it had even begun. Smiling, he raised his visor so that all could see. Their faces registered a delicious confusion as he did so, as they perceived his eyes to be dark, and his hair black, instead of the emeralds and beaten gold that they surely expected.

"Lord Farman, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you. My name is Veron Greyjoy."

Before any could react, he drew his sword in a diagonal slashing arc, cutting across the face of one of the Lord's attendant knights, sending him careening backwards, his screams all too real this time. Whirling to face the other, he sent an armored elbow into the side of the Lord's head, sending him staggering to his knees. The other knight, to his credit, had only allowed the shock to immobilize him for a few seconds, after which he had quickly drawn his sword. Veron caught the man's first strike, a savage downward slash, on his shield, which cut a gash in the proud roaring lion. He initially gave some ground, allowing for the older man to tire himself as he hacked furiously away at Veron's defences. He waited patiently for his opportunity, and as the knight overextended himself, he quickly used his shield to catch the strike and knock his sword arm back, rotating his own body to deliver a powerful lunge, sending his blade into the man's exposed neck. In his haste to greet their saviors, he fastened his gorget improperly, Veron observed.

Falling to his knees, blood flowed freely from the savage wound, staining his opponent's doublet, which depicted a flock of gulls taking flight from a silver cliff. Veron forcefully withdrew his blade, allowing the man to fall face first into the courtyard, his lifesblood running a deep crimson amongst the flagstones. He turned, preparing himself for his next opponent, but the fight was already dying down. His men had flooded so quickly into the gates that they were able to force their way into the gatehouse and prevent them from being closed. That had sealed the doom of the garrison and the occupants, as many of them had either already been cut down or had fallen to their knees, pleading for succor. Merrick had already grabbed the frame of a guardsman's cot from within a barracks and was using it as a makeshift ram, hammering away with several other men at the keep's wooden doors. Judging by how much they shivered with each blow, they would not last much longer.

Pleased, he took a knee, using the corner of his fallen opponent's doublet to clean the length of his blade. Lord Farman struggled to rise a few feet away, but collapsed as Torgon Blacktyde's boot forced him once more to the ground. Torgon looked questioningly at Veron, but he shook his head.

"Leave the old man alive. He's not going to be a threat to anyone, and he'll be worth something as a hostage."

The men hammering at the entrance to the keep were finally able to batter down its doors, and judging by the shouting and screams that emanated from within, they were able to fairly quickly subjugate the occupants in the great hall. Rising, Veron went to supervise the final stages of the occupation.

When the smoke had begun to clear, the survivors of the sack had been gathered into the yard. The vast majority of them were small folk, women and children mostly. The garrison of the castle had been put to the sword, along with the attendant knights. Lord Farman and his family had been captured alive, with his five daughters and two sons brought into the courtyard to join their father. Ironborn reavers milled about the yard, either looking for loot amongst the corpses, eyeing the crowd for potential salt wives, or simply just enjoying their victory. Veron waited stoically for his brother's arrival in the main yard.

He did not have to wait long, as once word had arrived that the castle had been taken, the 'shattered remnants' of the Ironborn host had begun to filter back from their positions behind the hills to join their recently resurrected brethren who had previously littered the field. The Red Kraken himself entered the courtyard on foot, grinning from ear to ear, admiring its beautiful tall white towers that had recently been blackened with soot and smoke. Removing his helm, Dalton surveyed the assembled prisoners before beginning to speak.

"Let this memory remain well etched into the minds of all those present here today. I promise you, there will be no glory, no honor, and no hope in resisting my conquest. No one will sing songs of your valor, or remain to bury your husbands and sons. I will break each and every Lord of this land, as my forefathers did before me. For too long, the Sunset Sea has lacked the strong hand of my people. I will not rest until you all know what it means to be thralls once again." Stopping his pacing in front of the Farmans, he turned to Veron. "Did this lot give you much trouble, brother?"

Veron shook his head. "The Lord is an old man, and his sons are too young and feeble to fight. I am told the daughters put up more of a fight than any of the men." Balon Wynch had informed him earlier that the eldest one had knocked a tooth from one of his men when they had broken down her door. She herself bore the scars of such folly, her face already heavily bruised, with one eye swollen shut.

Dalton paused. "Perhaps the women have maintained a modicum of strength even as their menfolk have failed them." He took the chin of one of the daughters in his gauntleted hand, turning her face this way and that to consider her. Turning to their father, he smiled. "You've certainly got some comely girls, my lord. I will give you that much. If the Drowned God wills it, they will provide me with strong sons to continue my line." Reaching the battered and bruised daughter, he looked her up and down. "As for you my dear, your wounds have rendered you rather homely. I have little interest in such ill-used goods, but I know just the man for you."

Veron felt a chill run down his spine. Curses Dalton. Not her, not now. At least grant me the right to choose one on my own terms. His wish would prove to be in vain, however, as he found his brother's eyes locking with his and guffaws and chuckles rang out from amidst the Ironborn.

"You, my dear, will have the honor of laying with my own brother. Perhaps you can convince him of the value of a warm bed, and a willing woman. I promise he won't disappoint you too much, for he is my close kin, after all."

The girl didn't even bother to look at his brother. She instead raised her eyes to meet Veron, and he was quite certain he'd never been the recipient of a stare so cold. She held his gaze for a few moments, before spitting at his feet, which only caused the men assembled to laugh harder. He clenched his fist, but withheld it. She's already proven she harbors no fear of a man's hands.

Veron cleared his throat. "I thank you, brother, for your gift. I do suppose it is long past time for me to claim a salt wife of my own."

"Long past time indeed, Veron. The Old Way can be unforgiving, even to its most ardent practitioners. It would behoove you to get her with child as soon as possible. You'll need strong sons to carry on your legacy." He turned back to the Lord. "As the new Lord of Faircastle, I don't suppose I need you or your sons skulking about." He tapped his chin a few moments. "Lord Harlaw, send a raven to the Rock. Inform the Lady Lannister we hold the Farman male line hostage. Tell her we will ransom them for their weight in silver to her."

The Lord Reaper nodded. "It will be done, my Lord."

Dalton smirked. "Until then, throw them in their own cells. I see no reason for them to join us at tonight's victory feast. Veron, see to it they are provided with a cell befitting of their lordly station."

Several of Dalton's men grabbed the lord and his young sons, leading them further into the keep. Veron followed them down a cool stone staircase that winded deep into the earth. At its base, they found a row of iron-gated cells, in which they shoved their prisoners. Veron felt confident that the gaoler could be trusted not to free his liege, seeing as his corpse was already splayed out across the floor. As he turned to leave, the old man spoke up.

"How can you live with yourself, you animal. No true man would exploit the trust of the innocent."

Veron smirked, but he knew the smile didn't reach his eyes. Instead of responding, he left them there, silent in the darkness. The old man is correct about one thing. I am no true man.

The stores and larders of Faircastle had been thrown open by the time he had made his way up the stairs and were in the process of being completely emptied. A host of this size would need all that had been stored in order to throw a proper feast. Tis fortunate for us that winter approaches, he thought, otherwise they'd be unlikely to have put this much away. His brother was already seated in the lord's seat within the Great Hall, and many of the Lords Reaper had gathered about him, seated amongst the tables below. They were already drinking their fill of ale and wine, as great impromptu spits had been set up within the center of the hall to roast several hogs that had been butchered for the occasion. Entire loafs of bread, wheels of cheese, and cuts of smoked meat lay piled over the tables, and in the courtyard and the fields beyond the great Ironborn host was already deeply engaged in its revelry.

Dalton was attended by his four new salt wives, each of whom had been stripped bare. I'm sure he enjoys his ability to allow his lords to look upon - but not touch- his newest wives. He wasn't sure if it was the cold or the fear, but the youngest stood shivering, as she served his brother his ale. She must have done something to displease him, for as quick as a whip he snatched her up over his shoulders and carried her up a set of stairs leading to what must have been the lord's chambers. The Lords Reaper raised their tankards in a hearty cheer, spouting ribald toasts. The other sisters seemed distraught, and had no idea what to do. They quickly made farmanthemselves scarce as soon as they realized that their new husband was no longer present to ward off other potential 'suitors'.

As he poured himself a tankard of ale, and subsequently drained it, he felt a firm hand on his arm. Turning, he found himself face to face with a grinning Hilmar Drumm, who told him "his blushing bride awaited him in her chambers in the Southern Tower."

Veron forced a smile, and quickly guzzled another tankard. Grabbing a small barrel of ale, and making sure its spigot was still sealed, he made his way towards the South Tower. Behind him came several Lords Reaper and his crew, drunkenly singing the 'Bear and the Maiden Fair'. There is no avoiding this now, he thought to himself, miserable. As he made his way, the men unclasped and undid his armor, in the absence of women to do the task. Climbing the stairs, he eventually reached the door that they assured him was her quarters. Throwing it open, they pushed him inside and slammed it behind him.

The girl sat at her window, gazing out to sea. Veron quickly found a luxuriously upholstered chair to sit in, and began pouring himself a new tankard. He desperately found himself willing himself to feel some sort of spark, some sort of arousal, but when he looked at her in her torn dress, he felt nothing. He drowned his disappointment with a deep gulp of ale.

Standing, he approached her from behind, stopping less than an arms length behind her. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him, and received a stinging slap as a reward. He staggered, and she ran past him for the door, only to find that it was locked. He ran after her, grabbing her arm and throwing her backwards onto the bed. As he loomed over her, he met her eyes once again, and their hate once more stabbed through him. He began to undo his trousers, fumbling from the drunkenness, only to shout and slam his fist against the wall. Staggering backwards, he collapsed into the chair. Topping off his tankard, he took another deep gulp, before speaking softly, so as to not alert those who were definitely listening in from the outside.

"I can assure you, I want nothing to do with you." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was beginning to feel incredibly drunk at this point, with it becoming increasingly hard to focus on any given object. "For appearances sake, would you mind tearing your dress a tad?"

By this point, the woman had crawled to the edge of her bed, and was staring at him with a mixture of wariness and disbelief.

Veron laughed, which sounded like a bitter, wheezing old man to his ears. "I am completely sheerious." Taking another deep sip, he groaned loudly, imitating the sounds of pleasure he had heard other men make as they laid with women. Outside, a round of cheers and guffaws could be heard through the door, gradually subsiding as the audience tramped down the stairs. He turned back to face the woman, who was sitting on the edge of the bed still, her knees tucked under her chin. Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes, feeling as though the world was spinning.

"Jussht try to ignore me." He whispered. He fell asleep to the sounds of quiet crying.

With the morning, his consciousness returned, and with it, the pain that always awaited him after a night of heavy drinking. Veron kept his eyes shut initially, hoping to fall back asleep, but his head felt as though several reavers had taken axes to it. The rhythmic pounding was brutal enough to keep him awake, and he gradually opened his eyes in order to take in his surroundings. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow stone slit that served as a window, and he quickly averted his eyes from that source of additional pain. His tankard lay on the floor next to the chair he woke in, and he felt a profound sense of revulsion the longer he looked at it. It was only when he heard the girl stir that he remembered that he was, in fact, not alone.

He watched her toss and turn, her sleep evidently fitful and fraught with what appeared to be a nightmare. Strangely, he felt pity. It is a cruel world that awaits her outside her dreams. To return to a waking world that is more terrifying than your nightmares is a harsh fate. He could sympathize with her plight, as he was aware of the solace retreating to one's dreams could provide. It appears that her gods could not even grant her that boon. Eventually, she twisted so violently in her sleep that she must have woken herself, as her eyes opened, wide-eyed and terrified. When the reality of her surroundings and present situation registered, he saw her eyes dim. It was then that she turned to face him, her bruises from the previous day an even uglier color.

He smiled at her bitterly. "It seems we have been wed. You have the honor of being the first salt wife to the brother of the Red Kraken himself."

She sat, her hair a disheveled mess, and regarded him with a mixture of barely concealed loathing, and something that might have been a guarded curiosity. She finally opened her mouth to speak, and winced, her jaw having apparently protested at the sudden movement.

"Is this all some sort of cruel jape? I thought Ironborn took great pleasure in the rape of their captives, and the pillaging of their homes."

Veron frowned. He sincerely hoped that she would not become a liability. It had dawned on him that there might be some benefit to having a salt wife, instead of continuing with his aloofness towards the fairer sex.

He sighed. "Would you have preferred that I did?" He spat out.

She paled slightly, considering his words. Before she could speak again, he decided to make his point even clearer.

"Bruises or not, you're a pretty enough lass. There are many men in that hall below that would like nothing better than to have their way with you. If you would prefer it otherwise, speak now. Otherwise, I'll hear no more of it."

Studying him, she remained silent. His head continued to pound, but despite how his pain distracted him he could see the unmistakable look of calculation etched across her features. She began to tie her hair into a braid, as she evidently considered her circumstances. He headed for the door, but paused before exiting.

"It is customary for salt wives to serve their masters at their meals. It would be amiss if you did not. Given that that is the case, I will expect you to accompany me."

A scowl split her face, but after a moment, she rose wordlessly. As she took her place behind him, he grabbed the bodice of her dress, tearing it apart to reveal her breasts. She winced in shock, but didn't move to hit him as she had before.

He scowled. "We wouldn't want the men to think I'd gone too easy on you now, would we?"

Wrenching the door open with a metallic screech that was murder on his already sensitive senses, he and his new companion took the winding steps back down to the hall, retracing his steps from the previous evening. She followed him along gingerly, covering herself with the vestiges of her dress, whose blue, yellow, and red Farman colors still shone brightly despite some soot and ash from the night previous. Reaching the Great Hall, he found his brother holding an impromptu court, surrounded by many of his captains. Below, many reavers were breaking their fast. The other daughters of Lord Farman were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he finally let them clothe themselves and rest, he thought, Dalton is always ever so merciful.

As he approached, Dalton's face broke into a sadistic, gleeful grin, his eyes sparkling like the ocean in starlight. Somehow, in this form, the sight was not the least bit calming.

"Brother! The men tell me you had quite the evening. Did you break the new salt wife in? She was quite the spirited lass, from what I hear."

Veron shrugged nonchalantly. "She is a fighter. But I've been fighting all my life. She was nothing I could not handle."

His response earned him chuckles and praises from throughout the chamber. While Dalton returned to his lords, he sat at an open space at one of the long tables. He ordered some wine to help ease his head, and some bread to soak up the remaining ale in his stomach. He also asked his new wife for some of whatever was roasting on the fire. He sat in silence as she scurried off to fetch his requests, propping his head up against his hand on the table. He allowed himself to drift off in his mind, imagining his family's favorite beach on Pyke, its smooth black-pebbled shore just a short ride from Pyke castle. He could almost hear the waves lapping gently alongside the laughter of his sisters. I wonder if the Farmans have any such beaches, he thought to himself. That errant thought troubled him, but he couldn't exactly put his finger on why.

He was shaken out of his stupor by a guffaw, the sound of a slap, and a shout. Turning, he saw Harrick Codd holding his wife's wrist tightly, an angry red mark on his face where she had evidently made her displeasure known. Rising from his seat, he approached, plucking a carving knife from where it had been embedded in one of the slabs of cooked meat upon the tables. As he approached, Harrick let go of the Farman girl, and turned to face him, grinning stupidly.

"Deepest apologies, Lord Veron. I was just trying to get a look at the merchandise, as it were, and your wife, well… she just wasn't being very accommodating. The lads and I were mighty curious what kind of goods she might've been packing after your brother…"

Whatever words would have left his lips were cut short as Veron drew an angry red line across Codd's neck. Not a moment later, his blood began to pulse out, wetting the stones of the hall's floor. Veron knelt, wiping his knife delicately on the gurgling Harrick's shirt, before returning to his seat at the table. He motioned for his wife to join him, and they sat in silence as he began to eat. As he offered her a bit of bread, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, his eyes met those of Dalton's. He wasn't exactly surprised to find his brother smiling.

"Veron, I must say it pleases me to see you finally know what it feels like to be a jealous lover. I'm sure you're well aware I'd have done the same in your shoes, or boots, as it were."

He nodded, returning to his food. He wasn't particularly interested in his brother's jests at the moment. He felt a small measure of satisfaction as he felt him tense in annoyance at his lack of attention. Nonetheless, Dalton continued to speak.

"Yesterday you won me great acclaim and renown as your liege, brother. Your plan was undeniably an important step in seizing this castle, especially after its garrison had been exhausted by our repeated assaults. In light of your accomplishments, I think it only fair that I reward you adequately. I charge you with leading our first assault on the mainland since the storming of Lannisport. As you will recall, the Lady of the Rock, Johanna Lannister, was formerly of House Westerling. I'm sure you'll also recall that House's seat is the Crag, an eminently defensible coastal fortress. I charge you with seizing that fortress, for the glory of House Greyjoy and the Old Way. Bring me Lady Lannister's family in chains, so that we may show her the Rock cannot protect everything she holds dear."

Veron continued chewing his meal in silence for a few moments, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes upon him. Taking a swig of wine, he raised his head to once more meet Dalton's eyes.

"It will be done, brother."

Chapter Text

Hobert II

Longtable had offered a much greater resistance than many of the other castles that had pledged their swords to the usurper Princess Rhaenyra's cause. Hobert had been relieved that the siege had offered him the chance to spend less time atop a horse. My saddle sores have become more than bothersome. The march from Oldtown had been a long one, but since the bloody battle along the banks of the Honeywine, his cousin Lord Ormund's army had met no real resistance as they continued northeast. We have Prince Daeron and Tessarion to thank for that, Hobert mused. The Prince oft flew ahead of the army on his dragon, reporting of any activity he saw on the roads, preventing any attempts by the Blacks to set up an effective ambush or organize any retaliatory strikes.

Hobert took another sip of Arbor Gold, and slouched further into his camp chair. I'm always so dreadfully tired. In his youth, Hobert Hightower had never been a vital or vigorous man, and with his advanced age, he had never felt older. When he woke, his whole body would ache, and it would take several minutes for him to rise from his cot, stiffly and miserably. His sleep was fitful and restless, and when he did dream, he would dream of his home, the Hightower.

Oh what I would give to return! Hobert had heard that one never truly appreciated what they had until it was gone, and he found those words truer and truer with every league he put between himself and his beloved home. How I miss the sea breeze, and restful days spent in comfort and contentment. Hobert sighed sadly. War does have its horrors, I suppose.

Hobert was drawn from his morose thoughts by a man-at-arms wearing a Hightower badge stepping into his tent. "M'lord, the maester is here to see ya." Seeing Hobert's small nod in the affirmative, the man-at-arms walked back outside, and Hobert could hear the man's muffled voice permitting the maester entry.

With a small ruffle, the maester slipped through Hobert's tent flap, the chain about his neck clinking. Hobert sat up in his chair, and called out a greeting to the man. "Good evening, maester Armond."

The maester smiled thinly. "Apologies, Ser, but my name is Aubrey." He walked across the dusty Myrish rug that stretched along the floor of Hobert's tent, before stopping and bowing slightly in front of him.

Slightly embarrassed, Hobert nodded in return. "Yes of course, maester Aubrey, how silly of me to forget!" Taking another sip of his Arbor Gold, Hobert made a gesture towards several empty silvered chalices and a flagon. "May I interest you in some Arbor Gold? I find that this one is a particularly exquisite vintage."

Maester Aubrey smiled again, but shook his head. "Many thanks, Ser Hobert, but I must respectfully decline. With the influx of gold and provisions from Longtable, I must needs make a complete inventory of it all before the army marches again. It would not do for the baggage train to have supplies unaccounted for."

Hobert nodded. Maester Aubrey had proved invaluable in helping to ensure that the baggage train of Lord Ormund's army ran smoothly. Though Hobert commanded the train, he had assigned the duties of organization and inventory to maester Aubrey, while he had allocated all other matters of import to his attendant knight, Ser Jared. The majority of the maesters accompanying Lord Ormund's army on its march were young men who had only recently forged their chains, eager to prove their talents and catch the eye of important Lords. With luck, they may be asked by a powerful Lord to serve at his seat when the war ends.

Maester Aubrey was not an exception. He was a young man, and Hobert guessed that he had counted nearly thrice as many years as the maester. If his memory served, Hobert believed that the maester had been born a Prester of Feastfires. He has been a great help to me throughout this loathsome march.

The maester cleared his throat politely, and Hobert regarded the man tiredly, awaiting his daily evening report. "Though our food supplies had been lower than advised for an army of such size, the addition of House Merryweather's foodstores to our own has ensured that the army will remain adequately fed throughout the foreseeable future of this campaign." Maester Aubrey paused, brandishing a small scroll from within his deep sleeves, and regarding the writing on it. "The gold we have seized only adds to the considerable amount kept for the paying of the mercenary companies that march with the army."

As the maester droned on, Hobert found himself struggling to focus as fatigue continued to set in. Once the maester finished his report, Hobert planned to get as much sleep as possible before the next day's march. Lord Ormund had called together the Lords and other leaders of his army together earlier in the day to discuss their next destination now that the siege of Longtable had been brought to a close. Bitterbridge is the next seat that will be paid a visit by my cousin's army.

Taking another deep sip of his Arbor Gold, Hobert noticed that the maester seemed to be finishing his report. He bowed to Hobert, his chain clinking, and made to leave his tent. "Maester!" Hobert called out, and the young man turned to regard him. "What news have you of the condition of the Bastard of Bitterbridge? We may have need of him when we march on his home."

Maester Aubrey thought for a moment before responding. "Ser Tomard Flowers' condition improves daily, Ser Hobert. He will carry burn scars for the rest of his life, but he will soon have no further need of the salves and bandages that I have been applying to his burn wounds each morn."

Hobert nodded at the maester's words. "Thank you maester. That will be all for tonight." The maester inclined his head at him, then turned and left his tent quietly. Draining the last dregs of Arbor Gold from his goblet, Hobert stood from his camp chair, wincing at how his sore body creaked with the sudden movement.

As he prepared to call for a squire to help him remove his mail for the evening, a messenger with a Hightower badge entered Hobert's tent. "Apologies, Ser, but I come with a message from Lord Ormund Hightower. He has called for an emergency council in his pavilion, and your presence is expected with as much immediacy as possible."

"I say we should have sent the bitch the Bastard of Bitterbridge's head in recompense for the dragon egg!" Ser Jon Roxton shouted, and many of the men in Lord Ormund's pavilion cried out their approval. The egg that Bold Jon referred to sat on a table placed at the rear of Lord Ormund's pavilion. It was a splendid thing to look upon, possessing a pale green color, with beautiful sworls of silver across its surface.

Hobert found himself at a loss for words as the Lords and knights surrounding him argued about what the army's next course of action should be. What a terrible, terrible tragedy. The Prince Maelor Targaryen had been little more than a babe when he was killed, a child of about three years. The knights that Lady Caswell had sent with the Prince's dragon egg hadn't wished to give the details of his death, but when pressed, they eventually revealed that he had been torn to pieces by a crowd of smallfolk wishing to claim the usurper Rhaenyra's bounty.

Lord Ormund sat at his table in silence, face taut and dark with a barely-contained rage. Cousin Bryndon controlled his emotions with less grace, stalking back and forth in front of cousin Ormund's table like a caged beast. We were only thirty leagues away from where Prince Maelor was killed, but it may as well have been one thousand. We weren't able to save him all the same. The Prince Daeron had yet to return from scouting ahead along the road to Bitterbridge in preparation for the army's march the next day. Hobert knew that cousin Ormund wouldn't dismiss the assembled nobles and knights until the Prince arrived at the pavilion and was given the news.

Lord Unwin Peake began to speak, and though his voice was not nearly as boisterous as Jon Roxton's, it was full of a cold fury that drew the attention of the men in the pavilion. "The usurper Princess Rhaenyra's folly has cost our King and his leal subjects far too much. It is long past time that we sent a message to catch the attention of the Princess and her traitorous followers. I say that we raze Bitterbridge to the ground, and slaughter all within and leave their corpses for the carrion crows!"

Hobert felt himself paling at Lord Unwin's words. The murder of Prince Maelor deserves harsh retribution, to be sure, but to raze an entire town? Lord Unwin's words had garnered a mixed reaction from the assembled men. Some were nodding and calling out their support, while others appeared more hesitant. To this point, we have done nothing to those who surrender to us except to claim their food stores and treasuries, and to take some of their garrison into our own army's ranks. Lord Unwin was suggesting more than a sack, he was calling for the utter annihilation of a town and castle that had stood since the Age of Heroes.

Hobert glanced at Lord Ormund, wondering what his response would be. Before his cousin could speak up, however, the tent flap was flung aside as the Prince Daeron Targaryen strode in. The occupants of the pavilion grew silent as the young dragonrider crossed its length to look upon the egg placed on Lord Ormund's table. Upon seeing it, the Prince's face grew dark with fury, his purple eyes glinting dangerously in the light of the braziers throughout the pavilion.

When the Prince began to speak, his voice seemed to be nearly as full of grief and sorrow as it was with rage. "So the rumors I heard throughout the camp were true. They've murdered my nephew." His mailed fist was clenched, and the Prince's eyes blazed with a murderous fire. "The life of just one of my brother's sons was not enough to sate my vile half-sister and her brood. Will it be my niece next? If it's blood that the Queen and her supporters want, then I shall gladly give them that. Aye, I'll see them drown in a river of it."

The Lords and knights surrounding the Prince began to shout their support, with Ser Jon Roxton's voice being the loudest of all. Lord Unwin Peake merely stood in silence, but a vicious smile had spread across his face. Lord Peake wants revenge for his son as much as for the King's murdered heirs. Ser Titus Peake, Lord Unwin's last living son, had died not long before the army's arrival at Longtable, wasting away from wounds taken in a skirmish with broken men. So many lives of impeccable lineage lost, and for what? Hobert frowned in vexation. Because a Princess couldn't be satisfied with the rights of her brother being upheld.

Prince Daeron turned to cousin Ormund, addressing him directly. "I will mount Tessarion and fly without delay. I mean to burn Bitterbridge to ash before the sun has risen." It was at that moment that Lord Ormund finally stood from his seat, and all within the pavilion regarded him expectantly.

Placing a hand on Prince Daeron's shoulder, the Lord of Oldtown began to speak. "My Prince, I will not deny you your revenge, for the Queen and her supporters have well-earned such retribution. However, I beg of you that you wait to attack Bitterbridge until you have my army at your back. We can't risk the life of another Prince of the blood so callously." Lord Ormund smiled darkly before continuing. "And with the aid of the army, my Prince, I can assure you that the price Bitterbridge will pay for its treasons will be steep." Prince Daeron did not speak in response to Lord Ormund's words, but merely nodded his silent assent.

To Hobert, the army's march spanning the thirty leagues from Longtable to Bitterbridge felt as though it lasted a lifetime, due to the anticipation of what was to come. Hobert had never more felt his threescore years of age than during that seemingly interminable ride, as Ser Jared occasionally rode up alongside him in a cloud of dust to report on the state of the baggage train. Though the Roseroad allowed for efficient travel, the size of the army marching along it meant that Hobert and the baggage train arrived at the chosen campsite last, as the sun sat low in the evening sky.

The army had camped about a league south of Bitterbridge, along the banks of the Mander. It seemed to Hobert as though a grim pall had hung over the camp that night, for it had not taken long for the rumors of Prince Daeron's planned vengeance to spread amongst the men. The mercenaries sharpened their swords, the pious men prayed, and all waited for what the next day would bring. Hobert had tossed and turned in his cot, unable to sleep, considering the part he would play in the events of the upcoming day. It will likely be battle, with whatever forces Lady Caswell manages to muster. It mattered not, however. Bitterbridge could have an army larger than ours defending it, but they would still break under the flames of Tessarion.

Before dawn, Hobert rose, waking his squire to help him get into his plate armor. Though it's frightfully uncomfortable, I dare not be unprepared if fighting starts. As the morning sun shone across the camp and sparkled along the waters of the Mander, Hobert rode to join his cousins at the front of the army, entrusting the baggage train to Ser Jared. Though it took him some time, he eventually found himself at the front of the army's vanguard, awash with knights in shining armor atop proud and powerful steeds. The forces of the usurper Rhaenyra stand no chance against such puissant knights, Hobert thought with pride. Much of the chivalry of the Reach rides beneath the King's banner. We shall see that he reclaims his rightful throne.

Lord Ormund nodded at Hobert from atop his white destrier as Hobert steered his palfrey towards him, and cousin Bryndon gave him a fierce smile. Lord Ormund called out to Hobert as he joined the trotting group of Lords and landed knights at the head of the van. "I'm glad that you have joined us this morn, cousin Hobert. It is my intent that all the members of our family in this army be present to witness the justice meted out to the Caswells for the murder of our relation, the Prince Maelor." Hobert nodded at his cousin's words, before dabbing at the beads of sweat forming upon his forehead with a kerchief. Let us hurry and make an end to this miserable day.

Hobert watched intently as Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron rode forward to treat with Lady Melissa Caswell. Though if my memory serves, she was born a Ball. Since her traitorous husband's death on the orders of King Aegon, the woman had been ruling as regent for her young son, the new lord of Bitterbridge. She had originally shared the rule with the castle's castellan, Ser Tomard Flowers, but since he had ridden off at the head of a great host along with Lord Thaddeus Rowan, she had ruled alone. That was how the Bastard of Bitterbridge had described it, at least.

As the leader of the baggage train, one of Hobert's chief duties was overseeing the three prisoners the army had been trundling along with them in an iron-caged wagon. Some prisoners taken after the battle on the Honeywine river had refused to be reconciled and were promptly executed. Though they had also refused to be reconciled, Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and Ser Tomard Flowers had been deemed knights of enough status and import that they would be brought to King's Landing to face the judgement of King Aegon himself.

Wearing tattered and sun-faded doublets that bore their Houses' sigils, Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury had grown haggard during their captivity, but still spit curses and threats when provoked. Lord Alan Tarly was especially wroth, for his family's ancestral valyrian steel greatsword Heartsbane had been taken by the knight who captured him. Ser Balman was the foremost of Bold Jon Roxton's household knights, and though some argued that the knight had risen above himself in taking Heartsbane, Ser Jon Roxton had reminded them that it was Ser Balman's by right as a prize of war.

Once his burns had healed enough that he could walk, the Bastard of Bitterbridge joined the two Alans in the caged wagon, covered in salves and wrapped in bandages that were dutifully changed by maester Aubrey each morn. His doublet bearing the reversed colors of House Caswell had been returned to him, singed so badly from flame that the white centaur across its center had turned half black.

Lady Caswell had ridden across the stone bridge spanning the Mander to meet Lord Ormund's approaching army with a score of household knights and men-at-arms. The town of Bitterbridge with its small stone-and-timber castle in its center loomed on the other side of the river, and its streets were crowded with terrified people fleeing further northeast from the town along the Roseroad. Wearing a mourner's black riding dress, as well as a black woolen cloak fastened with a golden centaur clasp, Lady Caswell appeared exhausted to Hobert's eyes. Her green eyes had dark bags under them, and she clutched her reins so tightly that her knuckles were white as bone.

With a strained voice, she addressed Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron, but Hobert and the other men assembled behind them could hear her words. "We have been aware of the approach of your army for some time. I do not have the soldiers to fight you, and I wish to avoid bringing bloodshed and destruction to this town at all costs. All that I ask of you is for the terms that were offered to every other castle that your army besieged." The men around Hobert began to murmur angrily, and he could only imagine what expressions must have crossed the visages of Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron.

In a cold voice tight with rage, Prince Daeron responded. "I think not, my lady. You shall receive the same terms you gave my nephew Maelor." Hobert watched as the color quickly drained from Lady Caswell's face.

When Lady Caswell spoke again, whatever decorum she had maintained had been washed away by panic, and she spoke in a desperate and pleading tone. "Prince Daeron, you are mistaken. The Prince Maelor was brought here in secrecy by Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard, to an inn within this town that is admittedly of ill repute. I had no knowledge of his presence until he had already been murdered by rabble. I made sure that all who were responsible were hanged in retribution. Prince Maelor's death was a travesty, and I would have done all in my power to prevent it had I known of his presence."

Lord Ormund was the next to speak, in a tone that was no less enraged than Prince Daeron's. "And what, pray tell, would you have done with Prince Maelor had you been able to retrieve him? Returned him to the usurper Rhaenyra? She surely would have killed him just as she ordered for the murder of his brother, the Prince Jaehaerys. House Caswell have proved themselves not only as traitors to the realm, but have also allowed for the murder of a Prince of the blood. You must needs pay a dear price, my lady."

As Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron turned their mounts to rejoin the rest of the army, Lady Caswell called out in anguish. "What of the people of this town, the wounded in the town sept, and the refugees that are seeking shelter here? They have done no wrong, and many are simply fleeing ahead of the warfare and destruction that your army has left in its wake!"

Prince Daeron turned one last time to regard the distraught Lady Dowager of Bitterbridge. "They all share the blame for my nephew's murder as much as you do, my lady. And the punishment for murder is death." With that, the Prince galloped away, riding in the direction of the camp where his dragon Tessarion roosted. With a face as white as snow, Lady Caswell and her escort rode back across the stone bridge spanning the Mander into the town.

Lord Ormund turned to Hobert, and spoke to him in a grave tone. "Have the prisoners brought up to the front of the army, cos. It is long past time that we show them the fate of traitors."

Listening to the peaceful sound of the Mander's rushing waters, Hobert could almost imagine he was out for a ride along the Honeywine outside Oldtown. I was scarce more than a lad in those days. The Old King still ruled then, and the Realm prospered for it. Hobert was glad that his dear wife Joyeuse had not lived to see the days of peace of plenty that they had known since their births crumble away into warfare and strife. I wonder what my dear sunflower would think of me now. Hobert had been a handsome man in his youth, solid and strong from his days as a squire, and when he still cared for sparring with other knights at the Hightower. I trained often, though I never truly distinguished myself. The passage of time had not been kind to Hobert or the Realm, however. Now I'm old and stout, and forced to leave the home I love to ride to war.

"Please, Ser!" the voice behind him called, and Hobert turned to regard its source, the visions of his days of youth banished from his mind's eye. The Bastard of Bitterbridge clutched at the iron bars of the cage he was trapped in, a pleading expression spread across the parts of his face that weren't obscured by tightly-wrapped bandages. "I beg of you, let me speak with Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron. I was the castellan of this town and castle before you captured me. Let me speak with my goodsister, and bring this madness to an end before lives are needlessly lost!" Hobert frowned as he regarded the distraught knight. All those bandages give him an almost ghoulish look.

Hobert repeated the words that he'd heard the Prince speak at the earlier parley. "Your goodsister and the people of this town are all responsible for the death of Prince Maelor, and they will receive the punishment that all murderers receive: Death." The Bastard of Bitterbridge continued to clutch at the iron bars of the cage and plead, while Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury glared hatefully at Hobert.

A loud roar echoed throughout the sky, and Hobert looked up quickly as Tessarion flew overhead, gliding low over the Mander towards the town of Bitterbridge. A maelstrom of blue cobalt flame gushed forth from its maw, and a structure near the foot of the stone bridge spanning the Mander was quickly turned into a roaring blue pyre. As Prince Daeron continued to burn the town from atop Tessarion, Lord Ormund's army began to gallop and charge across the bridge into the blazing town, shouting battle cries. Archers several ranks deep along the banks of the Mander drew their longbows taut, before firing volley after volley of flaming arrows in a deadly arc into the already-blazing city.

"NOOOO!" Tom Flowers screamed. As the Bastard of Bitterbridge began to shriek spittle-laden curses and kick ineffectually at the locked door of the cage, Hobert watched the town across the Mander burn. His cousin's army continued to pour across the bridge into the town in a torrent of steel and death, and Hobert began to hear screams and wails drift hauntingly across the river, as the townsfolk who had not been immolated by dragonflame were accosted and put to the sword.

Across the wide waters of the Mander, Hobert began to see indistinct groups of people fleeing the burning town of Bitterbridge. Many fled northeast, further along the Roseroad. However, those groups were mercilessly run down by mounted knights and mercenaries on horseback, who ran them through with lances or hacked them down with swords.

Other townspeople ran in Hobert's direction, fleeing from the southern edge of town towards the bank of the Mander river opposite to Hobert. They began to fling themselves into the rushing waters, thrashing about and struggling to stay afloat as the water's strong current began to take hold of them. There must be hundreds of them, Hobert thought with growing dismay. Men and women, young and old, strong and weak, all chose the swirling waters of the Mander over the flames of Tessarion and the swords of Lord Ormund's army. However, the rushing waters proved stronger than the townspeople that attempted to traverse them, and one by one their heads began to sink beneath the water, and did not reappear above the river's surface again.

A scarce few townspeople made it all the way to the center of the Mander before drowning, and to Hobert's surprise, one burly man made it nearly three quarters of the way across before his strength gave out. Hobert shuddered as the man's face slipped beneath the river's surface, for his facial features had become distinct enough that it seemed to Hobert as though the man's eyes were fixated directly on him. This is wrong, a small voice within Hobert seemed to call out, those people you watched die had no part in this war, yet they were slaughtered all the same.

Hobert quashed those thoughts as soon as they came to him. Prince Maelor, the King's last son, was butchered in this town by these selfsame townsfolk. Hobert thought back to Prince Daeron's words. They all share the blame for the death of the young Prince, and the punishment for murder is death. Hobert repeated those words in his mind again and again to himself as Bitterbridge burned and its people died.

The smoke billowing all around was enough to make Hobert squint his eyes, and it took nearly all of his bearing not to begin coughing violently. By the seven. The sack of Bitterbridge had gone on for at least another hour, while Hobert sat atop his palfrey on the other side of the Mander and watched. The smoke had begun to rise in such massive and billowing inky plumes that the sun in the early afternoon sky had been blotted out, leaving the world painted in a dim ashen pall.

When a messenger from Lord Ormund had finally arrived requesting Hobert's presence in the town, much of the flames crackling throughout Bitterbridge had begun to die down, mostly because there were hardly any structures left standing throughout the town to provide kindling. As he had begun to ride off in the direction of the stone bridge spanning the Mander, Hobert had spared a short glance in the direction of the three prisoners in the caged wagon. The Bastard of Bitterbridge had been on his knees, clutching the iron bars of the cage he was trapped in while he watched his home burn. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, giving him the look of a corpse. Ser Alan Beesbury refused to look at Hobert, and Lord Alan Tarly spit through the bars of the cage at him as he rode by.

It had taken him some time for him to coax his horse beyond the edge of the bridge into the town itself, for his mount had recoiled at the heavy scents of smoke and blood wafting through the air. Hobert had found his cousins in the smoldering ruins of what had been Bitterbridge's town square. Ser Bryndon was cleaning several blood stains off of his longaxe, and Lord Ormund was conferring with several of his knights. He turned to regard Hobert as he approached on his palfrey. "Cousin Hobert," he began, "I trust that our prisoners are now well-enough subdued after seeing the fate of this traitorous town?"

Hobert reined in his horse in front of his cousin as he responded. "They were, cousin Ormund. None spoke even a word as I rode past them to join you in the town." Both cousin Ormund and cousin Bryndon had climbed atop their own mounts as Hobert spoke.

Bryndon smiled viciously. "Mayhaps they'll keep their mouths shut from now on, now that they've seen what fate awaits those who betray the rightful king." Hobert nodded at his cousin's words, hoping that they were true. However, he felt that they would not be so lucky as to be spared Ser Alan Beesbury and Lord Alan Tarly's vehement denunciations of all in his cousin's army as 'faithless traitors to the realm'.

Above the smoky gloom that covered the ruins of the town of Bitterbridge, the castle and seat of House Caswell stood unharmed and silent. Lord Ormund rode in its direction, accompanied by Ser Bryndon, several other Lords and landed knights, and household knights. Hobert joined, riding alongside his cousins. Prince Daeron remained in the sky, wheeling above the castle atop Tessarion. As they approached the raised main portcullis of the castle, Hobert could make out the form of a person standing atop the crenellations of the gatehouse. Reining up below the gatehouse, Hobert saw that it was Lady Melissa Caswell herself standing at its top, looking down at the large force of knights arrayed before her gates. Hobert's eyes widened when he saw the hempen rope tied around her neck as a noose.

Lady Caswell's cheeks were puffy from recently-shed tears, and when she called out to Hobert and the other men of Lord Ormund's army before her, her voice was hoarse and ragged. "Have mercy on my children, Lord," she cried out, and then threw herself from the top of the gatehouse.

Hobert quickly looked down, cringing as he heard the sharp snap of the rope pulling taut. "Mother's mercy!" he exclaimed, horrified. Risking a glance upwards, Hobert caught a brief glimpse of Lady Caswell's boots twitching violently in the air high above the ground. He did not look further up, but rather back down towards the ground.

Glancing to the side, he saw cousin Ormund looking up at the corpse of Lady Caswell dangling above the castle gate with a frown. Turning to the knights and men-at-arms assembled around him, he began to give his orders. "Put the castle garrison to the sword, but spare Lady Caswell's children. Have them brought to me." His men rode forward through the castle gate to carry out their Lord's orders.

Hobert sat in silence atop his horse as knights and men-at-arms rode past him to further whet their swords with blood. He grimaced as the swaying rope above him creaked loudly, but refused to look up and regard the body of Lady Caswell. They were traitors, all of them, he thought, and we're the King's Men, meting out the King's justice. Hobert wished that those thoughts gave him more comfort. Around him, the wind blew, swirling the ashes of the town of Bitterbridge about him and his palfrey. The rope creaked.

Chapter Text

Maegor IV

Maegor woke in a cold sweat. The nightmare had come yet again to plague his dreams. He had started having it not long after arriving in King's Landing, but its occurrence had been infrequent enough that he could mostly ignore it. Now it comes every night. Sleep seemed to offer him solace no longer, for each night he feared closing his eyes and dreaming again. Unlike many of his other dreams, Maegor had no trouble recalling the details of this particular nightmare. Though he had spent much time trying to understand and parse some meaning from it, he had yet to make any sense of the dream.

The scent of smoke was acrid in his nose and throat, and his eyes watered and ran with tears as he staggered through the billowing fumes. Flames roared all about him, and he could feel their blistering heat as he searched desperately for an escape from the choking cloud of smoke. As he continued to stagger forward, Maegor began to see the corpses. Whole mountains of them, their eyes glassy and wide and mouths gaped in terror. The flames consumed them all, burning bright and hot. Their skin blackened and shriveled in the heat, eventually sloughing off to reveal naught but charred bones. And still, the flames burned ever hotter. The bones themselves were consumed by the flame, cracking in the extreme heat and turning to ash.

The flames began to crackle about Maegor, and to his terror, he began to burn as well. The sensation of the flames consuming his body began as an unpleasant tingling sensation, but rapidly became more and more painful. Writhing and twisting, Maegor staggered blindly forward as the pain grew worse and worse. Breaking free of the clouds of smoke, Maegor found himself standing in a wide field before the burned husk of what appeared to be a town in the distance. Its buildings were naught but charred stone, burned timber, and ash, and from their midst flew a black dragon, flying straight towards Maegor. Though its scales were black as night, when it opened its maw and let loose with a billowing jet of flame, the flames rushed forth green.

Maegor threw up his burning and blistered hands in a desperate and futile attempt to shield himself, and when he lowered them, he found himself standing a short distance before the Queen on flat and rocky soil. She stood alone, and Maegor was struck by the sudden sea-salt breeze blowing in the air. The world around them was cloaked in shadow, and great grey clouds hung listlessly in the sky. Maegor opened his mouth to call out to her, yet naught but ash tumbled forth from his lips. Queen Rhaenyra had a defeated and resigned expression on her face, and she looked to the sky. A bright and terrible golden sun revealed itself from where it had been hidden among the clouds, and its scorching golden light burned Queen Rhaenyra to ash. Looking upon it, Maegor fell to his knees, once again desperately raising his arms to shield himself from the painful light and heat. He was horrified to see that naught remained of his arms and hands but charred bones.

It was then that Maegor would awake from the nightmare every time, drenched in sweat as his chest heaved with panicked breaths. What did it all mean? Maegor wasn't sure, but he was certain that he was having no ordinary dreams. As far as I know, nobody has the exact same nightmare every time they close their eyes. He rose from his cot, and crossed his small quarters to a chipped stone wash basin. Taking a tarnished pewter jug full of cool water, he poured its contents into the basin.

Dipping his hands into it, he splashed his face with the cool water. Maegor enjoyed how its rivulets ran down his face and chest, refreshing him and washing away the sweat that he'd awoken with. He tried thinking through the dream bit by bit, as he had done many times before. He was certain that he'd never seen the town that had appeared as a burned ruin in his dream, but that realization did nothing to help him understand why it had appeared in his nightmare in the first place.

What bothered Maegor more, however, was the dragon that had almost surely burned the town in his dream. Jet-black scales, yet green flames. Maegor knew of only one dragon that exactly matched that coloration. Gaemon's dragon, the Cannibal. Maegor had no idea of how to even begin trying to understand the part of his dream that had pertained to Queen Rhaenyra. A golden sun burning her? What does that mean? It was all so confusing.

When he had dreamed of the Grey Ghost as a boy, the visions of the vent on the Dragonmont where it roosted and the dragon's own appearance had been exactly as Maegor had remembered them when he later visited them in person. He had later realized after the fight over the Gullet that his dream about the three dancing women and the dragon in the sea of pitch had been about that very battle. As well, he had also experienced both of those dreams multiple times, with them always happening in the exact same way with no variations or changes. Do they inform and warn me of the future? Or am I slowly going mad?

It seemed to him that at least some parts of his dreams were more metaphorical than exact, but they were frustratingly vague in their meaning. Was the dragon in the sea of pitch the Prince Jacaerys, the Prince Viserys, or both? Gritting his teeth, Maegor sank to his knees, resting his forehead against the washbasin's cool stone. If my previous dreams have shown me the future in at least a partially truthful way, then what horrors are we destined for based on these nightmares I've been having?

Maegor balled his fist and pounded it against the stone floor of his quarters. The dream makes little and less sense, and I'm so tired that I can barely focus on trying to understand it. He wished more than anything that he could sleep again in peace, without having to fear what horrors his slumber would bring. I'm just so tired. As exhaustion tried to force his eyes closed, Maegor shook his head and staggered to his feet, before dunking his head into the basin again. Opening the door of his chambers, he peered into the hallway beyond. The torches were burning, and the corridor was devoid of activity.

Closing his door, Maegor sat at the edge of his cot, cradling his head in his hands. It's as I thought. The dawn is a long way off still. He barely caught himself before slipping into an exhausted slumber, still slumped forward with his head in his hands. Maegor couldn't decide whether he felt more like raging or weeping in frustration. I can't sleep because of the nightmare, but I'm so tired when I'm awake that I can barely keep myself from nodding off into sleep. Maegor wished that he had something to read or someone to talk to in order to help him stay awake. Sitting up in his cot with his bare back leaned against the cool stone of the wall behind him, Maegor sat and silently waited for dawn.

When the new day finally came, Maegor wasted no time in starting his morning. Washing himself with fresh water brought in by a servant, Maegor then dressed and was helped into his armor. The seeds' presence in court that day had been requested by the Queen, for she wished to officially accept the fealty and swords of multiple parties that had arrived in the city throughout the past week.

The first group to arrive had been around one thousand men by ship from the Vale, sent by Lady Jeyne Arryn. Maegor had seen the army's triumphant entry into the city, with their proud knights in shining armor atop majestic warhorses, followed by grizzled men-at-arms and archers. I would've expected the Lady of the Vale to send more men to support the Queen's cause than that, Maegor had thought, but he hadn't stated those thoughts aloud. Some swords would make a greater difference than none, and with the Hightower army drawing ever closer, it was important that the Queen have as many troops as possible to fight on the ground in battle to support her dragonriders in the sky.

Later that same week, ships had arrived from White Harbor in the North, carrying several hundred knights and men-at-arms sworn to House Manderly, led by both of Lord Manderly's sons, Ser Medrick and Ser Torrhen. Maegor had been amused when he saw that many of the men-at-arms from house Manderly carried tridents instead of spears. I suppose they kill a man just as well as a spear, Maegor had mused.

Departing from the Dragonpit on his gelding, Maegor began riding towards the Red Keep, a route that he had taken so often that he was confident he could traverse with his eyes closed. It would be best that I don't, Maegor thought, for in my current state I'd likely fall asleep atop my horse. As he rode across the city, he lifted his helmet's visor, enjoying the warmth of the rising sun on his face, and the faint cool sea breeze. Atop the Hill of Rhaenys or Aegon's High Hill, one could smell the salt of the sea, but as soon as they descended down from either hill, such smells were replaced with far less savory ones.

Maegor had thought the refuse pile at the edge of his village on Dragonstone smelled strongly, but he had quickly realized that cities reeked as badly as a thousand refuse piles. It only gets worse the further you ride down any of the city's three hills. However, Maegor could guess at why. The city's poorest denizens scrabble out an existence at its lowest depths, and they can't spare the coin to have people clean some of the refuse from their streets. The rains weren't on the side of the poor either. Every time a storm came through King's Landing, much of the shit and other filth in the gutters was washed down the city's three hills, accumulating in the lowest wynds and alleys of the city.

As he reached the southern base of the Hill of Rhaenys, Maegor found himself in Flea Bottom. While many nobles and knights avoided this part of the city as though every person that lived there was infested with some sort of plague, Maegor found the grungy community fascinating. It was a dangerous place to be sure, but Maegor also found that he admired the tenacity of King's Landing's poorest denizens. They had little and less, but still they went about their lives with vigor, determined to scrape out their own little sliver of the world to call their own.

Maegor had made several trips out from the Dragonpit in his roughspun attire, and he had found that Flea Bottom was the most interesting place to simply walk about and observe. He always had a sharp eye on his coin purse, and a dagger ready to defend himself. Regardless, Maegor still found himself more at home amongst the grimy, shouting crowds of Flea Bottom than the perfumed, courtly residents of the Red Keep. They give me lands and titles, but in my heart I've always been Maegor, the fisherman's boy.

His journey eventually brought him to the top of Aegon's High Hill, and the raised large bronze portcullis that was the main gate of the Red Keep. Upon seeing his face, the knight presiding over the Gold Cloaks defending the gate waved Maegor through, and he rode into the yard beyond. Maegor dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a stableboy, before entering the Red Keep itself.

Maegor had some time before the ceremony that he was expected to attend, so he found himself walking in the direction of the training yard, rather than the Great Hall. Upon arriving, he was not surprised to see men already sparring, riding at rings, and firing arrows at targets. Maegor removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm, leaning against an alcove and watching people train. Though he was tempted to join them, he did not want to dirty his armor before the ceremony he was to attend. It would not do for me to stand at attention near the foot of the Iron Throne covered in dust and dirt. The Queen's Lords and highborn knights are always looking for ways to say I'm still a bumbling peasant, despite my elevation in status.

Ulf White and Hugh Hammer were already the subject of rumor and controversy, and Maegor by no means wished to join them. After the feast celebrating Prince Joffrey Velaryon's investiture as the Prince of Dragonstone, both seeds had ridden out from the Keep into the city to continue their revelry. By the night's end, Ulf had ridden through Flea Bottom in naught but his golden spurs, and Hugh had beat one of the Queen's own knights to death during a dispute over a maiden on the Street of Silk. It's behavior like that which makes the Queen wary of giving us larger rewards, Maegor thought in annoyance.

At the sound of footsteps, Maegor turned to regard the man approaching him. Gyles Yronwood grinned at Maegor, inclining his head at him. "Though I'm used to having the ladies of the court watching us train, I must say I was not expecting you to join them today, Ser."

Maegor smiled back at the Dornish knight. "An audience is an audience, Ser. Shall I offer you my favor and swoon when you win a sparring match?" He fluttered his eyelashes in an over-exaggerated fashion.

Gyles laughed aloud. "Good gods. That won't be necessary, I should think." He nodded in the direction of the hallways leading away from the training yard. "Are you attending the ceremony today? I can only assume that the Queen would expect your presence."

Maegor nodded. "I will be. That is why I've not joined in the sparring. What about you, Ser Yronwood? I trust you've not tired of all the pageantry just yet?" Gyles was dressed in his armor built in the Dornish style, along with a fine silk doublet bearing the sigil of his house.

Gyles nodded. "I will be. As a knight in the Queen's retinue, I wish for her to look out into the crowd and see me standing there as often as possible. I owe her my fealty, but it couldn't hurt to remind her of my continued loyalty." He gave Maegor a sardonic grin. "Many in her court were none too happy that she accepted a Dornishman into her service, and would jump at any opportunity to see my head struck off." Hefting his goldenheart recurved bow, he nodded in the direction of the targets. "I too wish to not dirty myself before the ceremony. That's why I've been using this morn as a chance to brush up on my skills with the bow. You should join me." Before Maegor could respond, Gyles had already turned and began walking towards the targets.

Maegor smiled. It appears that his request is non-negotiable. He followed the Dornishman over to the archery range. Nocking an arrow, Gyles drew the string of his bow back and fired in what seemed to Maegor as one fluid motion. The arrow slammed into the dead center of the target, quivering slightly. Firing several more shots in quick succession, Ser Gyles made a ring of arrows around the first. Amazed, Maegor began to clap. With a grin, the Dornish knight gave Maegor a flourishing bow.

"Amazing, Ser!" Maegor began, "I've never seen such skill! You make it look so effortless." Looking at the placement of the arrows on the target, Maegor shook his head in amazement.

Gyles smiled. "I promise you, Ser Maegor, it is anything but effortless. I've trained a long time to fire with such precision." He stroked his bow lovingly. "This bow also helps. There is no finer material to make a bow than goldenheart wood. It cost my father a small fortune." Gyles frowned sadly after mentioning his father, but Maegor did not press for further details. I may have more in common with this man than I thought.

Shaking his head, he turned to Maegor. Gyles pointed at an empty target, with a longbow and quiver of arrows leaned against it. "Would you like to try, Ser Maegor? I can give you some advice, free of charge." Gyles grinned.

Maegor thought for a moment. "I'm not so sure, Ser. I've never fired a bow in my life before. As well, I haven't been sleeping well, so I'm not sure if I'd make a very good student in my current state."

Gyles looked more closely at Maegor's face, and his grin was replaced with a look of mild concern as he regarded the large dark bags that Maegor knew sat beneath his eyes. "You're telling no lie, that is for certain. I hadn't noticed before you mentioned it. Mayhaps you could speak to the Grand Maester about a draught to help you sleep?"

Maegor smiled sadly. If only going to sleep was my largest concern. It is what awaits me in my dreams that frightens me. "I appreciate your concern, Ser Gyles, but I am optimistic that these difficulties will pass in time. Besides, I believe that the ceremony's beginning is not far off now. I think I will make my way to the Great Hall now."

Gyles nodded at Maegor, and began making his way out of the yard. To return his bow to his quarters, I presume. Maegor turned and left the yard as well, re-entering the hallways of the Keep and beginning his journey to the Great Hall.

Standing at his place amongst the other seeds to the right of the foot of the Iron Throne, Maegor couldn't help but remember the rumors of the night that the remains of Prince Maelor were returned to the Queen. Maegor had not been there when it happened, but he had heard that when the riders presented the little Prince's head to the Queen, she had wept before ordering it burned. The usurper Aegon was undoubtedly a traitor and enemy to the Queen's realm, but his children? First the Prince Jaehaerys, and now the Prince Maelor. One had been murdered before his mother's eyes, while the other had died at the hands of a crowd seeking to collect a bounty from the Queen. Why must the children suffer for the sins of the father? The usurper Aegon was still at large. What fairness is there in the possibility that he still lives, while his two innocent sons suffered and died? Such were thoughts that Maegor did his best not to dwell on.

The Great Hall was bustling with observers, and the Queen sat atop the Iron Throne, with her consort Prince Daemon and her heir Prince Joffrey sitting on lower steps. The ceremony began with much pomp and circumstance, as the Manderly brothers approached the Iron Throne first, kneeling before the Queen and renewing their oaths of fealty and loyalty to her. Maegor supposed that they had been given pride of place because they were soon to be good-kin to the Queen through the marriage of their youngest sister to Prince Joffrey. Ser Medrick had the look of a strong and skilled knight, while it seemed that Ser Torrhen had a greater appetite for food than training in the yard.

When it was the turn of the leaders of the force of Valemen to present themselves to the Queen, several knights approached the Iron Throne and knelt, swearing their swords and fealty to the Queen. All bore different sigils on their surcoats. It appears that command of this force is split between men of several of the Vale's leading houses. Maegor was surprised that none bore the moon and falcon of House Arryn. It seems that none of Lady Jeyne's close kin sailed with this army.

The knight of greatest note was Ser Willam Royce, the youthful grandson and heir of Lord Gunthor Royce of Runestone. He was tall and handsome, with curly auburn hair and grey eyes. When he drew his sword as part of his oath to the Queen, Maegor saw that it was Valyrian Steel. Ser Willam easily lives up to all the vaunted tales of chivalrous knights from the Vale of Arryn. Maegor grinned. Ser Gyles will have some competition for the attention of the ladies of the court. As the Queen graciously accepted the support of the men from the Vale to her cause, Maegor took note of how Ser Willam seemed to glare at Prince-consort Daemon. What quarrel do the Royces of Runestone have with the Rogue Prince?

The ceremony came to an end not long after, and many began making their way out of the Great Hall. Ulf and Hugh had already begun making their way to the Great Hall's massive doors, and Maegor took note of the disdainful glances that each seed received from the Lords, knights, and other courtiers throughout the hall. They've both given all the highborn a reason to whisper behind their backs after their follies following the feast for Prince Joffrey. Maegor would not mourn the loss of whatever status the two men had garnered since taming dragons for the Queen's cause. Ser Hugh has always seemed a very cruel man, and Ser Ulf… that sot's downfall has been a long time coming. Maegor forced himself to stop glaring at the drunken seed's back and look elsewhere.

Looking in the direction of the Iron Throne, Maegor saw Gaemon still standing in its shadow. The Lady Baela walked past him, trailing her father, but Maegor did not miss the way she mischievously smiled at Gaemon as she passed. With his helmet's visor up, Maegor could see that Gaemon returned the Lady Baela's smile. What was that about, Gaemon? Maegor wasn't sure he liked the implications of what he had just seen.

Looking at his friend, Maegor was reminded again of his nightmare. Does the Cannibal have something to do with the burned town that I saw in my dream? The dragon in my dream had black scales and blew green flames. Maegor knew that Gaemon's dragon was as wild and cruel a dragon as any currently living, and he also remembered how Gaemon had struggled to bend the creature to his will in their time at Dragonstone. Will his dragon reject him and go rogue, wreaking havoc? Or will it cause such carnage under the control of its rider? Maegor forced himself to stop thinking in such a way. If Gaemon were to prove false and cause such great destruction with his dragon… I don't know what I'd do. Gaemon saw Maegor looking in his direction, and nodded at him with a grin. Please, let my suspicions be nothing more than paranoid speculation, Maegor thought, Gaemon is all I have left. His friend had always been as close as a brother to him, and with the deaths of Maegor's father and brothers, Gaemon was the only brother remaining to him.

Maegor was unable to bring himself to return his friend's smile, and began to walk from the Great Hall. Am I going mad? I suspect my closest friend of possible treason based on a nightmare? But the other dreams involving dragons and flame he'd had before had proved true, or at least in some way mirrored the truth. Maegor was torn between feeling extreme shame over suspecting his friend of treachery, and fear over what form the future might take based on his nightmare. Gaemon was the only person he trusted enough to talk about his dreams with, but Maegor was unable in this case to talk with even him about it. He felt as though the nightmare was inescapable, seizing his mind whenever he slept, and haunting his waking thoughts. I just need to think it through more clearly. But in his sleep-deprived state, clarity of thought was a luxury that he didn't have.

The city of King's Landing was in a festive state since word of a great victory had begun to flow into the city from the southern Riverlands. Ser Criston Cole, the traitorous Lord Commander of the usurper Aegon's Kingsguard and his Hand of the King, had marched his army into an ambush that was set by the same men who had annihilated the army of the Westerlands. It was a quick and bloody affair, and as devastating as the battle along the God's Eye had been. Ser Criston was killed, his army butchered, and its few survivors scattered to the wind. The Queen's fool Mushroom had gleefully called the slaughter the "Butcher's Ball", and the name had spread quickly, soon on the lips of every person in the city of King's Landing.

Such news is most auspicious, Maegor thought. Not long before the news of the Butcher's Ball had arrived, word of the brutal sack of Bitterbridge had reached King's Landing. Maegor had been appalled when he heard of the actions of the Hightower army; how they had burned, stabbed, and drowned the populace of the town, while driving its Lady to commit suicide and taking her children prisoner. An army of animals, Maegor had thought, enraged. He had initially heard whispers about whether the Queen should consider treating with the army before they continued on their brutal path northeast. Let myself and the Grey Ghost treat with them, Maegor had thought, and I'll send them all screaming and burning to the Seventh Hell.

However, the news of the Butcher's Ball had come not long after, bringing a much-needed sense of relief to the city. There were still nay-sayers who feared the Hightower army and Lord Borros Baratheon to the south, but with the end of Criston Cole and his men, there were no longer looming threats to the north of the city of King's Landing. All the same, Maegor hoped that the Queen would soon allow her dragonriders a more active role in the war. It is long past time that we brought all this bloodshed and suffering to an end.

Though he grieved for the people of Bitterbridge, Maegor had hoped against hope that its sack explained his nightmare. However, he feared that it was not the truth. The sack of Bitterbridge does not in any way explain the black dragon. Maegor still understood little and less about the part of the dream involving Queen Rhaenyra and the sun that burned her. Is Dorne going to invade? Maegor knew that the Martell family's sigil bore a sun. Mayhaps they mean to take advantage of the chaos and disorganization caused by the war to attack the realm? Maegor had no answers, and their lack had begun to deeply bother him. We seem to be on the precipice of something truly awful, yet I feel completely powerless to understand and prevent it.

He still suffered from a lack of sleep, yet Maegor forced himself to do so nonetheless. The nightmare came every time he closed his eyes, but Maegor was resigned to it. If I must needs suffer through it to have enough rest to try to understand it when I'm awake, then it is a burden I will bear. However, Maegor had also begun to realize the importance of finding ways in which to forget about the nightmare for a time. If all I did was sit and think about my dreams, then I would truly go mad. He had found that alcohol helped, but Maegor did not wish to end up a sot like Ulf. If I spend my time drinking away the dreams, I will only replace one problem with another.

Maegor had tried to find other ways in which to occupy his mind with other thoughts, and the mummer's show had provided him with a perfect opportunity. From what he had learned, the troupe of mummers were Westerosi, and specialized in tragedies based off of the tales and legends of Westeros. They had only recently arrived in King's Landing, and Maegor had missed their opening night, when they regaled the enthusiastic denizens of Flea Bottom with their own version of the tale of Florian the Fool and Jonquil.

As he stood amongst a packed crowd wearing his roughspun clothing, Maegor waited for them to perform the tale of Galladon of Morne. The place of their performance was a large and grubby winesink in the depths of Flea Bottom, and entry had cost a copper. The people around Maegor jostled and cursed as they tried to secure an ideal means of viewing the grimy stage in the light of the greasy tallow candles burning throughout the winesink's interior. Maegor allowed himself a small smile. My size can be bothersome at times, but I won't deny that it is helpful in situations such as these. Though he stood near the back of the crowd, Maegor had no problem seeing the stage because he stood taller than nearly everyone in the room.

"Watch it, ya little shit!" a voice spat, and Maegor turned in time to see a small boy in patched and dirt-stained clothes receive a clout on the ear from a man that he tried to squeeze past, falling on his arse. The boy stuck out his tongue in defiance as he scrambled back to his feet, and began hopping from foot to foot in a vain attempt to glimpse the stage.

With an amused smile, Maegor beckoned at the boy, and the small lad approached him slowly, a wary expression across his gaunt face. Taking a knee, Maegor pointed at his shoulders. "Hop aboard, lad. Unless you're a frog in disguise, I don't think jumping about will help you see the stage any better."

The boy considered for a moment, before his face split into a wide, crooked grin. "Thankee, master!" he said, and Maegor allowed the boy to climb onto his shoulders before standing back up.

"Seven Hells!" the boy yelped, "do ya drink tree sap?" Maegor turned his head to give him an inquisitive and altogether confused look. Grinning down at him from his perch atop Maegor's shoulders, the boy continued: "my ma used to say that little boys who drank tree sap grew as tall as trees!" With a small pout, the boy then crossed his arms. "We don't got any trees down in Flea Bottom, though."

Maegor snorted, and then began to laugh. How good it feels to just laugh. Smiling back at the boy, Maegor responded. "No tree sap, I'm afraid. But I did eat a lot of fish. Mayhaps that helps." The boy nodded his head gravely, as though Maegor had imparted upon him a great secret. It was then that a mummer ran onto the stage and blew a tarnished horn, catching the attention of all the assembled spectators. And so the show begins, Maegor thought.

What followed was an entertaining tale of honor, love, lust, betrayal, and just about everything in between. Ser Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight, was the younger brother of the Petty King of Morne, a seat on the eastern half of the isle of Tarth. His valor was so great that the Maiden herself fell in love with him and granted him an enchanted sword, the Just Maid. Ser Galladon used the sword but thrice in his adventures, once to kill a kraken, once to kill an evil King of Giants, and once to slay a dragon.

Though he returned home to Morne a hero, Ser Galladon's goodsister and the Queen of Morne, Morgana, lusted after him, and when spurned plotted her revenge with foul sorceries. She used her sorcery to force her husband and Galladon's older brother, the King of Morne, to challenge Ser Galladon to a duel to the death. Ser Galladon, the most puissant and honorable knight that he was, refused to raise a sword against his own brother in the duel, and was slain. His brother then woke from the evil Morgana's spell, and seeing that he had killed his brother and had become a kinslayer, fell upon his sword. Thus was the fall of the House of Morne. In her grief, the Maiden cursed Morgana to forever haunt the castle ruins as a ghost, never to find peace in the afterlife.

After he had let down the boy from his shoulders, Maegor left the winesink and began to ascend the Hill of Rhaenys, back towards the Dragonpit. He had thoroughly enjoyed the mummers' show, and Maegor wondered how much of the tale was rooted in any sort of truth. Maegor knew that the eastern side of Tarth was abandoned, for he remembered hearing tales from his father about the day that he learned that Prince Aemon of Dragonstone had died fighting Myrish pirates on Tarth. I wonder if the ruins of the seat of the Petty Kings of Morne still stand, Maegor mused.

As he continued on his ascent up the southern side of the Hill of Rhaenys, Maegor reconsidered his nightmare. My dreams of dragons and fire are in some ways like a mummer's show, Maegor thought, for they are full of metaphors and symbolism, and I will not understand the true meaning of it all until after something important has happened. The thought did not assuage Maegor's dread, however. If my nightmare is akin to a mummer's rendition of the future, I fear that the finale will please none but the Stranger.

Chapter Text

Gaemon VI

Glancing at the sky, Gaemon didn't see any signs of snow. The day had been gray and rainy to be sure, but so far the weather had not seen fit to corroborate the Citadel's decree that winter had arrived. It seems fitting that this war would mark the beginning of a long and brutal winter. The more superstitious would probably choose to attribute the onset of winter to the displeasure of the Gods. He wasn't sure what he believed, but he was certain the Gods had little interest in whoever sat the Iron Throne. Perhaps this entire war has simply been a source of cosmic entertainment to them.

It certainly seemed at times as though the war was taking place on some sort of divine cyvasse board. News continued to arrive daily, tied to the feet of ravens. The Red Kraken's forces had taken Fair Isle, and it seemed as though the Ironborn had the Lannisters on the back foot. That likely has much and more to do with the forces of the Rock rotting in the Riverlands. Regrettably, however, dark wings also brought dark words, as the saying went. For every success, there was a setback. The most recent of which had been the loss of Bitterbridge. Gaemon's fist clenched. Bitterbridge wasn't lost. It was wiped off of the map. When word had first arrived, the court had been shocked at the brutality of the sack. The Caswells had assured the Queen that they had had nothing to do with her nephew's unfortunate demise. That had mattered little and less to the Hightowers, however. Reports arrived daily from Tumbleton, detailing the vast streams of refugees that arrived daily, begging to be allowed inside the town's walls.

As if the situation in the Reach was not bad enough, the situation in the Riverlands continued to be infuriating. Prince Aemond continued to burn village after village, punishing Lords and smallfolk alike for their 'treasonous allegiance'. It was infuriating. I care not how large Vhagar has grown. If Aemond were to be hunted down and forced to face the likes of Caraxes, the Cannibal, Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost, Vhagar would be ripped to shreds. Instead of action, however, they had been told to remain at their posts. Reports arrived almost daily of Aemond's depredations, each Lord beseeching the Queen to lend her dragons in their defense.

While his time in King's Landing had been by no means unenjoyable, this ceaseless waiting was maddening. He wasn't even certain what the Queen was waiting for. Forces had arrived from the Vale and the North, and word had come that Cregan Stark had begun his march from Winterfell, having taken the last several months to assemble a savage host of Northmen outside his gates. As Winter fell across the continent, its sons prepared to make their wrath known. The war may finally be drawing to a close, he thought to himself. The war should have already BEEN over, rose a voice, unbidden.

As he wrestled with these thoughts, he rode under the Red Keep's massive portcullis alongside the other seeds. Dismounting at the stables, he handed the reins to one of the many stable boys in attendance, before turning to face the others. Each of them presented quite the formidable sight in their black plate, with their winged helms concealing their features. Only their physical shapes betrayed who lurked beneath each suit. Ulf's pale hair stuck out from beneath his helm, flowing over the black gorget, while Hugh's unmistakable barrel chest heaved heavily as he dismounted. Maegor was noticeable based on his height alone, standing a few inches taller than both Hugh and Gaemon. Even Nettles looked imposing in her black mail, almost appearing as though she were a Child of the Forest ready to do battle. The moment she saw his eyes on her, however, she ruined the image by performing one of the worst imitations of a curtsey he'd ever seen. Afterwards, she gave him one of her characteristic gap-toothed grins, as if to say: bask in my feminine charms, peasant.

Chuckling from beneath his helm, he heard someone clear his throat behind them, evidently to get their attention. Turning, he found himself face to face with Ser Rayford Lothston.

"The Queen awaits your presence, dragonseeds. If you'll follow me?" Despite phrasing his words as a question, Lothston took no time to wait for a response. Walking briskly across the courtyard, he led them towards the Great Hall, whose great doors were opened for them to allow them to enter.

Upon entering, Gaemon was immediately able to ascertain that today's audience would be one of note. The great bronze braziers burned brightly, and many Lords and Ladies of note stood in attendance along the sides of the hall. Gaemon recognized many faces as he passed, taking note of Ser Willam Royce and the Manderly brothers near the front of the crowd. The heat within the hall had already evidently proved to be of great discomfort to Ser Torrhen, who was dabbing constantly at his reddening forehead with a kerchief. At the foot of the throne on the left stood the Seasnake, along with his grandson Addam, both bedecked in their Velaryon silver and sea greens. On the right stood Prince Joffrey, Prince Daemon, Lady Baela, and Princes Aegon and Viserys, all in black and blood-red silks. And crowning the whole assembly, staring imperiously down from the Iron Throne itself, sat Queen Rhaenyra, her silver-gold hair tied in a long braid.

It was only after he had surveyed the hall that he realized a man was kneeling at the base of the Iron Throne. Given his appearance, Gaemon thought he might be a hedge knight, or some kind of free-rider, as he was outfitted mostly in uncolored boiled leathers, with only a dented breastplate and pot helm in the way of true armor. As the seeds took their places to the right side of the throne, Rhaenyra began to speak.

"Now that my fine riders have arrived, I beseech you to once more share your words, good man. Rise, and share your words with those assembled."

Rising, the man glanced about the court, before he returned his gaze to his feet.

"My Queen, I have come bringing word from Tumbleton. The Hightower host grows nearer by the day, and we fear that they will bring the Blue Queen to bear against the walls." Pausing, he removed his helm, running his hand through his thick brown hair. "I have served your grace since the beginning of this war. I've been fighting for your rights since the Battle of the Red Fork. Many of the men at Tumbleton 'ave been as well. We fear no men, your Grace, but we fear dragons. Prithee, send us lot some of your dragons. With such beasts at our back, we'll turn the traitors aside, you have my word."

Murmurs resounded throughout the hall. Gaemon gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and when he cast a glance at Baela, he saw that her knuckles were white from gripping her hands together so tightly. Grinning beneath his helm, he was pleased to see she felt the same. It should come as no surprise, he thought, for we are both the Blood of the Dragon. The Queen had pursed her lips as the petitioner had spoken, tapping her nails on the blade she was resting her arm upon. Finally, she began to speak.

"Might I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, good ser?"

The man looked up, before remembering himself and returning his gaze to the floor. "The pleasure is all mine, your Grace, I assure you. I am called Tristifer of Oldstones."

The Queen offered him a thin smile. "Well, Tristifer of Oldstones, it seems you are well on your way towards fighting one hundred battles. Since you have been so true to my cause, I have no intention of letting you lose your one-hundredth, or any, for that matter. I will grant your request. It is time my enemies remembered that I too command dragons, and in far greater numbers than they."

Many throughout the court chuckled politely at the Queen's response to the petitioner, and Gaemon was fairly certain that it must have been rather witty. I wonder what that bit about the one hundred battles meant. He would have to ask Baela what she had been referencing later. For now, however, he was more interested in her decree. It sounds as though we may finally be sent to war, he thought, feeling the anticipation rise within him. The Queen's next words confirmed it.

"Kneel, my riders."

Barely able to contain his joy and excitement, Gaemon strode to the base of the throne and knelt, feeling the others kneel alongside him.

"In response to my subject's most ardent plea, I have decided to dispatch you once more to war. I have come to the conclusion that my traitorous brothers must all be given to the Stranger. With the Usurper in hiding, only two remain in the field." She studied them each for a moment, before continuing. "I hereby decree that Ser Ulf and Ser Hugh will be dispatched with their mounts to the city of Tumbleton. I charge you both with its defense, and furthermore, I beseech you to slay my treasonous youngest brother and to scatter the rabble that even now makes its way up the Roseroad." Her eyes fell on the remaining three seeds. "Ser Gaemon and Ser Maegor, I charge each of you with flying to Pinkmaiden, to reinforce Lord Piper and his men, and to begin a search for my kinslaying brother Aemond. In order to ensure both he and his dragon are destroyed, I hereby also charge the Lady Nettles and mine own Lord Husband, Prince Daemon, to fly to Maidenpool to assist in this hunt. Positioned so, the four of you ought to have little trouble cornering the little viper betwixt you. Once you've rid the realm of him, bring me his head."

Judging from the reactions of those standing at the base of the throne, this decree was not surprising. Perhaps the Queen has been preparing her response for longer than I realised. Prince Daemon was smiling wickedly, and turning to the Queen, performed a flourishing bow as he accepted her charge.

Slowly, Gaemon felt himself and the other seeds collectively rise. Almost in unison, their voices called out together in response. "As you will it, it shall be done, your Grace. Fire and Blood!"

The Cannibal stirred as soon as he entered its chamber, its scales rasping along the stone floor as it uncoiled. It gazed at him with an expression that almost looked akin to curiosity as he beckoned for others to enter the chamber, carrying the black chains and other apparatuses to affix the saddle upon its back. The work went quickly, as evidently the dragon had grown more accustomed to the presence of others. Compared to its earlier fits, it was largely content to simply allow the items to be placed, knowing it would be receiving a meal afterwards. Say what they may about its temperament, the beast has always been clever, he thought to himself as the work was completed. Several men followed the attendants in, bearing a freshly slaughtered ox for the dragon to eat. As it charred and consumed its meal, Gaemon heard the murmuring of voices and the whispering of dresses as a party entered the chamber. Turning, he found himself face to face with the Queen, her sons, and her attendants. Instinctively, he knelt.

"Rise, Ser Gaemon." As he rose, the Queen regarded him imperiously, her purple eyes considering him. "I have come to the Pit in order to see all of my riders off, and to give my final orders." Holding her hand behind her, a servant passed her a sealed letter, bearing the wax imprint of a three-headed dragon. "Present this missive to Lord Piper upon your arrival. Inside, I have asked him to treat both Ser Maegor and yourself with all the courtesy that would be expected of him were I myself present." She paused. "While you are away, you will still answer only to me. Lord Piper will be informed to accommodate your every need in order to bring the Kinslayer to justice as speedily as possible. I am loath to foist the burdens of command on one so inexperienced, but King's Landing simply could not do without my Syrax or the mounts of Prince Joffrey or Lady Baela."

Gaemon nodded. "I understand, your Grace. Neither I nor Maegor will let you down. You can count on us, as well as the Prince and Lady Nettles, to scour every corner of the Riverlands until the enemy has been flushed out and torn from the sky."

A thin, cruel smile appeared on the Queen's lips, as she appeared to be pondering the thought. "It will be a shame to lose Vhagar. The Emerald Terror is the last of the Conqueror's dragons. Her death will herald the end of an era." She sighed. "Perhaps that is for the best. Only a few years ago, many Lords grumbled about kneeling to a woman. Perhaps the old must die to usher in the new. With the death of my half-brother, we shall show them the futility of their resistance."

With those words, the Queen turned, striding out of the chamber, her posture perfect, looking every bit a Queen. An attendant performed a hasty bow in his direction before passing her sealed missive to him. As she left, Gaemon couldn't help but feel that her words would prove correct. We may indeed stand at a precipice. Only time would tell if taking the plunge would prove worthwhile. As he pondered what was to come, Baela passed by, following the Queen's entourage. She gave him the slightest of winks, and as she did, a piece of folded parchment slid from her sleeve, coming to rest at his feet. He watched the Queen's party exit the chamber, apparently none the wiser, before stooping to pick it up and tucking it away in his riding satchel. Best to read it later. Turning, he climbed atop the Cannibal, uncoiling his dragon whip. Below, attendants ran past either side of the dragon, stopping at either side of the great bronze and iron doors to the rear of the chamber. The hinges protested as the great doors were dragged open, revealing the city beneath them. With its chains undone, the dragon quickly crawled across the stone, smoke billowing from its maw in anticipation at its first taste of fresh air in a long while. Once it had cleared the walls, it began to heave its wings mightily, slowly clawing its way into the air.

Whilst the evening sky remained gray and cloudy, Gaemon could not help but revel in the beauty and majesty of the scene that played out. As he and the Cannibal raced into the air, they circled the Dragonpit, and below the doors of the structure were thrown open as other dragons soared outwards and upwards. Silverwing, gleaming in what little sunlight streamed from above, flew to join them, followed closely by the bronze Vermithor. Blood-red Caraxes was next, uttering an ear-splitting shriek to express its joy with its newfound freedom. Next came the Grey Ghost, covering the distance into the clouds much more quickly on account of its speed and smaller size. Lastly came the Sheepstealer, roaring its greetings from a mud brown maw. For a few moments, each rider allowed their dragons to bank and soar above the city with one another simply to enjoy the ecstasy of finally being able to fly again. The first to depart the circle were Ulf and Hugh, who guided their beasts to the southwest. Afterwards, Gaemon raised an armored arm to wave goodbye to Nettles, who waved a mailed fist back in return. Turning, he cracked his whip and urged his mount to begin its path following the Blackwater Rush, following the instructions he had been given earlier. We need only to follow the river until its headwaters, turning northwest at the town of Stoney Sept. Afterwards Pinkmaiden itself is but a short distance away.

As he enjoyed the simple joy of the winds buffeting him as he flew, he rummaged about his riding satchel, finding one of the biscuits he had stored away for the journey. Given that this was to be his longest flight yet, he commended himself for thinking to bring them. Opening his visor, he took a bite, relishing the taste of its buttery folds as he gazed at the fields and forests fly by beneath him. The wind whipped coldly about him, and he turned his gaze about him until he spotted the Grey Ghost a few hundred feet behind him, following as best it could despite being buffeted in the strong winds. I wonder if Maegor thought to bring a bite to eat, he thought with a smile. Finishing his snack, turned back in the saddle and settled into it, preparing for the long flight ahead.

It was well into the early hours of the morning when they finally passed Stoney Sept, torchlight from its inns and other buildings shining up from the otherwise black fields below. From there, they had taken their course northwest, following what must have been the foothills of the Westerlands. When they had passed over a rather wide river, he had realised that they must have missed their mark, so they doubled back and followed its currents southwest, assuming it to be the Red Fork. A short time later, Gaemon was pleased to see the outline of castle spires and turrets on the horizon. The sun was beginning to rise behind them as they made their gradual descent, and he was able to begin making out a few farming villages and hamlets nestled amongst the hills as they approached. Perched atop one of the largest hills for leagues around, the castle itself was moderately sized, but given its vantage point, clearly dominated the surrounding lands. Just a few leagues to the north the Red Fork continued on its lazy course towards the trident. As both dragons approached, the Sept's bells began to ring furiously at first, but after a few moments more rhythmically as the defenders evidently realized they were not under attack. Gaemon scowled beneath his visor. The sight of dragons in these parts has only meant terror for the people below for the better part of a year. He clutched the handle of his whip tightly. Maegor and I will have to rectify that.

As the Cannibal made its final descent, it let out a rumbling roar, which was echoed by the Grey Ghost. Circling the castle thrice in ever lower circles, he finally brought his dragon to rest outside its walls on the hill's gentle slopes. Maegor landed nearby, and both were in the process of undoing their saddle chains when the gates of the castle were thrown open, revealing an impromptu procession that made its way down the hill to greet them. Judging by the naked maiden dancing on his tabard, the group was led by Lord Piper, whose red hair fell in dense curls about his head. As the lord approached, Gaemon could see the beginnings of a wispy mustache growing about his upper lip. Behind the Lord came a Septon, a Maester, and several knights, along with the better part of the castle's garrison, which appeared to be composed mostly of older men and green boys, clutching their spears tightly.

As the party approached, Maegor took his place beside him, and began to speak quietly. "It appears that we've already missed most of the war, Gaemon. I can think of no greater sign of grievous losses than levies composed solely of the young and old."

He nodded slightly in response. "I thought the same. But we'd best not point it out to them. Mayhaps these boys lost fathers at the Red Fork, or at Acorn Hall. It'd be cruel to remind them. Besides, Lord Piper seems to be doing the best he can to give us as grand a reception as is possible given the circumstances."

A few moments later, the Lord and his procession had reached the two seeds. The young man bowed low before he began to speak: "Greetings, good Sers. We of House Piper are honored to once more be the hosts to dragonriders. Your arrival gladdens our hearts, as Vhagar has burned villages only a few leagues away. Mayhaps Aemond intended to strike us next."

With a wave of his hand, he beckoned the Septon forward. The older man brought forward a loaf of bread, fresh from the castle's kitchens, as well as a wooden bowl of salt. Gaemon and Maegor each tore a piece from the warm loaf, dipping it in the salt before consuming it. To do so, they each had to remove their helms, and Gaemon was sure he did not miss a quickly suppressed look of surprise flit across Lord Piper's features when they did so. He's probably shocked to see we look so alike. Was that what I looked like to Prince Jacaerys when he bid me to rise? He felt for the fallen Prince at that moment, wondering how many times he'd received looks that conveyed such subtle shock or disappointment.

Clearing his throat, he responded to the Lord. "We thank you for your hospitality, my Lord. We have every intention of rooting the Kinslayer out and bringing him to justice."

Stanton Piper smiled. "Before I show you about the castle, might we be introduced to your mounts? Pinkmaiden has not been host to such creatures since the progresses of the Old King."

Gaemon nodded. Turning, he walked a few paces back to the Cannibal, placing a gauntleted hand on its snout. It let loose a barely perceptible snort but otherwise offered nothing in the way of a protest.

"This is the Cannibal. Tis an ugly moniker, but sadly rather appropriate. He's a mean old bugger, and before I brought him to heel had a rather unfortunate habit of dining on younger dragons he could catch around Dragonstone."

Maegor had likewise reached the Grey Ghost, and gave it an endearing pat on a grey flank before speaking: "This is the Grey Ghost. He's a rather shy fellow, but I'm told no living dragon possesses his speed." Smiling absentmindedly, he continued. "I am told that a race between him and Princess Rhaenys' Meleys would have been a legendary affair."

Lord Piper and the assembled entourage behind him had adopted expressions of awe, and many approached as close as they dared. Gaemon hoped internally that the Cannibal would behave, as he desperately hoped to make a good impression. To his pleasure, the beast made no attempt to devour any of the garrison.

After a few moments of silent admiration, Lord Piper spoke up. "Thank you Sers. This has been a real treat. After your long flight, I am sure that you long to be rid of your armor, and to be able to change into something more comfortable. If you'll be so kind as to follow me."

With those words, he turned around and began to stroll back up the hillside. Gaemon followed, but not before turning to give the Cannibal one final look, as if to say: stay. It's only response was to exhale smoke and regard him with a glowing emerald eye. A few moments later, they had entered under the castle's portcullis into the courtyard, where smallfolk bustled about, fulfilling their morning duties. A smith was busy hammering out spearheads, and a boy chased a chicken about the yard. The garrison dispersed, taking positions about the courtyard and on the battlements, their eyes watching the gray morning skies. Lord Piper, flanked by both his Maester and Septon, pushed into the keep itself, and the remaining members of their party entered the keep's great hall. Pinkmaiden's main hall was a respectable size, probably capable of sitting around three hundred souls. Gaemon realized the Red Keep and Dragonstone had given him warped perceptions of what to expect from the average castle. At least I've not seen an iron spike or draconic gargoyle yet. Instead, Pinkmaiden's hall was filled with three rows of tables, with the Lord's table positioned at the back of the hall. Several hearths burned along its sides, and beautiful, if somewhat faded tapestries were hung from its walls, depicting maidens dancing through fields and forests.

Their path took them up one of Pinkmaiden's towers, into a spacious bedchamber. It too was lavishly decorated. Many pieces of furniture had been moved to the sides of the room to make space for two beds and trunks. Lord Piper turned to face them, his hands on his hips.

"I've made my own bedchamber available for your stay; I'll hear no protests. Once you've unpacked, rested, and changed, please join me below. It's not much, but I have arranged for a welcoming feast."

As he made to leave, Gaemon handed him the letter the Queen had sent along with him, saying: "My Lord, with the accommodations you have made, I hardly think this necessary, but the Queen asked I deliver this to you personally."

Lord Piper took it gracefully with a nod, before departing from the chambers. Two servants entered, helping both seeds out from their plate, and placing the pieces on stands in the chamber. Afterwards, they exited wordlessly, after offering polite bows.

Gaemon was going to ask Maegor how long they ought to stay, but when he turned, the other seed was already splayed out across his bed, clearly already asleep. Smirking, he reached into his satchel, retrieving the letter Baela had dropped. Once more, he silently thanked Maegor for all the instructions he'd given him to read. Those candlelit lessons at Malda's inn seemed to have been centuries past from where he sat now. Breaking the waxen seal, he opened the letter to reveal its message. As he did, a silver lock of hair fell from within to his lap.

Gaemon,

I trust this letter finds you well. As you read this, you've likely already reached Pinkmaiden. My sister would never let me hear the end of it if she knew I had written to anyone, let alone a knight. For the sake of my pride, let us keep this between the two of us.

Firstly, I want to wish you the best of luck. As you ride to war, know that you'll never be far from my thoughts. I desperately wish I could take my Moondancer along to help, but a certain Royal has forbade it. So bring Aemond to justice for the both of us.

Secondly, as I wrote this, it occurred to me this will be your first time exploring the further reaches of Westeros. Does the world seem a bit larger now? Sometimes it is easy to forget just how little most of the people of the Seven Kingdoms are able to travel. We, as dragonriders, have been given one of the greatest gifts in the known world, wouldn't you agree?

Thirdly, I have a request. By now you'll have noticed that I've included a lock of my hair. Whilst I had intended to cut it for convenience's sake anyways, it serves an additional purpose. If you have not realized it already, both you and the other seeds will be amongst the most desired matches in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps it is petty of me, but I don't wish to receive any ravens announcing a match between a certain seed and any Pipers. So I've enclosed a bit of a reminder, and an incentive, to remind you of what you've left behind.

Yours truly,

Baela 

P.S. If you do indeed choose another girl, I must remind you Moondancer is always hungry. Likewise, if I ever stray, I must ask that you consider allowing the Cannibal to make a meal of any such suitors.

A wry smile had spread across Gaemon's features as he read. He pulled the leather pouch around his neck from beneath his shirt, and tucked the lock into it. Although he regretted doing so, he let the letter fall from his grasp into the brazier that burned in the center of the room. As the parchment curled and was consumed, the flames danced. At that moment he realised just how heavy his eyes had become. He sat back on the bed, before falling backwards onto the pillow. Sleep took him quickly.

He was awoken some time later by shouting. He shot up, scanning the chamber. Across from him Maegor was writhing on his bed, holding his hands above his head as if to shield his face. Springing up, Gaemon raced across the room, grabbing Maegor's arms, trying to shake him awake. As he did so, he noticed just how dark the circles under his friend's eyes had become, and how exhausted he looked, even asleep. Eventually, his friend awoke, looking in a semi-panic about the chamber. To Gaemon's relief, he did not lash out, and regained a semblance of awareness quickly. Taking a few steps back to give him space, his friend sat up, shaking his head.

"For how long have your dreams tormented you, Maegor?" Gaemon asked, concerned. He knew the other seed had always had vivid dreams, but this seemed to be a new variety.

Maegor shrugged. "For weeks now. Every time I close my eyes." He glanced at Gaemon with a guarded expression. He seemed to be contemplating saying something, but instead just sighed. "I suppose we've rested long enough. We shouldn't keep our host waiting for much longer."

Gaemon nodded, unsure whether to press him further. He decided against it. Turning, he opened the chest at the foot of his bed, and began rummaging for appropriate attire. Becoming amused, he turned with a grin to his friend.

"It appears that our host intends for us to go about attired as Pipers for the duration of our stay."

Maegor nodded amusedly, lifting a blue doublet accented with white silk from his chest.

Only a few moments later they had descended the steps, attired in the finest of their new clothing. The great hall was already bustling, with servants moving about setting tables as household knights came in from the yard. Lord Piper himself sat at the high table, and beckoned them forward.

"I am most pleased to see that your garments fit. I hope you will forgive me for clothing you in my House's colors, but I daresay they look quite dashing on you."

Seats remained open to his right and left, and Gaemon and Maegor were quick to fill them. As the hall filled with the castle's inhabitants, the Lord's table welcomed its newest occupants, with Lord Stanton's two sisters entering the hall. They were tall, and must have only been a year or so apart in age. Clad in dresses whose colors matched the scheme on their guest's doublets, they each claimed a seat next to each of the seeds. I wonder if Baela has the ability to see the future, Gaemon thought to himself.

He stood as Lord Stanton introduced him to "his eldest sister, Melony." Bowing, he took her hand, placing a kiss upon it as he had seen others do at court. She blushed, curtseying in return before taking her seat. Sitting down next to her, he was about to offer a witty remark when Lord Stanton stood and raised his glass.

"A most hearty welcome to Pinkmaiden's most auspicious guests. Let us all make them feel most welcome in our home this evening, as they have come to rid us of the Terror of the Trident."

A great cheer rose in the hall, and cups and tankards were pounded on the tables as knights and men-at-arms hollered their support. The cheers grew even louder as the main course was brought in, with servants carrying roast hogs seasoned with herbs and with apples in their mouths. Three servants each brought a hog to a table, two holding it on the spit whilst the third cut portions of the meat off to serve to the guests. Freshly baked brown loaves of bread were also brought in, with bowels of butter alongside. Whilst it wasn't the grandest fare Gaemon had ever had, he appreciated it nonetheless, especially in this time of hardship. It didn't hurt that he was starving, either.

As he cut into his pork, a servant filled his mug with ale. He could not help but notice Melony Piper's eyes on him. She was a pretty girl, to be sure. Blonde of hair with a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks, she had dark blue eyes of a color much like that of the Red Fork that flowed nearby. For the sake of politeness, he made sure to thoroughly chew his meal, washing it down with his ale, before turning to speak.

"I do wish to thank you and your family for being such excellent hosts, my Lady. I realize that a feast such as this is no easy affair with a war going on."

Melony smiled. "Think nothing of it. We are ever so grateful to the Queen for sending you to us. You've no idea how tiresome it is to spend every day watching the skies for any sign of our doom approaching. I'd guess that this will be the first night of good sleep anyone in this castle has had in quite a while."

Gaemon nodded. "Well, we certainly are pleased to provide solace in such trying times." He pondered how to proceed. Luckily, Melony had come prepared.

"Is this your first time in the Riverlands, good Ser?"

"It is. In all honesty, it is my first time outside of King's Landing. Before that, I had spent all my days on Dragonstone."

Her eyes shone with interest. "What is Dragonstone itself like? I've only heard stories about the home of the Dragonlords."

"It's beautiful, in its own bleak way. Stoney green fields and hills rising up from the sea, with the Dragonmont itself sitting at the center of the island. Its fires are supposedly what makes the dragons grow."

"I hesitate to be so bold, but might I see your dragon at some point? I've never seen such a creature myself, and I'd never forgive myself for not asking."

Gaemon smiled. "He is a bit… cantankerous, but I am sure that can be arranged. Tomorrow, before we fly, you can see us off."

That brought another smile to Melony Piper's face. "Oh, that would be perfect! You wouldn't mind, would you Stanton?"

Gaemon turned, realising that his host had been following their conversation. With a grin, Lord Stanton gave his assent, to which Melony clapped her hands together in excitement. Many questions followed, concerning what his dragon liked to eat (oxen, mostly), how hot were its flames (very, hot enough to melt armor), what it was like to fly (amazing, one of the best sensations in the world).

"One of?" Asked Lady Melony, raising a playfully inquisitive eyebrow.

Gaemon chuckled. "Yes, one of the best." He swirled his ale. "There are only a few others that could possibly match it."

"And those might be?" Melony asked, her lips curling ever so slightly into a grin.

Gaemon leaned back in his seat. "Well, for instance, feasting with such pleasant company as this."

His companion rolled her eyes. "I am quite certain that as compelling as we Pipers may be, our conversation cannot be said to be that irreplaceable."

Gaemon shook his head. "I am afraid that it is, my dear. I cannot imagine what else, other than flying, could surpass good conversation."

Melony Piper sighed, evidently entertained but annoyed with his coy response. She then extended her hand. "Perhaps dancing might jog your memory?"

He shrugged. "Mayhaps. But I should warn you, I am a terrible dancer."

It was now her turn to shrug. "I assure you, it matters not. I will lead."

With that, he acquiesced. Taking her hand, he allowed himself to be led to the center of the hall, as the tables were pushed to the sides. Glancing about him, he saw knights, pulling laughing serving girls to the floor, and Maegor himself was being led by Lord Stanton's younger, red-haired sister. In the torchlight, they began to dance, with Gaemon allowing himself to be coached through the basic steps. A band had taken up, playing a tune on their lutes, drums, and flutes. He wasn't familiar with it, but it had an infectiously festive sound. He was relieved that his partner had picked a relatively simple dance, and her sister appeared to have picked the same. The knights and other dancers followed suit, so each couple danced in a simple box step whilst rotating in a gradual circle about the hall.

As the music picked up, Melony smiled, and she bid him raise his hand, whereupon she whirled away from him, laughing as she spun, before twirling back towards him, allowing herself to be caught in his arms.

As she laughed, she spoke: "See? You aren't half bad at dancing!"

He smiled back, and as he raised her upright, he blinked. In the brief moment in which his eyes were closed, he saw a face staring back at him, but instead of blonde hair, and blue eyes, silver hair and purple eyes regarded him. He frowned. Baela was right. Wiping the frown from his features, he grinned back.

"I suppose you are right, my Lady. But any talent I have, I must thank my teacher for." With that, he kissed her hand. "But to my deepest regret, I fear I must retire. My day will begin at dawn tomorrow, and I'll need to be as well rested as possible in order to make sure my hosts are well protected."

Melony studied him, the slightest of frowns appearing momentarily. As quickly as it had appeared, however, it was gone. A warm smile replaced it.

"Well, given the circumstances, I understand, Ser. But you have not escaped further lessons in the art of dance."

"I would never presume to attempt to do so, my Lady. But now I must bid you goodnight." Bowing as best he could, he strode from the hall. After he had ascended the steps to the Lord's bedchamber, he found a pitcher of mulled wine that a servant must have left for the riders within. Pouring himself a glass, he drank deeply. He pondered the evening, feeling guilt, but both with regards to Baela, and Lady Melony. After refilling his cup, he drank, and as he considered what his next actions must be, he steadied himself against one of the pieces of furniture. It was only as his hand grew warmer that he noticed he had grabbed the side of the burning brazier. Shocked, he withdrew his hand. That brazier must be hot enough to burn the skin off my body.

Glancing at his hand, he affirmed it was unscathed. As he tentatively extended his hand once more to test it, he was distracted by the flames themselves. As they danced, it seemed that shapes danced with them. Leaning closer, he thought he could see a forest through the flames. More startlingly, however, was that two pairs of eyes seemed to be regarding him through the fire. He blinked and leaned closer, but when his eyes opened, the watchers were gone, as was the fiery forest. For the next few minutes, he stared intently at the flames as they licked and danced about the brazier, but he saw no more signs of whatever he had seen lurking within them previously. I feel as though I must be mistaken- but then again, the vision seemed so real. It had almost been as though he could feel the presence of others in the chamber.

He jumped as the door to the chamber creaked open behind him. Maegor entered, grinning. Gaemon quickly adjusted his expression, pushing his foreboding thoughts aside.

"It certainly seems as though Lord Piper's youngest sister has caught a certain seed's eye." He said with a smile.

Maegor reddened slightly. "Lady Catelyn is a charming woman, to be sure. I was surprised that you departed so early. It seemed as though Lady Melony was every bit as endearing."

Gaemon nodded. "She was. I was loath to leave, but… well I suppose I simply felt I was desperately in need of rest."

Maegor raised an eyebrow, but didn't challenge his explanation.

Gaemon sighed. He emptied the last of his cup, before returning it to its tray. Taking off his ceremonial attire, he retired to his bed. Unlike earlier, it took a good while for sleep to take him.

Chapter Text

Hobert III

Hobert stared into the inferno. The market town of Tumbleton stood no chance against the flames of three dragons, and Hobert watched as they wheeled around to make yet another pass. Prince Daeron flew his own Tessarion beyond the walls of the town, burning the remnants of the enemy forces that had been arrayed before Tumbleton's walls. From the hilltop that he sat atop his palfrey on, the soldiers scurrying around seemed little larger than ants. At Hobert's side on his own grey charger was his attendant knight, Ser Jared, as well as several mounted men-at-arms bearing Hightower badges that were assigned to Hobert as his personal guard.

From his vantage point on the hill, Hobert had been given an ideal place to watch the battle between his cousin's army and the ragtag forces of the usurper Rhaenyra, a mixed force of Reachmen, Rivermen, and from what Hobert had been told, even Northmen. It matters not, cousin Ormund had stated to Hobert earlier that morning, they will break against our superior skill and numbers. Hobert had been more than inclined to agree.

He had seen how the hoary and half-wild Northmen had sallied forth from a postern gate to attack the vanguard of his cousin's army, blowing their warhorns and brandishing their weapons. They must surely be mad, Hobert had thought, fully expecting their charge to be shattered by the mounted knights of the van. Though they suffered grievous losses, the Northmen pushed deeper and deeper, until they had even reached the banners that Lord Ormund himself surrounded himself with as the army's leader. Though the fighting was much too far from Hobert for his aging eyes to make out any specific individuals, he had seen how Lord Ormund's banners had fallen.

By the Seven, Hobert had thought, horrorstruck. Not long after, the remaining Northmen had been cut down, and his cousin's army had seemed to regain a modicum of cohesion. It was then that two dragons rose into the sky from within Tumbleton, as Prince Daeron flew towards the fighting on his own Tessarion. Hobert had feared for the Prince's chances against two dragons, both of which were larger than his own. It quickly became clear that no such fears were warranted, however, as both dragons began to loose their flames on the town below them.

What treachery is this? Hobert had thought. However, he was not one to gainsay such an action, for it was clear that their unexpected allies were doing much and more to hasten an end to the battle. As the town burned, its main gate was raised, and Lord Ormund's army began to pour into the blazing market town. And so Hobert currently sat atop his palfrey, watching the town of Tumbleton burn for its treason.

Hobert had seen the approaching riders for quite some time from his elevated vantage point, and as they drew ever nearer, Hobert realized that they were being led by his goodson, Ser Tyler. Reaching Hobert, Ser Tyler removed his greathelm, and Hobert saw a grim expression etched across his features. Hobert felt a cool tingle of apprehension run down his spine, before breaking the short silence.

"What brings you all the way back here to me, Ser Tyler? The last I had seen you, you were riding in the vanguard with cousin Ormund." At the mention of Lord Ormund, Ser Tyler's frown deepened.

"I bring grave news, goodfather," Ser Tyler began, "Lord Ormund was killed when the Northmen sallied forth from a postern gate in the town. I've come to retrieve you, for the army is in desperate need of orders."

Hobert looked at his goodson in horror. Cousin Ormund was killed? He felt panic rising in his chest. It was then that he considered what else his goodson had said. "The army is in need of orders?" Hobert asked, distraught and confused. "Why not ask Ser Bryndon? He is more of a soldier than I am, and he was riding with you and Lord Ormund in the van."

Ser Tyler grimaced at his words, and Hobert felt as though his heart had dropped out from his chest. "Goodfather… Ser Bryndon was slain as well. You are the foremost remaining Hightower in this army. You are needed at the front to give orders."

Hobert felt as though he might faint. This can't be. Both cousin Ormund and cousin Bryndon? Hobert briefly considered whether he was trapped in the midst of a particularly awful nightmare, but the distant sounds of crackling flame and the scent of blood wafting from Ser Tyler's bloodstained doublet and sword were too strong to be imagined. The intense horror and fear that Hobert felt gave way to a sudden numbness of both his mind and body, and Hobert nodded stiffly at his goodson. "Alright then," Hobert said, his voice brittle and strained, "let us be off."

Though they were shrouded by dirty and bloody Hightower cloaks, Hobert could make out the unmistakable shape of bodies beneath both, lying on the trampled and broken ground not far beyond the main gate of Tumbleton. Chaos and confusion surrounded Hobert as he dismounted and approached the cloaked corpses. Hobert was surprised that the roar of flame, clash of steel, and screams of the dying seemed to be little more than a whisper in his ears as he walked forward in an almost trance-like state.

Hobert removed his greathelm and handed it off to a nearby man-at-arms. Kneeling towards the first cloaked form, Hobert silently lamented how his body ached and creaked under the weight of his plate armor. With a mailed hand, Hobert grabbed the edge of the cloak, drawing it back to see the face beneath. Ser Bryndon's eyes were unfocused and misted over in death, and his face was covered in a splotchy dark red-brown veil of dried blood. A savage wound had been dealt to the left side of his neck, a cut so deep that more of cousin Bryndon's head seemed separated from his body than connected to it. With a grimace, Hobert drew the cloak back over his face.

Turning to the other cloaked corpse, Hobert drew back the cloak that covered it. Hobert immediately turned away, retching up the remnants of his morning meal into the beaten dust of the battlefield. Lord Ormund's face, or rather what remained of it, was a gaping ruin. Whatever blow had killed his cousin had cleft his head nearly completely in twain, leaving naught but shattered bone and bloody pulp in its wake. Hobert was only able to recognize the corpse as Lord Ormund's because of a long scar that ran from his chin down the side of his neck, the result of a tourney accident in the days of his youth. Dabbing at the foul-smelling bile remaining on his lips and chin with a handkerchief, Hobert pulled the cloak back over cousin Ormund's corpse.

With a wince, Hobert struggled back to his feet, and turned to face his goodson, Ser Tyler, as well as several other Lords and landed knights of the Reach. Nodding at a corpse splayed out in the dust several feet away, Lord Unwin Peake spoke. "That crazed Northman was responsible for the deaths of both Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. Ser Bryndon took the man's shield arm off with his longaxe, but the man still killed them both with his battleaxe before taking several spears to the chest."

Hobert looked at the bloody and grizzled face of the dead Northman, staring blankly at the sky beneath a cracked helm. He looks as old as I am. Hobert could hardly believe it. How did an ancient man covered in naught but old mail and fur pelts manage to slay two of the most puissant knights of the Reach? Turning back to regard the assembled Lords and knights behind him, Hobert saw that Ser Tyler had stepped forward.

Holding out a sheathed sword to Hobert, Ser Tyler nodded solemnly in the direction of the cloaked corpses of Hobert's cousins. "As the foremost remaining Hightower in this army, goodfather, we thought it appropriate that you wield Vigilance." Taking his family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword from the hands of his goodson, Hobert was surprised at how light it was. Even the best castle-forged steel of Oldtown couldn't hold a candle to this, Hobert thought. Drawing the blade slightly from its sheath, Hobert stared for a moment at the rippled metal, before sheathing it once more. Handing off his old steel sword to a squire, Hobert buckled Vigilance to his sword belt.

A loud roar drew the attention of Hobert and the men gathered before him, and Hobert watched as Tessarion landed nearby. Prince Daeron unchained himself from his dragon's saddle, before sliding from its back and hopping to the ground. He strode over to the cloaked corpses first, examining the bodies of both Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. Afterwards, he made his way towards Hobert, nodding briefly at the assembled Lords and landed knights as they inclined their heads and bowed.

Stopping in front of Hobert, Prince Daeron removed his black steel helm, tucking it under his arm. His expression was grim, and his purple eyes had a deep sorrow in them. The Prince was Lord Ormund's former squire after all. "Ser Hobert," the Prince began, "I'm sure you are as aggrieved as I am at the deaths of Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. However, this army is in need of leadership now more than ever. Tumbleton is a burning ruin, and the men of the army run wild in its streets, pillaging, raping, and killing. As a Prince and the King's own brother, I order you to bring this army under control and stop their predations on this town at once."

As Hobert attempted to collect his thoughts, Lord George Graceford spoke up, disbelief evident in his tone. "But my Prince, the town of Tumbleton is home to naught but traitors! Surely they deserve the same fate as Bitterbridge?"

The reedy man took a step back in alarm as Prince Daeron turned to him in a sudden fury. "The people of Bitterbridge were responsible for the murder of my nephew, a Prince and a boy of scarcely three years! The people of Tumbleton have committed no such crime. They have undoubtedly been led astray by Lord Footly, the ruler of this town, but such treason is his to answer for, not his subjects!" Whirling back to face Hobert, Prince Daeron spoke to him once again, his tone grave and seething with a barely-controlled rage. "Ser Hobert, see that my orders are carried out. I'll have no more of this sack." With that, the Prince donned his helm and made his way back to Tessarion, chaining himself into its saddle and taking flight.

Hobert watched the Prince take flight, and when he looked back at the men assembled before him, he saw that all eyes were fixed on him. It took all of Hobert's bearing not to shudder as apprehension closed around his heart in a vise-like grip. Lords and knights waited expectantly for orders to carry out, but when Hobert opened his mouth to speak, his throat was dry and constricted, and no words came forth from his lips.

His goodson Ser Tyler attempted to come to his rescue. "What are your orders, goodfather? Surely we should act with haste to appease the Prince." Several of the Lords and knights surrounding Hobert's goodson murmured their agreement.

With a sharp glare at Ser Tyler, Lord Unwin Peake stepped forward. "This was a task entrusted to Ser Hobert, not you, Ser Tyler. Let the man speak for himself." He turned to regard Hobert. "What will it be, Ser Hobert? We all await your command."

Hobert felt sweat pouring down his face, and mopped at his face desperately with his kerchief. The walls of Tumbleton ahead of him were alight, and Hobert watched as a burning corpse plummeted from the battlements, splattering like rotten fruit when it hit the ground.

"I…" Hobert began, and he licked his dry lips nervously, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

He could see the flames roaring and blazing beyond the gate of the town, with shadowy forms darting in and out of the billowing smoke. Like the entrance to the Seventh Hell, Hobert thought with dismay.

"I need but a moment to collect my thoughts," Hobert rasped. He could hear distant shrieks and wails emanating from the burning town. How many are screaming for me to hear them from beyond the city walls? Hobert's mind was spinning, and he felt faint and short of breath.

Turning to a nearby man-at-arms, Hobert spoke. "Some wine, I beg of you. I need to clear my thoughts." The man nodded and strode off, looking for a skin of wine. Do something, damn you, Hobert thought bitterly. Are you such an old fool that you can't even carry out a Prince's direct orders? The Lords and knights stood watching and waiting for Hobert to command them to do something, anything.

"A moment please my Lords," Hobert said, hating how hollow and brittle his voice sounded. Heedless of his indecision, Tumbleton continued to burn.

Hobert thought that nothing in the world was as near to the Seven Hells as the ruins of Tumbleton. Many structures were naught more than smoldering ruins, and those that had survived the flames were scorched and vandalized ruins, as men of the army searched every nook and cranny of the ruined town for plunder. Like Bitterbridge, the plumes of smoke had climbed into the sky in such voluminous amounts that the sun itself had been blocked out, leaving the world shrouded in a dark grey hue lightened only by crackling flame. His palfrey liked being in Tumbleton little and less than Hobert himself did. The streets were black with ash, and choked with corpses. A large number were scorched and burned, though it seemed to Hobert that even more had been slain at the hands of men, not dragons. The bodies were piled so high in some streets and wynds that they had been rendered nearly impassable.

I did all that I could, Hobert thought. After the man-at-arms had brought him a skin of wine, Hobert had managed to collect his wits enough to send riders into the ruins of the city. He had commanded the men of the army to stop their sacking of the town, by orders of himself and the Prince Daeron. Only a few riders had returned, informing Hobert that hardly any had listened to the decree. "The others likely joined in," Jon Roxton had laughed. Hobert had been unhappy with the results, but could think of no other ways in which to enforce order. What more could I have done?

Hobert had sent Jon Roxton through the town with a stout force of mounted knights to secure Tumbleton's castle several hours before, as the town still burned. Roxton had sent back a rider not long after to report that the castle, as well as its Lord and Lady, had been secured. As evening arrived and the sky began to darken from dim grey to black, Hobert and the foremost Lords and landed knights of the army began to make their way through the winding streets of the town up towards the castle.

As the group of mounted Lords and knights rounded a corner, a cluster of men-at-arms in the street were forced to scatter out of the way, temporarily abandoning the corpses that they had been looting. As Hobert rode past, he saw one of the men tugging furiously at the hand of a particularly corpulent corpse that had the look of a successful merchant. The hand was covered in expensive rings, but the dead merchant's hand was so fat that the rings were not budging. The man-at-arms cursed in his wroth, and brought down his sword on the corpse's wrist in a savage strike, severing the hand. Clutching the ring-covered hand in one fist, the man stalked off to find more loot, his sword clenched tightly in his other hand.

The evening air was filled with a miasma of screaming, laughing, moaning, and a thousand other unsettling or downright sickening noises that made Hobert clutch tighter at his reins and wish that he was anywhere but Tumbleton. Worse than the noise, however, were the smells in the air. Charred meat most of all, but also ash, blood, and shit. It was enough to make Hobert want to vomit again. Instead he continued towards the small and stout castle that sat on a hill in the center of the town, overlooking its charred ruins.

Hobert's party found that the main road they had been taking was blocked by the scorched remains of a particularly large building that had collapsed into the street. They were therefore all forced to squeeze their group through a narrow winding wynd that continued up the hill. The walls of the surrounding buildings loomed large above their heads, stained with soot and scarred by flame.

As he rode along it, Hobert overheard a conversation that drifted from an upstairs window of a building that overlooked the wynd.

"Yer a right bastard, ya know that? I wanted a turn too, but then ya had to go and kill her instead!" one voice complained.

"Shut up!" snapped another voice, "tis a big town, there's more than enough coin and women for the both of us."

Hobert grimaced. I did all that I could. What more could the Prince have asked of him? None but the Seven truly could see the darkness that lingered in the hearts of men. The men of this army are under the Stranger's influence, and there is naught that any mortal man can do to dissuade them. Hobert could only hope that they came to their senses soon. We fight to defend the rightful King's throne, not bring death and woe to his subjects.

It was almost a relief when the walls of Tumbleton's castle and the seat of House Footly began to loom large in front of Hobert and his party. We've finally arrived. Hobert's sense of relief cooled as he noticed countless heads mounted on spikes along the walls. Riding under the portcullis into the castle's relatively small yard, Hobert found that it was nearly full to bursting with two large dragons, one of bronze coloration and the other possessing scales of a silvery color. Both were gorging themselves on a pile of headless corpses that had been dragged off to the far corner of the yard.

In the center of the yard stood Bold Jon Roxton, along with several of his household knights (including Ser Balman, still bearing the valyrian steel greatsword Heartsbane). Standing nearby were a young man and woman in fine black attire, both of which were covered in patterns of silver caltrops. To the other side of Roxton and closer to the feasting dragons stood two men in black plate armor. They had both removed their helms, which were also crafted of black steel and were winged. One had brittle white hair and bloodshot eyes, and was significantly smaller than his companion, who was barrel-chested and had closely cropped pale blonde hair.

Roxton stepped forward with a grin on his face. "The castle and town are completely under our control." He then nodded in the direction of the man and woman. "We took Lord and Lady Footly prisoner, and executed the rest of their castle garrison." Beckoning one of his knights forward with a gauntleted hand, the man stepped forward and held up two severed heads for all to see. "The head on the left is that of Ser Merrell 'the Bold', a traitorous landed knight from the Blackwater Rush, and the head on the right is that of Red Robb Rivers, the Bastard of Raventree Hall. Ser Merrell was killed as the castle fell, and Red Robb and his surviving archers were killed after they made their way back to the castle when the city began to burn."

As Bold Jon finished speaking, a man in plate stepped forward, bearing no sigil on his doublet that Hobert could recognize.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance my Lords," the man began, "I am Lord Owain Bourney. It was my men and I that slew the traitor Ser Merrell and opened the gates of the castle to you. My ruse of claiming to support the usurper Rhaenyra worked perfectly, and allowed me to help you in winning a great victory for the true king, Aegon, the second of his name." He glared as Lady Footly spit at his feet.

Jon Roxton laughed at her display of defiance, and made his way over to the captured Lord and Lady. With a gauntleted fist, Roxton tilted her chin up in order to force her to look into his eyes.

"You are truly a prize, my Lady. As brave and fierce as you are beautiful." Bold Jon's eyes glittered dangerously, and his smile was as sharp as steel. "A woman like you is wasted on a callow boy like him," Roxton nodded in the direction of Lord Footly. The young Lord scowled deeply as Bold Jon continued to speak. "You are a prize indeed." Roxton's grin deepened. "I think I shall claim you as a prize of war. I should think none would please me as greatly as you."

As Lady Footly glared at Ser Jon, Lord Footly spoke up, face red with anger. "I shall remind you Ser that we are your prisoners, and of noble birth besides. You have no right to treat us so." He tilted his chin up in defiance as Roxton spun to face him.

Bold Jon continued to smile as he spoke, but his eyes had grown dark and cold. "I should think that I am able to do what I please with traitors to the Realm." When Lord Footly opened his mouth to speak, Roxton drew his black Valyrian steel blade Orphan-Maker. "Isn't she beautiful?" Roxton asked softly, looking lovingly at the rippled black steel. Regarding Lord Footly, the smile on Roxton's face had melted away. "I should carefully consider your next words my Lord, for my Orphan-Maker is always thirsty for blood."

Lord Footly stood his ground, and glared at Roxton. "We are your prisoners, and have yielded to you. You are naught but a false knight if you think that you can treat us so."

In a flash, Bold Jon had struck Lord Footly in a savage slash with his Orphan-Maker, cutting the man nearly in twain. Lady Footly screamed in horror as Roxton tore his blade free from the corpse of her husband. Holding his blade up to regard the blood running along its length, Roxton scowled darkly. "She can make widows too," Roxton seethed, before wiping his blade clean on Lord Footly's doublet and sheathing it.

Stalking over to Lady Footly, Roxton grabbed at her gown and began to tear away at it savagely as the woman began to weep. Hobert was appalled. This is wrong. Roxton can't possibly do this, it goes against every knightly code in existence. Looking around, Hobert was dismayed to see that the other Lords and landed knights didn't seem to share Hobert's sentiments. Many were grinning and laughing, and some went as far as to shout out ribald jests. Others simply looked on impassively, or with disinterest.

Hobert felt a glimmer of hope as Lord Owen Fossoway stepped forward with a scowl and began to speak.

"Seven Hells Jon," the Lord of Cider Hall began, "at least take her off to some chamber in the castle first. I feel that I speak for most of us when I say that I have no desire to see you claim your prize." Roxton paused and grinned darkly, while others around Hobert chuckled at Fossoway's words.

No, no, this is all wrong, Hobert thought with despair. This isn't right, someone needs to stop him. Hobert licked his lips nervously. I'm the leader of this army now. I can make Roxton stop this folly right now. Hobert opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. Roxton had begun to drag Lady Footly in the direction of the castle keep's main doors. Damn it, coward, speak up! In spite of himself, no sounds came forth from Hobert as he watched Roxton disappear beyond the keep's doors with Lady Footly in tow. Hobert was overcome with a profound sense of self-loathing. You feeble coward, damn you to the Seventh Hell.

Hobert barely noticed as Lord Peake approached the two men in black plate armor with winged helms, and began to speak to them.

"It gladdens all of our hearts that you have decided to add your support to the cause of the true king, Sers. We will send for you both as soon as we convene for a war council, in order to discuss the army's next moves, as well as suitable rewards for the both of you." Both of the usurper Rhaenyra's former dragon riders nodded curtly at Lord Peake's words. As the last of the meager evening light faded from the ashen sky, Hobert hollowly considered how he had never felt further from home.

The pavilion was crowded, and Hobert felt odd sitting in the chair that Lord Ormund used to occupy. It sat at the head of a long table running along the pavilion's length. Seated along the table were the most important of the Lords and landed knights in the army, and those of lesser note stood around the table. It had been two days since the battle beneath Tumbleton's walls, yet the town still smoldered. The soldiers of the army continued to run rampant in its streets, looting, raping, and pillaging.

The Prince is more than displeased at the actions of the army. Prince Daeron sat to Hobert's left, wearing his black steel plate armor. The golden dragon embossed across his breastplate glittered in the light of the braziers throughout the pavilion. After Hobert's earlier efforts to rein in the army had failed, the Prince had wished to begin executing the men who disobeyed his commands and continued to sack Tumbleton. "If honor and duty won't compel them to stop, then mayhaps the threat of a noose will," the Prince had said, but he had been dissuaded by Lord Peake.

"If you hang every man that has taken part in the looting and raping within Tumbleton, my Prince, then you will no longer have an army," the grizzled marcher Lord had said. "They'll fall in line easily enough when the army marches again, and Tumbleton will then be free of their predations." Though the Prince had seemed none too pleased with Lord Peake's solution, he had not made any further attempts to force an end to the sack.

As Hobert sipped some of the Arbor Gold within a goblet a servant had filled for him, a man-at-arms stepped into the tent. "The dragon riders have arrived, my Lords," the man stated, and at a nod from Hobert, the man stepped back outside to retrieve them.

Stepping inside, the two men wore their black steel plate as they had before, and strode towards the end of the table. Lords and landed knights moved clear of them, muttering, and neither dragonrider seemed to notice nor care of their discontent. In his short time knowing them, Hobert was not impressed by what he learned of each man. The smaller man, Ser Ulf, seemed a complete drunkard, and the larger man, Ser Hugh, had proven a brute. On his first day in the camp, Ser Hugh had goaded Ser Balman, the wielder of Heartsbane, into a duel of honor after repeatedly insulting him. Ser Hugh then killed the knight with his warhammer and claimed the Valyrian steel greatsword for himself. The weapon was currently sheathed in a scabbard borne across the hulking man's back.

As both of the usurper Rhaenyra's former dragonriders reached the far end of the table, Prince Daeron addressed them both, announcing the verdict that had been agreed upon by the assembled Lords of the army. "Ser Ulf White and Ser Hugh Hammer, you have both proven yourselves as a great boon to my brother's cause, and it is the opinion of myself and the Lords assembled before you to reward you for the aid you have given and will continue to contribute to our cause." As the Prince paused before continuing, Hobert noticed the unrestrained looks of avarice that had swept across both of the dragonriders' faces.

"Ser Ulf," Prince Daeron began, "I will recommend to my brother the King that you be named the new Lord of Bitterbridge and its surrounding town and lands." Turning towards the other rider, Prince Daeron continued. "Ser Hugh, I will in turn recommend to the King that you be named the new Lord of Tumbleton and its surrounding town and lands." As the Prince sat back, both dragonriders' expressions turned stony.

The larger dragonrider spoke first, his deep voice rumbling angrily. "Tumbleton and Bitterbridge are bloody ruins!" he snarled. "You lot are tryin' to make us Lords o' naught but ashes an' bones!"

The smaller dragonrider was the next to speak, his bloodshot eyes blazing with sudden rage. "Does the King mean to give us coin to rebuild our illustrious seats, or will he bugger us and turn the both of us into paupers?"

By this point, the murmurs and muttering of the Lords and landed knights had grown into outright calls and shouts of outrage, and Hobert could see that the state of affairs was rapidly deteriorating. Thankfully, Lord Unwin Peake rose from his seat, and the men throughout the pavilion quieted as he began to speak. "Tumbleton and Bitterbridge are more than fair compensation for men of your status", he began tersely, "and the both of you must needs be satisfied with them, lest we be forced to reconsider our judgement. You have made a bitter enemy of the usurper Rhaenyra through your betrayal, and have naught but the goodwill of King Aegon and his Lords to rely upon now. I suggest that you accept the awards that you have been given, and don't give us all further cause to doubt your loyalty to our cause."

As Lord Peake sat back down in his chair, it seemed to Hobert that the smaller dragonrider was nearly shaking with rage, and the larger seed was glaring balefully at all around him. "No, m'lord," the massive dragonrider began, "you forget that the both of us ride dragons. The bitch Rhaenyra still 'as plenty more than your King Eggon, and he still 'as yet to come out of 'iding. If you want us to help you take back King's Landing, then you all must needs think o' something better to reward us with than two piles o' ashes." With that, the two dragonriders stalked out of the pavilion angrily, heedless of the enraged Lords and knights around them.

Jon Roxton's face was red with anger as he addressed the Lords and knights surrounding him. "I say that we kill the both of them right now, and let the bravest of us tame their mounts and ride them into battle!" His words were met with enthusiasm by many of the Lords and landed knights.

Lord Peake stood back up as he addressed Bold Jon's words. "Now is not the time for rash decisions, Jon. Have you already forgotten what has become of the forces led by Lord Jason Lannister and Ser Criston Cole? They are all gone, dead or so hopelessly scattered as to make no matter. The actions of this army now may very well determine the war's outcome, so we cannot afford to make foolish mistakes."

At Lord Unwin's words, Roxton's expression had soured before he responded. "And by what right do you presume to give me commands, Lord Peake? You are not the leader of this army."

Lord Unwin glared imperiously back at Roxton. "Lord Ormund Hightower is dead. This army has been without official leadership for two days. I should be the leader. I have known a lifetime of battle, growing up on and ruling lands in the Dornish marches. I command one hundred knights and nine hundred stout men-at-arms, more men than most Lords in this army can claim to have contributed."

Crossing his arms, Bold Jon retorted. "That is all well and good, Lord Peake, but what this army needs to lead it is a warrior. The time for sieges and diplomacy has long since passed. We need a man who is willing to whet his sword with the blood of the King's enemies and lead his leal men to victory! I daresay that no man in this army can claim to be half the fighter that I am!" Roxton looked around at the men surrounding him with a dangerous glint in his eye, as though he was almost challenging one of them to gainsay him. None did.

Hobert was very worried. This army was Lord Ormund's army, a Hightower army. It assembled and marched from Oldtown, and much and more of the mercenaries marching along with it are under the direct employ of my family. I must needs speak now in support of my own candidacy as leader or not at all. Hobert cleared his throat, and nearly quailed in apprehension as all eyes turned to him. Standing, Hobert began to speak, feeling beads of perspiration gather on his forehead and face.

"My cousin, Lord Ormund, was the undisputed leader of this army until his untimely death. You all gathered beneath the walls of his city, Oldtown, in order to help my Lord cousin fight for the true King's rights. I am the foremost remaining Hightower in this army, as well as kin to the Queen Dowager Alicent and all of her children. It is I who should take command and lead this army to victory, to avenge my fallen cousins and see my kin keep their rightful throne." Though Hobert felt short of breath and nearly sick with anxiety, he forced himself to stand tall, and meet the gazes of the assembled Lords and knights with a steady gaze of his own.

Hobert was finally allowed a moment to breathe as a man forced his way to the front of the crowd of standing Lords and landed knights who lacked enough power and influence to be given a seat around the pavilion's table. Hobert recognized him as Owain Bourney, the Lord from the Blackwater Rush who had opened the gates of Tumbleton's castle to Lord Ormund's army. "I should be given the command of this army," Bourney began, eyeing the men around him coolly and confidently. "What this army needs most is a leader with cunning, and an ability to win great victories with minimal losses. As the usurper Rhaenyra's forces bear down on us all from the north, it is of paramount importance that we take the city of King's Landing before they arrive. I can win us the city, and keep more than enough of the army alive to hold it."

Approaching Lord Owain from his spot at the table, Lord Unwin Peake called out to him. "You claim to be a man of great cunning, yet all I see is a man from some unheard-of keep along the Blackwater Rush whose greatest victory was the result of betrayal!"

Lord Owain scowled. "My Lord Peake, the only reason Tumbleton is firmly in the hands of the rightful King is because of myself. Tis true that I didn't bring nearly as many men as you to fight for the King, but with the men I did have, I delivered this army an entire town and castle! You seek to name me traitor, but such claims are false. I have always been loyal to the true King. And in the eyes of the usurper Rhaenyra, are we not all traitors?"

Stopping a few steps in front of Lord Bourney, Lord Peake retorted with a scowl. "You speak well enough my Lord, but I name you for what you truly are: a craven. How do you propose that we take the city of King's Landing? Twould be difficult for you, I should imagine. After all, you are not inside the walls of the city and able to throw open the gates after putting a spear through the back of the man next to you!"

Enraged, Lord Owain closed the short gap of distance betwixt himself and Lord Peake. "I would tell you my plans to take the city, but I wouldn't expect a man as thoroughly wooden-headed and conceited as yourself to understand them! I name you for what you are, Lord Peake, an old man as uninspiring as he is unfit to lead this army!"

Quick as a bolt of lightning, Lord Peake drew a dagger from his belt and shoved it through Lord Bourney's left eye, clutching at the collar of the man's mail shirt with his other hand. Lord Owain's right eye went wide with shock, before misting over and becoming unfocused as the life left his body. With a wet squelching noise, Lord Unwin yanked his dagger free from Lord Bourney's eye and shoved his corpse backwards, letting it thump dully on the ground. He then bent forward for a moment, wiping his dagger off on Lord Bourney's tunic before straightening back up and sheathing his dagger.

"Once a turncloak, ever a turncloak," Lord Unwin said coolly, looking down upon Lord Bourney's corpse with disdain.

Hobert was speechless, and knew that his face must have been frozen in an almost comical expression of shock and horror. Prince Daeron was similarly horror-struck, staring in disbelief at Lord Peake, and the corpse sprawled out on the ground beyond him. All of the Lords and landed knights throughout the pavilion bore comparable expressions of disbelief and horror, save one.

Bold Jon Roxton laughed loudly and heartily. "By the Seven, Lord Unwin," the knight began, nodding at the dagger sheathed on Lord Peake's belt as he caught his breath. "You've made your point." Roxton threw back his head and laughed uproariously at his own jest.

Madness, all of it, Hobert thought, feeling an overwhelming sense of stupefaction wash over him. O Crone, please lend us all your guidance. We have desperate need of it. As was the case of all the prayers he had made on campaign, Hobert's impassioned plea went unanswered.

Chapter Text

Baela III

The walls of Maegor's Holdfast became more restrictive each day she spent inside them. Baela was quite certain she'd explored every inch of them in the past several weeks, and her recent confinement inside them threatened to drive her mad. She took solace in the fact that she was not alone in her struggles, as Joff was quite possibly the only person in the Red Keep more infuriated about his mother's 'precautionary measures' than Baela herself. Ever since word of the betrayal arrived, cos and her court have grown ever more wary of outsiders. When ravens had arrived detailing just how viciously Tumbleton had been put to the sack, the court had grown quiet with consternation. It had been bad enough knowing that Prince Daeron and a Hightower army of 20,000 men were approaching. The addition of two additional riders and the destruction of the only credible Black forces in the area had rendered the Queen's strategic situation precarious. Some, behind closed doors, would argue it has been rendered untenable.

Baela herself had been shocked by the news, but unlike her cousin, had been immediately in favor of gathering the rest of the riders that remained in the city and orchestrating a surprise attack on the Green army encamped just 50 leagues to the southwest. Between my Moondancer, Joff's Tyraxes, cos' Syrax, and Addam Velaryon's Seasmoke we could put their whole army to flight… it would be a second Field of Fire. As enticing as the prospect had been to her, the Queen had only paled when it had been raised in her presence, before insisting that they instead "gather what forces they had remaining to them and prepare for their foe's approach."

Soon after, Rhaenyra had ordered the gates to King's Landing shut, and ordered that the members of the Royal Family were to remain inside Maegor's Holdfast at all times. Baela wished that her cousin would exhibit some of her fiery wroth that she used to demonstrate with great frequency before the war, but it seemed the loss of two sons had put those flames out permanently. Instead of a righteous fury, the Queen often exhibited a paranoid cynicism. In the wake of the two betrayers, it seemed as though she expected most were waiting for the perfect opportunity to plant a knife in her back. I cannot blame her though, Baela thought to herself. I can only imagine the weight she bears upon her shoulders.

The Queen's paranoia was unsettling for other reasons as well. Baela often found herself terrified that the truth of her and Gaemon's nighttime excursion had been leaked. She had so far been able to calm herself by insisting that if her cousin had any such knowledge of their trip, she certainly would not have kept quiet about it. Gaemon could lose his head for our foolishness. Unbidden, a shiver ran down her spine. At a time like this, it was important that she gave no indication of any attachment. Nonetheless, I don't regret a moment of it, she thought triumphantly to herself. It was good to have someone to care for in that way again. She often found herself wondering what he might be doing, and whether he was enjoying his stay at Pinkmaiden. She wished she could be there in person to help with the search, but given the current atmosphere in the court, she privately accepted it was for the best she had stayed. Had we spent any more time together, the stakes of our bond would have only risen. The last thing cos needs is another scandal.

A knock at her door forced her mind to the present. Rising from her chair, she straightened her shirt (she had returned to wearing her traditional garb the moment she had been confined as a sign of protest) and pulled the oaken door open, its hinges rasping ever so slightly. Outside stood Ser Rayford Lothston, who nodded respectfully as a sign of greeting.

Clearing his throat, he began to speak: "My Lady, the Queen requests your presence in the Queen's Ballroom. She is assembling her advisors and lords to give her council. She has requested your attendance, as a member of the Royal Family and as a dragonrider."

Baela smiled. Finally, something to do. "Thank you for informing me, Ser Lothston. I will follow your lead."

Their trip through the Holdfast was quiet, as Ser Rayford showed little desire to exchange pleasantries. Torches burned in their sconces, casting their dancing light about the halls. The near total absence of windows within the Holdfast necessitated the burning of torches constantly, leaving its inhabitants with the eerie sensation of no idea of the time, as though they lived in a perpetual night. Making their way to the Queen's Ballroom, guards at the doors nodded in respect before opening them to reveal a great host of bickering lords and attendants. It seemed those deemed the most loyal to the Queen had evidently been asked to attend, both to give council and support. The silvered mirrors upon the walls gave the impression that the hall was even larger, and filled with even greater numbers, as their apprehensive or outraged reflections mimicked their counterparts in the real world.

As she entered, the herald in attendance slammed his staff twice upon the floor, before announcing her as "the Lady Baela Targaryen."

The assembled parted before her to make way as she crossed the breadth of the hall to join her cousin, who sat at the Queen's high table and was currently working on finishing off the remnants of a lamprey pie. None are brave enough to tell her, but the burdens of rulership have greatly enhanced Rhaenyra's appetite, Baela thought as she approached. The Queen had grown a bit stouter since the days of her youth, and when she frowned (which was often), she often had two chins. Next to the Queen sat Joff, who upon noticing Baela, gave her a friendly grin. As she finished off the last piece, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms gave her cousin a grave nod, before clapping in order to signal the assembled lords to take their seats. Those assembled represented the most powerful lords present in King's Landing, including the Manderly brothers, Torrhen and Medrick, her grandfather Corlys Velaryon, the heir to Runestone, Ser Willem Royce, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Ser Lorent Marbrand, the master of coin Lord Bartimos Celtigar, and the massive Ser Luthor Largent, commander of the Gold Cloaks. Those assembled quickly took their seats in a ring around the hall, its tables having been pushed to the sides.

After taking a sip of wine to clear her throat, the Queen stood to address the assembled Lords. "I thank each of you for attending me on this grim day. As many of you may already have known, a raven has arrived bearing news of a grim betrayal at Tumbleton. The Hightower army, escorted by my treasonous half-brother Prince Daeron, have not only taken the city and put it to the sack, but have also managed to convince two of my own dragonseeds to turn cloak. I know not what promises they made, but the fact remains that these traitors must be punished."

As Baela sat, she scanned the room and those assembled. Many of the faces were grim, evidently disturbed to hear the rumors of treason confirmed. A lord, or even an army defecting is one matter. Two dragonriders defecting is quite another. Despite her desire to go to battle, Baela harbored no illusions that such a fight would prove costly. Her own Moondancer was simply not yet large enough to fight evenly with the older, larger dragons, and even Prince Daeron's Tessarion was likely to be quite a bit larger by this point. If Prince Aemond were to somehow receive word of the events at Tumbleton and bring Vhagar to join their enemies, the situation in the capital would be untenable. An assembly of that many dragons would require nearly all of the Queen's own forces to destroy.

A gruff, rumbling voice brought her out of her thoughts: "Your Grace, the news from Tumbleton is indeed grim tidings. What news do we have from the Riverlands?" Medrick Manderly asked, his voice low and gruff.

Rhaenyra nodded to Maester Gerardys, who occupied his usual position standing behind her on the right. He raised two letters before those assembled, his chains jingling.

"Prince Daemon writes from Maidenpool, reporting little in the way of success. He and the girl Nettles have flown their dragons daily, and report signs of Aemond's devastation stretching from the Mountains of the Moon to the Green Fork. Despite her huge size, it seems Vhagar can be incredibly elusive when she wishes to be."

Gerardys then raised the other letter. "We received this message from Pinkmaiden yesterday, sent by Ser Gaemon. He relays that both he and Ser Maegor have scoured the Riverlands every day, but they too have only found ashes. Aemond's wroth has reached as far as Sallydance on the Red Fork, but he seems to strike at random, leaving only a few terrified survivors who cannot agree on which way he flew afterwards."

How is it possible that the largest dragon in Westeros is suddenly impossible to find? We have devoted four skilled riders to the search, and yet they turn up nothing.

Torrhen Manderly stood, dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a kerchief. "I had hoped for better news, your Grace. I fear that if the hunt for Aemond continues for much longer, Lord Cregan Stark may have to halt his march. We ought to assign dragons to provide adequate coverage for his host; if Aemond were to attack them from above, the results could be devastating."

Ser Willem Royce then stood. "The Lady Jeyne Arryn has written to me, begging for a dragon to be dispatched once more to defend the Vale, as was originally promised. She fears that Aemond may soon tire of his depredations in the Riverlands, and raid greener pastures in the Vale. If the Mountain clansmen were to receive word that our seats and knights were aflame, they might choose to step up their raids."

Ser Lorent Marbrand then spoke up. "We cannot afford to divide our forces at such a critical time. Besides, the army at Tumbleton is a mere fifty leagues from the capital. It was easy to ignore Prince Daeron and the Hightowers when they were fighting in the extreme south, but they are now clearly the greatest threat to her Grace. We must needs send riders to address this new threat. We will have to dispatch some from the Riverlands, as the safety of the Queen and the Prince of Dragonstone must be our primary concern."

Rhaenyra gave Ser Marbrand a thankful pat on the arm as he spoke, before turning to those assembled. "While I agree that forces must needs be dispatched to deal with the threat, how are we to trust those we send to do as they are bid, as opposed to turning cloak as well? All of the seeds are either bastard-born or descended from bastards. Such blood is not to be trusted in times such as these."

Baela felt a cold chill run down her spine. Is she mad? The other seeds are loyal. Gaemon vouched for the girl Nettles and his friend Maegor personally. As agonizing as it was, she knew that if she spoke up she'd only condemn the remaining seeds further. The Queen had grown suspicious of Baela's intentions ever since her disobedient ride, and would be more likely to see Baela's support as a strike against them than a point in their favor.

Lord Celtigar was the first to speak, after scratching silvery stubble about his chin. "Bastards are treacherous by nature. It is in their blood. Betrayal comes as easily to a bastard as loyalty to trueborn men. I'd advise giving the order to seize all the remaining seeds immediately, before their nature can be allowed to bite the hand that feeds."

Ser Luthor Largent was quick to agree. "Even the chance that these men could betray you is a good enough cause to seize them, your Grace. If the Greens gain any more riders, our cause is lost. Best act now, and send them to the Stranger, before they decide to introduce us to him first."

Baela's knuckles were turning white beneath the table. She felt sick to her stomach. One of those seeds is your cousin, Rhaenyra, bastard or not. You are better than this. She felt she barely knew the woman sitting next to her at the table, whose purple eyes seemed to be perpetually searching the shadows for threats unseen.

Prince Joffrey was the next to speak up, his expression a mixture of guilt and anger. "Mother, Jace gave these men his word. It's not right to treat them so. To my knowledge, the others have not given us any cause to suspect them of disloyalty. We should trust them, as Jace did."

Rhaenyra's face twisted in rage at the mention of her fallen son. "Jace trusted them for naught. They couldn't save him during the Gullet, and now they've betrayed his very memory by betraying me."

Before she could continue, Ser Lorent spoke up. "Your Grace, I have had the opportunity to train two of these men. While they both have tempers when roused, they have given me no cause to doubt their loyalty. They are both fine young lads, eager to serve you, nothing like the two betrayers. Whilst I cannot speak for the other seeds, I will vouch personally for the honor of Ser Gaemon and Ser Maegor."

Lord Corlys appeared to be eager to speak next, but before he could do so, he was interrupted by a quiet voice emanating from beneath a blood-red silken hood.

"I know not of the two Ser Marbrand vouches for, but I can speak for the girl, Nettles. She already betrayed you, my Queen. Even now she shares your husband's bed, and soon enough she will have his bastard in her belly."

My father? With the gap-toothed common girl? Baela was stunned. She knew her father was… close… with Mysaria, but she had assumed his tastes were more exotically inclined. She found herself trying to recall any instance in which he had shown a particular fondness for the girl. To my knowledge, they never seemed particularly close. Then again, I can't have imagined the 'Lady' Mysaria approving of any other lovers. Baela's eyes narrowed. Could this be some sort of calumny on the part of the pale dancer?

Whether it was or was not, the hall had grown conspicuously silent and icily cold. Rhaenyra seemed ready to order the arrests of the remaining seeds immediately, and as Baela opened her mouth to plead against such a course, her grandfather interjected.

"My Queen, I myself knighted Sers Gaemon and Maegor for their deeds at the Gullet. I pray you have not forgotten that they returned young Prince Viserys to your embrace. As for my grandsons, Ser Addam and Alyn, they are true Velaryons, and worthy heirs to Driftmark! Do not allow them to suffer for the misdeeds of some common whore."

As Ser Lorent and Lord Corlys had spoken before him, Maester Gerardys spoke: "In matters such as these, my Queen, the path of wisdom is to seek proof of any disloyalty before making any rash judgements."

Despite the protestations of several of the members of the Small Council, it seemed Rhaenyra was not to be moved. That seemed the case, at least, until Ser Torrhen Manderly spoke.

"My Queen, if I may, does it even matter whether the seeds we have dispatched are innocent or otherwise? Any order to have them seized would be very difficult to implement while they are so far afield. We would be forced to rely on the Pipers and the Mootons to dispose of not one, but three dragonriders. Most importantly, however, if either of those families were to fail at such a task, we would have given the seeds the perfect justification to go over to the enemy. Our only choice at this point, realistically, would be to presume their innocence. As Ser Marbrand said, if we lose any more dragons we are lost."

For a few moments, the only sound in the hall was the sound of the Queen's fingernails tapping on the table. Baela thought she might be sick. Finally, the Queen drew a rasping breath, and issued her decree.

"The seeds Ser Maegor and Ser Gaemon will be assumed innocent, for the time-being. For the sake of the son they returned to my bosom, and their other services rendered. Ser Addam will also be presumed innocent, as he has remained at the Dragonpit since their departure without issue as per my orders."

Baela resisted the urge to sigh with relief, but she needn't have worried, as her grandfather visibly slumped in his seat, his features no longer contorted with the stress he had clearly felt a few moments before.

Rhaenyra spat out her next words with vitriol: "As for the common whore, she shall receive no such mercy. She is a common thing, with the stink of sorcery upon her. My prince would ne'er lay with such a low creature. You need only to look at her to know she has no drop of dragon's blood in her. It was with spells that she bound a dragon to her, and she has done the same with my lord husband. So long as he is in her thrall, Prince Daemon cannot be relied upon. Send word to Lord Mooton, let him take her at table or abed and strike her head off. Only then shall my prince be freed."

Baela resisted the urge to roll her eyes. My father, the Rogue Prince, ensorceled? I think not. Of the two of them, he's far more likely to have employed sorcery to bed another. I'm sorry, Gaemon. Your loyalty has been repaid with a death warrant for your friend.

"My Queen, word ought to be sent to the Mootons, in order to begin our work in freeing the Prince. I will begin preparing a message." With that, Maester Gerardys also took his leave. As he turned from the Queen, his expression hardened, and Baela was quite sure she'd never seen the kindly old man look so disappointed in all the years she'd known him. That… that is enough. Baela thought to herself. I can stay silent no longer.

"Maester Gerardys, might you wait a moment?" She asked, standing from her seat at the high table and turning to face her cousin. "My Queen, I beg of you. If my father is truly under the spell of that girl, might I go to break it? Perhaps his fatherly love will prove stronger than her sorceries. Allow me to fly to Maidenpool, in order to treat with him and convince him of the error of his ways. I promise, I will not fail you." Let me convince him to send her away, let me put this madness to rest. As she spoke, she saw the White Worm's eyes narrow beneath her blood-red hood.

Rhaenyra regarded her with a look of suspicion. It almost seems as though she'd forgotten I was seated in attendance.

"Baela, as your Queen, and as your kinswoman, I could not expose you in good conscience to the likes of that witch. Your father would never forgive me if something were to happen to you. Besides, as I told my own son, I need you here, with me, to protect the city."

Whilst the Queen's tone sounded caring, her eyes remained cold. Baela knew her appeal had little chance of succeeding, but its failure had nonetheless proven infuriating. She returned to her seat, willing herself to remain silent.

The Queen sat back in her seat, straightening her posture in order to deliver her next order. "Lord Corlys, inform your grandson that he shall be departing this city tomorrow. I order him to take his dragon to Pinkmaiden, in order to meet Sers Gaemon and Maegor. The three of them are to proceed from thence immediately to Tumbleton, in order to bring Fire and Blood to the Usurper's brother and the two betrayers. If they are all loyal, as many of you seem to believe, let them prove it by dealing with those who have turned cloak. They are either to return victorious or not at all."

"Mother!" Joffrey interjected. "Let me fly with Ser Addam. If I am to be King some day, let me earn that right by Fire and Blood, as my ancestors did. Tyraxes and I shall not disappoint you."

Rhaenyra paled at his protestation. "You will not. You are too young for battle." She paused, clearly recognizing that would not be enough to dissuade him. "Joff… I need you here. If Aemond were to somehow slip by Prince Daemon whilst he is ensorceled, I will need both you and the Lady Baela to help me defend the city."

Joff's face depicted a war of emotions, with anger, humiliation, and empathy waging a brutal war for supremacy. Eventually, he offered his mother a curt nod, whilst clearly still unhappy about her verdict.

After a few moments of silence, Ser Luthor Largent's gravelly baritone echoed across the room. "Your Grace, if I may be so bold as to offer some advice, the people of the city have grown discontented at the present state of affairs. Many fear that the city will be put to the sack by the Hightowers, and resent that you have barred the gates. In conjunction with the extremely high war taxes…" he eyed Lord Celtigar from under bushy eyebrows "... I fear that the discontent may grow disruptive. I believe it would do wonders for the people's morale if you were to organize a procession from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit, in order to officially see Ser Addam off. Let the people see you, and know that you are taking measures to protect the city. This could be an opportunity to win their hearts."

Rhaenyra scoffed. "And expose myself or my son to a well-placed dagger, or bolt? I think not. Only the Seven know just how many of the footpads and catspaws in the city are under my half-brother's pay. I will give them no such opportunities to strike. Besides, if the public grows truculent, as you seem to suggest they intend to, the Gold Cloaks will see to them." Her amethyst eyes regarded Ser Luthor coldly. "That is, after all, what I pay you for."

Ser Luthor met her gaze abashedly from under his caterpillar-like eyebrows. "Yes, your Grace. Speaking of which, I must attend to them. I will organize additional patrols to discourage any… problematic… sentiments amongst the masses."

With that, Ser Luthor Largent stood, drawing up to his full, nearly seven-foot height, and marched out of the hall.

Oh cos. What have you done? As Ser Luthor left the hall, those left assembled seemed unaware of what to do or say next.

Her grandfather broke the silence. "Your grace, I will send for my grandson. I understand your reasoning for ruling out a procession, but I do think it would be proper to arrange for a suitable send-off." He turned to Baela, and smiled. "Perhaps he'll be able to tell you just how much your Moondancer has grown since you last saw her."

Baela smiled back, but it was hard to feel truly at ease after the last hour. The Queen seems to be allowing fear to guide her every action. Internally, she was both sorry for her cousin and furious at her ruling regarding Nettles. Each new day of war and betrayal stripped Rhaenyra of a bit more of the woman she used to be.

Realising she had remained silent for too long, she spoke up: "I… would certainly like to hear of her progress, grandfather. I would appreciate any such news from Addam."

Her grandfather's eyes twinkled. "I'll make sure to inform him of your request, my sweet." With a wink, he turned back to the Queen, who nodded her assent to his request.

"Bring Ser Addam before the Iron Throne and I will see him off, Lord Velaryon. Be quick about it. Time is awasting, and the two betrayers must needs be brought to justice."

As Lord Corlys strode from the chamber, Baela begged the Queen's leave to return to her chambers. Prince Joffrey quickly chimed in, and they were able to secure her agreement together. As they exited the hall, the last thing Baela heard was Lord Celtigar bringing a new financial proposal to the Queen concerning "a tax on whores."

As they strode the hallways, Joffrey seemed unusually quiet. Baela decided she'd be the one to break the silence.

"Joff, I can see that you're troubled. You know that you can share whatever it is with me."

The Prince of Dragonstone raised his brown eyes to meet hers, and she could see tears in their corners.

"I feel like a coward, Baela. What use is a dragon when one's own mother prevents them from flying it? If I were truly brave, like Jace or Luke, I'd sneak into the city this very evening and fly to meet the enemy. How will I ever be worthy of sitting the Conqueror's throne if I cannot bring my own family's enemies to heel?"

Baela felt tears well in the corners of her own eyes. She quickly embraced him. "Oh Joff, you know that I feel the same. I would give anything to be out there, flying with my father and the seeds. Alas, we cannot." She thought for a moment about what to say next. "You know… maybe it takes a bit of bravery to stay behind. If you are to be King some day, then you'll need to protect your subjects as well as your family. Protecting the capital is brave, even if it is not as glorious as chasing the Kinslayer in the Riverlands."

Joff nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I suppose you're right, Baela. I just… I just want to be remembered as brave, the way my brothers will be. I don't want to be the Prince that clung to his mother's skirts. When I was in the Vale, protecting Lady Jeyne and your sister, I felt like a true Prince. I felt worthy of Tyraxes. Ever since I've arrived here, I feel as though that has been stripped from me, as though I am but a child."

Baela smiled. "Joff, I'm going to say to you what someone very dear to me told me. You've got fire enough already, enough to burn your enemies to ash. Develop your bond with Tyraxes, learn to fight, and to rule. Take the few opportunities that remain to you within these walls to prepare yourself. When the war does reach us, as I am sure it will, you'll be ready, and all will rue the day that they left you behind."

Joffrey nodded gravely, clutching the sword at his waist. "I will do that Baela. When my time comes, I promise you, I will not hesitate. I will be ready."

Baela took his hands. "I believe that, wholeheartedly." She thought to herself for a moment. "You know… all the best Kings that I've known have been quite good at cyvasse."

A grin returned to Joffrey's face. "Then I suppose I'd better learn."

After completing the stroll back to her chambers, Baela had retrieved an ornately carved board from a trunk at the foot of her bed. Originally a gift to her father in Pentos, he had given it to her when he realized she had a passion for the game. Its finely carved, lacquered pieces brought back good memories of playing against her father, and against Rhaena. She quickly set up the screen between the two of them, and explained how they were to arrange their pieces. Joffrey listened intently, before eagerly arranging his pieces. He had picked the onyx pieces, leaving her with those of ivory.

The first few games went by fairly quickly, as she had the advantage of experience. At first, Joff grew wroth at the loss of his King to her dragon, but in time, he grew more fixated upon the board. In the fourth game, she narrowly avoided losing her king to one of his catapults, but was able to trap him between a trebuchet and elephant. He accepted defeat more graciously that time, clearly beginning to enjoy himself.

"Another?" He asked with a wry grin.

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the doors. Standing, she answered. Once more, she found Ser Rayford Lothston waiting outside.

"Ser Rayford, if you truly have been so taken by my beauty, you might as well say so, instead of devising paltry excuses to come knocking so often."

The knight snorted amusedly. "After serving this long at the Red Keep, I know far better than to get involved with the Blood of the Dragon. I do however, bring word from the Queen. She asks that both you and the Prince attend Ser Addam's departure ceremony.

Baela turned to Joffrey. "My apologies, but it appears our game must needs wait. Our presence is required in the Great Hall."

Joffrey had already arisen and nodded. "Only if you promise to play later. I will be victorious at some point."

Grinning, she nodded in the affirmative. "I'll owe you one afterwards. I cannot promise you a victory, however." Before they left, she took her 'King' piece, and handed it to him. "Keep this, until we play again. That way you can hold me to my promise."

They followed Ser Rayford through the winding, torchlit halls of Maegor's Holdfast, until they eventually arrived at its gate and drawbridge. The scent of fresh air was invigorating, and she drank it in deeply. They exited over the drawbridge, taking care not to tumble into the wickedly sharp iron spikes below. Walking through the courtyard, she gazed at the sky, where the moon was beginning to rise. The stars glowed like so many pinpricks in night's veil, and Baela recalled how her father had once told her that her mother might be watching through one. I wish I could play cyvasse with her, or show her how much Moondancer has grown, or tell her about Gaemon. She barely remembered her mother, but from everything she had heard, she believed they would have been close. She did tame Vhagar, after all. I can think of no greater testament to her character.

When she glanced at Joffrey, he too gazed at the stars. The winter sky was incredibly clear, and more stars were visible than usual. Perhaps Jace and Luke are waving down at you, Joff. Despite what you might think, they are proud of you, I'm sure of it. She was forced from her recollections as they entered the Great Hall. The skulls of the dragons of old gazed down at them as they entered, and Balerion's onyx skull seemed to grin in the light from the braziers. Rhaenyra sat imperiously at the top of the Iron Throne, and Joffrey quickly took his seat on its steps. Baela took her place on its dais, and scanned the hall. The numbers in attendance were not as great as previous ceremonies, and she surmised it was due to the Queen's paranoia. Only the most trusted lords and knights of the Queen's court stood assembled before them.

Her grandfather stood with Ser Addam before the Iron Throne, his hands on his grandson's shoulders. Addam looked resolute in his Velaryon sea green and silver. When he noticed her gaze, his deep purple eyes met hers and he smiled, giving her a nod of recognition. He was a kind man, from the times she had spoken to him previously. Good luck on your task, Ser Addam, she thought to herself. Make sure that Gaemon doesn't do anything too stupid or daring on my behalf. She hoped that his friend Maegor would dissuade him from doing so, as he seemed to be a relatively level-headed fellow.

Rhaenyra's voice rang out from above. "Ser Addam Velaryon, I have called you before the Iron Throne this evening to charge you with a task of the utmost import. At first light tomorrow morning, you will fly for Pinkmaiden to fetch Sers Gaemon and Maegor. From thence, you will fly for Tumbleton, to give my treasonous half-brother and the two traitors their first real taste of Fire and Blood. I charge you to swear to fulfill this task to the best of your ability as a knight, and swear your obedience upon your sacred vows."

Ser Addam knelt before the throne. "I so swear it, my Queen. Upon my honor, I will not rest until your enemies are ashes. Let my actions henceforth be proof of my everlasting loyalty and gratefulness."

Baela turned to see Rhaenyra nod gravely, evidently satisfied. "Go then, Ser. And may your return bring news of victory."

The hall shook with cries of "Fire and Blood" and "Seven save the Queen". In the midst of the sendoff, Addam turned to his grandfather, who whispered a few words in his ear. He nodded, before turning to face her and make his way over to her.

Brushing some silver strands of hair from his eyes, Addam smiled. "My grandfather tells me that you eagerly await news of your Moondancer."

Baela nodded eagerly. "Indeed, I do. It has been far too long since I have been able to see her, let alone go for a ride."

Addam nodded. "You will be pleased to hear that she continues to grow. Soon, she'll be large enough to devour a whole ox."

Baela couldn't wait to see such things for herself. "I thank you for bringing me such tidings, Ser."

Addam looked at his feet before continuing. "My Lady, if I may be so bold, might I make a request of you?"

Baela couldn't help but be intrigued. "Go on, Ser."

"I will soon fly, to an uncertain fate. Over these last few weeks since your arrival, I can assure you I have been quite taken by your beauty. You would do me a great honor if you would allow me to carry your favor along with me for the duration of this task."

Baela's stomach lurched. "I…"

Glancing over Addam's shoulder, she saw her grandfather watching them with great interest. I could give much away by refusing, but I cannot in good conscience agree to such an act. Addam stared at her expectantly. Suddenly, her grandfather's behavior over the last several weeks began to make much more sense. He seeks to solidify Addam's claims to Driftmark with a marital alliance. And what better partner than his own granddaughter? Despite her misgivings, she knew what she had to do.

"I… cannot grant you such a boon in good faith Ser." She paused. "I hope you can forgive me?"

Addam's eyes widened in surprise. Evidently he was not prepared for this response. "I… suppose I can find forgiveness in my heart, my Lady."

As he turned from her, his face must have given away what had transpired to their grandfather. Corlys' eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing. Baela felt a chill run down her spine. Please, grandfather. Don't start asking too many questions.

Chapter Text

Tumbleton

Gaemon

Initially, nothing about the morning seemed out of place. Gaemon had risen from his bed, shaking his weary form awake, before gazing out from the narrow windows of the Lord's chamber at the yard below, watching the servants scurry about fulfilling their first tasks for the day. He felt particularly strong sympathy for a lad who was struggling to carry a full chamberpot out of the castle, holding it gingerly to avoid any spills. That was me, less than a year ago.

Opening the trunk at the base of his bed, he went about donning his riding leathers, preparing himself mentally for another day of searching the lands watered by the Red Fork for any sign of the Kinslayer. Frustratingly, despite riding the oldest and largest of the dragons, Aemond had proven to be an elusive enemy. In this past week or so, he's shown a remarkable degree of restraint. When they had departed, Gaemon and Maegor had been informed that Aemond's was a brash, cruel, and headstrong personality. It seemed the war had calmed him, or at the very least impressed upon him the value of patience. That still does not explain his ability to seemingly know of our movements the moment we make them. Each day, they had ranged further from Pinkmaiden, their searches taking them further and further north. Riverrun's obstinate insistence on neutrality was also proving troublesome, as they were forced to steer clear of Riverrun and its associated lands. For all we know, the Tullys could be hiding Aemond. Sooner or later, they planned on paying Lord Grover Tully a visit, and impressing upon him the value of cooperation.

As he finished dressing for the day, he turned to Maegor, who'd done the same. The fellow seed had finally taken Gaemon's advice the last several nights, asking Pinkmaiden's maester for a dram of milk of the poppy before bed each night to ease him into a calm, dreamless slumber. Since doing so, his dreams had ceased tormenting him, and he was finally beginning to show signs of being well-rested again. They made their way to the chamber's door, and Gaemon simulated an overexaggerated courtier's bow, allowing Maegor to exit the chamber first with the words: "after you, m'lord."

They descended the winding stairs of the tower into the great hall quickly, finding Lord Stanton and his sisters breaking their fast. As they entered the hall, the Piper siblings stood in unison, allowing the seeds to take their seats before they returned to theirs. Melony, or 'Mel' as she insisted Gaemon call her, was in good spirits. As a servant hurried over to offer him a bowl of honeyed porridge and a freshly baked apple tart, she began to speak.

"Gaemon, you won't believe me, but last night I had the most fantastical of dreams. I dreamt that you returned this evening with news that you vanquished the Kinslayer. You presented me with the sapphire he wore in place of his lost eye, insisting that I wear it as a token of your gratitude." She giggled, and Gaemon couldn't help but smile. "It was ever so ghoulish, but I couldn't refuse you, so I began searching for a goldsmith. I was ever so disappointed to wake up!" She paused, grinning. Placing her hand on his, she continued: "I must know, do you think a sapphire would compliment my features? And should I have it set in gold, or silver?"

Gaemon chuckled. Her tenacity is to be respected, even though she herself knows it is a futile endeavor. "I think we ought to pose that question to Aemond, as ultimately he has a bit more at stake in the matter."

Melony pursed her lips. "Aemond is a cruel sort. He'd never be so charitable as to donate a bauble to enhance a woman's beauty."

Gaemon sighed sarcastically. "Truly, his selfishness knows no bounds."

Before their banter could continue, the bells of Pinkmaiden's sept began to clang frantically. A few moments later, an older man, clad in mail and leathers, burst into the hall.

"Dragon m'lord! Approaching from the East. One o' the lads spotted it a few moments ago.

Gaemon felt a cold chill in his stomach. Acting out of instinct, he sprang up from his seat and ran across the hall. We should have never left such an easily exploitable opening in our defenses. All is lost if I cannot reach the Cannibal in time. To his right he saw Maegor sprinting for the doors of the hall. Both of their dragons roosted on the hillside right outside of the castle walls, but given how quickly a dragon flew, they'd likely never reach them in time. As they entered the courtyard, a dragon's screech split the early morning air. He could feel the air in the courtyard buffet him from the beat of the dragon's wings. He turned to face the dragon, intending to die with a curse on his lips, before feeling his fear replaced by confusion. One hundred feet above him, gently flapping its wings to remain aloft, was a pale silver-grey dragon, instead of a monstrous green beast. I should have inquired about the dragon's color. Gaemon began to laugh.

It had not taken long for Seasmoke and it's rider to land outside the castle walls. Both the Grey Ghost and the Cannibal seemed to be ambivalent towards it; while not overtly hostile it was clear that they had not had many interactions with the silver-grey beast previously. The three dragons stared at one another somewhat cautiously as their three riders conversed. Addam Velaryon, clad in his silver and sea-green, greeted them somberly after he had dismounted. He did not take long to get to the point.

"Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer have forsaken the Queen's cause. Instead of defending Tumbleton and its loyal lord, they put it to the torch and allowed the Greens to put it to the sack. Her Grace has ordered me to retrieve the both of you, so that we might bring Fire and Blood to the betrayers before they can properly menace King's Landing."

Gaemon was stunned, and glancing at Maegor, could see that he felt the same. Ulf and Hugh were arseholes, to be sure, but betrayal? Have they gone mad? A chill ran down his spine. So that's what they meant when they spoke with us within the Dragonpit. The more he thought about it, the less surprising their actions were. Would that I had known what they were planning then. I cannot change the past, but I can make sure that this is their last crime. He clenched his fist. He knew what they had to do.

A few moments later, the three seeds found themselves in Pinkmaiden's hall. A table had been moved to the center of the room, and the maester had spread a map of the Seven Kingdoms before them, apologizing that it was "a bit outdated, surveyed in the reign of the Old King."

Assuring the maester it was no trouble, he turned to the map. Tumbleton itself was a few hundred leagues from Pinkmaiden, resting along the headwaters of the Mander. A mere fifty or so leagues from the capital. It took us hours to fly from King's Landing to Pinkmaiden. We must needs depart soon, time will be of the essence.

Clearing his throat, he spoke up. "As we all can see, we will need to depart as soon as possible in order to reach our target within a day's time. The enemy possesses three dragons, two of which are of much greater size and strength than either the Grey Ghost or Seasmoke. We have two advantages: surprise, and our speed. We will need to make good use of both in order to overcome our foes."

Pausing, he worked out the details in his head. "This is what I propose: We will depart immediately, following the Blackwater Rush until we reach the bridge where the Goldroad crosses it. Afterwards, we will turn due south. If we follow this correctly, we ought to be positioning ourselves to arrive over Tumbleton in the early morning hours, perhaps ideally during the hour of the nightingale. When we are close, the Hightower army's campfires will light our approach." He raised his gaze, looking from Addam, to Maegor. Purple and Blue eyes gazed back, hardened with resolve.

"We will bring Fire and Blood to these animals, and give them a chance to reap what they've sown. We shall impress upon them the terror of a dragon's ire." The other two seeds nodded. "The army of the Hightowers is nothing without their dragons. Our attack will force our true enemies to take to the skies, where, luck willing, we will slay them."

Maegor leaned over, studying the map one final time, before meeting his gaze. "I have one favor to ask of you, Gaemon."

Raising an eyebrow, he nodded for him to continue.

"Leave the sot to me."

Gaemon nodded gravely, before smiling a cold, cruel smile. "I'd have expected nothing less."

Turning to Addam, he continued. "Your Seasmoke is a good deal older than Prince Daeron's Tessarion. Do whatever it takes to bring them down. In most circumstances, the Prince would make for an excellent hostage. In light of his recent actions, however, just kill the bastard."

Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself for the final foe. "Hugh Hammer flies Vermithor, the Old King's own dragon. The Bronze Fury is easily the second largest living dragon. As the rider of the largest dragon available to us, I will be responsible for bringing the smith's bastard down." Running a hand through his hair, he smiled, willing his apprehension away. "It is time to see just how vicious of a bugger the Cannibal really is."

The other two seeds were silent, but they nodded their agreement to the plan. Turning to Lord Stanton and his sisters, who had stood in silence during the planning, Gaemon addressed them.

"Lord Stanton, while our stay has been sadly been cut short, I want to take the opportunity to thank you for your hospitality. I will make sure that her Grace the Queen is well-informed of the succor you provided. I will always count House Piper amongst my friends."

Lord Stanton smiled, and bowed. Turning to Lady Melony, he took her hand, placing a kiss upon it, before meeting her eyes.

"Lady Mel… I want to thank you for all you have done. You've made me feel truly welcome in your home, and taught me to appreciate the art of dancing. For that, you'll have my eternal gratitude. I hope our paths cross again." With a wink, he added: "besides, I'll still owe you that sapphire."

Smiling, Melony nodded, before planting a kiss on his cheek as quickly as lightning. She is good, he thought with a smile.

Maegor was the next to pay his respects, thanking Lord Stanton and the Lady Catelyn for their impeccable hosting. Planting a kiss on the Lady Catelyn's outstretched hand, he blushed as she returned the favor with a kiss on his cheek. Gaemon resisted the powerful urge to comment on his friend's embarrassment.

Addam thanked the Piper's for sharing their home briefly, and apologized for alarming them earlier. Turning, the three exited into the yard, and squires assisted them in donning their black plate. As the dark steel enveloped him, he was struck by the irony of the situation. The last time the Pipers hosted a claimant, it was the rightful heir Aegon, preparing to fight his uncle for his rights. Now, they are hosts to a second Maegor, fighting against a second Aegon. The gods do love their cruel ironies.

Buckling his sword belt to his waist, he took his dragon whip in hand, exiting the castle along with the others. Pulling his leather bag from around his neck, he withdrew Baela's lock of hair, giving it a kiss for good luck, before returning it safely to around his chest. The other seeds starred inquisitively, and Gaemon could have sworn he saw some sort of reaction in Addam's eyes.

Reaching the dragons, he cracked the whip for good measure, and the Cannibal's massive, coal black form stirred, uncoiling and gazing at him with eyes of wildfire. After the saddle was affixed, he climbed atop his mount, fastening his chains, before cracking the whip once more. The mass of rippling scale and muscle beneath him lurched forward, beating its great leathery wings several times before finally propelling itself aloft. As he gazed beneath him, the walls of Pinkmaiden swarmed with smallfolk, servants, and guards. On the battlements above the gate, Lord Stanton and his sisters grew smaller and smaller, waving goodbye.

They flew throughout the day, and into the night. As the sun fell, cold winds buffeted them. It seems the winds of winter have finally arrived. It proved easy enough to follow the Blackwater Rush as they had planned, and despite his initial concerns, they were able to find the great stone bridge that marked the next leg of their journey. Turning south, they flew over the vast fields of the northern Reach, as of yet largely unspoiled by war. Tiny villages and holdfasts flew by beneath them, their torchlight the only sign of human occupancy. Gaemon began to fear that they might have missed Tumbleton altogether, but as they flew further south, he began to smell smoke in the air. At first he thought he might've been imagining, but the smell grew more and more powerful as time went on. Soon, a sea of campfires became visible on the horizon, and with it, the smell of rotting corpses. Fighting the urge to gag, he steeled himself for the great test to come. As the smell grew stronger and more sickening, a thought crossed his mind: I have not exposed men to a dragon's flaming wroth since the Gullet, but I can think of no host so deserving of it.

As they flew over the sea of campfires, he could see a vast army asleep beneath him, completely unaware of their doom above them. What remained of Tumbleton still smoked beneath him, and in the fields beyond sat the great tents and pavilions of the Lords of the Reach, almost too many to count. Cracking his whip, he urged the Cannibal to roar. His mount did not disappoint. It's roar echoed across the stones of the ruined city and amidst the camps below. Gaemon tensed as the sound poured over him. For the Queen. For Baela. For Prince Jacaerys. For the people of Bitterbridge and Tumbleton. Fire and Blood.

The Cannibal's first great green gout of flame caught a row of tents along the Mander alight, it's heat so intense that those struck virtually evaporated. Several more rows of tents nearby caught alight simply due to their proximity to the blast. The shores of the Mander were soon awash in flames, the green pyres dancing in the night. Further afield, the Grey Ghost and Seasmoke bathed other portions of the camp in hellfire, and it wasn't long before shouts of surprise turned to screams of pain and terror below them. It was akin to the times he had poked an anthill as a child. In mere moments, hundreds of men streamed from their tents, some aflame, running this way and that in sheer panic. Despite the horror of the scene below him, and despite the sickening smells of burning flesh, Gaemon was at peace with his actions. This was long overdue. Again and again he brought the Cannibal swooping across the fields, feeling the intense heat wash over him each time he grew close to the surface, his dragon's flames immolating those beneath them.

The sun began to dawn on a Tumbleton once more awash in flame. The three seeds spared the city for two reasons: firstly, they wished to spare any surviving townspeople the horror of their flames, and secondly, they predicted that the betrayers would be within the city, and wished to draw them out. As he continued to burn the army beneath him, Gaemon gripped his whip tightly. Come on you bastards, you can't have been killed already! Come on, and FACE us! After he had destroyed another portion of the camp, setting some orange tents with three castles upon them alight, he got his answer.

From within the city, a massive roar split the skies, echoed quickly by another. From within Tumbleton's keep, two magnificent beasts took to the air, the morning sun glinting off of their bronze and silver scales. From amidst the fields, another roar sounded, and a young cobalt dragon lifted itself into the sky. Seasmoke and its rider cut a strafing run short, soaring to meet Tessarion. The silver-grey and cobalt dragons began to chase one another, blue and silver blasts of flame lighting up the morning sky. As they wheeled and danced amidst the clouds, Gaemon was taken aback by the beauty of the sight. It is as though they are dancing.

Shaking his head, he turned. Grey Ghost darted from amidst a group of clouds, roaring and sending a blast of roiling white flame at Silverwing. The much larger dragon screamed in protest before flying after its attacker. Good luck, Maegor. The Bronze Fury wheeled about above Tumbleton's citadel, gaining altitude, before turning and flying towards Gaemon and the Cannibal, roaring its challenge. The Cannibal's response was chilling. Instead of roaring a response, it simply hissed. From where he was perched, he could see his mount open its maw, baring its coal black fangs as smoke billowed out between them. It's eyes were more alight than he'd ever seen them. The two dragons crossed the distance between them quickly, and he braced himself for impact. Vermithor roared once more, its great bronze maw opening to release a searing jet of brass flames. The Cannibal rolled in the air, gracefully avoiding the majority of the blast, before twisting its form back as Vermithor gathered its breath for another. It would not get the opportunity, however, as the coal black dragon slammed headlong into the larger beast midair.

Both beasts struggled to remain aloft as they tore at one another, using their legs and wicked talons to try and gain purchase on the other. The sheer force of the impact rattled Gaemon, and were it not for his saddle chains he'd have plummeted to his death hundreds of feet below. From his vantage point, he could not see all that was happening, but he could hear the sounds of claws scraping while great scaled jaws snapped and hissed. Suddenly, Vermithor's great bronze head drew back, revealing that once more its brass flames welled within its maw. Given the proximity, the blast was likely to kill them both. As Vermithor inhaled, Gaemon closed his eyes, preparing himself. The end never came. Instead, he heard the sound of jaws snapping shut and a gurgling, draconic yelp.

Opening his eyes, he saw coal black jaws enclosed around a bronze neck. Vermithor struggled in the vice, its smoking blood pouring from the Cannibal's jaws. It scrabbled desperately with its claws and wings, and Gaemon narrowly avoided being crushed as one wing clawed along his mount's spiked back for purchase. His dragon twisted beneath him violently, its muscled form surging all at once. A ear splitting crack sounded, and Vermithor went still. Its powerful bronze form began to plummet towards the earth, its jaws hanging open limply while dark blood poured from its neck. Perched atop its back, Hugh Hammer cracked his whip about desperately, clearly unwilling to accept what had transpired. The fallen dragon grew more distant with each passing second, until it collided with the earth, sending a great cloud of dust and smoke swirling into the air. The Cannibal beat its wings powerfully, oblivious to its many wounds, as it gazed at its fallen foe. Its roar shattered the heavens.

Maegor

Though the sun was beginning to rise in the east, the camp burned brightly enough below to rival even sunlight in its intensity. Many of the pavilions and tents had become a twisting, churning inferno, burning with a sorcerous green, pearly white, or smoky silver color. It hadn't taken long for their true quarry to climb into the sky on dragonback. As bronze Vermithor and Silverwing took to the air from the ruined town of Tumbleton, a cobalt dragon took to the sky from within the midst of the burning camp.

Good, Maegor thought, I won't suffer any of these dragonriders escaping this fight. As Silverwing and Vermithor flew forth from Tumbleton, Maegor urged Grey Ghost further into the clouds above. As he and the Grey Ghost were enveloped by a cloud, Maegor suddenly saw naught but white, wispy mist. It was as though he were out on the waters off Dragonstone again on some early morn, catching fish. Maegor shivered within his armor. The early winter air was cold, and Maegor had found the air became cooler and thinner the further into the skies one soared.

Just as suddenly as he and the Grey Ghost had entered the cloud, they had broken free of it, and Maegor once again was greeted by the sight of a world awash in flame far below him. He was flying at a height above Silverwing, as he had hoped. Turning the Grey Ghost in the direction of the Sot's dragon, Maegor urged it to dive straight down at the dragon. As it did, the Grey Ghost unleashed a jet of its blisteringly-hot pearl white flame at Silverwing.

Though Ulf and his mount were surprised by Maegor's sudden attack, they were largely able to avoid the flame. To do so, however, Silverwing had to violently jerk to the side as it flew, causing it to shriek loudly in rage. In that moment, Maegor was so close to the other dragon and its rider that he could see Ulf perched atop its back, wearing bits and pieces of his black steel plate. I'd wager that he shambled out of some drunken stupor to take flight.

The Sot was missing much of his armor, including his helm. The instant in which Maegor saw Ulf atop Silverwing seemed to drag on for a lifetime. The other seed's hazel eyes glared hatefully at Maegor, as he raised and cracked his whip about Silverwing's head. The feeling is mutual, you wine-soaked traitor. One of us will be dead before the morning is done, and I certainly don't intend for it to be me.

The Grey Ghost gracefully twisted and turned clear of a blast of flame that Silverwing sent at it, and at Maegor's urging, began to fly away quickly. As Maegor had hoped, Ulf gave furious pursuit atop his own mount, flying further and further away from his fellow dragonriders as they fought their own battles in the sky. Maegor smiled grimly beneath his helm. The best that he could do for Gaemon and Addam was to ensure that they were able to take on their foes without fear of being attacked by another enemy dragon.

Maegor flew in the direction of the Mander, which flowed alongside Tumbleton. Below him, he could see many soldiers of the Hightower army fleeing towards its waters to escape the growing inferno behind them. The fields and grasses that they had encamped in were brittle and dry as winter arrived, and proved excellent kindling to spread the dragonflame rapidly in all directions.

Though the Grey Ghost was capable of flying much faster on such a clear morn, Maegor only allowed him to fly fast enough to stay just out of reach of Silverwing and her flames. Reaching the wide waters of the Mander, Maegor turned the Grey Ghost and flew southwest along them, waiting for Ulf to commit to following his route before he sprang his trap.

"NOW!" Maegor shouted, and the Grey Ghost shot a jet of its pearl-white flame directly into the Mander below it as it flew. The water at the surface boiled instantly, and great white plumes of super-heated mist shot near instantaneously into the air, a miasma that was as suffocating as it was disorienting.

Without hesitation, Maegor urged the Grey Ghost straight up into the air, as fast as the dragon could fly. The jarring sensation of flying straight up at such an intense speed nearly made Maegor vomit, and he had to swallow some bile as it roiled briefly in his throat. Looking down at the large cloud of mist below him and the Grey Ghost, Maegor waited for his opportunity.

Just as he had hoped, Silvering broke free of the cloud at a much lower height, both dragon and rider unsuspecting of Maegor and the Grey Ghost's deception. The moment he spotted them, Maegor urged the Grey Ghost down towards them from directly above, with as much speed as possible. The Ghost descended the distance between itself and Silverwing in hardly more than a heartbeat, its massive razor-sharp claws extended.

For a scant moment, Maegor watched as Ulf the Sot was enveloped by shadow and twisted in his saddle to look up at his doom. It all happened so quickly that the man had no time to react. In one moment he sat atop his dragon, clutching his whip and looking at the dragon bearing down on him as his brittle white hair whipped about in the wind. In the next, he had been crushed beneath the Grey Ghost's claws.

The impact of the Grey Ghost slamming into Silverwing from above sent a jarring strum of pain throughout the entirety of Maegor's body. He felt for a moment as though he were a string on a bard's lute that had just been plucked, as the collision rattled him to his core. Maegor rocked forward violently in his saddle, his saddle chains straining to keep him from being thrown free and plummeting to his death.

Below him, Silverwing let out an ear-piercing shriek of pain and fury as the Grey Ghost's talons sank deep into the meat of her back, tearing savagely at the muscles and tendons that connected Silverwing's wings to the rest of her body. Maegor urged the Grey Ghost back into the air with urgency, cracking his whip desperately. If Silverwing manages to in some way seize Grey Ghost, we will all fall to the earth and die.

Thankfully, the Grey Ghost was able to tear his talons free of Silverwing and fling himself back into the sky as Silverwing continued to plummet downwards. Boiling blood was gushing from the massive rents along her back, but she managed to shakily extend her wings and careen in a controlled spiral to the bank of the Mander below. She crashed and skidded along the ground, before turning her head to the sky and letting forth one final enraged shriek to the heavens. Turning the Grey Ghost back in the direction of the burning camp, Maegor flew towards it with cold and hateful intent. I'm not nearly finished.

Maegor felt a sense of relief when he saw Gaemon still in the air atop Cannibal. He must have won. But where are Hugh and Vermithor? He found his answer moments later, when a glance at the inferno below revealed the broken form of Vermithor sprawled lifelessly amongst the blazing tents and pavilions.

A piercing shriek caught Maegor's attention, and when he turned to look, he saw Tessarion descending haphazardly from the early morning sky, with massive tears along her wings that greatly impeded her movements and hastened her descent. It crashed to the ground on its belly, and dragged itself a short distance before expiring and going still. Addam Velaryon circled above his kill in the sky for several moments, before turning his attention and that of his dragon Seasmoke back to the camp below.

Maegor did the same, turning the Grey Ghost in the direction of a mob of fleeing soldiers making a break from the camp's southern edge. The Grey Ghost cut a burning swathe through them with pearl-white hellfire, and Maegor watched with grim satisfaction as the survivors of his attack desperately scattered in all directions. He felt no pity or remorse as he watched men burn and writhe below him, their distant howls and shrieks almost mingling with the roaring crackle of flame.

Let them have a taste of Hell now, before they languish in it for eternity. The people of Bitterbridge and Tumbleton had been burned, raped, and murdered, with their corpses left to rot in the sun amongst the ruins of what had once been their homes. And we, the Queen's dragonriders, sat doing nothing in King's Landing while her people suffered and died. The army of House Hightower had accrued an evil and blood-soaked debt as they marched to King's Landing, and Maegor was more than willing to make them pay the price.

Flying further south, Maegor began setting tall grasses alight, watching with satisfaction as cold winter winds blew the flames north, in the direction of the camp and fleeing soldiers. It's as though the Gods themselves are making their wroth known. Maegor's fist was clutching the handle of his dragonwip so tightly that it was beginning to cause him pain. He only clutched it tighter, and felt his heart harden. There will be no escape.

Maegor continued to burn the camp below, and any soldiers that were unfortunate enough to catch his attention as they fled. He felt as though his blood was boiling in his veins, and his heart hammered painfully against his ribcage. Maegor's teeth were gritted together so tightly that his breaths came in short, hissing gasps. Burn. Burn and die.

How much senseless suffering and destruction had been caused by these men? How many innocent lives ended in agony on the whims of evil men who thought that they would face no retribution? I am the retribution. The Grey Ghost and I are the Stranger made flesh, and I will send every last one of them to Hell in shrouds of flame.

Maegor had never truly realized the depths of anger and hatred that resided in the darkest corners of his soul. All his life, he had watched people be taken advantage of, from the village he was born in, to the castles he now walked the halls of. He had never understood why some people took such pleasure in inflicting cruelties on others, and over the years of his life such confusion had turned into a burning anger. Maegor had gotten so good at hiding the anger within himself that sometimes he himself forgot that it always remained, a red-hot ember that never extinguished.

Blood of the Dragon, his father Denys had called such anger. Within their village, Silver Denys and his sons had been notorious for their fearsome tempers, with the exception of Maegor. Denys had taken pride in the rage and wroth that his elder sons had occasionally exhibited, claiming that such displays proved that the blood of King Maegor the Cruel flowed strongly in their veins.

Maegor's temperament had never entirely pleased his father. Such a quiet boy, the people of the village would say. When he was a child, before the death of his mother, the cabin boy of a visiting ship had beaten Maegor and stolen a wooden toy that Denys had carved for his nameday. When he had run home to the arms of his mother in tears, Denys had grown wroth with him, shouting that "no descendant of King Maegor gives up without a fight".

In the end, Maegor had made his way back up to the village, sniffling and dreading having to fight the cabin boy again. However, he quickly found out that Gaemon had already hunted down the cabin boy and beaten him bloody, taking back the carved toy. With a grin and a bloody nose, Gaemon had returned the toy to Maegor. Though Maegor was grateful to his friend, he had felt a sudden embarrassment and shame for not being able to win his own fight. More than shame, however, Maegor had felt rage.

It has always been there, Maegor thought as he burned another row of tents. He supposed that he was much like the Dragonmont. Large and outwardly placid, but with a searing fire burning in its heart. And when I am provoked… Maegor realized that his rage was rather like a volcano erupting as well. My fire will burn them all to ash.

It was then that Maegor noticed that white flags were beginning to appear throughout the burning camp. Bloody and soot-stained, any piece of white cloth that could be scrounged was tied to spears, axe hafts, and poles before being flung desperately into the air. They are unconditionally surrendering. They want succor. Maegor's heart and resolve hardened. No. They all must needs burn and die.

However, Maegor could see that both Cannibal and Seasmoke had stopped their burning and began to circle in the sky, clearly planning on ending their attack. Looking down, Maegor could see that the camp was an utter ruin. The flames burned as far as the eye could see, and even as high in the sky as he was, Maegor could see countless charred corpses strewn in the hundreds, if not thousands, below.

It isn't enough, Maegor thought, his vision tinged red in its corners. They spared none, so why should we? He knew that if he continued his burning, Gaemon and Addam would be unable to accept the survivors' surrender. I am the blood of King Maegor, and I will burn all my enemies to ash, as he did. Unbidden, a memory of Septon Bennard slipped out from the edge of his thoughts, struggling to be seen through the haze of hate and rage.

"I HATE them!" Maegor had shouted, referring to the other children in the almshouse. They incessantly called him names, and hit him when he tried to play with them after they had all finished their chores for the day.

"They are young like you Maegor, and many were abandoned here by their parents the moment they were born. They have known naught but grief all their lives, and such pain turns the hearts of many cruel." Bennard responded sympathetically, with a sorrowful expression on his face.

"I know grief too!" Maegor shouted back, feeling hot tears run down his cheeks. He missed his mother every day, and wanted nothing more than to go home and see his brothers and father again. He couldn't bring himself to understand why his father had left him at the almshouse, where he was miserable and had nothing to do but read the books and scraps of parchment that Septon Bennard gave him.

"I know you do, Maegor," Septon Bennard began, placing a kind hand on Maegor's shoulder. "And I also know how easy it is to hate." Bennard smiled gently. "It is harder, however, to be the one to take a step back, or to lower a clenched fist than to strike with it."

Bennard squeezed Maegor's shoulder. "You're strong Maegor, stronger than most people I have known. And you have a kind heart. That is rarer still. Being the better person is one of the hardest things in the world to do, and most are too weak to even try. But you have that strength, Maegor. If you ignore it, then it will go to waste and be lost forever. However, if you cultivate it, you will have a treasure that even Kings will envy, and no-one will be able to take from you as long as you live."

Scrubbing the tears from his cheeks with his arm, Maegor nodded at the Septon. "I'll try, Septon Bennard," he said quietly.

Septon Bennard beamed at him. "That is all that any of us can do."

Maegor took a deep breath, and felt the inferno of hate and rage within him recede. Looking down on the destruction beneath him and the Grey Ghost, he no longer felt any grim satisfaction with what he saw. It's over. The blood debt has been paid. The survivors below him were utterly broken, surrounded by the twisted and charred corpses of their comrades. Even more continued to flee in scattered groups south.

Maegor turned the Grey Ghost to join the Cannibal and Seasmoke in their descent to the ground. Maegor frowned as he looked at the burned remains of Tumbleton. I have in no way forgiven them for their evil. But they have also surrendered. They are no longer mine to judge with dragonflame. They shall face the Queen's judgement now.

Chapter Text

Hobert IV

The three dragonriders awaited them on a sparse hillside beyond the burning remains of the army's camp. Hobert looked around as though he were in a dream, a particularly horrific nightmare that he desperately hoped to wake from. There had been a morning chill to the air, but following the attack it was as hot as the brightest summer day. Hobert smelled naught but ash, and had to be mindful to avoid several patches of flame that still burned brightly on the ground amongst the ashes of the dry grasses they'd consumed.

Hobert sat atop an unfamiliar mount, given to him by one of Jon Roxton's knights. The knight of the Ring had taken up residence within the former Lord Footly's bedchamber inside Tumbleton's castle, and because of it had completely avoided the devastating attack of the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders. Bold Jon and his men had sallied forth from the ruins of the town as the burning stopped, only to find hollow-eyed men covered in ash and clutching makeshift white flags and banners of surrender.

Roxton rode alongside Hobert now, among several surviving Lords and landed knights of the army that had been scrounged from amongst the ashes of the camp. A scarce few men, considering the multitude of nobility we counted amongst our ranks even a day before. The other men riding along with Hobert and Ser Jon included Lord Unwin Peake, Hobert's goodson and head of House Norcross Ser Tyler, and Ser Roger Corne, one of the knights of the Blackwater loyal to King Aegon who had thrown open the gates of Tumbleton to Lord Ormund's army. Of the other landed knights and Lords of the army, Hobert knew nothing of their fates. And mayhaps we never will. Many of the corpses that he'd passed were so horrifically charred and burned that there was no way to identify the men they once were.

Of the party riding to meet the usurper's dragonriders, only Jon Roxton truly looked the part of a nobleman, sitting tall in full plate and wearing a blue surcoat bearing the golden rings of his House's sigil in gold thread. The rest of the Lords and knights wore scorched clothing, and were caked in so much gray ash that they had the look of ghosts. Most including Hobert sat numbly in their saddles, regarding the world around them expressionlessly through vacant eyes. Though his clothes were as burned and coated in ash as Hobert's, Lord Unwin Peake clutched his reins tightly, a defiant fire still burning within his eyes.

No such defiance remained within Hobert. We have been soundly defeated. It's over. Hobert hoped that Rhaenyra Targaryen would allow him a quick death. Let me pay the price on my family's behalf. He dreaded what fate the usurper had in mind for House Hightower. At this point, my kin will have to consider themselves lucky if Rhaenyra does naught more than issue bills of attainder. Though he had been accompanied by plenty of very distant cousins, Hobert was the last of the members of the main line of House Hightower who had marched from Oldtown to uphold King Aegon's rights. And my life will end at the executioner's block, rather than as I'd always hoped it would, within my cherished home, the Hightower.

The ride up the hillside did not take long, and Hobert reined in his borrowed horse along with the others as they came to face the three dragons that had brought such devastation to their army. The smallest was a grey-white color, while the second largest had scales of pale silver-grey. The largest dragon was significantly larger than the other two, with jet black scales and burning green eyes that Hobert could hardly bring himself to look upon.

The three dragonriders all continued to sit atop their dragons, but had removed their helms. Of the three, only one bore the fabled looks of Valyria. The other two look decidedly… common. The rider atop the massive black dragon had red hair and green eyes, while the rider on the small grey-white dragon had brown hair and blue-grey eyes. The red-haired dragonrider was the first to speak, his voice cold and dispassionate. "Based on the tattered white rags you raised, we hope that you have come to offer your unconditional surrender. The Queen will be most eager to hear of our victory here today."

Beside Hobert, Jon Roxton tensed in his saddle. By the Gods, Jon, please don't try anything. One wrong move or word will mean the death of all of us that remain. Bold Jon, blessedly, relaxed his posture after a moment, but made his disdain for the riders known through a cold and chilling glare.

Whether or not the riders had seen Roxton's demeanor, the silver-haired dragonrider began to speak, motioning at his two fellows beside him as he did so. "We do not wish to tarry here long. We must needs negotiate the exact terms of your capitulation as soon as possible." The other two riders said nothing, but the red-haired rider was nodding in agreement at the silver-haired rider's words. The brown-haired rider did naught but clutch his black steel winged helm in a white-knuckled grip, glaring at Hobert and the others with such a cold ferocity that Hobert nearly shivered in his saddle.

As Hobert did his best to maintain his bearing while a deep sense of dread threatened to overtake him, Lord Unwin Peake spoke up, his tone cool and composed. "Such terms shall be discussed and agreed to as soon as possible, Sers. However, none of us can in good faith draft any terms until we are sure of the fates of the other Lords and landed knights of this army, as well as the Prince Daeron." The sight of the Lord of Starpike, Whitegrove, and Dunstonbury speaking with such authority despite being caked in ash and wearing singed raiments was ridiculous enough to make Hobert's fear-addled mind nearly force a laugh from his lips. Instead, Hobert let out a ragged cough and drew a shaking hand across his forehead, trying in vain to clean some of the ashes from his face.

The brown-haired dragonrider was the next to speak, glaring at the Lords and landed knights before him as his voice grated forth from teeth that were nearly gritted together. "I think not, my Lord. You are mistaken if you believe that you and your fellows wield any sort of bargaining power within these negotiations. The three of us will give you the remainder of this day to locate any other surviving Lords and landed knights of the army, as well as Prince Daeron. But come morn tomorrow, we will all begin drafting the terms of your surrender."

Lord Peake nodded his assent to the dragonrider's words, but his face was taut with rage. Hobert, Jon Roxton, and the other Lords and landed knights muttered their assent, before they all turned their mounts and rode back downhill into the ruins of their encampment.

"And you're sure that that is all of them?" Hobert asked, dismayed. Maester Aubrey nodded grimly in response to Hobert's question. Though many pavilions throughout the camp had been immolated, one of the largest remaining ones had been given to the surviving maesters of the army to tend to the wounded. Though Hobert's attendant knight Ser Jared was nowhere to be found, maester Aubrey had survived the wroth of the dragons and was now doing what he could to treat the awful wounds of the few men of the army that had survived being burned by dragonflame. It seems most will not be alive by morn tomorrow, however.

Hobert and Aubrey currently stood before a cot that contained Lord Owen Fossoway. Or rather, what remains of him, Hobert thought with a grimace. As bad as the man's burns were, it was a wonder to Hobert that the Lord of Cider Hall still drew breath. As horrid a thought as it was, Hobert wondered if mayhaps he should have died earlier in the day. It seems that death is a far kinder fate than lying on a cot in agonizing pain as the Stranger tirelessly approaches.

Of all the assembled nobility of the Reach within the army, a scarce few still lived as evening arrived. Beyond the Lords and landed knights that had attended the earlier parley with the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders, only Lord Owen Fossoway and Lord Richard Rodden had been found alive amongst the ashes of the army's camp. And Lord Fossoway will join all the others in death before the sunrise tomorrow.

Lord Rodden's fate appeared less grim, however. Maester Aubrey had informed Hobert that the burns to Lord Richard's left leg had been so grievous that he had amputated it beneath the knee. However, the maester was confident that the man would survive as long as infection didn't set in. One bit of good news in an otherwise truly awful day.

The Prince Daeron was another story, however. Hobert had learned that several men-at-arms had found the Prince alive and dragged him from the back of his dying dragon earlier that day, as the camp burned. Hobert had scarcely been able to believe the extent of the Prince's wounds when maester Aubrey had described them, and feared that the Prince would not take long in following his dragon from the world of the living. Despite his truly horrific wounds, however, the Prince Daeron continued to cling to life. Maester Aubrey had said that he and the other maesters would do what they could for Alicent's youngest son, but Hobert had little hope.

Hobert had wanted to visit his young kinsman in the tent the maesters had provided him, but Aubrey had asked that Hobert wait some time to see the Prince. "I spent the better part of the afternoon treating his wounds, Ser Hobert, and what he needs now more than anything is rest," the maester had said, and Hobert acquiesced to his wishes.

Bidding his goodbyes to Aubrey, Hobert exited the maesters' pavilion, and began making his way to the small tent that had been scrounged up for him to stay in. The damage done to their camp by dragonflame was extensive, and the survivors of the army had spent the better part of the day collecting what could be salvaged and setting up a new camp beyond the ruins of the old one. Gone were the brilliantly-colored lines of pavilions that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. All that remained were a scarce few singed and sooty tents and pavilions that had been hastily patched. Many of the survivors had no scrap of canvas to lay beneath, and would have to find whatever warmth they could sleeping under the open sky.

Earlier in the day, Hobert had finally been able to strip off his scorched garments and wash the soot and ash from his body along the bank of the Mander. Bathing in cold river water like a peasant was one of the last things that Hobert would have expected himself to be doing even a day before, but he supposed that he was lucky to still be alive and relatively unharmed after nearly burning alive. It was hard for him to feel fortunate, however, when he considered the fate that ultimately awaited him and all the other remaining leaders of the army. A quick death, if the usurper Rhaenyra is merciful. If not… Hobert shuddered to consider the alternative.

As he approached his tent, Hobert realized just how exhausted he truly was. Despite his tiredness, Hobert doubted he would get much sleep at all. I must needs try to get some, for it will be a long day tomorrow. Before pulling back the flap, however, the man-at-arms standing sentry at the tent's entrance addressed Hobert. "You have several visitors, Ser. They're waiting inside." Intrigued, Hobert nodded his thanks and stepped inside.

In the dim light of a single brazier stood Lord Unwin Peake, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne. Hobert felt a cool tingle of apprehension run down his spine as he regarded the grim expressions across all of their faces. "Ser Hobert," Lord Unwin began, "it is time that we discussed our next plan of action."

Hobert frowned in confusion before responding. "Plan, Lord Unwin? What is there to plan? There is naught that we can do now but agree to the usurper Rhaenyra's terms, lest we all doom ourselves to be burned by dragonflame."

Lord Peake crossed his arms, responding in a curt tone. "Agree to the terms they give us? Yes, I'm afraid that we must. However, that does not mean we all must needs hang our heads in shame and wait for the usurper Rhaenyra to find time to execute us all for treason." Lord Peake spat out the last word with vitriol, his face contorted with anger. A moment later, however, Lord Unwin continued to speak, his features set in a grim calmness once more. "Are you still a King's man, Ser Hobert?" Hobert nodded without hesitation. I marched to uphold King Aegon's rights, and my cousins have died doing the same. I will not abandon the cause now, even if it had the chance of saving my life.

The four men standing before Hobert all nodded in approval at him. "Good," Lord Unwin responded with a cold smile. "It seems quite likely that the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders will wish to send their Queen a message tomorrow morn, to inform her that they have defeated all of our dragonriders, and forced our army to surrender. They will surely wish for such a victory to be known to the Queen as soon as possible." Lord Unwin smiled cruelly before continuing. "And if these upjumped peasant bastards think themselves shrewd, they will likely order us all to affix our personal seals to the letter in wax, to corroborate their claims. And that is where they will gravely error."

Lord Unwin pulled a rolled-up parchment from within a small leather pouch on his swordbelt and unfurled it. From such a distance, Hobert was unable to make out the written words with his aging eyes, but the five seals affixed at the bottom in red wax were unmistakable. Three castles for House Peake, interlocked chains for House Roxton, a large cross for House Norcross, three corn cobs for House Corne, and a three-headed dragon for House Targaryen. Prince Daeron's seal, Hobert realized in astonishment. "Read it, Ser Hobert," Jon Roxton said with a grim smile, and Hobert took the letter from Lord Unwin's outstretched hand. Squinting in the dim light of the brazier, Hobert began to read the message.

To the vile Usurper Rhaenyra,

Your desperate attempt to end us with the last of your bastard dragonriders has failed. They appeared in the early morning sky atop their mounts, and dealt our army grievous harm from the sky, raining fire down onto us as we slept. However, such tricks are the work of skulking bastards, and ultimately fail when tested against the mettle of trueborn men.

The Prince Daeron, as well as the dragonriders Hugh Hammer and Ulf White, took to the sky atop their dragons and slew every last one of your dragonriders in a fierce battle among the clouds. For all their tricks, your dragonriders and their pitiful mounts could not stand against the combined might of Vermithor the Bronze Fury, Silverwing, and Tessarion.

Though our army has taken losses, we still have more than enough men to wrest control of the city of King's Landing from your thieving hands. We are but fifty leagues away, and will soon march against you with the full might of the chivalry of the Reach and three battle-tested dragons. If you don't believe us, then you are welcome to wait in vain for the return of your dragonriders. We will deliver their heads and those of their mounts to you when we take back the rightful King's city. The mummer's farce is finished, Princess Rhaenyra, and you and yours will pay dearly for your folly. May the Seven have mercy on you all, for we will not.

Hobert's eyes were wide, and he licked his lips as a wave of anxiety washed over him. "But- but how?" was all he managed to stutter out.

Lord Unwin smiled cooly as he took the letter back from Hobert. "I believe that you are the man most well-acquainted with maester Aubrey out of all of us, Ser Hobert. It was he who found the Prince's seal on Prince Daeron as he was treating him and gave it to me. And it is him who will be present at our meeting with the usurper's dragonriders tomorrow morn, and send out any messages that are drafted. It will merely be a simple matter of attaching our own message to a raven bound for King's Landing in the stead of the one that the dragonriders dictate and have us affix our seals to."

Hobert was utterly confused. "But to do so would mean that maester Aubrey is breaking his sworn vows as a maester of the Citadel. Why would he do such a thing?"

Lord Unwin's smile was sharp as a sword's edge. "Maester Aubrey was born a Prester of Feastfires, one of the chief houses in the Westerlands sworn to House Lannister. Much and more of his kin marched from Lannisport in Lord Jason Lannister's host at the war's start, and now much and more of them lay rotting in the Riverlands. So the answer is quite simple, Ser Hobert. Maester Aubrey wants revenge."

Lord Unwin's smile was replaced with a deep scowl. "Princess Rhaenyra's avarice has led to too many needless deaths, deaths that demand vengeance. Aubrey is not the only man who has lost kin to this war. Your cousins Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon are dead because of Princess Rhaenyra's folly, Ser Hobert. And mine own son-" Lord Unwin's voice cracked, and he clenched his fist, eyes blazing with hate. "Mine own son, my last son, Ser Titus, is dead because of her."

Taking a deep breath, Lord Peake stared firmly at Hobert. "And so, Ser Hobert, we need but one more seal affixed to this letter." The four men stared at Hobert expectantly, and Hobert began to feel beads of perspiration appear on his forehead.

"But… but Lord Unwin, what do you hope to achieve with this letter? By sending it, we will surely mark ourselves and the remnants of this army for death if our deception is discovered!" Hobert took a deep breath after speaking, and wrung his hands fretfully.

Lord Unwin sighed in annoyance. "If, Ser Hobert, If! No matter what we do, we are dead men if the usurper Rhaenyra wins this war. You are correct, Ser Hobert. This letter will likely achieve nothing, and we will likely burn for our deception. But if we do nothing, we will still die! By sending this letter, we give the King, and ourselves, a chance at changing our fortunes, no matter how slim that chance may be. The letter may do nothing, Ser Hobert, but it also may do something. And as our situation stands, we can currently hope for no better."

Hobert's heart was pounding in his chest. Lord Unwin's hand was outstretched, the letter clutched in his grasp. The four men before him were all waiting for Hobert to make his choice. Lord Unwin is right. We're all dead men walking, as the situation currently stands. What will the usurper Rhaenyra do to my family if she wins this war? None can truly know what problems this letter may cause for the Queen and her Lords when she receives it. This is the King's last chance, this is House Hightower's last chance, this is OUR last chance.

Hobert took the letter from Lord Peake's hand, and retrieved Lord Ormund's seal from a leather pouch on his swordbelt. Smiling, Hobert's goodson Ser Tyler held out a small pot of red wax that he had kept warming by the brazier. Bracing the letter against a scorched trunk that had been dragged from the remains of his burned pavilion, Hobert dipped Lord Ormund's seal in the wax and pressed it to the letter, watching as the shape of a stout stone tower appeared in the rapidly-drying wax. With a shaking hand, Hobert handed the letter back to Lord Unwin. It has begun. Seven save us all.

Despite being covered in soot and ash, the pavilion was still bright yellow beneath, and its entry flap was covered in red ants that had been sewn into the canvas in bright crimson thread. Though his pavilion had been spared destruction by dragonflame, Lord Marq Ambrose himself had been burned to death as he attempted to rally a large group of fleeing soldiers the day before. I suppose even the Seven have their cruel japes to play. It was in the deceased Lord Ambrose's pavilion that Hobert, Lord Peake, Ser Tyler, Jon Roxton, and Roger Corne awaited the usurper's dragonriders. Maester Aubrey was present as well, with quills, inkpots, and parchment to write with.

With a shaking hand, Hobert quaffed down another goblet of Arbor Gold. Several scorched barrels of wine were found in the ashes of the camp the night before, and Lord Unwin had ordered them dragged into Lord Ambrose's pavilion. Wine had always helped to steady Hobert's anxieties and fears, but on this morn, there was naught that could alleviate the growing terror within his heart.

"Peace, goodfather," Ser Tyler said kindly, and Hobert gave his goodson a thin smile. Hobert was a bad liar, but he would have to play along with the ruse Lord Unwin had crafted well enough so the dragonriders wouldn't expect their deception. And if it is discovered, we will all surely burn. At sixty years of age, Hobert was an old man, and had been fortunate to live many more years than most. The Seven had given him a long and prosperous life, and the prospect of dying did not frighten Hobert. Burning to death did terrify him, however.

Though he had seen Tessarion's flames at the battle on the Honeywine, Bitterbridge, and Tumbleton, it had always been from a great distance, and he had never truly witnessed the horrific sight of a person burning to death. However, that was before the usurper's dragonriders attacked the army the day previous. The scarce little sleep he had had the night before had been fraught with nightmares of the horrors he'd seen.

The older he became, the more difficult it was for Hobert to sleep throughout the night before he'd need to make water. Hobert had awoken in the pre-dawn dark with a painfully full bladder, and risen from his cot, shivering in the early winter chill as he walked to his chamber pot. Afterwards, Hobert realized that he was not likely to sleep any longer, and so he began to dress himself, not wishing to wake his squire.

The earth-shattering roar resounded across the camp as Hobert had finished shrugging on the last of his outfit for the day, a chainmail gorget around his neck. Rushing as fast as his aching legs would allow him to the entrance flap of his pavilion, Hobert flung it open and looked to the sky. Three dragons descended from the pre-dawn gloom, and the burning began moments later. One flew in the general direction of Hobert's pavilion, releasing great gouts of dark green flame from its massive black maw.

In a panic, Hobert dropped the flap closed and stumbled back, falling painfully on his arse. Moments later, an unbearable heat filled the air around him, and to Hobert's horror, he looked up to see green flame hungrily eating the canvas walls and roof of his pavilion. Hobert's squire had awoken, blinking his eyes blearily as he staggered to his feet and looked around himself in confusion and fear.

"RUN!" Hobert screamed at the boy, and when his bewildered squire hesitated, his tired mind still reeling from the sudden chaos, Hobert grabbed his shoulders and forced him towards the pavilion's flap. The boy ran. The roof of Hobert's pavilion was sagging dangerously low, and Hobert realized that he had mere moments before it completely collapsed in a flaming heap.

Fear made Hobert's movement awkward and clumsy, and as he lurched towards the flap of his pavilion, he remembered a possession within that he couldn't possibly leave behind. "Vigilance!" Hobert shouted to himself, and scrambled to the desk at the center of his pavilion. He snatched the sheathed Valyrian steel sword from the tabletop, and sprinted towards the pavilion's exit with a speed he didn't realize his old body capable of. Staggering outside, Hobert was knocked flat on his face as his pavilion collapsed behind him a moment later, in a great rush of blisteringly hot air.

Pushing himself to his knees, Hobert felt blood begin to gush down his upper lip and chin from his badly bruised nose. The air around him was so hot that he felt as though he were boiling alive. The roaring flame sucked the air from his lungs, and Hobert hacked and coughed. He somehow retained the presence of mind to buckle Vigilance to his sword belt before crawling forward, staying as low to the ground as possible, where the air wasn't as thin.

The acrid smoke made his eyes burn, and tears leaked from his eyes, only for the intense heat to turn them to mist before they had even run halfway down his cheeks. In moments, the center of the camp had been turned into a hellscape. Hobert was horrified when he realized that the screaming around him had become nearly louder than the roar of flame.

He saw a shrieking man writhing on the ground, covered in bright green flame. It consumed his leather jerkin, his tunic, his leather boots. His hair was alight, his skin blackening and charring. Another man was beating desperately at the flames consuming his friend with a blanket, only to scream in pain when the blanket itself was caught alight, scorching his hands. Hobert watched, speechless with horror.

He nearly fainted from fright when a horrifically blistered and burned hand reached from beneath the burning remains of a tent to clutch frantically at his doublet. "Please," a voice rasped from beneath the smoldering fabric. "The pain… it hurts so bad. Just kill me. I beg of you."

Hobert recoiled in horror, wrenching free of the burned hand. "No, don't leave me!" The voice screamed. "JUST KILL ME!" Hobert crawled away, his mind spinning. Everywhere he looked, flames were burning, and men were dying. It was all too much. He curled into a ball amongst the ash and flames, and squeezed his eyes shut, continuing to choke on the acrid air.

When the burning finally stopped, Hobert's surviving men had found him curled up in the center of the charred ash heap that had been the Hightower portion of the army's camp, with his eyes squeezed shut and hands over his ears.

Hobert was so caught up in his horrific reverie that he didn't realize how badly he had begun to shake, until he lost his grip on his goblet, and spilled Arbor Gold over his doublet. "Apologies, my Lords," he said in embarrassment. He mopped at the stain with his kerchief, and try as he might to stop it, his hand continued to tremble violently. He closed his eyes and took several deep, rasping breaths, and eventually the shaking subsided.

He opened his eyes to see the usurper's dragonriders entering the tent. Hobert sat still in his seat, and watched and waited as the seeds were offered seats around the table that Hobert and the other Lords and landed knights were seated at, accepting them with curt nods. Stay calm, there is no way that they will be able to predict our scheme. The sound of his heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears that Hobert feared that all the men in the room would be able to hear it.

The brown-haired dragonrider coldly introduced himself as Ser Maegor, while the red-haired dragonrider named himself as Ser Gaemon Waters. The silver-haired seed introduced himself as Ser Addam Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark. The words spoken after were but a dull murmur in Hobert's ears as he clasped his hands tightly in his lap in a white-knuckled grip. It was then that he heard the words that he had been both anticipating and dreading. "Before these discussions continue," Ser Addam Velaryon began, "the three of us must needs send a message to Queen Rhaenyra, to report on the outcome of our attack on your army."

Before he could stop himself, Hobert began to speak. "Yes, it seems that would be wise. Our maester Aubrey would be more than willing to draft and send such a message for you." The three dragonriders regarded him, and Ser Gaemon Waters nodded at Hobert in acknowledgement with a slightly arched eyebrow. From where he sat beyond the three dragonriders, Lord Unwin Peake gave Hobert a chilling glare. If I keep babbling so, they will surely grow suspicious.

After a long moment, the three dragonriders cautiously thanked Hobert for his hospitality and turned to regard Lord Unwin as he asked a question. The moment they turned away, Hobert had to bite his lip to keep himself from bursting into nervous laughter, a horrible gibbering cackle that threatened to claw its way up his throat. By the Seven, man, control yourself. Hobert raised his goblet of Arbor Gold to his lips and took a deep sip, pleased that his hand only shook slightly as he did so.

Just as Lord Unwin had predicted, the three dragonriders dictated a message to the Queen, which maester Aubrey listened to attentively as he transferred it to the parchment with quill and ink. Afterwards the three seeds all took the message and read it over. These upjumped peasants know how to read? Hobert was astonished.

With a nod to his fellow dragonriders, Addam Velaryon turned to address the Lords and landed knights before him. "To prove the validity of this message to the Queen and her Lords, we request that you all affix your seals to our message, my Lords." Hobert was pleased with himself when he managed to offer a calm nod in response.

He stood at the end of the line of Lords as each man dipped his seal in hot wax before pressing it to the letter. When it was Hobert's turn, he dipped his seal into the wax pot with a trembling hand, and accidentally tipped it over as he withdrew his seal. Thankfully, the letter itself was not ruined by the spilled wax. Hobert gave the men surrounding him a thin apologetic smile. "My apologies," he muttered, "I'm ashamed to say that my hands have grown less steady with my advanced age." Once again, the three dragonriders nodded at Hobert's explanation, seeming to accept his words. Hobert pressed the seal to the letter, and sat back down in his seat.

Maester Aubrey waited for the wax to dry, before rolling the message up and tying it tightly secure with twine. As Lord Unwin began to discuss what terms the dragonriders intended to give to the remaining mercenaries in the army, Hobert watched as Aubrey crossed the room to his caged ravens. As Hobert poured himself another goblet of Arbor Gold, he spared a quick furtive glance at the three dragonriders. All three were still regarding Lord Peake as the grizzled Marcher Lord spoke.

Glancing back nonchalantly in Aubrey's direction, Hobert watched as a silent and nearly imperceptible rustle of parchment occurred in the maester's sleeve. The message that the dragonriders had dictated disappeared up his sleeve, while Lord Peake's message appeared suddenly in his hand. Aubrey deftly tied the message to the raven's foot, before carrying it to the pavilion's flap and tossing it into the open air. With a rustle of black feathers, the raven flew off into the early morning sky. Hobert had to stop himself from letting out an immense sigh of relief. The deed is done.

Since their initial day of negotiations, two more days of deliberation had passed within the deceased Lord Ambrose's pavilion. Hobert found himself surprised at just how shrewd the usurper Rhaenyra's three dragonriders were. There were little and less details that any of the three seemed to miss, and though none had been raised in a court due to their low birth, they spoke eloquently and seemed to quickly grasp many topics of discussion without too much difficulty. It is fortunate that Lord Peake's scheme was so well-planned, for they would have likely caught us had we made even a single mistake.

At the end of the first day's deliberations, Ser Addam Velaryon had requested that any prisoners held by the army be turned over. Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and Ser Tomard Flowers had been released from Tumbleton castle's dungeon that evening, and had joined the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders during the next two days of deliberation. Their wrath is considerable. The Alans and the Bastard of Bitterbridge had been of the opinion that Hobert and the remaining Lords and landed knights of the army should have been executed immediately for their treason 'and other crimes', but the dragonriders had expressed hesitation, stating that they wished for them all to face the Queen's judgement.

And so the deliberations continued for two more days, while maester Aubrey informed Hobert and the other Lords and landed knights that no correspondence from King's Landing had arrived. The dragonriders wished to force the army to stand down and make the surviving Lords and landed knights return to their seats to await the Queen's summons for judgement. However, Hobert and the others continued to insist that they could agree to no terms until their leader, Prince Daeron, was well enough to join such deliberations and agree to their terms.

On the evening after the third day of deliberation, Hobert sat alone at the edge of his cot, his head clutched in his hands. My nightmares have only grown worse. It wasn't only the attack of the usurper's dragonriders that haunted his dreams anymore, however. Visions of Bitterbridge burning and Lady Caswell flinging herself from her castle's battlements to hang now haunted his fitful sleep. Tumbleton's burned and butchered townsfolk waited for him in his dreams as well.

Wine didn't help, nor small amounts of milk of the poppy provided by maester Aubrey. The faces of the slain seemed to always be waiting for him when he closed his eyes, grotesque and twisted, staring at Hobert with accusatory eyes, glassy and unfocused in death.

"Murderer," they whispered, a terrible rasping chatter uttered from hundreds of burned and bloated lips. Hobert shook his head in denial, trembling with fear.

"You're mistaken!" Hobert pleaded, as they shuffled closer and closer, surrounding him. "I didn't give the orders!" he cried out to Lady Caswell and the people of Bitterbridge. Unmoved by his pleas, they shuffled closer. Hobert fell to his knees, raising his hands before him in a plaintive gesture of supplication.

"I tried to stop them! I did everything I could!" Hobert screamed at Lord Footly and the townsfolk of Tumbleton. Staring at him with glassy eyes, they continued forward, drawing ever closer.

As a multitude of charred and rotting hands began to reach towards Hobert, he began to weep. "Mercy!" Hobert cried, cowering in terror.

The hands stopped reaching towards him for a moment, and Hobert felt a glimmer of hope as they all hesitated. Then, in unison, the dead spoke. "No." Their hands reached out and grabbed hold of Hobert.

It was at that time that Hobert woke, shrieking in terror and shaking uncontrollably. Hobert considered himself a pious man, and had always assumed he had lived his life in a way that would please the Seven and save him from an eternity in the Seven Hells. But after his time spent marching with Lord Ormund's army, he wasn't nearly as sure. I was too much of a coward to speak out against what I knew was wrong. Though I did not slay them, my hands are stained with the blood of innocents.

Was there a way for him to find redemption for such grave crimes? Hobert wanted to believe there was. The alternative was too horrible to consider. Surely the sixty years of life that he'd lived were enough to wash away the evils that he'd abetted whilst marching with Lord Ormund's army?

The fear within himself remained, but Hobert also felt a glimmer of newfound resolve. I won't fail again. If I find myself standing at the precipice of an atrocity again, I will not falter.

"Ser Hobert?" a voice called, and Hobert recognized it as maester Aubrey's.

"What is it, maester?" Hobert called back. The maester entered his tent, and Hobert was worried to see the grave expression on the maester's face.

"It's Prince Daeron, Ser Hobert," the maester began. "His condition has grown much worse throughout the day. As his nearest remaining kin, I thought you should know that he will not linger for much longer."

Hobert felt his mouth grow dry. "May I… may I see him now, maester?" he asked. The lad is dying. He should not die alone.

Maester Aubrey nodded gravely. "Of course, Ser Hobert. However, he has been given copious amounts of milk of the poppy to ease his pain. I do not know if he will be at all aware of his surroundings."

Hobert nodded. "It matters not, maester. I'm the only kin of his left in this army. I should be with him."

The pavilion was dark, with only the dim light of a single brazier to keep the blackness of night at bay. As Hobert entered, the Prince Daeron Targaryen was shrouded in shadow from where he lay atop his cot. Hobert found a stool in the center of the pavilion and carried it over to the side of the cot, sitting beside the Prince.

Hobert had never seen so many bandages on a single person before. Even Tom Flowers wore less after the Honeywine. During his fight atop Tessarion over the camp, the Prince Daeron had fought Ser Addam Velaryon atop his own Seasmoke. From what scattered stories Hobert had heard, the fight had been a close thing, but was ended when Seasmoke caught Tessarion's face in a direct blast of flame, blinding and mortally wounding the Blue Queen. The Prince had had the misfortune to be partially caught in the same blast of flame, and was gravely wounded.

Despite maester Aubrey's best efforts, the Prince's burn wounds had been too severe, and infection had set in quickly. The stench wafting from the Prince's bandages was enough to make Hobert feel sick to his stomach, but he did his best to ignore the nausea as the Prince began to stir. "Between the fever and the milk of the poppy, it is unlikely that the Prince will even recognize you," maester Aubrey had told Hobert.

Hobert was therefore surprised when the Prince turned his heavily-bandaged face to regard him, and whispered "Ser Hobert?"

Hobert quickly nodded. "Yes, my Prince."

The Prince nodded slightly in acknowledgement, which was difficult to do because of the bandages wrapped about his face. Only one bloodshot purple eye was visible beneath all of the bandages, staring at Hobert.

The Prince continued to speak, his voice a ragged whisper. "I feel very odd, Ser Hobert, and I seem to be unable to stand. Will you help me?"

Hobert felt dismay, but shook his head. "I'm afraid that I cannot, my Prince. You are in a very grave condition."

The Prince huffed in annoyance. "But Ser Hobert, I must! As Lord Ormund's squire, I must attend to him!" Hobert looked at the Prince in shock for a moment, before the realization set in. He recognizes me, but is unaware of where he is.

"It is alright, my Prince," Hobert said quietly. "Lord Ormund wishes for you to recover as quickly as possible, so you must needs get your rest."

The Prince nodded slightly, and was beset with a sudden fit of hacking coughs. Hobert could only watch in dismay, and hope that they subsided quickly.

When the coughing finally stopped, Prince Daeron turned to regard Hobert again with his single uncovered eye. "Where is Tessarion, Ser Hobert? It is hard to describe, but I have such a queer feeling that something terrible has befallen her. I couldn't bear it if something has happened to her!" His purple eye looked plaintively at Hobert, bright with fever. Tears welled within it, and began to run down his cheek, running into the tightly wrapped bandages below.

Hobert took the Prince's bandaged hand in a light grasp, so as not to cause him any pain. He wanted to weep, but instead he smiled kindly. Stay strong, Hobert. He is not long for this world. Don't cause him grief in his last moments. "Tessarion is alright, my Prince. She is waiting patiently for you to recover along with the rest of us."

The Prince sighed in relief. "That is wonderful to hear, Ser Hobert. I should like to go flying on her as soon as I am able."

Hobert smiled and nodded. "As you wish, my Prince. If I may, I would suggest that you try flying along the Honeywine River. The countryside is beautiful at this time, and I'm sure it will look even better from dragonback."

Hobert noticed that Prince Daeron smiled widely, though most of his mouth was concealed beneath the bandages. "That sounds wonderful, Ser Hobert. Thank you, truly." The Prince's head suddenly fell back against his pillow, and his breathing became so faint that Hobert could barely hear it. Still smiling, the Prince closed his eye. "How very wonderful." the Prince whispered contentedly, and then he breathed his last.

When the Old King died, the Realm wept in mourning from the frigid Wall to the streets of Oldtown. When Prince Daeron Targaryen drew his last breath, he had naught but the tears of one old man to mourn his passing.

The three dragonriders climbed onto their mounts, and each chained himself and a single passenger in with them atop their dragon. Ser Tomard Flowers sat with Ser Maegor atop his Grey Ghost, Lord Alan Tarly with Ser Gaemon Waters atop the Cannibal, and Ser Alan Beesbury with Ser Addam Velaryon atop Seasmoke.

From what Hobert had learned, Ser Gaemon Waters had retrieved Heartsbane from Hugh Hammer's corpse when he investigated the area around Vermithor's corpse to ensure that both dragon and rider were dead. When he learned that it was the ancestral Valyrian steel weapon of House Tarly, Ser Gaemon had returned it to Lord Alan when the man was freed from Tumbleton castle's dungeon. Heartsbane now sat in a scabbard across Lord Alan Tarly's back.

Ser Maegor had flown back to where he had killed Ulf the White, and confirmed that Silverwing was alive, but very much unable to fly, at least currently. That would complicate Jon Roxton's ambitions to tame her and fly her into battle, Hobert thought grimly.

Once all the dragonriders had secured themselves and their passengers atop their dragons with their saddle chains, Ser Gaemon Waters turned to face Hobert and the other assembled Lords and landed knights before them and began to speak. "With the death of Prince Daeron, the terms we negotiated no longer need his approval. You all will disperse this army and return to your seats, to await summons for the Queen's judgement. If you refuse to do so, we will return with Fire and Blood. Make no mistake, my Lords. Amnesty will not be offered a second time."

With that, the three dragons took flight, beating their wings powerfully as they climbed into the air above the ruins of Tumbleton. The massive black dragon let out a powerful roar that was quickly echoed by the two dragons surrounding it. The three dragons then turned and flew northeast, in the direction of King's Landing.

Hobert watched them go with considerable trepidation. Around Hobert, Lord Unwin Peake, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne watched them disappear into the distance. Lord Richard Rodden had come as well, though he lay on a litter on the hillside alongside the others. Turning to Lord Unwin, Roger Corne cleared his throat and spoke. "What now, Lord Peake?"

Lord Peake turned to regard the Lords and knights standing about him. "We will not disperse the army. If our deception is discovered and they return to burn us, it is better that we burn here, rather than bringing down dragonflame on all of our seats." Lord Unwin sighed. "Beyond that, we wait. We will learn what all of our fates are to be soon enough."

Chapter Text

Baela

Baela hadn't realized that she had fallen asleep until she smelled the Pentoshi incense. Opening her eyes, she found herself lying on a bed covered in elaborately decorated cushions. A slight breeze was blowing through an alcove that opened into a view of the harbor below. Standing, Baela hesitantly approached the aperture, appreciating the slight smell of the sea that accompanied the wind. She assumed from the view that she was staying in one of the manses that dotted the hills around Pentos. She watched a ship with a mermaid on its prow chart a course out of the harbor towards the setting sun. The waves that rippled in its wake reflected the reds and oranges of the sunset, more dancing flame than water.

The whisper of a dress behind her caught her attention. Turning, she found herself face to face with a beautiful woman whose sea-green eyes matched the silk of her dress. A great mane of silver-gold ringlets ran down her back past her waist. Baela's breath caught in her throat. Her earliest memories came to the fore as she sprang forward, wrapping the woman in a tight embrace. Her mother's hair smelled of the same Pentoshi incense that burned on the bedside table, as well as something else besides. Baela breathed deeply a second time, smiling as she identified the mystery scent. All about her lingered the sulfurous smell of dragons.

Her mother returned her embrace for several moments, before pulling away, taking a moment to look her over.

"Baela, dearest, you've become a woman grown whilst I've been away." Her mother said with a twinge of sadness in her voice. " I do not have long. I must needs speak with you quickly."

Tears flowed unbidden down Baela's cheeks. Looking into her mother's eyes, the loss of the past several days rushed back into the fore of her mind. "But mother, I have already lost so much. Stay with me, please."

Laena Velaryon took her hands between her own, tears welling within her own eyes. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Baela my love, the war is near its end. The dragons have danced, and the dragons have died. Your father's family has brought itself and Westeros to its knees." She gripped Baela's hands tightly. "I need both you and Rhaena to be strong. You are amongst the last of the dragons. The fire is dying, and the two of you will have to keep the embers alight."

"Mother, how can I be strong when I only fail those I love? In the span of a year, I've lost grandmother, Lucerys, Jacaerys, and Gaemon. The Queen has forbidden me from flying to war. When the Usurper's forces reach the city, I won't even be able to reach Moondancer. I can't even die properly, as grandmother Rhaenys did, dragonwhip in hand."

"Baela, fate has conspired to place you within a time and place of great import." Her mother pursed her lips. "My time with you draws to a close. Be strong."

Behind her mother, a lacquered door swung open. Baela was shocked to see her father standing in the precipice. Unlike her mother, he was dressed for battle, his silver hair flowing over the black plate he wore the day he departed. Beckoning to her mother, he gave Baela a wan smile. Laena planted a warm kiss on Baela's brow before taking her father's hand and allowing herself to be led from the chamber.

As he closed the door, her father spoke. "Give my love to your brothers and your sisters, my princess. I fear we may not speak again for some time." With one last smile, her parents closed the door behind them. Baela immediately ran to the doors, struggling to pull them open, begging for her parents to return.

"Please, don't leave me!" She cried, banging on the doors whilst hot tears flowed. She struck the doors until her hands were raw and aching, but to no avail. Even when she stopped striking them, the dull thud continued. Eventually, she realized that the sound was coming from outside the confines of her dream.

Opening her eyes, she rose groggily from her bed, clutching a blanket around her disheveled clothing for warmth. Whilst it was impossible to tell the time from this deep within the Red Keep, she calculated that it must be very late, as the stones of the floor were cold and the coals within the brazier had cooled, with only a few continuing to glow. She grasped at the lacquered handle to open the door, pulling it inwards and revealing Ser Lorent Marbrand standing in the hall.

"I am terribly aggrieved to disturb your rest, my Lady, but the Queen has asked that you attend her in the Queen's ballroom. With the Red Keep's garrison as depleted as it is, the Queen wishes to ensure the safety of all who remain."

Baela stared numbly, before nodding in acquiescence. She had not attended the Queen since the news had arrived from Tumbleton two days prior. When the court had received word of the Green's stunning victory, everything had changed. The war was over that day. We all simply lacked the strength to admit it. Her Grandfather had been devastated, weeping openly for the loss of his grandson and heir. Baela had simply felt empty inside. First Jace and now Gaemon. Every time the Queen dispatched those in her service, Baela lost someone dear to her. Her mother's words troubled her. How am I to be strong for anyone else? I can barely muster the desire to wake in the mornings.

She allowed herself to be led through the passages of Maegor's Holdfast quietly. Ser Lorent maintained a respectful distance, remaining quiet as they walked. When they reached the double doors to the Ballroom, he drew them open, announcing her presence to the Queen, who sat disheveled in a silken night gown at her customary seat.

Rhaenyra's bloodshot purple eyes regarded her from across the hall as she approached. Her cousin appeared to have been in the midst of finishing a tray of lemon cakes, judging by the half-eaten platter in front of her.

"Baela, so good of you to join us. It appears that even the smallfolk of the city have conspired to support the Usurper. As we speak, they throw themselves against the gates, hoping to force them open for the Hightowers and their lackeys. While you slept, I was forced to dispatch the rest of the castle garrison and nearly all of my remaining knights to cut them to ribbons and restore order."

The Princes Aegon and Viserys sat to their mother's left, looking both fearful and exhausted. Terrax, the flame colored hatchling of Viserys, was busy tearing into a cold leg of chicken. To the Queen's right sat Prince Joffrey. When she made eye contact with him, she was shocked at how much rage boiled behind his normally warm brown eyes. Joffrey likely wished to ride with the Queen's knights. Her grandfather paced behind the high table, and the Queen's ladies-in-waiting sat throughout the chamber, some whispering whilst others wept. The seven Knights of Rhaenyra's Queensguard stood at attention along the walls, the silvered mirrors reflecting their white cloaks.

Baela drew in a ragged breath before responding. "I have come to support you during this trying time, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra laughed coldly. "Is that so? I was certain that if I didn't send Ser Marbrand to fetch you that you would have already attempted to escape your confinement. I wouldn't have been shocked if you harbored illusions of dispersing these traitors from atop your dragon."

Baela clenched her fist, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her palms. "I gave you my word, Your Grace. I swore to obey your commands."

"The people of this city swore to obey me as well. They prostrated themselves in the streets when I arrived, thanking me for freeing them from the depredations of my accursed half-brother. For nearly half a year I have protected their worthless lives, sending my dragonriders forth to strike down those who menaced them. They repaid my sacrifices by killing Ser Luthor and his goldcloaks earlier today, and now they've decided their rags look better in Green. I ought to burn them all to a crisp. Aegon won't enjoy this city nearly as much if all of the traitors, whores and lickspittles have been reduced to ash."

Joffrey slammed his fist on the table, causing his mother to jump with fright. "Seven Hells mother! Why did you forbid me from speaking with them? I could have assured them that I could defend them from the likes of Prince Daeron or the two betrayers from atop Tyraxes. Instead, they are attempting to flee for their lives whilst they still have them. When you barred the gates it only confirmed the rumors spread by the Hightowers' men in the city below!"

"My sweet boy, these animals are undeserving of your diplomacy. They'd have been far more likely to have loosed an arrow at you than accepted your oaths of protection. Besides, I need you here, by my side. You are my pillar of strength in these trying times."

Joffrey wrenched himself out of his mother's desperate embrace, standing and joining Baela where she stood in front of the high table. He clutched his sword in its scabbard with one hand while turning the ivory cyvasse King piece in his other hand over and over.

Pulling Baela to the side of the hall, he turned his back on his mother, who was watching them both intently. His brown eyes locked with hers. "My mother is not herself. Ever since the news of Tumbleton she has spent the last few days weeping constantly and jumping at shadows. She will not allow me to fight, even for her own crown. You and I remain the only dragonriders in the city. We must needs do something. Our enemies were only fifty leagues away days ago. We must get to the Dragonpit. Otherwise the city will be lost, and with it, my mother's cause."

Baela sighed. She was so tired. Tired of fighting, and tired of loss. She was about to respond in the negative when shouts echoed outside of the ballroom doors. The clanging of live steel and the screams of a dying man erupted. The knights of the Queensguard drew their blades, looking confusedly at one another before taking positions in a semicircle around the entrance. The noncombatants throughout the chamber screamed and rushed to the rear, while the Queen stood, gazing with a terrified fixation on the chamber doors. After a heartbeat or so of silence, the doors burst inwards, revealing a column of screaming goldcloaks surging inwards. Ser Lorent and the other members of the Queensguard met them in combat near the entrance, cutting them down seemingly with little effort. For a few moments, the enemy seemed powerless against them. Then the tide began to turn.

First to fall was Ser Lyonel Bentley, who was grabbed by two men and forced against the wall whilst a third pushed a dagger into his eye as he screamed. Ser Harold Darke slipped on the entrails of a man he had just cut open, falling forwards onto the cold stone. His accident cost him his life when three more goldcloaks drove their spears through his back. They plunged them in again and again, turning the once brilliant white a dark crimson. Ser Adrian Redfort held several men at bay until an arrow sprouted from his neck, shot by an archer whose gambeson sported a black swan. Ser Loreth Lansdale and Ser Glendon Goode died soon after, falling victim to the spears of their many opponents. As his brothers fell around him, Ser Lorent's footwork and speed improved. He spun throughout the chamber like a dancer, cutting through his enemies and sending arcs of blood sailing through the air only to splatter in grotesque patterns on the silvered mirrors. Running a particularly large goldcloak through, he forced his dying opponent to his knees, planting his foot against the man's chest to withdraw his blade. As he wrenched it free, a knight wearing a black-and-white doublet entered the chamber. Ser Lorent, breathing heavily, turned to engage him, and for a few moments they danced about one another, their steel screeching as they traded blows. Their duel ended when a goldcloak put his spear through Marbrand's calf. The Lord Commander fell to one knee, cringing in pain. He reached for the dagger hanging at his side, but the knight in black-and-white dealt him a savage blow across the neck before he could use it, nearly cutting his head from his shoulders.

As the enemy knight turned to face the Queen, Prince Joffrey turned to Baela. Despite her shock, she felt him press her cyvasse piece into her hands. A cold chill ran down her spine.

"Joffrey, don't."

His eyes, so much like those of his brothers, no longer were filled with rage. Instead, they flickered with resolve. He closed her hands around the piece.

"I promised you when the time came that I would be ready Baela. I am ready now."

As he turned, she grabbed his shoulder to stop him, but he pulled free, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. The sound of it exciting its scabbard drew the attention of the men in the room, and the knight in black-and-white turned to face the Prince.

Joffrey raised his blade, pointing it at his opponent. The knight rose his blade in a salute, before returning to his fighting stance. Baela glanced at the Queen, whose eyes were glassy and unfocused. Her hands gripped the table in front of her with white knuckles.

Joffrey attacked, swinging his longsword in a savage downward cut. Quick as lightning, the knight brought his blade upwards, knocking the Prince's strike aside. With his free hand, the knight drove a dagger hidden within the folds of his cloak deep into Joffrey's chest. The Prince of Dragonstone staggered, inhaling sharply, before his blade slipped from his fingers to clatter on the ballroom floor. Collapsing, he began to choke and sputter, his blood pooling beneath him, flowing outward. Like the wings of a dragon.

Rhaenyra screamed a hideous, animalistic sound of agony. Baela felt lightheaded. She staggered backwards, the cyvasse piece falling from her grasp. Pulling a knife from a half-eaten lamprey pie, she ran at the knight standing over Joffrey's body, screaming in pure hatred. The knight turned to face her, his eyes cold as he swung a gauntleted fist. Stars danced as the void took her.

Gyles

Where in the Seven Hells did they all go? Unlike the River Gate and the King's Gate, the Lion Gate had not been forced open. "Someone opened the bloody thing!" exclaimed Ser Harmon of the Reeds, a huge and hulking hedge knight wearing mottled and dented iron plate. What disturbed Gyles the most, however, was the lack of corpses, but for a single gold-cloaked corpse that dangled from a noose above the gate. There wasn't even a fight. The lion gate garrison has simply up and vanished into the night.

"Utter cowardice!" Ser Medrick Manderly seethed. The northern knight had been tasked by Queen Rhaenyra with securing the seven gates of King's Landing, entrusting him with nearly every knight and man-at-arms she had left in the Red Keep to do so. After Ser Luthor Largent's disastrous expedition into the city earlier that day, in which he and nearly the entire Gold Cloak garrison stationed within the Red Keep had been killed, none of the remaining Gold Cloaks could be spared from their posts to help in this task.

Most are likely dead by now, Gyles thought grimly. The garrison of the King's Gate had tried to hold out against the mob, but with no defences on the inner wall, they were quickly overrun and butchered. By the time the column of mounted knights and men-at-arms had reached the King's Gate, it was an utter ruin. The smallfolk who had attacked the gate had long since fled into the countryside beyond, leaving naught behind but a gate that had been chopped to kindling and the bloody trampled corpses of the Gold Cloaks they'd killed.

"Who is that man?" Ser Medrick called, nodding in the direction of the Gold-cloaked corpse hanging from the noose. "Thatn's Ser Benwyck Thistle, Ser," a voice called out. "He was Cap'n of the Lion Gate."

Ser Medrick grimaced, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a gauntleted finger. "Treason after treason," he grunted. The Lion gate garrison was not the only group of Gold Cloaks to foreswear their oaths. The River Gate's garrison, known as the Mudfoots, had risen up with the rioters, executing their Captain and opening their gate to the mob.

Fighting them and the seemingly endless tide of enraged merchants, sailors, and other rioters had been costly. With the men they'd lost in the fighting, as well as the small amounts of men that they'd left behind to hold each gate the armored column had secured, Ser Medrick had scarcely more than half the men left that he had departed the Red Keep with.

Ser Medrick quickly set about leaving a small force to hold the Lion Gate, ordering the selected men to close the gate and cut down Captain Benwyck Thistle's corpse. Raising his sword, Ser Medrick pointed it northeast, further along the city's wall. "Onwards!" he shouted, and a man-at-arms raised a brass war trumpet to his lips and blew a brazen call. In response, the mounted men-at-arms and knights of the party closed ranks and rode further along the interior of the wall.

Gyles rode near the head of the column, along with his squire Mors. Since the brutal melee at the River Gate, the movement of the column had been surprisingly unimpeded. It seemed as though the gate garrisons that had not betrayed the Queen's cause had been quickly overrun by the large amounts of smallfolk rabble that wished to escape the city. Many of such groups of rioters had already done their bloody work, however, and those that remained in the city were more interested in looting, raping, and murdering than escaping the Hightower army's wrath.

The outer edges of the city nearest the walls were abandoned, with naught but the charred husks of burned buildings and corpses to greet the column as it rode onwards. Further within the city, however, utter chaos reigned supreme, with faint traces of the sounds of mayhem carried to the ears of the knights and men-at-arms on the cold night breeze.

Gyles wondered when the Green army would arrive from Tumbleton. Rumors of the dire letter that they had sent to Queen Rhaenyra had spread quickly from the Red Keep into the city beyond. Before the riots had broken out, Gyles had hoped that the city would be able to hold out against the Prince Daeron and the traitorous Dragonseeds until the Northmen and Rivermen could arrive to support Queen Rhaenyra. They surely wouldn't burn the city that they wish to return to the usurper Aegon.

Upon seeing the condition of several of the city's gates, however, Gyles began to realize just how untenable their situation was. With the exception of the Lion Gate, there are no gates to even defend anymore, just shattered and splintered ruins. Thinking about what was to come would do no good in the present, however. Steeling his nerves, he rode on.

Gyles began to feel a sinking sensation in his stomach long before the column had reached the Gate of the Gods. The evidence of a recent brutal fight was everywhere, judging by the large amounts of bloody corpses strewn about the street. But who was fighting who? He didn't see any hint of gold amongst the raiments of the slain, nor three-headed dragon or any other sigil. Only dead commoners, by the look of them all. But why were they fighting each other?

Gyles' question was quickly forgotten as the column reached the Gate of the Gods. The gate showed evidence of an unsuccessful defence, with the corpses of its Gold Cloak garrison strewn about the inner wall's entryway to the gate. What confused Gyles, however, was what waited just beyond the Gate of the Gods, further along the inner wall of the city.

It was a large hastily-assembled palisade, that looked to be made of every type of wooden object that men had ever crafted. Bedframes, wagon wheels, tables, ladders, broken spear shafts; all were piled together in a bristling hedge that stood nearly ten feet above the cobbled stones of the street. Atop it were a multitude of grimy men clutching torches. Some wore the boiled leathers and mail of sellswords, a few bore the grimy and heavily-scarred plate of robber knights, and most wore naught but cloaks and other cheap, frayed articles of clothing. All however were covered in bloodstains and scowled darkly at the multitude of knights arrayed before their barricade.

Ser Medrick urged his warhorse forward slightly, tapping its flanks with his spurs when the beast shied away from the jagged and splintered shafts of wood sticking out haphazardly from the barricade. Lifting his visor, the heir to White Harbor's voice rang out into the night. "Who goes there, he who dares to impede knights about the Queen's business!?" For several moments there was no response, until one of the robber knights atop the barricade made a quick motion with his hand. A gangling boy in boiled leathers standing next to the knight handed off his torch, his closely-cropped silvery hair glinting in its flickering light. Turning to the knight, he removed his helmet and stepped back to the side.

Resting his gauntleted hands on the edge of a bedframe that adorned the barricade's top, the now-helmetless knight leaned forward and began to speak. "Ser Perkin the Flea, most honorable Ser," the man replied in a mocking tone. He had a large hooked nose that reminded Gyles of a hawk's beak, small beady eyes the color of flint chips, and a sharp widow's peak that receded far back into his scalp. "And me and mine are about the King's business."

At those treasonous words, Ser Medrick Manderly hefted his blade, an action that was quickly mimicked by the knights and men-at-arms around Gyles. Gyles however, eased his goldenheart recurve bow from its holder attached to Evenfall's saddle. With his other hand, he drew an arrow from a quiver attached securely to his hip, nocking it.

Ser Perkin merely laughed at the threatening show of force below him. "Wave that sword o' yours all ya like, it won't make a bit o' difference. Ya can't go forward, and ya can't go back." Can't go back? Gyles was confused, twisting in his saddle to look behind himself. Beyond the rear edge of the column, a massive crowd was approaching, many of them hefting spears that had most likely been yanked from the grasp of dead gold cloaks. The bodies in the street, Gyles realized with horror. They weren't dead, but merely waiting for us to pass by so they could spring their trap.

Gyles quickly looked left towards the Gate of the Gods, hoping that it would prove a viable means of escape, but was disappointed when he saw that it was closed, with the steps up to the gatehouse barricaded with the same detritus that Ser Perkin the Flea and his men stood atop. Looking to the right, Gyles was disheartened to see that the street leading from the Gate of the Gods up to Cobbler's Square was blocked by the remains of a charred building that had collapsed into it, with extra debris piled on top.

We could continue on foot, but not on horseback. To try to escape on foot would be certain death, however. The rabble would swarm us and tear us to pieces before we made it even halfway to Cobbler's Square. The knights and men-at-arms of the column around Gyles sat tense in their saddles, clutching their weapons. Many men had joined Ser Perkin atop the barricade, clutching bows, crossbows, slings, and rocks. Sneering, Ser Perkin opened his arms wide. "You all need not die here today. Lay down your arms and surrender, and King Aegon may show you all mercy yet, despite your treason."

After hatefully glaring at Ser Perkin, Ser Medrick turned to address the column. "Tighten ranks, men! Prepare yourselves!" The column drew inwards, closing its ranks until it was a formidable ring of mounted warriors in mail and plate. As the men of the column finished maneuvering themselves and their mounts into a more defensible formation, they began to notice a cacophony of noise drawing nearer and nearer.

A mob was approaching the Gate of the Gods from Cobbler's Square, a roiling mass of shouting and jeering smallfolk, seemingly displaying none of the limited discipline of the grimy army of Ser Perkin the Flea. Gyles quickly glanced at Ser Perkin atop the barricade, and was surprised to see a dark scowl on the man's face. Mayhaps he did not expect the arrival of this mob either.

Climbing over the rubble pile impeding their progress, the newcomers drew up short, eyeing not only the mounted column warily, but the men who surrounded them as well. A burly man made his way to the head of the mob, and it seemed clear to Gyles that he was their leader. He wore simple clothing that had become torn and stained, as well as a crudely-made heavy leather apron. He bore a bloody and dented breastplate that had been haphazardly strapped on over his clothing, and Gyles noticed that the breastplate was embossed with a red crab.

In one stained hand, the man held a longsword. In the other, he clutched a tall wooden staff. At the staff's top was a severed head, and not far below, tied tightly to the staff with twine… Gyles felt sick to his stomach. If I'm to die tonight, I hope that my member doesn't join the one already tied to that man's staff.

With a murderous grin, the man in the stolen breastplate laughed boisterously and called out to the men arrayed before him. "Seven blessings, friends!" he shouted mockingly. "I fear that you lot are in our way!" Pointing his sword in the direction of the Gate of the Gods, the man continued to speak. "We ain't going to wait on no dragons to burn us all to a crisp." Hefting the staff, the man nodded at the severed head. "But we thought that some debts needed paying before we quit the city." As a deep growling cackle began to emanate from the crowd behind him, the man shook the staff in his grasp. "Tis only fair that the highborn pay their share o' taxes. Lord Celtigar already paid his part o' the cock tax." Sneering at the multitude of knights before him, the burly peasant continued. "Methinks it's time for you lot to pay your share as well."

It was then that Ser Perkin spoke up, anger evident in his voice and features. "Ya have no business with us." Motioning at the men standing around him, Ser Perkin continued to speak. "We're men o' King Aegon, here to protect his city and put down traitors." He glared at the mob. "Me and mine won't hesitate to kill ya if ya try anything. Disperse now, and I'll forget I ever saw any of ya."

The peasant in the bloody breastplate laughed heartily. "Kill me, will you?" he began. "You can bloody well try." The mob around him began to jeer, with a few individuals beginning to throw stones and other debris indiscriminately, pelting both the men of the mounted column and Perkin the Flea and his men. Though they made no overt movement forward, it looked to Gyles as though the mob's numbers were only growing. Seven Hells.

Perkin the Flea turned back to regard the knights and men-at-arms of the mounted column. "Surrender and submit yourself to the rightful King's mercy. There needn't be any more blood spilled." Beneath his visor, Gyles scoffed. Does he take us for utter fools? I'd sooner surrender to a pack of wolves than this robber knight and his army of cutthroats.

Gyles was pleased to see that Ser Medrick Manderly seemed to share his sentiments. Red-faced, the northern knight shouted at Perkin the Flea. "I won't suffer to hear one more word pass between your traitorous lips! We are knights and leal soldiers of the Queen, and you are sorely mistaken if you believe that we will forsake our vows to her and hand ourselves over to the mercy of a traitorous cutthroat and his army of gutter rats."

The jeering of the mob resounded off the stones of the street and city walls, ringing within Gyles' helm. Horses whickered, and the light of torches threw long twisted shadows in every direction. Heart pounding, Gyles drew back an arrow with his recurve bow, aiming it at Perkin the Flea atop the barricade. You heard Ser Manderly, traitor. Not one more word.

Ser Perkin leaned forward over the barricade, face contorted with rage. "You highborns are all the same! I-" The robber knight's next words turned into a strangled gurgle as Gyles shot an arrow cleanly through his throat. Jerking backwards, Perkin the Flea clawed at his throat as he coughed and spluttered, blood frothing at his lips and running down his chin. He fell backwards, disappearing from view. For a single moment, all was still. The men of the column sat tense atop their horses, and several of them gave Gyles incredulous looks. The jeers of the crowd died down, and Ser Perkin's men stood atop the barricade and behind the column, shocked by the sudden death of their leader.

In the next moment, all hell broke loose. The mob surged forward with a feral shriek, and Perkin the Flea's gutter army attacked, firing arrows and bolts from atop the barricade, and attacking with spears, cudgels, chipped swords, and rusty dirks at the column's rear. Instinct and training took over, and Gyles began shooting arrows as fast as he could. For every grimy assailant that collapsed with an arrow through their heart, two more scrabbled forward, faces twisted into murderous snarls.

The knights and men-at-arms of the column maintained formation, and savagely hacked at any who dared step in range. Gyles desperately hoped that they might seize the advantage, despite the vast disparity in numbers between the Queen's men and their enemies. Gyles grimaced as he began to see knights and men-at-arms at the column's periphery pulled from their saddles and disappear into a maelstrom of roaring smallfolk.

As the column lost more and more of its defensive cohesion, Gyles slipped his recurve bow back into its holder on his saddle and drew his sword, slinging his round shield around from his back to his arm. A peasant grabbed at Evenfall's bridle, screaming curses at Gyles. His venomous curses turned into pitiful wails as Gyles savagely hacked the man's hand off at the wrist, before slicing his face open with a quick backhand slash. The man collapsed and was trampled beneath Evenfall's hooves as Gyles rode forward.

Gyles watched as a laughing knight in heavy iron plate with a bear pelt tied about his shoulders plunged into the heart of the mob, riding straight for its leader, who was still clutching the pole adorned with pieces of Lord Celtigar. Each mounted knight and man-at-arms was becoming an island all to himself as more and more screaming smallfolk rushed forward, attempting to surround the riders and pull them from their mounts.

Mors fought his way towards Gyles, his eyes wide beneath his halfhelm. "Ser, we must needs retreat!" Pockets of knights desperately fought their way forward, trying to reach small nearby alleys and wynds. I won't falter. Gyles turned to Mors. "We can't afford to flee now, Mors! We have to stand our ground!" I am no craven. We can win the day yet. Gyles spurred Evenfall forward, bowling over several shouting peasants in ragged and bloody clothing. He swung his sword again and again, striking down attacker after attacker.

Where are they all coming from? Have they no fear? A small crowd of smallfolk had clambered up the gatehouse steps over the debris that had been strewn across them, and were battering at the door that contained the gate's winch. Though he scarcely had a moment to truly observe his surroundings, Gyles was dismayed to see less and less mounted knights and men-at-arms around him. Medrick Manderly, the column's leader, was nowhere to be seen. Cohesion had been utterly lost, and noble knights and lowly smallfolk alike died bloody deaths under an unending hail of arrows, bolts, and rocks being fired from the men atop the makeshift barricade.

"KILL THAT FUCKING DORNISHMAN!" a voice screamed, and Gyles was set upon by a small crowd of enraged rioters. He struck one with his sword as they grabbed at Evenfall's bridle, and another as they tried to grab hold of his shield arm. However, twisting in his saddle to attack robbed Gyles of his balance, and he felt terror clench at his heart as several sets of hands clutched at his right foot and dragged it from its stirrup.

In desperation, Gyles clenched his thighs as tightly as he could about his saddle, but it was no use. No, No, NO! Gyles thought in panic. They'll tear me to pieces if I'm pulled from the saddle! Just as Gyles thought that his fate was sealed, the hands released their grip on him. He desperately scrabbled fully back atop Evenfall, and turned to see his savior cutting down the last of his assailants. "Mors!" Gyles shouted hoarsely, elation filling his heart.

The grizzled squire was tense in his saddle, a grave expression stretched across his features. "Now, Ser," he began, his voice oddly brittle and strained. "We go, NOW." Gyles nodded without hesitation, slightly surprised by his loyal squire's sudden ferocious demeanor.

Riding forward, the two of them made for a cramped wynd that led deeper into the city. Gyles felt sick to his stomach as he rode over the carnage surrounding him. He watched as a screaming knight had a rusty dirk shoved through his eye, unable to escape from beneath his dead warhorse. A peasant dragged himself across the blood-soaked cobblestones, with naught but a bloody stump beneath his right knee. "I'm alright," the man sobbed to no one in particular, "I'm alright."

Gyles was astounded when Evenfall successfully reached and entered the wynd, carrying him clear of the utter bloodbath that had nearly been his doom. Mors was right behind him on his spotted rounsey, the poor old beast frothing at the mouth as it bled from a dozen wounds. Following the wynd's twisting and turning path, Gyles was surprised as it widened suddenly, and Evenfall galloped into Cobbler's square.

It was abandoned, though the buildings surrounding its perimeter had been thoroughly looted, some smoldering and burning. Mors nodded further up the main thoroughfare. "A few others made it clear 'afore us. I'd put my coin on finding 'em in the city's main square." The squire let out a ragged cough. Gyles nodded, and he and Mors urged their mounts onward, deeper into the heart of the city.

As they rode along the street, it was as though they'd passed into the center of a forge. On both sides, buildings blazed brightly as they were consumed in an uncontrolled inferno, a rippling multi-colored tapestry with such a terrifying and primal beauty that Gyles found himself utterly speechless, staring in mesmerised wonder.

The heat of the flame was intense, and in his mind Gyles could feel memories of home, riding in the dry plains far south of Yronwood castle under Dorne's relentless sun. Gyles' senses returned to him fully as Evenfall carried him clear of the burning street, into the massive square at the city's center, situated at the base of Visenya's Hill.

A small group was gathered in the center of the massive square, and several heads turned to regard Gyles and Mors as they approached. Though the sounds of rioting drifted on the night air, the square itself was largely abandoned. A small contingent of Gold Cloaks milled about on foot, their cloaks and armor covered in blood. Among them were mounted knights and men-at-arms. Sure enough, those mounted on horses were survivors of the column, for Gyles recognized Ser Harmon of the Reeds and Ser Rayford Lothston, as well as a few others. Surely this can't be all that remains.

Of the men at the square that had escaped the bloodbath at the Gate of the Gods, Gyles counted less than twenty. Gods be good. The slaughter was even worse than I imagined. Gyles once again felt a sense of incredulity at having escaped. If not for Mors… Gyles didn't want to consider the grisly death that he'd nearly suffered. Twould have been an ignoble and sad end, alone and far from home.

One of the knights rode a short distance out to meet Gyles and Mors as they approached, and Gyles recognized him as Ser Torrhen Manderly, by the merman stitched into his doublet. And yet no sign of his brother, Ser Medrick. Gyles grimaced. To die in that frenzied melee was not a fate that he would wish on even his worst enemy.

The visor on Ser Torrhen's helm was lifted, revealing the man's doughy features beneath. His face was flushed, and his eyes sad. Reining up in front of Gyles and Mors, Ser Torrhen began to speak. "Well met. We did not expect for any other survivors to escape the bloodbath at the Gate of the Gods. An utter travesty, that was. Mayhaps our fortunes have begun to change, however, for it was here that we found Captain Balon Byrch of the Old Gate, and Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate."

Two men in gold cloaks sat atop warhorses, wearing black breastplates ornamented with four golden discs. Raising his voice, Ser Torrhen called out to the men around him. "Prithee, gather round." Nodding at the two gate Captains before him, Ser Torrhen continued to speak. "If you will, Captains, inform the rest of these men what you have just imparted to me."

With a nod, one of the two gate Captains edged his warhorse forward, removing his helm and placing it in the crook of his arm. He had close-cropped black hair and an equally dark beard, though both had begun to turn grey. "I am Captain Balon Byrch, of the Old Gate, and the other officer with me is Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate. We had also been accompanied by Captain Robert Waters of the Iron Gate, but I am aggrieved to say that he was slain earlier this very night."

The Captain pointed in the direction of the Hill of Rhaenys as he continued to speak. "The three of us had combined our gates' garrisons and marched forth, and we were able to restore some small semblance of order around Rhaenys' Hill. We received word that some 'prophet' had led a mob up Hill Street from Cobbler's Square to attack the Dragonpit, so we made our way there to disperse them. We took them from behind as they attempted to force their way past the Dragonkeepers defending the Dragonpit's main entrance. They were numerous, and twas a close and bloody thing."

Captain Byrch sighed sadly. "We lost Captain Waters, and many other fine city watchmen as well. However, when Captain Garth struck down the mob's leader, some one-handed mad begging brother, the mob lost heart and fled into the night. We lost far too many men holding the Dragonpit, however. With the men left to us, it would be impossible to hold any of our three gates. It was our intent to travel to the Red Keep to inform the Queen of our successful defense of the Dragonpit, while adding what meager numbers we have remaining to the Red Keep's defence."

Ser Torrhen Manderly nodded gravely. "Thank you, Captain Byrch," the northern knight said courteously. Looking at the ragged, bloody, and tired knights and men-at-arms around him, Ser Torrhen continued to speak. "I should think that we will join you. With the loss of so many fighting men, the safety of the Queen and her family can now be our only concern."

As the men in the square's center began to prepare for their final push to the Red Keep, Gyles turned to Mors, intending to properly thank his squire for saving his life. He was dismayed to see the man crouching a ways off next to his rounsey, which had evidently collapsed and was now laying on its side, breathing raggedly.

Gyles climbed from Evenfall's saddle and approached his squire on foot. The grizzled squire cradled the rounsey's head in the crook of one arm, while he gently stroked its face with his other hand. As Gyles approached, the poor beast seemed to finally expire, going limp and its head slipping from Mors' grasp. With a ragged sigh, the old squire pulled the horse's eyelids closed with two fingers. "Farewell, old friend," Mors whispered sadly.

The squire struggled to his feet as Gyles approached, before staggering and pitching forward. Gyles sprinted forward, managing to catch his squire before he collapsed. "Mors?" he asked, concerned. All strength had left his squire's body, and Gyles struggled to hold him aloft.

"Prithee, Ser, set me down with my horse," the squire grunted, his voice faint. Gyles did as his squire bid him, lowering him to the ground and propping his back up against the flank of his companion. It was then that Gyles noticed the wicked and bloody tear that ran along Mors' left side, slightly above his hip. Whatever weapon had dealt the blow had torn right through Mors' leather jerkin, brutally wrending the flesh beneath.

It can't be, Gyles thought in disbelief. Looking at his squire in dismay, Gyles tried to think of something he could say, something he could do. Instead, he only managed to croak out one word. "How?" he whispered, feeling a sudden wave of emotion wash over him.

Mors coughed, and Gyles was dismayed to see blood upon his squire's lips. "Before we escaped," Mors grunted, "when I fought off the rabble trying to pull ya from your horse." He grimaced, his eyelids fluttering slightly. "One of 'em stuck me with a spear before I cut him down."

Crouching before his squire, Gyles could only shake his head in denial. No, no, it's not fair. He saved me! "You tried to warn me, to tell me that staying and fighting was hopeless," Gyles muttered, feeling a growing sense of despair. This is my fault.

"I did," was his squire's simple response. Gyles closed his eyes and grimaced at the words. Mors let out a wet and wheezing cough before he continued to speak. "All boys dream o' being the bravest man, o' standing strong against some great foe!" Mors smiled weakly. "I did once, a lifetime ago." He then frowned. "And when ya find yourself in the thick of the fight, covered in the blood of foe and friend, you either get lucky, or you die." Mors coughed, hunching over in pain. "And my luck finally ran out tonight." He regarded Gyles with a firm gaze. "Each man only has so much luck, Ser. See that ya don't run out o' yours."

Gyles was utterly despondent. You can't die now, old man, he thought plaintively, I need you, please. From the beginning of his exile in the Boneway, to the bloodsoaked cobblestones at the Gate of the Gods, Mors had been Gyles' faithful squire and companion. He freely offered Gyles his lifetime's worth of wisdom, and followed Gyles wherever he went, without complaint. And he never asked for a single boon in return. Gyles felt ashamed for once suspecting the old squire of an ulterior motive, when he had first joined Gyles in his travels.

"Mors," Gyles began, his voice cracking. "You've been as good a squire as any knight could ask for…" he shook his head, "no, as good a friend as any man could ask for. It is long past time that I reward you for your faithful service." Standing, he drew his sword, and placed it upon Mors' right shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he began to speak. "Mors of Yronwood," he began, "do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your queen, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"

Mors sat in silence for a moment, looking up at Gyles. A smile slowly spread across his grizzled features, even as he struggled to take in another wheezing breath. "I do so swear," was his response, though his voice had become faint.

Gyles moved his blade to the left shoulder of his former squire. "Then take on your new title with pride and distinction, Ser Mors of Yronwood," Gyles said, "may the Seven guide your way."

With a shaking hand, Mors patted his dead rounsey on its flank. "Ya hear that, boy?" he whispered. "You died the noble steed o' a knight!" Reaching into a saddlebag still attached to his rounsey's saddle, Mors pulled an old leather wineskin from within. Pulling the cork loose with his teeth, Mors took a deep swig, sighing in satisfaction. He then nodded weakly at Gyles. "Thankee, Ser," he began, "but I think it's time for ya to go."

Looking behind him, Gyles saw that the mounted knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks were ready to depart. As he hesitated, Mors called out to him weakly. "Go, Ser. I'd like some peace and quiet before the Stranger comes for me."

Mors looked to the sky. "Thesen's the same stars that shine over the Boneway at night." He grinned, taking another swig of wine. "In a strange sort o' way, methinks I made it home in the end." Gyles nodded in acquiescence, and climbed into Evenfall's saddle. As the ragged band of knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks began their trek in the direction of Aegon's High Hill, Gyles spared one more glance back at his faithful squire. The grizzled Dornishman still sat against his dead horse drinking his wine. And as smoke plumes billowed and hungry flames roared, the old man looked to the stars.

Though the Iron Gate loomed larger and larger in his vision, Gyles barely took heed of it. How could this have happened? The small band of surviving gold cloaks, men-at-arms, and knights had moved quickly, and relatively unimpeded. Though the burning and bloodshed continued throughout the city, many thought better of attacking the heavily armed column moving through the city's heart, and gave it a wide berth while it passed. Those who remain in the city care much more for gold and other valuables than spilled blood. The ascent up Aegon's High Hill had taken longer, for none of the gold cloaks save their two Captains rode on horseback.

Upon reaching the cobblestone square at the hill's crest, Gyles' party had been met with a surprise of the vilest sort. Large banners dangled from towers and walls of the Red Keep that overlooked the city beyond its walls, but were shrouded in the darkness of night. One banner, however, dangled directly above the keep's main gate, visible to all in the square. It was fine black silk, and a magnificent three-headed dragon adorned it. In the light of the torches and fires however, the glitter of gold thread, rather than crimson, was unmistakable.

For a moment, the courtyard beyond the Red Keep was silent as a mausoleum. "By the Gods," a voice finally murmured in mute horror. No one seemed willing to be the first to move, to accept the awful reality that was plain to all of their eyes. Their decision was made for them, however, as whatever sentries had been posted at the gatehouse sent up a hue and cry, alerting whoever was inside the Red Keep to the presence of the men in the square before the Keep. Springing to action, Ser Torrhen called out to the men surrounding him: "Retreat! We must needs regroup! We can't afford to meet whatever foe lies in wait on their terms!"

And so it had come to pass that the survivors had fled yet again, this time back down Aegon's High Hill, moving through side streets and wynds with great haste until arriving at the Iron Gate. Once again, having arrived at this arbitrary destination, the members of the party seemed unsure of what their next move should be. What choices are even available to us? While the usurper's conspirators trapped and slaughtered us at one end of the city, the nearly undefended Keep fell right into the hands of the Greens.

Gyles grimaced. We are utterly friendless in a burning city, with less than fifty men. However, since their flight from the square outside the Red Keep, a significant amount of gold cloaks had vanished in the ensuing chaos, dropping their number even lower. Despite this, Ser Willam Royce and many of the knights seemed to be of the opinion that an immediate assault should be mounted on the Red Keep.

"With what army do you propose to take the keep?" Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate began, a scowl on his face. "By what way do you intend to gain entrance to the castle?" When Ser Willam and his supporters had no answer for him, the grizzled gold cloak snorted darkly. "We've a need for every sword that we got left. Wasting lives in a futile assault does little and less for the Queen and her family."

The approach of two individuals on horseback set all on edge, and Gyles was not the only man to draw his blade. Reining up in front of Gyles and the others, they both drew back the hoods of their cloaks to reveal themselves. The first was a man, with a cold and emotionless face, and purple eyes so dark they nearly seemed black. His hair was silver-white, and on his hip was a sword unlike any Gyles had ever seen.

The second rider drew a much larger amount of attention, however. For beneath the heavy black hood was none other than the Queen's mistress of whisperers, Mysaria, though Gyles had heard her referred to as 'Lady Misery' behind closed doors.

She wasted no time in getting to the point, speaking tersely with a frown. "The Red Keep has fallen to conspirators of the usurper. I know not of the fate of the Queen and her family, for I was forced to flee in haste with naught but my sworn protector, Tysaro."

Ser Torrhen spoke next, scratching his chin with a gauntleted finger, and watching Mysaria's face closely. "And how, Lady Mysaria, did you and your companion make such an escape? Surely, whatever means you used to escape could be used as a route back into the castle."

She turned to regard the northern knight. "I know of paths long forgotten, Ser, that are best trodden by as few as possible. I will speak truthfully, and without exaggeration. You do not have enough men to retake the Red Keep. At least one entire garrison of gold cloaks has turned cloak and thrown in with the usurper's cause. With the castle garrison fighting in the streets, I would assume it unlikely that their casualties were grievous while taking the Keep. They hold it now, and have put down whatever short-lived resistance occurred within the Keep's walls."

Many of the men stared mutely at the mistress of whispers with stricken expressions, and Gyles felt a deep sense of despair. Not only did we fail at protecting the city's gates, but we have also allowed for the Queen and her family to fall into the hands of her enemies while we fought and died in useless skirmishes. Gyles turned to ask Mors for his thoughts on the current predicament, and was faced with yet another painful revelation. Mors is dead in the city's main square. I'm left friendless in an increasingly helpless situation.

Gyles grit his teeth in grief and rage. It appears you have won in the end, Lord Wyl. Your dead son will soon be avenged when my head is added to the spikes atop the Red Keep's gatehouse. It all felt very unfair. To travel all this way, and to survive so much, only to die for choosing the wrong side in a war that I had no true reason to even be fighting in. In the end, Lord Wyl had arranged for an even more elaborate execution than the snake pits his family was known for keeping. Instead, he allowed me to think I'd escaped his wrath, only to run myself into a noose of my own making.

Gyles was so lost in his thoughts of doom that he nearly didn't notice Ser Torrhen Manderly begin to speak. "Men," he began, "each and every one of you have fought with enough bravery and tenacity tonight to earn a song in their honor." Pausing, he took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "We cannot, we will not, let the sacrifices of those who were slain tonight be in vain!" Gyles had no doubt that the northern knight was thinking of his own brother as he spoke those words.

For a moment, Ser Torrhen sat silently in his saddle. With a small shake of his head, he continued. "There remains only one choice for us to make, though I know it is the one that none of us wish to hear spoken. We cannot help the Queen and her family as our situation currently stands. If we stay in this city, have no doubt that we will all die." Ser Torrhen clenched his fist in rage. "We will all become naught but heads for the usurper Aegon to mount on spikes."

Drawing his sword, Ser Torrhen pointed his sword toward the Iron Gate. "Dying here will not save the Queen and her family. However, if we take this one chance to leave whilst we can, there is a chance that we may prove of use to her again one day. The Queen's cause yet lives on in the Riverlands, and the men of the North march south to uphold her rights as we speak."

Ser Torrhen turned his gaze this way and that, making eye contact with as many men surrounding him as he could. "I will not mislead you. The chances of us living long enough to regroup with the Queen's supporters in the Riverlands are slim. Very slim." Ser Torrhen grimaced. "Though it deals my pride, my honor, a grave blow, I will tell you the only thing that can be done now. To help the Queen's cause, we must abandon this city and ride north."

Ser Torrhen paused for a moment, and when no voices of dissent spoke up, he nodded gravely. "Then let us prepare to be gone from this place with the arrival of dawn. Search the nearby homes and shops for whatever supplies your mount can carry. We will have need of them. But most of all, heed these next words. One day, we will return for this city, and we will return for our Queen."

Gyles looked up at the Red Keep. In the shadow of night, and illuminated by the fires burning throughout the city below it, it was a grotesque sight. Gyles felt his hands clench the reins of Evenfall tightly. He thought of the Queen and her children, and the peril that they were in. He thought of Mors, dead and likely to be left to rot in the ruined central square of the city. Enjoy the city while you have it, Usurper, Gyles thought, a black rage consuming him. And may the Gods have mercy on you and yours when we return for it.

Chapter Text

Veron III

It had rained for three straight days. Their camp, situated in the hills above the shore, had become a sodden mess. The Sunset Sea whipped and raged about, its waves angrily pounding the shore. The Crag stood forlornly in front of them, its ancient spires lit by the occasional flash of lightning. Despite being a relatively small castle, it had proven incredibly difficult to take. When they had first put ashore, Veron had decided that they would opt for a siege, in order to avoid the loss of manpower that always accompanied storming a castle's walls. Dalton might lack the patience for a siege, Veron had thought to himself, but I have no such limitations.

A month and a handful of drenched days later, he was beginning to have second thoughts. The Crag's stubborn resistance unnerved him as well. If the hearsay and rumors were correct, its Lord, Roland Westerling, was not even present to oversee its defense. Supposedly he was safely ensconced within the Rock itself, helping his daughter to raise the future Lord Lannister. Some man he must be, to leave his distant kin to defend his own seat from the likes of us. A hacking cough interrupting his thoughts. A few paces to his left, one of his reavers had doubled over, his whole body shaking as he struggled to regain his breath.

The constant rain had proven detrimental to his men's health and morale. If this keeps up, we may have to storm the castle, heavy casualties or not. Turning his back on the Crag, he paced back into the large tent that housed his subordinate commanders. Captains Balon Wynch and Melwick Myre nodded as he entered, and Torgon Blacktyde's brown eyes followed him as he strode to the table that contained a crudely drawn map of the surrounding area. Tommard may be a shite artist, but he's a damn fine scout. He is just as at home within the wooded hills as he is aboard the Misery. Brushing his soaking black hair aside, Veron pointed a gauntleted fist at a crudely drawn hamlet that was about a day's march from their current location.

"Given that there is no end in sight for this siege, we are going to need to restock our stores of food. Balon, I want you and your men to accompany me there and help me take whatever we can get our hands on." Veron glanced at the other two. "Melwick and Torgon, I want you to keep up the pressure. No one gets out. If all goes according to plan, Hilmar Drumm and his men should be returning from their little excursion to reinforce you."

The three captains nodded their acquiescence. Taking his leave, he opened the flap of the tent to step out into the muddy thoroughfare that ran through the center of their camp. Moments later, he found himself outside his own tent, scraping the mud from his boots on a stump he kept outside for just that purpose. Entering inside, he grabbed his sword belt from where it hung from a chair, buckling it quickly. His less-than-loving saltwife lay on her side, facing the wall of the tent. He decided it would be best to leave her to whatever dream she had found herself in. Anywhere is probably better than here. Wrapping his cloak tightly about his armored frame, he strode out from the slightly warmer confines of his abode into the storm.

A column had formed in the center of the camp, awaiting his signal for departure. Waving them forward, the men began to march in a thin line out of the camp and into the woods beyond. As they walked deeper under the boughs, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and he allowed the ever-eager Merrick to take the lead. The rhythmic clinking of a chain drew Veron's attention to a golden bauble hanging from the neck of one of Balon's reavers. It looks similar to the one Alannys had made for the day Dalton and I left. He frowned as he thought of the words Dalton had parted with. That had not be the first time he had hurt their sisters.

It had been a rainy day much like the one he was currently mired in when they had returned from their last reaving. It had been on that trip that Dalton had claimed Nightfall off of a dead corsair, avenging their fallen uncle in the process. Veron had contented himself with simpler winnings, including some new coins for his collection. Their sisters had awaited them before the Seastone Chair. News of their father's death had roused Dalton's ambitions, and he barely noticed their kin as he strode to take his seat on the vaunted throne. While he barked orders to prepare for his ensconcement as Lord Reaper, Veron had beckoned his sisters to follow him. In one of Pyke's damp alcoves, he opened his satchel, revealing the gifts he had brought each of them from abroad. For Alannys, it was a jade brooch from the seas beyond Qarth. For Asha, it was a small golden elephant made by Volantene artisans. For Morgana, it was a small Tyroshi doll that had come with different colored wigs that could be pinned on and removed based upon the whims of its owner. Veron had hidden these spoils from the other men, knowing they'd never approve, but his sisters' smiles were well worth the efforts. While the others had quickly given him a kiss on the cheek before retreating to their quarters, Morgana had stayed behind, wrapping him into a tight hug.

"What did I do to receive such a boon?" He had asked, chuckling. "It isn't as though I am the first brother to return with a doll for their sister."

Morgana had cast a glance at the great hall before speaking. "Not true Veron. Only the best ones do that."

Veron realised he had been smiling to himself as he recalled how sincere his sister's tone had been. It was the little things that he missed the most. He'd not seen the gray shores of Pyke for nearly an entire year. In that time, he had killed and looted more than all of his previous reaving expeditions put together. Whilst the sagas and songs had promised that his conquests would make him a legend, he had yet to feel like one. Instead, he found himself wondering what it was all for. When he was in command, fighting a truly challenging foe, he felt alive. But outside of combat, Dalton's campaign hadn't proven to be as rewarding as he might have hoped. Most of his enemies were men who'd never held anything other than a plow or a pitchfork in their hands. Their villages held no riches, and their women, well… the women were never my priority to begin with. Even after he'd been presented with the Farman girl he found no fires stirring within him. After the first few nights, he had given up even trying to will them into existence. Her cold eyes, full of venom, do nothing to stoke my ardor either. That wasn't to say that he didn't attempt to keep up appearances. He hoped the show he'd put on at Fair Isle had dispelled any potential suspicions, but one could never be too careful.

They spent the entire day marching through wooded hills and vales. The rain itself never stopped, quietly pattering all around them as they traveled. The air itself formed a moist and chilling shroud, soaking through their cloaks and the armor beneath. As the daylight faded and they began to make camp, it was nearly impossible to light any fires. Merrick, ever energetic, simply refused to stop trying. He let out a shout of pure joy the moment he was able to get a small, pathetic flame sputtering. It had taken two hours. Shivering, Veron wrapped himself within the folds of his cloak as tightly as was possible before falling into a fitful sleep.

As the first lights of the morning glinted through the dew and low hanging branches, their party woke, miserably going about their preparations for the raid. Balon Wynch returned, having run reconnaissance in the predawn hours. He guided them out of the woods, stopping at the edge of the trees. Beyond them lay muddy fields, recently harvested for their wheat and barley. The smell of woodsmoke hung thick in the morning air as the peasants cooked their breakfasts. Veron gathered the men around in order to give them their orders.

"Remember- we are here for the food stores. Extra salt wives or thralls are simply extra mouths to feed at this point! I won't tolerate such luxuries on campaign. Get what we need, and do it quickly."

Some grumbled under their breaths, but the men did as they were told and crossed the muddy fields as silently as possible, quietly drawing their blades or lifting axes from their took the lead, watching for sentries, but it appeared that none had been posted. They are like lambs who've never had to fear wolves. The raiding party split into smaller groups, filtering out between the various cottages and hovels in order to canvas the entire village. It was only after they had thoroughly infiltrated the hamlet that they began to toss recently lit torches onto the thatch roofs in order to drive their targets from their homes. It did not take long for shouts and screams of surprise to echo through the morning air.

. Following the main path, he found himself facing a crude building with several rooms that he surmised was this hamlet's attempt at an inn. As flames began to lick about the roofs of the hovels all around him, a portly man in boiled leather and a pot helm staggered out of the building. Brandishing a rusting shortsword, he yelled, spittle spewing from a mouth full of yellowed teeth. He charged Veron, hefting a scarred and dented shield that no longer held any recognizable sigil. Veron waited for him in the muck, waiting until the last moment to knock his sword from his hand with a well placed strike. Before the older man could recover, he drove his own sword through what little armor he had. The hedge knight fell to his knees in the mud, wheezing, his breath misting in the cool morning air.

Veron kicked him over and turned to face his next enemy, but the fight was already over. Several bodies (all townspeople) laid about in the mud. His men were already going door to door, seizing any foodstuffs that they could find and piling it onto a cart they had commandeered. He could barely make out the forms of townspeople fleeing into the surrounding hills, lit by the firelight of their own hovels. Absentmindedly, he tore a piece of cloth off of the fallen hedge knight to clean his blade with and turned to leave the way he came.

He was making his way towards the edge of the village when he saw her. The girl had fallen face-down in the mud, a spear shoved between her shoulders. She wore a tattered excuse for a nightgown. Despite a growing sense of dread, he walked closer. When he was but a few paces away, he retched. The bile wasn't the only thing that brought bitter tears to his cheeks. Half-trodden in the mud, still clutched in the girl's hand, was a crudely knit doll.

Despite his interrogations, none had come forward to admit killing the girl. They likely suspected I'd cut them in twain, and they were probably right. Their march home had been quiet, only periodically interrupted by the creaks and groans of the wooden cart as it had been pulled through the forests. Despite his violent rage subsiding, Veron simply could not distance his mind from the sight. What frustrated him was that it was not the first time he had encountered such sights. Despite that, he found himself increasingly fixated on the memory. It must have been the doll. His men had noticed that something was amiss as well. None had confronted him, but he could feel their eyes watching him when his back was turned. Focusing on other thoughts was no use; it seemed that whenever the image had finally been pushed from his head some errant thought or memory would cause it to come rushing back. He desperately wished for a drink. Even more reason to take The Crag, he thought to himself, amused. Their stores of ale should be full for the winter.

Their arrival back at the camp was greeted with as much enthusiasm as the sodden camp could muster. Whilst they had been unable to take the harvested grain (they had no way to process it) they had been able to seize flour and bread, along with a meagre amount of livestock (a few chickens and two pigs). To complete the haul they'd looted a good deal of salted meat, recently smoked to prepare it for conservation over the winter. While Veron was exhausted from the march and combating his mind, he quickly ascertained that any rest would have to wait. Standing at the entrance to his command tent was none other than Hilmar Drumm, looking decidedly pleased with himself. Melwick Myre and Torgon Blacktyde were waiting as well, but they did not seem to be sharing in Hilmar's glee. Without a word, he brushed past the three of them into the tent. He considered resting against one of the wooden pillars propping the whole construction up, but decided against it. It is never wise to show signs of weakness amongst subordinate captains. Especially ones who are eager to usurp command. As the others entered, he noticed an extremely well-crafted sword belted about Hilmar's waist. I'll be drowned. That blade is Valyrian Steel. The golden handle shown dimly in the torchlight, and the pommel was carved to resemble a red lion roaring, its eyes rubies.

"I suppose you've been dying to tell us where you obtained that blade, Hilmar."

Hilmar's eyes gleamed darkly in the torchlight. "After you sent me and mine to watch the southern approaches, we received word from our advance scouts that a group o' lads were coming up the seaside road to pay us a visit."

He paused, clearly wishing for someone to pry for more. When no such encouragement was forthcoming, he continued, despite disappointment registering on his features.

"There were forty or so of them, none older than twenty-five name days. We fell upon them in the night. The leader of their band was but a cub, with no business wielding a blade so fine. I cracked his head with nothing but a wooden cudgel. We didn't leave any of those young fools to tell the tale of their defeat."

Veron stroked his chin, its stubble pricking his fingertips. "It would appear that House Reyne sent whatever it could spare to relieve The Crag. If they could only spare 40 green boys, their situation is grim indeed. It appears Lord Jason truly did cripple the West's military capabilities."

Hilmar snorted. "When the Lion Lord went to go play at war, he got more than he bargained for. Now he and his lords are naught but food for maggots. All of the West is ours to take."

Veron eyed him darkly. "That may be so, but I'd settle for The Crag for the nonce. Let us not put the cart before the horse. We still have a castle to take."

He ran his hand along the edge of the map that Tommard had sketched days before.

"The Crag is not a large castle, but its defences are formidable. It stands with its back to the sea, limiting our avenues of approach. As each of you know, our probing attacks have been subjected to fairly intense arrow-fire from the battlements, meaning that any attempt to take it by storm will likely result in significant casualties."

Torgon Blacktyde gripped the hilt of his sword as he spoke. "Veron, we are your leal men. If you order us to take those walls, consider them taken. Your plans have not failed us yet."

Despite his exhaustion, he appreciated the support. "Torgon, none need remind you that you lost your elder brother during a similar attempt to take the walls by force. I admire your confidence, but we Ironborn do not have the numbers to fight a war of attrition with our enemies, even as depleted as they are. We must needs make use of our cunning nature."

Tapping the map, an inkling of an idea began to take shape in his addled mind. Pouring more effort into the errant thought, he began to smile. Glancing up, he was pleased to see his captains watching him with interest.

"He's got an idea, lads." Grunted Hilmar, with the corners of his mouth twitching.

"The Westerlings built their seat along the coast to limit their foes to a single approach, allowing them to concentrate their men and resources along one front. But what is advantageous against Greenlanders is a detriment against us men of Iron."

He paused, wondering if any had caught on to his plan. Several pairs of eyes glinted darkly.

"Hilmar, I want your men to begin constructing a ram. It need not work, but make sure it provides as much protection as possible. Cover the top with any animal skins you've available. In combination with the rain, they should render any boiling oil ineffective."

Turning to Torgon and Melwick, he grinned. "We are going to need a longship, some rope, and a couple lads with no fear of heights."

They strayed as near to the rocky cliffside as they dared, fighting the waves that threatened to dash their longships against the wickedly sharp rocks that poked from beneath the seas and out from the cliffs. The rain had begun again in earnest. The Storm God is surely against us with weather like this. On the deck in front of him, several men were tying the ends of thick ropes into loops. In teams, they began to toss them upwards, attempting to loop them around a sturdy outcropping that hung out from the sheer cliffside about twenty feet above them. It took several tries, but eventually they were able to land the shot. They waited to cheer until thunder split the sky. The men turned to him expectantly.

Looking into each of their faces, he began to speak: "I have no intentions of wasting any time. But know this: the Drowned God will smile upon your bravery today. We are Ironborn, and we conquer with both our might and our minds. Now LET'S TAKE THIS ACCURSED CASTLE!"

As thunder once more rumbled above, his men cheered. Veron took a deep breath, pulling on coarse leather gloves that he hoped would give him purchase. He had chosen to wear his plate for the climb, despite knowing that it would guarantee his death by drowning if he fell. An Ironborn should harbor no fears of drowning. What is dead may never die, but will rise again, harder and stronger. Gripping the thick rope in his hand, he began to pull himself upwards, pulling himself upwards from the deck of the Misery and towards the outcropping.

To his relief, the outcropping held firm, and the rope showed no signs of fraying. His progress was slow, and the rain poured unrelentingly against his face, blurring his vision. He concentrated on each movement upwards, his grip on the rope a strangling vice. After what seemed like an eternity, his hand collided with stone as he moved it upwards. Gripping the rope tightly with his left hand, he felt for anywhere to grip, wedging his hand into a mossy fissure in the outcropping and using it to pull himself upwards onto the stone ledge. He offered a silent thanks to the Drowned God as the stone supported his weight. Below him, his men cheered at his accomplishment.

Pulling a loop of rope from where it had hung from his shoulder, it took him a couple of tosses to hook it around a battlement that was perhaps fifteen feet above him. He gave it a sharp pull, tightening the knot. Then, he gingerly jumped on it, testing to make sure it'd support his full body weight. After he was certain that it was not going to snap and send him careening to his watery grave, he waited, holding his hand above his eyes to block out the rain. Now the most important part. Is the distraction working? If the Westerlings had still posted guards along the seawall, they had already likely noticed the rope. He waited for what seemed like an eternity (but what was more likely to have only been a few minutes). When no concerned faces appeared to look over the battlements, he knew it was time.

Fortuitously, it was at this moment that Merrick, ever eager, crested the outcropping. Veron took his hand, heaving him upwards. He was quite sure that none could pull off the look of pure elation that was etched across Merrick's features as he slapped Veron of the back, his axe clutched between his teeth. Without a word, Merrick took the next rope and began his climb. A few moments later, it was Torgon Blacktyde's turn to pull himself to the outcropping. As he gripped a mossy edge, the moss tore, his arm flying free. Veron lunged, grabbing his flailing arm before his grip on the rope gave out. Pulling him upwards with a great exertion of effort, they were both left panting on the mossy ledge. Torgon, his face pale from the experience, smiled.

"Thank you, Veron. I know that we Ironborn should not fear drowning, but I had little desire to meet our soaking deity quite yet."

Veron chuckled. "And I had no desire to lose my most vocal supporter. Think nothing of it."

Torgon nodded. "Whatever your reasons, I am grateful. Alas, despite this impressive view, I really should be going. I cannot allow Merrick all the glory."

Standing, he gripped the next line of rope, pulling himself upward. When he had clamored over the battlements, Veron sent Tommard up next, the bowman wordlessly nodding his assent. After a few more handpicked reavers had gone, Veron grasped the rope, motioning for the Misery to depart. If everything goes as planned, I will see you soon, my sweet lady.

His next climb was even more nerve wracking, if that was possible. On the first climb he had been able to convince himself that his men would fish him out of the water if he fell. He had no such luxuries for the next, however. Any fall at this point would inevitably be fatal. His muscles, especially in his shoulders and back, had become liquid fire from the strain. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to push onwards focusing only on each upward movement individually. To his satisfaction, he reached the battlements in one piece; his men eagerly pulling him upwards once he was in reach.

Once atop the battlements, he scanned the area. The yard beneath them was bereft of any sentries, living or otherwise. A large keep sat across from them, lights glowing within. It was impossible to see if they were being watched from within its lancets and windows; the rain had rendered the glass opaque. If they had been aware of our progress, they'd have sent men to address it. The sounds of battle and shouts echoed across the cobblestones. It seems the distraction has gone as planned.

Drawing his blade, he beckoned for his men to follow him around the battlements. Pulling his visor to cover his face, he strapped his shield to his arm from where it had been slung around his back. Their group stalked silently around the curtain wall until the gatehouse came into view. Around forty or so guards and household knights had gathered on the walls facing the landward approach. Many were firing arrows and throwing stones. Others jeered from behind the safety of the battlements, clutching their spears tightly. A grizzled knight, dressed in a light yellow tabard that sported six seashells appeared to be supervising the lot. Veron motioned for his men to gather around him.

"Remember lads, the gatehouse is our top priority. If we can force open the gates, the castle is as good as ours. It appears we need only lift the bar from the gates to open them. A portcullis would have been far more difficult. If we approach from the ground, we can avoid the guardsmen's attention for as long as possible."

The men nodded in understanding, hefting their weapons as rain dripped from their features. Taking the nearest stairwell into the yard, their approach was masked by the din of the Ironborn outside. They had made it to within twenty feet of the gate when the knight atop the walls spotted their approach. The old man must have a sixth sense, Veron thought, feeling a begrudging respect for his enemy.

His eyes widening, the knight shouted, calling for his men to attend to this new threat. Donning his helm over his closely cropped grey hair, the knight of House Westerling quickly drew his sword and descended the stairs to the yard. Over half of the guardsmen joined him, filing downward and forming a hedge of spears guarding the gate. He held up a hand for his men to halt.

"You need not die here." Veron called out across the yard. "Lay down your arms and surrender the castle. I will guarantee your safety."

"Promises from an Ironborn are worth less than the breath used to make them." Huffed the Westerling knight. "Besides you're outnumbered. This will hardly be an even fight."

Veron grinned darkly beneath his helmet. And like that, I feel truly alive again. "You are quite right about one thing, Ser. This will not be an even fight."

With that he leveled his sword at the knight and his men sprang into action. Tommard let an arrow fly, striking one of the guardsmen in their eye. The man dropped wordlessly. The other Ironborn rushed the defenders, screaming bloody murder. Veron hefted his sword and crossed the distance between the knight and himself quickly. The older man turned aside his initial probing strikes quickly, causing Veron to raise an eyebrow beneath his helmet. This old man has talent, I'll give him that. They circled one another, oblivious to the fight around them, as they tested each other's defenses. After his successive attacks were equally unsuccessful, Veron shifted to a defensive stance. The knight let fly a couple of feints, before lunging for Veron's visor. Blocking the strike with his shield, he brought his own blade to bear in a savage upward strike. To his surprise, his opponent sidestepped the attack.

He is too skilled to fall for such a basic maneuver. His eyes narrowing beneath his helm, he thought to himself. Perhaps I should give him an 'opening'; he'll be skilled enough to see it. Veron raised his blade, as if preparing for a downward cut, but exposed his lightly defended underarm to attack. Quick as lightning, the older knight moved to exploit the gap. I've got you. With the knight's blade committed to its strike, Veron launched forward with his shield, catching the older man in the chest and knocking him backwards. As his opponent staggered, Veron ended his cut prematurely, whirling around and driving his blade into the stomach of his foe. The knight wheezed sharply beneath his helm, falling to one knee as Veron withdrew his blade.

The knight looked upwards, shakily regarding him through his helm. Through the slit in the visor, Veron could see his eyes regarding him with a cold loathing.

"Damn you to the Seven Hells, Ironborn sc-"

A swift cut across the man's throat ended his curse. He fell wordlessly, his blood darkening the rainy puddle into which he had fallen. All around him, Veron's men were in the process of finishing off the defenders. Two men were already in the process of lifting the bar from the gate. Once they had completed the task, they pulled the massive wooden doors inward, allowing men to pour in from the outside. Leading the charge was none other than Hilmar Drumm, brandishing his Valyrian steel blade and roaring a challenge to any who might be "man enough to face him."

Any men who may have taken him up on that challenge were already in the process of dying, however. In the span of a few minutes, the courtyard was secured. Many of its defenders had thrown down their arms, begging for their lives. Veron directed his men to grant them their requests, herding them into a corner of the yard after having deprived them of their weapons. I am not my brother. Spilling blood just for the sake of it is a waste. These prisoners can be put to work on something useful, I am sure of it.

He tasked Hilmar Drumm and Melwick Myre with forcing the doors of the keep open. Using the bar from the outer gate as a ram, they went about pounding the doors down, reducing them to splintered ruins relatively quickly. The few guards that remained quickly cast down their weapons, wanting no part of a lost cause. One pointed them in the direction of the Great Hall. Pushing the doors inward, Veron was taken aback by its beauty. Pillars of seastone stood along its length, with shells and sea creatures ensconced within them. Taken in conjunction with the tapestries along the halls, it gave the impression that they were entering into a court at the bottom of the sea. Perhaps the Drowned God's own hall resembles this, he thought to himself. Although I would expect it features less art of dancing maidens.

Scanning the hall, it appeared that those present within were largely composed of smallfolk and castle servants, as none rose to contest their entry. Cowering behind the high table were three children, two boys who looked to have less than ten name-days between them and a girl who might have counted thirteen. Each of their garments featured the same six seashell design that the knight had sported on his tabard. Before them stood a knight with the same design on his chest and a bushy white beard who drew his sword with a shaky grasp that betrayed his advanced age. To his left stood a man in armor of shoddier craftsmanship, more boiled leather and rusted mail than plate. A hedge knight. The man's shield sported a snake coiled about a man's arm, its fangs sunk into the flesh. Veron readied his blade, and to his left, Hilmar Drumm readied his Valyrian steel blade, still dripping blood. As the seashell knight took his first step to engage, the hedge knight lunged, driving his blade through the older man's unprotected neck.

The old man's eyes widened in surprise, and he attempted to draw in a gasp, but failed, gurgling up his lifesblood instead. The children behind the table screamed. The ironborn halted in stunned silence.

Wiping the blood from his blade, the hedge knight adopted a neutral posture. "There's no need for further blood to be spilt lads. The old man had resolved to die fighting, so I granted him his wish. I had no such desires. I only ask that you grant me my life in return for taking your side."

Veron scowled. "We men of Iron face our foes from the front. Unlike you Greenlanders, there is no honor in stabbing an old man in the back." Turning to his men, he made a quick gesture, and Tommard put an arrow through the hedge knight's chest before he could raise his shield. The man's face tensed, and he crumpled to the floor clutching the shaft sprouting from his core. Veron sighed.

To his left, a raucous laughter began. "That was a fine speech, Veron." Turning to the men still streaming into the keep, Hilmar raised his blade in the air. "The keep is OURS!"

The shouting was deafening, and the louder it got, the more those huddled across the hall shrunk and cowered. One young woman was attempting to hide herself behind a tapestry.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder. "I think it is well past time we divided the spoils of this conquest. Given that your brother will expect you to return to his side, I would be happy to stay behind in order to hold this place in your name."

Turning to face Hilmar, he couldn't help but observe his dark eyes gleaming. I am certain he wouldn't be opposed to gaining a keep and a blade of Valyrian steel in the span of a few days. He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Instead, he turned to Melwick Myre. Best to grant this place to a man of proven loyalty.

"Melwick, this keep occupies a strategic location along the coast, and is dear to the heart of the Lady of the Rock, a former Westerling. You have served under me since Lannisport. It is only fitting that I grant you this seat."

His words were met with a smile and a scowl. Melwick Myre, smiling, was lifted upwards by his crew and carried off as they looked for something to drink in celebration. Hilmar Drumm, on the other hand, had turned to ice.

"I handled the storming of the keep, Veron. That decision was ill-advised."

"You handled the storming of the keep in conjunction with Melwick Myre. And I would advise you to hold your tongue, lest I decide that you must needs be parted from it."

A war of emotions fought itself behind Drumm's eyes, but he managed to stay his tongue. His grip upon his blade remained white-knuckled, however. The silence remained deafening until Merrick spoke up.

"Lord Reaver, what say you regarding the prisoners? What are your orders?"

Veron surveyed the crowd assembled before him. Over one hundred pairs of eyes, all terrified, seemed to bore into him. Behind him, he felt the eyes of his men eagerly set upon him as well. A few of the captains, both Drumm and Wynch among them, were eyeing the Westerling girl with interest. They wish to know if she has flowered. That would mean the difference between a valuable prisoner and a prestigious salt wife.

He ordered the children to be brought forward. Several men led them forward. The boys wept, and to Veron's disgust he saw that one had made water beneath his garments. As the girl was forced to her feet, he saw that she was clutching a doll fiercely to her chest. Bile rose in his throat, and his hand quivered. He gazed at the men assembled around him, their eyes akin to those of wolves. Turning his head back to the children, he felt a cold chill run down his spine.

"Find somewhere to put those mewling babes. Dalton wanted them delivered in chains, and so he shall have them." He swallowed, clenching his fist tightly in an attempt to keep it from shaking. "The girl is mine."

Merrick, seemingly unaware of his captain's turmoil, spoke again. "And the others?"

"Do with them what you will. Remember, however, that they are now the subjects of Melwick Myre. Mistreat them and you will answer to him and his men."

With that, he strode from the Great Hall, intending to find his way to the Lord's chamber, or at least a chamber that would suit his needs for the night. I need a few stiff drinks to shake whatever this is that plagues my mind, he thought to himself. Following the stairs of the keep upwards, he called for a barrel of ale or several wineskins, whichever could be found more quickly. All around him were Melwick Myre's men, eagerly ransacking the keep for anything of value. One passed him two full wineskins, and he wasted no time in uncorking one and taking a deep draught. Crashing into a bedchamber with a view of the sea, he continued to drink, guzzling the wine like a thirsty man would water. Why does that girl haunt me so? He knew the answer, but it brought him no solace. Another gulp of wine brought an image of a girl face down in mud, a spearpoint through her back. But this new image was different. The girl wore a dress of black, a golden kraken stitched into the bodice. A Tyroshi doll was still clutched tightly in one hand. His hands began to shake again.

He was so lost in the image that he did not hear the man enter behind him. Veron only became aware of his approach once he joined him at the window that looked out over the stormy sea.

"Many would not have understood what you did today."

Turning to Torgon, he grimaced as the man began to look concerned. He can see that something is wrong with me.

Torgon frowned. "I can see that you're under a great deal of strain, Veron. But I wanted you to know that I saw what you did for what it truly was: an act of kindness. Our ways have fashioned many a cruel man out of an eager boy. I was pleased to see that you had not been lost as well."

Despite his best efforts, a tear ran down his cheek. He attempted to mask it by taking another deep swig of wine. "That girl slain in the village still haunts me. I cannot get her out of my mind. She must have been the same age as Morgana."

Torgon nodded in understanding. Veron's hand, still tightly clenched, began to shudder again. As it did, another hand placed itself atop of it. Surprised, Veron looked up.

Torgon's look was one of empathy. "Just know that you're not alone, Veron. I understand and I want to help."

He… is like me? Veron was stunned. Before he could act on whatever he was feeling, a small cough interrupted the moment. They both flew around to face whoever it was who had seen them. Standing in the doorway were his two salt wives. The elder one stood behind the younger, her hands on her shoulders. A look of recognition flitted across her features before they returned to their normal unassuming and disinterested state.

Flustered, Torgon began to leave the room. "I will have the ships ready for an early departure tomorrow, my lord. If the winds are favorable it should be a swift journey to Fair Isle."

Veron blinked. "Thank you, Torgon. Let us hope the Drowned God favors us."

After he had left the room was silent. Eventually, the Farman girl closed the door behind her. Veron found a chair and collapsed in it, slowly untying the leather knots that fastened his plate about him. He tried avoiding eye contact, but could feel the eyes of both upon him. Finally he spoke.

"Whatever you both saw, I assure you that…"

"Veron, peace. There was nothing to see."

He was surprised to hear the Farman girl's voice. She rarely spoke to him. Meeting her eyes, he whispered, "thank you."

She met his gaze for the first time in a long while. "My name is Elissa. And this is Eleyna. She had something she wanted to say to you as well."

The Westerling girl blinked. Clutching her dress, she raised her eyes to meet his, before whispering. "Lady Elissa explained that you're keeping us away from the bad men."

Veron was speechless. But he also felt some of his internal anguish grow quiet. "I'm… trying, Eleyna." Turning to face Elissa, a slight, wan smile danced on his lips. "It is nice to meet you both."

Chapter Text

Gaemon VII

The great red dragon had managed to pull itself nearly to the walls of Harrenhal itself before it finally expired. Caraxes's maw lay open, its long barbed tongue swollen with rot and its eyes glazed over in death. It was missing a wing, and behind it a mess of great black entrails lay trailing. Despite the onset of winter, lake flies still swarmed about the massive corpse. Gaemon had already been forced to swat a few that had begun to investigate him, likely searching for sources of fresher, warmer meat.

When they had first alighted outside the great walls of Harrenhal, the sight of the fallen Blood Wyrm had been a cause for great alarm. Gaemon himself had been stunned, his emotions roiling within him. Fear had certainly been an element, along with dismay. Some small sparks of rage as well. Whatever his feelings regarding the beast's rider, he lamented its passing sincerely. Concerns about Aemond had also immediately come to the fore. Maegor regarded the fallen beast silently, his clenched fists the only sign of the rage that had been burning within him for the last several days. Addam's characteristic purple eyes had been darkened with worry ever since they had landed. The three Reachman had been mostly silent, observing the great dragon's corpse with no small amount of consternation. Unlike Maegor, Tom Flowers was not even trying to hide the hate that spilled from his eyes. Of their group, he was the first to speak.

"It appears we've arrived too late, for the second time. The accursed Kinslayer has managed to kill the greatest dragon that remained to us. We ought to fly back to Maidenpool and roast its cowardly Lord for allowing this to happen."

While Maegor did not speak, it was clear that he was sorely tempted by the proposition. It harkened back to his own, only a few days prior.

Their arrival over King's Landing had been akin to the beginning of a nightmare. The smoke had been visible for several leagues, and the stench of death was discernible even hundreds of feet above the ground. The city was caked in ash, and many of the buildings that lined its streets were in ruins. Initially, Gaemon had feared that the Kinslayer had stolen a march on them, descending from the Riverlands to burn the city whilst they had been away. The lack of any immediate response to their arrival made him doubt that notion, however. They circled over the city, searching for any sign of what had occurred, but the streets were largely empty. The few living souls visible below had vanished the moment that the three dragons had appeared above the city. It was Tumbleton writ large.

The most horrifying revelation had been when they had flown for the Red Keep. Gaemon had held out hope that the Queen had been able to bar the gates of the Keep during the attack, preserving herself and her family within its sturdy walls. The banners that hung from its ramparts destroyed any remaining hopes that he might have had, however. Great three-headed dragons rippled in black silk from the battlements, but instead of red, the beasts were sewn of gold. He had urged the Cannibal to halt above the keep itself, being of half a mind to begin burning the castle, but stopped short upon considering the ramifications. If the Queen and her sons were still alive, burning the Keep would surely bring about their deaths, one way or another. Most importantly, Baela herself could have also been captured. The thought turned his stomach, but was enough to dissuade his rage. As he urged the Cannibal to fly north, one final horror made itself known below. In one of the Red Keep's side courtyards, the large yellow-scaled form of Syrax lay unmoving, its chains still attached. Where its head would have rested was a bloody ruin, its blood caked amidst the cobblestones.

Lord Alan Tarly had evidently seen the same sight, as over the sound of the wind whipping about his helm, Gaemon had heard him utter an oath of vengeance.

The three dragons had landed on a windswept hill about a league north of the Dragon Gate. The three riders and the three passengers had remained silent for a few moments, occasionally casting furtive or enraged glances at the city still smoking behind them. Cold winds buffeted them from the North, keeping the smells of ash and decay at bay. Maegor had been the first to speak, his voice cast about in an ice-cold whisper.

"We ought to make good on our threats. While we engaged in parley, those treacherous snakes made their move. If we depart now, we ought to be able to catch the remnants of the Hightower host on their march south. This time, we should allow for no survivors."

The three men of the Reach had nodded in agreement. Alan Beesbury had spoken next.

"We should never have stayed in that accursed camp for so long. The Usurper's armies are composed of faithless lords and false friends. Their deaths would be a welcome boon for the realm. Whilst Lord Unwin and Ser Hobert haggled, our enemies seized the city, and mayhaps our Queen as well."

Alan Tarly took another look at the city before adding his voice to the impromptu council.

"It is impossible to tell what has transpired in these past few days. Judging by the embers I spotted whilst we flew, it appears that the sack happened recently. The gates themselves are mostly shattered ruins and the city seemed nearly empty. If a hostile army had seized it, we'd have spotted the men in its employ beneath us. I think it is unlikely that Lord Baratheon is responsible for this. Our Queen's enemies may have come from within."

Gaemon had nodded grimly.

"That does seem likely. The only armed men I observed from the air were the Gold Cloaks that fled from the Red Keep's walls on our approach." He had then taken a few moments to consider his next words. "The Queen's own mount has been butchered within the walls of the keep. Whoever killed it hacked its head off as a trophy. I saw no wounds on its body that would have been dealt by a hostile dragon. It seems neither the Usurper nor the Kingslayer had any part in this assault. With both of them seemingly still at large, I feel we cannot afford to spend any more time chasing down the remnants of the Hightower host. We cannot afford to divert our attention from the Green's remaining dragons. Besides, it will require all of us to slay Vhagar, if she still lives."

It was then that Addam Velaryon had spoken.

"I concur with Ser Gaemon. The army at Tumbleton is a shattered remnant. It is unlikely that it will ever pose a threat to the Queen's forces that remain in the field. Whilst they may deserve death, we must needs regroup with the other riders remaining in the Queen's service and plan our next move. The lives of both the Queen, her sons, the Lady Baela, and mine own grandfather may depend on our next steps."

"My…" Gaemon paused, catching himself. "The Prince Daemon was stationed alongside Nettles at Maidenpool during our search for the Kinslayer. We ought to make haste there."

Maegor's eyes had narrowed as he had realised that he was being outvoted. Without a word, he turned to mount the Grey Ghost. Before he could do so, Tom Flowers had put a hand on his shoulder.

"There will be time enough to hunt down every one of those animals, lad. When you do decide to put them down, you'll have my sword in aid."

Gaemon had frowned as Maegor gave a barely perceptible nod in response.

If any of the group had harbored any remaining hopes, the sight of Maidenpool had quickly dashed them to pieces. The Usurpers golden dragon banners hung from the walls of the castle that sat above the port town. Gaemon was immediately concerned for the fate of Nettles; he was shocked that Lord Manfryd Mooton had betrayed the cause of the Queen, having been one of her earliest supporters.

The story had been relayed to them after they had landed by a tearful maester and a petrified Lord Manfryd. According to them, they had been ordered to kill Nettles by the Queen herself, due to rumors that she had been carrying on an affair with Prince Daemon. All of the information had stunned him. Despite having been threatened by the Queen herself, he couldn't bring himself to believe that she would willingly break Guest Right. Maegor had been unwilling to believe the tale told by their terrified hosts, arguing that words were wind, and that recent events had ruled out trusting any Green. He refused until Lord Manfryd's Maester, Norren, had presented them with the letter itself.

"Sers, you must believe that we took the path we all deemed most honorable. The Lady Nettles was allowed to depart in the morn. Lord Daemon broke his fast with us, before departing for Harrenhal. Not long after we struck the Queen's banners, believing ourselves to be traitors. If you will not spare me, I beg thee to spare my children, and the people of this town. They had no part in this treacherous business."

The proof of the Queen's ruthlessness had been a sobering experience for both Gaemon and Maegor. When they had spoken amongst themselves, Gaemon had offered his thoughts.

"Lord Manfryd seems genuine. I do not feel he deserves to burn. More than anything, I feel we are in his debt for sparing Nettles."

His mind had struggled to process all of the events and new information of the past several days. It felt as though years had passed since his departure from King's Landing for Pinkmaiden. While the news of Nettle's supposed affair with his father was shocking, he couldn't help feeling that the entire idea was hilarious. The image of his aloof and disinterested father plowing the lowliest and most foul-mouthed peasant girl he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting threatened to send a howling cackle forth from his lips, despite the grim circumstances.

Maegor then spoke, his tone a bit softer than it had been for days. "I… I suppose that for sparing Nettles we ought to forgive Lord Manfryd."

Addam had wordlessly nodded his agreement, and Gaemon had delivered their decision to the pale Lord moments later.

"Lord Manfryd, as arbiters of the Queen's will, you have undoubtedly committed treason. But as men, we are in your debt. We had not been informed that the life of our friend and fellow rider was in danger. Your actions saved her life, and for that, we have decided to spare yours. Men of honor such as yourself are a rare sight in the midst of a war as cruel as the one we are embroiled in, and it would not do to discourage such actions."

The Lord had fallen to his knees as he heard the proclamation, thanking them for their mercy, both on his behalf and on behalf of the town.

Gaemon, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, had finally asked the Lord of Maidenpool if he had any idea of Nettles' whereabouts. The Lord denied having any knowledge of where she had gone, uttering only that "she vanished into the morning mists as she flew over the Bay of Crabs."

After the Lord and his entourage had departed, the riders had decided to fly for Harrenhal, in hopes of finding Prince Daemon and martialing what forces remained to the Queen. Gaemon found himself sorely tempted to fly across the Bay of Crabs and search for Nettles. As he cracked his Dragonwhip above the Cannibal's head, urging it to propel itself into the evening sky, he could not help but cast a wistful glance across the bay, his eyes straining for any sight of his lost friend.

"Ser Gaemon, what are your thoughts?" Asked Alan Beesbury. The eyes of the party turned to regard him, some cold, some blazing with fury.

Gaemon sighed. "We already forgave the actions of Lord Manfryd. We cannot afford to go back on our word, and our honor. If we do so, we will be no better than the likes of the Usurper's lackeys." Tapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword, he racked his brain for a course of action. "Firstly, we must needs determine whether the Kinslayer lives. If the Red Wyrm and its rider slew him and Vhagar, our concerns are unfounded."

"Where might we ascertain such information?" Asked Lord Alan Tarly.

"We ought to explore the pile of ashes once known as Harrentown. In my youth, I attended a tourney beneath these same walls. In those days, this town was bustling, full of life. If the Seven favor us, some of that life may remain, hidden away out of the sight of dragons and their riders." Beesbury posited.

Addam Velaryon stroked his chin, adding "it is quite possible that some survivors remain. Harrenhal has changed hands several times. The smallfolk that remain would likely have developed an understandable fear of dragons."

Gaemon struggled to imagine how terrifying the lives of the residents of Harrentown must have been for the last several months. From what he had heard in King's Landing, Aemond had scoured the castle and town with Vhagar's flames several times during his campaign in the Riverlands. If any survivors remain, we must needs be on our guard. Our arrival on dragons will not have been greeted with open arms.

Leaving their mounts along the beach (along with stern warnings to leave the corpse of Caraxes unmolested), the group hiked in double file up the grassy dunes towards the remnants of Harrentown. Entering through what must have been a wooden palisade in the past, their exploration took them towards the center of the ruins, which in years past had likely been a market square. The winds of winter blew coldly, stirring up small whirlwinds of ash about their feet and causing them to pull their cloaks more tightly about their shoulders. Lord Tarly's eyes scanned the ruins warily, his sword hand never straying far from the hilt of Heartsbane. Gaemon and the other seeds kept their hands upon the hilts of their own blades, grateful that they still wore the castle-forged black plate that had been crafted for them. When they reached the blasted doors of a former inn, Gaemon very nearly jumped when a ragged man emerged from its dark interior, his hands raised. His stomach, distended from starvation, pressed outward against the rags that he had wrapped himself within.

"Peace, m'lords. I mean ya no harm. We saw you flying from the southwest and scrambled ta hide. Might I ask your business 'ere?"

Untying his satchel from around his shoulders, Gaemon withdrew a crust of barley bread and a sliver of salted pork. Offering it to the man, he spoke.

"We have come for information. We, as riders in the Queen's service, have come to learn the fate of the dragon Vhagar and her rider."

The man's eye lit up at the sight of the food. Taking them hesitantly from Gaemon's hand, he answered between bites as he tore into the offerings with brown teeth.

"Was that the -mmph- big green 'un? A couple 'o days back, two great beasts, one red, one green, took to the skies -mmph- above the lake. From where we were 'iding, we couldn't see exactly was 'appened, but it only took a few moments afore the green 'un hit the lake with a mighty roar. The red one -mmph- a mean bugger, pardon my language m'lords, crawled up halfways to the town ruins. I'm sure you've seen what's left of 'im though."

Gaemon exchanged looks with the others. "You are certain that the green dragon fell into the lake? And that it did not surface again?"

The man nodded several times for extra emphasis. "She 'asn't surfaced again masters. I swear on the Seven."

Tom Flowers' face broke into a savage grin. "Finally, some good fucking news. Whether the Kinslayer crawled out of that lake or not is irrelevant. The Usurper's greatest dragon is fish food."

The Alans clapped each other on the back, and a weight seemed to lift from Maegor's broad shoulders.

The peasant guffawed, clearly wishing to join in on the celebratory mood. He then cleared his throat before speaking.

"Pardon m'lords, but if ye want proof of 'is death, me and my lad could take our boat out and go fishing. I've got a boat 'idden in the reeds. Wouldn't be too 'ard to go diving and see what we find. Shouldn't be too dangerous since the water 'as stopped boiling."

Gaemon nodded. "We would be in your debt if you could bring us proof of the Kinslayer's death. The dragon would likely be too difficult to retrieve."

While he had meant the last part as a jest, the man nodded gravely, clearly agreeing that Vhagar's corpse would be nigh impossible to raise from the depths.

"Me and mine will set out at first light tomorrow, m'lords."

Nodding Gaemon handed him some additional bits of food from his satchel in thanks. As he scurried inside the ruined inn, the group gathered. The moon had risen high in the night sky, and with the absence of the Sun's rays the air had become bitingly cold.

"We must needs seek shelter. I've not made it all this way to freeze to death." Muttered Ser Alan.

"I second that sentiment." Added Lord Alan.

Almost in unison, they all cast their eyes towards the massive ruined towers of Harrenhal, its spires colored a mixture of silvery white and deep black by the rays of the moonlight.

"Haunted or not, Harren's folly certainly offers us the best prospects of a well-deserved slumber. Its previous inhabitants may have even left some of the furniture for us to use." Ser Alan quipped.

Too tired to fear the prospect of ghostly Harren and his sons, the group made its way into Harrenhal. The curtain walls alone were gigantic, far taller than any walls Gaemon had observed previously. Once through the massive gatehouse, the sheer size of the five towers themselves became apparent; their tops sporting fissured and melted stone, courtesy of the Conqueror. The sight was breathtaking. A castle truly befitting a King. Given their exhaustion, there was no time to explore, nor even to check for other residents. The six of them entered the nearest tower, its ground floor the size of a keep in and of itself. It housed a table large enough to seat sixty men at least. Tom Flowers, in no mood to seek out firewood, cut three chairs into manageable pieces before piling them into the fireplace and setting them alight. Maegor and Addam climbed the stone stairs cut into the tower walls in order to search for bedding, returning after a few moments with armfuls of furs.

Mindful that the men in their company had recently been prisoners, Gaemon offered to take the first watch. None protested, untying the leather knots that held their plate armor about them with a speed that would impress the most dedicated of squires before collapsing into their respective piles of furs. Wrapping what appeared to be a great black wolf's pelt about his shoulders, Gaemon took a seat near the tower doorway. He had little reason to believe they were in danger, but the shocking events of the past few days had left him feeling exposed and wary.

So much had transpired in such a short time. My father is dead. He thought matter-of-factly. He forced himself to confront the issue, examining his thoughts. Oddly, although he felt as though he should feel mournful, he felt nothing. Perhaps I would have felt differently had he showed any interest, or any acknowledgement of my existence. Baela seemed convinced that underneath the disinterested exterior he did act to some degree in my interests, but his advocacy to grant me Stone Hedge could have been a coincidence. Gaemon sighed. As cold as this sounds, his death is almost… liberating. Letting go of the Rogue Prince will make me stronger. It will make me my own person, living outside of his long shadow. For so long, he had found himself fixated on obtaining the Rogue Prince's acknowledgement. When he'd arrived in King's Landing and the man had turned his back on him, he hadn't been sure what to do. He was immensely grateful for Baela's presence during those times. She had meant more to him than many of the others during those difficult days. Her acceptance has helped me to accept myself. Not as Gaemon Targaryen, but as Gaemon Waters. He desperately hoped that she was safe, alive even. He couldn't imagine losing her at a time like this, if ever. I cannot lose her just as I am in the process of finding myself.

He reached below the collar of his shirt, grabbing ahold of the leather pouch that still dangled around his neck. Reaching inside, he pushed the cold golden dragon aside and grabbed the small lock of white hair still tied together with a tiny ribbon. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he smiled. She's twice the dragon that I am. What I would give to have her here now. Soft footfalls brought him out of his reminiscence.

Without his armor, Addam Velaryon was still a small lad. On Dragonstone, some had described him and his brother as 'silver mice'. Strangely, instead of finding that description insulting, he and his brother Alyn had taken those words as compliments. The silver-haired boy of no more than fifteen name-days brought over a chair to sit across from him, his deep purple eyes studying him. Gaemon nodded in greeting.

"I would have thought that you'd have been fast asleep by now, Ser Addam."

Addam gave him a wan smile. "It seems that the fates of women keep us both awake, Ser Gaemon." He paused. "Is she from Lys?"

Gaemon was perplexed by the question, until he realised Addam had been referring to the lock of hair in his hand.

"My grandfather tells me that Lys is home to many beautiful women who maintain the fabled looks of Valyria. I was curious if your secret love could trace her roots there."

Gaemon forced a grin. While Addam's smile was genial enough, there was an edge to it that he did not like.

"My 'secret love' does indeed take after Valyria's women of old. I suppose that growing up on the craggy bluffs of Dragonstone gave me a powerful appreciation for the beauty of Valyrian women."

Addam nodded. "While I might've been blessed with similar features to my father, I too share that appreciation." He smiled again, clutching a stag's pelt around his shoulders. He adopted a more serious look as he asked his next question.

"How does your love fare?"

Gaemon sighed. "I last saw her in King's Landing. I fear for her safety."

Addam nodded. "I also fear for a girl. She too was in King's Landing when I last saw her. I had hoped that she might've escaped via the Dragonpit, but if she had I would've expected her to fly to Maidenpool. It seems unlikely that she was able to flee. I had hoped to ride to war with her favor, but she was oddly reluctant to grant it when I departed for Pinkmaiden."

Gaemon frowned. "I am… sorry to hear that Ser Addam. It must have been painful to depart with such a rejection."

The boy opposite him met his gaze, his purple eyes searching his face. Whatever he sought, it seemed that he did not find it.

"It is… no matter. My grandfather assured me that the key to any maiden's heart is persistence." He chuckled. "He also said being the heir to an ancient and wealthy seat helps a great deal."

Gaemon nodded. "I would imagine that both of those play an important role in courtship."

"I would expect they do. My grandfather married a princess, so I would hope he would be an expert in such matters!" Addam grinned halfheartedly. "I have done my best to serve the Queen honorably in all things, and to bring honor to my house despite my bastard birth. I only hope my actions to this point have registered with the Lady whose heart I pursue."

He and I both fear for Baela. Despite his growing sense of apprehension, Gaemon was unwilling to be cruel to the boy across from him. It occurred to him that despite his initial jealousy of him, Addam might have even greater burdens to carry than himself. Legitimisation may have brought recognition, but he also carries the hope of an entire house on his shoulders- as well as the enmity of those whose hopes for inheritance he dashed. Gaemon couldn't help but feel sympathy for him. Reaching across the space between him, he gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"You know, you and I are not so different. Hull isn't that much larger than Windy Bluff, and certainly no more enticing to a highborn." He chuckled. "While you may not have been able to share a barracks with us on Dragonstone or within the Dragonpit, you are still a dragonseed. And dragonseeds must needs look out for one another!"

Addam offered a small smile. "I fear for my grandfather, and brother. It has been difficult to be apart from them, especially from Alyn. We've never been separated for this long before."

Gaemon nodded. "Maegor is as close to a brother as I am like to get, and I certainly would worry for him if we were separated. But have faith in your brother. I'm sure he and your grandfather will persevere."

Meeting his eyes once again, Addam spoke. "Thank you, Ser Gaemon."

Gaemon grinned. "Mayhaps it is about time for us to dispense with the need to use our knightly titles."

"Mayhaps it is indeed. In that case Gaemon, I will now take the second watch."

Nodding, Gaemon rose and took a place near the hearth. For many, laying so close would bring discomfort, but for him the heat and the flames instantly dispelled the cold from the exterior, washing over him like a wave. The flames danced and whirled, consuming the wood piled high within the hearth. The red and orange hues seemed to climb higher and higher in the hearth, and where they burned the hottest, the tongues of flame seemed to writhe in ways he'd not seen before. Before his eyes, they twisted into the form of a woman, whose eyes regarded him with cold appraisal. Sitting up, he glanced around the room, but all appeared to be asleep, save for Addam, who faced the door. Returning his gaze to the flames, he blinked, but the woman remained. When she opened her mouth to speak, embers spit and crackled forth.

"Gaemon, son of Daemon, son of Marys, we must needs speak. The flames have shown me much and more, and they could show you the same. Find me in the Kingspyre tower during the Hour of the Wolf."

Her eyes, despite being composed of white hot flame, sent a chill through him. She turned, seemingly walking back into the flames, and they died down, dancing normally as they had moments before. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, casting a glance around the chamber. None of the others had stirred, and Addam remained facing away. It was as though nothing had happened. While moments before he had been exhausted, his heart was now racing. The Hour of the Wolf cannot be far off. I must needs make my way there now.

Standing, he debated whether to don his plate, but decided that armor was unlikely to have any worth in the events that were to come. Reattaching his sword belt, he stood. Wrapping himself tightly in the great black wolf pelt once more, he approached the doorway. Addam turned to regard his with curiosity at his approach, but Gaemon assured him that he would not be gone overlong. Opening the wooden door as quietly as possible, he pushed outwards into the bitterly cold night. The moon still hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the castle yard and turning gnarled trees into grasping hands. Gaemon vaguely remembered from past conversations that Kingspyre Tower was the tallest of Harrenhal's spires, but as he walked amongst the titanic fortress, it was difficult to ascertain which of them fit that description. He was growing concerned that he'd never be able to determine where he was supposed to go when he saw the firelight. Light danced behind the cracks of the doors of the tower ahead of him, its fiery warmth a welcoming invitation for respite from the cold dark that surrounded him. Crossing the remaining distance quickly, he paused at the entrance, overcome momentarily by an intense feeling of foreboding. Pushing such thoughts aside, he drew the door back far enough to allow him to enter the great hall.

Upon his entry, the great door squealed as it closed shut behind him. Apart from its groaning protest, the hall was silent but for the crackling of flames. Hearth after hearth burned brightly within Harrenhal's vast reaches, casting light and shadow all about the chamber. The flickering and dancing shadows gave the impression of a vast assembly, dancing some unknowable and exotic dance. As he crossed the great empty hall, Gaemon realised with a start that the great fires burning in each alcove appeared to be burning freely, without kindling. He charted a path in the most well-lit portion of the hall, where the light of the flames overlapped and the shadows were kept at bay. For what seemed like an eternity, he crossed the length of the hall, before slowing his approach when he saw the woman.

She stood before the greatest fire in the hall, which burned in a massive fireplace carved from great stone blocks. A great stone crest was partially illuminated by the flames, depicting a raven, a longship, a pine tree and a cluster of grapes, separated by chains. The crest was likely the height of several men, and was only partially obscured by a banner that had been hung over it, depicting the red, green, and blue stripes of House Strong. The woman beneath the sigils of ancient dynasties also radiated an aura of power, and Gaemon suspected that the scent of fire and smoke did not emanate entirely from the fires themselves. Long black hair fell unhindered down her back, whilst her stomach was noticeably pronounced, suggesting a pregnancy. Her eyes, however, were the most striking element about her. The light of the flames danced within them.

Stopping a few paces from the woman herself, Gaemon placed a hand on the hilt of his blade.

"I have answered your summons." He waited, unsure of what else to say.

An enigmatic smile danced across her lips. "You need not have brought a blade, Gaemon Waters. It would not avail you." Pausing, she turned to face the flames. "I did not summon you to slay you. I summoned you as I believe we have need of each other."

Letting his hand fall to his side, he joined her at the edge of the flames. "I do not even know your name. What leads you to believe that I have need of you?"

Turning once more to face him, the woman studied him. Now that he stood closer, he found it difficult to look away. She had an ageless quality about her, and the combination of flame and shadow only enhanced the effect, at once making her appear both a youthful girl and a matriarch. Now that he stood in her presence, he could feel heat radiate off her, as though she concealed a flame of her own.

"Your curiosity is understandable, Gaemon Waters. In my life, I have been known by many names, but for you, Alys Rivers will suffice. As for what I can do for you, you need only look into the flames."

Turning to face the roaring fire, he stared into its depths intently. At first he saw nothing but tongues of flame, orange and red and white. After a moment of concentration, however, fiery images began to manifest. A corridor, lit only by torches, lined with heavy doors, reinforced with steel. Each cell held an occupant. In the first, the Queen lay curled in a corner. Despite being stripped of her crown and finery, Rhaenyra was still unmistakable. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and they stared right through where he would be standing had he been physically present. Pulled outward, he found his vision thrust into the other cells. First Prince Aegon, sleeping fitfully amidst the rushes, the Prince Viserys, his small form shivering from the cold, and finally, Baela. Her food lay untouched at the foot of the door, and she still wore the close fitting clothes he remembered her favoring. To look into her eyes was to look into the eyes of one who'd lost everything. He wished desperately that he could reach through the flame to comfort her, or even to speak across the vast distances a single word of support. He raised his arm to caress her, but his hand only felt the heat of the flames. He regretted his action immediately, as his movement seemed to disrupt the vision, and the flames swallowed up Baela's image greedily.

"The flames can show us much and more, Gaemon Waters. No castle wall is too thick, nor any distance too great. I can teach you what I know of the flames, but I will need a favor from you in return."

Pausing, he considered her words. "And what is this favor that you require of me?

Alys Rivers turned to face him once more, her expression cold and guarded. "The fires of life flicker in my womb. My love has been taken from me, and I fear that I may lose his son as well. I have ne'er successfully birthed a child, and I couldn't bear to let this flame die out." She studied him silently for a moment. "The blood of kings runs in your veins, Gaemon Waters. I can feel its fiery power even from whence I stand. Grant me some of your blood, that I might use its powers to save my child. In return, I will teach you what I know of flame."

She requires my blood for her sorcery? Gaemon's eyes narrowed. His mind's eye returned him to a night weeks ago, when he could have sworn he saw eyes regarding him from the flaming brazier in their quarters. Perhaps she has watched me for some time. A voice within him told him to deny the woman who stood before him, wreathed in flame and shadow. A stronger voice urged him to grant her request. Without her, I may never see Baela again. The flames may also be able to show me events of great import; information that could turn the tide of the war.

"I grant your request, Alys. I will allow you to take some of mine own blood, freely given."

Once more, a smile danced across the lips of the woman. She took his hand, and quickly ran a long nail across his palm. Blood welled forth, nearly black in the firelight. Unlacing her bodice, she pressed his palm on her swollen belly, and in that moment, he felt the child within her stir. The flames roared brightly, growing to nearly twice his own height before returning to their previous intensity. As he withdrew his hand, heat seared across where she had made the cut, sealing it and leaving only a faint scar.

"The blood of kings, freely given. The life of a child, saved." Finishing her proclamation, Alys Rivers sat before the flames, only inches from where they burned brightly. Beckoning for him to join her, she spoke.

"Join me, Gaemon Waters. I gave you my word that I would teach you, and there is much to learn. A pact made with blood and fire must be fulfilled."

He joined her at the foot of the flames. The heat washed over him in waves, its fiery embrace comforting and enthralling at the same time. He learned whilst the shadows danced.

The biting cold wrenched him out of his slumber. He awoke wrapped in the wolf pelt, but even its confines did little to shield him from the icy grip he now found himself in. Sitting up, he realized that he lay at the base of the great fireplace in Harrenhal's great hall. So the events of the past night could not possibly have all been a dream. He searched the cavernous chamber for signs of Alys Rivers, but could find none. The hearths were no longer lit, and the stones within them were cold, leaving no evidence of her presence in the night. The others will likely be wondering where I am. I need to return to them. He made his way out from the great hall, pushing aside it's great doors in order to exit. They protested mightily, but allowed him to pass. Walking between the massive towers, he realised with some surprise that it must have been after midday, given the position of the sun. Quickening his pace, he found both Maegor and Addam at the entrance to the tower that they had chosen to stay within. Judging by their faces, it was clear that they were relieved.

"We were considering splitting into groups to search the castle. Where in the Seven Hells have you been?" Asked Maegor.

"I left last night to clear my head. I… ended up sleeping within Kingspyre Tower."

Each of them studied him for a moment before accepting his explanation, at least on the surface. Before they could press him for any further details, a familiar voice echoed amongst the cobblestones.

"Greetings, m'lords. I've brought ya proof of the Prin… begging ye pardon… the Kinslayer's death. My youngest fished this out o' the depths. The lad swore 'e pulled it from the bugger's 'ead." The peasant caught himself, clearly not wishing to appear disrespectful. "Anyways, the boy found 'im at the bottom o' the lake, still chained in atop 'is dragon. The fish 'ad begun to feed, but these should still serve as proof."

He offered Gaemon a bundle of items held within a threadbare blanket. He gingerly drew back the coverning, and had to refrain from exhaling in shock. Cradled in the blanket was a blade unmistakably crafted of Valyrian steel. Its blade bore the distinctive rippled appearance, and its hilt was wrapped with a black leather grip. Both the pommel and crossguard were golden, wrought in flame-like designs. A red gem sat within the crossguard, looking more akin to a flaming eye than a bauble. Next to the hilt of the blade lay an intricately crafted golden orb, within which sat a large sapphire. It was marred only slightly by a deep gash that ran along its side. It appears that Aemond's false eye bears the mark of Dark Sister's kiss. Wrapping the blade and the eye in the blanket once more, Gaemon turned to the fisherman.

"I cannot thank you enough for braving the cold waters of the God's Eye to bring us this proof. It appears we have been conclusively rid of the Kinslayer. You deserve a suitably appropriate reward."

Gaemon thought for a moment, before reaching in the leather pouch that still hung around his neck. As he grabbed the golden dragon, he hesitated but for a moment. In his mind's eye, he could still see the scenario he'd spent his whole life picturing. As a boy, he'd dreamt excitedly about presenting the coin to his father, and finally getting the recognition he craved. Without any further delay, he withdrew the coin and placed it in the fisherman's hand. The man's eyes widened, and he bowed as deeply as he could in thanks. As he scrambled off, undoubtedly excited to show the other members of his group, Addam began to speak.

"I suppose I ought to tell the others what has just fallen into our lap, thanks to an intrepid fisherman and his son." After he'd entered the tower, Gaemon could feel Maegor watching him, surprise written on his face.

"I did not expect you to ever part with that coin, Gaemon."

Gaemon sighed. "I never expected to part with it either." Pausing, he turned to face his friend. "Alas, it felt fitting. I needed to let it go."

Maegor, seemingly understanding, nodded silently. Without another word, they turned to enter the keep.

Chapter Text

Gyles III

Throughout all his life, Gyles had never known such cold. It was a bitter and tireless thing, sinking its teeth through armor, clothing, and skin, until it settled into one's bones. Is it possible for shivers to jostle a man from the saddle? Gyles wasn't certain, but he was confident that if it had not happened before, he was soon to be the first example of such a phenomenon.

The snowfall had been light, and the party had so far been fortunate to not have it impede their journey. The snowfall would disappear as quickly as it began, and it had yet to begin accumulating on the ground. Instead the ground was merely hard and cold, covered in dead yellow and brown grasses, the last vestiges of a summer long past. Gyles had never seen anything like it before in all his years in Dorne. The tallest peaks of the Red Mountains were covered in snow, but Gyles had never touched it, nor watched flakes of it lazily descend from the sky.

What struck Gyles the most about the snowfall was its silence. The coming of winter was not heralded by thunder like a summer storm, nor howling winds. Nay, winter came with a whisper, as it spread its cold tendrils across the land. The members of the party were largely garbed in the cloaks and capes they had worn when they rode out to fight the rioters in the streets of King's Landing days before. A scant lucky few had found and taken winter cloaks as they searched buildings near to the Iron Gate for supplies before fleeing the city. Gyles was not one of them. He shifted in Evenfall's saddle as he pulled his sand-colored silk cloak tighter about himself, but the sodden fabric provided his freezing body little succor.

If Ser Harmon of the Reeds was to be believed, the party had recently passed the town of Duskendale on its trek north. On old Ser Jarmen Follard's suggestion, the group had decided to ride for the town of Maidenpool. With luck, they would be able to make contact with the two dragon riders that remained to the Queen, her consort Prince Daemon and the Lady Nettles, one of the dragonseeds. Oddly, Ser Torrhen Manderly and Lady Mysaria had seemed hesitant about such a proposition. However, the northern knight and mistress of whispers eventually acquiesced to the will of the group when it became clear that they largely agreed with Follard's suggested course of action.

Without any means of knowing just how much of the roads and seats north of King's Landing the Greens controlled, the party did its best to avoid large thoroughfares like the Rosby Road and Kingsroad. Ser Harmon of the Reeds had proved an invaluable asset to the party in this regard. Born in Harrentown, the hedge knight knew the back roads and paths within the Riverlands and Crownlands like the back of his hand, and had allowed for the party to make its journey in relative secrecy. So far, no trouble had befallen them, but Gyles refused to let himself fall into any sense of complacency. The last time I allowed myself to think I knew what the future held for me, I watched a city burn, nearly died, and lost my faithful squire and only friend.

Gyles did not currently ride among the main body of the party, however. He was scouting ahead of it, along with a lowborn Riverman named Tristifer of Oldstones, who had proven to be an expert tracker with sharp eyes and quick reflexes. The party had quickly learned to trust the man's "instincts", as he described them. So far, it had steered them clear of potential danger multiple times. It is almost uncanny, the way the man seems able to sniff out danger. Gyles frowned beneath his helm. No, not sniff. It's as though he sees the danger long before it is even upon us, from a perch high amongst the clouds.

He had temporarily broken away from the quiet Riverman in order to chase down a deer that he spotted amongst the largely leafless trees. It was a small, emaciated creature, but it would still provide the party with meat that wasn't cold and salted for at least one night on their miserable journey north. Atop Evenfall, Gyles had eventually felled the beast with a shot from his recurve bow. A difficult shot, even for a man of my talent, Gyles thought with a small amount of pride. It was the first time in a long while that he had felt any sense of pride in his actions. After draping the deer across Evenfall's hindquarters and securing it in place, he had begun to search for his fellow scout.

A short time later, as Gyles guided Evenfall through the sparse and desiccated remains of a thicket, he noticed that Tristifer of Oldstones had stopped his old grey stot at the thicket's edge. Guiding his sand steed up alongside the Riverman, Gyles peered through brittle thorny tangles of brush to a small clearing that lay not far beyond. It took but a moment for Gyles to see what the Riverman next to him was regarding.

A small group of people in tattered rags huddled around a campfire, shivering in the bitingly cold winter air. A dull orange glow illuminated some of their faces, and it seemed as though the people leaned so close to the flame that they were in danger of being consumed by it. Tired, gaunt faces stared expressionlessly into the flames. The people around the fire were pale and emaciated, and the skin seemed to hang off their bones as loosely as their grey discolored rags did. Like tiny grey moths flitting about the flame of a torch.

After a moment, Gyles realized that they were all chewing on a meager meal of charred meat, ripping it in greasy chunks from flame-blackened bone. The bones were unlike that of any animal Gyles had seen before, and he assumed that they must have resorted to slaughtering some sort of pack animal for sustenance. Gyles whispered as much to Tristifer of Oldstones. The man regarded him morosely for a moment, before shaking his head.

"Any pack animal these poor souls had would've been slaughtered for sustenance long ago," the free rider said quietly. "The meat they eat now is only the sort one could stomach if they were truly starving to death."

Gyles stared at the man in confusion for a moment, before the cold realization set in. No, it can't be. Surely it can't. Looking back to the small group huddled about the fire, he saw something else illuminated by the dim firelight. A short distance away from the group was a pile of discolored rags, much like the ones the people around the fire wore. These rags contained no person, however, and lay crumpled upon the brittle dead grass, stained with blood.

Revulsion washed over Gyles in such an intense wave that he jerked back as though he'd been struck. Gods, no. By the Mother, how could they? Yanking back his visor, Gyles leaned over the side of his saddle and retched up his meager breakfast onto the forest floor. Shaking, he forced himself to regard the group huddled around the campfire once more. None of the people around the fire talked nor moved, and the fire reflected dimly off of dull eyes devoid of any sort of life or emotion. The only thing they did was eat, chewing slowly and silently. These people died a long time ago, but they've yet to realize it.

Gyles couldn't bear to watch any longer. "Please, Tristifer," he began, his voice strained, "let us be gone from here." With an expression that was as disturbed as Gyles felt, Tristifer of Oldstones nodded his agreement. It was then that Gyles remembered the deer. Pulling it from where it had been draped across Evenfall's hindquarters, with Tristifer's help he heaved the dead creature beyond the twisted thorny confines of the thicket's brush into the clearing, in sight of the people around the fire. Without a single glance backward, Gyles and Tristifer both quickly mounted their horses and rode away into the gloom.

What am I doing here? It wasn't the first time that Gyles had found his mind consumed with doubt about his current situation. Feeding Evenfall another clump of dead grass from the palm of his hand, Gyles looked back from the picket line of horses towards the rest of the party. They had found enough kindling to start three campfires, and members of the party had begun to gather around each, eating what meager rations they had been allotted for the night's supper.

Some rations are better than none, Gyles thought gravely. Thoughts of the group of smallfolk that he and Tristifer of Oldstones had stumbled upon had plagued his mind the entire day. Are we to end up like them too? Ser Torrhen says we must continue north to reach the Queen's allies, but does not know just how far that is. Our own supplies have begun to dwindle, and there is little food to be found from the surrounding countryside.

Shivering in the cold as the last bit of grey daylight seeped out of the darkening sky, Gyles grimaced. It matters naught what I think. They listen to my scouting reports, and then act as though I don't exist. Gyles' mailed fist clenched. He had tried to offer his thoughts on what the party's next actions should be, but it had become clear all too quickly that the advice of a Dornishman meant little and less to the soldiers and knights of the North, Vale, and Riverlands. Even the Lady Mysaria exerts some influence over the party. The members of the party had quickly coalesced around Ser Torrhen Manderly and Ser Willam Royce as its leaders, and none had questioned their decisions and orders. Though it seems to me that Ser Willam largely follows whatever decisions Ser Torrhen makes.

Every night when Gyles found himself leaning against some log or stump, shivering beneath his damp silk cloak as he tried to sleep in the biting cold, he wondered if he might freeze to death while he slept. If I were to die, would they even bother to bury me? Or would they simply take my supplies and horse and move on? Gyles thought he knew the answer to such a question, and such thoughts did nothing to improve his morale.

What am I doing here? The nagging thought had returned, an increasingly uncomfortable itch in the back of his mind that would not leave him. The Queen I swore my sword to is imprisoned. In truth, Gyles had no way of knowing if she still even drew breath. Her war is not mine own. The fate and honor of House Yronwood does not depend upon which dragonlord sits that thrice-damned Iron Throne. Gyles had fought and bled for no obvious reward, and now found himself trudging north to an uncertain fate.

I lost Mors for this useless conflict. Gyles' squire had even less reason than him to get himself involved in the wars of the dragonlords. Mors was no exile. He could have lived out the rest of his days in Dorne. He accompanied me to help me, and I repaid his devotion and kindness by getting him killed. Gyles felt a burning anger beginning to grow in his gut. These people couldn't care less about Mors and I. Mors died for them and I've bled for them, and still they treat me as more of an annoyance and possible threat than an ally.

Enough! Gyles glared in the direction of Ser Torrhen Manderly and Ser Willam Royce. There they sat around the largest of the three campfires, surrounded by the majority of the party's members. There they conversed and planned, preparing for the next day's journey. I tire of this cold, and the disrespect. I swore no vow of fealty to Torrhen Manderly. Let them march north and freeze to death for all I care. Gyles had made his decision. As soon as the members of the party settled in for the night, Gyles would mount Evenfall and ride for Duskendale. I've enough coin left to me for passage across the Narrow Sea. I'll sign myself to a Free Company. At least there I'll be paid for my services and efforts, if nothing else.

Gyles nearly jumped out of his skin when the voice spoke up to his side. "The night will grow only colder out here alone with naught for company but shadows, Ser. Come, join us at the fire."

The knight standing before Gyles was an old man, with a long white beard that reached far down his breastplate. He had removed his helm. Only a few wisps of white hair remained atop his scalp, and his face was lined and wrinkled. He regarded Gyles with kind eyes. Ser Jarmen Follard, Gyles realized. During his time in the Red Keep, it had not taken Gyles long to hear of the ancient knight. The man had a legendary reputation among the Red Keep's denizens, and had been a sworn knight of the Targaryen family for near on fifty years, as Gyles had heard.

Gyles considered the man's offer for a moment. I suppose it would seem suspicious for me to refuse. With a nod and a cordial enough grin, Gyles acquiesced. "Very well, Ser Jarmen," Gyles began, "I suppose a little warmth would be to my benefit."

Following the elderly knight, Gyles soon found himself sitting upon a damp tree stump before the smallest of the three fires that the party had started. Unsurprisingly, the fewest amount of men sat about it. Glancing around, Gyles recognized a few of the men around him. To Gyles' right, Ser Jarmen had taken a seat before the fire, and across from Gyles sat Tristifer of Oldstones.

To Gyles' left was a man-at-arms in a frayed black gambeson, with a red three-headed dragon patch sewn above his heart. The man-at-arms had removed his dented kettle helm, which sat between his feet. Beside Tristifer of Oldstones sat a large man in heavy iron plate. Tied about his shoulders was a large black bear pelt, and he possessed a wild bushy brown beard that was streaked with grey. He regarded Gyles with a friendly expression, and laughing eyes that seemed full of mirth.

"Come, friend, and join us at the fire," the man in the bear pelt rumbled. "Tis enough warmth to go 'round." Chuckling at his own attempt at a jape, the large knight continued. "I don't believe we've been properly acquainted. I am Ser Horton Cave, the Knight of the Deep."

When the knight extended his hand, Gyles returned his handshake, and nearly gasped in pain as the knight grasped his hand in a crushingly strong grip. Looking up, Gyles saw that the knight had been watching for a reaction, and began to roar with laughter at whatever expression he saw upon Gyles' face. "Well met!" the man laughed, "tis not many who can withstand my greeting!"

Trying not to let his feelings of annoyance show upon his face, Gyles nodded at the man, before beginning to speak. "The Deep? Forgive me, Ser, but I have not heard before of your House or seat."

The knight in the bear pelt gave Gyles a friendly smile. "Not many have," he began, "tis on Crackclaw Point. Many forget we Clawmen exist until they meet us on the field of battle. I assure you, friend, that they don't forget about us after that!" The knight once again roared with laughter. Mayhaps the pelt he wears across his back is his own, Gyles mused, for this knight surely roars like a bear.

Turning to the man-at-arms next to him, Gyles spoke. "I believe I have not yet made your acquaintance either."

Looking at Gyles with slightly surprised brown eyes, the man-at-arms quickly nodded and inclined his head in respect. "Seven blessings upon ye, Ser," the man-at-arms began, "I am called Joss Oat."

Smiling, Ser Jarmen Follard interjected. "You have not yet told us where you hail from, Ser. By your armor, however, I don't doubt that you call the sands of Dorne home."

Looking at his face, Gyles searched the knight's expression for the hint of hidden hostility that he had learned to expect from nearly every acquaintance he had made north of the Red Mountains. He was surprised to see that Ser Jarmen's face contained none, however. His kind smile was a genuine one.

It took Gyles a moment to realize he had not yet spoken, and he cleared his throat in slight embarrassment. "You are correct that I am from Dorne, Ser," Gyles began, "I am Ser Gyles Yronwood, of Yronwood castle. It lies at the Boneway's southern end."

Ser Jarmen nodded, still smiling. "Well met. It seems to me that all of us could do with a bit more of that Dornish sun right about now. I fear that my old bones may never feel warm again!" The aged knight chuckled, before it lapsed into a hacking cough. After several moments, Ser Jarmen spat out some phlegm and sat back up straight. "Forgive me. I caught a cough after the Prince Aegon threw me in the Black Cells, and it has never taken its leave of me."

At the mention of the Usurper, Joss Oat grunted in anger. "Would that we lot already had an army at our backs. Our Queen and her children need us, and yet we can do naught but ride further and further away from 'em."

With that sobering thought, Gyles and the other men sat around the fire in silence for several moments. Gyles wasn't sure what to say. Much of this party is but the tiny remnant of the mounted column that Queen Rhaenyra sent out to bring order to her city. Gyles frowned bitterly. And what a fine job we did. Rode into a trap, and allowed the Queen and her family, as well as her keep, to be captured in our absence. Gyles did not doubt that the other men around the fire were thinking much the same thing. None had the courage to say that plain truth out loud, however.

Staring morosely into the flames, Tristifer of Oldstones spoke up. "There was an army," he began. "Rivermen and Northmen, we had fought together from the war's start. The hosts of Jason Lannister and Criston Cole couldn't stand before us. To Tumbleton we had marched. Another battle there was to be. This time, it was the Usurper's supporters from the Reach. Outnumbered as we were, we remained confident as ever. 'Tis the last fight, boys,' we had told each other, hoping it to be true."

Tristifer sighed sadly, before continuing. "My village sits beneath the ruins of an ancient castle. Oldstones, it's called. Twas the seat of River Kings of old, House Mudd. They ruled 'afore the Andals came, and lost their realm after they arrived. But our village survived the Andals. Ours is old blood, and mine own ancestors claim descent from the Mudds. Mine was a quiet life 'afore the war began. I thought it boring, and wanted to claim myself glory, like my ancestors long 'afore me."

The free rider laughed, but there was no mirth in it, and it sounded more like a harsh cough than an expression of happiness and joy. "I convinced most o' the men and boys of the village to follow me to war. 'Come with me!' I said, 'the bards have need of more heroes to sing about.'" Tristifer shook his head. "And follow me they did. We were all fools. War ain't no song, and the lot of us learned that soon enough. Half of the men and boys that followed me died in the first fight at the Red Fork. Sharpened sticks and rusty dirks make for a poor weapon against knights in plate."

Taking a moment to compose himself, he continued after a brief pause, his voice thick with emotion. "We weren't soldiers. We were farmers, and innkeeps, and smiths. But we learned to be. It was that, or die. By the Fishfeed, tweren't naught but five o' us left. Beron the tanner took an arrow to the throat, and Jyck the smith's apprentice a spear to the gut. Me, Pate the innkeep's boy, and Sour Rob were all that remained. We survived the fight against Criston Cole and his men, but Sour Rob died o' camp fever on the road to Tumbleton."

Rubbing his nose, the man continued to speak, as he stared expressionlessly into the crackling flames of the fire. "When we made it to Tumbleton, Pate the innkeep's boy told me that he had a good feeling, as though things were 'bout to start changing soon." Tristifer smiled mirthlessly. "Tis a funny thing, that. Plenty of the village boys were tall, and strong. Pate was short and fat. Lots o' boys in the village spent their free time running about and wrestling. Pate baked bread and swept floors. Yet when war came, tweren't the tall and strong boys that survived. Twas Pate. He kept his wits about him, he learned, and he lived. I s'pose you never know who the true survivors are until you're knee deep in the mud and blood of the battlefield."

Tristifer looked up to regard the men around the fire. "One night, our leader, Ser Garibald Grey, approached us and told us he needed one o' us to ride to King's Landing, and ask for the Queen to send us some o' her dragonriders to help defend Tumbleton. Even in peace, a wise man stays wary on the roads. In wartime, traveling alone on the roads can easily mean death. None o' us wanted the task, so we drew straws o' hay to see which o' us would be making the journey. I drew the short straw, so I saddled up my horse and prepared to leave at first light that next morning."

The free rider looked at the ground and closed his eyes, before sighing and continuing his story. "Pate came to me that dawn, and wished me well on my journey. 'You'll make it, Tristifer,' he said to me. When I asked him how he could be sure, he looked me right in the eye as he answered. 'We've made it this far,' he said, 'and at least one o' us has to make it home in the end.'"

Letting out a ragged sigh, he continued: "I made it to King's Landing without a scratch, and the Queen sent some o' her dragonriders to defend Tumbleton. The lot of us know what happened then." Tristifer wiped at a single tear that ran down his dirt-stained cheek. "And to think that I thought Pate the lucky one out o' the two o' us."

Holding his hands out in front of himself, he examined them in the light of the fire. "Mayhaps I'm cursed," the free rider muttered. "I brought many o' the men and boys o' my village to fight in the war, and watched em' die, one by one. Mayhaps tis my punishment, to live with the guilt o' their deaths weighing heavy on my soul. I can never return to my village, not now, not alone. I promised them that their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers would return laden with riches and glory. I couldn't bear to face them now."

Tristifer fell silent, and there was naught but the sound of crackling flame in Gyles' ears for several moments. Gyles was stunned at the Riverman's tale. I carry the guilt of Mors' death with me, yet this man bears the weight of the deaths of most of the menfolk of his village. Gyles wondered what gave Tristifer the strength to keep fighting, keep moving on. Mayhaps it isn't the strength to move on, Gyles thought. Mayhaps all that is left for him is to run from the grief and pain.

Ser Horton Cave cleared his throat, and Gyles looked to him along with the other men around the fire. For all the joviality and mirth that the Clawman had shown not too long before, he seemed much more subdued in disposition. "You're not the only man here that bears the guilt for leading good men to their deaths," the burly landed knight began. "I marched from Crackclaw Point with the Lords Crabb and Brune. Each of us had one hundred men at our backs."

He cracked his knuckles and sighed, breath misting in the winter air. "I lost men helping to retake Rook's Rest from the Greens, and even more trying to kill the Usurper's dragon. It was wounded, you see, and unable to fly. Lord Mooton wanted to kill it, and I volunteered to help him. We thought that we could finish it off with our numbers. What man wouldn't want to be known as a dragonslayer? Instead, the damned beast burned Lord Mooton, and a good amount of our men before we finally gave up."

Cave smiled sadly. "Those of us that remained still had fight left in us, however. We marched to King's Landing, and swore ourselves to the Queen's cause after she took the city. I suppose I thought that we would avenge our fallen by defeating the Queen's enemies in the field of battle, winning her the war. Instead, the last of my men died during those Gods-forsaken riots in the city."

Ser Horton sighed, his breath shaking the whiskers about his mouth. "Thoughts of home are what maintain my spirit, and give me the courage to fight on. I've a good wife, and strong sons who will carry on my legacy one day. And I have a daughter." He smiled wistfully, before patting a leather pouch on his belt. "Whenever I'm away, she writes me letters, you see. Within them are no matters of great import. She simply writes about home, and our family. When I return home, she gives them all to me, and I read them." Cave grinned. "They remind me of who and what I fight for. When I read them, I'm able to remember the man I was before I left. Reading them reminds me that I'm naught but a mortal man, and yet gives me the strength to see my journeys through to their end."

The pelt-clad knight let out a morose chuckle. "I suppose I will have plenty of reading to do when I finally get home. I've never been apart from my family and home for so long."

The men around the fire sat in silence for a while, considering Ser Horton's words. Eventually, Ser Jarmen Follard turned to regard Gyles with a friendly expression. "Tell me, Ser Gyles," the aged man began, "why did you swear your sword to the Queen?"

Gyles was unsure of how to answer him. Twould not be knightly to tell him the truth. The desire of power and influence is not a particularly noble aim. As he hesitated, Ser Jarmen chuckled softly as he examined Gyles' face. Ser Jarmen then closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. With a smile, he spoke. "Personally, I joined the court of King Jaehaerys, the first of his name, in the pursuit of comely maids."

Ser Jarmen laughed at Gyles' surprised expression. "Surprised? I was once a young man, as you are. The great beauty of the days of my youth was the Princess Viserra Targaryen. Truly, in all my years, I've never seen so great a beauty as her. I was a skilled young knight with ambition, and I knew I would never inherit my family's seat. The line of succession was a long one, and I was nearly at the end of it. So I rode for King's Landing, and with my skill at arms won myself a place in the King's retinue. In the days of the Old King, that was no small feat. The realm was at peace, and there were many skilled knights to go round. Only the best had the chance to serve at the King's court."

The ancient knight crossed his arms across his chest with a smile. "There was to be a large tourney to celebrate the King's nameday, and I had decided that it would be my chance to woo the Princess Viserra. Surely, I thought, winning such a grand tournament and crowning the Princess the Queen of Love and Beauty would win her heart. It did in all the stories, after all. So I trained and trained, and when I was nearly falling from the saddle with exhaustion, I trained even more. The day of the tourney finally arrived, and I felt I was ready. I was one of the court's newest additions, and desperately wanted to make my name known."

Tapping his mailed fingers on his knee, he seemed lost in memory. "The tourney had drawn in knights from all across the Realm. My first challengers fell before me with hardly any effort on my part. I unhorsed one hedge knight without even breaking a lance!" Ser Jarmen grinned. "It was only late in the tournament that all the training I had done saved me. I broke ten lances against Ser Robin Shaw of the Kingsguard before finally unhorsing him. After that joust, I had won the adoration of the common people in attendance. I was a young dashing knight from a minor Crownlands house, and the only challenger left who was not either a member of the Kingsguard or the Royal Family."

Ser Jarmen tapped a mailed finger to the side of his head for emphasis as he continued to speak. "I did not let such praise get to my head, however, and I stayed focused on my goal. I was going to win, and I was going to crown Princess Viserra the Queen of Love and Beauty. My next opponent was Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard, a most formidable opponent. Though I broke sixteen lances upon him and was nearly unhorsed twice, I managed to prevail. The Prince Aemon Targaryen had defeated his younger brother, the Prince Baelon, and was to be my final challenger." Ser Jarmen chuckled. "I was so focused on my goal that I barely took notice of all that I'd achieved. I was to ride against the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and yet all I could seemingly focus on was the Princess Viserra, sitting amongst her family in the Royal Box!"

By this point, Gyles and the other men about the fire had been completely enthralled by Ser Jarmen's tale. Members of the party at the other two fires had begun to overhear, and a few had walked over, standing behind Gyles and the others as Ser Jarmen continued to speak. "The Prince Aemon and I broke thirteen lances against each other. On the thirteenth lance, we both unseated t'other. Standing from the dust, we both drew our swords and began to duel amongst the lists, in order to determine the tourney's winner. To this day, I have ne'er faced a finer swordsman. I was later told that the Prince and I's song of steel lasted for near on ten minutes, neither one of us giving an inch of ground."

Ser Jarmen smiled wistfully. "I eventually forced the Prince to yield, but twas a close thing. The Prince accepted his defeat with grace, and congratulated me on my skill at arms. I thanked him with the utmost courtesy, but my eyes were set only upon the sole prize I coveted. The crowds roared my name, and the nobles clapped at the fine display of chivalry. The moment couldn't have been more perfect. With the Crown of Love and Beauty, I mounted my horse and approached the Royal Box. There the Princess Viserra sat, looking more a goddess than mortal woman. I was nearly shaking in my stirrups from the anticipation of it all. Twas there that I crowned her, waiting for my ambitions to finally succeed in a moment worthy of story and song."

The aged knight grimaced. "The Princess Viserra accepted the crown with all the grace and politeness expected of a Princess, but no more. She barely even looked at me. Twas then that I saw she had eyes only for the Prince Baelon, and not the landless knight of minor nobility before her. She accepted the crown as though it were some paltry gift. I realized then that even the possibility of myself crowning someone else had not ever crossed her mind. I was merely another handsome face bearing a crown of flowers for her to wear, as so, so many had done before."

The old man laughed bitterly. "I had achieved all that a man of my ambition should have wanted. I had made a name and reputation for myself, and sat atop a large enough pile of coin from all the ransomed steeds and armor of my opponents that I could've lived easily for the rest of my days. Instead, I was frustrated and discouraged. I wasted all of my coin on whores, gambling, and drinking. If I couldn't have my princess, I would have only the best women, wines, and foods that the city of King's Landing had to offer. My coin vanished as quickly as morning dew at sunrise."

Ser Jarmen closed his eyes and paused, before a smile came to his face. "It was as I was drinking away the last of my coin that the Prince Aemon found me, months after the tourney. He told me that he had been greatly impressed by my skill at arms, and valor. He offered to make me his sworn sword, and accompany him back to the island of Dragonstone. I could hardly refuse him, even if I had wanted to." Ser Jarmen paused. "I nearly did reject his offer. Somehow, I had it in my mind that if I stayed in the city just a little while longer, fought well in just one more tourney, that I would become worthy of the Princess Viserra. Alas, I did not stay. I accompanied the Prince Aemon back to Dragonstone as his sworn shield."

Though quite a crowd had gathered round by this point, Ser Jarmen smiled directly at Gyles as he continued to speak. "Twas on the island of Dragonstone that I became a man worthy of my knighthood. The Prince Aemon saw my potential, and altered the course of my life for the better. I learned there to temper my ambition with humility, and to take pride in my achievements, rather than do naught but yearn for more. Most importantly, however, the Prince taught me to have a care for others. I had spent all my years looking at people and wondering what it was they could do for me. Prince Aemon taught me to look upon others and think about what I could do for them."

Ser Jarmen smiled. "Tis only a callous man and a fool that will tell you that an act of kindness pays no amercement. You cannot make men love you, follow you, die for you, with coin. That kind of loyalty is only bought by showing those who follow you that their best interests are also your own, and that you will sacrifice your own interests in favor of theirs. Prince Aemon knew these things. Methinks he always knew them. What an heir to the Realm the King Jaehaerys had!"

A dark frown enveloped Ser Jarmen's face. "Twas not long after the Prince's thirty-seventh nameday that dire news came to Dragonstone's shores. Myrish pirates had taken over the eastern half of the isle of Tarth, and Lord Tarth was in desperate need of assistance. The Prince agreed without hesitation to come to their aid. It was arranged that the Prince's goodson, Lord Corlys Velaryon, would sail his fleet to Tarth, and that Prince Aemon would offer aid from atop his dragon, Caraxes. As his sworn sword, I was to fly with the Prince to Tarth atop Caraxes."

He sighed and looked at his feet. "Before the Prince and I departed, his only child, the Princess Rhaenys, informed him that she was with child. Twas to be the Prince Aemon's first grandchild, and he was overjoyed at the news. Off we flew to Tarth, and all the Prince seemed able to talk about was how excited he was to hold his grandchild in his arms when he returned. A glorious battle with dastardly pirates, and the fame that it would win him, meant little and less to the Prince. His mind wasn't on the pirates, it was on his return home, to his beloved wife and daughter."

Ser Jarmen regarded the flames of the campfire mournfully. "To describe Lord Tarth as relieved by the Prince's arrival would be a gross understatement. The man nearly prostrated himself in thanks before the Prince when he landed Caraxes at Lord Tarth's encampment in the mountains of the island. I was at the Prince's side the entire time. As the Prince and Lord Tarth planned on how to rid the island of the Myrish pirates, I stayed alert, watching the surrounding forest for every moment, any possible sign of danger."

The light of the fire reflected brightly off of Ser Jarmen's eyes. "Twas evenfall, and Lord Tarth's men were starting fires, preparing for the night ahead. I had watched the forest for hours, and seen no sign of danger. According to Lord Tarth, the pirates were far down the mountainsides. I saw a man-at-arms struggling with some firewood, and stepped away from the Prince's side for but a moment in order to help the man with his burden. Moments later, I heard a crash, and panicked shouts. When I turned back, I saw the Prince laying there on the ground, a crossbow bolt through his neck."

Ser Jarmen's eyes welled with unshed tears, and he spoke as though in a trance. "I rushed to my Prince's side, and cradled him in my arms as he choked on his own blood. 'Please, my Prince, what can I do?' I begged him. The Prince had no answer. He merely thrashed in my grasp, gurgling and struggling to breathe. 'Please my Prince, you have to live!' I begged him. 'Think of your grandchild!' The Prince did not seem to hear me, and he ceased his struggling. 'Your grandchild!' I screamed at him, again and again. 'Your grandchild!'."

Tears ran freely down the old knight's cheeks, and the crowd that had gathered round to hear his tale was completely silent. "There was naught anyone could do. Prince Aemon died there, in the mountains of Tarth. He never saw his granddaughter, nor the grandson born after her. In the time after his death, I wanted to be punished for my failure. I begged the Prince's widow, the Lady Jocelyn, to release me in disgrace from her service. She didn't. The Lady Jocelyn and the Princess Rhaenys both told me that the Prince's death was no one's fault but that of the pirates."

Wiping some of the tears from his cheeks, he continued. "I wanted the Royal Family, Prince Aemon's family, to hate me as I much as I hated myself for his death. When Ser Ryam Redwyne died early in the reign of the King Viserys, the King offered me a white cloak of the Kingsguard. I refused it. How could I accept such a position? Would that he had offered me a blood-red cloak instead, so that all in the Realm would see my failure, and the blood of the Prince that stained my hands!"

Ser Jarmen closed his eyes. "If I had not left his side, the bolt would have struck and killed me instead. Every time some tragedy has befallen the Royal Family, and every time I see the devastation wrought by this war, some part of me wishes to wonder if it could not all have been prevented had I died in the mountains of Tarth instead."

The old knight opened his eyes then, and regarded all who had gathered around him while he told his tale. Gyles was surprised to see that the entire party was standing around their fire. Ser Torrhen Manderly, Ser Willam Royce, the Lady Mysaria, all stood in silence as Ser Jarmen spoke. "I have learned to ignore such thoughts, however. I did not die at Tarth. As much as it pained me, I eventually accepted the Prince's death for what it was, and that I could not have known to prevent it. All that I can do now is honor the Prince by living by the principles he taught me. What it means to be a good knight, and what it means to be a good man."

Ser Jarmen looked to the night sky above. "The Gods have seen fit to give me many years of life, so I do what I can with the time I've been given. I wasted too much time wallowing in self-pity. I spent so much time regretting the Prince's death that I didn't honor him by being the knight I should have been."

Looking from Tristifer of Oldstones, to Ser Horton Cave, and then to Gyles, he added: "Bearing the weight of others' deaths is the heaviest burden one can carry. The pain never goes away, but it lessens with time. If you live as long as I have, you'll realize there is naught you can do in the end but learn to forgive yourself, and let your actions henceforth honor those that you lost. It is either that, or go mad with guilt."

It did not take long after Ser Jarmen had finished speaking for the party to turn in for the night. Several watchers were posted to stand first vigil against possible danger. Throughout the camp, hardly any words were spoken. Leaning against a stump before the fire's dying embers, Gyles shivered in the cold. In the dark and shadow, he could barely make out the picket line of horses at the camp's edge.

The words he had heard spoken in the evening had given Gyles much to consider. He realized just how petty and hollow his previous achievements had been. What does my knighthood mean to me? Until tonight, it had meant status, wooing women, outfighting opponents, and commanding respect. How little that all truly means. Honor wasn't winning archery contests or jousting. Honor is accompanying an exiled fool in his misadventures north of the Boneway, when you could just as easily have never left home.

Gyles Yronwood, an anointed knight and member of an illustrious House that traced its lineage to time immemorial, had been put thoroughly to shame by the example of his squire's unwavering faithfulness and loyalty. I will not flee from this journey and the hardships that are surely ahead. Gyles had sworn his sword to Queen Rhaenyra out of a lust for power, prestige, and influence.

Ever faithful, his squire Mors had joined him, fighting and dying for a cause in a war that neither he nor Gyles had any reason to be fighting for. I will continue to lend my sword to this fight, whether I live to witness an end to the bloodshed, or die trying. Not for the dragonlords, not for myself, but for Mors. My honor is forfeit until I've seen this war through to its conclusion.

Gyles looked to the sky above, and the stars that shone in the blackness of night. He remembered his squire's last words. Are these still the same stars that shine over Dorne? If they were, mayhaps they'd borne witness to his vow. He hoped they did.

Chapter Text

Hobert V

The Blackwater Rush was not an obstacle to be easily traversed. Hobert stood along its southern bank, and looked across it towards the distant city of King's Landing. Though he had not been quite sure of what to expect upon the army's approach to the city, utter silence had not been one of the possibilities he'd considered.

Hobert had expected the distant clamor of clanging bells and blaring horns, something to herald the approach of a hostile force of troops in the city's immediate vicinity. Yet there was nothing. The army had begun its march from Tumbleton three days before. Unsure of what was awaiting them, they traveled slowly, cautiously moving along the Roseroad. For much of the journey, Hobert's eyes had been fixed on the horizon. He was certain that at any moment the three Dragonriders that had already destroyed so much of their forces would return to finish the task. Twould be a cold and merciless fury, Hobert mused, for we played a game of deception whilst acting the defeated supplicant.

In order to end the dispute over who commanded the army, and to enforce order over its rapidly decreasing numbers, Lord Unwin Peake had thrown his support behind Hobert as the army's leader. All that he asked of me was to serve as my right hand in the command of the men. In name and appearance, the army remained that of one under Hightower leadership, but Hobert had delegated much of his responsibilities as leader to Lord Unwin. He knows these matters far more than I do. Who am I to begrudge a man of experience the opportunity to ensure that what remains of our forces is in as fit a condition as possible?

Of an army that had once numbered around twenty thousand, hardly more than three thousand remained. Mostly knights, men-at-arms, and mercenaries who have no-one else to throw in their lot with so far from home. Countless men had burned and died beneath Tumbleton's walls, and many more, largely peasant levies who had been pulled from their farms and fields to fight beneath their Lord's banner, had begun to desert in alarmingly large numbers afterwards. And who is to stop them? Nearly every Lord and landed knight of this army burned alive in dragonflame.

A short distance away, Lord Unwin barked an order at several mercenaries. From what Hobert was able to overhear, they'd found a beached ferry not too far away up the Blackwater Rush's bank. We will finally be able to cross. Hobert, Lord Unwin, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler, Ser Roger Corne, and Lord Richard Rodden had decided that the best course of action was to continue their march to King's Landing. None of them had expected to reach the city walls alive, but as Lord Unwin had said earlier, twas better than to return home and bring the wrath of dragons down upon their families' seats.

Hobert shuddered as he imagined Oldtown burning as Bitterbridge and Tumbleton had. Such visions had plagued him as nightmares many times since the army had been burned. The Starry Sept, Citadel, and Hightower alight with sorcerous green flame. Crumbling at their mighty foundations as their inhabitants screamed and died, charred flesh sloughing from flame-blackened bone. Hobert had seen men die in such a way beneath the walls of Tumbleton. If the Gods were merciful, he should never wish to witness it again. All the same, he had expected such a fate the closer the army drew to King's Landing. The silence, however, remained deafening.

Marching towards an uncertain fate, Hobert had wished for the clarity of purpose that he had felt as the army had marched away from Oldtown's walls. At the beginning of the journey, the men of the army marched to ensure that King Aegon kept his rightful throne. At Bitterbridge, it all changed. The army had gotten its first real taste of blood and plunder, and had acquired an unquenchable thirst for it. Lord Ormund, Ser Bryndon, and Prince Daeron wanted Bitterbridge sacked to avenge Prince Maelor. Lord Peake wanted vengeance for his son. But what did men like Jon Roxton want to sack Bitterbridge for? Men like Jon Roxton always hungered for the shedding of blood, and it wasn't until Bitterbridge that they were given free reign to do so.

For all the men around him could speak of vengeance and righteous fury, Hobert could think of no excuse for the vile excesses that the Hightower army, his army, had wrought upon the town of Tumbleton. There was no cause, no justification. The army wanted to plunder, rape, and murder, and so they did. Hobert frowned deeply. Monstrous actions carried out by monstrous men. But armies had leaders, and leaders were supposed to give orders. The worst of the monsters stood by and lifted not a finger to stop their men from acting upon their darkest impulses.

As a child, Hobert had heard tales of terrifying monsters, as all children did. Grumkins and snarks, and the Others with their ice spiders and armies of the dead. Stories to scare us, and make us behave. In the stories, these monsters were grotesque, with appearances as vile as their hearts and intentions. During the hellish march to King's Landing, Hobert had learned the truth. Monsters can be dark and handsome, like Jon Roxton. They can be imperious and stern, like Lord Peake. And they can be proud and grand in appearance, like Lord Ormund.

Hobert looked at his reflection in the dark swirling waters of the Blackwater Rush. Tired eyes looked back at him from the rippling image on the water's surface, with large dark bags beneath them. The few grey wisps of hair still atop Hobert's scalp blew fitfully in the cold winter breeze, as though they wished to take flight. Though covered by a doublet and breastplate, Hobert's large belly still protruded visibly. Can monsters be old, grey, and fat, as I am?

Hobert's daughter Prudence, the wife of Ser Tyler, had been heavily pregnant with her fourth child as the army marched to King's Landing. The child has likely been born by now. Hobert had often dreamed of returning home when the war was over to see and hold his newest grandchild. Hopeful wishes and dreams to forget the horrors I had seen, at least for a while. The thought of seeing his grandchild now troubled Hobert. Will the babe be delighted at the appearance of a loving grandfather, or weep in terror at the sight of a monster?

Tears welled in Hobert's eyes. More than anything, Hobert wanted to believe that he was still a good man. But how can I be? There were many times when Hobert had the chance to speak up against what he knew was wrong. Instead, I was a coward, and watched the suffering of countless souls in silence. Mayhaps the dragonflame loosed upon us was justice, meted out in recompense for our grave sins.

Yet Hobert still lived. Are the Seven giving me a chance to repent, to try to find forgiveness? After all he'd seen, and all he'd abetted with his cowardice and silence, Hobert didn't know if it was possible. All that is left for me is to try. Forgiveness in the eyes of the Gods was not something that Hobert could ask or beg for. It must be earned.

At the sound of shouts, Hobert stopped his musings and looked up. A large wooden barge was floating down the Blackwater Rush, towards the crossing where the army waited. Hobert looked at the looming, silent expanse of King's Landing beyond the river. It seems the journey has nearly reached its end.

The King's city was a ruin. Many buildings along its streets had been reduced to charred rubble, and those that still stood were stained with soot. Shops were abandoned, picked clean by looters. The army's entrance through the shattered King's Gate had been uncontested, with no garrison to speak of but the rotting corpses of slain Gold Cloaks about the inner entrance of the gate.

By the Gods, Hobert wondered in horror, what has happened here? It seemed the war had finally reached King's Landing, but Hobert was baffled as to who had done the fighting. Did Lord Borros already attack the city? If that was the case, however, then where were he and his men? No reasonable explanation seemed feasible in Hobert's mind.

Upon entering the city, Lord Unwin suggested that the wisest course of action would be to make haste for the Red Keep. "It will be easiest for us to ascertain our current situation there," the marcher lord had said, and Hobert had quickly agreed with him.

Hobert saw very few people in the streets, which was also a jarring experience. Cities as large as King's Landing or Oldtown should have been bustling at this time of day. Instead, the streets sat abandoned, and small shadowy groups of people in the distance scattered into side streets and wynds as they observed the army's approach. It seems that no answers will be forthcoming from the city's populace, Hobert mused. Those that live, at least. Hobert grimaced at the sight of more rotting bodies left abandoned on the soot-stained cobblestones of the street known as the River Row, hugging the city's eastern wall. Corpses of the dead were the only thing that Hobert had found in abundance as the army rode towards the Red Keep.

When they reached the ruins of what had been Fishmonger's Square, Lord Unwin called for a halt, and drew his stallion up alongside Hobert. "Ser Hobert," he began, "I would suggest that you order the foot and mercenaries to secure this square and gate. We can then take the vanguard up to the Red Keep to continue our search for answers."

Hobert nodded at his words. "Yes, Lord Unwin, that seems wise." Turning to the assembled serjeants expectantly awaiting orders, Hobert awkwardly cleared his throat and called out orders for the foot and mercenaries to secure the Fishmonger's Square and River Gate. Leading a force of a little less than five hundred mounted knights in strength, as well as the army's remaining mercenary captains, Hobert steered his charger onto a curving street known as The Hook. Due to its narrowness and steep incline, the group was forced to make its ascent in a long thin line of mounted warriors.

As the walls of the Red Keep began to loom larger and larger in his vision, Hobert let out a sigh of relief. A black silk banner bearing the golden three-headed dragon of King Aegon was hanging from the outer walls of the Red Keep, sending a clear message as to which side of the conflict currently occupied it. Despite his relief, Hobert was still deeply perplexed. Who took the Red Keep for King Aegon, and how? Has the King himself retaken his rightful city on dragonback?

Reaching the cobbled square before the Red Keep's main gates, Hobert trotted up near to the closed bronze portcullis that guarded the main entrance to the keep through its huge curtain walls. Lord Unwin joined him, as well as Hobert's goodson Ser Tyler, Ser Jon Roxton, and Ser Roger Corne. At maester Aubrey's insistence, Lord Richard Rodden remained in a litter within a wagon bed at Fishmonger's Square, traveling as easily as possible until the wounds remaining from his recent amputation healed more completely.

After several moments, a voice called down suspiciously from atop the Red Keep's battlements. "Who goes there?" the voice shouted.

Hobert removed his greathelm before responding. "Ser Hobert, of House Hightower. I am in command of the forces gathered beneath Oldtown's walls to fight for King Aegon's rights." Even as he spoke those words, Hobert felt very odd saying them. It should be Lord Ormund, or Ser Bryndon, saying those words. I was only supposed to command the baggage train. The voice did not respond, and Hobert sat in silence, feeling increasingly nervous. What is taking so long?

Before Hobert's apprehension grew too great, a clattering rumble began as the bronze portcullis before him began to rise. Beyond it was a knight on foot in black and white, with a small group of Gold Cloaks arrayed behind him. The knight walked forward, and removed his helm. He had black hair that showed hints of greying, and brown eyes. Upon his black and white doublet was a patch displaying two swans, one black and one white.

The knight cleared his throat before speaking. "Well met, Ser Hobert. I am Ser Byron Swann, second son of the Lord of Stonehelm. I have been tasked with holding the battlements of the King's keep until reinforcements arrived." Ser Byron continued: "As soon as my men and I spotted you, we sent word to those inside the Keep. They will be arriving shortly." With a waving gesture, Ser Byron indicated the yard within the Red Keep's gate. "We can wait for them within the gate." As Ser Byron finished speaking, Lord Unwin and the other remaining landed knights of the army had ridden up to join Hobert as he rode into the yard inside the Red Keep's main bronze portcullis.

It did not take long for the aforementioned individuals to make their way into the yard. Hobert's cousin, the Queen Dowager Alicent, walked at the forefront, graceful and beautiful in a green silk dress. Behind her was an elderly bearded maester, as well as a man in well-made yet inconspicuous clothing. This final man dragged a clubfoot behind himself as he limped forward. The three were tailed by a group of men in dirty armor, whose hands hovered near their sword hilts as they coldly regarded Hobert and his companions.

At the sight of his kinswoman and widow of the former King, Hobert dismounted his charger and quickly knelt in the dust of the yard, despite the fact that the sudden strain on his tired joints made him wince. Behind him, Lord Unwin, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne had also dismounted and knelt.

Queen Alicent quickly made her way over to Hobert, and motioned for him and his companions to stand. "Please, stand," she began, "such petty formalities are unneeded from men who have so bravely and loyally fought for the true King's cause!"

Hobert and the others did as they were bid. Standing before his cousin, Hobert took notice of other details of her appearance that his aging eyes had previously overlooked. There were large bags beneath the Queen Dowager's eyes, and bruises and rashes about her wrists slightly visible beyond the long sleeves of her dress. Only manacles would be able to leave such marks. It seemed to Hobert that the Queen Dowager had only recently been released from her captivity.

Limping forward, the man with the clubfoot began to speak. "Greetings, my Lords," he began in a cool and quiet tone, "it is good to see that the forces mustered beneath the walls of Oldtown for the King's cause have finally reached his city." The man's eyes looked beyond Hobert to the knights in the square beyond him, before he continued speaking. "I don't believe I've made all of your acquaintances. I am Lord Larys Strong of Harrenhal." The crooked Lord looked over Hobert and his companions once more with an unreadable expression, and Hobert felt increasingly unnerved under the man's intense stare.

With slightly pursed lips, Lord Strong continued to speak. "Might I inquire of the whereabouts of Prince Daeron and the King's two new dragonriders? Ever since we received your letter, we have eagerly awaited the arrival of more dragons to add to the city's defence. I would have expected to see them in the sky as your army entered the city."

At Lord Strong's mention of Prince Daeron, Hobert took notice of a change in his cousin Alicent's demeanor. She remained poised and regal in stature, but her eyes seemed to convey equal amounts of fierce pride and worry. He felt his mouth dry out. By the Seven. Since entering the city, Lord Peake's false letter had completely slipped from Hobert's mind. Hobert looked at his cousin Alicent with dismay. She expects her son to be returning to her alive and well, victorious in a battle against the pretender Rhaenyra's dragonriders. How do I even begin to explain the truth of it to her, that her youngest son is dead?

As Hobert stood in stricken silence, Lord Unwin stepped forward. "The battle at Tumbleton occurred much differently than how our letter portrayed it," the grizzled marcher lord began, "and afterwards, we found it necessary to the King's cause to misinform his enemies of the state of our army in the battle's aftermath."

Lord Unwin paused for a moment, seemingly carefully considering his next words as he prepared to continue his explanation. Lord Larys Strong's expression remained unreadable, and the maester beside him appeared increasingly distraught. Queen Alicent's face had become a hard impassive mask, but her eyes continued to convey her worry. Oh cos, I'm sorry.

To say the prevailing mood in the Red Keep was not a pleasant one would have been a gross understatement. The truth of the outcome of the clash of dragons above Tumbleton had not done anything to embolden those that held the King's city. It seemed to Hobert as though everyone within the Red Keep halfheartedly went about their business, keeping an ever-wary eye to the sky for the appearance of the pretender Rhaenyra's dragonriders.

According to Lord Larys, not long after the Red Keep had been taken, three dragons matching the description of Ser Gaemon, Ser Maegor, and Ser Addam Velaryon's mounts had appeared above the city, briefly circling above the Red Keep before disappearing northwest. They would have had ample reason to suspect our treachery. Hobert was confused as to why the dragonriders had not returned to burn what remained of the Hightower army.

The manner in which the Red Keep had been secured had also astounded Hobert. Shortly after he had settled into the Keep, Hobert and the other leaders of the Hightower army had met with Queen Alicent, Lord Strong, and Ser Byron Swann, to be informed of the circumstances of the retaking of the Red Keep.

When the pretender Rhaenyra had taken King's Landing, Lord Strong had smuggled the King and his remaining children into hiding. Lord Larys himself had remained in King's Landing, coordinating efforts to undermine Princess Rhaenyra's false rule. It was during his time in hiding that Lord Larys had come into contact with Ser Byron. The knight of the Stormlands had been a member of Lord Borros Baratheon's retinue during peacetime, before taking it upon himself to infiltrate King's Landing and slay Syrax to aid in the war effort against the Blacks.

According to Lord Larys, he had been considering whether or not to smuggle Ser Byron into the Red Keep to facilitate his attempt at dragon-slaying when news of the letter sent by the Green army from Tumbleton began to spread throughout the city. Using his informants to feed the flames of tensions within the city until they reached a fever pitch, Lord Strong had prepared a different mission for the knight of black and white. With the help of bags of gold carried to the Lion Gate by Ser Byron's squire in a commoner's disguise, the Gold Cloak serjeants stationed there had remembered their loyalties to the true King and agreed to lend Lord Larys their aid when an opportune chance arose.

Therefore, when riots against Princess Rhaenyra's misrule eventually began to spread through the city of King's Landing, the Lion Gate garrison killed their traitorous Captain and made haste to the Red Keep in a furious march through King's Landing's main thoroughfares, avoiding roving crowds of rioters as best as they could. At the same time, Lord Larys had shown Ser Byron, his squire, and several trusted sellswords a secret passage into the Red Keep.

The Pretender had dispatched much of her remaining castle garrison into the city in a desperate attempt to secure the city's gates, so Ser Byron and the others therefore had little trouble in making their way to the Red Keep's gate, slaying the guards posted at it, and opening the gate to the Lion Gate garrison waiting in the courtyard outside. With the added numbers, the daring group had successfully retaken the Red Keep for King Aegon.

The greatest triumph of the night, however, had been related to the prisoners that Ser Byron and the Gold Cloaks captured. When he had been told, Hobert could scarcely believe his ears. The pretender Rhaenyra, her sons Aegon and Viserys, and the Lady Baela Targaryen. In one night, the Greens had seized every claimant that the Blacks supported. The Prince Daemon and his daughter Rhaena remain beyond our reach, but it matters not. Princess Rhaenyra and all of her children have fallen into our hands. Additionally, Lord Corlys Velaryon had been captured and thrown into the Black Cells as well.

In doing so, however, a significant amount of blood had been spilled. While servants and other smallfolk in the Keep were largely spared, any individual within the Keep with known sympathies and loyalty towards the Princess Rhaenyra was put to the sword. "We weren't completely without mercy," Ser Byron had laughed, "we allowed the Pretender's lackwit fool to keep his head. That dwarf will never be a threat to anyone."

Hobert had been bothered by the fact that Prince Joffrey, Princess Rhaenyra's oldest remaining son, had been killed during the taking of the Keep. "Surely his death wasn't necessary?" Hobert had asked. The lad was scarce more than a boy.

Ser Byron had merely scoffed in response. "I had no intention to kill the boy, but he challenged me with live steel. I had no choice but to meet the lad in combat, and killed him in the process. There's nothing more to it than that."

Hobert's cousin Alicent had a much more venomous response. Since learning of the Prince Daeron's true fate, she made no attempt to hide her hatred for her stepdaughter and her children. "A death that is not worth mourning, cousin Hobert," she had sneered, her eyes and tone cold, "for anyone with any common sense knew what that wretched boy was, even if my late husband forbade us all from speaking such truths aloud."

Neither Ser Byron's nor his cousin Alicent's responses had pleased Hobert, but he kept silent. What good would my condemning their actions do? The poor lad is already dead.

Following a moment of awkward silence, Ser Byron continued to discuss the fall of the Red Keep. After the Red Keep had been secured, Gold Cloaks with crossbows and Ser Byron's squire with his longbow had clambered atop battlements and rooftops surrounding the courtyard in which the Princess Rhaenyra's dragon was kept. They opened fire upon the enraged beast, and had lost several men to its flames.

The large chains and tight confines of the courtyard prevented the dragon from taking flight, sealing its fate. Ser Byron's squire eventually killed Syrax by putting an arrow through its eye. "To think," Ser Byron had laughed ruefully, "that I had made it my mission to slay the beast, only for my squire to kill it instead!" Ser Byron shook his head. "An ignoble end for such a magnificent creature. I meant to slay it as Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield did in days of old! What a tale I would have had to tell!"

Ser Byron's missed attempt at glory aside, Hobert was glad to hear of the death of Syrax. If that beast had lived and freed itself… Hobert shuddered at the thought. Because of Lord Peake's letter, Lord Larys had acted boldly under the assumption that he would soon be reinforced by three battle-tested dragonriders and a large army. Instead, we arrive to King's Landing with no dragons or dragonriders, and little more than three thousand men. Not an insignificant force, but not nearly enough to hold the city of King's Landing in its current state.

At Lord Peake's suggestion, Hobert had ordered the men of the army to begin rounding up what citizens remained in King's Landing, and put them to work mending the defenses damaged during the riots.

"Twould be a disaster if the Pretender Rhaenyra's forces are able to enter the city as we did, unobstructed and uncontested," the marcher lord had said, and Hobert quickly agreed with his advice and gave the orders.

Lord Larys had told them that he bade Grand Maester Orwyle to send ravens to Lord Borros Baratheon when the Keep was retaken, requesting that he make good on his vow of allegiance to King Aegon and march to reinforce King's Landing. The Lord of Storm's End had sent word in response, informing Lord Larys that he would march north in haste. Such news had been a relief to Hobert. With the men of the Stormlands at our side, we will be able to hold the walls of the city against the Princess Rhaenyra's supporters. They surely wouldn't use their dragons against us when we hold the Princess and her children as hostages in the Black Cells.

Lord Larys had also informed them all that he had been receiving reports of King Aegon's condition from where he had been hidden. According to Lord Strong, King Aegon had been recovering well, and had even been miraculously reunited with his dragon, Sunfyre. "But where has he been hidden, Lord Strong?" Hobert had asked, relieved at the news.

At Hobert's question, a small smile had appeared on Lord Larys's face. "Dragonstone," was his simple response. "An abandoned fisherman's hut, only a stone's throw away from the citadel. A septon had recently made it available for transients."

Hobert was speechless at the brilliance of it all. What better place to hide the King than Princess Rhaenyra's own base of power? It would have seemed a fool's errand to try to hide him there. And yet, they did.

Still smiling, Lord Strong had continued. "The King was able to find support among the populace of Driftmark and Dragonstone. My sources tell me that he has quite recently secured Dragonstone's castle himself atop Sunfyre, with the help of these leal men."

Ser Byron had laughed aloud, Lord Peake smiled, and Hobert sat back in his chair in amazement. Ser Jon Roxton had proposed a toast to the King that was seconded by Ser Tyler, and Ser Roger Corne had happily filled goblets of wine for all around the table. Queen Alicent, despite her grief for the Prince Daeron, smiled with fierce pride upon learning of her eldest son's triumph.

"I have sent word to Dragonstone," Lord Strong continued, "requesting that the King return to claim his city and rejoin the war effort." Lord Larys sipped his wine, an enigmatic smile gracing his features. "I should expect that he will be arriving quite soon."

The King arrived on a clear grey morn, heavy with the chill of winter. His brilliant golden dragon Sunfyre roared as it approached the city, the sound reverberating off of the walls of the Red Keep. He had sent Grand Maester Orwyle a raven ahead of his departure, informing him that he was flying from Dragonstone to King's Landing atop his dragon. Though Lord Corlys Velaryon was a hostage in the Black Cells, his bastard grandson Ser Alyn still sat within the walls of High Tide, maintaining his grandfather's blockade. None of the King's leal men on the island of Dragonstone would be able to join the King until the situation in the Narrow Sea was dealt with.

The King circled above the Keep atop his dragon thrice before descending into the castle's main yard, where Hobert and the other leading members of court awaited his arrival. As his golden dragon made its descent, Hobert couldn't help but notice how one of the dragon's pink membranous wings was bent awkwardly. Regardless, the magnificent beast still seemed capable of flight.

When Sunfyre landed in the courtyard, Hobert noticed that two men were chained on its back. The leading man wore simple unadorned black plate, while the second man was dressed in mottled iron plate. The second man unchained himself and slid from Sunfyre's back to the flagstones of the courtyard, before reaching up and helping the knight in black to gingerly climb to the ground from his dragon's back. The unmistakable sight of Blackfyre fastened about the rider's waist brought great joy to those assembled. Hobert still remembered the sight of the magnificent Valyrian steel blade from the times he had visited King's Landing many years before.

The knight in black plate removed his helm. Twas unmistakably King Aegon, the Second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. However, Hobert had not seen his liege in many years. When Hobert had last laid eyes upon him, King Aegon had been a vigorous and handsome prince in the spring of his youth. Though still a young man, King Aegon bore significant scars of war.

His visage was puffy, and the left half of his face was heavily scarred by the mark of dragonflame. Sullen violet eyes regarded Hobert and the others, and though his lips partially bore the mark of dragonflame, they still were twisted into a pout. Upon seeing his mother, however, the King smiled. He walked forward with a measured, shuffling gait, his spine bent slightly forward, as though he struggled to stand straight even without the weight of his armor. His left arm, though concealed beneath the black plate of his armor, dangled loosely at his side.

"Mother," the King said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached his arms forward to pull her into an embrace.

"My King," the Dowager Queen Alicent responded with a smile, returning his embrace. Standing on her toes, she kissed both of his cheeks, before stepping back.

Lord Larys stepped forward. "My King," he began evenly, "we are all overjoyed at your return, and to behold you in good health. Since your time on the isle of Dragonstone, much and more has occurred in your Realm. We must needs discuss these matters of great import as soon as possible."

Turning to regard his Master of Whispers, the King nodded gravely. "I thank you, Lord Larys, for the service you continue to offer my cause against my sister, the Pretender." Turning to regard the other knights and nobles assembled before him, the King continued to speak. "I see many new faces amongst the ranks of my supporters. I should like to be introduced to you all as soon as possible. My sister's false followers are many in number, and I will gladly accept the aid of all true men in ending her grasping ambitions for good and all."

A large pyre had been built in the center of the outer yard. It had been decided that Prince Daeron's remains should be burned as soon as possible, so that the Prince's journey to the Seven Heavens could begin without further delay. The Prince's corpse had been given over to the few Silent Sisters that could still be found within King's Landing for cleansing.

Hobert had been present when they had removed Prince Daeron's corpse from the wagon that it had been transported in. As soon as the black cloak with the golden three-headed dragon had been pulled away from his corpse, a stench unlike any he'd ever experienced had assailed Hobert's nostrils. His eyes had watered, and his stomach roiled, threatening to heave forth its contents.

Prince Daeron's grievous wounds had not improved in death. The rot of death had settled into the festering burns and blisters, which were many in number. When the Silent Sisters went to lift the Prince's body from the wagon bed, they'd had to peel his corpse from it.

In a moment of morbid curiosity, Hobert had regarded the wagon bed after the corpse had been removed. It was slick with black, congealed blood, and other putrid and foul humours and liquids. Clutching a kerchief to his nose, Hobert had backed away from the distressing smells and sight.

After his body had been cleansed and prepared as well as it could be, King Aegon had ordered that the corpse of his brother be placed on a bier at the foot of the Iron Throne, to lay in respite for a night before his body was to be burned in the Valyrian funerary tradition.

Queen Alicent had refused to allow her son's corpse to be covered in a shroud while on display. "Let them all see him!" she had hissed. "Let our Lords and knights look upon him and see with their very eyes the cruel excesses the Pretender Rhaenyra has wrought upon her own blood, her half-brother!"

Hobert had stood vigil with the Queen Dowager Alicent and King Aegon over the Prince Daeron's corpse the night before the funeral, as their only other kin present in the Red Keep to do so. According to Grand Maester Orwyle, King Aegon's wife, the Queen Helaena, "was regrettably in no fit state to attend the vigil or funeral for her brother."

Hobert currently stood at the side of the Queen Dowager, watching as the King directed his dragon, Sunfyre, to light his younger brother's funerary pyre. The Royal Sept's septon, Eustace, spoke the funerary rites as the dragonflame quickly consumed the wood of the pyre and Prince Daeron. The King wept mournfully at the sight.

Something about the sight deeply bothered Hobert. The Prince was grievously wounded by dragonflame, and died from those wounds. Yet it was dragonflame that now burned his corpse to ash. Would that the flames of Ser Addam's dragon had killed the Prince, Hobert thought soberly. The Prince had lingered on the brink of death for days after the fight above Tumbleton, vacillating between unimaginable pain and delirium.

"And so, the dearly beloved Prince Daeron returns to our Mother's loving embrace, having passed the Father's last judgement. His way to the afterlife is illuminated by the holy light of the Crone's lamp. The Warrior awaits him with a great host of the Holy at the Seventh Heaven, and the Smith will gladly open its gates to him, those that he wrought with his own divine hands. The Maiden sings sweetly of his piety and virtue as the Stranger relinquishes their hold on the Prince's soul for the last time." Closing his bejeweled copy of the Seven Pointed Star, Septon Eustace stepped back. The only sound in the yard was the crackle of flame.

'Is he there? Truly?' The voice called accusingly from the depths of Hobert's innermost thoughts. 'Would the Smith open the gates of the Seventh Heaven to a man who burned women and children in the name of justice?' Hobert stood still, willing the horrid thoughts to stop plaguing his mind. 'And what of you, old man?' The voice in Hobert's mind laughed wickedly. 'Do you truly think the Father will find a coward worthy of joining the ranks of the Holy deceased in the Heavens?' Hobert had begun to tremble, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 'We both know where you're going…' Hobert opened his eyes, continuing to shake. His eyes were filled with the sight of fire, and its heat made him perspire. The acrid scent of brimstone filled his nostrils.

Hobert was surprised when he received summons to the Throne Room the day after the Prince Daeron's funeral. Entering the grand hall through its massive bronze-and-oak doors, he stood for a moment at the foot of the long crimson carpet that ran along the length of the Throne Room to the base of the Iron Throne's dais. Torches in sconces lit the length of the hall. Though it was only midday, no light filtered through the tall glass windows behind the Iron Throne, and the entire Hall sat in shadow.

The King sat atop the Iron Throne in gilded black plate embossed with a golden dragon. The Conqueror's crown rested atop his head, and Blackfyre was unsheathed and resting on his lap, laid across his armored legs. At the base of the Iron Throne stood the King's newest member of the Kingsguard, Ser Marston Waters. Waters had accompanied the King from Dragonstone to the city atop Sunfyre, and had been granted his white cloak after their arrival. Apart from the King and his protector, the Throne Room was entirely vacant.

Walking along the crimson carpet's length, he approached his King atop his throne. When he finally reached the base of the dais, Hobert dropped to one knee and bowed his head in deference.

"Please, rise, Ser Hobert." Obeying his liege's command he stood, his eyes following the melted steps of the Iron Throne upwards towards the seated sovereign. For a moment, there was silence. As the torches flickered, different halves of King Aegon's face were displayed in prominence. In one moment, the handsome son and rightful heir of King Viserys looked down upon Hobert. Then the light would shift, and Hobert found himself looking upon a violet eye surrounded by a morass of scabbed, scarred flesh.

"Now that I have once again claimed my rightful seat, I must needs bring together a new Small Council, to replace the leal men I lost due to the injustices meted out by the Pretender." The King shifted slightly atop his throne. "In these times of strife and betrayal, I must needs be able to rely upon those that I can absolutely trust. Admittedly, I do not know you as well as other members of my mother's kin, but she has spoken highly of you. She says that you are a good and loyal man, steadfast and true, and have done naught in your long life to bring dishonor to House Hightower."

The King continued to speak, his voice echoing amongst the massive stone pillars lining the Throne Room. "As the war drags on, I can ill afford men of questionable loyalty serving at my side. You Ser, are a man that I believe I can fully trust and rely upon."

The King stood. "Ser Hobert of House Hightower, I name you my Hand of the King. May you serve myself and the Realm well, and keep the interests of both in your heart and mind in whatever counsel you provide."

Hobert was speechless as the King continued. "If you will, my Hand, make your way from hence to the Small Council chamber. I have several more men to appoint. There is much we must needs discuss."

Hobert knew that if he tried to speak, he would be utterly unable to. His mouth was dry, and his eyes wide. His mind was nearly blank with shock. He gave the King a deep bow, before turning and walking stiffly from the Great Hall. By the Seven.

Hobert sat alone in the small council chamber, in a seat adjacent to the head of the table, where the King's chair sat unoccupied. The flames burning in several braziers throughout the room threw long shadows. Beyond the open door of the council chamber, Hobert could just barely make out the shadow of one of the Valyrian sphinxes flanking the doorway. The grand shadow was long, stretching until it became lost in the gloom of the long hallway beyond.

Hobert continued to sit in stunned silence. Why me? He was an old, tired man. The King needs a man with youth and vigor at his side. If not strength and youth, then what did the King desire in his Hand? Sage knowledge? Of that Hobert had little. In his youth, the Hightower's own maester had discouraged Hobert's father from encouraging his youngest son to attempt to join the Citadel's ranks. What could the King possibly see in me? He can ill afford an incompetent Hand, especially at a time like this.

As Hobert continued to fret in silence, he became aware of the soft footfalls of slippered feet approaching the Council Chamber. Hobert watched as his cousin, the Queen Dowager Alicent, appeared out of the hallway's gloom, making her way into the Council Chamber. Walking along the side of the table, she gracefully sat in the chair directly across from Hobert.

Regarding him, cousin Alicent smiled kindly at Hobert before speaking. "Congratulations, cousin!" she began. "My son chose wisely in following my counsel to grant you the title of King's Hand."

Hobert looked at the Queen Dowager plaintively. "Why?" he croaked, feeling as though the anxieties and fears within himself were about to force his throat closed.

"Why?" the Queen Dowager smiled as she responded. "Why wouldn't I advise it? You are a leader of men. When our cousin Lord Ormund died, you were ready to take on the mantle of leadership and continue leading his army to the King's city. You and Lord Peake saved our cause with the false letter that you sent to the Pretender and her traitorous court. Without that letter, Lord Larys would have been unable to succeed in his plans to retake the keep, and in capturing the Pretender and her children." Cousin Alicent's face darkened as she mentioned the Princess Rhaenyra and her children.

After a moment, her face softened, and she took Hobert's hand in her own. "You also returned my son to me," she said softly. "So that he could be properly cremated, as his father was." The Queen Dowager had wept at the Prince Daeron's funeral the day before, and her eyes remained slightly bloodshot as she regarded Hobert.

His cousin's mention of the Prince Daeron caused Hobert to speak up. "I- I was with him at the end, cousin." Hobert squeezed Alicent's hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "When he passed, he- he wasn't afraid. His last thoughts were of flying his dragon, Tessarion. He was content."

Alicent regarded Hobert in silence for a moment, before nodding. "Truly, cousin," she began, "I am in your debt. I have no doubt that you will serve my son well." Standing, she walked around the head of the table to stand in front of Hobert. From one of the long, dagged sleeves of her silken dress, she revealed a golden chain, made of interlinked golden hands.

"Allow me," his cousin said with a smile. Leaning forward, she clasped the chain of golden hands around Hobert's neck. Hobert swallowed thickly as he felt the cold metal touch his neck. I cannot be Hand. I will bring naught but ruination to the King's cause.

Hobert nearly missed cousin Alicent's words as she returned to her seat. "Please, cousin Hobert," she said kindly, "do not hesitate to request my aid in your duties as Hand if you should have need of it." She smiled at him. "After all, my father served as Hand to two Kings."

She sat gracefully in her chair. "Though I am only a woman, and no longer Queen, I should like to think that I would be able to offer some small amount of sage advice, should you have need of it."

Hobert nodded eagerly, practically falling out of his seat as he leaned forward in desperation. "Please, cousin," he practically gasped with relief, "I will accept any and all of your counsel. In truth, I fear I will not be an adequate Hand to our King."

The Queen Dowager smiled thinly at Hobert, and her eyes glittered in the light given off by the braziers. "Nonsense, cousin," she began. "The wisest of men know that there is no shame in relying on the counsel of trusted allies." Her smile was sharp as steel. "And make no mistake, cos. I am your ally. You can always rely on me to give you the best counsel that I can provide. If you heed my words, I promise you that we will forge the Realm anew."

With the initial formalities concluded, the first meeting of the King's new Small Council truly began. King Aegon sat at the head of the table, with Hobert at his immediate right, and the Queen Dowager Alicent at his immediate left. His new appointees had also taken places at seats further along the table. Beside cousin Alicent sat Lord Unwin Peake, the King's new Master of Laws. Beside Lord Unwin sat Ser Jon Roxton, as the recently-appointed King's Justice. Beside Hobert sat Lord Larys Strong as Master of Whispers, and Grand Maester Orwyle sat on the other side of Lord Strong.

Absent from the table was the King's chosen Master of Coin, Ser Tyland Lannister. As the man was still recovering from the cruel excesses inflicted upon him by the Pretender's torturers, he had begged the King's leave to remain in convalescence.

Hobert had poured himself a goblet of Arbor Gold, and sipped from it as each member of the council settled into their seats.

The King had not yet chosen a Master of Ships, which Lord Unwin casually pointed out. "All in good time, my Lord," cousin Alicent stated in a cool tone. "There is a far more important matter that we must needs attend to."

Frowning, the King poured himself a goblet of Arbor Red before taking a deep drink. As he lowered the goblet, the wine left behind on his scarred upper lip glistened like blood. He sat in silence for a moment, and the frown on his face deepened into a scowl.

"My half-sister, the Pretender," the King eventually grated out. "Thanks to Lord Strong, she and her wretched spawn have fallen into our hands." The King took another long drink. "The price for her treasons will be steep. She has torn my Realm asunder with her folly."

The King clenched his scarred left fist, the scabs twisting and contorting with the movement. "She has made herself a kinslayer, not by her own hand, but in deed. The blood of my sons stains her hands."

The King drank deeply from his goblet, and upon emptying it, he slammed it angrily upon the tabletop. "She sent her lowborn, bastard dragonriders to slay my brother. Like footpads in the night. A royal Prince, and her own half-brother!"

The King's face was contorted with rage. "I want her dead. With the Pretender gone, the false Lords that supported her will have no choice but to bend the knee. I hold all of her heirs hostage. Their cause died the moment this keep fell to Lord Strong's men."

Hobert and the other council members sat in silence at the King's words. The Pretender must needs die, Hobert thought sadly. This war will never end until she has died for her treason.

The King smiled. It was a dark and cruel smile, made all the more grotesque by the deep burn scars he bore on his face. "I will send a message to the Lords of my Realm with her execution. A death by the sword is too clean, too kind for the likes of my half-sister. I mean to make the manner of her death serve as a warning to all the traitors that yet remain in my Realm."

Hobert took a deep sip of his Arbor Gold as apprehension began to roil in his gut. He had expected the Pretender to be beheaded for her treason, as was the customary form of execution for all traitors of gentle birth. What does the King mean to do to her?

Hobert's question was answered a moment later as the King continued speaking. "I will feed the Pretender to Sunfyre, tomorrow morn." The King said. "The Pretender, that maester of hers, and any Lord or knight that we captured along with her. Only then will the Realm know how I will punish traitors forthwith."

The King smiled grimly as he finished speaking, allowing his Council to think a moment on his words. No. No, this can't be. Hobert felt as though he'd been plunged into icy water. This is all wrong. With a cold smile, the Queen Dowager Alicent reached across the table and clutched the King's scarred hand with her own. Lord Peake nodded, a neutral expression across his features. A wicked smile had spread across Jon Roxton's face. An unreadable expression had settled across Lord Larys' visage, and Grand Maester Orwyle sat in silence, refusing to meet the eyes of any around the table.

It isn't right. With a shaking hand, Hobert raised his goblet to his lips. His mouth had become so, so dry. The Arbor Gold was an exquisite vintage, yet it tasted bitter and sour on Hobert's tongue. She is still a Princess, and the King's half-sister besides. This is wrong.

Closing his eyes, Hobert began to silently pray. O Crone, I beg of you. Let them see the folly in such a decision, in such cruelty and excess.

If Hobert had been hoping for an answer to his prayer, he was to be gravely disappointed. "Executions require witnesses," the King spoke quietly, a cruel smile on his face. "I do not mean to kill my half-sister's whelps. Let them witness the fate of their mother." The cruel smile remained on the King's face, even as he practically shook with rage. "Let them watch my Sunfyre eat their accursed mother. Twill be their punishment, to finally share in the wretched misery that the Pretender Rhaenyra has wrought upon our House!"

Hobert could scarcely breathe. A deep, gnawing pain throbbed within his chest. This is wrong. No, it is more than wrong. It is evil.

Hobert had grieved at the news of the deaths of the Princes Jaehaerys and Maelor. Two innocent boys, both killed in some of the cruelest fashions imaginable. Children that were made to suffer for the injustices of their elders. Hobert found that he now grieved for the Pretender's children as well.

Young boys, as the Princes Jaehaerys and Maelor were, blameless for the folly of their mother. And yet the King will see them suffer all the same. Hobert took another deep sip of his Arbor Gold. The liquid was tasteless on his tongue. In the depths of his mind, he could hear the screams of the denizens of Bitterbridge and Tumbleton. Have we not destroyed our legacy enough? Why must we poison the existences of those who will live and rule after us with our actions?

With a cruel smile, Jon Roxton voiced his support for the King's plan. As the newly-made King's Justice, the details of such an execution would technically fall beneath his jurisdiction. The Queen Dowager Alicent still had a vicious smile upon her face, and all others around the table remained silent.

Someone has to say something! Such a course of action cannot be allowed. Shaking in his chair, Hobert hoped against hope to hear words of dissent as he continued to drink. Instead, there was naught but silence.

I have to say something. Hobert went to take another desperate gulp of Arbor Gold, and saw that his goblet was empty. I'm the King's Hand, his chief advisor. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. Speak, you coward! Despite everything, Hobert still found himself robbed of his own voice. Speak, you vile, sniveling, pathetic coward! The King looked as though he was about to call an end to the meeting, pleased at both the voiced as well as tacit approval for his planned execution.

Shadows danced in the corners of Hobert's vision. Do I not still wish to find forgiveness? To believe that the Seven have let me continue to live for a reason? I must speak! If not for my own redemption, I must speak for the children. Hobert hadn't been able to save the Princes Jaehaerys and Maelor, but a chance remained to save the Pretender's children from the cruelties the King and his council intended for them. Are you a man or a monster? Hobert took in a ragged breath. Speak.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." All eyes around the table turned to regard Hobert as he took a shaking breath and continued to speak. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent…"

With an annoyed expression, Jon Roxton spoke up, interrupting Hobert. "What are you prattling on about, Ser Hobert?" The other individuals around the table all looked at Hobert with expressions ranging from annoyance, to confusion, to sudden interest.

In an instant, the fear was gone from Hobert. It was replaced by a sudden burning rage. All the horror, anguish, and fear that Hobert had felt since leaving Oldtown had turned into kindling for the white-hot fury he now felt.

Hobert stood violently, with such force that his chair clattered backwards to the floor. With all the strength he could muster, Hobert threw his goblet across the room. It bounced off the wall with a discordant clang before rolling along the stone floor.

"Do those words mean absolutely NOTHING to you?!" Hobert seethed. He glared balefully at Roxton, Lord Peake, and finally the King himself. "Not a single one of us was made into a knight until we had spoken those words, along with the rest of the HOLY vow of knighthood!"

Bracing himself against the table, Hobert took a heaving breath. It seemed that he could do naught but continue to shout. "You all swore to abide by those vows, in the eyes of the Seven! For too long, I have stood by and watched in silence as these self-same vows were broken, again and again! I tell you now, I will damn myself to the SEVENTH HELL if I stand by and watch them be so egregiously broken again!"

Hobert slammed his fist so hard against the table that the pitcher of Arbor Gold next to his fist tipped over and spilled. "I beg of you all, remember your vows now! The Seven Pointed Star teaches us that we are all imperfect creatures, prone to straying and sin. We have failed before, and we will likely fall short again. But if we willingly ignore our vows now, when they are so obviously being broken, I can say with the utmost confidence and assurance that we are no true knights, no true MEN, at all!"

Gasping for breath, Hobert stopped speaking. Aside from his heaving breaths, the room was utterly silent. Jon Roxton's face was purple with rage, and Grand Maester Orwyle merely stared at Hobert in stunned silence. Lord Strong watched him with an unreadable expression, and Lord Peake regarded him with what seemed equal measures shock and grudging respect. The Queen Dowager Alicent's eyes bored into him with a flickering fury, and King Aegon looked up at him sullenly, a scowl prominent on his face.

"My King," Hobert rasped, "I do not question your decision to put an end to the Pretender Rhaenyra. What I ask of you, as your Hand, is to exact your justice as the laws of the land say you should. Not with your dragon in some barbaric spectacle, but with the headsman's block and sword."

Hobert sighed. "Do not force her sons to bear witness to her death. They are children, and blameless in their mother's crimes. Let us bring an end to this conflict of betrayal and cruelty with an act of true justice."

Hobert righted his chair and sat back in it. He was utterly exhausted. The King sat in silence, considering his words. Eventually, the King's voice grated out a response. "Your… counsel has merit, Ser Hobert. The Pretender will be put to death with the sword. As a token of my gratitude for all you have done for my cause, Ser Hobert, I will grant you an additional boon. The Whore's whelps will not bear witness to her execution."

The King glared at Hobert. "The Pretender's spawn are children. You have the right of that. But I need not remind you that I had sons of my own, children that were cruelly murdered by the Pretender Rhaenyra and my vile uncle Daemon. Make no mistake, my Hand. Those boys are by no means blameless. And until the last sword raised for the cause of the Pretender has been lowered, one way or another, they are my prisoners to do with as I see fit, however I see fit."

The King sighed. "You are all dismissed. I have no more need of your counsel today. We will convene at this time tomorrow, for there are still many matters of great import to discuss. However, I wish to make my orders clear. By this time tomorrow, I will have the Pretender Rhaenyra's head on a spike."

Chapter Text

Veron IV

The rains that had persisted for so long outside of the Crag had mercifully desisted in their pestering the moment that Veron and his crew had put to sea. It had felt good to be on the waves once more, back into the watery grasp of the Drowned God. Their journey had only taken a few days, as the seas had calmed and offered little resistance to their small fleet's passage. It was early in the morn as their longships gracefully cut their course through the sheltered harbor of Fair Isle. In the distance, Faircastle's spires could be seen, its proud towers illuminated by the first rays of the sun rising to their backs.

The Misery docked quickly, with several of its crew members jumping from its deck to the dock in order to finish the last tasks necessary to bring their journey to an end. Veron himself climbed gingerly onto the wooden pier, taking his first steps on land cautiously so as to allow himself time to adjust. Turning, he offered his hand to Eleyna, then Elissa, allowing them to join him on solid ground. Whilst he regretted leaving the wild joy of the open sea, it was clear that they were glad to be rid of it. Longships were designed to be sleek and mobile, but they offered little in the way of total shelter from the elements. Matters had been worsened when Eleyna had been struck by a violent bout of seasickness. Elissa had comforted her as she had spent the majority of the journey clutching the sides of the ship, occasionally leaning over to empty her stomach of what little she had forced down. Her brothers, seated nearby, had remained silent, obviously terrified. Veron had only ordered them shackled as they came into port. The cold salt spray of the sea was punishment and humiliation enough for our defeated foes. They need only suffer the iron bonds on land.

He suspected that Eleyna and her brothers were the niece and nephews of the Lady of the Rock. If that were true, the boys would make for valuable hostages given their familial proximity to the Lannister line. As for Eleyna… she will have to remain under the auspices of my… guardianship as it were. Once the crew had fully disembarked (many of them carrying looted goods), they began to make their way through Fair Isle's dockside district, which was unusually subdued for a seaport. Many of its denizens cast sullen, hateful glances at them as they passed. Even though they appear to have been humbled by our conquest, they still outnumber us by a considerable margin. Our ways of Iron have only stoked the flames. The lack of longships about the Isle was troublesome as well. It appeared that Dalton had given his captains leave to begin reaving independently. While that would have undoubtedly been a popular decision, it left them exposed to an enemy attack. Our fleet could be reaving as far south as the Shields for all I know, he thought to himself grimly. To cast our net so widely will leave openings. While their ships may have been burned in harbor, the reach of the West is long, and its purse nearly bottomless. We should not be overly confident whilst our enemies still have opportunities for retaliation. If we spread ourselves too thin, it may not even be a Lannister blade that fells us. He cast another glance at the townspeople milling about around them. We could very well be brought low by the pitchfork, or the filleting knife.

He resolved to speak with Dalton as quickly as possible about these matters. Turning to the docks below, he watched as other longships were brought in, their crews discharging and following his own through the town. Hilmar Drumm's men followed closely, as did Torgon's crew. Torgon… the very name brought excitement and apprehension in equal parts. While it had been an incredible weight lifted from his shoulders, the ramifications and potential of these new feelings did little to calm him. We must needs watch our every step… and keep one eye looking over our shoulders. Before their shared moment, Veron hadn't ever completely come to terms with his own desires and feelings. He still was unsure how to process them. It isn't as though any of our songs or shanties provide instruction in these matters. He doubted that many Ironborn would even consider it possible for a man to desire another man, let alone desire a connection beyond brotherly love or comradery. He had resolved to take matters slowly. I have no illusions regarding the danger. Dalton would order my head struck off, even if he only heard rumors. The Red Kraken would suffer no sword swallower to besmirch his growing legend, and the threat of being labeled a kinslayer would give him no pause. The thought of Dalton's reaction to such damaging information being brought forward did bring a slight smile to his lips. In some ways, it is nearly perfect. Every bit of his story matches those of the Driftwood Kings of old… almost every bit of it. A firm hand upon his shoulder tore him away from his ruminations. The hand, gnarled and three-fingered, belonged to Robett, his helmsman.

"Pardon, Lord Veron. We've received summons from your Lord brother. He demands you attend him within Faircastle. He is supposedly eager to hear of your exploits."

While there was little to suggest disbelief in his voice, Veron could detect subtle signs of Robett's unease. It was an unease felt by many of his crew in the presence of his brother. Robett had served his family for years, filling the role of trusted helmsman to Veron's father, the previous Lord Greyjoy. His decision to serve aboard Veron's Misery had been the cause of one of the few rows between the two brothers previously. Dalton had taken it as a slight that his father's trusted right hand would not serve the eldest son. Ever since, Robett had remained fiercely loyal to Veron, and skeptical of his brother's intentions. While the years had wreaked havoc on his body, his wits remained sharp. And those very wits seemed to anticipate trouble.

Patting the aging reaver on the shoulder, Veron attempted to disabuse him of the notion. Privately however, he harbored thoughts that the old man might indeed be correct. Dalton and I did not part on the best of terms. He has never been one to suffer rivals to his grandeur. Even if that is not my intent, my very existence, and success, is unwelcome. Dalton always appreciated having a stalwart shadow, but will he enjoy a successful brother? Steeling himself, he gave orders for his men to continue their march to Faircastle.

The great hall of Faircastle had come to resemble an armory. Implements of war were held in racks, barrels, and displayed on tables throughout. Additionally, spoils of war were heaped high, including tapestries, bolts of cloth, golden and silver goblets, jewelry, and more. He found Dalton where he knew he would, sitting upon the seat which had been the seat of various Farmans for centuries. He was toying with an exquisitely crafted ship model which possessed four masts, a deep hull, and a broader beam than would be found upon most vessels. Hearing Veron's approach, his brother carefully set his prize aside, a wicked grin spreading across his features. His deep black eyes smiled along with him, yet held little warmth.

"Veron, my only brother, I welcome you into my hall. I have heard much of your exploits, but I could not countenance hearing any more of them from my captains. I needed to hear of your great triumph in your own words."

Veron paused. "I doubt that I could provide you with any further details than you have already heard, brother. The Crag is ours, as you commanded. I left it in the possession of Captain Melwick Myre, with instructions to hold it as a base for further expansion along the coasts."

Dalton's grin did not fade, but instead became wider. "Dear brother, you do yourself no credit. Your actions were a good deal more impressive than that! Taking the Crag was just the beginning. I have been told that throughout the entire campaign you lost no more than thirty reavers, most due to illness brought about by the uncompromising deluge. Furthermore, I know of Captain Myre. As I recall, he has served you most steadfastly in the past. Lastly, and most importantly, I hear you have taken a daughter of House Westerling into your bed. Oh! But how the Lady of the Rock must hate you for that!" A cold, rasping laugh escaped from Dalton's lips. "When I sent you to subdue that seat, I had no idea that you would do so exceedingly well. You're well on your way to building a formidable reputation of your own. A man that formidable would be a most terrifying foe for our enemies, I would think. A man like that could lead the Iron Fleet."

With that, he rose from his seat, his armored footfalls sounding throughout the hall as he approached. It was only then Veron began to heed the various captains throughout the chamber. Many were clearly eyeing the situation with great interest. He refrained from allowing his eyes to narrow in suspicion. Dalton's men… the whole lot of them. He considered his brother's words, but found he had little patience for the challenge that they all too clearly represented.

"Dear brother, the Iron Fleet already possesses a most formidable commander. I live to serve him, as my Lord and as my brother. I vanquished the Westerlings in your name, but they proved less formidable than I had hoped. Lord Jason Lannister has already crippled his lands by exhausting their reserves of fighting men. All that remain are old men, leading green boys. They were no threat to men of Iron."

His brother studied him for a moment, onyx eyes steady, boring deeply into his own. Veron did not falter, he would not allow Dalton to humble him so publicly. Maybe once, but no longer. I tire of this. My loyalty has never been in question. The silence became icy, but only briefly, for after a moment his brother's grin returned.

"Truly, Veron, you are a different man. A brother I am most proud to claim! Your return is most favorably timed, as it were. We must needs decide on our next course of action."

With a black gauntleted hand, Dalton gestured towards a table near the center of the hall, upon which a great map had been rolled out. The map's edges had yellowed with age, but it bore the seal of King Loren I Lannister. Upon it the vast demesne of the Kingdom of the Rock was depicted, with its southern marches stretching to the Reach, and its eastern marches menaced by the now defunct Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers. Dalton, seeing him studying the map, sighed for effect.

"Before the arrival of the dragons, our power extended anywhere the waves crashed or the rivers flowed. The Hoares had subjugated an entire Kingdom, and had cowed their rivals into submission. None wished to face our kind in battle." Pausing, he scoffed. "But Aegon changed the rules of engagement. Great castles and stout warriors meant naught to him. In ridding us of the Hoares, he taught us a valuable lesson. Harren had bound himself to the Greenlands. By constructing his great seat, he forgot what made us truly strong, what made us truly different. By burning him and his sons, Aegon freed us once more. We were not meant to be land-bound lords of the Greenlanders, we were meant to subjugate them, to demand tribute, and most importantly, to rule the Sunset Seas. Our longships, and our ability to attack anywhere, at any time, is our greatest strength."

Men throughout the chamber nodded in accordance with his brother's words.

"I am sure many of you do not wish for me to subject you to the histories of our people. That task is for the Maesters. Such things are of import. Harren's greed and his stupidity destroyed his line root and stem. I do not mean for mine to face the same fate. Instead, we will use this war between dragons as an opportunity to bring about a return of the ways of our forefathers. We will once more subject the Sunset Sea to our domination and all who hear its tides will pay us tribute." Smiling sharply, he added: "and the most fortuitous part of this entire arrangement is that the Dragon Princess has begged us to do so. So long as we whet our blades with the blood of Westermen and Reachmen, we act according to her bidding." Pointing to Fair Isle, he concluded: "in order to fully restore the Old Way, we will need bases. We have Fair Isle, and whilst my brother seized the Crag, I conquered Kayce." Chuckling, he pointed to a torn and bloody banner draped across another table. Orange and black, it featured the sunbursts of House Kenning of Kayce. "I slew the Knight of Kayce and took his wife for my own. House Kenning would do well to remember its origins. I reminded them. If they still prove resistant, I will sire a new Lord for them, harder and stronger than those before, and free of Greenlander weakness."

Once more, he traced the shoreline of the Westerlands. "Fair Isle, the Crag, Kayce, all command the Sunset Sea. I mean to demand them as payment for our support. In time, the Shields will be returned to their rightful owners. With the right men under my command, even the Arbor itself will be made to bend the knee. These things and more I promise you, my Lords and Captains."

From the looks around the room, Veron could see that his brother had more than persuaded most of them. There is merit to my brother's plan. But while we may have the strength to wrest these isles from the Greenlanders, I doubt we would keep them for long. Once the dragons stop tearing themselves to pieces, we will no longer be in a position to make demands. Aegon taught us that as well.

"Conquering the isles and the coasts is one thing brother. Winning the peace is another. What news have we of the Queen and her brother?"

Dalton's glance held a dangerous edge to it. He did not like to be challenged, and certainly resented that Veron had spoken in front of the assembled captains.

"We have received little and less word of the Queen or her brothers. From the mouths of captured merchants, we've heard whispers that there was a great battle in the Northern Reach. Supposedly the fight was between riders in service to both the sister and the brother. Some say the sister's men proved superior, and others claim it was the brothers. We have, however, received word that Oldtown has put out a call for more swords. Most interestingly, they also are offering a great deal of coin to those skilled with the bow." A faint but hard smile danced upon his lips. "If I were a betting man, I'd wager that the Hightowers would have little need for bowmen of such skill if their king still ruled the skies."

Veron nodded. That is fortunate news indeed. If the Queen's riders were indeed victorious, we would have little reason to fear that the Lady of the West might obtain the support of a dragonrider.

"It seems that the Drowned God has smiled upon us then, brother. If the Queen commands the skies, then we have little reason to cast our gaze amidst the clouds for enemies." He paused, knowing his brother would not be pleased with his next words. "What of our forces? How many swords do you still command?"

Dalton gripped the edges of the table. Had he not been wearing gauntlets, Veron suspected that his brother's knuckles would have grown white.

"So many questions, brother. I must have misremembered you whilst you were away. I could have sworn you were always the quieter of the two of us." Some of the men assembled snickered. Veron did not miss a sharp grin emanating from beneath Hilmar Drumm's scraggly beard. His eyes held no mirth, however. They were dark and promised vengeance. Veron spent little time meeting them.

"Since you are concerned with our numbers, allow me to remind you. We sailed from Pyke with ten thousand swords. In our conquests, I would wager that we've lost less than five hundred men. Disease has taken some, as is its wont. I estimate that we can still count on nearly nine thousand swords. More than enough to seize what we need to reassert our rule."

Veron resisted the urge to shake his head in annoyance. "I am pleased we still have adequate numbers for our conquests." He decided against raising the issue of the behavior of Fair Isle's smallfolk that he had seen earlier. His brother would likely dismiss them even if he raised the issue.

"Forgive my wordiness, brother, but one matter still must needs be addressed. Time. I fear we may not have enough time to seize all you propose before we are commanded to cease our assault. Even if the Queen does prevail, it seems unlikely that she will suffer our reaving once she sits securely atop her throne. In order to win the peace, we must already have everything we wish to keep in our possession. I fear that the war may be drawing to a close too quickly for that to be possible."

Dalton seemed almost surprised he had spoken up yet again. To his brother's credit, he offered no rebuke. While he didn't suffer challenges to his authority lightly, his mind was still sharp, sharp enough to recognize the veracity of Veron's concerns. His eyes narrowed, becoming keen slits of onyx. The Lord Reaper of Pyke was silent for a moment as he studied the map. Finally, he spoke.

"What would you propose, brother? I would hear your counsel."

The room grew quiet. Veron stepped forward, and he had to keep his hand from reflexively reaching for his sword hilt. He studied the map, as the eyes of the room studied him.

"As you've said, we have already established a commanding presence along the coasts of the West. So far, our enemies have proven utterly incapable of challenging our hold on what we've taken. As it stands, we still possess the strength to keep what we have seized. If we still hold it by the end of the war, I think it likely that we could demand Fair Isle and Kayce as rewards for our… support. I doubt that the Crag would be something the Lady of the Rock would be willing to part with."

Dalton sneered. "What that woman wants is of no concern to us men of Iron. She skulks in her cave for fear of us. She has no right to demand anything from us."

Veron nodded. "She may have no right to demand something of us, but her prospective liege will. If the Princess is victorious, she will want to rule a united realm. The Lannisters will need to be brought back into the fold for that to be possible. Frankly, if we demand too much, we will invite the dragon's wroth upon ourselves and undo all we've striven to gain. The key is demanding enough that we can reassert our power over the Sunset Sea, but not too much that the Princess decides we are too much trouble to parley with."

Dalton frowned. "I mislike entering into negotiations at all. It belies weakness. But your words carry a truth unto them, even if such truths are difficult to accept. But what of the Reach?"

Veron paused. "I do not believe that the Shields are within our grasp. If the Queen's forces have won a great victory in the Reach as you say, the war may be drawing to a close within a matter of weeks. If we haven't seized the islands by the time the Greenlanders agree to a peace, we will have overextended and bled ourselves for naught."

Dalton waited for him to finish before turning to the assembled captains. "My lords and captains, you have heard each of our words. But in the Iron Isles, it is said that every man who possesses a ship is a king unto himself. Far be it from me to rob you of your counsel or your rights as kings of the Sunset Sea. I ask you now to cast lots for each plan. The plan that receives greater endorsement will be the plan that is implemented. Firstly, my own. I promise you the Shields and the Arbor, and with them, dominion over the entire Sunset Sea! My brother promises you a negotiated settlement, free from the fear of the dragon's wroth. Let those who support my proposal now say aye."

As a chorus of 'ayes' sounded across the room, Veron felt his heart sink. He planned this. He suspected that I would oppose him, and wished to see me discredited in front of the fleet captains. Despite his frustration, he was willing to admit it was a good plan. He also made sure to allow most of the more reserved captains an opportunity to reave, in order to have his most fervent supporters present.

When Dalton asked for the 'ayes' for Verons plan, a sporadic response sounded. In the midst of the crowd, Veron was grateful to see that Torgon had thrown his support behind his proposal. These men consider themselves men of iron, after all. That thought brought a frown to his face. Given enough heat, however, iron will melt.

Looking most pleased with himself, Dalton had invited Veron to spar at the conclusion of the meeting of the captains. Despite some misgivings, he had agreed. A few moments later, he had found himself in the courtyard of Faircastle across from his brother. The rain had transitioned into a light misting, chilling the air and causing their breaths to emanate fog-like from beneath their helms. Dalton had chosen to wear his best plate, and moisture dripped from his helm's golden tentacles. He looked as though he had just walked out from the depths of the sea. In his hand, he clutched Nightfall, its dark rippling valyrian steel blade bespeckled with small rivulets of rainwater that dripped gently to the cobblestones. Its moonstone pommel seemed to be an eye of its own, staring unblinkingly at him.

Veron drew his own blade, its length of castle-forged steel rasping as it exited its scabbard. This must be the second part of his plan to discredit me. A victory at the meeting and a victory in the yard. At that point none will question his superiority. He grimaced. As if he needed to prove it. I was content in his shadow. His attempts to keep me there have only driven me further from its shade. His hands tightened about his blade's hilt. He had refused a shield, knowing his brother's blade would have rendered it useless after a strike or two. While dangerous, he hoped that he could force a conclusion to the fight before any blood was drawn. Facing an opponent wielding Valyrian steel required a greater degree of aggression than was normally advisable, given that opting for the defensive was nearly completely ineffective unless possessed of a blade of Valyrian steel as well. Dalton taught me that. I learned from him as he slew Nightfall's former owner. As he adopted his stance, he promised himself that he would not lose this contest as well. Dalton will not have the satisfaction of two victories today.

The scarred and grizzled master at arms motioned for them to begin, rainwater dripping from his long grey beard. They circled each other in the yard for a few moments, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Veron watched his brother, waiting for any tells that he planned to strike. When they were younger, his brother had always inhaled sharply before launching his attacks. Veron felt a twinge of emotion at the thought. He was different, then. Still Dalton, but less grim. Less prone to suspecting a challenge from every leal man. Less drunk on his own legend. I miss that brother.

While he did not inhale sharply, a slight change in his footwork betrayed his oncoming attack. Within a split second, his brother exploded with motion, crossing the distance between them and opting for a downward strike. Veron's instincts, honed from years of confrontation, recognized the futility of meeting such a strike with his own blade. His brother need only strike his blade a few times to snap it with his own blade. Instead, Veron quickly sidestepped, allowing his brother's momentum to carry him forward an extra halfpace, his blade sparking as it cut a slight gash into the cobblestone. Nightfall possessed a long reach, and its slender blade concealed a wicked striking power, thanks to its composition.

Recovering within the blink of an eye, Dalton whirled from where he stood, letting his momentum carry his blade overhead into another downward slash. He guided it more carefully this time, however, and Veron was nearly caught upon the shoulder by its cold kiss. The third cut saw him forced to intercept it, with his own blade, and he grimaced beneath his helm as Nightfall bit into his own blade slightly. Enough. He seeks to keep me on the backfoot until he destroys my weapon. He twisted his sword within his grasp, wrenching it free, before bringing it in an upwards cut towards his brother's helm. He knew Dalton's instincts would be too honed to prompt him to fall back, but he did force him to take a half step back in order to avoid the swing. Veron had no intention of allowing him to resume the offensive, however. He pressed the attack, bringing his blade about for another savage strike, this time aimed at his brother's blindspot on the side of his helm. Nightfall rose to intercept, but Veron was able to redirect his sword just enough that the attack was diverted. While that forced his strike to miss, it did keep Dalton from launching an attack of his own while Veron opted for his most aggressive strategy. He smiled as he took two paces back, wrenching an axe from where it sat upon a table in the yard.

Dalton, realising he'd allowed for his brother to gain the initiative, pressed Veron hard. While he was able to sidestep his brother's first attack, he knew he needed to confront his second head on. He caught his brother's second powerful strike on his blade, wincing as Nightfall bit deeply into the steel. The next time that they connect, I will be left with half a blade. He had to act quickly. As Dalton opted for a lunging attack, Veron redirected it slightly, the Valyrian steel screeching as it passed along his steel edge. It was at that moment his axe came down in a savage arc. It struck his brother's helm with a screech. While the black steel was easily able to resist such a strike, the soft gold was not. The force of its blow sheared off one of the hanging tentacles, the rubies set within it glinting as it clattered to the cobblestones. His brother's eyes narrowed beneath their helm. His strike brought about a ferocious assault. While Veron considered himself talented, it would've taken the speed and reflexes of the Drowned God himself to fully dodge his brother's next assault.

Accepting the inevitable, Veron caught one of the strikes with his sword, and winced as he heard the steel snap. Left with a jagged blade that ended only a few inches above the hilt, he knew his time was up. When Dalton came at him again, he met the attack head-on, his pulse ringing loudly within the confines of his helm. The rain had increased, and Nightfall cut a glistening arc through the deluge. Veron caught the strike with the oak handle of his axe, slowing it enough that when it struck his shoulder it bit through steel, but not flesh and bone. His brother's eyes smiled coldly for a moment, relishing his victory. The joy drained quickly when he felt the jagged point of a broken blade poking his neck from where it had navigated between helm and gorget. For a moment, the only sound that Veron could hear was the rain as it struck his helm. Those who had gathered about the yard were silent, evidently waiting to see the reactions of both brothers. Veron met his brother's gaze with that of his own, and felt a chill run down his spine that had little to do with the cold of the rain. For under the helm of black steel and bloody gold, Dalton returned his gaze with a hatred that did not burn, but icily crept its way through his visor. Veron refused to look away, and they remained locked in a cold, deadly embrace until the impromptu master of arms stood alongside them. He made his presence known by placing a heavily muscled arm upon each of their shoulders, his hairy grey arms slick with rainwater.

"T'was a fine fight m'lords. On the field o' battle, you'd each have been the last thing the other'd have seen." Chortling somewhat nervously, he added: "luckily, the Drowned God saw fit to make you brothers, and not enemies."

Dalton, removing his helm, chuckled mirthlessly. "Tis most fortunate indeed, Ott." Turning his eyes to Veron, he added: "well-met, brother."

"Well met, Dalton."

Finally tearing his eyes away from his brother's, Veron stood as his opponent withdrew Nightfall. Casting a glance upon his shoulder, he was unsurprised to see that his brother's blade had cut cleanly through the steel, and that the mail beneath had nearly been severed as well.

By the time Dalton turned to the crowd of onlookers, the rain had washed away any evidence of his hate. His smile returning, he called for any and all to attend him as "he felt terribly in need of a strong drink."

As the crowd exited the courtyard, Veron stood alone. He still clutched the broken sword handle in his grasp, and he noticed that his strike had drawn blood. As the rain flowed from the jagged edges, it dripped a slight crimson upon the cobblestones. If only Ott's words rang more true, he thought to himself. If only Dalton could see beyond the challenge I represent to his authority, and his legend. He likely wished that I would die at the Crag. Another chill ran down his spine.

Once within his quarters, he had sent word that he would be in need of a new sword. As Merrick left to see the order fulfilled, he gazed out the thick glass of the tower's window, watching the rain run down the panes and the sea rise and fall. Uncorking a wineskin, he sat back in his chair. I should have requested that the smith attempt to repair my armor as well. Taking a deep swig of his wine, he decided to do so in the morn. He wondered briefly as to the whereabouts of Eleyna and Elissa, but decided against sending for them. Let them have their time to themselves. They shall be safe, Tommard promised to keep an eye on them at all times. After Codd, it is unlikely that any would trouble them anyways. The Codds were a truly lamentable House, that much was certain. The door screeched as it was pushed open, and Veron was shocked to see that Torgon stood in the entryway.

"Might I enquire as to my Lord-Captain's health?" He asked, a grin flickering across his features.

Veron smiled. "You might, but then again, if you are hoping for any new impressive wounds you would be sorely disappointed."

Torgon feigned disappointment. "I had entertained hopes that the Maesters might have had to amputate your arm. Veron One-Arm sounds like someone out of a saga, does it not?

He nodded, unable to deny that it indeed could have been the name of a character of the tales of old.

"While true, I rather enjoy having the use of both of my arms." He said with a wry grin.

"Certainly. An arm for each salt wife."

Veron nodded gravely. "They entice me so, as you well know"

Torgon closed the door behind him. "Be that as it may, we need to discuss the realities of how we intend to proceed."

Veron nodded. He had dreaded having to have this conversation. In preparation, he took a deep swig of wine. Standing, he took both of Torgon's hands.

"I hope you know that what I feel for you is no laughing matter. To no longer feel quite so alone is a powerful respite from the world. I hope that I can bring you the same comfort." Pausing, he considered his next words carefully. "Torgon, there are no sagas or ballads for men like us. At least none that I've ever heard. I've never met another. I've heard whispers that in the Free Cities a man may live as one chooses, at least if he has the coin to afford pillow houses that accommodate his tastes. But our people harbor no such kindness. We are men of Iron, and despise weakness. For a long while, I thought myself sick. I hated myself for it." He laughed, bitterly. "To some degree, I still question whether we might both be suffering from some insidious affliction." He placed a hand upon Torgon's cheek. "I… I see no way that we could ever live any more freely than we do now unless we were to flee."

There was a warm understanding in Torgon's eyes. "I've… I've thought as much myself. But we cannot flee. We do not suffer from an insidious affliction. We are men of Iron. We do not run from a fight… Besides, I could not ask you to abandon your sisters, or your friends, or crew. So what is there to do?"

Veron smiled. "We can enjoy these moments. To know that I have someone to care about, someone who understands me, and I him, is enough for now. Perhaps with time things will change for the better. But with a war afoot, we are surrounded by many who are permanently alert. We must be careful."

The hand he held tightened. "Is there not a way that we might be protected by your brother's reach? He is nearly a living legend amongst our people. If he could be made to understand, we could live much more freely. None would accuse the honored brother of the Red Kraken of anything. Even if they did, you could strike them down without fear of retaliation."

A chill ran down Veron's spine. Dalton… Dalton must never know. The Red Kraken's entire legend is built around the unassailable image of a reaver of old. I am uncertain of my safety even now. To even allow him to suspect my true nature would be to ensure our deaths. The Kraken's reach is long, and its grasp waits just below the waves, waiting to drag me into the depths the moment I show weakness. He shook his head.

"My brother must never know of us. It would mean both of our deaths. He will do anything to protect his growing legend. He would never understand. If anything, mere rumors of our nature would be enough for him to act. The Drowned God damns kinslayers, but there are many who would be willing to bear the blade in his stead should he give the order. I fear we do not yet have enough allies to call upon. We must needs find friends without my brother's shadow. Men whose loyalty to us will remain even if my brother calls for my head."

Before he could speak any further, Torgon planted a firm kiss upon his lips.

A grin forced its way out, despite his resistance.

"I have been waiting to do that." His expression hardened. "But I understand your words. I will begin testing the waters. While Dalton is regarded by some to be a son of the Drowned God himself, some are not so taken by his reputation or actions. Once word gets out of your dissent at the Council, we may find that there are other captains who have a more realistic outlook and do not wish to see themselves, their ships, and their prizes of war consumed by dragonflame. Dalton cannot expect them to remain out reaving forever."

Veron nodded. "Let us proceed in that fashion." He gave Torgon's hand a squeeze. "Now go. We must needs be careful about these visits."

As Torgon wrenched the door open, a serving boy fell, knocked backwards by its outward swing. The firewood he had been carrying scattered about the hall. His eyes widened with terror as Torgon's form stood over him. He flinched when the Ironborn moved, but a shy smile returned to his face as his potential punisher offered him a piece of firewood from the floor.

"The Farmans may have been somewhat forgiving of clumsiness, but we men of Iron have no such proclivities."

With a wink, Torgon departed, having helped the boy gather his fallen burden.

"Would 'ee like some firewood, m'lord?" The boy asked, smiling cautiously.

Nodding, Veron held out his hand, taking two pieces, before sending the lad on his way. Laying them atop the already burning pile, he smiled. We might just make this work.

An hour later, his wives found him holding an empty wineskin in his grasp, warming his feet by the fire. Tommard, true to his word, begged his leave once they had been safely delivered to his chamber.

Eleyna entered first, clutching her doll tightly. Clearly exhausted from what must have been a trying day, Veron nodded to acknowledge her presence and allowed Elissa to help her change to a nightgown and be put straight to sleep.

Once the Westerling girl had appeared to finally drift away, Elissa moved a seat next to the fire, sitting next to him. She poured herself a cup of mulled wine and sat silently, sipping at it as she watched the flames dance and consume their prey. He was content to sit silently.

"Your… brother has tired of my sisters. The other men are afraid to lay hands upon them, for fear that Dalton will change his mind, but I fear that it is only a matter of time until their lust outpaces their fear."

Veron stared into the flames. In his mind's eye, he could still see his brother's look of freezing hatred. He thinks me a rival, a potential usurper. He missed the days when they fought with swords of wood upon the beaches of Pyke. If I am already damned in his eyes, I see no reason to cower like a beaten dog.

He drew in his breath and turned to face her. "Where are they confined?"

"He sent them back to their quarters."

Standing, he grabbed a dirk from amongst his possessions. "Let us go and claim them. Let the men say I lust after my brother's leavings."

Elissa met his gaze with one of her own. While he had accepted that he'd never receive a look that ever resembled gratitude, he wagered that the one she gave him was damn close.

Chapter Text

Baela IV

She had first heard of her cousin's death when the gaoler delivered her cold porridge with a venomous grin. She had hoped against hope that the Queen would somehow be reconciled with her brother now that the war was lost. If not for her sake, then for the sake of her living sons. The days had drifted by in a haze, with little to suggest the passage of time other than the delivery of her meagre meals. At first, she had tried to communicate across the hall, but the gaoler had promised to cease feeding the lot of them if she continued. After that, she had sat in silence, sharing the moldiest or stalest parts of her bread with the rats that paid her visits.

When she had first woken, she had felt too numb to do anything. She had failed in all that she had striven to accomplish. Luke, Jace, and Joff were gone. With the deaths of the remaining loyal seeds, the Queen's cause was effectively over. No dragons could be marshalled for her cause. Baela doubted that any remained alive apart from Tyraxes, now riderless, and Moondancer, chained in the depths of the Dragonpit. Her mother's words haunted her from her dream. She did remain amongst the last of the Dragons. But what am I to do? I've done naught for the Queen's cause. At first, I was prevented from flying. But when given the chance, I hesitated. I should've gone with Joff. Had we reached the Dragonpit, we could've made a difference, or died trying. Such thoughts troubled her, and she had found it difficult to sleep much at all. She tossed and turned amidst the cold stone and the dirty rushes, troubled by the faces of ghosts.

They had come for the Queen on what must have been an early morn. The screech of her cousin's cell door woke her from her fitful slumber, and despite herself she sprang up, standing on the tips of her toes to try and see all that was transpiring. Hard men in cloaks of gold had led the Queen from her cell and past the cells where the remaining members of her family sat in confinement. Her cousin had been pale, her hair a mess, her formerly vibrant purple eyes having lost much of their luster. She still wore the simple accoutrements that she had worn the day they were taken. Baela watched silently as they led the Queen past her cell and up the worn stone steps towards the courtyard. She felt the urge to weep, but all her tears had been spent. Instead, she found herself hoping that Rhaenyra would do all she could to stand aside. Aegon and Viserys are blameless. Please, cos, do not let them suffer for the woes we have brought upon the Usurper and his family. She was most glad when the cells of her brothers remained undisturbed. She could barely make out the face of Aegon, tall for his age, watching his mother led away past his own cell. Tears ran silently down his face, leaving clear paths across his dirty skin.

And so it was that perhaps two hours later the gaoler arrived, possessed of a face that promised ill tidings and bearing unsweetened and icy porridge. As he slid her meal through the door, he pressed his fat face against the barred window, grinning sadistically.

"They took 'er 'ead only a few moments ago. King Eggon 'as returned, and word about the castle is that he ordered her to have a traitor's death on the block. Ever the honorable one, our King. No spectacle, just justice. If it'd been the doing of the Princess, she'd likely 'ave ordered some gruesome affair. Do you know, little girl, how many men lost their tongues by 'er orders? 'Ad 'em ripped out with 'ot pincers, that 'un." Spittle flew as he spoke. "Heh. Maegor with teats indeed." His face contorted into a frown. "Serves 'er right. After the 'Ightower army arrived, bearing the Prince Daeron's body, all scarred and burnt, the city was howling for 'er blood. Ser Roxton killed 'er with a single stroke, bearing 'is blade Orphan Maker. Heh. Guess it lived up to its name."

Pulling away from the door, he stalked away, whistling as he went. Baela, despite her shock, had recognized the tune. It was a popular ditty amongst the smallfolk, about 'the Good King Aegon'. Her father had sung it for her as a child. She had mourned the loss of her cousin, but a part of her accepted her death, taking solace in the knowledge that her trials and sufferings were finally at an end. So much death, and all for a circlet of gold or valyrian steel.

As she had spent the next few days in silence, she had turned the gaoler's words over and over in her mind. The Prince Daeron is dead? Despite herself, she mourned her cousin. Of all of her uncle's sons, he had been the warmest, the least likely to hide barbed words behind a smiling countenance. He had lived in the shadow of his oldest brothers, always seeking to prove himself worthy of their glory. But the few times she had spent near him had taught her that his true love was his dragon, Tessarion. They had loved to soar amidst the clouds, her blue and bronze scales flashing brilliantly in the sun. He died with only a few name days more than I, she thought to herself. It seemed a cruel fate to have died by the flames of the creatures he loved so well.

Daeron's death bothered her for more reasons than his youth and kindness, however. The letter we received from the Lords at Tumbleton made no mention of his death. A chill ran down her spine. The letter bore his seal, in fact. She remembered it now; it had arrived bearing the seals of several important lords. House Hightower, House Peake, House Roxton, and House Norcross had all affixed their seals, along with a seal that bore the image of corn that she hadn't recognised. Above them all had rested the three-headed dragon of her house, emblazoned proudly. If those lords could lie about Daeron's demise, what other falsehoods and half-truths might have been concealed within its contents? The more she fixated on it, the more she found herself questioning parts of it. While several great lords affixed their seals, several did not. Where were the ants of House Ambrose or the apple of the Fossoways or the lightning of the Leygoods? It was possible of course that they had perished in the initial attack, but if Daeron had been killed then that battle had certainly not gone as they had been told. She cursed herself for not picking up on such details sooner. How could we have missed such things? Her eyes narrowed. We were played for fools. She began to feel the smallest of sparks within her breast; something she'd not felt for weeks. Hope. She pounded her fist against the stones of the cell, impacting amidst the rushes and sending several inquisitive rats scurrying in terror. The smallest of smiles broke out across her lips. As she allowed herself to hope, she felt another familiar emotion begin to stir inside her. Her rage, for so long left to lie dormant, began to burn once more. Rhaenyra… Joff… dead because of lies. White-hot wrath engulfed her. You will both be avenged. I may be amongst the last of the dragons, but whilst I draw breath our enemies will feel my fury.

The next few days had been spent in relative silence. Baela had begun to eat more of what was delivered, spending her time pacing about her cell and attempting to reconstruct all she knew of the past few weeks. Mayhaps it is my feverish mind, but I truly believe things are not as they seem. She had attempted to subtly ply more information from the gaoler, in order to see whether he had seen or heard any news of the two traitorous seeds. He'd had nothing to say in response, his eyes narrowing at her question. She knew she ought to be more careful, but she had barely been able to contain her excitement at the lack of news. Is it possible that all we thought we knew was wrong? Ser Addam had flown to gather Ser Gaemon and Ser Maegor. It would have been three against three, certainly not impossible for there to have been a victory. The speculation, while energising, was also maddening. The dark cell, which until recently had been somewhat of a respite from the hopelessness of the world now felt excessively confining. She had entertained the thought of attempting to tell Aegon and Viserys of her thoughts, but had hesitated both for fear of getting them punished as well as a reluctance to share the truly wasteful nature of the Queen's demise. Oh cos, how could we have let our fears take such hold of us? She found herself missing her grandmother more than ever. Grandmother would never have remained paralysed within the confines of the Red Keep. She'd have taken Meleys to investigate immediately. All she had been told of her mother suggested that she'd have done the same.

As the days dragged on, she refrained from asking further questions of her captor, instead finding ways of spending her time that gave her some degree of purpose. She had taken to feeding two particularly large rats, and was pleased to see that they seemed to find the arrangement acceptable enough that they became her boon companions. Braver than most of their kind, they would stop only inches from her feet, their whiskers twitching expectantly while their black, beady eyes regarded with anticipation. The smaller of the two was missing one of its front paws, which inspired her to name it Aemond. The other larger and fatter one naturally became Aegon. She had smiled wickedly after deciding on their names, and had moved on to granting them titles befitting their stations. She had settled on Aegon's as Lord of the Shitty Rushes and Aemond's as Scourge of Moldy Crusts. They seemed to accept their titles with all of the grace they could muster. After a few days in their company she decided that she enjoyed their limited time together far more than the entirety of the time she had spent with her petulant and murderous cousins.

She was in the deliciously ironic process of trying to teach Aegon to bow for a crumb when she heard voices echoing about the prison walls outside her cell door. She recognised the voice of her gaoler, but could not place the voices that accompanied him. Dismissing her companions, she drew herself up as her cell door screeched as it was wrenched open. Outside stood the gaoler, along with several men in gold cloaks. Standing before them was the knight in black and white that had killed Joff struck her during that terrible night. A chill made its way down her spine, despite her attempts at ensuring an inner calm. Have they come to take my head? She refused to give them the satisfaction of observing her fear, so she forced herself to stand straight and return their gaze with a cold one of her own.

The knight of House Swann smirked. "So this little chit of a lass still has a spine after all? I would have thought I knocked it out of her the last time we crossed paths." His smile took a sharper edge. "You will observe that there are no more kitchen knives to menace me with, my lady."

Baela shrugged. "I'll find something else to make do with."

The knight nodded, feigning mirth. "Just like your father. The former King should have had his tongue ripped out of his head. If you don't learn to control yours, someone will order it taken." His dark smile continued to grow. "Then again, no word of your traitorous father has been heard of in quite some time. Perhaps someone finally put an end to his follies and pretensions."

At the news, Baela's defiance faltered. She had anticipated the worst, but had maintained hope he still lived. I should have known the moment I saw him with my mother. Fighting back tears, she regained her composure.

"If my father has fallen, I am certain that he did not fail to deal a grievous wound to whoever had the misfortune of facing him on the field of battle."

The Swann knight frowned, and Baela was pleased to see that her words had struck home. Perhaps my father did get a chance to strike his foes before he fell. Did he find Aemond before the end?

"Enough of this pathetic posturing. I have been sent to inform you that the King, in all his majesty and justice, has decided to offer you a chance at clemency. A great ceremony is to be held tomorrow to accept newfound allies, and he extends his hand to you in peace if you will renounce your formal allegiances and bend the knee."

Once more white-hot fury threatened to spill forth from her lips. But before she could deliver a scathing rebuke, she caught herself. Insulting him further will earn me a beating and accomplish little. Getting out of this cell, however, could be fortuitous. Perhaps I could discover what has truly been transpiring. Forcing herself to swallow her revulsion, Baela allowed her shoulders to slump. They think me weak because of my sex. Let them see what they wish, for now. Clutching her arms to her sides, she gave the slightest of nods. The knight smirked, believing himself to have scored a great victory. Turning, they exited her cell, leaving her to ponder what her next actions might be.

The scream of the iron hinge roused her from her fitful slumber. She couldn't recall when sleep had finally taken her, but assumed that it must have been very late in the night. Several men-at-arms entered, their tabards sporting the grey and white of House Hightower. Pulling her to her feet, they led her from her cell out of the cell block and into the castle yard. The predawn chill sank quickly though her sparse and tattered clothing. Her captors led her into one of the Red Keep's outbuildings, where a trio of stone-faced Septas awaited. Armed to the teeth with brushes, combs, and buckets of steaming water, they set about making her presentable the moment the guards departed. While their cleaning was by no means gentle, Baela welcomed the process, relishing the chance to be free of her filthy garments and the grime of the dungeon. Finding her silver-white hair to be too matted and resistant, they sheared it off without hesitation, leaving her head bare but for a few wisps of white. She resisted the urge to grin. I suspect they think this process to be a humiliation. Little do they know that I've lived with closely-cropped locks for most of my life. She found the water to be intensely hot, which helped to warm her frame and release it from the cold, icy clutches of winter.

Once the Faith's servants were satisfied with her condition, they presented her with a simple gown of black. She did not miss that it was adorned with a modicum of gold lace. Would that it were red instead. While she was uncertain of what fate awaited her, she had come to one conclusion. There would be no admission of guilt, no pleas for penance. I will face my cousin today, and find the truth of what truly has transpired. Perhaps the war is not over, despite their attempts to make it so. Emotions roiled within her. Fear, anticipation, anger, hope. Without a word, the Septas dismissed her from their clutches, allowing the men-at-arms to escort her back through the Keep's courtyards.

She was surprised when their path led them to the foot of the Red Keep's primary gatehouse. She had expected to be brought before the Iron Throne, but instead, saddled horses awaited. Atop a grey charger in the center of the group sat the knight of black and white, looking down at her darkly. Pulling her atop his horse, he wrapped his gauntleted hands tightly around her waist.

"I will give this warning but once, my lady. Attempt any sort of escape, and I will act upon the King's orders and cut you down. No friends of yours remain in the city. The King has given you but one opportunity to earn his clemency. Squander it, and you will join the Pretender in the Seven Hells."

Baela held her tongue. A retort would be satisfying, but useless. Learn all you can. All may not yet be lost.

Once the others had mounted, the gate was opened and their party exited the Red Keep. They rode slowly down Aegon's High Hill, following the main thoroughfare and into the city below. The sights that greeted them were sobering. Buildings of all kinds, from manses to pot shops had suffered considerable damage. Some had been gutted by fires whilst others bore the scars of unhindered looting. The city was grey and dark, and a pall of ash seemed to pervade the very air. One would have thought that the Usurper had brought Sunfyre's fiery wroth to bear upon the city. As she looked more closely however, she could see that the city had suffered from a more natural fire. Wide swathes had burnt down, but one could see where its denizens had pulled nearby buildings down to cut the flames off from further fuel. The neighborhoods that had burned were haphazard, not in wide stretches that would suggest a dragon's ire. Furthermore, the widespread looting suggested a more chaotic sack, as opposed to the unbridled terror of a sudden attack from the skies. Lastly, it appeared that fighting had been widespread. While bodies did not lay scattered about the streets, she could see the darkened earth and cobblestones where they once had, and many a wall bore the red-brown stains of dried blood. This city ate itself alive, she thought, suppressing a shudder. These must be the scars of the riots that engulfed the city after the 'news' of Tumbleton.

The streets were largely empty of people, and the few they passed did not raise their eyes. The denizens of the city carried themselves with a cold indifference, and clutched their threadbare clothing about themselves tightly in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. Could we have averted this disaster? Perhaps, she thought. But my cousin would have needed to be a different Queen… a different woman. Her people needed the Realm's Delight, not the woman I knew in her last few weeks of life, so twisted by fear, betrayal, and mistrust that she could not distinguish between friend and foe. Such thoughts were of no use now, however. The present was what mattered, and fighting for those who remained was what was most important. The last of the dragons. Many had been lost, but some remained. More, perhaps, than she even dared to believe.

Their slow ride through the city reached the apex of the Hill of Rhaenys, and the cavernous Dragonpit loomed before her, a great mountain of bronze and steel and stone. Its massive doors all remained closed, except for the central gates, which had been left open to allow for the entry of each procession. Standing resolutely at the entrance were the Dragonkeepers, clad in black plate. She had heard murmurs on the night of the riot that the Dragonpit had been accosted by a mob, but she saw little evidence of any damage. It appeared to have weathered the storm with few scars, and light still showed from within. The light of dragons. The Dragonkeepers' helms presented a uniform face to outsiders, so it was impossible to discern whether any of the men before her were those that had aided her in the past. They likely did. The Dragonkeepers swear oaths of obedience to the Royal Family and to protect their mounts. I doubt that those oaths specify what one must do when dragon turns upon dragon, however. It seemed likely that the knights before her felt obligated to serve whosoever sat the Iron Throne, regardless of their personal dispositions or beliefs. Regardless of their loyalties, they remained motionless to either side of her as the knight of House Swann dismounted his horse and handed it off to a retainer. Riding a horse into the Dragonpit was an excellent way to get oneself thrown from the saddle. The pit reeked of dragons, and the animals were wise enough to sense the danger of a predator.

While their horses were led away to an adjoining stable, Ser Byron was presented with a pair of golden shackles, which he affixed tightly around her wrists. Wrought of gold or iron, shackles they remain, she thought to herself. Standing straight, she accepted them without complaint. The cold metal left little doubt as to her status in Aegon's court. Whilst they may pledge to remove them in return for an oath of loyalty, I suspect a golden cage will quickly replace them. She had no intention of humiliating herself, however. Not now, not ever. Come what may, she would live or die supporting her friends and family. Whilst we may be bound by blood, the Usurper is no honored kin of mine. The slightest of wry grins flickered across her lips. I suspect he feels the same about me.

A cold gauntleted hand on her shoulder prompted her to begin her journey forward. As she was guided into the main chamber, she was once again taken aback by just how vast the Dragonpit was. The steps led into a massive subterranean hall, carved deeply into the Hill of Rhaenys itself. Benches lined the central chamber, and great bronze braziers had been placed evenly down the length of the hall, illuminating its entirety with dancing light and shadow. Maester Gerardys had once told her the Dragonpit's central hall could seat eighty thousand comfortably. Even if that was the case, today's audience was nowhere near that number. Many rows of benches were filled by the shadowy forms of knights, men-at-arms, and the few men and women of Aegon's court that had survived Rhaenyra's conquest via imprisonment.

Banners of the most powerful Green Houses hung from the pillars supporting the ceiling far above, and Baela surveyed each as she passed. The first she passed were banners she was less familiar with, banners she assumed belonged to knightly houses of the Reach. As she reached the point at which the pews were full of seated persons, she made a personal note of each banner hung in pride of place. Firstly, to her left hung three red chevronels on ermine. Rosby, the faithless friends. To her right, A white lamb bearing a golden chalice. Stokeworth. Nearby hung a banner bearing black diamonds on a yellow field. Darklyn, she thought with dismay. Next on the left, black cross on a white field. Norcross, she remembered. On the right, a series of interlocking golden chains on a sky blue field. Roxton. Passing by the red, blue and green stripes of House Strong, they drew nearer and nearer to the Usurper. As they approached the front of the hall, they passed the banners placed in the most prestigious positions. On her left hung a great orange banner, with three black castles affixed proudly upon it. Peake, self-proclaimed lords of the Dornish marches. Finally, on her right, the white tower crowned with roaring flames. Hightower. They might as well have hung that above the throne itself. Instead, in the center of the hall, displayed above the Usurper himself, hung a great black banner whose silk seemed to drink in the firelight. Upon it danced a gold three-headed dragon, roaring defiantly.

While she was aggrieved to see that the Stokeworths and Rosbys had returned to the Green fold, she was not surprised. Rhaenyra did have their lords executed. With their loyalty, and with that of the Darklyns, Aegon can command the obedience of the Crownlands as far north as Duskendale. Baela took some solace in the banners that she did not see. Where is the Mother's Face of the Gracefords? The ants of the Ambroses? The apple of the Fossoways? The lightning of the Leygoods? All are said to have marched with the Hightowers. As she turned her eyes to the Usurper, she studied the faces assembled before her. Sitting atop a litter that served as an impromptu throne was her cousin. Resting on his armored lap was Blackfyre itself, the sword of Kings. Its black Valyrian steel rippled darkly in the firelight. To his right sat an old man wearing a golden necklace of interlocked hands, whose face bore an exhausted visage. Whilst he appeared to have once carried a great weight, his skin hung thinly, either due to the rigors of campaign or some other affliction. A Hightower, she assumed by his colors. To the Hightower's right sat the Dowager Queen, wearing a beautiful gown of green silk, accentuated by golden highlights. Her hair had been braided and atop her head she wore a golden circlet. Her eyes regarded Baela with a fiery mixture of triumph and a clear desire for revenge. Seated to her right, with a cane resting across his twisted leg, was the unmistakable cool and calculating Lord Larys Strong, who studied her intently.

On the Usurper's left was an empty seat, upon which the dancing stag of House Baratheon had been affixed. How kind of them to save Lord Borros a seat, she thought mockingly. He couldn't be bothered to fight, but I'm sure he'd protest mightily if not offered an appropriately grandiose appointment. To Borros' prospective left was a Lord who sat as if his spine was wrought of iron. Grey hair and grey beard were affixed upon a hard visage, and he too regarded her with cold, unsympathetic eyes. Lord Peake, judging by his doublet. To Lord Peake's left stood a tall man, clothed in Roxton colors. His hands rested upon a hilt whose blade bore the unmistakable ripples of Valyrian steel. He too regarded her with dark eyes that unsettled her despite herself. She resisted the shiver that sought to force itself down her spine. He stands in the position of King's Justice. A title that rings all the more hollow in this court.

While the Dowager Queen, Lord Strong, Lord Peake, and the King's Justice regarded her, the Usurper appeared absorbed in the ceremony that had been ongoing as she entered. Two boys knelt at his feet, wearing the colors of Stokeworth and Rosby. The new lords of their houses. Their claims would have been passed over, had my father's will prevailed. The two boys, who likely did not possess twenty name days between them, were prostrated at the feet of the Usurper, swearing their vows of eternal obeisance. The Usurper, she thought as she regarded him. My cousin. Despite herself, she felt the barest twinge of regret that things had come to pass as they had. When she studied his face, it was impossible not to see her uncle. Despite his faults, and the fact he insisted that they were not Princesses, Baela had loved King Viserys in her own way. He was a man with a great love of his family, a love that could not, and would not, ever be completely set aside despite their quarrels all about him. Even to the end he turned his gaze aside from the rancor that infested his own House. He wanted to believe that his children, his grandchildren, and even his defiant brother could be made to act as he wished to see them. Instead, blood had begun to flow only a few moments after his passing. While his heart still beat, he could avert the slaughter. But the moment it stopped, years of plotting, hatred, and betrayal poured forth.

When she studied her cousin's face, she saw her uncle, but her uncle in a twisted form. The King's face was never so marred by hate and mistrust. It had grown red with wroth at times, but he'd have much preferred it to grow red with laughter. Looking at his son was akin to looking at another Viserys, a Viserys whose reign had brought no joy. The resemblance was also scarred by the kiss of flame. Grandmother left him something to remember her by, Baela observed sadly. The Usurper's visage was akin to a candle. Half his face was that of a handsome, if a bit overfed, Prince, whilst the other was akin to melted wax. Below a drooping and scarred eyebrow, a bloodshot violet eye gazed forth suspiciously.

The process of reaffirming feudal oaths did not take much longer. As the two young lords swore by the Seven to maintain their oaths unto death, Baela scanned those assembled for any other faces of note. Aemond's self-assured and cruel face, marred by Luke's knife so long ago, was notably absent. Mayhaps my father did find him, in the end. Daeron's guarded but sympathetic face was also absent, confirming the goaler's words. She quickly scanned the entrances of the dragons' enclosures, but saw no sign of Vhagar or Tessarion. Even if Aemond or Daeron had somehow been alive but in recovery, their dragons would still be roosting within the Dragonpit. It seems that both have fallen. Lastly, Helaena too was missing. Baela's stomach felt twisted into a knot. It seems the rumors are true. The loss of her sons was too much for her to bear. Guilt tugged at her heart. And how could she be blamed for retreating into madness? Those assassins may as well have killed her. T'would have been less cruel. At times, when Baela thought of Helaena's sons, guilt and revulsion clawed at her. Gone was the Princess who loved to dance and sing. Some of Baela's earliest and happiest memories were of the times Viserys and his children were feasted at Dragonstone. Helaena was shy, but loved to whisper secrets and laugh once she found those she could trust. When she had learned that Baela and Rhaena were ticklish, she had reduced them both to gasping, wheezing laughter before Aegon had ordered her to leave them be.

She quickly steeled herself against reminiscing. Such things are too painful now. She could not help but feel as though she was somehow implicit in Rhaenyra's crimes. We swore vengeance on the day we were told of Luke's death. But were Helaena and her sons truly the architects of our suffering? Baela knew the answer, and it brought her no solace. Forcing such thoughts from her head, she thought of her dream. For better or for worse, I am amongst the last of the dragons. I must keep the embers alight. If I look back, I am lost.

When a retainer brought his staff upon the cold stone floor, she snapped to the present. A retainer, dressed in the black and gold of the Usurper, rapped his staff upon the floor once more. The Rosby and Stokeworth girls had been led away quietly by men bearing their house colors.

"The Lady Baela Targaryen, who has come as a supplicant begging the mercy of the King Aegon Targaryen, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

For a moment, the two of them regarded one another silently. The hand of her escort tightened on her shoulder. To combat the emotions roiling within her, she went over what she had observed. It seems certain now. Our enemies lied. I know not what happened, but it seems that the Prince Daeron and the two traitors were slain over Tumbleton. My father and the Prince Aemond are also missing. Her eyes narrowed. They brought me here to beg forgiveness, to humble myself before them and hundreds of men and women. I will do no such thing. I will not allow the sacrifices of those who have gone before me to be for naught. She waited silently for her cousin to speak.

"Cousin, you come before me at last." He finally spoke, his voice dripping with venom. He paused, a smile as thin as a razor's edge affixed to his lips. "So enters the Lady Baela Targaryen, daughter to a traitor-Prince and cousin to a Pretender. For all of your supposed fire, you come before me now as a supplicant." He rose from his throne, raising his arms and his voice to speak to those assembled. "It is the sign of a great King to dispense justice throughout the realm. It was necessary to put the Pretender and her pretensions to death, but now I will hear the pleas of one who comes before me to beg forgiveness. Let us not forget that justice can be dispensed by royal pardon instead of the headsman's block. Let my undisputed reign begin with a gesture of clemency, as the great Jaehaerys' did." Returning to his seat, his eyes once more met her gaze.

Baela clenched her fists tightly. In her mind's eye, Joffrey passed her the King piece once more. I'm ready now, Joff.

She took a moment to look at those assembled around her, and those seated before her. She scanned each of the dragon pits lining the edge of the chamber. Shrykos and Morghul remained coiled, whether asleep or cowed in the presence of so many unknown faces she could not say. Dreamfyre too remained coiled and unmoving, her light blue scales glinting in the firelight. Tyraxes stirred against its chains when her eyes fell upon it, smoke rising from its nostrils. Finally, she found her Moondancer. Its pale green scales and pearl horns glinted, and she felt a stirring within her when she realised its eyes were upon her. Addam was right, she has grown so! She thought with a fierce sense of pride. Baela once more felt the fires of rage begin to dance within her. She took a breath, and began to speak.

"Can the reign of a coward ever truly begin in earnest?" She asked, her eyes on Aegon. She turned to face the knight of House Hightower, who had begun to visibly shrink back in his seat. "When your kin fought and died fighting his war, where was your King?" Turning to Lord Peake, she continued. "Lord Peake, while the dragons danced and your men burned at Tumbleton, where was your King?" Her voice had begun strong, but now began to rise in intensity and volume. "When his brothers fought beneath his banners, where was their King? When his wife and mother were taken prisoner, where was their King?" She drew in her breath, and turned to face those assembled, wrenching herself free momentarily from her captor's grasp. "My Lords, the man who sits that throne is no true Dragon; he hid whilst others killed, and continued to hide whilst they died! While he might carry the name of the Conqueror, I can think of no man less deserving of his crown!"

She stood, and scanned as many faces as she could that stood assembled before her. For a moment, the Dragonpit sat in stunned silence. None moved, and none spoke. She stood until the gauntleted hand of the Swann knight wrenched her around and forced her to her knees. The Usurper's face had swollen purple with rage, his violet eyes bloodshot and fiery with hatred.

"I was a fool for expecting anything but futile insolence and disrespect from the likes of you." He whispered.

The knight of House Roxton stepped forward, bringing his Valyrian sword to bear.

"My king, let me strike her head from her shoulders here and now, to make an example of her."

Alicent shot to her feet. "My King, take her head now! None may speak in such a manner and be allowed to live!"

Aegon's eyes darted between the two of them, and he opened his mouth to give the order. Baela closed her eyes. Let them say I died with honor. Let them say I died a dragon. Before the words could be spoken, however, a roar echoed around the Dragonpit. As she opened her eyes, Moondancer stood on her hind legs, struggling against her chains. Beating her wings, her mount thrashed about her chamber, before sending a blinding blast of white flame at the ceiling. A few cells over, Tyraxes rose, roaring his greetings, and shot red-hot flames in response. Soon, Morghul, Shrykos, and even Dreamfyre had risen, roaring their challenges, and flames shot through the bars of their enclosures and danced about the ceiling. Some in the audience screamed and began to flee, and Dragonkeepers rushed from their stations with whips in order to calm the beasts. Baela smiled. Thank you, Moondancer. As the dragons were forced back, their chains appearing to hold, Aegon turned once more to her, his face still darkened with rage. As the chaos died down, he opened his mouth as if to speak once more, but was narrowly preempted by Lord Peake.

"My King, whilst her words were those of an impudent child, and deserve a most harsh chastising, I feel I must advise taking her head. If we kill any more of our hostages, our enemies will have little reason to believe that we will allow any to live. They will have little reason to believe that their own lives will be safe if they bend the knee."

Aegon swallowed, his eyes narrowing. Lord Larys spoke next.

"My King, Lord Peake's words are well worth heeding. Our ability to negotiate with our enemies diminishes with every execution. There have been sightings of dragons at Harrenhal. We cannot grant the Pretender's thugs any more reasons to attack the capitol. Their low birth already disposes them towards violence, as any Maester could tell you."

Baela could not believe her ears. Dragons at Harrenhal? Low birth? Gaemon and the seeds live! She wanted to shout and laugh in the maddening excitement, but she knew she dare not make a sound.

The Usurper clutched the hilt of Blackfyre so tightly that his knuckles turned bone white.

"And what have you to say, my Hand? You too have proven a veritable font of mercy ever since your arrival. Do you agree with the sentiments of my advisors?"

Baela turned her eyes to the Hand, who had grown a pale and utterly disconcerting shade of grey.

"While the maid has indeed sullied your honorable name, my King, she remains a child. The Seven-Pointed Star always errs on the side of mercy, and the Mother above would surely look kindly upon you for finding a suitable, yet just punishment."

Upon the conclusion of his remarks, the ancient knight took a deep swig of a wineskin he had produced from behind his seat. He ran a hand through what remained of his hair shakily.

The Usurper's face had returned to a relatively calmer angry shade of red. He steepled his fingers as he weighed the advice of his councilors. Finally, he spoke.

"While a mere child does kneel before me, her words were both treasonous and insulted the Royal Person. Such acts cannot go without a suitable chastisement, to use the words of Lord Peake." Pausing, a cold and cruel smile began to take hold, made all the more ghoulish by his burn scars. "One of the Old King's greatest accomplishments was the consolidation of the Royal Laws throughout the Kingdom. If I remember my Maester's lessons correctly, I believe that King Jaehaerys ascribed a very specific punishment for the sort of seditious libel we have just heard uttered before us."

As realization dawned on the faces of those assembled, the Dowager Queen smiled wolfishly whilst a cruel smirk danced upon the face of Lord Peake. Lord Strong remained unreadable whilst Ser Roxton grinned savagely.

Aegon continued: "For her lamentable crime of seditious libel, I condemn the Lady Baela Targaryen to be branded with the letters SL upon the left side of her face. Let the branding, and the subsequent ruination of her womanly beauty, serve as punishment for her treason."

Gasps echoed about the hall. As the realisation that she was not to be killed dawned on her, Baela fought the urge to vomit as the anxiety within her dissipated partially. I'm sure the Usurper is confident that I will be appropriately chastised, but I'll trade my 'womanly beauty' for my head any day. Besides… a dragon has no fear of heat. Despite her attempts at reassurance, however, she did not feel the fear dissipate.

The knight of black and white had escorted her with the minimum of civility back to her cell, casting her inside with a harsh shove. As she awaited the arrival of her punishers, she tried all sorts of things to keep her mind off of her impending fate. Try as she might, she feared what was coming. Nonetheless, she steeled herself in the face of her fate. I am a dragon, and I stood tall where others failed. I did not let my friends and family down. If I must be made to suffer for my 'impudence' and 'treason' I will bear such marks with pride.

The scream of her cell door's metal hinge once more announced the arrival of guests. In the darkness of the cell, the light emanating from the pail where the hot coals were carried was unmistakable. A thin iron handle stuck up from where it was kept heated. The light of the coals illuminated the face of her gaoler, but he did not enter alone. Standing in the dim red light was the Usurper himself, his marred face grinning wickedly in the light. Behind the two men stood men-at-arms clad in the black and gold of the king, their faces immutable and cold. She stood, forcing herself to stand tall in the face of her captors.

"As I am certain you were once taught, Cousin, a wise and just King must be willing to carry out his own sentences." Aegon spoke, an odd light in his eyes.

Baela clenched her fists at her sides. "Do your duty, Usurper."

The men-at-arms rushed forward, shoving her against the cold and dank wall of her cell. In the corner, she spotted both Aegon and Aemond cowering, their whiskers twitching in fear. Everything will be alright, she thought, mentally attempting to calm them. The Usurper withdrew the brand slowly, the letters SL glowing white hot against the dark of the dungeon. She gritted her teeth, determined to bear whatever came. As it approached, she could feel its heat coming in waves off of the metal. She struggled against the vice of her captors, but to no avail. For a moment she felt it just before it made contact with her skin, and her eyes closed reflexively. When the metal connected, the pain was so overwhelming she began to scream despite herself. Her last conscious thought was the revulsion she felt at the smell of cooking meat, realising it was her.

She awoke some time later, sprawled amongst the rushes. Her entire body felt aflame, but she shivered nonetheless. In the silence, she curled into a ball, fighting the corrosive grip of her fever. Sweat beaded all over her, and when some droplets trailed towards the still burning wound upon her face, she bit back a scream. Fighting back tears, a voice spoke in her head, a voice she realized with some confusion was both her own, and not. You have survived your greatest trial yet. A Targaryen, truly. Hugging herself, she pulled her legs to her chest in a futile attempt to ward off another bout of shivering.

She flinched as the door of her cell once more screamed open. In the darkness, she struggled to make out who entered. One held the door as two others entered, closing it behind them. She cowered at their approach, her feverish mind frightened that the Usurper might've decided to return with some other form of punishment. Something within her told her that that didn't make sense. Besides, none of the visitors walked with a limp. In unison, they knelt beside her, pulling what seemed to be cloaks back from their faces. In the darkness, her eyes strained to make out who these strange men were, when all of the sudden, one lit a torch.

While she expected to be greeted with the cruel and twisted face of Aegon, or the mocking grin of the gaoler, something else entirely greeted her in the darkness. Three faces, bearing smiles, pug noses, and eyes and hair of brown. Gingerly, Jacaerys placed a comforting hand over her scar, and when he touched her, the pervasive burning subsided. Tears flowed unhindered down her cheeks. She wanted to beg their forgiveness, to apologize for failing them when they needed her most, but try as she might, she could not speak. Something about the way they looked at her told her that did not matter, however.

Jace spoke first. "I must beg your forgiveness, for we've not spoken in a while, Cos. But we all wished to speak with you once more before we departed." He paused, his face growing a bit more serious. "What you did took the strength of kings. Your bravery was an inspiration to us all."

Luke then spoke up. "Few get opportunities to show such resolve, and fewer have the strength to stay the course when given them."

Finally Joff spoke, after laying a hand on her shoulder. "We could not have asked for a greater champion, Baela. Burning within you is fire enough to keep the embers alight." He grinned, softly. "But I think you knew that already. When your time came, you were ready."

With that, they stood. Jace, giving her a kiss on the forehead, smiled sadly.

"We're all sorry to leave you Baela. Would that we could fight alongside you." He sighed. "Our war is over." His brown eyes gazed deeply into hers. "I fear, however, that yours has not yet ended."

Drawing their cloaks back over their heads, they turned, quietly extinguishing their torch and passing silently out into the hall. Baela strained with all her might to rise and follow them, but instead, she felt the inky tendrils of sleep begin to grab hold of her once more. Goodbye, Joff. Goodbye Luke. Goodbye Jace.

Chapter Text

Maegor V

The early morning sunlight was just beginning to crest over the western battlements of Pinkmaiden as Maegor climbed atop the Grey Ghost, chained himself into his saddle, and took flight. Though Lord Stanton had insisted that Maegor remain a short while longer to break his fast along with him and his sisters, Maegor had declined his request politely. The Pipers were courteous hosts, but his was a journey that was best to be made with haste.

With the city of King's Landing under the Greens' banners, there was but a single certainty in Maegor's mind. We need an army. The Queen's city was in the hands of her enemies, and dragons alone would not be able to retake it. We have dragons enough to burn it. Maegor forced the thought from his mind as soon as it appeared. The traitors may now reside there, but the Queen's people, MY people, do as well.

Though the lords and knights of the Realm would mourn little and less for the fates of the smallfolk of King's Landing, Maegor had. When he had seen the state of the city as they approached from Tumbleton, his heart had sunk. The dull, ashen plumes of smoke rising into the sky had been visible long before the Queen's city itself was. Though he did not know how the city had come to fall into the hands of the Usurper's lackeys, it was plain to see the destruction and misery that had so recently occurred as a result of it.

I couldn't even keep my promise for the length of a fortnight. Beyond the ashen walls of Tumbleton, as Maegor and his comrades had negotiated the surrender of the Hightower army, Maegor had made a vow to himself. I will suffer no more Bitterbridges, no more Tumbletons. As long as I command the power of the Grey Ghost, I will not sit idly by and allow innocents to suffer at the hands of cruel, craven men. Men like Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower.

Maegor was unable to decide which man disgusted him more. Though the life Maegor had led as a fisherman had taught him little of the ways in which Lords spoke and negotiated, he knew well the demeanor of a swindler and a cheat. Lord Unwin, despite being little more than a prisoner, had haggled with the tenacity of a fishwife, seeking to make demands even though he was in no position to be doing so. From the way he haughtily sat and spoke at the table, one could almost believe that he was the victor giving terms. He lived by our mercy, and yet treated us with the utmost contempt. If he felt any guilt for the actions of the army he marched with, Lord Unwin Peake had displayed no such contrition to Maegor and the other seeds.

Ser Hobert, on the other hand, had made clear that he knew the evils of his army all too well. When the old man wasn't guzzling his fine wines from a silver chalice clutched in a shaking hand, he was mopping his sweaty brow with an embroidered silk kerchief. He stammered, and wrung his hands fretfully. A pitiful display from a pitiful man. Maegor had no sympathy for the aged Hightower knight. He seemed quick to regret the actions of his army, and yet what had he done as he watched them burn, pillage, and rape?

When Maegor and the others had landed their dragons on the hill beyond King's Landing to discuss their next course of action, he had known what needed to be done. We should have ended the likes of Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower right then and there. Maegor was no fool. He knew that the moment the surviving Lords and knights of the Hightower army learned that the forces of the Usurper had seized King's Landing, they would forget the vows they had sworn to Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam. They would instead march to stiffen the ranks of their monarch. However, Maegor had been outvoted, and was forced to fly north to Harrenhal, allowing the Hightower army an undeserved respite. Who will see them punished now?

Pinkmaiden had been the first castle Maegor had flown to, and it would not be the last. Though Maegor did not yet truly know of the fate of the Queen and her kin, he thought it unlikely that they would have evaded capture as the city fell, given the corpse of Syrax that he had observed in one of the many yards of the Red Keep. Despite this, he would continue to fight for her cause, and her rights. I will do so as thanks for the Grey Ghost. I will fly, and fight, to see the Prince Jacaerys avenged, and the Princes Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys rescued. I will rain fire upon the Greens to free the Lady Baela. Until the end of this gods-forsaken war, they will have a champion in me. Maegor frowned as cold winter winds buffeted his face. But I will no longer fight on Rhaenyra's behalf. On behalf of the Queen who had treacherously ordered the death of Nettles, and saw the dragonriders that fought and bled for her as little more than servants of dubious loyalty, to mistrust and withhold reward from.

Though he hid it from the people around him, there was an anger within him that would not be snuffed out, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it as he always had. War brings out the worst in men, and it seems I have not been spared. The rage had been unleashed initially at Tumbleton, and simmered as the defeated Green lords and knights haggled and prevaricated. It had flared at the sight of an ashen King's Landing, and his blood had boiled at the sight of golden dragon banners hanging from the walls of the Red Keep. At Maidenpool… It wasn't anger at first, it was shock. He had learned to expect deep reservation from the Queen when it came to her dragonseeds, but betrayal? Maegor hadn't believed it until Lord Mooton had shown him the missive with the Queen's own seal. Did she always mean to betray us? To put a knife in our backs when she no longer had a use for us? Maegor sighed. Methinks not. But I would be a fool to believe that she would care whether I lived or died, as long as she remained sitting atop the Iron Throne.

Even so, Maegor was a man of his word. Whether or not she cared for the vow of a lowly peasant that had been made into a knight, Maegor would maintain his honor. He would do what he could to ensure victory, and to do so, the seeds had to gather an army in Queen Rhaenyra's name. The northmen approached, yet Maegor knew that the support of the Riverlords was still needed as well. At his behest, the Pipers had agreed to scrape together what they could and march for Harrenhal. Though he had never doubted their loyalty, Maegor was relieved at the ease with which he had won the Pipers' support. Further along the Red Fork, however, was the seat of a House that had sat out of the war for far too long. Maegor flew for Riverrun.

The sun was setting as Maegor approached the burned-out ruins of Sallydance. From the map I observed at Harrenhal, Riverrun should not be too much farther up the Red Fork, at least by dragon. He wondered what the village had looked like before it became little more than charred, half-collapsed piles of timber coated in ash. The village was circled around the base of a hill, and at its top was a sept. Most village septs were humble structures of timber and mortar, hardly more than a humble space to pray to the Gods, or to listen to a Septon's sermon whenever such a holy man passed through. However, Sallydance's sept was a grand affair, made of cleanly cut stone with a bell tower on its northern side. It had windows of leaded glass, though the majority were shattered ruins. The sept was likely the charity of some long-dead River King, from one era or another.

Like the village beneath it, the sept was now a charred ruin. Part of its roof had caved in, and as Maegor circled around the village's north side atop the Grey Ghost, he could see that the sept's bell had fallen from the tower when its steeple had toppled. The bell sat like some great hunched being on the hillside, covered in snow. Gone was its polished metallic luster, replaced by the scrapes and dirt that tarnished it. The Kinslayer's work, Maegor thought darkly. Yet another one of my failures.

Maegor was relieved that the Usurper's monstrous younger brother had died, and yet such relief had proved short-lived. We should have caught him, Gaemon and I. How many villages burned while we conducted our fruitless search? Sallydance had been one. The last time Maegor had flown above this village, the ashes had been new. Dull red embers glowed, and Maegor and Gaemon had been able to make out charred corpses here and there amongst the village's ruins. Recent snowfall had begun to cover the village's ruins like a shroud. A burial shroud for a dead village..

Landing the Grey Ghost beyond the ruined sept at the top of the hill, Maegor made his way to what remained of the sept's oaken doors. One door was lying on the ground, and covered in a thin layer of snow and ice. The other hung by a single hinge, twisted grotesquely like a broken limb. What caught Maegor's attention, however, were the footprints. A single set of them, trailing all the way up the hillside and to the sept's entryway.

With a hand hovering near his sword's hilt, Maegor crept into the alcove just beyond the sept's doors. Peering around a soot-stained column, Maegor observed the sanctuary beyond. Snow covered the floor and debris that were beneath the collapsed portions of the sept's roof, and the other areas of the sept were hidden in the gloom of the coming nightfall, as the last red rays of sunlight melted away. At the sanctuary's far end, a man clad in torn clothing and a fur-lined cloak was attempting to start a fire. Not far beyond him and his kindling, stone statues of the Seven stood atop pedestals, standing a serene vigil over their silent parish. Part of the roof above them had collapsed, leaving some of the statues covered in snow.

Without turning to face him, the man began to speak to Maegor: "No sense in tryin' to hide. I saw that dragon o' yours long before ya' landed outside this sept." He turned to regard Maegor with a haggard visage. "If you're meanin' to kill me, then be quick about it." He then turned back to his kindling.

Stepping out from behind the column, Maegor approached the man slowly. "I don't mean you any harm, goodman," Maegor began. "I'm merely surprised, and cautious. I didn't expect to find anyone still in this village."

The man let out a humorless chuckle. "Still alive, ya mean." He didn't look up from his kindling. A small flame began to crackle, and the man let out a soft grunt, before beginning to stoke the growing flames with a brittle branch. Having reached the man and his fire at the sept's opposite end, Maegor sat down across from the man, leaning his back against one of the Seven gods' stone pedestals. Maegor's flight had been miserable and cold, and he didn't even bother to begin fussing with his armor straps. He was far too exhausted. He did however, remove his helm.

Maegor reached into the satchel he carried with him during his journeys atop the Grey Ghost, and pulled some hard strips of salt beef out from within. The Pipers had insisted that he at least refill his provisions before leaving Pinkmaiden earlier that morning. Leaning to the side so as to avoid the small fire, Maegor offered the man some of his salt beef. After a moment, the man nodded dully in thanks and took a piece.

They both sat in silence for several minutes, chewing their food. Maegor looked into the flames of the campfire, unsure of what, if anything, he should bother to say. Eventually, he decided to speak up. "Is this your home?" He looked at the man. His tattered garb revealed nothing of the life he may have led before his encounter with Maegor. A soldier, a tanner, a septon? None of that seemed to matter. All he seemed to be now was a gaunt man with a greying beard, and sad eyes that seemed to gaze everywhere at once while comprehending nothing.

The man nodded slightly. "Yes," he began. "It was. I was the groundskeeper of this sept." The man stopped speaking, and took another bite of his strip of salt beef. He chewed and swallowed, and continued to sit in silence.

Maegor wasn't sure if he should press the man, but he spoke up once more: "Did anyone else survive Aemond the Kinslayer's attack? I am Ser Maegor, a dragonrider for the Queen Rhaenyra, and I would be more than willing to try to arrange a place for you and any other survivors to go, to wait out the winter." Mayhaps Pinkmaiden. The Pipers lost much and more of the menfolk in the war, I'm sure they would be able to resettle survivors on their lands.

Maegor was pulled from his thoughts by the man's response. "Nay, just I," he began morosely. "If there were any others in the village that lived, they'd left 'afore I returned." The man nodded his head at the sept's northern wall. "I buried the rest of em' out there. Outside the sept. None of the septons were alive to do the proper rites." He sighed. "I hoped that mayhaps if I buried everyone by the sept, under the eyes of the gods, that'd be enough."

Maegor opened his mouth to speak, but the man continued on, his eyes still transfixed on the sept's northern wall. "I was out in the woods beyond the village, you see. Cutting wood. When that great green monster swooped down out of the clouds and began its burnin', I hid. I wanted nothing more than to go running back, to help, to save anyone I could. But I didn't. My legs refused to move. I could barely breathe. I just cowered there, at the forest's edge, and watched my home burn. I was afraid." The man had begun to shake, and his face was contorted in an expression of pain and self-loathing.

Tears began to leak out of the corners of the man's eyes, running into his beard. "My son was up here, in the sept, and still I hid. After the burning stopped, I stayed there, in the forest. I was terrified that the dragon would come back. When I eventually gathered the nerve to walk back into the village, a new day had dawned. I ran through the ashes and the ruins, for the sept."

The man's gaunt visage was only dimly illuminated by the fire, and his shrunken eyes dully regarded Maegor from within the deep pools of shadow that settled along the contours of his face. "My boy was one of the sept's novices. I was praying, begging for the gods to spare my son, and any of the others that may have been within the sept when the burning started. It was built of good stone, I reasoned. Strong enough to survive dragonflame. As I approached the sept, my hope remained. It hadn't completely collapsed. I ran through the doors, calling my son's name."

The man had stopped crying. He shifted, and pointed into one of the sanctuary's darkened corners, in a place where the roof hadn't caved in. "They were all there, my son and the other members of the Faith, huddled in that corner. Unburned, and unscarred. But dead all the same. The flame didn't burn 'em, but it and the smoke pulled all the air from their chests as they tried to hide. It strangled 'em."

He turned back to regard the crackling flame of his fire. "There wasn't a wound upon any of 'em," he whispered. "But they all looked so afraid." The man's voice cracked, and he hung his head. "I could live a hundred years, and never forget the sight."

The man shook his head. "I should have died here, with my son. I lived, but for what? I bought my life through my own cowardice, and each day I realize anew just how dear that price was." He closed his eyes. "The gods will address their mistake soon enough. The winds grow ever colder, and the food I've scrounged is nearly gone. If the gods are merciful, I'll get to see my son again."

Maegor was utterly speechless. He tried to think of something to say, to assuage any of the agony of the man sitting before him. Damn the Kinslayer, damn him to the Seventh Hell. If only I had managed to track him down. If only Gaemon and I had arrived at Sallydance a mere day sooner…

"Aemond the Kinslayer is dead, along with his mount," Maegor began coldly, his fists clenched. If he couldn't personally give this man and the people of Sallydance justice, he would let them know that it had been dealt by the sword of another. Maegor was surprised to see little reaction in the man beyond a nearly imperceptible twitch of his gaunt face. "Your son, and the other people who died here, they've been avenged." Maegor hoped that such words would bring the man before him some sense of relief. "You as well. You have your vengeance now."

"Vengeance?" the man muttered. Hollow eyes turned to regard Maegor, and the sept's northern wall, beyond which the bodies of Sallydance's denizens laid beneath shallow shrouds of cold dirt. "I'd sooner still have a son."

The pain of losing a loved one was nearly unfathomable, and Maegor had felt such pain too many times throughout his own short existence. "I have no words to help take such pain away," Maegor began, falteringly, "but I will tell you that I can understand the pain that you are feeling. I lost mine own father and brothers at the beginning of this war. I grieve their loss still. But it hurts less, with time. You have to believe that." I have to believe it. If I cannot believe their souls are at peace, then mine never will be.

The man did not respond. Instead, he curled up beneath his cloak, and turned his back to Maegor. As he looked at the emaciated, despairing man, and watched him shiver beneath his threadbare cloak, Maegor felt a sudden wave of emotion crash over him. He silently stood, and removed his winter cloak from about his shoulders. Stepping around the fire, Maegor draped his cloak over the man. He laid his satchel of food next to the man as well, before sitting back down against his chosen pedestal.

Sighing, Maegor regarded the man, only to see that he was staring at Maegor with tired, confused eyes. "Why?" the man croaked.

"Too many innocent people have died already," Maegor began, "far too many." His voice cracked, and Maegor took a moment to compose himself. "All the high lords, they march and burn their way from one end of the Realm to the other for the sake of their pointless wars. It's all some twisted jape, some game to them, about who gets to sit atop the throne." Maegor shook his head angrily. "If there is a blood price to be paid, I mean to make the lords pay it whenever possible. Mayhaps when enough of them have died in battle after useless battle, they'll agree to call an end to this godsforsaken war."

Maegor looked at the man with a firm glance. "But," he began, "I will never stop fighting for those whose lives are being stolen from them. Like the people of this village. Like your son. Like you. You are not a craven for living when so many others died at the hands of monsters like the Kinslayer. If the gods truly love us, as the septons claim they do, then I can think of none who are more dear to them than those who have unjustly suffered even half as much as you have."

Nodding at the cloak he had draped across the man, and the satchel of food, Maegor continued to speak. "My cloak and food, these will be your payment, should you accept them. I am an anointed knight, and through taking this payment you would have the honor of becoming my first sworn man."

Maegor waited a moment, and was pleased that the man offered no objection to his words. "As my sworn man, you would share my confidence. I fly for Riverrun, to try and win the allegiance of House Tully. I do not know if I will succeed, or worse be met with some manner of treachery or betrayal. For this reason, I would not risk bringing you along with me. It is my humble request that you would instead take the road for Harrenhal. It is where the Queen's armies gather, and where, luck willing, I will return after my visit to Riverrun."

Maegor pointed at the satchel. "Within that satchel is not just food. There is a dirk, if you must needs defend yourself from danger, and more importantly, a letter bearing the Queen's mark. Show it to whomever you must, if you think that they would aid you in your journey. If the Seven are kind, we would meet again at Harrenhal. Will you accept my offer of service?"

Maegor waited for his response in silence. Please, let him accept. Please, let me arrive in time to save someone, even if it's just the once.

The man's eyes were wide, and there was a moment of silence as he and Maegor regarded the other. His response was simple. "I accept."

Maegor gasped in a breath, not realizing that he had been holding it. Attempting to wipe away tears as they welled in his eyes, Maegor nodded gratefully at the man. "Thank you," Maegor responded, his voice thick. The man nodded in return. Leaning back against the pedestal, Maegor closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, and was blessedly dreamless.

When Maegor awoke, weak early morning sunlight was trickling in through a hole in the sept's roof, warming his face. The man was gone, along with the cloak and satchel that Maegor had given him. However, the man had placed his own threadbare cloak atop Maegor as he slept, for it covered him now like a thin blanket, doing what it could to ward off the winter's cold.

Standing, Maegor realized that he had never even learned the man's name. I will learn it when I see him again, Maegor mused. We will meet again. Maegor dearly hoped such thoughts were true. As of late, he had felt that there was hardly anything left of worth for himself to hope for. Maegor fastened the man's cloak about his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He walked for the doors of the sept, where the Grey Ghost awaited him on the hillside beyond.

In the snow beyond the sept's entryway, Maegor saw a single set of footprints. They traveled east, down the hill and across an empty field, until the distance became so great that Maegor could no longer make them out. They travel in the direction of Harrenhal. Maegor smiled, and the anger and rage that had been with him since Tumbleton began to recede slightly. We both have our own journeys to make, and our own trials ahead of us. Gods willing, we'll meet again.

Riverrun made for an impressive sight as Maegor approached the castle atop the Grey Ghost. Bordered on two of its three sides by two different rivers, it was plain to Maegor why the castle made for such a formidable bastion against the foes of House Tully. Not against dragons, Maegor thought grimly. The seat of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands had been suspiciously silent for most of the war, and Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam had decided that it was long past time for them to pick a side. With luck, the sight and potential danger of Grey Ghost will be all the persuasion that the Tullys require.

Warning blasts from war trumpets rang eerily through the icy stillness of the winter air, and Maegor began to circle above Riverrun atop the Grey Ghost. After completing seven circles in the sky above the fortress, Maegor began a slow descent towards the castle's interior. He waited in anticipation for crossbow bolts and arrows to begin to fly during his descent, but none did. Landing the Grey Ghost in an inner courtyard, Maegor sat tensely atop his dragon, watching as guardsmen in striped mud-red and blue gambesons and fish-crest helms began to file into the courtyard.

They formed a wide ring about the Grey Ghost, and even with their faces obscured by their helms, Maegor could see that they were fearful. The guardsmen clutched their spears tightly, and while some men shifted uncomfortably, others stood as though their spines were wrought of iron, utterly motionless as their gazes fixated on the dragon before them. Maegor turned his gaze to regard three men as they entered the courtyard. One was significantly older than the other two, with red hair that was beginning to turn grey. The other two were much more youthful in appearance, with the same red-colored hair as the first man. All three wore mail and leathers, and wore doublets depicting a leaping silver trout over wavy blue and mud-red lines.

After a moment's hesitation, Maegor removed his helm and addressed the greying knight. "Lord Tully, I presume?" he asked. "I am Ser Maegor, a dragonrider of the Queen Rhaenyra." Though he tried not to show it, Maegor was nearly as apprehensive as the men-at-arms surrounding him. Now that the Grey Ghost had landed, his tactical advantage was greatly lessened. A well-placed arrow or bolt could kill Maegor before he'd even have a chance to recognize any signs of treachery. The greying knight shook his head before answering. "Lord Tully is abed," the man began in a cool and courteous tone. "I am Ser Elmo Tully, his grandson and heir." He motioned at the two youthful warriors standing at his sides. "I am attended by my sons, Ser Kermit and Ser Oscar."

Ser Elmo stopped for a moment, regarding Maegor's face closely. "We were not expecting such a visit," the knight began cautiously, "but surely my grandfather's audience chamber would be a better place for receiving an emissary such as yourself than the yard?"

Maegor looked at the knight closely. He thought of Tumbleton, and Lord Unwin Peake. The Reachman had spoken endlessly of terms and accords, but it had been his eyes that Maegor had paid most attention to while arranging the Hightower army's surrender. Lord Unwin's eyes had been hard and cold, and were always watching. For any sign of weakness, any sign of doubt. Ser Elmo's expression was guarded, and he watched Maegor closely. I have little and less reason to trust him. Maegor had to suppress a scowl. So be it. I shall play the game.

"Bread and salt," Maegor began. "Guest right. I request this of you, Ser Elmo." Ser Elmo nodded after a moment, and gave the order. As Maegor waited in silence, the winter winds whistled mournfully about the crenellations far above his head on Riverrun's walls. After a few minutes of awkward and tense silence, a servant in mud-red livery with a silver trout patch appeared with a small platter containing bread and salt.

Maegor unchained himself and slid to the flagstones of the yard from the Grey Ghost's back. Turning, he faced the servant that now stood before him. With his armor and height, Maegor knew that he made for an imposing presence. The servant stared at him silently as Maegor towered above him, and Maegor saw a single bead of sweat trail down the side of the servant's face.

Maegor was often quick with a friendly greeting or smile in order to put others at ease. Not today. Not here. Maegor was at Riverrun for a single purpose: to bring House Tully fully beneath the banner of Queen Rhaenyra. Lords are like wolves, looking for any sign of perceived weakness. Maegor would play the part of the frightening dragon rider if that was what was required to bring House Tully's banners to Harrenhal.

Tearing off a chunk of bread from the offered loaf, Maegor dipped it into the salt and ate it, chewing slowly. He then turned to regard Ser Elmo and his sons. Ser Elmo moved his hand in an inviting gesture towards Maegor. "Be welcome, Ser," the knight began courteously, "Please, join my sons and I in the audience chamber for further discussion." Maegor nodded, and followed the three knights from the yard.

Torches burned within the audience chamber of Riverrun, above the castle's Great Hall. Ser Elmo sat in the lord's high seat against the chamber's back wall, flanked on either side by his two sons. Though Ser Elmo seemed to be the soul of courtesy, Maegor was beginning to grow tired of how the knight tried to dance around the topic of the true loyalties of his House.

"My Lord grandsire wishes to this day for our banners to march to the aid of the Greens, heedless of the dangers to our House and seat such a course of action would pose." Ser Elmo smiled a thin, apologetic smile. "As he grows older, I fear my grandsire is ever the more ruled by his sentiments."

Annoyed, Maegor interjected coldly. "Did Lord Grover not swear to the King Viserys that he would uphold Queen Rhaenyra's rights upon his death?"

Ser Elmo nodded slowly. "He did," the knight began simply, "But he claims that it was not a vow he must needs keep. My grandsire believes that such a demand, against the precedents set by the Great Council, was not within King Viserys' rights as King to make."

"And what do you believe, Ser Elmo?" Maegor asked, watching the knight closely. Given that Riverrun's banners did not march to the aid of the Usurper at the war's beginning, methinks it is not Lord Grover that truly wields the power of House Tully.

Ser Elmo smiled thinly once more as he regarded Maegor. The friendly expression did not reach his eyes, however. "In truth, I swore no vow to King Viserys, as my grandfather did. House Tully has always been and will continue to be leal servants of the crown, and custodians of the Riverlands at its pleasure." The knight was silent for a moment. "I bear no ill will towards either Rhaenyra or Aegon. But I do believe that refusing to uphold the King's will may set a dangerous precedent. Do a King's decrees last only for his lifetime, and bear no further meaning or power upon his death? It seems that this is what the Hightowers and their allies would have us all believe."

Ser Elmo sighed. "Despite my personal feelings on the matter, I have a duty to my House, and every person who lives on Tully lands. What assurances can you provide me that marching for Harrenhal will not bring the wroth of Aegon upon my family's lands, people, and seat?"

Maegor regarded Ser Elmo and each of his sons in turn as he spoke. "I can make no promises, Ser. But I can assure you of what I know to be true. The Queen has more dragons beneath her banner than the Usurper. Far more. I am sure that you have heard by now of the dragonriders who betrayed the Queen at Tumbleton."

Maegor paused as Ser Elmo nodded. "The traitors are dead, along with the Prince Daeron. Their dragons were slain as well, or were maimed and made riderless. We burned the Hightower army into a mere broken shell of what it once was. Aemond the Kinslayer and Vhagar were slain as well. If you travel to Harrenhal, you will see the truth of my words displayed upon the shore of the God's Eye."

Maegor gestured at the ceiling of the audience chamber, and the world beyond it. "The Queen's dragonriders control the skies. We have the ability to lay waste to any army that marches beneath the Usurper's banners with impunity. I should think that there can be no greater assurance than that."

Ser Elmo watched Maegor closely, with an unreadable expression. After a moment of silence, he spoke, pulling a piece of parchment from a pouch on his belt and holding it out before himself. "That may well be true," the knight began, "And yet Rhaenyra and all of her heirs have fallen into Aegon's clutches. He has returned atop Sunfyre to claim the capital, and Lord Borros Baratheon marches north to meet him with the entire army of the Stormlands."

Maegor had to suppress a grimace upon hearing the dire news. It seems that our worst fears about the Queen and her children have been realized. In the pit of his stomach, Maegor felt rage begin to build. "A crippled Usurper atop a crippled dragon," Maegor said coldly. I tire of this. Ser Elmo will make his choice now. "His wife the Princess Helaena has gone mad, and is incapable of riding Dreamfyre. My fellow riders and I do not fear armies." Maegor clenched his fists. "The Usurper's armies fear us. Twenty thousand men of the Reach could not stand against us. The Stormlanders will fall as well, should they challenge us."

Maegor stared angrily at the Tullys before him. "This war has been long, and is not nearly over yet. Those who will not stand with us to defend the Queen's rights can only be against us, and will be dealt with accordingly." Maegor let the threat hang as he waited for Ser Elmo's response.

For a long moment, the audience chamber was silent, but for the crackle of torches. One of Ser Elmo's sons fidgeted after a moment, and glanced furtively to the side at his father atop the high seat. All traces of courtly courtesy had drained from Ser Elmo's face, and he regarded Maegor coldly. Despite the nearly palpable tension in the room, Maegor felt no fear. If the Tullys kill me, Gaemon and Ser Addam will avenge me.

Ser Elmo drew in a breath and spoke. "I will send out a call for all able-bodied men on Tully lands to assemble beneath the walls of Riverrun. From hence, we will march for Harrenhal. My maester will send forth ravens across the Realm to proclaim House Tully's allegiance to the cause of Queen Rhaenyra."

Maegor nodded cooly, but was secretly relieved. I have managed to win yet another ally to our cause. The Usurper's cause grows ever weaker. "Thank you, Ser Elmo," Maegor began. "With your leave, I will return to my mount and depart for Harrenhal. I shall await the sight of your banners there in due time."

Ser Elmo nodded, but spoke before Maegor could turn to leave the audience chamber. "As an ally to the Queen's cause, Ser, I feel that there is pertinent information that will be of interest to you and your fellow dragonriders." Drawing a second piece of parchment out from the pouch on his belt to join the first already clutched in his hand, Ser Elmo proffered both towards Maegor. "The Usurper Aegon's supporters know that my Lord grandsire is a friend to their cause, and have been sending him correspondence in the hopes of winning the banners of House Tully to their cause. Methinks that the information contained within them will be of particular interest to you.

Maegor nodded at Ser Elmo in thanks, and crossed the short distance between them to take both parchments. In the light of the chamber's torches, Maegor began to look over the first message:

My liege,

It is my hope that this message finds you in good health. The fortunes of our King and his cause have recently undergone a most fortuitous set of changes! The Prince Daeron, along with our King's new leal dragonriders Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf, have won a great victory over the Pretender Rhaenyra's remaining bastard dragonriders above Tumbleton, killing all three along with their mounts. Lord Hightower's army now marches on the King's city without any further obstacles to impede its progress. Thanks to supporters of the rightful King within the walls of King's Landing, his city and Keep have returned to his control. The Pretender Rhaenyra and all of her children are now his prisoners.

His Grace knows that you have always been a true and leal supporter of his cause. However, your help is needed now more than ever, as we stand upon the precipice of victory! If you were to raise your forces and harry the army of Lord Stark as it attempts to pass through the Riverlands, our King would be able to organize a proper response that will destroy the Pretender's supporters for good and all. King Aegon eagerly awaits your response.

Larys Strong, Lord of Harrenhal

The first message was affixed with a wax seal displaying the three lines of House Strong's sigil. Maegor read the message several times over in confusion. What Green victory over Tumbleton?

Does Lord Strong hope to deceive Lord Tully into declaring for the King's cause? Maegor began to regard the second message. As he read it, the paper began to crumple at its edges as Maegor's fists clenched in rage:

My liege,

Our King has returned to his Keep and city atop Sunfyre, and continues to eagerly await the arrival of a raven from Riverrun. Lord Borros Baratheon and the men of the Stormlands march north to contribute their considerable strength to the King's cause. Ser Hobert Hightower and Lord Unwin Peake have recently arrived at King's Landing with the men of the Reach. To our sorrow, however, it appears that the losses mentioned in their message to the Pretender's court were more grievous than originally believed. My Lord, King Aegon lauds your undying loyalty, and knows that a man of your honor would not abandon him in his hour of greatest need. If the men of Riverrun were to march against the forces of Lord Stark and slow their advance through the Riverlands, the King would be extremely grateful. Our Lord and master will reward his allies for their service to his cause, and he knows that he has no greater ally than House Tully. He eagerly awaits your response.

Larys Strong, Lord of Harrenhal

Without the warmth of the sun, the winter cold was merciless. Maegor flew in darkness, with naught but the pale light of a thin crescent moon to illuminate the world below him. His departure from Riverrun had been swift. As he had taken flight atop the Grey Ghost, Maegor had seen numerous ravens begin to fly forth from the maester's turret. They carried word of House Tully's allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra across the Realm.

Such a sight had done naught to quell the rage that was consuming Maegor after learning of the betrayal of the surviving leaders of the Hightower army. How could we have been so foolish? To trust them, to 'give them terms'! As the winter wind whipped brutally across Maegor's unvisored face, he had to resist the urge to let out an enraged scream. While the likes of Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower kept us "negotiating", they allowed their lies to spread on raven's wings and topple the Queen and her supporters into the hands of her enemies!

The pain of such realizations was almost too much for Maegor to bear. So many mistakes. Maegor grit his teeth and squinted his eyes against the whipping wind, urging the Grey Ghost to fly faster. You, blind, idiotic, ignorant FOOL!

"What have I done?" Maegor gasped. Despondency and rage fought brutally for primacy in Maegor's heart and mind as he continued to fly against the whipping winter winds, ever faster. "Did I not show mercy?" he groaned. Was that not what Septon Bennard had taught him so long ago? That the Seven smiled upon those who chose mercy over hatred and wrath? I wanted to burn them. He remembered the rage he had felt as he burned the Hightower army. It would have been so easy to kill them all. Never was there a host more deserving of such a fate.

Even so, Maegor had chosen to spare the survivors, to let them continue to live. "I chose mercy," Maegor whispered plaintively. What was my reward for sparing their wretched lives? Betrayal, defeat, and death. Maegor could have ended the war that day above Tumbleton if he had only heeded the hate and rage that had burned within nearly every fiber of his being. He should have immolated the entire host irregardless of their attempt at surrendering. Instead, I gave them mercy, not fire.

There was a throbbing pain in Maegor's chest, and he found it difficult to breathe. My "mercy" has led to the deaths of thousands, and will kill thousands more before this war is done. Maegor began to scream. It was a scream of pain, of grief, and of rage. The blustering winds tore across his face like a scourge, and robbed him of his breath, until his scream had turned into little more than an agonized rattle. Maegor slumped forward in his saddle, uncaring of where he was flying, of where the Grey Ghost was taking him. What have I done? The gnawing thought consumed him. Maegor's heart was pounding, and he found it hard to focus on the world around him. What have I done?

Maegor was unsure of how much time had passed when he felt the Grey Ghost begin its descent. It was still night, but Maegor had no idea which hour it could be. He had left Riverrun under the last fading red embers of a winter dusk, and had yet to see morning light. In the dark, it took Maegor several moments to realize where the Ghost had taken him. Sallydance. Even more snow had fallen since he had left it early in the morning.

The Ghost landed once more outside the scorched and half-collapsed sept at the top of the hill overlooking the burned ruins of the village. Maegor looked for the footprints of the man he had met in the sept, and agreed to become Maegor's sworn man. The fresh snowfall had filled them in. It's as though they were never even there. Maegor frowned. Mayhaps the man in the sept was nothing more than a dream. And yet, the man had taken the cloak and satchel that Maegor had given him, proving the truth of his existence.

Yet another beneficiary of my 'mercy'. The man could have been a roving outlaw for all that Maegor knew, feeding him a fabricated tale of woe. And I provided him with a new cloak, food, dagger, and missive bearing the Queen's mark. Maegor scowled. He wondered how many times people had been the recipient of his kindness, and had laughed at him behind his back. Laughing at the utter fool that had played right into their schemes. Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower's deception had made Maegor realize his utter foolishness, but there had to be others before, those that had used him, made a fool of him for their own ends.

Were men like Gyles Yronwood truly grateful for Maegor's aid and support, and consider him a friend? Or was I a means to an end? A trusting fool that could help them to get something that they wanted? Maegor walked around to the sept's northern end. Under all the snow, Maegor couldn't tell if the bodies of Sallydance's slain villagers were buried there, as the man in the sept claimed he had done. He considered digging through the snow to try and discover whether dirt burial mounds truly were beneath it, but ultimately decided against it. Mayhaps it is better if I don't know whether or not the man lied to me. I do not know if I could bear discovering another betrayal borne of my foolish attempts at kindness and mercy.

Maegor turned and made his way into the sept's interior through its broken doors. The sanctuary was dark but for the silver moonlight that shone through the collapsed portions of the sept's roof. Among the detritus strewn near the sept's entryway, Maegor found a discarded torch wrapped in dry and brittle fabric. Striking bits of flint and steel that he kept on his person together, Maegor lit the torch.

Raising the torch, Maegor walked further into the sept. He walked to its opposite end, where the stone statues of the Seven stood, silently observing Maegor's approach. His feet crunched through broken glass, bits of shattered and charred stone and wood, and patches of snow beneath the collapsed portions of the roof.

Finding a sconce at the left end of the wall behind the semicircular assembly of the Seven gods, Maegor placed the torch into it. Situated as it was behind the statue of the Father, it threw his statue into shadow, masking his visage from Maegor's eyes. The Father and the justice he champions have long been beyond my perception. Maegor looked across the semicircle of statues to the mighty Warrior, whose statue stood directly across from that of the Father.

Of all the statues, the Warrior's was the only one that was fully illuminated by the light of Maegor's torch. The Warrior stood resolutely, with his hands clasping the hilt of his stone sword, its point driven into the bottom of the pedestal between his armored feet. Maegor stood in silence before the statue. What would King Maegor do? The question came suddenly into Maegor's thoughts, whispered by a voice he had not heard in some time. The voice of his father.

"What would he do?" Maegor whispered faintly, unsure. He remembered when he was small, after his mother and sister died. Before he was sent to the orphanage, Silver Denys had reminded Maegor of his lineage, of the King that he was descended from.

"Maegor the Cruel," his father had said, "is what the stories remember him as." Denys paced before the fireplace as he spoke to his three young sons that sat near his feet, listening intently. "Cruel to whom? His enemies to be sure. Men and women that sought to deny him his rightful throne. The histories and songs were written by his foes, those that sought to blacken his name, and to laud the Kingship of Jaehaerys, his nephew."

Denys grinned. "His enemies claimed that he sat on a throne that he stole from his nephew. I say that he took the throne on the merits of his strength and vision, as his father Aegon the Conqueror had. A true heir to the legacy of Valyria! When he defeated his nephew for the throne, many across the Realm bleated in protest, like the sheep that they were. They stood no chance against the dragon. Maegor cowed them all, brought them low and broke them until they were forced to accept his right to the Kingship."

Denys stopped his pacing, and turned to face his sons directly. "The songs claim that he was eventually defeated. They lie. Maegor was killed by no man or woman. He took his own life when the snakes that surrounded him finally showed themselves for what they were, and betrayed him. But he died on his own terms, not that of his nephew, who had to rely on the support of the sheep to win him his throne."

Denys knelt before his three sons, directly across from Maegor, who sat between his brothers. "We are all dragons, and the last descendants of the strongest King to sit the Iron Throne. Dragons are not cowed by sheep." Denys looked to Aegon first, then Aenys, and finally regarded Maegor, his violet eyes burning with intensity. "Never forget what you are, and who you are descended from. When all seems lost, you must ask yourself: 'What would King Maegor do?' He had strength enough to bend the Seven Kingdoms to his will. Remember the strength of your forebear. It is your birthright." Denys had taken Maegor to the orphanage beneath Dragonstone's citadel the very next day.

Maegor stood in silence, as the flickering of the torch's flames made shadows dance behind the statues of the Seven. His father had grown angry and bitter after the loss of his wife and daughter, and had in the time immediately after their deaths become obsessed with the legacy of King Maegor, and what it meant for himself and his sons. When he had left Maegor at the orphanage, Maegor had felt as though he had been betrayed by his own flesh and blood. He had forsaken his father's teachings.

Bennard became my father. It was the kindly septon's lessons that Maegor had lived his life by, not those of his father. Mayhaps I have been mistaken. He did not doubt the kindness of Bennard or his intentions. The septon truly believed that there was a goodness in all men, that could be found if one treated them with fairness and compassion.

Bennard is wrong. It pained Maegor to think so, but he could no longer see Bennard's beliefs as anything but naive. I have seen too much evil in the hearts of men and women, and the misery that it causes. Amongst his enemies, and even worse, amongst his supposed allies. And I have seen the evil in myself. Maegor had never been able to rid himself of the rage and hate that fueled his darkest urges; he had only been able to stave them off by trying to adhere to Bennard's mistaken beliefs.

Bennard would urge me to pray for guidance in a time such as this. To light a candle and pray before one of the Seven for their counsel and blessing. In honor of the Septon and the kindness he had always shown Maegor, he decided to pray just once more, in a final attempt to ask the Gods for a solution to his troubles. Wax candles were still strewn about the bases of the Seven's pedestals. Maegor picked one up, and considered the Seven Gods arrayed around him. From which do I seek guidance? To which do I ask for the strength for what I must do?

Maegor made his decision. Lighting the candle off of his torch, he knelt and placed it at his chosen altar. Sitting at the hem of the Stranger's carved stone robe, it flickered tremulously as gusts of cold winter air blew through the ruined sanctuary. Maegor knelt for a time in silence at the Stranger's feet, watching the tiny flame of the candle struggling against the cold relentless gusts that tried to snuff it out.

Mayhaps father was not completely wrong. King Maegor was necessary to break the Lords of the Realm, to bring them low, so that they saw the reign of King Jaehaerys as a mercy and rejoiced for it. None would easily question his decrees upon remembering the alternative, the terror of the King who came before. Maegor grimaced. The rage was there again, roiling deep within him, building. All of the false Lords of the Realm, those who promised peace whilst clutching daggers behind their backs, would know Maegor's wrath. When presented with the chance, he would burn all of their seats down to the bedrock that they were built upon.

"What of their families? What of their children?" The voice came to Maegor unbidden; the quiet whisper of a sad and lonely boy who once lived in an orphanage beneath Dragonstone's citadel. Maegor scoffed. Enough. I tried, Septon Bennard. To be the better man. A man of kindness and mercy. No longer. I am the last of King Maegor's line, and soon none in the Realm will doubt that I am a true heir to his legacy.

The weak, flickering flame of the tallow candle had finally been snuffed out, leaving Maegor shrouded in darkness as he continued to kneel at the Stranger's feet. Across the chapel, the flames of the torch in its sconce had begun to melt the snow that rested atop the statue of the Mother. Cool, icy water trickled in rivulets down her face like tears.

Chapter Text

Maris I

The wheels of the wheelhouse creaked and groaned beneath them with every rotation, protesting against carrying its burden. The earth of the road had been molded into a thin line of packed earth that cut like a scar through the forest, and the lack of any recent storms meant that the passage of the army had raised a miasma of choking dust all about it. Above them, the vast and foreboding grey winter sky could be seen through the bare branches of trees that rose all around.

They had departed Storm's End with nearly eight thousand men; her father had painstakingly rallied both the levies and chivalry of the Stormlands for months following his declaration for the Greens. Despite their proximity to the capital, however, he spent valuable months tracking one of the perennial Vulture Kings in the Red Mountains, claiming that before the Stormlands could march, "they must needs secure their southern flank". Maris had watched his pronouncement silently then, guarding her tongue. Her father's knights had rallied around him, and after some time, they had produced the head of the supposed menace. His remaining features had looked Dornish enough, she had decided. Though the flesh had sloughed off the bone to the extent that it could have been a Connington and few would have been the wiser. Regardless, her father's showing had led to a marked decrease in raids within the mountains.

The predations of an outlaw with aspirations towards a bandit's crown meant little and less to Maris, however. Despite her supposedly less martial sex, she had followed the events of the war closely ever since the two Princes had appeared to beg her father's support. While her ability to gain access to information was somewhat limited, she managed to gather bits and pieces by listening in to the conversations between household knights and to the reports her mother received as they supped. The news, brought by rumor or wing, did little to encourage her, and she suspected that her father's excursion was only partially inspired by strategic necessities. The fact of the matter was that their allies, the Greens, had begun the war with fewer dragons and had managed to squander what few advantages they had over the course of the conflict. As her father dithered and pursued Dornishmen, the King's allies bled, and their armies, represented by so many pieces upon the maps, disappeared. The first to fall had been Lord Jason Lannister, and subsequent news had brought tidings of the near-total annihilation of his remaining forces near the God's Eye. Later, Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the King's Guard and Hand of the King, had been brought low by brigands and petty Riverlords as he marched to join the King's own kin in the Reach. Maris had initially thought these early defeats unfortunate but not decisive, as it seemed likely that the Riverlords had been bled dry during these early battles. When taken in conjunction with the regular news of victories in the Reach, it had seemed as though the tide was beginning to turn.

Her father had returned from his hunt only days after great tidings had arrived, borne on the wings of ravens. The castle Maester had eagerly informed her mother of a battle at Tumbleton as they broke their fast, telling tales of a Green victory, and the defection of two Black Dragon riders to the King's cause. The anticipation had been rife within her family's seat as her father was informed of the news. Barely a week had passed when additional information had arrived from the capitol, bearing both the Royal Seal and the sigil of House Strong. Supposedly King's Landing had fallen to the King's Supporters from within, orchestrated by the Lord of Harrenhal. Additionally, Lord Strong had been nearly euphoric in his prose as he wrote of a second great victory over Tumbleton, wherein the defectors and the Prince Daeron had triumphed over the Pretender's remaining bastard riders. Strong had begged Lord Baratheon to make for the capitol with all due haste, and to bring the Princess Jaehaera along with him in order to join her father, the King. Her father had roared for his Lords to attend him, and the night had been full of preparations for their impending departure. Her father had insisted that her mother remain at Storm's End, not wishing to endanger the child she carried. They wish for a son, Maris thought matter-of-factly.

Their host had made speedy progress, she had been told, for an army that numbered in the thousands. Many of those thousands were foot, representing the levied smallfolk and professional soldiery of the Stormlords. Keen-eyed archers from the Dornish Marches scouted ahead each day, reporting back to their lords with tidings of clear roads and clear skies. Her father had chosen to ride with his Lords and Knights, and their proud serried ranks numbered well over a thousand men, their heraldry streaming in the cold winds blowing from the North. A few days before, their long column had arrived at Bronzegate, and Lord Amos Buckler had most cordially hosted her father and his daughters. With each castle they passed, another Lord and his retinues joined their ranks, and their departure from Bronzegate had been no different. Lord Amos and his nephew Ser Ralph had joined her father's rowdy band. Most days, Maris found herself wishing to be anywhere but within the wheelhouse that had become her well-cushioned prison. The conversation of her sisters left much to be desired, and the Princess Jaehaera did little to alleviate her torment.

Such was the environment she currently found herself within. Their carriage, which had been designed to provide all the comforts possible for long journeys, was still unable to fully alleviate the aches and pains that accompanied long travels along bumpy roads. There was not enough space to lay down, or even to partially recline. Maris frowned, shifting her form so as to attempt to reduce the everpresent soreness in her posterior, but found the mission futile. Her unpleasant expression brought further woe, however, as Cassandra tutted her disapproval from the opposite side of their confinement.

"Such unpleasant faces are unbecoming of a Lady of your status, Maris. How do you ever intend to find a Lord-Husband with such an unwelcoming countenance?"

Cassandra, of course, was sitting as straight-backed as was possible, clearly attempting to accentuate her superior posture in what was quickly becoming an attempted lesson in etiquette. While her visage betrayed no mockery, her striking blue Baratheon eyes were sharp and harbored mocking smiles of their own. Maris made no effort to adjust either her posture or her frown. Instead, she let her infamous barbed tongue fly.

"Sweet sister, with all your nagging, how do you intend to find a husband? Floris will draw most of the suitors with her beauty, and Ellyn will draw the rest with her propensity for mothering. In you, all they will find is a future harridan."

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "Mother really ought to have given you over to the Silent Sisters. At least they might have found a solution to your insufferable tongue." She paused, a cruel smile slowly spreading across her face. "Come to think of it, a veil would likely help with concealing that long face of yours as well. Perhaps then a Lord, or Prince, would think to bed you."

Maris' eyes narrowed, but as she began to devise her response, her riposte was interrupted by Ellyn's firm interjection.

"Will the both of you cease your prattling? You are upsetting the Princess."

It was only then that Maris and her feuding sister's attentions were drawn to the Princess, whose hands clutched the sides of her dress and whose wide lilac eyes were gazing from one Baratheon to the other, threatening tears. Ser Fell will be most displeased if we bring the Princess to tears again, she thought derisively. Her sister must have come to a similar conclusion, as she seemingly decided against continuing her attempts at mockery. What aggravated Maris the most was that Cassandra's words still stung. The Prince was a vain man, more interested in what lay between a woman's legs than what could be found between her ears. He most certainly did not wish to be counseled by one of the fairer sex. It had been easy enough to find a way to aggravate him. She had not considered the consequences of her actions, however. Her mother's wroth had been frightful indeed upon hearing the words Maris had spoken, and it had taken all of her considerable skill with words to attempt to avoid her permanent exile into the ranks of the Faith. Even then, it had only been a stern letter from her father, remarking on her value as a woman of "marrying age" that had forbidden her mother from sending her away. But while she had been spared such a humiliation, the mitigation of her sentence had done little to mend the rift with her mother, or to assuage the guilt that gnawed at her from within. For while Prince Aemond had been cold and cruel, Prince Lucerys had seemed a kinder sort, if a bit awkward. She could still recall the way that Aemond's jewel had glinted in the firelight when he'd informed her of his nephew's death.

Attempting to push those unpleasant thoughts away, she turned and pushed the heavy curtains aside, gazing through the Myrish glass at the world beyond. The grey winter sky still loomed, and the forest all about them lacked its overwhelming and comforting sense of green that it normally possessed during the stormy but vibrant Spring and Summer years. Such storms were violent, but also brought the surging and chaotic cycles of new growth that made her homeland's forests teem with life. Little of that vibrance remained, however, as the very trees themselves seemed to have withdrawn into themselves to ward off the increasing chill. As they progressed through the Kingswood, it seemed that each day brought them further from the light, allowing the winds of winter to bite a bit deeper.

Letting the curtain fall back to its original position, Maris cast her eyes about the enclosed space, once again studying the other occupants of the cabin like she had done so many times before. Cassandra, the eldest, gazed out the glass on the opposite side of the cabin. No doubt gawking at one of father's knights, or perhaps one of the Volantene sellswords she finds so "exotic". To her left sat the Princess Jaehaera, wedged snugly between the Baratheon she seemed to fear the most alongside the one she seemed the most partial to. Elyn, true to form, was currently attempting to read to the Princess, but it seemed she had little desire to retreat to a fanciful world of children's stories. To Maris' left sat Floris, who was struggling to embroider a kerchief. Maris had always considered her sister's name to be oddly prescient, as like a flower, she was quite pretty to look at but had little, if anything, of value to say. She could almost hear the scolding of their Septa in a hypothetical response to her cruel words.

The four of them comprised what the minstrels had dubbed 'The Four Storms', but Maris was convinced that if her father had been allowed to choose their title, they'd have been known instead as the 'Four Disappointments'. For years, he had desired a male heir, and each time he'd been gifted with a daughter, he had grown less enchanted with them. We only became useful once there was a war to fight, and swords to win. At this point, however, it seems more likely that we shall be used to mend the wounds that cut across the realm. A Baratheon was no small prize, and she had every expectation that even now her father intended for her and her sisters to be matched with influential men from across the Seven Kingdoms, winning her father the influence, prestige, and power he so desperately desired. The Velaryons have long stood as the unchallenged Second House of the Realm. Perhaps we can oust them with this war, reclaiming the power we possessed in the days of our great-grandsire Lord Rogar. There were problems with such a plan, however. Many of the most influential Houses had arrayed themselves against the King, and it seemed unlikely that her father intended to match her with one of the men he intended to defeat. Additionally, the Great Houses that had chosen the Greens had few eligible candidates. Lyonel Hightower remains unspoken for, to my knowledge, and the Tullys had several sons of marrying age. Lord Tyrell and the new Lord Lannister are but babes. Perhaps father is opting to wait for better opportunities, like he chose to do with the war itself. Regardless of her father's plans, Maris knew that she would have to forge her own path. Without the beauty of Floris or even that of Cassandra, she knew that if left to their own devices most Lords would only choose her if no other options remained. Instead, she knew she would have to make her own opportunities.

She had remained deeply in thought regarding the various possibilities that lay ahead of her until the wheelhouse had finally jolted to a stop, signalling their encampment for the evening. Since she and Cassandra had been hushed by their matronly sister, few words had been exchanged, and the shared knowledge that they would soon have to sup with their father and feign familial tranquility did not raise their spirits. The Princess remained characteristically silent, clutching a well-worn doll and gazing about with eyes that never quite relaxed. Her temperament is understandable, given her past. To watch her own twin murdered before her would be maddening, I would think. She had been told that the Princess suffered from frequent nightmares, and had to be woken from her terrors by her sworn sword. If the rumors are to be believed, her mother may be similarly afflicted. Maris thought it likely that her father was paying close attention to such murmurings. If the King decided to put his sister-wife aside due to her sufferings, she had little doubt that her father would be the first to encourage his remarriage to a nubile maiden from one of the Great Houses. He would not have to look far afield, for father would certainly have made sure to parade us about as he spoke such words.

A gauntleted hand rapped sharply upon the carriage door, pulling her sharply out of her ruminations. As the door was opened, she perceived the unmistakable grey-whiskered face of Ser Genrick Gower standing outside, awaiting his four charges. Ser Genrick was one of her father's oldest sworn swords, and had been a facet of life within Storm's End for Maris' entire life. Staunchly loyal, he had been entrusted with protecting the four Baratheon daughters after old age had withered his martial abilities away. Cassandra was the first to rise, smoothing her black and gold dress and exiting the carriage with her head held high. Maris followed, and afterwards Ellyn gingerly led the Princess out, with the ever-watchful eyes of Ser Willis Fell observing their departure. Lastly, Floris departed, her embroidering attempts seemingly forgotten. Ser Fell took the Princess' hand, and they departed without a word into the camp, white cloak and silver-white hair shining in the evening torchlight.

With their departure, Ser Genrick led them through the rows of tents that were rapidly sprouting like mushrooms after a spring rain. They moved quickly through the wide clearing that had been designated as their place of rest for the evening. The size of the road that they were traveling upon limited how many men could ride or march abreast, meaning that the knights who rode in the lead had already largely settled in for the night. In the meantime their servants, dressed in roadworn livery, scurried about fetching water or food or wine whilst their masters relaxed within their tents. The long column of foot still marched into the camp, covered in dust and sweat, their faces long and haggard from the many hours afoot. Thousands of spearpoints flashed in the firelight as the men streamed by, dressed in the colors of their lords and outfitted with whatever arms and armor could be provided from their armories. Our lands have been emptied for this war. Only the young and old have been left behind. Their journey took them to a grand tent that dominated the center of the clearing, adorned with crowned black stags that danced proudly along its cloth walls. Ser Genrick drew back the door covering, allowing them inside the dimly lit interior that was noticeably warmer than the winter air outside. Inside, torches burned brightly, their smoke wafting upwards and out of an opening at the top of the tent. Her father sat in his customary position at the center of the ornate lacquered table that he had ordered brought along from Storm's End, and several notable Lords stood around him. As Maris and her sisters curtseyed, she could not help but notice her father's black mood. Judging by the page that just left with an empty pitcher, he is already deep within his cups. The assembled knights and Lords paid them little mind, evidently focused on her father's words, which were spoken gravely but rumbled with a barely concealed rage.

"The cripple is either a fool or has deliberately deceived us. What was before a triumphant army that numbered nearly twenty thousand is a force but a fraction of that size, under the formidable leadership of that fat oaf of a Hightower. The King has named him his Hand, no less." Her father's huge hands gripped the corners of the table until his knuckles grew white. "I have no doubts that that scheming bitch arranged for that appointment. The Dowager Queen's biddings will be spoken from the fat fool's lips."

Ser Roland Connington ran a calloused hand through his fiery beard. "They have offered to name you Protector of the Realm, Borros. That would leave you as the unquestioned commander of the King's forces."

Her father stood suddenly, jabbing his finger into one of the Red Griffins affixed to Lord Connington's chest. "Don't you Borros me, Roland. That title isn't fit to wipe my arse with! All that offer does is confirm our worst fears that Aemond One-Eye is well and truly dead. The King would never offer me a position his own brother occupied." Returning to his seat, her father released a long and exasperated sigh. "If the rumors are true, they've already cremated one of the King's brothers, and the Pretender's defectors lie rotting in the Northern Reach. The King may yet have his Sunfyre, and the Queen her Dreamfyre, but that still leaves them outnumbered by that band of bastards running amok. The Princess is too young and too frightened to be counted upon as a rider."

"My Lord, the blood of Valyria may yet course within your frame. Why not march for the ruins of Tumbleton? It is said that the mighty Silverwing still crawls about its ruins, feasting upon the corpses of the slain. Your grandmother's blood might allow you to master it, as you are kin to its former rider?" Queried Lord Bryndemere of Tarth.

Maris' eyes narrowed. The Lord of Tarth opts for flattery, as is his wont. What might be his aims on the occasion? Before she could discern exactly what the silver-tongued Lord wanted, her father rumbled out a response.

"Aye, Lord Bryndemere, my sire's mother may have been mother to the Old King, but I would still need the King's permission to master one of the Royal Dragons." He scoffed. "Besides, if the Lord Protector flies off on a dragon, who will command the King's Armies? Certainly not the Strong cripple or the fat Hand. And I'll be damned if I let the grasping Lord of Starpike anywhere near my title."

A few of the assembled Lords snickered at the barb. Her father's thoughts on the supposedly flowery and pompous Reach Lords were well known, and even their Marcher Lords failed to live up to his martial expectations. Before the conversation could continue, a few of her father's servants entered, bearing platters of roast lamb. Maris' stomach grumbled at the herbal smell of the thyme and rosemary that encrusted the succulent meat. Her father dismissed his Lords for the evening with a wave, and they filed out of the tent. She and her sisters remained standing for the moment, watching their father drain the last dregs of red wine from his cup before motioning for them to sit around the table. He regarded each of them quietly for a moment, before grabbing a leg of lamb and tearing into it, as small bits of its herbal crusting fell from his lips and nestled within his great black beard.

"And how are my daughters this evening?" He finally asked, speaking between hearty bites.

"We are managing as best as we can, father." Cassandra spoke first, as was her habit. "Although the wheelhouse can at times be uncomfortable."

"I suppose the four of you cannot be blamed for being unsuited to the rigors of campaign." Their father chuckled. "For your sex leaves you predisposed towards the finer things in life. And you should not be blamed for such desires! They are your birthrights, as Baratheons! The Red Keep should provide for all those wants and more, my sweets."

He paused as the serving boy returned with a full pitcher of wine, its silver dotted with beads of perspiration betraying its coolness. Her father poured himself a full cup, before filling each of theirs with one part water and one part wine. He allowed them to take wine with their meals, but insisted that it be watered down to maintain their complexion. From beneath dark and bristly eyebrows he gazed at Ellyn.

"How fares the Princess Jaehaera? Have you ensured she remains comfortable?"

Ellyn shifted in her seat. "I've read to her during the days, but she remains uninterested in the books. When I ask her to read, she struggles to form the most basic of sentences. It is as though the words hold little to no meaning for her."

Borros scoffed. "The Maester informed me her bedsheets oft stink of piss. It seems she has inherited her mother's fragile temperament. I fear she will be of little use in war if it comes to it." He took a deep drink from his cup, pausing to refill it.

Father is drinking heavily. It seems the news he was delivered contained little in the way of encouragement. She adopted as innocent a smile as she could muster. "What news have you from the Capitol, father?"

Deep blue eyes settled upon her, bloodshot from the wine. "A raven arrived today. Lord Larys Strong has urged me to make with all haste to King's Landing. It seems… it seems that Prince Daeron fell on the field of battle. The victory at Tumbleton was not all it was made out to be… if it was indeed a victory at all." He spat in the rushes. Floris gasped at the news of the Prince's death, having seemingly not picked up on the information moments before. Her father eyed her before continuing. "It also seems likely that Prince Aemond has fallen. Meaning that all of you are once more unspoken for. I intend to find husbands for each of you."

From her father's temperament, Maris could tell he was deeply unsettled by the events he was describing. While he attempted to hide it beneath his wine-soaked bravado, it was clear that the news of so many fallen dragonriders weighed heavily upon him. He is behaving as he did in the past, when the fighting first began. Father fears dragons. She scoffed internally. He hides behind excuses about the King's permission, but Lord Bryndemere was correct. Father may indeed have the blood necessary from the Old Queen Alyssa to master Silverwing. Alysanne's old mount is proving to become more valuable with every passing moment. She clenched a fist under the table. And just like in the past, Father wastes valuable time prevaricating and avoiding his fears. If he will not act, who will? Who else would possess enough Valyrian blood to tame it? She allowed herself a brief moment to consider sneaking out of camp in the night, and returning weeks later triumphantly on dragonback. The first Baratheon dragon-tamer. Quickly pushing such girlish and preposterous thoughts aside, she scolded herself. I'd likely make it less than a day outside the camp before being set upon by brigands, hungry for ransom and rape.

"Have you any thoughts about potential suitors, Father?" Asked Cassandra, clearly attempting to steer their sire away from the foreboding thoughts that were so clearly evident upon his face. Maris grabbed a hunk of savory meat, sinking her teeth into it as she awaited his response.

Taking a deep draft from his goblet, her father cleared his throat. "Many of my Stormlords have already expressed interest in your hands. But I care little and less for the offers of my own vassals. You are Baratheons, not fit for some Estermont or Penrose. In times of peace, I'd have expected at least one of you to be a future Queen, and the rest to be married to Lords Paramount." He sighed, sending a wave of his wine-soaked breath across the table. "In times such as these, however, such matters will be more difficult. Only two Great Houses are currently loyal to the King. The Tyrells have fittingly chosen to sit out the war entirely. Lady Tyrell clearly would rather have a mewling babe at her teat than be forced to lead armies. Lord Lannister is even younger than Lord Tyrell… leaving few worthy of your hands, my sweets." Swirling his goblet, her father's eyes began to twinkle, ever so slightly. "The Queen, however, is rumored to be… quite indisposed since the death of her sons. If his Grace were to decide to allow his sister to live out her remaining days under the care of the faith, as some suggest, he will require a new Queen, capable of bearing him strong sons. If such an opportunity arises, I expect each of you to be at your best. Our family was denied our first chance to provide a Queen for the realm, and I have no intention of allowing that to happen again."

"Is the King as handsome as the singers claim, father?" Asked Floris, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Maris had to physically restrain herself from rolling her eyes, and for once she saw that her sister was in accordance with her thoughts. Cassandra appeared to be forcing herself to maintain a smile that did not reach her eyes. The mummers claimed King Viserys was a handsome man as well. When I saw him but a few years ago, he was as heavy as an aurochs and likely could have eaten an entire one as well.

"The King is a man grown, battle-tested and knighted. He wields Blackfyre, the sword of his forefathers, and rides Sunfyre, which is said to be the most beautiful living dragon. Few could prove a better match, my dear."

While her father attempted to stoke the flames of her sister's ardor, Maris thought through what else she knew of the King. Battle-tested, perhaps, but battle-scarred as well. The Princess Rhaenys ensured that. And if rumors can be trusted, he has a strong appetite for the finer things in life. Arbor Reds, hearty meals, and willing women. My father is correct about the prestige of a potential match, but the King would likely prove a less-than-ideal husband. If his own sister could not inspire love or loyalty, what hope could a mere political match have of success?

Taking a sip from her wine glass, Maris gazed around the tent. Her father's plate stood resolutely in the corner on its stand, polished to perfection and sporting several impressive battle scars. Torchlight reflected off of the armor, and a chill ran down her spine as she remembered the news of the battles over Tumbleton. The finest armor in the world proved to be useless against the flames of dragons. Eyeing the finely wrought golden antlers, Maris contemplated what they would look like as they streamed molten down the plate. Pushing those unpleasant thoughts aside, Maris swirled the remaining wine in her glass as she began to pay attention to the conversation between her father and her sisters once more. At one point or another, the topic of conversation had turned to tales of past hunts. As it always does. She considered attempting to change the topic of conversation, but the girl within her that loved her father despite his faults insisted that she allow him to revel in his happier memories. Having heard the story before, she could almost predict the exact way the story would end.

"And with that, the great big bugger ran right into my spear! His own weight and fury killed him in the end! The fellow was so enraged he couldn't even see straight, and blundered right into the trap before him! Ha!"

Finishing the dregs within his goblet, her father leaned back into his chair, blue eyes sparkling in triumph. "Boars are mighty foes, my darlings. But the stag remains King in the wood!"

Floris laughed and clapped, and Cassandra allowed herself a toothy grin. Ellyn looked as though she were half asleep, but managed a polite smile. Maris nodded, granting her father a small grin.

Standing as steadily as he could, her father motioned for them to retire. Without a word, Ser Genrick emerged from the shadowy boundaries of the tent to escort them to their own place of rest.

Maris had not realised how exhausted she was until she had undressed down to her shift and allowed herself to lay upon the bed that had been brought from Storm's End by cart. It's not as decent as my own bed, but at this point, almost anything would suffice. Darkness took her the moment she closed her eyes.

They had been awoken by their maidservants in the predawn hours in order to bathe, dress, and break their fast. Just as they had for the past several days, Maris and her sisters emerged as the sun just began to pierce the grey morning sky, making their way to their carriage quickly in order to escape the chill. Servants stood by, waiting to disassemble their tent and pack their baggage once they had embarked. Maris was surprised when Ser Genrick asked for a word, after having guided her siblings to join the Princess Jaehaera in the wheelhouse.

"My apologies, my Lady, for the intrusion. While you broke your fast, your father sent a messenger to inform me that Lord Bryndemere of Tarth had asked his permission to escort you this morning. He has prepared a horse for you should you accept. While this is most irregular, your father instructed me to allow you to ride with him should you choose to grant him this boon."

Father must have been overjoyed. Interest from the Evenstar? How could he refuse? Maris suspected Lord Bryndemere to have little interest in a marriage, as he had steadfastly maintained his bachelor status for many a year already. What could be his intent, then? Finding her curiosity piqued, Maris gave her assent to be led to the Lord of Tarth.

Ser Genrick handed her a heavy woolen riding cloak that had been dyed to show her House's colors before leading her to further ahead in the procession, past her former prison. Maris made certain to wink at Cassandra as they passed, and was pleased to see that she predictably flushed with anger. After a few moments, they reached the retinue of the Lord of Tarth, unmistakable by its rose and azure banners. Household knights stood mounted in serried ranks to either side of her as she was led to the front of those assembled, where Lord Bryndemere awaited her atop a proud white charger. To its left stood a palfrey, bedecked in the riding finery of House Tarth. A not so subtle gesture from the silver-tongued Lord. Ser Genrick helped her to mount the creature, before retreating a few paces to mount his own horse.

Maris was unsure of how or where to begin a conversation with Lord Bryndemere, as she knew little of him beyond what she had previously observed. She signed internally with relief when he broke the silence, his breath sending small gusts of mist in the cool morning air.

"Greetings, my Lady. I was most pleased when I was told you had agreed to join me today. I have long sought to make your acquaintance."

Certainly there have been opportunities to do so previously. She decided to opt for a touch of flattery as well. "I thank you for your invitation, my Lord. I too am honored to make your acquaintance."

Lord Bryndemere smiled ever so slightly, which caused the well-groomed corners of his brown mustache to curl.

"Have you been informed that we are within ten leagues of the Blackwater Rush itself? I fear that our little woodland stroll will soon be brought to an end."

Fifteen leagues? Father certainly forgot to mention such details. At the army's current pace, Maris estimated that they would easily reach the Blackwater's southern bank before night fell. "I… had not been informed of the news, my Lord. I must confess that I am eager to reach the capitol. It has been several years since I last visited, during the reign of the last King."

Maris decided it would be best to play the part of the fool girl until she had a better idea of Lord Bryndemere's intentions. In the distance, horns blared, announcing the beginning of the march. As both she and Lord Bryndemere urged their mounts forward, she noticed that Ser Genrick did so likewise, maintaining a close but respectable distance between them.

"I fear that you may not find the capitol in the same condition as it was when you last departed, my Lady. The King may have established his dominion over the city, but I have been informed that it suffered under the Pretender's predations and descended into a frightful bout of violence the night she was captured. War has the rather… troubling propensity to reduce beautiful things to ruins."

Maris nodded, intentionally widening her eyes in the manner that Floris did ever so often to feign shock. "That is most unfortunate, my Lord. I pray to the Mother above that the poor souls of the city were spared." She wondered internally if she sounded as ridiculous as she thought she did. Perhaps I am overplaying this.

A hushed response provided the answer to her question. "Lady Maris, such platitudes may satisfy your septa, but I suspect that you have a greater deal of perspective on the matter than you have chosen to share."

He certainly possesses some degree of insight. Maris tried to refrain from allowing a grin from overtaking her features. "Perhaps, my Lord. But such 'perspectives' are rarely shared with strangers. I know little of you, and cannot yet be certain your intentions are honorable."

Lord Bryndemere let out a ringing laugh. "Indeed, my Lady, you are to be praised for your reluctance to entertain the whims of rogues such as myself. If it helps to assuage your concerns, I can assure that my intentions are far from dishonorable. I simply seek out friends to keep company with before we arrive at the capitol. Royal Courts can be so dreadfully conspiratorial. Friendly eyes and ears can be worth more than their weight in gold in such settings."

Maris nodded, contemplating his words. He proposes something of great interest to me, but such a friendship could cut as easily as it could console. My loyalty must ultimately remain with my father, without a doubt. But there is much I could learn by fostering ties with the Lord of Tarth. Father certainly loathes granting me access to his counsels.

She sighed. "I suppose friends are invaluable, especially in such trying times. But true friends do things for one another."

As Maris spoke, she turned to face the Lord of Tarth, and found that he too, had turned to study her features. Where before his face had been relatively mirthful and uninterested, she found his eyes now glowed with a truly inquisitive light, intrigued by her proposal. He looks almost akin to a cat. I hope that does not make me a mouse.

"What sort of assistance could I render to you, in return for your friendship, I wonder?"

Maris smiled slightly. "My father does not often allow me to sit in on his counsels, which you happen to be a member of. I have heard much of the state of the war, and the strengths of the King's forces in relation to those of the Pretender's. I mislike much of what I hear. I would be most appreciative if you would keep me apprised of the war and any developments." She decided to add one further condition. "Additionally, I would ask that you at the very least insinuate that you are interested in a future courtship. That ought to buy me some time to establish myself in the King's city."

What had once been an inquisitive light upon Lord Bryndemere's features shone ever more brightly, and he grinned widely. "You are a most fascinating and intriguing young Lady. I think we might indeed make for good friends." He twirled a corner of his mustache with a free hand, thinking. "I could certainly keep you informed of the progress of the war, so long as you would agree to inform me of any interesting developments within the King's Household or the Royal Court. You already attend Princess Jaehaera, and you may yet be called upon to attend to her mother the Queen Helaena. If such events do transpire, I wish to know of anything of importance that occurs. There are places in the court that a man may not tread, and voices that will not speak for him. They may yet speak to you, however, and I wish to hear their thoughts, their gossip, and their rumors." Chuckling, he then added: "As for the prospective courtship, I wondered whether you might request such a boon. Consider myself an interested party for your hand, so long as we remain friends. If at some point you find an enticing opportunity, I'll raise no fuss, so long as you are willing to inform me of the Court's whisperings."

Maris was ecstatic. One of her greatest fears had been finding an interested party for her hand, so as to keep her mother from recalling her to Storm's End, destined for the Faith. Providing Lord Bryndemere with information is a small price to pay for my freedom, she thought triumphantly. She turned back, realising that he expected a response.

"I believe that I can agree to the terms of this arrangement, my Lord."

The Lord of Tarth grinned once more, his cat-like eyes sparkling. "I am most pleased. I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Maris nodded. "It might indeed." Frowning, she decided to test just how willing the Lord of Tarth was to abide by their agreement. "Last evening, I overheard your discussion of the battle over Tumbleton. What do we actually know of what transpired?"

Lord Tarth's features sobered. "Lord Strong has been most unhelpful with his account of events thus far. I expect that someone managed to falsify the information he received in the aftermath of the battle. I fear that the Hightowers' host did rather poorly in the second battle, having been caught completely by surprise. Some other 'friends' of mine have confirmed that the two traitors and the Prince Daeron died in the clash. Some sources even insist that what transpired was akin to a second Field of Fire, with many thousands dead. It does not appear that any of the Pretender's remaining riders were slain."

It is little wonder that father is so troubled by word of dragons. If the Queen is truly incapable of riding, the King is the only line of defense we have against attacks from the air.

"What do we know of the Queen's remaining riders?" She asked.

"Little and less. Ser Addam Velaryon is supposedly one of Ser Laenor Velaryon's bastards. His grandfather has seemingly arranged for him and his younger brother to be instituted as his heirs. As for the others, it seems they both tamed wild dragons from the isle of Dragonstone, having answered the call of the Pretender's eldest son. There are whispers regarding their paternity, but none that I would trust as of yet. What I am certain of is that they are now truly battle-tested, having ridden in two major battles, emerging victorious on each occasion. Dangerous foes, to be sure."

Maris wondered what flying a dragon felt like. I imagine that it feels like pure, unadulterated freedom. "Three dragonriders is troubling indeed. I can see why you encouraged my father to seek out Silverwing." Perhaps he will share a bit more about that, as well.

Lord Bryndemere regarded her carefully. "I thought that your father's lineage could prove an advantage, but he was likely right to rebuff me. It was likely a foolish idea." Tapping his chin, Lord Bryndemere studied her. "What of Princess Jaehaera? How has she fared on this journey?"

Maris considered her response. I ought to repay him in kind for his information, yet there is no need to include any of my father's drunken speculations about her or the Queen's 'nature'. "The Princess is troubled. She shows little interest in reading, or being read to. She is brought to tears easily, and sleeps poorly. I… I am concerned for her health."

The Lord of Tarth nodded slowly. "I have heard that her condition was not ideal. I suppose it is to be expected from someone who has endured such horrors. It is troubling for the realm, however, to know that the King's only living child is of an unsturdy temperament."

He is prying for additional information. Maris nodded. "It is troubling indeed, my Lord. With time, however, she might reclaim what has been lost."

Her companion nodded, and she noticed that his eyes bore the slightest impression of respect. He can see that I have further speculations, but am unwilling to share them. It appeared that he would press her no more for the nonce.

Lord Bryndmere drew her attention to a collection of stones that stood haphazardly alongside the road as they passed. "Can you make out the carved insignia, my Lady?"

Maris urged her mount to proceed a bit more slowly, and studied the road marker. Moss had crept its way over most of the structure, but near the top, she could still make out a faded crowned stag.

"I can, my Lord. If my eyes do not deceive me, it bears my own family's sigil."

Lord Tarth nodded. "It does, in part. But as you know, we are well within the boundaries of the Royal demesne. Those stones bear the sigil of the Durrandons."

Maris nodded, contemplating the structure. My family still bears the heraldry and appearance of the Durrandons, if not the name. As she passed the stones, a cold chill ran down her spine. While her first impression of the structure had left her thinking that it had collapsed partially due to the rigors of time, she could now see that it had been partially melted. She could see where the molten stone had partially refused, runnels of heated rock still frozen beneath the obscuring greenery.

She saw Lord Tarth observing its features as well. Turning once more to face her, his eyes had grown cold and serious. "As I said before, my Lady, it always pays to have friends. Especially when dark wings and searing flames rule the skies."

Chapter Text

Gaemon VIII

The winds whipped and bit at him as he flew through the night. Clutching the wolf pelt from Harrenhal tightly about him, he urged the Cannibal onward towards his destination. Above him, the stars glowed brightly in the winter sky, occasionally obscured by thick patches of snow clouds. Below, rocky foothills and thick forests rushed by, occasionally interspersed with high passes and yawning, deep chasms. Gaemon had been grateful that the chambers of Harrenhal's former maester had still sported a fine collection of maps, as his knowledge of the vast reaches of Westeros was limited at best.

When he had returned from the Kingspyre Tower, the others had quickly impressed upon him the importance of formulating a plan of action.

"With the fall of the Capital, we risk allowing the Queen's forces to fall into disarray. We must needs act quickly, and provide instruction to those who still wish to fight. We possess three dragons, and news of Vhagar's death! So long as we remain true, there will be others willing to take up arms for our Queen's cause." Ser Alan Beesbury's words had been stirring indeed, helping to alleviate some of the malaise that had set in since they had all witnessed the destruction at King's Landing and come to terms with the probable capture of their monarch and her heirs.

They had quickly begun a search of Harrenhal, with Lord Alan Tarly finding and guiding them to the quarters of the Strongs' late maester. It had taken them mere moments to spread a series of maps out across the wooden table that was located in the center of the library. Tapping a gauntleted finger upon a map of the Seven Kingdoms, he had insisted that they draw up a plan for rallying the forces that remained to their liege. Ser Addam had spoken up first.

"While they were forced by circumstance to betray the Queen's cause, the Mootons have little love for the Usurper. I am confident that I could rally their support." Ser Addam had then tapped a location northwest of Maidenpool. "Castle Darry lies here. The Darrys have extensive lands east of the Green Fork. I could visit them, informing them of what we know, in order to rally their support." Tracing the Kingsroad even further north, he stopped when his hand hovered over the Twins. "The Freys have already proven themselves leal supporters of our Queen's cause. With the death of Vhagar, I see no reason why I could not persuade them to rally their forces and march for Harrenhal. On my flight back, I could treat with the Blackwoods and Brackens, and attempt to secure their support as well."

Maegor remained quiet, his eyes scanning the map before them. "Lord Stanton Piper proved a friend to Gaemon and I in the past. I will fly for Pinkmaiden, in order to rally whatever support he can grant us." He then tapped the castle of Riverrun with his index finger. "House Tully has proven far too willing to remain neutral in this conflict. When Gaemon and I searched for Aemond, we were forced to respect their neutrality and avoid their lands. I will suffer their recalcitrance no longer. After I finish my business at Maidenpool, I will ensure that the Tullys declare for us, one way or another." Gaemon misliked the looks of approval the Reach lords gave Maegor as he spoke those words.

Gaemon looked at the map once more. "If Lord Piper's forces were any indication, the Riverlords have already been bled white during Lord Jason Lannister's invasion. Apart from the Tullys, even their most powerful houses will only be able to contribute a hundred or so men apiece. If we are to win this war, we will need powerful allies, with forces that remain fresh and eager for war. Lord Cregan Stark had begun his march south when last I heard; see if you can encourage him and his Northmen to resume their march now that Vhagar has fallen, Ser Addam." Looking to Maegor, he added, "when you conclude your business at Riverrun, return to Harrenhal posthaste. We must needs have a dragonrider present to protect those who assemble here, in case the Usurper decides to strike north."

Maegor nodded, and Addam smiled, his features reflecting a renewed resolve. "It will be done, Gaemon. I will ensure Lord Cregan and his Northmen arrive here in a timely fashion."

Ser Tom Flowers raised an eyebrow. "And what do you plan to do, Ser Gaemon?"

Gaemon grinned. "It is high time that the Vale received news of the Kinslayer's demise."

After his riders-in-arms had departed, Gaemon had flown east, following the meandering course of the High Road. As he progressed further, fields and forests gave way to rolling foothills, and those had led to even more considerable elevations. His path had taken him further East, and the higher he flew, the colder it became. Snow had eventually completely obscured the road itself, so he had resolved to follow the course of the valleys that stretched ever-onwards between the peaks around him. From stories, he knew that the High Road could prove dangerous, so he maintained his guard, especially when he urged the Cannibal to land for some much-needed rest. They often took their rest in secluded clearings, high in the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon, where dark forests and huge moss covered boulders provided seclusion from any prying eyes. Gaemon was most on guard during the times when the Cannibal left him to hunt, leaving him alone in deep, primordial forests where he suspected every groan or crack of a tree branch to herald an oncoming assailant. At times, the Cannibal would be gone for hours in search of sustenance, and Gaemon would remain close to whatever fire he had managed to light, cherishing every pitiful flame that he could use to warm himself. In the nights, he struggled to sleep, occasionally awoken by the wailing of some distant beast. He had heard tales of Shadowcats, capable of disemboweling a man with the swipe of a single paw, or of Mountain Clansmen, vicious wildmen who preyed on travelers making their way further into the Vale of Arryn. He kept his newly acquired blade close, trusting that its dark, rippling steel would prove more than a match to any man or beast that found his isolated encampments.

Eventually, his mount would inevitably return, having caught and consumed enough to resume their journey. Its blazing green eyes, once terrifying, were a welcome sight to its freezing and bedraggled rider. It was after their third stop that Gaemon had decided to continue onwards, pressing to continue their journey until its conclusion. They had passed what Gaemon believed to be the Bloody Gate itself towards the end of the second day of their journey, and Gaemon had decided against stopping, instead wishing to make his way directly to the Lady of the Vale and avoid any possible delay or detainment. As they soared past the great peaks of the Mountains of the Moon, Gaemon could not help but admire the way that the sparse moonlight shone on their peaks and naked stone, granting them an almost magical, glowing appearance. Dark valleys spread out beneath the Cannibal's wings, only occasionally lit by the lights of a village or holdfast. As his mind wandered, Gaemon found himself thinking of Nettles. Had her path taken her to these same mountains? Lord Mooton had last seen her flying in the direction of the Vale, but her path could have easily changed once out over the bay. She could just as easily have been across the Narrow Sea by now. Gaemon frowned. The Queen may have discarded one of her loyal riders, and condemned her to die, but I will do no such thing. For now, the war must be resolved, but I will not abandon a friend. He smirked. Wherever she is, it will not take long for word of an ugly dragon and a foul-mouthed girl to spread. Whether she intends to or not, she will give me a trail to follow. Or so he hoped.

Baela, too, occupied his thoughts. He knew her sister was somewhere within these mountains. The last of the Blacks to remain free. Clutching the saddle chains tightly, he remained determined to free Baela. So long as we, the Queen's riders remain at large, the Usurper will be forced to keep his hostages alive. He cannot risk our wrath by executing any of them. While it seemed almost a certainty that Baela had been imprisoned, he was certain that she was finding several ingenious ways of tormenting her captors. She never was very proficient at following commands or remaining confined, he thought with a smile.

What remained most troubling to Gaemon was his relationship with the Queen. Her treatment of Nettles had not only shaken him, but enraged him. While any remaining adoration he felt for her had died the day he read the letter presented to him at Maidenpool, he remained committed to her cause. If not for the Queen, then for Baela, and the Prince Jacaerys, without whom I would still be nothing. What troubled Gaemon was not his loyalty to the Queen, but her loyalty to him. I only narrowly avoided the headsman's axe once already for my impertinence. If she was willing to order the death of one of her riders based upon rumors, what might she have been willing to do to one with pretensions of royal blood? Gaemon scowled, knowing the answer. In order to survive, we must needs become akin to the lords who dominate this realm. We seeds will need allies to fight for our interests, and powerful houses to deter the mistrustful Queen from ordering our deaths once her enemies have been vanquished. The moment the Usurper falls, we will transition from powerful servants to liabilities. We must needs be prepared to defend ourselves when the time comes. He hoped he could count upon Baela, and possibly Addam, but Gaemon also knew he would need to be proactive about securing alliances and friendships with lords before the war's end. Truth be told, it was partially why he had decided he would travel to the Vale in the first place. Addam already has the benefit of his grandfather's wealth and power to protect him. Maegor and I have no such advantages. We will need to make our own luck. The greatest advantage that he and Maegor possessed was their dragons. We can promise our support in conflicts and disputes to the lords of the realm, and in return, they can repay their debts with political support and influence.

While he continued to ruminate on the future, the valley below him opened up, widening and deepening into a vast plain. As he gazed upon the mountains that formed the further limits of the open lands, a gasp escaped his lips. In the distance, he could make out seven slim white towers rising above the mountainside, glowing in the moonlight. Only the Eyrie could be so beautiful. Hundreds of feet below, a large, stout castle sat nestled between two of the great mountains. That must be the Gates of the Moon. Gaemon had read before his departure that the Arryns made their winter residence in the castle at the base of the Giant's Lance. He guided the Cannibal slowly downwards, and as they approached across the valley, the clarion call of horns echoed off the mountainsides. He circled thrice above the castle to signal his peaceful intentions, before guiding the great black dragon to land beneath the castle's great gates. Now the real fun begins.

As Gaemon unfastened his saddle chains, he kept a wary eye on the men who stood positioned along the battlements of the castle. Despite its impressive name, the castle before Gaemon did not awe him as others had. He was saddened that the Lady of the Vale had already moved her court to the base of the mountain, as he had hoped to visit the Eyrie itself and partake in its majesty. Above him, the garrison was mostly silent, only occasionally muttering words in low tones and keeping their bows and crossbows handy. Chains hidden within the gatehouse began to clatter and shake as the portcullis was raised, while at the same time a drawbridge was lowered across a dry but formidable moat. Dismounting, Gaemon hefted a well-worn saddlebag from its perch, slinging it over his shoulder as he approached the entrance to the fortifications.

Crossing the drawbridge, he entered into a courtyard that was oddly silent, given that well over one hundred souls stood all about it. Within the yard, a smithy stood with its embers glowing. A blacksmith eyed him warily as he walked, his apprentices whispering amongst themselves. Speartips and swords, newly forged, filled several barrels in the yard. Servants gathered about a nearby well, clutching buckets full of water as they watched his approach. Nearby, a pavilion had been set up, with several braziers lit to warm its inhabitants. Inside sat between ten and twenty women, who until recently had been hard at work weaving banners, tabards, and garments. Nearly all of the castle seems to be preparing for war. Whether they arm to defend themselves or march into battle has yet to be seen.

Square towers stood at even intervals along the walls, flying bright blue banners that depicted the silver-white falcon and crescent moon of the Arryns. The clatter of arms and armor drew Gaemon's attention to the entry to the central keep, where a group of men-at-arms had emerged from the great hall, led by several knights. While the soldiers wore sky-blue cloaks, as befitted them as members of the Arryn garrison, the knights themselves sported individualised garments that boldly declared their respective Houses. To prepare for his journey and subsequent task, Gaemon had spent many hours at Harrenhal reading all he could of the Vale and its Houses, perusing a tome entitled The Lords and Lineages of the Vale of Arryn. While the content itself had threatened to put him to sleep, the work had included a helpful series of family crests, painstakingly stenciled onto its pages with beautiful and expensive ink. While Gaemon was certain that he would not remember each and every House that he had read about, he decided to do his best to identify all he could.

A tall, broad-shouldered man led the group that had emerged to greet him, his white tabard sporting three black ravens in flight, clutching blood red hearts. House Corbray, if memory serves. To the man's right stood an even taller knight, whose garb sported a field of green snakes on black. Gaemon suppressed a grin as he recalled that it belonged to House Lynderly of the aptly named Snakewood. The Lynderly gazed upon him with grey eyes, narrowed with some combination of distrust and distaste. To the left of the Corbray knight a short, squat man followed, his arms as thick as most men's legs. His House symbol appeared to be six burning candles on a grey field. Gaemon could not recall which House sported such a symbol, much to his chagrin. Bringing up the rear was a tall man bedecked in deep green, with a broken wagon wheel sewn above his breastplate. The broken wheel is familiar… it belongs to the Wainrights… or perhaps Wayngoods? The man himself had long features, alongside an aquiline nose that twisted his features in a way to make it seem as though he had just bitten into something distasteful.

The party came to a halt before him, and the Corbray knight was the first to speak.

"Well-met, dragon-rider. Our Lady has dispatched us to retrieve you and bring you before her, so that you may deliver any missives you may carry. She is most eager to hear news of the war."

Gaemon nodded. "Thank you, my Lord, for your arrival. To whom do I have the honor of speaking to?"

The man studied him for a moment, shoulder-length brown hair blowing slightly in the winter gusts. "I am called Ser Corwyn, of House Corbray. In my company stand Lyman Lynderly, Lord of Snakewood, Ser Alan Waxley, knight of Wickenden, and Lord Donnel Waynwood of Ironoaks." Turning slowly, Ser Corwyn extended his hand motioning for Gaemon to follow him into the confines of the Great Hall.

Great oak doors with iron bands were pushed aside by the guardsmen ahead of them, opening into the great keep. Once inside, Gaemon was led through a stone entry-hall, where torches burned brightly, illuminating shields and weapons that bore the scars of ancient battles. More guardsmen stood at attention within, and he could feel their eyes upon him as he was led deeper into the fortress. Another pair of great doors, this time made of lacquered wood designed to look akin to the wings of a falcon were opened before them, and he emerged into the great hall of the castle itself. Tapestries hung along the walls, woven to show the legendary glories of the Arryns. Many of them were so old that the scenes they depicted had mostly faded, with only the brightest colors still shining halfheartedly through the ages that separated the viewer from the craftsmen. Bronze braziers burned brightly, casting light about the cavernous yet chilly hall. Above the banners themselves, embrasures were carved into the thick stone, and through them poured the last rays of the sunlight that had been largely blocked out by the winter sky.

Before him stood what he assumed to be the assembled nobility of the Vale, bedecked in antiquated, yet noble finery and standing in rigid, upright postures. The only sounds that could be heard were the snapping and spitting of the flames, the slight whispers of dresses, and the muttering of nearly one hundred curious voices. As his party proceeded forwards, a path was cleared through the center of the crowd, revealing a tall, carved throne upon a dais of white marble. Two women stood upon the dais, flanking who he assumed to be the Lady of the Vale herself. Before he could regard his host, his gaze was drawn to the girl who stood to her left. What had initially attracted his attention were the bright reds and deep blacks of her dress, which stood in such contrast with the greys, greens, and blues of the court. He followed the silver-white braid of her hair from where it hung to her waist, his step faltering momentarily as he made eye contact. Baela. In shock, he grappled with the reality of her presence, before assuring himself of its impossibility. Instead, he realised he was in the presence of the sister that she had spoken of previously. Not Baela, but Rhaena. The resemblance between the twins was uncanny. They shared the same mischievous purple eyes, and the same silver hair. But where Baela's had been cut short, Rhaena's flowed like molten metal. Where Baela had largely abhorred the finery of court, Rhaena wore it as though she had been born to display it. But what was most striking, and most disturbing, about the woman before him was that her eyes held no spark of recognition, no sign of knowing him. That is to be expected of course, but it is still unsettling. He would have to tread most carefully around this half-sister of his.

To the right of the Arryn upon the throne stood a tall woman, cloaked in a gown of red and white. Her bodice featured a red castle, standing alone and defiant. Deep brown eyes studied him beneath chestnut brown hair. The woman's hand rested firmly upon the shoulder of her liege, who herself regarded Gaemon with a not altogether friendly visage. It appears my arrival is not exactly to their liking. The Lady of the Vale wore a sky blue gown, featuring a high collar and long sleeves that were interwoven with Myrish lace. Her brown hair was pulled back into an ornate bun, and her striking grey eyes betrayed no fear, if indeed she even felt it. As he approached, she maintained a regal, nearly unmoving posture, not allowing herself to demonstrate any nervous behaviors. She has certainly mastered the courtly etiquette that King's Landing was so rife with. Reaching the base of the dias, Gaemon bent the knee before his host. The great hall had grown nearly silent, and much of the remaining noise emanated from his plate armor's metallic protests at adopting such a posture.

For a few moments, not a single voice could be heard in the chamber. After what seemed like an eternity, the Lady before him spoke.

"I have long anticipated a visit from one of my Queen's most illustrious dragonriders. Two have come before you, and knelt before me. One begged my support for his mother. The second came to fulfill a pledge." Her face contorted into a slight frown. "That pledge, upon which my support was contingent, has remained unfulfilled since his departure." Tapping a finger upon the armrest of her throne, Lady Arryn raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, Ser, do you come to ask more of me? Do you, too, come for the Vale's support?"

Gaemon raised his head to fully meet her gaze. "My Lady, I have indeed come to beg for your support. I may be of humble birth, but your knights are famed throughout the realm for their skill and chivalry. Our Queen has need of them in these dire times."

The Lady of the Vale steepled her fingers, her brow creasing in obvious frustration. She appeared ready to give a curt response when Gaemon noticed the hand upon her shoulder give her a slight squeeze. Giving her attendant an affectionate look of gratitude, Lady Arryn turned once more to regard him, a slight smile across her features.

"Ser, I can only imagine that your flight was most arduous. Would you care to join me and my attendants for some refreshments in a more private setting?"

Gaemon nodded in the affirmative, eager to escape from the hundred pairs of eyes boring into him. While the offer itself seemed genuine, he could not help but observe his host's eyes were akin to those of a falcon sizing up potential prey. A private audience may be more to her liking as well. Careful now. After his host had risen atop the dais, he stood, and stood by as the Lady of the Vale and her attendants used a stairwell to the rear of the throne to exit the chamber. Once they had left, he was led up the same stairs by Ser Corwyn, with the other lords remaining behind. As he left, Gaemon cast one final look about the chamber, noting the way in which the Lords Waynwood and Lynderly regarded him with thinly veiled distaste. Mine looks to be an uphill battle.

The top of the stairwell led to a carven stone doorway which opened into a pillared gallery, where one could look out into an enclosed yard. Recent snowfalls had dusted some of the shrubs and trees that dotted the enclosure, and the sun had disappeared behind the Giant's Lance mountains that loomed all around. Ser Corwyn, while not looking quite as unenthused about Gaemon's presence as the other members of the greeting party, still chose to remain silent as the two of them traversed the stone walkway towards the inner ward. While he had initially expected to be led directly to the Lady's receiving chambers, Gaemon was instead led to what he expected would be his quarters for the duration of the stay.

Ser Corwyn gave him a look that seemed to suggest that he should enter, before adding: "I can hardly imagine that you expected to attend the Lady in plate. I will send for servants to fetch heated water for a bath, so that you might wash the stench of dragon off of yourself. In the meantime, these chambers have already been furnished with the accoutrements necessary to make yourself presentable. I suggest you make use of them." Taking a step back, he regarded Gaemon for one final time with an expression that was neither cold nor warm. "Good evening to you, Ser."

After his escort had closed the door behind him, Gaemon took the opportunity to survey the chamber around him. While it featured no windows, the room did have a brass chandelier hung from the ceiling above him, its wax candles lit. The walls were made of well-worn stone, and the floor was covered by what appeared to be a faded rug that may have originally been made across the Narrow Sea. Completing the chamber was a canopied bed with several furs piled atop, as well as a cabinet for clothing and a wooden stand, upon which sat a mirror of polished bronze and a wash basin.

Undoing the straps of his armor, Gaemon was surprised at how easy the process had become for him. He piled the plate as neatly as he could in an open corner, before placing his saddle bag beside it. To his delight, he found that the wooden stand featured a bowl of cream with which to shave, and he relished the smell of the animal fat and wood pulp that it was composed of. Lathering his face, he took the razor and began to cut away the scraggly and altogether unchivalrous beard that had overtaken his face since the flight from the Capital. As he did so, he regarded himself in the mirror. The same face he had glimpsed within Dragonstone's citadel stared back at him, but shadows clung to his face beneath his eyes, betraying the exhaustion that he had so far been unable to dispel. When he had finished, he opened the wardrobe to ascertain what clothing had been set aside for guests. To his amusement (but not his surprise), he found that all that was available was a sky blue top and dark trousers, along with supple boots that were well-worn. I can only assume that most of the Arryn's guests do not partake of this wardrobe's offerings. His ruminations were interrupted by the entrance of two serving women who both appeared to have already celebrated their fortieth name-day. Apologising for the interruption, they gingerly placed a small wooden tub in the center of the room, steam billowing up from the surface. Before they departed, they offered him a bar of soap with which to bathe himself.

Undressing and stepping gingerly into the bath, Gaemon allowed himself to exhale with satisfaction as the hot water soothed his aching muscles. To his dismay, he had not had the opportunity to bathe since before the battle of Tumbleton (one of the things he found most acceptable about courtly life was the emphasis on cleanliness). Scrubbing himself thoroughly, he was most disturbed at the ghastly color that the bath water had taken once he exited the tub. Drying himself and dressing in the only clean attire available, he left the chamber, wondering how he would be able to navigate his way to the receiving chambers of Lady Arryn. To his relief, the sweet voice of a bard echoed down the dark stone halls, his tales of chivalry and bravery providing an easy guide for the lost and confused dragonrider. Turning a third corner, Gaemon was bathed in the warm light of a fireplace as he approached the open doors of the sanctum. Arryn guards stood at attention to either side of the entryway, but they allowed him to enter without accosting him after he had crossed the distance. Stepping into the chamber, Gaemon narrowly avoided a servant exiting, gingerly bearing a silver pitcher that had been emptied of its wine.

The moment he entered the room, Gaemon felt self-conscious. He had never been permitted to attend the Queen in a manner remotely similar to this, and the relaxed yet posh and intimate setting was by no means one with which he was familiar. I was schooled in manners and etiquette by innkeeps and whores, and kept the company of fishermen and guardsmen. It occurred to him that perhaps his host expected such things of him, and had sought to use the uneven battleground to her advantage. It was also clear that whatever she had to say was not for the eyes and ears of the court itself. Unbidden, the warnings of a gap-toothed, brown skinned girl surfaced in his mind. Be careful, Gaemon. These walls likely have ears almost as big as the buggers in the Red Keep.

Upon his entrance, the three ladies seated around the room stood, acknowledging his presence. The one clothed in red and white allowed herself a wry grin.

"Come now, Jeyne. You must confess that in Arryn colors our guest is a bit less imposing, is he not?"

Gaemon was unsure of how to respond, and the uncertainty was only magnified when the Lady of the Vale let loose a short but sweet laugh.

"I fear that you are correct once again, Jessamyn. Our guest appears to be a Royce poorly masquerading as an Arryn. Certainly not as grim as he was earlier."

Extending her hand, the Lady of the Vale beckoned for him to take a seat in a cushioned chair across from hers. In between them, an ornate wooden table bore a whole roasted chicken, smelling of saffron, garlic, and black pepper. Gaemon's mouth watered despite himself as he regarded the apple and raspberry sweet tarts that were stacked to either side of the main course, as well as at the hearty bowl of pea soup that looked to be fulfilling the role of first course. He realised that he had not had a meal of such quality for weeks, and was eager to partake. Taking a seat in his chair, he remained silent, awaiting the word of the woman before him.

Studying him, the Lady of the Vale sipped a cup of what appeared to be mulled wine.

"You may eat at your leisure, dragonrider. I can only imagine what you were able to eat on your journey here. I have no desire to be a poor host to you."

Entering through an open doorway, a servant emerged with bread and salt, presenting it to Gaemon. Gingerly dipping a piece of the still warm brown bread into the salt, Gaemon ate of the offering, feeling somewhat more relaxed with the invocation of guest right. As he tore himself a piece of the chicken, the woman named Jessamyn served herself a bowl of soup. Rhaena studied him from her seat to his left, absentmindedly eating an apple tart. Once more, the room was awkwardly silent. After a few moments, Jessamyn began to giggle, before lightly punching the Lady of the Vale on the shoulder.

"Jeyne, for Seven's Sake, you're torturing the poor boy. Speak to him."

The Lady Arryn turned her studious gaze away from Gaemon to regard her attendant with a face of feigned scorn. Before long, however, she too chortled with amusement.

"You must forgive our behavior, Ser, for we have each indulged in a bit of wine. We would not normally forget our manners so."

While the Lady of the Vale spoke Gaemon paid little attention to her mirthful features, but instead watched her eyes. They remained hard as flint. She is testing me once more. I sympathise with her position, but I must needs make her understand my position.

He smiled as best as he could manage. "My Lady, there is nothing to forgive. You have honored me by hosting me in your own chambers, and allowing me to be a guest in your home. I have come as a friend, and wish only to beg your aid for the Queen we both serve."

As he spoke, the playfulness drained from the Lady Arryn's face.

"The Queen we both served is dead, Ser Gaemon. I received word via raven but a few days ago that the Usurper ordered her head struck off as a traitor to the realm. Prince Aegon has demanded that I bend the knee in return for clemency. He holds King's Landing, and the might of the Stormlords marches to his aid. He also assures me that his wife is willing and able to fight alongside him, if need be, and that any traitors who will not stand down will face their flames."

Gaemon's heart sank, and he felt the cold grip of uncertainty wrap its long, icy fingers about him. The Queen has been executed? What does this mean for the other prisoners?

"What news have you of the others captured during the city's fall? What of Prince Joffrey, and the Princes Aegon and Viserys?" He wished to ask of Baela, but feared he would reveal overmuch.

"Prince Joffrey fell defending his mother, or so we have been told. Rhaenyra's mount has been executed as a 'danger to the realm' as well. The other Princes, as well as the Lady Baela, remain imprisoned." Grey eyes narrowed. "The Usurper has also seen fit to demand that I release the Lady Rhaena into his custody. He promises that he will guarantee my safety if I do so."

To his left, Rhaena's lips were pursed into a thin, enraged frown.

The Lady Jeyne continued. "I have no intentions of dishonoring my word as a guardian and a host. The Lady Rhaena has my protection, and she will remain here as my ward for as long as my knights can ensure her protection. Until today, I had intended to delay my response as long as could be managed. But with your arrival, it appears that is no longer possible." She sighed.

The Lady Jessamyn spoke up. "Your arrival here does confirm that some rumors we have heard are incorrect, to say the least. For several weeks, there have been conflicting rumors regarding a great battle in the northern Reach. In some tellings, the Usurper's brother and two traitors emerged victorious, and in others, the Queen's riders prevailed. There is little doubt now about which stories had the right of it."

Gaemon nodded. "It feels as though an age has passed since then, but it has been scarcely three weeks since those of us who remained in the Queen's service flew to Tumbleton. Ser Addam Velaryon, my friend Ser Maegor, and I took the Hightower forces unawares as they slept, just before dawn. I can tell you with certainty that we emerged victorious, and that none of our three enemies still draw breath. Only one of their dragons survived, albeit heavily wounded." He paused. "My Ladies, I understand your concerns regarding the King and his Queen consort. I myself have seen Dreamfyre in the depths of the Dragonpit, and she is a fearsome beast indeed. But I have also seen her rider. I think it unlikely that the Usurper's Queen is in any condition to fly, let alone into battle. I have also heard that Sunfyre the Golden was gravely wounded against the Princess Rhaenys over Rook's Rest before her demise. It seems a strong possibility that our enemies can only muster one partially effective dragon against our three. I also feel confident in assuring you that the Usurper is highly unlikely to strike out against you with his dragon alone. If something were to go awry, he would be stranded in a hostile region with no means of escape. If I were a betting man, I would think that Prince Aegon has no intentions of leaving the Capital. His greatest strengths are his prisoners. So long as he has them, he believes he can prevent us from bringing about his downfall." Gaemon made sure to meet the gaze of the Lady of the Vale as he spoke his next words. "To ensure our victory, however, we must needs have the swords of the Vale marching with us. Even now, my comrades fly fast and fly far, rallying what remains of the Riverlords and making contact with Lord Cregan Stark and his Northmen. If we were to have your support as well, we would ride with the full support of three of the Seven Kingdoms. That sort of legitimacy is important in these decisive days."

Lady Arryn's eyes narrowed. "While I can understand your points, Ser Gaemon, you have only provided me with spoken assurances. You claim Helaena cannot ride, and you claim Aegon will not marshal his strength against us. Yet you will soon leave us bereft of any protection. Your assurances will mean little and less if you are wrong. I have little desire to be baked and burned within my own keep, as my people die screaming around me. Just a little over a year ago, a Prince sat before me in my own court, and promised that I would have a dragonrider to protect my realm and people. Yet when it was no longer convenient, my own Queen, to whom I had sworn my allegiance, stripped me of those protections and assurances the moment that she felt she had greater need of them." She sighed. "If you desire the Vale to march, I can arrange for it to do so. But only on the condition that you remain here, to protect my people."

Gaemon had feared that his host would impose such conditions upon him. I cannot accept these terms. I ride the largest dragon that remains to us, and if I remain in the Vale, I will be rendered useless for the battles to come. It appears we have reached an impasse.

"My Lady, your concerns are most valid, and I feel I must apologize for the unfair treatment you have suffered." He sighed. "Despite this, I cannot accept your terms. I believe it could prove disastrous to reduce our superiority in dragons at such a decisive time."

Jeyne Arryn nodded curtly. "I expected an answer of that sort. You are free to remain my guest for as long as you wish, but I will not commit my armies to your cause for nothing in return. Words are wind, after all. I have learned from my mistakes. I will not expose myself and my people to the fires of the Seven Hells for nothing in return." With that, she rose, and retired further into her chambers. The Lady Jessamyn curtseyed, and then retired to attend to her Lady. Gaemon sat in silence, watching the fire spit and crackle. He wasn't sure if it would be proper to address the only Lady that remained in the room, even if he was intrigued by the prospect of speaking with her.

A hand on his shoulder roused him from his fixation on the flames. Turning to face its source, he was surprised to see that Rhaena had cracked a wry grin, of all possible options.

"And that, Ser Gaemon, is why you need some lessons on the finer points of negotiations. Follow me."

Their stroll had taken them through the barely lit walls of the inner ward, retracing his earlier steps until they had found themselves standing once more in the pillared gallery watching the snow fall lightly in the yard below. Gaemon had retired to his chambers in order to fetch his wolfskin, and Rhaena had done similarly in order to fetch a heavy woolen cloak. Braziers still burned, casting an orange glow across the stone pillars. After a few moments of silence, Rhaena chose to speak first.

"You should know that the Lady Jeyne has been loath to commit forces to the war since the Queen recalled Joff- the Prince Joffrey to the Capital. While we still could count upon Tyraxes, we could commit forces with more confidence. But with the arrival of winter and the departure of my cousin, there is little to motivate the Lords of the Vale to fight and die abroad. I have spent the better part of a year in these lands, learning their customs, their ways, and their people. Valemen are proud, and more importantly, they take themselves very seriously. Even in times less dire than these, they would not take kindly to their aid being demanded. They will expect pride of place, and adequate compensation from their liege. With my cos' death, they see even less reason to commit to a war that has already cost them so dearly."

Gaemon frowned. "The Vale has contributed very little to the war. Less than two thousand men were sent to the capital, months ago. It seems likely that they did not survive the fall of King's Landing."

Rhaena sighed. "While those men may have been few in number compared to the many thousands that have died in the Riverlands, you must understand that they represented the best of the Vale. That expedition was led by Ser Adrian Redfort and Ser Willam Royce, cousin to the Lord of the Redfort and grandson and heir to the Lord of Runestone respectively. With their deaths, Lady Jeyne lost both a valuable suporter and likely earned the eternal enmity of the Royces. Ser Willam carried his House's ancestral blade and a suit of ancient armor into battle with him. When he fell, those were likely lost to his family forever." Rhaena pursed her lips. "Jeyne gambled on that expedition, and it appears to have cost her dearly. What you don't see, Ser Gaemon, is that the Vale is less united than it may appear to outsiders. The Lady Jeyne has long suffered from attempts at usurpation, and foremost amongst these usurpers is her cousin, Ser Arnold Arryn. Ser Arnold has led revolts twice against her, calling upon the support of the Royces each time, due to his late wife being a daughter of their House. While Arnold rots in Jeyne's prisons, the Royces have not forgotten the blood spilt in his name. Jeyne wished to give them pride of place and a place of import in Rhaenyra's court by allowing Ser Willam to lead her forces to King's Landing. With his death, the situation has only worsened. With the Mountain Clansmen raiding ever more fiercely due to the onset of winter, there are rumors that some Lords are dissatisfied with her rule, and wish for a man to lead them. Ser Arnold may be imprisoned, but his son, Ser Eldric, remains a guest in this court, and has done everything he can to foster such sentiments. His political influence remains nearly irrelevant now, but if Lady Jeyne suffers any more setbacks that will change."

Gaemon nodded. Come to think of it, many of the banners I studied at Harrenhal have not been present within these walls. The Royces, Templetons, Duttons, and Sunderlands are absent. "So the Lady of the Vale does not just fear dragons, but dissent at home. Why does she not simply allow Ser Eldric to lead an expedition against the Mountain Clansmen in her name? Would he not be second in the line of succession, after his father?"

Rhaena shook her head. "As a penalty for his revolts, Jeyne stripped her cousin of his right of inheritance. She has made a distant cousin, Ser Joffrey, her heir. Even now, he mans the Bloody Gate, and attempts to keep the High Road somewhat clear. But Jeyne's decision was met with discomfort by some, and outright hostility by others. The Vale prides itself on its tradition and its honor, and stripping away the rights of succession is relatively unheard of in the traditions of the Arryns. Ser Eldric remains Jeyne's guest within these walls, but he is a prisoner in all but name. She cannot allow him to leave, for fear that he will raise an army to press his father's claim."

Gaemon was beginning to understand. "So the Lady of the Vale does not just wish for my presence as insurance against the Usurper, but as a deterrent against plots against her own rule. She is also unlikely to be willing to dispatch forces of her own, fearing that they may be needed for her own battles at home?"

Rhaena smiled. "For such common birth, you have some potential for intrigue, Ser Gaemon. I could have said it no better myself."

"Fine praise indeed, m'lady." He raised an eyebrow. "But why tell me all this? Has Lady Jeyne not been your host and protector for all these months? Is this not a partial betrayal of her confidence?"

Rhaena clenched her fists beneath her cloak. "She has been nothing but kind to me. But she has also not raised a finger to help my family, when they have been in need of it the most. I refuse to stand by any longer whilst my sister and brothers languish in the Usurper's clutches."

Gaemon smiled. Sisters indeed. I can see it now, clear as day. "I understand, and I greatly appreciate the aid you have rendered to me." He paused, thinking. "But I still fail to see how we can persuade your host to part with significant forces to aid us."

Rhaena shook her head. "We will not be able to persuade her to depart with any forces of her own. But if some of her vassals could be persuaded to do so, allegedly according to their own devices, she could claim plausible deniability to the King, if he confronted her. I am certain that the Greens are aware of her struggle to maintain her grip on power. If they feel that her vassals are acting out of line, that may persuade them to focus elsewhere, believing the Vale to be neutralised by internal conflict."

Gaemon smiled. "I must commend you for having such a wonderful idea, my Lady. But who would be willing to march with us, allegedly against their own liege's orders?"

Rhaena grinned wolfishly. "Some will do so out of personal ambition, and others will do so because they have long thirsted for war." She paused, her cheeks growing a slight shade of red. "And some… some will march because of personal loyalties. All I ask is that you give me the time to speak with those I have in mind, so that I might rally their support before we make our proposition."

Gaemon nodded. "I can grant you that time, my Lady. Once again, I cannot thank you enough for your assistance."

Rhaena shook her head. "Tis the other way 'round, Ser Gaemon. Thank you for your timely arrival. I have long awaited my chance to aid my cause, and my fallen Queen."

As Gaemon retired to his chambers, he could not help but grin with anticipation. He was still lost in his thoughts when he rounded the corner to where his guest chamber stood, and almost did not notice the two shadowy forms standing outside his chamber door. He instinctively reached for his sword, and cursed quietly to himself as he found no blade at his side. The two figures noticed him at that point, and approached him quietly. Debating whether to stand or flee, Gaemon was taken aback when the two potential assailants paused before him, and drew back their hoods. A young man with sandy blond hair and blue-grey eyes smiled cautiously at him, and the other, taller man beside him grinned, his smile at least missing one tooth.

"Ser Gaemon, I presume?" Spoke the blond-haired man. "I would be indebted to you if you would allow me a chance to introduce myself. My companion and I mean you no harm."

Gaemon chuckled. "If that were so, I can think of better times to introduce yourselves than the Hour of Ghosts."

The bigger man chuckled. The blond-haired man smiled. "Would that I could make your acquaintance in the light of day, Ser. My circumstances, however, would never allow it." He motioned to Gaemon's quarters. "Might I have a few moments of your time?"

Despite some not-so-inconsiderable misgivings, Gaemon assented, his curiosity getting the better of him. He opened his chamber door, allowing the men inside. Once the three of them had entered, the candlelight in his chamber revealed that the blond-haired man wore a doublet of faded sky-blue, and that his cloak was pinned by a brooch wrought to resemble a silver falcon. His companion, however, wore a doublet of a checkered black and white field, with three golden wings depicted in a diagonal descent across. An Arryn, then? I do not recognize the sigil of his friend, however. The potential Arryn extended his hand, and Gaemon shook it.

"It is good to meet you in person, Ser Gaemon. I am unsure if you have been told of me, or my… unfortunate situation. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ser Eldric, of House Arryn, and this is my sworn sword and boon companion, Ser Sam Shett, of Gull Tower."

Gaemon's eyes narrowed. The son of the usurper. His guest's eyes did not miss his reaction, and anger quickly surfaced beneath the friendly veneer.

"I see you have been informed of me. I would have thought our host content to allow the court's ritual mockery to pass as an introduction. It appears she fears us more than we thought, eh, Sam?" He gave his man-at-arms a playful punch on the shoulder. "I can only imagine what you have been told of me, Ser Gaemon. A faithless son of a usurper, who would not respect his cousin's rights? Something akin to that, I suppose." His face grew serious. "Ser Gaemon, I have no interest in wasting your time. I will make my proposal to you, and then leave you to your rest. I am a prisoner here, within these walls. I have little doubt that one way or another, my host will soon find one excuse or another to dispose of me, either in a cell next to my father's or via a few drops of something disagreeable in my wine. I have come here to ask that you assist me in escaping this place. I can offer you little in recompense except for my gratitude."

Gaemon raised an eyebrow. That was… certainly straightforward. He is either truly desperate, or this is a ploy of some kind. "Ser, you must realise that I am here to gain the support of Lady Jeyne for the war against the Usurper. I cannot jeopardize these negotiations by becoming involved in your dispute with your kin." He paused. "While I can understand the pain of having your lineage go unacknowledged, I simply do not see how I could help you with your predicament."

Ser Eldric's smile had completely vanished by this point. "Tell me, Ser, did you ever have to fall asleep as a child to the sound of your father screaming madly at the open sky and the mountain side? The Lady whose favor you court threw my father into the Sky Cells shortly after my seventh nameday. By the time I was able to sneak into the Eyrie's dungeons to see him, he did not even recognize me. I will never forget how wide and panicked his eyes looked that day. They were as wide and blue as the sky itself, only a few feet from where he stood. He begged me, his own son, to take him away. Anywhere else but there. I sat there, crying until the gaolers removed me, wishing I could do so." Ser Eldric clenched his fist. "That vile woman has already broken my father's mind beyond repair, yet still he rots in the cells beneath our very feet." Looking Gaemon in the eyes, he said: "Because the aid of my kin is so valuable to your war, I will not blame you for refusing to intercede on my behalf. It was probably foolish to meet with you to begin with. But I will beg one final favor of you: when word arrives of our departure, do not tell Lady Arryn that we met with you. Allow us some time to make good our escape. If you do this, I will be in your debt."

Gaemon considered the man's words. If what he said was true, he could not help but sympathise. Finally he nodded. "Go then. It will be as though we never spoke." As his guests turned to leave, he added: "Avoid the High Road. On my journey here, it seemed fraught with danger. Seek another route."

Nodding silently, the two knights left his chambers. Gaemon locked the door behind them, and allowed himself to fall backwards onto his canopied bed. What an exhausting day.

He spent the next few days at the Gates of the Moon attempting to find things to do. Surely enough, there had been a panic when word had gotten out that Ser Eldric and his 'thug' had escaped, but to Gaemon's surprise none had even bothered to question him about them. I suppose that is for the best. While tensions around the court continued to climb, Gaemon explored the castle. He spent much of his time in the library, reading tomes that seemed as though they had not been opened for centuries. He had settled on one, by a certain Maester Glowyn, that was entitled On Andalic Heraldry. While he had initially picked it at random, he was quickly drawn to the chapter on Bastardy and Heraldry: An Imperfect Compromise. As Gaemon scanned the section detailing one of the few recorded Arryn 'Great Bastards' sired by King Osric V Arryn. While the story itself seemed relatively tame (for Osric had made this particular bastard the knight of the newly refurbished Bloody Gate), Glowyn's words on the bastard's chosen heraldry drew his attention. Gaemon traced one line in particular with his finger: Great Bastards, or bastards with noble paternity on both sides, and at times simply the acknowledged illegitimate children of royalty, have occasionally chosen to invert their Houses' colors for their own banners and sigils. A small smile spread across Gaemon's face. As a knight, I ought to begin considering taking my own heraldry.

Placing the ancient manuscript back upon its shelf and thanking the Maester for the privilege of accessing the library, Gaemon's journey next took him through the winding stone halls of the inner ward, out the Great Hall, and into the snowy outer courtyard beyond. He had just finished making a request of the head weaving-woman when Rhaena found him, a confident smile upon her face.

"I believe I am ready for our next move, Ser Gaemon. If you would follow me?"

"My Lady, I have a proposal for both you and Ser Gaemon, regarding your earlier discussion of the Vale's support."

The Lady of the Vale looked exhausted on this particular day, no doubt disturbed by her erstwhile kin's departure. Massaging her temples, she raised her eyes to meet Rhaena's while Lady Jessamyn sipped inquisitively at a cup of tea.

Rhaena offered an encouraging smile. "With Eldric's escape, your need for loyal Lords and men is greater than ever. I propose this: instead of approving Gaemon's request, let it be known that after some deliberation you sent him away, due to internal disputes in the Vale requiring your attention. Swear your neutrality to the Usurper, but inform him that I escaped with the rogue dragon-rider, enraged at your 'treachery'. I will raise a small force of volunteers at my own behest, and depart from Gulltown before you are able to apprehend me."

Lady Jessamyn laughed. "Clever as always, Rhaena. That might just work. Your flight would also remove our obligation to surrender you to the Usurper."

Jeyne nodded, a small smile spreading across her features. "And who might these 'volunteers' be composed of?"

Rhaena smiled. "I have taken the liberty of speaking with several individuals eager to fight. Ser Corwyn has agreed to lead some Corbray men as a part of this expedition, and Ser Alan Waxley has agreed to march as well. Lord Grafton's cousin Ser Morton has assured me that he can contact Velaryon ships to convey us to Maidenpool. Lastly, Ser Isembard Arryn, ever eager to enhance his prestige, has volunteered to join the expedition and provide funding, so long as he can be acknowledged as it's commander."

The Lady of the Vale raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "This is no haphazard plan. How long have you entertained these ideas?"

Rhaena grinned even wider. "A woman never reveals all her secrets, my Lady. But if you approve this expedition, you will be able to claim plausible deniability if the Usurper demands answers. And given that no Lords will rise to aid me, it will seem as though only second sons and ambitious knights have chosen to go to war. You would not be committing anything overtly."

Jeyne Arryn steepled her fingers. "And your thoughts, Ser Gaemon? I can only assume the Lady Rhaena has informed you of her plans?"

Gaemon nodded. "I have been but a humble observer, watching with awe as she spun her webs. I obviously fully endorse this. With your assent, I plan to 'escape' with the Lady Rhaena this very night atop my dragon. We will fly to Gulltown, in order to meet our assembling 'supporters'."

Jeyne sighed. "I can find little fault with Rhaena's plans. The Usurper will be furious, but with my official declaration of neutrality he will have much greater concerns. You have my assent."

The Lady Jessamyn squeezed Lady Arryn's hand, beaming with mischievous excitement. "I so love being conspiratorial. Jeyne would never admit it, but she most certainly does as well!"

Jeyne laughed, a sweet sound in a court that had been so somber. "Seven save me from mischievous women!"

With that, she waved, dismissing Rhaena and Gaemon. In the hall, Gaemon extended his hand. Rhaena smiled and shook it.

"Until tonight, Ser Gaemon."

"Until tonight, my Lady."

Gaemon had been able to sneak out of an unlocked postern gate and across the drawbridge quickly. The Lady of the Vale had ensured his 'escape' would go without a hitch. In the snow-dusted field beyond the keep, the Cannibal lay curled, steam rising from its great black coiled form into the night. At his touch, the dragon unraveled, its eyes burning with an otherworldly green light. Fastening his saddle bag, laden with the sword and provisions to the saddle, Gaemon quickly pushed a red and black tabard deeper into the bag as he heard footsteps in the snow behind him. The Cannibal let out a deep hiss, its eyes set upon the approaching woman with a bundle in her arms. Steam poured out from its long, onyx black fangs as it regarded their approach. Gaemon laid a hand upon the tip of its snout, urging it to stay calm. Its reason for awareness became apparent once he realised that Rhaena carried a hatchling in her arms. The small dragon hissed as she approached, weakly flapping its pale pink wings. Jet black horns atop its head glistened in the moonlight.

Shaking his head, Gaemon laughed. "You might have mentioned that you had managed to hatch a dragon."

Rhaena shrugged beneath her deep black cloak. "I might have forgotten to do so. Her name is Morning."

Giving the hatchling a playful wave, he rummaged about his bag until he found a strip of salted meat to offer it. Gaemon climbed atop the Cannibal and extended his hand, helping Rhaena to climb atop it as well. After a few moments of fumbling in the dark, he was able to fasten the saddle chains in a manner that allowed for the both of them to be secured. Rhaena grabbed his waist with one arm for stability, while making sure to bundle Morning tightly against the cold. Uncurling his dragon whip, Gaemon gave it a single crack in the freezing night air, and in response his mount uncurled its massive black wings, beating them powerfully against the ground and slowly rising above it. Eventually, it propelled itself into the night sky, climbing high amongst the peaks of the Giant's Lance. As the stars soared by above, the Cannibal roared, its challenge echoed amongst the peaks all about. As they turned and flew west, Gaemon swore that he could almost hear a dragon's roar in response, but brushed the thought aside as nonsense.

Turning so that Rhaena could hear him, he smiled, saying: "Onwards, then, to Gulltown!"

Just over the howling wind, he heard her shout her response: "And from Gulltown, to King's Landing!"

Chapter Text

Gyles IV

The road was barely visible under the recent snowfall, little more than a snaking indent across a large expanse of frozen fields. Gyles shifted, uncomfortable after crouching back on his heels for such a long time. The cold has robbed me of nearly all available foliage with which I may conceal myself. However, it did not look as though he need worry about potential foes observing him. Beyond the small copse of trees in which Gyles hid, the snowy fields around the road were long and flat. If there was anyone around here, I would have seen them by now.

Standing, Gyles made his way to Evenfall, untying his mount and hopping into the saddle. Evenfall enjoyed the cold even less than Gyles did. And I enjoy it about as much as a wart on the arse. Gyles rode away from the copse of trees, back in the direction of some low hills that were covered in snow. The winter snows had the habit of coating anything lying beneath the open sky. Including me. It had become a habit of his to wake with a small layer of freezing, soaking snow atop him. It was a miracle that Gyles and most of the others in the group had not fallen sick, despite being constantly half-frozen and huddling in front of fires to warm themselves after a day spent riding through accumulating snow drifts.

Trying to find shelter beneath trees was even worse than sleeping under the open sky. Many of the branches had grown brittle in the winter's cold, and were then laden with the weight of freshly-fallen snow. Some branches eventually snapped under the weight, dumping their soaking, freezing burdens on those unlucky enough to be sitting below. The dry, arid heat of the grassy plains south of Yronwood was little more than a half-forgotten memory to Gyles in the face of such relentless, miserable chill.

As he crested one of the low hills, Gyles took a moment to survey the group below. Our merry band falls somewhat short of the expectations of all the songs and stories. Such tales oft lauded the exploits of great heroes and the tightly-knit groups of followers that aided them in their quests. Gyles and his comrades rode to rejoin the forces of Queen Rhaneyra that Ser Torrhen assured them all would be found in the Riverlands. It was a rather vague mission, and one that looked less and less likely to succeed as their supplies dwindled and the snows continued with increasing frequency.

None of us look particularly heroic either, Gyles thought with a grim smirk. Hunched and huddled beneath sodden cloaks atop their mounts, the members of the party lacked the self-assured and proud countenances of the seasoned adventurers that the bards loved to sing about. He began to ride down the hill towards the group's unofficial leaders, who had arrayed themselves at the party's front after sighting Gyles at the hill's top.

Reining up in front of them, Gyles regarded each in turn. At the center of the three was Ser Torrhen Manderly. With the hood of his fur-lined blue-green cloak pulled up, Ser Torrhen looked utterly miserable. The air misted before his plump and ruddy face, and his normally well-styled mustache had grown unchecked into a bristling, drooping mass of hair perched atop his upper lip.

The Lady Mysaria looked as though she fared little better. Beneath the black hood of her own cloak, her pale face was nearly perpetually flushed red from the cold. She spoke little, but it was not hard to notice the frustration and anger of the Queen's mistress of Whispers by her overall demeanor. The Lady Mysaria thinks that we move too slowly. Though she hadn't said anything of the sort, Gyles suspected that she wished to abandon the men who had fallen sick during the trek north. Due to their infirmity, the group had to move at a much slower pace, lest the few ailing knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks who had taken sick fall from their saddles into the snow and freeze to death, forgotten and left behind. Methinks that the Lady Mysaria cares not how many of us survive the journey, so long as she remains amongst the living.

Ser Willam Royce, like many in the group, had chosen to remove the helm of his armor, so that the chilled metal would not be constantly resting against his head. Royce's curly auburn hair was matted and wet from the constant snowfall, and his grey eyes seemed to constantly be on the horizon. The heir to Runestone was convinced that the Usurper's forces were sure to be on the party's heels, and did not wish to be caught unawares. "Let them come," Gyles had heard the knight say often, "and we will show them the fate that befalls traitors."

Gyles lifted the visor of his own conical helm, and pulled his silk scarf down beneath his chin (which he had wrapped about his head and face for added warmth), so that his voice could be heard clearly. "The terrain beyond these hills is quite flat and exposed. We will be visible to any and all from a long ways off." Gyles sighed, his breath misting in the air. "However, any possible assailants will also be easily visible to us. Methinks that any malcontents who catch sight of our party will think better of assailing us."

Ser Willam nodded, and Lady Mysaria inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement of Gyles' words. Ser Torrhen sat in silence for several moments, mulling over Gyles' words. As he always does. The stout knight of House Manderly was a man that seemed to loathe the unexpected. He looks thrice at any path that lies before him, considering every possible outcome of whatever action he plans on taking.

Gyles could tell that Ser Torrhen misliked the terrain ahead, and how it would expose himself and the party to watching eyes. Or dragons. It had been common knowledge at the Red Keep that the traitorous Prince Aemond One-Eye was the terror of the Riverlands, descending without warning and laying waste to whomever had the gross misfortune of being his chosen target. However, the alternative was a lengthy detour that would only further add to the distance between the party and Maidenpool.

Ser Torrhen eventually raised his eyes to meet Gyles. "Thank you, Ser," the knight huffed. "It seems to me that we must take the road ahead, without further delay. We simply don't have enough supplies to take a longer, safer route." The Lady Mysaria and Ser Willam nodded in agreement with Ser Manderly's words, and Gyles gave the knight a nod of his own.

"I understand, Ser," Gyles said evenly. "I will rejoin the ranks of the party." Ser Torrhen nodded distractedly, seemingly already considering whatever future danger lurked at the periphery of his mind's eye.

Ser Jarmen's cough had grown worse. The aged knight coughed violently, nearly jarring himself from the saddle. I know not what will happen if Ser Jarmen becomes unable to travel. Gyles feared that the ancient knight would tell the party to go on without him. A request that Lady Mysaria would only be too happy to agree to. Gyles' hands tightened on his reins. To hell with her. I'll stay with Ser Jarmen, even if no-one else will.

However, Gyles knew he would not be alone if such a reality came to pass. Ser Horton, Tristifer, and Joss Oat would stay as well, I'm certain of it. Since the night they had spent trading tales around their campfire shortly after departing King's Landing, the four men had become the nearest thing to boon companions that Gyles had since his exile from Dorne. "Will you be alright, Ser?" Gyles asked Ser Jarmen.

Ser Jarmen turned in his saddle to give Gyles a wan grin. "I'll be well enough, thank you." The old knight loudly cleared his throat. "I nearly became a white cloak of the Kingsguard under the King Viserys! If I'm to be laid low, 'twill not be because of a cough." Ser Jarmen chuckled. "I've faced much greater dangers in my life than this."

Gyles nodded at the knight. Conversation seemed to help the coughing abate, so Gyles considered what to say in order to keep Ser Jarmen talking. "A 'white cloak', you say?" Gyles began, grinning halfheartedly. "That seems dreadfully impractical. After one battle, or a spilled goblet of wine, you'd no longer be able to claim such a title."

Ser Jarmen chuckled. "Mayhaps you are right, Ser Gyles. It was certainly never a distinction that I sought, nor accepted." Ser Jarmen was silent for a moment, and his grin twisted into a slight frown.

Gyles wanted to kick himself. Damn it. The Prince. Gyles should have known better. Any mention of the Kingsguard was sure to remind the elderly knight of his former benefactor, the long-dead Prince Aemon. Though Ser Jarmen claimed to have made his peace with the Prince's death, thoughts of the slain Prince of Dragonstone still greatly saddened him.

Gyles opened his mouth in the hopes of changing the topic of conversation once more, but was preempted by Ser Jarmen. "I should have accepted it," the old knight muttered. "The white cloak. I thought myself unworthy, after Prince Aemon died." Ser Jarmen looked aside at Gyles sadly. "So I refused."

Gyles was unsure of what to say, but he needn't have worried, for Ser Jarmen continued to speak. "Unfortunately, there were men far more unworthy than I who gladly accepted the White Cloak after I refused it." Ser Jarmen's eyes were cold, and hard.

Gyles had never seen such an angry expression on the knight's visage before. Mayhaps I thought him incapable of even feeling hatred towards another. "Who accepted the cloak?" Gyles queried, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Ser Jarmen nearly spat out the name as he uttered it. "Ser Criston Cole." The look of anger melted away from Ser Jarmen's face, leaving only sadness in its wake. "Make no mistake. Ser Criston was an outstanding choice, and would undoubtedly have joined the Kingsguard's ranks later, even if I'd accepted the cloak when King Viserys offered it to me." Ser Jarmen closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "But he would not have been Lord Commander at the time of the King's death. Had I accepted the cloak, I have little doubt that I would have been Lord Commander when King Viserys passed."

Ser Jarmen smiled sadly. "By the war's beginning, Ser Criston was a hateful man. It was no secret in the King's court that the bond Ser Criston once had with his charge, the Princess Rhaenyra, had withered and died. He was only too happy to crown the Prince Aegon King, so long as it meant that the Princess Rhaenyra might be denied her father's throne."

Ser Jarmen shook his head. "Were I Lord Commander, I would have done everything in my power to prevent the fruition of such a scheme. Alas, I was not, thanks to my own many mistakes. I could only stand and watch in dismay as Prince Aegon was crowned, powerless and trapped along with all the other supporters of the rightful Queen in King's Landing."

The aged knight regarded the grey horizon that stretched out before the party for a moment, as though searching for a specific landmark that was only just beyond perception. "Those of us who refused to bend the knee to Prince Aegon, and renounce our vows to King Viserys that we would see his daughter crowned, were largely killed for it. Lord Caswell, Lord Merryweather, and even the pious Lady Fell, kin to the Kingsguard knight Ser Willis, were all beheaded." Ser Jarmen shook his head morosely. "They kept their vows, and were beheaded for it. I was the only one of the lot who was spared the headsman's block, though not for lack of effort by the Queen Alicent and Ser Criston to convince the Prince Aegon to put my head on a spike amongst the others."

The elderly warrior smiled sadly. "The Prince Aegon was always fond of me, you see. When he was a young lad, it was I who helped him to mount his first pony, and train him to ride at rings in the Red Keep's yard. He preferred to see me bend the knee, rather than lose my head. I was forced to watch each and every one of the Queen Rhaenyra's supporters beheaded, before it was my turn to be dragged to the block. The Prince gave me one final chance to bend the knee, and be accepted into his service."

Ser Jarmen frowned sadly. "Of course, I refused him. I told him that I had vowed to the former King to do all that I could to see that the Princess Rhaenyra followed him to the Iron Throne. I had accepted the consequences such a decision would have, and prepared to meet my death. However, I was not killed. The King was enraged, and ordered that I be thrown into the Black Cells, to be forgotten and rot in the dark."

Gyles watched as Ser Jarmen brushed some snow absentmindedly from his horse's mane. "Though Prince Aegon wore the Conqueror's crown, and bore Blackfyre on his hip, I couldn't help but in that moment see him for what he truly was, a spoilt young man, still half a boy, that had just been told 'no' for one of the first times in his life."

Gyles snorted darkly. "The Usurper sounds like just the kind of man to inspire confidence and rally support to his cause." He chuckled half-heartedly, hoping that his attempt at levity would raise Ser Jarmen's spirits.

Ser Jarmen grinned, but there was little conviction to it. "The Prince Aegon had little chance to become a worthy monarch, considering those that surrounded him in his youth and wielded the most influence over him. His father, the King, doted on him and rarely refused him anything. He was weaned on the Queen Alicent's ambition and vitriol as much as that of the milk of his wet nurse." Ser Jarmen frowned again. "And as he trained the Prince at arms, Ser Criston Cole did all that he could to stoke the resentments of the Prince Aegon and his brothers towards the Princess Rhaenyra and her children."

Ser Jarmen gave Gyles a wan smile. "I promise you, Ser, that there is a point to all of my ramblings. The Prince Aegon is a weak man, prone to cruelty and vices. But I don't believe that he must needs have ended up that way. Had I accepted the white cloak, and been the man to train and mentor him through his youth, I could have tried to teach him a better way."

The aged knight coughed, and shook his head. "Prince Aemon's way. I allowed the loathing and pity that I felt for myself after the Prince Aemon's death to cloud my motivation, and judgement. By the time I eventually made my peace with his death, I realized just how much of my life, and the opportunities within it, had been allowed to be ignored and fall to the wayside."

Ser Jarmen pointed an armored finger at himself for emphasis. "With a white cloak about my shoulders, I could have done much good for the Targaryens, who have given me so much, and for their Realm. With a white cloak, I could've done so much more to preserve the Prince Aemon's legacy, and the Realm that should have been his to rule."

For a moment, Ser Jarmen and Gyles continued to ride along the snow-covered road in silence, as winds whistled mournfully about the members of the party and their mounts. The winter sun was getting low in the western sky, with all the orange-red appearance of a blood orange plucked from a Dornish grove.

Ser Jarmen spoke once more, quietly, but with a strong certainty. "Do not make the mistakes that I have made, Ser," the ancient knight said. "When opportunities arise, you must needs try to take them." Ser Jarmen looked east, towards the rapidly-approaching darkness of night. "There is ambition enough amongst the evil men and women of this world to doom us all. However, when power is placed in the hands of the righteous, evil can be averted, and the better nature of men is encouraged."

"It 'appened nearby," muttered Tristifer of Oldstones, as he tried to warm his hands with the meager flame of their cookfire. Gyles considered the Riverman's words. The Butcher's Ball. A stunning victory for the forces of the Queen, and had permanently ended any threats that lay to the north of King's Landing, save Aemond the Kinslayer. I had thought the war nearly a foregone conclusion when I heard the news. Back then, the Usurper was missing, and the Queen's dragonriders dominated the skies. With the loss of another Green army, it appeared that all that was left for Rhaenyra to do was to subjugate the Reach and the Stormlands.

I had expected to march. With the Queen's dragons at their back, the forces amassed in King's Landing would have been more than enough to break the Queen's foes, and end the war for good and all. And yet all we did was sit, and allow yet another opportunity to be missed. The dragonriders Ulf White and Hugh Hammer had turned traitor not long after, destroying the most experienced army that the Queen had in the field, along with the town of Tumbleton. We have suffered misfortune after misfortune, Gyles thought with frustration. When will we have the chance to turn things around?

Joss Oat spat into the snow. "Ser Criston Cole is in the seventh 'Ell, where 'e belongs." The grizzled man-at-arms nodded up at the sky. "The Kinslayer will be next, Gods willin'."

Tristifer shrugged his shoulders at Joss' words. "Mayhaps. The only thing that I'm certain about is that Criston Cole was left dead and broken in the dirt, along with the rest o' his army." The freerider rubbed his nose. "Many o' the men of our army had wanted to cut off the Kingmaker's head, and carry it on a pike south with us." Tristifer shook his head. "The old northern lord convinced us otherwise. 'Leave 'im to rot,' he said, 'let the bastard's story end here, as a broken corpse in the dirt, just like any other.'"

Tristifer shrugged again. "Seems fittin' to me. For all his fame, Ser Criston ended his life no better than a simple farmer." Ser Tristifer stared darkly into the campfire. "Plenty o' those lyin' forgotten around the Realm, left to rot without a proper burial."

Gyles nodded at Tristifer's words. Plenty indeed. Men like Mors. He wondered what had become of his squire's body. Is it crowfood? Buried in a pit or burned on a pyre with hundreds of other corpses? Or thrown into the Blackwater, and carried out to sea? None of those possibilities made him feel any better about the fate of his loyal squire. Mors deserved better than that. Gyles grimaced. Mors deserved better than me.

Gyles watched as Ser Jarmen reached around the fire to place a hand on Tristifer of Oldstones' shoulder. "Their struggles are over," the old knight said kindly. "It is left to those of us still living to carry on. It may seem little consolation, but you must needs find some solace in that truth."

Ser Jarmen looked for a moment at Tristifer, then to Gyles, and then to Ser Horton. Does he see the ghosts that surround us all, and haunt us? The friends who followed us into our follies and died for it?

Ser Jarmen sighed, his breath misting in the air. "In the end, the decisions we make for ourselves are our own. The good and the bad, the victories and the defeats that we each experience in our lives. The only truly regrettable death is one that is directly caused by the mandate of another, in which one is robbed of the chance to determine their own fate."

Ser Jarmen regarded the crackling flame as he continued to speak, as small glowing specks of ash occasionally danced brightly into the winter night, before drifting to the snowy ground beyond to silently extinguish. "Our fates are ours to determine. Each choice, each decision, will in its own way lead us to the end of our lives, whenever and however it occurs." Ser Jarmen smiled kindly. "When we lose those who are close to us, it is too easy to ask ourselves what we did wrong, and for regret to sink its claws into our hearts and minds and consume us."

Though the world beyond him was cold and dark, Ser Jarmen's warm smile was easily seen in the fire's light. "If a person's life is freely lived, and the most important choices that they make are their own, what cause is there for grief beyond the initial pain of loss? A life lived on one's own terms is a life well-lived, I say."

Gyles nodded at Ser Jarmen's words. Mayhaps he is right. No-one ordered Mors to come along with me, he made that choice himself. At every twist and turn of our journey, he could have chosen to leave, yet he still stayed with me. Mors himself had told Gyles that his own luck had finally run out.

Gyles didn't fully agree with his loyal squire. My luck is now our luck, Mors. You used the last of yours to ensure that I didn't lose the last of mine. The road ahead was long, and dangerous. Ultimately, it was Gyles' choice to continue taking it. Gyles looked around the fire at his companions. Ser Jarmen, Tristifer of Oldstones, Ser Horton Cave, and Joss Oat. Where will the road lead us? There was no way to definitively answer such a question. And yet, thanks to the words of Ser Jarmen, Gyles now found an odd sense of peace within the depths of such uncertainty.

The palisade was wooden, and simple. Several thin plumes of smoke rising from behind it promised that whatever structure sat behind the wall was still inhabited. A short road branched off of the main one in the direction of a wooden gate that made up part of the palisade. In contrast, the main thoroughfare continued onward, spanning a bridge over a small ravine, and traveling into a forest that had been made relatively sparse due to the winter's cold.

Despite the reservations of the Lady Mysaria and several others, the decision was made to send several riders up to the palisade, and investigate who was currently staying within its confines. It is risky, but we have little choice. Our supplies are nearly exhausted, and this place is our best chance for finding more. Gyles watched as the walls of the palisade grew ever larger in his vision as he, Ser Willam Royce, and Ser Maric Massey approached it. Besides, any sentry on the wall worth his salt would have seen our party by now. There was no way we could have passed by this place unnoticed.

Above the gate, a soaked and ragged standard hung limply from a wooden pole that was secured on the portion of the palisade's walkway that ran above the gate. It depicted three golden cobs of corn, atop a field of wavy green and mud-brown stripes.

Two sentries stood on either side of the standard. One was thin enough to be a scarecrow, with straw-like yellow hair sticking haphazardly out from beneath a dented, conical metal cap. The other sentry was as fat as his fellow sentry was thin, with a bald head and a flushed face. As he tilted his face down further and further to regard the approaching horsemen, more and more chins seemed to appear over his neck.

"Who goes there?" called the scarecrow suspiciously.

Not to be outdone, his hefty comrade called out shortly after. "Friend or foe?" the fat man added with no small amount of consternation.

Ser Willam reined up his horse before the gate. "Friend," the knight said with a charming smile. "I am Ser Willam Royce, of Runestone," the Valemen continued courteously, "and I am accompanied by Ser Maric Massey of Stonedance, and Ser Gyles Yronwood of Yronwood."

"And what might your business at Corn Cob Hall be, Ser?" a new voice asked. A third man had appeared atop the palisade. The two sentries both quickly bobbed their heads in deference to the newcomer. Resting his hands on the edge of the palisade, the man leaned forward. He wore a shirt of mail, and above it, a doublet with a sigil that matched the standard above the gate. The lord of this place?

"Our party is traveling north," Ser Willam said cautiously. "And we need extra provisions for the road. We hoped that you could spare some. We are about the business of House Targaryen. Would this be possible, Ser…?" Ser Willam trailed off, expectantly awaiting an answer from the knight atop the palisade as to the nature of his identity.

"Ser Jaehaerys Corne," the knight atop the palisade stated evenly. "My uncle, Ser Roger, is the ruler of these lands. As his heir, I rule his lands in his stead while he is away." The man stopped to consider Ser Willam's words for a moment. "The business of House Targaryen, you say?" the knight inquired. "Are you men of Aegon or Rhaenyra?"

Ser Willam looked insulted at the mere suggestion of serving beneath the Usurper's banner. "The Queen of course!" the heir to Runestone answered.

For a moment, Ser Jaehaerys considered the knights arrayed before him in stony silence. A moment later, a cordial smile appeared on his face. "In that case," the knight began, "you and your party are welcome within my walls. Any friend of the Queen is a friend of House Corne!"

Gyles felt a sense of relief. Thank the Gods. Anywhere is better than the cold of the road. Mayhaps we'll even get a real meal for the nonce! Something about Ser Jaehaerys' overly warm reception felt a little peculiar to Gyles, but he disregarded the feeling. It's just my frozen nerves. The warmth of a fire will do wonders for us all. Turning their mounts around, Gyles, Ser Willam, and Ser Maric began to make their way back to the party to deliver the fortuitous news.

Though it was simple fare, warm barley bread had never tasted so good to Gyles. The main hall of House Corne's seat made up most of the structure of the main building. With the exception of a few outbuildings, a small forge, and a stable, little and less was contained within the wooden palisade's confines. The main table, which sat slightly elevated above the rest of the tables in the hall, was spacious enough to accomodate Ser Jaehaerys Corne and all the members of the party. As the meal drew to its close, many of the smallfolk who had eaten their meals at lower tables in the hall had already left, filtering away to other sections of the main building, or out of the hall's doors into the night beyond.

The members of the party and Ser Jaehaerys had been joined at the high table by four additional knights and a squire, who had already been under the employ of Ser Jaehaerys. Though Gyles knew nothing of the man, Ser Janos of Sour Hill was apparently a tourney knight of some note in the Crownlands, Riverlands, and Stormlands. The middle-aged knight was accompanied by his four sons, of which the three eldest, Ser Donnel, Ser Wyman, and Ser Elys, were already newly-made knights themselves. The youngest son, Samgood, squired for his father and brothers. As Ser Jaehaerys explained it, Ser Janos and his sons had spent the majority of the war within the walls of Corn Cob Hall, helping to protect it while war raged not far beyond its walls.

Beyond the barley bread, some hearty stew was consumed, along with a roast pig and several chickens. Ser Jaehaerys' smallfolk had also eaten well. While some of the smallfolk had torn into their food with abandon, others only picked at their food as though they barely had an appetite at all. The whole situation still felt very odd to Gyles. Not overtly threatening, but exceedingly strange.

Such oddities had not been missed by Ser Torrhen Manderly either. "Surely, Ser," the northern knight began in a courteous tone, "feasts of this magnitude are not possible in order to have enough provisions to survive the winter?"

Ser Jaehaerys paused for a moment, and a small grimace flitted across his face before it returned to a relatively passive expression. "You are correct, Ser," the heir to Corn Cob Hall responded. "But I mean to keep my smallfolk in high spirits. I fear that there will be little occasion for joy in the coming days." Ser Jaehaerys looked out across the hall, watching as a few quiet servants walked amongst the lower tables, clearing the detritus of the night's meal from their surfaces. There was a slightly distant look in his eye, and Gyles had seen its like before. It is the look of a person who is remembering better days. Days gone by, that are ne'er to return.

For a moment, there was naught but silence amongst those who sat at the high table. Before anyone could ask Ser Jaehaerys to elaborate further, the knight of House Corne continued to speak: "This seat will be attacked soon. I'm certain of it. Tomorrow, in two days, mayhaps three. But soon."

Gyles sat for a moment in confusion. By whom? If House Corne supports the Queen, then what Green force could be anywhere near enough to attack so soon? After the Fishfeed and the Butcher's Ball, the Usurper has few men to rely upon north of his capital.

"Who means to attack you, Ser?" asked Ser Morgon Banefort, the former squire of the Lord Commander of the Queensguard.

"Rabble," was Ser Jaehaerys' response. The knight's expression twisted into a bitter frown. "Nay, worse than that. Bandits, and thieves. Those who have chosen to take their plunder from those who already have little and less." The heir to Corn Cob Hall shook his head. "Men who marched with armies that no longer exist, under banners that no longer fly."

Gyles looked around the table. The faces of the men that sat around it ranged from anger, to consternation, and even surprise. "Surely, such rabble can be readily turned aside!" exclaimed Captain Balon Byrch of the Gold Cloaks.

Ser Jaehaerys nodded slightly. "Mayhaps," the knight muttered. "As I understand, these brigands all answer to the same robber knight. A godless scoundrel by the name of Bryard Bones." Ser Jaehaerys waved a hand in the direction of the great hall's exit, and the outside world beyond. "A roving band of them approached our walls recently, making outrageous demands. Far more than we were able to give." The knight's fist clenched on the tabletop. "Nay, far more than we were willing to give to those carrion!"

The knight of House Corne sighed. "They promised vengeance, and blood. They will return, I'm sure of it. From the amount of men I was able to observe from atop the gate, I have little doubt that me and mine are outnumbered. As well, my smallfolk are largely untrained. Nearly any man that could fight, much less hold a weapon properly, already marched south with my uncle Roger to defend the Queen's rights."

Ser Jaehaerys pressed a hand to his furrowed brow, with a despondent expression upon his face. "I have sent ravens to the other landed knights and lords whose lands abut my own. There has been no response. Though I hate to think in such a way, I can only fear the worst. The other landed knights and petty lords' lands are as modest in size as mine, and similarly as weak in manpower. I fear that those who live to the north have already been forced to submit to these bandits, or worse. Those to the South have already been ravaged by the soldiers of whichever monarch they chose to throw their support against." Ser Jaehaerys' tone had grown almost despondent. "There will be no outside help, no aid. Our only hope is to hold the walls against the bandits."

The heir to Corn Cob Hall looked around the table's occupants. "With Ser Janos and his sons, me and mine stand a chance against these brigands. With the help of your party… Well, needless to say, our chances would be much better."

Gyles frowned. I feared that he would ask for such a boon. We already have a mission. Who will get the crucial information that we carry to the Queen's forces further to the north if we are all slaughtered by a band of vagabonds? The table was silent. Amongst its occupants, there were clearly several individuals who wished to speak up, but temporarily held their tongues.

Ser Jaehaerys Corne gave his new guests a curt nod. "Please," the knight began, "make use of this hall, if you have matters that you must needs discuss. I fully appreciate the magnitude of the boon which I am asking of you all." Standing, he began making his way further back in the hall, in the direction of a small set of double doors. "If you should choose to leave, we will not impede you. But be warned. The road ahead is long, and fraught with danger." Ser Jaehaerys shook his head bitterly. "It is in the winter's cold that we must all reap what this war has sown."

It surprised Gyles little and less that the Lady Mysaria was the first member of the party to speak in vehement defiance of the idea of remaining and helping to fight the approaching bandits. "This is not our fight," the Queen's Mistress of Whispers hissed angrily. "The brigands that Ser Jaehaerys described allowed him the opportunity to reach an accord with them. He claims that the price was too steep." Lady Misery frowned. "Methinks it was not what the bandits demanded that proved too much, but rather Ser Jaehaerys' own pride."

She jabbed a finger angrily against the tabletop for emphasis. "We all serve the Queen Rhaenyra, and we must needs consider what is truly best for her cause. Any action that could likely prevent us from reaching our ultimate goal is one that should be avoided. Ser Jaehaerys is responsible for the livelihoods of himself and his smallfolk. He made his choice, and the consequences of such a decision are not ours to bear!"

Captain Garth nodded silently in agreement with Mysaria's words, as well as Ser Harmon of the Reeds and Ser Maric Massey. Much and more of the party, however, seemed unconvinced. Ser Torrhen looked torn, and the stout knight chewed on his lower lip as he considered the situation the party faced. Gyles sympathized with the Manderly knight's indecision. Methinks that most of us realize that the best decision is to leave, as the Lady Mysaria suggests. However, such truths remain ugly no matter how one tries to justify them. Ser Jaehaerys took us beneath his roof, and fed us. What kind of knights would we be to leave him and his smallfolk in their hour of need?

Stifling a cough, Ser Jarmen stood. "I must disagree with you, Lady Mysaria. Methinks that this fight has everything to do with the Queen Rhaenyra, and the good of her cause. We abandoned King's Landing, for we all understand that there was little and less that we could do for the Queen and her cause there." Ser Jarmen swung his right arm wide, gesturing widely at the hall about him. "That is not the reality here. By staying and helping Ser Jaehaerys and his smallfolk fight off these bandits, we can, and should, make a difference here."

Ser Jarmen was silent for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. "Many of you know me as a man of honor. I have done the best that I can throughout my long life to earn such a reputation, and uphold it." The aged knight smiled sadly. "I have heard it said that such ideals make for good songs and stories, but not for good soldiers, or victories. They would say that while it is honorable to stay and fight, it is not wise. What good does staying and fighting do for the Queen's cause?"

Ser Jarmen smiled. There was a strength to the smile, indicative of the conviction that burned within the ancient man's grey and wiry frame. "Ser Jaehaerys and his smallfolk are the Queen's people, as we all are. The foes of the Queen's people are her enemies as well. If we will not defend her cause here, then for what reason do we all continue to ride north?"

Ser Jarmen looked around the table, into the eyes of each and every member of the party. "We all bent the knee to the Queen, and we all swore her vows of fealty. We've all made good on these self-same vows before. Now is our chance to prove our devotion to her cause." For scarcely over a minute, the table was silent as each and every member of the party considered Ser Jarmen's words.

After a moment, Ser Rayford Lothston stood with a nod. "Right, then," the red-haired knight said simply. "We stay and fight. Any who will not stay and defend this seat are free to leave, and continue north. But you will ride alone." The former captain of the guard at the Red Keep nodded at Ser Jarmen. "Let us fetch Ser Jaehaerys. We must needs prepare for when these bandits come."

As Ser Rayford exited the hall to fetch its master, Gyles sat for a moment in contemplation. Many of the other members of the party got to their feet, and made to follow Ser Rayford out of the hall. Accompanied as she always was by her silent Lysene sellsword, Lady Mysaria sat in stony silence, but said no more.

Gyles couldn't help but grin. May the Seven bless you, Ser Jarmen, Gyles thought with growing mirth. For methinks even they are in awe of you.

Gyles heard the approach of the bandits before he saw them. They approached on foot, and the clanking of their weapons and armor was unmistakable over the mournful whistle of the winter winds. Crouched in the ravine that was situated slightly to the north of Corn Cob Hall, Gyles waited in silence. Though dawn had recently broken, the rising sun on the eastern horizon still left much of the world in shadow. Tristifer was right.

As the party's best tracker, the Riverman had spent the past two days taking turns with Gyles watching the northern road through the forest for the bandits' approach. It had been Tristifer who had finally seen them, and rode back in haste to warn the defenders of House Corne's seat. Half of the party remained within the keep's wooden walls, mounted on their horses and hidden from view.

Under the leadership of Ser Rayford Lothston, Gyles and the other half of the party had slipped out of a postern gate on foot and descended into the ravine that abutted Corn Cob Hall's northern wall. Traveling west along the ravine, they took up positions beneath the sizable old stone bridge that spanned it. Thanks to the winter's cold, the large stream that normally ran along the bottom of the ravine had become a solid, albeit slightly slippery path to walk upon.

An ambush. The brigands expected their foes to be frightened smallfolk, with very few knights and true warriors to stiffen their ranks. A mistake that they will dearly pay for, Gyles thought grimly. Small streams of dust trickled down upon Gyles and his comrades as the bandits tramped across the bridge above them. Gyles noticed that Ser Jarmen had covered his mouth with his kerchief, so that the trickling streams of dust would not bring about a bout of his relentless cough.

They didn't even bother to send scouts ahead of their main force. Gyles shook his head. Though they had once been soldiers beneath the banner of one lord or another, the bandits had little mind for tactics or strategy. They think only of plunder, and rape. Like carrion crows that picked scraps from the corpses of a battlefield, bandits picked from the scraps that wars left in their wake. When all the lords, knights, and soldiers are dead, who will protect their people? Gyles frowned. No one. And with time, the farmers, their wives, and children will be dead too. From sword and flame, or from an empty belly, as the cowards and cutthroats steal their last scraps of bread.

Gyles' fist clenched. These brigands have grown complacent. Easy victory after easy victory has made them unwary. As the thumping footsteps grew more distant, Gyles began to ease his sword quietly within its scabbard. They'll pay.

Gingerly, Gyles began to crawl up the ravine's southern slope, in the shadow of the bridge. Digging his mailed fists into the freshly fallen snow and the rotting forest detritus beneath it, Gyles crawled further and further upward. The pungent aroma of the chilled forest floor filled Gyles' nostrils, all wet mold and dead leaves. Near the crest of the ravine's slope, Gyles waited a moment. He listened as the heavy footsteps grew more and more distant as the bandits approached Corn Cob Hall's main gate.

The bandits even chose the time of their attack poorly, Gyles mused. As they approached the keep's main gate from the east, the rising sun would be in their eyes. Fools. Gyles pulled his sword the rest of the way out of its scabbard, clutching it tightly in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his face from the dirt and snow of the slope and peered above the edge of the ravine.

Atop the gate, Ser Jaehaerys stood proudly in his full plate armor, beneath the banner bearing the sigil of his House. "Leave now, knaves!" Ser Jaehaerys called menacingly, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "I will offer you succor but once!"

In response to the knight of House Corne's words, a rumbling, menacing laugh burst forth from the sizeable horde of men arrayed before the gate of Corn Cob Hall. A particularly burly and large brigand stepped forward, still chuckling darkly. "Thankee, Ser! I haven't had a good fucking laugh like that'n in some time!" the man bellowed. "Methinks I'll reward you. Mayhaps I'll kill ya first, so's ya don't have to watch us make an example of yer keep and people."

The bandit chuckled mockingly. "You and yours can't hope to defeat us. Go on, Ser, and open yer gates." The brigand's next statement was devoid of mirth, and full of cold intent. "The longer it takes for us ta get in, the longer you and yours are going to suffer."

Ser Jaehaerys stared coldly down at the bandits before him. "So be it," the knight said. "Open the gates."

The timber gates swung inwards, and a column of mounted warriors surged forward through them with the crashing, clattering rumble of roaring thunder. For a moment, the bandits stood still, confused by the sudden change of events. Then the killing started. The large bandit, the one that had shouted at Ser Jaehaerys, collapsed in a bloody heap as a vicious swing of Ser Morgon Banefort's flail reduced his head to shattered chunks of bone and brain.

To their credit, most of the bandits came to their senses after only a few moments of dumbfounded indecision as their fellows were hewn down around them. Shouting, they attempted to tighten ranks and fight back as the mounted column wheeled around for another attack. With Ser Jaehaerys at their head, a group of screaming smallfolk charged forth from the gate as well, clutching whatever weapons or sharp farming implements that they thought to use. The bandits fought like cornered animals, trying desperately to regain the initiative.

By the time Gyles and the rest of the party attacked them from behind, it was far too late. The first bandit to see the ambush turned to regard Gyles and his comrades just a moment too late. As he opened his mouth to shout a warning, Gyles forced the point of his sword through the bandit's neck. Rather than a shout, only a stream of frothy red blood poured forth from the man's lips. With a vicious tug, Gyles wrenched his sword free of the bandit's neck and turned to face another attacker.

This bandit wielded a sword, and wasted little time in swinging it in a vicious overhead swing, slightly angled so as to cut into Gyles' neck. Gyles knocked the attack aside with his shield, and riposted with a quick forward jab. However, this bandit was no novice fighter, and wore only a tattered cloak and leathers, allowing for much quicker movement. He leapt to the side, avoiding Gyles' attack entirely.

As men fought and died around them, Gyles and the bandit paced in a small semicircle before each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. The bandit was breathing heavily, and his eyes were wide with anticipation. Gyles was close enough to the brigand that he could see the frozen snot in his beard. He's too fast, Gyles thought with frustration. He sees my moves and reacts to them before I've even fully made them.

Then the solution came to him. With a swift kick, Gyles sent a clod of dirty snow into the bandit's face. Cursing and stumbling backwards, the bandit flailed his sword desperately in front of himself as he tried to wipe the snow from his eyes. Gyles was not a man to miss an opportunity, however, and struck low with a wide slash as he used his shield to deflect the brigand's sword.

The bandit fell to his knees as his innards spilled forth into the trampled, sludgy snow of the battlefield. In the cold, Gyles could see steam rising from them as the man dumbfoundedly grabbed at his guts with increasingly erratic movements, trying desperately to force them back into his belly. Gyles left him there as he turned to face yet another foe.

This brigand was big, burly, and carried a large two-handed axe. In a moment, Gyles realized that he was in danger. His reach is too long. If I allow him to attack first, I'll never get a swing in edgewise. Without wasting another moment, Gyles sprinted forward at the man, leading with his rounded shield.

The man tried to attack, but the hasty swing only scraped halfheartedly for a moment on the rim of Gyles' shield before he slammed into the bandit, knocking them both to the ground. They both rolled and tumbled in the freezing snow for a moment, trying to extricate themselves from the other. Gyles yanked his left arm free from the arm straps of his shield, in order to move more quickly. Scrabbling to his feet, Gyles spent a breathless moment searching for his sword on the ground. After a moment, his fist closed around its hilt, and Gyles turned and swung his sword at the bandit, more out of instinct than any sort of formal training.

However, he swung truly, for his sword sliced cleanly into the bandit's neck as he attempted to pull a dirk from his belt, crouched on one knee. As blood sprayed forth from the wound, the bandit fell face-first into the snow without another sound.

Breathing heavily, Gyles looked up. About ten feet away was a brigand, and in his hands was an ornate crossbow. A Myrish crossbow. Was he originally a mercenary? The errant thought suddenly meant little and less as Gyles realized that the crossbow was aimed at him. He went to raise his shield, only to realize that he'd discarded it only moments before. With such a short distance between them, Gyles knew that the crossbow bolt would punch through his armor like a knife through silk.

Gyles had heard that when a person was about to die, their life flashed before their eyes. For him, it wasn't so. His mind was blank with startlement, and sudden fear. In the moment before the crossbowman fired, Gyles took in a final, ragged breath. Shit.

The bolt whistled forth, and punched deep. It took Gyles a moment to realize that it had not struck him, however. Ser Jarmen Follard fell to one knee, pressing the point of his sword into the ground and leaning against its hilt for support. Ahead of them both, the crossbowman was quickly cut down by Ser Horton, yelling wildly.

Dropping his sword, Gyles rushed forward and caught the aged knight before he collapsed into the snow. A quick glance showed that Ser Jarmen's shield had been nearly hacked to kindling on his shield arm, rendering it useless.

"Truly, Ser, I am in your debt!" Gyles exclaimed breathlessly. He examined Ser Jarmen, hoping that the bolt had not struck him in a way that would prove worse than a flesh wound. With growing dismay, Gyles realized that the bolt had struck deep into Ser Jarmen's upper breastplate, above his left breast. His heart.

"Ser Jarmen?" Gyles asked, with a growing sense of dread. Clutching the visor of the elderly knight's helm, Gyles lifted it, and looked upon his face. Ser Jarmen's face was calm, nearly completely serene in countenance. The old knight did not hear the sounds of battle dying down around him, nor see the last of the bandits being hewn down by the victors.

Ser Jarmen had died before Gyles reached his side.

Chapter Text

Maris II

The city of King's Landing had changed much since she had last laid eyes upon it. Where once the streets had bustled with merchants, smallfolk, nobility, and royal officials, they now lay empty, except for small parties of denizens that seemed to dart this way and that, eager to avoid attention. While the grey skies of winter had abated, revealing a cool, bright blue sky, cold winds still blew from the North. Her father's army had reached the Blackwater Rush days ago, and it had taken a considerable effort to convey its forces across the river. Many of the vessels that usually made the capital their port of call were noticeably absent. It had not taken long to realize that few boats still were docked at the docks and quays. The Seahorse's Bastard has made certain of that. Trade that was normally the city's lifeblood had been all but choked off. Maris wasn't certain, but she would wager that much of the traffic that normally made its way across the Narrow Sea to King's Landing or Duskendale was instead being directed to offload at Spicetown or Hull. The Velaryons likely grow ever richer whilst they maintain this blockade. She expected that the only way the King had been able to return to the capital was by virtue of his dragon.

With the absence of so many ships, it had been up to the fishing boats and other small river craft of the city to transport the Baratheon host across the Blackwater Rush. The process had been agonisingly slow, and Maris had not failed to observe how many of her father's knights had kept their eyes trained on the skies to the North, watching warily for any sign of the Three Bastards or their mounts. Eventually, however, the process was completed, and her father's army had assembled and made camp outside the walls of the city whilst they communicated with the King's representatives regarding their entry and where they would be housed. According to the representatives, a riot had engulfed the city in the last days of the Pretender's rule. While the rabble had looted much of the city, and destroyed what little commerce still had occurred within its walls, they had also killed many of the wealthier residents of the city, freeing their scarred but still-standing manses for occupation. Many of the smallfolk had also fled the city, believing an attack by dragonriders to be imminent. The flight or destruction of much of the city's people may have robbed it of much of its wealth, but it has also provided winter quarters for my father's army. Maris had frowned as she glanced at the barren fields and leafless forests that surrounded the capital for miles. It has also reduced the number of mouths to feed.

Once the deliberations regarding the Stormlanders' entrance had been settled, the great host had assembled once more, prepared for its triumphant entrance into the capital. The battered Rivergate had opened before them, and as they entered, Maris could not help but wonder at the pathetic state the capital had now found itself in. What had once been a fishmonger's square was largely deserted, and many of the buildings that had surrounded the square had been gutted by flame. The interiors of the city's great walls were caked with hardened ash, a muted memory of the great flames that had clearly run amok not too long ago. The square itself, along with its cobblestones and burned detritus, sported many patches of what appeared to be dried blood. The city beyond looked to be in a similar state, with even the surviving buildings bearing marks of devastation that were highlighted all the more clearly against the stark blue winter sky.

Her father had requested that Maris and her sisters accompany him on horseback for their grand entrance into the city, and as they rode, Maris watched as his deep blue eyes scanned the wreckage from beneath his black plate. Her father had left his visor open, so as to see and speak with greater ease, and the shock of the city's state registered clearly on his face. All about her, her sisters peered out from under black cloaks in shock. It is a small mercy that the Princess Jaehaera was kept in the wheelhouse alongside Ser Willis Fell. While she is too young to comprehend all of the details of the destruction, the sight of it would likely upset her greatly. The passage of so many horses and men stirred up the dust and ash that rested beneath them, and soon a light grey miasma floated eerily all about them. At evenly spaced intervals, what appeared to be Reachmen men-at-arms and sworn swords stood at attention, marking their path along the main thoroughfare leading from the River Gate to the square that lay at the city's center. The three hills that defined the city of King's Landing rose all about them, and Maris could make out the manses and other wealthy establishments atop Visenya's Hill, the looming and formidable Dragonpit atop the Hill of Rhaenys, and the Red Keep itself standing defiantly atop Aegon's High Hill to the east. As she stared at the vast fortress that served as the King's residence, a golden glint caught her eye, rising above the red towers and keeps. The huge, beautiful golden form was unmistakably that of a dragon, and its roar sounded down the streets and wynds of the capital, echoing off of cobblestones and reverberating in her ears. The procession of the army, which until this point had been quite muted and dour, quickly began to be filled with the delighted shouts of its knights, who turned and pointed, lifting their visors and excitedly gesturing to their comrades at the magnificent beast that had begun to circle above the city.

Sunfyre. Even the cynical Maris had to allow herself a grin. The dragon truly was gorgeous. The cool winter sunlight shone on its scales, and in return they gleamed like beaten gold. The King circled the capital once more, before urging his mount into a dive. He flew directly over their procession, causing winds to whip about their heads as the massive dragon passed above them. For a brief moment, Maris could see the pale pink skin that made up the majority of the dragon's wings above her, before it soared once more into the air. By this point, the entire army was cheering, from the levied smallfolk to the greatest lords. The golden beast that flew above them did much to restore their spirits, and their cries seemed to push the overwhelming deathly silence of the city away. While Maris had heard that the King's dragon had been wounded in an earlier fight with the Princess Rhaenys, it appeared that his wounds had healed, with one wing at only a slightly crooked angle betraying its former misfortunes.

Shouts of "the King!" and "Hail Aegon!" had grown deafening all about her, and even her father could not resist adding his voice to the throng. Maris herself was so taken aback by the spectacle that it took her a moment to realize that there was something most definitely missing from it. Where is the Queen? Where is Dreamfyre? As she looked all about her, only Sunfyre soared above them. No other dragons rose to meet it. Maris suppressed a grimace. It appears the King is the only dragonrider we can count upon. Pushing her misgivings as far from her mind as she could, Maris watched the King and his dragon circle above. In time, the procession reached the center of the city. A wooden structure had been hastily erected before them, and atop it sat several Lords, their banners hanging behind their backs. Maris recognised the personal golden three-headed dragon banner of the King, the Tower crowned with flame of the Hightowers, and the three castles of the Peakes. Additionally, the roaring golden lion of the Lannisters whipped proudly in the breeze, alongside the red, green and blue stripes of House Strong.

Maris and her family urged their mounts to halt before the platform, and for a moment the only sound that could be heard was the rhythmic beat of the army filing in behind them. A powerful gust of wind buffeted the square as Sunfyre landed and the King climbed slowly, and gingerly, off of its back. A knight in a white cloak made to help him ascend the platform, but the King motioned for him to allow him to climb it alone. Aegon climbed the wooden steps shakily, but alone, and with each step he seemed slightly more assured of his footing. When he reached the top of the steps, he moved to the center of the platform, and stood as straight as his recovering form could muster. Drawing what could only be Blackfyre, he rose it above his head, to the cheers of those assembled, before planting it firmly in the wood of the platform, to assist him in maintaining his form upright.

While he wore the ornate black plate Maris had come to associate with the Royal Dynasty, it was still possible to make out the burn scars that were rumored to cover half of his body, and the wrinkled and marred flesh of his neck that extended onto half his face left him with a permanent scowl upon half of his visage. Taking a deep breath, he began to speak, projecting his voice as best he could across the square to those assembled.

"My Lords, I thank you from the depths of my heart for assembling and riding to my aid. Your arrival is in the midst of a most auspicious time for our cause. With the swords of the Stormlords at my back, I am confident that we have the strength to overwhelm whatever shattered remnants of the Pretender's forces remain, regardless of whether they are backed by bastards atop dragons or savage Northmen from beyond the Neck. Before me stand some of the finest knights that Westeros can muster, hardened by constant conflict with the faithless Dornish and with hearts that shall not falter in the face of any foe!" He paused, his face twisting in a gruesome smile while the assembled chivalry of the Stormlords roared before him. As the din subsided, he began again. "My false half-sister is gone; the justice she evaded for so long finally overtook her. Even now, the war moves ever onwards towards its conclusion, and a new dawn awaits. Together, we will march onward, with that light and hope at our backs!"

Hundreds of swords rasped as they were drawn from their scabbards. Cheers rang out deafeningly through the square. On the stage behind him, the Lords of Aegon's Small Council clapped with approval, none more so than his mother. She remains radiant, despite her age and her childbirths, thought Maris. The Dowager Queen smiled with the savage pride that only a mother could feel as her son rose Blackfyre once more above his head, relishing the roar of the host before him. The King might be bent, but he seems unbroken. The capital was growing more interesting by the minute, Maris thought to herself.

The aftermath of the speech had given way to a whirlwind of activity, as her father had been invited to come directly to the Red Keep to establish his household within. While the King had already appointed the ancient Ser Hobert Hightower his Hand, her father gracefully accepted the offer to become the Protector of the Realm. They had been given spacious apartments, located in what had once been the kitchens of the Red Keep during the reign of the Kings Maegor and Jaehaerys. While the grandeur of their accommodations left no impression that they had once been the abode of servants, Maris could tell that her father had bristled at their lodgings nonetheless. As they had made their way to them, she did not miss the longing look her father cast at the Tower of the Hand, which was just visible over the high walls of the inner courtyard at the tall, square structure of Maegor's Holdfast. Personally, Maris had nothing against their lodgings. The finery was at the very least equal to what could be expected from Storm's End. Myrish rugs adorned the floors, and beautiful tapestries lined the walls. There was a solar, a grand bedchamber for her father, a bath, a dressing chamber, and smaller, adjoining chambers that could be used by Maris and her sisters for the duration of their stay. The rooms below that had once made up the kitchens had been remodeled and furnished so as to house the many servants and sworn swords that her father had brought along with them.

Ser Genrick had personally escorted their luggage from where it had been transported to their quarters, and Maris had begun to unpack her belongings from the journey in her room when Cassandra entered, a look of excitement on her face.

"The Dowager Queen has sent invitations requesting our presence in her Ladies court. We are to attend her on the morrow."

Maris nodded, thinking. She did not find herself as eager to meet the Dowager Queen as her sister. To the Lady Alicent, we are not guests, but rivals. I expect she has already surmised our purpose here. For a moment, she almost pitied Cassandra and her eagerness. The feeling subsided the moment she observed the triumphant look in her sister's eyes. She already is envisioning herself as Queen. But with such pretensions, she only endangers herself. She would not be the first woman to harbor such pretensions within these halls, not even the first this year.

Maris nodded. "Her invitations were to be expected, I suppose. We obviously must accept."

Cassandra pouted. "Obviously. Honestly, Maris. At times I wonder why you even chose to come to the capital if that is the sort of enthusiasm you are capable of mustering."

Maris shook her head. "The capital is fascinating, sister. I am simply less eager to be entering the lists against a more seasoned jouster."

Her sister huffed, and left without another word. Maris returned to folding her dresses. Oddly, she found her thoughts drawn to the Princess Jaehaera, who had been spirited away the moment that they had crossed the Red Keep's barbican. Ser Willis Fell had left without a word, quietly guiding the small Princess by hand towards Maegor's holdfast. Her wide, lilac eyes had threatened tears in the midst of all of the commotion, and the sight of the keeps and towers all about her seemed to evoke a sense of deep, existential terror. In conveying her to her home, we also returned her to the place of her nightmares. As she unfolded a dress, Maris could not help but wonder what role the Princess could possibly play in the coming weeks. While some may wish to proclaim her as heir, the King's very legitimacy rests on his sex. Jaehaera's claim to the throne is rendered invalid by the same decrees that rendered Rhaenyra's claims moot. By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, the Pretender's eldest living son is the King's heir. His most valuable hostage is currently his presumptive successor. It was clear to Maris that while it may not be an open topic of discussion, the matter of the succession weighed heavily upon the Royal court. The King must needs sire a male heir, and soon at that. Otherwise the war will have been for naught. Maris had serious doubts that the Royal Consort was in any state to have a child, however. If she cannot fly, it seems unlikely that she ought to be bedded.

Laying a gown gingerly in one of the trunks within her quarters, Maris heard footsteps stop outside her room. Turning, she saw Elyn and Floris standing outside, uncertain.

"Cassandra has already left, but we thought you might wish to accompany us to the Throne Room. Apparently there is quite a commotion occurring within. Someone important has arrived."

Maris raised an eyebrow. Gathering the folds of her dress in her hands, she nodded. "We'd best be off, then."

Their journey took them out of their quarters, past the servants who bustled about

unpacking and settling in, past the household knights who stood at attention, and into the outer courtyard itself, where knights and courtly attendants were scrambling towards the massive bronze-adorned doors of the throne room. Hurriedly making their way inside, Maris led her sisters through the throng, only stopping once they reached the edge of the crowd that hovered amongst the pillars that ran along the edges of the carpeted path leading to the Iron Throne itself. The King was seated high atop the mountain of twisted metal, Blackfyre resting across his lap. Below him sat the Dowager Queen and the Hand, seated in finely carved wooden chairs that had been placed atop the same massive dais that supported Aegon's seat.

Before the throne knelt two men whose battered armor bore the scars of many battles. White hair, filthy and unwashed, hung uncombed and grey down past their shoulders. Holding their helms in their hands, Maris studied their tabards with interest. The silk they were wrought of appeared to have once been composed of vibrant sea green and shining silver, but was now faded. Their raiment now sported the heraldry of battle, its colors the light brown of old mud and the faded copper of dried blood. After being bid by the King to rise, the two stood in unison, revealing faces gaunt with hunger. Deep blue eyes, almost purple, peered from above aquiline noses, flicking from those seated at the base of the throne to the man atop it. After a moment of silence, the King spoke.

"The Seven have indeed blessed us on this day, for they have returned men from the grip of death!" Standing from atop the mountain of fused iron, Aegon smiled. "When we received no word from Rook's Rest, we assumed the garrison left by Lord Commander Cole had been annihilated. That estimate clearly failed to take into account the heroism of the two before me."

In unison, the men nodded in thanks to their sovereign. One, clearly overcome with emotion made as if to speak, but only a low gurgle emerged from his lips. Cringing with both embarrassment and the kind of anger that only accompanies old injustices, he clutched his hands tightly at his sides. As if summoned, a man emerged from those assembled all around them to stand by their side. Bowing low to the King, he removed his dented pot helm in order to speak clearly.

"My liege, you were correct to praise the bravery of these two men. I have had the distinct honor to have served with them since we departed for Duskendale in the company of Lord Commander Cole and your own esteemed brother Prince Aemond. They and their brothers served your cause with the utmost distinction. The eldest, Aethan, fell taking Duskendale. While we defended Rook's Rest from the forces of the Pretender, Jorgen took a mortal wound. We have not heard from Monterys since he departed with the Lord Commander. But I can personally attest that the brothers before you, Malentine and Rhogar, have been stalwart swords for the months we have spent in hiding. I owe my very life to them, and speak here in their stead, for they no longer have the tongues to do so themselves."

The King listened to the man speak, before asking a question of his own: "And who might you be, Ser?"

The man bowed once more. "I am called Ser Hugh of Pennyford, your Grace. I had the distinction of being a member of the garrison of Rook's Rest, and a traveling knight before that."

Aegon's face twisted once more into a brutal imitation of a smile. "Well, Ser Hugh, I am most pleased of your service, and of the return of two loyal sons of House Velaryon. We must needs speak soon regarding proper places for all of you in my court. Brave men and steady loyalties are hard to come by in these trying times. I would see you all properly rewarded for your sacrifices."

With that, the King motioned for the hall to be cleared of its occupants. Maris followed Elyn and Floris as they wove their way through the throng of former onlookers out into the cold evening air. Sers Malentine and Rhogar. The names are familiar to me. Maris remembered. The last King had their tongues removed for questioning the paternity of the Pretender's eldest three sons. She wondered if news of the Pretender's death, along with that of her sons, was suitable recompense for five tongues and three brothers.

The rest of the evening had been uneventful, and the morning after was equally quiet. Maris and her sisters broke their fast on freshly baked bread, still hot from the oven and slathered with butter and honey. Fruits had also been made available, dried in preparation for winter storage. The apples served were sweet, tasting ever so faintly of bygone summer years. As Maris chose a peach to eat, her father entered the room, seating himself at the head of the table and ordering a bowl of honeyed porridge. He smiled at each of his daughters, before beginning to speak.

"I trust that each of you will wear your best for the Dowager Queen? Each of you must be an exquisite example of Baratheon perfection to the ladies of the court." He sighed. "Would that I could see you off in your finery."

Cassandra looked concernedly at their father. "What are your duties today, father?"

Borros' face grew more serious. "Parts of the capital remain unpacified even now. Until my arrival, the King simply lacked the requisite forces to bring order to the streets. With the help of my Lords he aims to correct the problem for good." Taking a bite of his porridge, he continued. "It will be my responsibility as Lord Protector to oversee the city's pacification by directing my lords and their levies to individual streets or squares. Ideally, we can put an end to the looting and lawlessness that still pervades the alleys and wynds of the city, as well as find quarters to house the men who've marched north with us. I have been granted permission by the King himself to house my men in whatever homes remain unscarred, including those who still have occupants." He chortled. "It will do the rabble some good. They've long since forgotten their duties to the realm. If my men have to remind them, so be it."

Maris finished chewing a particularly big bite. "Father, have you been able to secure any posts for your Lords amongst the King's servants or advisors? Who sits the Small Council?"

Borros studied her, clearly surprised by the political nature of her inquiry. The muscles in his jaw tensed slightly, suggesting that this was a topic he was not elated to discuss. "The most important seats have all been filled by those damnable Reachmen. Aside from the title they've offered me, the Small Council itself has been filled." His blue eyes twinkled. "I have requested, however, that Ser Steffon Connington be made Master-at-arms of the Red Keep. With his temper, he'll be sure to make fine warriors out of Aegon's future sons. Additionally, Lord Bryndemere of Tarth has requested that I allow for him to be made Commander of the City Watch whilst we remain in the capital. While only a hundred or so Gold Cloaks remain, he ensures me that he will find ways to bolster their ranks once more." Her father's eyes rested on her for a moment as he discussed the Lord of Tarth, before returning to his porridge.

Lord Bryndemere is certainly already finding ways of keeping his ears to the ground. His appointment will suit father well, as it will ensure his total control over the city's defences. Maris suppressed a smile. I am certain that father views this as a well-earned victory over the influence of the Reach Lords, and he is correct to see it as such. They are likely smarting over such a development.

Scraping the last of his oatmeal from his bowl, her father ran a hand through his thick black beard to clear it of any remnants of his breakfast. Standing, he left their company after wishing them a fine day. His squire, a pimply Penrose boy, appeared suddenly from behind one of the alcoves to assist him in donning his armor for the day's tasks.

Soon after, Cassandra rose, unable to contain her excitement for the day's events any longer. Each of Maris' sisters left to find appropriate dress for attending the Dowager Queen. Maris herself chose a high-necked gown, its long sleeves sewn with magnificent golden stags. We shall all have to be most careful today. From what little I have heard, the Dowager Queen has spent years climbing the rungs of power at court. She will be watching the four of us carefully for any threats to her ascendancy… or that of the Queen, her daughter. Despite her considerable misgivings, Maris could not help but be excited. To be so close to the beating heart of Westeros' monarchy was a heady sensation indeed. Power flowed freely in these halls, and a well-placed word or idea could have realm-wide ramifications. While Maris knew that the Dowager Queen was in all likelihood to be her adversary, she could not help but have a healthy respect for the woman who had managed to hold power within these walls for so long. She has fought tooth and nail for her crown, and for those of her children. Such power invested in the hands of a woman had not been seen since the days of the Good Queen Alysanne, unless one counted the frightful days in which the Pretender had stalked these halls.

Ser Genrick, faithful as always, awaited Maris and her sisters in the castle yard outside their quarters. They followed him eagerly through the gate into the inner ward, gingerly avoiding puddles of water and other filth that threatened to soil the hems of their dresses. As they passed the moat of Maegor's Holdfast, Maris could not help but notice the wickedly sharp iron spikes that lined its deep pit. The drawbridge was down, guarded by a white-cloaked knight. The same one that escorted the King and offered to help him dismount Sunfyre. She wondered how it came to pass that a knight it seemed none had ever heard of came to rise so highly within the King's good graces. The King will be in need of five more swords to guard his person, with only Ser Willis Fell remaining of his father's chosen seven. They were led across the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast and into the bowels of the fortification itself, and despite it being the middle of the day outside, Maris felt shrouded in darkness. Torches burned, ensconced along the walls, and only extremely narrow embrasures allowed some light in from far above their heads.

After navigating their way through ornately decorated but cramped hallways, they eventually reached a set of great lacquered doors. A perfumed servant, dressed smartly in black and gold livery, opened the doors before them, revealing a stunning hall that shone brightly. Beaten silver mirrors placed behind the burning torches reflected the light back with great intensity, and the fires lit magnificently carved wooden panels along both sides of the chamber. Above them was a gallery, and even further above that were a row of high arched windows that allowed some daylight into the chamber. Everything about the room suggested royal opulence, and Maris noticed that each of her sisters' mouths were agape with awe. Even Elyn, who is not so easily impressed. After being officially announced, they were allowed to enter, and as they approached the seating arranged by the Dowager Queen, Maris detected the faint hint of lye soap. This chamber has been cleaned vigorously, and recently. In her mind's eye, Maris envisioned a great duel taking place within the chamber between knights of both factions. Blood flowed freely, and the mirrors all about amplified the violence further. She found herself wondering if there had indeed been killing within the walls of the Holdfast itself, and thought it likely. The Pretender would not have been without her guardians. A slight chill crept down her spine.

The Dowager Queen sat atop a slight dais that had been erected in the rear of the chamber, and before her chairs had been arranged in the shape of a crescent moon. Girls of ages ranging between sixteen name days and seven rose to greet the newcomers, curtseying as best they could as a sign of respect to their rank. The Dowager Queen herself nodded in their direction, but made no attempt to honor them further. A slight smile had spread across her fine features, and her shining brown hair had been pulled back into a headdress affixed with a beautiful tiara. Alicent has fully embraced her role as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms once again, even if it is in place of her… indisposed daughter.

Maris and her sisters curtseyed before the dais, and quickly took seats atop some of the ornate chairs that had been left unoccupied for their use. Now that they had entered the half-ring of chairs, it was easy to see that Alicent had assembled a ladies court of all of the women who were available. Based on the designs of their dresses, as well as their thoroughly cowed and terrified expressions, Maris expected that many of the young ladies in attendance had been seized during the downfall of the Pretender. Her eyes followed the arc of the arranged chairs, mentally accounting for the Houses present. Two girls with white bodices with red crabs stitched upon them. Celtigar. Silver dresses with leaping blue swordfish stitched onto the sleeves. Bar Emmon. Swirls of green, red and blue. Massey. White lambs with golden chalices. Stokeworth. Ermine sleeves with three red chevronels. Rosby. Lastly, seated to the right of her grandmother was the Princess Jaehaera, looking as though she had not slept a wink. Her lilac eyes seemed to flit from one shadowy corner to another, searching for tormentors that Maris could not see. Her cheeks below her eyes were puffy and red from recent tears, and it appeared only the presence of her grandmother was holding more at bay.

Finely articulated words broke the silence. "Be welcome, most esteemed Ladies. I consider it a fine honor to host the Four Storms within my court. I am certain that your journey was most tiresome, and have arranged for refreshments to be served now that you have arrived."

As if summoned, servants appeared, bearing silver trays that were topped with shortbreads, sugared almonds, and small cakes topped with fresh fruit. Maris helped herself to a handful of almonds, crunching them between her teeth with all the dignity she could muster. She noticed with some humor that Floris had chosen a cake with whipped cream and raspberry toppings, and was attempting to stealthily reclaim a raspberry that had fallen in her lap. The Dowager Queen had spotted her efforts, but withdrew her gaze with only the slightest twinkle of mirth mostly hidden. Cassandra and Elyn had both refrained from eating after offering their thanks to their host.

Once more, Alicent spoke again, but not before shaking her head slightly to betray her shame. "Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce you to our honored guests! Attending us today are the Ladies Alysanne and Ceryse Celtigar, Melara Bar Emmon, Elayne Massey, Layla Stokeworth, and Bethany Rosby. I have also invited my own granddaughter Jaehaera to attend, in hopes that she may begin to learn the proper etiquette for a lady of her station."

As if they were puppets connected by a string, every lady in attendance nodded attentively at the Dowager Queen's words. Maris did so herself without a second thought. Such deference comes naturally in such circumstances. She saw Alicent turn her eyes towards Cassandra.

"We are most grateful for the aid that your Lord Father and his knights have rendered to us, Lady Cassandra. Did you have any difficulties on the road to the capital from Storm's End?"

Cassandra straightened her back and smiled. "Our travels were of little concern, your Grace. As I understand it, we made the journey as quickly as could be hoped for, despite the circumstances. We were eager to attend the rightful King."

Alicent laughed, a sweet sound that caused some in attendance to mimic it haltingly. "You are wise indeed, child. It seems that this dreadful war is finally approaching its end with the death of the Pretender and the capture of her heirs. With the King's health improving, I have little doubt that he will be able to defend us from the Pretender's band of bastards that skulks to the North." The Dowager Queen's eyes glowed with a dangerous light. "I have every hope that the King will soon be able to avenge his fallen brothers and sons in battle. His primary opponent may no longer draw breath, but evidence of her crimes is still writ large upon the land." She took a small sip of what Maris assumed to be wine from a silver goblet resting upon a table at her side. "I also pray that my dear daughter, the Queen, recovers from her untimely illness so that she might join her husband in battle and take my place in court. I was most sorry when she asked me to take over her duties for the time being. She is still weakened from her time spent imprisoned in the Pretender's clutches."

Maris took note of the way that the Dowager Queen's knuckles whitened as she gripped the armrests of her chair. It seems likely that she lies. As I suspected, she fears for her daughter's continued place at court should the truth of her woes be made clear. Maris hazarded a quick glance at Cassandra. Please, you dolt. Please do not say anything idiotic.

Cassandra watched the Dowager Queen speak with great interest and with an expression that conveyed deep understanding and sympathy. Maris knew her sister well enough to know when such things were feigned, however. She feigned such an expression when mother initially proposed sending me to the Faith. Only when it seemed certain that I would be sent away did she no longer bother to be sympathetic. Maris watched as her sister opened her mouth to speak, and gritted her teeth in anticipation.

"Your Grace, I pray to the Seven that the Queen's recovery is swift and complete. I have long wished to see Dreamfyre grace the skies with its presence. I have heard the hue of its scales is quite beautiful to behold. I hope to attend her Grace myself, should I be so honored!"

Maris could not describe exactly what sort of subtle change overtook the Dowager Queen's features, but she instantly could feel the chill emanate off of her. It was a slight tightening of the muscles around the cheekbones, a minor adjustment in the way her eyes narrowed. She had seen such changes in a face only once before, and remembered with a sickening fear that in that encounter, they had promised violence. In that moment, Maris could see with ease the marked resemblance that Aemond had shared with his mother. Unlike Aemond, however, the mother did not storm out of the hall to slaughter a Prince, needled onwards by the words of a vengeful, hurting girl. Like a summer storm blowing in from Cape Wrath, the cold rage was gone as quickly as it had subtly surfaced. Alicent managed a slight smile, and spoke, her fine teeth flashing in the silver light of the hall.

"Your words are most kind, Lady Cassandra. I too hope that you will be able to attend my daughter once she has need of you. The Queen of the Realm will need devoted servants such as yourself in these trying times."

To her credit, Cassandra had maintained Alicent's gaze the entire time, never faltering with her guise. When Cassandra sets her mind to master a talent, master it she does. And there are few things she does as well as offer false condolences. Maris released a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding. I ought to defuse any remaining tensions if I am able. It was clear that the other girls present were too terrified to speak, so any such duties would fall to her. Maris resisted the urge to grin, despite the tension. How ironic. Maris, the peacekeeper.

"Your Grace, this talk of trying times has frayed the nerves of many. Might I ask that we recite some of the Mother's hymns for peace? Or some of the Maiden's for mercy and innocence? I feel it would soothe my own fears, at the very least."

The Dowager Queen studied her for a moment, before allowing a small, encouraging, and thoroughly feigned smile to adorn her features. "What a wonderful idea, Lady Maris. I am sure you all know the words to Mother's Mercy. Shall we begin?"

As the chorus of voices rose in unison, Maris cursed herself for proposing singing of the Seven. Joining her own voice to the chorus, she consoled herself by observing that the standoff seemed to have dissipated. Cassandra, you will be the ruin of House Baratheon.

The request for her to meet a 'potential suitor' in the Red Keep's Godswood had come in the evening, while supper was still being prepared. Maris managed to secure the approval of Ser Genrick for her to speak with Lord Bryndemere, so long as he was allowed to follow at a respectful distance. Comforted by the presence of the old and loyal knight, who did his duties without complaint, she found herself walking leisurely amongst the boughs of gnarled alders and elms along well-maintained footpaths. Lord Bryndemere still wore the Suns and crescents of his house, but he now had clasped an ornate golden cloak over his more characteristic tabard, signifying his transition into his new appointment. Maris appreciated that they were able to walk in silence for a few moments, listening to the winds blowing in from Blackwater Bay rustle the branches above their heads. Few of the Red Keep's residents walked within the Godswood at this hour, so it had taken on a peaceful, almost primordial nature.

Lord Bryndemere finally broke the silence. "You will have to pass on my thanks to your father for this new appointment. I have few doubts that my interest in you caused him to consider me favorably."

Maris grinned. "Your conspiratorial nature and penchant for flattery were quite fitting skills for the position."

Her companion laughed. "You wound me, my Lady. I had no idea your tongue sported such barbs."

"Many have discovered that particular talent of mine to their sorrow. I thought a Lord such as yourself would be more resilient to such things."

"I suppose I will have to develop a thicker skin. Perhaps you have done me a service. I doubt the proprietors of pot shops and whorehouses in the city below will have any desire to speak courteously with me."

She nodded in agreement. "Many lose all desire to exchange pleasantries when their profits are impeded. I would expect no different from a Lord who has been ordered to provide a greater contribution to his liege."

Lord Tarth stroked his chin. "Right you are, Lady Maris. Coin is the very essence of humanity, is it not? We Lords are just as beholden to it as the meanest peddler." With a twinkle in his eye he added: "Although none of us would be so crass to admit it."

The silence resumed again for a few minutes. By that point, the Sun had retreated behind the western parapets, leaving only fiery hues in the sky to suggest its departure. Maris decided she could no longer contain her desire for information.

"I was able to attend the Dowager Queen today, alongside my esteemed sisters. We spoke little of the events that have transpired outside of these walls, however. Is there any news of the war since our last departure?"

Lord Bryndemere grinned. "Recent developments have proven few in number, but fascinating in character. Apparently, while our great host was crossing the Blackwater Rush, the King received a letter from the Lady of the Vale. According to some of the more… loquacious… Lords of the Reach, she swore her neutrality for the duration of the conflict. While disappointing, I am certain he preferred that to the possibility of her declaring once more for the Pretender. What infuriated him, and likely the rest of his Small Council, was her warning that the Lady Rhaena Targaryen had escaped the Gates of the Moon with one of the Pretender's bastard dragonriders, and made for Gulltown. Apparently the Lady Rhaena has been raising a force of Valemen sympathisers secretly, and intends to march to war with them at her back. Her forces appear to be comprised of second sons and landless knights, but any new swords pledged to the Pretender's cause are a concern these days." Lord Bryndemere chuckled once more. "Of course the idea that the Lady Rhaena could raise an army without the Lady Jeyne's approval is nonsense. But it is the sort of nonsense that might just have to be borne in times as dangerous as these. The King simply cannot risk flying for the Vale to punish the Lady Arryn for her audacity." He smiled slightly. "I also must praise both Lady Jeyne and Lady Rhaena for their clever handling of the situation. I respect talented opponents, even if they make the game more difficult."

So the last of the Pretender's Court flies to war. Maris was not surprised, but the news was unwelcome nonetheless. She will find her hands are just as tied as those of the other rebels. So long as we hold so many hostages, they would be mad to rally their forces against us. It would mean the deaths of their own claimant and his heir.

She sighed. "I must say that I find myself constantly surprised by the resilience of the rebels. I would have thought that after the fall of the capital they would have had no more appetite for war. Instead, it seems that their numbers continue to swell by the day."

Lord Bryndemere nodded. "One would think that they would have given in by now, I agree. I expect that they are being drawn in by what the Maesters would call a sunk-cost fallacy. They simply have sacrificed too much to give in. Even if they did, the wiser Lords amongst their number know that it would mean their heads and their seats if they did decide to capitulate." He sighed. "There is also the matter that they possess two more battle-hardened dragons than we do."

He probes for information. I must give him something, this time.

Maris nodded. "I am beginning to fear that the Queen may never recover from what ails her. While to an outsider the King and Queen ride large, battle-ready beasts, it seems that the reality is less hopeful. From all that I have seen I truly do not believe we can count on Dreamfyre if our lives depend on it."

Lord Bryndemere nodded. "I have heard similar rumors. If what you have seen and heard corroborates them, I am inclined to agree with you." Stopping to lean against a particularly old elm, he faced her. "But the capital is astir with other rumors as well. The two esteemed Velaryon knights have seemingly disappeared since they appeared in court yesterday. Some who are held in higher esteem by the King have suggested that they might have been sent forth by Aegon himself. Particularly astute observers have noted that their comrade-in-arms is missing as well, and that the Hand's own goodson has also been missing from the court. In total, it seems that we are short seven knights, all told."

Maris' mind was racing. Seven knights missing? They can't have simply disappeared. But what could the King have possibly wanted from them, if he did in fact dispatch them?

"Did any see them depart?" She asked, wishing to know more.

Lord Bryndemere smiled, his face adopting a conspiratorial guise. "Two Gold Cloaks saw them leave via the King's Gate in the early morning, ostensibly following the road along the Blackwater Rush."

By this point, Maris' mind was considering many possibilities. A small party, heading southwest? Could they be attempting to negotiate with the Tyrells? Or mayhaps even Dorne? None of the possibilities made too much sense.

"What might they have been doing, I wonder?" She asked, prying for more.

Lord Bryndemere laughed. "At this point, that is the question that every spy, gossip, and gambler wishes to know." He shook his head. "As of yet, all we can do is speculate. But solving riddles is much more fun with friends, wouldn't you agree?"

Maris could not help but smile at his infectious laughter. They are indeed, Lord Tarth. King's Landing is proving to be far more interesting than I ever could have imagined.

Chapter Text

Gyles V

He had awoken that morn with a pained groan. This early in the day, the air was still cool and crisp, and proved a mild balm to assuage the throbbing pain in his skull. The knocking at the door began once more after several moments of silence. "A moment!" Gyles shouted, wincing at the sharp lance of pain that pierced through his head upon doing so.

He staggered to his feet, and began to look for his breeches. Finding them draped across a chair after several moments of bleary-eyed observation about the room, Gyles shambled across the cold stone floor to them, and attempted to put them on. The moment he lifted a leg to do so, however, Gyles lost his balance and fell backwards onto his bed.

Cursing in annoyance, Gyles managed to wriggle into his breeches while laying flat on his back, finding the task much easier to do in his current state while not standing. Rising from the tangled coverlets, Gyles crossed the chamber to its door. As he reached to open it, he realized suddenly that his 'companion' from the night before had already left, a revelation that brought him immeasurable disappointment. Sighing dejectedly, Gyles pulled the door open.

In the hall beyond stood his father. After observing his son's disheveled appearance for a moment, he smiled apologetically. "Mayhaps I should have knocked less loudly."

With a pained grin, Gyles motioned his father into his chambers, which he promptly did, walking forward with the slight limping gait that he had possessed for all of his life. Closing the door behind them, Gyles walked to a table that contained a bowl of fruit, and grabbed a blood orange from the bowl. He began to peel it as his father crossed the room, and pulled open the heavy drapes that had been left closed.

"Seven Hells!" Gyles cursed loudly, as the sudden sunlight flooding throughout the chamber caused a fresh wave of pain and nausea to wash over him.

His father laughed. "It will do you good, my son." He turned to look at his son, with an expression of pride and affection. "You're a knight now, as of yesterday's ceremony. You should already be in the yard, continuing to hone your skills."

Gyles grinned, shielding his eyes from the bright morning light. "I have many skills and talents to hone, father. In fact, I was practicing my wordcraft with the smith's daughter last evening."

Gyles' father rolled his eyes. "A resounding success, I presume?"

Gyles chuckled. "I would dare to say so. She agreed to accompany me back to my chambers, to continue our fascinating conversation further. Needless to say, I ended up getting to hone some of my other talents as well before the evening was through."

Gyles' father held up a hand. "I've heard quite enough, thank you! Save the tales of your exploits last evening for the tavern."

Gyles smiled wickedly. "As you wish, father. For what reason do you grace me with your presence this morn? Should you not be compiling a list of every dust mote in the armory today?"

Gyles' father laughed. "Mayhaps I should be. Instead, I've chosen to speak with you. About what paths your future holds."

Gyles grimaced in sudden annoyance and turned away, popping a piece of the blood orange he held into his mouth. "Truly, father?" He groaned in exasperation. "I've been a knight for less than a day, and already you continue to assail me?"

Though he was not looking at his father, Gyles could guess that he now had an exasperated frown of his own upon his face. "My son," his father began, then hesitated. "Gyles," he said more firmly, and Gyles turned to regard his father.

"Your mother and I, we couldn't be more proud of what you've achieved. Countless archery contest victories, winning the squire's melee at the Tor, and now you've been knighted. I wish I could have been the man to knight you myself!"

With his hunchback and slightly twisted right leg, achieving a knighthood had never been a possibility for Gyles' father. That hadn't stopped him from spending much of his youth at the Citadel, while other boys his age served as pages and squires. However, Gyles' father had eventually decided against becoming a maester, and returned home to Yronwood, rising to become the Steward of his family's seat.

"However," his father continued after a long pause, "you're a man now. It is time to begin thinking more realistically about your future, and the opportunities available to you."

Gyles rolled his eyes. "Following you as Steward, you mean."

Gyles' father tensed angrily. "And why shouldn't you? You are more than skilled enough to follow me in the office. You would be of great value to your family, and this castle. It is honorable work."

Gyles let out an exasperated laugh. "Why shouldn't I? Because I don't want to fritter my life away amongst musty scrolls and lists, painstakingly counting coppers and scribbling meaningless notes on parchment! There has to be more to my life than quills and inkpots, father! I won't content myself with a life of mediocrity, as other men become the stuff of songs and histories!"

The moment he finished his tirade, Gyles regretted his words. Before he could apologize, however, his father retorted, his own face red with anger.

"Mediocre? Mayhaps you are right, my son. But I am also alive. My father, your grandsire, was a great warrior, renowned throughout the Red Mountains for his prowess. My brothers were all respected knights as well, or promising squires. And so they all sailed with the Prince Morion, hoping to share in the glory of the victory that he assured them all was to come. Do you know what happened to them?!"

Gyles grimaced and closed his eyes as his father continued to shout. "They were burned to ash by dragons, every single one of them! And as those ashes sank to the ocean's bottom along with the rest of the flotsam of Prince Morion's fleet, my father and brothers earned their place in history. And yet, of all my father's sons, only I was left to carry on his line!"

Gyles' father approached him, his tone and expression suddenly sorrowful. "I've read many histories in my life, Gyles. For every man that achieves immortality within its pages, there are ten thousand men who die forgotten. Histories are drenched with the blood of these forgotten men. If they're lucky, mayhaps they leave kin behind to grieve for them, and if they're unlucky, mayhaps not. It matters not. They are dead all the same."

Gyles had heard enough. Any remorse he had felt for insulting his father had been replaced by a sudden, burning anger. Tossing the blood orange aside, he grabbed his shirt from the tabletop where it had been left the night before, and put it on. He quickly put on his boots, as the effects of the previous night's wine were burned away by his rage.

"Gyles," his father began, with an apologetic and rueful tone. Gyles ignored his father, and walked towards his chamber's door. "Gyles!" His father called again, reaching for his shoulder. Gyles wrenched free of his father's grasp and entered the hallway beyond his chambers. He swung the door shut behind him, slamming it.

In the moment before it closed, Gyles could still see his father standing there, with a stricken expression upon his face. In that moment, Gyles could tell that there was so much more that his father wished to tell him. However, he did not care to listen.

Gyles woke with a start, and his sudden movement knocked some of the snow off of the fur pelt that he had draped atop himself for warmth. Though the depression at the base of the rock face was shallow, it provided him and Evenfall some protection from the falling snow. It has been ages since I dreamed of home. Of all the memories of his life in Dorne that he could have dreamed of, Gyles had the misfortune to remember one of the worst.

Ever since the argument he had with his father the day after he was knighted, Gyles had gone through the motions of preparing to be Castle Yronwood's next steward, oft following his father on his rounds. Though he never said so, I think that father knew as well as I did that I had no heart for it. In truth, Gyles had just been waiting for an opportunity to leave Yronwood, and make a name for himself. In the time before his exile, he had been aimless in his dissatisfaction with his lot in life. Mayhaps getting myself into trouble would have been inevitable.

If not getting exiled, mayhaps Gyles would have instead joined some Vulture King in yet another doomed perennial war against the Dragon Kings' realm. Mayhaps I would have joined a free company, or fought as a mercenary in the Stepstones. So many possible paths, and nearly all of them now seemed foolish and ruinous. There seems to be no shortage of ways to get oneself killed, and quickly at that.

Rising to his feet, Gyles rolled up the fur that he had slept beneath into a tight roll, before securing it to Evenfall's saddle. Leading his sand steed away from the rock face's depression, Gyles hopped into the saddle. My search continues. The gamekeeper's lad was still missing, and Gyles had made it his mission to find him.

Melwick? Or was it Mikken? Try as he might, he couldn't remember the lad's name. He had been eager to help Tristifer and Gyles in their efforts to scout ahead of the party for potential dangers. Against his better judgement, Gyles had agreed. His father is the gamekeeper of Corn Cob Hall, and the lad had been training for the role with him. I thought that such experience would be enough for scouting. It had not taken long for such a mistake to make itself clear. On only his second day of scouting, the lad had vanished, much to the distress of his parents, sisters, and the rest of Ser Jaehaerys' remaining smallfolk.

Bringing them along with us may have been a mistake. After the bandits' attack on Corn Cob Hall, Ser Jaehaerys had decided that the continued defence of his family's seat for the winter's duration was untenable. When he had learned that the ultimate destination of the Queen's party was Maidenpool, he had asked to come along with his smallfolk, and any provisions that they could carry. It is his intent to have his smallfolk winter at Maidenpool, where they will be safe, and return to Corn Cob Hall when a lasting peace has returned to the land.

Though he had been hesitant to agree to such a course of action, Gyles had ultimately acquiesced, along with a majority of the party. It is what Ser Jarmen would have wanted. Yet another man had given his life so that Gyles could keep his. Two warriors, and both of them better men than I. For all that the ancient knight spoke of his fate being his own, Gyles couldn't help but still feel some amount of guilt for Ser Jarmen's death.

When the dust of the battle outside Corn Cob Hall had settled, it was discovered that both Ser Jarmen and Captain Garth of the Gold Cloaks had been slain, along with several of House Corne's smallfolk. All had been buried before the journey continued. Twas a simple burial, but a burial nonetheless. Ser Jarmen had deserved more than a simple grave beneath a tree, but it was the best that could be given to him in the current circumstances. Ser Jarmen would have understood. He would tell me that it is now time to focus on the journey ahead, and to travel onward with courage. Gyles smiled sadly.

When he truly considered it, the burden that Gyles realized sat most heavily on his shoulders was the weight of expectation that he now felt. Ser Jarmen saved my life for a reason. He taught me the Prince Aemon's way, a legacy that he had spent his entire life trying to uphold. Gyles frowned. In saving me, Ser Jarmen has inexorably linked me both to himself, and the Prince Aemon. Theirs is a legacy that is now mine to uphold. Gyles' hands tightened on Evenfall's reins. I will try, Ser Jarmen.

He saw the faint plume of smoke long before he found the abandoned fire pit. It was in a small clearing within the woods, surrounded by tall trees adorned with brittle limbs devoid of any foliage. Though there were clear signs of a recent campsite, the clearing was thoroughly abandoned, and devoid of life. Who was staying here? The grisly answer to Gyles' question made itself all too clear when he noticed a trail of blood that led to the base of one the trees at the clearing's edge.

A corpse was tied to the tree, pale and frozen. As Gyles approached it, a deeper and deeper sense of dread began to overtake him. The gamekeeper's lad. The young man's hands had been tied behind his back in a way that they were tightly bound about the tree's trunk. Two other ropes had similarly secured his neck and ankles in place. Worst of all, however, were the arrows. They were haphazard in distribution, but many in number, sticking out of the corpse of the gamekeeper's son. He was used as target practice.

Gyles' fist clenched. He had hoped that the band of outlaws led by Bryard Bones would not so quickly have learned of the defeat suffered by their comrades outside of Corn Cob Hall. It appears that our hopes were unrealistic. Gyles suddenly felt very unsafe. Exposed as he was in the clearing, he felt as though a thousand eyes were watching him from the gloom of the forest beyond. Gyles shook his head, as a sense of burning anger quickly consumed and replaced the fear within him. To hell with them. Let any watchers try to attack me, if they dare.

Gyles climbed from Evenfall's saddle, and tied his loyal steed to a nearby tree. Drawing his dagger from his belt, he approached the corpse of the gamekeeper's son. Cutting the stiff and frozen ropes, Gyles lowered the rigid corpse to the ground. One by one, he pulled each arrow free of the lad's corpse. Several of the arrow shafts snapped as Gyles attempted to pull them free, and all were covered in a coat of dark congealed blood.

Once he had pulled all the arrows loose as best as he could, Gyles knelt, and scooped the corpse of the young man into his arms. He is lighter than I expected. Gyles frowned deeply. He was still half a boy, not yet a man grown. While many of the smallfolk of House Corne had been subdued in disposition following the defeat of the bandits outside Corn Cob Hall, many of the younger lads amongst their number had been exhilarated, the gamekeeper's son among them. He saw our journey north as a dangerous and exciting adventure, one which he wanted to have a larger role in. I don't think the possibility of dying ever crossed his mind.

Walking a short distance into the forest, Gyles found a small depression in the earth, and laid the lad's body there. Cutting down branches from several evergreen trees, he laid them atop the young man, covering him as best as he could. I can do little better. There is no way for me to dig him a grave, and I must needs get back to the party. I need to warn them of the danger ahead. The rest of the bandits likely await our approach as we continue north.

Untying Evenfall, Gyles climbed back into the saddle, and began to ride south, out of the clearing. With any luck, it would not take him too long to find the main road, and the group as they continued along it. With the party's recent influx in numbers, many of them smallfolk that walked on foot, their pace was much slower. They'll be easier to find, Gyles thought hopefully. They'll also be easier to track. Gyles frowned. I must needs move quickly.

As he continued to ride, a sudden errant realization came to his mind. Myles. The boy's name was Myles. The simple thought made Gyles grimace in sudden pain, and grief. Damn those fucking brigand bastards, damn them to the Seventh Hell. Gyles dug his spurs deep into Evenfall's flanks. Faster. I have to move faster.

It was nearly dark by the time Gyles found the party. It appears I wasn't the first. His heart sinking, Gyles observed what was obviously the aftermath of a particularly vicious fight on the road, along a portion that was surrounded by dense evergreen forest on either side. He reined in his horse as he cleared the treeline at the roadside, and held up his palms to show that he meant no harm.

After several moments, several bows and a crossbow that had been aimed at Gyles were lowered as those who wielded them recognized Gyles. Approaching the party at a slow trot, Gyles began to make out more clear details about the recent fight in the evening gloom. A fair amount of the corpses strewn about had the same look as the brigands that Gyles had fought outside of Corn Cob Hall. Several corpses, however, to Gyles' frustration, had the look of smallfolk, or wore tattered gold cloaks. We lost less people, but they've bled us all the same. Methinks we do not have the numbers to continue such a war of attrition.

The mounted warriors had formed a sort of loose impromptu ring about the center of the group, which was largely made up of smallfolk. For every man of fighting age amongst the peasants, there were at least two more women, children, aged, or the infirm who couldn't fight. Gyles grimaced. Our chances of survival will only grow slimmer with each skirmish, and the deaths and wounds that come with it.

Ser Torrhen Manderly, upon seeing Gyles' arrival, had directed his horse to meet him halfway, and both men reined in their mounts a short distance from the muddy roadside. "When?" Gyles asked gravely, after pulling down his scarf from over his mouth.

Ser Torrhen shifted in his saddle. "About an hour ago," the stout knight replied. "They were testing us, these brigands. They knew that we were dangerous, and wished to know exactly how dangerous we are." The red-faced northman huffed out a misting breath into the icy winter air. "Methinks they know now. They did not attack us expecting a victory. Now they are certain that we have far more women and children amongst our number than we do knights."

Gyles looked at the road as it continued to snake north, forlorn and shadowy under the last embers of dying daylight. "What is to be done?" he asked Ser Torrhen.

Ser Torrhen frowned deeply. "What else is there to be done? We continue north. There is naught else that we can do."

Gyles sat back in his saddle, feeling as though he wanted to curse. We can't leave the smallfolk behind, and yet they will continue to slow us down, and make us an easy target. Gyles rubbed the edge of his red and running nose vigorously with a mailed finger. Shit. No matter how he considered their situation, he could not think of any clear path to triumph. Not even a victory. The best that some us can hope for now is survival.

Was the entire party doomed to such a fate? Losing members one by one, until a forlorn few survivors take the last horses and make a desperate flight further north? Even then, chances of survival if such a future came to pass would be slim. I won't be one of them. Gyles gritted his teeth in silent rage. I won't run from these degenerate brigands. I'll stay and fight, until one of them runs me through, or cuts my head from my shoulders. He hoped that Mors and Ser Jarmen would understand. Your legacy may end up being short-lived, but I will carry it as honorably as I can until my end.

As he observed the sorry state of the party around him, Gyles asked Ser Torrhen a final question: "How many did we lose?"

Ser Torrhen scratched at his bristling and frozen mustache for a moment, before responding in a bleak tone. "Four more of Captain Byrch's gold cloaks, and seven of Ser Jaehaerys' smallfolk. Two of them were women. We couldn't bring them within the defensive circle quickly enough. The bandits cut down anyone that they could find with impunity."

Ser Torrhen nodded in the direction of a wagon within the group's center. "Several were wounded, though by the grace of the Seven, many of the wounds are quite minor." Ser Torrhen grimaced. "Not all, however. Ser Jaehaerys' castellan may lose an arm, and Ser Willam Royce has been gravely wounded as well. Both are being carried in that wagon."

Gyles looked at Ser Torrhen in shock. Of all our knights, Ser Willam was one of the last that I expected to take a grievous wound in combat. "What happened?" Gyles asked seriously.

Ser Torrhen shook his head. "Ser Willam had dismounted to help one of Ser Jaehaerys' greybeard servants reach safety. He succeeded in doing so, but a brigand cracked his helm with their morning star." Ser Torrhen's shoulders sagged. "He is currently unconscious. Ser Jaehaerys' maester does not know if he will ever wake."

Night was falling fast, so it appeared that the site of the ambush would be where the party would also encamp for the night. Gyles watched as his breath rose into the wintery air as a plume of white-grey steam. Would that we all had wings, and could fly far away from here. To somewhere safe, where murderers and cutthroats do not lurk in every shadow. Gyles frowned, and thought of the Queen Rhaenyra's dragonseeds, the three that had been slain in battle over Tumbleton by the two traitors and the Prince Daeron. Sers Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam Velaryon. Would that they still lived, and could deliver us from our foes.

Though the crumbling hillfort in the distance was not an exactly shocking sight, the men who had appeared from its environs to approach the party were far from an expected encounter. They approached cautiously, and to Gyles' surprise, they carried a white flag as well, signifying a peaceful intent. Is this some manner of trick?

As the riders approached, Gyles quickly began to string his recurve bow. By the time they had reached Gyles and the other knights riding at the head of the party, Gyles had loosely nocked an arrow in his bow. No more mistakes. If this is cover for an ambush, I shall be ready.

The leader of the group of riders reined in his horse. He wore a suit of plate armor that had clearly once been of high quality and meticulous craftsmanship. By now, however, it had been reworked by the brutal tools of battle. Countless scars marred the armor's surface, and the armor was tarnished or dented most everywhere else. His tabard was ragged, and had been crudely patched in several places. Though the fabric had been largely white at one point in the past, the tabard now appeared to be a patchwork quilt of fading stains. These new colors were a dull morass that told the tale of long, dusty roads, and countless bloody battles. However, a large black manticore stitched across its center was still prominent enough to be clearly recognized.

The knight of the manticore lifted the visor of his battered helm. The face beneath was doughy, and sallow. He had a stubby, squashed nose, and small, dark, and beady eyes that gave him an altogether porcine appearance. It as though someone thought to dress a hog in armor.

The knight cleared his throat, and began to speak in a reedy, nasally voice. "Greetings. I am called Ser Amory, of House Lorch." The knight paused a moment, looking beyond Gyles and the other knights to the large group of miserable smallfolk that walked in a close-knit mass behind them. "It has been some time since we have seen any bold enough to brave these roads, as Bryard Bones and his men continue to ravage the countryside between Maidenpool and Duskendale."

Ser Amory chuckled darkly. "You're all either very brave, or very foolish." The knight shook his head, and waved an arm at his men arrayed behind him. "No more foolish than we are, I suppose."

By this point, Ser Torrhen had made his way to the group's front, and had overheard Ser Amory's introduction. "Forgive me, Ser," the northern knight began, "but is House Lorch not one of the bannermen of the Lannisters?"

Gyles was shocked. A Green, out here? How is it even possible? However, with his tattered tabard and battered armor, Ser Amory looked little and less like a proud noble loyal to the Usurper. He looks more like one of the robber knights that have been shadowing our movements north.

Ser Amory laughed bitterly, a high-pitched squeal that only continued to build upon his pig-like appearance. "I suppose that you could say so. I have not marched beneath my liege's banner in months, however. My foes care not for one monarch, nor t'other. The only master that they heed is plunder."

Ser Amory looked skyward. "As my numbers dwindle, however, theirs only continue to grow." Ser Amory frowned deeply. "I used to command one hundred riders. After the Battle by the Lakeshore and Ser Criston Cole's defeat, our numbers swelled ever higher with survivors! And now?" Ser Amory trailed off, and sighed. "All we've left to us is the men you see behind me, and a few archers hidden in those ruins yonder."

Ser Rayford Lothston scratched at the crimson stubble upon his chin in contemplation. "If these brigands are truly your foes, as you say they are, why take refuge in a ruined fort? Surely these brigands will easily find you there, and attack in much greater numbers."

Ser Amory nodded. "You are right, of course," was the knight's simple response. "However, I no longer have any choice. I no longer have enough men to continue roving the countryside fighting these bandits, as I have been." Ser Amory drew himself up, with an expression of cold resolve. "My men and I have chosen this fort as the site of our final confrontation with these godless curs. We will bleed them as well as we can before the last of us falls."

Ser Maric Massey did not appear convinced by Ser Amory's words. "But why you? Why here? The smallfolk of this region are those of your foes, the supporters of Queen Rhaenyra. You have no reason to protect them."

Ser Amory smiled, but his eyes remained cold. "If not I, then who? I will admit, my intentions were originally borne of self-interest, and a desire to survive above all else. Where were my men and I to go? Every army loyal to the King in the Riverlands had been scattered to the wind. Trying to escape the countryside would have meant death or capture for all of us, at the hands of the Pretender's lackeys."

Ser Amory chuckled as he regarded Gyles and the other knights before him. "It didn't take me long to realize how little the politics of the Realm matter amongst the ashes of its scorched fields. A farmer cares little for which monarch his lord bends the knee to as his winter stores are carried away and his family is slaughtered."

Ser Amory shook his head. "I am no bard, so I will say my words plainly. My war is here now. Not with the King's enemies, but with the enemies of the Realm. There can never again be peace and prosperity so long as cravens and cutthroats rule its lands, and rob, rape, and murder its peoples."

Ser Amory thumped a gauntleted fist against his battered breastplate. "Let it never be said that Ser Amory Lorch failed to defend the defenseless, and bring his sword to bear against those who would harm the innocent."

Though the hillfort was in a sorry state, its original builders clearly had a good mind for defensibility. Situated atop a hill that had long been cleared of trees, any enemy that tried to attack it would have to advance up the hill under fire from archers and crossbowmen, before then needing to either attempt to scale the fort's walls, or break through its gate. Unfortunately, there were many gaps in the crumbling wall, significantly hampering the effectiveness of the overall fortifications, and making any hopes for weathering a siege impossible.

Though they were technically foes in the greater conflict ravaging the Dragon Kings' realm, Ser Torrhen and Ser Amory had struck a temporary alliance. An alliance of convenience, but one that is absolutely necessary. Whether we marched beneath a Red or Gold dragon banner, such partisan differences will be impossible to discern if we all end up as bloody, rotting heads on the end of pikes.

Though the past few days had been already been full of odd discoveries and surprises, none was so odd as what occurred when the main force of brigands finally began to coalesce around the hillfort that had become the temporary home of Ser Amory and his survivors, the Queen's party, and Ser Jaehaerys Corne and his smallfolk.

Under a tattered white flag, a brigand had ridden a sway-backed stot up to the hillfort's gate, and requested a parley with the leaders of the fort's defenders. Arguments had immediately broken out amongst the defenders as to whether such an offer should be accepted. Many had been of the opinion that such an offer was merely an attempt by the brigands to isolate and behead the defenders' leadership, while others argued that the brigands had more than enough men to slaughter the occupants of the fort right now if they so chose.

Eventually, Ser Amory Lorch agreed to go, and requested that a knight from the Queen's party accompany him as his second. The fort's yard had been completely silent for several moments after the request. Few are so bold or as foolish as Ser Amory, to be willing to stick their head directly into the jaws of the dragon. After several moments of indecision, however, Gyles came to a realization. Ser Jarmen would volunteer. He would never ask another to put themselves into dangers that he would not be willing to brave himself. It was for that reason that Gyles had stepped forward and agreed to be Ser Amory's second.

And so it came to pass that Gyles and Ser Amory rode side by side into the center of the brigands' camp. There were enough of them that tents and cookfires completely surrounded the hill, and the fort atop it. However, the largest cluster of tents had been pitched directly along the road that led to the hillfort's gate. The brigands' leaders are making a point. They have a knife to all of our throats, and they wish for us to fully understand such truths.

Several bandits jeered at Gyles and Ser Amory as they passed, but the majority merely followed their approach with cold eyes, full of silent and merciless intent. The men that truly brought fear to Gyles' heart, however, were those that looked on at his approach with hungry, almost feral expressions. But what are the appetites that men such as these hope to sate? Gyles forcibly suppressed a shudder. One cannot show any fear when walking directly into the shadow cat's den. Do not give them a reason to pounce.

Reining up outside of the largest tent, Gyles realized with dark amusement that it had once been a Lord's pavilion. Mayhaps it is fitting, for these godless cutthroats are the only ones ruling in these forests. Climbing from Evenfall's saddle, Gyles handed the reins of his sand steed to a shifty-eyed bandit waiting expectantly near the tent's flap.

Gyles found an odd sort of consolation in the realization that his loyal mount would survive him, if he were to die. Evenfall is a magnificent creature, and sand steeds are a rare sight north of the Red Mountains. Whether he remains mine, or becomes the mount of some brigand, he'll live nonetheless. Wondering if this was the last time he'd ever see his loyal companion, Gyles affectionately patted his flank, and ran a mailed hand momentarily through his bronze mane. "Good lad," he whispered in Evenfall's ear, and then turned to face the flap of the pavilion.

Following Ser Amory, Gyles walked into the pavilion's interior. As his eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom within, Gyles waited in tense anticipation for a dagger to plunge into his back, or a crossbow bolt to punch into his chest. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of three men seated in camp chairs at the pavilion's center.

At the left was a lithe man that had clearly been a foreigner to Westeros' shores for much of his life. His hair was the color of ash, and his eyes were a deep purple, so dark that they nearly seemed black. His armor was a mixture of form-fitting leather and light metal scale. What stood out the most to Gyles, however, were the pauldrons of his armor. They were inlaid with blood red rubies in the center, and surrounded by inlaid silver scrollwork written in High Valyrian. Though unable to read what it said, Gyles remembered the sight of the ancient language from long-ago lessons with the maester of Yronwood castle.

The man to the right wore much simpler accoutrements. Massive and muscled, he wore well-worn leather armor that bore numerous scars. The man's visage was as marked by battle as his armor, and he had a cruel grin upon his face. What was most startling about his appearance to Gyles, however, was the overall plainness of the man's features apart from his size. In another life, he could easily fit in amongst farmers of the fields, and the tradesmen and innkeeps of towns. He likely could have worked in any of those trades, before this war.

The last man in the center needed no introduction. Ser Bryard Bones. His tattered and road-worn tabard was black, and its sigil was a bleached white skull. Twas a simple device to bear, but its message was clear. This man is a bringer of death. Whether beneath some Lord's banner, or as a robber knight in the forest. He has built his entire existence upon the misery and suffering of others, long before war came to this land.

Gyles immediately noticed that there were no chairs for him nor Ser Amory to sit in. We are to stand before them and hear their words, nothing more. Gyles had to suppress a sardonic grin. Did I expect them to offer us customary hospitality? I am more surprised that this meeting wasn't the obvious trap that I thought it to be.

Ser Bryard was the first to speak. "Be welcome," the robber knight began mockingly. "You stand before Bryard Bones of Seagard, Tregar of Tolos, and Robbett of…" Bones looked inquisitively at the large bandit in the leathers.

"It don't fucking matter," was the bandit's simple response, and Ser Bryard chuckled, while Tregar of Tolos smiled slightly.

After a moment, the grin disappeared from Bryard Bones' face. "I am no great lover of meaningless conversation, so I will make the point of our meeting here today clear: the offer you are about to receive is the only one you will be given."

Ser Amory stood in silence, and Gyles similarly stood still with a neutral expression. After eyeing the both of them for a moment, Ser Bryard continued to speak: "We have more than enough men gathered about this fort to take it this very night." The corners of Ser Bryard's mouth turned upward in a slight, cold smile for a moment, before continuing. "You'll bleed us to be sure, but then you'll be dead. Hardly any good that'll do ya."

Ser Bryard sighed. "So," the leader of the brigands began, "I have a proposal to make. You and yours leave that fort, before the sun has set. Continue north, to Maidenpool. You aren't far now. So long as you continue on from there, we won't have any more cause for hard feelings." Ser Bryard stared at the two knights before him with extreme disdain. "Enough of the false heroics. Me and mine have a use for coin to fill our purses. We don't need nor want to die in battle. Leave these lands, and we'll let you be."

Ser Bryard drew a dirk from his belt. "I give every potential foe a chance to give me what I desire before I kill them. You lot," the robber knight nodded at Ser Amory, "had your chance long ago to leave. And yet you refused. As did that sniveling sword-swallower from Corn Cob Hall, who wasn't man enough to come and face me in parley today."

Bryard turned to look at Gyles. "I am sure that you and yours played a part in the deaths of my men outside Corn Cob Hall." The robber knight spread his arms wide. "I am not, however, without mercy. I extend my offer to you as well, Ser Lorch, and to Ser Corne, despite the fact you both have already spurned my offer of mercy."

Ser Bryard leaned forward, his face all too suddenly full of a cold, murderous fury. He threw his dirk, and its point buried itself in the pavilion's center post. "If you are still in that fort come morning, we'll fight our way in and kill the lot of you. Every knight, every farmer, every servant. Every woman, every child, and every babe at the breast. And as you watch them bleed and die, you will know that you had the chance to save them, and failed."

Though he had held his tongue up until this point, Ser Amory was quick to hotly retort. "Methinks the only truth you've spoken today was that threat, cutthroat!" Ser Amory jabbed a gauntleted finger at the three bandit leaders arrayed in front of him. "I've killed enough of you godless bastards that there is hardly room enough for the rest of you in the Seven Hells. Gods willing, it will be your blood that I spill before falling, come tomorrow."

Gyles nodded in agreement. Well said, Ser Amory. I too hope to take as many of these brigands as I can with me into the grave. Did they truly expect us to believe their offer? To meekly abandon our strategic position, and return to the woods to be slaughtered in an ambush? If we are to all die, then it should be in a place where the bandits' casualties will be most grievous.

Red-faced and enraged, Ser Amory stormed from the pavilion. As Gyles turned to leave, the large brigand, Robbett, spoke up. "He begged me to let him go, y'know," the brigand chortled. Gyles stopped in his tracks. "That peasant lad you had scoutin' ahead. We let him go at first, for the fun of it. Ya'd think that a person would make for harder prey to track than a deer, but twasn't so with that sorry fool. We'd caught him again within the hour."

Gyles stood still, with his back to the brigands. He clenched his fists, as a red rage threatened to completely overtake his senses and judgement. Robbett chortled as he continued. "When we tied him to that tree, the fool boy started crying for his mother. The lads an' I had a good laugh about that, 'afore we filled him full o' arrows." The brigand's tone dripped with venom. "Methinks I'll tell his ma all about it, when I find her in that fort come tomorrow." Robbett chuckled darkly. "Tisn't the only reason I'll be searchin' for her, o' course."

"Not if I find you first," was Gyles' quiet response. In all his life, Gyles had never met a man as deserving of a slow and agonizing death as Robbett. Gyles turned to regard the burly brigand, his features contorted in an expression of murderous hate. Robbett didn't respond. Instead, his lips peeled back into a feral smile, full of brown and broken teeth. An odd light burned in the brigand's eyes, and he merely nodded in acknowledgement at Gyles. Without another word, Gyles turned and exited the pavilion.

No matter where he looked from atop the hillfort's crumbling walls, Gyles could see campfires burning. From the way they make merry, you'd never know that they would be fighting and killing as soon as the sun rises. Faint whispers of raucous laughter and drunken merriment drifted up the hillside. The bandits were eating and drinking well. Gorging themselves on their ill-gotten plunder. A cold gust of wintery air whistled along the top of the battlements, and Gyles was surprised that it only caused him to shiver slightly. I'm finally growing accustomed to the cold.

Gyles frowned. Not that it matters anymore. Come tomorrow, all my concerns and torments will be gone, permanently. It was odd. He had been afraid of dying outside of Corn Cob Hall, when he had narrowly escaped death only due to the intervention of Ser Jarmen. He had also been afraid of dying during the riots in King's Landing, when Mors had saved his hide.

There's no one left to save me now. Such thoughts did not bring the previous fear that he had felt. Rather, Gyles felt despondent. So many mistakes, so many regrets. Amends that he dearly wished to make, and now never would.

He wished he could see his father and mother again one last time, to apologize for his foolishness. I'm their only living child. There had been others, but they had all been born still in the cradle. Now they are to be left completely alone. They will never truly know what became of me. My mother will forever look north, hoping and praying to one day behold a son that is ne'er to return.

Gyles thought about his father, and the argument they'd had the day after he had been knighted. What did you wish to tell me then, father, when I stormed from the room? Like his grandfather and uncles, Gyles was to become a forgotten name in the blood-soaked annals of history. How I wish I had stayed! Gyles' breath caught in his throat, and he felt tears of grief well in his eyes. How I wish I had listened! Alone atop the battlements, Gyles felt tears begin to run down his cheeks.

Rubbing at his eyes with the edge of his scarf, Gyles continued to muse on his regrets. How very queer. My life is to end in short order, and yet time has never seemed to crawl by so agonizingly slowly. He wondered if a man that had been condemned to the gallows, or the headsman's block, felt the same way the night before he was executed. With naught but your sorrows to truly keep you company.

There were others, too, those that had already perished. Good men, that Gyles wished he could thank for all that they had done for him. Yet when he had the chance, he hadn't. Me and my damnable pride. He wished that he could thank Mors, his ever-faithful squire, for all that he had done to help him. There had been countless opportunities, yet Gyles never thought to. I was always looking ahead, at my next goal. I never thought to appreciate all that I'd achieved, and those who had helped me to reach such successes.

Ser Jarmen, too, had died before Gyles could truly thank him for all that he had taught him. He wished that he could live, to try and carry on the legacy of the aged knight, and the long-dead Prince that Ser Jarmen had so deeply admired. Ser Jarmen hoped for me to listen, and to learn. To not only understand what he hoped to teach me, but to follow such lessons in my own life. Gyles smiled morosely. A changing of the guard, from the old to the young. The slight smile turned into a bitter frown. Forgive me, Ser Jarmen. I wish that I could. If only I had more time!

As he sat in silence, a third face, a third regret, appeared in Gyles' mind. A young man, with blue-grey eyes and brown hair. A quiet lad with a kindly and reserved demeanor, which was thoroughly at odds with his massive and imposing appearance. Ser Maegor. Someone who, despite Gyles' fortuitous intervention in an attempt on his life, had no real reason to trust Gyles. He was under no obligation to see that I was given a place in the Queen's court. And yet he did all the same. He didn't even ask for anything in return.

Gyles was unused to such unreserved kindness from those outside his own immediate kin. In a way, it had taken him off guard. Most people always want something from you. As I would want something from them. When Ser Maegor had helped him, without such expectations of aid or reward, Gyles had been truly flummoxed.

Gyles' life had been pervaded by a sense of abiding cynicism, that had only been reinforced by every misfortune that he'd suffered. Ser Maegor, and his kindness, landed the first true blow against it. Mors and Ser Jarmen both did much and more to wear it down. But methinks that their kindness would have meant little and less to me had Ser Maegor not introduced such grave doubts into my initial view of strangers, and their ultimate intentions.

Ser Maegor was dead now, just as Ser Jarmen and Mors were. Slain by the Greens over Tumbleton. Gyles shook his head. It all felt so grossly unfair. He wished he had come to such realizations much sooner, when each of the three men were still alive. To let them know how much he truly appreciated what each man had done for him. To let them know just how grateful I am for their kindness. To let them know that it has changed me, for the better.

As he looked at the burning cookfires ringing the base of the hill, Gyles felt a sudden wellspring of resolve within himself. Mayhaps I cannot thank Ser Jarmen, Mors, and Ser Maegor for their kindness. But I will prove to them that it was not in vain. Gyles was still living, breathing, and full of life. As are the rest of the occupants of this hillfort. Gyles began to climb down from the ancient, wind-worn battlements. So long as we live, the battle has not yet been lost.

"Are you certain of this, Ser Gyles?" Tristifer of Oldstones looked down at Gyles from Evenfall's saddle.

Gyles looked the Riverman in the eye. "I am. I realize that I am asking much of you, Tristifer. Will you do it? I would not ask it of you if I did not think it were absolutely necessary."

Tristifer nodded, but there was a distant and deeply pained look in his eyes. "I loathe the idea of leaving now. I feel as though I am the worst of cravens for doing so."

Gyles shook his head vehemently. "You are our best scout and tracker, and you now ride our swiftest horse. Do not take the main road. The bandits' encirclement is not so strong to the hillfort's rear. Slip through their lines, and as soon as you are clear, ride hard for Maidenpool. Lord Mooton may yet be the source of our salvation!"

Tristifer nodded, but still appeared unconvinced.

"We'll make it, Tristifer," Gyles said firmly. "All of us. Go now, fetch Lord Mooton and his men." He smiled confidently up at the Riverman. "I'll see you soon."

Tristifer nodded in silence. In his eyes, Gyles could see untold depths of emotion, and pain. He does not want to go. He cannot bear the thought of being a sole survivor once more. However, after a silent final moment of understanding passed between the two men, Tristifer took hold of Evenfall's reins, and rode at a brisk trot out of a crumbling and dilapidated postern gate of the hillfort.

Gyles nodded at the few gold cloaks who were standing watch at the gate, who nodded in turn at him. Gyles then nearly staggered under the crushing weight of a hand clasping his shoulder. "Twas nobly done, Ser," said Ser Horton Cave. He had found the bear pelt-clad landed knight reading letters from his daughter alone in torchlight, and enlisted his help in convincing Tristifer to ride for outside aid.

Gyles turned and smiled up at the massive knight. "Thank you, Ser Horton," was his simple response. "But I am not yet finished." The Clawman's bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in confusion at Gyles' words, but he soon nodded.

"Lead the way, then," Ser Horton responded, doing his best to muster a weak grin. He is trying to remain optimistic about our chances, as I am. Gyles turned, and led Ser Horton into the hillfort's main yard.

A large bonfire had been built in its center, and the majority of Ser Jaehaerys' smallfolk, Ser Amory and his men, and the Queen's party stood around it, trying to keep warm. There is no point in subtlety any longer. We have already been discovered and surrounded by the brigands.

Standing before the fire, Gyles took a moment to survey the most influential faces that stood around it. The firelight glinted off of Ser Amory Lorch's dented and scarred armor as he regaled many of the peasant children present with tales of a tourney at far-away Lannisport. The children have known naught but terror for far too long. Even so, despite the gnawing fear that he undoubtedly felt within himself, Ser Amory did what he could to distract the children from their own fears and raise their spirits, if only for a short while.

The Lady Mysaria stood at the edge of the fire's light, conversing quietly with her Lysene sellsword. Ser Torrhen stood before the fire, and stared into the flames with a distant expression in his eyes. Even now, the northern knight tries to think of some plan, some solution, to our troubles. As others sink further and further into the depths of despair, Ser Torrhen is thinking, always thinking. But there seems to be no logical path to our survival to be found.

Earlier in the evening, Ser Willam Royce had miraculously awoken from the extended period of unconsciousness caused by the grave blow to his head. The pallor of his face was ashen beneath the bloody bandage wrapped about his head, and he struggled to stand without swaying slightly. However, he was outfitted in his bronze rune armor, and wore his Valyrian Steel sword at his side. The heir to Runestone does not intend to die lying down.

Standing before the fire with Ser Horton, Gyles experienced a final moment of hesitation. From this point on, there is no turning back. The road you seek to take will likely lead to utter ruin, and death. Gyles continued to hesitate, as more and more sudden self-doubts filled his mind. Gyles shook his head. What other choice is there now? Even if Tristifer manages to bring Lord Mooton and reinforcements, there is little chance we'll hold the fort until they arrive if we don't act now.

Gyles looked at his feet, and closed his eyes. In the depths of his mind's eye, Gyles could suddenly see Ser Jarmen. The old knight was smiling, his expression full of gentle strength and determination. His eyes met Gyles' gaze directly, and were full of pride. This is my opportunity. Gyles looked back up, to regard all the people standing before him. I won't miss it, Ser Jarmen. You have my word.

Gyles drew his sword from its scabbard. The rasping of the metal on leather was loud enough over the sounds of crackling flame and subdued conversation that nearly all eyes about the fire turned to regard Gyles.

Gyles unbuckled his scabbard from his sword belt, and regarded the well-worn cured leather in his hand for a moment. Without any further hesitation, he tossed the scabbard into the flames of the bonfire. Pointing his sword at the scabbard, as its leather blackened and curled within the flame, he projected his voice as loudly as possible.

"I have tossed my scabbard to the flame for one reason, and one reason alone! My steel will remain bare, and in my hand, until I have the chance to receive a new means of containing it!"

Gyles nodded his head out of the hillfort's main gate, in the direction of the bandits' main encampment at the base of the hill. "Methinks I'll find a new one down there! Those godless fiends drink and make merry below us, certain of an easy victory tomorrow morn!" Gyles' voice rose in strength and intensity, fueled on by a burning anger, and determination. "I can speak only for myself, but I do not intend to give them the victory that they desire."

Gyles spread his arms wide as he continued to project his voice. "Why do we desire to meekly stand by and fight these brigands, on their terms? Are we all truly so fearful, so lacking in initiative? The men below us are bloodthirsty feeders of carrion, and cravens! They wish to live their life by the sword, wrenching their plunder from the hands of those who can't defend themselves."

Gyles held his sword high aloft in the air. "Then let us defend ourselves! Let us give them a taste of the bitter steel that they so cruelly wield! If they intend to make us bleed and suffer, then I intend to make them pay dearly for every drop of blood that they shed!"

Gyles pointed his sword once more at the gate. "I will march forth, and take the fight to them! I will ride no horse, for I have no intent to flee, should the tide of battle turn against me. In the name of all Seven Gods, and on the honor of my family name, I swear that I shall see these brigands slain, or die trying!"

Each and every individual in the yard was silent, and staring at Gyles. Many are still afraid. And who can blame them? The men encamped below us are monstrous. Each and every one of us, no matter how brave we claim to be, fears dying a torturous death at their hands.

Gyles turned, and made his next appeal directly to the large crowd of smallfolk that stood around Ser Jaehaerys. "Come tomorrow, those bandits will kill us all, if they can. They care not for those that you love! They will run them through with cold steel, or they will trample them underfoot, or mayhaps hang them from this fort's walls! They have done it before, and they'll gladly do it again!"

Gyles took in a deep breath. "If you won't fight to save yourselves, then fight to save those that you care for most dearly! I should think that there is no man nor woman in this fort that is so craven that they would be unable to find the strength of conviction to stand and fight for those that they love!"

Amongst the faces in the crowd of smallfolk, Gyles could make out the gamekeeper and his wife. Both of their visages were gaunt, and hollow with grief for their slain son. Gyles watched as the gamekeeper turned to regard his two young daughters huddled together nearby in the yard. A cold expression of resolve came over his face.

A voice spoke up to Gyles' side. "I'll stand with you, Ser Gyles!" Drawing his bastard sword free of its scabbard, Ser Horton tore the leather sheath free of his swordbelt and tossed it into the flames of the bonfire.

"Who else will stand with us?!" Ser Horton roared. "Who?!" The massive Clawman swung his gaze back and forth across the yard, and the occupants standing within it. "WHO?!" the Knight of the Deep screamed, spittle flying forth from his lips.

"I will!" Shouted Ser Willam Royce. Staggering slightly at the motion, the Valeman drew his Valyrian Steel sword, and tossed its jeweled scabbard into the flames of the fire.

More and more voices joined the sudden frenzied chorus. Swords leapt free of scabbards, and the self-same scabbards were tossed into the flames. Those who did not have swords to wield picked up whatever weapons could be found. Spears, kitchen knives, cudgels, and even chunks of crumbling stone were lifted into the air by the roaring crowd.

Gyles held his sword aloft in the air. "WITH ME!" he screamed, and charged to the hillfort's ancient gate, lifting its rotten wooden crossbar with the help of Ser Horton. Pushing the gate of the fort open, Gyles charged forth into the night, at the head of a screaming mob.

As he sprinted down the icy, muddy hill in the direction of the brigands' main encampment, Gyles looked up one last time to the sky. He was certain that the stars of Dorne were shining amongst the night sky's glittering expanse, and felt an overwhelming sudden burst of joy within his heart. Mors was right. If I am to die tonight, my soul will easily find the road home.

The battle that ensued was nothing short of utter chaos. Bleary-eyed and bewildered bandits were savagely set upon as they staggered forth from their tents, some still drunk on their stolen wine. Gyles, amongst other knights, used the protection of their mail mittens to grab flaming logs from campfires and toss them into tents, setting them alight.

Though they were heavily outnumbered, the occupants of the hillfort fought like men and women possessed. With nothing to lose, they battled their foes with reckless, enraged abandon, and the brigands were unable to gain any initiative or cohesion amidst the chaos. Gyles' sword was red with blood, and he pushed further and further into the encampment. Where are you? A screaming bandit ran at Gyles, an axe raised above his head. Gyles deflected the overhead swing with his rounded shield, and swung his sword with such savage strength that he cut the bandit's head completely from his shoulders.

Covered in blood, Gyles continued to stalk further and further into the camp. "Where are you, Robbett?!" Gyles roared. "I've returned! Come out and fight me!" A shrieking and flaming brigand staggered forth from a burning tent, running directly at Gyles. Gyles bashed his shield into the man's flaming chest, forcing him into the icy sludge of the ground. He slammed his sword through the brigand's heart with such ferocity that when he withdrew it, he saw mud smeared on its point from the ground beneath the brigand.

"Where are you?!" Gyles continued to scream into the din of battle. "Come out and face me, you gutless craven!" Though his rage had filled him with a nearly inhuman strength, it also made him less observant of his surroundings. It was for this reason that Gyles nearly didn't see the massive rusted warhammer swinging at his chest from his left flank.

At the last moment, Gyles raised his shield, so that it took the blow, rather than allowing the hammer to crumple his breastplate, and his chest beneath it. The blow sent an intense strum of pain through his arm and wrist, and a large dent appeared on the surface of his shield. Laughing madly, Robbett swung his massive iron warhammer again, this time in an overhead swing directly at Gyles' head. Gyles leapt to the side, avoiding the blow, and landed on top of his left arm. The pain that lanced through his wrist caused Gyles to howl with pain, and he wrenched his arm free of his shield as he stood. That blow to my shield may have broken my wrist.

His left arm hanging limply at his side, Gyles rushed forward, ducking under another heavy swing of Robbett's warhammer. As he passed the brigand leader, he slashed to the side, opening a deep and bloody wound on his left calf. The brigand roared in pain and fury, and pivoted on his right heel in the mud. The movement was so fast that Gyles had no time to react. The pommel of Robbett's warhammer slammed into the side of Gyles' helm, stunning him and knocking him into a heap in the mud.

Gyles' sword tumbled end over end from his grasp into the flames of the burning camp. As Gyles pulled himself up to his knees, Robbett planted his right foot into Gyles' chest, knocking him flat on his back into the slushy mud. With his right knee, Robbett leaned with his full weight into Gyles' chest, pinning him into the mud, and causing him to gasp for air.

Robbett tossed aside his warhammer, and wrenched the visor of Gyles' helm open with a massive hand. He curled the other hand into a fist, and delivered a ferocious punch into Gyles' exposed face. Gyles felt his nose crumple, and stars exploded in his vision as his head slammed backward into the ground.

Robbett leaned forward, so close that Gyles could still smell his breath despite the fact that his nose was broken and bleeding. It smelled of stale wine, and rancid meat. "Go ahead then," the bandit grunted through gritted teeth. "Beg me to kill ya now, and I'll make it quick."

Gyles' thoughts were sluggish and jumbled, and he struggled to remain conscious as his vision spun wildly, full of white and black flashing spots. Gaining his bearings as best he could, Gyles spat a mouthful of his blood into Robbett's face. In response, Robbett slammed Gyles' head back into the mud, forcing it further and further into the sucking earth. Muddy sludge began to envelop Gyles' face, and he began to choke and splutter as Robbett drowned him in the mud. Gyles struggled mightily at first, but his movements grew weaker and weaker the longer his face remained submerged in the sludge.

Suddenly, the pressure upon his face and chest was gone. Hacking and coughing, Gyles lifted his head from the mud. Robbett was lying in the mud next to Gyles, twitching violently. A dirk had been forced in a downward angle through the back of his head, its point emerging out through the bottom of his jaw. Standing above both Robbett and Gyles was Ser Jaehaerys Corne's gamekeeper, breathing heavily.

He knelt in the mud next to Gyles for a moment, leaning in close. "I'll fetch you help, Ser!" the man shouted in his ear, and sprinted off into the night, as the lights of numerous crackling fires threw grotesque and distorted shadows along the treeline at the forest's edge.

Gyles tried to rise from the mud, but found that he was utterly unable to find the strength to do so. At first he felt freezing cold, but over time, a comfortable warmth began to settle across his body. Try as he might to stay awake, Gyles felt his consciousness slipping. A small voice in the back of his mind was screaming that if he fell asleep now, he would ne'er wake. I'm so tired. Gyles' eyes began to drift close.

"Not yet, Ser," the voice said.

Gyles' eyes fluttered back open. "Mors," Gyles croaked. His loyal squire was kneeling next to him in the mud, looking down upon him.

"Aye," the squire replied simply. His squire looked over his shoulder at the treeline, as though he were looking at something hiding in the darkness just beyond perception. "I said not yet!" The squire shouted at the trees.

Gyles blinked, and his squire was gone. In his place knelt Ser Jarmen. "Come now," the ancient knight said softly, a smile upon his face. "They're almost here." The elderly knight took Gyles' hand in his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Have courage."

Gyles was beset by a fit of coughs, which caused him to squeeze his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he could see that he was surrounded by several men. "By all the Gods!" a voice exclaimed in mute horror at the sight of him.

"Quiet!" a voice barked. Ser Horton. "Help me lift him!" the Clawman shouted, and Gyles felt a sudden wave of pain wash across his body as he was lifted from the mud.

"Ser Horton!" Gyles gasped weakly, as he was carried across the ruins of the bandits' encampment.

"What is it?" the knight asked kindly, in an almost fatherly tone.

"Did we win?" Gyles croaked weakly.

He heard Ser Horton chuckle. "They're gone, Gyles. We killed nearly the whole lot of em'. A few escaped, but methinks they won't ever again have the numbers to cause any trouble."

Gyles smiled redly. "Good," he whispered. Though his body was wracked with pain, Gyles felt a triumphant burst of energy flood throughout his frame. We did it. Thank you Maegor. Thank you Mors. Thank you Jarmen.

Chapter Text

Veron V

As he climbed the steps into Faircastle's sept, Veron braced himself for the coming encounter. News of the expedition sent to Crakehall had arrived, although he had been amongst the last to hear of it. Dalton had relegated Veron to a position of near insignificance after he had claimed the remaining Farman sisters weeks before. He was cold before, but now he is… frozen. It had become clear to him that what little affection Dalton may have once felt had bled away quickly once it became clear that Veron was no longer willing to blindly obey his commands. Veron's political and military influence had swiftly been curtailed after he had returned from the Crag. Dalton will suffer no rivals. He certainly will not suffer those who oppose his overarching goals for the campaign. The Crag will likely have been my last expedition. His suspicions had been confirmed when Dalton had dispatched Lord Sigfryd Harlaw to secure Crakehall.

Situated along the wooded coasts of the southern Westerlands, any fool could see that Crakehall commanded the roads into the Reach and was a natural target for asserting control over the entire coastline of the Sunset Sea. Beyond its stout walls, the Reach beckoned, and its fall would signal the end of Dalton's campaign for control of the Westerlands' littoral. The Shield Isles would be a natural next target. We would be landing on the Shields just as the first ravens arrived, demanding a cessation of hostilities. Veron was increasingly uncertain that those calls would be heeded, however. Dalton had become ever more willing to listen to his closest supporters, many of whom seemed less and less likely to offer any words of warning or advice. Sweeping success breeds lickspittles, not sober advisors. Hard won victories become routs, and the fall of fortresses is viewed as little more than a formality. But what will happen when we bleed ourselves white conquering each and every piece of land, our resources running low and winter setting in? While we fritter away our men on the coastal seats, the Lady of the West opens the nearly limitless vaults of the Rock to raise new armies in the interior, preparing to cut us to pieces. Captains who had foraged inland for booty and foodstuffs had ceased returning, with scattered members of their crews returning to the shore, begging for rescue. Shaken survivors spoke of fires in the hills at night, and horns echoing amongst the snowy boughs of the forest. What had been a campaign that had wildly exceeded their expectations had ever so subtly turned into a campaign of attrition, and Veron knew all too well which combatant had more men, and deeper coffers. We have missed our chance to deal a decisive blow, if we ever even had an opportunity to do so.

Entering the chapel, his boots crunched on shattered glass. The windows, formerly crafted of stained glass, had been shattered as part of the voracious looting that had occurred within Faircastle's walls for months. He took solace in the cold wind that blew through the windows, smelling like salt of the sea. Before him stood a mighty gathering of Lords and captains, buried beneath layers of furs and mail. His own brother stood before them all, surrounded by shattered statues of the Gods of the Greenlanders, watching his approach. Dalton was dressed simply, his clothes the basic blacks that would be worn at sea, stained and greyed by the kiss of its waves. He had wedged Nightfall into a gap between the flagstones of the Sept's floor, his hands planted upon it firmly, almost as though he was using it for support. In the past few months, even the Lords present on the expedition had begun to have to go without as their stores ran low, and Dalton bore the marks of that belt-tightening. His sharp features were unmistakable, his malicious eyes gleaming like black diamonds from behind skin drawn tightly over angular features. Long black hair had been pulled back into a braid, with a few strands still dangling over his forehead. A cruel smile had twisted his features as Veron entered, but it could not completely obscure the signs of tension that his brother exhibited. Something is wrong, and it has little to do with my presence. He looked to the faces of those about him, and to his surprise many were grim, shifting uncomfortably in the dust and snow and glass shards that formed a dangerous morass at their feet.

As Veron stopped at the base of the dais Dalton stood upon, his brother kicked a burlap sack from where it sat at his feet towards Veron. He watched as it struck the stones before him, landing with a solid thud. The base of the bag was dark. Dried blood. As he lifted it before him and drew the strings that bound it closed apart, his nostrils were assaulted by the sickly sweet smell of rotten flesh. Making sure to show no hesitation, he reached inside and withdrew its grisly occupant. In his gauntleted hands, he held the head of Lord Sigfryd Harlaw. His features were unmistakable, even in a state of advanced decay. The atrophied flesh had caused his lips to pull back, giving him the appearance of grimacing. To his disgust Veron noted that the Lord's hair, which had once been full and brown, barely clung to what remained of his scalp. He had been very proud of the way he had braided it, in the style of the Old Way. Placing it back in the satchel, he let it drop once more at his feet.

"So Lord Sigfryd is dead. Do we have word of his men? We sent close to three thousand to take Crakehall."

Dalton spoke with a measured tone, clearly attempting to mask his rage. While that may be effective for the other Lords, I can see it plain as day. "It appears… it appears that few, if any, survived. We received a letter along with Lord Sigfryd's remains. Ser Erwin Lannister sends his regards, as does Lord Norbert Crakehall. They allowed Lord Sigfryd's youngest cousin, a boy of twelve, to return to us with their messages."

Veron was taken aback. "Lord Harlaw was one of our best captains. Some of our best men went with him. How could this have happened?"

Dalton hissed through his gritted teeth. "They were intercepted where the sea road enters the forest. Those following the host in longship by sea to keep them supplied swear that they entered the forests, but simply did not come out."

Veron cursed. In his mind's eye, he could see it. Upon reaching the woodlands, their men would have been forced to break marching formation and would have been strung out for over a mile. Attacked by mounted knights who knew the terrain, they'd have broken and fled further into the woods, hunted by enraged bands of local levied smallfolk and Lannister men-at-arms. He did not envy them their deaths, ripped to pieces under the ancient oaks and snow laden pines of the Western coasts.

"Was it not possible to disembark from the longships closer to Crakehall itself?"

Dalton scowled. "I had forgotten you did not attend the planning for this expedition. That must have been an unfortunate oversight on my behalf." Snickers emanated from some of the captains present. "Alas, it was not possible for them to do so. Crakehall is far inland, and the nearby coast is rocky, and mostly cliffs. Longships would have been dashed to pieces attempting to land their occupants. The most suitable beach was nearly thirty leagues from Crakehall."

Veron nodded. That expedition was nothing short of a disaster, then. From what he could calculate mentally, their defeat had cost them nearly half of their remaining effective men. As winter had set in, disease had begun to thoroughly harrow their numbers, to say nothing of the foraging and raiding parties lost on a weekly basis. We must needs seek peace, now. If we continue like this, we will be unable to hold even what we have conquered thus far.

"Brother, we have disagreed about what ought to be done in the past, but I feel compelled to once again impress upon you the need to enter into some sort of negotiations. If we act now, we might be able to keep Fair Isle. We would still accomplish our goals, and have an excellent port with which to menace the Sunset Sea."

Dalton made no effort to hide the vitriol now overtaking his features. Speaking to the crowd of assembled captains, he began: "Do you all now see why I have barred this man from my councils? It shames me to call him my brother, or to acknowledge him as my blood! One defeat, and he speaks of peace!" His brother spit out that final word as though it were a dreadful curse. Turning to Veron he continued. "Brother, in your infinite wisdom, what, pray tell, do you think the Lady of the West would do with our attempts at negotiations? In all likelihood, that cowardly whore would be emboldened by such entreatments. We must force her to give us what is ours by right of conquest. The past shows us that no peace has been achieved between men of Iron and the Greenlanders that wasn't won through slaughter and subjugation. They are low, cowardly creatures that can only be compelled to act according to our wishes by force!"

A cold rage burned within Veron as he observed how many captains still nodded in accordance with his brother's words. Fools. We will burn for this, or worse.

"What of Balon and Alester Wynch? What of Gunthor Goodbrother? What of Lord Amos Stonehouse? Those men were good, formidable captains, and they were all slain in the past month! They and their crews were sent to retrieve foodstuffs, and were cut to pieces by the very smallfolk they were supposed to prey upon the moment they were far enough from the shore to no longer be able to hear the waves crashing upon it! The Greenlanders are learning, Dalton, and they are no longer willing to suffer our raids. As men of Iron, we pride ourselves in taking what we may with the Iron Price, but we now can barely enforce our will upon our enemies. Every man we lose is hardened, trained, and irreplaceable. Every man they lose is immediately replaced with Lannister gold and promises of revenge and glory. If we allow them to keep bleeding us, we will not even be able to properly man all of the Iron Fleet! We will be helpless as we watch hundreds of sails appear on the horizon, paid for with the gold of Casterly Rock!" He let go a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. He could picture the Isles burning, blood staining the sand and rocks. He could smell the smoke, hear the screams. He had to try. Turning to the assembled captains, he spoke: "It won't end with our ejection from the Westerlands. It will end as it has before, with Greenlanders stalking our very Isles, laying waste to our seats and despoiling our women. They will raze our homes to the ground and salt the earth, as they have done before. But we can still avert it! Use the aid of our allies, beg them to send us aid, a dragonrider if they can! With that, we can force a favorable peace."

The room was silent. Many of the assembled captains did not meet his gaze, and while some did, they met it with hatred. To his surprise, however, some Lords did look on him with approval. Veron made a point of making eye contact with each of the great captains. Torgon Blacktyde, whose look of approval was as welcome as it was unsurprising. Lord Angred Botley, my enemy since I was a lad. Hilmar Drumm, eyes still promising vengeance for the denial of the Crag. Lord Ygon Farwynd, the half-mad. The Lord of Lonely Light nodded approvingly, staying true to the support he had promised Veron and Torgon not three weeks before. Lord Arthur Goodbrother, who until recently had firmly supported Dalton, looked uncertain. Perhaps this recent defeat has shaken even the most formidable of captains. Lord Hagon Orkmont, furious. His second son Garmund was recently granted Kayce by Dalton, so Lord Hagon's loyalties come as no surprise. Lord Dagmar Saltcliffe stared daggers. One of Dalton's most detestable lickspittles. Lord Benton Sunderly regarded Veron with interest. Benton 'the bent', mocked by our warriors for his twisted back. I can think of few who have sailed further and seen more. His support would be welcome.

Veron turned back to his brother, coldly calculating. Dalton's insistence on only allowing his supporters to fight has evened the numbers of our supporters significantly. The loss of Lords Harlaw, Stonehouse, and Merlyn must have been painful for him. I could have never hoped to sway men to my cause being so outnumbered. When he met his brother's gaze, a chill ran down his spine despite himself. An odd light danced in his brother's eyes. While enraged, he seemed to still have the presence of mind to be weighing the merit of Veron's suggestion.

"A dragonrider you say? Now that is a most interesting thought indeed, brother. While I am loathe to beg aid, a battle tested dragonrider would completely shift the scales once more. Armies raised with Lannister gold would be worth little more than kindling." A thin, hateful smile carved its way through Dalton's features. "I do not believe you have heard, brother. News came days ago on raven's wings, informing us of a great gathering at Harrenhal. Lord Stark's host has finally come south, and with him ride the Riverlords, what remains of them. The message even stated that the Vale is represented."

So the Princess' coalition has been maintained. "What of their dragons, brother?"

"Our… allies… inform us that contrary to certain rumors, they won a great victory in the Reach. Three of the Prince's dragonriders were slain, including his youngest brother. The Princess's forces lost none of their own riders. Three dragons now roost at Harrenhal. We have little reason to believe that the Prince can match their numbers. He can only count on his mount and that of his sister." Dalton scoffed. "I cannot even imagine the shame; placing one's fate in war in the hands of a woman."

Shame, Dalton? It was the hands of two women that helped to forge this realm, alongside their beloved brother. Visenya and Rhaenys broke the backs of Kings, and brought their hosts low. We would be as foolish as Harren to mock their might.

"The Prince Aegon and his wife Helaena will likely be forced to remain in the capital to protect what little of the Kingdom remains to them. It stands to reason that even two dragonriders at Harrenhal would bind them to their seat, leaving them unable to aid the West. With even one dragon we could cow the Lady of the Rock, and perhaps even maintain a siege of Casterly Rock itself."

Dalton's eyes gleamed, returning to their characteristic revelries and brutal fantasies. I have him, thought Veron.

"To seize the Rock itself. Such an act would make my legend immortal. None before have accomplished so much. Not even the Conqueror himself."

"Brother, allow me to send for a dragonrider. If we can convince our allies that the war can be won here, in the West, we may just be able to preserve our winnings and force them to kneel."

Dalton's eyes refocused, and he gazed at Veron from the ruined dais. "Go then, brother, and send a raven. I will await their response with interest."

Veron could not help but notice the carven statue of the Warrior looming behind Dalton as he spoke, its stone head cloven in twain. Glass crunched underfoot as he exited the chamber.

Veron had seen to the letter personally, carefully supervising its writing and watching closely as Fair Isle's maester sent it aloft. Afterwards, he had followed the muddy paths of Faircastle out of the keep and through the gatehouse into the town below. It had become his custom in the last few weeks to drink at the tavern in peace. While stocks of food had run low to the point of rationing, stocks of ale and the like were always in great supply, thanks to the dutiful labors of the breweries on the Isles. While he had been away from Pyke for over a year, he took solace in the distinctive flavors of its ale and the smell of the sea that pervaded the inn. As he nursed a tankard, Torgon entered the inn, followed closely by several other men that Veron had come to recognize from past meetings. As they took their seats around the table that had come to be their traditional haunt, Veron was pleased to notice a few new faces amongst their numbers.

Torgon, the new lord of Blacktyde after the death of his father two weeks previously. He had taken solace from his loss in the planning they had embarked upon. Ygon Farwynd, our first ally and adherent. Lord Benton Sunderly, 'the bent'. A firm believer in the benefits of trade over war. It took Veron a moment to adjust to the newest arrival, however. Towering over the other lords, Arthur Goodbrother took a seat amongst their number, looking somewhat uncomfortable but resolute nonetheless. Alongside him were Gunthor Goodbrother, of Corpse Lake; Greydon Goodbrother, of Crow Spike Keep; and Torbert Goodbrother of Downdelving. The potential allegiance of the Lord of Hammerhorn means that the cadet branches will follow. To Veron's great surprise, Lord Rodrik Sparr entered the tavern a few moments later, evidently following the lead of his liege, though clearly unhappy about it.

Veron took the opportunity to shake the hands of each man that had come. In times such as these, my respect and gratitude will earn me the loyalty that my desire for a negotiated peace will not.

Clearing his throat, he began. "I must thank Lord Torgon for speaking with you all about a meeting today. After speaking with my brother, I thought it might be necessary to speak with those who are more partial to my course of action in order to coordinate our plans." He took a deep breath. "The Drowned God seems to have begun to spurn our requests for his favor. I cannot begin to understand why, but the disaster at Crakehall will be difficult, if not impossible to fully recover from. I have sent to our supposed allies and requested that they send a dragonrider to assist us, though I have doubts that our request will be fulfilled. It seems to me that they will find their needs more pressing, and our cause… distasteful… as Greenlanders so often do. In the event that we do not receive support, I propose that we have other plans in place."

For a moment, all around the table were silent. Arthur Goodbrother shifted uncomfortably on his bench, before finally speaking.

"Veron, as you well know, I backed your brother to the hilt from the earliest days of this war. I still believe he is capable of great things, and hope that he will see reason. That being said, I will not be partial to treason of any kind. Meetings such as these do not sit well with me, what with us lurking in the shadows and plotting like scullery maids." He stroked his great black beard. "I am willing, however, to support your desires for negotiations. You are correct that Crakehall was a disaster. We either should have gone with all the forces available to us, or not gone at all. Sending the Harlaws was asking too much of too few."

The other Goodbrothers nodded in agreement. Lord Rodrik muttered something under his breath, before spitting in the rushes. His watery eyes had adopted an expression of distaste not long after the discussion had begun. He will be one to watch. He likely feels he must back his liege, but still believes in my brother and the Old Way.

Veron rose his hands in a gesture of understanding and compliance. "Lord Arthur, I have absolutely no intentions of treason or anything of the sort. While my brother and I's relations have been… strained… as of late, no man can question my loyalty to him personally. I have fought by his side since we were little more than lads." Taking a deep drought from his tankard, he continued. "What I propose is that we cease our inland raids. Each of us commands the loyalties of at least one ship, if not more. We cannot afford to continue to go into the interior of the West and give our enemy opportunities to isolate and slaughter us at will. Everything within ten leagues of the coast has already been plundered or removed anyways. If we can agree to hold our forces in reserve, we can ensure that at least some of our host remains in a permanent state of readiness, in case of further Lannister aggression."

Lord Benton Sunderly nodded, taking a sip of his ale. Lord Farwynd seemingly had been lost in his thoughts, but seeing the developing consensus around the table, added his assent. The Lord of Hammerhorn seemed to be pondering his words. Finally, he spoke, grey eyes serious. "I can see no fault with your plans, Veron. But such restraint will be unpopular with the men. They already grow hungry for want of adequate rations, and believe that reaving is the only solution to their growling stomachs."

Veron nodded. "We have all gone wanting for several weeks now. But reaving will do naught but expose us to further retaliation. We must needs find other sources of food. We may need to consider increasing our demands from the Isles themselves."

His proposal prompted shocked and disapproving looks from the assembled Lords. It was Torgon who spoke first. "Veron, the final harvest has only just been retrieved, and as I am sure you are aware, it was a disappointing one, with so few men available to bring it in to the storehouses. Winter has set in, and the smallfolk have already sacrificed much for this war. I fear they may not support much more, especially not with news of Crakehall."

Veron grimaced. He could only imagine how Dalton would respond to an uprising of the smallfolk. Running a hand through his hair, he responded. "If we cannot demand any more of the Isles themselves, we will have to rely on what can be had locally. With the mainland denied to us, that will mean combing this island for livestock or wildlife, and fishing the Sunset Sea. We may be able to buy ourselves at best a few more months of time if we are determined. Beyond that, I can think of no other way to sustain ourselves."

It was clear to him that his words came as no comfort to those assembled. Veron was certain that most of them had already lost men to fever or other illnesses pervading their mens' camps and quarters. Underfed men sickened quickly, and the situation was likely to worsen over time.

Lord Sunderly spoke, his voice raspy and little more than a whisper. "It is laughable, really. We have mountains of loot all about this damnable isle. Gold, silver, Myrish Lace, Arbor Wines, tapestries and manuscripts crafted by the finest guilds of Oldtown. In times of peace, we could afford to feed the entire Iron Isles with such riches for years to come. Now, we can do little more than parade them around as ridiculous baubles. Any of our ships that make port in the Shields or Oldtown would be drawn and quartered, for obvious reasons. It is maddening to think we have the means with which to buy enough to feed ourselves, but none willing to sell."

Ygon Farwynd cleared his throat. "What of Seagard? The Riverlands may still be willing to trade a portion of their stores with us. Especially if we come with gold and silver in hand."

Lord Benton responded, his voice tired. "Indeed, they would have, if it were not for the Prince Aemond. If the stories are to be believed, most of the Riverlands south of the Twins is naught but ash and smoke. If there were surplus stores to be had, we would have a solution to our problem. As it currently stands, they are likely struggling to feed their own."

Veron could see why so many around the table were looking increasingly dejected, but did not have any words to assuage their fears. If we cannot force a peace, the Lady of the Rock will be able to pry our conquests from our withered, starving hands with little trouble in a few months. Crossing his arms, he spoke up.

"My Lords, it seems we must make do with what we can find. But I must once again reiterate: we cannot afford to take any more unnecessary losses. Make do with what we can, and pray that the Drowned God sees fit to send us a dragon."

The dried apple was a welcome addition to his sparse supper, which had consisted of a particularly tough piece of dried meat and two thick slices of dark brown bread. As he relished the faint flavors that still remained within the fruit, he heard the door to his chambers close behind him. Turning his head so as to perceive the intruder, he was unsurprised that it was the first of his 'saltwives', the formidable Elissa.

"Have you eaten?" He asked between bites of dried fruit.

Nodding her head in the affirmative, she sat across from him. Wasting little time, she got to the point of her visit. "Veron, word has spread sufficiently of the massacre at Crakehall. I… I hope you did not have any friends on that particular expedition."

A low, wheezing laugh emanated from within him. "Peace, Elissa. I am well aware that you would care not a whit whether I did or not. Were our roles reversed, I would be celebrating as I am certain many within the castle are even now."

Brown eyes widened with shock, before a genuine giggle escaped from her lips. "I did not expect such honesty, even from you, husband."

He waved a hand in response. "You already know enough about me to see my head on a spike. I have little desire to maintain our charade in private." Taking a moment to chew the last bits of apple he had consumed, he continued. "Besides, while Crakehall was a devastating defeat, it was particularly devastating for those who think my brother a living host of the Drowned God. The men who were slaughtered were amongst his firmest adherents. Dalton, while enraged, may prove slightly more pliable given that the number of my supporters grow whilst his diminish, by sentiment or by blade."

She nodded. "That is to your advantage then, good."

He sat in silence, and raised a dark black eyebrow. "It is. As much as I appreciate your ability to listen to my successes and failures, I cannot help but imagine that you did not come to congratulate me concerning the deaths of my brothers-in-arms."

Elissa pushed a few curly brown strands of her hair away from where they hung in front of her face. "You are correct. I was uncertain about how exactly to broach the topic, but given that I seem to have found you in an agreeable mood, I will get straight to the point. The battle at Crakehall has left many saltwives unclaimed. I will need you to go about claiming them."

Veron groaned. "Claiming my 'brother's leavings' left me in hot water that I may only have just climbed out of. Claiming the widows of the honored dead will not be received favorably. I will be seen as a particularly lustful vulture."

Elissa was no longer feigning sympathy for him, he could see plainly enough. Not that I am particularly deserving of it.

"Will you do it, or will you not? You are brother to the Red Kraken. You can claim whoever you wish. As I understand it, the Ironborn respect strength. Even if men grumble within their cups, they will abide by your decision, or will challenge you to fight. If I know you at all, I have no doubt you have been starved of good fighting opportunities recently."

He chuckled. "You know me well enough to know that I have craved the singing of steel for weeks now." Now to see what is in it for me. "So what do I stand to gain? The affection of these women? They are no more likely to welcome me into their beds than their former husbands, even if I were so inclined."

Elissa rolled her eyes. "You dolt. We women are allowed everywhere in this castle. When we aren't cooking, cleaning, or being bedded, we might as well be invisible. The more salt wives you take, the more eyes and ears you will command, loyal only to you. If your brother or his adherents ever seek to do you harm, you will know of it practically the moment it is decided. You Ironborn have no mind for such things, but we women do. There is much and more we can keep you informed of that you would otherwise be blind to. In return, we are kept safe and untouchable, by virtue of being your wives."

Veron considered her words for a moment. There is truth to her words. Especially now that I lack my brother's favor. Besides, the more wives I take, the less anyone will see me for anything other than a man consumed by his own lusts.

"Where are these women?" He asked.

A sly grin spread across the features of his chief salt wife. "I can take you there now."

Their journey took them throughout the castle, and into the camps beyond. After they had retrieved the first five women, Veron realised that this process was going to be far more involved than he had imagined. By the end of the evening, they had made their rounds, and twenty-nine souls followed behind him and Elissa. He followed in her wake. Women young and old, all comely in their own way, ill-used and with eyes that sometimes stared at something he could not see far in the distance, made up their company. At first, men guffawed as they passed, uncertain of what was transpiring. Word spread quickly, however. Soon, they spat in their path, muttering curses under their breath. It is as I suspected. They think that I disrespect their fallen comrades with my actions. He frowned. And I do. This is not honorable. Casting a glance at one of the lead women, who had once been a tavern keeper's daughter, he grimaced as he noted the angry cuts and bruises that were just visible above the neckline of her dress. But is subjecting these people to such torments honorable? Veron knew the answer. While he had been raised in the Old Way, he had never been particularly comfortable with that particular tenet. Perhaps it is my unnatural lusts, but I would rather conquer a worthy enemy than rape his wife. Lost in his thoughts, he began to ignore the looks of disgust that he received from the men they passed. It is not as though they looked on me with love before this moment. Dalton and his supporters have poisoned the minds of these men towards me long before I claimed these women.

Eventually, they reached the quarters that Elissa had claimed for herself and her sisters, along with Eleyna Westerling. Many makeshift bedspreads, cots, and other means of bedding down had been set up throughout the chamber, and from what Veron could tell it must have been used for storage, perhaps as a granary during long summers. Most importantly, he observed it had a strong oaken door, which could easily be barred from the inside. As Elissa's sisters guided their new charges to places where they could rest, Elissa herself turned to Veron.

"I am most pleased you allowed me this opportunity, Veron." Casting her eyes about at those wandering about the chamber, she added: "And allow me to thank you on their behalf. Many will someday come to understand what you have done for them, but it will take time. They… they have suffered terribly. When they have had a chance to rest, I will explain their duties to you. Soon, you will know of everything that transpires within Faircastle."

Veron nodded. While part of him felt sore that none had offered their thanks or expressed their gratitude, the more calculating part of him understood. Aye, they may be grateful with time. But I will still always be one of the men that ruined their lives. Savior or not. Suppressing the disgust he felt, Veron turned, and exited the chamber. He could not help but notice the sound of the door bar being lowered behind him.

The axe struck the cobblestones with a screech. Sparks flew in several directions upon its impact, and Veron saw them out of the corner of his eyes. His opponent was fast, and very strong. Not allowing his momentum to be sacrificed on a missed strike, he used the force of the impact to direct his weapon back into the air, spinning it around in a dazzling arc above his head before sending it sailing towards Veron once more. This time, Arthur Goodbrother's axe sheared off part of his oaken shield, almost knocking him off balance and forcing him to shift his weight so as not to stumble. In response, Veron dove forwards, sending himself crashing into the larger man and forcing him backwards. One step, two steps, three… on the fourth backstep, the Lord of Hammerhorn found his footing again, and pushed back, roaring all the while. Veron, to his unpleasant surprise, found that not only could he no longer push his opponent backwards, but found instead that he was not even able to hold his own ground. His opponent had dropped his great axe by that point, however, and instead had grabbed a war pick from his belt, and was currently attempting to crack Veron's helm with furious strikes that left him dizzy. He struggled to focus as the whole world started to ring. With one final furious push, Veron was sent sprawling backwards across the cobblestones. His enemy rose his war pick above his head, screaming bloody murder, as spittle flew from his lips. It was only then that Arthur Goodbrother noticed the razor sharp mailbreaker that Veron had stabbed expertly through his midriff, purposely avoiding flesh and instead puncturing the mail and leather that his foe used for protection. The Lord of Hammerhorn cursed, and tossed his weapon aside, offering a massive hand instead as a peace offering. Accepting, Veron stood somewhat shaikly, still reeling from the blows upon his helm.

"Well-swung, Lord Arthur. Had you continued with that pounding, I may not have had a head to think with."

Arthur scoffed. "Had you put that blade of yours through my heart, I wouldn't have even been able to give that head of yours a single knock. You got inside my guard, and I paid for it. Or would have, had we met upon the field of battle."

Ott, the master-at-arms, listened intently to their exchange. Once Lord Goodbrother had quit the yard, he pulled Veron aside.

"Once more, you've relied on finesse, Master Greyjoy. While such things are a sight to behold, you ought to know better than to allow yourself to be struck in such a manner. If your opponent had cracked your helm, you may have fallen into a stupor from which you might've never returned. I've seen too many promising lads be felled by what at first seems a relatively unremarkable blow to the head."

Veron nodded. Ott is right, of course. My propensity for style could be the death of me against a more skilled opponent. Then again, against a more skilled opponent I would be more concerned with survival than flourish.

The master-at-arms evidently could see that Veron was processing his words, and gave him a firm slap on the back in recognition of his victory. As Veron was about to call for some ale, he instead found himself face to face with the maester of Faircastle. The older man wore his grey robes, chains dangling about his neck, and clutched a rolled message within his gaunt hands. Veron's stomach dropped. So today is the day where we will learn if we are to be saved.

Without fail, he snatched the missive from the hands of the maester and made his way quickly through Faircastle's great hall, past its fading tapestries and mountains of looted goods. Behind the Lord's seat was a firm door, which when opened led up a spiral staircase whose narrow lancet windows looked out onto the grey winter sea, rolling out beyond Fair Isle's cliffs. With each step Veron took towards Dalton's chambers, he found himself growing more and more apprehensive. When he finally burst into his brother's room, he found him seated at a great table, using a Myrish lens to pore over a map of the Westerlands. It has been a long while since I have been able to speak with him privately like this. Dalton mostly prefers to 'put me in my place' before his lords and captains.

His brother adopted a guarded, but curious expression as Veron unrolled the message in his hands, struggling to keep them from shaking from the anticipation. Before him, in the unmistakable penmanship of a maester, was scrawled a response.

To the Lord Dalton Greyjoy and his brother, Veron Greyjoy,

We received your request for the aid of a dragonrider recently, and have deliberated our course of action most thoroughly. As we muster our forces in hopes of avenging our fallen Queen, we are troubled by the knowledge that the Usurper Aegon and his sister-wife Helaena can still muster two large and formidable dragons against us. With our own riders, we have a slight numerical advantage as it currently stands, and thus hope to triumph in the event of an attack. Reducing our number of dragons at so critical a time could prove devastating, and allow for a blow to be struck in such a way that our beloved Queen's cause might perish outright. It is for this reason that after much debate we, the commanders of the Queen's remaining forces, have determined that all three of our dragons must remain at Harrenhal. We wish to extend to you our gratitude for your contributions to the Queen's cause, as we all look on our chances of victory more favorably knowing that the might of the Ironborn is what keeps the wrath and fury of the West at bay.

Veron had feared that the response of their 'allies' would be to deny them a dragon, but cynical expectations were far less devastating than outright confirmation. As he read the words of the letter to his brother, he watched as whatever guarded anticipation Dalton had originally shown drained slowly from his expression. Once more, the hateful, guarded expression that his brother had worn upon receiving the news at Crakehall reemerged, and his eyes narrowed, becoming little more than vitriolic onyx slits. Veron traced the waxen seals of the Starks, Tullys, and Arryns at the bottom of the letter, his heart growing cold with hatred. Faithless friends indeed. To them, we are naught more than a necessary sacrifice. We will bleed and die and be driven into the sea whilst they win decisively in the east.

Dalton slammed his fist into the wooden table, causing the various baubles and instruments placed about it to bounce about, some crashing to the stone floor of the chamber. Drawing a breath that shook with rage, his brother looked him in the eyes as he spoke.

"We have been abandoned." He hissed between gritted teeth.

For once, Veron could only nod in agreement. "Would that they had agreed to help us. We could have won the peace."

Dalton scoffed. "There will be no peace now. Only annihilation. As it has been between our ancestors and those of the Greenlanders. There can only be one end to this war. Utter subjugation, or utter victory."

Veron had little doubt as to who would triumph in the long run. All we will ensure is the slaughter of our people. We cannot hope to match our enemy man for man. Our actions will have ensured that we receive no sympathy from the other realms, either. When the war ends, they will bind themselves together once more as brothers in arms as they sail to our shores and lay waste to our Isles. Perhaps, if we maintain the fleet, we can force a peace simply by controlling the sea and denying them their conquest. He knew it was a faint hope, but he clung to it nonetheless.

He knew his thoughts would prove little balm to his brother's wounds, however. When he spoke, he kept his words simple, and conciliatory. "If we continue to keep hold of the sea, and bleed them every time they attempt to retake captured seats, we may be able to force the Lannisters to back down from their final vengeance. The war may end before they can even menace our conquests."

Dalton, surprisingly, seemed to grasp the merit of his suggestion. Without his lickspittles fueling his dreams of conquest, he still has a keen mind. It seems this letter finally shook him free of his belief in victory.

The chamber door crashed open behind them, and whirling around, Veron watched with increasing dread as Lords Angred Botley and Hilmar Drumm entered, their faces grey and haggard.

Lord Botley was the first to speak, slamming down two more scraps of parchment before them on the table. His eyes alight with an odd mix of religious devotion, murderous fury, and despondent raving, he spoke: "My Lord, we have received these messages within minutes of one another. Lord Melwick Myre of the Crag has written, saying he is besieged by a host of Tarbecks, Reynes, Marbrands, and Baneforts. Garmund Orkwood of Kayce has also written, pleading for aid. He claims that a vast army has entirely encircled Kayce, made up of Lannisters, Crakehalls, Presters, and Serrets. He fears he lacks the men to hold the walls if they choose to take them by storm."

Veron felt nausea roil in his stomach. I was so close. He didn't even need to see his brother to know his reaction. Turning, his fears were confirmed. Dalton had straightened, smiling dangerously in the firelight. A maddened look had once more begun to haunt his deep black eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, he spoke, his voice full of foreboding promise.

"Ready the men. We sail tomorrow, to ruin or to triumph."

May the Drowned God help us all. We sail straight for the Lion's maw.

Chapter Text

Maegor VI

Harrenhal's Hall of Hundred Hearths was crowded as its occupants awaited the arrival of Lord Mooton. Countless banners had been hung along the walls of the chamber, displaying the heraldry of each and every lord that had marched to defend the Queen's rights. We have our army now. The forces that the Riverlords had scrounged were meager, with the exception of the Tullys, whose men had yet to see the field of battle.

Men who have yet to die, Maegor thought darkly. He was seated at the hall's high table, amongst the most prestigious individuals that currently called Harrenhal home. From the Vale, Ser Isembard Arryn, Ser Corwyn Corbray, and Ser Alan Waxley. From the Riverlands, Ser Elmo Tully, Lady Sabitha Frey, and young Lord Benjicot Blackwood.

The two newcomers of greatest note however, were Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Rhaena Targaryen. Lord Stark brought the entire might of the North with him, and at the high table he was attended by one of his sworn vassals, a certain Lord Cerwyn. Lord Stark had dark hair, a long face, and grey eyes. In the short time that Maegor had known him, he seemed to be a stranger to good humor. A man of frowns, and long stares.

Maegor might have been slightly intimidated by such a demeanor, not so long ago. Now, he felt more like scoffing at the Northern Lord's behavior. He thinks himself a hard man. We shall find out, soon enough. Hard-fought battle would prove whether or not such things were true. Will he crack under the strain, like that sniveling Hightower at Tumbleton? Only time would tell.

Through her presence, the Lady Rhaena lent further legitimacy to their cause. She sat near to the table's center, with Ser Corwyn Corbray to her left, and Gaemon to her right. In her lap was a dragon hatchling, a creature with pale pink scales and black horns. Would that it were born sooner. Maegor didn't expect the Princess Helaena to fly into battle with the Usurper, but even so, every dragon that could be relied upon to fly into battle against the Greens was a boon to be desired. We could have had one more rider, had the Queen not ordered for Nettles' execution.

When Maegor had learned of Queen Rhaenyra's death, he had felt very little in the way of sympathy, or grief. How many chances did we have to end this war? How many times did she willfully squander them with her indecision, and paranoia? That self-same paranoia was why Nettles was missing, an exile on the run. We could have used Nettles, and her dragon.

Sitting silently in his seat, Maegor frowned sadly. I miss her. Her vulgar manner of speaking and grim sense of humor had at first been off-putting, but Maegor had grown to enjoy it. Nettles truly understood the unfairness and senseless cruelties of this world long before I did. He wondered what she would think of his plans for vengeance against the treacherous Greens. Maegor's frown deepened. She would likely think me mad.

Beneath the table, Maegor's fists clenched. I gave them a chance. A chance to surrender, and to save the lives of their men. And they spit on it. Such betrayal could not, would not, go unpunished. The Conqueror made a pyre of this very castle, with King Harren and all of his sons inside of it. With the extinction of House Hoare, their depravities and cruelties came to an end.

By the war's end, Maegor planned to make several more Harrenhals. The Green leaders at Tumbelton will reap the rewards of their treachery. Destruction, and utter ruin. Mayhaps, when they learn of the burning of their seats, and all who live within them, they will understand some small amount of the abject misery that they have wrought upon the Realm, and its people.

Maegor knew that such actions would cause him to be reviled amongst the worst villains of the histories of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet, to his own dark amusement, he realized how little he cared. Let them speak of my deeds and actions in hushed, accusatory tones. Let the nobility be outraged and horrified. They will revile my legacy, but they'll also remember it, and fear it. With luck, such fear will grip their hearts the next time they intend to commit some atrocity. They will learn that righteous and furious justice comes not at the precipice of the afterlife, but on dragon's wings.

Maegor was pulled from his musings as the massive doors of the Hall of Hundred Hearths were opened, allowing for the entrance of Lord Mooton and his recently arrived entourage. As they entered, Maegor's eyes widened in sudden surprise. What in the Seven Hells?

Lord Mooton and his most prominent knights were not alone as they strode along the hall's length to present themselves before the high table. Maegor saw faces amongst the newcomers that he had never thought to see again. All were haggard, and many faces were also covered in scruffy, unkempt facial hair, as well as half-healed cuts and other wounds. Dead men walking. Men who we thought fell with the city of King's Landing.

Quick glances to either side of himself confirmed that Maegor was not the only one stunned at the sight of the new arrivals. Gaemon, Ser Addam, Lady Rhaena, the Valemen, the Riverlords, and even Lord Stark all wore various expressions of shock and wonder.

The first face that Maegor recognized was that of Lord Commander Marbrand's former squire, Ser Morgon Banefort, whom Maegor had sparred with several times at the Red Keep. The longer he looked upon them, the more faces that Maegor recognized. Ser Torrhen Manderly was there as well. It appeared that the northern knight had lost some of his considerable weight since the last time Maegor had seen him, and the mustache that he oft kept so well oiled and trimmed was now a bristling mass on his upper lip.

Ser Willam Royce had bandages wrapped about his head, and walked slightly unsteadily. His ancient bronze breastplate had nearly as many scrapes and dents adorning its surface as it did carved runes. However, he stood tall, and wore his Valyrian Steel sword proudly on his hip. To Maegor's great shock, the Lady Mysaria was present as well. How did they escape? Maegor remembered the sight of King's Landing, smoldering and ruined. How are they still alive?

Before he could muse any further, Maegor noticed one final face from amongst the crowd of newcomers. Ser Gyles Yronwood. It had been some time since he'd last lain eyes on the handsome Dornish knight, and it appeared that the past weeks had been more than unkind to him. The Dornishman had two black eyes, and his nose was covered in a heavy layer of bandages. Additionally, his left arm was cradled in a cloth sling that had been secured about his neck.

Despite his many wounds however, Ser Gyles strode confidently forward, with the portcullis sigil of his House still prominent upon his silk doublet despite the many tears and stains it bore. While Maegor had remembered him as clean-shaven, a short and curly blonde beard now dominated much of the lower half of Ser Gyles' face.

Maegor was stunned. Looking at the assembled multitude that had gathered before the high table, he felt as though he were observing a host of ghosts. However, Maegor noticed that many of the survivors of King's Landing were themselves staring at Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam, with varying expressions of shock. The false letters. Maegor felt the all-too-familiar anger flare up again within himself. They thought us all dead, slain in battle over Tumbleton.

After a moment, Maegor realized that Ser Gyles was staring directly at him. Turning his head to fully regard the Dornishman, Maegor nodded slightly at him. Gyles nodded his head in turn at Maegor. Maegor was surprised to see an intense expression upon the Dornishman's face, full of restrained emotion. How very odd. It is understandable that he is surprised to see me, but to nearly be overcome with emotion? Maegor found that the anger building within himself had been replaced by confusion. Twas not a reaction I would have ever thought to expect from a man like Ser Gyles.

Once the newcomers had all arrayed themselves before the Hall of Hundred Hearths' massive high table, they all bent to one knee before the assembled Great Lords, and the Lady Rhaena. Turning his face up to regard the table's occupants, Ser Torrhen Manderly began to speak. "It appears that little of what we believed to be the truth in these past few weeks bears any veracity now." Ser Torrhen nodded at the assembled crowd of kneeling warriors gathered about him, before regarding all the Lords and Knights who had assembled in the Hall to observe their entrance. "If you will allow us some time, my Lords, there is much and more that we must needs tell you."

Maegor leaned forward on the battlement, oblivious to the cold winter winds. Beyond the massive walls of the castle was the God's Eye lake. The waters were grey and choppy, as a light snowfall continued to drift lazily down from the sky above. Bad waters for fishing on. Back home at Dragonstone, Maegor had learned to value days such as these. Father wouldn't have had us go out on waters like these. Such days were oft instead spent at Malda's inn, where the ale flowed freely, and the warmth of the hearth dispelled the outside chill.

Maegor smiled at countless memories of the time he had spent at the inn, as the half-forgotten sights and sounds rippled ephemerally at the edge of his consciousness like reflections on water. The life I enjoyed. The smile disappeared, replaced by a deep frown. The life I wanted.

Though Maegor cared for the Grey Ghost, and the bond that they shared, he would give it all up if it meant he could have had his old life back. I didn't want any of this. Not truly. He had sought out the Grey Ghost more out of a sense of duty to his vaunted lineage than a genuine desire of his own. We were supposed to ride dragons in the Queen's name. To win great glory, wealth, and fame. His father had said as much that night at Malda's inn, the night that felt so long ago. He even convinced me, despite my doubts and reservations.

Maegor had succeeded in taming a dragon, as he and his kin had hoped he would. And what did it win me, truly? Loss after loss after loss. He had lost his father and his brothers first, and the pain of it all had nearly broken Maegor. The second great loss had come when Maegor realized that he could never again live as a simple member of the smallfolk, content in his own small corner of the world. I could have been a Septon, traveling from village to village on Dragonstone. Or mayhaps I could have built a home of my own, and been a fisherman like my father. Marry a girl from the village, and have sons and daughters of my own. Now, they felt like the dreams of another man, another Maegor. A Maegor that hasn't burned thousands of men alive. A Maegor that doesn't continue to hear their screams in his dreams, or smell their burning flesh.

The third and final loss had been nearly as painful as the first. The loss of who I thought I was. The loss of the sense of my place in this world, and what I thought that I believed in. Maegor wanted to live in a world where kindness and mercy mattered, and where such acts would be rewarded in the grand scheme of things. Such foolishness. I should have known better. Most people care only for themselves, and will do whatever it takes to ensure their own victories. The profound sense of despair that such thoughts and realizations brought made Maegor want to weep anew each time he thought of them. Maegor's face twisted into a silent snarl. No more tears. No more weakness. There is a new purpose for me now, a new way.

Maegor would win in the end. He could not countenance the possibility of any other outcome. No matter how high I have to pile the charred bones, and no matter how many castles have to burn. If the evil men and women of this world could not be reasoned with, then Maegor would break them. If the Gods won't punish them for their avarice and cruelty, then I gladly will. Maegor's fists clenched atop the battlements. I will make them understand what it is to truly lose everything.

The sound of footsteps approaching him drew Maegor from his increasingly enraged musings. Schooling his expression to one of cool indifference, Maegor turned to face the newcomer.

Ser Gyles Yronwood stood before him. The Dornishman had removed much of the scraped and scarred armor that he had arrived at Harrenhal in, wearing naught but a mail shirt as a means of defence. The silk doublet that he wore was not nearly as mangled as the one that he had arrived in, but still bore several tears and stains. Ser Gyles wore a fur cloak about his shoulders, which he attempted to pull more tightly about himself with his right hand.

Maegor let a false smile spread across his features. "If it isn't the conquering hero! It will not be long before all the bards sing the praises of you and your puissant comrades in their ballads."

Maegor was thoroughly surprised by the Dornishman's reaction. Rather than the wide, confident grin that Maegor expected to see, Ser Gyles merely gave a slight shake of his head. "It should not be myself of whom the bards sing. The knights of our party would have been slaughtered despite their heroism, had the smallfolk with us not so bravely borne arms into battle and fought alongside us."

Maegor was unsure of how to respond. Praising peasants? What happened to the grinning, glory-chasing knight that I introduced into Queen Rhaenyra's court? Where is the easy charm and self-assured arrogance?

Up close, Ser Gyles' wounds were not a pleasing sight to look upon. The black and blue discoloration of the skin about his eyes made them look as though they were two violet-colored orbs contained within sunken pits. The bandages about his nose made his voice slightly nasally, and the way that he had to clutch his winter cloak about himself with only one arm looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

"I-" Ser Gyles began, and then hesitated. The Dornishman closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. Eventually, with a firm look at Maegor, Ser Gyles continued. "I apologize, Ser. I will not lie to you. I am nearly all but a stranger to the virtues of humility, and sincere gratitude. I've spent too much of my life seeking accomplishments, and too little giving thanks to those who have helped me to achieve them." The Dornishman coughed, and shifted his feet slightly. "I would like to try now."

Gyles smiled apologetically. "Much and more has happened to me on my journey north from King's Landing. Lessons learned, and friends lost. I will not burden you with the tale in its entirety. Suffice to say, I am not the knight, nor the man, that you were once acquainted with in King's Landing."

Gyles met Maegor's eyes with a strong gaze. "These past few weeks have taught me the true meaning of my knighthood, and the type of man that I must needs be. There are many that I wish to thank for aiding me in such realizations, and encouraging me to accept them." Gyles frowned, the expression conveying a great depth of grief.

"And yet, Ser Maegor, you are the only such person who remains. I will not lose the second chance that fate has provided me. Thank you, Ser Maegor. Thank you for your kindness, and willingness to aid me in my journey. Though it may mean little and less to you, your kindness has ultimately meant everything to me."

Gyles chuckled ruefully. "Forgive me for what must seem to be half-mad ramblings, Ser. But when I saw, when I realized that you still lived, I knew what I needed to do." Gyles smiled. "A great regret that I thought I would carry to my dying day was my own foolish inability to adequately thank those who have ultimately made me a better man, when I had the chance." Gyles laughed, and the joy contained within it was utterly at odds with the dour, snow-covered battlements that the sound rang off of. With his good arm and hand, Gyles clasped Maegor's shoulder. "Thank you, Ser Maegor. Thank you for everything."

Maegor's patience was beginning to wear thin. Have we not all gathered at this thrice-damned castle for the express purpose of making war on the Greens? It seemed that the reality of the situation fell far from Maegor's initial expectations. There is too much doubt amongst the leadership here. Now is a time for decisive action, not fretting and prevarication.

Maegor was not arrogant enough to think of himself as some great tactician. Serving beneath the Queen Rhaenyra, however, had taught him that the surest way to lose a war was to be paralyzed by indecisiveness and fear. We had every advantage over the Greens. And we wasted all of them. Maegor scowled. We are in this very situation because of a fear to commit to an ambitious plan of action. The irony of it all was not lost on Maegor, either. The only reason that this war continues is because of Gaemon, Addam, and I. Without dragons, the Blacks would have nothing left.

Had she been alive to witness a victory, Maegor wondered how Queen Rhaenyra would have ultimately rewarded him. A dagger in the back, or mayhaps poison in my wine? More's the pity that my father and brothers are dead. If they lived, perhaps she would have ordered assassins to strike my head off in front of them, like the young Prince Jaehaerys. Beneath the table, Maegor's fists clenched. Despite her betrayal of Nettles, and her likely plans to betray the rest of her Seeds in the future, the Queen Rhaenyra managed to keep Maegor beneath her banner from beyond the grave for one reason. I will have my revenge on the Greens who deceived us at Tumbleton. They shall wish that they died there with their comrades when I am finished with them.

"The Queen's heirs are at King's Landing, in Aegon's custody! Have you so quickly forgotten this simple truth, Lord Tarly?" Lord Humfrey Bracken chuckled incredulously. "The moment we make an attack of any kind, they will be killed! What, pray tell, shall we all do then?" Lord Bracken sat back down in his seat about the massive round table in the council chamber of Kingspyre Tower. He glared first at Lord Tarly, and then at young Lord Blackwood and his aunt Alysanne, who were seated completely opposite to him across the table.

Lord Vance of Atranta nodded emphatically in support of Lord Bracken's words. Maegor had to physically suppress a scoff. The both of them may as well still sit beneath a golden dragon banner, for all that they continue to support the Usurper's cause. Though they had technically bent the knee to Rhaenyra in return for their lives, Maegor had no doubts as to where their true loyalties still remained.

Though every Lord present technically had a right to voice their opinions in the war councils, it was no secret as to whose words carried true weight. Lord Cregan Stark. Ser Elmo Tully. Sers Isembard Arryn and Corwyn Corbray. Ser Isembard was the leader of the army of Valemen that had arrived at Harrenhal in name, but one would have to be utterly blind not to realize that most of the forces of the Vale beyond Ser Isembard's mercenaries only listened to and respected Ser Corwyn.

Other than these men, the remaining Lords and Ladies present simply didn't bring enough soldiers in order to have a serious say in what the next action of Queen Rhaenyra's army should be. Ser Isembard Arryn was of the opinion that the army should immediately march on King's Landing, while Ser Corwyn Corbray seemed more hesitant to endanger the Queen's heirs. Frustratingly, Ser Elmo Tully and Lord Cregan Stark had remained largely silent during the deliberations, preferring to listen rather than debate.

We have to march. Maegor was no fool. There was no food left to be foraged anywhere near Harrenhal. The army lived solely on the provisions that they had brought along with themselves. Our situation is unsustainable. As before, we only allow the Greens to grow stronger the longer we wait to act.

Maegor stood next, and cleared his throat. All eyes about the table turned to regard him. I have to win them over. I have to convince them that marching is our only option. "My Lords and Ladies," Maegor began, "I will not claim to completely understand the intricacies of warfare, and campaign. However, I will speak plainly about what I have observed. We do not have the foodstores in order to winter at Harrenhal. I have walked amongst the men camped outside the castle's walls, from time to time. Already they complain of rationing, and going hungry. The longer we remain here, the more empty their bellies will become."

Maegor frowned. "It seems to me that a starving army will be of no use to the Queen's cause on the field of battle. We should march now, while we still have the provisions to do so. The Usurper won't dare to attack us, not while my fellow seeds and I continue to dominate the skies."

After several moments, many of the Lords and knights about the table began to murmur amongst themselves, seemingly mulling over Maegor's words. If I can convince them of the reality of our situation, then I'll have them. They will realize that the only path to victory is to march forth.

It came almost as a surprise to Maegor when Lord Stark finally spoke up. "Aye, Ser, the time has come for us to march. But it should not be for King's Landing." Maegor was not the only individual present at the war council to look at the Northern Lord in confusion.

"Our army should march for Duskendale." Lord Stark glanced about the table, his grey eyes hard and guarded. "If I am not mistaken, Ser Addam, your grandfather's ships still control the Narrow Sea. If we take the port of Duskendale, we will be able to obtain supplies by sea. We will also be able to more directly menace the city of King's Landing."

Maegor sat back down in his chair, and watched as many heads about the table began to nod in agreement with the Northman's words. "The Usurper will be honor-bound to confront us if we take Duskendale, the seat of one of his supporters. With outriders, and dragons, we will be able to harass and prevent any further armies or supply trains from entering the city. The Usurper's men will starve, and he will be forced to march to confront us, or his starving soldiers and Lords will eventually deliver his head to us themselves."

Maegor felt a small, cold smile spread across his face. It's perfect. His estimation of Lord Stark grew ever higher as the Northman continued to elaborate on his plans. "You dragonriders will be responsible for bringing the King down in the field. Once he is slain, the Greens will have no choice but to fully capitulate. The Usurper has no possible heirs remaining to him except a daughter, and his Lords would be loathe to crown a young girl as their monarch after suffering so grievously to ensure the rights of the throne to a Prince over a Princess.

As Lord Stark finished speaking, the chamber was utterly silent for several long moments. Lords Bracken and Vance both bore sullen expressions, but said no more. Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury smiled viciously. Ser Elmo Tully's face remained guarded, but he nodded slightly. Lord Stanton Piper's face was full of a burning resolve, and he nodded emphatically at Lord Stark's words. Ser Isembard Arryn appeared ecstatic, and Ser Corwyn and the Lady Rhaena both sat with expressions that conveyed equal measures resolve and concern.

Maegor looked to his fellow seeds. Gaemon looked particularly grand in his new doublet, which he had had made for him in the Vale. It was a vibrant crimson color, and its sigil was a black three-headed dragon. Paired with Dark Sister sheathed on his hip, he looked every bit the Prince that he had always dreamed of being. Gaemon nodded at Maegor, with a burning resolve in his eyes. Ser Addam's look and nod matched Gaemon's in intensity. Maegor gave them both a firm nod of his own.

After looking about the table for any signs of disagreement or dissent, Lord Stark gave a simple, impassive nod. "So be it, then. Let us make the necessary preparations. We shall all march for Duskendale."

Being alone with his thoughts was oft a comfort to Maegor. A chance for him to let his mind wander, and forget whatever ills currently plagued him. However, he found that solitude had offered him no solace this he often did, he found himself once again atop Harrenhal's battlements, looking out over the massive God's Eye lake beyond.

Maegor was on the precipice of achieving the revenge that he so badly desired. He was confident that when the army took Duskendale, he would be able to travel south atop the Grey Ghost, under the pretense of scouting and preventing supplies from reaching King's Landing. I will burn the seats of the deceivers at Tumbleton. He would show no mercy, for the Greens had continuously shown none.

Though he had long accepted that many would sharply criticize and even vilify his actions, Maegor realized that others would not. Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury will support me, as will Ser Tom Flowers. Maegor expected that many of the Riverlords would also be likely to hesitate in categorically condemning Maegor's actions. They have all suffered much more at the hands of the Greens. Many will be all too happy to see destruction and misery wrought upon their enemies in kind.

So why, now, of all times, was he suddenly experiencing some small measure of doubt? I know why, though I am loathe to admit it to myself. Maegor cursed angrily beneath his breath. Ser Gyles. His conversation with the Dornishman had left him feeling more lost than ever before. He sincerely thanked me for the kindness I had shown him. He told me that it helped to make him a better man.

Maegor gritted his teeth in rage and frustration. Why now, of all times? He had wanted to believe that Bennard's lessons on mercy and kindness were true, but had ultimately concluded that they were at best misguided, if not completely false. Such conclusions had given him a sense of clarity. It was a cold and merciless clarity, but one that provided some small amount of comfort in the midst of all the confusion and pain that had so quickly consumed his life.

One man, and his thanks, does not change anything. There were still so many evil people in the world, people that deserved to be punished. That deserved to suffer for the misery that they left in their wake. My conversation with Ser Gyles means nothing. I am more certain than ever about what must be done, to ensure true justice. Maegor's fists clenched, and he reached within himself for the fiery rage that was always waiting to burst forth, and consume him. The more it grew, the more assured Maegor felt in his wrath, and hate.

I must needs get some rest. The days ahead will be long and arduous. Maegor nodded silently to himself. Sleep will set me right, and strengthen my resolve. Come morning, I will abide no more doubt within myself. I will do what must needs be done.

If he had hoped for a dreamless sleep, Maegor was to be sorely disappointed. Nearly as soon as he closed his eyes, his mind was drawn beyond the confines of the waking world, to a realm that existed beyond conscious thought. Looking about himself, Maegor slowly realized that he was in the Throne Room of the Red Keep.

It must have been night, for no light filtered in through the narrow windows high along the Great Hall's eastern and western walls. Maegor spent a moment looking up at the windows, and the sky beyond. The longer he looked, the more perturbed Maegor felt. It isn't night. There aren't any stars. Rather, it appeared that naught existed beyond the Great Hall but for an inky, overwhelming blackness.

Despite the massive size of the Great Hall, Maegor felt extremely confined. But for the dim light of torches in sconces mounted on pillars, shadows encroached upon and consumed every part of the hall that lay beyond the torchlight. There lay only one path before him that would keep Maegor in the torchlight. Forward.

Like a narrow bridge over a wine-dark sea, the carpet that stretched from the Great Hall's bronze-and-oak doors to the Iron Throne was the path that Maegor realized he must follow. It had been many a year since he had feared the dark, but for some reason he couldn't fully understand, Maegor knew that he didn't want to discover what lay beyond the shadows.

Walking along the carpet, Maegor watched the Iron Throne grow larger in his vision, shrouded in gloom. As he walked ever closer, he began to make out a hunched form sitting atop it. Maegor continued forward. The way that the figure was slumped atop the Iron Throne made it impossible for Maegor to discern their identity.

Reaching the dais, Maegor climbed it, but he hesitated at the foot of the steps of the Iron Throne itself. To climb it is treason, he thought to himself. Despite his reservations, Maegor began to ascend the steps of the throne. As he climbed, Maegor felt more and more confident in his decision. The slumped figure dominated his vision, and Maegor felt anticipation building in his gut the closer he approached.

Reaching the figure at the throne's zenith, Maegor could see now that they were dressed in fine black steel. Battle armor fit for a King, Maegor mused. When the slumped form remained motionless after several moments, Maegor placed a hand on its armored shoulder and pushed the body back up against the back of the throne.

Lifeless and fogged-over violet eyes stared back at Maegor. Despite his initial startlement, Maegor quickly frowned. I do not know this face. Its left half was heavily scarred and scabbed, and even in death, the stranger's thin lips appeared to be twisted into a pout. A wispy silver-gold mustache covered the portions of the corpse's upper lip that didn't bear significant scarring. A deep, gaping gash had been sliced across the stranger's throat, and their neck was slick with black and congealed blood.

It was not the stranger's appearance that revealed their identity to Maegor, but rather what they wore. Their black steel breastplate bore an embossed golden three-headed dragon, and Blackfyre still sat across the knees of the lifeless figure. Atop the corpse's head was a circlet crafted of what was clearly Valyrian Steel, interspersed with square-cut rubies. The Usurper.

As though they had minds of their own, Maegor's hands reached forward, and lifted the Conqueror's crown from the Usurper's head. The metal was ice-cold in his palms, and the rubies dully reflected some of the surrounding torchlight. Slowly, deliberately, Maegor placed the crown atop his own head. He wrested Blackfyre from the stiff hands of the Usurper's corpse, and knocked his body down the steps of the Iron Throne with a single rough shove. Though the Great Hall had been silent as a grave only moments before, it echoed the screeching cacophony that the Usurper's armor made as he bumped and scraped his way down the Iron Throne's steps.

With a grim satisfaction, Maegor sat down atop the Throne in the Usurper's place. He sat upright, and laid the flat side of Blackfyre across his knees. In so doing, Maegor realized that he was wearing his own black plate armor, with the exception of his helm and gauntlets.

The torches throughout the hall suddenly flared brightly, greatly brightening the expanse of the Throne Room, though not entirely. Amongst its pillars and galleries, where shadow yet remained, Maegor could make out the barest impressions of moving shadows, and hear the dim chatter of many voices. Though he could see no grand audience, Maegor was acutely aware of such a sudden presence as the voices of the hidden watchers in the wings only continued to grow in intensity.

Looking down towards the base of the Iron Throne, Maegor was surprised to see a new figure ascending its steps towards him. As he watched the newcomer's approach, Maegor felt no fear, nor confusion. He simply waited expectantly for the person to make their identity known to him. As they drew nearer, Maegor realized just how massive they were. Tall and broad, with a thick neck and arms. They did not walk up the steps, but rather tramped up them, one heavy foot slamming down after the other.

Stopping below the throne's zenith, the figure turned their face up from the pervasive gloom to regard Maegor. They had a square face, and a lantern jaw adorned with a closely-cropped silver-white beard. Their hair was the same color as their beard, and had been similarly cut short.

What struck Maegor most about the stranger's appearance however, was their eyes. They were violet in color, and full of a hard pitilessness. A scowl contorted their features, with the lines and contours of their face showing that such an expression was one often made. King Maegor. Maegor wasn't sure how he knew, but the longer he looked upon the man's face, the more certain he felt.

King Maegor addressed him in a cold, grating voice. "It is time to mete out judgement." Before Maegor could ask his great-great-grandsire what he meant, he was startled by the sound of several roars. Seemingly detaching themselves from the shadows that clung to the flanks of the Iron Throne, several small dragons with grey-black scales coiled themselves about the foot of the Iron Throne.

King Maegor turned to face the hall beyond. "Bring the guilty forward!" He called coldly, and Maegor watched as a figure emerged from the gloom and shadow to stand before the dais of the Iron Throne, struggling against the grasp of faceless captors that seemed to be made of mist and shadow. Lord Unwin Peake. The grizzled Lord struggled mightily for several moments, before glaring up at the two Maegors looking down upon him.

A cold sneer spread across his face as he regarded Maegor atop the Iron Throne, wearing the Conqueror's Crown and wielding Blackfyre. "I would have expected nothing less of a baseborn wretch like you." He chuckled mockingly. "One can dress a hog in a Lord's finery and place it in a high seat, but all men know that its true home remains the sty!"

Maegor scowled as he retorted. "Have you nothing to say in your defence, Lord Peake? No pleas for mercy?"

Lord Peake smiled mockingly. "The Seventh Hell will freeze over before I beg for the mercy of a low scoundrel such as you!"

Maegor glared at the Reachman, feeling the rage building within himself. It was then that he noticed Lord Unwin's furtive glance. For what seemed half the length of a heartbeat, Lord Peake's eyes darted to regard the dragons curled about the dais. However, his face remained contorted in a cruel sneer.

"Make your judgement," King Maegor said, without turning back to regard his enthroned descendant. His voice was cold, and dispassionate. He almost sounds… bored.

"Lord Unwin Peake," Maegor began, "I sentence you to death." He slammed his fist down upon the flat edge of one the melted blades lining one of the Iron Throne's arm rests, so as not to harm himself.

The dragons coiled about the base of the throne roared as one, and immolated Lord Peake in a maelstrom of crackling, white-hot flame. Lord Peake emitted an inhuman, guttural scream, and fell to his knees as the dragonflame consumed him. His hands reached forth, clawing desperately at thin air in frenzied, near animalistic swipes. The skin of his face bubbled and melted, sloughing off his rapidly-charring skull in steaming runnels of blood and gore. The shrieking didn't last long.

As Lord Peake's charred, steaming corpse collapsed in a heap, the shadowy crowd in the Great Hall's galleries let out an exultant cheer. Maegor smiled coldly at their praise as a new figure was dragged forth from the gloom to stand before the Iron Throne's dais.

Ser Hobert Hightower's face was grey, and for several moments his lips moved silently as the man found his voice incapable of projecting forth his desperate pleas. His eyes were wide, and full of terror. It was an oddly familiar sight to Maegor. Ser Hobert looks like a fish out of water, flopping vainly on the deck of a boat as it tries in vain to return to the water's embrace.

"What say you in your defence, Ser Hobert?" Maegor asked coldly.

Ser Hobert fell to his knees, and as the ancient knight began to speak, his voice cracked. "I should have spoken up, I should have tried to stop them." He hung his head in shame. "I was afraid. I was too craven to try to stop what I knew to be wrong, and evil." He wrung his hands. "I know I am guilty, and I will accept punishment. But please-" Ser Hobert clasped his hands together as he looked up at Maegor, as though the words he uttered were part of some desperate prayer: "Don't burn me! I beg of you, at least grant me this one mercy."

Maegor stared at the knight of House Hightower, his teeth gritted in silent rage. This cowardly worm stood aside and allowed thousands to die in agony, and yet he asks mercy of me? Maegor's response was succinct, and full of a barely-contained rage. "I think not, Ser Hobert. You will burn for your evil." Maegor's fist slammed down hard on the flat edge of the blade once more.

Ser Hobert began to sob loudly, and tried to crawl away from the dais of the Iron Throne on hands and knees. If he thought to seek some sort of safety, the dragons curled about the throne's base were unwilling to allow him that. Within moments, they had immolated the aged Hightower.

As Ser Hobert's shrill wails and screams died down after several long moments, the unseen crowd began to cheer once more. Maegor however, felt no joy, nor even a grim satisfaction. Was that truly justice? Before he could consider such troublesome thoughts further, more prisoners were dragged forth from the gloom for his judgement.

As time wore on, Maegor burned the rest of the Green Leaders who had deceived him at Tumbleton, one by one. Most, like Ser Hobert, begged without avail for their lives to be spared. However, Ser Jon Roxton proved a notable exception. Up until the moment he was immolated in dragonflame, the Reachman merely stared in cold silence at Maegor, his eyes dripping with naked malice. Maegor found himself unnerved, in spite of himself. If pure evil had a face, methinks it would look like kin to Jon Roxton.

The next prisoners brought forth for judgement were a shock to Maegor. Struggling mightily against her captors' shadowy clutches, the Lady Baela Targaryen ultimately was forced to stand before the dais. Maegor noticed that the letters SL appeared to be branded on her cheek. Where did that scar come from? The Princes Aegon and Viserys were dragged forth as well. The two Princes' eyes were wide with fear as they observed the charred corpses of the guilty splayed about before the dais of the Iron Throne, and they stared up at Maegor with stricken expressions.

"Why are they here?!" Maegor exclaimed in shock. "They have done no wrong!"

"And yet," King Maegor responded pitilessly, "the three of them yet stand in the way of your justice. As you burn castles for their Lords' treachery and treason, the Greens will repay you in kind."

Maegor shook his head in denial. "They wouldn't dare!" he exclaimed. "They are too valuable!"

King Maegor's stare was merciless. "Such is the price of true revenge," his voice grated. "Such is war."

"No," Maegor whispered. "NO!" He pointed at the three prisoners before the throne. "Release them all, immediately! They are guilty of no crimes!"

Though the two Princes remained petrified with fear, the Lady Baela continued to struggle against the shades that gripped her. King Maegor shook his head angrily. "Listen to me, boy!" he shouted, with an enraged expression. "It is too late now! A King has no need for weakness, no need for regret!" King Maegor's expression and tone returned to an eerie calm, dripping with malice. "What is to grieve, ultimately, about three more corpses joining the thousands this war has already produced?"

To his horror, Maegor watched as his own fist rose into the air, the movement of his arm suddenly utterly beyond his control. It slammed down, and the dragons bathed the three Targaryens standing before the Iron Throne in flame. As they screamed, Maegor forced his eyes closed. No, No, NO! I didn't want this! They have no part, no stake in my fury. They should not be made to suffer for it! The hidden crowd in the galleries had stopped their cheering, and had gone utterly silent.

When the screaming stopped, Maegor reluctantly opened his eyes. He noticed that his fist had slammed down on the point of a blade, and blood was seeping out of a deep gash on his hand, dripping between his fingers.

A new prisoner had been brought to stand amongst the charred corpses at the foot of the dais. Gaemon. Maegor's friend did not struggle, but merely stood still, broken and defeated. His magnificent crimson doublet was torn and shredded, and covered in soot.

Gaemon looked up to regard Maegor, and Maegor could see a maelstrom of emotions swirling behind his eyes. Betrayal, grief, and worst of all, hate. "Why, Maegor?" was all that Gaemon asked.

Maegor looked to his kinsman, standing several steps below him. "This isn't possible!" he cried, as horror and confusion threatened to overtake his senses. "Gaemon is a brother to me. He would never be my foe. He is the only true friend I have left!"

King Maegor shook his head, and regarded his descendant with frustration. "Wrong. A King has no friends. He has servants and supplicants. Nothing more. Any who will not bend to his will, or who dare to oppose him, must be utterly vanquished."

Maegor had heard enough. "I refuse!" he screamed at King Maegor. "Gaemon is not my enemy. Never in a thousand years!"

King Maegor looked up at him icily, before providing a simple response. "He will be." He pointed an accusatory, gauntleted finger at Maegor. "He will stand in the way of your ultimate victory, as many others will try to. He will have to be crushed underfoot along with the rest."

Once more, Maegor watched in mute horror as his bleeding fist rose into the air, beyond the bounds of his control. He grabbed desperately at it with his other hand, but was too late in doing so. His fast slammed down into yet another jagged sword point, and Gaemon was set alight by the dragons.

"NOOOOO!" Maegor screamed. He tried to stand, to run down the steps of the Iron Throne. He had to do something, anything, to save Gaemon. To his horror, he found that he was nearly completely unable to move. Helpless atop the Iron Throne, Maegor watched his friend burn, and felt hot tears pour down his face. Please, he begged silently, in the name of all Seven Gods, let me leave this place. No more.

"No more," Maegor gasped, his voice cracking with anguish. The crowd of shadows in the gallery had begun to audibly wail and sob, their voices slowly rising in pitch and volume.

King Maegor scoffed. "You are not finished here. Your judgement is not yet complete."

Another prisoner was dragged forth to stand before the dais. She was a small peasant girl, with a dirt-covered face and ragged clothing. The last time Maegor had seen her, she had been selling withered flowers out of a basket on the Street of Flour. Rosey.

Words momentarily escaped Maegor, as a hideous and sickening fear overtook him. No, not her. Why her!? "It can't be!" He stared plaintively down at King Maegor. "It is for her and the rest of the smallfolk who have suffered during this war that I seek my vengeance! It is for them that I intend to make the treacherous Lordssuffer, for all the woe they have caused!"

King Maegor glared up at him. "To achieve such a complete victory, you must burn the old world, the world that you hate, to ash! No pitiful shred, no miserable vestige, can be allowed to remain! Then, and only then, will you be able to build anew. If you truly wish to reforge the Realm, then you must plunge it, in its entirety, into the flames! Many will resist your vision. They cannot be allowed to remain, to poison the future that you seek to make!"

King Maegor's voice was full of a cold, merciless fury. "There is no victory without sacrifice. There can be no doubt, no hesitation! Only a willingness to do what must be done to achieve victory, whatever the cost." King Maegor pointed at Rosey. "No matter how many bones must lie as the foundation for the future that you seek to make."

Maegor knew what was coming, and yet also realized that he was equally powerless to stop it. His fist slammed down, and the dragons let loose with their flames. However, their fury did not end with Rosey. The dragons began to blast great gouts of white-hot flame in all directions, setting the entire Great Hall alight. The wails of the hidden crowd amongst the galleries turned into hundreds of high-pitched, ringing shrieks. Bright orange light shone forth between the pillars of the galleries, like gateways into the Seven Hells.

As the Great Hall burned around him, Maegor watched as his ragged and bloody fist rose into the air once more. One more judgement to be made. Maegor's fist slammed down, and as one, the dragons turned to face Maegor atop the Iron Throne. In an instant, Maegor had been consumed by an inferno of white-hot flame.

Though he expected excruciating pain, Maegor only felt a deadened, pulsating pain emanate throughout his body as it was utterly consumed by the dragonflame. King Maegor climbed the final few steps of the Iron Throne in order to stand before his descendant. Though the flame crackled all about him, King Maegor remained unaffected.

His visage was grey and pale, as though all the blood had been drained from his body. A massive, jagged hole had appeared in his throat, and two deep gashes adorned his wrists. The most terrifying part of King Maegor's new appearance, however, was his expression. Amidst the cacophony of the flames and screams, King Maegor smiled. "Truly," he rasped to Maegor, "you are an heir to my legacy."

Chapter Text

Maris III

A small crowd had been permitted to gather within the Red Keep's inner courtyard as the morning sun sent its warming rays through the wintry clouds above. Bundled tightly under furs and wool, Maris could not help but be intrigued as she gazed at the square neatly demarcated in the dirt with small wooden stakes. Forty feet by forty feet, the dueling ring had been erected by servants hours before in preparation for the King's practice today. For weeks, it had been an open secret within the Royal Court that the King had taken to learning the ways of the sword, supposedly with far more resolve and vigor than he had shown as a younger man. With his daily flights above the city, Aegon rebuilds his bond with Sunfyre and allows it to heal fully and grow in strength. He does the same for his own body during these sparring matches. Maris' keen eyes had not missed the details of Sunfyre's increasingly irrelevant injury, noting how its once crooked wing seemingly drifted further and further back into its original position, allowing it to remain in the air for much longer periods of time, and to move far more gracefully. Its rider had also shown improvements. While he still moved slowly, carefully negotiating each step taken, he no longer showed the obvious signs of his broken ribs and hip that had troubled him since his earlier confrontation with the Queen who Never Was.

Until this morning, the King's matches had been behind closed doors, with only a few select servants in attendance and under the supervision of Steffon Connington, her father's appointee to the formerly vacant position of Master-at-Arms. It was also rumored that Ser Jon Roxton, the King's Justice, had been called to assist with these lessons, as he possessed a valyrian steel blade capable of matching Blackfyre blow for blow without scarring or snapping.

A hush fell over the nobility that had assembled as the doors of the Small Hall were thrown open and the King emerged from within. Taking short, but firm strides, he strode in plate to the stakes, escorted by the two members of his Kingsguard, Sers Marston Waters and Willis Fell. After he had taken his position in the ring, planting Blackfyre in the dirt and leaning upon it, his opponent emerged, following the same path with quiet purpose. Ser Jon Roxton's dark eyes remained fixated on the King with an almost manic appearance, and he wore a thin smile upon his face. He smiles as though he learned to smile by watching others. There is something… wrong about that knight. Shaking her head slightly to dispel that errant and troubling thought, Maris watched as the second man entered the ring. Ser Steffon, who stood just outside the enclosure, gestured to urge the two to begin.

Pulling Blackfyre from the packed earth from where it had been planted, the King made the first move. Hefting an oaken shield that was emblazoned with his golden three-headed dragon, Aegon approached his 'enemy' with the measured steps of a wary foe. The Knight of the Ring simply waited, motionless, his eyes still seemingly straining with anticipation. When the King had made it to within five paces of him, he drew Orphan-Maker in a single, fluid motion. Leveling it at the King that approached him, Roxton lifted his own shield into a guarded position and moved forward, crossing the remaining distance until he was but an arm's length from his enemy. For a moment, the two men faced each other without moving. The silence was broken almost as suddenly as it had fallen when Blackfyre was hefted and swung in an overhead arc towards the Reachman's head. Roxton caught the dark, smoky blade with his own, which resulted in a piercing metallic squeal as the two blades slid along one another. Whatever dark magic and rituals preserve and hone their blades will not allow for them to bite into one another. They almost slide when they make contact. Deftly, Roxton spun out of the blade-lock and drove his shield into the King, who stumbled backwards, teetering on the edge of a thoroughly unimpressive collapse. He managed to right himself, planting his feet firmly in the earth. Roxton could have killed him then, were this a real fight.

Once more the King of the Seven Kingdoms came forwards, swinging his blade in calculated measured strokes that were clearly meant to force his opponent towards the edge of the enclosure. Roxton took one step back, then two, followed by simply dodging the third swing and sending a cut of his own across the King's shield. The gash in the wood was deep, rendering the shield almost useless and sending splinters of it flying in all directions. Two of the golden dragon's heads had been struck off, leaving a maimed, one-headed beast in its wake. Casting a single glance upon the splintered ruin upon his arm, Aegon deftly undid the straps that bound it to him and cast it aside. Taking Blackfyre into both hands, he stepped backwards. He intends to use its greater length to keep Roxton at bay. While his opponent had allowed him to remove his shield, the Reachmen would abide no further delays, moving forward quickly and sending a flurry of blows raining down upon the King. Aegon raised Blackfyre to meet them, catching them each by twisting his blade this way and that to prevent them from biting through armor and into flesh. While Roxton was clearly holding back, the attack was still impressive to behold, and Maris thought that Aegon's spirited defence was to his credit. Only a few months ago, he was a broken man, in mind and in body. It seems that recent events have reforged into something new. Something harder.

As Roxton drove the King to the edge of the enclosure, clearly intending to end the fight with a disqualification, Aegon roared through his helm. Using Blackfyre to turn Orphan-Maker aside, he got within Roxton's guard for a split second, driving the point of his blade towards the man's chest. The Reachlord's eyes widened slightly beneath his training half-helm, and it was only with incredible reflexes that he was able to interpose his shield between his opponents blade and the armor above his heart. Breathing heavily, he used his shield to redirect the King's attack towards the sky, leaving him overextended and without the ability to guard himself. Lightning-quick, Orphan-Maker screeched across the King's black-steel gorget, leaving a deep gash. Stumbling backwards, Aegon clutched his neck, falling onto his arse as he scrambled to ensure that he had not taken a wound. Breathing in deep gasps, his voice emanated from within his helm.

"I yield, Ser."

Ser Jon Roxton nodded, and extended a hand to his King. The crowd cheered as the two men withdrew from the sparring square under guard. A loss, but not a humbling one. If the King continues like this, he may prove himself more capable than even the optimists may have dared hope. He and his dragon grow stronger by the day. Woe be to those who expect to face a still-indolent Prince upon the field of battle.

Maris was surprised to find that her father did not share her estimation of the King's performance. Supper found him in a foul mood, sullenly tearing at his supper with the ferocity only the enraged can muster.

"To be humbled in such a manner is outrageous! And by a Reachman no less. I was ashamed to see such a display."

Despite their courtly title, the Four Storms seated around the table were remarkably subdued. Maris, upon seeing her father's reaction, had initially decided against weighing in on the conversation, hoping to avoid the redirection of his frustrations. Ultimately, it was Floris who decided to address her father's complaints as she bashfully stirred her soup.

"The King was terribly injured, was he not? I thought he performed most dashingly and admirably."

The Lord of Storm's End raised his eyes to meet those of his youngest daughter, his annoyance diminishing somewhat visibly. Father always did have the most patience for Floris, and even I cannot disagree that he is being overly harsh. I expect that the King's defeat is not all that is troubling him.

"A king should never allow himself to be so visibly humbled, my sweet. Too many already have doubts about this war, and need reassurance that their lord and master will be able to protect them from their enemies."

Maris cleared her throat. "What news is there of the enemy, father?" News from the north had been scarce as of late, even to the likes of her 'friend' Lord Bryndemere. Her father's mood, in conjunction with the rumors abound in the court, had led her to believe that something of note had recently occurred to break the uneasy status quo.

With a hearty sigh, her father placed his leg of lamb back upon the platter before him. "You ought to not disturb yourself with such things, my dear. Women and war are not made for one another."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she redoubled her efforts. "I fear for Lord Bryndemere, father. I am concerned that any negative developments may cause him to reconsider a proposal."

Judging by how her father's bushy black eyebrows raised in surprise, she knew she had found a hook with which to pull information from him. Ideally he will not directly confront Lord Bryndemere about this. That would be a tad unfortunate… and require some explanations on my part.

"By the Seven, Maris, that is favorable news indeed." Taking her hands into his massive, calloused palms, her father spoke one more. "I wouldn't normally wish to distress you or your sisters with such information, but given your concerns, I would not wish to keep you uninformed." Releasing her from his grasp, her father ran a massive hand through his black mane of hair, which Maris could not help but note had a few more grey hairs than it did months before. "From what our outriders and informants have told us, our enemies have departed from Harrenhal, heading south. We may have a battle on our hands, and soon. It is only a thirty days march from Harrenhal to the capital."

Maris pursed her lips. I had feared such things had transpired. Before she could respond, Cassandra spoke up, drawing herself up as she was wont to do in order to convey the proper image of a Lady.

"What aid can we count upon from our allies, father? Surely there remain forces to be mustered?"

Borros Baratheon chuckled mirthlessly. "No aid within a thirty days ride. Johanna Lannister has written of a great victory in the West over the scum raiding her shores, but true aid from the West, both in the form of gold or men, remains elusive. Perhaps if she can drive the Ironborn completely away we might be able to call upon her to send us reinforcements, but I expect the war will have reached its conclusion by then." Pausing to take a sip of wine from a silver goblet emblazoned with a prancing stag, he continued. "Nay, any hope of help lies instead to the south. The Dowager Queen and her mummer's charade of a Hand have written their kin in Oldtown, begging him to raise more forces." He scoffed. "As if we need more Hightowers strutting about."

Maris was intrigued. "I would have thought the Hightowers had already bankrupted themselves raising their first host for the King. How does the crown expect them to muster yet another army?"

Her father eyed her with a look of mild amusement. "It seems that a portion of the prewar treasury was stored within Oldtown for safekeeping. The King has authorised his kin to use that to pay for additional forces." Drumming his fingers upon the oaken table that they sat around, her father took another sip of his wine. "One must hope for the Seven's favor in times such as these. Lord Hightower is months away, and we still can only muster one dragon for the defense of the city to the three the Black bastards command at their disposal. Our greatest advantage lies with the prisoners Lord Strong took in the seizure of the capital." His expression grew colder. "Even now the King considers sending a piece of each of them to the forces of the Pretender. Perhaps then they would understand what an advance on the capital would truly mean."

A chill ran down Maris' spine. Perhaps they would reconsider. But they may also decide that the violation of the safety of the prisoners would not end there, thus rendering the value of the hostages moot. Maris frowned. Then again, what if they do not care a whit for the hostages? An army led by savage northmen and treacherous bastards may see them as just a minor inconvenience to their plans. Plans that could end with a crown atop their own heads. She wasn't certain what to make of such speculations. If they are as ambitious as I fear, it is only a matter of time until they appear again over the city. Then again… they most likely would have already, if possessed of such sentiments. Perhaps they are indeed bound by their oaths to a long dead Queen, and fear for her remaining children. We had best hope so.

As they filed into the now familiar chambers of the Queen's ballroom, Maris could not help but feel the tension. While this session had been arranged as one exclusively between the Dowager Queen and the Four Storms, that did little to ease the anxiety. Without anyone else to distract the Queen, her exacting and prying vision would be fully directed upon them. She has already judged us, and found us wanting. A small smile played at the corners of her lips, regardless. Whether she has found us wanting is not the only important factor, however. The support of our father is the last bastion of strength for her regime, and she knows it. She too must balance her own jealousies and ambitions against those of our father. Maris drew some comfort from such thoughts, and drew them about her as a shield as she and her sisters took seats upon chairs in the presence of Alicent.

Their host had chosen a beautiful dress of grey and white for the occasion, one that accentuated both her still-lithe form as well as her familial origins. About her neck, she wore a golden three-headed dragon pendant, its eyes twinkling with inlaid rubies. Upon noticing how Maris regarded it, she flashed a brilliant white smile.

"A gift from my late husband." She gave it a tap with a well maintained finger nail. "He had it presented to me only a few days after I had announced I was carrying our first child. It was then that I knew I was truly one of the family."

Maris nodded. "It is beautiful, my Lady. The former King must have been a most generous husband."

Alicent, nodded, but her face tensed with those words. "He was indeed. Yet when it came time to bestow the greatest gift he could grant upon our son, he dithered. It took him until his dying breaths to replace his eldest daughter as heir. Much suffering could have been avoided if he had done so earlier in his reign." Her fingers traced the heads of the dragon upon the pendant. "But alas, such things are in the past, now. My son now sits the Iron Throne, with only a handful of diehard opponents still disputing his reign. No doubt they resist because they rightly fear that to bend the knee would still mean death or bills of attainder. It is a shame their resolve has been so bolstered by 'volunteers' from the Vale, savages, and bastards atop dragons wrongfully bestowed." The Dowager Queen let loose a light, sweet laugh. "I must say, however, the notion that a Prince of disputed paternity was the one to devise the plan to enlist bastards is all too perfect. I'm certain something about their nature spoke to his own. That same nature will be their undoing, however. They may have overcome my sweet son with treachery, but my eldest is wiser, and a veteran of dragon combat himself. They will need all three of their number to pose even the slightest threat to him."

Cassandra watched the Queen intently, whilst Floris watched, mouth slightly agape with awe. When Elyn noticed, she gave her a nudge, after which Floris audibly snapped her mouth shut. Suppressing a giggle, Maris smoothed her dress. Seeking to distract Alicent, Cassandra spoke up.

"My Queen, if I may, I am certain the King will prevail against our enemies." Smiling ever so sweetly, she continued. "I've prayed to the Seven for such a victory, and for the Queen to return to us in health. It would be glorious for her to join him, as Rhaenys and Visenya once did with the Conqueror."

Maris gritted her teeth. She feared her sister might've resorted to too much flattery. Meetings with Alicent had taught her that a delicate balance of flattery and deference was the key to maintaining her acceptance.

Alicent smiled, but it was clear that Cassandra's comment had touched a sore nerve. "I thank you my dear. It is sweet of you to pray for them, and I am certain the Seven will look kindly upon your exhortations." Her manicured fingers drummed upon the armrest of her chair. "Coincidentally, I have brought the four of you before me today in order to see whether you might be of some use for a task of the utmost import."

Maris was most intrigued. "How might we be of assistance to you, my Lady?"

Alicent allowed her smile to drop slightly. "My daughter, the Queen, has suffered much. The injustices committed were… unspeakable."

Maris was shocked when for the briefest moment, the facade surrounding the Dowager Queen dropped. Lines appeared across her face, telling of exhaustion and grief kept at bay by force alone. But what shocked Maris the most was her eyes. Deep brown eyes, normally twinkling with a carefully cultivated mixture of mischief, haughty confidence, and authority had been replaced with orbs of pure, unrestrained hate.

"My grandchild, Jaehaerys… was taken from her… from us. I will stop at nothing to see those responsible for such treachery, and those who support them, utterly extinguished."

As quickly as the lapse in composure had appeared, it was gone. Alicent resumed her appearance as though nothing had changed. Clenching her fists, she continued.

"In order to see that proper justice is done, I must temporarily assist my son and his Lords in the running of the realm. But Kings should not need their mothers to render them aid, or to support them in times as trying as these. For that, they should have their Queens. As you put it most aptly, my dear Cassandra, Aegon had his Rhaenys and Visenya, Jaehaerys had his Alyssane, and Viserys, his Alicent. Aegon II must have his Helaena returned to his side, to support him in all the ways a wife must. I, regrettably, have found myself nearly overwhelmed with the affairs of state, and my daughter requires the most… delicate of care." Brushing a few tiny mites of dust from her dress, Alicent resumed. "The four of you served as companions to my granddaughter when she was forced into hiding. I am considering making you each Ladies in Waiting as a reward for that service. Helaena must be encouraged to return to her duties by women of noble birth close to her station. If chosen, the four of you would serve alongside septas and Grand Maester Orwyle in order to accomplish this. It would mean swearing yourselves to the utmost secrecy and placing the recovery and wellbeing of the Queen as the highest priority."

Maris was impressed by the wisdom of the Dowager Queen's offer. By making us attendants to the Queen herself, she can ideally assist in her recovery whilst keeping us safely sequestered away from rivals. Our father will be momentarily satisfied with the prestigious appointments, buying Helaena time to resume her role, rendering us harmless to the Hightower ascendency at court. If, however, any information were to leak about the Queen or her condition, it would provide her with the perfect excuse to dismiss us from court, or worse. In other words, this is Alicent's way of preventing us from truly threatening to usurp Helaena as Queen. Once more, she found herself respecting the political acumen of the woman before her. Though Cassandra was her sister, Maris could not help but find it amusing watching her features contort ever so slightly as she came to terms with the same information. If I know Cassandra at all, she will see this as one further obstacle between her and a crown.

Before any of the sisters could respond, Alicent retrieved a small silver bell from where it sat beside her seat and rang it, evidently calling for servants to bring refreshments. Soon, a freckled girl with pale skin and green eyes came through the doors, bearing drinks, followed closely by an olive skinned woman with long, black braided hair, carrying a second pitcher of wine. The first woman had nearly reached the table set aside for them to place their goods when her foot caught on the rug, and in her haste to extract it she lost her balance and lost her hold on the tray, sending it clattering to the floor with a resounding crash and spilling red wine across the polished stone floor. Looking petrified, she apologized profusely, and scurried away to fetch something with which she could clean up the mess. The second woman gingerly placed her tray upon the table and withdrew a rag from her apron, quickly kneeling and slowly sopping up the spilled wine. Alicent, though annoyed by the disruption, quickly poured herself a glass of the remaining pitcher's contents.

As their host attempted to make polite conversation with Cassandra, Floris, and Elyn, Maris remained distracted by the woman cleaning up the spilled wine. She was soon joined by the other maid, who quickly began to dab at the spill with a towel of her own. What intrigued Maris was that the woman who had first begun to clean up the mess was almost unmistakably Dornish, with dark eyes, dark hair, and tan skin. While she had undoubtedly paled over the course of the winter, the woman still possessed the sun-kissed appearance of one of Dorne's denizens. What is a Dornish woman doing here, in the midst of court and attending Reachmen and Stormlanders? Maris was surprised that none of the others present found it so odd. They must have grown accustomed to ignoring much of their surroundings in favor of more 'pressing' issues. Realizing that her attention would be noticed if she gazed too long, she turned back to the conversation ongoing between Alicent and her sisters. I must needs have those two followed. If nothing else, I am most curious to learn how such a maid came to be in Royal employ.

As had become customary, Maris had met Lord Bryndemere in the Godswood in the early evening shadowed by the ever-vigilant Ser Genrick. Cassandra had been displeased that their father was continually allowing her to leave at such a time to meet a suitor, even under accompaniment. Her parting remark had been just short of insinuating that Maris had resorted to favors of the body in order to maintain a Lord's interest, remarks that Maris had decided would need to be addressed with some haste after she returned. I cannot allow her to play on father's fears. To lose my only outlet into the wider world would be a cruel and devastating blow. Dispelling such foreboding thoughts from her mind, she attempted to contain her excitement as she awaited the Lord of Tarth's arrival. I finally have information valuable enough to repay him with for all of his gifts, she thought to herself. Sending Alla, her maid from Storm's End, to follow the two women had paid dividends in the most fascinating of ways.

The sound of measured steps on the stoney path caught her attention, and she turned to greet her visitor, bedecked as ever in Suns and Crescent Moons.

"How fare your attempts to pacify the city's rabble, Ser Bryndemere?" She asked, breaking the silence.

Twisting a corner of his waxed mustache, the Lord of Tarth grinned slightly. "They go as well as one can expect, when one accounts for the considerable amount of crime and moral degradation that is generally accepted within this city. It appears the riots that ended the Pretender's reign did little to disrupt the businesses of those who deal in less-than-savory trades. The good news is that the city watch has no problems with recruitment. The promise of two warm meals a day is more than enough to tempt many into our ranks, and my fine knights have maintained discipline admirably. Tarth has a long history of dealing with criminal types, as I am certain you are aware."

Maris nodded. "I suppose the depredations of the Free Cities had to have been good for something. Compared to Lysene slavers, the rabble of King's Landing must pose no danger to a knight of Tarth."

Bryndmere chuckled. "Indeed, my Lady, they do not pose a threat to their lives. They do, however, present a formidable threat to their purse-strings"

Grinning, she nodded. "And what else could be expected of those poor men? War has dragged them from their keeps, away from their families and responsibilities! How are they to survive without the company of whores, or the thrill of betting on cock fights?"

Her response elicited another laugh. "Without such simple and wholesome pursuits, my men would grow mad with boredom and lonesomeness. Twould be a terrible fate for such stalwart men in the King's service."

Their stroll through the winding paths of the Godswood brought them to a small pond that had been dug to allow for birds and small fish to make their home within during spring and summer years. Stopping, Maris sat upon a carved wooden bench positioned to overlook the pool, gazing at its dark, cold waters. The winter constellations shown on its still surface, visible through the arching reflections of the tree branches above their heads. Absentmindedly, she took a small, smooth stone into her hand, before casting it atop the surface of the pond. It skipped six times before finally sinking. The ripples it cast about the pond whirled and twisted, with starlight dancing atop the waves.

Lord Bryndemere whistled softly. "Consider me most impressed, Maris Baratheon. Not many possess such a talent."

She shrugged. "Not many bother to try and learn. My sisters either weren't interested in such a trivial pursuit or considered it a game fit for the smallfolk. But I was better than most I knew, better than the boys who challenged me." She smiled. "My record was fifteen bounces."

Her companion lifted a stone into his hand, allowing it to rest in his palm. He threw it suddenly, flicking his wrist and sending it hopping across the surface of the water three times.

"I disagree. Such a diversion is much too fun for only the smallfolk to enjoy."

"I concur most heartily, Lord Tarth." As much as she was enjoying herself, Maris could no longer resist her curiosity regarding what was happening in the wider world. "What news do you bring me?" She asked.

Sending another stone skipping across the surface, Bryndemere sighed. "I bring little news that could be regarded as encouraging. Lord Cregan Stark, along with his Black allies, have departed Harrenhal and march south."

Maris nodded. "So my father told me. He believes that our hostages may keep them at bay."

Bryndemere nodded. "One can hope. Although from what I have gathered from those who inhabited the keep during the Pretender's reign, it seems that Lord Corlys Velaryon's bastard grandson was quite smitten with the girl who humiliated the King not too long ago. If he hears of her subsequent maiming, he may not be so cowed. Young men will move mountains for the sake of love or lust. And Baela Targaryen is the type of girl that would make even old men act young."

Maris, to her surprise, found herself feeling the unwelcome pangs of jealousy as Lord Bryndemere spoke. She decided to head him off. "Careful now, my Lord, or I will be wounded by your expressions of adoration for her."

Lord Bryndemere turned to face her and smiled. "Maris, my dear, have no fears regarding my attention. The Lady Baela is most certainly not the type of person that could capture my heart. And I doubt she would even consider accepting any suitors from south of the God's Eye."

Maris, despite not being entirely satisfied with his answer, decided to change the subject. "What of the Hightowers? Have they not been gathering forces? What do you know of their plans?"

Smiling knowingly, he complied with her change of course. "Lord Lyonel Hightower has indeed been granted permission to use the portion of the royal treasury in his possession to raise a new host. Supposedly, he has taken all sorts of men into his employ. I have heard rumors of an exiled Prince from the Summer Isles, who commands a host of five hundred archers, all bedecked in bright feathers and bearing goldenheart bows into battle. Dornish raiders from the western marches have mustered, eager for loot and battle. The urban poor of Oldtown, hungry due to the onset of winter, are flocking in droves, encouraged by the promise of coin. Lord Hightower will soon have an army formidable enough to march. I would not be surprised if he pays a visit to the Lady Tyrell on the way, in order to retrieve his brother and encourage her to join the cause."

Maris nodded. Goldenheart bows are supposedly the best in the world. Could five hundred of them bring down a dragon? I expect that Lord Lyonel hopes so. Before she could inquire about the thought, Lord Bryndemere continued.

"The whispers that intrigue me the most have little to do with the Hightowers, however. Supposedly, a raven was sent a few nights ago to the Arbor. The Redwynes declared for the King at the outset of the war, but have yet to stir. If I am correct, the King may have just made them an offer they would be loathe to refuse in exchange for their fleet."

Maris raised an eyebrow. "What might that be?"

"The hand of his remaining child in betrothal. Lord Redwyne's son is only seven. The Princess Jaehaera, while young, will eventually grow into a Princess in full, and a dragonrider as well. While women cannot inherit the Iron Throne, she is still the most desirable match in the Seven Kingdoms. A match valuable enough that the Redwynes might sail around Westeros in order to break the Velaryon blockade, to open the Narrow Sea and King's Landing to trade and replenishment."

Such a match makes perfect sense. The King knows that the city, if put to siege, would quickly starve. If the Redwynes break the blockade, however, we could be resupplied indefinitely by sea. All for the price of a young, sad, girl. The information she had learned earlier might even fit in with such plans.

"Lord Bryndemere, you will be pleased to learn that I, too, have some information for you."

The Lord of Tarth turned to face her, his face slowly adopting a mischievous grin. "And what might that be, my Lady?"

"Earlier today, as my sisters and I met with the Dowager Queen, two maids attended us. What struck me about them as odd was that neither of them appeared to be very experienced with their duties, which made little sense, given that they make their living within the Red Keep. Such things could be dismissed in the wake of the regime change, given that many new staff were likely hired in the aftermath of the Pretender's downfall. What struck me further, however, was that one of these maids was unmistakably Dornish."

Lord Bryndemere's smile faded into a look of concentration as he realised her information was of more interest than he originally had expected. "A Dornish woman? Employed in the King's own staff?"

Maris nodded. "I found that exceedingly strange. My father and his knights only recently defeated a Vulture King. It would be in ill-taste to employ such a person in the presence of those who spend much of their lives fighting Dornishmen. I simply couldn't believe it was all a coincidence, so I had a trustworthy maid of mine follow them."

Her companion waited in silence for her to continue.

"When she returned, she reported that the two 'maids' did indeed live in the serving quarters outside of Maegor's Holdfast. What she did observe, however, was that they had a babe living with them. A babe that sported freckles, lilac eyes, and silver hair." Maris smiled, despite herself, pleased with her discovery. "At first, I had thought the Dornish woman might be a spy, but I thought it too obvious. That was why I sent my serving maid to ascertain more."

The Lord of Tarth had by this point adopted a completely serious expression; an expression that encompassed equal portions intrigue, respect, and foreboding. He waited a moment, gazing at the once more still waters of the pond.

"My dear, I think you may have found something quite interesting indeed. The implications of such things could be… considerable."

Before he could continue, they both paused, having heard an odd wooden tapping noise approaching them from the path. As she turned, she saw Ser Genrick had drawn his blade, but had been disarmed by two massive men in mottled plate that lacked any discernible sigils. While one man tied her escort knight's hands behind his back, the other approached her and Lord Bryndemere, fingering a broadsword in his hands. He stopped a few paces from both of them. The silence resumed, except for the rhythmic wooden tapping. A few moments passed, until finally a bent and hobbled form emerged from behind one of the drooping elms that surrounded them. While she had only seen the Lord of Harrenhal a few times before, she knew immediately that she was once again in his enigmatic presence.

Larys Strong took a moment to lean against an alder tree, his brown hair and strong jaw shifting as he regarded them. His twisted foot remained supported by his oaken cane. Deep brown eyes searched them for a few moments, before he began speaking.

"You've picked a most inquisitive girl to court, Lord Tarth."

Lord Bryndemere nodded. "It appears so, Lord Strong. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Lord Strong pursed his lips, before letting out a short sigh. "Earlier today, some friends of mine informed me that they had been followed by a maid in Baratheon colors. They had been unaware of her presence until they caught her watching them from outside their quarters. Obviously worried, they informed me of their concerns."

Maris felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. I've erred. They may make piss-poor maids, but they likely know more than enough to know when they are being watched. Especially by an untrained serving girl.

Lord Bryndemere shifted his feet, conveying no fear, if indeed he felt any. "My companion meant your friends no harm, my Lord. I do not appreciate your attempts at intimidation."

Lord Strong nodded calmly. He had an odd manner about him, a placid coldness. His presence and manner of speaking were somehow both calming and intimidating in unison. While he had not raised his voice, Maris was still afraid.

"I make no efforts to intimidate, Lord Tarth. Such methods are not my way. I have come to ascertain your loyalties, and to inquire about what you know of those two women. If I find nothing amiss, you will be free to go about your business."

Lord Bryndemere frowned, but said no more. The Lord of Harrenhal turned to face her with an expression that was both equal parts calm and unreadable. While she did not find anything in it to fear, Maris was certain that many unfortunate souls had seen such a face before, deep below the Red Keep, during Lord Strong's days as the Royal Confessor.

"Lady Maris, it is clear to me that you know of the babe sheltered by my acquaintances. What is less clear is if you have surmised his identity, and furthermore, his import."

Maris swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "My maid reported that he possessed features most rare amongst the smallfolk."

Lord Strong shifted against the tree, easing the burden on his twisted leg. "There is no need to be coy, my Lady. You are a quick lass. Explain to me your thoughts regarding this child, as though I were the Lord of Tarth."

Maris sighed. "The babe has hair of silver and eyes of lilac. If you are sheltering him, it seems very likely that he is of some relation to the King, legitimate or otherwise."

Lord Strong clapped softly. "Correct. And his import?"

Maris blinked. "The King has lost both of his brothers, and both of his sons. The loyal Lords of the realm will not accept the Princess Jaehaera as his heir when they fought and died to prevent the illegal succession of Princess Rhaenyra. If this babe carries the King's blood, his import as a potential heir would be great indeed."

A small, joyless smile danced upon Larys Strong's lips. "Right you are, Lady Maris. The babe, named Gaemon by his mother, may well be the next King of the Seven Kingdoms. I had thought to hide him in plain sight, but that seems to have not been the wisest play. If the young Lady before me has ascertained it, others will, even if she agrees to remain silent on the matter. It may be time to unveil him, for the whole court to see."

Stroking his chin, the Lord of Harrenhal began strutting off slowly back from whence he came. His large companions followed closely after him, having undone Ser Genrick's bonds. To Maris' shock, a gaunt man wielding a crossbow jogged around the pond to join them from where he had been positioned directly behind Lord Bryndemere.

"Were we in danger?" She asked.

Lord Bryndemere released a pent up breath through his teeth. "I don't know."

They resumed their stroll through the Godswood, and she attempted to resist the urge to jump at every crack of a twig or crunch of a fallen leaf. She enjoyed the quiet, but calming presence of her guard and sworn sword, preferring to gaze at the stars. The fear that had settled within her slowly dissipated, and she found herself warily allowing a bit of excitement to creep back. A truly impressive discovery. A Royal Bastard! She was so lost in the implications that the sudden dragon roar overhead nearly caused her heart to stop. The trees about them danced about as a massive beast passed overhead. Lord Bryndemere grabbed her, pulling her to the ground reflexively and protectively. Daring to look above herself, she saw dark wings blot out the starlight. So they come at last. She strained to catch a glimpse of their attacker as it circled the keep from above, causing bells of alarm to ring. When its scales glinted, however, she began to laugh and shout with joy.

Lord Bryndemere, looking up, shouted above the din: "What could possibly be so wonderful at a moment like this, my Lady?!"

Maris, blinking back tears of relief, responded: "Its scales are silver, my Lord!"

Chapter Text

Veron VI

Cold and fetid mud squelched beneath Veron's boots as he took another step. Pulling his cloak tightly about his shoulders, he scowled and attempted to ward off the winter's chill. From where he stood at the head of the column, he could hear the sound of hundreds of feet struggling through the morass that inevitably formed when snow and soil mixed underfoot. Casting a glance at the army behind him, he could not help but observe its diminished state. Much has changed since they sailed from Lordsport. One in three of our reavers have fallen so far. He did not doubt that more would soon join their fallen brothers.

When Veron and his brother had received calls for aid from their allies on the shore, they had wasted no time in gathering forces to lift the sieges of both the Crag and Kayce. And like that, we were forced to split our remaining forces in twain. Amongst the Ironborn, it was said that every man was a King aboard his own ship, and while Lords could command their loyalty by respect, they could not demand anything from them. Thus when the Ironborn gathered for war, the tensions between their Lord Reaper and his brother became even more readily apparent. Veron was unsurprised but relieved when Torgon had rallied to his cause, followed by Lord Ygon Farwynd and Lord Arthur Goodbrother. Lord Sunderly joined their numbers, even though he was loath to pay the butcher's bill any further. Veron had been far more surprised when Lord Angred Botley had volunteered to join his expedition. His presence is no accident. Whether by my brother's request or by his volition, Lord Angred accompanies us to ensure our continued loyalty to my esteemed brother. Regardless, the support of so many esteemed Lords, loyal or otherwise, had been exactly the vote of confidence Veron had required to rally sufficient forces to attempt to relieve the Crag. He sincerely hoped that Melwick Myre still held it, for taking it once had been a formidable challenge. He had few doubts that conquering it a second time would require a grievous price in blood to be paid. While Dalton does not shirk from paying such tributes, I do not believe it worthwhile. If victory is only achievable with such measures, we will be bled dry before the winter even begins in earnest. While Greenlander Lords could seemingly draw upon limitless numbers of levied peasantry, every Ironborn reaver was an irreplaceable warrior in his own right. Many held a blade or pulled an oar long before they shaved their first whiskers. Years of fighting had honed the Ironborn into a wickedly sharp scythe, capable of cutting through swathes of enemies. But his brother's road to power had been paved with countless corpses, and not all of them had been his enemies. Our blade becomes blunted, and will snap, if wielded too callously.

From beneath the steel of his helm, Veron gazed up at the hills that surrounded his forces. Dark and foreboding, trees rose about them on all sides, resembling long and wicked fingers closing all about them. Veron was certain that the enemy knew of their presence. In the distance, riders watched them approach, before disappearing into the winter gloom. In the night, fires glowed distantly in the hills and hollows of the west. Horns sounded, their mournful peels announcing the arrival of more foes. Lord Tarbeck bides his time, allowing his numbers to grow whilst ours remain stagnant. Veron could not help but respect his strategy. So long as he keeps the Crag besieged, we will be forced to come to its aid. He will be able to select a battlefield of his choosing, and on his terms. We must either press onward, or have our grasp on the mainland slip, perhaps forever.

Matters were not helped by the Ironborn's lack of provisions, either. As seafaring people, they had few pack horses or mules, and were forced to shoulder any and all provisions they required for journeys. Armor, weapons, and food were all borne by each reaver, exhausting each of them by day's end and leaving his forces particularly vulnerable during encampment. Further compounding matters, the lack of creatures to bear their burdens meant that each man could only rely on as many provisions as they could personally carry away from their longship. We came lightly provisioned as it is, Veron thought to himself grimly. Fair Isle's stores are all but exhausted. Most creatures that walk on four legs have already been butchered to sustain us this long. Without successful reaving to sustain us, we will simply wither on the vine. He had, against his better judgement, allowed for some of the men to attempt to 'forage' inland, but none had returned. The men of the West are watching and their hearts are as cold as the steel in their palms. Our ways have ensured that all of them, from the mightest lord to the lowliest member of the smallfolk, despise us, and savor any opportunity to redress the wrongs we have done to them.

The voice of Merrick shook him free from his grim thoughts. His indefatigable brother in armshad chosen this moment to raise his voice in song. It only took Veron a moment to identify the tune, a popular one with reavers.

Leave her, Hagon, leave her

Oh, leave her, Hagon, leave her

For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow

And it's time for us to leave her

After the first verse had concluded, several men joined for the next, including Torgon, who gave Veron a pointed look, clearly meant to encourage his participation.

Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high

Leave her, Hagon, leave her

She shipped it green and none went by

And it's time for us to leave her

Smiling despite himself, Veron drew in his breath, adding his own voice to the growing throng.

Leave her, Hagon, leave her

Oh, leave her, Hagon, leave her

For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow

And it's time for us to leave her

It took but a few moments for the entire column to begin reciting the words of the tune. It is as well known to each of us as tying a knot or manning an oar. Veron frowned. There has not been nearly enough time for singing. It is hard to find the spirit when there is killing to be done. A small pang of sadness emanated from within him. The last time I sang this, it was for a giggling girl with raven black hair and a golden kraken sewn into her bodice. He allowed the bittersweetness of the memory to carry him into the next verse.

Well I pray that we shall never more see

Leave her Hagon, leave her.

A hungry ship, the likes of she

And it's time for us to leave her,

Leave her Hagon, leave her,

Oh leave her Hagon, leave her.

Oh the voyage is done and the winds don't blow

And it's time for us to leave her.

There was something surreal and somewhat comforting about being surrounded by so many voices, many of them filled with the same sort of longing that Veron himself felt. Few, if any of us, left no one behind when we sailed from the Isles. As he sang with his men, he watched their faces, and saw his pain in the eyes of others. As they sang the final verse, Veron was struck by the hoarse passion of Lord Sunderly. The old man's beard was streaked with tears that ran freely. When the music finally ended, the silence lingered.

On the fifth day of their march Veron estimated that by midmorning they were only a few hours away from the Crag itself. He had walked this sea road before, still able to smell the salt of the sea but unable to hear the rhythmic tumbling of its waves. Soon, they would come upon a narrow defile, where the road would descend between two hills whose slopes were treacherous and adorned with rocks who bore the withering scars of ages past. Lord Tarbeck will face us here, if he has any wits about him. He could not ask for a better battlefield. Veron had considered splitting his force into three, sending the main thrust through the defile whilst sending smaller forces to screen the flanks. While initially appealing, he had developed serious misgivings about such an attack. We are likely outnumbered already. Allowing Lord Tarbeck to defeat our forces in detail whilst we are unable to reinforce one another would be disastrous. Thus he had turned to a simpler, yet potentially more effective strategy. As Ironborn, we still possess infantry far more armed and armoured than all but the dismounted knights of our enemies. If Lord Tarbeck chooses to face us, we will simply form a great mailed fist and smash his line. Beneath his helmet's steel tentacles, Veron grimaced. It is inelegant, but it may be our only option. To turn back now, without a fight, would be tantamount to admitting defeat.

Crossing the crest of the hill that led into the valley below, Veron was unsurprised to find an army arrayed before him. What did surprise him were the extent of its field fortifications. Lord Tarbeck had arrayed his forces in a massive shield wall several ranks deep on the valley's opposite slope, and before them stood rows of trees hewn and sawed into lines of sharpened stakes, accompanied by deep ditches where fires had been lit. Glancing quickly at the hills that loomed to either side of them, he could see dark forms milling about their peaks, their numbers appearing to be in the hundreds at the least. Pausing his march, he released a long sigh that he hadn't realised he had been holding. As a commander, he could not help but harbor a grudging respect for his opponent. If I send men to clear the hills, they will be exhausted by the climb and harried by a hail of arrows. If I ignore them, we will all be exposed to a murderous fire during our advance through the valley. The obstacles he has erected will prevent a quick and united advance. In his mind's eye, Veron could see the ensuing carnage unfold before him. Alas, we chose this fate. This is the true Iron Price to be paid. As more and more of his men gathered behind him, Veron removed his helm, breathing in the cold, wet winter air. The air was filled with the smell of sodden earth and woodsmoke. Turning to his men, he waited for a few moments in silence as the many hundreds who had marched behind him assembled, each jostling to obtain a view of what lay before them. Many in the host before him were faces that he had known for nearly all of his life. Old and young, some scarred and foreboding, some too young to be fearful.

Finally, he spoke. "Brothers, what lies before us is our greatest challenge yet. Before, we have faced the old, the young, those who were left behind by their lion lord when he marched east. We attacked them while their backs were turned to us, taking advantage of their foolishness to win great victories. The men before us today have gathered from every corner of the West to resist us. They have heard tales of our savagery, of our prowess. But they have come nonetheless. Each and every one of those men before us will not hesitate to plunge a spear through our hearts." He paused, taking a moment to lock eyes with the soldiers before him. Drawing his sword, he grinned, with all of the savagery he could still muster. "But we have beaten these men before! They may have come in greater numbers than before, but they still possess Greenlander hearts, and Greenlander spines. They are herdsman, farmers and tanners, led by pampered lords! Whilst they have only borne arms for a fortnight, we have wielded them all our lives. WE PAY THE IRON PRICE! WE DO NOT SOW!"

In near perfect unison, hundreds of voices took up the ancient words of the Greyjoys. "We do not sow! We do not sow! WE DO NOT SOW!"

As the power of the sound washed over him, Veron could not help but be buffeted and swayed by their reverberations. With men like this behind me, death itself may be forced aside. He steeled himself for the battle to come. There is only one path ahead of us now, and that is forward. We must fight ever onwards, through the mud and the blood to the green fields beyond. He took the first step forwards, his own crew shouldering past the men behind him to form the first line of the shield wall. The defile was large enough that approximately one hundred men could march abreast, and thus a massive column formed behind them, tightly packed with shields raised overhead. Next to him, Veron felt the familiar presence of Torgon Blacktyde.

In his characteristically droll tone, Torgon began to speak. "That was certainly a fine speech, Veron. It almost made me forget that we are playing right into Lord Tarbeck's hands. You have realised by now that we fight completely on his terms, correct?"

Veron sighed to emphasize his feigned exasperation. "Indeed I have. But there is no turning back."

Torgon nodded. "We all know that. But that hasn't stopped me from praying to the Drowned God himself to prevent any Greenlander arrows from finding my feet or my eyes."

Veron chuckled. "If only our watery father possessed the arms of an octopus. Perhaps then he might be able to spare us all from the Greenlanders' feathered wrath."

As if prompted a hail of arrows traced their path from one side of the defile to the other, lancing down with merciless speed. Fired by young, inexperienced, and overeager hands, they mostly landed harmless in the soft earth that lay untrampled before the advancing Ironborn. Somewhere behind him, Veron heard a grizzled voice shout.

"See for yourselves, lads! As harmless as spring rains!"

Laughter echoed through the ranks as they continued onwards, and Veron gritted his teeth in preparation for the next volley. He was jolted out of his concentration when the first arrow of the next volley struck his shield with a resounding thunk. The wood, somewhat sodden from the misty winter air, stopped the dart, but it still made him uneasy. There will be far more of that before the day is done. He preferred enemies within his reach; enemies that could be cut down with a skilled swing of a blade. Arrows and bolts from afar killed men indiscriminately, and deprived them of the opportunity to face each other manfully. Reaving is like arrows, a small voice rose, unbidden. Cutting a man down without offering him the chance to fight honorably. Is that not what this war has been? Veron bit his lip in annoyance. While he was not a man opposed to self-reflection, to be distracted on the battlefield was to court death.

Another hail of arrows descended from the heavens, whistling softly, promising death. This time, the archers had found their marks. A wave of percussion sounded off the shields of the Ironborn host as hundreds of arrows slammed into upraised shields, and men cursed beneath them as they bore the brunt of the assault. Laughter no longer echoed throughout the host, and a grim silence descended, interrupted only by the occasional shout, scream, or curse when a dart found a means of snaking through a man's defenses and into the flesh beneath. To march beneath arrow fire is a terrible test of men's discipline. Veron could not help but be proud of the men who marched unflinchingly beside him, refusing to break ranks or scramble for better cover. Seasoned warriors, all.

The real trouble began when the Ironborn reached the valley floor. By now, they were in range of all of the archers, both those who had been arrayed behind the Greenlander spearwall and those who dotted the high hills all about them. Arrow fire rained from three directions, with only brief pauses between. The screaming then began in earnest. Arrows found hands, feet, and faces. The weaknesses in Ironborn mail and plate were laid bare under a torrent of barbed fury, and Veron grimaced as he began to hear the wet and sudden collapse of bodies, brought low by a particularly deadly shot. Only a few ranks behind him a man fell, gurgling in terror as an arrow found his slightly exposed neck and he drowned in his own blood. Veron did not need to see the man to envision his wound; he could tell from the sounds alone that it was fatal. While few men were outright struck down by this assault, many more were wounded in a manner that caused them to break ranks, screaming in pain and hobbled by a wound that limited mobility. Their comrades often attempted to keep them moving, for to become a straggler was to become a round of target practice for the enemy. In his mind's eye, Veron could see the valley and slope behind him becoming more and more dotted with the fallen. Nevertheless, they reached the next hurdle somewhat intact.

The row of sharpened logs before them was not a deadly obstacle, but it was time consuming. Men armed with axes came forward to hack the obstacle into splintered kindling, but all the while the army remained subjected to a murderous fire. Veron was growing increasingly frustrated. This sort of fight was an absolute worst-case scenario for him. He had been stripped of any opportunity to use his mind for tactics. What lay before him and his men was a simple slogging-match. He had few doubts of their ability to win it, but he also was certain that this opponent of his, this Lord Tarbeck, was quite aware of the odds. They need not win here, only bleed us. They will line the road to the Crag with our corpses, destroying our army with a thousand cuts, replacing their losses daily with men from further inland. Shaking his head free of the thought, he helped his men to muscle the barrier apart, making a path forwards for the men behind. The process quickly became ingrained within them, and they slowly, but surely, made their way up the slope towards the fire pits and the enemy that lay beyond.

As they reached the pits, the Ironborn expertly began to file between them, wielding their shields with the expertise that only hardened veterans were capable of. Despite their best efforts, some arrows still found their marks, sending men flailing into the mess of branches and pitch that had been heaped at the base of each pit. Veron wasn't certain which was worse, the smell of burning hair and flesh or the agonised screams of the wounded that fell into the hellish depths and could not climb out. Steeling their hearts against the suffering of their brothers-in-arms, the Ironborn pressed onward, reassembling into their ranks diminished but thirsting for blood and battle. It was only once Veron had hefted his blade into his hand that he saw the white garbed men and women striding in front of the Greenlanders' ranks. Singing and swinging bronze incense burners, they walked in front of the massed ranks of the enemy, shouting blessings and encouragement. In near perfect unison, the assembled martial might of the Westerlands knelt, the grey and unforgiving winter sun shining behind their backs. Beside him, Merrick scoffed, hefting his axe.

"D'ya see that, Veron? They still think to pray for mercy!" He spat in the cold earth at his feet.

Veron frowned. "Aye, they pray for mercy. But from their Seven gods, not from us. These men will conquer or die."

As the last of his men assembled behind him, Veron raised his sword far above his head, allowing its blade to catch the waning rays of the Sun, giving the signal to advance. It is time, then. As they advanced men beat the flat of their blades upon their shields, and when he closed his eyes, it was almost as though he could hear the roar of the sea. One hundred paces. By now, all swords had been raspily drawn. Seventy paces. Across from them, the Greenlanders had tightened ranks, and hundreds of shining, bristling spear-points lowered to face the oncoming charge. Forty paces. By now, Veron could make out the features of his enemies, young and old, fearful and grim. Twenty paces. Shouts rang out across the Greenlander lines as Lords urged their men to steady. Ten paces. His lungs burned with the exertion of sprinting such a distance in plate.

The two forces met with a resounding crash. Shouts, screams, prayers, orders, and the song of steel combined into a rush of sound that was found nowhere else but the field of battle. The black tide of reavers ran headlong into the massed spearwall of the West, the sheer force of their weight sending their enemies a few paces back. But where before Veron had sensed his enemies waver, he found no such encouragement amongst his foes on this day. His first kill was a grizzled man who lunged for Veron's helm, hoping to guide his spear into the eyes of his foe. Veron caught the spear between his shield and chest, snapping the point off before driving his own blade deep into the man's chest with a wet crunch. Twisting and wrenching the black steel free, he slashed his next victim so deeply across the throat that he nearly beheaded him, sending a warm bubbling red spray across his blade and his armor. Stepping across the fallen bodies, he advanced, constantly watching his periphery and making sure to keep ranks. In the chaos of battle he was only able to see a few arm lengths to his left or to his right. He had every intention of keeping his foes before him. His next kill was accomplished with a backhanded slash that made a red ruin out of an overeager young lad's face, and the boy's screams were hideous as he was trampled underfoot by the sheer weight of the Ironborn advance. To Veron's relief, someone in the next ranks silenced the noise with a quick thrust of his blade.

While the enemy refused to retreat, they were forced to give ground ever so slightly as each moment passed. Veron dispatched another man who jabbed at Torgon from the side by chopping his arm off at the elbow, followed by running him through with a bodily shove. As the man collapsed backwards onto the winter earth, he took Veron's sword with him, wrenching it out of his hand after the handle went slick with blood. Veron pulled at the Kraken-hilted blade for a few moments to no avail as his lifeless enemy's eyes gazed upon him with glassy mockery. Like wolves sensing a weakened stag, his enemies converged, lashing at him with wickedly sharp spears. He knew better than to allow them to keep him at a distance, so with a shout he knocked their spear points aside with his shield and fell upon the nearest foe. He may have lost his sword, but a shield was a weapon enough in the hands of a bloodlusted reaver. The nearest spearman's skull caved inwards with a wet crunch under a hail of blows. Veron was shocked that his recent victim continued to scream long after his face had become a bloody ruin, only to realize it was himself roaring and shouting in complete incoherence. The enemies around him began to back away at the sight of it, showing fear for the first time.

Raising his shield, he advanced on the next foe, only to have his world set spinning by a powerful blow on the side of his helm. He struggled to remain upright as he stumbled backwards, finally sent tumbling backwards when he tripped over the corpse of a fallen man-at-arms. Turning his head to face his assailant, he suppressed a groan as he saw the hedge knight approach. The man was at least twenty-one stone, and solidly muscular at that. It had only been the quality of Veron's helm that had prevented the blow from being fatal, and even then he still had to blink back the distortions in his sight. The hedge knight had foregone wielding a shield, and instead bore a great axe in two hands. Dazedly, Veron raised a hand to the left side of his helm, feeling the savage scar that the blow had struck through the black steel. Several of the tentacles that adorned the bottom of his face mask had been completely sheared off. Raising his shield in front of him, Veron was able to raise it at an odd angle in order to send the next blow of the axe flying awry. The force of the blow alone still splintered the shield, however, and sent a shock of pain up his arm. Somewhat sluggishly, he attempted to raise it again, expecting the blade to bite through shattered wood and battered steel and find the fragile flesh and bone of his arm beneath. Instead, his assailant was bodily knocked aside by Torgon, recognisable by his black-and-green checkered cloak. While the two men grappled, a screaming Tommard drove a dirk between the hedge knight's helm and gorget, sending dark red blood flowing out from beneath the metal. Warriors from behind filled the ranks, pressing ever onwards towards the setting sun that lurked behind the crest of the slope. Veron crawled onto his knees, resisting the urge to vomit bile at the sudden movement. He still felt light headed, and had to be helped to his feet by his saviors. He asked to be handed the great axe from the fallen hedge knight, and Tommard placed it in his hands as the tide of Ironborn warriors continued to surge by. Leaning his weight upon it, he gazed about him.

The entire hillside was by this point covered in the fallen. Greenlanders and Ironborn piled in heaps across the slope of the entire defile. Clothed in countless colors, they all now share the paleness of death. He noticed that the bodies towards the rear of the fight had arrows protruding from mailed backs. Their archers have been shooting at our backs as we advanced. As the rearguard approached, he turned, his movements slow, but measured, which helped to shake some of the uncertainty from his limbs. Stepping gingerly over the bodies of the fallen, enemies or otherwise, he checked the straps on his helm and let the ruin that had once been his shield fall from his grasp. Hefting the axe, he felt a gauntleted hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"You need not lead from the front any longer, Veron. You have done more than enough to inspire the men. There is no need for tactics or ingenuity now, only butchery."

Veron nodded, letting a long sigh escape his lips. He was so tired. "I know, Torgon. But this is about more than what is required of me. If I am to expect my men to be hewn limb from limb forcing this damned slope, I had best be fighting alongside them. My brother will be doing no less at Kayce."

He couldn't actually see his lover's face, but he knew him well enough to know he was frowning beneath his helm. While Veron was certain he wished to say more, he did not, apparently respecting his decision. Hefting their weapons, they advanced to where the line of battle had progressed. Shouldering his way past the men advancing in lockstep, he made his way to the front of the line. As he passed the men, a great roar went up. It heartens them to see me here, alive and well, fighting alongside them again. He smiled, though there was little joy in it. I owe them that much. A path was cleared for him to the front, where he could see the remnants of the Greenlander spear wall fighting desperately against the tide. A blow from the great axe splintered the shield of one of the commoners, likely shattering the arm beneath. The man went down writhing. Veron allowed himself to ease back into the flow of combat, which had become largely rote by this point. Battles that lasted this long ceased to be tests of skill. They instead became tests of endurance. We have the advantage there, at least. He hacked away at the enemy, who after a near solid hour of uninterrupted combat were finally beginning to show signs of wavering from exhaustion. The hate never leaves their eyes, however. Its chill was something Veron was unused to seeing in an enemy. Fear, rage, bloodthirstiness? All common. Hate? Hate was something colder, reserved for only those one truly despised with all their heart. These men do despise us. They have heard of how we descended upon the lands of their countrymen like a plague of locusts, and have been whipped into a frenzy by their holy men. We fight for glory. They fight for survival. A cornered animal is dangerous indeed.

Opening a man from groin to chin with his axe, he realised that the spearmen were finally disengaging. He also realized that they were no longer standing upon a slope. We've made it. We've fought our way to the crest. Anxiety roiled in his stomach. While the enemy withdrew, it was clear it was no rout. The spearmen withdrew in orderly columns, streaming away from their foes, most of whom were too exhausted to mount a pursuit. As the Ironborn massed at the top of the slope, Veron gazed out upon the road beyond, surrounded by rough but relatively flat earth. To their flanks, he could see the archers that had harried them throughout the day withdrawing at a quick pace, retreating in the same direction as the foot. His exhausted eyes traced their path, watching as the columns passed between the ranks of something far more worrisome. He cursed himself, internally. Of course. I should have anticipated this. It seems Lord Tarbeck certainly did. For as the spearmen retreated, they filed in an orderly fashion between the serried ranks of the West's assembled chivalry. It was suddenly all so clear to him, at that moment. Bleed us, exhaust us, and lead us to the fields beyond. Your knights would be wasted in a slog. But not in an open field. Not where they can ride over the remnants of my army like an unstoppable steel wave. Horns blew in the distance, sounding an advance. As the captains of the Ironborn shouted in shrill and hoarse voices to close ranks, and the stunned reavers complied, Veron looked for the banner of his enemy.

Where are you, you bastard? At least show your face, that I might see the man that dealt me such a defeat. Let me see the one that humbled the brother of the Red Kraken himself. Try as he might, he could not find the seven-pointed silver-and-white star of the Tarbecks. He was rather surprised that the Lord held no interest in leading the charge that would win the day.

It wasn't until he looked to the right flank that he found his answer. Beneath a proud seven pointed star, a group of handsome knights sat, sounding the horns for the advance. His heart sank when he saw what had been planted on stakes before them. Even from a distance he could make out the head of Melwick Myre, along with those of his most-trusted adjutants. So it was all for naught, then. The Crag is lost.

At the head of the self-same party sat his foe, as their banner waved overhead. Bedecked in a shirt of shining mail and wearing a knightly doublet over it, atop a formidable charger, awaited his foe. Veron scoffed. What sort of Lord rides side-saddle? It was only as the Lord removed his helmet that the rest of the puzzle became clear. As the brown mane of curls fell past her shoulders, streaked with grey, Veron could not help but chuckle grimly. The sheer irony of the situation was not lost on him. For the Lord Tarbeck was no Lord at all, but a Lady. He could feel her gaze from across the field, no less cold than those of her men. Raising his axe in a salute of sorts, he steeled himself, as the very ground shook from the weight of the charge. As the knights approached, the sunset behind their backs, one final volley of arrows soared above their heads, burning from where pitched-soaked rags had been tied about their shafts. As the burning volley returned to earth, a shudder rippled through the ranks of the Ironborn. As the horsemen transitioned from a canter to a gallop, the Ironborn wavered, clutching their weapons tightly. And as those same horsemen lowered their lances, the first reaver broke. Veron's eyes widened as all about him his brothers-in-arms simply ran. Shouts of despair, terror, and anguish filled the air, and in mere moments the pride of the Iron Islands collapsed and ran headlong down the slopes of the hill they had paid so dearly to take.

Veron hefted his axe. A Greyjoy does not flee. For a brief moment, he faced the oncoming wave of steel and horseflesh by himself. He would have continued to do so if not for the gauntleted hands that wrenched him backwards. Stunned he found himself being led down the slope by Torgon and his crew, their faces darkened with anger and something else.

The knights of the Westerlands hollered and jeered at them the entire way down the slope, unwilling to risk their necks or their horses charging down a defile so steep. The archers, however, were not bound to such constraints, and within moments had begun to fire volley after volley after them. The arrows burned through the evening sky, like so many murderous shooting stars.

If terror had hounded the Ironborn's flight through the defile, shame haunted their steps after they had left it. Not once before during this entire campaign had the Ironborn been so humbled. Veron had known the minute that they had arrived on the battlefield of their foe's choosing that the casualties would be heavy, but the numbers still stung nonetheless. Out of a force that numbered nearly twenty-four hundred men and one hundred and forty-some captains, seventy eight of those seasoned commanders were either confirmed to have fallen in battle or were missing. Five hundred reavers had been killed, and another six hundred or so had to be left wounded upon the battlefield or soon after. The force that had departed Fair Isle only a little while before had been utterly decimated. The losses are painful. I'd wager, however, that it is the defeat that burdens the men even more terribly. Until this point, they had all been able to deceive themselves that the disaster at Crakehall had been due to the folly of Lord Sigfryd Harlaw. No longer. This is our own defeat, our own shame. Veron had already put his mind to work attempting to salvage whatever he could from the situation. He had halfheartedly assured himself that the loss of the Crag, while dire, removed the need for the Ironborn to commit forces to the mainland. Despite his attempts, he could not help but see things for what they were. It seems that despite our best efforts, we had already lost the war. We just hadn't realised it yet. He frowned. We lost the war the moment our so-called allies refused to send us aid atop dragon's wings. There was nothing for it. They would have to withdraw to the shelter of the Sunset Sea entirely. We still command the waves, and barring any nasty surprises, should be capable of continuing to do so. Perhaps we can force a peace out of mutual exhaustion. As his feet crunched atop the gravel and stones of the beach, he leaned against the hull of the Misery, listening to the waves gently caress the shore. They had made the journey back to where they had disembarked quickly, hurried onwards by their shattered morale and the ever-present fear of knights and outriders harrying their withdrawal. Veron and his captains knew that they could ill-afford to lose any more irreplaceable men. In the distance, lit torches began to sail through the air, setting captainless ships alight. With so many commanders gone, and their crews devastated, the decision had been made to consolidate the survivors so as to fully man the remaining vessels.

Despite himself, his eyes began to sting with the presence of tears as he watched the beautiful handiwork of Lordsport begin to go up in flames. As the sparks drifted into the night sky, Veron scooped some of the beach's rocks and sand into his hand. Something to remember the mainland by. Joining his men, he helped to glide the Misery back into the waters of the Sunset Sea, her hull groaning in protest at the sudden exertion. My deepest apologies, my Lady. As the men clambered aboard, and took up the oars, he turned one last time to observe the shore as they put out to sea. All about them, the darkened hulls of other longships glided out almost silently into the bay, save the odd creak or sound of the oars. The beach was alight with the fires of nearly fifty longships, their silhouettes glowing against the night sky. A chill ran down Veron's spine. It was not a sight he cared to see again. Turning to the men, he settled into the captain's seat and let his mind go blank. He drifted off into a dreamless slumber as he rested before his turn at the oars. His last conscious thoughts were of Pyke, and of home.

Chapter Text

Gaemon IX

After a march that had lasted nearly fifteen days, the wintry and barren fields of Duskendale now played host to all those who still remained true to their fallen Queen. The scraping, screaming song of steel rang out over the makeshift arena that had been set aside for those whose blood ran too hot to await battle. Gaemon sat on the sidelines, gingerly nursing several bruises and cuts that he had earned over the last few days during his rigorous training sessions with a variety of tutors. Before him, Ser Morgon Banefort was locked in desperate combat with Lord Alan Tarly. The two had crossed blades before, but now that they seemingly had the measure of each other their battle had been reduced to a bout of pure endurance. Lord Alan was the elder of the two and matched Banefort's youthful energy with the practiced experience of a blooded warrior. Gaemon winced as the younger Lord brought a gauntleted fist downwards in a harsh strike atop the Huntsman's helm, the crash of steel reminding him of his own battles earlier in the day. All around men shouted, jeering taunts or cries of support to their favored candidate. Lord Tarly is at a disadvantage here; his fellow Reachmen are a rare sight amongst this host of Wolves, Falcons and Trout. Calls of support notwithstanding, the veteraned knight of the Reach was soon able to knock the younger lad off of his feet and into the mud. Scrabbling about, he found Heartsbane where it had fallen nearby, gripping it with both hands and guiding its point towards the slit in the younger man's helm.

"Yield!" His cry prompted silence in the arena.

For a few moments, the rasping sound of labored breathing was all that emanated from the steel of Ser Morgon's armor.

"I yield, Ser." The young knight's voice was strained, clearly in the midst of a battle with frustration.

Lord Tarly rose slowly to his feet, offering an armored hand to his fallen opponent. Somewhat surprisingly, the young knight took it, pulling himself to his feet before exiting the arena. He was greeted by a veritable horde of young Rivermen, all eager to offer conciliatory praises concerning his performance against such a seasoned foe. Lord Alan left the ring as well, finding a rough-hewn wooden bench to sit upon whilst he began to clean Heartsbane with a fervent yet gentle dedication.

Gaemon rose from his seat, draining the last of the cold cider from a wooden tankard he kept with him for watching bouts such as the one that had just transpired. His tongue somewhat recoiled at its exceedingly sour taste, and he could not help but recall with fondness the ciders that Wat had insisted on serving at his inn on Dragonstone. It was expensive to import such things from the mainland, given that Dragonstone possessed no orchards. But Wat would not budge. He would die before being denied his favorite beverage, shipped straight from Maidenpool or Saltpans. The ciders that could be found about this camp were of a decidedly less pleasing variety, likely made from the last apple harvests of the fall years. Sour or not, they still bring a welcome warmth to a cold winter's day.

A gravelly and stern voice pulled him from his thoughts. "It is a shame that such energy is wasted upon feigned combat, Ser."

Turning, Gaemon was surprised to see the Lord of Winterfell had joined him to watch the proceedings. His large beard barely concealed the faintest of smiles. His grey eyes, however, remained cold, cold like the winds that now blew constantly from the North.

Gaemon returned his smile. "I could not agree more, my Lord. Although I am pleased that we were able to take Duskendale bloodlessly. Its people have already suffered much, and our enemies would love nothing more than for us to pour out our men's lifesblood in pointless and costly assaults."

Cregan nodded, but did not speak, mulling over his words. Gaemon had found that he often behaved in such a way, wasting few words and only speaking when he felt it necessary. What he does not share are his thoughts regarding the Darklyns. Lord Stark is not one to look kindly on those who he views as turncloaks. Lady Meredyth had surrendered Duskendale and the Dun Fort when their forces had arrived, striking the golden dragon banners of Aegon II without the briefest thought of resistance. Gaemon was certain her people thanked her for it, but the Northerners were particular about sworn oaths. Even if she aids us, she knelt to another King. Were it entirely in Lord Cregan's hands, I have little doubt that Lady Meredyth would have been made to pay for her 'transgression'. Luckily for the Lady of the Dun Fort, the Lord Paramount of the North was only one of three commanders of the Queen's loyalists. Sers Elmo Tully and Isembard Arryn had welcomed the Lady Meredyth into their cause with open arms, and had eagerly taken up lodging in the Dun Fort itself.

Gaemon could not help but be curious as to why the Wolf-Lord had sought him out. Tilting his head, he opted for humor to break the silence: "To what do I owe the considerable pleasure of your presence, my Lord? I doubt that you have solely sought me out to comment on duels between southron knights."

Cregan shook his head, his northern war-braids swaying. "Aye, I did not. It seems Ser Addam Velaryon's brother has come to port. Lord Cerwyn informs me that he brings provisions, and is eager to discuss strategy."

Ah, so there it is. A welcome surprise, no doubt.

"Then we ought to go and give our thanks."

The Dun Fort loomed over the city of Duskendale like a great stone beast. Situated atop a natural hill that rose above the bay, it was no wonder that the ancient First Men had chosen it as a site to build a fortress upon. The Queen's banner's flew once more from its great stone walls, and were visible throughout the cobblestone streets of the port town below. While Duskendale itself no longer bore the scars of the Kingmaker's punishing sack, its wynds and septs were filled to bursting with crowds of starving poor, driven northwards by the near total anarchy that had temporarily consumed King's Landing and the campaign of terror that the Kinslayer had waged upon the Riverlands. Ominous grey winter clouds, heavy and threatening snow, hung above the city, casting a dark pall over its peoples and the army assembled outside. In the harbor sat a great many cogs and other seafaring craft, forced to do business in Black-controlled ports by the ever-watchful Velaryon fleet. It seemed certain that Gulltown, Maidenpool and Duskendale had not seen such traffic since the days before Aegon's conquest and the rise of King's Landing. Gaemon could only imagine the wealth that was currently pouring into Hull and Spicetown. While it was essential to strangle King's Landing of trade and goods, Gaemon had come to harbor some misgivings about the tactics employed by Alyn Velaryon. He felt for the smallfolk, tossed aside and abandoned to starve by the war. But it was more than that. The more time he spent in Duskendale, the more he had begun to harbor misgivings about the wealth that the Velaryons stood to gain by seizing shipping or diverting it to their own ports. This war was never supposed to be about lining one's purse. The Queen and her Velaryon sons died for nobler causes… didn't they?

From what Gaemon had gathered, House Velaryon had already stood proudly amongst the wealthiest houses of Westeros prior to the war. If they were to grow any more powerful, their influence would surely become unparalleled. Even the fabled mines of the West have been known to become bereft of gold and silver after a time. Trade, however, can be sustained so long as there are those with the wealth and the appetite to acquire the finest silks, spices, and furnished goods the East has to offer. As he and the Lord of Winterfell rode into the courtyard of the Dun Fort, he spotted one ship that stood proudly above all others in the bay, a massive dromond that sported sea-green sails and banners. The Queen Rhaenys: one of the finest ships in the Velaryon fleet, and flying the proud seahorse at that. Ser Alyn has indeed arrived, and is clearly keen on making an impression.

The yard of the Dun Fort was packed with scurrying servants and lordly retainers, all bustling about on errands for their masters. As Gaemon dismounted, he found himself fussing over his tabard, smoothing the creases in the brilliant red and black hues that made up his chosen sigil. He had initially been surprised at the muted reaction that his attire had been met with, expecting that more lords would protest his not-so-subtle message of paternity. Instead, few had even commented on the gesture. They likely feel other matters are more pressing. There is a war on, after all. The same went for his claiming of Dark Sister. While he had wielded it to spar with in past training sessions, crossing blades with the likes Heartsbane, he still had not gotten over the feeling that in his hands he bore a dead man's blade. While wickedly sharp and undoubtedly legendary, the rippling black Valyrian-steel blade brought up uncomfortable memories of its former owner. Gaemon was certain that the Rogue Prince would have been disgusted to know he now carried his blade at his side. That man is dead. I saw the wounds he left on Harrenhal's heart tree with this very blade before confronting the Kinslayer. His shade holds no power over me that I do not grant him. Besides, wielding this blade allows me to join the company of legends. I would be a fool to not embrace such power.

Lord Cregan dismounted nearby, striding forward with the ease and confidence that only a trueborn lord could muster, his grey cloak bearing a running Direwolf trailing behind him. Gaemon followed, intentionally straightening his back and bringing his full height to bear. He could feel the gaze of many upon him, and he was not about to present a less-than-impressive image to them. The Lord of Winterfell pushed the doors of the great hall open before them, revealing a chamber crowded with crowds of smallfolk petitioning for succor from their liege. The assembly parted before them, revealing the Lady Meredyth sitting upon the Lord's seat and presiding over the assembly. Offering a brief smile to the two of them, the lady of the castle motioned for them to continue past her, following the dimly lit ancient corridors of the Dun Fort to a smaller private hall where the Darklyns had held familial meetings for centuries, if not thousands of years.

The roughly hewn stone blocks that made up the walls of the chamber and ancient carved murals that decorated its walls were unmistakable of First Men origin, and betrayed the sheer age of the room in which they assembled to meet their honored guest. Within, a table sat upon a slightly elevated dais, upon which a vellum map had been spread, depicting the Royal crownlands and bearing the sigil of the King Viserys I. Seated around the table were the last and greatest champions of the fallen Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. To Gaemon's left sat Ser Elmo Tully, his bright red hair only beginning to show streaks of grey. To his left sat Isembard Arryn, wearing the finest cloth that could be purchased from Gulltown. The 'Gilded Falcon' was in the midst of a ringing laugh, evidently entertained by their new guest. To his left sat Maegor, who to Gaemon's relief appeared to actually be suppressing a slight smile at whatever tale Ser Alyn was in the midst of telling. Past him Ser Addam sat, his pale Valyrian features temporarily overcome by a brilliantly red flush. Completing the circle around the table were Lady Rhaena, Ser Corwyn Corbray, and Ser Alyn Velaryon himself. Two seats, one between Ser Elmo and Ser Isembard, and one in between the Lady Rhaena and Ser Addam had evidently been reserved for the latecomers. As Gaemon moved to claim his seat, he could not help but to overhear the story that Ser Alyn had decided to share with those assembled.

"... as it turns out, this Braavosi captain had brought his daughter along with him, intending to educate her on the details of shipping across the Narrow Sea. As acting regent for my esteemed grandfather, I offered to educate her on the specifics myself, intimately. Imagine my surprise when this fair maid proved no fair maid at all! With how possessive her father was, I assumed he had her locked up tightly to preserve her virtue for a suitor at home. As it turns out, she had developed quite a reputation of her own along the Long Canal and amongst the inns of Silty Town!"

Ser Isembard cackled. "Pray tell, how did you come to know about this reputation of hers?"

Ser Alyn smiled, his purple eyes sparkling mischievously. "I grew wise to the reality of the situation after she demanded that I remove her small clothes with my teeth! It turns out that little Braavosi morsel had quite the voracious appetite for sailors!"

Ser Isembard guffawed, and Maegor shook his head as he suppressed a grin. Gaemon had to admit that watching Addam's eyes jump back and forth between the Lady Rhaena and his brother in horror made the situation all the more humorous.

Ser Corwyn's frown had grown all the more pronounced, and it was only Rhaena's steadying hand on his forearm that had apparently prevented his intervention to this point. After Ser Alyn had made his last jape, however, it was clear that his Andalic sensibilities could no longer allow this affront to etiquette to continue.

"Ser! I think that is quite enough. There is a Lady of Royal Blood present. I will not entertain any more of this drivel in her presence!"

Alyn's smile faded noticeably. "Ser, I would think the Lady Rhaena more than capable of interceding on her own behalf. If all I have heard of her mother is true, she possesses all the strength necessary!"

Smoothing her dress, Rhaena offered a conciliatory smile. "Sers, I appreciate your intercessions on my behalf, but I would ask that we turn our discussions towards matters of strategies at hand. With Ser Alyn's arrival, we now have all the commanders of our forces present. We can coordinate our strategy to end the war with confidence now with no further delays."

Lord Stark cleared his throat. "As you all know, it was I that proposed taking Duskendale in order to prompt an intervention by the Greens. Their silence, however, is troubling. We have not even received threats concerning their hostages as a response. My outriders have watched the road south since before we arrived, and apart from minor skirmishes, report no movement from King's Landing."

Ser Elmo Tully ran a hand through a bright red beard. "Not all of our news is ill. With Duskendale in our hands, and the roads from Maidenpool clear, we can now reasonably expect to keep our forces provisioned. Excess grain from the Vale arrives in greater amounts by the day, and Pentos has offered to sell us salted meat at what they assure me is a reasonable price."

Ser Isembard Arryn scoffed. "To the Essosi, a reasonable price is akin to extortion! We ought to pay those slavers no mind."

Lord Cregan sighed. "Nevertheless, fighting men need some meat to sustain themselves. The countryside from here to Stoney Sept has been stripped bare. My own Ser Torrhen Manderly assures me that his trip was fraught with danger, and only the boldness of several knights in their party staved off utter disaster. I fear that our foragers will turn up empty-handed or worse if we send them far afield for provisions."

Ser Isembard frowned. "I will see the Pentoshi tomorrow, then. We Arryns of Gulltown can be relied upon to negotiate a fairer price!"

A fairer price would certainly suit his own coin purse better, Gaemon thought to himself. For he has effectively funded our army since we arrived at Harrenhal.

Ser Elmo Tully nodded. "If the matter of provisions is settled, we must needs discuss what forces we can bring to bear against the capital itself. As Lord Cregan has implied, it might be necessary to put King's Landing itself to siege in order to fully defeat the Usurper. While we command thousands, I fear that encircling the entire city would strain our numbers to the breaking point and leave us vulnerable to a breakout attempt."

The Lord of Winterfell nodded. "Aye. We ought to concentrate our forces north of the Blackwater Rush. The lands south of the river can be watched by our dragonriders. All that matters is that we prevent resupply or a retreat. Dragonflame can accomplish both." He turned to Ser Alyn. "How much support can we rely upon from the sea, Ser?"

Alyn Velaryon leaned back in his seat. "The Triarchy is beginning to tear itself apart. Sharako Lohar burned with the vast majority of their battle-ready ships at the Gullet. Merchants from the Three Daughters speak in hushed tones of privately owned ships being seized by the magisters and hastily equipped for war, and the High Council of the Triarchy has disbanded for what appears to be the last time. It seems the 'eternal alliance' is falling rather short of eternal." He smiled grimly. "All this seems to suggest that the Usurper will no longer be able to rely on any support from his friends across the Narrow Sea. I doubt he will even be able to hire mercenaries, for the going rates threaten to make beggars out of the magisters. I have little doubt that I will be able to use my grandfather's fleet to maintain a close blockade of King's Landing. I assure you, my Lords, that no ships will make it in or out of that city."

Gaemon had watched his friend's face closely as the discussion had unfolded. Ever since the treachery at Tumbleton, desire for vengeance had stalked Maegor as closely as his own shadow. While he had tried to hide it, Gaemon had known him for far too long to not see it. But for some time, Maegor had been different. Not entirely his old self, but less consumed by his hate. It is comforting to see that something had changed. While the war plans were discussed, Maegor watched studiously, but did not twist with malice as he had in the past. When he finally began to speak, Gaemon was eager to hear what he had to say.

"My Lords, my fellow riders and I can certainly assist in maintaining the siege from the air. But discussing these steps is preemptive. Are we truly prepared for what may come if we pursue this war fully, to its bloody conclusion?"

Alyn sneered. "Of what do you speak? All of us who sit here have been properly blooded. I will not have it said that any man here is a craven!"

Cregan's grey eyes regarded Maegor carefully for a few moments. "Ser Alyn, Ser Maegor has not called any man here a craven. He simply asks if we are willing to condemn our King to death."

Alyn's eyes widened with surprise. All those seated at the table turned, as if drawn by some unspoken magic, to the Lady Rhaena. Gaemon felt as though a blade were twisted in his innards. Maegor is right to ask such things of us. Would I trade Baela's life for victory? Would Rhaena?

He spoke. "My Lady, I feel it would be callous and unjust of us to speak of such matters without your consent. As the King's nearest of kin present, what say you? What say you of the strategy to put the capital to siege?"

Rhaena sat silently, watching him closely. The flames of the room's ensconced torches were reflected in her eyes. "I love my sister more than anything else in this world. I love my half-brothers, just as I loved my father, my cousins, and my grandmother. This war has already forced me to let go of so many that I have loved." A single tear ran down her cheek. "Even now, I am torn between my love for those that remain and my duty to the realm." Brushing a hand across her face, she straightened her back, defiant. "But I know that if I allowed my love to rule me this day, my sister would never forgive me. The dead cry out for vengeance. Their loss will burden me for the rest of my life. But if the Usurper chooses to heap one more cruelty upon the mountain he has already built and executes my brothers and sister, he will burn for it. Their blood will stain his hands, not mine." Rhaena stood, her eyes blazing gloriously with a mixture of pain, fury, and determination. Her next words came out in a whisper. "I pray that he chooses to see the futility of his resistance, and step aside for the sake of his remaining family. But if he murders my brothers and sisters, I will ask that you raze that accursed city to the ground in their memory."

Gaemon exchanged a quick glance at his fellow dragonriders, noting that both Addam and Maegor were nodding, their visages hardening with resolve. After a moment, Maegor spoke: "We will take that city for you, my Lady. Take it so that we might rebuild it anew, free from the horrors that have been visited upon it."

It was then that Addam Velaryon chose to speak, his voice quiet but strained. "My Lady, it pains me to ask this, but should we take this to mean that you will accept the Crown if it falls to you? We can ill afford a struggle over the succession if we lose the last of Queen Rhaenyra's children."

A cold chill ran down Gaemon's spine. A struggle for succession? Does he think that I would be so bold as to claim the Crown under such circumstances? A voice rose in his head, unbidden. Would you not? You wear your claim on your chest, and at your side. And you ride the largest dragon. Aegon was crowned King by right of conquest. Could you not be as well? Gaemon the Glorious could come again. He was immediately ashamed by such thoughts. If I did such a thing, I might as well build a throne from the smoking bones of my half-brothers and half-sisters. The black three-headed dragon on his chest only seemed to darken in response.

Rhaena nodded quietly. "If it comes to it, I will wear the Crown. I will do so in memory for those I have lost, and to keep the embers of my family alive."

Addam nodded, a pained look on his face. He doesn't wish to abandon Baela to the executioner's axe any more than I do. His own actions the next few days could condemn his own grandsire to death.

Lord Cregan Stark's words broke the deathly silence that had settled upon them. "It is settled then. We should attend to our men, and our lords. It will soon be time to march. May the Old Gods and the New favor our just cause."

As Gaemon watched the other lords stand, his blood seemed to boil all at once. "Is it over, my Lords? It seems callous to tempt the wrath of a man who has already lost nearly everything. We speak of dead that cry out for vengeance, but what of the Princes who had less than ten name days between them? Our Queen's hands were stained with their blood, blood just as red as that which covers the Usurper. A man with naught but slaughtered sons and brothers has nothing to lose. It might be prudent to speak of alternatives in the event that we lose the Princes and the Lady Baela, but I will not see them consigned to the grave so easily!"

Cregan Stark's eyes narrowed at his outburst. "Careful, boy. To compare our fallen Queen to the Usurper is naught but treason."

Gaemon stood. "I do not doubt the loyalties of any man or woman in this room. We have all sacrificed much to be here, and only those truly committed to our cause would do so. But I have heard enough of this talk." His mind was racing, as he was unused to speaking to those of higher birth in such a manner. I've no training for this and little mind for it. "Let us… let us test the enemy. Let us send a raven, offering to allow them to surrender and turn over their hostages. We have three dragons to their one, and half again as many men. Walls and keeps will do little to keep out dragonflame. Perhaps their King, when confronted with the gravity of his situation, will agree to take the Black to spare his mother, wife, and daughter."

Addam Velaryon rapped his knuckles upon the table softly, lost in thought. Speaking from across the table, he spoke: "such a peace offering would do much to persuade those who still have yet to declare for either side. It would show that we are just and merciful, and willing to accept a negotiated peace of some kind without risking the life of our liege."

Ser Corwyn ran a hand across his stubble-laden jaw. "There still remain some houses that have not declared their support for either candidate. The Tyrells are foremost amongst these, but many powerful Lords in the Reach have followed their example. The Oakhearts, the Cranes, the Meadows, the Florents; many and more have remained neutral in this conflict. Ser Waters' plan could be exactly what we need to demonstrate our leniency and expose the madness of the Usurper and his lackeys. If it becomes apparent that we are fighting for peace, we could negotiate for the support of the houses that still remain uncommitted."

Ser Isembard smiled, a cold and calculating expression emblazoned across his features. "We'd most certainly have the Usurper's dogs by the stones then, wouldn't we? Their own neighbors and liege would be wreaking bloody havoc across their supply lines, and potentially putting their own seats to siege."

Lord Stark leaned against the table, placing his weight upon his fists. His jaw was set in the manner that it usually adopted when he was deeply in thought. After a few moments of silence, he finally nodded his head in acquiescence. Ser Elmo Tully had remained silent whilst he had watched the exchange, but his bright blue eyes sparked with anticipation.

Gaemon allowed a small smile to drift to his lips. "It seems we will be needing a maester then."

As the commanders of the Black army rose and began to exit the room, Maegor had risen, his full height stopping only a few inches short of the ancient stone above him. He gave Gaemon a friendly pat on the shoulder as he passed, before adding that he would see to the dispatch of the raven personally, alongside Ser Addam. There will be nothing amiss about the missives we send this time. Maegor will ensure that. As his friend's massive form exited the chamber, Gaemon was left facing Rhaena and her guardian alone. Only after all of the others had left did she allow her impeccable posture to soften. He crossed the room quietly, placing a hand upon her shoulder.

He stood in silence for a moment, feeling the cold presence of Ser Corbray behind him, watching carefully for any sign of impropriety.

Ever so quietly, Rhaena spoke. "Ser Corwyn, might you leave us for a moment? I wish to speak with Ser Gaemon privately."

The knight of Bleeding Hearts left them quietly, respecting his lady's wishes.

Gaemon finally decided to speak. "When you spoke today, I saw a true Queen before me: brave and true and willing to do anything for her realm and her people."

Rhaena's small frame shook slightly, and it took him a moment to realize she was sobbing, ever so quietly. Turning, she embraced him, her whole form wracked with tears.

"I felt akin to a monster, Gaemon. Who could accept such a fate for those they love?"

He pulled away, holding her at arm's length so as to look her in the eye. "If the Gods are good, you will never have to wear the Crown. I swear I will do everything in my power to prevent it." His voice shook. "I too, care for those currently held in chains."

Rhaena laughed, a sweet interruption from the sadness. "I know, you dolt. My sister keeps nothing from me."

Gaemon could not help but laugh in return. "I truly am a dolt. I should have suspected."

Sniffling, Rhaena wiped her tears from her cheeks with a red-and-black laced sleeve. "Men can be surprisingly capable of missing the obvious. Nonetheless, I am ever so grateful that I can count upon you. I was terrified today before you spoke, it felt as though there were no options that remained to us."

Gaemon shook his head. "Baela lives. And so long as she does, I refuse to countenance any course of action that will not see her freed." A memory surfaced, swirling with fire and shadow. "Would you like to see her?"

Rhaena's eyes narrowed. "Of course I would. I have prayed to the Seven that I would see her again ever since we were separated from one another at the beginning of this accursed war."

Gaemon frowned. "I fear that is where you were mistaken. You may have been praying to the wrong Gods." He grabbed a torch from where it had been affixed to the chamber wall.

Rhaena pursed her lips. "Is this some sort of cruel jape, Gaemon? For it is ill-advised."

Gaemon shook his head. For the past several weeks, he had tried to replicate what Alys Rivers had shown him at Harrenhal with little success. He was not sure why he felt differently this evening, but he somehow knew things would be different. He held the torch out before them, gazing intently into its flames. At first, they flickered and danced without any discernible difference. But then the shadows grew. Almost imperceptibly at first, the light of the other torches throughout the chamber seemed to dim, whilst the shadows cast by their fading light seemed to grow in size and dance about them. The flames atop the torch burst into greater intensity, burning far more brightly than any torch ought to. He heard Rhaena gasp, and then he saw her. For within the brightest part of the flames, he saw Baela, as beautiful as he remembered her, sitting cross-legged in a stone cell. She seemed to stare intently at them, but to his disappointment her eyes made no sign of recognition. When she turned her face, as if to overhear some impercitible conversation, the gruesome letters 'SL' could be seen, apparently burned into her visage. Rhaena's hand instinctively darted out, attempting to caress her sister's face, but withdrew in pain the moment the flames licked her fingertips. The orange and yellow hues rippled and shimmered as though she had struck the surface of a pond the moment she touched them, and the image was lost.

As he attempted to turn and speak with her, Gaemon found that he could not move. It was as though he were held suspended by some great, unknown power. The heat from the torch became uncomfortably hot, and when he glanced at Rhaena, she remained motionless, still in the process of withdrawing her hand from the torchlight.

It was then that he saw that the flames had changed their images. The fires expanded until they had filled his entire vision, and shadows writhed in the corners of his eyes. A disembodied voice composed of crackling infernos and blowing smoke arose from their depths. Gaemon Waters, son of Dragons. There is much and more that the flames can show you. A servant of fire and shadow need not limit themselves so. A series of images assailed him, their scorching heat burrowing into the inner reaches of his mind.

… bloody curtains stirred the night air, and a woman's scream pierced his ears...

… two krakens struggled in a sea as black as pitch, whilst carrion birds soared above…

… a falcon fell from the sky, its heart pierced by three arrows...

… under the cover of stars, a faceless knight crowned a dragon that hatched from an egg of purple, gold, and green…

… a falling star fell across fields and orchards of green, and everywhere its light touched burst into flame...

… and a sea filled with corpses and as red as blood churned as seahorses danced upon its waves, as a burning heart rose in place of the sun…

The images grew more intense and more frequent, until finally the light became so blinding that Gaemon could see no more.

He awoke in the chamber having collapsed to the floor, the torch he had held spent and blackened beside him. Rhaena knelt beside him, eyeing him concernedly. Taking his hand, she spoke. "Who taught you such things, Gaemon?"

He blinked, his eyes still sensitive to the torchlight. Still shaken, he responded. "I'm not so certain anymore."

His dreams had been troubled for the next few nights. Ghosts and shadows circled about him, offering glimpses of the past and what might be in the future. Gaemon had returned to training in the fields below Duskendale with vigor, lashing out at his fears with Dark Sister's rippling steel. Somehow sending the raven to King's Landing had left him even less certain of the future. The silence from the enemy was deafening. Despite fighting foes with far more experience, Gaemon could tell that he had improved over the last several months. With the basics from Ser Lorent Marbrand to support him, he was slowly learning the finer points of swordplay under the exacting instruction of men such as Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Tom Flowers, and Ser Morgon Banefort. He trained to the point of exhaustion each day, retreating only after his muscles burned and mind cried out for slumber. Old faces and new arrived to watch his bouts, and it was not uncommon for the grey eyes of Lord Cregan to be upon him, nor the jovial and clever ones of Lord Stanton Piper.

On the morning of the third day after he had spoken with the flames, he found himself stepping into the ring with the younger son of the Lord of Riverrun. Lord Alan had recommended the Young Trout as an opponent after Gaemon had finally managed to duel Ser Morgon to a standstill. Gaemon had initially been nervous; the Tully lad had proven himself a vicious fighter with a strong desire to prove himself. He had chided himself quickly at the thought, however. If I prove nervous to face foes in the ring, how will I fare against them in the open field?

His opponent stepped over the wooden posts that marked the outer limits of the ring, pacing in anticipation and swinging his blade to warm his muscles. Both Tully brothers had great manes of blue and red horsehair that ran down the back of their helms, and Oscar had ensured his were fully cleaned for their duel. When offered a shield by an attendant, the Tully waved it away. Gaemon grinned beneath his black plate. He is wise. He knows full-well that oak is only a hindrance when facing Valyrian steel. Gaemon had also forgone the use of a shield, preferring to master the use of Dark Sister against an enemy fully clad in plate. Even Valyrian steel cannot hack through castle-forged steel, but it can bite through mail and leather surely enough, always eager to find the skin and bone beneath. This fight was to be all about finding and exploiting the gaps in his enemy's plate.

With the sounding of a battlehorn, their duel began. The lad from Riverrun exploded into motion, crossing the distance between them quickly and subjecting him to a flurry of blows; each was aimed expertly at finding gaps in Gaemon's swordplay. Gaemon wove a steel web with Dark Sister, taking advantage of its absurdly light weight to move it quickly to counter each strike. Slowly but surely he was pushed back towards the edge of the ring and disqualification. Planting his feet, he brought Dark Sister before him and locking himself opposite the Tully warrior. For a moment, they strained against one another, steel screeching and grinding as the blades locked. Gritting his teeth, Gaemon twisted his blade, using the the golden flames of its crossguard as leverage to twist Oscar's blade slowly out of his hands. His opponent resisted, but as he loosened his grip to readjust his hold, Gaemon lunged, seizing its handle with his own off-hand and wrenching it upwards and outwards from his grasp. The blade sailed through the air, landing several feet behind him. Almost instantaneously his opponent reacted, smashing his helmeted head against Gaemon's own and sending him backwards, eyes watering and head spinning.

There was barely any time to recover before the enemy was upon him, raining blows down with his gaunleted fists. Gaemon struck back, throwing his weight into Oscar and sending him staggering. Turning Dark Sister in his hands, he gripped the blade along its length, making certain his hold was firm, before slamming its crossguard down upon the Tully boy's helm. After the second crash sent the boy to a knee, the horn blew again, seeking to avoid any true damage to either combatant.

"Well-fought, Ser Gaemon!" Ser Alyn's voice sounded above the general cacophony of the onlookers. The boy-admiral grinned at him from beneath an impressive bearskin cloak, clasped at the neck with a shining seahorse.

Gaemon opened the visor of his helmet, offering a smile as recognition. As he stepped outside of the ring of stakes, squires that stood in attendance swarmed about, unclasping the many ties that held his plate to his form. As they removed his armor, the younger Velaryon brother moved forwards to speak with him.

"I was told that I could find you at the sparring rings." As Alyn spoke, he lifted a sword from where it had been placed in a barrel alongside many others. Giving it a few test swings, he smiled. "It seems my informants were correct."

Gaemon nodded. "I pray to the Seven above that you were not too delayed in your search, Ser."

Alyn chuckled. "Save your prayers, Ser Gaemon. I enjoy my walks within this city of tents. It seems that encamped armies never lack for diversions. Why, only a few moments ago I found myself embroiled in a fierce game of dice with a man-at-arms from Wintertown. I could scarcely believe my ears when he informed me that in all his thirty years, he had not once seen the sea til a few months past, when he rode with Lord Cerwyn to secure Saltpans."

A squire undid the final few straps behind his knee, allowing Gaemon to be fully freed from the black plate that had shielded him from Oscar Tully. He donned his tabard and black wolfskin pelt, glad for their warmth against the biting cold. "I can only wonder at the vastness of the North, Ser Alyn. As you know, for most of my life my world was only as large as Dragonstone. To think that the North is almost as large as all the other realms combined is nearly incomprehensible. I suppose then that it does not shock me overly much that your acquaintance had never seen the sea or smelt its salt."

Alyn nodded, placing the sword back amongst its brethren. "Now that you've been freed of your protective shackles, would you care to join me for a pint of ale? I was hoping to have a few words with you."

Gaemon gave his assent, and soon they found themselves slowly advancing through the well-ordered rows of tents that had sprung up in the days since Duskendale's capitulation. Smithies, fletchers, tanners, weavers, pot-shops, and impromptu brothels had all gathered to the great host as well, and he had even heard of a few bands of mummers performing for the soldiers in the cold winter nights by torchlight. An army is a living, breathing community of its own. He frowned slightly. But it is more locust than anything else. Even with the influx of supplies, many still grumbled at the lack of foodstuffs. The land was simply stripped bare, unable to offer any more of its fruits to those who still walked it. He and his companion eventually made it through Duskendale's gatehouse, navigating its narrow cobblestone streets, past inns and taverns and small manses whose capacities were stretched to the breaking point by the knights and Lords that had followed their commander's calls to war. Eventually, Alyn motioned for them to stop under a sign that read The Clawmen's Rest. Pushing the door aside, they entered the tavern, which smelled of pipesmoke, stale ale, and the salt of the sea. Gaemon drew his coin purse, placing four coppers in front of the bartender, a heavyset man whose lips bore the characteristic blood red stains of sourleaf.

Alyn had already sat at a table in the back of the establishment, and as Gaemon placed two cracked mugs brimming with ale before him, he smiled. "The next round will be on me."

Gaemon sipped his ale. The characteristic taste of hops was pervasive. "So enlighten me, Ser Alyn. What brings us to this forgotten inn. Were you yearning for Hull?"

Alyn shrugged. "I will always yearn for Hull. The years I spent underfoot whilst my mother ran her shipping business were amongst the happiest of my life. Alas, I did not bring you here to reminisce." He waved his hand, signalling for two men to join them from where they had been seated at another table. The newcomers sat to Alyn's right hand, and he introduced them each as they sat down. "Gaemon Waters, you sit in the esteemed company of Drako and Moredo Rogare, scions of one of the most ancient and honored families of Lys. They have come on the behalf of their father Lysandro, known as the Magnificent."

Gaemon studied the two men, noting their pale white hair and violet eyes. Drako, the elder brother, was a thin, wiry man who sported a wispy white mustache, whilst Moredo was heavily muscled, his broad shoulders evident from beneath his cloak. "What brings the two of them here, to meet with us?"

Alyn motioned for them to speak. After conferring to one another in what Gaemon assumed to be the liquid, flowery tongue of the Lyseni, Drako Rogare replied in common: "the Narrow Sea roils and froths, and will soon run red with blood. A storm is coming, and soon our Triarchy will no longer be able to contain it. The Conclave of Magisters is eager to… how do you say… steal a march… on the snakes of Tyrosh and manticores of Myr."

Gaemon crossed his arms, leaning back on his chair. "Stealing a march is well and good. But I fail to see why you have asked for me. I swore oaths to uphold the succession of my Queen and her heirs. I cannot become entangled in the woes of Lys."

Drako spoke several words to his brother, who nodded, before responding. "We have no intention of asking you to break your oaths, Ser Gaemon. We had hoped to help you fulfill them instead."

Gaemon raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Drako smiled, his lips pressing thin and the blood draining from them. "My father is a man of great ability, but his greatest gift has been his ability to amass wealth. Even now, the halls of the Iron Bank are awash with jealous whispers, for they fear our family's bank will supplant them and their coveted status." Absent-mindedly, he withdrew an oval shaped coin which depicted a nude woman, and proceeded to make it dance upon his knuckles. "We would offer you money, that you might feed your army and reclaim your Queen's throne. But beyond that, Rogare gold can ensure that you keep it."

Gaemon watched the coin dance. "If you meant to offer money, you would have had a better opportunity had you spoken with Ser Isembard Arryn. He is attending to the matter of financing our army." He sighed. "But I imagine you knew that already. So tell me, what really brings House Rogare to Westeros? You have no stake in our war. If anything, Valyria's Daughters stand to profit from our misery, and our empty granaries."

Both Rogares grew grim. Drako finally spoke. "I see you have little patience for the art of negotiation. Better then that I speak no pleasantries." He steepled his fingers, and the nude woman stopped her dance, disappearing down fine lace sleeves. "It has been nearly three hundred years since dragons have soared in the azure skies of Essos. Despite our best efforts, it seems the Targaryens alone have managed to keep the fires of Valyria alive. In the wars to come, a dragon could make all the difference in deciding which of the combatants emerges victorious." His eyes settled firmly on Gaemon. "We have heard much and more of you, Gaemon Waters. You profess to be the natural son of the Rogue Prince who gave us so much trouble in the Stepstones. When only a handful of our warships returned from the raid on the Gullet, we were told it was the work of Dragonseeds who descended from the sky to wreak fiery havoc on our warships. Yet when several of those very same seeds betrayed their Queen, you led the remainder to punish them for their treason. This war has been the death of many dragons and their riders, yet you have emerged unscathed, commanding one of the largest dragons that still live." His eyes came to rest on the black three-headed dragon that rested upon Gaemon's chest. "I can only imagine that you have wondered what awaits you at this war's end, Gaemon Waters. Your Queen might have made you a knight, but she is gone, and with winter's grip falling across the land the crown will be loathe to part with lands and titles that could be sold to pay its debts. I know not whether they have promised you great rewards, but words are wind, after all. House Rogare can be a true friend to you. Our gold can open doors, build castles, and buy beautiful things to put inside them. All we ask in return is that you remember your friends, for they too have many enemies."

Two sets of lilac eyes lay upon him now, and Gaemon could not help feel as though he was in the presence of two milk-white serpents. "You would have me fight your wars? Even after I burned hundreds of your own men?"

Drako Rogare laughed, a mirthless hiss. "Those men were not Rogare men. They were the lackeys of Haen, Pendaerys, Dagareon, and Orthys. We knew betterthan to try and beard the dragon in its den. My father aspires to bring all of Lys under his enlightened rule. The Magisters need his gold, for they lie awake at night, terrified that the Tyroshi and Myrmen will come for them and their wealth. Think on what we offer, and know that we would propose the same to your fellow seeds. When your war ends, consider our offer. We would grant you the wealth of Kings if you humbled our enemies and taught them to fear dragons as they once did."

Gaemon sat silently, contemplating their words. What does await me at the war's end? A few acres upon Driftmark, with no seat to call my own? I can offer little in the way of wealth to Baela. Maegor faces the same ignominy. He stood, and offered his hand. "I cannot swear any oaths, or make any promises, but know that I will consider your offer with the utmost severity."

Both brothers smiled, eerily. Drako spoke as he shook his hand. "In the Free Cities, it is common to utter the words valar morghulis and valar dohaeris, for they promise that all men must die and that all men must serve. The Valyrians might be gone, but there is truth in their words. I however, prefer the phrase valar ammaes nephas, for indeed: all men need friends." Standing, he raised his hood above his head to obscure himself. "My father will be most pleased to hear what we have discussed today." Humor and something else danced behind his eyes. "As will my sweet sister Larra. She has always hoped to see a dragon."

Standing, the two brothers left the tavern, a sudden snow flurry obscuring their departure. Alyn watched him, the everpresent humor gone from his features. Gaemon spoke first. "What was it that they offered you?"

Taking a deep sip from his tankard, Alyn replied: "When my grandfather left for the capital months ago, he promised to allow me to pick seven ships from his fleet, so that I might have the means to make my own fortune after my brother inherits Driftmark. He asked whether I might like to have some merchant cogs like his own Sea Snake. I said I didn't know. Now, I think I might take seven war galleys, that I might fight for gold and my own place in the world. The Rogares have offered me an opportunity to do so."

Gaemon nodded. "Odd, that we might serve the men who we fought once before."

Alyn shrugged. "In the Free Cities, it seems that men have shorter memories."

Finishing his ale, Gaemon stood. "I will need to discuss this with others."

The boy-admiral looked him in the eyes. "Tell only those who you trust the most. Even the Lords loyal to our fallen Queen would not need much reason to believe you a traitor. We bastards are cursed from birth to be mistrusted."

Gaemon nodded. Cursed indeed. Cursed by a sin that was not our own.

Gaemon walked silently under the boughs of the oaks and elms that made up the majority of the Dun Fort's Godswood. The winter wind whistled above him, causing the trees to speak in the creaks and groans of a tongue long lost. He had sent for Maegor, knowing that few would venture into the Godswood with so much else to do. It offered a privacy that the cramped conditions of Duskendale were hard-pressed to provide elsewhere.

A light snow had fallen, dusting the earth and fallen leaves with a shining adornment. The gnarled roots of ancient trees treacherously lurked just beneath its surface, threatening to trip the unwary. As he tread deeper into the wood, he heard the distant song of a bowstring. Curious, he followed the rhythmic sound of arrows soaring through the air until he came upon the clearing in which the great weirwood of House Darklyn sat, its morose carven face staring forebodingly across a deep black pool that gathered amongst its bone-white roots. A girl stood in the same clearing, firing arrow after arrow into a straw figure that had been tied with a rope to a nearby oak. The girl wore a red riding dress, atop which sat a mantle of sheepskin to ward off the cold. Long, curly black locks fell from her head, dark as midnight. The sleeves of her dress sported a murder of ravens, forever kept from flying by the threads that illustrated them. When Gaemon stepped into the clearing, a twig snapped beneath his foot, alerting the woman to his presence. Placing the arrow she had drawn back into its quiver, she turned to face him with a face that spoke of tears recently shed.

Concerned, he stepped down into the mossy turf of the hollow, raising his hands to indicate he had meant no intrusion or disrespect.

Eyeing the straw man, he could not help but notice he had been riddled with arrows in a manner that belied the utmost accuracy. The girl had evidently placed each shot carefully, starting with two for the eyes and then proceeding down the neck to the heart. Each of its arms were held in place by three darts, and the same held for the legs.

Smiling faintly, he spoke: "I have met few men in my time that could match your skill, my Lady."

Brushing her hair aside, the woman nodded in thanks. "I only knew one man who could match me with the bow. He's dead now."

Gaemon sat on one of the gnarled roots of the great weirwood. "You have my condolences. Did he fight in the war?"

The woman stood, watching him guardedly. "He fell at Tumbleton, or so they say. But before he left, he taught me everything I know."

His heart sank. "He fought bravely, then. I am ashamed that I could only avenge him."

Sitting across from him, the woman held her bow gingerly. "There's been a lot of that, of late. Vengeance, I mean. Seems to me it just gets more people killed. Both of my brothers swore vengeance, and they're both gone. I put an arrow in the eye of Amos Bracken the day he killed my brother Sam, but Sam stayed dead. I wonder now if Amos thought he was avenging someone that day too."

He tapped the pouch that still hung around his neck, lighter now that it held no dragon. "What are we to do, if not fight for what is right? In all the battles I've fought, I've burned men alive. I need to believe they died for justice."

The girl nodded. "I suppose we all need to believe that. Otherwise, what was it all for? Ben, my nephew, insisted that our House march to war once more. I came too, having sworn to put an arrow through the Prince Aemond's good eye for all those people he burned. But Aemond's gone now, and my arrows have no more use."

Gaemon looked her in the eye. "The Kinslayer is gone, and good riddance. I say we fight this war in the hopes that we find something better waiting on the other side."

Brown eyes stared back, contemplating. "I hope there is something better." Suddenly, she laughed, a heartbroken laugh that sounded half a sob. "I am certainly terrible company today, aren't I? Here I am, meeting one of the dragonseeds I've heard so much about, and all I can do is mope!"

Gaemon chuckled. "Far be it from me to ask you to veil your pain. I know of you, too, Lady Alysanne. Talk of 'Black Aly' has spread far and wide. But tell me, what could have wounded a brave woman such as yourself so deeply?"

The Lady before him stared blankly into the black pond between them, its depths unknowable. "I… I had to say goodbye to someone I held quite dear."

He cocked his head. "My apologies, my Lady. I knew not that House Blackwood had lost another of its number."

She sighed. "They're not dead, Ser Gaemon. Our love just couldn't be, is all. At least that is the way they saw it. Wouldn't be proper, they thought."

He could not help but sympathise with the girl. I understand more than you realize. "Forgive me for sounding like a singer who has only just discovered the majesty of Jonquil and Florian, but in my mind, love is worth fighting for."

She raised her brown eyes back to meet his. "Aye, Ser Gaemon. I agree. Love is worth fighting for. But it's no use fighting the one you love over it if it's gone."

The wind whistled through the blood-red branches of the weirwood above them. Lady Alysanne looked up. "I came here to see if Robb or Sam would speak with me. I thought they might know what to do to mend the wounds upon my heart. Mayhaps they spoke just now."

Gaemon looked up, watching the branches bend and sway in the winter winds above them. They did almost seem to groan and whisper in response. He sat in silence for a moment, listening for any words he could understand.

After the wind died down, the girl spoke. "If that was my brothers, they speak with the voices of the Gods now. I can no longer understand them." Smiling sadly, she stood. "But I know what they would say regardless. They'd tell me to get off of my arse and stop weeping like a fool girl."

Gaemon couldn't help but laugh. "That does sound like all the older brothers I've known."

He stood, and helped her collect her arrows from her target. Handing them over, he offered a quiet smile. "A wise old innkeep used to tell me that time heals all wounds, Lady Alysanne. I hope that it will prove such a balm for you."

The daughter of House Blackwood bowed her head. "I hope so too, Gaemon Waters. I hope so too. Mayhaps we shall be granted opportunities to speak again, that I might take advantage of more of that innkeep's wisdom."

With that, she turned and walked quietly from the clearing. Within moments the dark haired girl had disappeared entirely under the swaying canopy of the Godswood. Gaemon returned to his seat amongst the roots of the weirwood, listening to the creaking and whispering of its branches. In time, he heard the tread of footfalls in the shadowed paths beneath the trees, and saw Maegor striding from deep within the trees. His tall form, wrapped in bearskin and mail underneath, made him appear akin to one of the First Men appearing from the furthest reaches of history. Standing at six-and-a-half feet tall, Maegor had a full three inches on Gaemon, and stood a head taller than many of the lords they frequently dined and strategized with. Only Lord Cregan could claim to be close in height. Many took it to lend credence to his claims of descent from Maegor the Cruel, but Gaemon himself had always found it difficult to believe his kindhearted friend could truly possess the blood of such a man.

Seating himself where Lady Alysanne had sat minutes before, Maegor looked inquisitively at Gaemon, clearly curious about why he had been summoned. Gaemon waited a moment, enjoying the quiet of the Godswood and the presence of his oldest friend. Maegor too, seemed to understand, leaning against the great roots that surrounded him and watching the ruby leaves above sway. The sun was setting, its rays carrying a muted warmth akin to the memory of a lover's touch.

Gaemon finally spoke. "I have asked you here because I trust that we are men of honor, and that we count one another as friends." He sighed, his breath steaming in the night chill. "This war will soon end, one way or another. While it has consumed our lives for the better part of two years, it will be soon left to each of us to determine our paths and futures when we no longer have a cause to fight for." He blinked, and as he did so, the faces of two men surfaced in his mind's eye. One with hair of white and eyes of hazel, and the other with hair of pale blonde and eyes as blue as the sea. "When we slew the betrayers at Tumbleton, we did so to punish them for their treason. While I could never condone their actions, I believe that within them they carried a kernel of something worth consideration. Ulf the Sot and Hugh Hammer saw what I did not. They saw that the moment this war ended we would become liabilities, not assets. I fear that the three of us represent a threat quite unlike anything that has faced House Targaryen before: dragonriders who do not possess their name or their allegiances. While we are loyal, we all will be hounded by suspicion for all our lives. Therefore we cannot afford to let discord come between us. I have asked you here so that we might discuss what comes next, when the swords are sheathed and the bodies buried."

His oldest friend eyed him for a moment before speaking. "Nettles saw this too, Gaemon. She knew better than most that the love of lords is fickle. She saw the danger yet could do naught but run when she was betrayed by the very Queen she had killed for."

Gaemon nodded. "I have not forgotten Nettles, my friend. I swore long ago that I would find her, and make things right once we've won Prince Aegon his throne. But you and I must take care as well." He grabbed a handful of earth, letting it fall between his fingers. "I had half a mind to have Ser Addam join us tonight. But I feared that he might not truly understand what lies ahead of the two of us. Lord Corlys has ensured that Addam and Alyn will want for nothing at the war's conclusion, and will follow him as Lord and heir. They will not have to struggle and claw their way into wealth, power, and rewards. But we will. I fear that promises of further recompense will be forgotten in the war's aftermath, Maegor. I fear that knives in the dark and poison in our cups may await us. We will soon need powerful friends, and will need to amass wealth and power of our own to ensure our safety."

Maegor's face grew grim at the prospect. "You truly believe that our King will be so ungrateful? What of the Prince Viserys, who we rescued? What of Lady Rhaena?"

Gaemon smiled sadly. "They will remain our friends. But the Crown's power will like as not lie in the hands of others for a time before it truly becomes Aegon's. There will be other Lords in power who fear and detest us. Lady Baela remains the only true-blooded Targaryen who commands a dragon large enough to ride. The Usurper will soon be dead, and the rest of the legitimate Targaryens are too young or too mad to resist us if we choose to make mischief. Many will prefer us dead than potentially quarrelsome." Gaemon ran a hand through his hair, thinking of 'friends' across the sea. "Earlier Ser Alyn introduced me to envoys of the Rogares of Lys, Maegor. They promised gold in return for our support in their wars to come. Gold enough that we would never want for it again."

As he spoke, it seemed to Gaemon that exhaustion spread across Maegor's features. He sat in silence for a moment before speaking: "I grow tired of war and death, Gaemon. The blood and hatred has threatened to ruin what I once was. I fear that if I submerge myself in it without abatement that I will someday be consumed by it." He turned to look Gaemon in the eyes. "You are my oldest friend, Gaemon, and you can always count upon me. But while I will support you wherever your endeavors take you, I may not follow. You claim we will have enemies in court when this is all over. We have enemies now. Perhaps… perhaps if we show ourselves truly loyal, and end this war for good, we can find a way to rise high within the realm without resorting to Fire and Blood."

Gaemon sat in silence, contemplating his friend's words. "Perhaps it will be so, Maegor." He desperately wished to believe him. "Just know that options exist for you, my friend."

To his relief, Maegor nodded. In the distance, bells began to sound. Footsteps crashed in the undergrowth. As they both rose, Gaemon was concerned that Duskendale, against all odds, was under attack by the Usurper. Instead, Addam burst from the undergrowth, panting heavily, purple eyes jubilant.

"Sers!" He exclaimed. "A delegation has arrived. The Usurper is dead. His lords beg for peace!"

Chapter Text

Hobert VI

The king's council chamber was awash with voices, yet Hobert found it difficult to focus on what any of them were saying. Seated in his customary place in the chair to the King's immediate right, he took another measured sip of Arbor Gold from his goblet. His hand itched to raise the goblet to his lips once more to replace the festering fears and doubts in his belly with wine. However, Hobert forced himself to set the goblet down.

He looked dully around the table, at those who sat around it. To his left the King sat in silence, resting his chin against his steepled and interlocked hands, listening gravely to the arguments whirling about him. His mother, the Queen Dowager Alicent, seated gracefully in her own seat to the King's immediate left, listened with an expression of consternation and frustration. Hobert's eyes passed over the other faces in quick succession: Lord Unwin Peake and Lord Borros Baratheon, furiously arguing, Lord Larys Strong, listening and watching intently, Grand Maester Orwyle, desperately attempting to keep an accurate record of the meeting's happenings, and Ser Tyland Lannister, his horrifically maimed face hidden behind a silken veil.

Hobert's eyes lingered on the last man present, the newest face amongst the members of the King's small council. Ser Malentine Velaryon sat in silence, his face expressionless, and his deep blue eyes unfocused. Like Hobert, it seemed that Ser Malentine had little regard for the chaotic meeting of the King's counselors occurring around him. The knight of House Velaryon's thoughts were elsewhere, and Hobert was willing to hazard a guess as to where.

As he stood upon the lower steps of the Iron Throne, beneath the Queen Dowager, and above her the King himself, Hobert couldn't help but smile at the exuberant jubilation that seemed to spread like an uncontrolled fire throughout the throne room. A dragon had appeared above King's Landing, and yet the King and his people rejoiced for it. Nay, it was not the mount of one of the Pretender's thugs, but that of Good Queen Alysanne. However, Silverwing's new master was Ser Malentine Velaryon, a knight who proved faithful and true even as most of his kin turned traitor.

In desperation, the King had arranged for an expedition to be sent forth to the ruins of Tumbleton, in the vain hope that Silverwing might be tamed, and brought firmly beneath the King's banner once more. A sizable force couldn't be spared, for the King needed every warrior that he could find to remain in defense of his city. At Hobert's suggestion, a party of seven knights were sent forth to Tumbleton, in the hopes that such a number of puissant men would prove pleasing to the Gods and win their favor. Hobert had even managed to get his goodson, Ser Tyler, named as leader of this vital expedition.

With Silverwing's appearance, it seemed that the King and his counselors had been vindicated in what had originally seemed a far-fetched and unlikely hope. The scales of fate tipped ever further in King Aegon's favor, and if the Gods were good, the Pretenders' holdouts would realize the futility of their efforts and surrender.

Ser Malentine had entered the throne room to the blaring of trumpets and cheers of its occupants. His sea green and silver doublet was torn and mangled, its cloth stained with dried blood. His armor was dented and scarred, glinting dully in the torchlight as the knight strode forward. Approaching the Iron Throne's dais, he removed his helm and knelt before it, his eyes focused dutifully on the floor.

The King stood atop his throne, the wide and jubilant smile gracing his features making his numerous scars for once less severe in appearance. "Please, Ser, I bid you to rise, and stand proudly before me! You have achieved a greatness that few men dare to dream of! Ser Malentine Velaryon, you and your comrades need never kneel before me again. It is thanks to your bravery and determination that the Realm will be saved, and the traitors destroyed for good and all!"

Ser Malentine stood, his face tight with restrained emotion. He nodded in deep reverence and respect to his King, and the court cheered ever louder. As Hobert considered the King's words, his happiness faded momentarily. Descending the steps of the throne to Ser Malentine, Hobert clasped the knight's shoulder. Upon closer inspection, Hobert could see that Ser Malentine's face was covered in bruises, some faded and some fresh. Cuts and scabs adorned his face. Hobert leaned in close as he spoke, so as to be heard over the din of the surrounding crowd.

"What of your brother, Ser? My goodson, and Ser Hugh of Pennyford, or the rest?" Ser Malentine stared at him with a stricken expression, before shaking his head slowly. Hobert was speechless as the realization struck him. His hand fell limply from Ser Malentine's shoulder. It had been his idea to send the seven men. The Gods had blessed the King's cause with a new dragonrider, but at the price of six souls. Hobert had asked his goodson to go, had tasked him with this mission, in the hopes of winning him glory, and the King's favor. "What have I done?" Hobert muttered, as horror and grief began to grow within him. With no tongue with which to express his grief, Ser Malentine stood before Hobert in silence as tears welled in his eyes.

Hobert was dragged forcibly from his memories by the King's fists slamming loudly down onto the tabletop. The heated argument between Lords Baratheon and Peake died almost immediately, as both men turned to regard their seated monarch. King Aegon had stood from his seat, and was currently clenching and unclenching his fists on the tabletop.

"By taking Duskendale, the traitors have made their intentions clear!" the King seethed. "We can no longer await the arrival of Lord Lyonel's army, nor the arrival of the Redwyne fleet. Our enemies seek to put a dagger to our throats, and force us to act on their terms." The King's face was red with rage. "In so doing, they have gravely erred. Duskendale is nothing to us. The Darklyns have time and again proven themselves spineless cravens and traitors. For that they will pay, dearly."

The square rubies of the Conqueror's crown glinted in the torchlight as the King looked at the large vellum map spread across the council table. "This war should have ended the moment my cursed half-sister lost her head! Those who joined her cause would have been punished for their treason, but I would have allowed them to keep their heads, their seats, their titles, and even some of their lands."

The King grit his teeth in rage a moment, his eyes looking at the seats and crests of noble houses upon the map that continued to defy his rule. "This entire war was folly, from its very start. If my half-sister had accepted the inevitability of my kingship, how much misery could have been prevented?" The King's voice had become distant as he spoke, and he gazed into the looming shadows of the council chamber for a moment. Whatever he hoped to find seemed to elude the King's sight. His mouth twisted into a scowl, and he grabbed his goblet of Arbor Red, drinking deeply from it, before slamming it back down upon the tabletop.

"I gave the traitors time to surrender. To debase themselves before my throne and beg for mercy, which I would have given them. I am not my half-sister. I do not name my allies traitors and tear their tongues from their mouths before beheading them." The King reached for a nearby pitcher of wine, but after a moment of consideration, he instead lowered his hand back to the tabletop.

The King chuckled darkly, lifting a missive from the tabletop. The crisp parchment bore the seals of Targaryen, Velaryon, Stark, Tully, and Corbray, among others. "Instead," the King spoke, his voice low, "they had the gall, the arrogance, the audacity, to ask that I surrender, return my hostages, and accept the kingship of a mewling boy. They would name me Lord of Dragonstone, and allow me to live out my days there. An island that I've already taken!" Lords Baratheon and Peake scoffed at that, but Hobert paid more attention to his cousin Alicent. Her face was a hard, impassive mask, but Hobert could see how her fingers dug deeply into the skin of her palms at her son's words. If she isn't careful, she'll draw blood.

"No more," Aegon seethed, his eyes narrowed. The melted, scabbed skin on the left side of his face seemed to gather pools of shadow from the dim light of crackling torches and braziers. "They have chosen fire and sword, and I will gladly deliver it to them." He smiled cruelly. "They do not know what we know. They do not know of the bravery and skill of Ser Malentine Velaryon. My half-sister's baseborn thugs do not realize that they will face the might of Silverwing once more in battle."

The King drew a dagger from his belt, and slammed its point into Duskendale on the map. "Here is what I propose. We ride forth from the city with every knight, man-at-arms, and soldier who rides a horse. Ser Malentine and I will fly ahead over the sea to avoid detection, and we will strike Duskendale at night. With our flames, we will raze the town to the luck, we'll burn the bastard riders alive before they ever get near their dragons. The cavalry, well…" The King's hateful smile deepened. "The cavalry will strike into the army encamped outside, and put to flight those that they can't kill quickly enough."

The King nodded across the table at Ser Malentine. "Our greatest advantage lies within the fact that our enemies do not know of Ser Malentine's successful taming of Silverwing. They will remain ignorant of this knowledge until it is far too late. Our enemies, certain of their eventual victory, have grown complacent. Duskendale will serve as a pyre for the traitors of the Realm, and their rebellion will die with them."

After a moment of consideration, Lord Borros spoke up. "Who shall lead the van, my liege?" His tone was not fiery, nor domineering. His question did not seem to be a demand, but rather a quiet query.

The King turned to face the Lord of Storm's End. "Unless there is dissent, or alternative suggestions, I intend to give Ser Jon Roxton leadership of the van. Are any of you opposed to this?"

Lord Unwin Peake shifted a moment in his seat with a frown, but did not contest his King's choice. Lord Baratheon, however, sat back in complete silence. It seemed to Hobert as though an expression resembling relief had spread across the stormlord's features.

Leaving his knife planted in the map, King Aegon sat back down in his seat. "Methinks this battle will be our last, my Lords," he stated simply. "We must needs prepare quickly, and show them all the price of their treason."

The King's council sat in silence for several moments following the King's words. Hobert had never been a military-minded man, but he could see no fault in his King's battle plans. Lord Peake was the first to break the silence. "As you command, it will be done, my King. A decisive strike to end the war for good and all."

Not to be outdone, Lord Baratheon spoke up next. "I will ensure that my knights and men-at-arms are prepared to ride forth at your command, my liege!"

The King nodded gravely. "You will all make the necessary preparations, with haste. A moment of hesitation is a moment wasted." As the various members of the King's council began to stand from their seats, King Aegon continued to speak. "However, there is one more matter that I must needs present before you, my lords."

Hobert and the others returned to their seats, and at a nod from the King, Lord Larys Strong produced a rolled parchment from his gray sleeve, and reached across the table to hand it to the King. Hobert did not miss the way in which Lord Baratheon glared at the Lord of Harrenhal. A mishap between Lord Strong and one of Lord Baratheon's daughters in the castle Godswood, from what I've heard. Before unfurling the parchment, Hobert's liege spoke once more. "The matter of succession in the case of my unfortunate demise has always been pertinent. Even so, precious few words have been spoken about it."

The King placed a hand atop that of his mother's as she drew herself up in her seat, pre-empting her heated words. "I have no intention to fall to the swords or flames of my enemies. Not now, nor ever. They've been trying to kill me throughout this entire war, and they have not succeeded." The King's jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "With every cruel murder carried out by the vicious cravens that supported my half-sister, my heirs have been lost to me. All of my sons, and all of my brothers."

King Aegon's expression was contorted with hate. "The Pretenders' Lords name me a murderer, and a tyrant. And yet, I have allowed her children to live, whilst they murdered mine. I gave them all a chance to submit to my rule, and they slaughtered my brothers." The King clenched his hands into fists. "I will not allow my half-sister's brood to sit the Iron Throne. That wretched boy of hers, who bears my name, will never wear my crown."

The King unfurled Lord Strong's parchment upon the tabletop. Hobert, along with the rest of the council, began to read its contents. I, King Aegon Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, being sound of mind, do officially by royal decree name Gaemon, son of Esselyn, a natural son of my body. Henceforth, he shall be known as Gaemon Waters…

The King's decree continued, and bore his official seal at the bottom of the parchment, but Hobert stopped reading and looked up in shock. The other individuals seated around the table looked up at their liege with similarly surprised expressions.

"My King," cousin Alicent began, her voice dangerously soft, "who is this Gaemon of which your decree speaks?"

Despite his previously harsh demeanor, the King looked slightly embarrassed in spite of himself. "The boy is the result of an… indiscretion on my part, in the final years of my father's reign. Needless to say, I am certain that the boy is mine." The King leaned forward slightly, pressing the palms of his hands into the tabletop.

"This boy, Gaemon Waters, has been named a Royal Bastard by my decree. The counsel that I seek now, my Lords, is whether this natural son of mine should be legitimized and ensconced as my heir." The King looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each of his seated councilors.

Hobert was speechless. However, he was not naive enough to be completely caught off-guard. He had heard tales of the King's reputation when he was still a Prince. It was altogether reasonable and expected for young men of noble birth to 'sow their wild oats', as it were, but to recognize the bastards that resulted from these indiscretions was another matter entirely. Especially when the mother was lowborn.

For once, the King's lords were not eager to speak up immediately, and loudly declare their stance on the issue being discussed. It seems as though none wish to be the first to speak. Cousin Alicent's eyes had narrowed, and she silently sat forward in her seat, staring intensely at her son. The King met her gaze for several moments, but he was the first to blink, and lower his eyes to the tabletop.

"Name a bastard as your heir, my son?" The Queen Dowager seethed.

The King opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by his mother's baleful glare. "You would shame your wife and your lineage by naming some whore's whelp as heir to your Realm, that which was ruled by your fatherbefore you, and all who came before?"

Lord Strong proved the first to be brave enough to face Alicent's ire. "If I may," he began, undaunted in the face of the Queen Dowager's fury, "the King's cause is built upon the precedents set by the Great Council in the days of King Jaehaerys. The Princess Jaehaera, for all her impeccable lineage, would be contested as our King's rightful heir. We must needs have an alternative to the Pretender's sons, should the worst befall our beloved King."

The Queen Dowager stood from her seat as she responded. "I have not forgotten the precedents of the Great Council, my Lord," she hissed. "You forget, however, that our King still has a wife. A wife that has proven more than capable in the time of their marriage to provide him with heirs, and will provide him with many more! If the King names a bastard as heir to his realm, we will destroy the legitimacy of our cause!"

Hobert, his mouth dry, spoke up haltingly. "You are correct of course, cousin. However, the Queen's condition…" he slumped back into his seat as the full brunt of his cousin's fury was turned upon him. Her eyes blazed with a near murderous rage, and without speaking a single word, she caused the words upon Hobert's lips to wither and die. Swallowing painfully, Hobert lifted his goblet to his lips and drank deeply, speaking no more.

"The Queen has suffered greatly in this war, more than any child of the Seven should." Alicent breathed deeply, schooling her features to a severe calmness. "But my daughter is strong. Her condition improves by the day. She understands her responsibilities and duties as Queen." The Queen Dowager turned to regard the Grand Maester. "My daughter's health has improved greatly, has it not, Grandmaester?"

Grand Maester Orwyle looked almost surprised at the fact that he had been addressed. He looked to the many parchments spread before him for a moment, as though he sought his answer from amongst their scrawled words. "Y-yes, your Grace," Orwyle stammered, his expression terrified. Several beads of sweat trickled down his face. "The Queen Helaena im-improves by the day. Yes, without a doubt."

With a satisfied expression, cousin Alicent turned to the King. "There you have it, my King. You are correct. The Realm is in desperate need of an heir. It is long past time to give your wife another sweet son to replace those that she has lost. Let us all-" Alicent glared at the men seated around the table- "forget this nonsense about naming a bastard as heir to the Realm. I cannot prevent the boy from being recognized as a Royal Bastard, but I trust that you all see that his legitimization would be an unmitigated disaster. The King's heir must needs be of worthy blood."

For once, Lords Peake and Baratheon nodded in agreement. Ser Tyland Lannister murmured his agreement shortly after. Grand Maester Orwyle nodded profusely as he wiped his brow with a kerchief, the chains about his neck jangling with the frantic bobbing motion. Lord Strong inclined his head slightly, but for just a moment, genuine anger flared across his features before they returned to their usual indifference.

Though he hesitated, Hobert voiced his agreement with his cousin after a moment. Mayhaps cousin Alicent is right. The King had already sired two sons with his wife before this horrid war began. He can have more.

The King nodded slowly, his jaw clenched. He clearly recognized that he and Lord Strong's proposal had been firmly rejected. "Alright then," the King grated out. "But allow me to make my orders clear. I will soon fly into battle, and it would be utter foolishness to discount the possibility of my death. As you have all advised, my bastard will not be legitimized. However, if I am to die in this battle, you must crown my daughter Jaehaera as Queen. You must swear this to me, in the name of all Seven Gods. The traitors will not have their King."

Hobert sat in silence for a moment, considering his King's words. To crown Jaehaera would be to spit upon all that we originally claimed to fight for. What my kin has died for. Under the auspices of which Tumbleton and Bitterbridge were sacked. We would definitively prove ourselves men without honor, with no higher purpose than avarice and ambition. The King stood his ground, watching his lords and waiting for their responses. Though many voices were subdued and unenthusiastic, the Queen Dowager, Hobert, and every other individual in the chamber swore on the Seven that they would crown the Princess Jaehaera if the King were to die in battle.

Having received his council's vows, the King dismissed them. Hobert felt utterly exhausted, and he drank deeply of the wine that remained in his goblet. The lords Peake, Baratheon, and Strong quietly exited the chamber into the corridor beyond, going their separate ways. Grand Maester Orwyle helped the blinded Tyland Lannister to guide his steps. As Hobert made to leave, his joints aching, King Aegon called after him. "Cousin Hobert, will you accompany me to the Godswood? I have further need of your counsel." Though confused by this sudden request, Hobert nodded his head in acquiescence.

Hobert's breath misted in the air before him as he walked, and he pulled his grey cloak more tightly about himself. He walked along a stone path alongside the King, and Ser Marston Waters followed along behind the both of them at a respectful distance. King Aegon still moved slowly and deliberately, but his back was only slightly hunched, and his limp was so slight as to nearly be unnoticeable. It's as though he is an entirely different man from the one I remember reclaiming the Red Keep. Considering how serious the King's wounds received at Rook's Rest had been, he had made a near-miraculous recovery, and only continued to improve as time went on.

Flakes of snow lightly drifted down about them, and the Godswood was utterly silent, but for their crunching footsteps. The King was the first to break the silence. "Thank you for accompanying me here, Ser Hobert," Aegon began. He stopped walking, and Hobert turned to face his liege in confusion. The King closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "I have walked these paths more since I've retaken this city than I ever did during the reign of my father."

King Aegon patted his left leg, that which gave him his limp, with a gloved hand. "I've found that walking here has done more for my recovery than any amount of milk of the poppy or strongwine could." He sighed. "It is also blessedly quiet here, in the winter . No one asking for favors, arbitration, or orders. I can think clearly, without the meaningless chatter swirling about me." Opening his eyes, the King began walking forward once more, and Hobert dutifully followed.

The King looked over his shoulder at Hobert as he spoke. "I trust that what we discuss here will remain in confidence, my Hand?"

Hobert nodded immediately. "Of course, your Grace. I am your man."

The King nodded. "For that I am grateful. My Kingdom has survived thanks to the loyalty of my allies." He did not speak for several moments more, seemingly considering what to say next. "What I ask of you now, Ser Hobert, is not your counsel, but merely for you to listen."

At Hobert's nod, King Aegon continued to speak. "Since I've returned to this city, I have had some time to think. About my kingship, and my Realm. I thought that this war would have largely ended with the execution of the Pretender. I was mistaken. There are many, it seems, who would prefer to die than to accept me as their King."

The King sighed. "So they will die for their treason. Those who will not bend the knee will be broken and destroyed." The King looked back at Hobert, his scarred and scabbed face obscured by twilight shadows. "Methinks, however, that I must also focus on becoming a King worthy of the crown I wear, the sword that I bear, and the throne on which I sit. If this war ends in victory, as I hope it will, I must needs show the Realm that I am a monarch worthy of their fealty."

King Aegon chuckled darkly. "The Prince that I used to be was not a man to inspire confidence. Half the Realm chose a murdering harlot over me as their liege, despite the superiority of my claim, and the legitimacy of my cause." The King looked up at the darkening sky, and the first of the stars that appeared to shine coldly over the world below. "With the destruction of Duskendale, I intend to prove to the Realm that I am a King they must needs fear. But after? I will need to prove that I am also worthy of their loyalty."

King Aegon grimaced. "My rage, in times of war, will see my foes destroyed. They have well earned such a fate through their treachery and treason." The King paused for a moment, considering his words. "However, such festering anger will do me no good in times of peace. I have allowed my hatred to cloud my judgement for far too long."

He breathed deeply, and looked for a moment at a bare tree, its spindly branches reaching into the darkening sky. "I claimed my vengeance against my cursed half-sister when I saw her head struck from her shoulders. As for my uncle Daemon?" His face twisted in rage. "If he is truly dead, as many seem to believe, I can only hope that vile kinslayer is rotting in the deepest depths of the Seven Hells."

The King sighed heavily. "I had felt that I had been robbed of my vengeance against my uncle when reports of my brother's battle with him above the God's Eye began filtering into the city. When his daughter insulted me in the Dragonpit…" the King's fist clenched. "She spoke the words, but I could only see his face, hear his voice." King Aegon shook his head. "Branding her brought me no joy, no sense of justice. And now?" The King hesitated. "Methinks I should not have done it. Her father's crimes were not her own. But what's done is done. I cannot afford to hesitate, at the precipice of victory, or defeat."

The King stopped before the Godswood's heart tree, a massive oak covered in smokeberry vines. He turned to face Hobert once more. "Of all the traitors yet unaccounted for, there is one that personally vexes me above all others. Ser Jarmen Follard." The King smiled, but it was mirthless, and more akin to an angry grimace. "Amongst the members of my father's court, one would have been hard-pressed to find a more honorable and well-loved knight than him. He may have been one of the only men in court to remain free of its intrigues, and hold respect among both the supporters of my half-sister, and mine own."

King Aegon's hard expression softened, and he smiled wistfully for a moment. "Ser Jarmen also helped me to mount my first pony, and taught me to ride. When he refused to bend the knee, I didn't want him harmed. He was a good man, and loyal. I wanted him to join me, to believe in my cause, and my right to the Kingdom." The King frowned once more. "I forced him to watch every execution. The death of every traitor that opposed me within my court. I had him dragged to the headsman's block, and had his neck placed upon it. Even then, he refused to bend the knee."

King Aegon shook his head. "Ser Jarmen was a good man. I wanted him to serve me, as he had my father and great-grandfather. Men of his skill, loyalty, and devotion are worth their weight in gold. But he wouldn't. No amount of fear or brutality would change his mind." The King drew himself up in the shadow of the heart tree, and firmly regarded Hobert. "The Realm must fear its King. But it also must love him in equal measure. Without fear, there is not enough respect, but without any love, there can be no true loyalty." The King approached Hobert, and placed a hesitant hand upon his shoulder. "In my reign, there must needs be both. If I cannot achieve this, then I am no King at all."

The Small Hall of the Tower of the Hand was meant for far more people than those who currently inhabited it. There were tables and benches enough to seat around two hundred souls beneath the hall's high-vaulted ceiling. However, Hobert sat alone at the high table, staring at the array of food that had been spread across its surface before him. The Red Keep has changed hands multiple times in this war, along with much of the castle's staff. The castle's cook was the same that had served King Viserys. Along with much of the smallfolk in the castle, the cook was not punished nor killed when the Keep was taken throughout the war by different factions. Cooking for a Queen one evening, and then a King on the next.

As always, the food looked and smelled delicious. Hobert knew that its taste would surpass all expectations. Had he been in his apartments within the Hightower, before the war, he would have torn into such a meal with abandon. Now, however, Hobert picked at his food, as a vulture would pick at the remains of a carcass.

In truth, enough food was spread across the tabletop to feed ten men. Hobert glanced around the hall. But for several guards and servants, it was completely empty. A typical evening. Hobert had initially expected that his position as the King's Hand would have meant constant dinner invitations, or requests by enterprising knights and lords to dine with him at the Tower of the Hand. However, aside from the occasional dinner with cousin Alicent, or the even rarer meal with some little-known landed knight, Hobert's only constant companion at meals had been his goodson, Ser Tyler. It seems that most residents of the keep know as well as I do that I'm a mummer's farce of a Hand, and care little and less for my company.

The lack of his goodson's good-natured and jovial presence was his own fault, of course. I sent him on that mission to Tumbleton. I sent him to die. Another mistake, another regret, to leave him lying awake at night. I've spent this war stumbling into mistake after mistake. An old fool who leaves naught but ruination in his wake.

Hobert had been putting off writing a letter to his daughter Prudence, the mother of Ser Tyler's children who did not yet know that she was a widow. He didn't know what to say, nor how to explain it. I sent her husband on some foolish mission, that was his doom. No one forced him to go, and none had suggested that I send him. It was all my doing. Hobert set his fork back down upon his plate, and drank deeply of his wine.

His goblet empty, Hobert stared for a moment at the nearby silvered pitcher of wine. His hand itched to grab it, fill his goblet, and continue drowning his sorrows until they were forgotten in a stupor of drunkenness. Instead, he cast his eyes desperately about the room, looking for any sort of diversion.

A young servant girl was passing in front of the table, having just finished sweeping the floors near the hall's entrance. "You there!" Hobert called out to her, his tone sounding more harsh than he intended for it to.

The girl stopped in her tracks, her visage growing pale as she turned to face him. "Yes, m'lord?" she squeaked, terrified.

Hobert smiled at the girl apologetically. "My apologies, young lady. I did not intend to startle you so. Come up here, if you'd be so kind."

The girl stiffly made her way up upon the raised platform that contained the high table, and walked around the table to stand before Hobert, who was still seated. Her face continued to bear a terrified expression, and her hands fidgeted at her sides for several moments, before she grabbed the sides of her apron to still them. "What do you require, m'lord?" The girl asked.

Hobert gestured at the plentiful amount of food spread out atop the table that he sat alone at. "Surely, you must be hungry. Please, take a seat, and help yourself. I can't hope to finish all this food by myself." Hobert let out a weak, awkward chuckle, before grimacing and quieting after a moment.

The girl stared at Hobert in shock for a moment, her mouth wide open. After a moment, she flushed bright red in embarrassment, thanked Hobert for his kindness, and awkwardly sat down in a seat next to him. She awkwardly served herself a slice of meat pie on a silvered dish, before picking up the slice with grimy hands and taking a bite. The silverware that had been placed by the plate sat forgotten on the tabletop.

As she ate, Hobert lifted his fork, and continued picking at his own plate of food. He found the servant girl's lack of etiquette charming, and after a moment he remembered why. It reminded Hobert of the dinners he used to have with his wife and daughters at the Hightower, before they were women grown. His eldest daughters, Jeyne and Prudence, had observed table etiquette with the utmost degree of severity, to the approval of their mother. His youngest, Malora, had not been nearly as concerned with such pretensions, and tore into her food with her hands on many an evening.

One such night, her mother Joyeuse had grown wroth at her lack of concern for her manners, and shouted at her that she was to return to her room, and go to bed without supper. Malora had run from the table in tears. After he had finished his meal with his wife and elder two daughters, he bid them all goodnight. When they'd left, Hobert had placed two lemon cakes on a plate, and made his way to Malora's chambers.

His youngest daughter had pulled the covers of her bed above her head, and Hobert could hear her soft sobs beneath them. "Malora, sweetling," he'd called gently, "won't you come out?" Slowly, reluctantly, his daughter had peeked out from the edge of her covers, eyes bloodshot and still full of tears. However, her eyes had lit up at the sight of Hobert standing before her bed with the plate, and she hopped to the floor from her bed excitedly, her tears forgotten.

They'd sat on the floor of her room together, the both of them eating their lemon cake with their hands. Afterwards, his daughter had wrapped her arms about him in a tight hug, and Hobert had laughed merrily. "Thank you, papa," she had said to him, with a smile so happy it could have broken his heart.

Hobert smiled, and set down his fork once more. His goblet of wine sat forgotten on the tabletop. Standing from his seat, he addressed the servant girl, who looked up at him inquisitively. "Please," Hobert began, "eat as much as you like." Hobert raised his voice, so the guards in the hall could hear him as well. "That goes for the rest of you as well! Eat your fill. Don't let all this fine food go to waste!"

Surprised, the guards hesitantly approached the table, with several murmuring a cautious "thankee, m'lord!". Leaving them all to the food, Hobert began to climb the long staircase of the Tower of the Hand to his bedchamber. The melancholy, doubt, and fear were still within him, but at least for a time, so was some small measure of happiness. Mayhaps, tonight, I'll dream of better things. Hobert hoped that it would be so.

Hobert awoke from a blessedly dreamless sleep to the sound of a fist loudly pounding on his bedchamber's door. "Wh-what is it?" he asked groggily, a tired confusion clouding his senses. "Who's there?" he asked, as a sudden fear woke him more fully.

The door swung open, and Ser Marston Waters of the Kingsguard entered. "Lord Hand, you must needs come with me," the knight said gravely. Hobert climbed quickly from his bed, and hurried towards his wardrobe. He halted in his movements when he heard Waters clear his throat behind him. "My Lord Hand," he spoke, his gruff tone more urgent, "there is no time. Please follow me."

Confused and concerned, Hobert followed the knight of the Kingsguard, pulling a cloak on over his woolen nightgown and putting on his shoes. He was halfway down the steps of the Tower of the Hand when he realized that he had forgotten to take off his night cap. It can't be helped. They quickly made their way across the courtyard beyond the tower, and Hobert shivered as unforgivingly frigid gusts of winter wind blew about him.

They journeyed quickly through the halls of the Red Keep. The passageways were completely abandoned, and torches burned brightly, warding off the darkness of night. The hour of the wolf? Or mayhaps the hour of ghosts? Hobert braced himself once more against the cold as he and Ser Marston crossed the drawbridge that spanned the moat of iron spikes surrounding Maegor's Holdfast.

Hobert had been so focused on the oddness of Ser Marston's request, and the journey they had taken, that he hadn't considered more deeply why it was happening. "Does the King have need of me, Ser? At this hour? Has something happened?" Hobert felt a deep, gnawing fear appear in the bottom of his gut. "Have the traitors pre-empted us? Do they now approach?"

At all of his questions, Ser Marston merely shook his head. Traveling deeper into Maegor's Holdfast, Hobert became less and less sure of where he was being taken. He no longer recognized the corridors he was being led through. Rounding a final corner, Hobert saw Lord Commander Willis Fell, standing outside of a fairly nondescript doorway.

Hobert approached the Lord Commander, his consternation beginning to turn into frustration. "What is the meaning of all of this? What has happened? Does the King have need of me?"

Ser Fell opened his mouth to respond, his expression grave, but he was cut off by the sound of another voice as two more men rounded the corridor's corner. "By all Seven Gods! I'll have someone's head if my time is being wasted!" Lord Borros Baratheon approached Hobert, Ser Fell, and Ser Waters, accompanied by a lone grizzled guardsman bearing a golden three-headed dragon patch. Lord Baratheon too still was dressed in his night clothes, and draped in a black-and-gold cloak. His large black beard was wild and unkempt, his eyes narrowed in frustration and anger.

"What in the Seven Hells is all this, Ser Willis? Why have we been summoned to this corner of Maegor's Holdfast in the dead of night, like conniving catspaws?" Lord Baratheon and Hobert both watched the Lord Commander, waiting expectantly for an answer.

Lord Fell spoke quietly, his tone deadly serious. "What the both of you are about to see, must be kept in confidence, for now. Aside from myself, Ser Waters, and this guardsman, none else yet know of what has transpired." Ser Fell nodded in the direction of the door behind him. "This door leads into the Queen Helaena's apartments."

The Lord Commander took a torch from a nearby sconce and opened the door, stepping into the room beyond. Lord Baratheon strode in next, followed by Hobert. The first thing he noticed was just how cold the room was, nearly as frigid as the blustering winds outside. Hobert nearly ran into Lord Borros' broad back, for the man had stopped still in his tracks. Stepping around him, Hobert's eyes widened in horror.

The King was sprawled on the floor in the center of the chamber, surrounded by a large puddle of blood that seemed to drink in the light of Lord Commander Fell's flickering torch. The King's skin looked pale and grey, and Aegon remained motionless upon the cold stone floor. As if in a trance, Hobert walked closer. Upon further inspection, Hobert could see that his liege's eyes were unfocused and misted over, his jaw slackened. A deep red gash had been sliced across his throat, from which his lifeblood had spilled forth to stain the floor all about him.

"By all the Gods," Hobert muttered in mute horror. "How has this happened?"

Lord Borros, as though snapping out of a trance, spoke up angrily, though his voice sounded unmistakably shaken. "Who has committed this foul act? How did they gain entrance to the Holdfast, to this chamber? Have they been apprehended?"

Hobert stood suddenly, and turned to the Lord Commander, his stomach churning. "What of the Queen Helaena? Where is she?" By all the Gods. Can the poor woman find no respite?

Lord Commander Fell closed his eyes for a moment, exhaustion and grief appearing prominently across his features. "The Queen is dead as well," the knight said hollowly. He nodded in the direction of the chambers' far right corner, in the direction of a window. The window was open, and the curtains about it blew fitfully in the cold gusts of the winter air.

Hobert approached the window, and as he drew nearer to it, he noticed the bloody knife lying at the windowsill's base. A small knife, meant for the cutting of food, or peeling of fruit, but sharp nonetheless. Hobert then noticed the bloody footprints. They led from the King's corpse to the windowsill. The curtains themselves were marked prominently with bloody handprints, and fluttered in the gusts of winter air, haphazard and askew.

"As I stood watch, I heard a loud crash from within the chambers, followed by the screaming of the Queen," Lord Commander Fell began. "When I rushed through the door, I saw the King, lying on the floor and clutching at his neck, in a pool of his own blood. The Queen-" Lord Commander Fell paused, visibly fighting back tears. "She was already by the window, and had opened it. I- I wasn't fast enough. I tried to stop her. She was gone before I'd taken even three steps."

Hobert's eyes had widened, and he found it hard to breathe. His throat was painfully constricted, and the deep gnawing pain within his gut that he knew all too well had returned with a vengeance. Lord Borros' eyes were wide, and for once it seemed as though the abrasive and boisterous stormlord was truly at a loss for words.

With a deep sense of dread, Hobert leaned out of the window, looking over the iron spikes of the moat below. What he saw nearly made him vomit, and when he leaned back into the Queen's room, he clutched his face in his hands, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. "Gods, gods, gods," he whispered, plaintively. The winter wind whistled mournfully through the keep's crenellations, high above.

The torches and braziers burned brightly within the small council chamber, for daybreak was still a long way away. Hobert sat in his chair, wearing his doublet and mail, with Vigilance in its sheath on his sword belt. The chamber, though it contained the majority of the King's council and most fervent supporters, had been silent as the grave.

Cousin Alicent had paced the floor of the chamber like a caged beast, with a nearly manic look in her eyes. Lord Borros, having dressed in doublet and mail as well, had his hands clenched into fists atop the table, and stared intensely at the varnished wood, tense and unmoving. Lord Peake's expression was hard and cold, as though his features had been chiseled from stone. Ser Malentine Velaryon sat with an expression of deep consternation, his hands folded in his lap.

With the arrival of Grand Maester Orwyle and Ser Tyland Lannister, the meeting of the deceased King's council had finally begun in earnest, for the Lord Larys Strong was nowhere to be found. Lord Peake had informed them all that the men he had sent to secure the King's bastard son had returned empty-handed. Apparently, the boy and his mother had likely vanished along with the clubfooted Master of Whisperers. Lord Baratheon had derided the Lord of Harrenhal as a "cowardly, scheming, rat", but none had any ideas how to go about apprehending the vanished Lord or the King's bastard son.

"How many know of the King and Queen's death, Lord Commander?" the Queen Dowager asked, her visage and tone displaying a carefully maintained calmness.

The Lord Commander looked about the room seriously before responding. "None but the individuals in this room, Ser Marston Waters, who is standing watch outside the Princess Jaehaera's chambers, and a guardsman, who continues to stand guard outside of the Queen's apartments." The Lord Commander grimaced. "However, we will be unable to prevent news from spreading after daybreak. The Queen-" he hesitated, a pained expression suddenly dominating his features. "The Queen will surely be noticed in the moat, and the alarm will be raised."

Hobert winced at the Lord Commander's words, remembering all too well the sight of the Queen Helaena, broken upon the spikes of the moat far below the window of her chambers. "What, then, is to be done?" Hobert asked weakly. He was tired, so, so, tired. The golden chain of interlocked hands around his neck had never felt heavier.

Cousin Alicent placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. "We must needs carry out the King's orders. Retrieve the Princess Jaehaera. We will crown her, and place her upon the Iron Throne before her father's leal lords, so that they may swear fealty to her. We must act with haste."

Despite the Queen Dowager's urgent words, none of the men in the chamber seemed eager to move, or speak up. The muscles about cousin Alicent's cheekbones tightened, and her right eye twitched momentarily. "What," Hobert's cousin began, her voice tight with a barely-contained rage, "are you all waiting for?"

Lord Unwin Peake stood, and coldly regarded the Queen Dowager. "Such a rash decision hardly seems prudent." He looked coolly at all the individuals gathered about the council table. "You all know as well as I that the King's lords would never accept the crowning of his daughter as their monarch. Even if we knew the whereabouts of the King's natural son, he too would win no support amongst our allies!"

The Queen Dowager's face twisted in hatred. "You swore a vow, Lord Peake," Alicent hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "Along with the rest of the King's council, you swore on all Seven Gods that you would crown his daughter in the event of his death!"

Lord Peake, unbothered by the Queen Dowager's fury, regarded her with cold disdain. "I swore to the King that I would crown his daughter, if he died in battle. Though I grieve my monarch's death, he did not perish on a battlefield, but within a bedchamber. I am breaking no vow." Lord Peake continued, his voice flat and firm. "I will not crown the King's daughter. Such an action is meaningless. The King has no valid heir of his body that may be elevated to the Iron Throne."

Hobert watched in shock as Lord Baratheon quickly stood, speaking up loudly. "Nor I! I was the King's leal man. But our King is dead, his line of succession extinguished." He glared at Alicent and Hobert. "Crowning that mewling girl isn't only utter foolishness, it is suicide!"

The Queen Dowager looked about the council chamber, eyes wide. Her composure, always so impeccable and carefully maintained, was beginning to crack and fall to pieces. Gazing about the room, she found no support among its remaining occupants. "Traitors!" she seethed. "Low, craven, cowards! If you won't fight for the rights of your King's heir, then we will!" Alicent turned to regard Hobert. "Come, cousin!" she practically hissed, face red with rage, and a mad glint in her eyes. "You are my son's Hand. We must rally the King's leal men within his keep, and crown his heir!"

Hobert stared at her, from where he still sat in his chair. He thought of all that he had seen, and all that he had suffered through. The fear, the grief, the abject misery. If we crown Jaehaera, we will burn for it. He thought of the King and Queen's last living child at that moment. A miserable, terrified girl who jumped at every shadow, and wept at loud noises. If I crown her, I will kill her. The Pretender's thugs will suffer no reigning rivals to their Queen's heir. They'll murder her, as they murdered her brothers. Her only hope is to remain a Princess, not a Queen.

"No." Hobert whispered, staring at his feet.

"What?" his cousin said, her voice little more than a dangerous growl.

Hobert looked up to regard Alicent. "I said, no. The Princess Jaehaera will not be crowned. It's all over. The war ended with the King and Queen's deaths." Hobert's voice cracked with grief, and he felt tears well in his eyes. "Your son, cousin! And your daughter! It's over. There is no more war to be fought. Please, listen to me. You have lost your children, but you need not lose your last grandchild!"

Alicent jerked her head back at Hobert's words, as though she had been struck. "No," she muttered. "NO!" she then screamed. "It cannot be! After all I've given, all I've lost!" The Queen Dowager staggered backwards, until her back connected harshly with the stone wall of the council chamber.

With her back against the wall, Alicent slid slowly to the ground. Clutching her face in her hands, she began to weep. "It cannot be for naught!" She cried out. "My sons, my sweet daughter," she groaned in agony. Alicent's pained sobs grew in intensity, and they struck at Hobert's heart like daggers. "My babies, my babies! Please, please, PLEASE!"

By this point, the knights and lords around the council chamber were all on their feet. To a man, they were stunned. Eventually, Grand Maester Orwyle made his way over to Hobert's cousin, and gently helped her to her feet. "I will return her to her chambers, and make her a tonic to help her rest," the bearded maester told Hobert and the others. Lord Commander Fell silently accompanied the both of them from the council room, as Alicent muttered incoherently through a veil of tears.

After a moment, Lord Peake spread out a piece of parchment across the tabletop, and retrieved an inkpot and quill. The grizzled marcher lord looked exhausted, but a defiant fire still burned in his eyes. "Methinks, my lords, that it is time to begin drawing up our terms for peace. We had best not keep the Pretender's army waiting."

Not a single man in the room raised his voice in dissent.

Chapter Text

Baela V

Time seemed to move differently in the darkness below the Red Keep. For days after the Usurper had branded her, Baela had languished in and out of an intense fever, only surfacing from unconsciousness when a Septa had come to apply a cooling salve to her burn. Myranda was her name. One of the ones that had cut my hair and scrubbed me raw earlier that same day. The salve had undoubtedly helped, even if the sickly smell had turned her feverish stomach. Days had turned to what she expected were weeks, and while Septa Myranda's visits had become less frequent, she was Baela's only occasional visitor beyond the cold taunts of the gaoler. She had learned quickly that attempting to speak to any of the other prisoners in order to pass the time was folly, and was likely to earn them a beating; regardless of their Royal status.

When the fevers had broken and her wound began to scab over, Baela's great challenge had been to resist the nearly overpowering urge to pick at the scabs that adorned the left side of her face. Her rodent friends had helped, serving as a captive audience for whatever she wished to discuss to take her mind off of the maddening desire to itch away. Once, hidden in the darkness beyond the torchlight from outside her cell, she had given in, her nails clawing at the mass of dead tissue that clung to her wounds. The euphoria of it all had almost been worth it, if not for the fact that Aegon and Aemond had discovered her indiscretion, their deep brown eyes seemingly staring her down with equal measures of accusation and disappointment. Her shame had been intense, and she had quickly promised to resist the urge forevermore. The Lord of the Shitty Rushes and the Scourge of Moldy Crusts had begrudgingly accepted her apology, but she was under no illusions that she had broken some sort of fundamental trust between them. I must needs prove myself to them with actions, not words.

To her credit, Baela had spent the next few days resisting the temptation, and with time the need to attend to her frightful wound had diminished. As the sensation began to dull, she found herself thanking the Seven for the first time in her life, and had momentarily considered revising her skepticism regarding their existence. Time continued, and Baela had slept for longer periods than she ever had before, returning again and again to the state that lurks somewhere between deep sleep and consciousness. Jace, Luke, and Joff never returned to her dreams, and her mother and father were similarly silent. She drew strength from the memories of them and their final words to her, determined to never give in or allow the memory of their bravery to fade.

In her mind, she considered a plethora of scenarios and courses that the war might have taken, and entire battles were fought in the quiet of her imagination. Each time the surviving Seeds destroyed the Usurper in a conflagration in the skies, avenging the fallen and putting an end to his tyranny. In some, she escaped prior to the final battle, urging Moondancer into the sky and returning to burn the Red Keep with a fiery vengeance, luring the enraged King into the clouds where her dragon's nimble form could inflict wound after wound upon the older Sunfyre. She missed her Moondancer dearly, and hoped against hope that someday she would be able to mount it once more, free to soar through the moonlit heavens as she had in the past. Simple pleasures don't remain so simple when you are deprived of them.

After weeks had passed, Baela found herself awakened by a cacophony of voices echoing about the cell block. The metallic sound of bodies clad in plate filled the normally silent cell block, and she immediately detected the oozing and deferential tone of the gaoler as he guided the visitors through the labyrinthine levels of the Red Keep's dungeons. Cold tendrils of fear and uncertainty wound their way across her heart as she realised that the party had reached her very row, and she found herself considering whether the Usurper's views towards his captives had changed once more. Has the order finally come to put us to death? Baela found herself wondering if something had happened, something so devastating to the false King's cause that he had finally resolved to end his enemy's line out of spite and desperation. She pitied her brothers most of all. Their deaths will be a pointless folly, of no fault of their own. Neither Aegon nor Viserys had ever raised a hand to harm anyone, and their punishment would be to sate the insatiable need for revenge that had consumed their uncle.

She could feel the familiar fury growing within her; the same rage that had driven her to spite the false Aegon before all his court. I will not go quietly, nor will I beg for clemency. They will get no such satisfaction from me. Digging her nails into her palms, she stood, raising her jaw and standing unflinchingly to face her would-be executioners. Through the small barred opening in the cell door, she could see a small crowd had gathered outside her cell, and could hear the gaoler confirming that this was where she was kept. The door was wrenched open, and the sudden glare of the flames temporarily blinded her eyes. Blinking them to adjust, she saw that before her stood several knights, alongside Septa Myranda. Red Griffons, Suns and Moons, and Swans of Black and White. Her face contorted into an immediate frown. The cold and disdainful visage of Ser Byron Swann was unmistakable. The other two men, however, she did not recognize. Why send three knights and a Septa for an execution when a few Gold Cloaks would do? The man clad in the arms of the Tarths stepped forward, his face grave but not altogether cruel.

"Lady Baela, I have orders to retrieve you from these cells at once, and to move you to more suitable accommodations. Will you come peacefully?"

Baela unconsciously crossed her arms. What sort of ploy is this? When no further information was forthcoming, she considered her options. They will take me regardless of my willingness. But causing a ruckus would only earn me a clout on the ear. Perhaps the Usurper wishes to try a different tact. She had to resist the urge to grin. Tact or no tact, he'll find me no less troublesome. Why not entertain his delusions until the perfect, embarrassing moment?

Baela nodded, her face pointedly plaintive. "I will come without trouble, Ser."

Septa Myranda took her by the arm, leading her out of her cell for the first time in weeks. Even in the hall the air felt less cloying, less laden with filth. Even the slightest sensation of freedom caused her heart to soar within her breast. She steadied herself, unwilling to allow any feelings of unwarranted hope. Such thoughts will only hurt me when these false mercies are stripped away. As the procession led her further down the halls, she was even more surprised as the doors to Aegon and Viserys' cells were opened, with her brothers led outwards. Their young faces, gaunt with hunger and grief, were twisted in guarded expressions of deep distrust. Aegon's eyes widened when he saw her, his deep purple eyes seeming almost black in the firelight. Despite their poor accommodations, he had grown since she had last seen him. He was thin, but almost of a height with her. He looks like father, she thought with a mixture of surprise and sadness. Once the Princes had been secured, their party was joined by several more armored knights, bearing grim visages and shadows under their eyes.

Their journey led them ever upwards, and when they finally emerged from their confinement, the chill of winter sent a shudder through her emaciated form, causing her to shiver involuntarily. The courtyard of the Red Keep was uncharacteristically quiet, even for this early in the morning. Few servants bustled about, but the ones Baela saw were outfitted in all black. The colors of mourning. With a start, Baela began to question the very nature of their release. She dared not begin to hope, but she could think of few reasons why servants would wear such colors beyond the glaringly obvious. She and her brothers were led quickly across the inner yard of the Red Keep. As the muted winter sun began to show its first rays, Baela and her brothers were guided into the dark and twisting halls of Maegor's Holdfast. The knights in their company led them to a series of rooms normally reserved for only the most trusted of servants; servants who attended the Royal Family during its most intimate and secluded moments. The quarters had been emptied, and were sparse but for a few servants and Septas that awaited within with all-too-familiar scrubs. Once more, Baela was cleaned with the brutal efficiency that she had come to associate with her captivity, and once more her hair was shorn. Her brothers' long locks were shaven as well, and after several repeated scrubbings they were left clean but pink with the harsh treatment. Clothes of simple but exquisite materials were presented. For Baela, a simple, unadorned dress of black velvet. For Aegon and Viserys, black doublets stitched with the red three-headed dragons of their House.

After being dressed, they were led through the halls to a chamber adorned with lacquered double doors. Inside, they found quarters that had seemingly once hosted a member of the Royal family, its tapestries depicted the great events of the past. Harrenhal and the Field of Fire burned silently, forever immortalized by Myrish craft and skill. On the opposite wall, Jonquil and Florian kissed beneath the stars. Baela frowned. Undoubtedly the quarters of a Royal Princess, then. Three small beds had been arranged, and a veritable feast had been placed atop a table at the center of the chamber. Candles burned atop it, casting light all about. On the walls, the flickering light gave an almost lifelike appearance to the flames of Vhagar, Balerion, and Meraxes.

One by one, their knightly escort filed out of the chamber, leaving only Septa Myranda and the Tarth knight in the chamber with them. Their captors considered them a moment before speaking.

The knight of Tarth spoke first. "Eat well, my Princes. Your treatment has been unworthy of your status, as of yet. I pray you will find your new accommodations much more to your liking." He paused, clearly debating on what more he wished to say. "Each of you are undoubtedly most perplexed at this sudden reversal of fortune. I am not at liberty to share why your circumstances have changed, but I can say with some confidence that they are unlikely to worsen at any point in the future. Know that this is no trick; no ploy." Opening his mouth as if to speak further, he seemingly decided against it, and turned abruptly and left the chamber.

Standing mostly uncomfortably, Septa Myranda's eyes darted back and forth between Baela and her brothers. Withdrawing a small glass container from the folds of her robe, she offered it to Baela.

"For your scars, my Lady."

Without another word, she withdrew from the chamber. The doors slammed shut, and the unmistakable sound of a lock latching could be heard.

Aegon scanned the room, his dark eyes still distrustful. After a few moments, he spoke.

"That was… most odd."

Viserys grinned, a mixture of cautious hope and playful jest. "I suppose they won't be killing us then?"

Baela looked between the both of them for a moment, and without saying a word, gathered them into a crushing embrace. She had never considered herself partial to great displays of emotion, but tears ran freely down her cheeks. The salt stung her wound, but she didn't care. Aegon's shoulders stiffened at first, but after a moment slumped. He quietly returned her embrace cautiously at first, but quickly held her close. Viserys, on the other hand, squirmed under the pressure.

"Baela, you're crushing me." He attempted to wriggle away, but she only clasped him closer, beginning to laugh.

"Gods. Baela!"

Eventually, she let him go. Collapsing into a seat at the table, she smiled at the both of them. Viserys made an effort to pout, but she found it entirely unconvincing. A slight smile still tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Aegon took a seat at the head of the table, and broke a piece of bread in his hands, nibbling halfheartedly at it. As she studied him, she could not help but notice just how exhausted he appeared. He is eleven, but he may as well have lived several lifetimes.

Baela's smile faded. "Aegon… Viserys… I am sorry about your mother…and Joff."

She realized with a pang of sadness that she had not been able to speak with them, let alone comfort them, in the time that had passed since Rhaenyra's capture and Joff's death.

Aegon turned to regard her. "I miss her." His tone was so matter-of-fact, yet in his eyes was a barely concealed agony. "Joff was…" He choked, and let his head drop, crying softly.

Viserys looked at his brother, angrily blinking back tears. "Joff was brave." He stuck his chin out, adamantly resisting the urge to cry. Baela stood, placing her arms around both of them. This time, neither resisted.

"Joff was brave." She agreed.

The next morning found them less despondent. The opportunity to truly rest for the first time in weeks had been wonderful. Baela's brothers had barely protested her encouragements to rest, and surprisingly they had agreed to push their beds together to create one large platform atop which to sleep. Baela had fallen asleep with her arms still around them, feeling safe and at peace for the first time in ages. She woke, surprised to see that the winter sun was still shining through the lancets. She was surprised, before realising that they had likely slept the entirety of the day and through the night afterwards. A servant, clad all in black was clearing the cold meals from the previous day's dishes, whilst another held bowls of steaming porridge. Untangling herself from the still slumbering forms of her brothers, Baela stood, straightened her dress, and approached the two with as much authority as she could muster.

"Will the King be demanding our presence today?" She asked.

The servants curtseyed, both noticeably paling. Sharing a quick glance, they both departed without a word. Baela was left even more certain that something momentous had happened. Could the Usurper truly be dead? How could such a thing have happened? If it was an assassin, or even a Faceless Man, why have we not been punished? She noticed that new clothing had been laid out across an ornate bench next to the doorway. Once more, a black gown awaited her, but this time, adorned with dancing dragons. Shockingly, they were not woven in gold. They wound their way up its sleeves, roaring at its high collar. The dress itself was heavily insulated, suggesting that it was meant for the outdoors. Similarly designed doublets awaited her brothers. She seated herself, digging into a bowl of honeyed porridge. She hadn't realized how famished she was until she began eating, and she finished the entire bowl without much trouble. As she was peeling Dornish blood orange, Aegon woke, sitting across from her and eating quietly. As she finished chewing a slice of orange, she decided to speak her thoughts.

"The Usurper may be dead, Aegon."

Aegon stopped chewing, placing his spoon back in his bowl. He stared at her for a long time.

"The servants have been wearing mourning colors, haven't they?" He paused, considering the implications. "Could it be that someone else has died? The Princess Helaena?"

Baela shrugged. "It is possible, but why would he have freed us? Doesn't this feel strange to you?"

Aegon nodded slowly. "It does, Baela, but I cannot give myself false hopes. The enemy has taken too much from me already. I won't let them knock me off my feet again."

Baela nodded. "I understand. But if he is dead, things are liable to change drastically. I can't imagine them crowning Helaena or Jaehaera, after all they did to stop the true Queen."

Aegon pondered her words. "They would never."

If what I have heard is true, Helaena and Jaehaera may be in no state to wear the crown, either. She was stopped from any further ruminations by the entrance of the Connington knight who had helped retrieve them from the dungeons.

"My Prince, my Lady, I have come to retrieve you for the funeral. Please dress and prepare yourselves. I will return in a few moments."

Baela heard Viserys sit up. Her heart threatened to leap out out of her chest.

"Ser, whose funeral must we attend? I fear we have been told nothing."

The knight of Griffin's Roost pursed his lips. "The one and true King of Westeros and his wife have passed, my Lady. We burn them so they might join the ranks of their hallowed ancestors today."

For a moment, the world seemed to spin. She clasped her hands together to steady herself. And like that, it ends?

The next moments she would only remember as a blur. Dressing, being guided out of Maegor's Holdfast, the winter wind whipping at her dress and the shawl she had chosen to wear atop it. Several hundred knights, lords and ladies had assembled in the courtyard. As she and her brothers were led to the center, a cordon of knights kept them separate from those gathered, the steel on their hips and threats in their eyes guard enough against the many faces of contempt. At the center of the assembly a bier had been set, draped in gold and black. Two shrouds lay atop forms that rested atop it, black silk and golden dragons roaring silently. While she knew what was concealed beneath the obfuscations, Baela could still hardly believe that the Usurper was dead. She had wished for it for so long, and yet a true end to the rancor and torment had always seemed elusive. She had certainly never expected this. Especially as I am not even certain of what this is. How did the Usurper die? And how was it that Helaena died with him? The simplest answer was by a catspaw's knife, but she had already ruled such crude means out as such a death would have mandated retaliation. She was utterly lost, and none so far had proven forthcoming with any new information. With their sudden change in treatment, Baela had begun to wonder if the Usurper's lords had proven less loyal than they had seemed. Perhaps they tired of the constant threat of annihilation, and decided to flavor their doomed King's wine with something less than agreeable. While such things would explain the lack of immediate retaliation, Baela was still unsatisfied with it as an explanation.

Two knights in white cloaks stood vigil over the King and Queen's bodies. Ser Willis Fell served on my uncle's Kingsguard, but the other knight I do not recognize. She recognized the faces of the old Hightower Hand, and that of Lord Borros Baratheon as well. While books of lineage might name him her distant kin, Baela could think of him as naught but a traitor. And a common murderer. Luke's blood remains on his hands, for bending the rules of guest right. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the faces of the Four Storms behind him. Only the youngest appears to mourn the Usurper's death.

What puzzled Baela the most was the absence of the Dowager Queen. While she was not surprised at Princess Jaehaera's absence, she found it troubling that Alicent was nowhere to be seen. If the Hightower Hand hadn't been present, she would've counted it as further evidence of a coup. Now, she knew not what to make of it.

She flinched as the roar of a dragon shook the courtyard. At first, she thought that Sunfyre might have somehow arrived, mourning the death of his rider. Instead, she was shocked to see the unmistakable glinting form of Silverwing circle the keep before landing in a rapidly prepared space before the funeral bier. A silver-haired rider dismounted, looking severe and grim whilst dressed in Velaryon colors. Ser Malentine. Unbelievable. Speaking treason and calumny was not enough for him, it seems. Her Grandfather and Grandmother had oft spoken of the junior branches of House Velaryon with a barely concealed disdain. After her uncle Laenor's death, their demands to be recognised as her Grandfather's heirs had been as numerous as they had been insistent. Mayhaps the Usurper promised him Driftmark. It matters not. Words are wind, and the words of a dead man are worth nothing. Malentine cracked a dragon whip in the air above Silverwing's head, and the dragon bent low, unnatural light gathering within her maw. Baela could not help but glimpse long, jagged scars along the dragon's back as it did so. With Ulf the Seed dead, it seems certain that I was correct about the loyal seeds. They were victorious. Silverwing still bears the marks of her defeat.

White hot flame spilled forth from the dragon's jaws, engulfing the bodies of Baela's enemies. One was an enemy by act, another by unfortunate circumstance. She pitied Helaena, a woman bound by bonds of kinship to monsters, but not a monster herself. As the bodies burned, incense carefully distributed atop the pyre masked the subtle smell of burning flesh, a smell that Baela found acrid and disturbing. Silverwing finished what Meleys began over Rook's Rest. Somehow she still felt a bit hollow inside. It was hard to feel triumphant standing before the burning corpses of one's kin, traitorous or otherwise. She snuck a glance at Aegon and Viserys, both of whom watched the display with little emotion upon their faces. It occurred to Baela with some shock that she was looking upon the last male heirs of House Targaryen. This war has reduced us to five in number. Three of them children. We have never been weaker.

As she watched the flames consume the dead, then begin to gutter and fail, Baela found herself wondering what would come of this. Mother knew this would happen. She warned me of such, in my dreams. There was no longer anyone left to lead. She was the eldest Targaryen alive, and she had never felt so unprepared, so unready to lead. She could only imagine the burden that Aegon was feeling at that moment. Will he be King? It seemed such a ridiculous concept, and yet he remained the best hope of their House. The Lords of the realm must accept him. Peace would otherwise be impossible. It was beginning to look more and more likely that the Greens intended to use them to bargain. It is the only reason we still draw breath.

An armored fist tapped her shoulder. The Connington knight beckoned for her brothers and her to follow, and they were led out into the outer yard to the chambers of the Small Council. After a few moments, several of the Usurper's most powerful lords had gathered in the chamber with them. Lord Borros was present, as was the elderly Hightower. Standing to the Hand's right was Lord Peake, eyeing them with eyes as hard as flint. After a while longer, Ser Malentine entered the chamber, and she immediately felt his gaze upon her. She instinctively stepped forward, placing herself between her brothers and the assembled Greens. A knight with gold rings interlinked upon his breast smiled slightly at her protective gesture, but the expression did not reach his eyes. The same knight that offered to strike my head from my shoulders. His eyes unsettled her. They seem to be open a ways wider than any others. She shivered as his gaze seemed to both threaten and undress her all at once. She tore her gaze away from him, turning to face the old Hand.

"From what my brothers and I have gathered, it appears you have no plans to execute us."

The old man sighed, his jowls shuddering slightly. Running a hand through the few hairs that remained atop his head, he seemed to unconsciously reach for a goblet before realizing none were before him.

"Dear child, we are all anointed knights. The thought of harming children is as foreign to us as… as…" He looked about the room, clearly looking for some assistance with his analogy.

"Harming a child is as a foreign to us as Qohor's Black Goat." Spoke Lord Peake. The Lord of Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove eyed the men around him. "We are godly men, and we served the Father above by honoring his will and serving the lawful King. But that King has been taken from us by a madwoman. Our sole desire now is to bring an end to the suffering that has torn the realm asunder."

The Hightower Hand nodded, his expression grateful for the assistance. "Quite right, Lord Unwin. For too long the realm has bled, and it is now our firmest hope that a peaceful and merciful conclusion to this madness can be found."

Baela eyed each of them in turn. While she would have loved to scream and rage at the ridiculous words of the men before her, she realized that her next words would be of great import. We are closer to peace than we have been since this all began. I must needs do whatever I must to ensure the safety of my brothers.

"I applaud your noble sentiments, my Lords, but how are we to assist in this great matter? We are but prisoners."

Lord Baratheon cleared his throat. "Prisoners you might have been, but prisoners no longer. We have already agreed to your release, my Lady, alongside any other … former enemies we have been holding in our custody."

The elderly Hand nodded. "My dear child, you are to be a symbol of our goodwill and fidelity. Initial negotiations have already taken place. This very evening we will escort you and all other former prisoners to the Pretender's men, and from thenceforth you shall be free."

Lord Peake spoke next. "We shall, of course, keep your brothers in our care until a final peace has been negotiated and oaths made to maintain it before Gods and men. Only then shall we be convinced of the trustworthiness of our former enemies."

Baela blinked. "The Queen's armies are outside the walls?"

Lord Peake ignored her slight. "The remaining forces loyal to the Princess of Dragonstone are indeed outside the walls. They marched directly from Duskendale when we made it clear that we were willing to offer them peace terms."

Baela's heart raced. "Who commands them?"

Lord Borros snorted. "Eager to see them, lass? Lord Cregan Stark and his northern savages are the largest portion amongst them, but the remnants of the Riverlords ride with them under Lord Tully. The rest, we are told, are 'volunteers' of the Vale. Only a week ago we received yet another letter from the Lady of the Vale bemoaning the impetuousness of her knights."

Lord Peake scoffed. "The host is also attended by the last of the dragonriding bastards the Princess of Dragonstone recruited. Even now they fly low over the city, reminding us of their vigilance."

It had been one thing to suspect Tumbleton had gone differently than the Greens had claimed, but it was another entirely to hear it from the Lord of Starpike himself.

"The Queen received a letter claiming that those bastards had been slain at Tumbleton, my Lord?" Baela asked, her expression the very image of innocence.

Lord Peake's eyes narrowed. "The Princess of Dragonstone was mistaken, my Lady. The three bastards slew two of their ilk and a Royal Prince that dreadful night, and burned thousands of men alive."

The Hightower knight visibly paled, and uttered a quiet prayer before speaking. "My Lady, we really must be turning you over to them. They were most insistent that we do so before evenfall."

Baela shook her head. "I am sorry, but I cannot abandon my brothers. I will only go free when they are allowed to go as well."

Lord Peake shook his head, a vein running jagged across his temple. "Impossible, my Lady. Willingly or otherwise, you are to be exchanged this evening."

Willingly or otherwise. Turning to her brothers, she embraced them. Pursing her lips, she spoke, determined to not put on a show. "It appears I must leave you now. I will see you again soon, however, that I promise." Pulling away, Aegon met her gaze before turning to the Hightower Hand and the Lord of Starpike.

"It is no matter, sister. I trust that my brother and I will be in the safest of care. We would see you off, if possible."

Before Lord Peake could deny him, the Hand spoke. "That will be no trouble, my Prince. We would be delighted to honor your request." Lord Peake stared daggers at the Hightower knight, but he did not seem to notice.

With that, Baela and her brothers were led outside the Council chambers and back into the inner yard. A mounted troop of knights had gathered about several ornate carriages. Baela was led to the one in the lead, and she stiffly took the hand of Lord Baratheon when he offered to help her climb inside. As the door closed, her eyes were on her brothers, who stood tall, acting as though they hadn't a care or fear in the world. A King indeed. She offered them both a smile and the door closed.

Baela was still attempting to watch her brothers through the opaque glass when an old but familiar voice greeted her. "I fear, my Lady, that you may have to ride in another carriage. Your beauty is liable to make an old man's heart stop."

A smile crept across her features. "A shame that would be indeed, Grandfather. You were such a valuable prisoner." Turning, she buried herself in an embrace with the Seasnake. "I was so worried for you! I feared the dungeons would treat you most ill!"

Corlys Velaryon scoffed. "I had it much worse in Leng. Those bastards really know how to make a man uncomfortable. The Red Keep's dungeons are downright welcoming by comparison." he chuckled. "Besides, this salty old sailor is not nearly through. I have far too many ambitions afoot to die of a cold. It would be most inconvenient."

"Of your ambitions, I am certain." She smiled. It was good to have him back. She had not lied when she spoke of her worries. Her grandfather was decades older than any other man she knew; decades older than the Old King himself had been. She had feared the conditions of his confinement would prove too much for him.

Lord Corlys Velaryon looked almost exactly how she had remembered him, but was lacking his long silver hair that he had always kept tied in a long braid down his back. When he noticed her staring, he sighed.

"They shaved it. Supposedly lice found it very accommodating. They were damnably itchy. Good riddance I say."

Baela smiled at his antics. It was only as she began to settle into the cushioning of the coach that she realized how many young ladies sat all about them. A few she recognised from the Queen's court at Dragonstone, but others were new. They bore shy smiles at her Grandfather's remarks. Wise as always, Grandfather. They were likely terrified before your performance.

Her Grandfather leaned back, and in a few moments pretended to snore. Soft giggles echoed around the coach cabin in response. Baela grinned, deciding to let him have his fun. The coach trundled along, down cobbled streets that had once bustled with people. Only occasionally did she spot passerby, and most wore cloaks of gold or lordly sigils upon their breast. This city has become an armed camp. It seemed like hours dragged by as the coach picked its way across the city, bumping at every minor pothole. Baela still could not quite believe that she was out of her cell. She pinched herself several times, just to make certain that she was not in some sort of tortuous nightmare. Eventually, the great walls of the city could be seen, and her excitement was nearly intolerable as they passed beneath them, the frozen ground of the fields beyond locked in the icy clutches of hoarfrost. Her stomach churned as the carriage finally groaned to a stop, and through the Myrish glass she saw a sea of light. Torches. After a few moments, the knight of house Connington wrenched the door open. Her Grandfather 'woke' with a start, grumbling about the winter cold. He led the many young ladies out into the winter night, some still giggling at his antics.

Baela drew in a sharp breath, steeling herself, before stepping out into the frigid winter air. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw the scale of the reception. A neat path had been cleared, stretching hundreds of feet into the night towards a vast sea of tents. Hundreds of men shouted, with Lords on horseback signaling them to greet the newly freed prisoners. Banners snapped in the frigid air, and Baela saw Direwolves, Trout, Falcons, Bleeding Hearts, Dancing Maidens, and many more illuminated in the torchlight. Not hundreds, but thousands. A young man with a shock of red hair and a wispy attempt at a mustache stepped forward, a Dancing Maiden upon his chest.

"Hail to the unbroken, HAIL TO THE FAITHFUL." His shout was taken up by a thousand cries.

Baela was stunned. Around her stood a few other prisoners, all equal measures bewildered and overwhelmed. She recognized Lord Bonnifer Bar Emmon, and Lord Dallen Brune, thought lost in the riot. A Knight of the Vale waved at those before them, a wide grin overtaking his features. Ser Gilbar survived the riots as well, though it appears they claimed three fingers on his sword hand. Lastly a dour Northman stood, bearing a heavy box. The firelight was reflected in the tears that streamed down his cheeks as he saw so many of his countrymen. Ser Eyron Locke, former squire to Ser Medrick Manderly. Baela remembered him from the last days of the Queen's court. She had thought him lost in the riots as well. As their small procession walked along the ranks of cheering soldiers and lords, a roar of a dragon sounded overhead. A massive beast soared only a few feet above, its midnight black scales drinking in the torchlight. Beating its wings in the air, it slowed its flight, lowered itself to the ground at the end of their trail and joined the two other dragons that were already perched proudly to greet them. The Cannibal angled its head into the air, unleashing a torrent of green flame into the sky, joined by the misty and white flames of its brethren. Illuminated by the light of dragonflame stood the last of Rhaenyra's lords and champions.

Before them awaited a young woman dressed in striking red and black, dressed for battle in midnight mail that seemed set with rubies in the firelight. Her long silver hair pulled into a warrior's braid, akin to Visenya of old. To her side stood a tall broad-shouldered man with shoulder length brown hair. Dressed in Corbray raiment, Baela suspected he was the knight that Rhaena had grown 'most-fond' of. But knights and lords paled in comparison to her sister, who Baela could scarcely believe stood before her. Laughing madly she rushed forward, embracing Rhaena with the ferocity of a hungry shadowcat.

"You're wearing mail, Rhae!"

She felt her sister shake her head in mock-shame. "It had to be done. I had an army to lead, after all!" Pulling back, her eyes donned a mischievous glint that Baela remembered all too well. "And you, in a dress? What has happened to you, sweet sister?" Rhaena had begun to laugh, but it caught in her throat as she caught sight of the branding on Baela's face, now fully visible in the torchlight. All of the sudden, the mirth drained from her tone. "What did they do to you, Baela?"

Baela shook her head, signaling for her to drop the matter for the time being. Forcing a small grin, she added: "Twas a gift to remember the Usurper by. I pay it no heed any longer."

While Rhaena offered a small smile as a response, there was no doubt that her violet eyes demanded answers, and vengeance. As the two sisters stood, studying one another and contemplating silently, their grandfather ceased his observations of them and moved forwards, turning to face the commanders that still stood at attention behind them. The Seasnake offered a proud smile, his age seemingly fading away as he drew himself up to his full height. "My lords, I am most pleased at this display of fidelity and commitment. The Queen's cause will be forever in your debt for your service."

Lord Tully stepped forwards, his bright red beard glinting. "Our support was our honor to provide, Lord Velaryon. If you would follow us, we have prepared a feast of sorts to welcome you back amongst our numbers."

Baela followed along, hoping she might soon have an opportunity to speak more at length with her sister. She had hoped to speak with Gaemon as well, but decided she ought to pick her opportunity carefully. She noticed that the other prisoners were dispersing, looking for friends amongst the vast crowds of knights and soldiers. Ser Eyron Locke remained grim, and sought out the Manderly Banner, carrying his chest with the care one might hold a child with. She could not hear the words he spoke to Ser Torrhen, but the Manderly knight's face told her that Locke brought no good tidings. So the other Manderly survived the riots after all. I wonder how such a thing came to pass?

Her grandfather had placed his arms around her legitimized cousins, and Ser Addam and Ser Alyn were clearly basking in his praise. He holds them as though they were sons of his own. Baela smirked. Mayhaps they are. Uncle Laenor's preferences had never extended to the charms of women, if her memory served. Whatever the case, Baela watched their interactions with a mixture of amusement and happiness, happiness for an old hero who'd long outlived his wife and children. She studied Ser Addam in particular. A kind and honorable knight, to be sure. He had aged considerably since she saw him last. Silver stubble had begun to cling to his once boyish cheeks, and he had grown more gaunt with the rigors of campaign. Ser Alyn, on the other hand, had filled out, becoming more visibly muscled with his excursions at sea. His skin was tanned, though faded in winter, and she could immediately trace the resemblance between him and her grandfather. He wore his hair in the long and traditional war braids that had been all the rage in the ancient Freehold, whilst Ser Addam kept his shorn close, clearly to ease the wearing of a plate helm. Studying the Velaryon seed, she noticed her grandfather had whispered something to him, and watched as he turned his gaze to greet her. Untangling himself from Corlys' embrace, he approached and offered a small smile.

Offering him a smile in return, Baela dipped her head in acknowledgement. "It seems the boy from Hull has gone to war and made himself a hero."

Without speaking, Addam brushed a cold gauntleted hand against her wounded cheek. His touch was most delicate, but the steel was still cold to the touch. A dark look overtook his features.

"War hero or not, I was unable to prevent their ill-intent. Baela, if I had only known what the Usurper was capable of… you must forgive me, my Lady."

Baela shook her head. "There is nothing to forgive, Ser. Your restraint is likely the only reason my brothers still draw breath. I am most grateful to you and the other seeds." She drew herself upwards and placed a kiss upon his cheek. As she did so, she saw that the other two seeds waited behind Ser Addam. Ser Maegor was maintaining a polite expression of neutrality, but she had spent enough time in court to know when a man was wrestling with anger on the inside. Ser Gaemon, on the other hand, offered a wry grin. He too had forgone a razor, and red stubble had run wild across his jaw. His hair had grown long, and while he had not the skill to style it in the fashion of Valyria, the image was still there. Upon his chest was emblazoned a great black dragon which curled upon a field of blood red. Even less subtle than the 'Waters' sobriquet. He really never will learn. She realized as she studied him further that he reminded her for the first time of her father. His father, too. Her breath caught as she saw the unmistakable hilt of Dark Sister resting on his hip. Father is dead, then. Her heart sank, but she realized she had already known it for some time. Why else would he have been keeping mother company?

She withdrew from Ser Addam, who unconsciously raised his hand to his cheek where she had kissed him with a grin. He took a step backwards, allowing for Ser Maegor to approach. Like Ser Addam, he wore his hair cropped close, but had not neglected the razor. A hard jawline gave him a more severe expression, but when he took her hands in his, a smile crossed his face.

"My Lady. It is good to see you again, even if those scum could not restrain their cruelty."

He had begun to frown as he spoke, but she placed a kiss upon his cheek to prevent him from descending back into brooding. Bitterness does not suit him. If he does possess the blood of the Cruel, then he ought to be doubly careful of such sentiments. The giant knight bowed in thanks towards her gesture, before allowing his compatriot to take his place.

Ser Gaemon took her hands, bowing in a fashion that suggested a carefully practiced novice, which she found altogether charming.

"Your return has been long anticipated, my Lady. Now we must needs see to the release of Moondancer. Rhaenys should not be without her Meraxes."

Baela placed a kiss upon his cheek. While his expression was relatively neutral, something about his slight grin seemed to state: you missed. She smiled despite herself, turning from the three Seeds and allowing her sister to guide her to the feasting pavilion. Her sister gave her arm a firm squeeze, as if to ward off mischief. Baela smiled wickedly in the darkness. Sweet sister, you ought to know better. I AM mischief.

The feast was surprisingly held in a relatively intimate setting. While Baela had expected a much grander reception, it seemed this was to be a small affair between the high command and her grandfather. A wide circular table had been set, and Stark, Tully, and Arryn stood as they entered, only seating themselves after Baela had claimed a seat. Her grandfather chose a place to her right, whilst Rhaena sat to her left. Her sister's guardian also seated himself. Rhaena always was able to get what she wanted. The Seeds also took their places, alongside Ser Alyn. All in all, we are the beating heart of Rhaenyra's army.

Ser Gaemon was in fine spirits, and he spoke after taking a sip of wine.

"My Lady, your return has been most fortuitous for several reasons. You should have seen the fare we have been served in previous nights. I am quite shocked that Ser Isembard was capable of keeping such morsels hidden away from a ravenous host."

Baela nodded. "It is only fitting that he do so. We cannot allow the likes of you to pilfer from the pantries of Lords."

Some of the others assembled raised eyebrows at her jab, but their fears were dispelled upon seeing the good natured grin of the Dragonseed. Baela found herself marveling at the ease with which the once tongue-tied Seed spoke in front of the powerful. Twas not so long ago that he was cowed by their very presence. Her Grandfather studied Gaemon carefully, before offering a congenial grin.

"I see that our faithful Seed has developed quite an appetite for the finer things in life. I am most pleased that service to our fallen Queen has proven beneficial."

Gaemon nodded, pondering his words. "The Seven Above themselves have ordained that a vassal is to expect such benevolence in return for faithful service."

At that, Ser Maegor suppressed a laugh in his cup.

Ser Isembard Arryn had been watching the proceedings with bemusement, but chose then to speak up: "Lord Corlys, we are most pleased to see you returned and in good health. It was no small feat to negotiate your release, alongside that of the Lady Baela and the other captives."

At his words, the Lord of Winterfell's grey eyes darkened with rage.

The Seasnake nodded. "What sort of concessions have our enemies demanded?"

The Lord of Riverrun eyed Lord Cregan cautiously before answering. "Their demands were simple, yet vast. They asked that any peace be without recrimination or punishment. In return, they offered to hand over all prisoners and accept Rhaenyra's eldest living son as King without dispute."

Baela was suddenly furious. Dropping her spoon back into the bowl of soup she had been nursing, she looked at her grandfather and then spoke, careful to keep herself from shouting: "They are asking to go unpunished? They ought to be losing their heads! At the very least they should be stripped of the majority of their holdings and any significant vassals!"

For the first time that evening, Lord Cregan spoke. "My Lady, I said the same. The punishment for treason has always been death. I myself advocated against any acceptance of such terms." He spoke with a rage as cold as Northern Winds. "Our enemy's position, however, is quite clear. Under no circumstances will the Princes Aegon and Viserys be allowed to live if we do not swear off all punishment, all vengeance. We can win this war and see the traitors punished, but only if we accept the deaths of Rhaenyra's last heirs."

Ser Isembard watched her, eyes suddenly devoid of all playfulness. "We all swore to fight for Rhaenyra's claim to the throne. We can fulfill our oaths, but to do so requires odious compromise. None of us are willing to see your brothers dead. We honor our Queen by protecting the last of her children."

Corlys sighed. "There was no way to split their interests? Lord Baratheon seems the type to defect with sufficient incentive. Could we not find a means to have him secure the Princes in return for immunity?"

Lord Stark's eyes flashed. "I mislike compromising with traitors. There is no variation to treason. A man is either loyal, or he is not."

Tully looked at Stark with a thinly veiled exasperation. "We did consider reaching out to Lord Baratheon. But our forays were rebuffed… enthusiastically. I do not believe our enemies to be fool enough to trust our assurances in the event they turn on one another. They know their best chance at a favorable peace is to leverage their hostages to the hilt. Those that they've handed over so far are a calculated move. So far they haven't lost anything decisive."

Her grandfather nodded, clearly in agreement with the Tully knight's logic. Baela was torn. She found herself facing a choice between her desire for vengeance and her family. In the end, Aegon and Viserys won, without a doubt. She now knew why Ser Maegor had been furious earlier. He was as enraged as I was. They've got us in an unbreakable vice.

Ser Addam cleared his throat. "We, the Queen's dragonriders, have agreed to accept the Greens' proposal. While it pains us, we will not sacrifice a King for vengeance."

Baela watched the faces of the other Seeds as he spoke. Even Maegor seemed to have resolved himself to that solution, even though his anger had not entirely dissipated. They have not forgotten the oaths they made to their Queen. They will crown her blood, if it is in their power.

Corlys considered Addam's words, and nodded. "It seems there is nothing for it, then. The war will not end with Fire and Blood, but with quills, ink, and seals."

Ser Isembard nodded. "The Usurper's Lords informed us that they will meet us at the Old Gate to commit ourselves to peace. Let us do so in good faith, in the name of the King."

With that, Lord Cregan rose and departed without a word. One by one, the leadership of the army departed, and she and her sister embraced their grandfather as he departed with Sers Addam and Alyn. With a bow, Sers Gaemon and Maegor departed, leaving Baela and Rhaena alone as the evening's fare was cleared away and the embers of the brazier faded.

Baela smiled tiredly. "It truly is good to be with you once again, sister."

Rhaena nodded. "Truly. Even if you are a walking political disaster."

The elder twin shrugged. "I see no reason why pursuing one anointed knight is altogether different than another."
Rhaena sighed dramatically. "One of those knights is a legitimate scion of an ancient and respected house. The other is a potential threat to the throne, riding one of the largest living dragons."

Baela nodded. "You've listed the exact reasons why it will be so important to keep him loyal. We, as humble daughters of the dragon, were always told that our duty was to marry so as to strengthen our house." She winked.

Her sister shook her head. "I am certain grandfather will be ecstatic to watch as you try and wriggle your way out of his intended marriage." Rhaena took her hands. "Is Addam really so bad? He is handsome, loyal, and honorable. You could do far worse."

Baela frowned slightly. "Nothing is for certain. Mayhaps I must marry him. Such a match would ensure House Velaryon's close ties to the throne, and would very likely guarantee another generation of dragonriding Seahorses. But if you were ordered to marry the likes of Cregan Stark, would you not try and negotiate a preferred alternative?"

Rhaena smiled. "You already know my answer. I simply wished to hear your thoughts on the matter in person."

Leaving the tent, they strolled through the camp, flanked on all sides by raucous celebrations that had broken out at the rumor of peace. Rhaena guided her to a great pitched tent, its red and black coloration visible in the firelight. The carpeted interior was well furnished, but what immediately drew Baela's eye was the pink scaled form that had curled beneath the black iron brazier that glowed in the center of the enclosure. Approaching the small dragon quietly, she knelt before it, admiring the beauty and majesty of her sister's hatchling. Rhaena stood proudly next to her, before kneeling and offering it a sliver of bacon. The hatchling raised its head, black horns glinting in the firelight, and snatched the meat from her sister's fingers. Baela chuckled.

She gazed at her sister, who was contentedly watching her dragon devour her offering. "I'm glad you were able to hatch one, Rhaena. I had grown most tired of pitying you."

Her sister rolled her eyes. "One day, Morning will humble your Moondancer. I swear it."

Baela shrugged. "I suppose it is just as well that you still entertain delusional hopes."

She shrieked as she was tackled from behind. Freedom is wonderful.

The next morning found her sitting atop a white palfrey next to her sister. They had insisted that they attend the meeting between the factions that would settle the terms for the peace. Sers Addam and Gaemon had joined them, whilst Ser Maegor circled above, his Grey Ghost darting this way and that above the city, watching for any sign of treachery. Her grandfather had donned his most ornate Velaryon finery, and looked every inch the noble lord. Lord Cregan Stark had ridden alongside him, looking as though he were carved of ice. Behind them rode Sers Tully and Arryn, along with an escort of one hundred mounted knights representing all of the regions that still served the Queen's memory. Several other notables rode with the column, including Lord Alan Tarly, Lord Stanton Piper, Ser Corwyn Corbray, and Ser Torrhen Manderly. Even Lord Bonnifer Bar Emmon had washed and changed, insisting he be present at the surrender of his captors. As they approached the Old Gate, they stopped, out of range of most projectiles. Gold Cloaks upon the walls blew horns to announce their coming, and the gates opened, revealing nearly fifty armored knights and lords that came to surrender the city. At their head blew the banners of House Baratheon, House Lannister, House Hightower, and House Peake. The Green knights stopped about fifty feet from their party, their horses shifting and whickering nervously. The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. After a few moments of silence, the Hightower Hand cantered forwards, flanked by the Lords Baratheon and Peake. Ser Willis Fell followed, guiding a veiled Ser Tyland Lannister, who rode his horse blinded but unflinchingly.

The two groups met, eyeing each other with thinly veiled disgust and distrust. Eventually, the Hightower knight broke the silence.

"We have come, we servants of King Aegon, the Second of His Name, to bring an end to the rancor and bloodshed that has divided the Seven Kingdoms. We are prepared to crown Prince Aegon the Younger as King of these Seven Kingdoms. In return, we ask that all men who have served honorably, regardless of their claimant, be allowed to return to their lands and families unharmed, without fear of reprisal. Lastly, we ask that our new King be married without delay to the Princess Jaehaera, daughter of Aegon II, to bind their claims into one. Let their marriage be a symbol of peace and healing for the realm. " The old man sighed, looking far older than his years.

Lord Borros Baratheon spoke. "We ourselves renounce all accusations of treason, and we ask that you do the same. We ask you now to swear to a peace with honor, without further bloodshed."

Lord Cregan Stark exhaled, softly, but with cold hate in his eyes. Before he could speak, her grandfather nodded. "We, as lords and anointed knights, swear to those terms. Let there be an end to this war."

Ser Tyland Lannister spoke, little more than a whisper. "We too, so swear." In unison, all present uttered the oath. The Lannister knight raised a fist, and the Golden Dragon banners of Aegon II that hung along the walls of the city and the Red Keep were raised, quickly replaced with the traditional banner of House Targaryen. So it ends, Baela thought to herself.

Ser Elmo Tully nodded. "We propose that the coronation of King Aegon III be postponed until the first of the next year. Let the year one hundred and thirty-two after the conquest be known as a year of peace. Let us also send ravens to the whole realm, inviting all of its lords to come and pay homage to their new liege."

Lord Unwin Peake nodded, eyes as hard as flint. "Let us see to our maesters and ravens, then. Let the realm rejoice at its fortune."

Baela let a sigh escape her lips that she hadn't realised she had been holding. Above, dragon banners stirred weakly in the wind.

Chapter Text

Maris

The Dragonpit had once more found itself hosting a coronation. During the hours of the wolf and nightingale, thousands had streamed from their lodgings both within and without the King's City to observe the coronation. In the time that had passed since the peace had been negotiated, the Lords of the realm had arrived in numbers unheard of since the Great Council during the reign of the Old King. This time, however, there was to be no deliberation or debate. With the death of their King, those who had fought under the banners of Aegon II had (albeit reluctantly) resolved to see his nephew, Aegon the Younger, crowned as Aegon III.

Row after row of lords and knights, some even accompanied by their wives and children, had gathered atop and within Rhaenys' High Hill to observe the official end to the slaughter and anarchy that had been dubbed 'The Dance of Dragons' by the most enterprising of singers and mummers. Dressed in their fineries, the colors of Green had been thoroughly subsumed into a sea of blacks and reds. Seated at the forefront of the pageantry alongside her sisters and father, Maris was one of the few of sufficient rank actually able to see the dais upon which the boy would kneel to become King. Casting a cursory glance about her, Maris fought the urge to chuckle as she observed her father, dressed in a doublet of the deepest black hue that had been accented by cloth of gold. Stags danced upon Lord Baratheon's sleeves and pranced upon his chest, leaving no doubt as to which House he belonged. A stern but neutral expression had overtaken his features, a noticeable contrast to that of Lord Stark, who had arrived with a look of icy hate that had ceased to melt despite the fiery warmth of the Dragonpit's interior. Lord Cregan's wrath concerning the Peace was one of the most poorly kept secrets of King's Landing. Father had positively guffawed as he had relayed details of the armistice over an evening meal many nights previously. He had contended that Cregan had looked 'fit to burst.' Maris, sneaking another glance at the Lord Paramount of the North, could not help but agree with the description.

While many of the lords that had streamed into the capital prior to pay homage to their King-to-be had been overtly relieved at the end of the war, some had made their disdain plain. Lord Lyonel Hightower had arrived seven days previously alongside the Lady Tyrell, who had finally stirred from her self-imposed confinement within Highgarden. The Tyrells' obstinate neutrality earned them no friends, but they certainly can count a few more foes. If the rumors are to be trusted, several of their most powerful vassals have spoken openly that the Tyrells forfeited their right to overlordship of the Reach the moment they declined to fight for their rightful monarch. Maris pursed her lips. The whispers grow more contentious whenever the matter of WHO was the rightful monarch is raised. According to Lord Bryndemere, Lord Alan Tarly had had to be restrained from the presence of his lady liege, just as he had been banned from the presence of Lord Hightower. Only the intervention of his sister Samantha had prevented them from coming to blows.

Maris' father had wondered aloud whether Lord Lyonel would arrive with his army in tow during the weeks of waiting after the ravens had flown. To the relief of both parties, he arrived with only one hundred knights and a few hundred mercenaries that had refused his call to disband in the Reach. Lord Hightower's gold may no longer flow, but it seems certain that they will find other employers in the capital. Diplomats representing the Free Cities stalked every tavern, offering ten times the normal rate for mercenary work. Lord Bryndemere had informed her that the Three Daughters had completely collapsed, and the blood had begun to flow freely upon the Stepstones and within the Disputed Lands. Lord Lyonel's Summer Islanders have already been approached by a Myrish Magister, but declined his offer when a Lysene captain offered to double it. Goldenheart bows are seemingly worth their weight in gold.

Knights and men-at-arms were sailing in ever greater numbers daily, from Stormlanders to Valemen to savage Northmen. The Lady Jeyne Arryn had arrived three days past, and had supposedly granted her former 'volunteers' permission to seek out mercenary work if they so desired. Lady Jeyne had taken her place amongst the highest lords and ladies of the realm, dressed in a sky-blue gown with a high collar. A silver falcon soared upon her bodice. Maris was intrigued by her. Her Black sympathies were obvious during the war, but she was astute enough to feign neutrality when the outcome was uncertain. Perhaps she will prove politically adaptable once more in its aftermath. Maris hoped to have words with her; she thought it possible Lady Arryn might have things of import to teach. She watched as the Maiden of the Vale suppressed a hacking cough with her kerchief.

In all, Houses Stark, Arryn, Tully, Tyrell, Lannister and Baratheon were represented amongst the elites chosen to observe the coronation most closely. Maris thought it most telling, however, that the delegation representing the Westerlands had been paltry. The Ironborn supposedly gave no response to our calls for an armistice. The Lady of the Rock begged forgiveness for her lack of attendance, claiming the West needed all of its swords. While her words carried truth, it seemed likely that Johanna Lannister was none too eager to see an enemy crowned whilst her people were still savaged by his mother's servants. Ser Tyland Lannister, along with a few knights representing the Houses Banefort and Lorch, were supposedly the most notable attendees.

The last major lord attending his soon-to-be King was the Seasnake himself, who had been permitted to sit amongst the Lords and Ladies paramount in recognition of his service and loyalty to Aegon the Younger. Many had protested granting him that honor, especially Lords Hightower and Peake, but the King-to-be had obstinately refused them, supported by the formerly Black commanders. So it was that Lord Corlys had come to stand amongst the realm's most powerful. If the tales of his wealth are even partially true, he certainly ought to be among us. The Hightowers have been beggared and even the Lannisters grow wary. Velaryon shipping dominates trade from King's Landing to White Harbor, and everywhere in between. Matters were made even more troubling when one considered that Lord Corlys was a grandsire to no less than three dragonriders, and an uncle to a fourth. Father states that Ser Malentine has rebuffed the Seasnake's attempts at reconciliation, but how long will it be until he is offered a King's ransom to forget past wrongs? Can hate truly triumph over endless wealth?

It seemed to Maris that perhaps the only Lord secretly pleased with all that transpired was her own father. When he is in his cups, he speaks frequently of marriages to be arranged. Maris knew that her courtship of Lord Bryndemere was likely to be respected, but she suspected that her father was eyeing Ser Malentine for Elyn or Floris. It would be a natural reaffirmation of his loyalties, and allow House Baratheon to command the loyalties of at least one dragonrider. Maris smiled. With how often father eyes the Black Seeds, he may aspire to win the loyalties of several. She watched her father as he gazed upon the Dragonriders, all of whom stood at attention behind the dais. Ser Malentine, given his unique status, had been permitted to stand alongside them. Two riders of silver and sea green, and two of beaten black and red. Ser Addam Velaryon had been outfitted in the finest steel that his grandsire could buy in preparation for the event, whilst the riders of the Cannibal and Grey Ghost had relied upon the sets granted to them by the Pretender. Maris cast a glance upon the huge knight whose black plate seemed to drink in the firelight, and flinched as his helmet turned, seemingly regarding her. Eyes akin to the storms of Shipbreaker Bay gazed coldly forth.

She was spared from bearing his ire any longer when horns blared through the hall. Thousands of whispering voices hushed in unison as the great bronze doors of the Pit were opened. Beyond, grey winter sunlight had begun to stream downwards. Escorted by Ser Marston Waters, the boy-King rode a black destrier down the center aisle, clad in raiment of black velvet and red silks. His silver hair had been shorn close after his confinement had been lifted, but he had allowed it to begin growing out in the interlude before his coronation. Seated upon horseback, his long legs could be seen, showing him to be tall for his age. Perhaps he will grow into the appearance of a King, freed from the hideous scars that covered his predecessor. The Prince rode the length of the hall, followed by his brother and half-sisters, all bedecked in the striking colors of their House. The ladies Baela and Rhaena wore silver circlets to accentuate their Royal blood, whilst the Prince Viserys wore one of gold. From a distant gallery, a dragon shrieked at their entrance, sending a wave of consternation through the crowd. The Lady Baela's dragon Moondancer was most wroth during the months of its confinement, according to father. Perhaps it now greets its rider. After her freedom, the Rogue Prince's eldest daughter had taken to flying her dragon almost daily, soaring through the clouds above the city with the Pretender's former servants. Many had already begun to talk, decrying her willfulness. Her sister appears to have a better handling of court politics, but even she is not immune to accusations of scandal. Rumor has it that she had grown improperly close to a Corbray knight.

As the Royal procession made its way down the hall, cheers began to ring out. Formerly Green and Black lords alike hailed the coming of their King. When it came time for the young Aegon to finally dismount, the energy in the chamber had reached a fever pitch. Septon Eustace awaited upon the dais. His hands will bless and anoint two Kings. The Prince ascended the steps of the dais, kneeling upon a pillow studded with garnets as the Septon bestowed the Seven's Holy Oils according to their rites. Eustace whispered a prayer, making a sign of devotion to the Gods Above, before motioning for Ser Marston to come forward. The Prince Viserys solemnly presented the Conqueror's Crown, its smoky valyrian steel and rubies glinting in the firelight. As the whole assembly held its breath, the Kingsguard placed the circlet atop the boy's head, and proclaimed him King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. A thunderous cheer erupted, and the new King stood, grimly looking out over the assembled nobility of his new realm. A servant in finery approached, handing him a beautiful cloak of deep black with a roaring three-heading dragon firmly emblazoned upon its length. So comes the second act, thought Maris.

Once more, horns blared. The Bronze Gates of the Pit were opened, and the crowd grew quiet. For walking amongst them was the new Queen to be. Maris watched the Princess Jaehaera closely, and saw that she had a fine silken veil placed over her face. The Princess, who had yet to reach her ninth birthday, was guided slowly by Ser Willis Fell, who led her gently by the hand through the vast assembly. Behind her, noble daughters of a similar age followed, holding her dress train gingerly. A long black cloak was affixed upon her shoulders, and a golden dragon roared defiantly upon it for all to see. The last gasp of a dead King. The girl was led quickly, but as she passed one of the massive pillars a dragon hissed, and others began to roar and slam against their cages. Dreamfyre, the great pale blue beast, blew a gout of violet flame that roared between its chamber's bars. The princess, still mostly hidden beneath her veil, began to cry. Ushered onwards by her white knight, she was brought before her King and husband to be, who watched her with a grim acceptance. Maris cringed as the Princess sobbed, and as Septon Eustace hurriedly uttered the writs of matrimony, the seniormost Kingsguard removed her Maiden's Cloak. The King attempted to gently take her hands, but was rebuffed by the distraught princess. Unsure of how to act, King Aegon III placed his House's black and red cloak gingerly about the Princess Jaehaera's shoulders, and Septon Eustace proclaimed the two as husband and wife as Jaehaera wailed. Maris sighed. So it is done.

Maegor

He didn't think that he would ever understand nobles, and the games that they played. There is one thing of which I am certain, however. An event cannot be considered to be of any significance unless it includes a feast. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was once more host to a feast, one of even grander proportions than the one that had occurred to celebrate the Prince Joffrey's elevation to the title of Prince of Dragonstone. A title now held by the Prince Viserys.

Maegor looked up to the high table, where the King and his family sat. The Prince Viserys was engrossed in feeding a leg of chicken to his dragon, Terrax. Too large now to be perched upon his shoulder, it was instead curled in the Prince's lap. The Prince tossed a piece of chicken into the air, and his dragon's head darted suddenly into the air, snapping up the meat. The Prince grinned, and looked to his brother for his reaction.

King Aegon Targaryen, the third of his name, gave his little brother a wan but genuine smile. From what Maegor had seen of his new liege in the past, expressions of mirth or joy were a rarity. However, it seemed that his brother Viserys was an exception to the rule, and did much to brighten his elder brother's spirits with his presence. Unlike the multitude of nobility feasting heartily before him, the King of the Seven Kingdoms picked at his food, and seemed to be cloaked in an air of resignation for all of the proceedings surrounding his coronation.

This feast is also in celebration of a marriage. Something that nobles and commoners alike had an affinity for, celebrating newly-made bonds of matrimony. A mummer's farce of a marriage. Two miserable children, forced to pay for the sins of their Royal parents by linking their familial lines together. The Princess - no, Queen Jaehaera had stopped her weeping by the time she exited the royal carriage with her new husband, goodbrother, and goodsisters at the Red Keep.

Mayhaps the only Green left that I bear any sympathy for, Maegor mused. The last scion of the Green line of House Targaryen, Maegor hoped that Jaehaera would find some solace and peace in her existence, now that the war had ended. A vain hope, mayhaps, but I will carry such hopes for her sake nonetheless. The Royal children were not their parents, and they did not bear their sins. Maegor bore them no ill will.

Looking out across the hall, Maegor could see that despite the flowery proclamation of the King's Peace, much of the nobility present in the hall still sat about tables containing only their fellow Blacks, or in other cases, their fellow Greens. He had searched for their faces the moment he had entered the hall. However, of the traitors at Tumbleton, Maegor had only spotted Ser Hobert Hightower, seated with the rest of his recently-arrived kin, and Lord Unwin Peake, who was himself surrounded by kin that had traveled to the capital from their lands on the Dornish Marches.

Maegor couldn't help but grin at the realization. The likes of Jon Roxton, Richard Rodden, and Roger Corne, after all that they'd done for the Usurper's cause, were not of enough import to be feasted directly in the Great Hall. "And yet here I am," Maegor muttered aloud to himself.

"What?" Gaemon said in response, turning to regard him.

Maegor, realizing that he'd spoken aloud, gave his friend a small half-smile. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He grabbed a leg of chicken and took a large bite from it. I must content myself with small, petty victories such as these. Such thoughts soured whatever sorry excuse for a good mood he had tried to present. Maegor grabbed his goblet, drinking deeply of the wine contained within.

There can be no retribution now. His dream of King Maegor at Harrenhal had frightened Maegor deeply, more so than any of the dreams of dragons that he had before. Maegor had quickly been disabused of the notion of fiery vengeance against the Greens' seats when his dream made him truly consider the possible implications of such a set of actions. I will not have innocents pay the price for any revenge that I exact. To allow that to happen would make Maegor an utter hypocrite, and no better than the evil men that he hated so deeply. If I were to attempt to exact any revenge now, I would likely start the entire conflict anew. All of the blood would be on MY hands. Such revenge had a price that Maegor could not, would not, pay.

While he had been caught up in his dark ruminations, Maegor had only been somewhat paying attention to the happenings within the Great Hall. Several tables in the center had been pushed closer to the chamber's walls, and several nobles had taken to the floor, beginning to dance. Despite the enthusiastic music of the minstrels throughout the hall, it seemed that any efforts to draw in more dancers was initially futile. That was, until the Lady Rhaena Targaryen led Ser Corwyn Corbray onto the floor. After that, it seemed to Maegor that it was suddenly a struggle to find enough room on the floor for all the new dancers.

He watched the dancers dance, and he continued to drink. As he reached for a pitcher once more to refill his goblet, Maegor felt a hand on his arm.

"Slow down, Maegor," Gaemon said with a half-grin that conveyed more concern than friendliness.

In response, Maegor pulled his arm free, grabbed the pitcher, and filled his goblet once more. He was beginning to feel the effects of all the wine, and Maegor found that in such a state he had little mind or care for his friend's warning.

"Would you like to dance, Ser?" a voice asked him.

Maegor looked up, and saw the Lady Baela Targaryen standing before him in her dress of black and crimson. She smiled kindly at him. Those who murmur that her branding has ruined her beauty are utter fools, Maegor mused in silence. After a moment, Maegor realized that he hadn't actually said anything in response to the Lady Baela, and had merely been staring at her in silence.

Maegor felt his face flush red in embarrassment. "I'm- I'm afraid I must refuse your kind offer my lady." The wine was making it very hard for him to think clearly. Just offer a polite excuse before you embarrass yourself further. Maegor gave the Lady Baela a small smile. "I fear that I have spent the whole feast getting myself quite drunk." Damn it.

At his bold proclamation, the Lady Baela let out a surprised but genuine laugh. Then, with a conspiratorial grin, she leaned in closer so as to only be heard by Gaemon and Maegor. "That's the first bit of good sense that I've heard all evening," she murmured, smiling wickedly.

She turned to regard Gaemon. "Because the gallant Ser Maegor has spurned me, I suppose you'll have to do."

Gaemon smiled back at her. "The Seven above always smile upon great acts of self-sacrifice."

Standing from his seat, Gaemon led the laughing Lady Baela out to the floor, where they joined the swirling throng of dancers. Though his growing drunkenness made it difficult to focus, Maegor tried to follow the two of them with his eyes as they danced. Resting his chin upon his steepled fists, Maegor felt a small smile spread across his face. We've all suffered much and more throughout this war. Methinks the both of them deserve some happiness and laughter now that the killing is done.

Standing from his bench, Maegor began to make his way from the hall, taking slow and measured steps. He had been given a room somewhere within the Red Keep, and it was Maegor's hope that he might somehow find it before sunrise.

A knock at the door woke him from a deep slumber. "Ser Maegor?" a muffled voice called.

Maegor blinked once, then twice, and groaned. "Yes, I am here," he called in response. He did not know how long he had been asleep. All that he knew for certain was that he had the beginnings of a headache, and his mouth was very dry.

The door of his chamber opened, and a guardsman with a red three-headed dragon patch stepped through it. "Apologies, Ser," the guard began, "but there's a man in the outer yard. He says he's your man, and he's been askin' us to bring 'im to you ever since he arrived at the castle gate."

Maegor looked at the guard in confusion. "My man?" he wondered aloud.

The guard nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, Ser. I wouldn't 'ave believed 'im neither, except he has a letter bearing the Pretender's- ah- the Princess Rhaenyra's- mark."

The sudden realization woke Maegor up immediately. "Take me to him, please," Maegor asked the guard, and at his nod, Maegor and the guardsman began the journey to the Red Keep's outer yard.

When they arrived, Maegor could hardly believe what he saw. Before him was the groundskeeper of Sallydance's sept. He was just as lean as Maegor remembered him, and still wore the cloak that Maegor had given him. His greying beard had been cut short, and he held the reins of a red-brown palfrey that whickered softly behind him. When the man saw Maegor, a smile spread across his face.

"I told ya, didn't I!" he exclaimed to the guardsmen standing around him. "Ser Maegor knows me. I'm his sworn man!"

Maegor was so surprised that he found it hard to speak. "You- you've arrived," he finally managed to say.

Still smiling, the man nodded at Maegor's words. "Yes, Ser. When I arrived at Harrenhal, the garrison told me that the army and dragonriders had already left. When I showed 'em the Queen's letter, they gave me a horse and supplies, and directions to Duskendale. When I arrived there, the cap'n of Duskendale's watch sent me along to the Queen's city to find ya."

The man dropped to one knee before Maegor in the dust of the yard. "When you met me, Ser, I- I was finished. I didn't care if I lived or died. You gave me a new way, a new choice. To bid farewell to the ghosts of those I'd lost, and try an' find a reason to keep goin', keep livin'."

The man smiled tightly, as he struggled to hold in untold depths of emotion. "And I did, eventually. Twas a long journey, and for most of it I had naught but my thoughts for company. Twas the hardest thing I ever did, but step by step, I found that I wanted to go on."

He looked up to regard Maegor. "Ya didn't know me when we met. Ya had no obligation to help me, and yet ya did all the same. Thank you, Ser. Yer a right and proper knight, and if you'll still have me, I'll gladly continue on as your sworn man."

Maegor's voice nearly caught in his throat as he made to respond, and he blinked painfully as he forced back tears. "I will gladly accept your continued service. I should think that I would be hard-pressed to find another man of your fortitude and resolve."

As he made to leave the outer yard with the first of his sworn men at his side, Maegor breathed out a deep sigh of relief that he hadn't realized he'd been waiting so, so long to release. Bennard was right. Kindness mattered, in the end. Small victories in a much larger, unending war, but victories nonetheless. I have no better weapon in my arsenal to strike at the cruelties of the world than a willingness to try and help those who need it. Though the blustering winter winds were as merciless and biting as ever, Maegor finally took a moment to appreciate the warmth of the sun.

Hobert

Ser Roger Corne's corpse had been found in an alleyway within the Street of Silk, his throat slashed from ear to ear. His tongue had been ripped from his mouth, and was pinned to his chest by the same dagger that had pierced his heart. Above his corpse on the wall of the building it was propped up against were the words "WE REMEMBER", written in the slain knight's lifesblood.

This foul act of murder was on the minds of many as a great council of the King's lords convened within the Great Hall of the Red Keep. Surrounded by men-at-arms bearing the Hightower sigil, Hobert approached the throne room's great bronze-and-oak doors. Hobert took a deep breath, and tugged at the golden chain of interlinked hands about his neck. His relation, the youthful Lord Lyonel, walked alongside him, with Vigilance hanging prominently from his swordbelt. Hobert had returned the blade of valyrian steel to its rightful owner nearly as soon as Lord Ormund's heir had entered the King's city. Better a true warrior of our family to wield it than I. Lord Lyonel was as Hobert remembered him at the Hightower: bold, brash, and quick to take offense. He was deeply unsatisfied with the war's conclusion, and the state that their family had been left in. If left to him to choose, he would never have ended the war. Hobert looked at the young Lord's angry expression. If he had seen what I have seen, he would rejoice in the peace. Lord Ormund's young widow, the Lady Samantha, walked at the other side of Lord Lyonel. She is never far from Lord Lyonel's side, ready to suggest and advise.

Entering the Great Hall, Hobert broke away from his family's entourage, walking slowly along the long red carpet to the dais at the end of the hall. Upon the dais sat the Iron Throne, and upon the Iron Throne sat Hobert's new liege, the King Aegon, third of his name. As Hand of the King for Aegon II, Hobert had managed (though not without significant consternation on the part of his former enemies) to retain his post in the upheaval of the initial post-war deliberations, in order to provide for a more smooth and undisputed transfer of power.

Hobert's young liege's eyes looked upon him coldly as he approached the Iron Throne and climbed half of its height, seating himself gingerly on the melted metal steps. What is fated for the Realm when a King disdains his own right hand? Looking across the multitude of assembled lords and landed knights, Hobert swallowed thickly. A sea of expectant faces, their bodies below bedecked in a multitude of heraldry. Men and women of every one of the Seven Kingdoms, for even a delegation from Dorne, led by the Prince Qyle Martell, son of the ailing ruling Prince, were observing the proceedings.

They will all be looking to me for guidance, the whole of the King's Realm. To do what must needs be done to mend the many wounds, and see us all into a new era. They need a man of strength and vision, not- Hobert suppressed the urge to grimace- not me. It was the first grand assembly of the lords of the Realm since the coronation, and all present wanted answers to a multitude of issues, not the least of which was to be done about the first significant breach of the King's Peace in the death of Ser Roger Corne.

Hobert took in a short, gasping breath as his growing apprehension turned into a wave of panic that nearly overwhelmed him. I CANNOT be the King's Hand. I never wanted it, and I was never the right man for it. I was given the office because the rest of my kin in the army were slain. Hobert had not so fervently sought out peace in order to watch the Realm collapse once more into bloodshed under his own inept rule. Though the prospect of what he needed to do terrified him, Hobert reached deep within himself, gathering whatever wilted mites of courage could be found.

Standing, Hobert took a deep breath, before projecting his voice in order to be heard by the crowd. "Let this convention of the King's Lords, knights, and esteemed guests begin in earnest, for there is much to be addressed." Hobert breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes for a moment. Find your courage. "There is much and more to be done, for with the coming of peace, our trials and tribulations have not ended. Now is a time for rebuilding, mending wounds, and setting aside grievances."

As he looked out across the massive crowd, Hobert watched the many faces, and the many expressions. Though he wasn't surprised, it still pained him to see that many expressions were those of deep skepticism, or outright disdain. How could I hope to believe in myself when none will believe in me?

When Hobert met the eyes of Lord Stark, his gaze lingered for a moment. The Warden of the North's eyes were full of an icy and merciless hate, and he did not blink, no matter how long Hobert returned his stare. Oddly enough, Hobert felt no fear, when before such a hateful glare would have made him wish to squirm. Instead, all he felt was an empty resignation. I know my crimes as well as he does, and I cannot blame him for hating me for them.

Hobert wondered how many in the crowd currently wished for his head to adorn a spike. They believe that I've escaped justice. And haven't I? Mayhaps the Seven weren't giving him a second chance by allowing him to live when so many died. Mayhaps they wanted me to live, so that I might know how hated, how reviled, I've become. Hobert wished that he could still be an afterthought, as he was before the war, rather than the target of others' hatred or ambition.

Realizing that he had been standing in silence for quite some time, Hobert collected his thoughts once more, took a short breath, and continued to speak. "With the new year, our new King's reign dawns. It is to be a time of renewal, and new beginnings."

Hobert sighed tiredly. His advanced age made many tasks and activities difficult, but when did simply waking and rising from bed each morn become such a chore? "It is for this reason that I… that I-" Hobert hesitated, at the precipice of what he was about to say. The decision frightened him, but he also felt an odd sense of peace within it. For the first time since the war began, Hobert was going to make a decision for himself, and not merely plod and stagger along at the whims of others.

"As of this meeting," Hobert continued, his voice and resolve strengthening, "I formally announce my resignation as Hand of the King. In my last act in this office, I hereby call for a vote to be conducted immediately amongst the King's lords present, so that they might acclaim a new Hand from amongst themselves to usher in a new era."

The uproar was immediate. Hundreds of voices began to loudly shout amongst themselves, and amidst the chaos, Hobert turned and continued climbing the steps of the Iron Throne towards his seated liege. Aegon the Younger's deep violet eyes were still cold, and full of mistrust as Hobert approached. Stopping several steps below his King, Hobert removed the golden chain of interlinked hands from about his neck and bowed deeply, holding the chain of his office before him in outstretched hands.

The King hesitantly took the chain into his own hands, and nodded in acquiescence at Hobert. Some of the coldness had receded from his expression, and more than anything else, Hobert's liege simply looked confused at his former Hand's actions. Without a word, Hobert turned and descended the steps of the Iron Throne. He resolved to seat himself at the edge of the dais until a new Hand was chosen. Amidst the chaos and cacophony, Hobert felt a small, yet content smile spread across his face.

Hobert supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised at the result of the vote. Given the sheer size of his army, and the multitude of his own nobles that had accompanied him south, Lord Cregan Stark won the vote by a narrow margin, barely receiving more votes than Lord Corlys Velaryon.

The support that Lord Cregan received from Lords outside of the North was not to be discounted, however. It was no secret that there were many disaffected nobles at court, especially from amongst the supporters of the Pretender Rhaenyra. Many felt that the negotiated peace had robbed them of the ultimate justice that they sought, and for that reason many supported the Lord Paramount of the North, who had made his wrath at the war's outcome quite well-known.

Hobert's former comrades amongst the Greens were not insignificant in number, but had been utterly unable to decide upon a candidate that the majority agreed upon. For this reason, a multitude of formerly Green Lords had come forward as candidates, and none came even close to the votes received by Stark or Velaryon, who had both received the majority of the former Black Lords' votes.

What surprised Hobert even more than the results of the vote, however, was the response of the victor. Lord Cregan had climbed upon the Iron Throne's dais and refused to accept the title of King's Hand. "With the coming of winter," Lord Stark had begun coldly, "the snows fall heavily upon my home. I am needed by my people in Winterfell." Lord Stark had then taken a deep breath, glowering at the many Greens in the crowd beyond. "With the return of the King's Peace, it appears that there is naught more that I can do but to return to my seat."

With that, Lord Stark had descended from the dais to stand once more amongst his Lords in a brooding silence. A somewhat surprised Lord Corlys Velaryon had then ascended the dais, humbly thanking the assembled nobility for their confidence in him, and promising that he would serve as the young King's Hand with pride and distinction. He then ascended the steps of the Iron Throne to receive the chain of his new office from the King himself, to the loud cheers of many of the assembled Black nobility.

The meeting that followed, now presided over by Lord Velaryon, had covered a wide range of issues pertinent to the new King's reign. Hobert had returned to his assembled kin amongst the crowd's multitude, and people made way for him, many staring at him with expressions that largely displayed shock and confusion.

Though he was not prevented by his kin from standing amongst them, Lord Lyonel and Hobert's other Hightower relations had coldly refused to speak with, or in several cases, even look upon him. Hobert once again surprised himself by realizing how unbothered he felt. Let them resent me, hate me even, Hobert mused in silence. I will suffer their schemes no longer.

Time had drifted on, and Hobert had stood in silence, hardly focusing on what was being discussed. He was content to bask in the sense of newfound freedom that he felt. Of all my regrets and doubts, stepping down as Hand is not one of them. In fact, it was one of the first decisions that Hobert had made in a long while that he felt was absolutely, unequivocally, right.

Hobert was content to wait out the rest of the assembly in contented silence. That was, of course, until the issue of the Iron Islands was brought up. Lord Paramount Dalton Greyjoy had not responded to any of the King's entreaties for he and his men to lay down their arms and be accepted back into the King's Peace, and continued to make war with the Westerlands. It had become clear that outside intervention would be necessary to truly bring peace back to all seven kingdoms.

It was decided that an army made up of nobles, levies, and dragonriders from throughout the King's realm would be sent to bring the Ironborn to heel, which all made good sense to Hobert. What surprised him was what Lord Corlys Velaryon had suggested next. "In my capacity as King's Hand," the aged Lord began, "I will extend a nomination for the proposed leader of this army. This leader must needs be a man proven capable of leading soldiers, and keeping unity amongst their lords. He must needs be a man experienced in the fell craft of war, but firm in his magnanimity."

Lord Corlys paused a moment before continuing. "It is for this reason that I offer the leadership of this army to Ser Hobert Hightower, that he might lead it to victory, and pacify the perfidious Iron Isles."

All eyes within the hall were once more on Hobert. His initial feelings were those of surprise, and an all-too-familiar fear. Why? By all the Gods, why? Will I find peace only in death?

After his initial panic, however, Hobert more seriously pondered Lord Velaryon's offer. If I am leader of this army, I can bring justice, true justice, to the godless savages of the Iron Isles. I can free the children of the Seven in the Westerlands from their depravity and depredations. Hobert closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. This is it. My second chance. The reason the Seven have seen fit to allow me to survive so much, when nearly all others perished.

Hobert opened his eyes, and looked to Lord Velaryon. "My Lord Hand," Hobert began firmly, "I accept."

Gaemon

In the morning hours, Sunfyre the Golden had departed the Red Keep, bringing an end to its silent lethargy. Flying out over the Blackwater Bay, it disappeared into the winter gray sky, the clouds masking its movements. While the Usurper's dragon had left many concerned with its sudden exit, many more were invested in the ongoing announcement of the King's Regency. Lord Corlys Velaryon had presided over the appointment of its members with a calculated urgency, ensuring that each of its members would serve the new King with skill and loyalty. Gaemon had watched each appointment with interest. Those chosen were ultimately unsurprising. Drawn nearly exclusively from the Queen's former supporters, it was clear to many that the Hightower Hand's abdication had destroyed any chances for the Usurper's men to remain in power. Sers Elmo Tully and Torrhen Manderly had been the first appointed, both for their service to the cause and their proven ability as men possessing calculating minds.

Many had immediately assumed Lord Manderly's appointment to be a conciliatory gesture to Lord Stark, but it had likely fallen on deaf ears, as the Lord Paramount of the North had departed with the majority of his lords and retinue a few days previously. Lord Cregan's departure had been as wrathful and silent as his presence during the negotiations. For Lord Stark, all treasonous paths should have one destination: the headsman's block. His inability to purge King's Landing of those he deemed unworthy of peace had driven him away, and he left accompanied by the same howling winter winds that had heralded his coming.

After further deliberation, Lady Jeyne Arryn was offered a seat, and she accepted it with all the grace Gaemon had come to expect from her, hiding the coughs that still wracked her body from beneath a kerchief, accompanied by Lady Jessamyn. Afterwards, Lords Manfryd Mooton and Thaddeus Rowan had been offered seats of their own, both for their reputations as seasoned lords and the respect of their peers. Of the final two seats, one had been granted to Grand Maester Orwyle and Ser Tyland Lannister. Many had resisted their appointments, but there is little precedent for toppling a Grand Maester. Gaemon frowned. As for the Lannisters… they are still locked in a deathly struggle with our erstwhile allies. He had paid little attention to news of the War in the West in the past; the Ironborn had only recently become the focus of the Crown now that they remained the only wound of the war that refused to be bound.

Under Ser Hobert Hightower's ostensible leadership, an army was assembling in order to bring the Iron Isles to heel. Northmen, Rivermen, Valemen, and Reachman all intermingled, expecting titles and rewards for their service. Ser Alan Waxley and Ser Maric Massey had already announced their intentions to join the host, which was expected to depart soon in order to rendezvous with Ser Erwin Lannister's forces, which had succeeded in driving the 'squids' from the mainland. All that remains is to liberate Fair Isle and from thence subjugate the Isles. To that end, Lord Gilbert Redwyne had pledged his fleet to the cause, with Lord Lyonel Hightower following suit. Lord Gilbert was to join Ser Leo Costayne, the Hightowers' admiral, en route to Fair Isle. All that remained was to appoint dragonriders to join the expedition to ensure its success.

It was under these circumstances Gaemon found himself kneeling beneath the Iron Throne, accompanied by the last of the Seeds. Addam Velaryon, clad in silver and sea-green was to his left, newly shaven and cleansed for court life. To Gaemon's left was Maegor, looming even without his armor, bedecked in clothing similar to what they had worn during Prince Joffrey's celebratory feast so long ago. His friend might have bathed, but the rigors and scars of the campaign still made themselves plain upon his features. Gaemon himself had made himself presentable, grooming his beard and quietly asking a servant to assist him in braiding his long hair into the fashion that he had seen the Rogue Prince once wear. He had forgone Dark Sister and his own colors for the time being, deciding that now was not the time and place to boldly proclaim his supposed paternity.

Completing their number and kneeling apart from the rest was Ser Malentine. While bearing the valyrian features Gaemon had come to associate with the Velaryons, the rider of Silverwing was an enigma to Gaemon. We have not spoken, and I doubt we would have even if he still possessed his tongue. Rumors abounded that the knight kept to himself, assiduously avoiding Lord Corlys or his servants. Servants spoke of his brothers, slain during the course of the war, and his friends, who died so that he might master a dragon. With the death of the Usurper, Ser Malentine finds himself without allies in the midst of his former enemies. Gaemon wondered if he had already been approached by any former Greens. Internally he chided himself. It is not a question of whether it has occurred, but of how many have tried so far. In many ways, Gaemon suspected that Malentine's lack of obvious loyalties made him all the more appealing to powerful Houses with daughters of marriageable age. To command the loyalties of a dragonrider would be a powerful temptation… even to his former foes. Gaemon eyed the sea of lordly visages behind him. How many have daughters at home, and lands aplenty to grant as dowries? He felt their eyes upon him as well. They watched every Seed with a barely concealed interest.

Gaemon shifted, resting his eyes upon the Iron Throne itself. The King sat quietly high above, with Lord Velaryon seated halfway up its steps. In a semicircle before the dais seven ornately carved chairs had been placed, and each held a member of the Regency. With the Ironborn threat becoming more pressing, the time had come to address the Seeds that remained. Was I correct before, that we have become liabilities? Or was I blinded by my fears of betrayal?
Lord Corlys stood, a chain of golden hands coldly interlinked about his neck. Smiling, he motioned for the four dragonriders to rise. Two Velaryons, two… unspoken for.

Eyeing them each with eyes that masked intent, the Lord of the Tides descended the throne. A page met him at the end of its stairs, handing him a pouch. Approaching them, the Lord of Driftmark finally spoke.

"How does one properly address heroes? How does one approach men who mastered beasts of terror and of legend, men who served faithfully despite all the power and temptations at their fingertips?" He paused, his eyes resting the longest upon his grandson. "Never in the history of the Iron Throne has it had servants such as you. The road ahead is unprecedented, and the Crown has every desire to honor those whose loyalties have never wavered… even if they were misplaced." His eyes fell upon Ser Malentine as he uttered those last words, and the last Green dragonrider refused to meet them.

Unlacing the satchel in his hands, Lord Corlys withdrew four medallions crafted of red gold. Each was imprinted with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its flames illustrated with a spray of rubies. With a calculated grace, he placed a medallion about the shoulders of each man. The metal weighed heavily upon Gaemon's shoulders, and was cold to the touch. At the conclusion of the short ceremony, Corlys motioned for each man to kneel once again.

"Once, I knighted each of you for your valor after the Gullet. Now I have the honor of granting each of you the title of Constable of the Realm. Each of you will be expected to maintain the King's Peace anywhere and everywhere within Westeros that you travel. You will have no earthly superior except for the King, and will be amongst the most honored of his servants. The Crown will be responsible for any expenses you accrue. Henceforth, you shall bear this honor for life."

Grand Maester Orwyle rose, bearing two scrolls sealed with the Royal signet. One was handed to Maegor, and afterwards Gaemon found himself accepting the second. The regent then spoke.

"As your previous lands within Driftmark have been deemed an unworthy recompense for your leal service, the Crown has granted you both extensive lands along the Blackwater Rush. Henceforth, the lands flanked by the Blackwater and the Godsrill shall be divided between you both, and you shall be elevated to the status of Lord. While no seats yet exist within these lands, you shall be granted the privilege to gather rents from the villages that fall within your patrimony, as well as to collect dues from the Gold Road, in order to pay for its maintenance and your personal expenses. The crown grants you the right to take a name and arms for yourself, as befits you each as Lords. Your choice of heraldry shall be recorded in the Annals of the Citadel itself, so that you and your progeny will be forever recognized as full-members of the storied and ancient nobility of Westeros."

As the Grand Maester spoke, Gaemon noticed how the Hand nodded along, clearly pleased with the verdict that he had likely devised himself. Gaemon struggled to recall the exact location or size of the lands granted, but he assumed that they had previously been largely unoccupied. They've likely been untended for centuries, having existed in the borderlands of the Kingdoms before the Conquest. His eyes narrowed. Tis a grand reward indeed, until one examines the specifics. How will we ever muster the gold to construct seats for ourselves? Our smallfolk, if they even live, will be starving and destitute. Tolls upon the Gold Road can only pay for so much, and traffic will be sparse for years to come with the rampant banditry. He gazed upon the Seahorse woven upon Lord Corlys' chest. It will be far cheaper to ship goods, rather than to trust the roads. He could feel the flames of rage beginning to burn within his chest as he pondered the future. But as he grew wroth, an errant memory of Lysene promises rose, unbidden. There is gold aplenty in Essos. Dragons would be worth their weight in gold in the Disputed Lands and amongst the Stepstones. A plan began to form in the recesses of his he mused, he fixated on one final detail. Gold can wait for the time being. A promise made in Maidenpool must first be kept.

Realizing he needed to rise, Gaemon stood, making sure to nod in a properly grateful manner. The Lord of Driftmark's eyes were upon him, studying him closely. Gaemon smiled at him.

"I believe I can speak for both my honored friend and myself when I assure you that the Crown and its Hand have our heartfelt thanks. These rewards are far more than we could have ever hoped to achieve."

Seemingly placated, the Hand smiled back. "Loyalty must always be appropriately rewarded."

Raising his voice, Lord Corlys spoke once more for all to hear. "There yet remains the matter of assignments for our newly appointed Constables."

Glancing at the regents behind him, Corlys turned to Ser Addam first. "My treasured grandson, the King has requested that you attend him in court, in order to ensure the safety of the capital." Turning to Ser Malentine, he regarded his kin quietly for a moment before continuing. "Good Ser… and kinsman, the King and his regents have every reason to trust that you are a man of conviction and honor. We have deemed it prudent to ask that you, too, attend his Royal Person, that you might demonstrate these qualities to us firsthand, that we might properly reward you."

Gaemon was unsurprised that when Lord Corlys turned to address him and Maegor that he did so by speaking to them in unison. "My Lords and Constables, the Crown has further need of you. In the West, Lady Lannister begs for the aid of dragons, that she might cross the Sunset Sea and liberate Fair Isle. The King's regents and I have deemed her need sufficient, and ask that you depart with all haste to assist her."

Gaemon gazed at his friend, but found him unreadable. He wished to accompany him into battle, as he had before, but he knew that he had a separate path to take. My promise can wait no longer. I will no longer suffer the absence of our dear friend and companion. Things must be made right between her and the Crown.

Drawing himself to his full height, he spoke. "My Lord Hand, with Lord Maegor's leave I beg leave to fly for Maidenpool, and from thence across the Bay of Crabs. Our Queen once counted four loyal Seeds amongst her servants, and I mean to find the one that has been lost to us. She committed no crime, I am sure of it. Her exile must be brought to an end."

A rolling wave of whispers consumed the hall. Corlys eyed him coldly, and the regents behind him spoke amongst themselves. The Hand drew in a breath, and Gaemon could see the rebuttal and refusal in his eyes. Before he could speak, however, a regent rose behind him.

"My Lord Hand, the Lord Constable speaks truly. I sheltered Lady Nettles under my own roof, and she ate of my own bread and salt. The girl committed no betrayal. The charges laid against her by the Qu-Princess Rhaenyra were unfounded, either via calumny or vile sorcery I know not." The old Lord gazed at the regents seated about him. "Let us rectify this wrong. Let us offer an open hand to this girl, wherever she may be."

As Lord Mooton seated himself, Lord Corlys gazed at the regents assembled behind him. Wordlessly, he turned. "There is wisdom in your proposal, Lord Constable. I hereby grant your request. Go, and find this wayward girl and bring her back to serve the Iron Throne."

Gaemon nodded, his relief palpable. "I will, with all haste my Lor-"

Lord Corlys raised a firm hand, silencing his words. "Lord Constable, her dragon is one of the largest still living, and a volatile creature at that. If the girl refuses to return, her dragon must be put down for the good of the realm. I will only allow you to depart if you swear before your King and the Lords of the Realm that you will either see her returned or rendered harmless, depending on her loyalties."

An icy hand grasped Gaemon's heart. He wished to respond, to decry Lord Velaryon's words as folly, but knew it would do no good.

"I so swear it."

Corlys nodded, his features as hard as stone. "So be it. Find the girl Nettles, Lord Gaemon. Find her and see justice done."

Gaemon heard his words, but his eyes sought out another. He found Baela standing in the gallery to the right of the throne, alongside the Lady Rhaena and Prince Viserys, with Morning and Terrax coiled about one another and slumbering between them. Baela met his gaze, and he knew he had made the right choice. He resisted the urge to grin as she mouthed: good luck.

Baela

The Tower of the Hand had a surprisingly comfortable audience chamber. Baela had expected it to possess all of the trappings of power with little of the intimacy of a living space. She was pleased to be incorrect. Myrish rugs, tapestries woven in Oldtown and a round golden window helped to bring a comforting warmth to the cold stone even in the dead of winter. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that they were seated within High Tide's solar. Instead, she found herself seated amongst some of House Velaryon's most esteemed members, watching a fire burn in the hearth. Given the importance of the occasion, she had decided to dress diplomatically, wearing a dress woven from black velvet with a mantle of samite emblazoned with the dragons of her house. Rhaena had dressed similarly. Years ago, we might have even attempted to confuse the others and pretend to be one another. Instead, Baela found herself with only the downy beginnings of her silver hair, whilst Rhaena still sported the long tresses she had always favored. The Usurper's brand was also an unfortunate setback for my career as a mummer, Baela mused.

She drummed her fingers on the lacquered wood of the great table at which they were all seated, growing impatient. Baela knew that it wasn't her Grandsire's tardiness which vexed her; her anxiety regarding her upcoming request had been gnawing at her since she had first resolved to ask for it. There has never been a better opportunity to prove myself. She steeled herself as the door opened and her grandsire entered.

Addam and Alyn, seated at the table, stood immediately to acknowledge his presence, while Baela rose alongside her sister in order to curtsy. Smiling, the Lord of the Tides bid them all sit. Taking his place at the head of the table, Corlys motioned for one of his knights to close the door and maintain a vigilant watch. Inhaling deeply, his eyes twinkled as he spoke.

"I apologize for my delay. The meeting of the regents was extended on account of Lady Arryn's absence. I have been most eager to speak to you all, as I wish to ensure that House Velaryon enters the one hundred and thirty-second year after Aegon's conquest with a singularity of purpose."

Grandfather always did see us as Velaryons. She watched as Addam and Alyn sat straighter in their chairs, still coming to terms with their newfound status. The younger brother adopted a wry grin.

"As I see it, the odds have never been more in our favor, grandfather. When I last departed Driftmark, our warehouses were overflowing with the wares of merchants from Braavos to Qarth. The blockade was a wonderful inducement for them to trade with House Velaryon exclusively. If the Daughters continue to tear one another's throats out, we ought to have a near monopoly on the importation of spice, silk, and other fineries for the next several years. Even the Lannisters could not dream of such wealth!"

Addam frowned, clearly uncomfortable with talk of near-extortion. Baela saw her grandsire take note, and he placed a sun-kissed hand upon his shoulder.

"Such measures were necessary in wartime, my boy. While you fought for the Queen atop dragonback, I bid your brother to maintain the blockade as per Rhaenyra's orders. We simply could not allow the Usurper to have access to foreign trade or loans."

Addam nodded. "I understand the necessity of it, but I mislike the profits to be made from war. We have enriched ourselves at the expense of others' suffering."

Corlys' eyes darkened. "Has House Velaryon not lost enough for your liking? Your grandmother was taken from us at Rook's Rest, and your half-brothers were slain most cruelly by the Usurper and his servants. We lost nearly a quarter of our warfleet at the Gullet, and have only begun to place orders for replacements. House Velaryon has bled for this victory."

Addam met his grandsire's stare, still clearly torn, but eventually nodded. Baela frowned. Jace would have despised these methods as well, but he would not have disputed their wisdom.

Alyn watched his brother, his affection written clearly upon his face. "Had the Sheepstealer decided against trying to devour me, I might've ridden to war with you, brother. Instead, I had to fight my own way, and serve our House as best as I could."

Addam grasped his brother by the hand across the table. "I would never attempt to sully your actions, Alyn. I have only ever heard praise concerning your valor. Mother would be proud of the seafarer you have become."

Alyn grinned widely at his brother's praise. "Not bad for a Mouse, eh?"

Addam smiled wryly. "Not bad at all."

Smiling at their display of sibling affection, Baela smiled at Rhaena. Her sister was busy fussing over Morning, as the hatchling was wriggling in her grasp and attempting to snatch a sliver of meat from a silvered tray that sat atop the table.

Baela decided it was time for her to enter the fray. "Aside from our monetary stability, what else did you wish to discuss, grandfather?"

Corlys eyed her with a raised silver eyebrow. "Impatient, granddaughter?"

Shaking her head, she responded. "I am simply curious. If there is one certainty about you, you are never content to rest upon your victories."

Corlys chuckled, his melancholy that had risen with his mention of the death of his wife dissipating. "True enough, I suppose." Lacing his fingers together, he rested his arms atop the table. "As my dear Alyn has so correctly summarized, the goods seized during the blockade have ensured that we shall not lack for wealth. But wealth has always been a means to an end. Before Laenor and Laena, House Velaryon was limited in its potential. For centuries, we have made the sea our home. Now, I feel it is the sky that beckons us. Our potential with dragons is limitless. We are the greatest House behind the throne, and our loyalty has ensured the Crown's gratefulness for good and all." He eyed the four arrayed before him. "Each of you have your own skills, and your own ambitions. As your grandsire, I mean to fulfill each to the best of my ability, whilst still ensuring the power of our family. With the end of the war, we must needs look to our next steps." He gazed at Addam. "Soon you will be Lord of the Tides. To be a great lord, one must receive good counsel and possess great intuition. I can grant you the former, but the latter you must find on your own." His face grew serious. "What, pray tell, are the key threats facing House Velaryon?"

Addam closed his eyes, his head resting on his chin, clearly deep in thought. "Ser Malentine Velaryon cannot be allowed to remain unaccounted for. His loyalties are suspect. He must be reconciled with us." The boy from Hull opened his eyes. "As my brother said, the Three Daughters are tearing themselves to pieces. Raiding on Westerosi shipping has commenced, and our sailors are enslaved in greater numbers by the day in order to man the oars of war galleys. We must put an end to this travesty, for the good of the realm." He looked at Baela, eyeing her brand. "Our enemies may have escaped punishment, but under no circumstances can they be allowed to maintain any influence in court. Justifications must be found to send them to their seats, far away from where power is wielded. Favor must be heaped upon the faithful, that we might prevent future wars."

Baela nodded, finding herself in agreement with her cousin on all counts. She saw that Alyn had been nodding along, clearly enthusiastic about his brother's views. She was puzzled to see that her grandsire was only watching Addam intently, and had not yet spoken in affirmation. Finally, he responded.

"I agree with you on one count- Ser Malentine must be brought back into the fold. Even now, our former allies and enemies alike circle about him like carrion crows, eager to snatch him up for their own devices. We must needs find a way to welcome him back into the family." Corlys frowned. "My grandnephews Daeron and Daemion have proven amenable to reconciliation, despite the injustices heaped upon their father" -Baela could not help but notice the furtive glance that he cast at her and Rhaena as he spoke those words- "but Ser Malentine has proven far more intractable. The loss of his tongue, alongside that of four brothers, has made him cling to vengeance like a drowning sailor grasps a sinking ship. If we are to make amends, we will need to offer something truly tremendous to show our desires to be genuine."

Baela raised an eyebrow. "Surely you do not intend to offer him gold? That would akin to offering a weregild!"

Corlys shook his head strongly. "No, nothing so crass. I mean to offer him far more than an open hand. I intend to make him an integral part of House Velaryon's new found glory! We remain kin, even after all the ill that has transpired between us!"

Rhaena stroked her hatchling's head. "Do tell, grandfather. This is not a game of cyvasse. I am most curious about your plans."

Corlys smiled, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze. "In due time, my dear. I trust you all implicitly, but I fear that eyes and ears are never far from the Hand's chambers. If this plan of mine is to bear fruit, none may know of it until I am certain it will work."

Addam crossed his arms, looking pensive. "You said you disagreed with two of my verdicts, grandfather. What conclusions did I draw incorrectly?"

The old Hand laughed. "There was nothing incorrect about them, lad. I've simply lived too long to have as dashing of a heart as you still possess." He steepled his fingers. "I have tangled with the Triarchy before, as you all know. Attacking them now, with or without dragons, would only serve to cause them to put aside their petty quarrels and unite against the outside interlopers. It is best that we allow them to exhaust one another, and simply stay out of their needless bloodletting. Our own stores of goods, alongside the merchants of Pentos, Braavos, and Lorath, will have to suffice to satisfy the desires of the lords and ladies of the realm. If they need pepper as badly as they claim, they'll simply have to pay more than they'd normally wish to."

Addam looked as though he had been struck. "Grandfather, the Triarchy are enslaving the Realm's own people!"

Corlys sighed. "As they have for centuries, and as they will continue to do so. Westeros lacks the means to stop them entirely. The Crown's incomes are considerable, but port tolls and the Royal Demesne are not sufficient to fund a fleet large enough to rival that of the Free Cities. Besides, the inland lords would never consent to being taxed for it. Even Jaehaerys the Wise was only able to slightly raise taxes on luxury imports under Rego Draz. And I have no desire to meet the same end as the Lord of Air. It is neither politically nor economically expedient to launch a punitive expedition against the remnants of the Triarchy. If we are to involve ourselves in the slightest, it will need to be under the guise of diplomacy."

Baela hated to admit it, but her Grandfather's words carried a brutal logic to them. She tried not to think about the peoples of Westeros languishing in chains as she pondered them, however.

Her grandfather then addressed Addam's third point. "While I personally would have loved to hand over the Usurper's dogs to Lord Cregan and his monstrous blade, exiling them entirely from the capital will only foster further disloyalty. Even now they whisper of a 'Black Regency' whose only Green representatives are a coward and a cripple. We must needs find ways to assuage their rage, in order to prevent them from simply planning another rebellion. House Targaryen cannot endure any more losses. It has been reduced to nearly the same number as it stood in the days of the Conqueror. It has more dragons, but lacks individuals to ride them. House Velaryon must remain its guarantor until it has been given the time it needs to rebuild itself. Binding the wounds of the realm will go a long way in rebuilding its stability, and that will require us to work with the former servants of the Usurper. I have no intentions of working with some of the most unsavory members of that lot, but compromises will need to be made."

Baela straightened in her chair. "Grandfather, you know as well as I that our former enemies are proving troublesome. Lord Borros has only dismissed his levied peasantry from the capital. Hundreds of Stormlander knights remain within King's Landing! No other lord possesses so many swords!"

Corlys nodded. "Lord Borros blusters. He believes I prevented him from sitting upon the Regency Council, when in fact I had advocated in favor of it!" He shook his head. "The King himself forbade it. He refused to allow one his brother's murderers to grasp the reins of power." Her grandfather suddenly looked very tired. "I have a few ideas about how to reconcile Lord Borros, but only time will tell if they will prove effective." Leaning back in his chair, he gazed at each of them. "Alyn, dear boy, would you mind escorting your cousin Rhaena to her chambers? I have one final matter to discuss with your brother and Baela."

Baela's stomach clenched. So here it is. She placed her hands in her lap, clasping them together so as to not fidget. Rhaena eyed her with a look of support, before gracefully taking Alyn's hand and allowing him to guide her from the chamber. For a moment, the three remaining occupants of the room sat in silence. Finally, her grandsire spoke.

"Baela, I have not been entirely subtle in my desire to see you wed Addam. I was initially surprised at your seeming recalcitrance, as before him you had been betrothed to Jaecaerys. Persons of our status rarely choose our spouses; we marry not for ourselves but for our families. I have spoken at length with Addam about this, and he assures me that he will do everything in his power to provide you with a loving marriage and a happy household. He loves you for who you are, not who others would expect you to be. I cannot think of many matches that could offer such prospects." He sighed. "When your uncle and mother died, your grandmother and I thought that our bid to see House Velaryon to greatness had died with them. She never knew Laenor had sired other sons, sons who could carry on the Velaryon mantle. Rhaenys and I believed that it was essential that you and your sister marry your cousins so as to ensure House Velaryon remained unchallenged as the second house of the realm. Now, I believe it is imperative that you bind your claims and dragon to those of Addam to ensure that the foundations of our house remain strong."

Baela bit her lip in order to prevent a retort. Grandmother was a Targaryen! She cared for House Velaryon, but she wanted nuncle Laenor to sit the Iron Throne! If he had been crowned, he would have been a Velaryon no longer. Your ambitions were never so intertwined. She sighed. She was not entirely unsympathetic to her grandfather's perspective. Politically, a match between Addam and I makes complete sense. She hated being thought of as the fool girl she knew others thought her to be. They think me willful, stubborn, and stupid. An Aerea or Saera come again. Running off with Gaemon, regardless of its appeal, would only prove them right. Her fists clenched. But do I care? What does a dragon care for the opinions of lords? She needed to get away, to have time to think. She had feared her grandfather would move quickly with this matter.

"Grandfather, I know you have grown wroth with me." Turning to Addam, she took him by the hand, and looked into his eyes as she spoke. "I am truly sorry if I have caused you pain." She took a deep breath. Turning to the head of her mother's House, she spoke. "These past few months, I have desperately wished to prove myself as a daughter of my House. I was never permitted to fight in the war that took the lives of my betrothed, my father, and my grandmother. I wish to do so now. Lord Gaemon has left for the Vale, and I fear for Lord Maegor, left to face the Ironborn alone. Allow me to fly with him, to aid the Lady of the Rock in her struggles. Let me live as grandmother did, and I swear I will be eternally indebted to you."

She watched with grim acceptance as the 'no' began to form on her grandfather's lips, only to blink in surprise when Addam spoke first.

"Baela, I absolutely consent to your wishes. It is only natural that you wish to fight as Visenya and Rhaenys did before you." He glanced at his grandfather, eyes allowing for no argument. "When you return a hero, we will talk of marriage again."

Baela could not believe her ears. She glanced at her grandfather, but was stunned to see that he was making no motion to refute Addam. A grin began to split her features. Standing, she rushed around the table, embracing a surprised Addam and a thoroughly annoyed Corlys. Thanking them each profusely, she rushed into the hall, intent to prepare. The Seeds are departing tomorrow. I must needs be ready to join them. As she left, she could not possibly have seen the look of utter bewilderment that the grandfather gave his smiling grandson.

Gyles

The Seeds and the Lady Baela had departed in the early afternoon, when the sun sat at its zenith. A large majority of the court had made the journey across the city in order to see them off in a ceremony at the Dragonpit. Gyles had been pleased that he had felt barely any pain in his left wrist as he had clutched the reins of Evenfall during the journey. His wounds taken on the road to Maidenpool were nearly completely mended. Every morn, Gyles went to the yard to train, at first doing naught more than firing his bow at targets, but in due time he had begun sparring against opponents with training sword and shield as well.

At the ceremony's end, the Seeds and the Lady Baela were allowed several minutes to speak with members of the audience before they departed. Gyles had approached the young Lord as he watched his small grey dragon being outfitted with its saddle. "Tired of the city already?" Gyles had asked with a grin.

Lord Maegor had turned to regard him, smiling when he recognized Gyles' face. "Mayhaps it is not becoming of a Lord, but I find myself yearning for the quiet of the open countryside more and more each day."

Gyles nodded. "With luck, you will have such an opportunity, and soon." He then grinned wryly. "I fear to imagine what sort of saddle sores one might suffer from traveling on dragonback."

Lord Maegor chuckled. "I have been fortunate as of yet, I suppose." Looking about himself, the young Lord realized that it was nearly time to depart. "Will you still be in the capital upon my return, Ser? I seem to remember that you told me of your indebtedness to my person after I introduced you into the Queen's court." Maegor smiled. "I'll consider that debt paid when you buy a round of drinks for the both of us."

Gyles grinned back at him. "Only the Gods know where my path will lead me now, my Lord. But I promise you this. The next time we meet, the ale will flow freely!"

Lord Maegor shook his hand firmly. "It's a deal, then." Though the mirth remained in his features, the young dragonrider's tone was full of sincerity as he continued to speak: "I wish you the best of fortune in your endeavors, Ser Gyles Yronwood. May your journeys be free of hardships, and may your destinations be all that you expect, and more." Giving Gyles a final smile, Lord Maegor then turned to walk in the direction of Lord Gaemon.

The day had proven to be full of farewells. Though many Lords and knights intended to remain in the King's city as guests in his court, even more prepared to depart for their seats with the departure of the dragonriders, or as part of Ser Hobert Hightower's relief army. The latter was on Gyles' mind as he sat down in a tavern near the top of the hill of Rhaenys, one of a very few of its kind to survive the riots that had so recently torn the city asunder. I am in need of new work. It will be honorable work, driving godless fiends from their ill-gotten possessions. Gyles sighed. Practical as well. Whether or not I wish to continue pursuing my goals as Ser Jarmen hoped I would, the fact remains that I am in desperate need of coin.

"Why the long face, Ser?" a sudden voice boomed to his left. Gyles smiled at the sound of it, before turning to regard its source. Ser Horton Cave stood before him, wearing a shirt of mail, and beneath it, simple yet colorful and skillfully crafted accouterments made in the hardy style that was favored by Clawmen. Miraculously, his beard seemed as though it had actually been groomed.

Gyles smiled at Ser Horton. "It is of no matter, Ser. Nothing that will not be ameliorated by good ale and food."

Eyes twinkling with mirth, the large Clawman nodded enthusiastically as he took the chair next to Gyles at the table in the center of the inn's common room. Ser Horton then bellowed friendly greetings to the table's other two occupants.

Joss Oat, a newly-made serjeant in the Red Keep's garrison, grinned at Ser Horton's greeting, before giving a cordial response in kind. Tristifer of Oldstones nodded at the greeting, and a small smile graced his features.

As the night went on, the four of them ate plenty, and drank even more. Many a toast was made to the health of the new King, and for the prosperity of his Realm. Their table drew many eyes and friendly visitors, due to the recent emergence of a tale of heroism and honor in the face of great adversity, that had proven a great favorite of the bards and formerly Black Lords. Entitled The Queen's Twenty, each song about the intrepid group tried in its own way to chronicle their deeds as they fought their way north, then south again, ever faithful to their fallen Queen and her people. Though we counted more than twenty amongst our ranks, such a number would not make for as memorable of a title.

As the night grew late, the four had their tankards filled one final time. Deciding to lead the toast, Gyles lifted his tankard into the air first, before speaking. "To Ser Jarmen Follard! Though he cannot share in our toast, he will forevermore share in our triumph!"

Gyles' companions eagerly responded with calls of "To Ser Jarmen!", before quaffing their own tankards of ale. The conversation then turned to what plans and intentions lay in each of their immediate futures. For Joss Oat, he was to continue on as a serjeant in the Red Keep's garrison, having received a promotion, increase in pay, and fine new set of footman's armor as thanks for his leal service. For Ser Horton, the road led to Crackclaw Point, where his seat and family awaited him.

To everyone else's surprise, Tristifer of Oldstones told them all that his own path led home as well. "With the victory over the bandits," Tristifer said with a sad smile, "I realized a great truth. I realized that hope wasn't a lie for fools to cling to, but somethin' real, and wonderful." He sighed, but his expression remained full of a quiet resolve. "I must needs return home to my village, and tell them what became of their menfolk. They all deserve to know."

Tristifer clutched his tankard in a tight grip. "Twould not be proper, to leave them in grief, waitin' and hopin' a lifetime for word of their loved ones, never to get it." Tristifer paused, his eyes welling with tears, but he smiled fiercely. "I will tell them all the truth. That each and every man and boy who left our village for war died honorably. Whether they died in the field of battle or on the long and winding road, they kept faith with those of us who remained, through every toil and hardship."

Tears ran freely down his cheeks as Tristifer raised his tankard in a toast. "Heroes, all of them," he whispered, his voice full of fervent conviction.

Gyles, Joss, and Ser Horton lifted their tankards into the air, and spoke with a quiet reverence. "Heroes, all."

The delegation from Dorne had been granted respectable apartments within the Red Keep, not far from the castle's godswood. Each set of personal chambers was linked to a central, well-furnished common room, with a small set of carved stone steps in its corner leading below to a small set of cells in which servants and guards could sleep.

Upon receiving a message of assent to his initial inquiry of a meeting with the Prince Qyle, Gyles had made his way to the delegation's apartments, after two spearmen bearing the sun and spear of Martell on their light leather jerkins waved him through. Upon entering, Gyles saw the young Prince seated behind a large polished mahogany desk. It appears that this will not be a private meeting. Several other Dornish nobles of the delegation were standing within the common room as well, watching Gyles' approach with a wide range of expressions. Interest, reservation, and even anger.

Upon initial observation, Gyles saw a comforting multitude of familiar sigils that he'd never thought to behold again. The sword and shooting star of Dayne, the quill of Jordayne, the scorpions of Qorgyle. The black adder of Wyl. Fuck. Gyles had not realized that a member of that family was accompanying the delegation. This will be even more difficult than I'd already feared.

Gyles knelt before the seated Prince, bowing his head in deference. "My Prince," he began courteously, "my sincere thanks for accepting my request for a meeting."

A dark snort of derision followed his words, from the knight of Wyl. His black hair formed a sharp widow's peak, and his dark eyes glared coldly at Gyles. After a moment, Gyles recognized the man as the second eldest son of Lord Wyland, and one of the elder brothers of the man Gyles had slain. "Your Prince?" the Wyl chuckled coldly. "From what we've heard, you've been doing lots of kneeling and swearing as of late. Don't you have some dragons to be tending to, traitor?"

The Prince cleared his throat loudly, and glared at the Wyl. "That's quite enough, Ser Yorick. You will comport yourself in a proper manner, or you will leave this meeting."

Ser Yorick Wyl sneered coldly at the young Prince for a moment, but said no more. After a moment, he nodded in silent acquiescence, and stepped back against the wall of the chamber.

Prince Qyle turned back to carefully regard Gyles. "Though Ser Yorick has spoken out of turn, I too wonder at the purpose of your visit, as do the rest of the members of this delegation. Have you not sworn fealty to the Targaryen family? What interest should you harbor for your former countrymen?"

This is likely to be my only opportunity for this course of action. I will not waste time, nor mince words. "I will speak plainly of my intentions, my Prince, for I do not wish to waste the time of yourself, or any of the members of this delegation. I was exiled from Dorne on the charge of murder, on the order of Lord Wyland Wyl, and Lord Alaric Yronwood, mine own kin. I wish to travel back to Sunspear with your delegation and appeal this verdict with your father, the Prince Qoren."

For a long moment, the room was completely silent. Two noblewomen exchanged a look, and the Qorgyle began to whisper into the Prince Qyle's ear. Ser Yorick Wyl's face blanched, before quickly turning red with rage. "You dare," the knight of Wyl hissed. Gyles turned his head to fully regard Ser Yorick, and he returned a stare of his own. Unlike Ser Yorick's, it contained no vitriol. But it also contained no fear. I have seen and survived too much to be cowed by venomous bluster. There are no snake pits nearby in which he could try to toss me. Let him seethe.

Gyles knew that his request was not one to be taken lightly. His exile was the result of a verdict that had been reached by two powerful Dornish lords. To appeal to the Prince Qoren would be to call both Lords' judgment into question, and risk offending them. Gyles had made a name for himself, but had done so beneath the banner of House Martell's, nay, Dorne's greatest rival, the Targaryens. The Prince Qyle had little and less reason to accept Gyles' appeal, a truth that Gyles was confident they both knew.

And yet, I must ask all the same. The moment he had been exiled, Gyles had given up any hope of ever returning to the land of his birth. He had ridden north from the Boneway, focusing on the road ahead and his ambitions, rather than the grief that had gnawed at his heart. Forsaken by my own kin. Lord Alaric valued an alliance more than my life, and washed his hands of me. Gyles had come to accept that he would never see his parents again, nor the friends and kin he had grown up alongside.

That had all changed when Tristifer had told Gyles that he was returning home to his village. Tristifer knew that such an act would be supremely difficult, and painful. Yet he chose to do so all the same, because it was the right thing to do. Because he found hope again. The hope to believe that all the pain and tribulation he'll experience might allow him to make amends, and have a home once more. Gyles too, would take such a chance. If he was refused, so be it. But he would not allow such an opportunity to pass him by, and turn into a wellspring of endless regret.

The Prince finally nodded, and whispered back into the Qorgyle's ear. He then turned to regard Gyles. "Ser Gyles Yronwood," he began, "I will grant you your request. You will travel with our delegation to Sunspear, and have the opportunity to appeal your exile. But know this. It will not only be the actions before your exile that will be judged, but also those after you traveled north of the Red Mountains. This is no guarantee of amnesty. What I promise you, however, is that you will be heard and judged fairly. Do you accept these terms?"

Gyles' mind was reeling. Shock, hope, anticipation, and joy made for a potent mixture that seemed to flood through every part of his body. Ser Yorick Wyl's lips moved, but in his shock and rage, no words tumbled forth from them. Gyles blinked, then swallowed, collecting his wits. "My Prince," he said, voice thick with emotion, "I could not hope to ask for more. I accept your terms with utmost gratitude."

The Prince nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. "Alright then. I would advise you to get all of your affairs in order, Ser. We are not long for this city, and will be departing soon. You will be notified when the time of our departure approaches." Gyles mumbled his sincere thanks once more, before stiffly rising to his feet and departing.

The moment that he found himself in an empty corridor, he collapsed against the wall, and took in a shaking breath. There is no guarantee, no certainty. Despite himself, Gyles felt a smile spread across his face. But there is hope. Fleeting and fragile, and yet proves a salve for the deepest wounds. Gyles began to walk down the corridor, allowing himself to hope for home once more.

Veron

For as long as Veron could remember, the Great Keep of Pyke had smelled of sea salt and smoke. Its halls and alcoves bore the ashen grime of centuries, and the torches guttered in their sconces, fighting against the dampness that clung pervasively to the stone. From an early age, Veron had taken comfort in the smell of the sea, and in the scent of woodsmoke. The sea was the domain of the Drowned God, from which a plentiful bounty could be assured so long as one kept and respected his will. Fire, on the other hand, promised warmth, relief from the omnipresent chill that so defined the dank and dark halls of the Greyjoy seat.

A voice broke the silence, hoarse and ragged from raging all through the night. A voice of a man long dead, Veron mused. He knew at that moment that he walked the twilight between dream and memory, for despite the years, he had never forgotten his father's voice. Huddled in a cold niche, his past self shivered, longing for an end to the discomfort of his hiding spot. Small fists clenched in fear. Tis better to shiver than to meet the fist, buoyed on by wrath and smelling of ale and sweat. Lord Loron Greyjoy had been a cruel man in life, twisted by failure and jealousy and drink into a husk of a man. Reaving had claimed three fingers of his right hand and his left leg below the knee. A thumb and a finger could hold a chalice, but never a blade. A successful brother and unfaithful wife had done the rest. Lord Loron might have given his rock wife to the Drowned God, but he was never quite capable of drowning his shame. Veron had only lived a handful of namedays when they had taken his mother away, shortly after she had birthed his sister Morgana. A sweet child, whose first footsteps were haunted by whispers of bastardy.

As his father broke something in the distance, Veron clutched his knees to his chest, praying fervently that his father would tire, or better yet, pass out from the drink. He knew the truth, however. The drink alone could never sate father. He could only drown mother once, but he could punish her children forever. The night would not end until Loron Greyjoy found a victim. At times, Alannys or Asha would be chosen. But Lord Greyjoy found little solace in striking his daughters. They fell too quickly, sobbed too easily. Most nights, he searched for his sons. As they grew closer to manhood, their sire's wroth only increased. Veron was never certain what inspired his father's hate, but he had always assumed that they took after their mother in appearance. Or mayhaps it is simply because we have two legs and ten fingers apiece. Earlier that evening, Lord Loron had demanded a stew of bacon, onions, and halibut. The rich smells had almost tempted Veron to beg a bowl from the Kitchen Keep, but his father's cries for ale had sent him scurrying instead. He had hid himself away, wishing time to pass quickly. He had found the darkest nook he could find, hidden from the pitiless and revealing torchlight, and made himself as small as possible.

From within his unconscious state, he knew what was coming next. His father's voice rebounded down the halls, calling for his sons. Despite his best efforts, a shiver crept its way down his spine, mirroring the trembling of his former self. He whispered to himself just as he remembered, promising that this time, he would not cry out when struck. His senses, sharpened with the cold fixation of fear, heard the approaching footsteps clearly, unaffected by the usual haze of memory. As they approached Veron held his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. It was only as they drew within feet of his refuge that he realized that they were not the lurching and unsteady feet of a drunk. They were the measured and fearless steps of his brother. Dalton's face peered at him in the shadows. He spoke no words, but his eyes were kind. Veron reached for him, whispering for him to hide, but he knew then as he knew now that such encouragement was futile. Dalton shook his head, and without a word, left the niche.

For a moment, Veron listened as his brother marched down the hall. When he reached its end, he stopped, drew himself up to his full height, and shouted for his father. For a moment, it seemed as though Pyke itself had grown silent. The low roar of the sea dimmed, and the torches no longer hissed and snapped like snakes. Only the uncertain gait of a man in his cups could be heard. Veron cowered, but was unable to resist peering around the corner of his hiding place to watch his brother in awe. He will never back down from a foe, never. Dalton did not look back; he offered no indication that he knew his brother was present. His eyes were fixed firmly upon the lumbering form of their sire, his wooden leg rapping upon the cold stone floors as he heaved himself forward. Black hair streamed down from around Lord Loron's face as he approached his eldest son and heir, an engorged kraken dragging itself from the deep to meet a younger challenger. Taking a deep draft from his drinking horn, the foam of the ale flowed free down his jaw, running in rivulets down through the wild tangles of his unshaven beard. Pausing before his son, he watched him warily, eyeing him as if considering him a threat. Dalton, despite his age, was almost of a height with the ruin of a father, a man brought low by wounds within and without. Neither spoke, and the moment seemed to drag on for a century.

The silence broke as Dalton spoke: "you summoned me, father?" His words were as much an accusation as a query.

A left-handed hook caught him squarely in the jaw, sending him to his knees. Dalton spat on the floor, hate in his eyes. He stood, meeting his father's gaze once more unflinchingly. Another fist flew, this time from the right and missing fingers. The awkward slap caught him on the cheek, sending him reeling backwards. He did not lose his footing. He did not break his gaze. Lord Loron Greyjoy stared at his son with a mixture of disgust and loathing. At the time, Veron had not understood what else he had seen in his father's eyes. Years later, having sailed the seas of the world and killed many a man, Veron recogized his father's expression. It is the fear of a whipped dog, a broken lion in a menagerie. A predator that is no longer certain of itself.

Their sire raised his hand again, throwing himself into an attack whilst grunting with the effort. In his stupor, it was ill-placed. He caught Dalton with a glancing blow to the cheek, but placed too much of his unsteady bulk upon his wooden support. Lord Loron's leg caught in the ancient stones that lined Pyke's halls, and snapped. The Lord Reaver of Pyke fell, collapsing heavily upon the floor, ale flowing like blood from beneath his fallen drinking horn. Wheezing, he attempted to stand, but could only manage to drag himself to a sitting position. Lunging at his eldest son, he could only stare as Dalton looked upon him with a glance of barely concealed disgust. The heir of Pyke turned his back to his father and walked away.

Veron had scrambled to follow his brother, swearing to himself that he'd follow him to the ends of the earth. Neither of them would cast eyes upon their sire again.

The shutters of Faircastle whistled and shuddered as the winter gail assailed them. Veron awoke with a start, a half-finished bottle in his hand and his clothing still on, stinking of sweat. He cast his eyes towards his bed, only to remember groggily that Torgon would not be there. Too dangerous. Dalton's eyes and ears are everywhere. Instead, Elissa slept fitfully, holding Eleyna tightly against the wailing of the storm. Struck by the urgent need to make water, Veron left the chamber as gingerly as he could, head beginning to throb with the sort of ache that only reveals itself after an abundance of wine. While his chambers sported a chamber pot, he always felt queerly exposed making use of it before his wives. He usually sought one kept in a storeroom for the servants. Finding it, he listened to the storm rage as he relieved himself, and he wondered at how the fleet was faring. Those wooden hulls are the only bulwark we have left against the lions. The veritable mountains of wealth in the vaults below had proven useless. Myrish cloth and glass, Tyroshi dyes, Arbor wines, Dornish salt, and Westerlander gold were of little use to a battered and broken army. We cannot eat gold, and there are no swords to hire. He snorted. Even the most dimwitted of sell-swords would see us as a foolhardy prospect. Even now, the Lady of the Rock prowled and clawed at their defenses. Small sailing craft darted in and out of the straights off of Fair Isle, probing the strengths of the Ironborn's patrols. Larger craft, including a handful of war galleys, had been spotted in the deeper waters, maintaining a safe distance but slowly tightening the ever-present noose. We have been laid low, truly low, if the sight of Lighthouses and Grape Clusters cause us to scurry to safety. Since the twin defeats at Kayce and the Crag, Dalton had forbidden any captain from making landfall. Fair Isle's supply was tenuous, supported by a few fearless and enterprising captains that braved the sea to bring salted fish and hearty brown bread from Lordsport or Harlaw.

As he exited the servant's closet, Veron was brought to a halt by two great beasts of men. Lodrick and Rodrick were as akin in look as twins, but swore that they were born two years apart. Their arms were thicker than most men's thighs, and their skulls thicker still. Dalton had taken them into his service shortly after Kayce, in order to replace the veteraned reavers that had not returned to Fair Isle. Now, he was inseparable from them.

Lodrick nodded in a gruff acknowledgement of Veron's presence. Rodrick held up a great hand to stop him. "Lord Greyjoy demands your counsel, Lord… hmmm… Greyjoy." Lodrick grinned, pleased at his brother's quick thinking.

Veron nodded. "Will he mind me in my current state? I reek of ale and sweat."

Rodrick visibly sniffed. His great nose rising to take in Veron's vapors. "You will do. You smell no worse than many of the others." Lodrick guffawed before stopping and furrowing his brow, processing whether his reaction had been entirely appropriate.

Veron shrugged, acquiescing to his brother's request and allowing himself to fall in step with the two larger men. Striding through the winding halls of Fair Isle, he was struck by how empty and quiet it had become. When the castle had first been taken, there had been nary enough room to sleep, let alone make one's way through its halls unobstructed. Now, one could go unhindered. A great host of ten thousand, reduced to a handful of two, maybe three thousand? Where once hundreds of cooking fires had glowed in the fields beyond Faircastle's ramparts, now only scattered embers glowed. If the Lions are ever able to land a host upon these shores, we are doomed. We lack the ability to stop their heavy horse in the field, and if we hide within these walls we will starve. We should have sued for peace when given the chance. When he closed his eyes, he saw Pyke burning, a spear through Morgana, the screams of Alannys and Asha as they were set upon by knights with lions and boars upon their chests. Dalton will make that vision a reality, damn him. The entirety of the Iron Isles is fit for naught but to be kindling heaped upon his funeral pyre.

Entering Faircastle's Great Hall, he found his brother stooped over an aging map of Fair Isle. The coasts of the Westerlands loomed close, closer than he would've liked, and small pieces of charcoal had been arranged to symbolize the longships that could still be mustered to hold the strait. To the south, at the map's edge, a mass of coppers had been strewn, likely to represent the encroaching Redwyne fleet, bolstered by the galleys of Oldtown and the Shields. Between all of them, they likely have some one hundred and fifty war galleys. The Iron Fleet at its height would not have had the strength to face them, not without luring them into disadvantageous waters. Now we barely have the strength to face half of such numbers.

Dalton's deep black eyes rose to meet Veron's, shrouded in the dark hues that betrayed a lack of sleep. The Lords of the Isles that remained had assembled in the hall before them, and Veron was pleased to count some of his supporters among them. Lord Arthur Goodbrother nodded gravely at Veron, before returning to an intense discussion with Lord Hagon Orkwood, whose face was swollen from tears and drink. He lost a son attempting to hold Kayce, and two more attempting to retake it. He has little and less love for Dalton now. Lord Benton Sunderly had managed to rouse himself, despite the wounds he had taken in Veron's service at the Crag. Torgon smiled at Veron's approach, whispering a jape that made Lord Ygon Farwynd chuckle. The others are not so friendly, however. Lord Angred Botley lurked just behind Dalton, whispering something fervently in his ear. Hilmar Drumm and Dagmar Saltcliffe eyed Veron with an unrestrained hate, and the Goodbrothers of Corpse Lake and Crow Spike Keep kept amongst themselves, standing closer to Dalton than their immediate superior. Captains great and small milled about, and anxiety roiled in the air. It seems Dalton has finished his preparations for the final battle.

Dalton stood, straightening his back and throwing back his head, an odd light alive in his eyes. He smiled grimly as he spoke. "Lord Reavers and Captains, I bring you news of momentous import. The realm has declared itself to be at peace, and married two dragons to ensure it. They have responded harshly to my demands…" A round of muttering ensued… "But I care not. It was inevitable that the Lady of the Rock would demand aid; not once has she opened the gates of the Rock to sally forth against us; perhaps she has instead opened her legs to inspire our enemies to march forth to seize our last conquest." Shouts of anger flooded the hall. Dalton raised his hands to calm them, before slamming them upon the table. "That, my lords, is not what has summoned my ire. Nay, what boils the blood in my veins is a treachery far more foul. Our so-called allies in arms have turned against us! This very evening, I received a letter from the 'Seasnake' himself! Allow me to read its poisoned words out loud."

Dalton drew in a breath, then began to speak, the hand holding the letter shaking with rage:

"Lord Greyjoy,

Allow me to first express my great disappointment at your foolhardiness. While once you supported our dearly departed Queen, you now sully her memory by prosecuting a war that serves no purpose nor promises any rewards. The realm has suffered enough! Your silence during the negotiations was deafening. At first, I thought your lack of response was due to your distance, but now I see you for what you are: a rogue and a cutthroat who spits upon the King's will and his subjects' happiness. Know this: your ruthlessness and cunning will avail you no longer. As I put these words to paper, two of our King's leal servants have departed on dragonback to ensure you and your lackeys will be laid low, your savagery punished, and your ill-gotten gains seized. Harren the Black resisted the Conqueror out of a misguided arrogance, and his castle stands as a monument to his folly. I wonder: what will you choose to serve as your funerary pyre? The time for words has passed… let there be Fire and Blood, and thenceforth, justice.

Signed,

Lord Corlys Velaryon

Hand of the King; Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark

As Dalton finished speaking, the hall was silent. Men were either too speechlessly enraged or too sobered by the implications to speak. The Lord Reaver of Pyke broke their silence.

"Dragons come to Fair Isle. The Lady of the Rock's wish has been granted. They will seek to burn our fleet and from thence break the Isles with fire and steel. But in their arrogance, they have forgotten that dragons are not invulnerable. One of the Conqueror's own wives was slain by the Dornish, who aren't half as cunning as Ironborn! If the rumors are true, one of the harlot Queen's own sons was slain at sea! Lord Corlys may have sent two dragons, but he has only sent them to their deaths!" Dalton's eyes shone as he spoke, and his men cried out in a mixture of devotion and fervor. "I want every man to practice the bow. Every bow and crossbow must be placed in hands that can put them to use. We must find ropes to cast and hooks to catch them. Dragons may rule the sky, but the sea has always been the domain of the Drowned God! Dragons may plant no fields, but neither do we! WE DO NOT SOW AND WE WILL NOT SURRENDER! Prepare men, that we might make the greatest sacrifice to the Drowned God the world has ever seen!"

As Dalton shouted the hall erupted in cheers. Men bustled about the chamber, exiting through various doors to convey orders to their men. Others, not so certain, made their way out of the chamber with less conviction. Veron's stomach sank. Dalton has never met an enemy that could cow him. Bending the knee is as foreign to him as the Seven.

In time, only Veron remained with his brother, flanked by Lodrick and Rodrick. Dalton eyed him warily, still not completely trusting. The loss of his trust still hurt, even if he knew it was no fault of his own. For a moment, he did not speak, simply attempting to enjoy a brief quiet respite with the brother he had followed to the ends of the earth. Finally, Veron spoke.

"There is still time, Dalton. Time enough to bend the knee as our ancestor did when confronted by the Conqueror. We may not be able to save our winnings, but we will be able to recover from a position of strength. When dragons lack foes to face, they feast upon each other. In time, this peace will break, as it has before. We will be ready, ready to rise again harder and stronger and wiser with the lessons we have learned. Many before us have made the same decision. There is no shame in it."

For the briefest of moments, Dalton mulled over his words. Veron almost believed that his brother might agree. He knew he was not a foolish man, just a man who had drunk deeply of his own fame and grown accustomed to its sweet intoxication.

Dalton spoke, more softly than Veron had ever remembered him doing so previously. "But what would men think, Veron? I'd be a coward, a beaten bitch begging for table scraps. Men would mock me in their cups and curse me in the safety of their halls."

Veron frowned. "Men are fools, brother. Their sentiments are as fickle as they are irrelevant. We need not pay any mind to them."

Dalton stared at the map, clenching his fists. "I cannot do that, Veron. Too much has been sacrificed. To be Ironborn is to believe in a strength greater than ourselves. We pay the Iron Price, not the Gold. But for such beliefs to survive, our people need heroes, not old and broken men. Our people have not had such a hero since the days of Harwyn Hardhand. I mean to be such a man, even if it means my death. Otherwise this will have been all for naught."

Veron knew then that the game was up. Wordlessly, he turned to leave the chamber, and leave his brother to his thoughts. Before he could move, Dalton spoke again.

"I had intended to ask that you take your Misery alongside mine own Red Tide." He frowned. "I think now I will ask that you hold Faircastle. The Isles will need a hard man to protect them, if the Drowned God does not favor me." Veron could not help but notice just how exhausted Dalton looked at that moment. Drawing himself to his full height, a shade of his former self surfaced. He summoned a wicked grin, and spoke once more: "Besides, brother, I will not have it said that I only slew two dragons with the help of my brother. A man should win his glory alone." Standing, he turned, flanked by his lumbering guards, and began to depart for the Lord's solar.

Veron blinked, tears in his eyes. "I will see to Toron and our sisters as well, brother. I swear it."

Dalton stopped, standing still for a moment. Without turning, he spoke in an odd voice. "I thank you, Veron."

With that, the Red Kraken left the chamber.

When Veron returned, Elissa and Eleyna had awoken, and the Farman woman was brushing the Westerling's hair. Veron rummaged around for a wineskin, aware that his saltwives' eyes were upon him. He finally spoke, gruffly. "Dragons have flown for Fair Isle. My brother has ordered the Iron Fleet to face them at sea, in hopes of slaying them."

When he finally abandoned his search for drink, he found Elissa watching him closely, the brush stopped halfway through her charge's tresses. When she spoke, her face was perfectly composed, without a shred of irony. "I am sure that many will pray fervently for his victory."

Veron nodded. "Mayhaps some might. I have been given command of the castle."

Elissa nodded, resuming her brushing. "I pray that you keep the castle and its people safe, my lord."

He stared, wordlessly. "I have every intent to do so, my lady."

As the storm continued to rage, he thought he glimpsed the faintest of smiles upon his salt-wife's face.

Chapter Text

Maegor VII

Casterly Rock was unlike anything Maegor had ever seen. Staggeringly tall and wide, the Rock was immense enough to be imposing even from dragonback. I understand now why my ancestor Visenya feared an attempt to burn out the Lannisters. Dragonflame would be as ineffectual against the Rock as a fly is to a horse. It was no wonder as well that the Ironborn had been utterly unable to seize it. Upon landing in the largest of several yards nestled among the mighty carved battlements of the Lannisters' seat, Maegor had slid to the dusty ground and taken a moment to collect his thoughts. Best to not let my first impression as a dragonrider and Lord be that of a gaping and awestruck peasant.

Not long after, the Lady Baela had landed her Moondancer in the courtyard nearby, hopping nimbly to the ground from her saddle. Dressed in coal-black mail and wearing a dark red fur-lined winter cloak, she looked impassively about the yard as she tucked her riding gloves in her belt, breath misting in the air. Maegor nodded at the Lady Baela in acknowledgment, and she grinned in return.

Her excitement to ride her dragon into battle had been palpable since they'd left King's Landing, flying high above Ser Hobert Hightower's army. However, initial optimism and vigor had quickly given way to monotony, for armies moved far slower than dragons. Maegor had privately expected the going to be slower than it had been, given Ser Hobert's feeble disposition and advanced age, but in this he had been proven soundly wrong. Ser Hobert seemed full of energy, and a burning desire to reach their western destination. It was somewhat surreal, sharing meals and discussing strategy with men who had all too recently been his sworn enemies. Though I no longer desire to see the likes of Ser Hobert Hightower dead, I doubt that I shall ever shed my distaste. Maegor suspected that such feelings were likely mutual. Many of them are my enemies still. Maegor remembered the political downfall of Ulf and Hugh all too well. Though they will no longer bare steel against me, there are many other ways for them to see me ruined. They'll never abide such great power in the hands of a man of low birth.

The Gold Road west of Deep Den had proven to be a difficult obstacle to surmount in the winter, and the army's pace had slowed to a crawl despite the best efforts of its commanders. In the end, Ser Hobert as the army's leader had bade Maegor and Baela to fly ahead to the Rock, in order to make clear to House Lannister that its aid was on the way. Maegor had been secretly relieved, and he suspected that the Lady Baela was as well. The flight from the army's encampment to Casterly Rock had felt far too short. Even in the biting winter cold, the freedom Maegor felt atop Grey Ghost amongst the clouds was sublime. A chance to slip the bonds of expectation and reality, and to forget one's own troubles for a short time.

Their reception was not long in arriving at the courtyard. Men-at-arms in burnished armor entered through a large carved archway that led into the Rock's interior, preceding a dark-haired woman in expensive and gleaming mail, wearing a red-and-gold cloak clasped by a wrought-silver seashell. Johanna Lannister, the Lady of the Rock. It was odd to finally lay eyes upon someone who had heard so much about, but had never seen. She who so voraciously defended the West against my former allies. She stopped at the head of her entourage, and took a moment to consider both Maegor and Baela with dark brown eyes.

After a moment's consideration, she inclined her head respectfully in Maegor's direction, before giving the Lady Baela a deep bow. "Be welcome to Casterly Rock, dragonriders," she began simply. With a curt wave of her hand, servants in magnificent red-gold livery scurried forward, bearing bread and salt on golden trays.

The Lady Baela partook of Guest Right first, before giving a respectful bow of thanks of her own. "You have my utmost thanks, Lady Johanna," she said smoothly, a courteous smile on her face.

Maegor ate of the bread and salt, and mirrored the Lady Baela's bow. "I thank you, my lady, for your hospitality." As Maegor straightened, he could see that more nobles had filtered into the yard, standing at a respectful and deferential distance behind the Lady Johanna. The most prominent amongst them was a man in full plate, and a red doublet bearing the proud lion of Lannister. His expression was one of measured coldness, and his armor, while clearly of exquisite craftsmanship, was not nearly as ostentatious as Maegor had expected for a descendant of Lann the Clever. The knight was attended by an adolescent squire that bore a familial resemblance beyond that of the golden hair and green eyes that Maegor had heard to expect of the Lannisters. His son, mayhaps?

Another woman in mail stood by as well, with a doublet bearing a silver and blue seven-pointed star. Though her curly brown hair was beginning to turn grey, she exuded a vigor and strength that Maegor had seen displayed by much younger knights in the prime of their lives. Also prominent was a massive man in armor, wearing a brown doublet that bore a brindled black-and-white boar. Though he was not as tall as Maegor, he was built like a boulder, all hard muscle and thick limbs. The last to stand amongst these newcomers was a knight in gilded armor, with hair and a sparse mustache that were beginning to turn silver with age. To Maegor's eye, the man appeared to be as proud as the peacock that adorned his doublet.

Maegor's musings were interrupted by the sound of the Lady Johanna's voice as she began to speak again. "The both of you chose an opportune place to land, it would seem, for we are not far from my late husband's solar. If you would be so kind as to follow me, I believe that we will have much to discuss."

Maegor had never seen so much gold in his life. It was present about the rooms and chambers he had seen to such an obscene degree that the sight of it quickly became almost mundane, which was a frightening prospect. Is there any limit to this family's wealth? Maegor and Baela had been escorted into the Lord's solar, where heavy crimson drapes had been drawn to ward off the chill winds blowing about its balcony, and braziers burned brightly against a more pervading chill that seemed to fill the expansive corridors and hallways of Casterly Rock.

All the nobles that Maegor had seen in the courtyard had filed into the solar, and Lady Johanna quickly introduced Maegor and Baela to her own father, Lord Roland Westerling, who had remained within the solar so as not to expose himself to the winter's cold outside after a recent fever. The other woman in mail was introduced as the Lady Melara Tarbeck, wife to Tarbeck Hall's ailing Lord. The Lannister knight was introduced as Ser Erwin Lannister, former Captain of the Guard of Casterly Rock and current commander of its forces, along with his son and squire, Damon. The knight of the brindled boar was introduced as Lord Norbert Crakehall, and the knight of the peacock courteously introduced himself as Lord Marq Serrett.

Lady Johanna took it upon herself to appraise her new guests of the general tactical situation that the Westerlands found itself in. "Though the Ironmen still hold Fair Isle, we've managed to completely dislodge them from the seats they had seized on the mainland." She paused for a moment, and her fists clenched on the tabletop. "Kayce, and the Crag, mine own family's seat."

After a moment, her enraged expression cooled, and she continued to speak. "Though the Hightower fleet and an advance squadron from the Arbor have arrived to help us patrol and protect our coasts, we do not yet have enough ships to force the strait and attempt a landing on Fair Isle. The Ironborn scum have been bled grievously, but they prowl the waters off of Fair Isle still, in large enough numbers that any attempt to combat them with our current resources would likely end in disaster."

It was after saying this that the Lady Johanna smiled. To Maegor's eye however, no true joy seemed to linger behind the expression, the smile being more akin to a predator's bared teeth than anything else. "With your arrival," the Lady Johanna concluded, "everything has changed. We will be able to utterly destroy whatever treacherous scum still man their 'Iron Fleet', and land an army on Fair Isle." Lady Johanna's mirthless smile deepened. "We shall give them no mercy, for they have showed us none. Let their stolen island be their grave."

At this, Maegor exchanged a glance with Baela. We were sent ahead of Ser Hobert's army to remind the Lords of the West that the King has not forgotten about them, and that help is on the way. It appeared, however, that Lady Johanna and her nobles expected an immediate offensive against the Ironborn, before Ser Hobert and his coalition force could arrive to help. By Maegor's estimation, it appeared that Baela had not been expecting this either.

Maegor took a silent breath, and then spoke into the expectant silence that followed the Lady Johanna's proclamation. "While we are eager to bring succor and justice to you and your people, my Lady, I fear that we may have not made our intentions clear enough. As you know, Ser Hobert Hightower is leading a sizeable army along the Gold Road to Casterly Rock as we speak. Our intention in flying ahead was not to make battle with the Ironborn as soon as we arrived, but to prove the veracity of the King's promises of aid, and to ward off any additional Ironborn attacks."

The Westerman were clearly displeased to hear such news. Norbert Crakehall grumbled and shook his head, while deep frowns and scowls were prominent upon the faces of the other assembled nobility. Lady Melara Tarbeck was the first to speak. "We have the advantage, now. We retook the Crag and Kayce with our own swords, and forced the detestable men of Iron back into their beloved sea. To wait is to give them time to regroup, and to determine a new strategy."

Lord Roland Westerling spoke with far more vitriol. "Those animals sacked my seat, slaughtered my kin and leal servants, and made off with my grandchildren. Kin to the reigning Lord Paramount of the West! I've heard it said that Dalton Greyjoy's younger brother ordered for the desecration of my family's seat in the same breath that he claimed my granddaughter as a salt wife! A maid of twelve years!"

Maegor closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts in silence. Every fiber of my being screams for immediate and fiery justice to be wrought upon these reavers and rapers. He opened his eyes, and breathed out silently. But now is not yet the time. We must wait for the King's army to arrive. Maegor looked askance at the aged Lord of the Crag. Your kin were slain, kidnapped, or worse, all while you sat in the safety of the Rock. Yet Lord Westerling felt it was still in his right to make demands, to be indignant. Where was the Lord of the Crag when its people needed him most?

Maegor forced himself to quell the growing embers of anger that he was feeling as the Lady Baela spoke. "This is not a refusal to lend support to your cause, my Lords and Ladies," she began courteously, "but rather a request that we wait until the swords the King has sent to lend you aid have arrived. With their strength of arms at our backs, the Ironborn will be put down, Fair Isle will be reclaimed, and the Iron Islands themselves subjugated. In doing all these things, I swear that you will have the full and unrestrained support of two dragonriders."

Though they were still clearly unhappy, the assembled nobles seemed to accept the Lady Baela's words. As there was naught else to discuss of future plans until Ser Hobert and his army arrived, Lady Johanna dismissed the meeting. Baela and Maegor waited a moment as the other nobles filed out, and without a moment of wasted time, the Lady Johanna turned to regard them both. "I wish to apologize for the truculence of my Lords and Ladies, as well as my own father. Though we wish to put an end to the threat of the Ironborn as soon as possible, we are infinitely grateful to the King for lending us his aid."

Lord Jason's widow smiled courteously, her armor gleaming in the light of the braziers. "I'm sure that the both of you are exhausted, and I would never want it said that House Lannister made for poor hosts. Once you depart this solar, the both of you will be shown to your chambers."

Giving his sincere thanks along with Baela, Maegor turned and walked into the hallway beyond. Rather than servants in rich livery, Maegor was surprised to find himself facing two girls in magnificent dresses of red and gold. Both had hair of a beaten gold color and clever green eyes. They smiled in a way that made Maegor feel as though they knew an incredibly embarrassing secret about him, all mischief wrapped in a cloak of cordiality. Sisters, I have little doubt of that.

One of them, the slightly older girl of the pair, stepped forward and spoke, the smile remaining on her face. "Well met, my Lord, my Lady." She dipped into a flawless curtsy, mirrored only half a heartbeat later by her younger sister. "I am Tyshara Lannister, eldest sister to the Lord Loreon."

Not to be outdone, the younger sister chimed in a tone full of good cheer: "And I am Cerelle, the eldest after Tyshara."

Tyshara nodded at her sister's words. "It is not often that our family has the opportunity to serve as hosts to such esteemed guests. We shall see you both to your chambers, for it would be nothing short of rude to entrust such a task to mere servants."

Without a second's hesitation, Tyshara stepped forward and looped her arm through Maegor's. "I shall see the Lord Constable to his chambers. Sister, I trust that you shall help the Lady Baela to find her way?"

Cerelle gave her sister an annoyed glare, before turning to face the Lady Baela with a smile. "It would be my utmost pleasure. My Lady, if you'll accompany me?"

As they turned and began to walk in an opposite direction, Baela gave Maegor a sympathetic smile and wink. Good luck in the den of the Lioness, her expression seemed to say. Maegor steeled himself for what was to come. I'll need all the luck I can find.

As they began to walk forward, arm in arm, Maegor found himself taking much shorter, measured strides than he was used to, for the Lady Tyshara did not move nearly as swiftly as he did. He was supremely uncomfortable, and was unsure of what to say. The more uncomfortable he became, the more rigid and awkward his posture became as well, which he was sure that the Lady Tyshara noticed. Seven Hells, what is wrong with me?

Eventually, the Lady Tyshara broke the silence. "We've heard much and more about you here at the Rock, Lord Constable."

Maegor smiled weakly down at her. "Good things, I hope," he said in an attempt at levity, before immediately suppressing a grimace. Good things? Like what? Breaking bread and marching alongside the men that killed her father?

It appeared that his grimace was not wholly unnoticeable, for the Lady Tyshara frowned slightly when she looked upon Maegor's face, as though unsure what she had said to bother him. It is no fault of your own, my Lady, Maegor wanted to say, but I fear I'm a fish thoroughly out of water here in these halls. He did not say this, however, and settled for walking onwards in silence, the Lady Tyshara's arm still looped through his.

"If you'd like some manner of refreshment," Tyshara began, "you need only ask. There are servants aplenty here, who will be more than happy to fulfill your requests to the best of their abilities. You are a guest of House Lannister, and we aim to please."

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary. I already ate some of my rations as I flew here, and am more than content." Maegor was unsure why this response seemed to elicit a small frown from the Lady Tyshara.

They eventually reached the carved wooden doorway to the chamber that was to be Maegor's for the duration of his stay at the Rock, and Tyshara stepped back from Maegor before speaking. "Will you be joining us for the evening meal, my Lord? We intended to break open our stores, and celebrate the arrival of the two dragonriders who will see the men of Iron pushed from our shores for good and all."

Maegor frowned in spite of himself. I was hoping to get some sleep. He had been at the Rock for only a short time, and already he was exhausted. I'm always agonizing over how to act, what to say. Sitting through an entire feast after a day of flying sounds like a particularly unenviable punishment.

Seeing his frown, the Lady Tyshara took a small step back, with a small frown of her own upon her face. "I shall hope to see you tonight, my Lord," she said awkwardly, and then retreated down the corridor.

Maegor wanted to scream. What am I doing wrong? What do these nobles want from me? More than anything, Maegor wished to climb atop the Grey Ghost and fly far, far away from this place. Instead, he turned and walked through the door of his new chambers.

Maegor's time at the evening feast had initially gone about as well as his conversation with Tyshara. Seated at the high table with Lady Johanna, her father, and daughters, Baela and Maegor had been offered course after course of delicious food. As exhausted and out-of-depth as he felt, Maegor ate little, and refused course after succulent course as it was offered to him. Eventually, the Lady Johanna had asked if there was something specific that he would like to have brought up from the kitchens, and he had responded by saying that while he appreciated the generosity of House Lannister, his road provisions from earlier in the day had done much and more to sate his appetite. Afterwards, the Lady Johanna's servants had ceased their attempts to force food down Maegor's throat.

As he had expected, dancing soon followed the feasting, and Maegor did his best to put forth a valiant front and take to the floor, despite wanting nothing more than to return to the solitude and quiet of his chambers. The first dance he shared was with the Lady Cerelle, and he was grateful for her patience as she taught him the basic movements of the dance that was occurring about them. His second dance was with the Lady Tyshara, her mood apparently having rallied from their incredibly awkward conversation earlier in the day. It went smoothly, and afterwards Maegor sought the Lady Baela for his third and final dance of the evening. It had not taken long for word of the Rogue Prince's daughter to spread throughout the Rock, and it was very clear that she did not lack for attention amongst the many knights and squires of noble birth within Casterly Rock.

As they had moved across the floor together, Maegor had been pleased to realize that Lordly dancing was not nearly as hard as he'd feared it to be, once one understood the basics. "You must forgive me if I assume too much, my Lady, but it seemed to me as though you were in need of assistance," he had said to her.

She had smiled at him in turn. "I never thought I'd be free of them. I wouldn't wish a crowd of those desperate lordlings on even the worst of my enemies." She grinned slyly. "I'd hoped the scar would've scared them off."

Though the mention of her branding made Maegor want to grimace at his failure, he refused to do so. The Lady Baela has made it her own, and refuses to let the Usurper's cruelty affect her. What kind of man would I be to undermine this with my contrition? Instead, Maegor had smiled back at her, before responding: "Who's to say they aren't? I'm utterly terrified." Baela had thrown back her head and laughed, and Maegor had begun to laugh as well.

Such thoughts of the prior evening were pushed aside as the audience within the Great Hall of Casterly Rock began. The Lady Johanna had asked for both Maegor and Baela to attend her this day, and they had obliged. Maegor was curious to see how a family such as the Lannisters held court. It became clear to him, however, that the day's proceedings were to be anything but standard.

The first indication that something seemed off was the grave nature of the Lady Johanna's court. Maegor had stood at the foot of the Iron Throne many times while the Queen Rhaenyra had held court, and had often noticed that courtiers never lacked for an abundance of energy. They would whisper and chuckle amongst themselves before proceedings began, and listen with rapt attention while their enthroned monarch spoke. They'd laugh when the Queen laughed, murmur mournfully when she was crestfallen, and praised her intelligence and wit after every decree.

Not long ago, when Maegor had been much angrier, he'd considered courtiers to all be empty-headed fools in fine clothing who hadn't an original thought amongst the lot of them. Now that he'd taken a step back, and continued to try to let good sense take the place of his rage, he attempted to look upon courtiers in a more sympathetic light. Some, doubtlessly, were indeed empty-headed fools. But it seemed much more likely that the majority weren't. To live in a court like King's Landing or The Rock is to live lavishly. Fine food, fine drinks, and good strong walls to protect you in the midst of your revels. Maegor shifted slightly. And to listen, and watch. For many, earning a place in a court is likely not the sum total of their ambition. Their eyes watch ever upward for opportunity.

As he waited for the first petitioners to enter through the grand, gilded doors of the Great Hall, Maegor considered his surroundings. The hall had been carved within the heart of the Rock, and like everything else House Lannister owned, seemed almost to drip with gold. Less than two centuries ago, this was a hall of a great and powerful line of Kings. As Maegor watched the Lady Johanna sitting in the Lord's high seat, posture impeccable, Maegor reconsidered. And mayhaps it still is. The Lannisters' knees have bent, but they are more than comfortable to continue basking in their wealth and power. Who would deny them anything short of Royal dignity after walking through the Rock's expansive corridors, and looking upon their endless wealth? In truth, the Great Hall of the Red Keep, barring the Iron Throne itself, paled in comparison to that of Casterly Rock.

It therefore greatly surprised Maegor to behold the first of Lady Johanna's petitioners. Smallfolk? They came in slowly at first, taken aback by the shining splendor of their surroundings. However, they still haltingly walked across the hall towards the foot of the high seat's dais. They were not insignificant in number, and, to Maegor's consternation, not in good health or spirits either. Many bore bandaged wounds and scars, a few missing limbs. Enough eventually stood before the dais that Maegor would have guessed that these smallfolk represented more than just the community of a single town or settlement. Ratty and torn caps in their hands, several elderly men eventually stepped forth from amongst their kin and neighbors and approached the dais, prostrating themselves before the Lady Johanna.

"You may rise," the Lady Johanna intoned, with a strong and measured voice that managed to sound both imperious and benevolent. I should think that the Mother above would speak in a similar manner. The old men did as they were bid, but their downcast eyes never left the smooth carved stone of the Great Hall's floor. "You have spoken of your troubles, before, goodmen," the Lady Johanna began, "but I ask now that you might speak of them once more, so that my court and esteemed guests may hear your words themselves."

The first man stepped forward from amongst his fellows, finally lifting frightened and exhausted eyes to regard the Lady of the Rock, and a moment later, he cast a nervous glance about the galleries, from where Maegor, Baela, and the Lannister court watched. "I-" he began falteringly, "I was the elder of a village on the coast sworn to the Lord Banefort." He licked his dry and cracked lips before continuing.

"My- my grandfather used to tell us tales of the Ironmen, told to him by his own grandfather. How in his grandfather's day, during the rule of Black Harren in the Riverlands, that they feared attacks from the north and west. His own brother was stolen from the northern roads into slavery, and forced to haul stone for the building of Harren's monstrous seat on the God's Eye. My grandfather's grandfather spoke of how when his brother eventually escaped and came home, the horrors of which he spoke, of what he had seen and suffered, had seemed nearly too terrible to be believed."

The man paused once more, and Maegor saw his old and spotted hands grip tighter at the frayed cloth of his cap. "Our village has defenses, good walls of timber and a stone tower house to flee to in times of trouble. We've never had to make use of them, and for all mine own life, they gathered dust and were forgotten."

He shook his head mournfully, and his frail voice hitched with grief. "We were not ready when they came for us. No one stood watch on the walls. None had needed to for as long as I can remember. They took us unawares, in our homes, at our tables, in our beds." His voice cracked, and the old man forced his rheumy eyes closed, his features drawn taut.

"The Ironmen dragged some of us outside. Others, they butchered within their homes without a second thought. Others still, they left cowering inside and on the floor, alive and terrified. Then they set the houses alight. The crackle of the flame was loud, but all of us could hear the screaming of those who had been left inside. Those vile beasts laughed at the sound of the screams, and some laughed even harder as they regarded our weeping."

The man ran a shaking hand across his forehead. The court around him was silent as a tomb. "They then killed any man who'd seen more than his twelfth nameday, and less than his sixtieth. One of the fiends told me that he misliked my tears, and would prefer to see me dance. He menaced me with his axe until I began to do so. That gave him and the rest of those demons a good laugh, and they told me that I had earned my freedom. The rest of the villagefolk were tied together and herded out into the road, in the direction of the coast."

The old man clenched his fists, breathing labored. "I followed them at a distance. They were not hard to find. I could hear the sobs of my kin and friends from a long ways off. I watched from the cliffs as the people of my village were herded onto three different longships, and they sailed away as dawn broke."

The village elder gestured at a small cluster of village folk standing behind him. "The only other members of my village who escaped were those who fled to the safety of the tower house in time." His voice had grown very quiet. "I've nothing left. My son and gooddaughter dead, my grandson and granddaughter stolen. Our home, and all of our possessions, burned."

The man's expression was detached, eyes seemingly looking far into some unknown distance. Maegor wondered if they searched even still for the grandchildren that had been taken from him. It was only in the silence following the man's words that Maegor realized how tightly his fists were clenched. He could feel the shock, and much more the all-too-familiar rage, but a new emotion dominated all the others. Shame. Those marauders were our allies. Queen Rhaenyra knowingly set them loose upon the West. They sent us a raven, asking for the aid of one of our dragons. As the next elder stepped forward to tell his tale of woe, Maegor hung his head, stomach roiling with disgust. His surroundings were too bright, too golden. The medallion, that vainglorious symbol marking him as a 'Constable of the Realm', hung heavy about his neck like a noose.

Maegor supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised by the opulence of the Rock's sept. Even so, it pained him to see that the gold dominated even the Lannisters' house of the Gods like some shining, glittering rot. Marya and Dallen. Marya and Dallen. Marya and Dallen. He would not forget those names. He would not forget that Dallen had a large coin-shaped birthmark beneath his left eye, or that Marya was very tall for a seven-year old girl. He had been told these things and more by the first of the village elders, when he'd sought the man out following their presentation in the Lady Johanna's court. Maegor had knelt before the aged man and begged for his forgiveness. Queen Rhaenyra never would have and never will. But I will kneel and beg forgiveness for myself, for Gaemon, for Ser Addam. For every worthwhile soul that unknowingly stood aside and let those monsters reave, rape, and pillage under the same banner as us.

He had sworn to the man that he would do everything in his power to find out what had become of his grandchildren, and return them to him if he could. I will return each and every stolen child to the arms of their kin, if they still live. And I will burn each and every reaver that stands in my way. Maegor had emptied his coin purse, dividing his coppers, stags, and dragons amongst each of the assembled elders, hoping that in some way his coin might in any way ease their suffering, and that of their people. And Maegor had felt his heart harden in preparation for the killing that was to be done. I will follow Bennard's teachings wherever and whenever I can. But I will strike down my enemies with unrepentant fury until they surrender. They seek no compromise, and I will give them none. They will surrender, or they will die.

Afterwards, the Lady Baela had pulled him aside to an isolated corner of the hall. "I won't presume to know your thoughts," she had begun gravely, "but I will try to guess at them. Those reaving animals deserve to die for their crimes, let there be no doubt of that." She had hesitated a moment, her face twisting into a deep frown. The SL scar upon her face had contorted with the movement like a cornered snake.

"However," Baela had continued, "we cannot fly forth and attack the Ironborn. Not yet. We must await the arrival of Ser Hobert and his army. They cannot be far from the Rock now."

Maegor had begun to splutter out livid words of protest, but Baela had cut him off firmly. "The time for revenge will come, and the Ironborn will pay. But we cannot play right into the Lannisters' hands. Lady Johanna wants to win a great victory at Fair Isle, and one that she can claim solely for House Lannister, even if it will only be possible with the aid of our dragons."

Baela had cast a dark glance about herself, searching momentarily for unwanted listening ears. "By the time Ser Hobert arrives with his men, Lannister banners will be flying from Fair Isle to Pyke! Hobert Hightower is a fat old fool, but he marches at the behest of my grandfather, the Hand, and my brother, the King."

Lady Baela sighed tiredly. "To pre-empt Ser Hobert's army, and deny them a chance to participate in the coming campaign, is not only tantamount to spitting upon the orders of the Hand, but to disregard the will of the Crown."

Baela had looked straight into Maegor's eyes then. While she had always been warm and kind towards him, Maegor saw nothing then but cold resolve and determination. "I will not undermine the legitimacy of my brother's reign, no matter what the Lion of Lannister may desire. We will come to their aid and deliver the justice they desire, but it will be on the terms of House Targaryen, not Lannister." Her tone was firm and allowed for no argument, though Maegor had not felt inclined to challenge her statements in the first place. A dragon indeed.

Though he had seen the wisdom in Baela's reasoning and words, and would respect her wishes, such a decision did not make Maegor feel any less wrong in his actions. Every day that the Ironborn remain undefeated is another day that Marya, Dallen, and countless others languish in chains. Every day they didn't set out for Fair Isle was a day in which some of those prisoners would inevitably die, their hopes at freedom forever vanquished. It was blood that would be on Maegor's hands, and there was nothing he could do about it, not yet. Heart aching in his chest, Maegor had sought out the Sept, and the advice of the Gods.

Like nearly every other hall and chamber within the Rock that Maegor had seen, the Rock's sept was carved deep within its stony heart. Its seven walls were sheer and stretched towards its carved domed ceiling. The dome itself was covered in solid gold leaf, with large hanging golden braziers just beneath burning brightly. The bright light reflecting off the golden ceiling high above had the effect of affording the sept an almost otherworldly aura, cloaking its interior with a bright, yet gentle golden hue. An attempt to capture the essence of the divine within the mortal world.

While it was all breathtakingly beautiful, Maegor couldn't help but feel a bit ill-at-ease. At this part of the evening, the large majority of the members of House Lannister and their guests would be partaking in the lavish evening meal. Because of this (and his utter lack of appetite), Maegor found that but for an aged septon in spotless white robes, he was the only inhabitant of the sept. Maegor appreciated the quiet, but found that the tranquility of his surroundings was absent within himself.

The austere and otherworldly beauty of House Lannister's sept was not a setting in which he was accustomed to seeking the counsel of the Seven. Maegor's thoughts drifted to the sept that he'd known for nearly his entire life, on Dragonstone. It was a simple structure of wood, mortar, and stone, and served as a place of worship for the faithful of several villages. After he had run away from the orphanage, Maegor had always done his best to attend the gatherings that occurred on feast days, or on days when a traveling septon was known to be giving a sermon within its walls.

At first, it was because he felt as though he'd owed it to Bennard. After a time, however, Maegor came to appreciate the sept for the sense of peace that it provided him. The smallfolk of Dragonstone were a rough and hardy folk, often quicker to take offense than to offer a greeting. Those who made the trek to the sept, however, were often much more good-natured than the other denizens of the island. Maegor's father had shown little interest in the mysteries of the faith before his wife died, and none afterwards. Aenys too had found little use for the Gods. It was his eldest brother Aegon that oft accompanied Maegor to the little valley in which the sept was situated. It was Aegon who would crowd onto the floor of the sept with Maegor and the other faithful, to pray, sing hymns, and to give thanks.

Aegon had oft seemed distant to Maegor, serious and focused on his duties as the eldest son of the household. He had little time for Maegor, though Maegor knew that his inattention wasn't borne of malice. On the journey to the sept and within its doors, however, Maegor had always felt as though it was the one time when Aegon had enough time to set aside his role as the dutiful son, and take up the mantle of a brother. He and Maegor would talk, joke, and laugh, whether by themselves or amongst the other faithful.

Maegor remembered a feastday that had occurred on a particularly stormy day. Maegor, still young, had been fearful at the howling of the wind, and the groans and creaks of the ancient and ramshackle sept as it bore the tireless assault of the whipping wind and rain. The traveling septon at the head of the gathering had been unfazed. He encouraged the faithful to sing as loud as they were able, to sing boisterously of the Father's justice, the Mother's mercy, the Warrior's strength, and so on. The wind howled, the thunder boomed, and the sept creaked, but Maegor had felt no more fear. He had smiled broadly and reveled in the audacity of the faithful, at the way they had tamed the rage of the storm with their song.

As fast as the memories took him, they were gone. Kneeling in silence, Maegor wondered if the Lady Johanna, Tyshara, or Cerelle had ever heard the sound of rolling thunder within the walls of their gilded, immaculate sept. He knew that it was impossible, and the errant thought deeply saddened Maegor for reasons that he did not understand.

Footsteps on the smooth floor surprised Maegor. He hadn't expected company so late in the evening. They stopped at his side, where Maegor knelt at the altar of the Crone. Sinking to her knees in order to kneel alongside him at the altar, Baela gave Maegor a friendly nod. Maegor couldn't help but notice that she had brought quite a following, several young knights, squires, and ladies, though Maegor guessed that Baela hadn't sought them out herself. The young ladies immediately and dutifully arrayed themselves before the altar of the Maiden, while a young and eager-looking knight knelt before the altar of the warrior. Another knight leaned against the wall near the sept's entrance, a look of practiced disinterest upon his face.

"I was told that I might find you here," Baela confessed. When Maegor wasn't quick to respond, she spoke the words that he assumed to have long been within her mind: "I want you to know that while my brother's legitimacy is of the utmost importance to me, I loathe abstaining from delivering justice to the Ironmen as much as you do." She sighed, a frown upon her face. "I mislike the waiting. It's taking all of my will not to strike out Fair Isle this very night."

Maegor shook his head. "We cannot, you have the right of it." He looked to the side at Baela, and gave her as kind of a smile as he could muster. "When the time comes, justice will be served. And when such a time arrives, it will then be our utmost duty to help those stolen survivors that remain."

Baela gave him a grateful nod, and turned her head to regard the beautifully carved statue of the Crone before her. "It's a shame that the only time we know if a hard decision was truly wise is long after we've made it."

She sat in contemplative silence for several minutes, before speaking once more. "When we were small, our septa would take Rhae and I to pray at Dragonstone castle's sept. She'd plant the both of us before the Maiden's altar, and tell us to light a candle for her. So that she'd bless us, and protect our innocence and virtue." A small smile had appeared on Baela' face. "One time, I tried to light a candle at the altar of the Warrior instead. The septa didn't like that. She told me that I should act as my sister Rhaena did, dutiful and mindful of her role as a young maid of noble birth. While the septa was distracted, Rhaena placed her own candle at the Warrior's altar."

Maegor grinned, and saw his expression mirrored upon Baela's face. After a moment's consideration, Maegor then nodded in the direction of the altar of the Warrior. "What's stopping you now?" Baela merely raised an eyebrow at him in response. Maegor placed his hand over his heart. "On my honor, I swear that I will not scold you."

Baela's serious expression broke, and a smile spread across her face. Standing, she then lit a candle and placed it at the Warrior's altar. By the time she had done so, Maegor was back on his feet. The inner peace he had sought was not absolute, but the ache in his chest was gone. "Shall we?" he asked Baela. With a smile and a nod, Baela accompanied Maegor to the doors of the sept, as her gaggle of highborn followers scrambled to keep pace.

Chapter Text

Veron VII

The sun had not yet risen, but Fair Isle was alight. Men shouted, and iron and steel murmured their protests as armor was fastened. Hundreds of torches moved eerily through the night, seemingly floating through mist and smoke, the hands that held them obscured by shadow. Veron watched as the last heroes of his people prepared for battle. How many will live to see the sunset? He knew it would be few.

Dalton had given the orders scarcely two hours before, when the night was still oily and black and there was no indication that the sunrise was imminent. They had received word that truly significant forces had massed across the strait, thousands of well-armed and armored men and hundreds of knights besides. The Lion banners no longer take pride of place, however. A red three-headed dragon coils about the largest banners, and the Hightower burns atop others. Westeros has come forth to break us beneath its steel-shod feet. With the great host had come dragons, the likes of which had inspired terror and wonder in the Ironborn. Hardly any from the Isles had seen a dragon; some of the most well traveled had glimpsed them when they had sold goods in King's Landing in years past, but their tales had not done justice to the reality. The new boy-king had dispatched two of his fire wyrms to feast upon the Red Kraken, one as pale and gray as morning mist and another a pale green with horns of pearl. Veron had seen them himself, darting amidst the clouds as their enemies had assembled on the rocky beaches across from Fair Isle. He had observed as they spun and frolicked in the sky, seemingly at play, but with a sharpness that spoke of a killing instinct at the ready. A harsh death, a bright death, lurks within their maws.

What unsettled Veron the most was to think that the dragons sent to oppose them were supposedly amongst the smallest at the King's command. Other larger beasts had been withheld. They doubt the true monsters to be necessary. Dalton had grown most wroth when Lord Sunderly had described the much larger beasts he had seen in his youth. Great drakes of bronze and silver ridden by the Great King and his shining wife. Such beasts had burned an entire Dornish fleet in an afternoon, if the stories were to be believed. Dalton had seen their absence as an insult, a final mockery of his reign. The Conqueror had laid waste to Harren the Black with the Black Dread itself! He knew that anything less would have been futile. Yet the boy king thought a few runts would suffice for the likes of us… Veron had watched his brother's men cheer, but they had still stank of fear. Rants did little to abate the fear one felt deep inside at the thought of House Targaryen's greatest weapon. Monsters of the ancient world: engines of victory and destruction and death.

Veron may have feared such creatures, but he still would not have hesitated to face them had his brother asked him to do so. Dalton had chosen his path, and I am ever his shadow. While Veron had privately and publicly cautioned his elder brother against the course he took, his loyalty never wavered to the man who had raised him from the depths of fear that he had known in the past. Yet now it seems I have another task before me. If Dalton fails, it will fall to me to avert House Greyjoy's total annihilation. If the bow and grappling hook cannot force the dragon to heel, perhaps a bended knee might still move it to a measure of clemency? Veron had his doubts. But he quietly felt that if his brother was to burn and he was to face the headsman's axe, it might be possible for his sisters and nephew to be spared. A pained chuckle escaped his lips, barely audible in the morning furor. How hilarious, that we butchers and captors find ourselves hoping for enemies so unlike ourselves. Unbidden, he thought of the many thralls and saltwives that lay shivering in servants quarters and alcoves all about them, hiding from masters they suspected would meet a dragon's ire in a few hours. They likely prayed for clemency as well. How little their Gods must care for their pleas. Frowning, he wondered whether the begging and exhortations of his own people could be heard in the halls of the Drowned God. The endless sea never ceases its song. Has Dalton ever had the Drowned God's ear? Or has he been lulled into a dreamless slumber by the unceasing rhythm of the waves above? He supposed an answer of sorts would be proffered this day.

Below, captains of the fleet called their men to them. Reavers began to hoist great bundles of arrows above their shoulders, and bows were distributed. Axes and blades remained at the sides of every reaver, but Veron knew that they would like as not remain there. He had seen to it that every man had trained incessantly with the bow, ensuring his own man Tommard had supervised the most promising men with the keenest of eyes. They had done their best. A few of the men were truly impressive shots, able to hit birds as they soared or field mice as they scampered in Fair Isle's fallow fields. Veron had ensured that these men were granted the best arms available, even going so far as to strip men of their plundered goods. Hunting bows crafted for Lords and heirs, gamemasters and guardsmen now were gripped firmly by the Isles' best, despite the grumbling of those that had pried them from the grasp of their former owners. A few Myrish crossbows had also been distributed to those who showed aptitude, and Veron privately hoped that they would prove the most effective. It would only take two arrows or bolts to lay two dragons low. Of the hundreds of arrows that would fly, only two needed to find the exposed eyes of the sky beasts. Veron prayed that they would.

Iron screeched as the gates of Faircastle's inner ward were drawn open, and the Ironborn began their march out of Faircastle and into the lands beyond. Veron watched them go. Below, the doors of Fair Castle were flung open, and his brother emerged, clad in oily black steel and wearing the helm that inspired such terror in his foes. Golden tentacles dangled from it, dripping rubies of blood. The gash Veron had placed upon it with a hand axe had given it a more fearsome, marred appearance. The kraken has taken grievous wounds, but has not yet abandoned the fight. Instinctively, Veron surveyed his own plate, suddenly self conscious about ensuring it looked as combat-ready as his elder brother's. Finding no cause for complaint, he descended from the battlements before kneeling before his brother and captain.

For a moment, Dalton regarded him, torches crackling and hissing all about. When he spoke, it was a low murmur, and Veron knew he would remember the words he spoke clearly for the rest of his days.

"The hour has come, brother. I leave this castle and a garrison for you. See to it that any landings upon Fair Isle are met with steel." Dalton paused, an odd look in his eyes. "I… I thank you Veron, for your leal service and wise words. A man could not have asked for a better comrade, nor brother. Whether or not the Drowned God favors me today, I will depart satisfied knowing that our House will not go unguarded."

Veron nodded, blinking back the waters that threatened to pour forth from his eyes. "I wish you good fortune, Dalton. Show our foes the strength of your arm and your faith in our God. May the Sea protect and keep you."

Dalton nodded. Placing one hand upon Veron's shoulder, he bid him to rise, and grasped his forearm. For a moment, the world was still. Without a word, he turned and departed. Veron balled his fists. In that moment, he knew he would regret letting his brother go forth alone forever.

The beaches of Fair Isle sported many rounded stones, carved and softened from the countless centuries of the Sunset Sea's rough embrace. They were composed of the same white-gray stone that its cliffs displayed, stone that almost glowed when the Sun's rays found it at the right angle. In the winter, however, such colors and beauty took on the muted appearance of ash. As the winter Sun's rays began to light the shores of the Farmans' isle, the remnants of the Iron Fleet took to the strait. Veron watched from the cliffs, Tommard to his left, clutching his bow tightly. Torgon stood to his right, a deep foreboding scowl cut across his visage. Dalton had left a garrison of some six hundred men upon the isle, split into three parties. Veron and Hilmar Drumm, both known to be cunning commanders, had been bid to hold the beaches against any possible landings, whilst Lord Benton Sunderly, given his age and wounds, had been given command of Faircastle's garrison. Veron knew well that such measures would be futile if their enemies actually were able to cross; he personally doubted that their numbers would even be sufficient to defeat an uprising of the isle's peasantry. The gambit would be decided at sea, as he always knew it would be.

The Iron fleet sailed out in a wide formation, leaving more than ample spacing between each longship for maneuvering. Dalton's huge Red Tide stayed towards the center of the formation, where the horns of its battle commands could be heard by most captains. The plan, if it could be called such, was to menace the anchored vessels needed for the crossing in order to draw the dragons forth, whereupon they could be laid low with storms of arrows. If they were successfully slain, the fleet would make for the north, intending to shatter the blockade of Redwyne vessels that strangled resupply from the Isles. Boarding was a priority; Dalton realized the need for proper war galleys in order to truly contest the strait. With the Redwyne fleet bloodied and two royal riders slain, the Iron Throne would ideally be forced to ask for terms. Veron and Dalton suspected the peace was tenuous, and that the throne could not afford to leave itself bereft of dragons when it had enemies far closer to home. All in all, we are crafting a strategy that relies on divine favor, luck, and an arseload of assumptions. Veron grimaced. Uncorking a wineskin with his teeth, he drank deeply to calm his nerves, but found no solace in the drink. He unscrewed a Myrish lens, casting his gaze upon the fleet as it entered the freezing waters of the strait. In the shifting fog, he saw a lone galley, too small to be a Redwyne warship, shadowing the fleet from afar. Probably manned by some of the accursed Shield Islanders. They make up for their warship's lack of size with a cunning most dangerous. As he watched it disappear into the winter mists, a light streaked forth from its deck. A flaming arrow. A signal! His stomach roiled. They suspected we would approach. It is a trap! As the winter sun continued unfolding, a hideous shriek sounded across the waves. Veron, following the sound, caught sight of green scales in the low hanging clouds. He wanted to shout, but knew none of consequence would hear. Death lurks above.

As if made of lightning, the grey dragon emerged from the sea mists with speeds that baffled the mind. It dove so fast that nary an arrow was out of a quiver when its flames burst forth. Veron instinctively shielded his eyes as a white hot lance of flame bathed a longship in the lead. Making its way to port along the Iron Fleet's flank, sending a blinding gust of flame against longship after longship. The demon was far more comfortable with the sea than he ever would've expected, skimming the waves and staying at water level, making it difficult for the majority of the ship's crew to target it. Occasionally an arrow was loosed or a spear thrown, but they struck only water, for the beast had long since outpaced their arc. Ship after ship was set alight, and while Veron could see the men burn, he could not hear their screams. Hundreds of bright white candles glowed in the distance, but Veron could only hear the pounding of the surf.

He was so transfixed by the slaughter that he barely registered the green dragon make its descent. Emerald fire danced forth from the small creature, catching men and ships alight with its sheer heat. The green dragon began to burn its way on the starboard flank of the fleet, and Veron suddenly knew with a sickening certainty that the enemy had outplayed them. They intend to create a ring of flame and death, hemming our ships ever inwards and granting them little and less room to maneuver. Veron drummed his fingers against the Myrish glass. There will be no battle today, not truly. Only a funeral pyre. Even now he could see the Iron Fleet becoming obscured with a haze of smoke and mist, brought on by the flames' intense heat. A sickening miasma overtook the Pride of the Isles, and within the fog of death one could only occasionally glimpse the glowing silhouette of a longship or a burst of sorcerous annihilation.

Feeling a hand upon his shoulder, he saw that Torgon had turned to him with a look of utmost sympathy. We will soon both know what it means to lose a brother, Veron thought with a resigned sense of finality. Even as he thought it, blood-red sails emerged from the grip of death. The Red Tide surged forth, its crew hard at the oars and bowmen nocking arrows. Veron fervently gripped the Myrish glass, watching Dalton do what he had always done best, leading his men into the jaws of death. The green dragon emerged from the smoke suddenly, a few hundred feet ahead of the longship. The world slowed around Veron, and the waves pounded in step with his heart. As the beast gracefully darted around to approach its new foe, Veron watched his brother draw Nightfall and shout a command. Fifty of the Isles' most skilled archers drew bows taut and waited. The dragon approached, its rider clad in garish black and red. Still the archers waited. As the dragon opened its maw, Veron saw the unnatural glow begin at the recesses of its jaws. Despite standing far away he swore he heard the snap of bowstrings. A dark cloud of death sailed at the dragon and its rider, and Veron prayed. But the only response was the grinding of the sea. As they soared towards their target, the beast let loose a gale of flame, setting the missiles alight. Rolling in flight, it punched through the barbed assault and continued its approach. Veron gripped his looking glass with the desperation of a drowning man. Turn aside, Dalton. Turn aside! A sharp enough turn could avoid the blast. In Veron's mind, he was no longer upon the muted cliffs of Fair Isle. Deep within the halls of Pyke, he grabbed once more at his brother. Don't go! He wept, scrambling after him. He knew their father lurked just around the corner with murderous intent. He lunged for Dalton, but his fingers passed through empty air.

Instead, his brother raised his sword, and one last wave of arrows soared forth. The green demon roared, and the Red Tide was set alight. Veron watched as the Old Way died, salty tears upon his cheeks.

The gates of Faircastle groaned forth before him, like the moans of a wounded giant. Veron's mind was racing. The Iron Fleet is gone, ashes on the water. If we hold the castle and the hostages, we may be able to bargain a surrender. His feet splashed through a red puddle, and he smelled iron. His eyes came to rest upon the corpses of several men whose corpses lay strewn about the inner ward. Lord Sunderly's eyes stared unseeing at him from where he lay, throat slit and propped against a barrel. Veron's eyes widened, and he barely raised his shield quickly enough to block the axe blow that nearly cracked his skull.

He drew his sword, raising it before his men. "Treason! We have been betrayed! To arms!"

Merrick had already drawn a hand axe, plunging it into the neck of a man who had rushed him from the flank. The courtyard began to sing with the song of steel and screams. Crossbow bolts thudded downwards from the battlements, and men around him dropped wordlessly, their shouts cut short. Veron battered aside another axe blow and cut his assailant's neck almost to the bone. The men fell backwards in a torrent of blood that rained upon Veron's helm. He roared, cutting another enemy's arm off at the elbow, shearing through boiled leather before biting flesh and bone. He took comfort in Torgon at his side, weaving a bloody arc through approaching foes. An arrow sang by his head, catching an above crossbowmen in the eye and sending him falling to the earth in a heavy thump. Tommard's work. Veron buried his blade in the belly of another man, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the boney hand of House Drumm upon his jerkin. Hilmar has turned, Storm God damn him. They were soon pressed from all sides, and numbers began to tell. Men bearing spears approached with shields locked, driving Veron's loyalists backwards. Shouting behind him prompted him to turn, realizing with grim acceptance that the portcullis was being lowered behind him, cutting him and the lead members of his party off from further reinforcement. Men outside the walls were in the process of being cut down by crossbow bolts and foes emerging from outbuildings alike. Grabbing a dead man's hand axe, he threw it with all his strength, grinning savagely as it buried itself in the skull of one of the advancing spearmen, who fell making an ugly gurgling noise.

The violence and ecstasy of battle soothed his grief, allowing him to put thoughts of Dalton's death temporarily to rest and give himself over to the joy of combat. Slowly but surely he and his surviving men were hemmed in on all sides by their foes, denied the freedom of movement necessary to wield their longswords effectively and falling prey to the stinging agony of crossbow bolts. Men who had fought by his side since they had left Pyke joined the growing mass of corpses upon the cobblestone courtyard, and it became hard to stand without slipping on the flowing blood. Veron caught a flying bolt with his shield before twisting his sword to knock a spear thrust askew, losing his feet in the process and falling to one knee. Suddenly Torgon was there, forcing his foes backwards and giving him time to stand. He fought bravely until the crossbow bolt caught him in his right shoulder.

Veron shouted, a noise strangled by rage. Forcing himself to his feet, he threw himself through the massed spears, knocking aside a foe's shield and burying his sword in their chest. The dead man wrenched it from Veron's grasp as he fell. Drawing a dirk, Veron fought to stay within the guards of the enemy spearman, stabbing in a whirlwind of death. The butt of a spear found the back of his knee, causing it to give out and him lose his footing. Falling to a knee once again, a foe tore his helm from his shoulders, whilst several others grabbed his arms, forcing the dirk from his fingertips. In his bloodlust, Veron continued to struggle, wrenching at the arms of his captors and screaming curses upon their lines and kin. The men laughed the false laugh of killers. He knew then he would not survive the day. Eventually, his body failed him, and he sagged in the their grasp, breathing heavily. He found the glassy eyes of Tommard a few feet from him, his blood pooling amidst the flagstones, bow still in his grasp. Behind him, he was oddly comforted to hear the shouts of Torgon and Merrick, also forced to their knees as the fighting within the courtyard ceased. At least they still live, for now.

The doors to Faircastle's hall were thrown open, and Hilmar Drumm stepped forth, a malevolent grin upon his face.

"Would that you had granted me the Crag, Lord Veron. Perhaps then this slaughter could have been avoided."

Veron spat blood. "You were always a craven cunt, Hilmar. You'd have sold the Crag back to the Lannisters the moment it was besieged by more than a thousand men."

Hilmar shrugged. "Life is sweeter than death. There is no point to winning if you find yourself a corpse." He drew Red Rain from the scabbard at his side. "Your head will be my offering to Erwin Lannister and the rest of the Greenlanders."

Veron chuckled low and mirthlessly. "I am sure the Greenlanders will respect a turncloak far more than most."

Hilmar crossed the courtyard wordlessly, his face darkening with rage and his murderous purpose. Veron's captors forced his head downwards, exposing the back of his neck to Red Rain. Drumm rested the edge of the blade against Veron's neck, and he felt the Valyrian steel bite through skin with barely a touch. Blood trickled down.

Hilmar spoke a query softly. "Any final words, Veron Greyjoy? Brother to a glorious fool?"

Veron sighed and closed his eyes. "I know that your sword will send me speedily to the Drowned God, Drumm. Do you believe your actions will find welcome in his halls?"

He waited for the dismissive retort, followed by the merciless bite of cold death. When it failed to come for a few seconds, he was surprised. He was even more surprised to hear Hilmar Drumm gasping for air. Shouts began all about, and one of the men holding him down screamed in pain, falling. Veron drew a dagger from a dead man and dragged his other captor to the courtyard, ending his struggles with thrust through his helm's eye opening. Raising his head, he watched as Hilmar Drumm clawed at a crossbow bolt in his throat, red tears falling slowly from his wound. With a rattling shudder, the traitor dropped to the courtyard, Red Rain slipping from his fingertips. Veron grabbed at the blade eagerly, feeling the lightness of it in his grasp. Standing, he slashed it in an eager arc, watching it split chainmail and oaken shield alike. Such a weapon is almost unjust, he thought with a grim smile. The smile upon his face only widened as he saw her standing upon the steps at the entrance of the keep. Elissa Farman wielded an exquisite Myrish crossbow, and was in the process of winding it in preparation for another shot. Hilmar Drumm's men were presently being butchered all about him, cut to pieces by weapons as diverse as carving knives to woodsman's axes.

It was as he had suspected. The men and women of Fair Isle had had enough. He sheathed his blade, and saw to his surviving men, urging them to stand down. Checking Torgon's wound, he laughed.

"You had all better hope that I gave my wife no cause for complaint, elsewise we may be facing her wroth next!"

Merrick guffawed, but never took his fingers from his axe handle. In time, the fighting subsided and the gatehouse portcullis was raised. Veron's men, recognizable by the golden krakens upon their breasts, entered slowly and cautiously, accompanied by townspeople. Veron grimaced as he saw how few were still alive. Of a host of ten thousand, a few dozen remain. Fair Isle's militia bid them drop their weapons, ordering them to face their commander before them. Lady Elissa Farman wore armor cobbled together from several sources, including an ornate family heirloom helm and mail clearly of Lordsport make. It was when he met her eyes that he realized the true folly of their war upon the Greenlanders. We struck them down, but they have risen again, harder and stronger. Our strongest have fallen, yet theirs have only just emerged. Veron nodded, a wry smile spreading upon his face, acknowledging a superior foe.

Drawing Red Rain once more, he presented it to the lady of Fair Isle. "It appears that you have command of the castle, my lady. I pray that my men and I will be in good hands."

Elissa Farman grinned for the first time since he had met her. "You are a fortunate man, Lord Greyjoy. A most fortunate man indeed. For I am a generous woman, not incapable of mercy. Your own mercies, however small and faltering at first, will be remembered. I plan to save your life as your captor, as you once saved mine."

Her eyes left him. Narrowing, she beckoned for a few bruised and wan women to come forth from Faircastle. The former saltwives walked amongst his surviving men, and as they passed former tormentors, simply pointed. The men were forced to their knees, their throats slit. Veron frowned, but said nothing.

Elissa Farman shouted to her men assembled below. "Take the survivors to the cells, and raise the banner of House Farman! Prepare to greet our allies!"

Veron sat in the darkness as a maester tended to Torgon in their cell. The maester's hands did not shake, but his wrists bore the discolorations of shackles recently removed. After he had finished applying a salve and bandages to the wound the crossbow bolt had left, he departed. As the cell door closed, darkness shrouded the men inside.

Leaning his head against the damp stone, Veron let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. I should not have left Lord Sunderly in command of the garrison. Too many of the captains were opposed to surrender; it would have been all too easy for Hilmar to persuade them to turn their blades on him. He frowned. Another death to be laid at my feet.

Despite the darkness, Torgon must have seen him scowl. He spoke quietly: "Peace, Veron. You are not to be blamed for the actions and decisions of others."

Veron nodded, but believing in such sentiments was more easily said than done. Realizing that he ought to respond, he nodded his head in thanks.

"Dalton was… determined to follow his path. I knew with some confidence that he would not return from battle today. But Lord Sunderly was a trusted ally. I ought to have seen the danger we were in. Hilmar's hate was not veiled in the slightest."

Torgon shrugged. "His hate was made plain. But as you yourself knew, Hilmar was a coward, prone to only picking fights he could win. It was just as likely that he would have fled Fair Isle."

Veron chuckled mirthlessly. "He might have, had he realized the very peasants were poised to give us a good plowing."

Torgon nodded. "I suppose we ought to thank the Drowned God that you never touched the Farman girl. It'd be difficult to argue for clemency with one's head mounted atop a spike."

Veron smiled. "Perhaps we ought to thank the Drowned God. Mayhaps he himself is a sword swallower. I've heard few tales of him welcoming women into his halls."

Torgon scoffed mockingly. "Blasphemy! For shame, my lord."

Veron shrugged. "I cannot hear the sea from this cell. Perhaps our God cannot hear us from within it either."

Torgon opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused as the cell door was opened once more. Two knights in heavy plate and red cloaks entered, grabbing Veron forcefully from where he sat and leading him outwards. They led (more accurately, dragged) him up the well-worn stairs of the dungeons and outwards into the yard beyond, now filled with armed men sporting a true plethora of lordly sigils, from trouts to dancing maidens to lighthouses. Golden Lions pranced proudly as well, and the looks he received from their wearers could've curdled milk. Veron kept his gaze low and tongue still, realizing the gravity of his situation. The doors of the main hall were thrown open before him, and he was brought before the Farmans' own table, which only a day before had played host to his own brother's bouts of feasting and drinking.

In Dalton's place a variety of individuals had arrayed themselves, almost mimicking the Greenlanders' Seven Gods in their appearances. An old man, sporting the Hightower sigil upon his breast, sat with a muted expression at the center, flanked by a flinty-eyed Lannister (his attire and looks were impossible to miss) and Lady Elissa, who had chosen to change into more lady-like attire. To Lady Elissa's right sat a girl with a branded face and a tall, broad-chested man in black plate. To the Lannister's left sat a smirking man in the raiment of House Costayne, who was eating a dried apple impaled on the tip of his knife. My judgment begins, thought Veron matter-of-factly.

Clearing his throat, the old Hightower rose unsteadily and proclaimed court to be in session. Turning to Veron, he eyed him with wary, tired eyes.

"In the name of King Aegon III Targaryen, we call Veron Greyjoy before this court to hear of his crimes and testimony, that judgment be justly passed. I, Hobert Hightower, appointed Crown Regent of the Isles, will preside, and I humbly invoke the Father's wisdom in order to ensure justice will be dispensed."

Gesturing to either side of him, the Hightower named his companions. "Also present are Ser Erwin Lannister, commander of the Rock's armies, recently named my second, Ser Leo Costayne, admiral in the King's service, Lady Elissa Farman, chief witness, attended by her father, Lord Quenten Farman, Lord Maegor of the Godsrill, Constable of the Realm, and Lady Baela Targaryen, sister to the King and Crown Representative."

Veron nodded. Mostly new faces. Only Ser Erwin and Lord Quenten have faced us before, and only one emerged victorious. His respect for the Lannister knight was keen. He butchered us at Crakehall and blunted Dalton's attack at Kayce. The man certainly can fight. He suspected that Ser Erwin would be most desirous of his head, a sentiment that Lord Quenten would undoubtedly share. Lord Farman has likely spent the better part of a year deep within the Rock, dreaming of vengeance. He would have to appeal to the others for clemency. He closed his eyes, dispensing with his pride. Whatever humiliations I bear, I do for my family. I must protect them now, in our most dire hour.

Hobert Hightower spoke once more, his voice quiet. "Lord Greyjoy, have you any words to speak in your own defense? Lady Elissa has given us much to ponder, but we would still grant you an opportunity to speak."

Veron raised his head in order to face each of those arrayed before him. "I followed my brother to war at the request of Rhaenyra Targaryen. I always endeavored to obey my brother in all things. I am only before you now because he commanded me to hold the castle in his stead."

The Targaryen girl raised an eyebrow. "You claim you obeyed your brother in all things, yet Lady Elissa claims that you mitigated the abuses of his men by claiming saltwives. She swears you committed no cruelties, no rape, against those under your protection."

Veron suppressed a wince. "I… was by no means partial to those particular cruelties, my Lady. I did, with Lady Elissa's encouragement, seek to shield as many as I could from such depredations." He sighed, his innards twisting at his betrayal of his fallen brother. "I always advocated tirelessly for peace… my brother refused to send delegates to King's Landing, believing we could win a more favorable settlement for ourselves. I did not concur with his reasoning."

Whispers flowed freely throughout the hall. Ser Erwin's eyes narrowed. "Whether he personally spoke in favor of peace or had carnal knowledge of his captives is irrelevant! This man is a lowly criminal! By his own admission he served his brother in all things. Dalton Greyjoy was a beast made flesh. This man before us aided and abetted that monster in sacking Lannisport beneath the very Rock itself! He took this island, slaughtering its defenders, and did the same at the Crag! Lady Johanna wishes to make an example of him, in memory of her kinfolk!"

Lord Farman frowned. He mislikes Ser Erwin so callously dismissing my treatment of his daughter. Perhaps they are not as united in purpose as I imagined.

Ser Leo Costayne nodded. "My Lady Elissa, you must have seen this man commit cruelties. Can you truly say that he does not deserve the headsman's ax? Do not fear speaking the truth in his presence, for we knights can now ensure no harm comes to you."

Elissa Farman's eyes narrowed. "Veron Greyjoy's hands are stained with the blood of many. But there are many who owe their very lives to his quiet betrayal of the Red Kraken. Is it not wiser to spare a man with a proven desire to change, than to kill all indiscriminately? The Isles are not yet conquered. Could he not be of great value as a hostage?"

Lord Farman finally spoke. "While this man is undoubtedly one of the most vile men I have had the displeasure to meet, he is worth more alive. Pyke has withstood sieges for years in the past. You will be forced to burn it to cinders to take it quickly."

The Constable leaned forward. "I would much prefer to take Pyke peaceably, if possible. To burn all inside would be to repeat the Red Kraken's actions at Lannisport. We have an opportunity to show ourselves to be better men than our foes."

At that, Hobert Hightower's eyes widened slightly. "The Seven-Pointed-Star does claim that mercy is amongst the greatest gifts that can be bestowed. Is our Faith not an opportunity to demonstrate that? The Red Kraken is dead, destroyed by our Lady Baela this very morn. Thousands of men have already paid for their transgressions today. Let us begin binding the wounds of our realm."

Veron felt the eyes of many upon him. Hatred, fear, loathing, ambivalence; they swirled about him like the dark eddying currents of the sea. He closed his eyes. What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. Change must come, that my people might survive. Dalton could not bear such change, and chose to sail into the maesters' histories. But my work is only just beginning. He knew it would be a bloody path, littered with the corpses of several Hoare Kings before him. He thought of Alannys, Asha and Morgana. He thought of Toron. They are worth it.

The council had finished its embittered arguing as he sat contemplating. The Lady Baela eyed him warily from the high table. "Are you capable of delivering Pyke to us without further bloodshed, Lord Greyjoy?"

Veron nodded, slowly. "They will heed my calls, aye. Those who remain behind its walls will follow me. It will not be the first time the Ironborn have bent the knee to dragons."

Lord Maegor watched him, eyes full of distrust. "I pray for their sake it will be the last time. Not all are as forgiving as those who stand before you." At his words, Erwin Lannister's face grew wine-dark with rage.

Ser Hobert Hightower nodded. "It is done, then. Ser Costayne, prepare the fleet for departure. We depart for the Isles in a fortnight." He then faced Ser Erwin. "My Lord of Lannister, I ask that you see to the retrieval and return of the West's looted property whilst we remain upon Fair Isle. The Reynes have asked that we return their ancestral blade posthaste, and I am certain Lady Johanna would like nothing more than to see her vassals' relatives and goods returned safely. I trust that you will see it done."

Ser Erwin nodded, Ser Hobert seemingly unaware of the wrath that distorted his features. When he spoke, his voice grated: "It will be done at once, my Lord Regent. I will ensure that justice is done."

Veron was led from the chambers, but his mind was already far away. I will do as I promised, Dalton. I will see to the survival of our House, one way or another.

Chapter Text

Hugor I

Hugor rose before the sunrise, as he always did. He crawled forth from the cramped hide tent that he shared with two other men, and slowly stood. The air about him was frigid, and the previous night's fire naught but smoldering embers. Hugor stretched, feeling his muscles tense, and then slowly exhaled, watching his breath surge forth into the cold predawn air as a misty plume. A bit better than before. The cold had been worse in the Riverlands. South of the Blackwater Rush, a man didn't wonder as seriously if he'd wake in the morning to fingers and toes black with frostbite.

"Good morrow, Hugor," the voice to his left called. Hugor turned to regard the source of the voice, and nodded at the man seated before him. Garrett was perched upon the stone that had been laid near the fire for each man that stood watch throughout the night. Small and sparse as Garrett was, and with his faded winter cloak, he had the look of a small grey bird. "I expected to see ya first."

Hugor grunted in acknowledgment as he pulled on his worn leather boots, and stamped them into place. He wasn't much for talking, especially not this early. Soon enough, the others would begin to rise as well, and they'd set about breaking their fast on meager rations, as they always did. All well and good, for we oft don't linger long. The sky was beginning to turn pink on the far eastern horizon, heralding the approaching dawn.

Septa Larissa had mentioned that a sept and village were near to where they'd made camp, and it went without saying that they would be stopping at both before the day was through. Food and faith, Hugor thought with a slight smirk. Without the first, the body starves. Without the second, it is the soul that withers. He wondered if Larissa would end her sermon with such words. She usually did.

Most folk that they met were starving, or on the verge of it. The new King and his Lords had declared that the war was over, and that a new era of prosperity had begun. Hugor had yet to see such wondrous plenty himself, however. Many of the King's people were brutalized, homeless, and hungry. They died every day, mostly the young and the old, those too weak to survive winter in such harsh conditions. Such is the way of these things, Hugor thought with quiet resignation. Septa Larissa thought differently. She had a habit of finding the local gentry of wherever she traveled, and browbeating them until they made some effort to provide for the starving masses that they relied on for their wealth. It was why Hugor had stayed with her as long as he had. It's as though she never tires.

Hugor was tired. Very tired. He had spent a lifetime on the road and sleeping under hedges, drifting from place to place. Risking his livelihood every time he entered a tourney, and wondering when his place next to a Lord's hearth would eventually become unwelcome, and he'd have to start searching again. Life as a hedge knight during the long years of peace was never easy, and it was never certain, but it was heaven compared to the war.

Hugor had been certain of his good fortune when the war had begun. Everyone wanted swords. A knight? Even better. For the first time in his long life, he was paid well and consistently. Marching beneath the King's golden banner, no less. Then Duskendale was sacked, and Rook's Rest after. Fields and buildings burned, smallfolk slaughtered. Hugor had played a part in it, as every veteran of the war had. He'd bloodied his sword until they cracked his head open at the Butcher's Ball, and everything that made him who he was had flowed out with his lifesblood.

There wasn't much left for Hugor now. He had originally likened himself to a broken clay pot. Drained and empty of almost anything of worth. The blow to his head had robbed him of most of his memories, that of the long life he'd lived as a landless knight. The clearest ones he had left were of the killing, dried blood long cleaned from his sword and hands that now stained his soul. Regardless, Hugor didn't think that there was much worth remembering within a lengthy, ignominious existence of barely scraping by.

Septa Larissa had helped him. She was a potter of sorts, mending what was broken and finding new uses for it. Broken men and women, listless in their apathy. People like Hugor, and Garrett. What she'd given them wasn't much, but it would do. The impetus to rise each morning, and to get through each day. For some, it was due to newfound faith kindled within. For others, like Hugor, it was simply the existence of purpose that kept them firmly at her side. To travel the Realm, and tell the broken people that there was a possibility for life beyond all the death. Certainly in the next world, but more importantly, in the living world too. Some listened, and some didn't. As to the success of the Septa's efforts, the only proof Hugor needed was that they gained new companions in most places that they went, and hardly ever lost them.

Looking about himself, he could see that nearly everyone had arisen, including Septa Larissa. The smell of frying bacon made Hugor's mouth water, and he began to wander towards its source. One day at a time, the Septa always said, and so the day began.

Hugor stood at the edge of the town's square, watching. Larissa didn't lack for conviction in giving her sermons, but the words became somewhat repetitive to listen to after hearing them in village after village. Instead, Hugor occupied his time with observation. Though this was mainly to keep an eye out for any potential danger, he also found a sort of quiet peace in it.

A person's face could tell so much without a word being uttered. Anger, hope, fear, grief, and much more. Hugor knew all too well how such expressions oft drained from the faces of the slain, like grain sifting from a punctured bag. For Hugor, this discovery was a learned sadness, for he had seen such a thing happen many times, by his own sword. A corpse had no capacity for emotion, good or bad. It was still, stiff, and cold, immediately and irrevocably detached from the triumphs and woes of the soul that used to inhabit it. It was for this reason that Hugor found a simple joy in watching the faces of the people around him. From smiles to scowls, they displayed that which no man, from King to peasant, could get back once it was gone: life.

Hugor always could tell when he'd found what might be a 'broken man' in a crowd, a person that he himself had so nearly become. The childrens' tales of maiden-stealing dastardly brigands created a sneering, hateful caricature that oft was far from the true look of a broken man. A broken man had many different faces. The rage could ripple beneath his features like the disturbed surface of a pond, or his eyes could forever search fearfully for the next threat. He could exude a practiced and thoroughly false confidence, or he could stand in silence, tense as cornered prey. Mostly, though, the broken man looked exhausted, and hungry. He stole and he killed because he had been doing such for so long that he couldn't remember a time in his life when he wasn't stealing and killing.

Broken men didn't begin as thieves and outlaws. But they were to a man aimless soldiers without a home, or a future to build and rely on. Without these things, the aimless soldier drifted from place to place, until desperation, jealousy, hate, or a thousand other reasons brought him back to the only certainty he had left: he had no one that he could rely upon but himself. It was why he was still alive: he'd always been a bit faster, a bit stronger, than the men that had tried to kill him. That was why he was alive, and his foes weren't. So the aimless soldier broke, whether it took him hours, days, or months, and became the 'broken man' so reviled by civilized society. He lived like an animal, and was hunted down and killed like one by the same Lords and retinues that had first dragged him from his farm and family and turned him into a killer.

It was not one man that had caught Hugor's attention, but several. Incredibly varied in appearance, but standing in a group slightly apart from the greater crowd of townspeople. They were grimy and unwashed, but they were all listening to Larissa's words. That was a good sign. That meant that they weren't broken men after all. A broken man didn't waste his time on things like the Gods, those distant and ephemeral entities that had punished him to Hell on earth.

The man at the head of the group was little more than a lad, short, and with sagging skin around his emaciated face and neck that indicated he'd once been very fat. His eyes were small and dark, and he watched the Septa's speech with a neutral expression. At his left was a tall and gangly lad of a similar age with a broad face covered in pimples and bright red curly hair. His eyes were wide, and the boy listened to the Septa's words with rapt attention. At the first man's left was an ancient bear of a man in furs and leathers, with a craggy and windworn face. His mouth was twisted into a slight smirk as he listened to the sermon, but his grey eyes were full of a guarded warmth. Behind the three of them was a tall fellow with short, curly blond hair and a beard. Like Hugor, he appeared to be less concerned with the sermon as he was with his immediate surroundings. An impatient look was spread across his features, and his right foot tapped idly on the slush-caked cobblestones.

Hugor began to slowly and subtly make his way around the edge of the crowd towards the four men. I should like to speak with them. He had done so before, with other men in other towns. It was tragic, really. How many 'broken men' could have been saved from their twisted path if anyone had bothered to give them a chance? Septa Larissa had given Hugor that chance, as he lay bleeding and broken after the Butcher's Ball. He had been so weak that he couldn't lift his head. He couldn't remember his name, the village in which he'd been born, or his many years on the roads of the Realm.

Larissa could have left him to die, and yet she didn't. She had tended to his wounds, and helped him until he was well once more. She had done so for others too, like Garrett. Their group grew along with her ministry, and they traveled the roads, spreading her message wherever there were ears to listen. Mayhaps the four men Hugor approached would be willing to hear his words, and mayhaps they wouldn't. It mattered not. What mattered was that they were freely offered an open hand. Such a gesture might mean nothing to them, or it might mean everything. It certainly had for Hugor.

The evening meal wouldn't be much, but it would stave off hunger. Hugor didn't need more than that. He walked in front of the four men from the town square, leading them deeper into the encampment. The four would be sharing in this eve's meal after speaking with the Septa. A strategy lacking in subtlety, though not effectiveness. Most people were somewhat willing to visit the campsite with the promise of a free meal. For some, what they found there amongst the people of Larissa's flock was enough to make them join the group. For others, it was the guarantee of food. For them, the belief in the ideals of the group was longer in arriving, but no less certain.

A large bonfire had been built at the campsite's center, and Hugor motioned for the four men to take seats before it. They all did, but the older man and bearded blonde looked around with slight suspicion before doing so. The short man, their leader, sat without hesitation, but Hugor could see how tensely he sat. They are prepared for a trap. Well and good. It meant that they weren't naive fools. Though the King's Peace had been declared, the matter of his authority was something different entirely.

Only a day's ride south of the Blackwater rush, Hugor and his companions weren't far from King's Landing. Even so, they traveled carefully, as they always did. Brigands and cutthroats filled the roads and countryside, without any centralized authority to curtail their depredations. They watched for weakness, and would pounce the moment they saw it. It was Septa Larissa's goal to prevent the lost and broken from falling to banditry and murder, but it was the job of Hugor and her other adherents to ensure that they themselves were not the bandits' next victims.

Septa Larissa was not long in arriving to the fire, flanked by Garrett and Marq the Miller. Marq had been a miller before the war, as his name implied. He had fought beneath the banner of his liege, House Bracken, at the war's beginning, until the Blackwoods had ambushed them and put them to flight. He had quickly discovered that the reward for his service was the slaughter of his family and the burning of his mill by raiders of House Blackwood. Marq had been one of the first to join Septa Larissa in her mission after she'd departed from Stoney Sept.

Septa Larissa herself was dressed as she always was, in grey robes that were frayed at their edges, faded and worn from life on the roads of the Realm. A wrought iron Seven-Pointed Star dangled down from her neck, secured by a simple discolored leather cord. Her curly brown hair was tied back behind her head, and she clasped her hands in front of herself, calloused and strong from her work tilling the fields of her former motherhouse. She smiled at the newcomers, and crow's feet appeared at the edges of her eyes, as they always did. Larissa was always overjoyed at the prospect of new men and women to strengthen their numbers, and better spread their message of hope.

"I am pleased to discover that we shall be entertaining guests this evening," she began. She saw Hugor standing nearby, and surmised that he had been the one to bring them. The smile she gave him was full of approval and gratitude, and Hugor felt the edges of his mouth quirk upwards in response. It was nearly impossible to ward oneself off from the effect of the Septa's good cheer and graciousness. Looking back at the four newcomers, she called warmly for bread and salt to be brought forth.

The four men became considerably less tense after Guest Right had been observed. Even the worst of bandits would be loathe to gain a reputation for violating Guest Right. If the Gods didn't strike them down for it, their numerous foes surely would. "I would be remiss as a host to not learn the names of my honored guests," Larissa gently prodded. It was how her conversations with newcomers usually began. She'd start with simple questions, and gradually work her way into learning everything there was to know about a person. Her skill at observing and understanding others never failed to amaze Hugor.

Initially, there was a long and awkward moment of silence. What does it say of the times that we live in that a simple greeting and introduction are seen as unexpected and an oddity? Hard times made people cold and insular, and these were very hard times. The silence dragged out for several more moments, growing ever more expectant.

The first person to speak of the four was the short man, though upon closer inspection, his relative youth was unmistakable. "I'm called Pate," he began cautiously, "Pate of Oldstones, where the Kings of River and Hill used to rule."

The red-haired lad was next. "I'm Red Symon," he said quickly, before pointing at his head. "Because o' my hair. Everyone called my uncle Grey Symon to tell us apart." The boy frowned then, with the absence of his uncle saying more than words ever could. "I s'pose that it's just Symon now."

The old man in furs proved to be a Northman by the name of Edwell, a former man-at-arms of the late Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, and one of the famed 'Winter Wolves' that had acquitted themselves so fiercely beneath the Blacks' banners during the war. Though his fellows were dead, Edwell carried on, a lone wolf deprived of his original pack. The bearded blonde introduced himself as Ryam, an archer from the lands of House Rowan. Fighting beneath a multitude of Black lords' banners from the Honeywine to Tumbleton, it was in the aftermath of the latter that he had finally given up fighting for any greater cause, and fought instead for his own survival.

Hugor knew that, in time, they'd learn more about each of the four men if they remained with them for a while. Many people would travel with Larissa and her adherents for a time, if for no other reason than that there was safety in numbers along the lawless roads.

By the end of the evening, and the meal, the four had informed Larissa that the Kingswood was their current home, and that of other refugees from the war as well. The younger lad, Red Symon, seemed convinced that her message needed to be heard by the people that hid and starved amongst the trees, to which Larissa seemed receptive. With enough wheedling from the boy, his companions agreed to lead Larissa's group into the Kingswood, to the village of which they spoke. And so our journey continues, Hugor thought in quiet amusement. Larissa and her followers traveled the roads, speaking and recruiting where they could, but never with a specific destination in mind. And yet, as always, it seemed that their next destination had found them instead.

The going had been slow, and arduous. It had been nearly a week since they'd left the Kingsroad, and yet they still hadn't arrived at their destination. Without nothing but snow-laden footpaths and trails to follow, one had to move somewhat carefully so as not to twist an ankle. Hugor had stopped riding his stot after the leaving the Kingsroad, instead leading it with a small length of hempen rope and using the beast to carry his iron plate.

One of the few benefits that the massive forest provided was that the dense trees proved a powerful impediment to the freezing gusts and gales that swirled beyond its environs. The evergreens stood undaunted and whole amongst their fellow trees, while their less hardy brethren had turned bare with the coming of winter, turning the forest floor into a rotting, crunching carpet of dead leaves. The snows fell too, but this far south, they proved little more than a light dusting of frost, compared to the veritable drifts that had begun to accumulate in the Riverlands.

They had been passing through a narrow gorge for the better part of an hour, and the group was strung out along its dusty length. Snow had accumulated at its edges, and occasionally small piles would break free and tumble in, showering portions of the gorge with a short-lived glittering and incandescent haze that caught the weak beams of the afternoon sun. As one of the only knights in Larissa's group, Hugor traveled at the head of the column along with their guides, watching for any signs of danger.

The Northman, Edwell, had declared that the snows had reminded him of "spring in the North", and forged ahead, returning to the main group each evenfall to inform them all of the condition of the paths ahead. Red Symon had taken to speaking with Septa Larissa frequently and fervently, so Hugor seldom saw him. Ryam, the Reachman, traveled at the group's rear to ensure that no stragglers became lost amongst the endless trees and shriveled foliage. That meant that Hugor's only constant companion during the journey had been Pate of Oldstones.

The Riverman wasn't much for conversation, it seemed. That was not to say that he was uncouth, or rude. He was simply quiet. He trudged along the paths and trails without complaint, and with a quiet determination. Contrary to his emaciated appearance, Pate seemed full of vigor and strength. Each evenfall, when camp was struck, he would help to cut firewood and prepare the night's meal, even after a full day of guiding the group through the Kingswood's wintry depths. Pate's clothes were ill-fitting, his stained and frayed gambeson buckled tightly with a leather belt to keep it snug against his form. A tarnished, yet sharp shortsword hung from his belt in a scabbard that was much too large for it. Hugor understood his appearance well. Pate had the true look of a freerider: a man who had accumulated his worldly possessions on campaign, claiming new items and clothing of use from the dead of battlefields, those who no longer had a need for such things. The sole exception was his boots: they seemed quite well-fitting, as though they were something that he'd called his own even before the war.

Whatever journey had brought Pate from his village in the shadow of Oldstones to the bare and fragrant boughs of the Kingswood was not one he seemed eager to tell about. Hugor didn't push him on it: he knew that Pate would tell him if he wished to. Hugor appreciated the fact that neither one of them felt the need to fill the air between themselves with meaningless chatter.

Rounding a corner of the gorge, Hugor gave the rope in his hand a slight tug to keep his aging and stubborn stot moving forward. Ahead of him, the gorge widened, its cliffs' slopes growing gentler and wider until they emptied out into the forest once more. Pate stood upon the right-hand slope of the widening gorge, next to a bubbling spring of water that gently washed forth from the fractured and jagged rock surrounding it, trickling down into a small frozen creek that curved around the edge of the gorge and into the forest beyond.

Pate motioned him forward, and Hugor tied his stot securely next to the creek, cracking the ice on its surface with the heel of his boot so that the beast could have a drink. Hugor then made his way up to the Riverman, stepping carefully on the steep and rocky slope.

Pate cupped a doughy hand into the water's bubbling source, drinking deeply of it. "Sweetwater Gorge," he said simply, nodding at the spring. "This is how it got its name." He smiled slightly. It was the first time Hugor had seen much emotion out of the young man, positive or negative.

Nodding, Hugor removed his leather gloves, tucking them into his belt. Cupping his hands, he dipped them into the freezing and clear waters of the spring's source. Lifting his hands to his mouth, Hugor let the cool water trickle between his cracked and bleeding lips. Seven Hells, it really is sweet. Some of the water sloshed free of his palms and splashed against his neck, trickling beneath the collar of his shirt of mail. Hugor cupped his hands into the water once more and drank again, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the water's taste.

"Water," the man rasped, sprawled against the rocks. Hugor was afraid, despite his foe's incapacitation.

"Go on, boy, finish it!" The voice called coldly behind him. At eleven years of age, Hugor had only just become a squire, and already he was expected to make his first kill.

"Do you have any last words?" Hugor asked his foe. It was the proper thing to do; the knightly thing. Hugor hated how his voice wavered and cracked as he said it. He heard several of the men behind him coldly chuckle as he spoke the words.

"Water," his foe begged once more. His eyelids fluttered in agony, and his fingers twitched as though he no longer could control their movement. His lifesblood continued to pool beneath him, the flow of dark crimson seemingly endless.

"We don't have all day, boy!" the voice behind Hugor shouted, angrier. "Put an end to him!"

Hugor drew in a shaking breath as he stepped forward, and he did as he was bid.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Hugor opened his eyes and pitched backward, losing his balance, all too suddenly free of the horrific reverie. Before he could completely lose his balance, Pate's hands shot out and grabbed the collar of his shirt of mail, holding Hugor in place.

"Are you alright, Ser?" Pate asked, concern written on his face and in his tone.

Hugor took a moment to collect his wits. Sometimes the memories he'd lost would come back without warning, striking as brutally as a club. "I'm… I'm alright, thank you," he muttered.

Pate appeared unconvinced, but didn't press him. Letting go of Hugor's mail, he turned to face the members of Larissa's group that had just rounded the final bend of the gorge. Hugor sat in silence for a moment, breathing deeply. For several seconds, all that he could smell was blood.

After several more days of travel, Edwell and Pate had informed the group that they had nearly reached their destination. The news was welcome, for even conviction was beginning to wear thin after the maddeningly long journey. Hugor decided to spend this final leg of the journey at Larissa's side. The trails and footpaths had widened into something of a road, meaning that Hugor was able to put on his armor and finish the journey on horseback.

Larissa, unlike many of her followers, displayed the same enthusiasm that she had begun her journey with. "The Seven have surely seen fit to grant us this opportunity, Hugor," she was telling him, "for I fear that much of my brothers and sisters in the faith seldom travel so far from their septs, septries, and motherhouses to speak of the goodness of the Gods."

Hugor was inclined to agree with her. A septry or motherhouse is much more hospitable than the open road, and safer besides. Septa Larissa was uncommon in her devotion to ensuring that the message of the Gods was spread far and wide. "I would presume you are correct, Septa. I'd assume little and less would be willing to travel so far to see so few. They might-" Hugor felt the words in his throat shrivel and die as they crested a hill, revealing an open valley beyond.

The little village was there in its center, as Pate, Edwell, Red Symon, and Ryam had promised. It was what was around it that shocked both Hugor and Larissa into silence. Ramshackle huts and hide tents, stretching from the village's edge in the valley's center, almost to the treeline in every direction. The destitute wandering about in listless multitudes. Hundreds of them. Nay, thousands. How had they all gotten here?

Swallowing his shock, Hugor turned to address a similarly amazed Larissa: "Well, Septa, it appears that we may be here for some time."

Chapter Text

Maris IV

Maris flinched as the goblet struck the wall with a resounding crash, before falling to roll about the chamber floor. Dark red wine flowed outwards like blood for a few moments before a servant wordlessly began using a small towel to sop up its spilt contents.

"The boy had no right to dismiss him! Ser Byron had served with distinction as a knight of the Royal Household since his appointment!"

Ser Roland Connington suppressed a grimace. "My Lord, there was that ugly bit of business with the King's brother…"

Borros slammed his fist upon the table, red-faced. "We were at war, and the boy bared steel. He was as much a combatant as anyone else in the chamber."

Connington nodded, but nothing about his expression implied mollification. "Nonetheless, Ser Swann has already departed the city. With him goes our last appointment in the Royal Household, barring Lord Tarth."

Lord Bryndemere leaned forwards, breaking his earlier silence. "My Lord, Corlys Velaryon has made it quite clear to me that if I wish to continue in my service to the King that I will need to avoid any attempts to ensconce myself any further into the administration. My duties do not allow me much access to the Red Keep, and the Regents have remained remarkably tight-lipped about any impending developments. So long as I am able to restore some semblance of effective taxation, they seemingly have little interest in my talents."

Her father's eyes narrowed. "So the Crown's debts are as high as the whispers suggest?"

Lord Bryndemere nodded, his expression growing grave. "Higher, my Lord. During her time atop the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra extorted practically every business owner in the capital. When that proved insufficient, she apparently borrowed vast sums from Lord Velaryon, who offered far kinder rates than the Iron Bank or the perfidious Rogares. With the subsequent riots, many of the Crown's debt-holders have either disappeared or sold their shares of the Crown's burdens to Lord Velaryon."

"Gods damn it. So the damned greybeard has the King over a barrel?"

Ser Roland scoffed. "Matters of coin are for bankers and merchants to sweat over, not Lords."

He says 'bankers' and 'merchants' in the tone most would use to say 'whores', Maris thought to herself.

Lord Bryndemere gave an exasperated glance at Ser Roland. "Lord Corlys wields the power he does precisely because he thinks like a merchant and a banker. Driftmark's yearly incomes would be miniscule compared to those of Tarth if it were not for generations of Velaryon investments in shipbuilding and trade. Even now, every peppercorn, bolt of silk, or stick of cinnamon sold in the realm has passed through Driftmark since the war began. Corlys Velaryon doesn't just have the King over a barrel, he has the realm over one!"

Maris adopted an inquisitive expression. "My Lord betrothed, forgive me if I misspeak, but the Old King Jaehaerys grew wealthy after approving taxes on luxury imports, did he not? Could we not do the same? Why not enrich the Crown at the expense of the Seahorse?"

Bryndemere smiled. "An excellent idea, my dear. But an impractical one. Ser Tyland Lannister and Lord Velaryon have already decreed an end to those taxes, as well as a reduction on foreign food imports, supposedly in an effort to reduce the strain on grain merchants, and ostensibly to alleviate the danger of famine. I am certain the lowliest members of the smallfolk rejoiced when they heard that their tastes for cinnamon and cloves could finally be accommodated."

Maris resisted the urge to laugh at her betrothed's dripping sarcasm. "If the Crown is reducing its port taxes, how does it expect to ever repay Lord Velaryon?"

Lord Bryndemere chuckled. "I am not certain Lord Velaryon would ever wish to be fully repaid. I am sure he would be quite content for his House to simply collect payments on interest for the next century. He has, however, doubled the hearth tax within the city, as well as decreed a similar increase within the King's demesne in the Kingswood, to be levied at such a time as when Royal authority has been reestablished. The Goldcloaks have been encouraged to use any means necessary to ensure that payments continue to be collected."

Her father coughed. "As fascinating as these matters are, I feel a thorough explanation of the Crown's pitiful finances must wait. Pray tell, Lord Bryndemere, do you have any joyous news for me, perhaps regarding my dear Maris?"

Lord Bryndemere smiled thinly. "I am pleased to confirm that I extended an offer for your daughter's hand, my Lord. We have mutually decided to postpone our wedding until after the marriage of the Hand's granddaughter. We fear that the Lord Hand might take offense if we sought to diminish the grandeur of Lady's Rhaena's impending nuptials."

Borros Baratheon sighed. "Gods forbid we deny the Lady Rhaena anything. So be it. If my own daughter's wedding must be postponed for the sake of currying Royal favor, it shall be done." He reached across the table to take Maris's hands into his own. "I promise that your own wedding, along with that of your sisters, will lack for nothing my sweet. None will doubt the power of House Baratheon on that day."

Maris smiled. "I would expect nothing less. Thank you father."

With a nod, her sire stood, leaving the chamber. Ser Roland followed after him, his stormy visage dark.

For few moments, she and Lord Bryndemere sat in silence, watching the fire crackle in the hearth. Finally, he spoke.

"Your father's wroth grows, my dear. I fear there is little that can be done to soothe his underlying frustrations, however. The King has made it abundantly clear that he will never suffer Borros Baratheon seated upon the Small Council or Regency. The deaths of his brothers will never be forgotten, nor forgiven."

Maris nodded. "Lord Strong was wise to disappear along with his claimant. During the siege, I was certain we would wake in the night to the sound of screams and dragonflame, hostages or not. I lacked my father's firm conviction that we would survive."

Lord Bryndemere took a sip from his chalice. "Were it not for those children in chains, we would have not. To think, two scared boys and a maimed girl bought the lives of thousands." His eyes bored into the flames before him. "When the negotiations concluded, I had the opportunity to observe the Pretender's surviving seeds. They are no callow boys, with hay in their hair. They are killers. None since Maegor the Cruel have consigned so many to the hellish flames of dragons. I do not believe King Aegon and Ser Malentine would have defeated them."

Maris smoothed her dress. "It is fortunate then, that by fortune and circumstance, they have been brought peaceably into the fold."

Bryndemere nodded. "It is most fortunate indeed." He took another sip. "If your father truly wishes to gain power within court, he must gain the favor of a dragonrider. Lord Corlys' wealth is spectacular, but what truly elevates his station are the three dragonriders that obey his commands implicitly. If he succeeds in returning Ser Malentine into the Velaryon fold, his grip upon the realm will become unshakable. Two of four Royal Constables will answer to the Lord of the Tides."

"Father knows this. I have heard him speak with Cassandra. He told her that if our mother bears him a son, he will need her to marry for our House. He has already spoken with Ser Malentine, offering him lands from House Baratheon's own holdings as a dowry if he were to accept her hand."

The Lord of Tarth eyed her closely. "Will she dance to your father's tune?"

Maris shrugged. "Happily? No. My dear sister has dreamed of a crown since she first learned the meaning of the word. But she fears father, and will follow his commands. If she is ordered to marry Ser Malentine, she will do so."

Lord Bryndemere seemed to accept her words. "If Lord Velaryon is successful in winning Ser Malentine's loyalty, would she marry one of the Seeds?"

Maris blanched. My sister's wrath and humiliation would be most formidable. But would she risk disinheritance? I am safe from such a marriage, but would Elyn or Floris be? Has father considered such an option?

Lord Tarth chuckled. "You realize, I am sure, the necessity of a dragonrider answering to House Baratheon. If your father cannot obtain a Seahorse, then he must needs make do with a peasant. The Cannibal is one of the three largest living dragons, and its rider is unspoken for." He swirled the dregs of his wine for a moment, a small smile on his face. "I have little doubt that every maiden within the Vale of Arryn is being told the same thing as we speak. Lord Velaryon undoubtedly sent the two Seeds from the capital in an attempt to marginalize their influence. But they are as dangerous in the West and East as they are within this city's walls. Perhaps more dangerous. Jeyne Arryn and Johanna Lannister were treated most unfairly by their lieges. I am certain they would not deny themselves an opportunity to reduce the disparity between themselves and the Crown."

Maris sighed and sipped her wine. He is right, of course. Have we missed our chance at true power? "I will… think on your words, my Lord. You have given me much to consider."

She offered her hand to the Lord of Tarth, and he kissed it, delicately. "Maris Baratheon, you have a mind for power. Your father has already nearly destroyed House Baratheon's ties with the Crown. You alone may have the wits to save them. The question, of course, is how to do so." He chuckled. "I, in the meantime, will be busy attempting to rein in your father's… more troublesome impulses."

Maris curtseyed, a smile tugging at her features. "It is good to have an ally, my Lord."

The Lord of Tarth stood, and bowed. "Likewise, my Lady."

Ellyn Baratheon looked frantic as Maris returned to their chambers.

Maris eyed her warily. "What is the matter, sister?"

Ellyn spoke, almost breathlessly. "I have received an invitation to attend to the Queen Jaehaera."

Maris frowned. "I thought that King Aegon had made his opinions on Baratheon court presence quite clear?" She paused, in order to gesture at the manse all about them for effect. "We certainly have not claimed this abode for its aesthetic virtues!"

Ellyn shook her head in agreement. "I am quite aware, Maris. Spare me your wit, just this once. A servant in Royal livery awaits within the entry hall, and insists that the Queen has demanded my presence. The King, loath to disappoint his newlywed, has allowed for me and a select few companions to attend her. If she is pleased, he may allow me to do so regularly."

Maris' mind was racing. Jaehaera did always favor Ellyn… it would make sense that she would dearly miss her calming influence. If Ellyn is allowed to bring companions, this could prove the opportunity we seek!

"Have you decided whether or not you will attend the Queen, Ellyn?"

Ellyn folded her arms. "I cannot deny her request, even though she remains a frail child. What I have yet to decide is whether to allow my potentially troublesome sisters to accompany me. You and Cassandra were at times positively vile to Jaehaera."

Maris nodded. "We were. And I would understand your desire to leave us behind, if you so chose."

Ellyn raised an eyebrow. "That is… remarkably understanding of you Maris. Do not disappoint me by softening too much with the news of your betrothal. Your acerbic tongue does sometimes serve a purpose."

Maris laughed. "Kind, but untrue. I rarely bring our House anything but woe when I open my mouth."

Ellyn rolled her eyes. "Aemond was vicious, Maris. And you did not allow him to leave Storm's End. Father gave that order."

In her mind's eye, she saw a violet eye, dripping malice. Black armor, dripping rainwater like blood, shone in the torches of Storm's End. I could not have known the kind of man he was; the things he was capable of… could I?

"I… suppose you are correct, Ellyn. I thank you for your kind words."

Her sister regarded her quietly for a few moments. "I think I will be bringing you with me after all. I never was comfortable alone in court."

Maris nodded. "What of Cassandra and Floris?"

Ellyn crossed her arms and frowned. "What are your thoughts on the matter?"

Maris pursed her lips. "Floris is a kind girl, unlikely to cause any sort of offense. Cassandra… Cassandra can be cruel, but she can also be charming, if appropriately incentivised." She thought for a moment. "We ought to bring them both. It would be unwise to appear disunited as a family in court. We need each other, now more than ever."

Ellyn nodded, a cautious smile breaking upon her face. Finally, she asked a question. "Who are you, and what have you done with my sister, rogue?"

Maris grinned. "Pettiness has gone out of fashion, sweet sister."

They found Floris in her chambers sewing a golden stag onto a kerchief, and were able to convince her to come along without much effort. When they entered Cassandra's bedchamber, they found her combing her hair with an ivory brush fashioned to resemble an antler. Ellyn lightly drove her elbow into Maris' side, and she deduced that it was her turn to speak.

"Sister, are you aware a servant clad in Royal livery awaits Ellyn in our entry hall?"

From her seat in front of a silvered mirror, Cassandra Baratheon eyed the three of them. Their sister still remained in a shift, evidently unwilling to dress properly until supper, but her posture remained impeccable. "I am more than aware, Maris. A serving girl brought me word scarcely after he arrived. I am surprised you've deigned to mention it to me."

She still resents our exile. Do not return the barb. "We, after some discussion, have decided to accept the Queen's invitation to attend her. We thought it best that we all go together, as sisters."

Cassandra scoffed. "What would I want with that lackwit? To think that they made her Queen! After that performance of hers at the wedding, I am shocked that they allow her to make any requests."

Ellyn drew breath, clearly preparing to scold Cassandra for her words, but Maris raised a hand to prevent her. "Sister, I too chafe at our marginalization. But the Crown will not give us another opportunity to return to court. The King despises father, yet has allowed us a chance to return to serve his Queen, whom he still holds in favor. Surely you realize that others will be attending Jaehaera? That this could be an opportunity to work our way back into the Crown's good graces?"

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "Father commands six thousand swords in the capital. Without the men of the Stormlands, the King would never have tamed this city. He cannot bar father from power permanently."

Maris frowned. "Father could bring sixty thousand swords to the capital for all the King cares. No amount of blustering or bald-faced intimidation will force the King to budge. But perhaps… perhaps honeyed words and compassionate service will suffice where brute force will not. We are ladies, raised from birth in courtly courtesy. Is it really so impossible to mask our frustrations and work as one? A door barely opened is still preferable to one slammed shut. We may have the power to succeed where our sire has failed."