Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

'Tis a Grimm tale we recount, a departure of the norm, but not so far that we do not recognise the song or the characters involved

What is new is not always good and what is old is not always outdated

Yet still there are changes, and this tale brings the greatest changes of them all. You knew the heroes and the villains, and make no mistake though we follow most humans, with all their flaws as they are, there are heroes and villains, good and evil.

So sit back and let me tell you a tale of war, romance, courage and fellowship and all the tragedies such things bring.'

A humble storyteller, one of two brothers met on the road.

Chapter 1: To the new world

Why do you look up at the sky Daylen?

I think they're stories mother, I'm trying to hear them.

Stories are wonderful things my child, but try not to pay too much attention to them. The greatest stories are the ones yet to be told.

He opened his eyes, looking up at a ceiling he did not recognise. The very room seemed to be swaying and he could hear water, great amounts of it. So he supposed he was in a ship for the first, no second time in his life, such as his memory could recall. He certainly felt ill enough to be on a ship, from how he had heard other people describe it. There was coughing coming from a few rooms across from him. He shuffled on his bedroll, feeling the bandages across his shoulder, over his hands and across his right eye. The young man made one attempt to stand up but his legs failed him and he fell hard onto the decking, letting out a frustrated snarl. There was a rustle of cloth behind him, a curtain being pulled to reveal a young blonde haired boy in brown rags and a red haired dwarven girl in boiled leathers. They were faces that the young man recognised, people he had helped, or so he thought at the time.

"Warden," the girl said.

"Master Amell," the boy followed up with, a bright spark in his eyes despite where they were.

Amell, that was the name of a family, his family again he supposed. Daylen Amell, Grey Warden, the names echoed in his mind as he remembered, remembered his origin, the circle of magi and a friend he wanted to help, catching the eye of a Grey Warden whose ranks he was recruited into and a journey that saw him travel across Ferelden, visiting the various peoples to unite them against the blight.

'The blight,' Daylen widened his eyes.

He looked down and began to see the wood as bloody stone, and the ceiling as the smoke filled sky. For a moment he gagged, seeing the blood of mages, dwarves, elves and knights on the floor. He looked up and saw on the great tower of the fort Drakon his enemy, the enemy he had united people against. Beneath them were the still forms of Loghain and Leliana, 'don't be dead, please,' he thought. The dragon snarled, its skin was a mass of barbed purple scales, grotesque even by the comparison of dragons and a parody of its former name 'dragon of beauty'. It roared, releasing blasts of dark purple flames from its mouth before it took flight. Through the roar Daylen could hear the eerie song he heard every time a darkspawn was near, the song that haunted his dreams since he drank the darkspawn blood and was inducted into the wardens.

"HE'S AWAKE!" one of the children yelled.

But he couldn't hear them, he could only his own screaming, banging his head against the wood, dragging his hands across it.

"You failure, die, right now, just you!" he seethed, bile rising in his throat before he vomited.

He went limp, restrained by two others behind him. His voice came out as a bestial scream, an agonising scream that pierced through the ship and reminded most of his guilt and shame. He was the Grey Warden, the hero of Ferelden, who failed to save it.

Leyton Hightower was called the Old man of Old Town. He had not descended from the Hightower in many years, since the days of Aerys Targaryen. With the fall of the mad king came a new rule and a new age of peace that had lasted for many years, but there were dark whispers amongst court and they had spread as far as Old town. These stories, Leyton knew as other lords knew, were the fault of Thedas migrants, the upstart noble Amell line. Their patriarch, a former friend of the Mad King, had sworn fealty to the Baratheons and had been given the Meadow as a gift, and since then he and his daughter and grandsires had earned varying reputations amongst the people of Westeros.

Aristanna Amell was the story teller, a singer and musician of repute, loved by small folk and noble alike. But then came the ships from Thedas, bearing ill tidings and spreading even poorer news. She proclaimed that the Blight was coming; she screamed that the Blight was coming. The poor girl was locked into the dungeons of the Red keep for her own protection, this Leyton knew. A sickness had begun to spread from migrants of Thedas, perhaps this would lead the crown to once again isolate their borders, to keep those madmen and women of Thedas, away forever. The faith too was beginning to spread an uneasy message, that the eerie fog that had fallen over most of the nation was a bad omen, a punishment wrought by welcoming people unto their lands. Though he supported the faith, such superstition was false, this Leyton knew.

Garth Hightower was a knight of some regard, not the greatest and not the worst of men to take up chivalry in Thedas. He rode through the streets of Hightown in full armour with the Hightower sigil on his breast plate. He pushed part of his cloak against his nose to keep the filth out. Those on the streets were coughing, some with skin grey and black veins on their faces. They were dying from a plague the Maestars of the Citadel had dedicated much effort to studying. People had begun to try sneaking out of the city, but upon the Maestar’s recommendation the city watch shut the gates. The last thing anyone in Westeros wanted was a plague to spread. But it was not just the plague that people feared; the word had reached their ears of this ‘Blight’ that the House Amell spoke of. The womanising younger son of the Amells Dayk, had been laughed at in Highgarden, his sister the wandering knight Dayla had been chased from Lannisport for her speaking of the nonsense of her homeland. Darkspawn were stories to frighten children, magic was a tale spread amongst the blasphemous chant of light, this Garth knew.

Days ago when the mist fell over Oldtown, an old man in blue robes had come and he ranted and raved, and spoke of how a great darkness was coming. He said the land would be blanketed by fire and shadows, that all that was green would crumble to ash, that all that was beautiful would be corrupted and become grotesque. Garth had the man beaten and pushed out of the gates, driven to the hills. All that time the old man just kept saying that the eye had fallen over their lands, their worlds. It was all nonsense, this everyone knew.

What they knew mattered little with the approach of the ships. They knew magic wasn’t real, but great balls of fire began to fly from the ships approaching the harbour. They knew that monsters weren’t real, but monsters was what lookouts saw, monsters whom had built from wood, metal and bone ships that traversed oceans. It was not the migrants of Thedas that arrived first, it was something else entirely.

The Darkspawn had come to Westeros.

Garth marched with his knights through the streets of White harbour, seeing the flames spread. His priority was not on stopping the flames, but what had created them in the first place.

“What projectiles did they use?” he asked of one of the city watch.

“No projectiles, there’s no rock or anything, it’s as if a fire ball was launched at the buildings,” one of the guard stated as another ball of fire slammed into the buildings behind him.

“THE SHIPS! THE SHIPS ARE GETTING CLOSER!” one of the watchers yelled.

The guard towers had been knocked down, releasing flames across the streets. There was some kind of sound echoing out of the ships, a chant of some kind that Garth could barely make out.

“Katmuda!”

“Gorosh!”

“KATMUDA!”

“GOROSH!”

“KATMUDA!”

The chanting continued a chant of blood lust and celebration of an upcoming slaughter. It was inhuman, as if animals were chanting it, roaring it out in glee. Garth and his soldiers could hear the stomping of feet and spear shafts against the decking of the ships. They were massive black ships with torches on them like the eyes of a great beast. Just as the ships began to reach the shores and port of the city, the ground itself shook and the white mist hit the city. White Harbour had truly become coated in white. Garth heard the ramps of the ship slam into the port, so hard that the rock cracked beneath them. He kept his sword raised, commanding his troops to stand their ground.

There was no such thing as monsters, no such thing as magic, this Garth Hightower knew.

The gates of old town shut, a plan to keep the sickness from spreading. But it would be the end of Old town and the slaughter of its people. They banged at the gates and for a moment Leyton thought he could hear them screaming, hear his people try to escape before their cries were drowned out by the animalistic wails of what attacked them. ‘Are there animals amongst them,’ he thought, ‘are they mad men,’ he wondered and the doors of the Old tower collapsed and the knights inside fought and died screaming. He heard them growling and snarling, heard their inhuman laughter and he also heard whispers, like children eerily whispering a chant, a song, was that what the sick described it as. But no, there was no such thing as a dark song, this he…hoped. He placed a hand on his sword as the growling drew closer to his quarters, and for a moment he pondered drawing his sword to take his own life.

But he needed to know, needed to find out if what he knew was true or not. The door cracked and the growls got louder and his hands shook more. He drew his sword, gripped the blade, contemplating fight or die, but he needed to know. But the growling died out and the door was suddenly thrown open. Light invaded the old man’s eyes, he could only hear a bump and a rolling sound. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his son’s head. He stared into his son’s permanently shocked eyes and screamed, looking to the hooded figure at the door. His eyes seemed to be made of fire, a fire that burned through the darkness cast by his hood. Around the man’s clawed gauntlet, Leyton spotted a ring with, the signet of which was a red jewel in the mouth of a dragon. Leyton stood, frozen in fear as the stranger drew a sword from his belt, an ugly blade that matched the blood curdling scream emanating from the stranger’s mouth.

“It can’t be, it’s a lie, a lie,” Leyton whispered.

Suddenly, like a ghost the hooded man rushed through Leyton, bashing aside his blade and lifting him up by his neck. He carried the old man of old town to the window, dangling him off of the edge. The last thing Leyton saw before the ground was the hood of the stranger lift up, revealing the ‘man’ beneath, a face he had seen in paintings, described in books.

But that was impossible, all men die, this Leyton believed, until he knew no more.

Four weeks the fleet had been floating, each ship losing sight of the other. The fifth blight had become the most destructive of all the blights, as it consumed Ferelden and spread to the Free Marches, leaving many with nowhere to go. The great dragon Urthemiel went undefeated and the Grey Wardens were beaten, driven back at every turn. Even the companions of the warden hero who spread hope to Ferelden were scattered across the fleet of migrants. The captain of the Siren’s call looked down at her crew working amidst the crowds of refugee she accepted into her charge. The Rivaini woman looked at the madwoman, Flemeth, it seemed a fitting name as she was one mysterious passenger. She had seemed to disappear every now and then; Isabela knew most of the goings on, it was her ship after all. Originally a slaving vessel, Isabela wasn’t above the act of kindness; she wasn’t completely heartless after all.

She like many others put together the fleet because of the call that echoed amongst Fereldens, Marchers and Orlesians, ‘come to the land in the far west, where the ice wall resides and the seasons last generations, there you will find salvation’. Isabela sailed because of the opportunity, not the hope, but considering who was residing in the sheltered tent behind her, she was willing to hope for a little bit. The flap of the tent ruffled and Isabela turned to the red haired woman who came out. She wore a red and orange robe, the sleeves rolled up as she wiped her hands with a towel. The young woman was a mage from the Ferelden tower, Petra, and she was the primary care taker for the man in the tent.

“How is he?” Isabela asked.

“He still hasn’t regained consciousness, yet, I can see he has nightmares, we treated the wounds, give him soup and water but if anything it’s as if he’s getting worse,” Petra explained.

“He certainly was more muscular when he got in,” Isabela said.

“Kinnon tried testing it, so has Keili, none were able to use their magic the way they could before, we’re closer to the West right, it confirms the theory that we aren’t able to access magic as we can in Thedas,” Petra stated, with some regret in her eyes.

Isabela understood it to a degree, she was a sea faring creature and whilst she had travelled by foot on land before and knew the necessity of a human needing to be on land, she belonged on the sea, sailing on a ship and feeling the breeze and haze on her skin. For a mage like Petra it must have felt like a part of herself was missing, as it would have been if Isabela lost her ship.

“I’ve never been this far before, I’ve heard they have all sorts of strange behaviours over there, naming their bastards by whatever ground they have where they were born,” Isabela explained.

“So they’re given the last name dirt?” Petra asked and both women giggled.

“Ship to the portside, far east,” the crewman in the crow’s nest called out.

“Maintain the course, keep it steady,” Isabela commanded.

She nodded to Petra and walked down the steps to her crew, working alongside them to maintain the sails and to get a better look at the ship in the distance. It wasn’t Ferelden or Orlesian, and it certainly wasn’t Qunari. Like the Kossith being tall and monstrous, the dreadnoughts were hulking figures, these ships were smaller with almost wing like sails. Isabela went to the Tiller, taking the place of the crewmen there and turning the ship. She would not risk an encounter with an unknown ship. There were some fighters on the ship, survivors of the dead attack on Redcliffe, templars and guards of Denerim lucky to escape the destruction left by the dragon. It still lingered in Isabela’s mind as she sailed out of Denerim, seeing the great purple dragon howling on top of Fort Drakon. When she got to Kirkwall she heard of devastating attacks in Starkhaven and Ostwick, as if the Darkspawn carried out coordinated attacks.

At one of her ports, Isabela had managed to find her way into the bed of a Grey Warden, hardly the best of her brethren, she ranted about how the Darkspawn seemed different. Her temporary lover had also whispered of something else that wasn’t Darkspawn. But that had been the general whispers lately; no one knew for sure just how bad things had become, only that the people of Thedas were running out of places to fall back to. Many paid all that they had to Isabela for the chance to get on the seas, to go to a place where the Darkspawn would take years to dig. Slim hope was everywhere and the desperate were willing to go anywhere, even to the far side of the world and into the unknown. Better a strange new world than the familiar and scary one they inhabited.

Days passed since they saw that unknown ship, a storm came through, forcing many of the mages to take their charge into the hold. Isabela had braved many storms in her life, she had outrun waves as tall as great castle walls, seen thunder rip open the heavens but it all paled in comparison to the great storm she and her crew faced. Four men were lost to it, others more seemed to go mad, and claimed there was a dragon in the sky. Isabela had been too focused on the waves themselves, on weaving the ship through the great water mounds that threatened to topple her. When the storm had passed, they toasted a shot of rum to the four brave men that died and continued on the journey. Isabela went down to the hold, seeing the Chantry priests and Cullen tending to the sick. Out of his armour, though still wearing his gauntlets and boots, the blonde Templar wore a red doublet.

“Here, you have to eat something,” he gave a pale and tired old woman beans from his pocket.

“Thank you lad, but please spare it for someone younger,” she said, closing Cullen’s hand.

“HE’S AWAKE!!” a voice suddenly cried out.

It was Bevin, the boy tripped on the floor when he ran out of the corner. Isabela, Cullen and Keili ran to where Bevin was crawling. The boy stood up and turned to the man with his own private room in the hold. He had wild brown hair, pale skin with a burn mark across his nose and right arm, a scar over his right eye. Taller than Cullen and broad shouldered and muscular, Isabela remembered him being bigger when he first got on the ship. It wasn’t just malnutrition that affected the man’s build; Petra had said something about magic being in the man’s muscles. She came around the corner with Kinnon, both moving to support the man when he tried to bash his head against the floor again.

“Denerim, the Archdemon,” he said.

Keili shook her head, a frown crossing her face.

“Denerim is gone, burnt to the ground, you failed Daylen Amell,” she said.

“Keili,” Petra chided as the girl walked away.

Daylen let out a few deep breaths, breaths that became more rapid as he touched his throat. The dwarf girl Dagna gasped and quickly spoke up:

“Oh dear, someone get us a bucket, he’s about to…”

Isabela sighed when Daylen fell to his knees and vomited. She and Bevin helped Daylen into a sitting position against the wall, the latter wiping his mouth with his own sleeve.

“Leliana, Sten, Oghren, Zevran, are they…where is Alpha?” Daylen asked.

“His dog,” Bevin said when Isabela pulled a confused face.

“Your injuries have healed but you’ve not been eating properly and just barely drinking, you slip in and out of consciousness,” Petra stated.

“Keili, she’s right, I failed,” Daylen leant his head back, looking ahead of Isabela at the refugees peering in.

He took a deep breath, and then another and another until he could barely breathe. Sweat ran down his face, the young man collapsed into a sitting position, his fingers going to his throat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Bevin asked.

‘Panicking, so much failure, I let everyone down,’ Daylen thought.

‘Don’t let them see,’ he remembered an old friend’s teachings.

‘Don’t let them see how much it bothers you,’ he stood up and bit his bottom lip, tightened his fist and let his pounding heart begin to calm.

‘Thank you Irving, I’m sorry,’ he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat and looking to Isabela.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

He stood in the ruins of a once great city, his city, one he had reclaimed against all odds once. But it was gone now, the great white spires were reduced to dust and the flags, once moving with the breeze were shred to pieces or taken as prizes to mock a once great kingdom. His hand tensely gripped the pommel of his sword, the blade digging into the rock, blunting it. Not enough though if he wanted to lift it to his neck, which he did. Hearing the footsteps behind him, he looked over his shoulder, his once long hair cut short so he could not longer hide the callouses of his skin or the shame of his eyes. By contrast the man in the green coat was no different, tall as all of his line were, strong, his hair rugged but poise the very picture of royalty that the shamed man should have believed in.

"You are here to cast judgement then, as the king should," the shamed man said.

"I am king only of ashes, leader of a tribe of broken men, I carry this failure," the rugged man said.

"You carry nothing heir of Isildur, it was I who delivered the weapon to our enemy, it was I who broke the fellowship," the broken man lowered his head.

He adjusted the rough cloak he wore, to cover the dark blue tunic he wore and the cracked horn hanging on his shoulder.

"I saw the lady of Lothlorien, she spoke of hope, of a way forward, a day may come when the hearts of men fail, but it is not this day," the heir of Isildur said.

The broken man snapped, lifting his blade, pointing it at the rugged man.

"That day has already come, it was my heart that failed, it was I who forsook fellowship!" he seethed.

His hand shook and the rugged man walked towards him.

"So long as we hold true to one another," the rugged man said.

The blade went still as it rested on the rugged man's chest.

"There is hope for you too Boromir, son of Denethor," said Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

Boromir closed his eyes in shame, the tears threatened to spill out, it had been all he had done for days between the slaughter of orcs and the screams of self loathing. He lowered his sword and stepped back, beginning with a bow of his head before he knelt.

"I would have followed you until the end my brother, my captain, my king," he said.

But Aragorn knelt in front of him and rubbed his shoulders in comfort. There was no judgement, no anger or outrage or call of 'how dare you feel guilt for the catastrophe you caused'. The ring had been taken, but the bearer was safe, the land of Gondor shattered and its people scattered yet still enough lived to rebuild. So the ranger stood and listened and wept with the man he had chosen to save, the first subject he would save. Rather than pass judgement and execute, he helped the man to stand and gifted him with new purpose.

"The lady Galadriel believes that there is something amiss Boromir, it was only your choice that day that doomed this Middle-Earth, something is wrong with the Valar and the song they used to create this world," Aragorn stated.

"What do you mean?" Boromir asked.

"I grew up amongst the elves, Lord Elrond was my teacher, and as a ranger I can read the land, something is very wrong with it," again Aragorn knelt, brushing his hand over the ground.

"I can only call it what Galadriel did...a blight!"

Earthquakes the Maestars called them, at least that was what Jon heard Samwell call them. He was wiser than those men at the citadel in many ways, less so in others of course considering he was barely considered a man of age. Jon too alongside his cousins, though still a great many things had been forced upon them, or at least were to be. This Jon believed because he had begun to have dreams, he dared not speak of them to anyone, even his cousins. He could see the mountains of the Reach crumbling, the crops of the south withering and the creatures of the north dying. Every night that dream haunted him alongside a whisper and a great booming voice that he had committed to memory.

'Ash nazg, durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul," but beyond the words themselves sounding grotesque too, they filled him with a deep sense of dread as if a sickness had spread through him.

'Perhaps I am sick,' he thought.

He had begun to be as melancholic as his father, introducing himself as Jon rather than his namesake, Aemon, the man that his father wanted at his side as Maestar and the dragon knight that Jon wanted to be. 

Isabela kept her quarters clear of ale, of anything that could jeopardise her sobriety. Daylen half expected it to have the signs of sex, and chided himself for thinking something unworthy about the captain. From the moment they got out of the hold he saw how she took command and organised men twice her size and even age into a formidable crew against the raging waves. It was a crew that on her command, without complaint or hesitation gave Daylen a potato and bread to eat. He settled for half of the potato and offered them back the rest with thanks. It was Petra who got clothes for him, navy blue trousers, shoes, and a sleeveless blue shirt with a very basic leather chest plate that had two straps with silver buckles between his shoulders and collar bone. She also delicately removed the bandages around his face, allowing him to look at the maps on Isabela's table of charts.

"When Orlais was attacked, we all heard the same thing in our dreams, 'go West where there is no magic, find instead where it converges and you will find your salvation,'" Cullen said.

"It sounds like the work of a dreamer," Daylen huffed.

"That's what Knight-Commander Greagoir suspected at first, but then more and more people heard it, we've never known of a dreamer so powerful as to be able to influence thousands of people," Cullen explained.

"There are many locations we could land, White Harbour is the North's primary trading port, Oldtown, King's Landing itself, Lannisport and Maidenpool, but do we even know if they're welcoming refugees?" Daylen asked.

He had pointed at each location on the rough map they had, some of them hadn't even been marked and Isabela could tell they were ideal locations for port towns. The ship shook, the creak of the hull filling the inexperienced seamen with a deeper unease. Even Daylen flinched, but his focus remained on the map.

"Dragonstone is an island where the next in line after Robert Baratheon's children resides, Stannis Baratheon is a firm but fair man, hardly kind but he'll keep to the proper code of conduct regarding the treatment of asylum seekers, if he doesn't already have information then he'll send a request to King's landing and from there we'll open up negotiations with him," Daylen explained.

"What if they've already decided we're better off not entering their land?" Kinnon asked.

"Then we're fucked and not in the fun way, if he's as tight arsed as they say he'll probably take my hand out of principle," Isabela said and looked to Daylen, who showed no sign of denial "See, not even a 'oh I'm sure everything will be all right'."

"We're desperate and that calls for desperate solutions," Daylen said.

"Isabela has helped us, she has risked her life and the lives of her crew to get us to safety," Cullen said.

"But at the same time protecting her wouldn't be worth antagonising the Westerosi would it?" Petra asked.

Daylen leant against the table, tightening his hands into fists and shaking his head.

"We'll deal with that when it comes to it, surely Stannis cannot be so blind as to ignore circumstances," he said.

"Let us hope so," Kinnon said.

"Of course, he couldn't be that stiff and unrelentingly honourable could he?" Isabela asked.

"CAPTAIN!" a yell suddenly came from outside and Isabela sighed, stretching her neck, rolling up the map and walking out.

Her guests followed her and like her were confused as most of the crew members and refugees were looking up.

"What is it?" she asked Casavir.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you at the door," he said.

Daylen walked past Isabela, looking up at the sails. The wind was relatively calm, the sun too was rising into midday, and the heat wasn't excruciating. So there was no illusion of heat or sea when Daylen saw like everyone else a boy sitting on the mast. He had to be thirteen or fourteen, lanky for his age. His feet were bare, having no trace of dirt on them, as delicate as the rest of his youthful skin. The boy had curly red hair and was dressed in an outfit made up of leaves and vines. The vine belt had a small dagger and a short rapier on it that matched his size. He had a smile across his face and when he looked down, his green eyes seemed to glow with a mischievous glint.

"I can be a bit shallow when it comes to faces, outside of my ship that is," Isabela seethed.

She was angry not at herself or even her crew, but the boy that had seemingly stowed away.

"He's just a child," Cullen said.

"No, there's something off about him," Petra said.

"Its rude to talk about people when you think they aren't listening," the boy said, looking down at Daylen and his group.

"Maybe the child would like to introduce himself, and enlighten us as to how he came to be on my ship," Isabela said.

"I flew onto it of course," the boy spoke well, far better than a boy his age should, but there was still that immature whine to it.

"There isn't a place for miles around here," Casavir said.

"Wrong twice over, first place has funny lizards, second place is only for children and pirates," the boy said.

"I've known to do a bit of piracy on the odd occasion," Isabela said.

"Wonderful," the boy clapped his hands, and people gasped as he came off of the mast.

But the boy did not fall, there was a glow of gold dust around his feet and hands as he hovered, floating over the ship and moving in synch with it across the waves.

"What kind of magic is this?" Cullen asked.

"Not any magic that could be found in Westeros," Daylen muttered.

"This is pixie magic, only people with happy thoughts can use it though, you can find it in Neverland," the boy said.

"Nether..."

"N E V..." the boy struggled for a moment, and shook his head. "Spell it how you like, its home and is only for children, but if you're pirates you can come, we can play together," the boy said.

"Trust me, you don't want to play the games I play," Isabela smirked and Cullen shot her a look as Daylen shook his head, Casavir put his palm to his face and Petra and Kinnon blushed.

"I bet your games are boring, I hate boring, I hate the boring games of old people, you have a lot of old people here, they look boring, no pirates just boring adults, but you have children here, we can take them to Neverland you know and they'll be bored there. We can play together, we can kill pirates together," the boy explained.

"Most of the children here are orphans, some are lucky enough to be with their parents," Daylen said.

"Boring parents, want them to grow up, but my lost boys and I will save them," the boy smiled.

The boy's skin was flawless, but his teeth, they weren't the teeth of a still growing child. His toothy grin was rotten, and his eyes were demented with sadistic glee.

"Lost boys huh? Well they do seem pretty lost to me," Isabela said, looking around to address the lack of number's in the boys favour.

The boy suddenly let out a cry like a rooster. Figures in pelts and tree bark armour suddenly flew up. But they weren't children, they were grown men, all laughing and behaving like children as they flew around the ship in formation to spread fear amongst the confused passengers.

"Playtime lost boys!” Pan called out.

He swooped down, drawing his sword and taking a swipe at Isabela. She ducked, letting the ‘boy’ fly over her, drawing her daggers and calling out to her shipmates.

”Keep sailing, bring out the oars if you must,” she said.

”Archers, starboard and port sides now!” Cullen commanded

There was a scream and Cullen turned, seeing one of the lost ‘boys’ playing tug of war with a mother over her child. Another scream followed the death of two of Isabella’s crew and two of the lost boys going into the hold.

”Cullen,” Petra called to the Templar.

He moved, grunting when a rock hit his arm. The lost boys were flying above, launching stones from their sling shots. Isabela deflected one and cursed as another slammed into a crewman’s forehead with such force that it seemed to burst. She threw one of her daggers, the elegant blade spinning in flight before it imbedded itself in a lost boy’s throat.

”Get off me weirdo!” An elf girl cried out, being carried alongside another child by one of the lost boys.

she had shortly cut blonde hair, and the lost boy balked as she punched his groin.

”We just want you to join the boys!” He said.

”I’m a girl you idiot,” she said, kicking the man in the jaw, causing the back of his head to slam into the deck behind him.

”Blimey Sera,” the other human girl said before she was snatched by a flying lost boy.

“GET BACK!” Bevin yelled.

He was holding his grandfather’s sword, the green blade, swiping at a couple of lost boys trying to grab him and Dagna. She brandished a bottle as a makeshift club, managing to cut one of the boys when she smashed it across his face. It was a lucky hit, and a dangerous one too.

”HEROES DONT GET THEIR FACES MARKED!” The man yelled, raising his club to strike her.

He yelled again when Bevin slid his sword into his side. Bevin looked at the blood soaked blade as the man fell back, horrified and distracted. The other man punched him across the face, making it hit the railing.

”Bevin,” Dagna knelt beside him, swinging her broken bottle like a torch at the man.

Two of the refugees bravely tackled the armed man, one keeping him on the ground whilst the other dug his thumbs into the lost boy’s eyes. They yelled until the man’s body went still. A rapier blade struck one of the men in the neck, Pan kicked the other and grabbed Dagna by her hair.

”You look small enough to stay a child forever, even if you are a girl,” he said.

Bevin groaned as he got up off of the floor, seeing Pan hold Dagna by her hair. He quickly took up his sword.

"Leave her alone," he said, swinging at Pan.

The flying boy parried the strike, making Bevin stumble across the deck. Daylen began moving towards the fight, pushing his way through the battling lost boys. 

"Stop," he called out.

"Why stop now, when its so much fun," Pan thrust his rapier at Bevin, slashing his cheek and arm.

He kicked Bevin off of the edge and laughed, Daylen watched the boy fall, splashing into the water. Daylen pushed and shoved, seeing Pan drop Dagna and pick up the green blade.

"Ooh, this is a good sword, suits me just fine," he twirled the blade and laughed.

"Let our children GO!"

The voice growled, then rose into a roar and Peter Pan turned. A glowing orange fist slammed into his face, distorting his cheek for a moment before throwing him back. He recovered in midair, screaming and holding his cheek. The lost boys stopped fighting and looked to their leader. Isabela stabbed a lost boy and Cullen took of another's head before looking to Daylen. His mage charges on the ship looked at the grey warden, seeing his fist extended, his pose strong and the fire dying out across his hand.

"MY FACE! MY FACE!" Peter screamed.

"Strange," Daylen hummed, looking at his hand. "I was intending to melt your entire face," he said.

"YOU HIT A CHILD YOU HIT A CHILD HIT A CHILD HIT A CHILD!" Pan yelled insanely.

"You might look like one, but I can tell you're older than my grandfather," Daylen said.

He picked up the green blade and held it with both hands.

"There's no choice here old man, you try to take our children and you'll lose yours, so fly away back to his neverland of yours," he snarled.

Peter looked down at the man, no, the demon, his eyes glowed red so he had to be the bad guy. His teeth nearly broke as he grit them together, raising his sword.

"LOST BOYS RUN! We'll make a new game, and they'll be sorry!" he said.

The raiders began to fly away, some getting hit by the arrows that the crewmen and refugees fired. When the raiders became distant blips, Daylen's rage slipped away and became replaced by concern.

"Bevin," he called out, looking over the edge of the ship.

His desperate eyes shifted, nearly crying when he saw the boy clinging to the edge of the ship.

"You won't be rid of me that easily master, I still have a lot to learn from you," he said.

"Bevin," Dagna cried out in relief.

Children were hugged by their parents, or those whom had taken them on as guardians. But there were some who were alone, and only had fellow orphans to comfort them. Daylen looked down at Bevin and realised he hadn't asked the boy anything about his sister. He was about to do so when he felt something on his back. A hand, the hand of a Ferelden man, an Orlesian woman and a dwarf at his hip. New eyes looked at him, not the eyes of pity or hatred for his failure, but grateful eyes.

"Thank you," they said.

Isabela and Cullen smiled together.

"Good, I think he deserves that more than the self pity," she said.

"He deserves far worse," a voice said behind the captain, who yelped.

"Oh Keili, its just you, stop lurking like that," Isabela said.

The brown haired woman glared at Daylen and turned away, putting her hands together. Cullen watched her in concern, vowing to continue doing so. For now though he looked to Daylen, exchanging a nod with the Grey Warden.

"CAPTAIN!" a yell came from the crow's nest.

Isabela paused before she looked up, "You alive up there Aatu?" she asked.

Again there was a brief pause "Yeah I am, thought you should know, there's land to the East, looks like a great fortress, lots of dragon decorations," the man said.

"Dragon stone, finally," Daylen sighed in relief.

A relief that died when a wave shook the ship. Not a wave from the ocean, but the sky. Something swooped over the ship, nearly knocking the sails off course. The crew and refugees looked up in horror as a great serpent flew across the sky, it had a long neck, great wings in its arms and red scales.

"A dragon, a fucking dragon," Sera said in shock.

"You said that all the dragons in Westeros died Daylen," Dagna whispered.

"I thought so too, what the hell is going on here?" Daylen wondered, looking up at the great wonder of Westeros, a creature not seen since the dance of dragons.

Caraxes let out a great roar, signalling his return home.

Next Chapter 2: Two Targaryen dynasties

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadows

Chapter 2: Two Targaryen Dynasties

The story had once been told to Daylen, that Prince Rhaegar, son of the mad king, loved one woman and for that love the kingdom was splintered and his family lost their throne to stags and lions.

But that was not the tale of the man sitting in King’s landing. His chair was a great throne that upon first glance would seem damn near impossible to sit on. A set of stairs had to be taken to get to the chair part, and even that was less chair and more a mound of fused steel and spikes. The iron throne was as dangerous as it was intimidating, as much a test as the conquest the man who first sat upon it initiated. That man, Aegon the conqueror used the blades of his defeated enemies and through dragon fire forged the ultimate symbol of his new nation. Many years passed that saw the Targaryen dynasty tested again and again, going through times of great peace and great tyranny and even a civil war that saw the great dragons they used driven to extinction. Generation after generation until the days of Aerys Targaryen and the great friendship he forged with a man whom would be named ‘Phoenix of the Amell clan’.

Once Aerys had been a bright but dramatic and arrogant young man with dreams of grandeur, and Fausten Amell, second son of his generation was a great warrior wandering the seas in search of adventure and fame. What he got instead was the friendship of a royal family, until eventually he returned to Kirkwall to lead his branch of the Amells. He would have a son Damion and a daughter Revka, whom herself would have children of her own. But Damion’s gambling and failure as a smuggler would lead to Fausten and his family fleeing from Kirkwall. The added fact that Revka’s eldest bastard son was a mage only deepened the panic Fausten felt and the need to make the family fortune elsewhere.

So they crossed the great see and became embroiled in the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty due to the lust of its prince and the madness of its king.

But in the new world Rhaegar sat upon the throne, unlike his father his hair was neat, his nails clean and cut and no trace of scarring on his hands because unlike his father and brother Viserys’s namesake, Rhaegar sat in just the right way. People took it as the sign of his worthiness to be king, though many spoke of his kingly nature before he took the crown. Perhaps there was some great revelation, some secret passed down to Rhaegar from godly force or divine intervention, a dream of prophecy or a one eyed crow/raven giving the right push. It seemed to be none of these things; it seemed to be just the discovery of an affair in Harrenhal by the newly arrived Fausten Amell.

The soon to be lord of the not often sought Meadow was as fascinated by the mystery knight at the tourney as anyone. It did not escape his notice that many of the knights that fell to the mysterious warrior had bullied the Stark banner man Howland Reed, whom had been comforted by Rickard Stark’s daughter Lyanna. A great beauty at least by the standards of the cold and simple North, she was fierce and independent, not the kind of qualities that her betrothed Robert Baratheon enjoyed. That was probably why Fausten knew that whatever affection Robert had, Lyanna did not return. He also noticed the way Lyanna cried when Rhaegar sang. Rhaegar was a fantastic singer, and every lady cried when he sang, but Lyanna’s were the tears of someone longing freedom from a man she could never love.

Fausten though finally put it together when Rhaegar, victor of the joust, declared not his wife Elia Martell, but Lyanna to be his queen of love and beauty. He only confirmed it when he later confronted Rhaegar and Lyanna on one of their moonlit walks.

“AHEM!” he declared loudly to the shock of the pair.

His smile seemed genuine, but then his tone took on that of scolding father in a way Rhaegar had never experienced before.

“This seems to the start of a truly romantic tale, I’d imagine everyone living happily ever after,” he said. “Of course no one actually likes stories where everyone lives happily ever after,” he added.

“Lord Amell, please, I beg of you, do not try to stop us,” Rhaegar said.

“What is the plan here my prince, whisk Lyanna away, have you put no thought into it at all?” Fausten asked.

“If the concern is my marriage to Elia, we have already discussed that, our marriage will be annulled under the condition that Aegon and Rhaenys keep their positions in the line of succession,” Rhaegar explained.

“But then there are other potential problems, one rhymes with random, the other with Bobert,” Fausten said.

“My brother Brandon and Robert,” Lyanna said.

“At least one has brains, take Lyanna without a word and Brandon Stark will rush to take action, and Robert though jolly has a temper, he will not take kindly to his betrothed being taken from him,” Fausten explained.

“Whatever we do it will inevitably end in bad blood and even tragedy, we have thought that far lord Amell, but neither of us want to continue in a marriage where there is only respect and not love,” Rhaegar stated and Fausten shook his head and sighed.

“This will take much negotiation, convincing and sheer dumb luck, because it is lucky I discovered this affair in its infancy,” he said.

King Rhaegar looked back on the service of Fausten Amell gratefully, for though the realm still came to war, it did not result in that disaster that Rhaegar and Lyanna feared. Still, by the time Rhaegar was able to claim the throne, he had lost the woman he loved and gained a son. That son would become the squire of Arthur Dayne and eventually rise to the rank of the Kingsguard. Of the seven that served to protect Rhaegar on his throne, only two remained in King’s Landing, the two he trusted the most. Ser Barristan the bold, eldest of the kings guard whose white hair and beard rested gracefully on his white breastplate. Then there was Ser Jamie Lannister, he whom others told him not to trust but who he knew he could trust. Rhaegar was perhaps the only king in Westeros whom had accepted a king slayer into the ranks of his bodyguards, precisely because they were a king slayer.

“You have lost contact with Oldtown?” he asked the man who knew most of everything going on in Westeros.

Varys always presented himself as modest and kind, but the hairless, robed man seemed nervous for the first time in his life, dumbfounded too as he wiped his hands together. He stood before the king and all of court embarrassed. The court included others of the small council and their families; Varys was of low birth, having worked his way from a travelling circus to the great halls of the rulers of Westeros. Master of Whispers was his title, the Spider his nickname and spymaster the simplification of his role. He had no family, no great house unlike that of Rhaegar’s Master of law, Eddard Stark’s life could have been very different had he not discovered the genuine love Lyanna had for Rhaegar, had their father Rickard not realised that Robert Baratheon would have dishonoured his daughter far more than Rhaegar had his first wife. Eventually Rickard passed and the title Warden of the north passed to his eldest Brandon and the growing family he was having with Catelyn Tully of the Riverlands. Nothing stopped Eddard, or Ned as the tall, dark haired and often called firm looking man was named, from marrying the woman he loved, Ashara Dayne. Many considered women of the Martell family to be the most beautiful in Dorne, but to Ned, his wife was the most beautiful woman in Westeros and few could argue.

She bore the Stark name and gave Ned two Stark children; many thought they would name the son after Brandon or Ned’s foster brother Robert. But he was always silent whenever the two men were mentioned; he instead called his first son Torrhen after the last king of the North. Six years passed before Ashara gave Ned a daughter, whom he named Arya, a teenager, she could hardly be described as taking after her mother in the standards of beauty. Most compared her to the passed Lyanna Stark, whilst Torrhen was equally as quiet as his father and sometimes described as what his uncle looked like when he was a boy. Rhaegar picked Ned out of respect, and because he wanted firm but fair northern justice in his court.

“My birds outside of Old town have reported what every whisper in the region repeats, Old town’s gates are shut and a new banner has risen, though the city itself has not burned, screams have echoed day and night, followed by the snarls of monsters,” Varys said.

“Erm your grace, I fear that Varys himself is falling under superstition, the stories that I have heard are fanciful, delusional actually,” spoke the Grand Maestar Pycelle.

He was an old man who Rhaegar didn’t want serving as the Maestar at his side. The king would have preferred his kin in castle black, far older than Pycelle, blind, barely able to walk but much wiser and kinder than the man whom only faked piety. Pycelle was an actor as much as he was a teacher, healer and advisor to the realm. It wasn’t to say he wasn’t intelligent, but he would always be biased because of his loyalties.

“They speak of monsters your grace, but, you see these monsters are the things of fairytales, no your grace, they are merely the result of trauma suffered on the battlefield, the ‘cries of monsters’ is a trick of the distance between these watcher’s and old town, until we find survivors then we can only speculate,” the grand maestar explained.

“Then should we not find survivors first?” asked the master of coin.

During the brief period that Jon Arryn served on the council as master of law, he tried to recommend to the position of master of coin one Paetr Baelish. He appeared to be everyone’s friend, but the hand of the king caught him embezzling from the crown. Five years had passed since Littlefinger was executed, and the realm was still glad to be rid of him. The master of coin from then on was Jamie’s brother Tyrion, though the succession of their ancestral home of Castlelyrock was in debate, Tyrion served well as the handler of the crown’s funds. Though a dwarf and a bit lecherous, he was in some ways kind and his wit also had a wisdom to it that Rhaegar could not deny.

“Refugees have arrived in the ports of King’s landing, confirming that across the sea, in the distant lands of Thedas something has happened that has required the people to flee it, these aren’t plague victims your grace, they have the look of the survivors of war,” Ned said.

The council of a soldier, this Rhaegar appreciated, he was about to speak when the woman beside him made her voice heard.

“Already these great and dire warnings have been given to us, I loved Aristanna as if she was my own but she has gone mad with her belief, a belief instilled upon her by this Chantry,” the queen of Westeros spoke and all listened, though not all were glad too.

And Rhaegar was one of them, though she was a great beauty, she was not the woman he loved.

Cersei Lannister, his hand told him that in the absence of Elia and Lyanna he needed a queen and he needed to make right the rift that Aerys had formed with Tywin Lannister. The lion of the West was as bitter as his daughter and twice as ambitious. But he had the ability to earn what his ambition sought, and the intellect to know that the best he could do so far was settle for a grandchild or great grandchild that could one day marry the heir to the throne. His father had been the lenient one; Tywin was never lenient, just patient.

“The Chantry does not seek to replace our faith, it is every faith that seeks to replace one another,” Tyrion said, earning a scowl from his sister as others laughed.

It had put a momentary smile on the king’s face before he stood up. All held their speech in reverence and waiting for his command.

“Lord Connington, Ser Hasty,” he caught the attention of his friend, hand of the King Jon Connington.

The grey and red haired lord of Griffin’s roost was stood beside the old knight Ser Bonifer Hasty.

“Prepare your knights to march on Oldtown, Maestar, send ravens to Starfall and Brightwater keep, have them gather their men and march to investigate the capital, send ravens to the wardens, I want each of them to assure me personally in their return letters that everything is normal,” Rhaegar commanded.

All nodded, all said yes and none questioned the strategy. Griff and Hasty were two of the king’s most loyal followers, the former a close friend and the latter a would be lover to the king’s late mother Rhaella. The rest of court fell silent as Rhaegar stepped away from the throne, joined by his wife and bodyguards.

“On your command I would ride to my father,” Jaime said.

“A raven for the warden of the west will suffice, Rhaenys in Dorne and Aegon in Casterlyrock, both are the most defensible places at the moment,” he said.

“And the most dangerous your grace, even with the sword of the Mourning by the princess’s side,” Barristan said.

“You forget yourself ser, the prince is in my childhood home, my father will not see him come to harm,” Cersei said.

“Of course your grace,” Barristan bowed his head, though it was a gesture of respect only for the position.

Rhaegar knew what his close friend and bodyguard was saying, in no uncertain terms that the prince might befall some accident on the cliffs of the Lannister keep. Even Dorne, famous for being the only kingdom to not truly bend the knee to the Targaryen dynasty, was dangerous for the princess. Their traditions valued the eldest child regardless of gender, even having a history of Dornish women whom ruled their country very well. Rhaenys was older than Aegon and by Dornish law was the rightful heir. The ruler of Dorne, Prince Doran and his brother Prince Oberyn had never quite forgiven Rhaegar for casting Elia aside. She was the only thing calming the wrath of both men. But all of these arrangements and compromises had been the plan of Rhaegar’s former hand.

Fausten Amell planned to appease the injured parties, of which there were many. Robert Baratheon had his heart personally broken by Lyanna herself. So he joined Rhaegar’s rebellion with the agreement that his best friend would at least get to marry the woman he loved. Their foster father Jon Aryn guaranteed the loyalty of the Riverlands through a marriage to Lord Hoster Tully’s younger daughter Lysa. Through careful manipulation and planning, Fausten had forged an allied force that could take king’s landing with minimal effort.

With Robert Baratheon as the lord of the Stormlands, Jon Aryn securing the Vale, and the Starks of the North, Rhaegar had no resistance against him. Aerys was also unpopular, despite oaths of fealty he had given people very little reason to believe in him. Rhaegar marched to King’s landing and in that moment Aerys’s madness truly took hold. Jaime would slay him, thus securing his reputation and in a way proof of his value to Rhaegar. But Lyanna passed and Rhaegar needed a queen, a role Cersei was all too happy to fill. Her belly partially swelled from childbirth, her child to some would never be an heir. Both Barristan and Jaime though knew that her ambitions would not end with just being a replacement.

It was because of her that a bastard was not welcome at court. Rather than stand amidst the jeering vipers, the dragon wolf rested, sitting against the wall, feeding an old cat. He immediately stood up when Bonifer and Griff walked by him, both dressed in armour and mail.

“My lords,” he rushed to meet them.

“You would walk with us prince, we must move with the warrior’s swiftness,” Hasty said.

“We’re in a hurry little Jon, despite that old twat’s advice to your father I am glad our king has sense,” Griff said.

“Father is sending forces to Oldtown, I wish to join you,” Jon said.

“Aemon,” Griff chided, stopping his walk to look at the bastard prince. “You have a strong arm, you’ve seen the wall, seen the free cities, but you’ve not tasted battle and this is no simple rabble of bandits I fear, that girl Aristanna should be freed, there may be truth to what she says.”

“The stranger looms over Oldtown, blinding others to what is truly going on, but with the protection of the mother and the righteousness of the father we will see the citadel free,” Sir Hasty ranted.

Griff rolled his eyes, slapping Jon’s arm.

“You’ll have a chance to prove yourself one day, stay and serve your father how you can,” he said.

Jon lowered his head as the two knights walked away.

“I pray you don’t get your chance,” he raised his head, turning to look at the tall and silent shadow of Eddard Stark.

“Lord Stark,” Jon bowed his head.

“Aemon, Jon,” he whispered.

“Is there word from Winterfell, the North?”

“Refugees come from the harbour, they all say the same thing, ‘liars’ they get called, Brandon has had to send a few of the men from Thedas to the wall, and they seem more eager to go than the men on the wall,” Ned explained.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

“Deserters, Brandon found one and took him in under the king’s law, Jory is bringing him here now to answer for his crimes and to tell the king why he was running,” Ned explained.

“You’re sceptical about my father’s wish to question Knight’s Watch deserters aren’t you?” Jon asked.

“I am not, the king wishes to know for himself why they run, I however know that men do wrong from war and death, that’s what Hasty and Connington are riding to Jon, it isn’t something I want you to rush to either,” Ned stated.

“I’m kept here as a reminder of father’s dishonour,” Jon said.

“You are kept here as a reminder of his love,” Ned corrected.

“I’m told I’m of the first men and old Valyria, that the blood of two great peoples flows through me, but what value is that when compared to the prince and princess, a brother and sister I can never truly know, both of whom will consider me a rival to be killed if the throne passes to either of them,” Jon explained.

“Your value doesn’t have to be on the battlefield, think about what I said,” Ned touched his nephew’s shoulder, giving him a warm look he only shared with family members.

“He treats me the same way, at least you get to squire for a famous knight,” Torrhen said, walking over with his mother behind him.

“Will I see you in the training yard cousin?” Jon asked.

“I think you’ll see Arya more than you will me, I intend to visit Aristanna and comb the library for any more information regarding this ‘blight’ that she spoke of,” Torrhen explained.

Jon nodded, bowing his head again to both his uncle and cousin. He waited for Jaime, in case the knight had anything for him to do. But the king slayer, the king watcher never came, so Jon left to return to his quarters and await the time his father, or some member of the court on behalf of his father would ask for him. In the mean time he would see to his gods, ask them for some kind of token aid, the seven gave him no omens, perhaps the old gods would. Godswoods were almost frightening in their appearance, great trees with weeping faces on them. Jon walked to the one in the red keep and knelt, bringing his hands together and letting out his faults.

‘Grant me a chance to prove myself, grant me a place to belong, grant me someone who accepts me as me, grant me glory, grant me honour, grant me meaning, grant me purpose,’ he felt as much as he prayed.

He raised his head, looking to the tree and gasping as someone walked around it, not so much dazed but more confused than anything else. Jon felt his breath get caught in his throat as he looked upon silver hair common amongst his family. A style of clothing befit of a Targaryen, scales resembling dragons on a grey coat. She was, a beauty, his age, her purple eyes met his and Jon’s hand went to his blade. There were no Targaryens in King’s landing other than him and his father.

Dragonstone was where the Targaryen dynasty began. Aegon landed at the old stronghold and after scouting Westeros atop Balerion, planned and initiated his conquest from Dragonstone. In the times past Aegon’s conquest it became the seat of the heir to the throne. With the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty it became the home and fortress of Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s heir after his children. That was what it was supposed to be, but as Isabela’s ship drew closer to the fortress, Daylen began to see with her spyglass that there were no Baratheon banners. The architecture was also different, older than it should be, with stylistic choices more common of an era when dragons were worshipped through Westeros.

“There’s no men on the walls,” Cullen said, standing beside him.

“I mean, a dragon makes for a pretty fucking good defender,” Isabela pointed out.

“Dragon’s get tired, hungry, cranky if the season demands it,” Kinnon said.

“I would prefer the term fruity,” the captain grinned.

“Dragon’s are A-sexual!”

“I think she’s know and is being crass Daylen,” Cullen said.

“In short there should still be men to defend the walls right?” Petra asked.

“Soldiers, sentries, anyone looking out for an invasion besides a dragon,” Daylen muttered.

“Do we have any idea how that is possible, considering to our knowledge dragons are a thing of the history books at least in Westeros,” Isabela said.

“Captain, please bring us closer,” Daylen requested.

“To the place where a great big dragon is, I know you’ve killed them before warden but…”

“I’m not going to fight a dragon, I want to try and talk to the man inside that castle,” Daylen said.

“You still think there’s someone living there?” Petra asked.

“There is, I saw a candle light by one of the windows, someone is definitely living there,” Cullen said.

“I missed that, okay, we’ll bring ourselves closer,” Isabela said.

“Do you have some sort of messenger bird?” Daylen asked.

“Naturally, we need them, especially if we’re looking for unfamiliar land,” she looked through her spyglass again for good measure. “It’s almost Orlesian in how much it shows off isn’t it?” she asked.

“Are you complaining?”

“I’m just saying from experience, it compensates for something,” she grinned, folding the spyglass and commanding her men to prepare the sails and anchor.

Daylen left the wording of the message to Cullen. Instead he lingered around the back of the ship, rubbing his face and snarling in frustration. He had accepted the fact that nothing was easy or simple in life, but everything seeming impossible was a bit too much.

“We’re here because of you.”

He turned to look at Keili, she had a judgemental look in her eyes. She looked just as he remembered her from the tower, but the devotion she showed when praying to the maker, expressing her thanks, asking for guidance, the punishment of the unjust and forgiveness for the sin of being born with magic, it was all replaced with a targeted hatred. Daylen was never going to be her friend, but he had never been antagonistic, questioning, but he had never insulted her religion. At least to her face, which right now was set as if she was on some sort of righteous crusade.

“When you returned to the tower, people were grateful, sinners all of them,” Keili said.

“Petra, Kinnon and Wynn, they were all sinners because they were protecting people from demons?” Daylen asked.

“The entire circle had sinned, the templars would have been just to invoke the right of annulment,” Keili said.

“A mission to purge all mages from the circle, without discerning who is possessed or who has truly rebelled against the chant, even the devoted, such as yourself would have been executed,” Daylen explained.

“You slew Uldred the perpetrator, saved First Enchanter Irving and won yourself an army of mages, weapons for the grey warden cause,” Keili stated.
“I didn’t see you on the field at Denerim,” Daylen retorted.

“I serve the maker not the grey wardens, we are not required to cast fire to serve, and I do not need magic to make a difference in the world,” Keili explained and Daylen shook his head.

He was tired, he didn’t want to fight especially with people who were supposed to be his allies. Anyone who wasn’t a darkspawn was supposed to be his ally, was supposed to be someone he protected.

“You’re right, to make a difference in the world one doesn’t need magic, or even a sword, or noble blood, yet unjustly too often it is only these things that are seen as extraordinary. But, and this is just my point of view, it may be a tad prideful, a tad sinful, to believe that you can make a difference. However, I encourage you, try to help where you can, in whatever way you can,” he explained.

“You did not help, all you did was fail, fail to stop the Archdemon, fail to save our country, you even failed at the landsmeet,” Keili jeered.

“I won the majority loyalty of the Ferelden nobility, won Queen Anora’s support and made Loghain concede,” Daylen corrected.

“Recruiting Loghain into your wardens, at the cost of a fellow warden’s loyalty, you betrayed your friend didn’t you?” Keili asked and yelped when Daylen slammed his fist into the railing.

His eyes spoke words that pierced Keili and her judgmental confidence. She backed away as Daylen’s hand shook, his breathing firm, fierce, just barely restraining the urge to yell at her. The woman backed away and Daylen dragged his hand over his face, letting the mask slip for a moment as he let the utter failure slip in, his failures that led to thousands of people across the continent of Thedas from having their homes upended. So many dead and the companions, the friends he had made along the way separated. Morrigan, the witch of the wild’s who he rejected, denying an attraction to her and a spell that would have saved his life and allowed him to kill the Archdemon, the only price, giving her a child with an old god’s spirit. But he hated gods, yes; his rejection hadn’t been out of any suspicion of the ritual or Morrigan herself. He didn’t want the old gods to be preserved, for that one moment in his life he wanted something; he wanted the old god within the Archdemon to die with it.

No, that hadn’t been the only thing he wanted. When having to choose the life of Loghain with the vengeance of Alistair, Daylen picked his enemy. Loghain had betrayed the Ferelden king, Alistair’s brother, leading to the king’s death and the slaughter of the grey wardens, including Alistair’s foster father Duncan. Alistair was a naturally honourable, witty and good person, Loghain was his blind spot. He wanted vengeance, blood for blood, but Daylen was tired of fighting people. They had killed bandits, assassins, cultists, anyone who got in their way. Daylen expected to fight monsters, not people, he had begun to accept that there were monsters amongst people. But he couldn’t see Loghain as a monster. Loghain was paranoid about the Orlesians retaking his country, suspicious of outside help, but he had been right to pull his men back. The king would have found no victory even if Loghain had backed him. Above all that though Daylen was tired, he just wanted to save someone instead of kill them.

And it had cost him his best friend.

“She wasn’t right to say all those things,” again Daylen turned expecting more grief.

In a way it was, Bevin, he still hadn’t asked the lad what had happened to his sister. The boy was still holding the green blade, but he had Dagna beside him.

“You saved us,” she said.

“You would have been safer in Orzammar,” Daylen said.

“But not happy,” she retorted.

“Have you ever seen flying people before?” Bevin asked.

“No one has, no such magic exists, at least in our world,” Daylen said.

“And you used the sword, you should use it again,” Bevin held the blade with both hands, offering it like a cherished tribute.

“It isn’t mine, it’s yours.”
“But no real use to me, I’m too small to use it, it’ll serve you better than it would me,” Bevin retorted.

“You’ll grow, you can use it to protect yourself and your sister,” Daylen said.

“My sister is gone master, she died protecting me when the Darkspawn came for Redcliffe,” Bevin said.

The way Bevin said it almost made Daylen cry. He said it in such a way that showed he had gotten used to it; he had been through his grief already or had to bury it. Still he offered Daylen the blade and still Daylen hesitated.

“It’s no Starfang or Spellweaver, but I know you’ll make good use of it,” Bevin smiled.

Daylen gently took the blade and nodded to Bevin in thanks.

“It’s just a loan, I’ll give it back in time,” he said.

Hours passed, and the bird Isabela sent returned. In less that time Daylen had gathered with the other unofficial council members and stood in Isabela’s quarters. She unrolled the parchment and gave it to Daylen.

“You have caught my interest, send one person to parlay, if you attempt to infiltrate then Caraxes will burn you all alive, straight and to the point I see,” Daylen said.

“I usually like that in men, but not in this case, not it,” Isabela said.

“I suggest Daylen to go and negotiate, he knows nobility at least,” Kinnon said.

“I concur, Isabela may be captain but you have the experience,” Cullen followed.

“No, we need a negotiator, when it came to recruiting troops for the Wardens there was always a favour to do, we don’t have the numbers for such a thing,” Daylen explained, trying to rebuke the faith they had shown in him, to assure them that it was a mistake and that…

He looked around the room, Kinnon, Petra, Cullen and Isabela had their fingers on their noses.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

A boat was prepared along with a bag, a skin of water, a skin of wine, some bread if Daylen had to run. He fixed a belt to his waist with the sheathed green blade on it. Limited in the armour they had, Daylen was afforded a silver shoulder pad.

“You’re getting off my ship,” Isabela said as Daylen began to climb overboard.

“Your point is?” he asked.

Isabela took hold of Daylen’s chin, taking him by surprise with a passionate kiss on the lips.

“I don’t bed crew or passengers,” she said.

“Flattered, but the answer remains the same as it did in Denerim,” Daylen said.

“At least if you die I could say I was the last woman to kiss the Grey Warden of Ferelden,” she shrugged her shoulders.

“Good luck,” Cullen crossed his arms in the Ferelden salute.

Daylen began a long and tiring boat ride to the beach at Dragonstone. What was even more tiring was the walk up the beach, dragging the boat behind him. The walk to the main keep was long, much of dragon stone had paths of winding roads built along the castle walls. One such walkway was nearly enveloped by mist; Daylen could hear the dragon flying underneath it. He would briefly catch sight of a leathery wing or tail, and hear a hiss. The dragon definitely didn’t like him, he had killed two (technically one if you excluded Flemeth for turning into a dragon) of its kind after all.

Eventually he came to the keep itself, the gate was open as if welcoming him. Much of the inside was dark and dreary, the very atmosphere was depressing, more a cave than a great hall for nobility. He looked up at decorations, great statues of dragons, paintings of Valyrian lords and depictions of the great disaster that led to the Targaryens coming to Westeros. Finally he came to the double doors to the throne room and pushed the doors open.

There were no servants to welcome him or announce his entrance. A few candles were all that lit the room, but there was enough light for Daylen to see that there was a man sitting on the throne. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, showing a pale figure that though had some muscle had also lost considerable weight. Battle scars, a few burns, but there were not what drew Daylen’s attention. The man was leaning against a sword, a sword with a black blade, his ringed fingers holding the weapon and resting his head against it. He had a head of long white hair, rough and unkempt like the beard that hid a once well groomed face. The man on the throne produced the parchment he had been holding.

“To the lord Stannis Baratheon,” the man read with a smirk on his face. “We come from Thedas, fleeing the blight, we request temporary shelter and parlay until such a time as we can negotiate with the king. Well, you are in the presence of a king now, man of Thedas, its customary to bow,” the man said.

“Where’s the crown?” Daylen asked, taking a few steps towards the throne.

“I couldn’t be bothered to find it, I’m not the lord you were expecting am I? I suspect there were a great many things you were not expecting yes?” the lord asked.

“No Stannis, a dragon outside, they were all too shocked though to point out the scars or the damage to the wings, that dragon knows battle, what Targaryen king are you?” Daylen asked.

“Aegon the conqueror himself,” the man raised his hands in mock celebration.

“Obviously a lie,” Daylen said casually and the man pointed his sword at him.

“You dare call King Aegon a liar?”

“Aegon would not have referred to himself as the Conqueror, even after uniting most of the realm, it was something other people named him, a historical name. He also rode Balerion, you wrote Caraxes, the description matches that dragon too,” Daylen explained.

“So who did Caraxes belong to?” the man asked, sitting down and again resting his sword against the floor.

“The son of Prince Baelon Targaryen, brother to King Viserys the first, commander of the city watch to King’s landing, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow sea, second husband to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rogue prince Daemon Targaryen!”

The man raised his head, revealing his purple eyes and intrigued smile.

“Second husband to Queen Rhaenyra, fascinating, I always did sense something powerful between us,” he said.

Personally Daylen saw something very wrong in an uncle marrying his niece. Though he was only a reader of history, and he would not begrudge relationships or cast judgement or ill treatment of people who practiced incest.

“I am Daemon Targaryen, but what if I was to tell you that your information is still quite false?” Daemon asked.

“It wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve gotten wrong today,” Daylen shrugged.

“I am King Daemon Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm,” Daemon explained, walking away from his throne, keeping a hold of his sword as he began crossing the distance between himself and Daylen.

He stopped three paces from Daylen, who had the advantage of reach with the green blade, but not in draw speed of alloy. Though Daemon appeared malnourished, his muscles hadn’t atrophied, he could still very much fight if need be. Daylen knew the man’s reputation as a fighter, and he wasn’t eager to find out if it was an exaggeration of history books.

“But I have known of other kings, King Robert Baratheon first of his name, King Viserys Targaryen second of his name, Queen Daenerys first of her name, King Brandon Stark first of his name, and even my own niece Queen Rhaenyra, bless her soul,” Daemon explained.

“As in she’s dead where you come from,” Daylen said.

“You are quick, not at all surprised I see,” Daemon remarked and stepped back in surprise as Daylen’s hand glowed with red light. “Magic, I see other lands, indeed other worlds did not depart with their magic as we did, incredible.”

“But how did you come to know of other kings of Westeros?” Daylen asked.

“Ravens mostly,” Daemon muttered absently.

Suddenly, Daylen drew his sword, making the king frown.

“Why don’t I believe you?” Daylen asked.

“Perhaps a biased judge of my character from the pages of Archmaestar Gyldayn’s ‘The Rogue prince, or a king’s brother,’” Daemon retorted.

“Or we aren’t the first people you’ve met face to face from other worlds,” Daylen said.

Daemon sheathed Dark sister and gestured for Daylen to follow him. Keeping his sword raised, Daylen did as the king bid, joining him in a short walk out of the throne room, down spiral staircases and to darker caverns. Daemon was about to take a torch from the wall when Daylen lit up the palm of his hand, illuminating the path to the dungeon.

“Show off,” Daemon smirked.

“If you really are king where you came from, where is Blackfyre?” Daylen asked.

“The short story is that even when I had Blackfyre I was more used to using Dark sister, but the deeper story you wish to know is how I’m king in the first place when so many world’s know that I was disinherited,” Daemon stated.

“A complicated tale like Rhaenyra died or you assassinated your brother,” Daylen said.

“History truly does think poorly of me, my brother and I had our differences but I never would have slain him, believe it or not I value family,” Daemon said.

“So what happened then?”

Daemon stopped, taking his hand off of the pommel of his sword. He looked out in the darkness of the dungeon and let out a deep, melancholic breath, remembering a time from long ago that he began to recount to the Grey Warden.

History remembers the day that Viserys the first lost his wife and son to the complications of child birth. Grief stricken and pressured by his small council regarding the line of succession, he had two choices in his brother and his daughter. At the time the majority support went to Rhaenyra, Daemon was already feared by and unpopular with the lords, in particular the hand of the king Otto Hightower. A wedge however would be formed between the brothers, and Viserys’s decision regarding Daemon’s place on the line of succession would be all but set when Daemon and his men in the city watch drank at one of the pleasure houses, celebrating.

“To Baelon Targaryen, the heir for a day!”

The cruel jape led to a furious confrontation between the brothers.

“We must all mourn in our own way your grace,” Daemon tried to justify.

“My family has just been destroyed, but instead of being by my side or Rhaenyra’s, YOU CHOSE TO CELEBRATE YOUR OWN RISE! LAUGHING WITH YOUR WHORES AND YOUR LICKSPITTLES!”

“You have no allies at court but me, I have only ever defended you, yet everything I have given you you’ve thrown back in my face!” the king yelled out his frustrations

“You’ve only ever tried to send me away, to the Vale, to the city watch, anywhere but by your side,” Daemon did the same.

“TEN YEARS YOU’VE BEEN KING! And yet not once have you asked me to be your hand!” Daemon said.

“Why would I do that?” Viserys scoffed.

“Because I’m your brother, and the blood of the dragon runs thick,” there was almost passion in Daemon’s voice.

“Then why do you cut me so deep?” for a moment, there was not the voice of a king in Viserys, but the hurt of a brother.

“I’ve only ever spoken the truth, I see Otto Hightower for what he is.”

“An unwavering and loyal hand.”

“A CUNT! A second son who stands to inherit nothing he doesn’t seize for himself,” Daemon seethed.

“Otto Hightower is a more honourable man than you could ever be,” Viserys’s words hurt Daemon, yet still he carried on voicing his grievances.

“He doesn’t protect you, I would,” and voicing his sincere desires.

“From what?” Viserys asked.

“Yourself,” Daemon said, his tone severe yet not cruel, expression devoid of malice but simple honesty. “You’re weak Viserys, and that council of leeches know it, they all prey on you for their own ends.”

History proved that Daemon’s assessment of his brother was right. There was truth to what he thought of Otto and the council, but there was also truth in Viserys’s faith in Otto. Daemon and Otto would be like anyone whom served on either side of the dance, heroes and villains. Despite the harsh truth, Viserys named a new heir. But how would Daemon have become king, did he in that moment strike his brother down out of anger or grief, finally realising his brother would never see his qualities?

No, instead we turn the pages back, to when Aemma Arryn died birthing Baelon. When the line of the Targaryen dynasty diverged and Daemon chose instead not to drink or celebrate with his men, but to visit his brother and shed tears with him. In that moment Daemon’s place on the line of succession remained intact but Viserys’s efforts to make an heir did not end. Daemon’s life continued as Viserys sought out a new wife, the rogue prince would join the lord of the tides Corlys Velaryon in war with the Stepstones.

Everything else was left to fate, and it was incredibly cruel to both Viserys and his new wife Alicent Hightower. Their first child Aegon would die a day after his birth, their second child Helaena was born sickly and would grow up with a sickness of the mind that rendered her an invalid, Aemond and Daeron years after would both emerge stillborn. Alicent would slowly grow mad with her grief and Viserys would suffer more and more from the cuts he gained from the iron throne, his body breaking down until the day he finally passed.

Daemon had everything that he wanted, his bronze bitch had died years before his rise to the throne, he had the loyalty of the city watch and the love of Fleabottom and the Stepstones. But there would still be a dance of dragons. Otto Hightower joined with Corlys Velaryon, whose son had married Rhaenyra. Together they would rebel, casting Westeros into war. Daemon had very few advantages at first. His wife Rhea Royce was of the Vale, whom suspected Daemon of murdering his wife and thus did not support him. The north honoured its oaths, a few other lands too came to Daemon’s support and he eventually began recruiting dragon riders from outside the Targaryen bloodline. Many would die trying to bond with dragons, but a few succeeded and dragons clashed in the skies above Westeros.

Years would pass and Westeros would suffer, not just because of the war but Daemon’s own ability to govern, he mishandled money and people eventually began to fear his severe approach to dealing with cut purses and criminals. Even in Fleabottom, the people began to say that Daemon took enjoyment out of it and had passed that onto those he left in charge of his gold cloaks. The war would continue until a tragic and violent end that saw Targaryen’s killing one another.

“I became king of nought but ashes, like the queen Daenerys and Brann the broken,” Daemon stated, turning to Daylen as he spoke.

“Show me your prisoners,” Daylen said.

Daemon continued, down to the dungeons. There was a stench that Daylen tried hard to resist. He couldn’t leave himself vulnerable by recoiling or reaching in disgust.

“Three eyed raven, three eyed, no, no, three, three crow, crow…” there was a young and panicking voice coming from one of the cells.

“And its prisoner not prisoners,” Daemon said, bowing his head slightly as he gestured to the only occupied cell.

Inside that cell was a young man sitting on the floor. His skin though was rough, nails and hair overgrown with the man dragging them against the wall.

“Raven, raven, no, no it was never raven, its supposed to be three eyed crow, NOT RAVEN!” the man slapped himself across the face. “Why do you think I came all this way?” his voice became emotionless for a moment before he laughed, “NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LORD OF ANYTHING IDIOTS! Contradiction, dictions, frictions, plans so many plans, win the game, no winner, no game!”

Daylen sheathed his sword, turning to Daemon with his eyebrows raised, the expression made Daemon laugh slightly.

“Brann the broken, or perhaps now it would be more appropriate to call him by his true identity, at least who he is in his soul, Brynden Rivers the blood raven,” Daemon said.

“No one questioned it!”

Daylen turned to the cell, the man on the other side had crawled across by his chin and arms, pushing his face against the bars. His eyes were white and empty as much as his voice seemed emotionless before a mask seemed to slip.

“I can’t be the lord of anything, I told them, I revealed truths, lies, and when a would be Targaryen queen burned her subjects and kingdom and the man who was the true heir to the throne was available what did people do? They said I had the most interesting story and voted for me to be king,” the man laughed and then cried out. “DIDN’T LAST LONG THOUGH! No happy ever after! REBELLION IN HIGHGARDEN! OF COURSE TYRION YOU PICKED A FUCKING SELLSWORD AS ITS LORD! Not his fault though, I was still king, but having the crown doesn’t mean you’re qualified to rule, isn’t that right dear many great grand dads?” Brynden, or Brann, whoever smirked up at Daemon.

“Why are you keeping him alive?” Daylen asked.

“A source of information, whatever magic he has it allows him to know certain things about history, but history itself has been altered, many times, you know this don’t you?” Daemon asked, looking at Daylen.

“The world itself has been altered,” he said.

“The whispers, the song, it echoes, and THE EYE BURNS IN THE MIRROR!” Brynden screamed.

“I have done cruel things, abhorrent things, but there was a time I only did it to those who deserved it, had you heard his story before his mind was lost to time, you would agree with me in saying he deserved it. But he is also a crippled man who is of no use to me in physical pursuits,” Daemon explained.

“You have a dragon,” Daylen retorted.

“A dragon can’t search for who I need to find,” Daemon said.

“My people need shelter and a place to rest.”

“They’ll have it and Caraxes’s protection, but I suspect you have already been attacked by that flying imp,” Daemon seethed.

“So I’m to be an assassin?” Daylen huffed.

“No, I’m asking you, no,” Daemon slowly went to his knees. “I am begging you, the one who calls himself Peter Pan has taken children, including my own grandchildren!”

“Impossible, you never had children with Rhea Royce,” Daylen said.

“Whilst my brother and Lady Alicent were cursed, myself and my paramour Mysaria were gifted with many children over the years, even into the dance of dragons. Please Grey Warden, will you help me to save lives?” the Targaryen king asked.

Daylen looked between the broken king and the fallen king. Between either of them he wasn’t keen on trusting either. One king though did have a castle and a dragon.

Two good resources in fighting back against the blight.

That and Daylen wanted to save lives again.

Next Chapter 3: The delight, the precious and the storyteller

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody

Chapter 3: The Delight, the precious and the storyteller

Men were such fickle beasts; no this was not some tirade on the neglect of women and their superiority to the men. As another (greater) author did, we say men in the context of identifying humanity. So the dramatic statement still remains, men are fickle beasts. None embodied this more than Boromir, son of Denethor.

Or so he had come to feel in this Dark Age. His hair cut short, covered by a beige cloak, the former majestic general of Gondor looked every bit as he felt. His water pouch was drained, the thin leather squeezed out and hanging loosely next to Boromir’s cracked horn. He carried his sword rather than sheathed it, and the blade was rough, not yet broken but like the man it had come to lose its purpose. He had had a horse when he departed, a gift of the Dunedain, but he had had to slay it for the meat and water. The trek had been long, arduous, his knees shook and he looked up at the glaring sun and cursed the sand beneath him, his troubles temporarily forgotten in favour of the frustration of travel. Maybe there was a better path to take in the new land; Boromir imagined this desert was like walking into Mordor.

‘And one does not simply walk into Mordor,’ he remembered saying.

Yet nine sought to do just that, two men, an elf, a dwarf, a wizard and four hobbits. Nine walkers to counter the nine riders of the dark lord.

The fellowship of the ring, yet no fellowship could save them. Their passage through Moria cost them the wizard.

”Gandalf, his name was Gandalf,” he told himself.

He folded the leather pouch, drawing a few precious bits of water out of it. Boromir could see the wizard looking down at him.

”A gift you called it, a gift to the enemies of Sauron, long your father kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of your people were other’s lands kept safe, a sacrifice wasted by your greed, glory to Gondor and the line of stewards, Denethor whom foresaw his fall and the son whose quality was found lacking,” the voice and the words, the tone that the wizard used could be as great a stab as a blade.

”Authority was not granted to your family to deny the return of Gondor’s king, an oath you swore to the people and to the fellowship and both you failed for the madness of what you believed proved your king a failure,” Gandalf explained.

Boromir said nothing in his defence. He welcomed the judgement of the dead. Squeezing some small drops of water from his pouch, he struck by a metallic object. His eyes grew wide in horror, seeing the gold band, hearing its urge. To take the ring, to see Gondor rise. He reached out, about to take it, but with a yell of anguish he drove his fist into the sand.

”I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

He shifted to what he could do, picking up his shield and continuing the walk on the task his king had given him. Whatever land waited, whatever allies or enemies were out there, he would find them. The land he walked through was unforgiving, a fitting path for him to walk. But as Boromir’s skin burned and the sand filled his boots, he only become more and more determined to find the end of this path, the civilisation that was promised. 

Lord Elrond of Rivendell possessed the gift of foresight, part of a picture, he spoke of a snake and a great land of sand. A land that Boromir was supposed to go to. Regardless of Elrond’s vision, Boromir trusted the command of his king.

Sunspear

The capital of the Dornish nation played host to a member of the royal family. By the laws of Dorne, Rhaenys Targaryen should have been the heir, being the king’s first child. Dorne long held a tradition of princesses that ruled over their younger brothers. At the moment though Rhaenys’s mentor in politics was Prince Doran Martell, whilst in the yard Rhaenys had two great mentors, her uncle Oberyn and the sword of the morning himself. Oberyn stood watching his niece, nodding proudly, wearing the loose and thin clothes necessary for the climate of Dorne, all styled in the orange and red colours of the house Nymeros Martell. He was in stark contrast to the more critical eye of the white armoured and cloak man beside him. Arthur Dayne was considered the greatest of the Kingsguard, his skills having earned him the right to wield house Dayne’s ancestral sword Dawn, a white sword forged from a meteorite rock.

“Utilise the distance,” he told his protégé and charge.

Oberyn grinned, his daughters were fighting today, but it was his niece he would have bet on. His oldest Obara, dressed like a man as always, strong and skilled with her spear. Then there was Nymeria, named for the ruler of Dorne during Aegon’s conquest, graceful, as beautiful as the YiTish woman Oberyn had met during his travels in Volantis. She cracked her whip, despite her lithe frame she could burst an opponent’s eye on knock them out with a hard lash. His oldest daughter with his beloved paramour Ellaria Sand, named for his sister Elia, El wore her hair in a tight braid and held a sword and shield for the match.

Their opponent the princess Rhaenys stood confidently at the centre, her features more Dornish than Targaryen, save for the white streak in her hair. She wore practical trousers and a shirt, with leather practice armour that had her personal arms on the chest, an orange dragon curled around a gold spear. Her cousins struck and Rhaenys defended herself, utilising the sword and short spear she had opted to use for the match. She moved to the side as Nymeria swung her whip, accidentally wrapping it around the shaft of Obara’s spear. Rhaenys delivered a flurry of blows to El’s shield, knocking her sword out of her hand and immediately kicking the blade at Nymeria.

“Bitch,” Nymeria muttered, barely dodging the blade with a tilt of her head.

Obara thrust her spear, and Rhaenys parried it several times before rolling away from Nymeria’s whiplash. She moved closer to both of her cousins, smiling cockily at them, giving her tactic away. The spear and the whip, both weapons for distance, taking into account lessons her uncle had given her about long swords when faced with daggers. Rhaenys was the one to strike this time, hitting Obara and putting her on the defensive, she tilted her head to avoid Nymeria’s whip.

“Watch it,” Obara seethed, her face nearly getting cut by the whip.

“It would be an improvement,” Nymeria smirked.

“I agree,” Rhaenys said.

She dodged the thrust of Obara’s spear and then kicked it as hard as she could, hitting the side of Nymeria’s face with the shaft. Then Obara followed up with a second strike, and gasped as Rhaenys crossed her weapons together, stopping the blade inches from her chest. Arthur was about to step in when Oberyn blocked his way. The Princess snapped the spear, stepped on the fallen whip and put her sword to Obara’s chin.

“That is a little mark on Nym’s face would be an improvement big cousin,” Rhaenys smiled, Obara huffing as she put a smile on her face too.

The princess pulled her blade away when the sound of slow clapping filled the yard. Her uncle Doran was sat on a contraption the citadel had built, a chair that allowed him to traverse the grounds despite the severe gout in his foot. Doran appeared much older than he was, but still no less intimidating as his younger, fighter brother.

“You show more improvement in the yard than you do in your classes beloved niece, still it has allowed you to form bonds with your cousins that will prove valuable to you,” Doran explained.

He was pushed along by the captain of his guard, Areo Hotah, a giant of a man who had strapped to his back a halberd.

“Although there are some cousins you could do with growing closer to,” Doran added.

“I love all of my cousins, sand snakes, Trystane and Quentyn for their flaws, and Arianne, oh dear Arianne, where do you think my beloved cousin is now dear uncle?” Rhaenys asked cheekily.

Doran’s eldest daughter and heir by Dornish law, basked in the afterglow of a morning of lust. Rolling off of her lover, she wrapped a silk sheet across her body and looked to her window. She showed no embarrassment as the door was swung open, the door banging despite the small woman who had pushed it.

“Beloved aunt, come to join us?” Arianne asked.

“Have some shame for once dear niece!”

Elia was skinnier and shorter than Arianne, paler too but she was in no way considered less beautiful. For in Dorne Elia was still considered queen of Westeros, despite wearing more modest yellow dresses devoid of jewels than what Cersei wore.

“Excuse me my niece, I’m looking for a member of the kings guard, brown haired a comely face, used to be thought of as cordial and courteous,” Elia stated as she walked into the room.

“No courteous of cordial men here,” Arianna giggled, taking a grape from the fruit basket beside her bed.

She smirked as she kept it in her mouth, taking in the taste and the sight of the knight coming to. Panic immediately spread across his face when he saw Elia, bending down to pick up his white cloak.

“Princess Elia,” he gasped, blood rushing to his cheeks.

“Return to your post Sir Oakheart, we’ll discuss this later,” she said.

Arys Oakheart stumbled out of bed, clumsily putting on his shirt and breeches and picking up his armour. Tears were close to forming in his eyes as he bowed his head, took the cloak Elia held and looked back, lowering his head in defeat as Arianne waved at him. Elia looked over her shoulder to see if the knight had truly left, then looked down at her niece in judgement.

“A Kingsguard,” she said harshly.

“If he can’t keep to his oath then it’s his own fault, he said his only woman was duty and you know how I feel about that poxy bitch, dry as dust between the legs and her kisses leave you bleeding,” Arianne explained.

“And what of your kisses? You have the luxury, the privilege even Arianne of not regretting meaningless pursuits, bah, what is the point, you are lustful as your uncle,” Elia threw her arms up in exasperation, suddenly breaking off into a cough that made Arianne looked at her in concern. “What you did may have been a pleasurable, perhaps even a loving moment, but it will haunt him Arianne, this is not a kind thing, not a loving thing,” she explained, no judgement or disapproval, just shame in her voice and in how she looked at her niece.

“Just because you have given up on love,” Arianne seethed, then put her hand to her mouth in shame. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Just get dressed, now and join us for lunch, there is a matter of great importance we must discuss and it may very well concern the fate of Dorne too,” Elia said.

She held her head up with dignity, but still couldn’t stop the tear rolling down her cheek as she left Arianne to feel ashamed.

It was her brother’s name day, a day that would have been filled with reminders of his worthiness for the throne. Lord Hightower would name him ‘Aegon the conqueror babe’ but the only thing he could conquer was a bowl of porridge. A name did not make a king, and a declaration of succession certainly would not make a queen. She wondered if there was any point to it at all, maybe it would be easier to let Aegon, or rather Otto and Alicent have what they wanted.

Everything would have been different if she had been born a man.

Rhaenyra heard whispers of her being the realms delight, a testament to her birth, her beauty and her charm but lately she had felt there was no need for charm. Her brother would be celebrated for his birth, his right to be heir, his name and all she had was the reassurance of a man she loved and despised in equal measure. Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, king, protector, yet in his search for a male heir he had condemned his wife to death and in the end had no heir to show for it. Not even ten years passed before Viserys declared his intent to marry Alicent Hightower.

Of all women he chose her closest friend.

She loved that man, she cursed that man, she didn’t want to pretend even with the vision he shared with her. So Rhaenyra took a book and lost herself reading and listening to Samwise sing and play his music, and just repeat that same song again and again whilst she absorbed each lesson the book offered, histories she once did not care for. She could pretend for a moment Alicent was trying to help her, that she wasn’t pregnant again. Rhaenyra looked at the pages concerning Aegon the conqueror, the first Targaryen king, he who had created the very duty that drove Viserys, the dream that Rhaenyra accepted as her responsibility and her reason to rule. The repeated reading had begun to take its toll, Samwise’s melody became a lullaby for a few seconds. Rhaenyra’s eyes glazed over and she rubbed them, looking at the book again. The words written seemed to blur, and the very history she read began to change.

That and Samwell had stopped playing.

Rhaenyra stood up, walking around the tree and looking at the sky that seemed duller than it had been before. She stopped when she looked towards a man whom most certainly was not Samwell. He was dressed in a black and grey doublet, had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. The boy looked at her, caught off guard as he took a few steps forward, turning his head to check if anyone was here. Rhaenyra knew that Criston would take action before she screamed. But her knight was not nearby.

”Who are you?” The boy bluntly asked, his accent some mix of crown land and north.

She nearly gasped in shock and insult. But remembering that she needed to be dignified, she stood straight.

”I am Princess Rhaenyra, daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, heir to the iron throne,” she declared.

The north boy looked at her for a moment, shock turning to realisation as he bowed.

”Forgive me my princess, I forget my manners,” he said.

”Tell me who you are,” she commanded.

“I’m Torrhen Stark, lord of Winterfell and king of the North,” the young man coughed as soon as he said it, unable to fight off a smile.

He put his hand to his mouth, badly hiding his laugh. Rhaenyra grit her teeth together in fury, blushing despite this.

”How dare you, you, you savage north boy,” she remarked, wanting to kick herself for her attempt at an insult.

”I’d rather be dumb than mad,” the boy retorted.

”Mad how dare you!”

”How dare me, how dare I, to speak the truth is a daring thing here, you’re no Princess, maybe a bastard of House Blackfyre?”

”Lies and slander, I am no bastard, I am Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” she said.

”Yes, yes, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of Viserys the weak.”

Rhaenyra stomped her foot, glaring at the boy.

”You will withdraw and apologise for that statement,” she seethed.

“HA! Or what, will King Viserys burn me with Balerion the dragon too old and fat to actually do anything when he rode it, I doubt he could even lift his sword let alone use it to smite anyone,” the boy laughed and Rhaenyra lunged at him.

To his shock, she had punched him across the face, stumbling as she did. He grabbed her but stumbled back too, landing on his back with her on top. Her head slammed accidentally into his.

”Ow!” Both remarked.

She rubbed her head before trying to slap him. He grabbed her wrists, pulling them back, her head pushing against his lip.

”Seven hells stop!” He seethed.

”Not until you apologise,” she snarled.

”What is the meaning of this?”

Jon shoved the girl off, looking up to see Jaime and Tyrion standing there. The imp of the Lannister family had a cheeky look on his face, obviously having enjoyed the show between Jon and ‘Rhaenyra’.

”A mad woman,” Jon said.

”You know what they say about the crazy ones OW!” Tyrion yelped as a rock slammed into his forehead.

”Enough, my lady do you know who it is you are attacking?” Jaime asked.

”Do you know who it is you patronise sir?” Rhaenyra asked. “I am Princess Rhaenyra,” she declared.

The Lannister brothers looked at her sceptically, and then looked to Aemon.

”See,” he remarked.

“My lady what year do you believe it is?” Tyrion asked.

“114 AC,” she said.

Jaime shook his head.

”It is the year 298,” he said.

Rhaenyra laughed, shaking her head and looking at the trio. There was a ruckus, people coming towards them. A handsome silver haired man in Targaryen colours came up to the group. All three bowed to the man in the same way people would bow to her father. Rhaenyra noticed for the first time the white cloak hanging off of the knight’s shoulders, matching the cloak that hung off of the old white haired man stood beside the Targaryen. The man they bowed to looked at her with a curious smile on his face. It was a stark contrast to the scowl that came over the woman who walked beside him. Having a close resemblance to the blonde knight, Rhaenyra would have considered her beautiful if not for the scowl. She wore a red dress with gold lions embroidered on it.

”Who is she?” Cersei demanded.

”A visitor my queen, and we must be respectful to visitors,” Rhaegar said.

”My king I would be careful she is not stable,” Jaime said.

”It is to begin with a terrible winter, gusting out of the distant north, an absolute darkness will ride upon those winds, tell me girl does this mean something to you?” Rhaegar asked, stepping closer to Rhaenyra, looking the girl in the ends and following her expression for any trace of betrayal.

He saw only shock.

”Aegon’s dream,” she whispered.

”The song of ice and fire,” Rhaegar said.

Jon and Cersei flinched for similar reasons. Lyanna and Rhaegar had been called the song of ice and fire, from opposite sides of the kingdom and far, far different families. It was only out of respect for the good king Rhaegar had turned out to be, that kept minstrels from creating some song based upon their love. Cersei contained a sneer of pure rage.

“Sir Jaime, Take her to Ashara, have her fed and prepared into something more formal, Lord Tyrion take my son to his uncle and borrow something formal as well, he’ll join us for supper,” the king commanded.

”My king?” Baristan looked at his friend quizzically.

Jon wanted to say something, to talk to his father, who still felt like a stranger to him. Rhaegar however turned away, walking back down the corridor, leaving the shocked entourage and the lost princess and bastard.

The desert sands of Dorne

Boromir dragged his sword along the ground, thrice he had been tormented by images of an oasis. The first time he had gone to his knees and dunked his head in, only to rise back up and yell in frustration. But then that desire to survive gave way to shame and he wept. The tears that fell from his eyes became the few precious drops of water he had had for days. A night he saw a snake slithering in his tent and for a moment he was tempted to let the viper bite him, to fill himself with poison and consider it the end, ‘Boromir, he betrayed the fellowship and died in a desert, poisoned by a snake.’ It seemed fitting when thinking of the great pages composed for those who survived, all he was worth was a line. ‘Poison could fell any man, just as it had done Boromir,’ he considered again before grabbing the snake. Its meat became his breakfast, and he was energised.

‘No, no, you don’t get off that easy,’ he thought, he sentenced himself to live.

More time passed and he found a plant with fur like quills on it. He wasn’t familiar with it, but it told him enough, if there was a plant in the desert then there was water somewhere. Cutting through the cactus, he lips became irritated and itchy when he sucked at the moisture within the plant. But it was enough for him. He continued onwards, holding his sword with a bit more dignity and pride. He rested in the sand, making out in the distance a city and knowing that soon he would be in some sort of civilisation. Taking snake meat from his pack, he ate his lunch and looked upon the harsh land with new eyes. This had been his first test, with many more still to come.

Then he was met with a curious sight, one that came up over the hill, his skin rough, panting and very naked. The young man plodded along, looking hungry and thirsty but still forcing himself to smile even as he squinted through the sun.

“Good morning,” he said as he passed Boromir.

At first the Gondorian thought that the man was a trick of the desert. But when he threw a bit of meat at the man’s shoulder, he stopped to pick it up.

“What are you doing?” Boromir asked the man, whom knew that he was referring to his present circumstance.

“Trudging,” the man said plainly.

“You know trudging, to trudge, to trudge the slow weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in his life except the impulse to simply soldier on, much like yourself I’d say,” he explained.

“Were you robbed?” Boromir asked.

“Interesting question actually, yes and at the same time a huge resounding no, it’s more of an involuntary vow of poverty, but you know on the brighter side trudging does represent pride, pride resolve and faith in the good lord almighty, please Christ rescue me from my current tribulation,” the man yelped, hopping whilst sucking on his toe.

A curious scorpion had come out of the sand, nipping the naked man’s foot with its claws. It disappeared just as quickly as it had arrived, prompting Boromir to go to the man, giving him the small droplets of water he had squeezed out a cactus and into his drinking pouch. The man sat and ravenously drank, squeezing every drop from the pouch.

“Oh thank you, much thanks upon you my lord, I am in your debt,” he said.

“Not much a man who’s taken a vow of poverty can do to repay it,” Boromir muttered.

“Involuntary I might add, what happens I’m afraid when you tell a version of a story someone doesn’t like, people’s dedication to such things can be almost toxic,” the man explained.

“Stories?” Boromir looked at him curiously, sitting on the sand across from him.

“Yes, well you see my partner and I were very much in the process of committing to writing the numerous tales we had heard on the road, of course the very minor issue of ownership of these stories came up on some occasions, I of course had the argument that these folktales were already traded amongst the people numerous times to the point that their origin could just barely be traced ergo they did not in fact belong to any one person, group, company or entity, but you’ll always have people sensitive about those things,” the man explained.

“You’re a writer?” Boromir asked.

“Writer, chronicler, story teller, story reteller, I know not a real word, neither is reimaginer, which I very much am, sort of put my own spin on things, which is precisely what landed me in such a predicament, oh, forgive me my manners, Jake, Jake Grimm at your service my lord,” he offered Boromir his hand and the Gondorian shook it.

“You’ve heard many stories then?” Boromir asked.

“Hansel…excuse me Gretal and Hansel because apparently it matters who comes first now, the frog prince, good old Cindy, and with what has happened to the land I’ve been able to collect even more works in what we call ‘the new world’ and what a world it is, giant bears, giant spiders, dragons, oh my it is a writer’s paradise, I even heard such tales in Westeros of the rings of power,” Jake explained.

Boromir tensed, Westeros and rings of power were not words he wanted to hear together. He took another piece of meat from his pack, offering it to Jake like a treat.

“Perhaps you could tell me what you know of these rings,” he said.

Jake messily ate the meat, not bothering to wipe his mouth as he cleared his throat out and put on a voice.

“It began with the forging of the great rings of power…”

Dragonstone

“Three rings, three, three for the elven kings under the sky, or is it more trees; do they go to the sky? No the sky, it is the sky for they are so high, SEVEN, seven for the dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, oh don’t tell the imp he’ll be so jealous, he gets no ring, just a nasty gash. Nine, now the interesting part, nine for mortal men doomed to die, oh yes, yes we’ll definitely die, but rise again, then die again, BUT NOT IF YOU’RE IMPORTANT!”

Bran the broken, or the ‘fucking crazy, don’t go near him with a ten foot pole’ as Sera colourfully called him had been rambling for the past few hours. He was the only dash of excitement and colour within the dank and hopeless grip of the keeps prison. Kinnon had been standing for just that much time as Daylen had ordered him, to watch the supposed king and supposed oracle. It beat the manual labour the others had to do, to help Isabela and her crew land in Dragonstone and unload what few supplies they had left. The red clad mage wondered if the people they protected were looking up in fear at the castle walls, wondering if they had gone to a far worse place.

“That leaves you fucked,” Brann said, looking at him.

It had been Kinnon’s thought after all too.

“Anything new?” Daylen asked, coming down the staircase with Cullen and Petra.

“Just more of the same,” Kinnon gestured to the notes he was taking.

“One for the dark lord,” Bran suddenly said, his voice went deep and filled with dread, his eyes wide in panic before they became white. “One for the dark lord on his dark throne. In the land of Mordor where the shadow lies,” he said, taking a deep breath, his face going pale. “One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them. One ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them. In the land of Mordor where the shadow lies.”

Daylen walked up to Brann’s cell, kneeling down and looking the man in the eyes.

“Possession,” Cullen said, waving his hand dismissively.

“And no physical mutations?” Petra asked.

“It is possible for demons to possess and not alter a body; they can deceive for years before they are discovered,” Cullen elaborated.

“The experience of a templar who was a few months at the tower before he pissed his breeches at the sight of a demon,” Kinnon huffed.

“Pissed my breaches at the TORTURE OF A DEMON!” Cullen snapped, grabbing Kinnon by the collar of his shirt. “Have you forgotten it was your classmates, your fellow mages who rebelled, we templars lived amongst you, protected you and you slaughtered and tormented us,” he stated.

“Fellow mages who killed us too, YOU WEREN’T THE ONLY ONE RUTHERFORD!” Kinnon yelled, Petra put her hands to their chests and tried to push them apart.

“Stop it both of you, Daylen,” she called out to the warden who continued to stare at the broken king.

Daylen’s eyes glowed red as he lit his hand on fire, putting it near Brann’s face and making him roll back.

“Prophecy is a dangerous thing, more often it’s used to turn would be friend into certain foe,” he stood up, his eyes continuing to glow as he looked down in judgement at Brann the broken.

The glow faded as he turned to his companions, his companions, he mused, they weren’t the ones who fought beside him in Ferelden but he had known them for more time in the circle. Their bonds had been forged through time, not battle or deeds. It would take much to turn them into a party.

“I’m sorry Kinnon, Cullen, sorry Uldred didn’t die at Ostagar, but we can’t fight amongst ourselves, not when there are children to save.”

His words cut through the conflict and both men traded apologetic looks. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would suffice, Petra adding a slap to Kinnon’s shoulder for good measure. They went back up to the main halls of the keep, where noble and peasant alike huddled in groups waiting for chantry priests and volunteers to bring them blankets. Isabela raised her hand to catch their attention from the back of the room, clicking her fingers and gesturing for them to come to her.

“Thank you,” Daylen heard from some of the people he passed.

“Not much cheer in the décor, but it’ll keep people warm without having to…”

“Is everything about sex with you?” Petra asked the pirate captain.

“Oh Petra my sweet thing, it’s not just about sex, it’s about great sex,” Isabela grinned as Petra’s cheeks brightened as much as her hair.

She winked at Petra and slowly turned, giving her hips a sway as she led them into a map room. Daylen looked around the room, imagining Aegon the Conqueror himself and his sister wives planning their conquest. The grand table was itself a recreation of Westeros. Daemon put his sword to the centre of the map.

“Forget this, none of this is worth anything, I’ve flown from one end of my country to the next and I can tell you the land out there is definitely not Westeros, there are land masses that never existed until the great shift,” the dishevelled man stated.

“Are you talking about Earthquakes?” Petra asked.

“Caraxes screamed, waves hit the keep in a storm the likes of which none of my generation had ever witnessed before, for a moment I thought that the castle would topple but then a bright morning came. We were expecting a winters morning, dark and dreary,” Daemon explained.

“It must have ruined this place then,” Isabela quipped, making Daemon grin almost flirtatiously at her.

“The one they call Pan, when did you meet him and how?” Daylen asked.

“I was host to my grandchildren, Viserys, Baelon and Aemma, the youngest Viserys had begun to speak of visits from a boy with green boots. I thought it a dream of the child’s mind, at the time I was more worried about his father Maelor returning from battle with the greens,” Daemon explained.

“No one takes children seriously until it is too late,” Isabela said and Daemon nodded.

“The older boy and girl both said the same thing, I did not dismiss it as a shared dream, the guards I posted with them were fortunate to die as they did,” he stated.

“Pan killed them when he took the children?” Kinnon asked.

“One had his throat cut and the other was thrown onto the beach rocks, presumably from a great height,” Daemon said.

“And how is that fortunate?”

“Because he would have burned them alive for their failure,” Daylen said dryly.

The Fereldans looked at Daemon, disturbed by his smile and nod. Isabela cleared her throat, unravelling a map, it was a sea map, relative to the bodies of land she had seen before they got to Dragon stone. Daemon pointed his sheathed sword at an area of the ocean to the north of dragonstone.

“Caraxes would not fly beyond this point no matter how hard I commanded him, as if survival instinct took over,” he said.

“Instinct, you mean he was afraid?” Cullen asked.

“Dragon’s can feel just as much as humans, hence why Caraxes whimpered when he came,” Daemon said, gesturing to Daylen.

“That would be the two dragons he killed,” Petra sheepishly chuckled.

“One, the other was actually a shape shifting witch so it doesn’t count,” Daylen said.

“Still counts,” Kinnon added.

“I’d count it,” Cullen agreed.

“So we sail my ship to this point, hope the flying boy doesn’t grab us all one by one and toss us overboard, go onto his island and launch a daring rescue of whatever children have been taken, sounds easy enough, unless the children have gotten comfortable,” Isabela muttered.

“We’ll deal with that when it comes to it,” Daylen said.

“Here,” Daemon removed something from his pocket, throwing it to Daylen.

“A necklace,” Daylen frowned as he shook the chain. “This metal, is it…”

“Valyrian steel,” Daemon confirmed.

“Valyrian Steel is like dragonbone iron right? You wasted that on a necklace?” Petra asked.

“A gift to my niece, then to my granddaughter, use this to confirm who you serve,” Daemon said.

“I prefer not being tied down,” Isabela pouted.

“Let’s get one thing straight Daemon, we’re not doing this out of service to you, if Pan really has taken children he will not have stopped at the highborn, I do this because it is right and it is sufficient payment for my people,” Daylen explained.

“Agreed,” Cullen said, Petra and Kinnon nodded their heads too.

“Very well, you have your bearing, go, bring back my grandchildren, or news of their deaths if you can,” Daemon said.

The three Fereldans and the Rivaini captain walked out of Daemon’s office. He waited a few seconds before he sat on his chair, drawing his sword for a moment, putting it to his neck and sighing. When he opened his eyes, he was shaved, groomed and looking over reports from the front. Dragon riders lost to the greens, a marriage between Rhaenyra and Laenor Valeryon, for a moment he regretted not marrying the man’s sister. Then he heard the wails and cries of children.

“The kingsguard will protect you princess,” little Baelon said as he chased his sister, Viserys waddling along behind them.

Baelon was the image of Daemon at that age, a fact Daemon felt both shame and pride for, as Viserys was a pudgy child who often struggled to run. The children continued their playing around the table, with wooden toys Daemon had bought from Essos. He stood, casting an imposing shadow on the three children. They looked up at him for a moment before he brought up his hands and hissed.

“But what will the kings guard do against the dragon,” he made fire breathing sounds with his mouth, causing the little girl to scream and the boys to yell.

The Rogue prince, the scourge of so many thieves in King’s landing, cursed by his brother and sister in law, made his grand children laugh in delight as he chased them around the table. Both boys brandished their wooden swords and Daemon made gurgling sounds, falling to the floor as they piled on top of him.

“Oh your might is too much, too, too much for the great dragon,” he fake screamed, ruffling their white hair.

He stood up and grabbed Aemma, kissing her forehead.

“My dragon cubs are brave, and you my delight, you had a beautiful grandmother, a beautiful namesake, you are going to be the most beautiful princess in the seven kingdoms,” he said, kissing her cheek as she hugged him.

“That beautiful?” she asked.

“Even more beautiful with this,” Daemon removed the necklace from his pocket.

He placed her on the ground and rubbed back her hair, tying the necklace around her neck.

“I once gave this to a very special girl, it can only belong to girls who are going to be great one day, and you my precious are going to be even greater than she was,” Daemon explained.

The children laughed and Daemon smiled for the first time in months. War had left a bitter mark, failure a burning one, but when he went to bed that night he had a semblance of hope in his heart. A heart shattered when guards punched at his door.

“Your grace, your grace, the princes and princess,” the captain of his guard cried out.

Daemon took up his sword, running in his night gown to his grand children’s chambers. He pushed aside the nurse begging for her life as he swung the doors open. There was an eerie and sinister wind coming from the window. Daemon breathed hard from exertion and fury, walking to the empty beds. He gripped darksister tightly and yelled, Caraxes’s screech followed.

Caraxes howled and Daemon rubbed is eyes, returning to the present and looking at Darksister. In a life full of regrets, he had one more, not being fit enough to kill the kidnapper himself. Daemon opened his eyes again, lowering his sword and looking to the map that his ancestor had created. He imagined a very different world in place of that map, Dorne and Essos separated by a huge land mass and to the East of Westeros, what they called Thedas and something else that had blanketed the North, a great land where fire gushed from the mountains. Daemon looked upon king’s landing, where men declared themselves dragons without even having them.

‘Mine,’ he thought.

He pulled his sword away from his neck, holding it outwards and looking at the dark mist that formed as a ring around his finger.

‘It will all be mine!’ he declared.

Next Chapter 4: Gift, prophecy and companions

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadows

Chapter 4: Gift, prophecy and companions

Walking again had felt quite strange, the physical body and its urges were inefficient and quite sickening to him. Sweat from the flames was probably the only relief he felt. Once again he could feel satisfaction and pride from having built something with his own hands. Putting his hammer back on the iron, he took his tongs and grabbed the blade. Feeling the presence behind him, he looked over his shoulder, smirking at his young student.

“You never tire of watching me work Gendry,” he said.

Gendry Waters shifted uncomfortably, six months he had moved across the new realm with his master. Their forge was mobile, moving from place to place and producing the finest arms and works of metal. Swords and spear tips were as grand as Valyrian steel, as they folded the steel to gain the best results and their work didn’t end with tools of war. Gates, prison doors, armour, cooking pots and what they had excelled at, jewellery. They created the most beautiful necklaces, circlets, bangles and rings, and it was these as well as their custom orders for armour that allowed them entry into the houses of nobility.

“It’s just incredible, Tobho Mott was good at what he did and he taught me well, but there was chaos to his forge, disorder, everything was a rush, here it is calm, ordered, you seem more painter than smith Master Annatar,” Gendry explained as the man put the sword into water.

“Some would say I am more poet than smith, more woman than man even,” Annatar said.

He was graceful; Gendry might have even called him beautiful if he knew he wouldn’t be ridiculed. Annatar’s hair was finer and brighter than a Targaryen’s, his ears like the rumoured elves spotted in the forest regions of Westeros and he often wore pure white robes and coats. But underneath all that as he worked the forge, Gendry could see a myriad of wounds, even a wolf’s bite on his shoulder. Even the blades that Annatar forged had some beauty to them. The hilt of the sword he prepared had the shape of a stag’s antlers on it. He had engraved into the pommel the sigil of the house they would be going to.

“I hated how Mott handled his craft, there was no order to it, order Gendry is the most important thing in the world, it is why we have kings and nobility, why smart men make up gods for gullible men to worship and obey, why there are even slaves in the world,” Annatar stated.

“Slavery is outlawed,” Gendry said.

“How free do you think the average serf is? As deplorable as the lords across the East and Tevinter are, they at least do not hide what their serfs are, your mother had you because she had no choice in the matter, because a fat lord with his fat cock wanted to please himself, if the world truly had order then there would have been a system in place to keep that lord from committing such an act,” Annatar explained.

“He didn’t rape her,” Gendry protested.

“When you have no choice in sex, it is rape,” Annatar huffed.

He sheathed the sword and patted Gendry’s shoulder.

“Think nothing of it my boy, you are in a better place now, and I am just musing for the world I would prefer than what we have now, now get your fine clothes on, something to attract the girls,” he smiled at Gendry, patting the young man’s shoulder again.

Annatar and his apprentice walked into the grand keep called Storm’s End, the faces of human ‘nobility’ watching them with their noses turned up. But when he unveiled the blade he had forged, the gift for the lord, there was awe and wonder. It was disgusting, just how quickly sycophants could shift. The chair at the end of the room groaned as the heavy set man got out of it, his equally as fat wife at a loss for words by the very sight of the blade. He grasped the sword when Annatar offered it to him, his beard dirty from wine and head bopping impressed with the craft.

“I’m more of a hammer bloke myself,” Robert Baratheon said.

The lord of Storm’s end laughed, a hoarse, annoying sound followed by a slap on the back that made something inside Annatar snarl. But he put a smile on his face, following the path of his target. It was disappointing though, Robert had once been considered a great warrior, and years of depression, feasting and drinking had given him a body that could crush even a fell beast. Annatar looked briefly to other candidates, the king’s brother Stannis. The man didn’t smile, only nodded briefly in respect; a man dedicated to law and order, perhaps even a man after Annatar’s own heart. But it was not his wife Selyse at Stannis’s side. Annatar’s eyes narrowed briefly when the woman in red smirked at him.

Melisandre, of all the people in Storm’s end, he hated her the most.

The Stormlands had been ruled by the Baratheons since the time of Aegon’s conquest, when his greatest general and kin forged a new house on the battlefield. Robert Baratheon did not share that ambition though, he enjoyed fighting and war, but all he wanted was the love of a woman. Lyanna Stark had been promised to him, but he faced bitter disappointment and utter heartbreak when Lyanna Stark revealed her true feelings.

“You fuck other women, you drink and whore yourself, and you think I could love someone like that, I can’t,” she was firm and as fierce as the wolf that was her family’s sigil.

Rather than unleash his rage, Robert humiliated himself that day when he shed tears. To account for his loss of wife, he was instead promised to Lysa Tully. Over the years their marriage has not been a happy one.

“My boy, please stop husband,” she pleaded with the man every time he pulled their sons away from her.

“The wet nurses have told me that there is no need to feed them at the breast anymore, you are coddling them and I will not raise weaklings,” he seethed.

Lysa Tully-Baratheon wanted her boys, her Lyonel and Orys to be hers, to have them crave her breast milk so they would be her baby boys forever. But the Baratheons were firm parents as much as they were firm and fair rulers. From the day they were old enough to hold a weapon, the twins had been put into the training yard to train with Robert himself. But as the years passed, Robert himself became a shadow of the warrior he once was. Repeated feasts and drinking had swelled his belly to the point horses struggled to carry him. He came onto the training courtyard once drunk and when he swung his hammer he tipped over.

“There is our father, Bobby B,” Orys called him.

As boisterous as Robert had been in his youth, he loved to fight but hated drink, watching his father drink and slap the forge master on the back disgusted him. The red haired boy looked through the crowds and spotted the image of his father as a teen. Putting a smile on his face, he began walking towards the bastard. Their eyes nearly met, stopping inches from one another.

“Pardon me my lord,” Gendry lowered his head in respect.

“You think I don’t know who you are, shaving your hair won’t hide your eyes or cheeks, what do you think you’re doing here?” Orys asked, a half glare crossing his face.

“My master was invited here,” Gendry retorted, this time looking the lord’s son in the eyes.

A moment of silence passed, a deep breath of fury escaped Orys’s lips before he let out a wheezy sigh, not unlike his father, that sigh turned into a laugh and Gendry flinched as Orys slapped his back.

“You look like little Bobby B back in his prime, or at least when he could aim where he was pissing,” Orys said.

“I’m…”

“His bastard, my big brother, either way you’re part of the family,” Orys said, signalling one of the servants with his fingers. “We have as many brothers and sisters as there are sand snakes, our eldest sister Mya who is serving house Royce in the Eyrie, our brother Eddric is here somewhere, not to mention our cousins,” he pointed across the banquet hall.

There was a red haired girl, the same hair and eyes as Lysa but far, far more beautiful, smiling as she spoke with a pair of knights. Her blue dress had a trout on the skirt, but wolf fur wrapped around her waist as a sash.

“Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of Brandon Stark and Catelyn Stark, being fostered here alongside our honorary cousin Asha Greyjoy,” he pointed to a more boyishly dressed girl in a tunic, her hair tied back with a squid symbol on her yellow vest. “Then we have sweet Shireen, who doesn’t join us for banquets,” he continued.

“Why not?” Gendry asked.

“Shireen bless her suffers from Greyscale, a toy her father bought her, she survived but her face has been disfigured, well some people would say that, she is still a beauty in my eyes but I see all of our family as good lookers…minus father of course,” Orys explained, sighing as his gaze went over his shoulder to a stoic young man sitting, listening to others around him speak.

“Is that Lyonel?” Gendry asked.

“Good eye, the silent storm himself, father’s favourite, mother’s least favourite,” Orys said.

Lyonel had the Baratheon dark hair, which he let grow and rest on his shoulders. He was wearing a scaly shirt in clear homage to his mother’s side of the family, and a blue cloak with a white falcon badge in honour of his father’s foster family the Arynn’s.

“So many of us, and yet we’re not really a family, uncle Stannis, uncle Renly, there’s no real love between us,” Orys’s face grew stale and Gendry found himself wanting to be anywhere but where he was, despite his brother’s earlier demeanour.

“I grew up in King’s landing, on shit stained streets, eating slop from a pot criminals probably disposed of bodies in, my first employer was not outwardly cruel but he wasn’t warm either. Master Annatar recognised something in me and took me in, taught me what he knew, and I feel all the better for it. But that’s what you’re approaching me for isn’t it?” Gendry asked.

“They don’t just have their games in the capital brother, be careful, even your favourite person isn’t all they appear,” Orys said.

He bowed to Gendry, who was given a drink for the exchange. It was then that Gendry met the gaze of Lyonel Baratheon, the young man raised his own cup and simply nodded to him.

‘Acknowledgement,’ Gendry thought and looked over at his father, callously snogging a serving girl with his wife seething behind him.

He put the cup down on the table, no he decided, I’m not him. Gendry raised his head and stopped for a moment, looking across the hall at the lady Sansa who seemed to be ignoring the two handsome knights talking to her so she could focus on him. A heat grew in Gendry’s cheeks, he turned away and began making his way to the back of the hall, out to where all the rabble and undesirables fed on the scraps.

Something in him told him it was better to be there than in the web these venomous noble’s weaved.

Annatar seemed to revel in it, smiling with Robert’s jokes, yet never outright appearing as if he was kissing up. Gendry watched the small folk dance around the fire and sing songs. There were songs there that not many of the Westerosi recognised. Some merry, like ‘Sera was never’, some somber like ‘Misty mountain cold’. He ate the piece of bread he had managed to get and the mead.

“They are good songs, are they not?”

Gendry turned, seeing the red hair shining in the star light. Sansa Stark truly was a beauty, she seemed out of place in Storm’s End.

“I wanted to be careful, I didn’t want to pick up a bad habit,” he said, blushing when she laughed. “Forgive me my lady, that was unworthy,” he added.

“But not untrue, Lyonel drinks to hide a fury worse than his fathers and Orys laughs and jokes to pretend he isn’t like his father. They’ve taught me much about this land and life, and it’s taught me to miss home,” she stated.

“The North yes?” Gendry asked.

“It wasn’t the home I wanted at first, I dreamed of a knight, a lord, a prince, marrying and being happy and having babies but…I heard stories, of my aunt Lyanna, of the Princess Elia, of even Queen Cersei, and I saw what a marriage without love can bring out in my aunt Lysa,” Sansa explained.

“Reality seldom lives up to dreams,” Gendry said, offering the lady some of his mead.

She drank from the horn, coughing slightly and laughing.

“Believe it or not it’s better than what they make in the North, may I stand with you, there’s nothing I can learn from the lords in the main hall tonight,” Sansa said.

“You are a lady, I’m just a smith’s apprentice,” Gendry lowered his head slightly.

He felt frightened and uncomfortable in another way as the girl watched the revelry of the common and foreign folk with him.

King’s Landing

‘The future,’ Rhaenyra thought, ‘the future,’ she repeated in exasperation.

The future, she realised and nothing had really changed about what people wore. Lady Asha seemed to say more by saying nothing as she helped Rhaenyra into a green and black garb, green being the dominant colour. It seemed an odd choice for a Targaryen to be dressed in, but it was a fine dress with the embroidery of a dragon whose shape reminded Rhaenyra of her own mount. Her hair was tied into a neat braid and she was given new earrings.

“The armour has changed, for the king’s guard,” she said, realising a bit too late she had sounded nervous.

Ashara’s lip curled, and she adjusted the strap of Rhaenyra’s belt.

“King Aerys was a cruel, cruel man, he was also a very ill man, both are to be acknowledged, our king tries to be kind, but he is ready to wage war as he did against his father,” Ashara said.

“He rebelled against his king, against his own kin?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Against a king who was going to burn people alive, or so Rhaegar believed, and most of the realm suspected, the signs were there after all and Aerys was becoming increasingly unpopular,” Ashara explained.

“So people forgot their vows, because they didn’t like the king?” Rhaenyra asked.

She was an unpopular choice, and the thought of one Targaryen king being ousted for being unpopular made her think. Would she be treated as another Maegor, an Aerys to be disposed of. Ashara finished adjusted her hair and stepped back, admiring her work.

“Good, presentable, not that you needed much of it,” she said.

“You are Dornish?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Our king was married to a Dornish princess, the marriage was mutually dissolved, but when our king’s chosen bride perished in child birth, he married the Lannister woman you saw with him,” Ashara explained.

“Lannister!” Rhaenyra remarked in surprise.

“Oh the lions have their ambitions, I do not know of the truth of who you are girl, but I will offer you this warning. Cersei Lannister will treat you as her enemy, regardless of whether you are or not,” Ashara stated.

“A lion is no match for a dragon,” Rhaenyra said.

“You’re a girl, not a dragon, and Cersei is a ruthless and petty woman, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was plotting your ‘accident’ already. But go, speak with our king, and try not to worry, he is a good man,” Ashara explained.

She waved to the girl as Barristan entered the room, offering his hand for Rhaenyra to take. The Dornish lady shook her head and poured herself a cup of wine. There was a knock at her door and she bid the guest to enter. Her exasperated expression morphed into a joyful smile as a dark haired girl walked in. She had dirt on her face and was wearing a boyish shirt and trousers.

“Arya,” Ashara opened her arms as the girl ran to her, embracing her waist in a hug.

“I’ve been practicing,” the girl had the long face and brown hair of a Stark, but blue eyes like her mother.

She drew with her left hand a small rapier and began water dancing in front of Ashara.

“Very good my little wolf,” Ashara said.

“I’ll be ready to fight those monsters coming across the sea,” Arya said.

“Monsters…perhaps there really are monsters, but let me tell you something my little wolf, monsters don’t always look like the creatures you’ll see in books or nightmares,” Ashara explained.

She put her finger to the tip of Arya’s ‘needle’, lowering it and pulling Arya’s chin to get her to look at her.

“Dark times are ahead, whatever Connington is marching to is only the enemy in front of us, there will be more dangers than just the enemy on the opposite side of the field,” she stated.

“People say that the world has changed momma, I feel it when I walk, the ground seems…different,” Arya said, confusion in her eyes despite her statement.

“I believe you child, if war is coming then we must be vigilant, allies may change to enemy in an instant. Your father believes in honour and I love him for it, but not everyone has honour and sometimes even those with a code will not live to the standard your father believes all men should. Then there is us my fierce wolf,” Ashara smiled as she teasingly ruffled Arya’s hair, her gaze turning serious as she cupped her cheeks. “We women are dismissed as tools, brood mares, and bargaining chips for alliances, I was blessed to be able to marry for love, that may not be the path that is chosen for you though my sweet. Know this though, we are not simply mothers, or wives, we are eyes for our family, the eyes that will watch, that will see all that our family must know.”

Arya, disgusted at the prospect of marriage, listened and her face shifted to one of boredom to intrigue as her mother smirked.

Pycelle had sent the letter, he was their family’s man, which meant he was hers. The old maestar hated Tyrion as much as she did, and Jaime would not bother to even think of contacting father. Cersei sat by her mirror, her necklaces and rings on the table, a full cup of wine blocking her reflection. She contemplated the shifting land, the state of her husband, the threats to her reign and her dreams. Her dream to be queen, to be loved by a man so beautiful and so loved by all, the sickly Dornish princess, the northern bitch, and the lord of Griffin’s roost, yet he was hers. On their first night he gave her respect and the show of the bedding, yet did not force himself upon her. It took time and patience, watching him play with his children, slowly implanting the ideas for them to be fostered elsewhere.

Her father wanted to be hand of the king, he could be the hand of a prince, guide him, teach him. Cersei imagined her father gave her a great speech about kings, questions on Viserys’s uncertainty, Maegor’s cruelty and Aerys’s madness, all for the lesson of a good king trusting the advice of others wiser than him, with the added undertone that he was the wisdom. Jaime just wanted some semblance of knighthood back, he offered her good nights.

But her joy came when finally her king lay with her. It was perfect, everything she had dreamed of it being. Her nails on his back, his mouth on her neck and gentle thrusts. They even shared a passionate kiss as his seed came inside her, basking in the afterglow together. For nine months things seemed perfect, for nine months Cersei was happy and could even tolerate Tyrion and Rhaegar’s bastard. Rhaegar was at her side and Jaime was in the room as she gave birth to a beautiful child. But then the dream ended and Cersei’s happiness shattered.

Her son was weak, sick, infected with some kind of disease. She screamed and cried out for punishment, her dwarf brother, the Northern bastard, war with the Dornish they used poisons after all. There was salvation only in the gift of a stranger, the promise that her boy would grow healthy, away from her. She wanted to gouge the old woman’s eyes out, call for her head. But Rhaegar, kind Rhaegar said yes, take the child, save his life, give him a future.

She hated and loved him.

As she drank from her cup she looked into the mirror and cried out, dropping the cup. The door swung open and Meryn Trant came in, her father’s man and a replacement on the king’s guard for Jonothor Darry, who died in the Greyjoy rebellion.

“Everything is fine, leave my chambers now,” Cersei seethed.

“Yes your grace,” Meryn removed his hand from his sword and walked out of the door.

Cersei stood, looking at herself in the mirror, seeing in her reflection a pregnant belly that she could not feel when she touched her flat stomach.

“Your torment me,” she snarled.

Everything went quiet; the very air of the room seemed to have disappeared, no sounds echoed around Cersei save for a voice.

“I only reflect what you desire, speak the words if you want more!”

The words, the words that gave this ‘gift’ power. Her son, traded for a mirror that haunted her as she prepped for her day. None of her servants seemed to be able to perceive what Cersei could with the mirror; they certainly didn’t act as if they heard voices from it. She certainly wasn’t going to tell Pycelle, even if the withering leech was her father’s man, he would accuse her of madness. So she whispered the words:

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

Her reflection disappeared and the mirror rippled like a body of water. She saw, children, to her confusion, but they had the faces of adults. These were not dwarves as her brother was a dwarf, their heads were not large, and their feet had unnatural amounts of hair on them.

“What are they?” she asked, her voice nearly a screech of disgust.

“They are the fairest creatures in this new world, for they do not concern themselves with the gains of politics or ambition, home, hearth, merriment and the wealth of their fields is all that matter to them. Halflings, Hobbits, Shirefolk, they have appeared on a stretch of land surrounded by Tumbleton, Bitterbridge and Fawnton, they are an embodiment of what you despise, the incorruptible,” the mirror explained.

“How could such creatures threaten me?” Cersei asked.

“They will see beyond your beauty,” the mirror said.

“Am I not the most beautiful?” Cersei asked.

“You are my queen!”

“Am I not a queen?”

Her question was answered with her reflection, herself in a grand red gown with gold armour on her shoulders and a gold crown, Jaime at her side rubbing her pregnant belly.

“It can be mine, but what of those that threaten me?” Cersei asked.

“The witch’s prophecy of the younger one who threatens to replace you and cast aside all you hold dear, but is it a new wife or a new queen, that is the riddle of prophecy my queen, I am only a reflection and you have already made your decision.”

The mirror returned to normal and Cersei rubbed her head. All that he had built could come crashing down; she would be returned to her father and sent off to another for a dowry. Sent away if Rhaenys takes the throne from her brother, or perhaps Cersei’s father would make her endure the indignity of marrying her younger step son.

‘No, I am a queen, I will remain a queen,’ she vowed.

She rested on her bed, thinking of the old witch Maggy the frog, of her prophecy to be queen, to lose her crown and the part that kept Cersei up at night.

‘Beware the one whose eyes burn red.’

Annatar was not new to wine, nor was he immune to its affects. He could drink for days though and still be sober enough to pull Robert from his whores and smash his face against the steps of his throne room. Robert played with the sword that he had forged, trying to relive his days of ‘adventure’, yet he knew nothing of true adventures. The exploits of Húrin, the flight of the Númenoreans, Thorin Oakenshield and his quest for Erebor, these were adventures, for as much as Annatar despised the heroes of the Valar, he could respect the way that they fought against insurmountable odds. Robert Baratheon had never fought a man stronger than him.

“You ever fucked a Riverland girl Annatar?” Robert asked, two girls either side of him, eating a rib bone in one hand and drinking from his cup with the other.

His squire, a pathetic little boy called Lancel topped the cup up and offered Annatar more. He refused, appearing to contemplate Robert’s question for the show of it.

“I can’t say I ever have,” he said.

It was the same conversation he had witnessed between Robert and his brothers twice over. His  first brother Stannis, who always chided his brother for his disrespect to his lawful wife and the sanctity of women themselves. There was a man Annatar could take the side of, both respected order, yet Stannis still believed in the rule of honour and his honour was greater than Robert’s.

“You hadn’t proved yourself a real man until you had fucked one girl from each of the seven kingdoms and the Riverlands, we used to call it ‘making the eight’,” Robert laughed.

A disgusting sound to Annatar’s ears. Still he drank and listened and spoke of his own exploits.

“Where I am from, amongst my people, there are women far more beautiful than anything you have ever known. You can fall in love at first sight and never love again quite so much as when you first laid eyes upon their beauty, Nessa, faster than an arrow in movement, yet the greatest dancer you had ever seen, Yavanna, a lady whose beauty was matched only by her charity, always giving the sweetest fruit…”

“I bet the fruit was sweet,” Robert laughed.

“Varda, whose beauty brought the stars themselves to shame, these women were divine in their beauty, no other man could match them, but even those beneath them were stunning beyond compare for not just physical looks but charm and intellect too like the lady Galadriel, a queen above queens,” Annatar explained.

“Gods even the names sound pretty, describe at least one how you’d describe a woman, breasts, face, hair for god’s sake,” Robert wheezed, pouring more wine down his throat.

“Galadriel’s hair alone was the desire of many, three times she was asked by a great lord and each time she refused, not even giving him a single strand, because she knew, deep down inside what his true worth was, his future deeds to only lead to disaster. She is perhaps like Lyanna in that sense,” Annatar smirked.

Lancel spilt what he was pouring into Robert’s cup, the colour drained from the skin of the whores. Robert’s grip tightened on his cup, his face going red, the very act of anger made him take deep breaths as if he was sprinting over the plains of Rohan.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“Why Lyanna Stark my lord, the woman you were promised to, the woman you claimed to love. She fell for a prince, a man of art, of compassion and charity, everything you are not,” Annatar stood up, stepping away from the chair he was on and catching the jug Lancel dropped.

He poured himself another cup and drank slower than Robert, smelling it, actually tasting it. Annatar even swirled the wine in his mouth before walking around the lord of Storm’s End, only them, the weak squire, the frightened whores and a single sword in the room.

“Did some part of you suspect that Lyanna had fallen in love, or did you actually delude yourself into believing that she ever felt anything other than hatred for you?” Annatar asked.

“I, she, Lyanna was mine,” Robert seethed, his cup fell from his hand, clattering to the floor.

“My lord,” Lancel looked between Robert and the door.

Annatar though shook his finger at the squire, his tutting enough to make the boy go silent. He pulled the pouch off of Lancel’s belt, jiggling the coins at the girls. They nodded, hastily taking the coin and their clothes and leaving Robert as tears began to fall.

“She humiliated you didn’t she, when she came onto the Trident with her fat belly, swollen with his child, and she told you the truth, more than you ever gave yourself. The truth that even before all this, you were a fat slug of a man, drinking, fucking, fighting, all the things that women hate about men, what would you have done with her, what would you have done with a crown?”

Lancel looked at his lord in shock as Robert blubbered. He had been drunk many knights, but never this drunk, usually things ended when Robert and his guest, another lord or whore was drunk enough. But Annatar pushed, challenged Robert in a way with just how stoic he was after a number of cups.

“All I ever wanted was her,” Robert sniffled.

“Only in your dreams,” Annatar sipped from his cup one last time, lazily throwing Robert’s blanket over him.

He pushed the man’s head to the side with his foot, as fitting an end as it would be, he did not want the lord of Storm’s end to choke on his vomit.

“I trust I don’t have to do anything to make you forget do I?” Annatar asked.

“Of course not, of course not,” Lancel trembled and Annatar slapped his cheek.

“Good, good night Lancel, finish the rest of the wine if you’d like,” Annatar smirked, grabbing his robe and walking out of the lord’s quarters, taking the sword with him.

‘A lord unworthy of being a king,’ he noted in disappointment.

King’s Landing

Jon was sure he hadn’t dressed appropriately. Either he would be too dull for a formal event, or he would look like he was going to battle. The only article of clothing that his cousin had to offer belonged to Lord Stark. It was a blue outfit worn underneath a brown leather coat of arms, there was a joke about armour to dinner that Jon couldn’t remember.

‘You at least tied back your hair,’ he thought with semi-pride.

He didn’t have the time or the desire to have his hair cut.

‘He never met a girl he loved more than his hair,’ there was a memory there, someone said that to him once but he couldn’t remember.

It made him sad, not enough to cry, but he had to fight the melancholic expression when he heard Ser Barristan approach. Jaime nudged him, shooting his squire with a wink and stifling a chuckle when the boy blushed. To say Rhaenyra looked pretty was an understatement, besides, he added that she was definitely noble burn and was accustomed to the finest dresses.

‘Beautiful,’ he had to add, pretty was for younger girls or family and he tried to tell himself that she wasn’t Targaryen, just a madwoman he had found in the godswood.

“My king, your guests are ready,” Jaime knocked on the door.

“Send them in and remain outside,” Rhaegar commanded.

He spoke with kingly authority, but when Jon and Rhaenyra nervously stepped inside there was the warmth of a host. Rhaegar seemed to have prepared the small table himself with a cooked pheasant, vegetables and cheeses and fruits.

‘No wine,’ Jon noted.

But his harp was nearby, Jon hoped this night would not go as he suspected. He looked over at Rhaenyra who was looking at the harp curiously.

“Son, please assist Princess Rhaenyra,” Rhaegar said.

Jon pulled out the chair, briefly frowning when she smirked at him.

“Go on Aemon, sit,” Rhaegar smiled.

He cut the pheasant himself as Jon sat, feeling even more awkward as his father slices of the meat to him and the girl sitting next to him. Rhaegar poured a cup of water and gave it to Rhaenyra, who looked at it for a moment.

“No wine, nor poison, both would be a problem tonight, this is the kind of conversation I want a person sober and conscious for,” the king said.

“This truly is King’s landing,” Rhaenyra said.

“But not your kings landing, we haven’t found another yet, two Summerhalls my spymaster says, though on opposite ends of one another,” Rhaegar said, taking a bite from his pheasant.

“This is the future?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Or the present, or the past, or the future, or the never was, or the could have been, or perhaps all of them. But no more riddles, we are Targaryens, do you at least sense that much?” Rhaegar asked, crossing his fingers and looking at the girl expectantly.

“I don’t know why but I think I do, you said something only a Targaryen should know,” Rhaenyra said.

“Aegon the Conqueror looked across our nation and saw within a dream a great end, an age of ice that would blanket the world, when the dead would rise, the time when the Others would return. I too had a dream, of a father standing with his daughter in front of the Skull of Balerion, in order to get her to take her duty seriously,” Rhaegar looked at Rhaenyra with harsh eyes, only once looking at his son as he began to contemplate what he said, and its implications.

“The song of ice and fire,” Rhaenyra whispered.

“Yes, I dreamt of so much more than just the others, from the frozen North, to a land of fire and ash, to a great sickness spreading across the fields, killing all that is green and good in the world. I knew as Aegon did, as your father did, that the Targaryens needed to be united and it saddens me to say it but it was his reign that broke our unity,” Rhaegar explained.

“Your grace, father, might I ask you something?” Jon asked.

“Rhaenys and Aegon are both within camps that wish for their own kings and queens, but we need unity and I…”

Jon slammed his fists into the table, shaking the food as he stood up.

“YOU SPEAK OF VISERYS’S WEAKNESS BUT WHAT OF YOURS!” he yelled. “Aegon is your heir by law, Rhaenyrs your oldest legitimate child, then there is your Viserys, Aunt Daenerys, all legitimate, both pure blooded Targaryens, this woman just appeared here one day and I am the son of a dead woman,” Jon explained.

“Aemon,” Rhaegar began softly.

“Is this why you chose my mother, for a song of ice and fire?” Jon asked.

Rhaenyra looked between father and son, seeing the hatred on the boy’s face and the regret that seemed all too much like her father’s on Rhaegar’s. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped as Rhaegar reached for his son. Jon however slapped the gesture aside.

“To seven hells with you, and your visions!” he seethed.

Jon’s chair toppled to the ground as he walked out of Rhaegar’s quarters. The king of the ‘could have been’ dynasty looked at the table, wringing his hands in frustration and sighing in disappointment. Then he looked at Rhaenyra and offered her his hand.

“Come with me child, let me tell you of your history and the great tragedy of your reign,” he said.

Dorne

The night was cold, Jake had to borrow Boromir’s cloak. But the writer never stopped talking, which was both welcome and dreaded by the Gondorian. He didn’t have to think of his past with Jake, who was a good story teller at least.

“So, this flute player…” Boromir began.

“Piper, pied piper,” Jake corrected.

“Yes, Pied Piper, he drives away the rats and the town’s folk do not give him the payment promised so he rightly gets angry, this I understand. But then he proceeds to hyponotise with his music their children…he abducted them,” Boromir said in disgust.

“Well yes that’s how the story goes.”

“He took his anger out on the children, this isn’t the action of a righteous or wronged man, he committed a greater atrocity,” Boromir said and Jake shook his head and sighed.

“The point my self-righteous friend isn’t whether the Piper is right or not, the point is that the towns folk made an agreement with him, they gave their word and took it back, refusing to pay their debt. Stories don’t always have to have a hero and villain, but the best kinds do have a meaning, a lesson to be learnt, even if it is just a cautionary tale,” he explained.

“I suppose, a person’s word is supposed to be their bond,” Boromir lowered his head slightly.

“Personally I think it’s better to get things in writing, legal contracts are much more reliable than word of mouth or handshakes especially if one party tries to screw the other over,” Jake said.

“And is that what happened to you, you got ‘screwed over’?” Boromir asked.

The writer was about to speak when there was a sound, like a snarl in the distance. Boromir saw more lights, blue sparks, and orange flames. He broke off into a run with Jake behind him, his cloak falling off.

“And me without my notebook,” Jake remarked.

The closer Boromir got the more he could make out, a crowd of Orcs. Their armour covered in sand, armed with knives and short blades, ambushers with mutilated wolf hounds they had tortured into obedience. An orc was suddenly struck by a crossbow bolt, fired by one of the people they had surrounded. He was a dwarf, dressed in a thick brown coat that was unbuttoned, revealing a shirt that was only half buttoned up to. The dwarf had only light stubble, he had tied his blonde hair into a knot, he wore a pair of simple ear rings and a chain around his neck. His half exposed chest had hair across it, but it was the crossbow that caught Boromir’s eyes and gave the Orcs pause. An intricate mechanism with levers on the side was built across the weapon, feeding bolts into the barrel as the dwarf fired one after another. One Orc simply took the bolt to his chest, snarling before an icicle burst through his mouth. The air had gotten colder, but quickly melted to become more humid. Vines and roots trapped a few of the orcs. Light shined off of an orb imbedded within a staff.

This wizard was an elf woman, half stumbling from the strain of casting spells. Parts of her dark hair had short braids, she wore a yellow scarf and green vest with pads of fur across her shoulders and waist. The girl had a pattern tattooed onto her face, an elegant symbol of branches and leaves. She was able to skewer an Orc with the blade on her staff, kicking it off. Another Orc approached, only to be cut down by a great sword.

The top half of the Orc fell off and revealed the determined expression of the one who had felled most of the orcs around them. The chunks of their bodies and cuts across them matched the long sword he swung like the log of a tree. He was young, though not so young that serving in the military was out of the question. The black haired man certainly had the skill for it, cleaving through enemies, maintaining the formation with his friends. He wore a yellow vest and leather wrist bands, minimal armour though his boots were heavy with some fur trim on them and his vest.

“Bloody monsters, when do they stop?” he demanded.

“They look very different from Darkspawn,” the elf girl said, her accent very different from any elf Boromir had heard talk.

“We have company,” the dwarf said, again his accent very different from Gimli’s.

“The good kind I hope,” the elf said.

Boromir yelled as he dragged his sword across the sand, throwing some of it into three Orcs. As they snarled and flailed about, Boromir brought his sword through the neck of one that turned to face him. He parried the blow of another, whilst the dwarf shot the three he had blinded. One through the neck, the other in the armpit, and the third through the eye. The half blind Orc attempted to slash Boromir from behind. But he reversed the grip of his sword, driving it through the Orc’s chest. He blocked a flurry of attacks two other Orcs launched, countering and killing one with a riposte and then beheading another. The Orc was able to tackle Boromir, knocking his sword to the ground.

“OI UGLY!” Jake yelled.

The naked man ran in, kicking the Orc had in the face and knocking him off Boromir. As the Orc rose, Boromir reached for his knife and drove it through the Orc’s neck. He panted, falling back, tired, the night and the desert taking its toll. Suddenly the blade of an Orc stopped inches from his face. The warrior with the huge sword knocked the three remaining Orcs back. One was suddenly lit on fire by a blast, rolling about in the sand as the second was pelted with bolts, the third attempting to duel with the warrior. But the warrior hacked off the Orc’s arm, then cut its legs off at the knees, following through with his swing and crashing his sword into the Orc’s head as it fell. The Orc hit with the bolts pulled one out of its hand before a blast from the elf slammed it into the sand. It’s arms and legs bent back in an unnatural way as it sank into the sand. Boromir then stabbed the burnt Orc through the armpit, ending its agony.

The warriors stumbled until they fell into sitting positions on the sand, nodding to one another and began to catch their breath. Jake too let out a relieved sigh, the elf girl staring at him and giggling as he winked at her.

“Why are you naked?” she asked.

“He’s trudging,” Boromir said.

“What?”

“To trudge, as in trudge through life despite its difficulties,” Varric said and Jake pointed at him.

“You see, this one gets it!”

“Oh so is trudging what we’re doing? Do you have to be naked to trudge?” the elf asked.

Boromir looked from the elf girl to the young man questioningly. He swung his hand out in a ‘don’t ask’ gesture.

“You are formidable to survive an Orc attack, are you three alone?” Boromir asked.

“My sister, fuck, my sister was supposed to be here, we were walking along the Wounded Coast when the land just shook and…” the young man wiped the sweat off of his forehead and stood up, putting his sword on his back. “Those things aren’t Darkspawn!”

“They are Orcs, you have never seem them before?” Boromir asked.

“I’d like it to be known I’ve never seen them before either,” Jake said.

“They kind of look like Darkspawn I suppose, although sometimes the Darkspawn can look different, I remember when they had almost yellow skin,” the elf said.

“I would have called it a light brown,” the dwarf said, stroking his crossbow before using the strap on it to heft it onto his shoulder.

“And that magic, does the name Gandalf the Grey mean anything to you?” Boromir asked the elf girl.

“Oh, why is he grey? Is he sad?” the girl asked and again the young man shook his head when Boromir looked at him.

“What about Rivendell, Elrond, Mirkwood?”

“Never heard of wood being murky, is it some kind of crafting item?”

“Perhaps we should talk once we’re closer to civilisation,” the dwarf pointed to the city in the distance.

“Of course, water, food, clothes, the three important things,” Jake said.

“And names, better than us being referred to as the dwarf, elf and man, my name is Varric Tethras, merchant and storyteller, this,” he pulled out his crossbow. “Is Bianca, I saw you eying her, she doesn’t like others touching her and neither do I,” he added, frowning slightly as a warning.

“I’m Merrill, nice to meet you,” the elf girl bowed.

“Carver, Carver Hawke,” the young man gruffly crossed his arms.

“Jake Grimm, I’m something of a story teller myself,” Jake cockily crossed his own arms.

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor, and I would help you find your sister, but our supplies are drained, we need shelter,” Boromir pointed at the city and Carver nodded.

“Pretty sure Hawke will be fine; she was carrying all the supplies anyway,” Varric shrugged.

“Our party grows,” Jake sighed happily.

Boromir began walking, looking back at the people following him. He supposed they were almost a fellowship, and clearly strangers in this land too.

‘Of course you were right to send me here Aragorn,’ he remembered the Orcs.

And wondered where else the enemy hid?

Next Chapter 5: Darkness and Light

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadows

Chapter 5: Darkness and Light

He found equal comfort in darkness and light. The flame of his candle was akin to the flames of his forge, peaceful, calm, with purpose. As he wrote out a letter for his messengers to deliver, Annatar thought of the king passed out in his quarters. Or rather, the could have a king, Robert Baratheon, slayer of Rhaegar, victor of a rebellion against the mad king. But only truly king due to the careful alliances forged by Jon Arryn, the opportunistic murders of Rhaegar’s heirs by the ambitious Tywin Lannister and the murder of the mad king himself by Tywin’s son. Annatar did not have an eye in every court of the new world. He lacked the perspective of the dragon king where the conqueror landed, in the great mounds and forests and the mountains. But there were those whom called themselves kings, and who desired to be kings and that desire was what Annatar sought.

Robert Baratheon desired a woman, now he desired drink; he desired a fight he couldn’t win. That was why he was now a bloated far cry from the warrior he used to be. If ever he fought, he would lose and that was his intention. So as the lord of the storm slept, his guests continued to enjoy the festivities. Gendry continued to enjoy the festivities of what the common folk could answer.

“Oh Brave sir Robin, he bravely ran away!”

The boy laughed, patting his knee as performers stumbled and amused the crowd around them. Children yelped as actors had their ‘limbs’ cut off in duels.

“Tis but a scratch.”

“Not it’s not…”

“How do they do it?”

Gendry almost screamed himself, looking over his shoulder at the Lady Sansa. She stood holding her cup, cheeks red from the alcohol, but still very much aware of her surroundings. The girl giggled as the armless knight continued to try and beat the noble king.

“It’s the design of the costumes you see, they put bags of pig’s blood into the joints, you notice how the black knight is always holding his sword with two hands, it’s because they’re straw. He might be a dwarf standing on top of another dwarf under there,” Gendry explained.

“Your master has retired?” Sansa asked.

“He’s not one for heavy drinking, although he can be a mystery,” Gendry said.

“You have spent a lot of time with him?”

“I have but even that there are times he seems like a stranger, but he’s still treated me better than my own father has,” Gendry lowered his head slightly, looking at the simple cup of water he was drinking.

Sansa suddenly knelt beside Gendry, not caring whether her dress would get dirt. She looked to the fire again as a musician began to play a song.

“Your father is a brute and a pig, but also a deeply sad man, you don’t have to be sad,” she said.

“I have as much as a person like me can have my lady, work, coin and enough food and shelter to last the next day,” he stated.

“You don’t yearn for more?” Sansa asked.

“I yearn for…it is a foolish thing my lady,” Gendry shook his head.

“No go on, please tell me,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.

Gendry slowly shifted back, carefully so that he would not offend, pretending to laugh at the antics of the comedy group. But she could see the distraction in his eyes, the deep thought, the yearning for something that he shouldn’t have. Still he thought about what he wanted, about the dreams, the lone wolf skipping through the water.

“What I want,” he began, looking at Sansa for a moment.

There was something in her face that seemed quite familiar to him. Like a relative of someone he knew, she was indeed beautiful without question. Some might say more beautiful than the lone wolf.

“I want what most people want I suppose,” he sighed in defeat and Sansa huffed slightly.

“What do most people want?” she smiled along with her challenging enquiry.

“I remember something that Annatar said, ‘most people want different things leading to the same goal, home and hearth, the lord will want a bigger and richer home, the peasant will want a warmer and sturdier home and the vagabond will want a home free of the chain of rule, or a home that has ironclad rule,’” Gendry explained.

“And what does that mean?” Sansa asked, sipping her wine, tilting her head to listen to the sad and sombre tones being played around them.

“Ironclad rule, rule of law, Annatar believes in order I suppose,” Gendry said.

“We all do, especially the lords who get to implement those laws,” Sansa smiled.

“Whilst we peasantry just want laws that apply to the kings too,” he smiled back.

“What of my lady, or is it too bold for me to ask?”

“I knew what I wanted,” Sansa looked away, sipping her drink as she listened to the singer. “A good, handsome and kind man who would treat me well, perhaps if I was a peasant, at least there is no right of the first night anymore,” she explained.

“It depends on where you go,” Gendry said.

“How sad, that is sad of course but this song, I have heard it but I don’t really understand the words,” Sansa said.

She had flipped the subject, quite deliberately, this Gendry knew.

“It is elven, or so Annatar told me,” he said.

“It is a beautiful language, what does it mean?” Sansa asked.

“It is the story of Beren and Luthien, Beren a mortal and Luthien an elf maiden. A love story, she must give up immortality for him, and she is willing to,” he explained.

“Because she loves him more than anything,” Sansa rolled her eyes slightly.

“Yes, but then tragedy strikes and she dies, leaving him alone,” Gendry said.

“Perhaps she had saved herself, saved herself from being bound to a man she had rushed to love,” Sansa said.

“That is a cynical way of looking at it,” Gendry countered.

“Realistic, there’s no such thing as true love at first sight,” she said.

“I never said it was love at first sight, it was the obstacle of their race, of their life span that forged the love between them,” he said.

“Forged, you can sound so poetic,” Sansa whispered, tilting her head slightly towards Gendry’s.

“I am a simple smith my lady, I use the words I know,” he brought his head away to look at the show again.

“May I continue to sit here and listen to another song?” Sansa asked.

“I am but a smith and you are my lady,” Gendry said.

He looked down, remembering the wolf as the red haired girl nestled closer to him.

King’s landing

Jon stood in the Sept of Baelor, looking at the monuments to the dead Targaryen kings. Rhaenyra Targaryen was not given a monument as a queen, even though it would be her sire whom ended up sitting the iron throne. If time really had been broken, Jon wanted to meet Aegon the Unlucky, and ask him why he didn’t posthumously declare his mother the queen and nullify his uncle’s claim. Perhaps it had been to keep the peace, perhaps he saw something in his mother that he didn’t recognise as a queen. For a moment Jon thought about other Targaryens, his namesake the Dragon knight, was he truly as just as others wrote him to be, Aegon the fifth, Egg as another of Jon’s namesakes called him.

‘What was it like to travel with Duncan the tall?’ he wanted to ask.

Then he remembered the dreams and the great eye of fire. A fire that melted the ice, was it a Targaryen fire, what was the point of the ice then. For all Rhaegar’s dreams and talk of prophecy, was he truly just as lustful as any other lord of Westeros, as any other man?

‘You killed her, you killed her to have me,’ he wanted to say.

‘I would have been better off not knowing,’ he thought for a moment.

“If that were any other king, and you were any other bastard, you’d have had your tongue cut out,” Jon recognised the footsteps of Tyrion Lannister.

His friend walked to his side, offering a skin of wine.

“We’re in the Sept,” Jon reminded him.

“Are we, then we must ask the Septon for his wine, I’ve heard it is better,” Tyrion said and Jon shook his head.

“The other day I went to old Baelish’s place, several years since we caught him skimming from the treasury and the realm is still glad to be rid of him. His pleasure house though did fall under new management, my management, and then I had a man offer me quite a significant amount of gold to purchase the house. I have not the time for running a business, so I gave him the deed expecting to buy it back at a cheaper price, but to my surprise it has become quite…exotic, not a bad exotic,” Tyrion explained.

“Is there some point to this speech Tyrion?” Jon asked.

“Well I was building up to an important lesson on change but you’ve gone and ruined it, now come on, let’s leave this depressing place, I’ll find a girl to fuck, I know you don’t want to risk having a bastard,” Tyrion added lightly. “We’ll drink, laugh and tell one another how much we hate our fathers!”

“I am sorry I am melancholic, you’re good to me, you deserve better,” Jon said and Tyrion shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

“Don’t make it awkward, the Septa might accuse us of buggery,” he slowly nodded his head, “but I do appreciate the acknowledgement,” he said.

Both turned and made their way out of the Sept, the waft of the city streets striking them as soon as the gates opened. King’s landing had become fuller, but it still did nothing to stop the smell. Many called the capital the worst smelling city in the country. With the fate of Old Town unknown, king’s landing had also become the most populated city. Rhaegar opened the ports to ships coming in from land’s unknown, yet still he had yet to speak with any emissaries. Jon wondered why, but it was Tyrion who had figured out the truth of it.

“Dwarves, yet sadly taller than I am,” he sighed, gesturing to the short but stocky men and women (some of them with beards) standing around the streets, exchanging dagger glares with the gold cloaks.

The city guard just barely kept the peace, but there were other deterrents to violence with the presence of ‘templars’. The soldiers, some men, even some women in armour that had the mark of a flaming sword on the chest guarded wagons with bread and mushrooms for the poor. Tyrion’s sister scoffed at charity, he though did not, a fed population was a happy population. Children played on the streets with a ball made of string, kicking to one another. These children were humans and pointy eared elves, much dirtier than even the poor boys and girls yet just as happy to have friends and food. An entertained population was a happy population, someone was playing songs on the street and it wasn’t Rhaegar. The songs were being played by a man using a stringed instrument, finer than a lute and the chords he struck were done so with a stick that had horse hair on it. Though the instrument was well polished and fine, the man had a heavy and dark beard, was lanky and wore a dusty straw hat on top of his head.

“No warning sign, no alibi, we faded faster than the speed of light, took our chance, crashed and burned…”

Neither Tyrion nor Jon were alone in understanding the lyrics, but the melody and the words together were captivating to those watching. For a moment Jon met the man’s eyes, though his legs shook he seemed content in what he was doing, and in what he was doing for people. His smiles weren’t just at being able to perform, but the reactions of those he performed for. When people laughed he smiled and when people shed tears, he did too.

“He let these people in because they needed help and he’ll keep them here until an emissary steps forth and gives him a reason to let them go, even refugees have a purpose, but this, all this happiness will break down,” Tyrion explained. “As the food gets low, the optimism wears off and hope fades, those new friends kicking that ball will be tearing one another apart…”

“Excuse me,” the musician suddenly stopped playing. “Forgive me my lord but I think you underestimate the ability of the common folk to persevere, hope does not so easily fade, not when you have the right person to give you hope, my apologies folk,” the musician took a deep breath and then began to play again, picking up where he had left off.

“Good hearing,” Tyrion muttered.

“I can’t do what my father wishes of me, and I can’t stay here and do nothing,” Jon said.

“What would you do, go out there, alone, gather an army, a royal bastard you are yes but still a bastard. You’ll most likely be used, not followed, there are plenty of lords waiting for the next Blackfyre to take advantage of,” Tyrion explained.

“Then I’ll just be another bastard, a Jon Snow maybe!”

“It certainly rolls off the tongue nicely,” Tyrion said.

“You’re mocking me.”

“Of course I am, why would you seek adventure elsewhere when you have everything you need here, if the girl is your great or so many grandmother, you wouldn’t be the first to marry a member of your own family, and I can think of worse looking grandmother’s to marry,” Tyrion explained.

“Don’t put the image in my head, besides, she wouldn’t desire marriage,” Jon said.

“So you do desire her?” Tyrion asked with a sly grin.

“Don’t you have a brothel to get drunk at?”

“Making my best friend squirm is probably the only thing I could call more entertaining, but I didn’t come here all the way for that, you are needed in your duty as my brother’s squire,” Tyrion stated and Jon shook his head.

“You could have just told me that from the beginning,” he said as he broke off into a run.

“The only adventure you’ll be getting my friend will be in the training yard,” Tyrion called out to him, chuckling as he took a swig from his wine skin.

He tilted the drink, a shadow suddenly passing over him. Tyrion looked up at a giant of a man, easily as tall as his father’s favoured banner man Gregor ‘The Mountain’ Clegane. He was just as muscular too, his tanned chest exposed whilst he also wore black shoulder armour and red tape over his arms. Hanging off of his red belt was a leather hide skirt, thick and flexible worn over black trousers and boots. The man had a sword on his back, the handle long enough to hold with both hands and the blade had a bladeless gap a few inches from the guard, as well as markings across the surface. Tyrion would have thought him to be from Essos, but he had read of no such garbs in that part of the world, the man’s hair was white and uniquely styled into rows across his scalp with a tail over his neck.

“Pardon me my friend you are blocking the sun,” Tyrion said.

The giant of a man looked down at Tyrion and growled ‘Dathrasi’ before stomping away.

The Qunari walked through the streets of king’s landing, his very size keeping people from attempting to rob from him. Even the gold cloaks were hesitant, though they still watched him gather with three more Qunari, one shirtless and holding a spear on his back and the other with red armour and a helmet with a visor obscuring his face, the third had a bow and arrow alongside his short sword.

“The Arishok will soon arrive, he like us was hit by pirates, or so the letters say,” the scout/Ashaad said, the spearman also wore a glove used for handling falcons and had a small scroll and pouch for a quill and ink.

“Where is Tamassran?” the white haired commander asked.

“She has found several Viddathari,” the man with the helmet, the soldier/Karasaad said.

“She must make contact with their king first, if we are to use this city to regroup our forces we must do so without antagonising them by taking on converts.”

“Do you forget yourself Sten?” Karashok, the archer asked.

“Perhaps he has spent too much time amongst the Bas,” said Karasaad, speaking the common tongue as an insult to his commander.

“I was of the Baresaad before you, I understand my duties, and it was not simply Bas I stood alongside. One was Kadan to me and more, an Ashkaari,” Sten said.

“Amongst the Bas, amongst Saarebas? Impossible,” Ashaad said.

“He failed, the Warden failed.”

“Kadan still lives, he lives to see the Blight fall, and if we are to see the greater monsters fall then we will need him to stand alongside us,” Sten of the Baaresad, Vanguard of the Qunari people stood firm against his doubters, thinking of the friend he had left behind when the Archdemon levelled Denerim.

Across the bay, past two great fortresses known as Dragonstone, the ship that had carried refugees now carried a crew of rescuers. Daylen stood on the deck, looking at the volunteers, mages and templars that had bolstered Isabela’s crew. Amongst them was the bookish Finn, the red haired boy was leaning over the railing, his once immaculate robes stained with the contents of what he had last eaten. Green faced, he stepped away from the railing and bumped into the mage playing a lute. His white regalia was out of place amongst the browns, reds and armour on the ship, especially the man’s puffy shoulder pads and opera styled mask, a mask that covered his face. Zither though was known for his music, he had performed across Orlais.

Between a failed musician and a book worm who had never left the tower, Daylen trusted them and the old guardsmen and farmers more than one person on the boat. Keili prayed every so often, in fact Daylen had kept a tally of it. Cullen, himself a devoted Andrastian had even begun to mock Keili’s obsessive praying, as if she was checking back with the Maker on an old request she had made. Daylen though knew her magic, despite how much she hated it, would be useful in conjunction with his, Finn, Zither and Kinnon and Petra’s. Isabela stepped up to the front of the ship, folding out her spyglass and looking through it.

“There’s a thick fog up ahead,” she said.

“That’s where Daemon told us to go, he said his dragon wouldn’t go through it,” Daylen said.

“I think I would trust the instinct of a dragon,” Isabela said.

“But still,” Cullen began, walking up to them. “Children are there, perhaps not just his but people of Thedas as well, if this Peter Pan has raided ships besides ours,” he stated.

“Better to be rid of your hunter than to continue letting him chase you right?” Daylen asked and Isabela shrugged.

“Depends on the chaser really, I do know some self righteous men that fancy themselves as heroes, I certainly wouldn’t mind them chasing me for my crimes and ‘punishing’ me,” Isabela smirked as Cullen scratched his blushing cheek and Daylen shook his head.

“OI WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”

The trio looked towards the end of the ship, seeing a familiar blonde haired boy running away from Casavir.

“Bevin, what are you doing?” Daylen asked.

“I’m here to help,” he said.

“Help, we’re going to fight Bevin, this isn’t a game,” Daylen snarled, grabbing the boy by the arm.

“I want to help please,” Bevin said, tears forming in his eyes.

“This is not the place to toughen yourself up,” Cullen snapped at him.

“Easy both of you, men,” Isabela muttered, shoving Daylen away from Bevin. “You’re a sweet boy Bevin, but I don’t pick favourite amongst my crew, I expect you to work hard, Casavir, see him to some work in the cabins and then up on deck when that’s done,” Isabela commanded.

Casavir took Bevin by the sleeve of his shirt, grumbling about his new orders. Isabela turned to Daylen with a disapproving gaze.

“That boy looks up to you, you’re right to scold him for recklessness but don’t be so hard on him that he’ll only try harder to please you,” she said, slapping the side of Daylen’s head.

“I’d rather he hate me,” Daylen retorted.

Isabela threw her arms up in frustration, yelling out more orders for her crew. The men began to light lanterns along the ship, getting closer and closer to the fog. Daylen helped where he could, followed by Cullen.

“Why does the boy look up to you?” he asked.

“Because of Redcliffe, when we saved the village from the dead that the Arl’s son brought back,” Daylen said.

“The possessed boy Conner,” Cullen said.

“He was only partly possessed, a game of the desire demon taking advantage of his grief for his ill father. After Ostagar the Grey Wardens had been named complicit in the death of King Cailan, even though we were reduced to two, Loghain still rallied the country against us. My fellow Warden Alistair, was fostered by Arl Eamon of Redcliffe and he assured he would be an ideal ally in the political arena against Loghain. When we arrived at Redcliffe however we found the castle had been cut off from the village, which itself was under attack by an army of the undead.

“Eamon’s brother Teagan was protecting the village alongside a militia with little equipment and broken morale. I did what I could, encouraging Chantry sisters to bless amulets as a type of morale booster, convincing mercenaries to fight rather than hide and even promising the blacksmith that I would find his daughter if he provided the militia with arms. Bevin’s sister Kaitlyn was distraught trying to find her lost brother. I found him at their house, hiding in a wardrobe. He told me he wanted to get his grandfather’s sword and fight, but he got too scared, that he found the Chantry itself and everyone there just another reminder of how powerless he was.

“I told him about the first time I walked into the Chantry, looking at people praying, how content they seemed. I hated it, hated how the canticles that preached one thing and another, were people supposed to be good because these canticles told them it was? Or should there have been something within us that told us what goodness was, what righteousness was, did we have to be kind because some absent god told us too, had he even told us to be kind in the first place?” Daylen explained and Cullen listened intently, the mage half expected him to call him out as a blasphemer.

“I prayed to the maker when I was being tortured, it wasn’t the maker who saved me,” the templar said.

“In the end I told him how scared I was, how scared I still am, he wants to overcome his fear because he thinks I did. But he shouldn’t look up to someone who failed,” Daylen said.

“Finally you say something that is right,” Cullen looked over his shoulder, glaring at Keili.

“Do you not have anything to do, off with you, help Isabela,” he said.

“She’s right to judge me and hate me,” Daylen said.

“Perhaps so, but it must be acknowledged that you are doing something to try and fix your failures, if Keili truly was as devoted as she claims, then she would know that the chant also speaks of redemption and forgiveness,” Cullen explained.

He patted Daylen on the shoulder and gave him a gentle pull into the work with the other crewmates. The Siren’s call sailed into the mist, its crew bracing themselves, keeping their senses active. They couldn’t see too far ahead, prompting Isabela to release one of her birds. The crew waited, slowly arming themselves, taking shields from the hold, bows and quivers of arrows and swords and axes at the ready. Isabela herself put on a leather vest and skirt to cover the thighs she usually exposed. Daylen leant against one of the railings, wrapping bandages around the gloves he had put on, watching as Zither emerged from the cabins, putting on a skull face mask, his white regalia replaced by brown and green leathers. The Warden’s red eyes narrowed, looking into the mist and trying to see a silhouette in the distance. Then he heard something slam into the deck. It was the bird Isabela released, only to be skewered by an arrow.

“ARROWS! TAKE COVER!” he yelled.

An arrow hit the rail, followed by two more near Daylen’s feet. Cullen picked up a barrel nearby, using it as a shield to protect Isabela before he moved her away from the tiller. More arrows rained down and several crew men were hit, one in the leg, drawing a cry from the man as his friends covered his mouth and pulled him away from another volley. Daylen looked up, raising his hand and trying to concentrate on the magic. He managed a small spark before an arrow pierced his left hand. Snapping the head and tail of the arrow, he pushed his fingers into either side of the wound. The gloves weren’t just for show; they were Cinderfel gauntlets, like pocketed searing gauntlets they had lyrium woven into the fabric and could generate heat with the right magic spark. Taking cover behind the mast, Daylen reached for a crew member who was unfortunately hit through the neck.

“HOIST THE MAIN SAIL!” Isabela yelled. “MOVE WITH THE WIND LADS! HARPOONS AND FLASKS AT THE READY!” she moved down the ship, commanding and rallying her crew.

“TAKE UP ARMS, SHIELDS TO BOTH SIDES, ARCHERS AT THE READY!” Cullen took charge of not just templars, but mercenaries and fighters too.

The average man sometimes had to take up the bow in order to get food. Some men and women on the deck had fought, for lord’s during the civil war, there were even some militiamen from Redcliffee whom had fought the dead themselves. Then there were the survivors of Denerim, even those soldiers sick from the long voyage took up a shield to protect the flanks of the ship. Daylen looked at Kinnon and Petra as they came up to see what was happening, and knew they couldn’t hide or watch either.

“PETRA GET KEILI, ZITHER AND FINN!” he yelled.

They moved up to the upper section of the ship, joining one another in the centre so as to not get in the way. Finn nervously came up with his staff Vera, whilst Keili came with her lightning rod staff, Kinnon came with his orange pyromancer’s blessing and Petra ran with her heartwood staff, throwing a similar generic staff to Daylen.

“What are we up here for, it seems very dangerous,” Zither said, clutching tightly his lute and his brilliant staff (the head of which Daylen noted would make a good mace).

“Alone our magic isn’t worth much, but we can turn the tide by casting spells together,” Daylen stated.

“You suggest using our magic without consent from the Templars, you whom failed before, whom had consorted with demons?” Keili asked.

“Keili, shut up before I smack you, what are you suggesting Daylen?” Petra asked.

“Focus and cast together,” he said.

They knocked their staves together and then held them high. Mana flowed through them in a circle, it was like a dance, as the ship rocked and arrows flew around them, the mages reached into the fire within them. That was the fire of their devotion, their frustrations or rage, or just the sheer focus that they needed to get through a life where their choices were limited and they lived as much as prisoners as they did comfortably.

“Throw it behind us,” Daylen commanded.

He pointed his finger to the northeast, opposite the wind direction. The ring they formed became a ball that they threw off of the edge of the ship. It exploded in midair, giving the briefest of glimpses through the mist.

“ISABELA!” Daylen yelled.

She swung her head, looking towards Daylen.

“FOUR SHIPS, TWO TO THE NORTHEAST, ONE TO OUR EAST AND ANOTHER TO THE NORTHWEST!” he yelled.

She saw the way they created yet another fireball and realised what was happening. The shockwave of the explosions as well as giving them a brief glimpse of the enemies pursuing them, created waves in the water and force to push into the sails, enhancing their speed.

“KEEP ON DOING WHAT YOU’RE DOING!” Isabela yelled.

She ran to the tiller, turning the ship, adjusting her angle so that she could get the maximum gain from the mages shockwaves. The Siren’s call practically flew against the wind, using its own wind now to outrun the vessels. They were smaller than the Siren, the same ships they had glimpsed before in the distance days ago.

“STEADY!” she yelled.

“ARCHERS KNOCK! MAGES READY SPELLS!” Cullen yelled.

Bows were drawn back and sparks emanated from the hands of mages they had brought with them. Isabela looked to the starboard side, watching, looking for the tell tale signs of their pursuers until…

“STARBOARD NOW!” she yelled.

“LOOSE!” Cullen roared.

The flurry of arrows the crew unleashed struck the rough dressed and bearded men on their ships. Blasts from the mages lit the ship on fire, giving the Siren’s crew a better target. Isabela brought the ship back around, and the crew released another volley of arrows. Daylen motioned for his fellow mages to follow him, bringing his hands together and releasing ice cold steam from them. He extended his hands, shooting jets into the water that began to freeze. The Siren sailed around the pirate ship, trapping it in the ice that Daylen conjured.

“Now, cast Glyphs of Paralysis over the ice,” he commanded.

Petra was first to cast, followed quickly by Kinnon and Finn. Zither removed his lute from his back and pulled the strings, creating a tune with his cast. Keili was the last to cast her glyph, enveloping the pirate vessel and its crew in a light that made their bodies freeze. They were stuck, already wounded with arrows, unable to react as their ship crashed into one of their own allies.

“TWO MORE!” Casavir yelled.

‘Two more, Daylen repeated, waiting for his mana to recharge, the Siren weaved around waves that were just as deadly as the arrows the pirate ships fired. Cullen blocked several arrows with his shield as the ship came closer. Isabela fired a crossbow and yelled for her crew members to release their flasks. Make shift bombs of clay, oil and a spark to light them, once they impacted with the enemy ship fires spread across it before several of Isabela’s crew fell and one of the sails was lit on fire.

“GET IT OUT! PUT THAT FIRE OUT!” she yelled.

Daylen lit fire in one hand and ice in the other, bringing his hands together, dropping water onto the floor. He cursed, he could create water, but not a jet. Crew climbed the sails, batting out the flames. One crew member was struck by an arrow, falling onto another crew member below. There was a bang and the Siren shook, people began to climb onto the ship. Men with armour that bore various sigils, a white skeleton hand on a red background, a gold banded black war horn, a blood soaked crescent moon and a silver sickle on a black background. These houses Daylen could not name, but he knew they were of the Iron islands. Men and women screamed around him as battle truly begun. He rose, gritting his teeth together before he grabbed a man by the face. Fire from his gauntlets burned the man, then Daylen bashed his head against the decking. He deflected an axe with his staff and put his attacker in a lock, bringing his staff to the man’s neck and constricting tightly, letting the man waist his breath with the pain of his face burning. Snapping the man’s neck, Daylen moved with Petra and Zither, the musician making good use of the mace on his staff, screaming hysterically as he caved a man’s head in.

Conjuring a wave of force, Daylen and Petra levitated several men into the air. Zither rapidly fired several blasts of ice, skewering the targets in midair. Cullen ran his sword through a man’s chest and broke another’s neck with his shield. He knocked several boarders off with his men, their shield wall broke some of the back’s of their enemies. They were the lucky ones, as the others fell and were crushed between the Siren and their own vessel. Isabela drew her knives from her belt and moved into the melee, slashing throats and heels, leaving those she passed by vulnerable to the men they previously had advantages over. She slid across the deck, tripping one man and then quickly stabbing him in the chest.

“CUT THE HARPOONS! GET US AWAY FROM THEIR SHIP!” Casavir yelled.

Several of his men were hit by arrows, forcing Casavir to take up his axe and sword. He clashed swords with a man from House Harlaw, knocking a Pyke bastard’s jaw off with a wild swing. Parrying several blows, Casavir was able to kick his opponent back and then slam his axe into the man’s skull. As he pulled the axe away, a man of House Blacktyde came towards him, only for a crossbow bolt to hit the back of his knee. Bevin’s hands shook holding the crossbow, crawling back in fear when the man of Blacktyde glared at him. Casavir beheaded the man and saluted Bevin in thanks. Isabela’s first mate left his sword in the gut of another pirate before he hacked one of the Ironborn harpoons, cutting the rope.

Finn burned another rope with his staff and yelped as a heavy set iron islander came at him. Two templars however grabbed the man by his arms and hurled him off of the boat, though they had dropped their swords they still used their shields to clobber and cave in skulls. Kinnon threw a pirate off of the boat with a force blast, looking through the melee to see Keili on her knees, praying. He shook his head, using disorient on several iron island pirates. The men swayed and were left vulnerable to the Ferelden volunteers, bringing down axes and maces on their heads.

“MAGES WE NEED MORE THRUST!” Isabela yelled.

She ran across her railing, cutting the last Iron islander harpoon and throwing her knife into the head of a final pirate. Daylen joined with Petra and Zither again, creating a fireball that blew up behind the sail, creating a draft that assisted the Siren in sailing away. It came just as a shadow emerged from the mist, a great ship that would have collided with the Siren had it not retreated. The ship was larger than the Siren, but had moved with such silence that even Isabela was surprised by how suddenly it had appeared. She noted the dark red hull, the single mast and the maiden figurehead; everyone else saw its black sail with the symbol of a squid on it. Daylen and the mages created more explosions, to create more thrust to get away from their enemy.

Stormlands

Amongst the hustle and cheer of Robert’s great feast, guests continued their drink and merriment, whilst two figures let out deep breaths, sweating and thrusting against one another. Stannis refused to lay with Melisandre, yet still there was something very tempting about her. It was not just lust that overcame him, driving him to run his hands through the red woman’s hair and across her flawless figure. Since the day she had entered his service, she had provided him with counsel and warnings. These warnings concerned the Long Night, the Others, a prophecy she revealed the Targaryens had feared for generations.

“Why not contact Rhaegar?” he had asked her.

“Because Rhaegar is not the one true king,” she had said.

Azhor Azhai was the great figure of her religion, Melisandre and others like her worshipped the lord of light. The ‘prince that was promised’ they who would bring an end to the darkness and unite all mankind. Stannis would have scoffed at such a prophecy, if not for his haunting dreams and other portents he had seen and heard. First was the shifting land, a great quake shook the kingdom, tears in the landscape were reported, yet the land did not break, it seemed to expand. Second was the ill news from port cities, refugees from far off lands fleeing a great disaster on the distant continents. Monsters, magic, and third, the dreams that kept Stannis up at night. It was not just her body that made Stannis seek the red woman, but the distraction she and clarity she offered his dreams.

He saw himself, wielding a sword of fire, leading armies against Lannister men, he saw a new banner, a stag within a fiery heart.

Recently there had been the news of Old town came, news of military forces attacking the city, chanting an ugly and monstrous war cry. News of the Hightowers being wiped out by monsters filled the banquet hall, though there was celebration, it was to distract themselves from the concerns that the warnings of one Aristanna Amell were true. Aristanna Amell, son of Damion Amell, son of Fausten Amell, the Amells who had come from Thedas. Which was where the tales of the Darkspawn, of a great blight that could kill crops and corrupt life had been dismissed by most of Westeros.

“A darkness will soon consume everything, it is not just the Others that threaten all of mankind,” Melisandre told him.

“Dwarves, Elves, mages, Wildlings? What do you speak of?” he asked her.

“It is a shadow covered in flames, whispering a great spell upon the world, spreading ill intent under a false guise,” she told him.

Annatar, the visitor who was not whom he seemed. Stannis did not deny his craft and its greatness, he recognised skill and found it even a rarer instance to recognise beauty. But beautiful was the works of Annatar, and his fame and influence was growing. Stannis recognised a potential threat when he saw it, moments when the glimmer of discipline and friendship faded. He had been a better player of the game of thrones than his older brother after all.

“He is the one, the one who hides his ill intent with light,” Melisandre said.

So that was why Stannis sought Melisandre’s body, accepted her temptations, gave her his seed. She promised him a son and to be rid of the well loved and respected Annatar.

“It will never come back to us?” he asked.

“No, one life for millions,” Melisandre said.

She was smiling as she spoke, enjoying the experience as well as the achievement of her plan. There’s was not the only embrace that night, Sansa and Gendry remained close as the night went by, as people fell to sleep and cups clattered to the floor, they found time and one another. She took his hand, leading the nervous lad to the shadows of the castle stables.

“Wait…” he said, holding her sides as she draped her arms over his shoulders.

“For tonight we are Beren and Luthien, tomorrow is when the fairy tale ends,” Sansa said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gendry retorted.

“One night, one night where we are free,” Sansa closed her eyes and pushed her lips against his.

Her lips were soft, her kiss gentle, yearning for affection, not claiming it as the lone wolf did. Gendry raised his arms up as she pulled off his shirt, running his hand across her sides before lifting up her skirt. Sansa held him to her neck, throwing her head back and with blushed cheeks she sighed in bliss with every soft sway of their hips together. There was no anger, there was no seeking to hurt her, it was a dream and not her nightmare. Gendry was not the man who flays, and Sansa was not the lone wolf, but for one night they got to forget their dreams as Stannis and Robert were haunted by theirs.

Annatar though returned to his forge, heating the furnace, preparing the water and alloys. Removing his robes, he took his dagger and put the blade into his hand. In place of blood, liquid gold flowed from the wound and onto a small shape he used for his forging. Squeezing the essence from his hand, he moved onto the other materials, elven steel for durability, the silver that men sought out. As what he forged began to harden, he tapped it lightly with the hammer just to get the shape and the size right. Robert’s fingers were too fat, Stannis’s too rough, it was for a younger, far more delicate hand that wasn’t used to fighting. Annatar added the onyx antlers, the smallest, delicate shape, whilst the head of the stag was made from a carefully carved jewel.

‘A gift for a would be king, a could have been king, a king again,’ he planned.

This ‘game of thrones’ he had heard whispers of, was a game he felt he could enjoy, if only because his competition felt they were all very good at it. The lion who shunned his son because of his height, yet was actually very much like him, the old woman who saw herself as a queen of thorns, sharp witted true but frail and on her last legs, the eunuch who believed in the greater good but would never truly stand for anything and the lion cub, a small man with even smaller ideas whom just wanted daddy’s love. Was there another? Annatar wondered, another that could prove to be an obstacle to him.

The flames in the forge began to die, the room grew darker, the night colder. Annatar grinned, of course, of course, the red woman and her children. The shadow crept underneath the door, flowing like a snake across the ground until it was mere feet from the smith. Its hand shaped itself into a blade and it lunged, intent on doing its parent’s will.

“Ah yes, the red witch,” Annatar turned and grinned.

He grabbed the shadow by the next, the flames glowed brighter, the room lit up and the man’s skin glowed like the gold that had come from his wound.

“Melisandre the red you are not,” his voice thundered. “Old yes, hiding yourself with trinkets, to drink poison, to conjure shadows, to seduce men, mere parlour tricks. You send a shadow against a dark lord?” he laughed, tightening his grip on the shadow’s neck.

The creature with Stannis’s face screamed, thrashing about in the man’s grip.

“I was of the Maiar, I was born of the light before I chose the dark,” his skin began to turn, losing its colour, its features, becoming like the shadow that he was choking. “Your light is but an annoyance, your shadow a pest, and the flames you worship? I AM THOSE FLAMES!”

Flames covered Annatar’s shadow form, stretching out into the shape of an eye and Melisandre’s shadow screamed.

“I AM YOUR LORD OF LIGHT!” he yelled as a final insult.

None of it however was real, the shadow simply choked to death and faded. All of it echoed though in Melisandre’s dreams, dreams she wanted to be blissful, but instead she woke up terrified.

“Sauron,” she whispered the name of her enemy, the enemy.

Next Chapter 6: Ulmo, Dweller of the Deep

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 6: Ulmo, dweller of the deep

She remembered the last time she walked into the cavern. In some ways Rhaenyra felt as if she had been taken back to that moment, walking behind king Rhaegar. It was just another reminder that she was in a different time. Then she saw the dragon skulls and wept, they had failed, deprived of dragons, what did the Targaryens truly have? Her line was the last of the truly special Targaryens, from then onwards they just good players of the game, manipulative men like Otto. They came to the skull of Balerion and a dish of coals when Rhaegar drew a dagger from his belt. She recognised it as one her father carried.

“This had been renamed Catspaw, a weasel called Littlefinger won it in a bet, he was trying to rip us off, the royal treasury that is. I wish to be a fair king though, so I gave him a trial, I gave him a choice and he chose exile to the wall, the last I heard he had been sighted with Wildlings. Scouts found the remains of the freefolk camp, Lord Baelish’s attempt to betray the nights watch failed, he had hot coals poured into his mouth,” Rhaegar explained.

“That dagger has been in our family for generations,” Rhaenyra said as he removed the dagger from the fire.

“A secret that only fire reveals, a technique used by old Valyria to conceal messages. This was for every heir that came after Aegon, to always remember the reason why Westeros was chosen. That time is coming Rhaenyra, and I believe your presence here is a sign of the old magic returning, just as the opening of the gates is a sign, the arrival of the migrants of Thedas and the shifting land. Our world as we know it has changed forever,” Rhaegar stated, offering the dagger to Rhaenyra.

“I was supposed to be queen,” she whispered.

“You could have been Jaeherys reborn and no one would have accepted you as queen. I’m not saying you wouldn’t have been a fair queen, that you wouldn’t have made some impact, but people had been against you from the start, you were against even yourself,” Rhaegar said and Rhaenyra looked at him in shock.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You marry the Sea snake’s son Laenor Velaryon, and proceed to have three children, none of which are his, or at least most of the written evidence suggests,” Rhaegar said.

“Lies and slander written by people biased to my brother’s reign,” Rhaenyra said.

“The Strongboys they were nicknamed, they had fair skin and dark hair, and over the years they grew more physically similar to Ser Harwin Strong, who served as your sworn shield. Your children were named bastards behind your back until a fateful day when it became clear that with the death of your father conflict would come, your oldest Jaecaerys could not take the insults of his uncle Aemond and fought him, cutting out his right eye in the process. Queen Alicent, enraged, demanded the boy’s eye as payment,” Rhaegar explained and Rhaenyra trembled.

Her own blood attacking one another was bad enough, but knowing that one she had loved as a sister demanded the mutilation of her child was another thing. She understood she and Alicent had grown apart, that Alicent herself changed because of her marriage to Rhaenyra’s father. But she never believed Alicent in her righteousness would demand a child suffer, even if they had hurt her child first.

“From then on it seemed clear there would be no peace between either side, the Hightower born heirs and your family on Dragonstone. In the times past they would call your side the blacks and Aegon’s side the greens,” Rhaegar elaborated.

“Green for the Hightower colours,” Rhaenyra sniffed.

She wiped her eyes, wanting to chide herself for crying. Rhaegar wiped her cheek gently, smiling at her paternally.

“Far greater tragedies would come, can I tell you so that you do not have to suffer hearing them from biased sources?” the king asked his tone like more of a servant than a regent.

“Please, tell me everything,” she asked.

The Reach

East of the sunset sea, north of the red mountains of Dorne and bordering the crownlands was the green realm, the kingdom of the reach before Aegon’s conquest. Annatar and his company headed West from the Stormlands, to reach the Reach. It lived up to its reputation as the most fertile lands in Westeros, the fields went far and for miles Annatar could see the common folk tending to those fields. He looked over at his charge; Gendry had not been right since the visit to the Stormlands, the desires of mortals was not new to the dark lord. He understood the conflict of lust and the confusion of love within the boy. No doubt the Stark girl had been his first and her sudden disappearance that morning was the source of his doubt in himself, wondering if she had left out of fear or shame of him. It mattered not; he knew what to say to get his hopes up, to get him focused on the work at hand.

“They say this is the home of chivalry in Westeros, where it is most valued, which to me translate to a lot of knights wanting custom armour, like your helmet,” he put on a smile and the boy pouted.

“That isn’t for sale,” Gendry said, referring to a horned helmet he had made under his previous teacher.

“Nor should it be, your finest work, you keep for yourself, as something people always desire, that way anything you create and give to others will seem a gift to them,” Annatar explained.

“What was your masterpiece?” Gendry asked.

“Oh nothing too grand, just a ring,” the dark lord smirked.

The Reach was formerly the territory of the Gardeners, an extinct house after Aegon’s conquest. With the death of the last Gardener king, their stewards surrendered to the dragons. Since then, House Tyrell has served as the lords of Highgarden and wardens of the south. It was at Highgarden where a tournament was being held, a lavish affair of tents, puppet shows, songs and revelry. Annatar arrived bearing gifts for the Tyrells. For the lord of Highgarden, Mace Tyrell, he gave a book of songs, and the fat, harmless looking man sang his heart out in a language he did not know though the dark lord admitted, Mace could have made even black speech sound harmless. To the lord’s sons he gave to the eldest a book of stories, Willas Tyrell had tried his luck at gallantry and had injured his leg for his efforts, the second son Garlan was given a shield, one part silver with a golden rose at the centre with the small ‘decorations’ on the borders being black speech that translated spoke of the horrors that would befall all growing things. Their youngest son, Loras had his own desires, but Annatar for now gave him a suit of armour, white like that of the kingsguard but decorated with the outline of rose thorns, gathering to the shoulder guard he had crafted in the shape of a rose bulb.

Mace’s wife was given a necklace of roses and the pyre of the tower, as she was a Hightower too. The green jewels in her necklace were dim in the light, to show that no one was coming to save her father’s house. To both Mace’s daughter and mother, the dark lord gave crowns, matching their own ambitions and reputation. From the moment he met Margaery Tyrell, he could tell that she was the favour grandchild, perhaps the favoured member of her family. Olenna Redwyne, the queen of thorns, fitting that he gave her a crown of thorns. She accepted the crown with grace and dignity, until she put it on.

“Seven hells, what were you thinking boy, this thing is going to give me a headache,” she chided him.

“My apologies my lady, the onetime my forge skills have failed me, for how can one give a gift to the true power of the Reach,” Annatar said.

Margaery Tyrell’s crown was small, it only had that slightest hint of royalty. She would always seek to be ‘the’ queen, but the red jewels on her crown were not fully bloomed roses, but burning fires. There were uncles and cousins, all of whom were showered with gifts that Annatar and Gendry had worked tirelessly on, and more work would follow. Reach’s strategic position couldn’t be denied, access to the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Westerlands and Dorne, rich and fertile land to support an army and population that would equate to a large army.

“Truly and for once, gossips were right about the beauty of Margaery Tyrell,” he kissed the auburn haired girl’s hand.

She put on a bashful smile well, truly the greatest student of her grandmother. But this family and its land were not the dark lord’s true prize. It was the young man they were host to, the young man their youngest son was clearly in love with and he him. Renly Baratheon, he looked like Gendry but with longer hair, cleaner skin and a skinnier build. The tournament was for him, a chance for Loras Tyrell to prove his quality to him.

For Sauron it was a chance to implant an idea within the Baratheon lad.

“You have come from the Stormland Annatar, how did you find my home?” he asked.

Again Annatar had gained enough influence to have a seat at the table with the Tyrell’s and their guest. Or guests it seemed, as there was a young black haired boy sitting with Margaery’s handmaidens. He wore a mixture of white and grey clothes, a uniform with an eagle like badge on his breast. His eyes almost shone blue in certain lights; he was sipping his wine slowly, those same eyes meeting Margaery’s every so often.

“Acceptable, a shame for the lords though, one too severe and another so sad, my apologies, I speak out of turn,” Annatar said.

Renly stewed at news that did not surprise him.

“Brother Stannis would be insufferably stoic, and we’d be out of wine already if brother Robert was here,” he said.

It was not the first time they had met after all. Annatar had once gone hunting with Robert and Renly. He triggered in Robert a discussion that Renly was immediately uncomfortable with. The discussion of what made a real man.

“Those were the days,” Robert drunkenly laughed.

“Which days exactly?” Renly asked.

“The ones where half of Westeros fought the other half and millions died, or before that, when the mad king slaughtered women and babies because the voices in his head told him they deserve it, or way before that when dragons burned whole cities to the ground?”

“Easy boy,” Robert snarled.

But credit to Renly, he didn’t back down.

“I suppose it was all rather heroic, if you were drunk enough and had some poor Riverland’s whore to shove your prick inside and make the eight,” he fumed, walking away in frustration.

It was in that moment that the dark lord realised Renly was someone who could be manipulated. Men like Stannis and Robert were corruptible, but people like Renly were easier. They hated tradition, and traditional views, those who despised what was ‘normal’ and wanted to make the world the way they wished it to be were the kinds of people the dark lord could corrupt. After all the sweetest tragedies were those committed by the ones who had good intentions.

All he ever wanted to do was save people. He was so tired of killing people in his way, faced with a villainous man, he let him live and it cost him his best ally, a man who would have been a good king to Ferelden. That was what haunted Daylen the most, sitting on a ship filled with people who were Ferelen, he had robbed them of a king through his own selfish actions. He had to believe that people could change, that they could redeem themselves.

Sten, Zevran, Oghren and Leliana, these for people he considered friends had come from places that some might have considered irredeemable.

There was Sten of the Berassad, who was from the Qunari culture whom most followers of the Chant light considered heretics and savages. When Daylen first met the man, he had been in a cage in the village of Lothering, guilty by his own admission of murdering a family that tried to help him. Daylen saw a soldier he could use, but as he spoke with Sten he came to see that the Qunari religion, though strict and unforgiving, was in some ways superior to the chant (inferior in other ways to be fair). Sten admitted that he killed people out of a sense of madness, far from home, his comrades killed and his sword, considered his soul, gone. Yet there was true regret within his heart, true regret that he had become savage, purposeless, the very thing that his code, the Qun was designed to keep him from being. So as Daylen prepared Ferelden for a blight, he searched the nation until he found Sten’s sword, earning his trust and even his reverence.

Zevran Araini began his relationship with Daylen as an enemy, an assassin hired by one of Loghain’s allies to kill Daylen and his party. After overcoming Zevran’s ambush, the assassin offered his services, information, selling out his employer. Though their initial meeting and many stories of completely accidental kills told Daylen otherwise, he came to see and recognise Zevran’s skill as an assassin. He was charming, a joker, but also in pain. As their friendship grew, he came to see that Zevran was no coward trying to save his own life. He accepted the job to kill Daylen only because he believed it would be his last, he wanted to die, tired of a life of service to those who had enslaved him, the Antivan crows. Daylen hoped that the elf had gained some desire to live on their adventure.

Of all his companions, Oghren was the rudest, angriest and possible dimmest of them all. From the dwarven city of Orzammar, Oghren was once part of the warrior cast but a pariah, banned from holding weapons, reduced to a drunkard asking for help to find his wife. A wife who took their household into the deep roads in order to find the anvil that forged golems. That was the only reason Oghren went with Daylen and his group into the deep roads, going into Darkspawn territory and fighting their horrors, only to discover the greater horror that was the anvil itself and Oghren’s wife, Branka’s insanity. Even with that devotion Oghren still opposed Branka, helping Daylen to stop her from taking the Anvil for herself. His rage, his drunk behaviour, it was all just to cover for a man who failed, his wife and himself. In some ways Daylen saw more of himself, his own constant doubts in himself in Oghren. Which was why in many ways Daylen helped Oghren get sober and find a new love because he genuinely wanted Oghren to succeed in his life, and to feel better about himself.

Then there was Leliana, Daylen was just a man, he would never deny that Leliana was beautiful. He’d always had a weakness for red heads after all. But then she spoke and horrified him. She was polite, offered to help Daylen when he arrived in Lothering. Then she told him why, ‘the Maker told me to’. Daylen nearly screamed at those words, awkwardly shifting away. It was his fellow grey warden Alistair who convinced him to give Leliana a chance. She was skilled, and Alistair himself admitted she was quite off.

‘She’s an Archdemon short of a blight,’ Daylen remembered saying.

‘Yeah but she’s more ‘oooh pretty colours’, than ‘mwaha, I’m princess stabbity, stab, stab, kill, kill,’’ he smiled, remembering Alistair’s response.

She told him that she had a dream, flowers withering, with one flower blooming. Leliana took it as an omen, and kept that belief even when Daylen brought it into question. She was so much like him in her belief in people, in being kind to one’s fellow man. But there was one opposition, her faith, she believed in the maker and the chant of light, Daylen didn’t. Her faith it seemed had only been found after a childhood of being a bard, not a mere entertainer but a spy in the Orlesian court. She had been in love with her mentor Marjolaine and dedicated herself to her right up until Marjolaine betrayed her, ironically because she believed Leliana would betray her at some point. Leliana became devoted, even nearly taking her vows as a priestess before the blight happened and she offered her help to Daylen. When Marjolaine came into the scene again, seeking Leliana out to kill him, they chased Marjolaine down to her home in Denerim and confronted her. Daylen convinced Leliana to let Marjolaine go, because he didn’t want Leliana to become the bitter, paranoid person that Marjolaine was.

Leliana was everything Daylen didn’t dislike about people devoted to their religions. She had belief in the scripture, but also people, even if the canticles or other priests tried to convince her otherwise. Heretics were not beyond redemption, and people were allowed to believe what they believed in her eyes. Her open mindedness and compassion made her all the more beautiful to Daylen.

And he had failed her, failed the faith that she had put in him.

“Are you praying?” he heard Cullen asked behind him.

“Are you joking?” Daylen retorted and the templar huffed.

He stood from his crouched position, putting his sword through his belt. Cullen stepped away from the doorway, letting Daylen into the hold where some crew members rested.

“RIGHT YOU LOT! UP HERE NOW!” they heard Isabela yell.

Cullen and some of his men were the first to go up, letting some men down too. The cabin boy gave out some salted beef to the crew members and ladles of water. Six hours they had been travelled through the mist, braving chaotic weather that seemed to happen without warning, and dodging the sight of that silent ship. Isabela had been as much of a force as the weather itself, never resting or wavering. She proved just as resilient as she did the day Daylen met her at a brothel in Denerim, he had been doing some favours for the city guard, making up for the rise in crime and their limited numbers with some guard fleeing the country. Zevran knew her through a contract he had carried out, a hit on her husband she was apparently very grateful for. They played cards together, teaching Daylen some of the moves of the game, the tricks of distraction, how to manipulate the deck to one’s advantage. Upon losing one game Daylen knew what to look for, afterwards Isabela sparred with him, teaching him through beating him her fighting style and tactics.

‘Truly worthy of being called queen of the eastern seas,’ he thought.

A few more crew members began their shift, and Daylen was about to follow when he saw some of the crew huddled together. Their hands were pressed together and their heads bowed, mouths whispering the prayers of the chant of light, but blatantly made up prayers that were supposed to sound pretty. None of them were truly devoted, fear had made them take on a belief that wasn’t truly theirs.

“They repent for their lives and the sins they have committed,” he fought off the urge to frown, turning toward Keili.

Her hair was dry, bone dry, and her hands were still flawlessly clean and unmarked. And of course her eyes still held judgement in them, hatred even as Daylen looked at her now without regret.

“I sympathise with their intent and their words, but deeds are required too,” he said.

“Nay, not deeds, punishment, for the sins of piracy, the sins of flesh, the sins of disbelief,” she said.

“I believe sloth was a sin too Keili,” Daylen retorted and her eyes grew wide, her voice sharp.

“You sinned, every day at the tower, sinned with your defiance of our templar guards, sinned when you covered for Anders, when you tried to help Jowan escape, when you prevented the templars from performing the right…”

“A right that would have had them execute you too,” he seethed.

“I would have accepted it, I would have accepted the punishment, the Maker willed it, I was forsaken, and being given magic was a test, a test of my faith. I never stopped believing even when others stopped believing, they looked to you, to you Daylen and what did you do, forgave murderers, forgave traitors and what did it bring you…what did it bring the world, your failure is a sin you will never find forgiveness for,” Keili explained.

“If it has to be on your terms, then I accept that,” Daylen looked at her with contempt, as that is all he had left for her judgement.

He climbed back up onto the deck, looking towards where Isabela steered the ship.

“WHAT’S TAKEN YOU SO LONG WARDEN! GET TO WORK!” she yelled.

Daylen ran to the sails, hoisting them as the wind’s speed increasing. The waves had become like mountains now, requiring greater speed from the ship. Two nearly went overboard, but Petra and Kinnon had used their telekinetic magic to pull them back. Every so often the crow’s nest would report a sighting of one of the enemy ships. Spiky arrows brushed the ship’s hull, but every time a volley came by the crew only saw ripples in the water. Isabela gave the suggestion to not waste arrows, to not return fire until they were close to their enemy. An hour came to pass and the angles of the wave became unnatural, as if boxing the ship in. Isabela climbed up on the mast, looking at the direction of the waves, feeling her hair get pulled in each direction. She had been on the sea for most of her life; it felt more comfortable to her than land. But her mastery of the sea had turned into ignorance, and for a brief moment she thought of the Rivaini gods. Then she remembered they weren’t there when her mother sold her for a goat, they weren’t even there for her mother when she joined the Qun and they certainly weren’t there when she became her husband’s plaything.

“Prepare for battle,” she said as soon as she climbed down onto the deck.

Quivers were brought up, shields prepared and swords drawn. The mist became thicker, the waves still, the wind calm.

“Something is in the water,” one of the crew said, looking over the edge.

Daylen followed the man’s gaze, seeing a fish tail slither across the water, it was too big to be any kind of fish and too delicate to be a shark. There were ripples across the water, bulges as if something was trying to break through. Daylen felt the crew member behind him get pulled up by something, like the rest of the crew he heard only the scream as the man disappeared. Again there were ripples in the water, bubbles that soon died out. Daylen drew his sword, looking towards Bevin. The boy was holding a shield and axe, still trying to be brave. His eyes met Daylen’s and then seemed to widen in terror.

“BEHIND YOU!” he screamed.

On instinct, Daylen covered the green blade in fire, turning and striking immediately at what tried to grab him. Black liquid coated Daylen’s shirt and boots, an object slumped to the floor and for a moment Daylen feared the ship would burn. But it wasn’t oil, the texture was wetter but the way it clung to Daylen’s shirt and skin reminded him of ink. He and a few other crew members looked at the object, flesh, scaly and long with suckers on it. A tentacle, the crew looked out in fear as the mist cleared slightly, letting them see the pillars that rose from the water.

“BRACE!” Isabela yelled.

“ARCHERS!” Cullen called out.

The tentacles lashed out at the ship and Daylen heard the crunch as one pierced the side of the vessel. A horn echoed through the mist and the crew of the siren looked out towards their hunter, the silence. There were no jeering crew members; they had a fanatical silence and a gaze that seemed empty. A hooded figure stepped out of the crowd, leaning against the side of the ship. His robes were black with highlights of purple, his clawed gauntlets dug into the wood. One of his hands had a ring on it, styled with squid like tentacle patterns with jewels that acted as the eyes.

“You have led us on a merry chase,” the captain said. “Trying to get to Neverland I see, a problem considering we too seek the Pan.”

“We have plenty of pots in our hold if you’d want to trade,” Isabela called back to the captain.

“Clever, I might let you keep your tongue if you surrender your ship,” he said.

“And join your crew; I’m not one for taking orders!”

“Then join my nation,” he retorted.

“Nation?” Cullen looked at him in confusion.

“Aye, my nation, the iron Islands and all they will claim through the iron price, I have killed many of your crew already, that is what we call the iron price,” he said.

“Who the hell are you?” Daylen asked.

“I am king of the iron Islands, man of many gods,” the man lifted up his hood, revealing the face of a man with blue lips; a well cut beard and slick hair.

But his skin was pale, as if the man himself was dead.

“Euron Greyjoy,” he declared.

“There is no king of the Iron Islands, Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion was crushed, his sons killed, his pride broken,” Daylen said.

“Indeed my brother fell because he thought himself master of the storm, but I am the storm, what say you? Surrender all that you are to the iron price, or will you join our drowned god in the depths?”

“Bring your ship closer, let us parley,” Isabela said.

Euron grinned, raising his hand, recognising the invitation as a trick. The jewel of his ring glinted, and the water ripple again.

“His drowned god and the iron price are the same thing,” Isabela muttered.

Euron tightened his fist, his pet, his kraken, the embodiment of his house that his gift had created for him rose. The dweller of the deep struck, the pillars that rose from the water became tentacles, and the chaos that Euron loved and worshipped engulfed the Siren’s Call.

King’s Landing

Slash, slash, lunge, step, parry, swipe, lunge, step, step, parry, Jaime Lannister never doubted his natural talent. But lately he had begun to practice a bit more, since the Earth quakes, since the land shifted, since he had the nervous feeling that something was very wrong. It was the same feeling he had during the reign of the mad king, the uncomfortable silences, but this instinct had only been made worse by the fact that he had had dreams. Impossible dreams of a far closer bond with his sister, whom though he loved, he experienced only uncomfortable silences with lately.

Step, parry, lunge, duck, swipe, slash, parry, he swung his sword, flipping it to the flat side just as it nearly touched his squire’s face.

“If you’re going to sneak up on someone, do it with your sword already drawn,” he advised, putting on his practiced smirk as Jon looked at him lazily.

“Did you ask for me to lecture me, or are we going to be doing something?” he asked.

Jaime sheathed his sword, tilting his head to the practice armour and blunted swords. Knight and squire removed their belts and swords, hanging them and putting on the wooden vests and practice weapons. Both stepped into the centre of the ring and Jon was about to salute when Jaime struck out, forcing him to block.

“Very good, not every opponent is going to be honourable,” Jaime said, he attacked again, forcing Jon to parry and counter attack.

The knight swung, performing a feint and adjusting his footing at the last second, catching Jon on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, the armour is there for a reason, you haven’t lost your arm yet,” he reassured him, only to catch his side and knock down his guard.

Jon aggressively swung and thrust, wide strikes that the kings guard easily countered. Growling in frustration, Jon pressed on, swinging his sword with both hands and locking the blades together.

“When you’re pressed against your opponent like this, it’s the prime opportunity to…”

Jon cut Jaime off with something he remembered from his own impossible memory. He spat in the knight’s eyes, but was rewarded with a head butt. Jaime wiped his eye and rubbed his forehead, offering Jon his hand.

“Very good, a truce?” he suggested.

But when Jon took his hand, Jaime put the blade to Jon’s chin.

“Sometimes your opponent will offer surrender, just to kill you without trouble,” he said, his tone stern and not amused.

Jon stood up, rubbing his jaw where Jaime had hit.

“Do you still want to be a knight?” Jaime asked.

“What alternative do you offer?” Jon retorted.

“It is a hell of a thing, when you realise we’re all just meat and bones underneath all of this, I cut the head off of the first man I ever killed but I’ve seen men crying as they died, praying to their gods, looking at me as if I was a god, able to grant them life,” Jaime explained.

Jon remained silent for a moment and the knight went back to the rack, putting the blunted sword back and moving to taken off the vest.

“Was that how my grandfather was?” Jon suddenly asked.

Jaime froze, a for a moment he looked as if he was afraid, as if he was back in that moment when he had to decide between honour and righteousness. Then he took the vest off and placed it gently back on the rack.

“One day,” he said as he put his belt and sword back on, “I’ll tell you exactly what your grandfather was like when he died, but for now my brother tells me you’ve reached that troubled teenager, unsure of where he wants to go phase,” Jaime put his grin back on as Jon shook his head.

“Damned imp,” Jon said.

“Only you and I could call him that, when we have reason, but he is right to worry,” Jaime said.

“Why, I’m not a prince, just a bastard.”

“A royal bastard, and a bastard pain, your father made me responsible for you, not just your protection but your growth as well. He thinks me a better man than I am, but if you’re still alive by the end of whatever’s coming then I’ll at least have done my job well. Forget the oaths of a knight, forget honour and principles, survive first then focus on honour,” Jaime explained.

“Like you?” Jon retorted.

Jaime huffed, his smile slipping for only a few seconds as he threw Jon’s sword back to him.

“If it were up to you, where would you go?” Jaime asked.

“North,” Jon said without hesitation. “Where my mother’s people are from.”

“You uncle doesn’t teach you enough about hard northern justice? Why not somewhere warmer? Pentos or Essos, where no one knows you and you can make your own name with your sword, find a girl, father a bastard or two.”

“I’ll never father a bastard,” Jon said.

“Never say never my prince!”

“Once again, I am not a prince,” Jon said.

“But don’t discount the fact that you will have a role to play, you could either take advantage of the opportunities and resources your father gives you, or allow pride to dictate your decisions,” Jaime explained.

“What if every decision my father makes is the wrong one?” Jon asked.

Jaime looked down for a moment, shaking his head with a sigh as he turned to Jon.

“Then you’ll finally have something to complain about, and I’ll have to do the job your father expects me to do,” he said.

Jon paused as he fastened his belt, looking at the regret in the King’s Guard’s eyes.

“Do you know what our king would have of us now?” Jon asked.

“A journey to the wall, and you’ll be frustrated to know that we will not be going alone,” Jaime smirked slightly as Jon shook his head.

“If I still had Syrax with me I would…” Rhaenyra seethed, tears in her eyes. “You tell me of my fate, eaten by my brother’s dragon after a devastating Civil War that sees the deaths of my children and our own dragons reduced to a handful, you tell me this, then presume to order me like a common servant. And worst of all, you have me reduced to the travelling companion of your bastard!”

“Are you done?” Rhaegar asked, crossing his arms as Rhaenyra leant against the display for Balerion’s skull, both the tears of her grief and her frustrated tirade had exhausted her.

“Viserys the first had the unfortunate job of being peacekeeper, at a time when he had to mourn his many lost children and wife, he rushed to make you heir in a time when the only other option was a man people on his small council feared,” he explained.

“Vultures, Daemon was right about all of them!” Rhaenyra said.

“Daemon was an entitled prick!” Rhaegar snarled and she was caught off guard by the ferocity of his voice. “Our crown, our blood, even our dragons did not give us the right to lord over everyone else. When you fathered bastards, you pretended they were legitimate heirs, a crime most other women would have been executed for. It was an abuse of power Rhaenyra, ‘we can kill them all’ is not a good enough reason for anyone to follow you,” the king explained.

“My father was a weak man,” Rhaenyra admitted, wiping her eyes.

“Just a man really, what man wants to see his grandchildren die, what man wants his children to fight? He was in an unenviable position, I do not fault him for his favouritism or his weakness, honour, duty, sacrifice, these things mean little to the dead. I’m not offering you a chance to be queen Rhaenyra, and it isn’t as if I expect you and Jon to marry,” Rhaegar rolled his eyes as Rhaenyra blushed.

“What would you have of me then?” she asked.

“A war is coming; players in this game are beginning to move their pieces, I not only need to know who I can trust, but I also need to determine just what kind of threat is coming from the North, from beyond the wall, will you do this for me Rhaenyra, and rewrite your place in history?” the king asked.

The Reach

Annatar was devoted to order, which was why he loved organised games. There was order to the way the joust was structured, peasants and commoners watching away from the protected nobility, sitting on their high chairs. The conflict itself was simple, based on points, far more organised than a true brawl. Even the melee for all its brutality had order, though Annatar still revelled in the screams of knights being dragged off of the pitch. He watched the tournament so that he could also watch the man he had chosen as part of his nine. Renly watched Loras intently, the knight of flowers was good on his horse, akin to a Rohirrim rider. But there was still that arrogance, he was a showman, offering roses to the young ladies whilst eying the true prize he desired. Annatar suspected that if Loras won, he would declare Renly his queen of love and beauty.

Renly’s preference was itself something that the dark lord could use.

“Why settle for the way the world is, make it the way you want it to be,” he whispered to Renly.

For a moment Renly may have been tempted to cast him aside, but some part of him wished to believe in what the smith had said. The events continued and many knights proved themselves to be capable fighters, yet there were those who excelled themselves. Renly’s knight of flowers was unhorsed by Brienne of Tarth. When she removed her helm and revealed a woman there were gasps, whilst Annatar had to resist the urge to laugh. She was no great beauty, her face had the bruises and her hair was incredibly short and she was taller than some men too.

Not as tall though as the Mountain who rides, Annatar could feel the sadism of the man. Gregor Clegane revelled in suffering, though his tower helm hid it, he was watching one of his opponent’s choke on blood. His lance never had any cushioning on it, though it was shorter, he always aimed to kill or maim an opponent. There was a man Annatar could use, and his existence spoke volumes of the kind of man Clegane’s liege lord was. Practical, and perhaps as sadistic as Clegane himself, but just better at hiding it.

Most of the crowd though fell silent at the presence of one knight no great family knew of. He was not under the banner of any lord of Westeros or Middle-Earth, his armour was black and he covered his face with a simple helmet. The knight though did have a scarf wrapped around his arm, a woman’s favour, simple yet beautiful, a queenly gift. There was a symbol on his shield, the design of a bridge. Many betted against him and Annatar was tempted, himself seeing only a hedge knight trying to prove himself. But he was astounded, as the rest of the crowd was when the black knight won every contest, unhorsed every opponent. Even Brienne of Tarth was defeated by the knight, as for the Mountain, he didn’t take his defeat well.

“SWORD!” he called to his squire.

The great blade was as large as his own body, and with one swing the Mountain beheaded his own horse in frustration. He bounded towards the black knight, who climbed off his horse and slapped the rear of the beast, choosing to part with his horse rather than see the beast suffer under the Mountain’s rage. The knight had no squire, no other weapons than the lance and his sword. A sword he did not draw as the Mountain tried to slash him. Just as the guard moved to intercept Clegane though, the black knight lashed out.

One punch, one punch to bring down the giant of a man.

Annatar was in awe of this knight, he imagined the victories he could have achieved with this man as his champion. The man removed his helmet, revealing a handsome face that drew the attention of many, Margaery and her ladies in waiting looked dreamily at the man whilst Renly himself seemed to focus for a moment on him rather than Loras.

“Incredible, we have our champion, give him the flowers, let him crown his queen of love and beauty,” Mace said eagerly.

The dark haired man took the crown of flowers and looked up at the sky. His distant gaze indicated that he would declare one person queen, but that woman was not with him. He lowered his head in regret, then smiled as he climbed over the fencing separating nobility from peasantry. Annatar snorted in amusement, hearing whispers of how insulted the ‘noble’ women were that there could be a mere peasant woman considered more beautiful than any of them.

“So improper,” he said, this knight for all his skill had given him further opportunities to ride the coat tails of the Tyrells.

He would keep his eye on that knight, Lancelot Du Lac!

But still it left Renly Baratheon, a boy who like his brothers thought he knew what being a man was. Robert who felt violence and strength was what determined the measure of a man, Stannis whom believed duty and discipline determined the measure of a man, and Renly whom believed acceptance of one’s short comings and emotions were what made a man.

“The dragons have madness in their very blood, how long until the coin flips to the side of madness? The original Targaryens had no right to the throne, they took it by conquest, thus proving that when you have power and victory you can determine what is right,” Annatar told Renly behind the veil of a tent.

“Often I have dreamed, of a crown, a rainbow guard, of a shadow bearing my own brother’s face,” Renly grimaced.

“For all his talk of duty and honour, Stannis will abandon it for the sake of survival, and Robert, a drunkard who doesn’t just miss war, he yearns for it,” the young man elaborated.

“You are loved in the Stormlands, far more than Stannis, he has no heir, and Robert’s children, I fear they would be too much like him,” Annatar said.

But of all the manipulations Annatar could have made, he learned that he needed only a few. For Renly was tempted by Loras as well.

“You understand what needs to be done, but you don’t enjoy it, I would follow you,” the knight of flowers said.

Loras Tyrell, the knight who wanted a king worthy of his sword, Margaery Tyrell, the lady who wanted a crown of her own, and Olenna Tyrell,  an old crone who wanted the legacy of her family on the throne. Annatar presented the kingly gift to Renly in the morning, kneeling like one would at the feet of a king. Renly opened the box and was astounded by the beauty of a gold ring; it had on it the symbol of his house, the stag. The onyx stag lying across the surface of the ring had a gold crown wrapped around its head.

“Truly the smith works through you Annatar,” Renly said.

He admired the gift, loved it even and as he slipped it onto his finger, he felt a confidence he had never experienced in his life. The opinions of his brothers didn’t matter to him anymore, it was his first step.

Annatar grinned; to pick a king of stags was even easier than it had been to pick a king of squids.

The mists

Screams drown out Isabela’s voice, her attempts to command and rally her men. It had become a free for all to cut apart the tentacles grasping at the Siren’s call. Crew members were ripped from the deck, necks ringing, bodies crushed by the constricting tentacles. Others were pulled to whatever watery grave awaited them. Daylen swung the green blade, cutting apart some of the tentacles that tried to grab him. He stepped back, cutting another tentacle. As the limb fell, Daylen saw Cullen protected Kinnon and Zither, sword and shield in hand. His eyes widened when he saw a man get ripped apart by the tentacles, his limbs pulled in every direction. Daylen let out deep and quick breaths, fear gripping him for a moment as he swung the sword back. He was about to swing when he felt something pull him back. The tentacles had wrapped around the surface of the green blade, not caring about how sharp it was. Daylen felt his feet fly over the decking, and out of his instinct he let the sword go, his side hitting the railing as the green blade disappeared into the depths.

Electricity sparked in his hand, but quickly died out, he looked at the carnage, felt the ship get partially pulled under. The ship and its crew that accompanied Daylen on a task he had undertaken, just like his companions in Thedas. But then, there was a great ‘booming’ sound, the water itself seemed to shake and several of the tentacles fell back under. The ship was released from their hold, the waves hitting it and the enemy vessel. Daylen moved through the boat, doing his best to help where he could. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Bevin struggling with the lines. The ship began to turn uncontrollably, tilting as it moved across the side of a wave that was like a great wall, water crashed down onto the ship and Daylen’s eyes widened in horror, watching Bevin get thrown overboard.

His body moved before he could think.

“DAYLEN!” he ignored Cullen’s scream and jumped, diving into the chaotic waves.

He felt the pull of the water as soon as he hit it, spinning him as if he was a ragdoll. Yet still he fought on, utilising the swimming lessons from Leliana and kicking out. Looking over the waves, he tried to catch a glimpse of Bevin. Pulled under the water, Daylen tried to summon his magic again. The flames rose up and fizzled in the sea, and Daylen could only kick with his feet and try to pull himself up over the ceiling of water.

‘Never give up,’ he told himself. ‘Save him, save him, save him,’ he yelled as he came up, taking in the precious air before water splashed his face again.

Swimming as fast and as hard as he could over the waves, he heard the desperate cries of a boy who was just barely swimming himself. Finally he saw the blonde of Bevin’s hair and rushed towards him, reaching out with one hand and wrapping it around across Bevin’s waist. He went underneath Bevin, putting another hand underneath his armpit, using it to keep Bevin above water, even if his own head went down.

‘Keep him alive, just keep him alive,’ he felt the tears in his eyes.

‘Give your life if you have to, anything to put it right,’ he thought before he began to fall.

He felt the line wrap around Bevin, pulling him out of the water. And as Bevin came up, Daylen fell down, sinking, falling into the abyss below. It seemed much calmer there than on the surface of the water. Daylen went limp, tired and tempted to just give up, the crippling weight of his failures catching up. He floated in the water, just looking ahead and seeing the fish flail and the many other little creatures of the sea flitter about unbothered by the storm. The fish suddenly swam away quickly and Daylen looked into the void. He felt something swimming around him; he tightened his hands into fists as the creatures came closer.

They were women, but in place of legs their lower bodies were elegant, fish like tails and fins. Daylen widened his eyes in realisation; the mermaids swam around him for a moment, graceful and seemingly curious about him. He could hear them, their songs echoing around him before they turned to terror. They screamed, tentacles came out of the depths and pulled them under. Daylen drew his dagger as a tentacle wrapped around his leg.

‘No, not like this, not like this,’ he frantically cut into the tentacle, creating a cloud of ink.

Suddenly, a tentacle struck him in the chest, made him yell out underwater.

“Your failure is a sin you will never find forgiveness for!”

‘I tried, I tried so hard,’ Daylen thought.

“Blessed art thou who exist in the sight of the Maker…”

‘Keili, you weren’t always so hostile to me!’

“Blessed are the penitents who seek his return.”

‘I accepted your prayers, tolerated them, just like everyone else’s…but the truth is, I hated it!’

“Blessed is the prophetess, purified by flame.”

‘Purified by flame...fucking bull shit, she was executed, there it is, the reason I hate it. Hated hearing your prayers, hated hearing Leliana’s prayers, hated hearing my family’s prayers!’

“May the Chant reach the maker’s ears and tell him of our contrition, so let it be!”

‘You’re praying to him, hoping for him, hoping that what you’ve done is good enough, that you’ll be considered worthy.’

“It gives me hope that maybe one day the Maker will hear us, that maybe I’ll be forgiven and my curse will be lifted.”

‘All that time hoping he’ll answer back, all that time hoping that you’ll be forgiven for an imagined sin, that’s just self pitying garbage!’

“Magic causes such misery, it’s dangerous and vile and wicked.”

‘Magic is a blade, and blades cause misery, people are dangerous with their hypocritical laws and rigged systems, people are vile with their beliefs and their faith ‘we do not sow,’ ‘all is as the Maker wills it’, ‘survival of the fittest’. BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT!’

“The chantry must protect the world from us!”

‘We live in the world too, we want to protect the world too, everything I did, every choice was to protect the world and all the good that people should have striven for.’

“Being born with something so terrible must be a punishment; I wish I could be rid of it.”

‘BULLSHIT! You think you were the only one who hated themselves, who thought they were cursed, how dare you judge me, WHEN I ACTUALLY TRIED TO DO SOMETHING GOOD!’

Desperation and grief could lead to deception, seeing things that weren’t there. For a moment Daylen thought he saw a giant in the water, the face of a man looking at him, and he didn’t know if it was sympathy or intrigue on the being’s face. He did not believe in the maker, and he certainly believe in gods of the sea.

‘No, there’s no Maker, no gods, no creators, no one coming to save anyone from above or below, our faith is always unrewarded,’ he thought.

His fists tightened, still seeing the face in the water.

‘I’ll do it myself, we’ll do it ourselves,’ he defiantly thought.

He began to kick with his legs and stroke his arms through the water. Trying to go up to the surface, but he was tired, so tired, he struggled, bubbles coming out of his mouth. His vision grew darker and darker as the despair took hold.

‘I tried so hard to help…because that’s why you pray isn’t it Leliana, that’s why everyone prays. I get it now, I understand, I hate it but I understand it. We have nothing but each other in this world, we’re all we have, we all need help!’

He looked up, seeing someone swimming towards him, red hair hiding her face. She reached out to Daylen as darkness overwhelmed his vision.

‘Leliana,’ he thought.

Next Chapter 7: Song of Mana

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 7: A song of Mana

The seas between Essos and Yi Ti-Before full convergence was achieved

Euron Greyjoy had seen a great many things in his life, he had lived every person’s dream, to go to exotic places, meet exotic people and then kill them. His crew had raided a ship, searching for treasures, but they only found monstrosities. Euron prided himself in the fanaticism he had instilled within his crew. He had cut out their tongues so that none could betray him, that didn’t mean they were incapable of making noises, or feeling fear. Euron was surprised when a great number of his men ran off the enemy ship and jumped straight into the water to drown. They were screaming in whatever they could, that both intrigued and infuriated Euron. Intrigued him to see something more frightening than him, and infuriated him in turn. He saw them from the ship, the creatures, not quite men really; snarling beasts with grey or white skin, curved ears, sharp teeth and greater strength than the sailors of ships Euron had previously raided.

But they still died and by the time Euron had killed his first Orc, the crew were able to get one of the passengers on board. In contrast to the Orc, the man, or elf, whatever he might have been was handsome, even to Euron’s standards. Handsome and calm, forced onto his knees as two of Euron’s crew searched him, and just staring at Euron as the men worked. The man wore a simple grey robe, and had nothing on him, nothing save for a single gold band.

Now

The Kraken was in pain, Euron could tell that much. He looked up at the sky, even the storm was dying out. The mist that was previously their advantage, had become a hindrance. His prey, the Siren (named both for the ship and her captain) was tough, but there was a ship on the sea that surpassed the silence for speed. Bolts struck the side of the Silence, arrows filled some of the crew and Euron looked into the mist, seeing only the colours that the ship had hoisted. A simplistic black flag with a white skull and crossbones, no, he amended, there were crossed bones with hooks on the end.

“HARD TO PORT!” he yelled.

It was not desperation, just authority, he told himself. He would be king of the Iron Islands, but first he had to rule the seas. A foreign bitch would not surpass him, certainly not a woman that lacked his experience. He burned the Lannister fleet, he made the lion tremble, Tywin Lannister the fiercest man in Westeros was the first to experience the wrath of the Iron born, Euron’s wrath. The Greyjoy moved across the side of the ship, looking to the ballista that he had been gifted with.

“FIRE!” he yelled.

The ring on his finger seemed to gleam as he raised his hand. Perhaps that is what made the bolts fly as well as they did, moving swiftly across the hill like waves, impacting with the object.

‘Was that a crunch,’ Euron wondered.

He looked to his crew, his silent crew, no warnings came, no reports, no opinions as he once enjoyed. It was supposed to be how he guaranteed his safety, now it was his hindrance. The Silence sailed around the mist, around what they had hit, no screams, no desperate cries. Euron narrowed his eyes, seeing the chunk of ice in the sea.

“CUT THE LINES!” he yelled.

Arrows struck his crew members and Euron turned, looking into the mist and seeing the tail end of the Siren. There was a bang across the side of the silence, the other enemy, clay bombs struck the Silence and began to set fires across it. Euron hissed, stepping away from the flames. He ran to the helm, yanked the wheel to the side and hit one of the waves. The flames died down, extinguished along with Euron’s fear. Spinning the wheel, he regained control, looking over his shoulder and spotting the Siren.

‘No, no, the hunter will not become the hunted, I am neither the hunter nor the hunted, I am the storm itself,’ he reminded himself, turning the ship.

Across the short distance, Isabela stood controlling her ship, yelling orders to her crew. The new arrival, the shift in the storm, the disappearance of the Kraken, they were things she would take advantage of. The mages summoned the ice, creating a target and a distraction. Then they enchanted the arrows.

“KNOCK!” Cullen yelled, pulling back on his bow.

Not fire, they didn’t need fire, cold steam came off of the arrows as they traversed the distance between the Siren and the Silence. And when they struck the back of the ship, shards of ice crashed onto its surface, knocking off crew members. Euron commanded a repayment, arrows cutting through the Siren’s sail. More ships came in from the sides, threatening to box the Siren in. Isabela imagined Euron’s grinning face, and it wasn’t far off, the Greyjoy captain smiling and laughing as his Corsair allies arrived. He knew that a battle could shift in favour of those reinforced, as his enemy soon demonstrated. That ship with the skull and cross hooks, it crashed into the back of one of the corsairs, crushing part of the smaller boat. Isabela turned the Siren, knocking into the side of the other Corsair.

‘Call for a retreat, or unleash the storm?’ Euron wondered, considered his options.

He looked through the spy glass, seeing two more Corsairs. They would provide ample distraction, he reconsidered his strategy, drew the ugly blade he had been gifted and raised the ring. The Kraken was simply wounded, not dead, forget the fisherman pursuing it, forget the old god, it was time for a new god.

“ANSWER MY CALL!” he roared.

The tentacles shot out of the ocean, the Kraken’s head slid across the water, gliding to the Siren’s call.

“BRACE FOR IMPACT!” Isabela yelled.

All felt the impact in the ocean, and when they looked over the edges of their ship they could see that their battle was itself the surface of an even greater battle. Underneath the thin layer of water and in the world that that layer separated from the other ships, a brawl took place between a beast and a man who could be described as half a fish. His trident slammed into the great creature, which tried to constrict his arms and neck. One tentacle was ripped off and the man of the sea pulled his trident back, glaring at the Kraken as its other tentacles wrapped around his arm, trying to pull the trident away.

But Ulmo the dweller of the deep would not be stopped, there was a reason he still remained in the absence of his fellow Valar. He watched on the waves the lives that lived in this new world, felt the worlds collapse together, heard their prayers on the ripples in the water. Every body committed to the deep, every token abandoned, every lost soul begging for help amongst the wreckage. He heard them all, felt their sorrow, their desperation, shared in their confusion as the sea and the islands themselves acted unnaturally. New land masses he had never seen before came, along with a new magic he had never experienced. He yelled, an operatic cry, a tune through the water, music for the Valar was power and he unleashed a call to arms.

Then

Euron understood that just because he had taken the tongues of his crew, didn’t mean he had taken away their desires. They raped as much as they worshipped, relished in the taste of the spoils of their raids. Euron was not above enjoying women, even taking women if he wanted, he didn’t need force, there were plenty of women in the world who felt they were missing something, trapped in unhappy marriages, had never experienced a creative hand for sex, or sex in general, there were many ways to charm and woo. He could make them want to be taken, as for those who didn’t want it, Euron grinned, his men could have them and then he would see how strong those ‘strong women’ really were. But no one ever argued over spoils on his ship, especially for a simple gold band, one damned ring. Euron was not a man who usually experienced fear, but when his men began to push one another for just a look at the ring, he felt annoyed.

Then he was horrified when his men began strangling one another, wrestling on deck, bending and biting one another’s fingers for just a chance to hold the ring.

He looked down at the man, who he began to feel more and more was no simple man. Euron had travelled the seas and heard a great many faiths, priests all speaking of who or what god was, what was divinity. What he saw was a man, what he felt in his hunter’s instinct was something else entirely. The fight between his men nearly shook the ship, two went overboard and the ring rolled, impossibly rolled across the railing, over the deck and towards the captive. Freeing his bound hands, the man took hold of the ring, his hood flying off to reveal his fair hair and smirk before.

Poof! The man disappeared and the desperate greed turned to fear. One man ‘fell’ overboard, another ‘stumbled’ into someone, accidents happened and in the end Euron stood at the helm of the ship and bellowed:

“You have had your fun, I call for a parley,” his reply came after a few minutes of silence.

Then he felt fingers on his throat, fingers belonging to a hand far larger than the man they had taken from the ship, hands that could easily crush his neck. But Euron did not show his fear outwardly, he looked over his shoulder and saw a slight silhouette from the spray of the ocean haze, a gigantic form that stood far taller than him, perhaps far taller than the famed Mountain of the Lannisters.

“What is your name?” the form asked.

“Euron Greyjoy, son of Quellon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, I am the Crow’s eye!”

“And what do you see?”

“I see...” Euron paused, feeling a finger brush against his apple, for a moment he wondered if this exhilarating feeling was fear. “Power, I see power, I once believed that fear and faith, carefully manipulated could be power. But this, that ring, that strength, it is not of this world and I have travelled much of it, how did you come upon it?” Euron asked.

“You are but the captain of a ship unlucky enough to cross me, why should I tell you anything?” the form asked.

“I will kill anyone I have to in order to claim that power, that is the iron price,” Euron said.

“The Iron price, you mean the right of conquest, do not pretend it is anything special,” the form growled in Euron’s ear and he felt the grip on his neck tighten.

Anymore and his neck would snap, let alone allow him to speak. Euron’s fingers twitched, but he fought off that urge to claw at the unseen hand. He was Euron Greyjoy, he was the storm, he would not go quietly.

“It is…” he hacked, voice wheezing, waiting for permission.

The grip loosened and Euron cleared his throat and laughed.

“It is a proud thing to pay the iron price, we are prouder of our young if they have taken rather than built, my family’s words are ‘we do not sow’ because we feel that the work of a servant is beneath us. My brothers, my nephews, my niece, they all thought that there was something to be proud of in that, because they thought it made them different from other lords. No…we are not different from them, I merely accept the truth…all that we have we have taken, the bounty of the crop, the castles, the gold, the titles, the land, all of it we took through blood, through murder and rape…and we call ourselves noble now,” he chuckled, feeling the grip loosen even more.

“You admit to being proud of such things?”

“I admit to at least being honest about it, I am an evil bastard, the son of evil bastards, the descendent of evil bastards, I am Euron Greyjoy, the Crow’s eye and I will not sow!”

He felt the form pull his hand away, felt him shrink to the size of a man. And Euron heard for a brief moment the flicker of a laugh, the snort followed by a chuckle.

“You have entertained me Euron Greyjoy, I wish to give you a gift for your efforts if you will entertain me further,” the man said.

Euron considered for a moment just trying to kill the man, and perhaps dying in the attempt. His crew was already lighter than it had been before. Then he grinned, clapping his hands together, accepting the gift.

“What will you have of me?” he asked.

“Take me to the finest forge you know,” the form commanded, demanding authority, something Euron could respect.

Days passed and there came a moment when Euron wondered if he had dreamed the whole thing. But then certain things in his quarters moved and he was reminded of his passenger. The form remained unseen, a spectre hanging over some of the crew, making them work harder and driving some to death. Euron looked forward to finding stronger men, to perfecting his art for indoctrination because this lord of shadows reminded him that he was not the fiercest man in the world.

There was a Blacksmith in Essos, one whom employed the tools and methods used by Valyria for folding metal. Valyrian steel was rare, even rarer were those capable of manipulating it. Upon the invisible man’s order, Euron asked for the forge for the whole day and some small raw materials. Everything was to the specification of the invisible man, and with the forge cleared; Euron let the ‘man’ work. His crew entertained themselves for a whole day and Euron sat outside, waiting, listening to the small striking of a hanger, the crucible flaring, and the sizzle of metal on water.

Then the door opened and Annatar emerged, holding in his hand the gift he wanted to grant Euron.

“A gift for a king,” Annatar said, presenting the ring to Euron.

King’s Landing

No ceremony, no gathering of the court or announcement, it all frustrated Jon the boy, but Jon the fighter understood. That part of him that felt he had experienced more than he had, understood why his father did not roll out the trumpets had the knights salute the mission he had his son go on. Jon had been afford only a shield with a tree on it, a good design but not made from the toughest of materials. As for his clothes, just a black cloak over a red shirt and simple gauntlets for his gloves. Jon readied his horse, stroking the black furred creature’s mane and looking for any sign of his knight. He had managed to get a pair of water skins, and two loaves of waybread and an onion Tyrion had offered as a joke.

“You are joking,” he looked up from his work and bit his lip to hide his scowl.

Rhaenyra, she walked down the steps to the stables, wearing the scaled grey robe of a Targaryen dragon rider, something clearly pulled out of the Maestar’s office. Her hair was still elegantly braided and the girl had nothing on her, no coin pouch, no dagger and no water poach.

“I thought you were the joke,” Jon retorted.

“Are we not travelling with an army, where is your sword?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Don’t have one yet,” Jon said.

“And the army?”

“Probably hiding, check the hay!”

“You’re mocking me!”

“I wouldn’t dream of mocking a princess, or is it queen, was it ever queen?”

Rhaenyra stomped over to him, bringing her face close to his, her lips trembling as she nearly growled at him.

“Don’t ever joke about that again,” she seethed.

“Of course,” Jon nodded, silently, softly, a part of him understanding the trauma the girl must have felt.

The trauma of being told your life would go one way, quite similar to a bastard’s life in a sense. Unfortunately, the lesser part of him won over his gentler instincts.

“Your grace,” he added with a mock bow.

Rhaenyra tightened her hands into fists and moved towards Jon.

“Ahem!” Jaime cleared his throat.

He stood, still in the armour of the King’s guard, with Tyrion beside him.

“Now, now children, let’s not fight,” Tyrion performed a couple of flips down the steps, landing on the horse Jon had already prepared. “You are to be my servants for this trip, get horses together now boy,” Tyrion smirked whilst Jon shook his head.

“You aren’t going with us?” Rhaenyra asked the knight.

“The King wishes for me to stay here…”

“And our sister made a very strong case for him staying!” Tyrion called out from the stable.

Jaime took the sword he was carrying on his shoulder and gave it to Jon. It was a simple blade, with no decorations, good enough to kill though as Jon found when he drew the blade and analysed it.

“I thought he would at least say goodbye,” Jon said, sheathing the sword.

“One thing I couldn’t teach you, patience,” Jaime shook his head, half smiling as he turned.

“Son,” Rhaegar whispered.

He was in a cloak with his lyre in one hand. Jon was about to bow when Rhaegar gripped his shoulder firmly.

“No, I am not here as your king,” the man wrapped his arms around Jon, holding him close.

He could feel the king shaking, and though tense Jon eventually wrapped his arms around the man. They stood silently for a moment before Rhaegar pushed his head against Jon’s.

“Forget the words of both our houses, of course winter is going to come, fire and blood are not things you should seek out. Do what you feel is right my son, my son,” the king’s voice wavered as he touched Jon’s cheek. “The North is strong with magic, the true North, go over the wall if you have to boy, follow the dreams that is all I can say, the rest is in your hands, be smart and wary but make allies when you can, be firm, compromise but save others when you can,” Rhaegar explained.

“So do what I think is right then?” Jon asked, huffed more like, sighing and wiping his eyes.

“I loved your mother, more than I’ll ever love anyone else, you’re not part of some plan Jon, you are my son,” the king stroked his son’s cheek again.

“Thank you your grace,” Jon said.

“Here, it isn’t uncommon for bodyguards to be entertainment as well, there’s a comfort and perhaps even a certain power in song,” Rhaegar said.

“I don’t know how to play, and I can’t sing,” Jon said.

“You can learn, I wish you good fortune in the war to come!”

The king turned away before Jon could speak. Rhaegar lifted his hood over his head, his eyes going red with tears, becoming a distant figure to his son. Jon wanted to call out, just to speak with the man a little more. Then Jaime stepped in front of him, and his instincts as the man’s squire took hold.

“Tyrion has the map, when you’re far enough he’ll provide the path, you’ll go North to the wall under the guise of the master of coin checking the preparedness of the Wall,” Jaime explained.

“Not a lie mind you, the king does want an update on how things are with the brave men of the night’s watch,” Tyrion said.

“You will then go over the wall, through the gate, a gap, find whatever way you can, even if you have to swear an oath to the watch and smuggle Rhaenyra in,” Jaime stated.

“What of Tyrion?”

“I’ll hire help for the return journey, after I’ve of course pissed off of the wall, it’s part of the list of things one should do before they die apparently,” Tyrion winked at Rhaenyra.

“My dreams they…I doubt they’re prophetic,” Jon muttered.

“Then you can always join your uncle, or ride off to make your own way, whatever the case at least cross the northern border first before you make your decision,” Jaime said.

Jon nodded, bowing his head to Jaime, who slapped his shoulder. It was the closest thing to a handshake they would both share. Jon took a moment to process the goodbyes, to a man who was his father, and to a man who had at least been a teacher to him if not a father figure. He remembered the dreams, the life of an experienced but broken man, if there was some other way to interpret the dreams he hadn’t found it yet. Then he thought of his father’s words, of his own desires, smart but fair, survive but save others too. He let out a deep breath he had built up, letting go of the doubt, and focusing on the task at hand, drawing the knife from his belt and turning to Rhaenyra.

“Is that for my protection?” she asked.

“We’ll get you your own one, but first, I’m going to use it to cut your hair,” Jon said.

Rhaenyra laughed at his declaration, a laugh Jon shared for a moment before his eyes became like stone, the princess’s laughter dying down as Tyrion grinned. The Lannister waited, holding the reins of his horse as crashing sounds came from the stables, followed by a yell from Rhaenyra.

“Teenagers,” Tyrion laughed to the servants that came by.

Then

“A ring, a simple ring is your gift?” Euron asked the man back then.

Annatar grinned, leaning against the railing of the Silence. Other crew members were close by, eager to search his pockets again, that was probably why they would obey Euron’s command to kill. But the Greyjoy man waited; looking at the ring he had been given.

“Three rings for the elven kings under the sky, elven kings of great beauty and wisdom, gained from the ages they had lived, gifted with the connection to the eternal beauty of the land and nature. Yet in their ‘eternity’ they would become stagnant, lose appreciation for the impermanence of life, whilst their memory remained rigid, old grudges and mistakes remembered,” Annatar explained.

“Seven for the dwarf lords in their stone halls, great craftsmen, recognising the beauty that the Earth and the deep ground offers, the treasures, the achievements, the advancements of engineering and exploration, yet there would be a folly in such exploration, dig deep enough and you might find dark secrets waiting, dark powers beyond the understanding of even your grand achievements. As for the stone halls, there is a weakness in cutting oneself off from the rest of the world.”

“Nine, nine for mortal men who desire power above all, nine for mortal men, doomed to die. Humans, mortals, mankind, choose the name and its always the same, your lives are finite, fifty years, seventy, eighty, a hundred if you are unlucky, yet still you are limited. Out of the three races, it is your kind Euron that understands the most that time is precious, it is why you have constructed ‘afterlives’ for yourselves, the idea that your deeds matter, that you will be judged after death, rewarded or punished, or given second chances.

“Nine for mortal men, doomed to live, because to live is to suffer, to age, to lose ones beauty and even their wisdom and strength. That gift Euron is a means to bypass those things, yet still keep the most important aspect of your human character, the desire to live, the ambition to achieve and the desperation to not lose all you have built and can built. The elves and dwarves have plenty of time to waste, but humanity understands the importance of every choice, and why power matters more than any ideal.”

“Because it is only with power that we can achieve our ideals,” Euron concluded for the dark lord.

He looked over the ring, admiring the construction, then he slid it over his finger.

“I feel nothing,” he said.

“Wait, give it a moment, don’t worry, you have plenty of time now,” Annatar said.

Euron suddenly felt the urge to close his eyes, the background noise of the world around him muted and he breathed in deep. Then there was the snap, the sudden appearance of a flaming eye in front of him when he blinked. He stumbled back, feeling a vigor that went beyond what he felt as a young man. His muscles felt powerful, his mind felt as if it didn’t need rest and his mind expanded. He could feel the withering ants beneath him, the maggots deep in the Earth writhing as he stomped his feet when he stumbled. It wasn’t just a high, it was empowerment, it was a true gift he decided and he fought off the urge to scream.

“Nine, nine men, no, not men, kings, yes, I am a king, I will be king,” Euron snarled.

“King of the Iron Islands?” Annatar asked.

“No, not that small patch of land, king of the seven kingdoms, king of the sea that surrounds it, I will not stop, I will not sow, I AM THE STORM THAT REIGNS OVER ALL!” Euron screamed.

He couldn’t help himself, he laughed, laughed like a drunken man on a high and his new friend joined him. For a moment he saw the dark lord’s true form, the shadow screeching as it cackled with the new wraith. Black veins, pale skin, darkened eyes, Euron experienced all these things and when the night came he screeched and heard the dead cry back. He revelled in the power, and the opportunity he had been given, hearing the voice of his friend in his mind when his crew slept.

“Build me a fleet so that I might dominate the seas of this new world,” Sauron’s voice echoed.

Euron Greyjoy, the Kraken king of the Iron Islands, wraith of the dark lord Sauron, that was his new name now.

Now-The mist

More, more, he had made his fleet of corsairs and Iron born. Euron would not be dominated, whether it was by the old god beneath the sea or the ships above it. He raised his hand, and the Kraken struck, grabbing Ulmo, making the old god drop his trident. Wires and wires of flesh latched onto Ulmo, constricting around his neck, his shoulder, his wrists and chest. The Kraken let out a cry that echoed through the sea, every fish and creature of the deep quivered. Euron raised his sword high and let out a yell, the yell of a warlord, commanding his fleet to attack. Arrows flew over the waves, striking the ships of both his enemies, yet still they persisted.

‘Almost admirable,’ Euron felt, grinning.

One of his lieutenants was called the Crab Feeder. Through the magic of the ring, the masked lord’s creatures came up onto the deck of the Siren. Bolts of lightning welcomed them, however. Zither pulled the strings of his guitar, one note after another, focusing his magic through the music. He had always felt passionate about his tunes, about making songs. There was an aggressive style, compared to a rock, and he wanted to make that style known across the new world. So he performed a song of electric rocks, blowing away the crabs trying to hurt his friends. Euron cast a shadow over his ship, but it was Petra and Kinnon whom cast light over the Siren’s call. Both held hands, and raised them high, with their magic weakened they worked together. A rune enveloped the ship, and the crew members, exhausted, wounded, rose, their cuts sealing, arrows coming out of their minor wounds, their morale and their stamina repaired.

“COME ON DAYLEN! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!” Zither yelled.

He remembered a song, Leliana sang it once, an elven ballad that was sung at her mother’s funeral. There was no perfect translation of the elvish language, Daylen had some idea from his studies. Not so much studies as those single times he had looked at the books. Those letters, clung to his mind as most things did. When people said ‘I never forget a face’, Daylen never truly did. Perhaps there was some word for what his memory was. But he remembered, Leliana as she sang that song at camp. They had just saved a group of Dalish elves from werewolves, a curse that their own keeper Zathrian had created. It was a reminder to Leliana of the impermanence of life. So she sang:

“Hahren na melana sahlin, emma ir abelas, souver’inan isala hamin, vhenan him dor’felas in uthera na revas. Vir Sulahn’nehn vir derthera, vir samahl la numin, vir ‘lath sa’vunin.”

“Elder your time is come, now I am filled with sorrow, weary eyes need resting heart has become grey and slow, in waking sleep is freedom. We sing, rejoice, we tell the tales, we laugh and cry, we love one more day.”

He remembered, she was so beautiful, remembering a great tragedy, feeling genuine sympathy for those people and respecting their history despite anything her priests and her god might have driven her to do. Leliana was a kind person at heart, that’s what Daylen remembered and wished for Leliana to keep being in spite of this world he had left her with.

‘Leliana,’ he thought.

His eyes opened, he saw the red haired beauty, scales on the side of her face, her red hair moving wildly. Moving as hair would in the water, Daylen remembered, he was deep in the water. His eyes widened as the woman kissed him. His vision cleared and he shoved the girl back. Though affected by the ocean, he could see that the woman’s lower feet were not feet at all, but a fish like tail. Gently hands brushed against his shoulders and he turned to a darker skinned woman, she cupped his cheeks and pushed her lips against his. The contact was intimate, but not like any kiss Surana or Morrigan had given him. Another woman came up in front of him, grabbing his hair firmly and making the briefest contact with his lips. Then the red haired girl came down again, blue tail fluttering elegantly as she kissed him.

‘No, not a kiss,’ Daylen realised.

They were swimming up, going up for air, taking deep breaths and then blowing that air into Daylen’s mouth. But it wasn’t just air, there was a faint blue glow between their lips as they blew into his mouth. These Mermaids were keeping him alive, and renewing him, his mana gauge, the magic crackled through his fingers, glowed in his eyes.

‘Thank you,’ he wanted to say.

The mermaids swam around him as he created a ball of energy under water. He heard them speaking, their voices a melody so much like Leliana’s, beautiful voices echoing through the water. Songs that told him to stand up and fight.

Euron, Isabela and Cullen looked to the Corsair ship. A spike of ice suddenly burst through its middle, splitting the ship apart. Crew flailed in the water, figures sweeping towards them, pulling them under the water. Then they saw a fire glowing on top of the miniature iceberg. Daylen, they saw him, one side of his body glowing with fire whilst the other shimmered with ice. There was an explosion from the ice, a draft that threw Daylen over the waves. He covered himself with rocks, turning himself into a human sized golem. Crashing through the ship, Daylen felt two mermaids by his side, the red haired woman and the dark skinned one, they swam fast to support him, their sisters and brothers grabbing those that fell into the water. Euron’s Corsair allies were chocked underneath the water, or stabbed with knives made of sea shells, or just pulled deep into the dark depths. Daylen felt his tongue briefly touch sharp teeth, these mermaids, or people, were beautiful on the outside, but they had evolved to eat raw flesh. He almost pitied the pirates, and then he let the rage and the focus take hold. There were those he couldn’t save, those he needed to kill.

‘I’m not done yet,’ he told himself.

They refilled his mana and brought him to the surface, Daylen let the fire go, using the jets that came out of his hands to jump out of the water towards the second Corsair ship. Then as he landed, he unleashed the lightning, a perfect storm of chain lightning that spread to the enemies around him. Arrows rained down on the rest of the crew and he ran, just barely dodging the volley of his new allies from the cross hook ship. Daylen yelled as he tackled one of the crew members, turning the tackle into a dive off of the ship. He swam, catching sight of the man he had tackled, screaming as two mermaids grabbed him, one biting into his neck whilst the other tore at his shirt. Arrows came into the water and Daylen deflected them with mana shields that flickered. He looked to his side, seeing the supposed god, the underwater giant, breaking free of the Kraken. The dweller of the deep punched the Kraken, and braver mermaids began dragging knives and tridents across the creature’s skin. They stabbed, pulled at tentacles, all whilst the dweller swam away. Lingering in the water, Daylen saw the red haired mermaid again, her eyes showed just how much she wanted to help and he offered her his hand. She took it, swimming with him, fast but gently for the sake of his human body. Caressing his face for a moment before she kissed him, his muscle fibres glowing as his mana recharged. She was carrying him straight towards Euron’s ship, taking an arrow to her shoulder. The mermaid pushed Daylen forward, and he focused the magic into his hand, a perfect storm of ice, remembering the song but also his rage, the rage of having been parted from his companions, the rage of his own failure. He thrust his hand forward, touching the bottom of the ship and unleashing the magic.

Euron yelled in fury as his ship shook, ice burst through the wood, impaling or knocking off some of his crew members. His ship, his pride and joy was broken; a hole in the right corner of the ship could be pretty severe. The icicle stretched to cut the main sail. Euron seethed, not caring that six men behind him fell to enemy arrows. He walked across the edge of his ship, checking for any sign of his enemy. Snatching a crossbow from one of his crew, he shot into the water, aiming for one of those nimble beauties that ensnared some of the men from the Corsairs. Snatching his spyglass from his belt, he looked to the Siren, seeing it sink one of the Corsairs, then to the cross hook ship, seeing that one sink an Iron island boat. A couple of corsairs came out of the fog and Euron smiled.

Then he saw it, another ship coming out of the fog, bigger than the Corsair, its sail blue with a white sea horse on it. The Velaryon ship slammed into the corsair and armoured men began to board it. Euron snarled as the ship shook again, flames began to spread across the Silence, most of the crew were already dead and Euron looked out into the sea, he saw a piece of drift wood, ice gathering around it, turning it into a platform for Euron’s enemy to stand on. Daylen felt the lips of the mermaid crash into his again, the blue shine between their lips was followed by an echo. They were singing in the water, waves of a gentle song that crashed into the Kraken. The monster recoiled in pain, whilst Ulmo of the deep regained his strength. Daylen climbed onto the platform of ice, his eyes glowing red as he looked towards Euron on his ship. Euron sheathed his sword, going up to the ballista. He fired the bolt, sending it flying towards the mage. The bolt exploded, splinters going into the sea. Daylen had raised his hand, energy crackling through his hand, creating the flower like shield he had summoned. Ice and fire crackled and flared in his hands, which he pointed outwards past his back. He took a deep breath, before attempting something very stupid.

The young man imagined Wynn’s voice in his ear, the old healer chiding him for his application of fire and ice magic. A small application could melt ice to create water, but applying the force of a blizzard, to the destructive storm of an inferno created an explosive force. That explosive force launched Daylen off of his platform. He drew his dagger from his waist, using his free hand to create another jet of fire to correct himself. Euron grabbed a nearby crossbow, firing desperately at Daylen, the mage tilted at the last second. Then he dragged his dagger through the Silence’s sail, yelling with dogged determination as he continued falling to the deck. His fall ended with his feet inches from the ground, his blade imbedded in the mast.

‘Okay Wynn, you’re right, I am an idiot,’ Daylen sighed in relief.

Relief that turned to fright, he let go of his dagger at the last moment, bits of his hair cut by Euron’s sword. The pirate king laughed, swinging dagger and sword at the young man. Mana shield, ice dagger, Daylen used his mana for defence and as he was knocked to the floor let out a stream of fire.

“A mini dragon,” Euron laughed, though he still withdrew from the flame.

There were dead men around them, fallen weapons, Daylen picked up an axe and threw it at the Greyjoy. Euron deflected the projectile and swung just as Daylen picked up a buckler, deflecting Euron’s sword.

“A mage, I always knew your kind existed,” Euron remarked.

He kicked Daylen across the face, kicking a sword away from him. Daylen scurried backwards, tripping over a body and landing near the stern of the ship. Euron pinned his arm to hand to the wall with his foot and thrust his dagger forward. The mage felt the piercing sting of the blade in his shoulder, he snarled, glaring at the Greyjoy defiantly. Euron smiled sadistically, but inside he was worried, the Morgal blade dissolved, yet his victim was not in the agony he should have been.

“I can feel it, a poison, surprised aren’t you, I’m already infected with a taint,” the young man’s pupil’s face, leaving only glowing eyes.

“We have no more need for wraiths, you can still die,” Euron said, brandishing his sword.

Euron heard the whirling of metal behind him, felt something fly past his shoulder. The green blade suddenly slammed into the wall above Daylen. His mermaid ally had found the lost blade and partly climbed onto the Silence. In the deep, Ulmo slammed his fist into the Kraken as Daylen rose, head butting the Greyjoy king. As he knocked Euron back, he grabbed the sword and Ulmo called for his trident. Ulmo drove his trident downwards, piercing the Kraken, pushing the creature down, down and even further into the depths. Its master cried out, feeling the flames Daylen surrounded his sword with. Their blades clashed, but Daylen did not relent, pushing Euron back with each step until he was on the edge of the ship. Euron screamed, feeling the sword cut through his eye, his opponent rolled back and thrust his hand forward.

“How’s this for a mini dragon?” Daylen asked.

The ball of fire he unleashed on Euron consumed the wraith, his cry drowned out by the gentle singing emanating from the water. Wounds were healed, morale regained, Ulmo dragged the monster to the deep and its master was sent flying away from his ship. Daylen stumbled back, his hand shaking, he leant on his sword and touched the wound on his shoulder. The blade held some kind of poison, but Daylen’s blood was already poisoned. He wondered if the taint of the darkspawn was not just limited to his world. The silence collapsed and Daylen swam to the safety of the familiar Siren’s call. Flags of parley were raised and the three ships gathered in a calm place. Isabela smirked, looking out at the fish people, some catching her gaze before they dived under.

“HO! IS THIS BOY YOURS?” one of the crewmen of the ship with the skull and crossbones asked.

Relief crossed the faces of the Siren’s call, tearful joy filled the eyes of Petra and Kinnon and Cullen let out a sigh of relief.

“Bevin,” Daylen called to the boy who declared himself his student.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” he said.

A well dressed lord walked to the railing of the Velaryon ship, his cornrow styled hair white like the Valyrians he was descended from.

“I do not know your colours, who do I speak to?” the man asked.

“Daylen Amell of the Grey Wardens, Cullen Rutherford of the Templars and Isabela, captain of the Siren’s Call,” Isabela said, professional, any compliments on the lord’s good looks would come later if at all considering he was a fellow captain.

“I am Corlys Velaryon,” the lord identified himself, and Daylen guessed that the younger man behind him was likely his cousin/brother (history often alternated between the two).

Bevin stepped back, giving room for the captain of the other ship. He wore a white shirt with a leather vest, gloves and boots with bronze buckles on them. The man had a firm and long chin, well shaved leaving a goatee above his lip, the tips of his moustache had been curved like hooks. He had a rapier strapped to his belt, with a red and silver guard that enveloped the fist. A red cape hung off of his shoulder, flapping with the wind.

“Either you drifted into this fog, or you’re going to Neverland, either way I think we can help one another,” the captain said.

“And who are you?” Corlys asked.

The man bowed dramatically, keeping his smile as he winked at his audience.

“Captain James Hook at your service!”

Next Chapter 8: The wrath of monsters

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 8: Wrath of monsters

All children grow up, except one

That’s how the story often begins, the story of the Pan. But this one’s very different, darker, grimmer if you will.

We start in a world perhaps like your own, perhaps infinitely different. The golden age of piracy just ended, William Kidd, Anne Bonny, Henry Morgan and perhaps the most famous of them all Edward Teach, also known by his nom de guerre Blackbeard, these pirates have become the stuff of legends. One English child growing up within the imperial colonies heard these stories and idolised these pirates.

The pirate republic, privateers abandoned by the empire rebuilt themselves into sailing nations, seeking riches, promoting freedom, the law being the will of the crew and the call of the wind. But this was just the story, the romance of piracy; I think we all know the reality of it. It didn’t stop the boy from dressing up, from pretending that he was Blackbeard raiding across the new frontier.

“Enough boy,” spoke his father.

“Edward Teach took slaves from ships only so he could sell them himself. He died a coward ambushed, mad from his life of sin!”

“Your heroes made their names and their living stealing from others, what do you think they did with those not worth bringing into their crew?”

Are there parents amongst you, you must understand how it can seem to a child. To the moral parent though, they’re just trying to teach their son right from wrong.

“It’s time for you to grow up!”

Words no child like’s hearing.

Peter especially didn’t want to hear them. So he carried on, playing with the servants of the household. He took his father’s sword, pranced around the house and made the children of the servant’s his crew. But when they began to complain that Peter was too rough, he exercised his right as captain. The first time he killed someone was likely an accident, the reality probably hit him quite hard.

“You mad child, I have tried, I have tried so hard, I’ll send you away, back to England, they must have doctors to treat whatever it is wrong with you!”

No comfort, no protection, Peter felt lost, a poor little lost boy being forced to grow up. His second kill most definitely wasn’t an accident. The servants fled the estate and called for the law. Abandoned and feeling truly lost, Peter’s story should have ended.

But then some little shit fairy decided to save his life.

“Pardon my French,” the captain said.

James Hook sat with his feet up on Isabela’s table. She knocked his feet off with her hips, both smirking at one another. Cullen cleared his throat, uncomfortable from what he saw as a type of tension between the two captains. Lord Corlys stood across the room, holding a cup of water he had been offered, his sword and axe both resting on the table with Hook’s rapier.

“Were you active during this time?” he asked the apparent pirate.

“Oh no, my grandfather hadn’t even been born during this time,” James said.

“Impossible,” the lord of Driftide said.

“As impossible as you being here, with people who also should not be here,” James raised his cup, filled with rum unlike Corlys’s.

“The boy we encountered, the flying boy, he took several children, we intend to free them,” Daylen said.

“Admirable, I wish I could say I was in it for the children, but I’ve got a personal score to settle with Pan,” James stated.

“I seek to save my grandchildren,” Corlys said.

“Lucerys and Jaecerys?” Daylen asked.

“There will be rewards for assisting in the rescue of the princes,” Corlys said.

“Paradoxically we’re already trying to save princes,” Isabela said.

“Lord Corlys, who is the king of Westeros, to you?” Daylen asked.

Corlys looked at the young man as if he had grown another head. He was already cautious with the mage, having witnessed his power, a power that had been said to have faded from his people and remained only in their links with their dragons. Shrugging he entertained the madness of Daylen’s question and began to explain his history.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen rules the seven kingdoms alongside my son and her prince-consort. Their two children were taken from Dragonstone, I deployed ships to find them, we were able to track them to the island, this ‘Neverland’,” Corlys explained.

“What do the boys looks like?”

“Silver hair, mixed skin tone, lighter than my own,” Corlys shrugged.

Daylen put a finger to his chin, humming, putting a few ideas together and coming to the conclusion that the Corlys in front of him was of a world where Rhaenyra truly had children with her first husband. There was a short belch from Hook, who chuckled when the others looked at him.

“Forgive me, I would love to explore everyone else’s back story, but I do have the story of my monster to finish you know,” he said.

“Knowledge is power,” Daylen said, urging Hook to carry on.

Rhaenyra scratched her hair, or what was left of it. She couldn’t tie it into a braid anymore, the boy had cut it to just above shoulder length. Their wrestle in the hay ended with him coating her hair in dye and her kicking his balls in retaliation. When Rhaenyra got out of the barn, her tears were only stopped when she heard Jon yell in frustration. From there, horses were prepared and they rode. Usually Rhaenyra had seen King’s Landing from the window of a carriage. Their royal progresses were intended to show the young princes and princesses the world they would be ruling. But Rhaenyra had never truly been amongst the people, she trotted alongside Jon and saw the starving, the struggling. The only thing that seemed different about the city, compared to her time, was that there were more people. Everything else about the city seemed to be the same, as if nothing had really changed about their country.

It cemented to Rhaenyra the idea that none of it had mattered. Her son, her brother, none of them had changed anything, no great advancement of culture or invention had come from any king. She wondered if a queen would have made some sort of innovation, promoted new ideas, she wanted to believe she could. Her cousin, Rhaenys, the queen who never was confronted her with the reality, that she knew and accepted the world for what it was. A world of men, Rhaenyra held firm to that, especially when the bastard man shoved a bag towards her.

“What is this?”

“Clothes, something a bit more common,” he said.

“What is wrong with what I’m wearing?” Rhaenyra asked.

“No offence to my father but he clearly didn’t intend for it to be used for incognito work,” Jon said.

Rhaenyra looked at what the bastard had gathered for her. There was nothing with embroidery on it, nothing elegant except for the sash. The bastard stood watching her.

“I’m hardly going to run off into the wilderness, you don’t have to watch me, unless you’ve never seen anything of the sort before,” she stated, smiling teasingly at him.

“I haven’t,” Jon said.

“Truly? When my father and uncle were young they must have fucked their way through half of the pleasure houses in the realm,” Rhaenyra said.

“And look what happened to them both,” Jon muttered.

Unfortunately, the princess heard him, snatching a log from the floor she threw it as hard as she could at Jon. It was soggy and soft, but the impact alone knocked Jon back. Tyron snorted, putting his head back into the book he was reading. Jon took a deep breath, gritting his teeth together. He was about to go over to her when he stopped, seeing her bare back, naked skin like milk folding the scale coat, putting on the brown trousers, wiggling her hips to make it easier. Jon quickly turned away wiping his face and shooting a glare at Tyrion when the man grinned.

He resolved to go in the opposite direction and hunt. When he came back with a couple of rabbits in tow, he saw Rhaenyra as the new woman they needed her to be. The brown trousers had a blue sash over them, covering the leather belt she had taken from her earlier wardrobe. Her rough beige shirt also had a vest over it, lightly armoured along with the gloves he had gotten for her.

“Thank you for this,” Rhaenyra unsheathed the knife he had left in the bag.

It was a practical one, ideal for cutting through bone if necessary. He hadn’t enough time to make her a sword, unlike the ‘needle’ he had commissioned for his cousin. Again Jon glared when he saw Tyrion smirking at them. The warmth and playfulness across Rhaenyra’s face faded when Jon began skinning the rabbit he had taken. Her skin paled and she put her hand to her mouth, Tyrion shaking his head as Jon smirked when the girl withdrew to the bushes. He could hear her vomit, stomp her feet in frustration and say a silent prayer before she returned. A few minutes passed and Jon let her have the first piece of meat from the spit roasted rabbit. She pulled at the meat, grimacing as she chewed. Tyrion ate next, holding a piece of meat and taking out another book from his bag.

“You’re always reading,” Rhaenyra remarked.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asked and Jon smiled fondly.

Rhaenyra asked if it was a trap, the same one Jon once felt he was being drawn into.

“You see a dwarf, to my father’s disapproval my uncle Gerion taught me the art of jumping and flipping, and I can buy the finest armour and weapons, but I’ll never be the fighter my uncle Tygett and brother Jaime are. What I do have however is my mind, and a mind need’s books like a sword needs a whetstone,” he gestured to Jon’s own blade as he spoke.

“You think you’d be a good strategist?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Tactician, it helps to know things others don’t, your father, I suspect he may have been a good man to befriend, surrounded himself with people who knew more of rule than he did, as most kings do. I mean no offence to him or you my lady when I say that it was men like Otto Hightower who were ruling before him,” Tyrion explained.

“Otto was never king, just the hand,” she said.

“But when Jaeherys was too old to sit his councils, it was Otto who ruled, this even I know,” Jon said.

“He was nothing but a traitor, a traitor who turned his daughter towards my father and against me,” Rhaenyra said.

“I was you who turned her against you, you could have made peace with the fact your father had a son, succeeded the throne to Aegon, at least tried to have had natural children with Laenor, but everything history says, no matter which side was favoured, black or green, it’s clear Rhaenyra it was your entitled behaviour that destroyed whatever friendship you had with Alicent, and nearly destroyed the realm,” Jon explained.

She tightened her grip on the dagger, playing with the handle for a moment before she shook her head.

“I betray my marriage and have bastards and get called the villain, your father has you and gets called a king, it doesn’t seem fair does it?” she asked.

She stood up, throwing away the piece of the rabbit she had been given and walking into the forest.

“Don’t go too far,” Jon called after her.

“You know there is a reason most people from the south don’t appreciate northern honesty,” Tyrion muttered.

“Tyrion?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up!”

Outside Oldtown

Grog and meat was littered across the ground, no discipline, no cheer, exactly how Hobbane liked it. He breathed in the air, took in the sight of his fellow Uruks and the Morgul runts, smiling a sharp fanged smile as the camp broke out into bloodshed.

“That’s my grog Morgul runt,” one of the Uruks held an Orc by the neck.

He was stabbed in the back by one of the smaller Orcs, who then had his head caved into the dirt. Hobbane took a deep breath and let out a roar that cut through the rowdy crowd.

“FORM THE DIVISION! THE HUMANS ARE COMING!” he roared.

“PREPARE THE PRISONERS!” the keeper Chainrec stomped off to the cages, the Morgal Orc wore some basic armour, but mainly decorated himself with shackles and chains.

Hobbane sipped his grog, he was old though he did not look it. He witnessed the wounding of Gothmog by the Dunedain, saw the ring first cut from the finger of Sauron and was there when the Dwarf scum retook Erebor. Like the elves their sires were descended from, Orcs lived long, kept their strength and their rage. Hobbane was a taller species of Orc, an Uruk, not the Uruk-Hai the white wizard bred, the breed Hobbane spat upon. They were new born pups compared to him, he crossed his powerful arms together, one protected by a chainmail sleeves whilst his right arm was covered in thick plates of gladiatorial armour that went up to the shoulder guard. The rest of his bronze and iron armour looked as intimidating and ungraceful as the rest of his brethren. He scoffed at the humans for making their protective gear look good, even for the elegant style of their weapons. His poleaxe had thorns underneath the double edged blade; the tri-spike at the tip of it had even more thorns for rending flesh. The wind blew, disturbing the white Mohawk on his grey skinned head.

“Would have been a good day for a siege,” he heard the archer Boltagar seethe.

The Morgul Orc was much shorter than Hobbane, not by Hobbit standards; he was only shorter than most men because he slouched. His curved bow had the ornaments of prey, ears, beaks, tongues, whatever he wanted aimed to hit first. Hobbane knew that Boltagar was no deft marksman, but he had been able to follow Sauron’s commands and whip (literally too) his fellow archers into a disciplined division. Once the grog was empty and the command went out, the army began their preparations, putting on the helmets to conceal their faces. They wanted to keep their appearances a secret for just a little longer, let the approaching human army believe they were fighting humans. The shock and fear itself was a tactic, this Hobbane understood as he slid the visor over his head. It hid his scowl at least as he looked at Mordor’s allies. Hobbane had fought alongside Goblins and even other men, the Oliphant riders, the Easterlings, Black Dunedain, but the Darkspawn were something else entirely. Sauron was called the dark lord, but there was purpose behind his conquest, a purpose that Hobbane didn’t care for but nonetheless understood. Hobbane wanted to kill, he was strong, and the weak had no rights, they could only be trampled by him and others who had strength. Responsibility, duty, all lies created by the elves and humans, morality was the even more beautiful life.

For as much as Hobbane hated humans for their hypocrisies and weaknesses, he despised the Darkspawn even more. They looked somewhat like Orcs, yet no curved ears, the Darkspawn elves, elf-spawn if you would, they had the appearances of skinless rats, always hiding and waiting to strike. Darkspawn dwarves, the Genlocks were small, quick, but their upper body strength was surprising, they could make powerful shield walls or silent assassins. The majority Hurlocks were the Darkspawn based on humans, as tall and as broadly built as most human men should be if they fought, possessing all of the savagery expected of fighters. Then there were the ogres, the Darkspawn that were apparently based on a race called Qunari, though Hobbane had heard the name be applied to a religion. They were like trolls, towering beasts of raw strength, great maws that showcased their inner savagery with the added fear that horns could give. Besides their physical capabilities though, the Darkspawn were everything Hobbane knew his brethren would not be, united (at least for now) focused and organised. They growled and snarled, but never spoke, yet the Orcs of Mordor were expected to work with these creatures.

‘And that damn song,’ Hobbane snarled.

It wasn’t a song how the elves or humans would recognise music, they would probably find it even more eerie than Orcs did. The song was grotesque, a series of whispers in a language similar to black speech. It echoed out of the Darkspawn and lingered like a fog around them as they fought. Hobbane narrowed his eyes as one of the Hurlock Alphas looked towards him, slightly taller than the other Hurlocks, this one in black and bronze armour and wore a horned helmet that covered his face.

This was the Vanguard, the leader of the Darkspawn that carried the will of the dark dragon god (or whatever the hell it was, Hobbane didn’t care) that they worshipped and obeyed. Hobbane and his fellow Orcs burned, wrecked, slaughter and stole, but the Darkspawn, they corrupted the very grass beneath them. Their army formed up outside the city, making their way to point a few miles from the city but not near where the human army gathered. Hobbane spotted three flags, a grand black flag with the image of a red, three headed dragon. Then there was the flag with two Griffins on it, one red on a white background and the other white on a red field, both facing one another as if in combat. The Darkspawn seemed to snarl at the site of the griffin, as if some old grudge had been remembered. Then there was the dull flag, purple with some white lines, maybe they had run out of creatures to use.

The Uruk tensed, stepping back with the other Orcs, giving room for a rider to trot through the army. Humans loved their negotiations, their chances to talk; Sauron entertained their ideas of surrender. The rider was the embodiment of Sauron’s final offer to those who opposed him, as well as a taste of the horrors to come. Hobbane grinned; he wished he could see the human’s reactions when they saw the Mouth of Sauron.

Griff rode out with Hasty, their bearers beside them, Lord Connington’s fur collared cloak flapped behind him. They came to the centre of the battlefield, surprised by the appearance of the army in front of the gates.

“Clearly the warrior’s wisdom is not with them, they yearn to meet the stranger,” Bonifer said.

Though he wouldn’t have put it so eloquently, Griff knew the point the man was trying to make. Sieges were best fought from castle walls that offered the first advantage. But they could have had complete confidence that they could keep the royal army from getting near Oldtown. If that was the case, Griff already began to believe that the enemy general was arrogant, that they would have an advantage. Already they outnumbered the enemy forces, with reinforcements expected from Houses Dayne and Florent. Edric Dayne, lord of Starfall was just a boy, but Alester Florent was a man grown who had taken part in tourneys and was a fine knight, ruling Brightwater keep well.

“Here comes their general,” Griff said.

The rider on the black horse grew closer, and the more of him Griff saw, the more horrified he felt. He at first thought it was a trick of the rain or the distance. But the horse, at first seemed too thin to carry the man atop it; its face was skull like, with burning flames in its eye sockets and nostrils. Then there was the rider, tall and garbed in black and black was his lofty helm. He trotted towards the shocked Westerosi knights, his mouth, surrounded by cracks across his pale skin, expanded into a smile that showed his fanged and rotted teeth.

“I am the Mouth of Sauron!” he introduced himself.

Bonifer steadied his horse, the mare was as terrified as he was, his lip trembled and he struggled to come up with some way of putting this that paid tribute to the gods. In his eyes, the creature in front of him was not of their gods, a mockery of the crone’s wisdom, the worst of the stranger’s inevitability and the most grotesque aspect of the warrior.

“My name is Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost and Hand of the king,” Griff declared.

“Hand of the King?” the Mouth echoed. “Not queen, not spoilt queen Rhaenyra? Not the hypocrite queen Daenerys? Nor Cersei Lannister the pathetic? Perhaps mad king Aerys? King Robert the laughable? King Viserys the coward?”

“King Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name,” Griff snarled, steadying his horse and glaring at the ‘man’.

“Ah, the good king, the singer king, is it duty or love that compelled you to come here man who thinks himself a griffin?” the Mouth asked.

“Love is duty,” Griff felt his hands shaking, the Mouth’s accusation, it was clear to him.

Rhaegar who was his king, his friend, and could never be more, no matter how much Griff desired. It was no different from Bonifer, who loved Rhaegar’s mother, sweet and kind Rhaella.

“We have the Lord of Oldtown and his son, and an assortment of other prisoners we are prepared to release regardless of whether you surrender or not,” the Mouth stated.

“You are outnumbered, you will not make it back to the city,” Griff said.

“We offer one mercy, surrender, lay down your weapons or return to your king and inform him of Sauron’s dominion. Deliver the terms, or accept the terms and return to your roost,” the Mouth said.

“What terms does this ‘Sauron’ offer?” Griff asked.

“Return to your cities and keeps, and swear never to assail Sauron the great in arms, open or secret ever again. You will be allowed to govern your lands, but you must melt down your swords and pay tribute in perpetuity to Sauron, whom will hold dominion over all,” the Mouth explained.

“Your lord thinks of himself as a conqueror? Then I offer you this, surrender, return your prisoners, withdraw from Old Town and fair King Rhaegar will find you other lands to occupy, and you will pay tribute to him and his heirs,” Griff explained.

The Mouth cackled, turning his horse and trotting back.

“We shall release the prisoners either way, know that there will not be a second chance for you man whom thinks himself a griffin, or the men behind you, they will all die on this day!”

The Mouth of Sauron began to ride back, Griff and Bonifer returned to their armies, putting on their helmets and drawing their swords. Their men rallied, beating spears and swords against shields and awaiting the order to march.

“SHIELDS!” Bonifer called out.

Projectiles came from the catapults the enemy had set up. Griff braced himself for rocks, objects struck the shields around him and some men cried out in horror when they looked at what had been launched at them. They were heads and faces frozen in permanent fright, faces rotten with flies coming out of their mouths. The enemy’s prisoners, Griff looked into the eyes of the old man of Old Town’s son and felt his anger rise. He raised his sword and gave out the call to the cavalry, looking to Bonifer, he could see the same anger in the old knight. By the seven there would be blood this day, justice for those senselessly slaughtered at Old Town.

“CHARGE!” Griff roared.

Concerning Neverland, that little island we’re travelling to, it’s at the crossroads of dimensions. Imagine that your home, your world, whatever else lies beyond it, is just one plain of existence. Many existences lie next to, beyond, around that world, perspective isn’t even a thing. Peter sometimes says follow the next star, straight on till etc, etc but even he doesn’t have a perfect recollection of where to go. Even his perspective is limited when it comes to giving directions to Neverland.

It is a place where the fairies live, not the godmothers of stories, or the ones waiting to come and collect your teeth. These fairies exist within Neverland and are not born in the traditional sense. They are the products of imagination, it’s difficult to fully understand, even they might struggle but they are created from ideas, emotions, the embodiment of the fragile and precious childhood every child has. Perhaps that’s the best way to describe them; they stand for our childhood, forever glowing with light, keeping our happy thoughts.

But there was one fairy, one little bitch of a fairy…sorry, bit unfair on my part. She felt, she yearned, she was different from other fairies, perhaps the first of her kind to think as she did. You can imagine it, you probably are it, that one person who thought ‘why should I be this?’ Like a house wife wishing to be more, or a man believing he shouldn’t just love women. Worlds are filled with those people who feel for the first time what society deems they shouldn’t.

Tinkerbell as we called her heard the cries of a boy who did not wish to grow up. Rather than help him through this time, rather than influence with her dust his mind, to help him cope with all he had done, she took him. Thus Peter was the first human to arrive in a land that never was supposed to be arrived at. He experienced the full brunt of Neverland’s magic, intoxicating high, happy thoughts all collided with him, every game that a child wanted to play, every joy and Peter wanted to keep it going.

So he started bringing people there, children who could play with him. His lost boys, children like him who didn’t want to grow up. But because Peter had taken all of the magic, he was the only one who wouldn’t age and that began to be a problem for him. His lost boys became men, with all the feelings and yearnings that came with it. Though Peter was still a child, he was clever, creative, he brought girls to the island, girls that could be his lost men’s wives and their children would become his play mates.

Their families, their communities grew and they became Peter’s play mates. The Indians for his cowboys and the pirates for his heroes. He did anything and everything to keep the game going.

“You were one of them weren’t you, one of the lost boys?” Daylen asked.

The people in the cabin looked to James, who held the cup to his lips. To his credit his hands didn’t shake as he put it on the table.

“I had to work at a factory, a place where a lot of machines clicked, surrounded by older boys whose voices were breaking. My mum needed the money to look after my darling baby brother, it felt so unfair to the little boy me. Then one day Peter arrives with his shadow, and he offers me a place to play to escape and it felt great at first. A few days, then a week, a month, I asked when I would go home which made him throw a wobbly, he’d spend a day sulking then we would play again. Then the games get more intense, ‘let’s fight the pirates this time, let’s hang out with the mermaids, the Indians have this great pipe weed so let’s steal from them’. It came the point where I was more focused on staying alive than worrying about getting home,” he explained.

“But you still missed your mother and your brother,” Cullen said, his tone making it sound like he spoke from experience.

As Daylen recalled, Cullen had a brother and sister, like most Templars he joined the Chantry young to study first before he squired.

“One day I confronted him, said outright that he had no intention of letting me, or any of us go home. So he led us to the beach, promising we’d get to leave Neverland, as the shit of a crocodile,” Hook huffed.

“A freaking crocodile,” Daylen gasped.

“Oh yeah, gobbled up most of the children, the little shit fed it a clock, so we’d always know when it was coming, his idea of a metaphorical joke (he thought it was hilarious). I’d never swum so fast before, I thought for sure the croc would get me, then the Jolly Roger came and Smee pulled me up,” Hook explained.

“Who the fuck is Smee?” Isabela asked.

“Good man Smee, he became my first mate,” James said.

“And the captain?”

“Hook, reasonable man, much more than his predecessor apparently,” James muttered.

“You mean…”

“I was not the first captain Hook, before me there was Dustin Hook, then Jason Hook and I believe the very first Hook was a lovely gentleman by the name of Gerard, asked Peter politely if he could go home and got his hand cut off for his troubles,” James explained.

“It’s like a story I heard on the seas of the dread pirate Robert, passing his name onto others he found worthy,” Isabela said.

“It was all part of the game you see, we all thought we were special, Peter’s best friend, he intended to have the croc bite my hand off so he could send me down the path of becoming the new Hook. Funny how fate works,” James muttered as he finished his cup and slammed it onto the table. “If you wish to save the children,” he stood and gestured for some paper from Isabela’s desk. “You’ll need to go to their tree house, where he keeps the children he takes to indoctrinate them. Before the realms started to shake and merge together, Peter had collected two boys and a girl, the latter he intended to be their ‘mother’,” the pirate went about drawing a map, not a perfect one but still enough to give Daylen and his companions, Corlys included now, an idea of the structure of the island.

It had a mountain structure that resembled a skull; on one side was a rocky region with caverns linking to the sea. Then there were two jungle regions, vast areas that made up the majority of the island with one being occupied by settlers and another where a tree apparently stood. James put an X over the tree and pointed to it.

“That’s where you’ll find your children,” he said, Corlys and Isabela already began to run the calculations, measuring the possible distance from the beach.

“Will Peter be there?” Daylen asked.

“Pan will be anywhere the game calls to him, I’m going to have him come here,” James pointed to Skull Mountain.

“A duel?” Corlys asked.

“Fuck that, an ambush, I’m going to put my boot on that little fuck’s neck and then twist it, make him pay for all the years he took from us,” James said, his once gentlemanly demeanour replaced with a snarl.

“You realise that he’s made you into the villain he gets to fight, he’s made you part of his game,” Daylen said.

“Created a scenario in which he would be able to anticipate you,” Corlys added.

“So what do you suggest I do?” Hook asked.

“Oh sweet thing, it’s obvious, Pan is playing Shepard’s six, we however need to play Wicked Grace,” Isabela said.

“Change the game,” Cullen realised.

Daylen took the rum bottle, refilling Hook’s cup and nodding to him. The captain grinned before he took the cup to his lips.

Outside Oldtown

The basic tactic of warfare when you outnumbered your enemy was to charge and overwhelm them. That was Griff’s goal, driven by rage and justice; he rode forward, his cavalry stampeded across the field with the infantry behind him. First, they would eliminate the main force, and then retake the city. Griff levelled his lance, aiming for the forward formation of the enemy troops. He heard screams behind him, the result of a volley of archers, but there was no hill and thus no advantage for the archers. There was the crack of armour and bone, the crunch beneath the hooves of his horse. He felt his lance pierce one of the enemy soldiers. But then, the ‘man’ roared, and Griff heard his horse whine before he was thrown off of his mount.

When Griff awoke, he heard snarls around him, screams of terrified men that drowned out the familiar sounds of battle. Standing, he drew his sword, feeling a bump behind his back, his eyes widened when he saw a man getting his throat ripped open, not by a sword or dagger but teeth. Not the teeth of a man, but a creature, laughing at his victim’s agony and death throes. The white skinned creature shoved the dead body back and began swinging the sword that was as grotesquely built as he was. Griff stumbled forward, looking at the brawling and battling soldiers around him. His knights were being thrown to the floor, battered with clubs and axes, infantry men were skewered by thorny spears and pikes that seemed more like fishermen tools than smith forged weapons.

‘This can’t be real,’ he thought, feeling the blood on his head.

He must have been suffering some vision from his fall. A body flew into him and he heard the bellow of a great beast. The horned creature crushed soldiers beneath its feet and swung its arm in a wide arc, taking out both human soldier and monster. Griff stood, witnessing the horned devil pick a man up and bend his body with a simple flex of its hand. But the fear did not overwhelm him, he remembered Rhaegar, remembered the torment of the man’s dreams, his fears of the Others. There was madness in that before, of a threat told by mothers to their children at bedtime. But monsters were real, they were real and Griff raged, swinging his sword and cutting down one of the ugly creatures. He drew the dagger from his belt, duel wielding, stabbing with the short dagger and slashing with the sword. A short creature, a rat like monster, a monster as tall as the Mountain, he desperately cut his way through. Then he caught sight of Bonifer, the old knight still fought well, his helmet still covering his face as he rode atop his horse, hacking monsters with his swords. He stabbed a monster in the eye and then kicked it to the ground. His horse wined, raising its legs high before slamming down on one of the smaller creatures.

“REFORM THE RANKS! REFORM THE RANKS!” Griff yelled.

He deflected a shrieking monsters blow, slashing its throat and stabbing a creature through the gut.

“TO ME MEN! TO ME!” Griff cried out.

Rushing forward, he tackled an axe wielding beast to the ground and stabbed it through the hip. It snarled at him, trying to bite him when he bashed the monster’s head in with his pommel. Stumbling to his feet, Griff sheathed his dagger and reversed the grip of his sword, holding it at the half sword position. Clubbing with the pommel, and aiming the tip of his sword, he killed any creature that got in his way, whilst his men began to form ranks. Those small creatures got in their way, knocking them down, using wall like shields to bash their heads in. Bonifer rode cutting through several of the raging, lizard imps.

“WARRIOR! FATHER! MOTHER! CRONE! SMITH! MAIDEN! STRANGER!” he yelled a rallying cry.

 Hobbane loved it when his enemy was determined; it made victory all the sweeter. Swinging his pole arm, he cleaved through multiple men at once, these men, taken from their farms, given minimal armour, they were the warm up. He crossed blades with a few knights, supposedly ‘noble’ men that had never had to have their worth proved beyond tournaments, or against hungry thieves. Well Hobbane was hungry, his brethren were hungry, and they relished in the enjoyment of their meals. Even the Darkspawn engaged in a good bit of food, tearing flesh with their teeth, relentlessly crushing armour. Hobbane stabbed three men through the chest, throwing them off and cutting through a horse. There was an old knight on there, a fighter, different from the rest. Hobbane yearned to cross swords with a worthy opponent. So he indulged in the small fry, giving the knight time to recover.

Bonifer felt his skull shaking underneath his helmet. He stood up, lifting his visor up to watch the carnage around him. It was a trap, nay, a nightmare, he beheaded a creature and looked at it, an individual face, monstrous yes but they were not automatons, different ‘people’ that shared the same relish in suffering. A relish Bonifer had not seen since the mad king damned Aerys, a man most thought a monster. But even he, for his love of fire, for his violations of his wife, was a pale comparison to the creatures that hacked at the brave men Griff and Bonifer had led. He blocked several blows from a couple of grey skinned creatures, slashing one across the face and stabbing another through the neck, he went back to back with the lord of Griffon’s roost.

To Starfall and Brightwater they looked, seeing the outline of troops, their reinforcements. Then they heard it, an eerie whisper in their ears, a chant that echoed in their heads. Bonifer saw not the banner of the Florents, but instead they saw a green flag, a flag that had a worm like, black dragon with a snake alongside it. Two knights sat on black horses, one of whom in armour Bonifer had recognised from Tourneys, Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar of House Dayne. The other knight wore black and purple armour, a red cloak with a high collar.

And when he drew his sword, the blade erupted, glowing with purple fire that shot into the sky.

Bonifer quickly turned, cutting down a monster, feeling the Earth shake as the traitorous Dayne’s cavalry came down the hill. He cut down another, and another, locking blades with a smaller creature before it hit his hip with its mace. Bonifer stumbled back, quickly stabbing the monster through the eye. His breaths became as heavy as his sword. The old knight was able to slash another of his enemies when he felt a fierce pain in his right eye. His fingers shook as he touched the arrow that had slid through his visor. Bonifer’s knees wobbled and his sword fell out of his hand. He couldn’t hear anything, even his pain had dulled.

“Rhaella,” he whispered before he crashed into the ground.

Hobbane dragged the skewered old knight by his leg, cutting down some more of the bit players. Fear began to consume them, followed by self preservation. Even the knight who fancied his king turned and ran, armour clinking as he sprinted. The Uruk’s enjoyment of the possible chase turned to a scowl when he saw the sky darken. Orcs knew some magic, but not to the degree of the Darkspawn emissaries and the damn humans they had to work with. A cloud of fire followed the Griffin lord’s retreating forces.

‘Still, pretty fireworks,’ Hobbane grinned, dropping the knight and watching the great comets of fire crash down on those whom fled.

“RHAELLA!” Hobbane raised his eyebrows in surprise.

The old knight still had some fight in him, bellowing that strange name and brandishing his dagger. He was about to slide it into the Uruk’s back when he was knocked to the side. Bonifer screamed, feeling his skin melt inside his armour. Engulfed by the flames, the knight was finally impaled by Hobbane. Rather than feeling gratefulness for the assistance, Hobbane looked to the man on the horse, the knight in the red cloak. Fire glowed in the man’s hand before it faded.  As the knight rode away, Hobbane looked down at the crispy remains and huffed.

‘Maybe these humans won’t die so pathetically after all,’ he thought.

He grinned with anticipation for the next battle.

Next Chapter 9: Greater poison

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 9: Greater poison

Boromir shared in the relief of his comrades, the city they approached was certainly not Osgiliath or Minas Tirith. It was however a spectacle in itself, protected by three winding walls, when they walked through the gate alongside caravans of merchants and travellers, Boromir saw that the walls themselves contained labyrinths of winding alleys. The Threefold gate allowed people to bypass these obstacles, offering a path through the streets themselves. Their architecture was mixed, some buildings having differences that spoke of some sort of cultural absorption. Many of the people though had the skin tone expected of living in such a part of the world.

“Lemons, lemons, you find any better unless you sneak into the Martell gardens!”

“Place your bets, odds good on the scorpion, but this snake is a champion!”

“Pear cider, I guarantee you you’ll find no more refreshing a drink!”

The Dornish selling their wares was something familiar to Boromir, and he suspected familiar to his new companions. The dwarf, Varric brushed up against a passerby, suddenly holding a pouch in one hand and taking out his own.

“It’s all gold but marked very differently,” Varric said.

“You just…” Boromir looked at the dwarf in shock before snatching the bag from him.

“Excuse me Ser,” the Gondorian ran after the man Varric had stolen from.

“I am no Ser,” the young man said.

“Forgive me, but you dropped this,” Boromir said.

The young man took the coin pouch Boromir offered him, judging whatever was missing by squeezing the bag. He eyed Boromir for a moment, looking at his dry lips, unkempt beard and roughly shaved hair.

“Thank you Ser,” he said, taking a few coins and giving them to Boromir.

“Oh sir, I could not accept this, information though would be helpful,” he said.

“Well, if you insist, I’m always grateful not to part with coins, what do you need to know?” the young man asked.

“What is this place?” Boromir asked.

“Sunspear, you are not a drunk man I see, we don’t mind crazy in Dorne,” the man said.

“My mind is not broken, simply damaged, but you have felt the land shaking have you not?” Boromir asked.

“Oh it’s been felt from Dorne to the wall apparently, so you have wandered into a place you know nothing of, I do question your sanity.”

“Do not question our sanity, question our quest,” Jake said, suddenly moving up to Boromir.

The young Dornish man looked down at Jake, his nakedness barely concealed by the Elvish cloak he borrowed from Boromir. Varric soon joined the storyteller with a confident swagger and smile.

“Indeed with quests come glory, and there could be a great deal of glory, or at least remembrance to the man who can show foreign dignitaries to the rulers of Dorne,” the dwarf explained.

“You are not like the imp of the Lannisters I see, that alone is of interest, but what is this talk of glory and quests?” the Dornishman asked.

“Why the shaking land of course, our uniqueness, the dwarf man, the elf girl, the naked man, we are all here because of the shaking land and whether by fate or design our paths have led us to Dorne, beautiful, hot, scolding hot Dorne, where might one get a cask of water here?” Jake asked.

“The point is my young friend, Boromir son of Denethor here is what you might class as a foreign diplomat, a representative of the nation of Gondor. Whilst my party are lords and a lady of Kirkwall, on a mission of great political importance to the Viscountess Marian Hawke, heck Sir Carver Hawke here is the Viscountess’s brother,” Varric explained.

“Hawke isn’t the vi…”

“Merrill,” Carver snapped at the elf woman.

“I am the squire for a knight, you are no knight,” the Dornishman said, looking Carver over.

The brother of Marian Hawke matched the man’s look with a glare, though was taken aback by the way he was being looked over by the Dornishman. Boromir stepped in between them, his hands raised diplomatically.

“We do not ask for luxury or quarters, only a chance to speak with someone who may be able to make our concerns heard by the rulers of this city, you said you are squire for a knight, may we speak with him if possible?” he asked.

“You seek an audience with Prince Oberyn Martell, I am his squire Daemon Sand,” he bowed his head slightly.

“A prince? Is he the heir to the throne?” Merrill asked.

“More like their equivalent of a ruler is prince, like in Starkhaven,” Carver pointed out.

“Correct, Dorne still holds the title of prince and princess, usually used by members of the Martell family, both my master and his brother are prince, what can you offer other than entertainment to the Martells?” Daemon asked.

“A warning of something that threatens their trade routes, perhaps even Sunspear itself, please Ser Sand, get us a meeting at least with Prince Oberyn and we will be in your debt,” Boromir pleaded.

The bastard of Dorne thought for a moment, nodding his head as if thinking of favours he could call upon. He offered his hand to Boromir and they shook, the squire looking to the Martell estate. Daemon removed coins from his poach, giving them to Boromir whom he had deemed trustworthy.

“Perhaps a few extra coins for modesties sake,” Jake said.

“Oh don’t worry,” Daemon looked Jake over and smirked. “Oberyn won’t mind at all, stay at the brothel near here, if you’re not there by the time my prince gets there then it at least won’t be a waste of time for him,” he explained.

Daemon Sand walked away, leaving the company to traverse the streets, the son of Denethor exchanged a glare with Varric.

“Nice adaptation there Hornblower,” the dwarf said.

“You stole from that man,” Boromir said.

“It gave you an excuse to speak with him.”

“He’s right Boromir, you won’t get anything done if you wander the city aimlessly waiting for someone significant to talk to, there were half truths spoken there, obvious lies on your part dwarf,” Jake added as he looked at Varric.

“Embellishment, every storyteller has it, besides the amount of problems Hawke solves in Kirkwall she might as well be the Viscount,” he smirked, crossing his arms over his chest as they walked.

The brothel they had been directed to used mainly curtains for their windows. Boromir gave the coins they had been given to the owner, another Dornishman who introduced himself with the last name Sand.

“I think Sand is what they use to refer to their bastards,” Carver whispered to Boromir as the man led them to a room.

Merrill was wide eyed in wonder, looking through curtains to see lustful sights or cardinal pleasures. It took Varric and Jake to pull her away, the latter, winking at the ladies and men performing their duties.

“Hey soldier, we’re wondering if that sword is to compensate for something,” an off duty prostitute said to Carver, who blushed and grumbled as they walked past her.

“You are correct in your statement of bastards, I have many brothers and sisters in Dorne,” the brothel keeper said.

“It seems a bit mean, humans are basically naming their children dirt,” Merrill said.

“Humans are by their very nature mean miss, in Dorne though, or at least by our idealism we are free of such things, welcome, if you require anything do not hesitate to ask,” the keeper opened the curtains of one room.

He was gone by the time Boromir and his companions entered, only to find a dark haired man in the moment of climax with his lovers, one woman going down on the other as the man finished. Merrill blushed and Carver and Boromir shifted uncomfortably, the storytellers though were watching the moment with grins across their faces. The man pulled back, caressing the cheek of the woman he had been having sex with. She briefly kissed the younger girl she had been with, before pulling the man into a more passionate kiss.

“Pardon me, we should get another room,” Boromir said.

“There are two kinds of people who usually end up in my room, those wishing to experience the pleasures that Oberyn Martell can offer, and those wishing to seize the benefits of the Martell name,” the dark haired man said, separating from his lover and putting on a silk gown.

Boromir turned away from the curtains in shock, looking to the Prince Oberyn Martell, who was already in the act of pouring wine into several cups.

“So to whom do I have the pleasure of serving today?” he asked.

Lucerys and Jaecerys were the names of the Velaryon childen, just two more hostages that they had to rescue. Daylen looked towards Hook’s ship; Bevin had volunteered to stay on the Jolly Roger as a type of envoy. Cullen in turn offered one of his men to go with Bevin, though Daylen still couldn’t shake his concern for the boy. Corlys demanded a mage join his crew, the Seasnake had seen magic first hand, both used in service of his crew and against it.

“I saw a dead man come back to life, the Crabfeeder, first in the Stepstones and again when I aided your crew,” Corlys said.

When no volunteers came forward, Daylen and Cullen were faced with the uncomfortable prospect of choosing. They were the most senior respective mage and templar, and if the Seasnake asked for a mage he would also get a templar to watch over that mage.

“Keili,” Daylen suggested.

“No, we are not pawning Keili off on the nice Westerosi lord,” Cullen said.

“Zither then!”

“We need someone with more finesse, also, less annoying.”

“Zither is fine in social situations,” Daylen said.

“His music can be a bit much, he didn’t have a proper circle upbringing, which includes etiquette training,” Cullen pointed.

“Fine, Kinnon and Petra are senior apprentices, they’ve conducted themselves well both during Uldred’s revolt, the battle of Denerim and the most recent events,” Daylen explained.

“Agreed, but we should only pick one,” Cullen said.

“Velaryon is a nobleman, I can’t say the same for his crew and discipline only goes so far, it would be appropriate to send Kinnon, it would be dangerous for Petra on a ship full of men even with one of your knights with her,” Daylen explained.

“You had no problem with Keili earlier,” Cullen pointed out.

“It only just occurred to me really, the risk to them, and the temptation of Velaryon’s crew, I’ll find Kinnon and tell him to go,” Daylen said.

Cullen nodded and the two men turned to the doorway. Daylen was about to walk through first when he stopped, chuckling slightly.

“What is it?” Cullen asked.

“That, deciding what to do with circle personnel, it was a lot easier than how Irving and Greagoir made it look,” Daylen said.

“There was a reason you were Irving’s apprentice, you being First-Enchanter would have been more likely that me becoming Knight-Commander,” Cullen stated and Daylen shook his head.

“Don’t sell yourself too short there, you’ve done well, especially after what happened with Uldred,” he said.

“Warden-Commander, that’s what some called you, from recruit to leader, Irving was so proud,” Cullen said.

“For all the good that pride did us, funny, he’ll probably outlive me,” Daylen said.

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry, come on, we need to break it to Petra and Kinnon,” Daylen put on a smile, walking out of the cabin.

He made his way to the cargo hold, where he was sure the pair would be. Of course he didn’t know they were a pair until he saw them hiding behind barrels, Petra pushing her hands against Kinnon’s cheeks as she kissed him.

“Oh shit,” Daylen muttered.

He looked down for a moment bashfully as Petra and Kinnon turned. They immediately began to straighten their robes and separated, standing like children caught in the act.

“This was…”

“Exactly what it looked like,” Daylen said as Kinnon sheepishly chuckled.

“It just happened,” Petra said.

“Well it didn’t just happen, we started about a month ago, then there was last week and a bit earlier and…that’s not what you meant and, oh dear,” Kinnon nervously rubbed his forehead as Petra sighed.

“I’m happy for you both, which makes this a bit harder, Lord Velaryon has demanded a mage accompany his crew, considering the aid he gave us…”

“I volunteer Daylen,” Petra cut in.

“Actually I’m going to give Kinnon this task,” Daylen said.

“What?” Petra looked at him in shock.

“I understand a little, Petra’s the better mage, we shouldn’t deprive ourselves of our best spell casters,” Kinnon said.

“That’s not it at all.”

“Daylen, I’m the better choice, I was apprenticed to Wynn, she taught me healing magic and that could prove useful to Velaryon, Kinnon can get nervous too, you need someone with the disposition to make our needs heard,” Petra explained.

“Kinnon can do that just fine, Petra, this is concern for you, the Westerosi they…there are only men on that ship, the only women you’d find in Westerosi armies are camp followers. Lord Velaryon maintains discipline but these men have been deprived of the company of a woman for a long time, if they try something, Cullen’s man alone won’t be able to protect you,” Daylen explained and fear and anger spread across Kinnon’s face.

“They would try to rape her?” he asked.

“That is my concern,” Daylen said.

“Your fear you mean,” Petra said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your fear Daylen, you’re afraid, you’re allowing fear to dictate the decision you make and that’s not you Daylen, when the Templars were awaiting the right of annulment, you didn’t hesitate to come to our aid, even when Jowan wanted to escape you help him, even when Surana…”

“That’s enough,” Daylen said firmly, frowning at Petra. “I’m giving you both an order and under the right of conscription granted to all Grey Wardens, I am telling you, Kinnon is going end of story,” he stated.

Petra shook her head, barging past Daylen with Kinnon.

“I will go, but you have changed Daylen,” he said.

“It isn’t as if I can just stay who I was is it?” Daylen muttered.

He stayed there, taking a deep breath when they were out of sight.

“Damn it,” he whispered.

He adjusted his greaves, cleaned his leather vest and shoulder guard. Then he checked his sword, honing the blade with a whetstone before he did the same for his dagger. He heard the clicking of armour and kept his sword at the ready. Cullen came around the door, was in more formal robes for his armour, a red hood hanging off of his back.

“We’re coming up to land now, are you all right?” he asked.

“Just fine, let’s go and see what all the fuss was about then,” Daylen sheathed his sword and picked up the templar shield with it.

The two came up onto the deck and saw what the other two ships saw, a land straight out a story book, imposing, yet small, not even half the size of the region of Ferelden. There were areas of green and rock, these rocky areas linked with a cove to the south, where the wrecks of ships were. Tallest of the structures was the mountain, though it seemed almost hollow in the way it formed the shape of a skull. Signals were sent out and the landing ships were prepared, several for the party that would be landing on the beaches, and some more for any that they might rescue from the island. A plan had been conceived and a party formed, Captain Hook left the command of the Jolly Roger to Smee, and he joined the boat with Daylen, one of Cullen’s men and another of Isabela’s crew. Cullen and Velaryon would be on others, but they would not be the first to land on the island.

“Is this like a home for you?” Daylen asked Hook, who shook his head.

“My home was a city called London, it was my mom and brother, Peter for all I wanted him to be is no brother of mine,” Hook brandished his rapier, pointing the tip of it at the island.

“Well now there are children here like you, taken from their homes, taken to be used as his play things, you have the chance to end this, to free them,” Daylen explained but Hook scoffed.

“Don’t go looking for a hero in me, any chance of that was destroyed the moment my voice started breaking, when I became an adult, the childish notion of heroism faded away, along with all the happy thoughts,” the captain explained.

“Happy thoughts? That’s something you’ll have so long as you pursue the things that make you happy, are you seriously saying that nothing at all possible you can achieve will make you happy? That making sure those kids get to go home, or at least not live their lives as you did, seeing them smile, won’t that make you smile too?” Daylen asked.

But the motivation wasn’t necessary, Hook knew exactly what he would do to Pan when he saw him.

She gazed into the mirror, seeing what she had once been, the daughter of a lord and companion to a queen. Rhaella Targaryen whom her mother accompanied in the hope of wedding Cersei to her son, the daughter of the Hand of the King, a Hand whose service, proposal and ambition was rejected whilst the mad king coveted his Hand’s wife. She gazed into the mirror, seeing what she could have been, a queen, a mother, a lover, the king that rebelled against his predecessors, and rejected her, yet still she would bear children, all her brother’s, they shared a womb, born together, destined to die together, they belonged together. Jaime, her brother, her twin, the man she killed her friend for when she revealed her dream of marrying him. Whether the king had been Robert or Rhaegar, Jaime should have been hers, her lover, and the father of her children. She would have been the luckiest queen alive, she would have been Naerys Targaryen and Jaime her Aemon, a lion knight as opposed to the dragon knight.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” she asked.

“You are without a doubt!”

She looked away from the mirror, to her husband, his sympathetic gaze hurt more than any slap some fat drunken oaf could give her. Cersei closed her eyes as Rhaegar touched her cheek.

“I know you don’t approve, of Aemon, or my son and daughter, of my choice regarding the girl,” he said.

“You are the king and I am your wife,” Cersei said.

“Entitled to respect and honour, you are the fairest of them all,” Rhaegar said as he brought his other hand to her cheek, gently holding her for a moment.

He awaited an invitation, but she took the initiative, leaning forward and pressing her lips against his. Rhaegar parted his lips for his queen, who captured his lips in a firm kiss.

“I am the fairest of them all?” she asked when their lips separated and she began to play with the straps of her dress.

“Beautiful, since we were young, since we were wed, now, the most beautiful woman in the entire realm,” he whispered, stroking her cheek, gently kissing her again. “You deserve better,” he kissed her lips lovingly.

“I do,” she said, letting her dress fall off of her shoulders, gripping the back of her king’s head.

He gently brought his arms around her, holding her close and kissing her flushing skin. Cersei tilted her head back, tightly gripping her king’s hair, feeling his mouth on her neck.

“Tell me you love me,” she commanded.

“I love you!”

With all your heart, more than the Dornish woman, more than the Northern woman, more than your griffon lord? She wanted to demand all these things of her king and as he turned, putting Cersei’s line of sight in front of the mirror again, she saw the image of her king naked and her clothed, one hand in his hair with a dagger to his throat. The dark thoughts and urges only made the bliss and pleasure her king gave her only greater. It had been so long since he had lain with her, for a moment she was the mistress, stripping her king and casting him to the bed. For a while she ruled atop him before he turned the tide, and they enjoyed their time as seeming equals. Both panted after the release and Cersei drew most of the sheets to her chest, sitting forward, looking to the inactive mirror.

“You have dreams don’t you?” she asked, smiling as Rhaegar sat up on bed to kiss the middle of her back.

He sat up further, bringing his hand around to her chest as she nestled against him.

“Dangerous ones,” he said.

“Tell me about them, let me be your queen, let me bear part of the burden, prophecies, fears, dreams, share them with me,” she kissed him, the passionate contact felt to her more powerful than the seed he had given to her during their aggressive moment of sex and bliss.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the strands of his hair rested on her shoulders, but his touch wavered, she felt the tremble across his body.

“Tell me about your dreams, then I’ll forgive you,” she said, turning her head, gripping his chin. “Prove how much you love me, share all the burden with me, let me sit atop the throne when you can’t, do this for me and I will accept whatever bastard you wish, I will love them all as my own children,” the queen explained.

“I dream of fiery eyes, and a cold embrace, I hear marching and drums, the screech of a dragon with many heads, I see darkness in the North and I have sent my son there. Because I dream of a faint hope, and I hope myself, I am sorry,” he said.

She looked to the mirror again, imagining the cursed thing cracking, imagining a life of bliss and happiness. Her a queen, Naerys with her king and loving knight, all that she had ever wanted. She smiled, emboldened, cruel even as she demanded what she had always wanted to demand, raising her head high in triumph.

“You love me,” she said.

“I do,” he said back.

“More than Elia, more than Lyanna,” she demanded and he answered her as she wanted.

“If the northern girl was here, right now, you would choose me, you would love me,” she commanded.

“I choose you, my queen,” their lips joined in a passionate embrace, more passionate than anything Cersei had experienced in her life.

All that she wanted was with her in that moment, but it still wasn’t enough. Their kiss was broken as a knock came at the door. King and queen looked at one another for a moment, and the gaze of love, the façade slipped. He omitted, he saw her in his dreams, miserable, wrapped in gold, eyes black and a terrible gaze in her eyes. So he loved her, loved her to keep her from being his enemy. He sat on the edge of the bed to get his clothes ready, but she wrapped her arms around him, covering them both in the gold sheet.

“Enter,” she commanded.

Maestar Pycelle came in with Boros the Belly, both blushing at the exposure, the former’s words caught in his throat and it seemed his stutter finally was not an act.

“Speak,” Cersei barked out, drawing circles on Rhaegar’s neck.

He suspected she wanted to dismiss them entirely and make love several more times. The man within him was not against the idea, but the king whom accepted his responsibility looked to the two men.

“A report from the army?” he asked.

“Yes your grace, erm,” Pycelle stuttered, looking at the floor when his eyes briefly met Cersei’s fierce gaze. “We certainly do not wish to ruin your leisurely time your grace, but survivors of the army have been sent back to us, small troops, insignificant but…”

“What is it Pycelle? Did we win or lose?” Cersei asked.

“I will dress and see them,” Rhaegar said.

“Your grace perhaps it is better if I just tell you,” the Maestar said.

“We will see them,” Cersei said, looking at her husband again.

It was spoken as a promise between them. As soon as the guard and Maestar left, Cersei and Rhaegar separated, beginning to dress. She walked to her mirror, making it look as if she was checking her hair. Instead of seeing herself as a queen though, she saw her hair shaved, skin sunburnt and lips cracked.

“Are you all right?” Rhaegar asked, pausing to check her as he put on his shirt.

“I am fine husband,” she whispered, looking away from the mirror.

Dorne

Six cups of wine, that was how many Oberyn had had by the time his new friends were halfway through with their story. He admitted, the dwarf, the real dwarf, had the gift of the story tellers tongue. There was some embellishment from what Oberyn could tell from the young man, Carver’s reactions, and it all made for a grand old tale. But Oberyn knew liars, he had been across the seas, to other nations, King’s Landing alone was as much a nest of vipers as they referred to Dorne as. Varric Tethras told of a wondrous land of magic, controlled by religion, dwarves that excelled in their underground cities and prospered on the surface, elves that wandered as tribes or were segregated from the humans in alienages. For all the atrocities the people of Thedas could commit to one another though, they paled in comparison to the tragedies created by monsters.

The monsters called Darkspawn, corrupted creatures that carried a poison known as the Blight and existed for one foul purpose, the eradication or corruption of everything they came into contact with. But of course there were heroes to fight the evil, the warriors known as Grey Wardens. It had been the Fifth Blight, led by the Archdemon, the corrupted old god Urthemiel, dragon of beauty. They emerged in the nation of Ferelden, meeting King Cailan’s army and the Grey Wardens at Ostagar. Cailan however had been betrayed, abandoned by his advisor and father in law, Loghain Mac Tir. Cailan and the Warden Commander Duncan perished in battle, and the ranks of the Wardens in Ferelden were reduced to two. These two wardens continued the work of the Wardens, fighting the Darkspawn and building an army from age old treatise they carried. They gathered a force of Dalish elves, mages and dwarves, and soon afterwards settled the political situation in Ferelden.

“But they ultimately lost their battle against the Archdemon, the army was split apart and the Horde spread throughout the continent of Thedas, now it seems they’ve spread to your land as well, alongside something else,” Varric finished his explanation by turning to Boromir.

He had the timing and of a herald as well as a storyteller. Oberyn looked over Boromir, saw the torture in his eyes, the state of his hair and skin, yet still he stood with a degree of pride expected of nobility. Only, when Obern looked at him, he saw nobility, not the inherited title of a lord ling but a person who truly had the qualities that one could deem noble, one of which was regret.

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of the kingdom of Gondor that resides in Middle-Earth and I have come under the orders of my captain…and king,” Boromir’s face shifted, a look of comforting acceptance that endeared him to Oberyn, and endeared the king that Boromir spoke of to the prince as well.

For Oberyn Martell seen such reactions in the eyes of those who followed worthy leaders. He listened as Boromir told him of the enemy of the free peoples of Middle-Earth, servant to the original dark lord, successor of Morgoth, Sauron the deceiver. His story covered Sauron, whose dark forces included the corruption of the elves, the Orcs, the wraiths and their fell beasts, and those men who sought domination over others, the Easterlings, the Wizard Saruman who betrayed his order and created the monstrous Uruk-Hai. As Sauron regained his power and renewed his forces, he soon set his eye on other lands, the lands that became accessible to him through a magic not even the people of Middle-Earth had known of.

“You have felt the land shake, the seas move in a way the portents could not predict, even your stars have changed haven’t they?” Boromir asked and Oberyn nodded his head.

“Indeed, things have been strange of late; my brother and I have been witness to unsettling reports, of strange folk on the roads, of foreigners,” he looked to his new friends, smirking.

“Now wait just a minute…” Carver glared.

“We are not your enemy, hell, some of us would rather be someplace colder,” Jake said.

“It is lovely weather of course,” Merrill added.

“We are intruders, some of us unintentionally, but we share a common enemy, that is if you have encountered our enemies?” Boromir asked.

“Tell me; what do your enemies look like, their armour, temperament, tactics?” Oberyn asked.

“Have your men encountered any freaking monsters, you’ll pretty much know that they’re not on your side,” Varric said.

“Orcs are grotesque, but the Easterlings whom serve Sauron where red and purple garb, gold scaled armour and helms affixed to their turbans, axes, long shields, curved swords,” Boromir explained.

“You describe the kind of foes we have heard reports of; raiders for our trade caravans, but you will find that Dorne is not a place so easily conquered. There is a reason the motto of my house if ‘unbowed, unbent, unbroken,’” Oberyn stated and Carver scoffed.

“The Darkspawn don’t intend on making you kneel, they don’t care about politics, or thrones or kings and queens, and whilst my interaction with Orcs was brief I can tell you they may have more personality, but they’re just as savage,” he explained.

“There exists monsters in our world and they bear human faces, and worse noble names,” Oberyn said.

“I’m not trying to diminish what you face, but if we have arrived here, then more Orcs will follow. We don’t seek trade or titles, or rewards, we just want to help that’s all,” Boromir said.

Oberyn and Ellaria looked at Boromir for a moment before they both began to laugh.

“Hilarious, utterly hilarious, oh I do not doubt your intentions Lord Boromir, what I doubt is the motivation for it. In this world, in any world, no one is good simply because they are,” Oberyn explained.

“That’s a very sad and lonely way of looking at the world, don’t you think?” Merrill asked.

The almost childlike naiveté of her voice was gone, even Carver and Varric were shocked by how mature and firm in her conviction she sounded. It was enough to impress the Dornish prince; his smile was genuine as he stood up.

“It is indeed my lady,” he said.

“Oh, I’m not a lady, well I am a lady, but not a noble lady!”

“There is one,” Carver muttered, crossing his arms, his eyes seemed to gaze into a distance and a small smile crept its way across his face, growing clearer the more he thought about the person he sent prayers of luck to.

“I know one person who truly is that genuine, who truly is that good, my cousin, Daylen, he won’t abandon those in need!”

Neverland

Daylen allowed Captain Hook to lead the way through the jungle, he knew the plants, the local creatures and where they ultimately had to go. The mage however stopped when he heard fighting in the distance, the clanging of blades, the roars of monsters.

“We need to go and help,” he said.

“We’ll lose time Warden,” Hook said.

“You need my magic, so we’re going to support them,” Daylen said.

He moved into the jungle, drawing his sword and cutting several bushes in his way. They got closer and closer to the fighting, Hook drawing his crossbow as they did. The first body they noticed was a human, dressed in leather trousers and marked with war paint and a feather like ornament on his head. More and more bodies appeared, the outfits of the humans they saw were homemade, or ragged, inherited hand outs that had become discoloured, Daylen couldn’t help but notice the war paint and other decorations like necklaces and head dresses. They were these ‘Indians’ as Hook had called them, but even then he could tell they were more filling a role, yet some care had been put into the choosing of these ‘players’ many of them had similar skin tones and dark hair. Daylen and his party finally came to where the fighting was taking place, and they saw a multitude of tribesmen dead, alongside creatures that reminded Daylen of Darkspawn. Their armour was as grotesque as their weapons and faces, the creatures had elf like ears but were mutated in different ways, jagged teeth, pale or grey skin.

An arrow felled one, the tall creature slammed into the ground and revealed the shooter. She immediately knocked back another arrow and shot another one of the creatures. Daylen looked over his shoulder, hearing a sound of acknowledgement from Hook. The archer was in her early teens, near adulthood perhaps. She had dark hair and tanned skin, her clothes consisting of beige chaps and a roughly sown shirt with leather wraps around her wrists and chest. One of the creature’s threw a spear at her, but it was quickly cut apart by a sword. That sword was wielded by a giant of a man, Daylen had heard his friends call him tall, but this man was easily as tall as his companion Sten. But he was a human knight, judging from his build and tower helm, he wore chain mail and plate armour, with a green coat of arms.

The tall knight blocked another spear with his shield, which was decorated with the image of a tree that had a star flying over it.

“Support them now,” Daylen commanded.

As soon as he drew his shield, he used his magic, passing through the fade and slamming into one of the creature’s, breaking its neck with a strike from his shield. He quickly swung his sword, beheading another of them. The archer and the knight rallied, the tall man bashed one of the smaller creatures, sending it flying back into another. Hook drew his rapier, skewering both fallen enemies before shooting another in the neck. He winked at the archer, who scowled before she shot a monster through the throat and then kicked it across the face for good measure. Two taller monsters came out of the bushes, and the tall knight blocked and parried their blows, countering one and finishing the other with a lunge.

When the knight pulled his blade free, the last of the monsters had been killed by the Templar and pirate in the party. Isabela’s man sheathed his knives as the Templar looked around, keeping his shield raised but relaxing his sword grip. Hook sheathed his sword and raised his hands in an invite to the archer.

“Tiger Lily, lovely to see you again dear girl,” he said.

“Don’t call me Tiger Lily, it’s just Lily,” she grumbled.

“Friend of yours?” Daylen asked, sheathing his sword.

“More like we share equal life experience, Lily here didn’t quite like growing up on a reservation, she liked less being the princess Peter would rescue in our ‘games’,” Hook stated.

“What manner of creature is this?” the Templar asked.

“I don’t know,” Daylen muttered, crouching by one of the bodies. “If I didn’t know better I would assume a Darkspawn, but I can sense those,” he said.

“They are called Orcs, Peter calls them ‘bad guys’, brought here for one of his games, but they needlessly slaughter both pirate, Lost boy and members of my tribe,” Lily explained.

“A result of all the strange things that have been happening in this world, like you I suspect,” Daylen turned to the knight, who sheathed his sword and removed his helmet, revealing a young man with brown hair.

“My squire and I were on the road, when suddenly the land began to shake and the stars themselves shifted, when the land stopped shifting we were attacked by flying men of all things. Some using magic like yours,” the knight said, looking to Daylen with a frown.

“There’s a lot we need to talk about, but rest assured, we’re here to rescue the people that their ring leader, Peter Pan has taken,” Daylen explained.

“Then we are allies in a common purpose, my own squire is just a boy, taken by those men, I was trying to chase when I came upon lady Lily and her men being attacked by those monsters,” the knight explained. “I could not help her men, you seem to wield a magic yourself, yet you still came to our aid,” he added.

“It isn’t in me to abandon people in need of help,” Daylen said.

“Then I see us helping one another further, if your path leads to my squire then I will join you sir.”

Daylen offered the knight his hands, and the knight returned the gesture with a firm grip.

“I am Daylen, and I welcome your sword sir.”

“Duncan, my name is Duncan!”

Next Chapter 10: The magic of never

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 10: The magic of never

James looked at his hand, raising it up to the sky, looking between the trees and at the particles of pixie dust. He was taken back to the days of his youth; days long pass to never come back again. When he first arrived, he thought that the land was called ‘Never’ because one would never have to grow up on that land. But the land wasn’t named for a promise, only as a warning, a warning James knew had come too late. The magic of Neverland was taken even from the fairies who tried to raise Peter.

‘Did he kill my fairy, or did I simply stop believing in them?’ the captain wondered.

“Hook,” his new companion called to him.

Daylen, he was older than James had been when he figured out that Peter wouldn’t send them home, yet younger than he had been when he became a pirate. Idealism oozed off the young man like the rays of the sun, and as James learned, the mage was capable of burning you.

“Ser Duncan, so your squire would be…”

“Egg, his name is Egg,” the tall knight said.

Thrice they had encountered the players of Peter’s games, grown men whose minds remained trapped, dependent on Peter for direction. James was all too happy to play the villain, to cut throats, whilst Lily played the savage. She screamed when she hacked a man’s head open with her tomahawk. They weren’t the screams of a tribal warrior though, but the tired cries of a woman so fed up with killing and violence, a woman who wanted to go home. Duncan offered her the pouch he carried his water in, he could have enveloped the smaller in a hug but opted for a more subtle form of comfort and chivalry.

“I came from a place called Fleabottom, the smell was foul and we often starved, but it was still home, if it’s a choice between that place and this one, I would easily choose Fleabottom,” he explained.

“I wanted to get away from home, now all I want to do is see my father again, hear his tales of the sky people,” Lily said.

Their other two companions even spoke up. The Templar, Ser Wilhelm spoke of his home in Ferelden, growing up in a small village and joining the templars and finding a new home amongst the order and the magi they protected, etc, Hook found it all very self righteous in a way. He watched the knight pray, mouthing the words with his mouth.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just,” he would sometimes mouth.

Hook’s fellow pirate said he was from Antiva, the gem known as Antiva city where assassins ruled but you could always find a good time.

“I hail from the mighty London, greatest city on Earth, and what of our esteemed leader, where does he hail from?” Hook looked to Daylen, whom just kept on walking ahead.

“We’re getting closer, we’ll carry out phase 1 of the plan and then await the others for phase 2 and 3,” the mage explained.

James smirked at Daylen’s lack of enthusiasm to speak of his past, yet still followed, crouching down with the mage as they began going through the bushes. Daylen carefully waded through the greenery, looking through the gaps in the leaves and focusing on the mountain path. They group made their way up to the skull shaped mountain, into the caverns. Where once there was cold, there came heat, with Duncan even removing his helmet entirely and Hook loosening his collar. Daylen walked until he came to a drop, looking down at a molten pool.

“As I suspected,” he mused.

“You mean the volcano, if you wanted to know, you could have just asked,” Hook chuckled.

“The mountain is a long dormant volcano, not uncommon when it comes to islands like this, it has a small opening of which smoke can pass through,” Daylen explained.

“Phase 1 of your attack on Pan, is the creation of smog then,” Lily said.

“Which will not come to pass!”

The group drew their weapons out, looking around; it was Hook though who looked at the ceiling first. He kept his crossbow raised, aiming down its sight and seething, as he saw the gold particles again.

“Show yourself Tinkerbell, or better yet, show us to your son,” he said.

“I won’t let you hurt him, he’s mine, HE’S MINE!” the voice echoed out of the caverns.

“Tinkerbell, you’re the fairy who wanted more right? Was this what you wanted, people’s lives ruined all so you could pretend that you were human, all so you could have a child?” Daylen asked.

“I wanted…I wanted…damned you, damn you,” the voice grew softer, quieter, tears flowing from the eyes of the glowing figure that came out of the cracks in the ceiling.

She was more creature than girl; her skin was green with a bark like pattern on it. Though like an elf, hear ears were pointed; they also had almost insect like webbing around the lobes. Her hair was a mass of weed like vines, her nails were black and so long that they curved into a spiral pattern, forcing her to keep her hands at her front. She wore a simply brown rag over her chest, but poking up of two holes on it were two skeletal wings.

“Not what you were expecting were you?” she asked.

“There is still beauty in that form,” Daylen said, even as Tinkerbell flashed a set of needle like black teeth.

“Perhaps if you close your eyes,” Hook muttered.

“Neverland wasn’t supposed to be like this was it?” Daylen asked.

“It should have been joyful, filled with adventure, but the dreams, the happy thoughts…” Tinkerbell sniffed.

“Oh yes, how terrible for you,” Hook said, raising his crossbow.

“Stay your attack man, we’re here under a parlay,” Duncan said, standing over Hook’s shoulder.

“Tinkerbell, you wanted to save that boy’s life, but somewhere along the line his happy thoughts became so selfish in their very nature that it began to change you as much as it did this place and him didn’t it?” Daylen asked.

“I still cling to it, to the chance that he could be that sweet boy again, that he, that I could be beautiful again,” Tinkerbell said.

“He was ugly before I burned him,” Daylen said.

“That was you?” Lily asked.

Tinkerbell looked down at Daylen for a moment, gritting her teeth together and then shaking her head.

“He described you as some sort of monster,” she said. “Of course he did, he really believed that he was the hero of every game and that he was saving people from getting older, even as children got greys on their heads, he believed that he was saving them.”

“We can’t always decide how others will act, what we can do is make our own choices and live with them, can you continue to live with what Peter has become?” Daylen asked.

“No, I can’t,” Tinkerbell said.

She fluttered out of sight and the mage continued, pouring his magic into the molten river. Soon purple smoke rose from the mountain, a signal seen across the different points of Neverland. Near the Indian Camp, where Lily’s people saw a chance to strike, at Mermaid’s Lagoon, where Peter was playing with the Mermaid’s when he looked up at the smoke spreading across his playground. And near Hangman’s tree, where in the surrounding woods Cullen stood with his men and Petra. They waited, seeing Peter fly over the region.

“Now?” one of the archers asked.

“No, that is not our objective,” Cullen said.

“Hold,” Corlys said to his men.

It was a near sprint down the mountain, Daylen in front with the others close behind.

“So we’re creating cover, great, what else?” Lily asked.

“Crocodile crack,” Daylen said.

“You’re going to take us towards the belly of the beast?” Hook asked.

“Do you know if Peter controls the crocodile?” Daylen asked.

“I don’t know, he always flew over it,” Hook said.

“My squire,” Duncan muttered.

“Duncan, I promise you my friends will recover your squire, in the mean time we have to strike out at Peter Pan, defeat him and his forces in his own territory, then Lily and her people can take this land as their own,” Daylen explained.

“Us take it, no, we wish to go home,” Lily said.

“We can’t fit you on the ships, we have no guarantee that defeating Pan will do anything, this entire world is wrong and I don’t think we’re going to resolve the issue of us getting home anytime soon,” the grey warden explained.

“A logical point, considering the diversity of our little group, far off lands, different times, oh my,” Hook muttered, half smiling as the group quickly crouched, slowing their pace to recover stamina and keeping their eyes on the sky.

“We’re getting closer to the water,” Daylen drew his sword and raised it high.

Lightning crackled across the blade, and then shot up like a beacon. Daylen took a deep breath and yelled out.

“PETER PAN! COME AND FACE US OLD MAN!” he bellowed.

Duncan suddenly drew his shield, catching a rock thrown at Daylen. The group looked up at the sky and saw Pan, but he wasn’t alone, those lost ‘boys’ who still worshipped him were hovering alongside him.

‘He should come down first,’ Daylen thought.

The pirate archer suddenly fired an arrow towards Peter, scratching his face. Lily was even more accurate, loosing an arrow that would have killed Peter if not for one of his allies flying in the way.

“OLD MAN! OLD MAN!” Peter yelled.

He drew his sword and flew down, dodging a bolt launched by Hook. The captain drew his rapier and thrust at Peter as the man-child swung. Their blades clanged together and Peter swooped upwards.

“COME OLD FRIEND! ONE FINAL GAME!” Hook yelled.

Duncan blocked several arrows with his shield, whilst Daylen swung his sword, releasing blades of lightning that split some of the flyers apart. Lily fired more arrows whilst the Templar hit a lost boy in the throat with his crossbow. He began loading another bolt when two of the lost boys swooped down, grabbing him.

“SIR WILHELM!” Daylen yelled.

They flew high, a short distance away; they heard Wilhelm scream before he hit the ground. Duncan skewered an enemy that tried to grab him, ripping his sword free to hack at the ankle of another. The lost boy flailed in midair, snapping his neck when he collided with a tree. Daylen threw his hand forward, releasing a blast of fire to burn one of the lost boys. As the group fought, they made their way to Crocodile crack, to the great body of water with pads of stone around it. Peter came down and buried his blade in the pirate rogue’s neck, his face cracking for a moment, showing wrinkles before returning to the clear skin of a boy. The boy who flew up into the smog, the cover for his attacks that his enemy had foolishly created, and felt tired. He came down, flying onto a ledge overlooking the water and his prey.

“Help me, help me, HELP ME!” he screamed.

The lost boys came down, only to be hit by arrows and magic. Daylen shot the mana bolts from his blade, before letting a wave of green run across it. He swung the blade, releasing glowing green flies from the fade, the kind that could drain magic and poison foes. Hook loaded his crossbow and shot a lost boy that tried to help Peter. He reloaded quickly, hitting another boy who came down. It was then that Hook noticed the flying enemies were coughing, Peter himself was the worst off for it.

‘So that was it,’ he grinned.

‘The smoke isn’t just for cover; the toxins in it is detrimental to the fliers, Peter in particular,’ Lily realised it too.

‘Why am I so tired?’ Peter wondered.

Duncan caught the stomach of a lost boy, who shrieked and tumbled into the water. The man thrashed around in the water, sinking as Duncan looked to Peter.

‘They say that boy is stuck as a boy forever, which means his stamina is actually poorer for it,’ the hedge knight summarised, seeing this had been Daylen’s plan.

Taking advantage of the fact that Peter was a child, that the smoke would rise, the combination of toxins, Pan’s lung capacity and the way flying would naturally drain one’s stamina made for an ideal plan against Peter Pan. The rest was a matter of finishing Peter off for good, something Hook prepared for; tying a length of rope he had to a hook. He stopped however when he saw a ripple in the water. His eyes grew wide and he began to breathe heavily, seeing scaly ridges moving across the water. Peter trembled as he began to laugh.

“YOU LOSE!” he cackled.

Suddenly, a green behemoth burst out of the water, holding within its jaws the drowned lost boy. The man was screaming, blood leaking from his mouth. The crocodile struck Duncan with its tail, throwing him into the water. Whilst the knight struggled, the crocodile landed on one of the bigger stone pads. It was a truly massive creature, easily bigger and fatter than the dragonlings Daylen remembered slaying in Thedas. Hook froze in fear, and his companions heard what he heard coming from the croc’s stomach, a ticking clock.

“Time is up,” Peter said.

Duncan reached for the surface of the water, gasping for air, struggling to swim whilst his armour weighed him down. He took a deep breath and went under; tearing away the plates of armour he wore. His sword had already begun to sink along with his shield, and he felt the crocodile’s tail strike him again. The monster hissed, stomping around, looking at Hook briefly his eyes landed on Daylen. As if recognising the bigger threat, the crocodile stampeded towards him. Daylen threw his hand forward, cursing when simple sparks came out of his hand.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

An arrow struck the crocodile’s eye, Lily fired another arrow, only for it to bounce off of the beast’s hide. It turned, hitting Daylen with its tail as it did. On his hiding place, Peter watched the mage fall into the water and smiled, the green blade spinning before it was wedged into the rock.

“HOOK!” Lily yelled, jumping onto the rock platforms to flee the crocodile.

But Hook stood, the only movement being the rapid expansion and inflation of his chest, his breath rushing out as if he was running in terror. For a moment he felt like a child, scared, running across the island from a laughing demon in the sky. Then he heard it, the cackle of Pan, the condescending, sadistic laugh of a boy who shot down his need for his mother as cowardice, his home sickness as true sickness. The Crocodile took another arrow from Lily and leapt towards her, missing her by a few centimetres when she ducked at the last second. She watched the water ripple, the crocodile moving like a missile through his territory.

“You lose, you lose, oh this was such a neat game, a great final boss,” Peter said.

He hovered over the water, stomping down on Daylen’s head when he came up. Peter kept pushing on Daylen’s head, nearly standing on top of it.

“You burn me, I drown you, poetry is boring but it is definitely entertaining,” Peter giggled.

The man-child laughed when he heard Daylen cough and splutter beneath the water. He saw the mage’s arms flail, felt him sink and felt that odd feeling in his groin, this was beyond fun for him, like when he looked at Wendy and Lily, especially when they bathed. There was a spark in Peter’s periphery vision and he rolled his eyes as Bell flew around him.

“Please stop this, stop this before its too late,” she pleaded.

“They attacked me, the bad guys attacked us Tink and you’re helping them,” he remarked with a glare.

“I still love you, please just stop this,” Bell said.

“I think James is about to piss himself, Hook has pissed his pants, Hook has pissed his pants,” Peter sang.

“Peter listen to me, the smog wasn’t just to tire you, it was to cover the infiltration of their men,” the fairy said.

“Infiltration?” Pan looked at her dumbly.

Suddenly, he felt a pain in his toe. His leg was pulled into the water and he felt the nerves of his toes tear, a bone popping before he flew up. Blood leaked out of his severed toe and he looked down in shock, seeing Daylen poking his head out. The mage spat the toe out of his mouth and then looked towards Hook.

“NOW CAPTAIN!” he roared.

Hook threw back his cloak, removing the fishing hook and rope from his belt. With a yell, he threw the line, catching the hook on Peter’s shoulder.

“GET DOWN HERE!” he yelled.

Duncan came out of the water, stripping of his armour and in his soaked white shirt and brown trousers. He climbed up, grabbing the rope as he did. Together he and the captain pulled whilst Lily caught Peter’s hand with her own length of rope. Daylen made a platform of ice, looking at Pan’s blood dripping, watching the crocodile change its course and swim around the formation of blood in the water.

“Even the best trained horses can go berserk when they’re in heat, house dogs attack game if they aren’t fed, even domesticated or controlled animals can’t control their natural instincts,” Daylen explained.

“FUCK YOU!” Peter yelled.

“NO FUCK YOU!” Hook retorted.

Peter saw the silhouette of the boy the captain once was in James’s visage, the boy he took, the boy who desired revenge. Hook pulled and Peter finally fell, slamming into the water. The boy who never grew up, the man-child who never aged tried to fly again. But again he felt pain, not on his toes, but on his thigh. The crocodile chomped on its master’s leg and dragged him under, pulling Peter across the water, the liquid gushed into his nostrils and mouth as he screamed. He was pulled like a ragdoll, desperately swinging his sword before the crocodile turned and crushed his elbow, ripping his arm away. A cloud of blood surrounded the boy and his pet and the fairy looked down at the scene with tears in her eyes.

“You brought this on yourself Peter,” she said.

His screams began to die out and the look of rage across Hook’s face was replaced with indifference, whilst the others looked at the harrowing sight of the boy-eating with disturbed expressions. Daylen closed his eyes for a moment and imagined the victory across the island. Corlys and Cullen’s men slitting the throats of lost men and orcs, going to the tree house and discovering the lost children.

“It’s all right, we’re here to rescue you,” the templar said, sheathing his sword and picking up the nearest child, a bald boy with purple eyes.

“Everyone come with us, we’ll get you all to safety,” Kinnon said and Petra nodded.

“This light will heal your physical wounds, we have bread and juice, and I know where the captain keeps her sweets,” she winked at some of the children, putting them at ease.

Corlys lowered his axe, looking at two children through the crowd. He saw Targaryen eyes, but Velaryon hair and skin. The youngest was being held by a brown haired girl in a blue and white dress.

“Grandfather,” Lucerys said, running and embracing his house’s Patriarch.

“My prince, oh my boy,” Corlys let himself feel relief for a few moments before his eyes rested on the girl, encouraging his younger grandchild to go to him.

“Thank you my lady,” he said.

“Wendy, Wendy Moira-Angela Darling, and we must thank you,” she said.

“Shield them from the sights outside,” Cullen commanded.

“I assure you sir, they have seen worse than a few dead bodies,” Wendy said.

“They are not young anymore,” Corlys said.

“Wait, Daemon’s grandchildren, we came here for Daemon’s kin too, are there more Targaryen children?” Kinnon asked.

“There are no more here,” the bald boy said.

Cullen put the boy down and began to frantically search the tree house.

“Hello, prince Baelon, prince Viserys, princess Aemma, anyone under the name Targaryen, is there anyone else here?” he asked.

Pleaded, for the lives of his people could depend on the good nature of a rogue king. He grinded his teeth together when he heard banging against the tree, and the sounds of more battle outside.

“Kinnon, Petra, protect the children, barriers and rock armour,” the templar drew his sword and crossed outside first.

He saw one of his knight’s lose their head, another member of his brotherhood lost to a side quest. The grey and pale skinned creatures cackled and for a moment Cullen thought he was dealing with Darkspawn and required care over their blood. But then he realised, he didn’t care; he ran at the Orcs and swung his sword, releasing darkened blood onto the grass of Neverland. The knight was roaring as Corlys stepped out, and though the Sea Snake had witnessed a great many feats in battle, he was still impressed by the way the once calm young man turned rage into just as much a weapon as his great sword. Remembering the strength of his youth, Corlys brandished his axe and rushed the creatures with his knights.

They cut a path, but the children noticed first the golden dust rising from the grass. Daylen noticed the glow in the water and reacted, shooting a bolt of electricity into its surface. The volts spread through the water, crackling across it in a violent manner those on the rock platforms could see. Tinkerbell looked into the water with her hands together, afraid, and uncertain of whether she wished for death from her beloved child or just a merciful end. Bubbles began rising to the surface, as if one area of the pool was boiling. Particles of gold dust rose out of the water and floated like a cloud. The ticking began again, louder this time along with a clicking of gears.

The gold particles turned black and formed clouds. Petra and Kinnon stayed close to the children, emanating with their hands light that seemed to make the darkness quiver. Suddenly, the crocodile burst out of the water, floating over it with sparks of electricity glowing around its hide. Only the crocodile was different, it was set upright, standing in the air like a human, with bulking human arms and legs. A great dial was exposed on its chest, a ticking clock which echoed within the minds of those who looked at it. The new creature, the hybrid opened its human eyes and opened its mouth, the dark cloud gushing out of both.

“Feed me to my own creature, make me desperate, this is the part where the hero transforms AND BEATS THE EVIL SORCEROR!” Peter’s bestial voice came out of the creature’s mouth.

He suddenly flew at Daylen, leaving a shockwave that made the companions shield their eyes. Peter grabbed Daylen by his shirt and flew over Crocodile Crack. He threw Daylen towards the forest, forcing him to unleash a torrent of spells; he created shockwaves with his fireballs, pushed with telekinesis and coated himself with a barrier. When he slammed into the ground, he left a dirt patch and the pieces of rock armour he summoned at the last moment fell off of his body. Daylen groaned as he stood up, he looked at his arm and saw it flopping.

“Oh FUCK!” he yelled in agony.

There was a boom and dirt was thrown into Daylen’s face. He stumbled back, recovering to see Peter on the ground, snarling at him. Rather than step back in fear, Daylen stepped forward, using threads of mana and wrapping them around his broken arm. He yelled as he forced it back into place, the makeshift cast would cost him some mana. But in his head he thought ‘buy time and wait for allies’ and that showed as he dived out of the way of Peter’s sudden attack. The humanoid lizard swung his fist down, obliterating the spot Daylen had been standing on. He swung his tail and Daylen summoned a mana shield, but the force of the flow still sent him sprawling back.

“This is my island, MY ISLAND! I’M THE GOOD GUY AND YOU’RE THE ONE WHO SHOULD JUST FUCKING DIE!” Peter snarled, flying up, then crashing down to attack Daylen.

The mage only barely managed to dodge the attacks, using a burst of flame to keep Peter from grabbing his leg. Peter snapped his jaws at Daylen, biting the bottom of a tree and making it topple down between them. Daylen fired a blast at the tree, hitting Peter’s eyes with a shower of splinters.

“I’m the hero of the story, I SAVE PEOPLE FROM GROWING UP! You’re the evil sorcerer in dark clothes! SO THAT MAKES YOU THE BAD GUY!” the boy, now monster gripping his chest.

The dial on the clock turned and flashed, a puff of fire came out of Peter’s chest and forced him to step back. It was a blast that Daylen again was barely able to dodge, again bringing up a mana shield when Peter’s tail flew towards him.

“This magic, this gift, it can help me be a better hero, it can help me write a better story!”

“Maybe there was nothing wrong with your original story,” Daylen retorted.

Peter stomped his foot down, standing over Daylen and snarling.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY!”

“Stories, there are so many different versions of them, everybody writes a new one, a hero is now a villain, the villain is misunderstood. You were so afraid of change it seems, that you refused to allow anyone else to tell their own stories,” Daylen said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Growing up, the story changing, they’re the same thing,” Daylen said.

“You have no clue what you’re talking about,” Peter said.

“Maybe I was expecting too much, too deep for someone so old, their mind demented,” Daylen said.

Peter backhanded the mage, ripping the air out of him and throwing him back to the floor.

“Oh so clever, so very, very clever, I’m not old, I’m not, I’m the hero of this place, I’ll win!”

He stomped towards Daylen, ready to crush him with his tail, or just eat him. With so many options he couldn’t decide anyway. Daylen gasped for air, feeling as if his ribs had broken. If he survived, he would have a painful bruise. But those chances grew less and less likely with each passing moment.

‘Move, move, move, MOVE DAMN YOU MOVE!’ he inwardly screamed at his limbs, barely managing to push up with his arms when Peter stood over him.

Suddenly, an object slammed into the back of Peter’s head. The lord of Neverland looked at the coconut on the floor, and then towards the one that had thrown it. Daylen grinded his teeth in frustration and pride, seeing Bevin standing with another coconut raised.

“Leave him alone you filth,” the boy spat defiantly.

Peter snarled, and then stampeded towards Bevin.

“BEVIN!” Daylen screamed as the monster bashed Bevin aside like a ragdoll.

The boy was sent flying into the tree that Daylen had shattered earlier. Wooden spikes pierced the boy’s heart and Daylen looked towards Peter. In a flash of lightning, Daylen appeared in front of the monster, slashing his face with his knife. He rolled back to dodge Peter’s fist and raised his hand.

“You’re right, we aren’t heroes, just distractions,” he snapped his fingers, generating a spark.

That spark was enough to surround two swords with telekinetic fields. Duncan stabbed the green blade through Peter’s back, whilst Hook followed with his rapier. Daylen pulled his fist back, surrounding it with rock armour, mana and lighting it up with fire. He swung forward, slamming his fist into the clock. The clock shattered, exposing the circuitry, and a mutated mass of flesh pumping like a heart. Peter was thrown back, yelling in pain and frustration. His eyes narrowed into crocodile eyes, consumed by blood lust he rushed forward.

“MOVE!” Hook yelled, shoving Daylen to the side.

He moved to the side too, but was too late, Peter’s jaws snapped over his left hand. James felt the bone of his wrist snap, felt his hand get ripped away as Peter pulled back. But the Captain did not scream, instead he roared, taking the hook that was his name now and striking the exposed heart of the clock. He dug it deeper, yelling as the monster howled in pain, the captain’s roar echoed through the jungle and overshadowed the creature that Peter Pan had become. Their blood spread across the grass. Hook pulled, exposing veins and arteries, ripping the heart away from the clock.

“GO TO HELL YOU DEVIL SPAWN!” he spat, stumbling into Daylen’s arms.

The mage gripped Hook’s stump, cauterising the wound. James dropped his hook and the heart with it. Despite the wound, the creature still stumbled back, eyes shifting to that of a shocked and tearful human child.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” he shook his head.

Slowly, the crocodile’s skin split, shedding to reveal the naked form of Peter Pan. Unmarked, by wounds, clean and pure, Peter looked at his hands and grinned. Lily drew back her bow, but Duncan brought her hand down, pointing at Peter. The lord of Neverland watched in confusion as James smirked, the pirate hung his head back and chuckled.

‘Why am I so sore?’ he wondered.

Daylen ignored Peter, rushing to Bevin. The boy who never grew up looked at his hands in horror, seeing marks on them. He touched his face, feeling the lines on his mouth and cheeks. Those lines became wrinkles as Peter collapsed to his knees.

“What, what is this?” Peter demanded, shocked even further by the change of his voice.

One moment he was taller, the next he shrunk a few centimetres.

“Oh Peter, what you did to merge with the crocodile was grotesque magic, the same kind that likely brought Neverland to this world,” Tinkerbell said.

“You were always a vicious bastard, but that magic you used only made Neverland worse,” James added.

When Peter grinded his teeth together in rage, he gasped when his front teeth fell out. He brought his hands to his hair, feeling it fall out.

“Bevin,” Daylen went to the boy’s side.

His self proclaimed student pushed against the tree, breaking the splinter sticking into his chest off. Bevin’s throat gargled as he fell into Daylen’s arms. The mage screamed as Pan did, Daylen over a friend and Peter for the fact he was now an old man.

“It’s his heart,” Daylen said as Lily and Duncan came to his side.

“Poor child,” the knight whispered.

The battle had been won, Corlys and Cullen came over the hill with the children, and looked at the wounded Bevin in shock.

“Maker,” Petra cried out.

She put down the child she was holding and made her way towards Daylen.

“Daylen I need to see the wound,” she said.

“His heart, his heart,” Daylen trembled.

Duncan stepped back in shock as Petra’s hand glowed. She was about to put it to Bevin’s chest when Lily touched the wooden spike.

“If that is to heal him, then we’ll need to pull it out, Daylen,” she snapped at the warden, who still held Bevin’s body.

He stroked Bevin’s hair, the boy shaking when Lily pulled the stake out of his chest. Petra put her hand to Bevin’s chest, letting the threads of mana into the wound in order to heal it. They tried to sow the wound, to put the heart back together. Petra was the apprentice of Wynn, one of the greatest healers Daylen had ever met. But even Wynn would have struggled to heal such a mortal wound. Tears ran down Petra’s eyes, her hands shook with Bevin’s blood.

“See to Hook before the fever gets to him,” Daylen said.

“But Daylen…”

“See to the captain,” he snarled, glaring at Petra.

She stepped back, unable to look back at Bevin as she went to the pirate. James spat at Peter, smiling as the old man collapsed.

“I know I was bad mummy, I know I was bad,” he moaned. “I’m so sorry mummy, so sorry, please don’t be mad, I’ll stop playing games, I’ll come home now!”

“I almost feel sorry for him, more so for the boy,” Hook said as Petra and Duncan supported him.

They walked away from Peter and Lily stepped away from Bevin and Daylen.

“I’m sorry,” the warden whispered.

“Duncan,” the bald boy in Cullen’s arms called out.

“Egg,” Duncan called to the boy.

He ran to his squire, touching the side of his head.

“I thought I had lost you,” he said.

Egg looked towards the warden and Bevin.

“He wasn’t one of the boys Pan took,” he said.

“Brave boy must have hidden on one of the rowboats,” Hook said.

“I’m so sorry,” Daylen whispered.

Tinkerbell fluttered over to them, looking at the boy desperately clinging to life, continuing to look at the young man he considered his hero.

“I can save him,” the fairy said.

“Like you saved Peter,” Daylen retorted.

“This island, I know you think of it as hell, that you see Peter as evil. But he wasn’t always like that; he wasn’t supposed to be like that. This sorcerer approached Peter, offered him a ‘new game’ to play, the magic he used was grotesque and horrifying, that is what has corrupted Peter, corrupted Neverland, corrupted my people,” Tinkerbell explained.

“What are you getting at?” Daylen asked, keeping his hand on Bevin’s chest.

“Neverland needs a new Pan,” Tinkerbell said and Daylen widened his eyes.

“No, you mean make Bevin…” his voice drifted, shoulders trembling.

The boy’s skin became pale, but he still looked up at Daylen for help. Daylen remembered Bevin’s fear at Redcliffe, remembered the boy hiding in a wardrobe, afraid to even go into the Chantry. He remembered the boy who wanted to slay dragons, to be a hero. Bevin raised his shaking hand, he tried to open his mouth but blood came out.

“It isn’t your permission I need,” Tinkerbell said.

Daylen looked at the fairy, his eyes narrowing into a glare.

“He wouldn’t understand what he’s giving up,” he said.

Tinkerbell though ignored him; her wings began to glow as she hovered over Bevin.

“What is she doing?” Cullen demanded.

Bevin’s body went still as gold dust began to fall over him. Tinkerbell closed her eyes, her whole body was glowing, releasing the dust across Bevin’s body.

“It won’t work, I’m sorry,” Daylen said.

The boy began to glow as the dust seeped into his skin. He gasped as light came out of the wound on his chest. Daylen continued to hold him close, shaking his head at Cullen, whose hand went to his sword. Hook thought focused on Peter, watching the rapidly aging man’s final moments.

“I want to come home mommy, want to come home, the nice man gave me plenty of toys, it was a fun game, but the game's over now, time to go home, need to go home, want to go home,” the old man groaned.

He crossed his arms together and smiled.

“It’s like the nice man said, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” he whispered.

His eyes suddenly began to glow black, smoke began to come out of his mouth.

“Oh come on, what now?” Hook asked.

Shadows wrapped around Peter’s body, enveloping and crushing it. Blood spurt across the floor and with the man’s body came another spell. It was a singularity, creating a vacuum that pulled in debris and people. Daylen and Bevin were pulled towards the hole, Tinkerbell tried to fly away but was pulled in too. James stabbed his hook into the ground, holding onto Petra whilst Corlys held his grandchildren close. Seconds passed and the party looked towards where Peter’s body had once been.

“Daylen,” Cullen whispered.

It didn’t feel like a victory. The eerie fog around Neverland faded, but the land itself seemed to wither. A stench emanated from the coconuts and fruits on the trees. Isabela welcomed her passengers back onto her boat, but when she saw their dour expressions she too fell into melancholy. She could not joke or jibe, only remain quiet in her sympathy.

“Daemon charged us with finding his grandchildren, we have failed,” Cullen said.

“If we return empty handed then…” Kinnon could not finish his sentence.

“I will go,” Isabela offered.

“Are you serious?” Petra asked.

“Someone has to go back and tell him that the task is more difficult than expected, if we can delay him…”

“You mean lie to him,” Duncan said.

“Who is this?” Isabela asked, eying the knight slightly.

He held the Green blade with regret in his eyes, seeing the weapon as one meant to be wielded by the dead mage.

Or at least the mage he thought was dead.

Agreements and plans were made, for there was no real time to mourn or pay tribute. Isabela would go to Dragonstone with a couple of Cullen’s knights and the mage Zither. When the group went to Hook’s ship, they saw the captain with his cloak off, a roll of bandages across his severed wrist.

“Do not weep for my hand, I have some ideas for it after all,” the captain grinned. “My condolences for your leader, he seemed a good man, there are too few in this world,” he stated.

After careful deliberation, the captain agreed that he would continue to accompany Corlys’s ships and the group from Thedas. Cullen bowed in thanks, the position of leader thrust upon him along with the responsibilities.

“I will go with Captain Hook,” Petra said with finality.

The Templar did not argue with her, for he saw in her eyes greater strength than he saw in his own. Though the disappearance of the warden would haunt them, it seemed it would also drive them. It drove the Seasnake and the Jolly Roger across the sea, to warmer shores. To a city where visitors of Thedas awaited. It was in the Dornish court where Prince Doran sat with his guards behind him. But it was Princess Rhaenys who stood, and looking at the clearly Dornish girl, Corlys could not help but see the very image of his late wife standing over her as she spoke with strength and authority.

“Visitors from Thedas, son of Gondor, lords and princes of times past,” Rhaenys said.

The Dornish nobility gasped as Rhaenys bowed in front of the bald boy.

“Prince Aegon, from your age I know you are still an egg, but know that it is an honour to meet you and your knight,” she said.

Then she bowed to Cullen and his group.

“You say that Daylen Amell was your leader, I knew Amells, Revka, whom spoke of a son she had. Beyond honouring her, I swear, as the daughter of King Rhaegar, that you will find only allies here. Whatever moves across the seas to hunt you and take our lands, we of Westeros will face it with you,” the princess declared.

It was meant to inspire unity, but there was a dread for what was about to come.

That dread was felt at its greatest in King’s Landing. Cersei and Rhaegar emerged from their chambers and came to the throne room expecting to find a messenger. What they saw instead was a horrific message; some members of the court had already vomited from the sight. Even Cersei swallowed a lump in her throat. She believed in ruthlessness, what she saw was not the same evil her father was capable of, or even the same evil she would commit to keep her power. Knights were kept alive most of the time, out of the expectation that they could be ransomed. It was foot soldiers returned to the city, camp followers and servants and they had the message sown into their hands.

Every knight, Griff and Bonifer included had had their heads cut off and sown to the hands of those who returned. The servant carrying Jon Connington’s head stuttered in pain, his fingers imbedded in the knight’s scalp.

“They said that this is the quarter they will show any whom try to defy their masters will, this message was sent by one of the nine, by the Hightower king,” the man trembled.

Trembled just like Rhaegar, but it was not fear, Cersei knew her husband well enough to recognise anger. There would be no negotiation, war had well and truly been declared.

Jon, Rhaenyra and Tyrion continued their journey north. Galloping across the country side, they came upon villages that had been attacked, huts had been burned, fields reduced to withering husks and those who survived carried the barely living on the road to the capital. Tyrion noticed before either of his friends that there was little resemblance between some of the people helping one another, they were just neighbours, friends, or just strangers that shared the trauma of losing family. To Tyrion who had seen the cynical part of the world through his father’s methods, it was a truly wondrous thing. Rhaenyra brought a hand to her mouth when she saw a boy far younger than her carrying a crippled man, dragging him on a sled.

The prince’s hands trembled with the same anger his father carried.

Somewhere far away

The wind felt rough through Daylen’s hair, he opened his eyes and saw the clouds. His whole body felt lighter and it was when he tilted his head that Daylen realised there was nothing there to support him.

In short he was falling through the air, Daylen was usually a calm individual, analysing. But given it was a unique situation his reaction and state of mind could best be described with three words.

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Flipping in midair, he raised his hands, using the resistance to slow his fall. Or at the very least get a better view of what he was falling towards. When he passed through a set of clouds, he was able to see a ravaged land, places where smoke was rising, broken cities and signs of battle. In the west there was a mountain range where clouds had gathered to practically conceal everything there. He had to shield his eyes when he looked to the north and saw the light reflected off of the castle on a distant city. The light reflected off of the emerald substance that was prevalent in the city.

‘Definitely not one of the ways I wanted to go,’ Daylen thought.

Then he thought of Bevin, what happened to him?

Daylen felt something tug on his shirt, his head swung forward and he stopped. He was no longer falling, but his body was still shaking. And he was shaking because a small boy was trying to hold up his weight. Daylen looked up and saw Bevin, the wound on his torn shirt was sealed, replaced with a scar as if months of healing had already happened. There was a subtle aura of gold dust around the floating lad, whose face, though still pale was scrunched up with the effort of holding his idol.

“Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,” he repeated.

“Bevin,” Daylen whispered.

“Looks like the little person was right,” Bevin half smiled.

“Of course I was right stupid!”

Bevin and Daylen looked ahead, seeing a woman with fly like wings who could fit in their hands. A far cry from the creature she had been before, this Tinkerbell was blonde haired, wore a green top with a leaf buckle above her right breast, a matching miniskirt with darker green stockings going down to the wooden sandals on her feet. She had pointed ears, far longer than any elf either Daylen or Bevin had met and her eyes seemed to have a hawk like style to them.

“So cursing someone gives you a makeover too does it?” Daylen asked.

“Curse, your son is still alive isn’t he?” Tinkerbell asked.

“He isn’t my son, the age gap between us isn’t that long,” Daylen said as Bevin blushed.

“Brother then, hmmm, oh, is he your found child like Peter was mine, oh poor Peter,” the woman’s voice was elegant, but absent too.

Daylen wondered if the fairy had gone insane, especially when she looked off into the distance and laughed.

“My winged brethren approach, do not fear, I will establish communication,” she said.

Daylen shook his head, the act made him look up, blinking in confusion for a moment.

“BEVIN MOVE!” he yelled.

The boy banked to the left, feeling a shockwave blow him back slightly. He latched onto Daylen, and the mage supported the small of his back. Both looked towards the object that had sailed past them. It was made of wood, attached to a piece of dirt no doubt ripped from the ground. The house of white and red paint dropped like a missile towards the ruins below.

Daylen and Bevin shared similar reactions:

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Next Chapter 11: Billy Goats, bloody slippers and a Witcher

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 11: Billy goats, bloody slippers and a Witcher

The pace of his quarry had quickened. With his ear pushed against the earth he could tell that they were running not because they discovered he was pursuing them, but because they were afraid. Rapid steps of terror, they ran from something with enough strength to make the ground shake. He brought his ear away from the ground, the Orcs were dead but what they carried still remained. Even with the new terrain being sand, he could still feel the small steps. Taking a few sips from his water canister, he took a bite of lembas and continued on into what he heard people call the Dothraki Sea.

Westeros

Their ride had taken them into the Green Fork of the trident. Rhaenyra watched Jon’s face shift as he looked at the trident itself, she prided herself in spotting the slightest shift in his melancholic expression. She wagered that he was picturing a story, a story that Tyrion had seen fit to grace them with.

Two armies met by the trident, the rebels against the crown. A parley was called by the Hand of the King, Fausten Amell. The foreign man was known as a friend of the mad king, but a man who had gained some respect amongst other lords. He declared to Jon Arryn, Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon a trial by combat between those whom had started this war. Stark believed that the mad king himself perhaps had come, and immediately scoffed at Fausten’s notion. Robert though believed it would be a battle between him and the prince. He brandished his war hammer and said ‘Yes prince, let’s fight right now, and upon your death I shall retake my love.’ Or something to that affect, Tyrion was like Mushroom in some ways, telling his own version of the tale.

Fausten however unveiled their champion to be Lyanna Stark herself, heavily pregnant with child and already struggling to stand.

When people of Rhaegar’s kingdom remembered the trident, they did not remember a great battle, blood filling the river and two potential kings clashing. What they remembered was Robert Baratheon, the great warrior falling to his knees and sobbing like a little boy when Lyanna Stark told the stag just how much she hated the thought of being married to him. Jon’s mother Lyanna Stark, the northern wolf, the ‘queen for a day’ as some callously called her had stopped a battle with brutal northern honesty. From then on Fausten arranged the true rebellion against the crown, Amell, Stark, Arryn, Martell and Targaryen knights loyal to Rhaegar marched from the Trident to the capital.

Leaving behind the late Walder Frey.

Not because he had died, but because he had been late, Rhaegar had already been crowned by the time the lord of the twins got to the field. Rhaenyra remembered the Freys of her time, lessons of the Freys joining Aegon the uncrowned against Maegor the cruel. A Frey had even asked for her name in marriage, for which most called him a fool. Though she knew little of the rest of the house’s history, or their present situation, she knew that their wealth came from the strategic location of the Twins. The purse on Tyrion’s saddle clicked with the sound of coins, a tribute to lord Walder Frey.

“Won’t they ask for something more?” Jon asked.

“What do they have to ask for, a seemingly random girl, a royal bastard and the less loved son of the warden of the west, I’m sure Walder Frey understands it would be more of an insult to presume that he could marry into the Lannisters a second time,” Tyrion explained.

Rhaenyra remembered the dwarf stating that his aunt was married into the Frey’s.

“Coin should suffice, Aemon has yet to be legitimised, if you’d excuse me Jon, he is considered the Targaryen of less value, less of a Targaryen when you consider his looks,” Tyrion stated.

“My sister would be the same then,” Jon retorted.

“Yet she has the love of the Dornish behind her, Aegon too, to the North they still consider you the product of rape,” Tyrion said.

“Only those who refuse to accept that my mother and the king loved one another, what can a dead woman say to that?”

“Was there truly love there” Rhaenyra asked.

“There was more love than there would have been for Robert Baratheon,” Jon said and Rhaenyra nodded.

“No woman wants to be sold, to be given to a man, whose castle would become her prison, forced to give children like a broodmare,” she said.

“Is that how a royal woman would feel, a crown princess, a queen, to the rest there is no choice,” Jon stated.

He did not glare, yet Rhaenyra felt as if he had, at the least he had challenged her perspective. She thought of Alicent for a moment, her friend, her sister turned step mother and how she had to live because her father declared one day that they would marry. Rhaenyra did not wish that fate on even her cousin Laena, she did not wish it on anyone. Her mother was her father’s only love in her eyes, but even in that, with the many brothers and sisters she had lost she wondered if there was love there. What love was there in the Frey, who had many children, Tyrion had told her. A reality she would come to find to be true, before that though she had the field that came before the Twins.

“Coins for a Sheppard my lords, my lady, take pity on a man left with only quire goats,” the man they met on the field said.

He sat on a rock with a hooked stave, he smelt of ale and dead things, only three of the flock he tended for remained. Three goats that were big, Rhaenyra had been told about goats but she was no expert.

“They are big, all males?” Tyrion asked.

“I am afraid so, the rest fell to this disease that spreads amongst live stock and fields, look to the Reach if you have doubt,” the shepherd said.

“What occurs in the Reach?” Jon asked.

“Banners ser, banners of crowned stags,” the shepherd said.

“But it is the golden rose that rules the south,” Jon said.

“Not anymore ser, the word is that the Tyrells support a stag, Renly Baratheon against his own kin.”

“No man is more cursed than a kinslayer,” Rhaenyra found herself saying, even that was taught, remaining with her even into the revelation of the dance.

Yet that input was shrugged off by the shepherd, who dared not stroke the goat that approached him.

White haired like a Targaryen, it lingered around Rhaenyra and as the conversation between shepherd and passers by continued, she found herself reaching out to the beast. It dipped its head, and she rubbed its smooth fur. A dark haired goat lingered around Jon, silent unlike the one that hung around Tyrion, crouched on the floor. Jon took a moment, taking a nut from his pocket and tossing it to the goat.

“I don’t know if it’s truly war, but knights are being drawn to the crowned banners, and those men are marching to the Stormlands, Robert is seen as a drunk and Stannis charmless, yet something is…off in young lord Renly,” the shepherd said.

“I’ve always seen young Renly as kind and charming, regardless of his tastes,” Tyrion said, daring to stroke the fair haired goat that lingered around him.

He even tore grass from the ground and fed it to the goat. But with his hand he dismissively waved the goat aside as he continued.

“Robert is good for the tourney and celebrations and nights at the brothels, yet something to be avoided after too much ale and melancholy and Stannis, oh Stannis, charmless and unwavering in honour and duty to a boring degree,” Tyrion explained.

“The brothers are all so different?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Aye they are mi’lady, but they do not concern me, it is the monsters, you’ll hear of them, the beasts, they walk like humans but not their skin, ears and nature. Monsters do exist and they don’t always look like humans,” the shepherd said.

Rhaenyra would have accepted a night from the man, a night on at least the land he could raise his livestock on. But they were afforded an hour, an hour of interaction for a man who had lives under his protection, yet nothing in truth, no castle, not even a house or it seemed a wife and child. The princess saw only duty from the man. She sought a similarity in the duty of a shepherd protecting his flock, and a Targaryen protecting the world of men.

“Promise me this Rhaenyra,” she remembered the desperate urge in her father’s voice.

“I’ll find more, apparently there will be no shortage of lost land, livestock or life in the world now,” said the shepherd.

He expected death, expected the loss of his flock. But he also expected to gain another flock in due time. For Rhaenyra though the trek of her party continued, towards the twins and the Freys who were many.

Somewhere far away

Daylen could feel Bevin’s grip tire, even with him supporting him. The boy had no time to enjoy his new gift, or think of the darker implications behind them. Tinkerbell fluttered beside them, admiring her new form to a point that she callously ignored the destruction Daylen and Bevin followed. They flew down to what looked to have been a small town, people walked about, concerned, mourning but as confused as Daylen and Bevin had been. After all there were the remains of a giant house in the middle of their town.

“Look, more skypeople,” one of the villagers said, pointing up at Bevin and Daylen.

“People beyond the barriers, are they wizards too, or more falsehoods?” another asked.

“I take it we’re not the first outsiders they’ve encountered,” Daylen muttered.

He tried to flick Tink away when she tried to fly into his pocket. But she was quick enough to dodge his fingers.

“You can’t possible want me to expose myself to them do you? For all I know they’ve never seen a fairy before?”

“I don’t believe in fairies,” Daylen said bluntly and Tinkerbell widened her eyes.

She stomped at the air, looking away and huffing.

“Damn, the story books lied to us,” Daylen said and Bevin chuckled.

“I think I really need to get down,” he said.

Bevin landed hard on the grass, next to the fallen house. Daylen landed in a crouched position, looking up at the gathering crowd of survivors.

“Good morning, just raining men today isn’t it?” Daylen asked, chuckling sheepishly.

“Hallelujah!” a person at the back of the crowd muttered.

“MOVE ASIDE NOW!”

The crowd partly dispersed, a man and an entourage of tough looking men walked through the gap. Each at least made themselves seem like a fighter, hunched shoulders, tight fists and hair and beards dirty from the ale. The man who led them was tall, dressed in a white shirt with a leather vest, his boots had a heavy buckle on them and as well as a knife, his belt also had a hatchet strapped to it. He was in his late thirties and had dirty blonde hair and more trimmed beard compared to his friend.

“Welcome to munchkin land,” the man said.

“You don’t look cute enough to be Munchkins,” Daylen huffed.

“Munchkin isn’t a race; it’s a derogatory way of referring to country folk, which tells me you aren’t from Oz,” the man stated.

“Whatever could have given us away?” Daylen asked sarcastically.

“Is this your house?”

“Not mine,” the Warden shrugged.

“So I can’t hold you responsible for her death then,” the man said.

‘Her death,’ Daylen mouthed, looking over his shoulder.

Bevin was sitting on the floor, his face pale as he looked at set of legs sticking out of the bottom of the house. They were women’s legs, delicate and creamy skin with feet wearing silver slippers. That was until blood started leaking out of the bottom of the house, coating the slippers.

“You don’t seem too horrified,” Daylen said, turning to the ‘woodsman’.

“Bit of a bitch really, she and her new friends, outsiders like you, established a dictatorship in the Emerald city. She was here for a tribute of blood, gold, wood and seed, and not the kind that comes out of the ground,” the woodsman explained.

“Still, it is pretty disgusting,” Daylen said just as Bevin vomited.

“I probably would have wept for her once, but not anymore, not since she took my heart.”

“Don’t all beautiful women do?”

“We don’t know each other nearly well enough for that yet, in the mean time you can call me Tin,” the woodsman said.

“Tin?” Daylen tested the name.

“Woodsman, tracker, temporary mayor for this town of which Nessarose once lived in,” Tin stated.

“Not anymore though, besides her being dead of course,” Daylen said.

“She moved into the far east where they called her Evanora, there she built a hovel for herself and practiced her witchcraft, she and her sister of the West became enemies of the state,” Tin explained.

“But then strangers came, creatures the likes of which we had never seen before. The witches never had themselves an army before, they were able to take the city within days,” one of the town’s people stated.

Tin walked over to the dead woman’s legs, tugging off her slippers, accepting a towel from one of the women and wrapping the elegant and now ruby red shoes up.

“These creatures, did they have pointy ears, raggedy armour, did they look ugly as hell and speak with rough accents?” Daylen asked.

“They speak broken sentences, they are terrifying, but the truly grotesque thing about them is what they do with the women they drag away,” Tin explained.

“Darkspawn,” Bevin said, covering his mouth when the people looked at him.

“You know these creatures?”

“It’s my job to fight them,” Daylen said.

“And it is my job to protect what is left of these people, they are free of Evanora, yet her magic still remains,” Tin touched the area of his heart as he spoke.

“Oh I see, I take it she didn’t take rejection well,” Daylen said.

Tin frowned at Daylen, about to come out with some indignant remark when he narrowed his eyes. He pushed past Daylen, looking up to the skies.

“They’re coming,” the woodsman said.

Daylen looked to the west, seeing the silhouettes in the clouds. Huge wings beat in order to carry larger bodies. There were smaller bodies amongst them as well, thin figures, thin and furry. Bevin backed away against the house, feeling the door open behind him. But his attention was, like the people of the town completely on the flying figures coming towards them. Pitch forks and hunting bows were picked up but the people were not fighters. Tin though did not wait for a declaration, did not wait for his enemies to speak or present themselves as a threat. He grabbed an axe near a pile of wood and threw it. The blade rolled through the air, slamming into the head of one of the flyers as soon as they got close enough. The flyers looked at their dead comrade and began to scream, letting out a nightmarish chorus of cries that both intimidated and annoyed.

Sten had told Daylen about monkeys, these creatures threw a lot more than shit at people.

Dorne

“Why do I get the feeling we’re actually prisoners?” Carver asked.

“Might want to read between the lines Little Hawke,” Varric said.

The dwarf was polishing the metallic areas of his crossbow whilst Boromir looked out of the window. He read the patrols of the guards in the garden, noted the passersby. In between that he listened, for fighters being drilled, soldiers or horses arriving, though he was no elf he could recognise the distant sounds. But he didn’t hear any of that, not even the banging of steel in the castle smiths. The absence of all those sounds told him that Dorne wasn’t preparing for war.

“I get the feeling Dorne doesn’t take Sauron very seriously,” Boromir said.

“This is a hot place, presumably it would be difficult for anyone to conquer,” Varric said.

“So they’re becoming arrogant?” the Gondorian asked.

“There’s a fine line between arrogance and confidence, I’m no expert on war but I’ve read and written enough stories to tell that when the main characters get too relaxed, that usually means bad shit is going to happen,” Varric explained.

“So they’re going to keep us here?” Carver asked.

“No young Hawke they are going to feed us and clothe us,” Jake came into the room, wearing an orange Dornish tunic, his hair finely styled and beard shaved.

Beside him, shifting uncomfortably was Merrill; the Dalish elf was dressed in a thin layered pink dress. Carver widened his eyes to Varric’s amusement.

“Pick your jaw up Little Hawke,” he whispered.

“Where are her shoes?” Boromir asked.

“Dalish don’t wear shoes,” Varric said.

“They’d get along with Hobbits then.”

“Esteemed guests…” the Castellan’s voice echoed in the room.

Accompanied by guards, the man bowed his head courteously as he addressed the outsiders.

“Prince Doran invites you all to join him as guests for supper,” the man said.

“Supper, I didn’t even realise we had gone past lunch,” Carver remarked.

“I am quite hungry,” Merrill said.

“We would be honoured to join them,” Boromir bowed gratefully.

They didn’t have a table that the party was used to, its legs were so short that the people around it had to kneel or sit cross legged on pillows. The rooms matched the weather, being open enough for the air to get in and sheltered and cosy enough to be a comfort in Dorne’s harsh heat. The table had a spread of fruits set onto it, along with finely seasoned meats and vegetables. Prince Doran sat with his sons Trystane and Quentyn whilst Arianne was sat next to Oberyn and his Paramour Ellaria. Boromir noticed how Elia was sat slightly away from her family, whilst everyone noticed Rhaenys’s absence.

“Will the princess not be joining us?” Jake asked.

“Forgive her rudeness but the princess is in the training yard,” Doran said.

“She prepares for war, as many of us should,” Elia said.

“Please, eat, enjoy yourselves,” Doran said.

Merrill and Carver ravenously dug into their food, piling some of the meat and fruit on top of one another. The sight put frowns on Doran’s sons’ faces whilst Oberyn smirked, more used to the behaviour of commoners.

“If I may be so bold, what does Dorne intend to do against the incursions from the enemy?” Boromir asked.

“Might I as to inquire as to who this enemy is?” Doran asked.

“Orcs, Easterlings, any who call themselves allies of Mordor,” Boromir said.

“That includes the Darkspawn,” Carver added between bites of fruit.

“Oh this is so sweet, this after taste what is it?” Merrill asked.

“Those would be lemons Daisy,” Varric said as he sipped on his wine.

“Sauron is the enemy of all the free peoples,” Boromir stated.

He frowned as Oberyn laughed bitterly and Doran shook his head in amusement.

“Free peoples, such a wonderful world you must come from, do you have the rule of law, that in itself is a chain to people Lord Boromir, your title too grants you authority over others,” Oberyn explained.

“Not authority, responsibility, being a lord is a duty and one that requires you to act in the best interests of the people you serve and protect,” Boromir stated and again Oberyn laughed.

“Now that is certainly a unique way of looking at ones lordship, but if that is true lord Boromir, then you of all people should understand the stance that Dorne is taking,” Doran explained.

“What stance is that exactly?” Boromir asked.

“We hide in the sands and strike, we let the heat and lack of water decimate our enemies and then we flee back to our city walls, Dorne has repeatedly fought off the invasions of would be conquerors, even so far back as the days the Targaryens rode on dragons. Our words remain, unbowed, unbent, unbroken, because we still have not knelt to the Targaryens, we still remain a…free people,” Oberyn added the last part with a jibing grin.

“Sauron would employ a force that is also used to fighting in the sands and heat, Easterlings,” Boromir said.

“And we will drive them back too,” Oberyn retorted.

“Lord Boromir is correct though in the fact that we should be cautious,” Elia said.

“Dorne’s priority will remain its own safety,” Doran said with finality.

“What kind of grape did you use for this wine?” Jake asked, trying to change the subject.

“Long ago I demanded more help from those who I believed had abandoned us, my land of Gondor stood as a shield against Mordor, by the blood of my people were their lands kept safe,” Boromir explained.

He lowered his head, smiling fondly, a sight that made Elia gaze at the man of Gondor and read the joy hidden by his melancholic expression. It was a silent and familiar joy that she had seen in the eyes of men that worshipped her husband. But it was accompanied by something else, and it instilled within her the same feeling that she had yearned for; one she wanted from Rhaegar but knew was just the dreams of a man who wanted his family’s legacy of blood and death to be justified. Boromir spoke with the hope in his eyes and heart that Elia yearned for and for a moment she saw the expressions of her brother’s waver, awe in the younger warriors at the table and inspiration from the writers.

“I met a man who became my king, and this he said to me,” Boromir began.

The day has come when the courage of men has failed.

They called themselves Dothraki, they worshipped horses, strength. There was a Khal, one who had slaughtered many and claimed many more as his slaves. He sought the ‘Stallion who would mount the world’ for that was what everything the Dothraki conquered was, something for them to mount. Their horses, cities, treasures, women, they were all just things to mount for the Dothraki. They were savages who saw rape as an honour.

But in that, they were not much different from any people who conquered.

Khal Drogo rode to conquer goat worshippers. But before he could reach their quarry, they were met by someone on the path. He had no horse and the Dothraki laughed, for a strider was not worthy of respect or fear. He was not worth the blades of Drogo’s blood riders, his death would test the lowliest of Drogo’s young warriors. Yet as horses stormed towards the man in green, he showed no fear.

His courage had not failed.

Shall we forsake all friends and break all bonds of fellowship? Is it that day, an hour of wolves and shattered shields upon which the age of men comes crashing down?

Shall we forsake our friends for the promise of riches?

Shall we break bonds of fellowship for our own gains?

The strider threw back his cloak, the elven sheath glittered as he grasped it. And the bright blade shone like a sudden flame as he swept it out.

“ELENDIL!” he yelled.

A man upon a horse could overpower a simple strider, that had been the truth to Drogo for many years. It was more than the sword though that cut down his men, the skill of the strider could not be denied. The Strider was not alone, he was not truly alone as the Dothraki came to realise. Arrows flew from the desert sands into the blood riders, something small yet devastating knocked them off of their horses. There was a guttural roar that silenced the laughter of the riders and turned it to terror.

I say no, it is not this day, all that is gold does not glitter, not all who wander are lost. We all share a common ideal, to live in peace, to cherish brighter days and the company of friends and family. Our neighbours though are not simply those whose city we share. Those who attack us will not stop at our homes, they will move onto others. To help others is not just an act of charity, it is an act of humanity, and a good will that we all share. Bonds of friendship are forged through journeys and in sharing in the troubles of others. By overcoming these troubles together we prosper.

‘Impossible,’ Khal Drogo thought.

He drew his sword, releasing a bloody howl, a command for his remaining Khalasar to ride out. Galloping across the sands, they moved through the dust cloud. Drogo huffed, his enemies had withdrawn down a hill. Three, three enemies, three men, one a dwarf, one a freak with pointed ears and the strider himself. Kings did not need thrones, or crowns, they needed horses, this Drogo knew. He rode forward, down the hill, he would slaw these striders and prove himself again the undefeated Khal. Suddenly, the sand beneath him gave way and his horse screamed. Khal was thrown from his horse, slamming hard into the sand.

He awoke with a start, hearing the battle around him. Already horses were galloping without their riders. Drogo got off of the floor, the enemy had dug holes, hole that would cripple the horses. Clearly they had also hidden in the sand too, as there were more than three men now. Drogo watched as four of his men were cut down with a single strike. A giant of the man moved like a sandstorm, each swing of his massive staff seemed to lift the sand up. Attached to the end of the staff was a curved blade. The man himself was truly strong, stronger than any man Drogo had seen on the battlefield. Multiple men were cut down with single swings of the blade. Drogo had seen the clothes of the Westerosi, this warrior did not wear Westerosi clothes, part robes, part armour, he had a shoulder pad based on the head of a dragon. His clothes and face were not unlike what those of Yi Ti wore. But those from Yi Ti were short, this Drogo knew. The dark haired man had a beard so long that it travelled down to his waist.

There was someone else, a boy, blonde haired and thin in a green shirt and sun hat. Clearly the boy ate nothing as his cheeks were gaunt and eyes nearly dead. When the boy slit the throat of one of Drogo’s men, their eyes met.

Drogo blinked, had he been looking at someone?

Arrows flew past his head, knocking six more men off of their horses. Drogo spotted the archers, three bow wielders. One was the blonde haired freak, pointed ears, wearing green like a forest. He was quicker on the draw, faster than any archer Drogo had seen. He drew one arrow after another, the projectiles moving with a speed Drogo had never seen. The second archer was another monstrosity, a red haired child with freckles, not a child but one of those dwarves. She fired a curved bow, wore a leather vest over her white shirt. Her hair was cut into a braid but it was not a Dothraki braid, not with the bangs over her forehead. Only the third archer was not a freak or monstrosity, a brown haired man in white armour with fur lining on his hood.

Drogo had had enough; he stood and raised his sword, ready to kill anyone in his way. He was met though by the Strider, the tall, green clad man had a look of calm. As he and Drogo met with their blades, the Khal sensed only calm and no rage or pleasure from the strikes. This man was not a rider, he was not a Khal, he could not be a leader or even a warrior of great success. Yet he matched Drogo’s strength, surpassed it even. Drogo roared in anger, and his sword shattered. He drew his knives but we met with the Strider’s fist. The Strider swung his sword, cutting off Drogo’s braid.

There are things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark. There is always hope.

The dining table was silent in Dorne, the three siblings pondered what Boromir said of his king.

“What is the name of this man you call king?” Elia asked.

“Elessar Telcontar, though I know him by the name Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Boromir said.

Aragorn stroked the mane of Drogo’s horse. Those Dothraki that survived were knelt on the ground, deprived of the one thing they truly valued in the world. Legolas and Gimli helped in distributing what the Dothraki carried with them, treasures that would go to the people they had intended to attack. Those who had joined their hunt assisted in their own way, the dwarf scout Harding resumed picking up the trail, the priest Prince Sebastian Vael prayed for the fallen, the boy who was not a boy Cole helped with distributing supplies, enough for the villagers, the hunters and the Dothraki for their return journey.

“Let these ones go free, they have had enough of war,” Aragorn said.

The horses were released and they rode without their riders, in the opposite direction than where the Dothraki were sent. In the end, the greatest humiliation Khal Drogo faced was not the cutting of his braid, but to become the Strider. Aragorn watched Drogo and his men walk until the sand dust clouds consumed them. He sheathed Anduril and turned to his companions. A man in a blue robe walked between Guan Yu and Sebastian. A white beard poked out of the man’s fur lined hood, herbs and flowers hung off of his neck and wrists. Finally he lifted up his hood, revealing elderly features, a thick moustache with curled tips and glowing blue eyes.

“Your strategy was invaluable,” Aragorn said.

“You are too kind as always Aragorn, it was your prowess that won the day, but sparing the Dothraki may be a mistake down the line. There are whispers on the winds of someone seeking kings, a Khal is but another king. Greed makes men turn to dark arts, but so too can desperation,” the blue wizard explained.

“Mercy too can have its own benefits,” Aragorn countered.

“You had Gandalf’s confidence, I will thus give you mine,” the wizard said.

“Your help is appreciated Alatar,” Aragorn bowed his head slightly, but the blue wizard waved his hand dismissing the formality.

“Alatar is what the people of Middle-Earth called me; call me by my more famous name, the name those of Avalon called me, Merlin!”

In Dorne, the guests of other worlds were granted access to the Martell family’s sitting room. Carver and Merrill sat together, the latter in awe of the Dornish dancing girls brought in for entertainment. Wearing robes clipped to their wrists and waist, their bellies exposed, the girls swayed and danced. Jake leant forward on his chair, grinning with a blush on his cheeks whilst Varric relaxed with his ale. Boromir sat to the side, closest to Doran and the man’s bodyguards Areo and Hotah.

“I apologise for offending you,” Boromir said.

“There is no need, Dorne would call for help if needed as well, we only involved ourselves in the affairs of the other kingdoms when it affected us. My nephew is in the west, more a hostage than guest, and we remember our wars. I remember the bodies, the orphans made all because our king wanted another woman,” Doran explained, sipping his wine.

“What of love for his country?” Boromir asked. “No, there are many things that can tempt us,” he added, shaking his head.

“Enough melancholy, my brother is busy cheering up our sister, my feet ache too much to be chasing my family to improve their mood let alone my guests,” Doran said.

“Brothers, my little brother Faramir was always the more mature one and the wiser too,” Boromir said, smiling fondly.

“There it is, the love of home and family, that is what we in Dorne wish to protect Lord Boromir. Your king sounds like a fascinating man, a good man even which is hard to find in our country. Dragons and monsters have tried to take Dorne for centuries, we will remain unbowed, unbent and unbroken,” Doran explained.

“You don’t seem like you’ll be doing any kneeling either way,” Boromir quipped, Areo and Hotah snorted behind him.

“Hey!” Doran laughed, making the motion to slap Boromir before they laughed together.

Elia stood behind a curtain, looking into the room and at the otherworldly strangers, in particular the Gondorian captain.

“Thinking of taking a Paramour my sister?” Oberyn asked behind her.

She playfully slapped at her brother, who sat on the chair across from her.

“The way he spoke of his king, it does sound truly special. And his warnings of greater danger do weigh on my mind,” Oberyn said.

“Then why not offer this council to Doran?” Elia asked.

“You know our brother, ever cautious, he too thinks of these monsters, this Sauron. I have tasted battle more than Doran has, I will never flee from a fight. But Rhaegar, he did not stop to listen to the cries and wails of wives and mothers,” Oberyn raised his hand when Doran tried to speak. “You forgive him and I love you for your gentle heart sister, you are better than all of us. But I will not sacrifice another generation of young Dornish men for his whims,” the viper explained and Elia touched his shoulder comfortingly.

“Not for Rhaegar, but for Dorne,” she said.

“For Dorne my sister,” Oberyn nodded.

“For Dorne,” she said hesitantly.

The Twins

Rhaenyra had not expected much from Walder Frey, only for him to have basic courtesy to a guest. The lord of the Twins thought treated guest rights like some kind of inconvenience. Rhaenyra herself acknowledged she had little regard for protocol herself, but that went hand in hand with being a dragon, a member of the House Targaryen who were not beholden to the laws of gods and men. Looking at Lord Frey made Rhaenyra come to one conclusion.

Walder Frey was just fucking rude.

“Forty, forty bloody farmers and peasants came to my keep and asked me to tell them what had happened to the land, how it had expanded. So many fools complaining, even after I relieved them of their bumper harvests but then came the reports of freaks, grotesques with pointed ears, short legs, furry feet, grotesques,” Walder repeated with a shake of his head.

He was eating a pie, not bothering to clean the gravy from his mouth as he grabbed half cooked twigs of broccoli and snapped them with his teeth.

‘He talks about grotesques,’ Rhaenyra thought, looking around at the Frey children.

The banquet hall was filled with Frey’s offspring, bastards and grandchildren. For every one person who Rhaenyra would call attractive, six more were ugly, some with pimples, others with fat faces or rat like noses and teeth. She avoided meeting Lord Frey’s eyes as the man looked at her with a lecherous twitch of his lips. His wife was younger than Rhaenyra, a thin looking girl who looked afraid to be there. Yet another example to Rhaenyra of a poor girl sold off to a lord for a bit of land and a tenuous ally.

“Half men they could only be, yet their land, my fool boys went there, looked at this hills and their fields and they told me they had never seen such greener lands. We have a boy from Highgarden fostering here, he said itself the green pales in comparison to the fields of even his home. I am lord of the lands that surround the Twins, all that is there should be mine but the moment I sent people to protect my claim they were driven back by men in hoods. These monsters are protected by outlaws, are you who the king has sent to aid me?” Walder demanded.

“We knew nothing of this Lord Walder, to our knowledge no letters have arrived at King’s Landing at least from the Twins,” Tyrion said.

Walder grumbled, aggressively stabbing some of his food, spearing it on his fork.

“You boy, prince, you surely have your father’s ear, he knows of my troubles doesn’t he?” he asked Jon.

“The king does not share the contents of every letter he receives with me,” Jon said.

“It is not the first time your father has ignored a letter from me, I offered him a good son to marry the Princess Rhaenys,” Walder said.

Rhaenyra coughed, covering her mouth to hide the amused smile. Tyrion clapped his hands together, gaining the attention of Walder before he could look at Rhaenyra.

“In this you are not alone; my own father has proposed joining our families a second time, marrying one of my uncle’s son’s to him, lords from across the country have sent proposals but his grace never replies,” Tyrion explained.

“The king dismisses me, just like Hoster Tully, just like the mad king,” Walder said, noticing the frown across Jon’s brow. “Aye bastard your grandfather was a cunt I said it, a mad man who would have burned his hostages alive, your second grandfather amongst them. It was only the council of supposed better men, well Fausten’s disappeared and the Griffon has gotten himself killed trying to take back Old Town. What assurances can the royal family offer its loyal houses?”

Jon remained silent for a moment, it seemed as if Tyrion would say something clever before Jon stepped forward.

“Do you intend to stand against monsters alone Lord Frey, because that is what my father believe is coming, what else could take old town and decimate Lord Connington’s knights but monsters? Whatever you think you knew about the world, the laws and the rules that protect men like you in their high castles has changed, the only thing we have now is the expectation that we will not behave as monsters. So passers by simply request to cross the bridge, and as Lord of the Twins your duty is to ask why, my duty as even a bastard prince is to obey the orders of the king, and he has bid that I make my way northward, do you disagree with this my lord?” Jon asked.

Walder half scowled, dropping his head in defeat.

“Go on, let the path onwards be your problem, and a great many problems there will be,” Walder said gruffly.

Their problems, Rhaenyra scoffed, she thought of how low the houses of Westeros had fallen. But she wondered too if the Dance had started something, if she had started something. Had she, in defying the fate of a woman, triggered the defiance in the houses of Westeros? It was a question that ran through her mind as her party rode across the bridge. She thought of the Dance of dragons and wondered, was there anywhere in this new Westeros, this new Land where dragon’s flourished?

People in this new land did not know what caused this new convergence. Some made the assumption that the gods were the cause of it. So they made their sacrifices, believing that their faith alone would protect them. Places such as ‘the Reach’ were unfamiliar with monsters, but there were many ‘Reaches’ now. This Reach belonged to a man who had already declared himself king, due to a great story.

‘Who has a greater story than Bronn of the Blackwater?’ apparently that was the question asked by a dwarf amongst a council of lords.

The wolf’s pendant shook, feeling the presence of magic. Gloved hands accepted bags of coin for the road ahead, but the weight on the heart still remained. There were no gods, only monsters, creatures to be put to the sword and to provide one with coin for the road. For another story would be told, one that would prove to be much more interesting to some than Bronn of the Blackwater. This was the story of the Witcher, travelling, slaying monsters and involving themselves in affairs not their own, not through any actual choice but as if dictated by fate itself. Some spoke of a woman, slaying a monster and accusing the towns folk who paid her of being monsters themselves. This was perhaps one Witcher, seen one time, yet the one most known, the one known as ‘The’ Witcher was described as ‘lanky, slim or full of sinews, unhealthily pale with a face and voice that is unpleasant and makes others uncomfortable, a smile like a lacerated wound.’ The details that would remain constant was the wolf medallion, shaking in the presence of magic. But magic was in the air in the new world. Wherever the Witcher treaded there would be magic and the medallion would shake.

There was the forests and the land that were called trespassers to Bronn of the Blackwater. He ruled over fertile lands, yet these fertile lands had new masters in the form of those he hated. Once, Bronn of the Blackwater defended a dwarf, a little man who could pay him much. Friend, he called him, yet one could tire of friendship. So Bronn wielded a crossbow and threatened the dwarf, his friend, for a lordship and he called it a fair trade. And the story diverged to impossibly favour this mercenary.

Bronn saw on his land new land, great hills, forests and places that were holes in the ground yet homes worthy of lords, filled with the comforts everyone had the right to. So Bronn claimed these lands for himself, he claimed the small people as unnatural things, as monsters to be slain. The Witcher hunted and slew monsters, yet when the knights of Bronn of the Blackwater marched to purge, they encountered the Witcher.

The Witcher white haired, paid as a slayer of monster, a mutated freak with unnatural powers. There was the Witcher in black, fighting in the forest, fighting men, protecting seven dwarves and a maiden as pure as snow. Then there was the Witcher, whose voice would be known by all, clothes ever changing, the lover of a dark haired beauty or a red haired maiden, none knew for certain, seen once on the road with thirteen small people. In the days to come, Bronn of the Blackwater’s reign would fail and it would be to the choices of the White Wolf.

“Where is it?” demanded a knight of the ‘false’ reach.

He huffed as he rode his horse, his men looking in the fields of wheat.

“Found them,” one of the knights’s declared.

Fairies, fae, people far smaller than even Hobbits or Dwarves. They had their way of fighting, but in small groups they were helpless, helpless against the monsters of humanity.

“Enough,” the voice of the Witcher echoed.

Echoed as he held up his hand and made a sign, unknown to the Westerosi knights, to the naked eye it was simply the thumb, index and middle finger held up with the ring fingers close to the palm. To those familiar with the sign arts, it was the sign Axii for the mind, a charm, a warning and a plea for those with enough sense to stop. But the knights did not have sense, they looked at the tiny, winged people and saw only pests. The sign was ignored, yet the knights looked to the one who blocked them from their duty. They saw the white hair, the band on his head, the sword on his back and the horse by his side. He removed the cork from a bottle he removed from his pouch, downing the contents with a single swig. It bore the mark of the blizzard, of time altered.

“Stay out of our way stranger, we’ve been told to bring a little fly man back, to see what’s inside it,” one of the knight’s said.

The sword upon the Witcher’s back was silver, silver to sweep through the flesh of monsters. But he did not remove the sword from his back. Instead, he took a sword of steel from the scabbard strapped to his horse’s saddle, and the horse was called by a name remembered by many as ‘Roach’.

“Let’s see what you’re made of,” the Witcher said.

 His name was Geralt of Rivia, whatever the voice, whatever the face and form and whomever the companions. Thirteen or seven dwarves, he fought with all of them, Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher. His sword moved swiftly as if time had slowed, and when the swords of his enemies came close, his hands made the sign, middle fingers together, ring finger and thumb bent towards the palm, the sign of Quen which deflected all blades with a bubble of force. From Quen he shifted into Aard, hand stretched forward, fingers raised with the middle finger lowered and the force that protected became one that threw the knights back. His sword did the rest, swiping through the gaps in armour, the Witcher moving swiftly and striking with the savagery of his school, the Wolf.

It wasn’t all about the money though; there was a practicality to doing what was right. This ‘King Bronn’ or ‘Bronn the false one,’ had been a mercenary and he still operated on the concept of a mercenary, taking what he liked rather than negotiating. There were agencies within the ‘pseodo-Reach’ as some called it that yearned for a change. More and more people began to fear the unknown, or flock to it. Banners flew high and began to be painted on the roads or villages that Geralt passed. They included the banners of a white hand, two eyes, one wrapped in green and another obscured by flames. Then there was another banner, the banner of a sword imbedded within a stone.

Once Geralt believed that evil was evil, lesser, great, middling, it was all the same. He believed it was better to keep away from such things, to avoid politics and morality. Before he had come to learn and see of the nuances of evil and the goodness in people making the right choices and standing for the right reasons. In this new world he rode into ruined villages, saw corpses piled by the banners of the white hand and the flaming eye and at bars he listened to the people talk as he drank or played Gwent, he heard of the needless cruelty of monsters. It was a broad term, but Geralt had seen these orcs and knew that the term monster befitted them. But the places he found the banner of the green hand were saved, protected and cared for. So he followed those banners, followed them to good people, and potential work.

His journey led him to a keep in the mountains and he walked into a hall and saw three advisors of the one who looked upon the rough map of the new world. Geralt removed a coin from his pouch and flicked it to a spot on the map.

“That’s where you’ll find the dragon, but I’d recommend a retreat and not an advance,” he said.

“You don’t have the look of someone from our world, world, it feels strange to call it that, we thought it was the Breach,” a woman spoke, looking at her hand and the sparks of green that came out of it. “We have heard of a white haired man, not a king but a hunter, this new world has been engulfed in chaos, many versions of the same people wander them, the land itself even expands. Yet one constant remains, a hero sweeping in to slay monsters,” the woman narrowed her eyes at Geralt as she spoke.

“Not a hero, a professional,” Geralt retorted.

“Well said,” the woman finally smiled.

She had short black hair, blue eyes and a red paint mark across the bridge of her nose.

“Welcome to the Inquisition Witcher, I am the Inquisitor, but you can call me Hawke!”

Next Chapter 12: Trolls and closeness

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 12: Trolls and closeness

King’s landing-The Targaryen and Lannister banners flew both separately and in a new banner that slowly rose from the battlements of the Red Keep. The new banner showed the black three headed dragon and the gold lion alongside one another on a grey field. Some around the city called it grey for the uncertainty of the era. Six visitors came to the keep and all of them were made to wait, wait as the small council created the ‘summit’ for these emissaries to meet in. Servants prepared a banquet and stalls to be taken to the dragon pit. A call was made for musicians and entertainers. At one of the inns, one such entertainer had finally had enough.

“SO BURN WITCHER BURN…”

SMASH!

Jaskier, known to some as Dandelion straightened out his shirt and feather cap. The musician he had knocked out with a chair was good, fantastic singer and good with the lute, but Dandelion would not stomach listening to songs of petty jealously and hurt anymore. ‘Toss a coin to your Witcher’ was a great song, Dandelion admitted, but after hearing it the sixth time this week he knew what he wanted to toss at the singer. He seemed a good man though, willing to take one on the chin, Dandelion would buy him a beer later.

“Thank whatever god these lands worship,” his bodyguard said gruffly.

Dandelion sat at the booth he and the ‘Yi Tish’ man he drank with shared. He was a muscular man, with a bit of a belly and a white shirt with a red belt over his hip. The man wore sandals and thin trousers, his rough beard and wild hair were coated from the sweat the man produced. Despite his gruff, loud and drunken nature, Dandelion was writing songs about ‘Zhang Fei of Yan’ the man he found on the road and hired as his bodyguard. A long pole arm was resting next to Zhang Fei, both ends of it wrapped in heavy cloth to keep the blades out of view. When the serving girl brought a jar of ale to the table, Zhang took it as his chance to fill the strange bottle he called a ‘gourd’.

“You think I’ll find anyone from my land here?” Zhang asked.

“I think either way you’re not alone, it’s a big city and people are looking for people,” Dandelion said.

“Well of course they…oh yeah, I suppose they would be,” Zhang said.

He sighed, pouring some of the wine down his throat.

“MORE!” he yelled.

“Already?” the barmaid remarked.

Dandelion huffed as he chuckled. Zhang Fei was hardly the worst travelling companion he had ever had. Still it was days like this that Dandelion wondered what his Witcher friend was up to.

Shit, clearly the Orc’s functioned like any animal. Yet there was still a very putrid stench to it. Flipping the log aside, Geralt wiped his hands and followed the trail further to the forest. Hawke’s spy master reported that six days ago knights under ‘that shit lord Bronn’ as some people called him, tried to cut wood from the forest. None were seen again and as Geralt walked further into the forest he began to get an idea of the reason why. His medallion tickled his chest, and he saw in some of the branches ripped clothes, rent and crushed armour. Then he came to the pulped remains and saw across some of the roots black blood, skull fragments. The Orcs had been spreading fear even amongst Bronn’s forces, only to meet their end at the hands of something far more terrifying. Their bodies had become the food on crows, pecking at the bones. A flock of them were eating save for one, one perched on a branch and regarding Geralt. The Witcher regarded it too, tempted to use a sign to unveil whatever deception was taking place. But suddenly there were whispers in the trees, groans of branches that moved despite how little wind there was.

“Just passing through, no bother,” Geralt muttered.

When Geralt turned around those he spotted something near a distant tree. It was the split second sight of a white robe and then it disappeared, simply walking out of view. Geralt moved around one of the trees and looked across a small distance, seeing a white haired man in white robes walking off. He could have been old considering his shape, and the white staff he carried. Then again he could have been a mage. The magic users of Hawke’s world generally used staves.

“Wait,” Geralt called to the man.

The old man walked further into the forest, and the trees themselves seemed to shift and become new walls that forced the Witcher to take a different path. He came to a stop near a fountain, bread and salt was laid out, a custom of the Westerosi. Geralt’s medallion became still and even the water became silent. There was a tap of wood behind Geralt and for a moment his fingers twitched, tempted to draw his sword. Instead though he turned and regarded the man in white, a man who looked older than Geralt, but the Witcher was older than most aged men and regarded the possibility that perhaps the other man was far, far older than he seemed. His white robe seemed to have an almost ethereal glow in the darkness of the forest, his eyes were calm and his lips curled into a wizened, yet somewhat arrogant smile.

“Took you long enough to let me catch up, for a moment I thought the forest had taken you,” Geralt said.

“You are light footed for one so well armed, but the forest knows you mean no harm, at least not without being paid coin first,” the wizard said.

“Then it’s a good thing I haven’t taken a job as a wood cutter, only a monster hunter, perhaps the Inquisition should pay the forest with water and shit for dealing with the Orcs,” Geralt explained.

“There are older and fouler things than Orcs to worry of in the days ahead, Fanggorn forest has become host to ruins not even the eldest of trees know, even the shepherd’s of the forests hesitate to go there,” the wizard explained.

Geralt didn’t know if the old man spotted the crow from before first. The Witcher saw it on the tree branch above the man. Slowly the old man turned, beckoning with his finger.

“What say you regarding these ruins my dear?” the man asked.

The crow flew from the branch, and in a flash of purple light and splutter of feathers, turned into a woman. She had dark hair and wore a purple robe. Her neck was decorated by two necklaces, one of pearls and another of metal clasped tightly around her midriff. Fur covered her shoulders and bands of gold and leather ran up her arms. She wore a leather belt with armour over her legs and leather boots. When she raised her head, Geralt was reminded of Yennefer’s age paired with the youthful beauty magic could offer. She had the expression of an experienced woman, purple makeup was on the edges of her eyes, purple coated lips and her face was framed by a trident shaped crown of bone.

“Well, well, what have we here?” the woman muttered.

“Just an old man and a hunter,” the man in white said.

“No, not just an old man, him I would call the old man,” the woman said, pointing at Geralt but focusing on the older man.

“You have the look of one suited for the wilds, one familiar with them,” the man in white said.

“I am familiar with a good many things, but lately I have been vexed, yes vexed, monsters, kingdoms split apart by time and even oceans of stars, yet here they are together on a land that does not seem to end. Are you of Thedas or Westeros, or of another place entirely, do not say you are of Middle-Earth for that is not true, no I see an old man before me but feel something else,” the woman explained.

“You see a great many things, yet have not the courtesy to give a name, in Valinor I was known as Olorin, Mithrandir they know me as in Middle-Earth,” the man said.

“Mithrandir,” the woman tested the name with a smile on her face.

There was something sultry in her look, but the look too of a predator with her pray. Perhaps others would have seen arrogance but Geralt saw confidence.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he introduced himself.

“The Inquisition seeks Orcs but they should be focusing on something else, something in the ruins sprouting from this forest,” the woman walked away from the tree, smiling at the two men. “I am Morrigan, let me show you where the monsters are Witcher!”

OZ
Mania hit the small village, the frenzied cries of the flying monkeys overpowered the screams of those they attacked. Men strong enough to fight thrust their pitch forks and swung axes, women brave enough to fight brandished kitchen knives or stools. Hunting bows, scythes for reaping the fields, axes for cutting wood, bare hands was nothing to the strength of the monkeys. The Ozian’s called them monkeys, they were no annoying critters jumping from tree to tree, the most damage they could do being a picked pocket. No, they were quick and savage baboons, their teeth sharp enough to rip flesh, arms and mass powerful enough to tackle fully grown men to the ground. Ozian children hid in the houses with adult protectors and cowards alike, seeing the blood spread across their windows, feeling bodies slam into the houses they hid in. The yellow brick road was coated with blood. But not every bit of blood was human.

Feathers fell to the floor as monkeys screamed. An axe split one monkey’s head down the middle, the man wielding it threw the monkey into its allies and immediately cut another across the chest. Tin jumped, grabbing one of the monkeys by its tail and slamming it into the floor. He stomped on its neck two times to crush it, backing away as several monkeys flew at him. Tin ducked and tilted his body to dodge the thrusts of their lances. He grabbed one spear and deflected another with it, pulling the monkey towards him and hitting its shoulder with his hatchet. The woodsman looked briefly to the new arrival, to the knife sweeping through feathers and fur. Daylen was constantly moving his feet, swinging his knife wide, hacking, slashing, moving the blade constantly and aiming at joints for limbs, wings, at throats and wrists. His magic remained limited, but he focused on the blade, passing a mana field through it to make the blade longer. He only stopped briefly to adjust the angel he held his blade at, then he moved in a circle, dodging a monkey’s spear and beheading the creature. Of all those in the village, it was Daylen and Tin who slew the most monkeys. Other villagers were able to get lucky hits on the monkeys, or work together to bring at least one monkey to the floor before one of them was dragged up into the sky. Bodies fell, crunching on the floor. When Tin felt arms on his shoulders he slammed his hatchet into legs or even groins. Daylen slashed at the air, keeping the monkeys away from him.

But he had been fighting with his knife and his mana for a while. Daylen deflected two spears and tilted his head to stop the third. The three monkeys that surrounded him had their heads and wings cut with a single glorious swing, blood rained onto Daylen’s hair and he raised the knife to parry two more spears. But when the blade clashed with the spears, it snapped and Daylen had to grab the shafts to stop them. He was thrown onto his back rolling across the floor to dodge the spears lunging at him. Daylen rose, trying to pry one of the spears from a monkey’s grip. It began to hover off of the floor, and Daylen let go, barely dodging the thrust of a monkey that swooped towards him.

So many times he had tried, tried and failed to make a spell. To cast fire or lightning, to strike down the monkeys within an instant. But his every attempt to cast failed, using mana to empower his blade was all he could do. He grappled with one of the monkeys, and was able to grab the creature’s neck, wrapping his arms around it. Daylen constricted the monkey’s windpipe, magic may have given it wings but it was still a living creature after all, organs that could be attacked, lungs that required air. He yelled, feeling the monkey’s elbow crash into his ribs again and again before it thrashed around. Spears pierced the monkey’s chest and Daylen braced himself for another attack.

Tin however was quick and merciless, his axes flew into the heads of the monkey’s attacking the mage. A butcher’s machete followed and Tin drew a simple carving knife, plunging it into a monkey’s neck before he punched another in the face. He grabbed it by its wings and tail, pushing his foot into its back and pulled on both appendages. As Daylen choked one monkey, Tin roared in fury and ripped the wings and tail off of another. Proven the physical inferior, the monkey began to crawl away weeping, going away to die in a hole. Its allies however roared, defeated, driven to the instinct of retreating to survive. Daylen felt the monkey’s neck crack under his grip and he went limp, exhausted by the encounter.

“Fucking beasts, does Theodora never tire of it?” the woodsman asked, offering Daylen his hand.

Suddenly, as if wishing to apply some final hit on the villagers, one of the monkeys threw its spear. It hit Tin in the chest and the man screamed. Daylen looked up at him, not seeing a man in pain, but a man frustrated. The spear had left a hole in his chest, one where his heart should have been. Blood mingled with the man’s skin and Daylen saw paint begin to wipe away. He shuffled to a crouch, cautiously away from Tin, who pulled the spear out to release a small puddle of oil before he covered the wound with his hand.

“You are a wizard are you not?” the woodsman asked.

“Not a healer,” Daylen said.

“Such traditional healing would not help as you are seeing,” Tin sighed, and he wiped the blood and paint from his face.

Revealing skin of silver, a chrome grey that was without shine.

“Evanora robbed me of my heart, her sister Theodora gave me a body that would not bleed, but break and rust,” Tin said.

Daylen stood, touching Tin’s hand and finding the man’s name fitted his body.

“I’ve heard of demons being able to warp the body, werewolves and abominations, but they were all of flesh,” Daylen said.

“Perhaps our bodies are not far off from the metals of the earth,” Tin said.

He looked at the dead monkeys and villagers around them and shook his head in regret. Daylen however searched the dead for someone lost in the confusion. The monkeys flew away but carried no bodies with them. So Daylen turned to the house and thought of Bevin.

“The boy, what happened?” he wondered out loud.

“The witch took him, aye the witch takes children, she fears them the most,” said an elder villager, emerging from a house without a scratch on his body.

“They say witches need to eat children to keep their youth,” a child said.

“They also say that the wizard was a right prick and that the witch were a victim of racial prejudices, or some shit like that,” a woman said, wiping the sweat from her brow as she pulled a shovel out of a monkey’s hide. “Don’t you believe everything they say, they try to make villains not so villainous, but a prick is a prick no matter the ‘depth’ of their story,” she elaborated.

“Bevin,” Daylen whispered in concern, looking at the house.

Tin took the rag offered by one of the women, wiping fervently at the blood across his face. Once satisfied with how clean he was, he removed the circular buckle of his belt and opened it, revealing some kind of facial cream. He frantically wiped the cream across his face, casting the illusion on it of skin. Daylen paid the action only a brief glance before he began walking to the house. He was a few steps away from the open door when he felt someone pull on his damaged arm.

“No, don’t go in there lad, it took him, it took him,” an elderly woman said.

“I have to reach him,” Daylen pried his arm free, rubbing his shoulder.

“I saw too, I saw too, hands reach out to take the boy,” said another villager.

“And you let it happen; none even used the house to hide?” Daylen asked.

“It fell from the sky lad, no one smart would dare set foot in it,” the elderly woman said.

“Well I’m not very smart,” Daylen said.

“She comes, she comes, LOOK!” one of the villagers yelled.

Daylen stopped, looking over his shoulder at the villagers and Tin. The woodsman wiped the cream over his hands, but held a frown that contrasted the reverence many of the villagers had when they looked to the sky. They all looked at something that puzzled even Daylen and his experience of magic. It was a bubble, a bubble of water descending from the sky. He raised his eyebrow in annoyed surprise as much as he did shock. The bubble surrounded a platform of some kind, based on a chariot but with nothing to pull it. It came down to centre of the village, carelessly crushing the bodies both villagers and monkeys beneath it. On the platform was a young looking woman with elegant pink hair that was tied into an elaborate knot where a silver crown rested. She carried a wand in one hand and a scroll in the other, embodying two aspects of magic, casting and knowledge. The woman held a smile on her pink coated lips that did not match the great tragedy that had befallen the village.

Whoever and whatever she was did not matter to Daylen though. He looked into the house, to the open door and saw nothing; darkness seemed to have consumed the house and provided no light to see even the lobby of the building. Seeing this darkness and uncertain landscape, Daylen did not hesitate to walk through the open door.

Westeros-King’s Landing

An emissary was necessary, and as Cullen had heard nothing from anyone in the order, he went to a nation’s capital to speak for the people he had saved. He looked at the great city and gripped his nose, the stench was worse than his family’s farm before he left to join the Templars. The voyage to the capital had been without incident, Hook remained the captain and had spent some time in his cabin. When he finally emerged on the final approach to the city, he seemed like a man transformed. His smile was bright and he held up his hand, lost to the creature’s of Neverland and replaced with a fine silver hook.

“Your Maker must have blessed the voyage,” he said to Cullen, joining the knight on deck.

“He wasn’t there for everyone,” Cullen said, thinking of Daylen and Bevin.

“Does that mean that they were unfaithful?” Hook asked.

“Daylen Amell was…never a believer, but I would not hold that against him,” Cullen said.

“A heathen then, and all heathens must be judged,” Hook said.

“By the Maker yes, but not by monsters,” Cullen looked to Hook in shock.

“Oh but gods work in mysterious and often capricious ways,” the pirate retorted.

“I will not believe that this was the Maker’s will, to believe so would also be to believe that Denerim’s fall, that the fifth blight was his will,” Cullen explained.

“Aye, the world is shit enough without adding the wills of gods to it, pay me no heed sir for I am myself a sinner and unrepentant too,” Hook explained.

“You seemed a good man when you helped us,” Cullen said.

“But I too can become the villain of the story, Peter was a hero to children, ‘how wonderful to never grow old and inherit the problems all old people have’,” Hook stated.

“One cannot see the world so childishly for long, nor can one see the world without…”

“Faith!”

“Without hope, if we cannot find hope in the world or goodness within ourselves and our actions then what is the point?” Cullen asked.

“None, absolutely none, so good or bad we must try to be true, you don’t see yourself as a good man to speak to a king, but you’d make a finer man than I,” Hook said.

“So you are a man capable of faith,” Cullen smiled and Hook laughed.

“Faith isn’t the same as expectation sir,” Hook leant against the side of the deck, looking at the fishes in the water.

He saw too others floating in the water close to the ship. The captain winked at the mermaids and they brought their hands to their mouths as if giggling before disappearing underneath the boat.

“Stop worrying,” Hook said without humour in his voice.

His smile had faded and he looked at the horizon with a melancholic glint in his eye.

“Simply ask the king for help, if he does not grant it then all you’d need do is move on, you’re still willing to fight for your people yes?” Hook asked and Cullen nodded. “Then fight sir, be the shield that protects them, in the end men can only try!”

“And women?” Cullen asked.

“Some will try harder, whilst others will not try at all, I’ve heard this queen is one to look at in more ways than one,” Hook smirked again and Cullen shook his head with a chuckle.

Hook was not the only significant captain to make it to King’s landing. Another boat from the Stormland’s arrived and a knight with a pouch around his neck stepped off with his crew. The gloves he wore concealed the fingers he had cut off of his left hand. Davos Seaworth was familiar with the scent of King’s landing, especially that of Fleabottom. It felt like coming home to him, even though he had grown more comfortable with the lodgings in Stormsend, for his family, his children and wife. He looked over his shoulder at the other, who came off of the boat, Melisandre of Ashai, priestess of the lord of light and advisor to Stannis Baratheon. Whilst Stannis stayed in the Stormlands to be a good brother, he sent his most trusted advisors on a mission to the capital. A mission Davos gladly took in order to serve the girl he loved like a daughter. Within Davos’s own quarters was where Stannis’s daughter sat, reading a book given to her father by a passing traveller. She looked up as the door opened and Davos came in.

“We have arrived my lady, I’ve sent one of the crew to get a carriage for yourself and lady Melisandre,” he said.

“Do I have to take the carriage with her, she frightens me,” Shireen said.

“It is true she is an intense woman, but she has served your father well and has agreed to speak on behalf of the Stormlands,” Davos said.

“Is Uncle Renly truly going to fight us?” Shireen asked.

“He has gathered troops including his friends in the Reach, but Lords Robert and Stannis hold the greater experience, there will be desertion amongst the ranks in the Reach as many individual houses as I understand are still royalists, like House Tarly. Melisandre believes something dark has taken your uncle, I am sceptic, but that is because I know what ambition can do to even the most polite of men,” Davos explained.

“I could feel something in the night, like a shadow over Storm’s End, it passed through our home and left a great sorrow…is my father going to die sir Davos?” Shireen asked.

Davos touched the sides of her head gently, seeing the tears in her eyes.

“No man is more cursed than a kin slayer, Renly would have advisors who would remind him of this, fear not for him child but be wary of where you are. Your father has sent you to place free of war but not danger,” Davos explained.

“I don’t want to go with her, with lady Melisandre, I have terrible dreams, I dream that she smiles as I burn, as I struggle and scream and cry and father, no is there to help me, no one will help me,” Shireen cried and Davos hugged her.

“I promise you child, she will not hurt you,” he said.

Will not hurt her again, Davos felt he could have said. He too had dreams, dreams of a Baratheon king, of oaths broken and compromises after compromises made. The former smuggler dreamed of a king in the North, of failure. Ultimately he forgot the dreams but not the feeling that somehow, he had let many people down. Failure was inevitable, Davos was no great warrior nor did he consider himself particularly wise. All he had was the fortune granted to him because of his sailing skills and his knowledge as a common man.

“I am afraid, more so than you child for I know of all the bad things that could possibly happen to those we love, so can you be brave for the both of us Shireen?” he asked.

She dried her eyes and nodded her head. Shireen said nothing as she, her greyscale hidden by her hood, climbed into a carriage with Melisandre. Davos sat beside the driver, giving him a nod to continue. The carriage drove by, watched for a moment by Sten. The Qunari giant and vanguard saw the chopped fingers of Davos Seaworth and though had no care for whatever name the Bas went by, recognised a thief had risen to a position of worth.

“Sovereign for your thoughts,” the Ben Hassrath woman walked across the street to his side.

Tallis, so called because she could fix problems. Gossip though was still a thing even amongst the Qunari, and Sten had heard the red haired elf woman had gone through a variety of roles before landing on spy.

“Report,” he said simply.

“Six envoys from across the new world. From one version of Dragonstone, of a party of refugees from Denerim is Ser Cullen of the Templar order…”

“I know of him, and the reports of the one called Daylen Amell?” Sten asked.

“Apparently he was lost recovering their people from pirates,” Tallis said, bracing herself for Sten’s outburst.

“Continue,” Sten though remained stoic and unreadable.

“That ship came from the Stormlands and I believe it was captained by Davos Seaworth, who serves Stannis Baratheon of the ruling family of the Stormlands. A mage has apparently come from a place known as the continent, serving the princess of a nation we have yet to learn the name of, I know that the woman in question goes by the name Triss Merigold. But there are more familiar figures from our own land, from Orlais there is the Chevalier Duke Gaspard De Chalons, from the Free March city of Starkhaven is the priest of the Chant of Light Sebastian Vael. Finally there is the Queen’s uncle Tygett Lannister, acting on behalf of the head of the Lannister family Tywin Lannister, ruler of West…Westeros,” Tallis chuckled despite Sten’s disdain of her humour.

“With more potential envoys expected to arrive every day, King’s Landing still remains the biggest city in this New World,” Sten said.

“A hub of sorts too, but if the enemy…”

“Darkspawn, Orcs, ugly and foul creatures, and the Bas themselves,” Sten growled.

“War is expected to begin between the Stormlands and the Reach, the latter of which has fallen under the banner of a crowned Stag, a young Baratheon has declared himself a king and seeks to succeed from the seven kingdoms,” Tallis explained.

“We will continue to observe,” Sten said.

“And what if the Arishok is dead? What if our leaders truly have fallen?” Tallis asked.

“We will wait,” Sten repeated, turning away from Tallis and leaving no room for argument.

He did however look over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Tallis’s and making her gulp, believing this was the anger that had led to Sten’s arrest by the Fereldan’s when he went to their nation.

“The Ashkaari is not dead, he lives,” he said with finality, and more certainty than perhaps even his faith in the Qun.

For once, Tallis felt uncertain of many things, the survivability of man, even the Qun’s certainty of people’s roles in society, but not in the faith one Sten had for a man he called Kadan.

Two days of travel had passed, Jon felt tired, not just from lack of sleep but the constant niggling of a princess.

“Root, stone, root, stone, everywhere I roll,” she said, shuffling on her bed roll.

“It’s the natural ground princess, it’s always hard,” Jon said.

“I’ve camped in the woods before,” Rhaenyra said.

“Running away in a tizz and bringing back a boar the night after doesn’t make you a camper or even a hunter,” Jon retorted.

“And a few rabbits make you one?”

“More so than you!”

“Seven fucking hells, there isn’t enough wine to block out your bickering, if you two aren’t going to sleep could you take…whatever this is far away from the camp,” Tyrion said.

He huffed, adjusting his blanket and furiously closing his eyes. Jon and Rhaenyra looked at one another under the night sky and promptly turned away, both fuming.

“More fire wood?” Rhaenyra asked.

“I’ll hunt some rabbits,” Jon retorted.

He picked up his bow and sword, shaking his head as Rhaenyra stumbled between two trees. Finding a place separate from the camp, Jon laid his bag and bow against a tree and unsheathed his sword. Swinging the sword from side to side, lunging and parrying, he ran through the drills Jaime had taught him. It wasn’t water dancing, but it would instil in his muscles a familiarity with his sword. Jon turned, swinging his sword and nearly catching the neck of the person behind him.

“You’re getting better at walking into woods,” he said, nervously pulling the sword back.

“I’ve had dragon’s breathe on me, a little sword doesn’t bother me,” she said.

“Still, you shouldn’t sneak up,” Jon said.

“I realised it’s too dark to see appropriate wood, did you not say you would hunt?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Soon, I’m just training,” Jon said.

He picked his scabbard up off of the floor and slid the sword back into it.

“So, the squire of a King’s guard, is that what you intend to do with your life?” Rhaenyra asked and Jon shot her with a glare.

“I suppose with your history of King’s guard members a bastard would be a poor choice,” he said.

Rhaenyra shook her head, putting her hands behind her back as she practically skipped around Jon.

“When I picked Criston Cole it wasn’t a little girl’s attraction that made me do it. So many of the potential knight’s to fill the position only had experience fighting in Tourneys or apprehending desperately hungry poachers. My intention was to have my father protected by a man who had experienced real warfare,” Rhaenyra explained.

“A fine idea and a fine choice it turned out to be,” Jon said and Rhaenyra frowned.

“Criston Cole, what could I have done to drive someone I considered a friend onto the side of my stepmother. What could I have done to drive someone I considered a sister to become my stepmother? There’s so much about history I don’t know, Aemond Targaryen, a knight of the Kingsguard, the famed Dragon Knight, but he was a dragon, a Targaryen,” Rhaenyra mused, looking up at the sky and seeing the darkness slowly abiding for the way of the sun.

“You think a Targaryen shouldn’t be on the King’s guard?” Jon asked.

“I think it low for even a bastard Targaryen to be of the seven knights, you are a dragon Jon,” Rhaenyra said, turning to Jon with a glint in her eyes that took Jon aback.

She was enthusiastic, passionate, blushing even as Jon frowned at her.

“I’m a bastard, how many bastards do you think Targaryen kings had? Your own children…” Jon bit his lip as Rhaenyra suddenly frowned.

“I, I am not that woman, I, should I have apologised for finding someone I love and having children, for wanting those children to have the best possible lives? For wanting them to live as more than just penniless serfs or fodder for the night’s watch? My father promised me, my father named me, which means I should by right be able to name my children too, regardless of whether they were my husband’s or from a lover’s seed,” she explained.

“Bastard’s have been legitimised and it led to civil war, every piece of history is a lesson to be learned,” Jon said.

“But people still lived in that history, people with choices, wills of their own, people who made mistakes and wanted the best,” Rhaenyra said.

She looked down at the ground and Jon awkwardly shifted back when he saw a tear in her eyes. He looked to the rising sun and shrugged.

“We need to get wood and food for breakfast,” he said.

Rhaenyra huffed and walked away. Tyrion stretched his arms as he yawned and Rhaenyra passed him. The Lannister looked at his bastard friend with a raised eyebrow.

“Still know nothing when it comes to women?” he asked.

Jon groaned in annoyance, he shot a couple of squirrels and cooked them on a spit. Rhaenyra knew appropriate wood at least, after one night of gathering useless twigs and wet logs, she had come to know of what was necessary for a fire. It made Tyrion happy, he didn’t have to sacrifice wine after all. They continued their journey Northward, vigilant and cautious, especially as one night Jon found a goat sleeping beside Tyrion. The Lannister imp yelped so loud it had scared most of the birds and squirrels away. They ate without breakfast that morning, all due to a trio of goats following them since the Twins. The Billy Goat, black furred and gruff in particular proved to have the most personality. Rhaenyra loved them, wanting to pet them, but was horrified by the sounds they made.

“Like a scream yes?” Tyrion asked.

“That scream,” Rhaenyra remarked.

“There are worse things to hear,” Tyrion said, and the man’s casual demeanour faded, replaced with a rare melancholy.

One night, with the goats ‘patrolling’ their camp, Tyrion invited the Targaryens to drink with him. Jon had managed to kill a pheasant that night and they feasted and enjoyed the wine, the only good thing from their visit to the twins.

“A game my prince and princess, we make statements and if it is true, you drink,” he challenged them.

“I’m not familiar with wine, it isn’t something I’ve really rushed to have,” Rhaenyra said.

“Then this will be a new experience for both of you,” Tyrion said, tossing the wine skin to Jon first.

“You know me better than most Lord Tyrion, it wouldn’t be a fair match,” he said, throwing the skin back at Tyrion.

“Then perhaps a look at the truth behind history,” Tyrion said, throwing the skin to Rhaenyra.

“My history is an open book, as some ceaselessly remind me, I think you’re far more interesting Lord Tyrion,” she threw the skin to Tyrion and he laughed.

“A title afforded only by my family name, granted because my father cannot prove I am not his,” he said bitterly.

“I met the Lannister twins once, you are an improvement on them Tyrion,” Rhaenyra said, not with humour but with genuine softness.

“Oh I’ve no doubt, my grandfather made us laughing stocks, my father however, he was the man of ambition, with the ruthlessness to fulfil it,” Tyrion said.

“They were times of peace, there was very little need to prove oneself,” Jon said.

“Peace doesn’t last Jon, each region of Westeros comes with its own problems, its own little incidents in history that sometimes the books do not recall. Moments that prove lords as heroes, and monsters,” Tyrion explained.

“What do you mean?” Rhaenyra asked.

“My father destroyed an entire family because they believed they could rule over the West, because my grandfather wasted coin, and made the Lannisters seem weak. If one appears weak, then enemies will not hesitate to take advantage of this. People laughed at my grandfather, who tried to please everyone, so he gave coin away without any assurance of being paid back, he laughed when jokes were made at his expense, and he sought out lavish gifts for his mistress, even giving away the jewels of his own wife. If there is anyone my father hates more than me, my grandfather could be that man,” Tyrion explained.

“Why say that of yourself?” the princess asked.

“Because it is true, when I was born I killed my mother, I am perhaps not what some worlds would call a dwarf, but there is something different about me, imperfect when placed alongside my brother and sister and that alone is worth my father’s hatred, oh yes princess, I do completely believe that my father hates me for he has proven so,” Tyrion stated and Jon lowered his head as Rhaenyra took the wine skin Tyrion offered.

“A father must protect his child,” she said.

“Oh he did indeed protect me, perhaps like he wished to protect my grandfather from being taken advantage of. You see princess I was married once, married, in love, happy, all the things my father could not allow me to be…”

“Tyrion,” Jon tried to interrupt but the course was set.

“You must hear of this too Jon, for you claim I know you better than anyone, should the same not be true of me, are we not friends that we should know of one another’s mistakes, their ambitions?” Tyrion asked and it seemed like a challenge to Jon, an attack on his virtue.

He had always wanted it, a seat, a name, a place that was his. Jon sunk into the leaves he sat on, and he felt Rhaenyra’s eyes on him and wanted more than her confusion, more than her curiosity. She knew, because she too wanted it, to be more than a broodmare, to be the queen, to change the way the world of men was, to build the new way she remembered Rhaenys warning her of. Her cousin, Rhaenys, the queen who never was, her precursor and reminder of her inevitable failure, a failure she desperately wanted to fight against.

An historical failure it had turned out to be.

She looked at Tyrion and saw the edges of his mask begin to slip. To see not Tyrion Lannister, the man who wished to mimic and earn Tywin Lannisters approval, but the man who wished to spite his sire, and show the world that the lion of the West was no nobleman.

“How to begin it, ‘once upon a time’ perhaps, days of peace can still have bandits and brigands, and my brother and I encountered them on the road once, along with the woman they took advantage of. She was sweet, beautiful, my brother drove the scoundrels away and it left me and her, me to assure her, tend to her, comfort her for all such comfort would be worth. But she was comforted, she smiled, laughed, and I smiled and laughed with her and in time, we made love in a little hut in the woods, like a fairy tale, a beauty and a beast she had tamed,” Tyrion laughed bitterly.

“My lord,” Rhaenyra urged him.

“Tyrion,” Jon pitied him.

“We married, paid a Septon to marry us, believe it or not there was a time I wasn’t accustomed to the taste of wine or pleasing women, she taught me I suppose, something to be grateful for,” Tyrion said.

His gaze grew even more severe and his laugh even more bitter.

“The fairy tale ended, and the reality hit me when my brother came back. It turned out it was all a lie, an attempt to make me a man gone out of hand. She was a whore, nothing more, my father learned I was married and instead of being furious, he paid the girl. Paid the girl, after his bannermen fucked her, and made me watch, each vicious thrust as they put coin in her hands and pinned her against the floor,” there was a shine in Tyrion’s eyes Jon had never seen before.

Rhaenyra was pale in shock, putting her hand to her mouth in disgust.

“They raped her,” she said.

“Then my father got me to do it,” Tyrion said.

“My father, does he know of this?” Jon asked.

“What can the king do anyway? One thing your grandfather taught us was that you can’t just get rid of the lords you don’t like,” Tyrion said.

“But that woman,” Rhaenyra muttered.

“Just another whore, she ended up where all whores go,” Tyrion said.

The humour died that night and throughout the day. They couldn’t pet the goats, and they couldn’t look at the path ahead with any great anticipation in their eyes. But another night came all the same, and the trio slept, haunted by the cries of a woman, the jingling of coins in her hands, the disgusting moans of soldiers on top of her. Rhaenyra cried out, thrashing at the leaves and crawling back to the comfort of a tree behind her. Jon awoke with a start and immediately looked to Rhaenyra, the thin shirt across her chest, the tears in her eyes just like that night he had upset her. He was about to stand when he heard the whine of a horse. His horse, Tyrion awoke with a start too, nearly screaming and crying out in anguish.

“Seven fucking hells,” he muttered.

They moved through the bush, underneath the arms of the trees until they reached a shelter of shrubbery. One that afforded them a look at the impossible sight before them, the creatures of mere stories in their minds. They stomped across the woods, and enjoyed the warmth of a fire greater than any campfire Jon could have made. Three giant, bulking and grotesque figures sat around a pot, one carrying the horses the trio had used to travel with.

“Mutton, Mutton, Mutton and surprise, surprise, mutton again,” one of the creatures said, using a club like ladle to stir the contents of the pot he had on the fire.

A pot that could fit the Kings Guard in it, Rhaenyra thought, frozen by her fear.

“I miss man flesh, like the farmer and his family,” one of the creature’s said, picking at his nose, flicking it into the broth the other monster prepared.

“Don’t talk about them, just makes me starving worse, miss the sweet taste of little man flesh,” the third monster said.

“Miss the screams, the begging, crushed his skull that farmer I did, squeezed out the marrow for seasoning, all the while his little kids shitting themselves, made for good seasoning,” the monster stirring the broth said.

The third monster plunged a gigantic knife into the belly of Rhaenyra’s horse, making her scream into her hand as the creature pulled out the horse’s inners, smiling whilst the poor horse whined.

“Gotta hurry, need our meal, eat quickly before sun comes up,” the monster stirring the pot said.

“Yeah, yeah, hurry up, hurry up, finish the cooking so we can savour it,” the more disgusting creature moved from picking his nose, to scratching his buttocks between his loin cloth.

He even picked at pieces of his white, rough skin, flicking them into the boiling broth alongside the horse meat. The third creature silenced one of the horses with a snap of its neck, throwing the whole head into the pot.

“Enjoy the meal, savour it, enjoy the meat and the taste before we have to sleep,” he said.

“Nah, let’s just eat, get to shelter then that’s it, wait for another night, enjoy our trinkets, enjoy the gold we took,” the stirrer said.

“More seasoning, come on,” there was a grinder in the monster’s hand, and as he twisted the knob it was not pepper or salt that came out, but skin, flakes of skin and bone and Jon and Rhaenyra could hear the crunching from within the grinder.

Rhaenyra felt Jon’s hand touch her shoulder; it offered her a small comfort. She brought her hand away from her mouth, silent, driven to such by her fellow Targaryen. He looked at her and she saw the faint purple in his eyes. Yet he was still not a dragon and in the moment Rhaenyra realised, neither was she. She yearned not for Jon’s touch but the warmth of Vhaegar’s scales and breath. Jon looked across the wood to a small tree where Tyrion leant against; his wine abandoned in favour of a crossbow, using a lever to put in a bolt, fear had sobered Tyrion up.

“SLUUURRP! Needs more, more meat, something wriggling maybe,” the Troll cooking the broth said.

The third troll sniffed, whiffing at the air and snarling.

“Smell it, smell that thing, that stuff humans have, grapes and fruit, makes them slow, whiney they call it right?”

“No you div, they call it whined that’s what they call it,” the second troll said.

“Don’t care what its called, its here, here me nose knows it, me ears, ears hear them,” the third troll snarled.

He sneered sadistically, looking into the forest. Jon’s hand shook as he held the handle of his sword. A sword that seemed futile in the presence of such beasts. He tried to calm his breathing, fear was taking hold, making him breathe more heavily and more loudly. Instead he stomped his teeth together, trying to remember training and reading of opponents that seemed inhuman, the Mountain with his size and the Hound with his ferocity.

‘Damn you, you bastard, stop shaking,’ Jon was so sure that was what the princess, what Rhaenyra thought as she put her hand to his mouth.

She shook her head, but there was a reassurance in her touch, which Jon felt on his chest. But he felt her hand shake and realised they were both terrified.

“Gonna come and find you, nice smelling man, nice smelling wo-man, can smell the sweat, can smell more…down below, YUCK! Disgusting humans, still, its another seasoning,” the cook laughed and his brethren laughed too.

A club, a large knife, the ladle itself, they would kill them, crush and split them with single strikes if they were lucky, put them in the seasoning grinder if they weren’t. They were found, this Jon knew, he rolled away from Rhaenyra slightly, looking into those eyes, those beautiful Targaryen purple eyes, eyes he would never have along with the name.

“Run when I say,” Jon said.

It was a whisper, but the ground seemed to shake when one of the trolls moved forward.

“RUN!” Jon yelled.

He yelled, drawing the sword given to him by Jaime. The troll pushed through the branches of the tree as if they were bushes, reaching for Jon and Rhaenyra.

“OW!” the Troll remarked, feeling Jon’s sword on his finger.

The strike wasn’t enough to break the Troll’s skin. It grabbed at Jon, earning another slash that again would only mildly bruise the Troll’s finger later on.

“Pest, wiggly human, shove you into the grinder,” the Troll said.

Rhaenyra pulled on Jon’s shirt, bringing him to the ground as the Troll reached for them again. The Troll clawed at the air, Rhaenyra and Jon were both underneath its hand, the branches in the Troll’s face offered them some shelter. Tyrion’s hands shook as he looked out at the Troll, burrowing through the trees like shrubbery in the garden. The Lannister imp’s finger lingered over the trigger of his crossbow; he saw his axe on the ground by the other Troll, cleared away from the horses when they were stripped.

‘Wait, there were three of them,’ Tyrion realised.

He turned, shrieking when he met the grinning face of the third Troll. Tyrion squeezed the crossbow trigger, sending a bolt into the Troll’s cheek.

“OW!” the Troll squelled, falling back, shaking the ground when he hit it.

“For fuck sake, how hard can three humans be?” the cook asked.

“Wiggling little shits,” the first Troll said.

“STINGING LITTLE SHITS!” the third Troll screamed.

Jon crawled onto his feet, lifting his sword up, and with a determined yell he brought it down on the Troll’s finger.

But the sword snapped, half of it clattering to the floor as Jon stumbled back into the dirt. Rhaenyra was tugging at his arm, trying to get him up. But he just looked at the broken sword, useless in the face of the monsters. The monsters that looked down at him grinning and laughing.

“Dinner time,” the first Troll said.

Next Chapter 13: Green dragon soars

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 13: Green dragon soars

Davos Seaworth had seen a great many people during his journeys. He knew of what the Yi Tish looked like, their differences from those from Essos and the Anders. The party that appeared to be from Yi Ti seemed to be the calmest of all. From the Riverlands came the famous knight, Brynden the Blackfish, brother of the current lord of the Riverlands. The Eerie was a place of knights, chivalry was valued there and it was no surprise that it was a knight acting as envoy, a member of the famous Royce family. Davos took note of the youth of the apparent Ferelden ambassador, as well as the blonde haired man’s surprise when he saw a lady knight approach him.

“Ser Cauthrien?” Cullen remarked.

The red clad woman nodded to Cullen as she approached, her dark hair was tied back into a tail and she sported the armour expected of a knight.

“We heard whispers from sailors of Templars and mages protecting refugees, and amongst them was…” Cauthrien’s voice drifted slightly, expecting an answer from Cullen.

“He was lost to us,” Cullen shook his head as Cauthrien closed her eyes in bitter disappointment.

The commander of Loghain’s forces and his most loyal supporter wiped her eyes. She remembered her confrontation with Daylen Amell, the Warden who she thought of then as her lord’s enemy. But her own faith in Loghain began to waver in the face of the oncoming Blight. Daylen’s poise and reassurance that Loghain was wrong, but would still live because of it was what earned her respect. Even when faced with the possibility of losing a fellow Grey Warden’s loyalty, Daylen persisted in his desire to spare Loghain and see Ferelden truly united against the Darkspawn. It should have succeeded, yet in the rush of battle Cauthrien could not tell what specifically had happened to make the army falter.

“We will mourn him and the other fallen when we can, for now I have been charged by the Queen to seek out support for our people, shelter, and alliances against the Darkspawn,” Cauthrien said.

“There are more threats than the Blight to us, we’ve seen them during our journey,” Cullen said.

“As have we,” Cauthrien said.

Her eyes darkened and she told Cullen a story. Many soldiers might say that the ground shook, day the Ferelden capital of Denerim fell. But it was no exaggeration of the devastating defeat they had suffered, nor a trick of the amount of forces, dwarves, mages, elves and knights stampeding towards safety. The ground truly cracked and shifted, Cauthrien remained close to Anora, to protect her idol’s daughter and the queen of her country. Lightning cut across the sky and the clouds became a chaotic flurry of shifting structures. Cauthrien and Anora heard the screams of men and beast alike and felt the ground beneath them rise.

But then the darkness passed and Cauthrien and Anora awoke. They had no less than fifty soldiers who had survived, but had in their care two hundred peasants and officials who had fled the capital. The land was both Ferelden, yet not Ferelden and for six days the group navigated, finding structures unfamiliar to them including two fantastically great statues, two kings on a river, taller than the mountains either side of them with their hands outstretched as if telling those who would go across the river that they would not pass. The sight took the breath away from even Anora, herself a practical person not prone to sentimentality. Yet Cauthrien saw tears in the eyes of her queen, not just at the sight of the two beautiful men whose majesty must have been so great that such statues were built in their honour. But also the reality that they truly were far from home. Six more days passed and the game began to move away from the allied camp. Scouts reported the presence of monsters, not Darkspawn but creatures as tall as Hurlocks and possessing as great as strength as they had. Many of the creatures wore crude black armour, with a white hand painted on it.

Panic began to spread, monsters were nearby and none of their great heroes, Loghain Mac Tir or Daylen Amell were there to protect them. The Ferelden people would be butchered far from home. But Anora stood amongst her people, cleared her breath and even in armour stood with the poise, dignity and calm expected of a king’s wife and even more of Loghain Mac Tir’s daughter.

“My people,” she began. “It was not Loghain alone who freed us from Orlesian rule, together our people have endured, through crisis we have endured, now is the time to endure and move forward,” Anora said.

The trees became their shelter, the refugees moved fast and occasionally they came upon these creatures. Anora wasted no questions and had hunters skewer them with arrows. The people of Ferelden advanced until they nearly reached the end of the forest. That was when they discovered the Orcs waiting to chase them down. Anora stood with Cauthrien and her knights, ready to protect their people to the end. But the end would never come, for they were not alone. Riders came, not knights but men with common garb and armour. Outdated some might say, but though none had plate armour it worked to their advantage, the riders galloped around the monsters and easily slew them. Spears and arrows pierced the flesh of the creatures until the riders surrounded Anora and her people. Even with dozens of spears pointed towards her, Anora stood strong, looking up at the man who rode out of the crowd. He was gruff, yet had the custom armour of a noble, red and gold plates over a mail skirt.

“What business do you have in the Mark?” he asked.

“The business of seeking safety sir, tell me what is this place, for we are of Ferelden and far from home,” Anora said.

“You and your people stand in the River Mark, the borders of Rohan,” the rider said.

“Is it truly Rohan, how far have you ridden sir, has anything changed?”

“Are you mad woman?” he asked.

“I am tired sir, as are my people, I understand the desire to protect one’s borders but much has happened I understand little of. If you can offer my people help so be it, if not allow us to be on our way,” the queen stated.

The rider pulled off his helmet, revealing wild blonde hair and a beard. He climbed off of his horse and spoke more with Anora, both recounting the quaking of the land and the odd events that had transpired the past few days.

“My name is Eomer, Marshall of Rohan and nephew to King Theoden, the king no longer recognises friend from foe, not that you will see him here,” the rider explained.

More explanations were spoken, Eomer and his company were those loyal to Rohan, continuing to patrol their country despite the misfortune of their king. But then the roads shook and changed, the Rohirrim prided themselves in an intimate understanding of their land from having rode across it since they could sit on horses. Their land though had changed, towns and villages had disappeared and familiar hills had merged with unfamiliar roads.

Cauthrien recounted that though they had found an ally, their troubles only grew from there. Eventually they would travel to a new land with fields of wheat and grains unfamiliar to even seasoned farmers of both Ferelden and Rohan. The people too were even more unfamiliar, eyes and hair that marked them not of either land. It wasn’t until they came upon the enemy again that confusion turned to fortune. Rather than wait, Eomer led his riders to protect the people of the strange land against an army of Orcs. The strangers became part of Anora’s people and she stood to protect them too. Just as the Orcs began to approach though, a single rider knocked back an Orc that tried to attack Anora. They looked to the field and saw more riders atop white horses joining with the Rohirrim. The cavalry overwhelmed the Orcs and drove them away. As for the Orcs that attacked Anora’s group, that one rider bested them all with a skill Cauthrien had never seen before.

The warrior was a youth of Daylen and Cauthrien’s age, dressed in white armour of cloth and leather. White hair stuck out the back of his helmet and he wielded a spear, thrusting it through Orcs and even bending the spear to fling even the largest Orcs aside. His lord rode back to Anora with Eomer in tow. The lord of the white horse riders was a severe looking man in grey and white armour, dark hair resting on his shoulders and a horn on the forehead of his helmet.

“We had come to a place called Baima, the riders were the Baima cavalry under the region’s lord Gonsung Zan, the young warrior who had saved Anora was also of the Baima Cavalry though he left not long after we were welcomed into lord Zan’s lands,” Cauthrien explained.

“So you are finding help I see,” Cullen sighed in relief.

“I am afraid not,” Cauthrien said.

“What, there’s more, by the Maker,” Cullen rubbed his hair in frustration.

The Orcs came back, but they weren’t alone, Darkspawn and humans were with them,” Cauthrien said.

“Humans, fighting alongside Darkspawn, I would have said it was impossible if not for the fact we were attacked by pirates, Iron Born I believe they were called,” Cullen said.

“You encountered Iron Born Raiders, praise the seven you survived,” Davos said, bowing his head slightly when the Ferelden knights looked at him. “Forgive me, I was overhearing, I am Davos Seaworth, knight in the service of the Baratheons of Stormsend, my apologies for snooping but those Iron Born pirates you encountered may not be supported by the current lord of the iron islands, the crew you encountered, did they have their tongues cut out?” he asked.

“They did actually,” Cullen said.

“Then they serve Euron Greyjoy, Balon Greyjoy’s brother,” Davos said.

“Served more like, Euron was slain,” Cullen said.

“Forgive me ser but that is incorrect,” another lord spoke up.

This one was of Westeros, recognised by Davos and even sneered at by the other Westerosi nobility. He knew by reputation Lord Varys, a commoner like him who had risen to lordship. Davos by his smuggling, and Varys by his ‘web’ of spies. Both had also been put under the knife and robbed of something.

“We have had reports of someone matching Euron Greyjoy’s description attacking various places across the coast,” Varys said.

“It is entirely possible that you met a man who was indeed this Euron Greyjoy, it is indeed possible you slew this man, but he would not be the only dead man to reappear,” another visitor spoke.

It was the ‘Yi Tish’ party that had spoken. Five men stood behind a lord sitting, calmly drinking the wine servants had offered him. Four of the men were warriors, intimidating ones too. One was taller than the others and had fierce eyes like the demonic face on the shoulder pad he wore. The man was bald and like the shorter warrior beside him had a body barely contained by his armour. The other warrior, stood close to their lord like the bald man did, he had black hair and a clean shaven face that had a much calmer expression than his friend. Then there were the other two warriors, both having close resemblances to one another. But the older one stood out for his long black hair and the patch across his eye. The fifth man was in blue robes with a cap on his head.

Their lord was not particularly tall, not particularly fierce looking. Yet there was a calm in his cold eyes that reminded Davos of Stannis. The man finished his wine and stood so that the other lords and ladies could see him, a build honed by combat encased in blue clothes and armour.

“I would offer apologies but a great many courtesies are missing, we have waited and waited and yet the king has not yet seen us. Are there matters taking up his time that would require us all to return?” he asked.

His tone was respectful yet there was still an underlying intent in how he spoke and the words he used.

“He is right, the Riverlands are enduring attacks right now, what is the king doing about it?” the Black Fish asked.

“You are a lord of Yi Ti are you?” Varys asked.

“Not of Yi Ti, but I understand why there would be the confusion, my people and I are from far away as well, our land slammed like clay onto a new design. I was the governor of a province in my country, my party are the scholar Guo Jia, my guards Dian Wei and Xu Zhu and my cousins Xiahou Dun and Xiahou Yuan, Cao Cao is my name,” the lord stated.

“HA! Cow Cow, what silly names,” a lord of the court said.

“Tsao, Tsao would be the pronunciation, though one could be forgiven for the mistake…once,” Cao Cao said.

“You dare threaten me?” the lord asked.

“You insulted him first ser, but our posturing gets us nowhere, where is the king are we not worth his time?” the Blackfish asked.

“Forgive me my lords, good knights of the new world!”

The entourage looked towards doorway, to the royal table and the chairs Cersei and Rhaegar walked around. Both the king and queen were in black clothes to signify mourning, but decorated with gold accents, embroidery to form a lion on Cersei’s chest, and gold scales on Rhaegar’s shoulders and wrists. Cao Cao was the first to put a fist against the palm of his hand and bow, an action his entourage repeated. Davos though spotted the way the man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the king.

Essos

When Aragorn reached the city of Hesh, the Lhazareen people knew who he was. ‘The Strider’ they called him and as Aragorn walked amongst them, Guan Yu could see the admiration in the eyes of the people. They wished to bow to him, to praise him with song and gifts. Aragorn asked for shelter and many house owners raised their hands, grateful to give up their house for the Ranger’s company. With each passing moment Guan Yu was reminded of his brother through Aragorn’s virtues. He showed a politeness to their hosts that went beyond courtesy, and a gratefulness that was in no way forced. Wine he refused, and though the lamb stews were flavourless, the man appreciated a hearty meal.

“A man of principal, a man of virtue, a man worth serving, yet still I have my oath, where is my brother?” the long bearded man ignored the chant of the demon boy.

Cole was kind, in his own way, Guan Yu remembered him slitting the throats of a few suffering Dothraki, many of whom didn’t deserve a quick death in Guan Yu’s eyes. They acted without honour and relished in rape, he could forgive their violent ways, in a land with such little water sometimes violence was a necessity. Yet still one had to have virtue, and Aragorn had that in spades. He worked with the goat herders, assisting them in their daily chores. A man who would be king, yet he reduced himself to the role of a servant. It took a level of humility most lords thought was above them. Others tried to falsely claim this humility, to be ‘a man of the people’ but were instead taken advantage of. Aragorn possessed authority and a kind hand, all of the qualities that reminded Guan Yu of his brother.

“I’m still so amazed that people can survive out here,” the scout, Harding said as she looked out of the walls of the city and into the vast desert.

“The Dothraki dedicated themselves to strength so that they might steal from others, yet those they prey upon have dedicated themselves to developing the skills one needs to survive in the desert. If only the Dothraki had put their strength into such things,” said Sebastian Vael.

Both archers had prayed to a god called ‘the Maker’, Guan Yu had heard Legolas talk in his odd yet beautiful language, a language Aragorn too spoke. Two nights their party spent in Hesh and the Lhazareen had gifted them with water and food for their journey. Aragorn led the way, and despite the generosity of their hosts they looked forward to no longer walking in the desert. Night came and the group put up their tents, Aragorn looked at the hill adjacent to their camp and watched Guan Yu, leaning against his guando, a pole arm unlike any kind of spear Aragorn had seen before. The man stood like a statue in the light of the stars, and it was that image that reminded Aragorn of the first day he had met Guan Yu.

Many moons passed since the Fellowship broke, since they lost. Aragorn reignited Boromir’s drive for victory, and sought out the other lost Hobbits alongside Legolas and Gimli. For days they ran across a shifting land until the plains of Rohan became the deserts of Essos. After one night, the trio heard screams like inhuman creatures. What they found were mere men, preying on the weak. Dothraki blood riders attacked a caravan, one belonging to a lord and lady whose house was a three headed dragon. Their guards were far outnumbered, their servants too were taken, ladies in waiting were pinned to the ground.

Guan Yu had moved silently, as if he was floating across the sand. For a man so large he was quick too, with a single swing he had cut through a dozen Dothraki screamers. Horse riders surrounded him, pointing spears towards him. Yet his face was the epitome of calm, as if he belonged in a life or death struggle. He swept up the sand, flinging it at the riders and making their horses back away. Then Guan Yu moved through the clouds of sand, cutting riders on top of their horses. Bodies once screaming in enjoyment slammed into the ground and the guando made a loud ‘thunk’ sound when Guan Yu slammed it into the ground.

Spears were aimed at Guan Yu as the guards of the caravan flocked towards him. One man came out of the carriage, thin and bound in black and red, holding proudly the handle of a sword he probably hadn’t used in battle before. His handsome features were cancelled out by the slight scowl he bore when he walked past two guards. The young man had white hair and purple eyes.

“Kneel before the prince,” one of the guards said.

The spear he held snapped when it struck Guan Yu’s knee, still the lord of the beautiful beard stood unwaveringly.

“Do not be so rude,” the prince chided his guard.

“After witnessing dozens of duels and jousts, I have never before seen such might, what is your name warrior? I am Prince Viserys Targaryen, brother of the king across the sea Rhaegar Targaryen and soon I will be the king of Slaver’s bay itself. And a king requires a King’s guard,” the prince explained.

His voice was filled with pride, put on as a performance to hide his sweat and frustration with the heat. The Prince Viserys lived a life far kinder than one he could have lived. He knew the insanity of his father, and experienced the valour of his brother, coming to appreciate his brethren’s songs far more than his jousts. But still there was a sense of entitlement within the boy, and a yearning to possess something that was his. Though those who accompanied him to Essos were not without their own skills, Viserys looked upon Guan Yu and found his thoughts dominated by Envy.

‘Why is there not a warrior of such strength and bravery in my service?’ he thought.

He who was of the line of dragon riders, survivors of Valyria, conquerors of Westeros. Surely a Targaryen prince should also have the greatest of warriors in his service. Once he did possess a warrior, or at least a tactician worthy of his service. It was his teacher and former advisor Fausten Amell, friend of his father and a man who had stopped the realm from tearing itself apart. But Viserys sought to be more than just a prince of Dragonstone, Targaryens were dragons and dragons flew high. The metaphors always ran through Viserys’s head, some called him snake and said he suffered from the Targaryen madness. But he heard whispers within his head as he looked at Guan Yu.

“A King’s guard must reflect more than just the charisma of the king, they are a reflection of the times they live in, and a reflection of their connection to great houses,” the voice whispered to him.

‘Perhaps this man is worthy of a name, perhaps he is of a great house or perhaps one day he will be,’ Viserys thought.

“Yunchang is my courtesy name,” Guan Yu said.

Courtesy names were formal identifications to be used by strangers. Guan Yu saw the snake in Viserys, and trusted him little upon meeting him. His refusal to bow was out of more than just respect for his brother.

“Surely your true name should be used when meeting a prince,” Viserys said.

“Courtesy is what you will receive, I saw a party of few numbers attacked and offered my help,” Guan Yu said.

“You are clearly a citizen of Yi Ti, and such you are not required to kneel to someone who is not your monarch, but you are required to bow to royalty wherever you are,” Viserys explained, his eyebrow twitching as he spoke.

“Please excuse us!”

It was then that Aragorn’s trio walked towards the royal party and the lost warrior. Viserys looked at the man, his dirty clothing and rugged appearance. Yet there was a ring on the hunter’s finger that seemed to be of noble quality.

“I do not believe this man is from where you believe he is,” Aragorn said.

“You and your servants fought well, if Yunchang will not serve, then perhaps you three might be interested in the rewards that the House Targeryen can offer,” Viserys said.

“It is a kind offer, but we cannot accept it, we have already committed ourselves to an oath that supersedes vows of fealty. I am Strider, my companions have also committed their bow and axe respectively to the same cause I have,” Aragorn explained.

“I too have made an oath of fealty to another, it is not an oath I will break,” Guan Yu at last gave the prince the courtesy of a bow.

Viserys hid his annoyance with a smile and bowed his own head.

“Then good fortune to you four as you find your way back to those you serve,” Viserys said.

That night, Viserys woke the dragon, raking his back with marks from his belt. It was a teaching of Fausten’s, that rage could not be contained for very long. Sometimes it required a release, a broken toy, a primal scream, or else the unbearable rage and frustration would stew into madness.

‘I am not my father, I am not my father,’ Viserys thought with each strike on his back.

He was not himself either, not the Viserys Targaryen who begged for help whilst fleeing assassins, who struck his sister and called it a dragon’s wrath. His sister, who he loved with all his Targaryen heart was in Dragon Stone and last Viserys had heard there were twin Dragonstones now. One where a dragon flew in the mist, and another where banners of dogs, bears and slippers flapped, and songs came from the waters around it. In this new world dragons had returned and a great manner of beasts threatened the land. One’s destiny could change in the new world, along with their fortune. Viserys developed charisma and drew into his service mercenaries to help him in his ambitious drive. But his campaigns failed, not out of any lack of skill, but because Slaver’s Bay became the property of another. The black flag of a flaming eye dominated the great cities of Slaver’s Bay, and a black serpent upon a green field joined it. Fausten told Viserys of the flag of Tevinter, a nation of mages, an empire built by slaves and blood magic. So Viserys turned his men around and went back into the desert.

It was a path Aragorn’s party had a head start in. Gimli groaned as he walked, dragging his axe behind him.

“I’ve rappelled down mining shafts with molten falls beside me, yet still this heat is dire,” he grunted.

“It is quite severe,” Legolas said.

“Oh, does the young Elvish Princeling feel hot now?” Gimli mockingly asked.

“You’re used to mountains my friend, I am used to trees, do you see any of either around you?” Legolas asked back.

“Aye lad, we’re in the worst places we could possibly be,” Gimli said.

“I think I’ll take walking in the Fade to walking in sand,” Harding said, carrying her cloak and using it to wipe the sweat from her hair.

“I don’t like sand,” Cole muttered.

“It is rather course,” Sebastian said.

“Irritating,” Gimli snarled.

“And it gets everywhere,” Cole followed.

Aragorn smiled as he looked back over the group. Still they soldiered on, and Legolas told them their endurance would be rewarded as they were not far from civilisation. The King of Gondor looked to the blue wizard, who walked as if the heat did not bother him. Underneath the thick blue robes though, Merlin’s underclothes were soaked with sweat and he had to fight to avoid passing out.

‘Water, water’, he gasped slightly.

When no one looked, he raised his beard and tried to ring the sweat out to drink. But then Cole would look at him and he would promptly return to his relaxed posture. Aragorn walked to his side, tapping his shoulder and catching his attention.

“So the enemy has taken Slaver’s Bay?” the king asked.

“Aided by mercenaries familiar with the territory, Second Son’s they call them though do not ask me if they are filled with only second sons, second sons of second sons and so on and so forth. There are fantastic soldiers in the Unsullied, raised since birth to fight with discipline and disregard of fear. But even they are bound by mortal opponents, a man need not fear another man, but a monster. Even the Unsullied feared the Orcs and the mages of the Venatori,” Merlin explained.

“Wizards?”

“Not like my brethren, theirs is a power unrestrained yet still limited, they are not of the Valar nor are they bound to a single task in this world. Those slaves they can’t use for labour or battle, they will use as fuel for their magic to summon forth an army that might very well conquer Essos itself. There is a war to be fought here Aragorn, but not by you,” Merlin stated and Aragorn looked back.

“I would abandon it, as the white city was abandoned,” he muttered.

“The white city and the tree of kings can rise again, in Essos you will find a ship to go west,” Merlin said.

“Are you prophesising or predicting?” Aragorn asked.

“Hoping as much as calculating, it is a fool’s hope, perhaps a madman’s hope, but it helped me guide a king once and I think you and he are of the same mould,” Merlin said.

“There will be no shortage of kings in this new world,” Aragorn said.

“And to some people, there can only be one!”

‘Fire cannot kill a dragon, fire cannot kill a dragon,’ Rhaenyra thought, feeling the heat from the Troll’s fire place.

“Hurry up, hurry up or the sun will rise,” one of the trolls said.

Another tied rope around Rhaenyra, binding her to a pole. She looked to Tyrion, tied to a log one of the trolls was preparing to use as if melting cheese on the fire.

“So humiliating,” Tyrion grimaced.

“I like it when the food wriggles,” the troll holding him said.

Then there was Jon, on the floor, pinned down by the third troll.

“Thought you could kill us didn’t you, thought wrong, you know nothing pretty man,” the troll said.

“I know that when you kill us, there will be a reckoning,” Rhaenyra said.

“Might have to cut off the tongue, hate working with little meat,” the troll tying her up said.

“Put her in the pot,” said the second.

“I want kebabs,” the third took his hand off of Jon, and the bastard did not move.

Jon looked up at the sky, it was lighter than it had been before. He then looked at his sword, broken on the ground. Like his father, he had fought, and he had lost. No, his father had not lost.

‘Damn it,’ Jon thought.

The memories of different lives, of loving red hair, white hair, the cold of the wall, the ash of the city. Why was he being haunted now? Was it to tell him he truly did know nothing?

“NO STOP!” he looked to his side and saw one of the trolls putting Rhaenyra to the fire. “STOP THIS! PLEASE STOP!” she cried out.

‘Fuck, of course fire can fucking kill a dragon!’ she snarled, feeling the aches in her arms as she tried to free them.

He’d sharpened his sword, maintained it, yet it was still useless. As useless as the mind, even Tyrion knew nothing, or perhaps he did not care in the end. The Lannister dwarf would betray him, but Jon knew nothing.

“Excuse me gentlemen, I think you are making a very big mistake,” Tyrion said.

“Oh can you gag him already?” the troll holding Rhaenyra asked.

“I’ll cook him!”

“Not until I’ve finished cooking mine!”

“Just knock him out!”

“He still won’t shut up!”

“Especially then!”

“WAIT!” Jon yelled.

The trolls stopped, and looked at Jon as he got onto his knees.

“Please, please,” Jon he whispered.

The trolls began to laugh, one drew Rhaenyra closer to the fire and she screamed, her skin went red and she felt a blister form on her cheek.

“STOP PLEASE!” Jon screamed.

“You care, you care about her don’t you?” the troll moved Rhaenyra away, pointing at Jon with her.

She coughed and cried out in frustration and pain.

“You monsters, YOU FUCKING MONSTERS WILL BURN! WE’LL HAVE OUR REVENGE IN FIRE AND BLOOD!” she yelled.

“Fire and blood?” the third troll stroked his chin curiously. “How does that happen!”

“You can’t have fire and blood right?” asked the second dwarf.

“Think you can, fire needs to be small, blistering, then you’ve got blood,” the troll holding Rhaenyra waved her around as he explained the temperature fire had to be to coexist with blood.

Tyrion looked up at the sky and saw what Jon did not. He heard what the two Targaryen’s ignored and smirked to himself.

“I do believe the exact temperature for fire to kill yet still leave blood would be…oh my, I did ask the Maestar once, and he did direct me to a book that explained fire and its applications very well, oh dear what was the name of it?” Tyrion hummed.

“Think we don’t know? Think we know nothing? Think we’re stupid? WE KNOW! WE KNOW!” the dwarf that one held Jon snatched Tyrion from the other troll. “TIME ISN’T FOR SALE! WE EAT THEM NOW!”

“Whole? Oh all right,” the troll holding Rhaenyra opened his mouth, bringing the log towards it.

She felt the troll’s saliva on her chest and hair, felt bile rise in her throat as its breath invaded her nostrils.

“DON’T YOU DARE!” Jon yelled. “PLEASE DON’T KILL DANY AGAIN!” he yelled.

They were going to die; the Trolls were going to kill them all. Jon would not meet his end in cold or fire, but the warmth of a monster’s gullet. Tyrion would never be the hand of anything, would never care for anything again. Rhaenyra would die as she was always meant to, in the belly of a beast.

But then something echoed out of the forest. It was a horrific scream that made the Trolls stop. They looked around in fear, hearing the screaming intensifying, multiply, and grow closer and closer. The third troll grabbed his club, glaring at the fading darkness of the forest, hearing hooves slam into the ground. But then he saw what was screaming, saw the black furred goat trot out of the forest. The three trolls stared at the goat as it huffed, dragging its hooves against the floor and backing away slightly. They then began to laugh, saliva raining down on their camp fire. The goat stomped and then began to run at the troll holding Jon. It jumped forward at the last moment, slamming its head into the Troll’s groin.

His brothers put their hands down and let out a collective ooh of sympathy. A moment that turned to horror when the goat withdrew its horns, tearing the troll’s loin cloth and the flesh underneath it.

“Oh dear, something isn’t going to work right now,” one of the trolls said.

The troll let Jon go and screamed, rubbing the struck area. Jon got off of the floor, noticing the rocks behind one of the other trolls. The white furred goat jumped off of the rocks, slamming its head into the back of the Troll holding Rhaenyra. She began to fall off of the log and Jon ran forward, something bucked his bottom and Jon felt himself get thrown onto the black haired goats back. Jon stretched out his arms, riding the Billy goat and catching Rhaenyra.

“Would anyone else like to help me?” Tyrion asked.

The troll holding him looked down, seeing the blonde haired goat.

“Oh no, NO! NO! I GIVE UP!” the Troll yelled, dropping Tyrion.

“Ow, thank you,” Tyrion groaned.

“Stop, STOP YOU IDIOTS! OH MY BITS THEY GOT ME BITS! THE SUN! THE SUN IS…”

The trolls began to recoil, slamming into the ground, sinking into the grass whilst the wounded one slammed into a tree. It shattered under the troll’s weight, and the three Westerosi looked at the creatures, seeing their already stone like hides become still. Light shined on the forest from the rising suns and on the three monstrous statues.

“Seven hells, it worked,” Tyrion murmured.

Rhaenyra recoiled from Jon’s grip, putting her hands to her face. He fell off of the goat, looking to the princess as she ran to the woods.

“WAIT!” he yelled.

The bastard prince ran after the failed queen.

“Oh don’t worry about me, I’ll just be here, tied up,” Tyrion said.

He looked up at the blonde haired goat, which dragged its tongue across his face.

“Oh my, thank you for the assistance, might I request a bit of help getting out?” the dwarf asked.

Pentos was where the group managed to reach. A place that would bring them back into the path of the young Targaryen Prince. Viserys camped his men and healed from the failures of his conquest on the Manse of a Magister Illyrio Mopatis. A statue of the man in his youth caused Harding to gag in embarrassment. Though Mopatis had not been unattractive as a young man, he chose to remember himself half naked in a pool, ready to duel with a sword.

“It certainly is artistic,” Sebastian remarked.

Pentos’s markets were filled with those who fled from war and monsters. Or those who sought out monsters to make their name. When Guan Yu saw the boisterous activity coming from one of the taverns, he half expected a loud mouthed pike wielder to be there. To his disappointment it was a far thinner looking but younger man. He had the tan of the locals, yet his garb was more elaborate, with a white scarf that seemed more like a cloak, decorations of gold on his loincloth and sandals. The man’s hair though was gold, almost shining in the light as he tilted back one cup of ale after another.

“More, bring more, I have slain the giant scorpion, taken the head of a basilisk, even the undead have bowed before me,” said the man.

The bar tender nodded lazily, pouring out another cup. Other customers gripped their hands in pain, men much larger than the boy limped away as Guan Yu entered.

“Did something happen here?” he asked.

“None can best me, the curse of being a deity,” the young man said.

“Truly you are a god walking the Earth?” Guan Yu asked.

“A god and king, but my kingdom, my kingdom in ruins, still I can reclaim my honour. I, the first hero, the epic Gilgamesh,” the young man declared.

“And what is this epic god king doing now?” Guan Yu asked.

“One needs coin, I challenged these men, these supposed warriors to a simple game, they must bring my arm to the table or pay me what they are willing to lose,” Gilgamesh explained.

He put his elbow on the table, offering the hand to Guan Yu.

“I have no need to prove my strength, and the coin is not mine to lose,” Guan Yu said.

“Afraid sir?” Gilgamesh asked.

“There are a great many things to be afraid of losing in this new world, all think they can conquer and master it, you call yourself the first hero, I wonder if you were the first to lose,” Guan Yu said.

Gilgamesh stood, he was not taller than Guan Yu but still stepped up to the lord of the beautiful beard. His shoulders and eyes were tense with confrontation, but his smile was wide with amusement. Gilgamesh, immortalised and deified in story and Guan Yu, remembered and deified for his achievements. None of which would happen in the new world, they simply remained two warriors seeking to prove their strength. Illyrio Mopatis had been walking the streets when he noticed the commotion at the tavern. He was a far cry from the days of his youth, what muscle he had was replaced by fat, the rings that marked his position covered the scars of fights long had. Long had Illyrio enjoyed the company of women and taste of wine, but as he looked over the shoulders of Aragorn and Merlin he reunited with a feeling he had had in his youth. Some warriors fought as much to prove themselves as they did for the coin and titles, proving ones physical might to oneself was just as important as proving it to a lord. Mopatis felt the cheer rise from his throat, bellowing as loud as all the others in the tavern as Guan Yu and Gilgamesh’s arms fought.

“Who’s winning?” Gimli asked Legolas.

“Should I describe it to you, or would you like me to find you a box?” Legolas asked.

The dwarf laughed, whilst feet from him Guan Yu and Gilgamesh arm wrestled. Guan Yu’s hand nearly enveloped Gilgamesh’s, yet still he had never felt such strength from one so small. Gilgamesh’s cocky smile was replaced by one of excitement, finally he had a challenge and dare he say an equal.

“Gilgamesh has achieved a great many feats in his world, enough to become equal to the Valar, but something has drained the power of gods in this place,” Merlin said to Aragorn.

“Including Sauron’s?” the king of Gondor asked.

“Difficult to say, make no mistake Aragorn the evil behind this world is not grander or lesser than Sauron or any other evil that might be waiting in the shadows, yet there may be good in the shadows too,” Merlin explained.

“There is right and wrong, and there is necessity,” Aragorn said.

He looked away from the arm wrestling, to the markets. His and Legolas’s hunting ears were drawn to the commotion. With some people watching what was happening in the tavern, it provided a chance for people in the markets. The opportunity of one thief would prove to be a fateful encounter.

“THIEF!”

Aragorn and Merlin followed the guards, all of whom stumbled on the rooftops chasing a young man.

“All of you handsome men for me? I don’t think I have enough bread,” he said.

He jumped across huts with a grace and agility that was almost elf like. Aragorn had seen such feats from Legolas and was impressed. Their eyes met and a moment seemed to pass before the boy threw the bread towards Aragorn. It was a hard loaf, showing the thief was taking a loaf no one who bought it would enjoy. It was so stale in fact that when it hit the man behind Aragorn, it brought his would be attacked to the floor. A dagger scattered to the floor and the king turned, half drawing Anduril whilst Merlin stomped on the boy’s wrist.

“What is the meaning of this?” Aragorn demanded.

“Valar Morghulis,” the boy hissed.

“Kill the king, serve the faceless god, shadow, deceiver, serve him, he must be our faceless god!”

Aragorn was taken aback by Cole’s sudden appearance, the spirit looked over the assassin, putting his fingers to the side of his face. Cole peeled back a mask of flesh and revealed an older face.

“One won’t miss a starving child, granted purpose by the one true god, the god called death, but the child wanted to eat not die,” Cole said and Aragorn could hear the slight pain in his voice.

“The faceless men, glorified assassins who worship a faceless god, so Sauron has deceived you too,” Merlin said.

He suddenly brought his foot down on the man’s neck. Aragorn had seen surprising feats of strength from Gandalf, but nothing so cruel or savage as what the blue wizard had done. Even Cole, an executioner if it ‘helped’ looked at the wizard in shock.

“We could have questioned him more,” Aragorn said.

“He would have known nothing, the only thing faceless men ask for is a name, they have marked you for death Aragorn, now may be the time you go west and try to find where the white city has been taken,” Merlin explained.

Aragorn turned away from the blue wizard, instead going to the guards and the thief they had caught. The young man had small bits of hair beginning to grow on his chin, yet he was still very much a boy. His exposed arms were toned by his acrobatics, though his baggy trousers were cheap and unfit for the practice. It only showed his skill all the more.

“You know the penalty for thievery,” one of the guards said as his men pinned the boy’s arm to a table.

“Wait, that boy saved my life,” Aragorn said.

“Probably saved my teeth more,” the thief retorted.

“How much was the loaf of bread, I will match the price and the price of his hand too,” Aragorn said.

“You would save this thief?” one of the guards asked.

“A man cannot repay a debt if he cannot work, hands, feet, eyes, even a tongue are required to work, punishment is necessary, but there is a reason this man stole,” Aragorn explained.

Though the boy’s arms were toned, they were also thin, despite his energy, his mouth was dry and he had not the strength to significantly fight the two guards pinning him down. He was dressed in a ragged brown shirt with a red scarf around his neck.

“I only steal what I can’t afford…which is everything,” the boy said.

“Then let me grant something you’re in need of, a job,” Aragorn said.

“You would employ a thief?” one of the guards asked.

“I would employ a man who risked his freedom and going hungry to save another, there are assassins in your city, do you tolerate them more than your own starving people?” Aragorn asked and the guards snarled.

“If he can afford the boy’s freedom then let it be,” Illyrio said, walking over with his own bodyguards.

“I am Magister Illyrio Mopatis, these men work for me, if you can compensate the merchant then go on, but I would at least know the name of the man who does so,” the former mercenary said.

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and a man should not be punished for starving, thievery is the symptom of something wrong with a city’s infrastructure, it must be treated not cut out,” Aragorn explained.

“Well said, skill should not be wasted either, let the boy go,” Illyrio said.

The moment was watched by a great many, Legolas and Gimli already knew of the kindness their friend was capable of. Guan Yu though watched and felt as if he was watching his brother in the king of Gondor, a man of benevolence and virtue. Gilgamesh looked between the warrior Guan Yu and the king of Gondor and thought, perhaps one need not be a demigod to be interesting. He and Guan Yu decided to postpone their competition as both became tired. With the business with the Magister settled, Aragorn and Merlin walked to the side of the market with the youth, who made a clicking sound with his mouth. Aragorn and Merlin watched, shocked as a monkey climbed down the side of the building and landed on the boy’s shoulder, holding in its hands two peaches.

“You used yourself as a distraction, if you had been caught?” Merlin asked.

“Then at least my friend here would not have gone hungry,” the boy said.

The boy took one of the peaches and offered it to Aragorn. Aragorn though pushed it back into the boy’s hand.

“Keep it as a taste of home, all I want is the name of the boy who saved my life.”

“Hussad Aladdin Khasim, call me Aladdin or Ali if you must your majesty,” the boy said.

“I am not a king,” Aragorn said.

The boy smirked and bowed his head.

“Blue blood recognises itself.”

Heroes would meet heroes, heroes would survive their encounters with monsters. And as in all stories heroes would inevitably meet villains. But there were those who could be called villains, who would clash with villains.

Cao Cao brought his hands together and bowed, but his eyes met Cersei Lannister’s, the queen garbed in the black, red and gold that was the merger of her husband and family sigils. He saw in her eyes a reflection of his own and recognised that she too was someone who would betray the world, rather than be betrayed by it.

Next Chapter 14: Mad, Wonder, Never Land

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 14: Mad, Wonder, Never Land

When Jon caught up with Rhaenyra, he found the princess crying. She was leaning against a tree, rubbing her face.

“Stop, that’ll make it worse,” Jon said.

He walked over to her, attempting to touch her shoulder. The Targaryen princess though batted his hand away, glaring at him. Her cheeks were red with blisters; the scars though were far from permanent.

“There is a poultice in my bag that might treat those burns,” he said.

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she said.

“We aren’t dragons,” Jon retorted.

“As today served to remind us, by the gods I wish my dragon was with me, I want to feel the wind on my face, I want to touch Syrax’s scales,” Rhaenyra whispered.

“We survived Rhaenyra,” Jon said.

“Dany did not die again,” she said.

“I said that did I?” Jon asked.

“Screamed it, a lover?”

“No, the name of my aunt, but not a lover, not someone I’m truly close to, and yet I’m haunted by the name, by a feeling that isn’t mine,” Jon explained. “Fuck, I don’t expect you to understand,” he said.

“Get that vial and then sit with me,” Rhaenyra said.

“A command from a failed queen?”

“A request from family, from someone who wishes to know the man who at least tried to save her.”

So sit together they did. Jon removed his gloves and used cloth from a spare shirt and soaked it in the balm. Gently he put the cloth to Rhaenyra’s cheek and she hissed.

“You’re doing it wrong, coat it on your fingers,” she said, taking Jon’s hand.

“Do it yourself then,” he said, even as she put the balm on her fingers just to rub it onto Jon’s.

Holding his wrist, she brought his hand to her cheek, putting her fingers on his to guide them across the burns.

“I do remember a story about my aunt Daenerys, she is said to be immune to fire,” Jon said.

“I’m an original Targaryen and even I know that’s bull shit,” Rhaenyra said.

“An original Targaryen,” Jon quoted.

“Well yes, I mean the generation that is still dragon riders,” she elaborated.

“And what are you now without a dragon?” Jon asked.

“Pissed off, very much wishing to correct some people in their history, Targaryen’s aren’t immune to fire, resistant but far from immune. Hold a burning pot long enough and it’ll leave a mark, as evidenced,” she motioned to her face, putting Jon’s hands down, yet still holding them as she ranted. “We burned our dead, so that their ashes could fly to Old Valyria, when a new Targaryen was born we would put into their crib a dragon egg so that they could bond with the dragons that would eventually hatch from them. Alicent was not some evil step mother and Daemon was truly a rogue, but warm with his family,” she explained.

“And the reason he was exiled, the first time, him calling your dead brother ‘heir for a day’ was him being warm?” Jon asked.

“He bought this necklace for me you know,” Rhaenyra brought Jon’s hand to her necklace.

“Yes, Valyrian steel on a necklace, how useful,” Jon huffed.

“Oh forgive me, we can’t all compensate for things by buying big Valyrian steel swords,” she retorted.

“I’m not compensating for anything and as you see my sword wasn’t Valyrian steel,” Jon said.

“So you definitely need to compensate then,” Rhaenyra nearly spat with her laughter after finishing her sentence.

“Seven hells,” Jon muttered, shaking his head.

They sat on the grass in the shadow of the tree, his hands in hers. His frustration gave way to the feeling that the moment was good, beyond simply being calm and relaxing. It was if Rhaenyra had taken the fire into herself; make her warm to the touch. Jon’s hands felt cold in contrast, but Rhaenyra did not withdrew, the warmth and cold complimented one another. They looked across the forest when they heard Tyrion begin to clear his throat. He was stood between the blonde and white goats, flinching in surprise when he heard the third goat scream in the distance.

“If I’m not interrupting, there’s something you might want to see,” he said.

Jon pulled his hands away from Rhaenyra as if she was fire, standing and straightening out his tunic. They followed Tyrion and the goats to where the black furred Billy goat waited. He showed off his teeth, but the trio were more focused on the cave he seemed to have found. Both Rhaenyra and Jon covered their mouths in disgust at the foul stench that emanated from the cave.

“Have you brought us here to make us sick Lannister?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Look,” Tyrion pointed at the goat.

Overcoming their disgust long enough to look at the creature that saved their lives, they finally saw something wedged between the goat’s teeth. A gold coin, one the goat spat out before trotting away. Curiosity over powered their disgust and the trio entered the cave, Tyrion carried out a controlled slide down its steep ground, rolling his eyes as Jon supported Rhaenyra’s descent. He saw very well the willingness of Rhaenyra to be helped and had seen it from a great many women at court who were all too happy to play the maid in need of looking after. But the independence of the Targaryen princess returned when she reached the bottom, stepping away from Jon to look not at the bones and hardened shit that decorated the floor, but the chests and jewels. Spiders and maggots had made their home in the cave, but the Westerosi were not disgusted as Tyrion simply brushed the bugs back when he took a handful of chains and coins from a chest. There wasn’t a sovereign or dragon amongst them, yet gold itself had its value.

“This was how they protected themselves in the day,” Jon said.

“And what they were protecting in turn, by the seven this would be enough to buy the Twins from that charmless Frey,” Tyrion said.

“Not quite enough for Castlelyrock though?” Jon hummed and Tyrion glared back.

“Lannister mines run deeper, how much do you think those goats can carry?” Tyrion asked.

“They saved us and you’d demand they carry this gold as if it was our prize to take?” Rhaenyra asked.

“It isn’t as if they can take it as payment,” the dwarf retorted.

Jon walked deeper, looking over necklaces brighter than what Rhaenyra wore, even a few rings with jewels like fire that trumped Tyrion’s signet ring. But then Jon’s eyes were drawn to a barrel with two swords in it. Both were set side by side as if they belonged together, one was simplistic looking in the design of its hilt. The blade though was black, but the edges seemed to shine with a pale fire. It’s sister seemed to have a finer style to its hilt and pommel, a curve shape on its guard whilst the blade itself reminded Jon of descriptions of Dawn, it had a shine to it like a star despite being coated in cobwebs. Jon removed the finer sword first, blowing back the webs and pulling the strands aside. Then he gripped the black sword by its hilt.

“HAIL GURTHANG!”

The sword immediately clattered to the floor and Jon touched the side of his head, closing his eyes but unable to stop what he saw or heard. He’d seen briefly the image of a madman stabbing someone, and he felt a bitter rage at the act. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the sword, clearly the Troll’s did not want to devalue the blades as there were also scabbards within the barrel. Tyrion put coins and necklaces into poaches he had kept just in case. He loaded more coins into his pockets and some gold cups and bangles into his bag. Whilst dragging a chest, the Lannister tripped back and fell and when cursing the object that tripped him he looked upon the handle of a sword. The handle itself had a pretty design; a long black handle with silver lining, from the pommel to the hilt there was a guard that would protect the hand, when Tyrion pulled the sword free he gasped at the blade. Vine like decorations covered the start of the blade, which curved slightly, Tyrion was no expert but he recognised a slicing blade. But the blade itself was the wonder as it seemed to glitter like ice to Tyrion’s eyes.

“Jon,” he called.

Rhaenyra looked at the necklaces, finding them pretty enough, she though played with the chain on the necklace Daemon gave her. It was still a family gift, and what was given by a loved one eclipsed what she could steal from a cave. She gazed though at a gold, wingless dragon.

“Jon,” the royal bastard walked to the Lannister dwarf, carrying the sheathed swords he had found.

“Look Jon, like ice, the substance and not the Stark sword, but it would make a fine gift, perhaps to your Uncle Ned or one of your cousins,” Tyrion presented the sword he found to Jon.

Grabbing the sword, Jon gave it a few test swings, finding it light and marvelling himself at the shimmer it left in its wake. He looked at the blade and rather than feeling sick, he felt, right.

“Like it belongs in the North,” Jon whispered.

“Jon,” Rhaenyra called out.

Both Tyrion and Jon turned, and saw the girl standing with her hands behind her back.

“Close your eyes,” she said teasingly and with a mischievous step she approached Jon.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just trust me,” she said and with a slight roll, Jon closed his eyes.

He felt a weight on his head and cheeks; despite Rhaenyra’s gentle touch he grabbed her wrists. Jon opened his eyes and felt the helmet that she had put on his head.

“It fits,” she said with a smirk.

Jon took the helmet off, looking over its design. A magnificent helmet adorned with gold on a background of grey steel, offering protection to the cheeks and nose as well as a hidden visor that would protect the mouth. What was most spectacular about it though was the gold, wingless dragon that decorated the top of the helmet, it seemed poise to strike with its tail stretching around to the back of the helm.

“A helmet for a dragon,” Rhaenyra said.

“I can’t wield three swords,” Jon said.

First he tried to give the ice like sword to Tyrion, who raised his hands and shook his head.

“Oh no, I’m not a close quarters man, at least outside of my tent, I’ll keep to the crossbow,” he said.

Jon slid two of the swords through his belt, and offered the fine, grey steel sword to Rhaenyra. She took it in awe at first, always wanting to be a warrior instead of a mother and wife. But she clumsily drew the blade, nearly swiping Jon’s arm.

“Careful,” he hissed.

“Sorry, sorry, I thought it would be heavier,” she said, holding the handle with one hand and pointing the sword down the cavern.

“We can’t lay a claim here,” Jon said.

“Perhaps a compromise, the crown will need gold, Lord Frey will want an end to the Trolls disrupting trade. I suggest we take a detour, back to the Twins, bringing what we can carry and promise,” Tyrion took the cup from his bag with a grin.

“Walder Frey is greedy, he will demand more,” Jon said.

“Of course he will, but so too will my father through me, and though he is married into our family, Walder Frey will not risk angering the Lannisters whether it be my father or sister the queen,” Tyrion explained.

“We’ll need the Frey’s men if we’re going to kill those fucking beasts,” Rhaenyra said.

Jon nodded his head, willing at least to compromise and speak with the Frey lord again.

When Isabela returned to Dragonstone, the dragon that patrolled its shores seemed to weep. It circled the ship in a threatening manner and Isabela felt the same fear her crew did.

“Let me speak with him,” said the bald boy.

“You cannot be serious,” Isabela said.

“Daemon Targaryen is a relic of history to me, he and I will understand one another,” said Egg.

Duncan stayed by his squire’s side, more a bodyguard than a lord to the boy. Isabela remained on her ship and gave the boys a boat to go to shore. Egg looked over the Ferelden refugees in Daemon’s care, he knew not how they had been before and did not know what to expect, but they at least seemed fed. Gruel was served to them, along with water boiled from the sea. The strong were put to work, dwarves familiar with construction and smiths applied their craft to the maintenance of the keep, hunters went out for game to offer to their host and ladies who once served as household servants took up work in the kitchens and laundry. All in all a fair trade for shelter, Ferelden, Free Marcher and even Orzammar dwarves seemed honest and hard working. Egg explained his situation to the guards and though they laughed at first, they allowed Egg and Duncan entry into the throne room.

Daemon bore his head low, his skin had become paler and his hair thinner. Egg could still see the Targaryen in him, especially as he looked at Darksister.

“I’ve seen that blade before, at jousts and at court,” Egg said.

“I see your roots boy, are you our past or future?” Daemon asked.

“Future I believe or you are at least my past,” Egg said. “My name is Aegon; I am of yours and Rhaenyra’s blood, and also the blood of the greens.”

“The Hightower cunts, they won after all,” Daemon snarled.

“No one won the Dance of Dragons, the realm suffered, kin slew kin and within a few generations the dragons we once rode died out,” Egg explained.

“That is the popular story,” Daemon laughed bitterly.

He led Egg and Duncan to the cells, to mad Bran Stark, the ranting crow/raven.

“YOU BURNED! BURNED! BURNED! YOUR GRANDSON WANTED TO BURN EVERYTHING AFTER!”

“Does he ever speak sense?” Duncan asked.

“Sometimes, you have come to tell me of Daylen Amell’s failure haven’t you?” Daemon asked.

“They recovered a great many children from Neverland, but the island is vast, with the mist now clear we can send larger search parties after it,” Egg stated.

“Baelon, Viserys, Aemma, my grandchildren, I was protecting them for my son Maelor when they were taken, you did not see them?” Daemon asked.

“I am afraid not, that doesn’t mean that Pan didn’t keep them somewhere else,” Egg said with haste.

But the anger he expected from Daemon was not there.

“Say hello to your nephew Brynden,” Daemon said bitterly.

Egg looked at Bran the broken, the man’s eyes widened and the ghost of a smile went across his face.

“Little Egg, yet to hatch, even then still just a little Egg, and Duncan the Tall, have you found someone to knight you yet?” the crippled man laughed as Egg and Duncan followed Daemon out of the cells.

Geralt looked over the tracks, his companions seemed to know where they were going but he didn’t want to leave any stones unturned. Morrigan was like Yennefer in her poise if not her clothing. The Witcher shook the thoughts aside; there were more important things at the moment than Yennefer. Gandalf looked down at the younger man with a knowing smile.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder Geralt,” he said.

“More like more desperate,” Morrigan said.

“Oh are you desperate Morrigan, to be with one whom you love?” Gandalf asked.

“Love is a weakness,” she said.

“A double edged sword,” Gandalf retorted.

“The sword of destiny,” Geralt muttered bitterly.

“Oh does he have something interesting to speak of besides Gwent?” Morrigan remarked.

“Firstly, Gwent is interesting, secondly it’s more remembering really, where I am from or at least the grand continent I travel destiny is as much a living force as it is a mere explanation for coincidence,” Geralt explained.

“Destiny can be a comfort, people are meant to meet, people are meant to find what they find and this is not at all a bad thought,” Gandalf said.

“What about free will and choice?” Geralt asked.

“People will always regret the choices they make, whine of missed opportunities, destiny is the comfort but without destiny you’re left yearning for something to have not happened,” Morrigan explained.

“So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide, all that is left for us to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us,” Gandalf explained.

The words of the white wizard struck Geralt and he could see they struck Morrigan too. For the Witcher is was the realisation that though his life had been led by destiny, meeting Yennefer, gaining Ciri as a child surprise, everything he had done with them was his choice. He and Dandelion travelled across the continent hunting monsters and making sons, of sirens in the deep and last wishes, he and Yennefer time and time again found and loved each other, sparks that brightened Geralt’s long life of struggle. And Ciri, she was not his prize, not his unwanted burden or just another Witcher, she was the daughter he chose.

“There’s very powerful magic through here,” Geralt said, pointing into the vast forest and the corridors of stone it merged with.

For Gandalf the world felt wrong, as if Illuvatar’s design had been twisted. Evil could only corrupt, but Gandalf wondered if the force that mashed many worlds together was truly evil. Perhaps destiny was at play, perhaps something like this was meant to happen. So he would spend what time he was given helping.

“This architecture, it is Elven from my world,” Morrigan said.

“But there is something foul in the air,” Gandalf said.

“Foul smell more like,” Geralt retorted.

“Oh that’s what I’m referring to as well, but it the eerie feeling, like a whisper in the wind,” Gandalf stated and Geralt nodded in agreement.

 Morrigan drew out her staff, made from a tree branch but with a crescent shape on the end of it. Likewise Geralt drew his sword as they came into an open cavern. There was a fight, between a thin, humanoid beast with mutated arms and glowing red eyes.

“Darkspawn, against…Darkspawn,” Morrigan gasped in shock.

Its opponent was brutal, bringing the mutated creature down to the ground and crushing its neck with the sharp tip of its shield. The yellow skinned Darkspawn turned, the Hurlock snarled at the three new arrivals. Around the Darkspawn glowing red roots decorated the walls, connected to pulsing tumours. Armoured and armed Hurlocks and Genlocks came back down the corridor, one an Alpha Hurlock carrying a great axe.

“There are enemies shrouded here,” Gandalf said, drawing his sword Glamdring.

Geralt reached into his poach, the De Vries extract potion would do. So named for the sorceress Tissaia de Vries, whom discovered the means to unveil hidden things. Adding a bind weed potion for resistance, Geralt snarled as his eyes went black. Morrigan threw her hand forward, releasing a few shards of ice that struck the tumours on the walls. The roots began breaking apart, bursting down the corridor and letting out a sound like a scream. Geralt rushed forward, using an Aard sign, the telekinetic wave knocked back the hidden enemy. It’s face was rat like, ears a parody of an elf's and bearing claws as sharp as swords. Two more Shrieks rushed out of the shadows, one falling to a flurry of green flies created by Morrigan. The wisp bees flowed down the Shriek’s mouth, making its skin bubble before its chest blew open. Geralt met the victor of the previous fight’s blade first, parrying the Hurlock’s sword before slashing through its neck. The Alpha swung its great axe and Geralt brought up the Quen sign. A shield of pressurised air surrounded him, but the Alpha’s swing was strong and electricity crackled across the axe. The blow was enough to throw Geralt back. A brown vapour came out of Morrigan’s staff, hitting one of the Genlock’s before it could pounce on Geralt. Entropic magic flowed through the creature, killing its cells and weakening it, making the Genlock vomit on the floor. Geralt jumped to his feet, just as Gandalf blocked with his staff a Hurlock’s sword. The white wizard moved with speed that reminded Geralt of Virsemir, his old mentor had strength and speed that surprised younger opponents. Likewise Gandalf bashed a Genlock’s head with his staff, a blow that was strong enough to smash the beast’s skull. His long sword Glamdring deflected the ragged and ugly Darkspawn swords and axes. As Gandalf stabbed a Hurlock through the throat, Geralt swung his sword through a Genlock’s shoulder. Morrigan scythed the Genlock she had weakened and froze the Hurlock alpha’s feet. Geralt ran towards the Darkspawn, using Aard again to push the Hurlock with such force that its heels were torn away from its feet.

“Something else is coming,” Gandalf said, turning and scanning the walls.

Geralt felt his medallion shake; he heard the walls cracking as Morrigan stepped on the Hurlock Alpha’s shoulder. Lines of purple energy rushed out of the Alpha, making it scream as its skin shrunk onto its skeleton. Morrigan’s cheeks brightened, absorbing the Alpha’s energy. The wall behind her was smashed away when she had finished her work. A large body was flung to the ground, a tall creature with horns and a thin and bony body. Its own club had been stabbed into its eye, and the victor of the fight emerged shaking the ground with each step. Its arms were covered by dull steel gauntlets with armour on its hips and a loin cloth with it. Bearing horns like its defeated opponent, the grey skinned, unmutated Ogre stomped on the mockery another story had made of its brethren. Then it turned and looked at the witch of the wilds.

“There’s a big one,” Geralt drank a blizzard potion, amplifying his awareness of the world and his nerves.

Gandalf slammed his staff into the ground, a bright light shined from the head of his staff, making the Ogre shield his eyes. Geralt rushed forward, slicing the Ogre’s heel, flipping back with grace and speed as the Ogre swiped at him. Light surrounded Morrigan as she too ran at the Ogre. The light enveloped her and when it faded it revealed that she had turned into a giant spider. Gandalf looked at the spider in surprise, especially as Morrigan used one leg to nip the Ogre’s side. She crawled onto the Ogre’s back, biting it and filling it with venom. Geralt then jumped off of Morrigan’s back, driving his sword through the top of the Ogre’s head. He rolled off of the monster as it fell, panting slightly and watching Morrigan turn back to her human form.

“Darkspawn, what else are we dealing with?” Geralt asked.

“Those other creatures are Darkspawn themselves, but their forms were altered by an old elven god called Ghilanain,” Morrigan said.

“Even evil itself must be corrupted into a more grotesque form, the roots on the wall were the taint weren’t they?” Gandalf asked and Morrigan nodded.

“It went down that cavern, these intact roots go in the same direction, which means there are more growths to pop down there,” Geralt said.

He sheathed his sword, walking on, Morrigan huffed before following.

“Might I add that I would naturally know more about them than you?” she asked.

“Children,” Gandalf muttered.

Daylen walked carefully through the house. It was a house, this Daylen believed at first, but the humble wooden floor and walls began to change as Daylen walked deeper. The house was bigger on the inside; casting shadows that blocked Daylen’s vision until he walked into the next room. He came first to a lobby that belonged more to a mansion than a quaint common home. The stairs were made of marble and the banister was painted black wood. There was paper coated on the walls, showing an assortment of card signs, aces, hearts and clubs, and then there were the paintings on the wall. Daylen looked over one painting; it was of a handsome brown haired man in a fine coat and top hat. Across from the painting, almost as if the eyes of the portraits were meeting was the portrayal of a red haired woman. She had pretty features and wore a red dress with a neck ruff; the crown resting on her head had a heart shaped jewel on it. The stairs split off into two balconies, each with three doors. One door was painted blue, another had a nail on it with a piece of string dangling a gear on it. The green door in the middle of the red doors had what looked like a T-cup ornament pinned to it.

That was where the smell was coming from, so Daylen followed his nose. He pushed open the door with the T-Cup Ornament on it and felt the whiff of a familiar thing, an old friend, a dead body. Dead body and rotting food, sometimes rotten food was all that could be spared at the tower. Daylen had been sick from it before and had even known mages who had died like White when she ate a rotting apple. He had snuck into the kitchens a few times, and remembered the kitchens at Redcliffe and the estate in Denerim. None of them were like the kitchen he walked through, the walls were blue, blending perfectly with the darkness that had consumed the room. Flies buzzed around half eaten and rotting chickens, black and floppy vegetables, moulding cheeses with maggots crawling out of the long passed meats.

“Damn,” Daylen whispered, looking down at the chef.

He was missing a head, his apron had been repainted red, and a cut across his belly revealed that his entrails had been pulled out. Daylen didn’t shield his nose or vomit, yet still the stench was putrid and the sight cruel. The man had defended himself, hands gripped firmly around the meat cleaver he held. Daylen pulled another cleaver off of the worktop, checking over the blade. It was still quite sharp and could serve as a blunt force weapon if need be. There were some dried fruits served away from the rotten meat but Daylen didn’t give into his temptations, lest the food had been contaminated from the fumes alone. He made his way out of the kitchen but reached an odd new room that shouldn’t have been next to the kitchen. It was a garden, the grass blended seamlessly with the floor of the next room. Two smells stung at Daylen’s nostrils, rotten meat and a sound that was most unfamiliar, fumes of burning leaves. The garden itself was higher class, many servants must have worked on it to make it seem so otherworldly, the bushes had unique shapes like clubs and hearts from a card. There was a tree Daylen passed with an orange furred cat on it. Daylen looked at the plumb feline, it looked down at him for a moment with a seeming indifference common from cats. Then its mouth expanded, curling into a grin of some kind.

“Who is the monster in Wonder Land, who are the monsters in Westeros, the dead moving across the wastes or the players of the game, so lost in their game they ignore everything. What of the wardens, oh noble wardens, does Origin matter if the Veilguard fails?” the cat asked.

Daylen stared at the creature in shock; it spoke like a circle lecturer. Then its body slowly disappeared, leaving its Cheshire grin in the air for a moment before it too faded. He suppressed the urge to shiver, acknowledging the strange occurrence but rationalising it. Death thinned the veil between the living world and the fade, where dreams and spirits meshed into their own reality. Daylen continued, moving around the bushes and flower beds. He felt the stench get stronger, and then he heard the muffled voices. Muffled by gags, which he confirmed when from the cover of a bush he saw several people sat around a table.

They weren’t all children, there were two adult men both identical to one another. Both were moving more frantically than even the girls. They wore matching red doublets with some gold embroidery on them. The twin with long blonde hair managed to get his gag loose enough to free his mouth.

“HELP! HELP!” he screamed, shaking on his chair, the ropes binding his wrists to the arm rests.

The chairs were individually decorated, each perhaps matching a person sitting on it. Red and gold, arm rests of a lion’s paws with the top of the chair being a lion’s head, the colours and symbols of House Lannister. Another chair, decorated by green vines, all leading to a golden rose on the head of the chair, the symbol and colours of House Tyrell. There was one girl on the chair in a green dress of highborn make and style, she had brown hair and began to cry when the Lannister screamed out for help. Many of them cried, a gangly man with a squire’s uniform was shaking more than anyone else. His chair was yellow painted wood, ant shapes carved into it, a squire of House Ambrose.

“SEVEN HELLS WOULD SOMEONE HELP US!” the Lannister twin yelled.

Beside him was a chair with a girl on it, her hair covered by a sheet. Her chair’s two arm rests were carved into the shape of dragon heads, with the third head being behind her back. A three headed dragon, symbol of House Targaryen. Possibly one of Daemon’s grandchildren, but Daylen could not be sure. What he did know was that Bevin was also trapped there, on a blank chair to reflect his nameless heritage. He was calm, still, defiant, and Daylen’s pride in him welled for a boy considered lowborn showed far more courage than a high born lord of such stature. Truly he was living up to his grandfather’s supposed past as a dragon slayer, having the heart if not the body of a warrior. Daylen was about to move when he saw someone walk towards the table. He was holding a pot of tea, pouring the contents into a cup he was holding in his other hand.

“Lower your voice please, there will be no screaming at the tea party,” he said.

The man was tall; he had pale skin and had large rotting teeth. There were bags under his eyes, and despite pouring the tea well, his arms were shaking and twitching. His heavy green coat had some patches on the leg area, white patches sown on with pink thread that did not match the coat itself. Underneath the coat, he wore bright yellow and orange trousers in a cheque pattern, white and black shoes with replacement laces. Over his white shirt he wore an orange and brown vest with a green scarf. He kept pouring a cup of tea until it was half full. Then he drank the still fuming cup, blistering his lips as he ignored the heat. He walked up to the table, all of his ‘guests’ looked at the top hat he wore. It too had some patches on it for repair, the top of it was caved in slightly.

“Welcome, welcome esteemed guests, welcome to the party,” the man in the hat said.

The Tyrell girl quivered as the man’s friend walked around the table. He was wearing a red coat with a bow tie of green and red colours. To Daylen’s shock and the fear of the other guests, the man had the head of a brown rabbit. It was sniffing at the girl, breathing heavily with fresh blood on its teeth. The rabbit man’s hands were human, and pushed together as if praying. His body seemed to be guided by the head, pulled by it along the table as it sniffed each guest.

“Good sir, I am Tyland Lannister, my brother Jason Lannister and I are lords of Castely Rock, we can…”

“Which one, pardon me for the interruption please, but tell me which one?” the man in the hat asked.

“I don’t understand,” Tyland said.

“Please tell me which one you are from, one year after conquest, two years after conquest, three years after conquest…”

“I am the husband of princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of Viserys Targaryen, you will let me go or there shall be a reckoning,” Tyland said.

The man in the hat, slammed his cup and pot down on the table.

“You WILL NOT THREATEN AT THIS FUCKING TABLE!” he yelled, grinding his teeth so hard that one of his canine’s popped out.

He placed the tooth in his cup of tea, drinking it and swallowing as if there was a pill in it. Then he walked around the table, leaning across his guests to grab the plates that had been set in front of each guest.

“Dear boy you are a common man, and there is no common a dish than of course bread,” the man in the hat pulled off the cover on the plate.

Bevin showed only the slightest twitch of discomfort when he saw that his ‘meal’ was a loaf of mouldy bread, half green with cockroaches crawling around it. The man in the hat moved to Tyland Lannister, but the man did not reveal a roasted lion or any kind of meat.

“Strawberries and cream, for a fine lord,” the man in the hat said.

The cream was yellow and pitty, the strawberries bruised. They were spread over a mass of gold coins like pieces of scone.

“Here, have a taste, it too much time to prepare it,” the man in the hat took one of the coins, bringing it to Tyland’s mouth.

“Keep the gold, keep it, I’ll give you more, release me and I’ll give you all the gold you want,” Tyland said.

“I worked hard on this, worked so, so, so hard on this party, YOU WILL TASTE!” the hatter yelled.

He pushed the coin into Tyland’s mouth, holding it closed and squeezing his cheeks.

“Chew, chew, chew your food, CHEW IT!” the hatter yelled.

Tyland closed his eyes, his face going red and crying as he finally did as he was told. There was a crunch as his teeth broke trying to chew the gold coins.

“Is it sweet, tasty, how is it lord Lannister, lord lion Lannister?” the hatter asked.

With his teeth still crunching, Tyland nodded with a forced smile.

“Gwood, so gwood,” he muttered.

“Now swallow, swallow, and don’t let it all go to waste,” the hatter said, his hand brushing against the cutlery on the table.

Despite the state of the food, the knives and forks were finely made, clean and sharp. Good enough to slice a guest’s throat if Daylen didn’t time his intervention right. He had to move, move and save those people at that mad tea party. Daylen tried to summon the magic in his hands, just one last attempt to see if he could go into the fight with more than just basic weapons. But all he could manage was a simple spark.

‘Fuck,’ he thought.

He was about to stand when he felt a blade touch his neck.

“Fuck,” he snarled.

“Hmmm, why say this?” the wielder of the blade asked.

“What?” Daylen looked over his shoulder, letting the blade kiss his cheek.

“Red eyes, you are not completely human are you?” the wielder asked.

Icy blue eyes looked at Daylen, they belonged to a boy with a face as young as Bevin’s. But he was just a foot shorter than Daylen. He wore a blue coat over a white shirt with a frill collar. His thick, white cotton socks went up to the red three quarter length shorts he wore and he wore on his feet black leather shoes with golden buckles on the straps. Long dark hair framed the boy’s face, in addition to a blue uniform cap with a small yellow feather on it. The sword pressed against Daylen’s cheek was a curved cutlass with a guard over the boy’s fist. Daylen adjusted his grip on the cleaver and was about to move when he heard a whistle.

“IT IS TIME!”

The call came from a deep, commanding voice, Daylen felt the boy lower his sword. The boy was immediately at Daylen’s side, looking towards the tea party. They watched as a door suddenly appeared in the garden. It was metallic, with gears clicking across it, ticking like the clock that was at its centre. The door opened and a man walked out, wearing a smart coat with frills on the wrists, white gloves, a yellow vest on the chest with a silver pocket watch. This man though, like the mutant with the mad hatter, had the head of a White Rabbit, though looked to be far more human than the brown rabbit. A pair of Pince-nez glasses rested on the White Rabbit’s nose, his lips curled into a smile as he walked closer to the tea party, taking the watch out of his pocket and looking over it.

“Right on time,” he said.

“She’s coming just like you said Cricket,” the boy next to Daylen, his latest ally perhaps spoke with a volume that was lower than a whisper.

“Who is coming?” Daylen asked.

Next Chapter 15: The Red Queen and the puppet hero

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 15: The Red queen and the puppet hero

Dorne

Merrill thought that after escaping the desert, she would find some relief in the Dornish city. But if anything it seemed even hotter in the Martell houses.

“Daisy, you wear fur on your collar, of course you’re going to get hot,” Varric had told her.

The dwarf had taken to wearing a Dornish styled shirt, stretching the collar enough to expose his chest hair. He sat around the training yard, enjoying Dornish hospitality for a story or two, trying to earn the attention of the Dornish ladies and enjoying the challenge they offered. Merrill knew he was flirtatious like Isabela, but no womaniser, it wasn’t sex Varric craved but attention.

“I’ve found Dornish taste to be more on the physical level,” Varric said.

He motioned with his head to the daughters of Oberyn Martell, Elia and Nymeria Sand. The latter lady of the whip rested her weapon on her shoulder, watching with some satisfaction as Carver stood swinging his sword.

“Do you think he’s compensating for something?” Merrill heard the younger girl whisper and giggle with her sister.

“He doesn’t use a shield, so the larger blade doubles as a shield and blunt force weapon,” Merrill said.

“Oh Daisy, you have much to learn of expressions,” Varric said.

Carver stopped his exercises as Arys Oakheart walked onto the circle; the Kings guard was dressed in his white leathers with his collar slightly opened to accommodate the hot weather. The knight met Carver’s gaze, narrowing his own eyes to equal Carver’s own disapproval.

“There’s a lack of respect in your eyes,” Oakheart said.

“I should have respect for an order that protects a royal family from anything but itself, that sits on its arse at the back ranks whilst real soldiers die at the front?” Carver asked.

“Our king fights on the battlefield,” Arys said.

“Does he fight now?” Carver retorted.

“Politics is itself a battlefield!”

Carver turned, looking to Oberyn Martell and Daemon Sand. The viper’s squire carried three spears whilst Oberyn wore clothing fit for fighting. Arys stepped back as Oberyn walked past him, circling Carver and analysing his form, muscle, technique and temperament.

“I’ve known fighters with rage as fierce as yours young man,” Oberyn said.

“How many of them did you kill?” Carver asked.

“Not kill, recruited, I run my own band of mercenaries, I am general and scholar, warrior and maestar, and as both I can tell you that in King’s Landing you will find another battlefield. You train here every day because you are frustrated, you believe my brother and I are keeping you as prisoners but you are wrong, in King’s landing even as an emissary you will be a prisoner,” Oberyn explained.

“I want to do more,” Carver said.

“In King’s landing you will be faced with a game that you are ill suited for, even I admit with my experience I would not fair well in the South,” Oberyn explained.

“I like games,” Merrill spoke up and the snakes smiled amongst themselves.

“There is a saying in the south, when you play the game of thrones you win, or you die, there is no Middle ground,” Oberyn said.

King’s Landing

Cersei felt her ears burn, even with her hand focused on her belly. She chided herself for her foolish hope, one night with her husband was true and peaceful bliss, far greater than any moment she shared with her brother. But there would need to be more time for a seed to be planted, it was something she looked forward to in the days to come. Her scowl returned for a moment as she looked at the foreigners and ‘guests’ of the crown. Rhaegar sat with the grace and dignity Cersei loved him for, but with the compassion in his eyes she knew would have to fade to survive the days to come. It was a contrast to the near emotionless expression one lord Cao held.

“Your spy master, as good as he is, will likely tell you of what I know, of forces on the sea attacking merchant and refugee ships, of beaches being crushed by new layers of the land, a place known as Kirkwall has joined with a place in the West of your map. The Reach and Stormlands are set to collide in a war between brothers, your Hightower now burns with an orange flame, a great eye that sweeps over the land and lays claim to any it’s light shines upon. A great tower surrounded by industry burns away the green of peaceful Riverlands and plains where horsemen ride, and the North where men cannot agree which Stark rules,” Cao explained.

“How do you know of this?” Rhaegar asked.

“I have in my care ten thousand, many of whom have never fought before in their lives, they have been ripped from their homes and placed like pieces on a game map. They look to people like you and I for protection, the least I can do is know what threatens them,” Cao stated.

“He is right your grace,” Cullen said, coming forward and kneeling. “Refugees of Thedas number in the hundreds of thousands, your lands alone wouldn’t have been equipped to help them, but additional land has now joined with yours, new islands formed, including one where magic was at its most powerful, a place called Neverland, a place that has taken children of all walks of life, we recovered some of these children but there still remains a shadow across that region,” the Templar explained.

“Shadows,” Varys whispered. “My birds do whisper of dark things taking children, wards of Highgarden, and the Eyrie have gone missing, the latter dismissed as lost on the cliffs.”

“Whilst I feel sympathy your grace, the Riverlands have sworn allegiance to you and have maintained that allegiance, we will continue to be loyal but our loyalty will end if our lands burn,” the Blackfish stated.

“You ask the king for support without demanding it sir, your grace you and Robert Baratheon are enemies this I will not deny, but your families have been bound by blood, the Stormlands and the Reach are being pitted against each other, if the fighting doesn’t stop you may lose two houses over one,” Davos explained.

“The Reach outnumbers the Stormlands sir Davos, it is likely only one house will be lost,” Brynden corrected.

“Sirs please,” Rhaegar stood and Cersei frowned at the pleading tone of her husband, another thing she had to purge from him.

The king stood and the court bowed, a reminder of the respect he commanded in spite of the actions of his father. He looked between Brynden and Davos, recognising the needs of both houses to have immediate support. Likewise he cast sympathy to Cullen and Cauthrien.

“We tried to take back Old town but suffered a terrible defeat, many great knights fell on that field, if we are to recover from this loss, I recognise that all of you must have your needs met in whatever way it can. Lord Varys commands the greatest network of spies the world has ever known, he will discern friend from foe, lions and dragons have amongst them enough troops to not only keep power, but to support those who have sworn allegiance and thus deserve our protection. My good father will support the Riverlands and I will call upon knights of the guard to aid the Stormlands, Ser Jaime, Ser Barristan, you will join with Ser Arys and Ser Dayne to stop brothers from shedding one another’s blood. Our royal treasury can support the livelihood of anyone with a trade, anyone who will take part in the construction of a royal fleet to protect the sea,” Rhaegar explained.

“Em your grace, I do not support the um existence of any gods beyond the true seven, perhaps if the Templars and wisemen of these different lands will be open to the idea of…”

“Enough of the act old man, you will find no member of the chant to convert, we will stay true to the faith we have followed, the faith passed onto us by our ancestors. We would make the same demand even amongst those who do not follow the Chant, the Dalish and even the Qunari,” Cullen explained, interrupting Pycelle.

“Indeed, but our scholars, no matter their religion must work together in order to properly map and study the new world, you have lost Old Town where your maestars study, I would suggest establishing a new place of academia where knowledge and not faith is valued,” Cao said.

“I can aid Pycelle and Tully in this your grace,” Varys added.

“One of my generals Yue Jin has carried out census’s before his time in the army, his help would be invaluable to you lord Varys,” Cao said.

‘Ask for help but offer it too,’ Cullen realised.

“We have mages, though the magic is diminished these days, it can still be valuable in aiding agriculture and construction, all we would ask is for a place where the mages can stay under our guard,” Cullen said.

“You’ll find no better builders than the dwarves, they would help for the same price,” Cauthrien added.

Cersei suddenly stood, and the people in the room felt a pressure they hadn’t before. Her frown seemed to alter the light in the room. Cullen’s first instinct to cast a ward of protection as part of his Templar duties, faded, as if the memory of the shift faded.

“The West faces its own issue, my father has written to me, of an army at the Western borders, an army with armour similar to yours Lord Cao,” Cersei said, pointing at Cao Cao and his entourage.

Lannister guards looked at the men in blue and some even put hands on their weapons. Trant, a Lannister man through and through stepped in front of his queen whilst Dun was about to come to his cousin’s aide. Cao though, with his hands at his side, poked out a finger that was a signal to his kin. More movements of his fingers signifying an unspoken language, ‘stand down’.

“As I said, a great many people from many places new to your lands, far beyond the borders of sea, time and even stars,” he said. “Amongst the forces attacking your father your grace, is there talk of a warrior with long feathers in his helmet, a man who fights like an army?” Cao asked.

Cersei remained silent, unsure; she knew the Lannister forces fought ‘enemies’ at their borders. But the situation was not dire; this she was confident of for few could oppose her father. Though Cao’s tone had not changed, his men, all confident and strong looking warriors in their own right, seemed to look at one another with a shared caution and even fear of the man Cao spoke of.

“If so, then perhaps it is understandable that the king’s father in law be granted support over all others,” Cao said.

“The Lannisters stand as the most powerful family in the realm, the West has endured threats beyond and within,” Cersei snapped.

Jaime though looked uncertain; he too recognised the unspoken tone in the way the warriors around Cao stood. They reacted to the man he spoke of with the same reverence Jaime had seen when knights of Westeros spoke of Barristan and Arthur Dayne. For Cullen though, it was if each of Cao’s bodyguards were reacting to news of a demon in the world. Ned felt Ashara’s grip on his hand tighten. It wasn’t out of her own fear, but to get his attention enough to smile at him. He was afraid, he would not admit, but she knew, his truest love knew him. Knew the sacrifices he would make, knew all the things he feared could go wrong. She valued his honour, but had made sure to teach him of all the things to fear in King’s landing. He would not have survived without her.

Their daughter, Ned hoped, would grow into a woman of honour like a Stark, and wisdom like her mother. Arya balanced on the cracks in the ground, she had been exploring the tunnels, mapping in her head possible escape routes and all the places bored guards did not cover. The black and white cat from the kitchens followed her, and had been one of the closest things she had to a friend since Jon had left. Sneaking on her toes with the same grace as the cat, she made her way to the iron barred doors of an occupied cell. It was a poor place for a noble lady to be, and she was one of the few ladies Arya liked before her mother. The dark haired girl was dressed in a dirty black dress with red embroidery on her skirt. She looked across the cell at Arya with her enchanting blue eyes.

“Aristanna,” Arya whispered the girl’s name.

Aristanna Amell, daughter of Damion Amell. She walked bare foot against the stone. Lately her feet had become rougher than her hands, marks on her fingers she had gained from a passion for instruments. Whether string or whistle, she could play it well with beauty and bounce. Arya preferred her jolly songs, but enjoyed every song or story Aristanna had to tell.

“Hello She-Wolf,” Aristanna said.

“Ari, there’s a knight from your family’s home country, a Templar,” Arya said excitedly.

“Templars are spread across many countries in Thedas She-Wolf, my family has come from Kirkwall, have people from Kirkwall come She-Wolf?” Aristanna asked.

“I don’t really know, I saw some dogs on their flags,” Arya said.

“Mabari hounds, Ferelden, where my cousin was sent when he was found out to be a mage. Oh aunt Revka, she would be mad with curiosity to know anything of Daylen, have they said anything?”

Arya was about to speak when someone cleared their throat.

“Sorry Mi’lady, we don’t know anything yet I’m afraid,” Samwell came out of the darkness, carrying a jug in one hand and balancing bread and ham on a plate. “Sorry I was late Lady Aristanna, but the kitchen has been busy preparing a banquet for the other guests, I’ve prepared another letter requesting your release,” the Maestar explained.

“I had hoped that my stories would be taken seriously, perhaps with Templars and mages in the city, information about the fade will be taken seriously,” Aristanna said.

“They’re stupid, they’re all stupid, Pycelle, Varys, those lords, even the queen and king, they should have freed you the moment the prisoners returned and told them about the Orcs,” Arya explained.

“People sometimes deny what even others have seen, sometimes out of pride, and sometimes out of fear, either way they don’t want monsters to be real or for there to be anything that is out of their control,” Aristanna explained.

“You have been very brave my lady, you don’t deserve what has been done,” Samwell said.

“I am prone to melancholy and wavering mind and mouth, the Maestar’s would have cut my head open to find out what was wrong with me, I am different, even for someone from Thedas, I know things I shouldn’t, things that scare me, and I feel things not many others would, both in here and up here,” Aristanna touched her heart and head as she spoke, leaning against the bars and taking the hand that Arya offered lovingly.

“Brave and kind She-Wolf, promise me you’ll be kind even if it means you have to be more lady like,” Aristanna pleaded.

“I’ll never be a lady,” Arya huffed.

“Promise me my friend, so many bad things may happen, but we’ll only truly have lost if we allow it to destroy us. It’s possible, it has to be possible, that we can change for the better,” Aristanna looked up at the ceiling, almost as if she was looking beyond the stone and at the clouds beyond the castle. “Death need not be the end of hope, and not all who are cruel need stay that way, to be kind is a strength, to change is to be brave,” the Amell girl whispered melodically.

“A story, please, tell us a story Ari,” Arya said, holding Aristanna’s hand as if praying.

“I know a story, it began with a wish upon a star, the wish of a man who missed his son so much. He was alone, so alone, so sad, that he built something at first to honour his lost son:

What he made was a puppet, for his son loved puppets so much. But the puppet was better than any the craftsman had carved before. Each piece made from the finest tree, with mechanisms so advanced that the puppet would need no strings. Yet still, it was a puppet, it could only do as it was told. So the puppet maker wished and wished, until a blue fairy answered his cry. With magic and good intent, the puppet lived, and called his creator father.

But he was still a puppet, he could learn true, but he had no heart yet. He was learning bit by bit, and would come to learn enough to truly be considered a boy. For he would be guided by a conscience.

The ‘thing’ whispered, muttered into his hand. Daylen did not know why the mysterious boy was whispering to the remains of a small insect. He heard the click of whatever mechanism was inside the boy, powering him like a golem. The boy walked around him, picking a new hiding place.

“The red queen, like the white queen, fair once but spoiled now?” the boy asked, and Daylen could tell it was a question by the tone.

He focused on the White Rabbit again, looking at his watch, standing with the poise of a gentleman but bearing the grin of a sadist. The White Rabbit walked up to the tea table, standing between the Tyrell girl and her squire.

“I see your guests have their own food, what of your queen Hatter?” the rabbit asked.

“But I have her meal, you stand between them,” the Hatter said and the Tyrell girl let out a scream muffled by her gag.

The White Rabbit sighed, taking hold of the Tyrell girl’s chin, pushing his fingers into her cheeks to shush her. Next to him, the squire shifted in his chair, trying to say something until the White Rabbit whirled his head round. The squire shrunk under the creature’s gaze, and the sadistic smile deepened. Daylen could see that someone was going to die very soon.

“We can’t let them do it,” the boy beside him whispered.

There was determination in the ‘things’ voice. Daylen wanted to scoff, there he was referring to someone as a thing, as if he was Qunari, seeing people only for their roles. He recognised the determination, it echoed in his mind long before his failure at Denerim. The determination not to fail, not to let people down. They had to save someone, anyone, even if it meant risking themselves. Yet there was an undertone in the boy’s voice, a regret that Daylen recognised too. Sten had had it, though most failed to see it, Sten was Qunari to his core, stuck in his role and culture. He came to a foreign country because he had been ordered too, but when his men had been killed, his sword, an item akin to his soul had been lost, Sten too was lost. So much so that in his madness he had killed those who tried to help him. Sten resigned himself to a death he felt he deserved, Daylen believed differently. Death was so final, maybe Sten’s victims would have felt differently, but Daylen at least at the time felt that Sten should do something to make up for the lives he had lost.

“Save them, save them, no one life is equal to another, so save more, more, save more, yes Mr Cricket, we’ll save them,” the boy said.

Mr Cricket, the bug, the pieces the boy spoke to. The boy literally carried his guilt.

Pinocchio was what the puppet maker called him. The man did not name his creation after his son. He wanted to see the puppet as his son, and the puppet wanted to be considered a son, a real boy. But real people have consciences, and real boys have to learn. So he was told to go to school, but the boy did not want to go, he did not want to learn, he wanted to play because he believed that was what real boys did. So he ran, and ran, and played, and played, pursuing fun wherever he went, demanding fun, demanding play and ignoring lessons wherever they might arise. He lied, and this was the worst thing of all, when authorities found him he lied, and said his father drove him away. His conscience warned him, warned him, pleaded with him, but his conscience was ignored, for that it was real people do, they ignore that best part of themselves.

Dorne

Boromir watched the storyteller, not the dwarf but the once naked man Jake Grimm. The man was enjoying Dornish hospitality as much as the dwarf was. He bit into a lemon as if it was a sweet, and looked at the women who served him wine with an expression Boromir did not like. The man regarded them as little things, pretty little, precious things.

“Ser Boromir!”

The son of Gondor rubbed his eyes, looking to the one who had spoken to him. He was taken aback by Princess Elia’s appearance by his side. She was a small woman, yet there was a quickness to her that took Boromir back to the days he and Faramir played together. His brother could be sneaky, which was probably the precursor to his days leading Gondorion rangers and guerrilla fighters. The beautiful woman had a concerned expression on her face.

“Are you all right my lord?” she asked.

“I am no lord, not here at least, please princess, call me Boromir,” he said.

“Then by that standard, call me Elia, for I am neither queen mother or heir to Dorne, princess and prince, even my nephews have the name though they will never rule,” Elia explained.

Boromir hummed and it made Elia frown slightly.

“You do not approve of Dornish ways?” she asked.

“It is true that in Gondor and much of Middle-Earth, it is the older male that is valued more in inheritance than woman, yet there is still wisdom in women and in their council. There are a great many women in Middle-Earth who have been of value beyond providing heirs,” Boromir explained.

“They are great warrior women yes?”

“Well there have been fighters, but the true value has been in wisdom, Galadriel of Lothlorien was a commander of troops, yet her greatest achievements were not on battlefields, but as council, as one who judged characters and brought out the best in others. Anyone can be taught to wield a sword, the mark of true wisdom comes not in how one takes life, but in how one saves them,” Boromir explained and it was Elia’s turn to hum.

“I did not expect such words,” she said.

“From a foreigner?” Boromir asked.

“From a man, but it is all right Boromir, there are a great many Dornish ways I disapprove of, my brother claims to have loved all the women he has been with, to value all the children he has, but many of even my true born nieces fail to see what true strength is,” she explained.

“Then in that I can see us being alike my lady, I thought I could be the kind of person who was strong, who had strength of character, but I failed…”

“I do not believe so,” Elia said and Boromir looked to her in shock.

“I broke a fellowship, I broke it, with my desperation, with my greed, with my inability to fight temptation, even if it was the best of intentions that guided me, it was still weakness,” he explained.

“Here you are Boromir, having subjected yourself to torment, on the faint hope that at the end of the sand you would find something that would redeem yourself, those who wander are not truly lost when they have an idea of where they wish to go. You knew what you did was wrong and you tried, tried so hard, to make up for it, not many, man or woman would even think to try and change themselves like that, that makes you stronger than most,” Elia explained and it made Boromir smile.

He was not afraid to shed a tear for her, and Elia herself put her hand to her chest at what Boromir said to her.

“Your former husband is a poorer man for not having you in his life!”

Their attention was drawn to the giggles from where Jake was sitting in the garden. He suckled at the neck of a serving girl, enjoying the feel of another servant’s hand on his chest.

“I have no coin to offer, at least not yet, but I do have stories,” he said, bringing his head back and drinking more wine.

His face seemed to shift, from the expression of a man drawn to pleasure, to the almost lost gaze of someone seeing something at a distance, or someone remembering a cherished memory.

“Once upon a time,” he whispered.

“There was a distant land, a wonderful land, far, far different than our own, animals spoke and lived in peace with humans, even the souls inherent in seemingly inanimate objects were awake, spoke and shared wisdom with us,” Jake’s voice and sight drifted.

And Boromir and Elia listened.

There were a great many kingdoms in this wonder land. One powerful kingdom was ruled over by a queen so cruel, so spoilt by her family that she saw even the smallest of sleights against her as treason.

“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!” she would yell.

Her word alone was the charge, her word alone was the evidence, she ruled, big headed, commanding her armies and servants. She had wealth and none dared to disobey her, but there was something still missing. Night after night she knew, she was missing something terrible. So she searched, commanding her servants to search high and low for what she had lost. Then, someone from a distant land arrived, dropping into her realm. She saw this girl, beautiful and otherworldly, innocent, and she decided that this was where all she had lost had gone. This was the girl who had taken her heart.

“Off with her head!” she declared.

Bevin tensed, glaring at the White Rabbit, the Mad Hatter, and whatever the other rabbit was. The Lannisters had broken their teeth trying to appease their hosts. Blood stained the coins that clattered to the floor, coins that bore the extremely large and grotesque head of some sort of crowned woman. Fear had gripped at Bevin, making him forget the pixie dust, forget the power of flight and forget even all he had learned from Daylen. So he remembered Daylen, the mage who helped a girl find her brother, who saved a village from the undead and a boy from a demon. His idol, and the man he felt was a friend to him. Bevin loved his sister with all his heart, but he missed his father, and he always wanted a brother.

‘For Daylen,’ Bevin though.

The pixie dust flowed from his body, and he began to levitate.

“NO!” the Hatter suddenly yelled.

A teapot smashed across Bevin’s face, he felt his cheek burn from the tea inside it. Then he heard screams, not himself, not even the bound and gagged girl and boy. His head shook from the impact of the Hatter’s blow, he looked at the shard of the tea pot that had broken on his head and saw on the surface of the broken shard a screaming maw.

“RUDE! RUDE! SO FUCKING RUDE! NO MOVING! NO FLYING! YOU ASK TO BE EXCUSED!” the Hatter screamed.

His hands shook, releasing the handle from the broken tea pot.

“I broke it, broke that poor pot, that’s your fault rude boy, you’ve broken the poor pot, we can’t put her back together again,” he said.

Daylen grit his teeth together, letting out heavy breaths.

‘Calm down,’ he told himself.

He could not lose himself to rage, he had to be tactical, to approach the situation quickly but smartly. The next few seconds had to be with haste and caution, otherwise he would just endanger those people at the table with reckless actions.

‘Run through the plan, get their attention, insult them, no they might lash out at the others, ask if you can join them, maybe, might get their attention, but then they might say you aren’t invited and attack, yes, yes, that’s what we do, come out and…’ Daylen widened his eyes as the puppet boy walked through the bushes.

‘No, no, no, no, no, reckless, stupid, what are you doing?’ the mage wanted to scream.

‘Don’t do this,’ his conscience told him.

‘Stop that,’ his conscience told him.

‘Rethink this,’ his conscience told him.

But he ignored it, again and again, until a crafty and dishonest fox led him astray. Pinocchio was led to a circus, where performers cheated people out of their money. Children played and played without consequence, and Pinochio enjoyed a lavish lifestyle, the fumes of vapours and taste of drink. Even though he could not truly feel them. He performed for a public he lied to, and the lie grew, this his conscience warned.

Until Pinocchio grew so tired of listening to his conscience, that he stomped down and screamed ‘SHUT UP!’

Then there was silence.

Pinnochio listened, but no one spoke.

No one to tell him no, no one to tell him to stop. Pinocchio searched, but could not find any trace of his consciences voice. He could not weep, but he felt the absence so much that he wanted something good and familiar. Pinocchio left the circus and sought out his father.

But his father was imprisoned, a result of the lie that Pinocchio told. A lie that grew and grew, until those who Pinocchio had hurt with his lies found him.

‘Find my heart,’ the queen demanded of her guest.

Find it and bring it to her. So the girl searched all across Neverland, she waded through hardships brought upon her by the queen’s will. The girl returned and pleaded with the queen, pleaded with her to let her go home. The queen knew that the girl would find nothing, knew that one command would end the girl. But she wanted to prolong it, to feel something beyond the thrill of having others obey her. So just this once, the queen showed mercy, or what amounted to mercy for her.

‘Serve me from here on out girl, wait on me and I shall forgive you for stealing my heart,’ the queen said.

From that moment on the girl served, at the queen’s side, waiting and learning.

There was wisdom in all that had been suggested to them. Rhaegar stood proud, accepting the wisdom of others as Cersei knew her father would have advised. But Cersei knew her father, ‘trust those who give you council, those who know more things than you do’ was always a secret way of saying ‘I, Tywin Lannister am the wisdom, obey me, do as I say’. But her father was in the west, fighting god knows what, demon or man, someone who was greater than the legend of Tywin Lannister. She was the one in the capital now, she was queen, she was loved by the only man worth loving. When their guests retreated from the throne room, they held hands, a tender moment Cersei hoped for. Then they went to their quarters and Cersei threw herself at her husband. Lips slamming together, her arms around his neck, his hands upon her hips allowing her control of the passion.

“We should make a promise, but only if they aid the West,” she said.

“My honourable father should not be left to fend for himself, neither should the Riverlands,” Rhaegar said.

“Everything should worry us, the Stormlands though, if they fall to infighting it might set an expectation, that brother can usurp brother so long as they have the greater force,” Cersei explained.

“Viserys has his own ambitions, and Dany her good intentions,” Rhaegar admitted.

Cersei pulled at her husband’s shirt, coaxing him into undoing the clasps and buttons, wrapping his arms around her and giving her a soft kiss.

“We will feast together, and I will have Lord Eddard aid his former foster brother, the Stormlands must not fall, and if Lord Cao is eager to earn favour then perhaps he will offer his hidden army to us,” Rhaegar explained.

Cersei smiled, capturing Rhaegar’s freely offered lips in a perfect kiss, moaning in satisfaction of his passion and the knowledge he still knew a great many things more than she did. He shrugged off his shirt, holding her cheek and looking at her with the love and affection she yearned for.

“I’ll go West,” he said and she almost gasped. “I’ll ride with the army to aid my good father, to aid your father, Varys and Pycelle would support you as regent until I return,” he said.

Everything she wanted, yet not truly what she wanted. Her father whispered in her ear to take the chance, to use the Lannister men in the capital and rule as the queen. But as she put her hands around him, she felt another great urge within her.

“Stay with me,” she said.

“My Queen,” Rhaegar whispered.

“Yes, I need my husband by my side to rule, the realm needs its king and…” she put her hands to his belt, yearning in her eyes and touch. “I pray to the gods that it need not happen, that Aegon, Rhaenys and Aemon stay safe, yet I know, know my duty, for the good of the realm, it must be your blood…” she looked away, not wanting to finish it, believing for a moment he would deny her.

Rhaegar though gently stepped back, dropping down his clothes.

“I have been cruel to you, this is cruel to you, but you are right, not just for the good of the realm,” he said, kneeling in front of her, pulling at cloth and legs whilst she ran her hands through his hair and with a vulnerable gaze let him lift her onto the bed. “And for you, my queen!” he said before their lips and bodies met in a passionate embrace.

The puppet hung from the tallest tree in the village

Pinocchio looked down at the ground for six nights; rain drenched his wooden arms, whilst the porcelain mask that was his face cracked from stones thrown by local youths. He had stopped calling out for help, stopped trying to talk to Mr Cricket. His father was gone, imprisoned for making an abomination. Finally, the blue light shined and Pinocchio looked up.

“Blue fairy,” he said.

The light shined, and even though he did not have human eyes it was too bright for Pinocchio to see what the blue fairy looked like. All he knew was that his father had had a wish, and the bright star granted it.

“Please, let my father be all right, help him,” Pinocchio said.

“Your father has been taken by those who do not understand the great beauty in his work, it was you who led to his arrest, your selfish actions, your lies that grew and grew, like a nose,” the voice though was still there, lecturing him.

“I’m sorry,” Pinocchio whispered.

The light faded, and ignored Pinocchio hung for another six days.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, again and again.

Then the ground shook, shook with a force the land had never known. Houses in the village collapsed, and the tree Pinocchio hung from snapped in two. He slammed into the ground, drenched by dirt and water, and he heard the screams of those whose land was ripped asunder. For a brief moment he considered running, but then the boy heard a voice and it whispered.

“No, don’t run,” Pinocchio got up off of the floor.

He limped, making his way to the village. Members of the local guard had been strung up, or tied to carts and had their guts opened. But the screams continued, overpowering the laughing of those who bore white horses on their coats of arms. Children were dragged out of what houses were intact, ripped away from their parents.

“Do not let this happen,” Pinocchio heard the whisper again.

“No, no Mr Cricket,” Pinocchio said, looking at a shovel used for digging the latrine.

“We mustn’t let this happen,” the puppet said, picking up the shovel and moving towards the white armoured knights.

War was raged between the queen of hearts and her greatest rival, the White Queen. Her people grew restless, willing even to revolt despite the consequences. Even her servants had grown tired of her spoilt nature. There was one though who showed her kindness, the girl she had kept as her handmaiden, the girl who she had accused of taking her heart. Slowly the queen’s head shrank, she bore a beautiful smile and cried tears of regret.

“I never had a heart, I thought it taken, nay I lost it, please forgive me my child,” the queen said to the girl she in that moment considered a daughter.

But it was too late, the enemies were at their door. The White Queen’s men ran into the throne room and used the Queen of heart’s words against her.

“Off with your head,” they were gleeful and sadistic.

The Queen of hearts stood firm though, protecting the girl whose life she had ruined. In this at least she could find some sort of change. The Queen truly did have a heart, one the people of Wonder land saw that day as only one emerged from the throne room.

“EXCUSE ME!”

The hatter and rabbits looked to Daylen, whose yell had been so loud it made Pinocchio stop his sneaking. The Grey Warden stepped forward, dropping his weapons and raising his hands.

“Excuse me, I know you have places already set, but might I ask if I can join you?” Daylen asked.

He restrained the tremors in his body and that quiet urge to run at the crazed men and fight them. Hearing the ticking of the White Rabbits clock reminded him that time was both an ally and enemy. The more he surprised the White Rabbit and the Mad hatter, then the longer the people at the table stayed alive. But it too was the truest enemy, for the White Rabbit looked at his watch and slammed it shut.

“We are already late enough as it is, late, late, this date is too important, I’d love to chat, I’d truly love to, but I’m afraid we’re late, and the queen needs her heart,” the White Rabbit narrowed his eyes at Daylen.

The mage raised his hand, trying to cast fire. But all he could generate was a puff of smoke. A puff of smoke, he realised, cover. Daylen brought his hands together and with fire in one hand and ice in the other, he created a cloud of steam as he ran at the tea table. More people coughed than just the people around the table. Even the tea cups and plates were coughing, moving across the table in an effort to escape. Then they cried out as the table was flipped over. The crockery flew through the smoke, landing roughly on the grass.

“RUDE! RUDE! UNWELCOME GUESTS WILL BE OOOFF!” the hatter was cut off by a fist slamming into his cheek.

The White Rabbit grit his teeth together, putting the watch in his pocket and clicking his fingers. A milk white sword materialised in his hand and he ran through the steam. Daylen grabbed the nearest chair, using it catch the White Rabbit’s sword. But the White Rabbit easily slid the blade out, chopping through the wooden chair easily. Suddenly, Pinocchio slid across the grass, deflecting the White Rabbit’s sword. Through the melee, Hatter got off of the floor, holding a knife in his hand and moving towards Daylen.

“NO YOU DON’T!” Bevin yelled.

Still tied to his chair, Bevin flew, slamming into Hatter’s side and making the man cry out in agony. He had definitely broken something along with the chair Bevin was tied too. Adding insult to injury, Bevin stabbed the broken arm rest into Hatter’s knee before he slipped out of the rope. Daylen untied the Targaryen child first, and then moved to the Tyrell girl. The brown rabbit man jumped at him, tackling him to the floor. Daylen held the rabbit by his ears, keeping the creature from biting him. But the squire was able to tackle the rabbit. He unfortunately didn’t have the same speed Bevin had, the chair he was bound to didn’t break. The brown rabbit jumped on top of the squire, viciously biting into his neck. Daylen kicked the rabbit in the face, ignoring the screams of the Tyrell girl, perhaps mourning her betrothed.

“Oh, he thinks saving ungrateful guests will make him a real boy,” the White Rabbit remarked as he and Pinocchio continued their clash.

“Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this!” one of the Lannister twins panicked.

He was hopping across the grass as fast as he could, using the people fighting to his advantage. Daylen watched the man flee for a moment, and then stood up. Suddenly, a spear flew past Daylen’s head, he felt the heat of the weapon on his ear. Then he heard the fleeing Lannister grunt. Turning around, Daylen saw the spear had impaled the Lannister. All eyes turned to the door that the White Rabbit had gone through before. Others had stepped out.

One, the one who had clearly thrown the spear, was an armoured knight. Dressed in full black armour, his face was completely covered by the visor of the helm he wore. His armour had a different design from the other knights that accompanied him, they used tower helms, had curved blades on their hips and carried halberds with knight chess pieces on the heads. The black knight had clawed gauntlets and a dirty scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

He and the red knights were not the only knights to emerge from the doorway. The Tyrell girl had stopped screaming and looked in horror at another creature she saw. The green armoured knight wore no helm, his face of bark and twigs was fully exposed. He carried in one hand a great axe and in the other a holly branch. He was not the only creature, two identical men came out with trumpeters behind them. The twins had egg shaped heads, wore striped shirts and armour. Those who accompanied them were in coats of arms that looked like playing cards, red guards with hearts on their spear tips, black armoured guards with spade shaped swords. The trumpeters with instruments that doubled as clubs, blew into their trumpets and the White Rabbit walked backwards until he was at the head of the entourage.

“Presenting the merciful and fair Red Queen of Wonderland,” the White Rabbit declared.

Servants groaned, carrying a throne through the gate. It was decorated with the symbols of playing cards, with the king symbol scratched out. Sitting on the throne was a pale, black haired woman wearing a white and red dress. She also wore red and white stockings, a pair of clawed red gauntlets and a heart shaped locket. Daylen’s own red eyes briefly met hers, and her lips curled into a smirk. She leant forward, stroking the small black furred dog sleeping on her lap.

“Her majesty, Dorothy Gale!”

Next Chapter 16: Getting things just right

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 16: Getting thing’s just right

There is no place like home

She hated home though, hated the farm, hated the house, and hated her aunt and uncle. Why? Why did her mother die, why did she leave her to go to these strange people. There was coldness in the dining room every time they had a meal. She said the damned prayers; she always thanked them for the food. They called her ginger wart at the school, weird, weird Dorothy, weirdo, poor little orphan girl. Then she would go home and find nothing but misery, criticism, talking about her mother, saying she was filled with sin. Daughter of a whore, they called her at school, bastard child. She couldn’t take it; you weren’t supposed to just take it.

Boromir felt as if he was being mocked. The Dornish allowed him to keep his sword, just as they allowed Varric and Carver their weapons. But the sheer arrogance of the Dornish frustrated Boromir. They were confident in their fighting skills, revelling in their aggression in the training yard. It was reminder for Boromir that though they were called guests they were also prisoners. Every night he felt the guards outside his door, guards who followed him every time he walked in the gardens. He could only look at the city walls from a distance. It was no way for him to assess the Dornish defences.

“You’re over thinking it my friend, Dornish is surrounded by a natural defence, you and I both suffered heat stroke from it,” Jake said.

He sipped the lemon juice, putting his feet on the table the fruit and drink had been put on. Carver and Merrill were both elsewhere, leaving the older trio to sit together. Varric was checking over his crossbow, rubbing the stock of the weapon with a fondness Boromir couldn’t decide if he should be amused or disturbed by.

“It’s all right, we’re okay,” Varric whispered.

“What are you on about?” Jake asked.

“Some of the sand snakes tried to get to Bianca here, luckily she’s a loyal girl,” Varric said. “That’s right Bianca; those nasty ladies won’t ruin you with poison, my precious girl!”

“Don’t say that!” Boromir snapped in Varric’s direction.

“What, come on you’ve got to admit Bianca is a pretty thing,” Varric said.

“That’s enough!” Boromir snarled, his fists went tense and he grit his teeth together.

Jake and Varric looked at him, surprised by his outburst.

“Frodo, Frodo…what have I done? FRODO! I’M SORRY!”

Boromir put his hands to his eyes, rubbing them, letting out a deep breath. He could feel the leaves of the forest in his hair, the ache of his hip from when Frodo pushed him onto a log, the burning urge within himself to claim something for the good of Gondor. Then the shame, the realisation that a fellowship had broken and a world had been put in jeopardy.

“I apologise Varric,” he said.

“One of course is going to get stir crazy here, typical of those last few peaceful moments before shit rains down on us, which I can only assume judging from common sense will happen soon,” Varric explained.

“You’ve been involved in many sieges?” Boromir asked.

“Like I said, common sense, someone brought all of our worlds together, they did it for a reason, and one day for better or worse we’re going to find out what that reason is. I know a few people, or at least by reputation a few people who will seek those answers out,” Varric said and Boromir nodded.

“Yes, I know of those sorts of people too,” he said.

Gandalf blew the dust off of his staff, ensuring the crystal imbedded in the tip could release its light clearly. Even as Morrigan lit a lantern with green veil fire, the wizard continued leading the way. They traced the veins of ‘blight’ through the tunnel, coming upon writhing and whining boils where the blight was at its strongest. Morrigan destroyed the tumours without hesitation; the bolts of fire from her hand were quicker than any reaction Geralt or Gandalf could have to them.

“Does anything grow from them?” Geralt asked as they walked along.

“How much do you know of Darkspawn Witcher?” Morrigan asked back.

“Their blood is poisonous, carries something called the Taint, which gradually mutates those infected by it, males get turned into ghouls, females into Broodmothers, which give birth to new Darkspawn, which start off as worm like creatures before growing into humanoid forms, a-sexual, strong depending on the trait and not requiring sustenance as they live off of the taint within them,” Geralt explained.

“Good study Witcher, but the Darkspawn have some differences in the time I am from. They were further mutated by the Evanuris, the elven deities who created the Blight. There are the Darkspawn who forge their own armour and weapons, possessing at least the capacity to master those arts, and there are mutated Darkspawn like what we encountered before, their bodies are their weapons, turning the taint inside them into barbs and blades,” Morrigan stated.

“It is a substance most foul, yet it is not completely evil,” Gandalf said.

“You believe that?” Morrigan asked in shock.

“The orcs were once elves, first of the children of Illuvatar, Morgoth sought to mock Illuvatar’s creation and spread the seeds of doubt amongst many of them. Those elves who strayed too far were captured by Morgoth, thousands of elves suffered unimaginable torture, such that their very bodies changed. And they would come to accept the dark beliefs of Morgoth, they would embrace cruelty and war and serve Morgoth from then on. Evil cannot create, only corrupt, perhaps this is a universal feat, the Evanuris, Morgoth, the Others, and those cursed by the cruel or self righteous,” Gandalf explained.

“I’ve learned people can be as monstrous as creatures, Witcher’s are mutated, are we too corrupt?”  Geralt asked.

“You answer the call to help Geralt,” Gandalf told him.

“For coin,” Morrigan reminded them both.

“Even soldiers fighting for their homes receive a stipend, all people need to survive, to pay for good and lodging and to one day have something that is theirs. Intent matters all the more, good intent behind evil actions is all the more disappointing and tragic,” the white wizard explained.

Morrigan found herself nodding her head despite her scoff. She thought of the teachings of her mother Flemeth, survival of the fittest, and how it contradicted completely the ways of Mythal, known as the best of the Evanuris. Yet even Mythal, mother goddess of the Evanuris and deity of justice was cruel. Morrigan looked at the taint across the cavern walls and remembered the companions she directly travelled with and fought alongside. In the days that followed, the roads of the Inquisition and the Veilguard, she played the role of guide.

‘No more,’ she swore, releasing flames from her staff on more of the blight boils.

The substance squealed as it burned, the arteries broke down and provided the trio with another trail to follow.

There was no place like home.

Not after that day she finally snapped at school, slapping the girl who taunted her. Her teacher, the nun, the rotten woman that she was took her to the office. She took a paddle and gave her a blow unequal to the one she had given the bully. But there was no comfort at home, it was all about her uncle and aunt, she had inconvenienced them.

Why oh why could she not just behave? Just be quiet? Just be normal!

Toto comforted her, Toto always nuzzled against her, Toto would never betray her. Toto was her only friend.

There was no friend like Toto.

Walking had been difficult, to the point that Jon considered riding the goat. The Billy goats were considerably bigger than the goats that Jon had seen being cared for by Sheppard’s. Rhaenyra was the first to test one, to ride the fair haired goat as if it was a small feat. After all she had ridden a dragon, the mightiest of all beasts human’s could possibly ride. She thought the fair haired one to be female, gentle and befitting her own nature. As soon as her bottom touched the goat’s back though, the creature screeched and bucked, throwing Rhaenyra into the dirt. Tyrion surpressed the urge to laugh, and after Rhaenyra crawled with a few swear words to motivate herself, she saw Jon smiling, a pretty sight to her.

“Go on then, you are both brave men are you not?” she asked.

Jon shook his head, at that point he had no desire to try and make some creature insistent on following him his mount. The death of the horse that carried him still haunted him to a degree. But it was pride also, no prince, be he a bastard or not should ride a goat, even if the goats were strong and as large as horses. To Jon’s surprise though Tyrion walked towards the fair haired goat.

“I beg your pardon, the girl seems insistent on treating you as a pet, and the brooding young man believes you to be a pest, yet I think there is a wisdom in those eyes yes?” the Lannister dwarf asked, and perhaps all pride had abandoned him.

From what Tyrion had said of his father, Jon imagined the man saying something along the lines of Lannisters are not fools. And Tyrion looked the fool when he spoke to the goat as an equal. But the fair haired creature bowed once, and the trotted past Tyrion, going past a small rock fused to the grass. The fair haired bowed and Tyrion bowed back, and like the performer whose bow he had performed, Tyrion took a running start and jumped off of the rock. With grace he flipped in midair and landed on the goat’s back. Rather than grab the goat’s hair as she went onto her hind legs, Tyrion pressed one hand onto her head, a gesture both to secure himself and calm his new ride. Tyrion adjusted his footing and as he settled into a rider’s pose; Jon saw that the goat seemed made for him, with shorter legs than the others, for the fair haired goat was indeed a dwarf when compared to her older brothers.  

“A white haired beast for a Targaryen,” Rhaenyra said, testing herself with the albino goat.

At first Jon thought perhaps not, perhaps that would be the creature he would have to ride. He dreamed of a white wolf after all and inside he had the hope, ‘white beasts are signs of good luck, yet still they stand out, thus do not belong in the herd,’ he thought of himself the bastard boy to a favoured king. In contrast to the fair haired goat, the goat with Targaryen hair bowed as if Rhaenyra was his queen. He had respect in his stride, and was not even bothered by the way Rhaenyra tugged his hair. When their party rested and sat upon rocks, Jon tried to look at the swords he had claimed. The black haired goat though trotted to his side, and dragged his tongue across Jon’s face.

“Seven hells,” Jon remarked.

“Your first kiss my prince,” Tyrion laughed.

Rhaenyra herself giggled too, but Jon did not like it, did not like her finding him funny in anyway. He huffed and walked away from the black haired Billy goat. Billy Goat gruff persisted though, as Jon hunted rabbits he nudged his hip, when Jon fumbled with his tent he screeched, even when Jon sought private moments behind bushes.

“GO AWAY!” Jon lost his patience and stumbled away from his makeshift latrine, pulling up his trousers.

Again Rhaenyra saw him and again Rhaenyra laughed and again Jon sulked and looked down trodden. He was not just Jon, but prince Aemon, but still just a bastard. Ergo he was of course someone for the realm’s delight to laugh at. Hunger and tiredness took their toll, but as Jon removed his bed roll he smelt something in the air. Then Rhaenyra smelt it too, her nose twitching as she stood on her toes and skipped past Jon.

“What is that smell?” she asked.

“I’ve smelt that before, in brothels and inns, oats have been cooked in milk, I believe that’s porridge,” Tyrion remarked.

“There isn’t a town or farm for miles, why would anyone have porridge cooking?” Jon asked.

“We live in a strange world now my prince,” Tyrion said, following Rhaenyra.

“Wait, we have rabbit we can eat,” he said.

He sighed in annoyance, following Tyrion and Rhaenyra, looking back at the goats that guarded their camp. The camp that seemed unnecessary, for the group came to a hole in a hill, not a dirt hole, but a homely hole with a door and the comforts expected of a merchant. The floor still had dirt but there were luxuries like books in wooden cases, knitted rugs and a fireplace.

“This is someone’s home, we shouldn’t be here,” Jon said.

“The door was wide open, if the owners aren’t willing to protect their home, we might as well benefit,” Tyrion said.

There were three chairs in front of the group of differing quality. Two were quite big and seemed to be made of fabric. Tyrion took to the largest one.

“A bit lumpy,” he commented.

“This one’s quite soft,” Rhaenyra said, sitting on the second largest one.

The smallest one was made of wood, little more than a child’s stool really. Still it would be adequate enough for Jon to rest on, at least he thought so. But when he set his weight on the chair it collapsed, and he fell hard onto the dirt. Rhaenyra and Tyrion both laughed as Jon got off of the floor, looking at the remains of the chair in dismay.

“It didn’t even creak,” he remarked on how easy it had been to break.

Again the smell stung their nostrils and they went to a small kitchen area. Set upon a table was a trio of bowls, each filled with porridge. There seemed to be more of the borough to explore but the group was hungry. The table had been set for three, fitting to the trio, who each took a chair with even Jon in his caution partaking. Tyrion did not wait, he stuck his spoon into the bowl and put the porridge into his mouth. And then he yelled, gripping his neck.

“TOO HOT!” he yelled.

Rhaenyra felt her bowl, stirring the porridge with her spoon and watched the grains plop back into the bowl as she lifted the spoon in disdain.

“Too cold,” she said without even trying it.

It was then that Jon slid his bowl across the table to her. He had felt the bowl and the warmth that came from it. Neither mouth burningly hot, or chilled to the point that it lacked the comfort a bowl of porridge should provide.

“Go on,” he encouraged Rhaenyra to try it.

She dipped the spoon into the bowl, smelt the fumes sting her nostrils and then tasted the milky grains. Two more spoonfuls passed into her mouth and she gushed.

“Just right,” she said, her eyes saying a thank you to Jon whilst he looked away.

Then they heard a cry, from across the room. The trio looked toward a small bear cub sitting on the ground, crying out.

“Oh fuck!” Tyrion said.

“Oh,” Rhaenyra gushed with a blush over how cute the bear looked.

The biggest of the bears cast a shadow over the cub; the darkness itself seemingly drew the babe into its embrace. Teeth and angry burning eyes appeared in the darkness before the brown fur revealed itself. Jon felt the spit from the creature spray onto his cheeks as it angrily roared. Tyrion stumbled off of his chair and Rhaenyra screamed. The smaller, though no less intimidating mother bear walked around the cub, protecting it as the father bounded on all fours at first, then stood on his hind legs and looked down at Tyrion. Jon was about to draw his sword when he saw the way the bear stood between them and his family. There was something almost human in the gesture, then he saw something almost human in the way the bear stood. The bear crossed his hands together, one closed paw pressing against open paw, a pose that reminded Jon of the boxers he saw at bars and brothels Jaime had dragged him to on quests to retrieve Tyrion. There was something protecting in the bear’s stance.

“STOP!” Jon yelled.

He knelt, hoping his insight was not truly madness. Bears that seemed somewhat human in a place fit for humans; the world had truly gone insane then. Jon lowered his head and remembered every teaching he had on etiquette, on guest rights.

“We’re sorry, truly sorry,” he said.

“We were hungry and tired from a long road,” Rhaenyra said.

Jon felt her shoulder on his, she had moved so fast, kneeling by his side in the shadow of the father bear. A father bear who could have easily crushed them, two Targaryens together, one having not hesitated to join the other in a daring gambit. The bear grinded is teeth together, hair rising high, muscle and fat tense until Tyrion gathered his courage and yelled:

“THE DOOR WAS OPEN!” the Lannister yelled.

The hairs across the bear’s body began to calm and he somewhat relaxed his arms and teeth. He was still standing as impossible as it seemed to the trio, he was standing over them huffing and puffing. Then, mother bear looked over at them and then let out a bear like sound before sighing.

“Oh bother, I knew I forgot something,” she said.

“Seven hells, they talk,” Tyrion remarked.

“Yes, of course we talk,” Father Bear snarled, glaring at Tyrion. “We are thinking, intelligent creatures after all, who take great offence to people barging into our homes, eating our porridge AND DID YOU JUST BREAK SOMETHING!?” the Father bear demanded.

“Yes,” Jon said without hesitation. “A chair, small, for your boy right?” he asked and inwardly shook his head.

“Not another one,” the cub said.

Human voices, though there was a snarl, an animalistic fury to the tone of their voices.

“Oh dear, sorry luv I must have forgotten when I put the porridge on,” Mother Bear said.

“We came into your home, and humbly apologise for stealing your porridge and breaking your property,” Rhaenyra said.

“And offer compensation,” Jon added.

“We do?” Tyrion asked.

A yawn sounded from behind the bears. Jon and Rhaenyra widened their eyes as they watched a teenager, blonde haired girl walk around the bears. She stretched her arms and yawned, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she took the chair Rhaenyra abandoned. The girl put the spoon in her mouth and hummed in satisfaction.

“Just right,” she muttered.

She took several more spoonful's before opening her eyes. Her blue eyes looked over Jon and widened significantly, only acknowledging Tyrion and Rhaenyra for a moment.

“I didn’t realise we had a guest,” she gushed.

She was in a night dress knitted out of wool, still exposing much of her athletic frame. Her hair reached down to her rear, appearing as much as fur as the bears she seemed to live with. Upon fully acknowledging the presence of the guests though, she began to wind her hair together, using its sheer length to make knots, enabling her to tie her golden locks into two bushy tails on either side of her head, with some more hair to form bangs over her blue eyes. Finally the Father bear stepped back and more out of annoyance than acceptance, stopped his snarling.

“We’ll find more chairs; we have no bread or salt, just porridge, you’re still guests though,” he said gruffly.

Tyrion was given a stool, whilst Rhaenyra and Jon had to sit cross legged whilst their ‘hosts’ served them. Mother Bear had a lighter coat than her mate, and she sniffed at the pot of porridge boiling by the furnace. She used her paws like hands, as impossible as it seemed, to wield a ladle and put it into a wooden bowl. Every bowl of porridge she served was too hot, but there was still time for it to be just right as prince and princess chatted with Father Bear and recounted to him the story of the Trolls.

“We met them, the farmers, the passer bys, some ran, some became guests, and the Trolls killed them,” Father Bear let out a deep snarl and whilst before the trio had been afraid, they were more understanding, for the snarl was one of personal rage, outrage over creatures that could not be abided and their treatment of old friends.

The girl with the golden hair emerged from what must have been her room. She had covered herself in a roughly knitted together blue dress over a white shirt. Accepting the bowl of porridge Mother Bear offered her, she sat between Jon and the Cub, smiling at the bastard prince.

“You’re wondering how this is all possible aren’t you?” she asked, speaking to him alone despite two others being curious.

“You too were shocked?” Rhaenyra asked and the girl regarded her for a moment, looking at pretty Rhaenyra and handsome Jon as one who wondered of what two people travelling together would share.

“Goldi knows as you do what bears are in your world,” Father Bear said.

“Much has changed, you might want to reconsider how you see animals,” Mother Bear said.

“I’ve always spoke I have, never worried about hoomans,” the Cub spoke with a far less confident voice than his parents.

“But the porridge, why porridge and not meat” Tyrion asked.

“Magic is not a tool in some worlds, it’s a lesson, a test,” Father Bear said.

“Pay attention, you’ll want to hear this,” ‘Goldi’ said, nudging Jon’s arm.

“Wait, oh I know, stories, stories are themselves lessons, that’s what this is isn’t it?” Tyrion  asked, smiling as if he was the man who in that moment knew everything.

“There are those who sit on our chairs, eat our good, and when the time comes for them to face what they have done, they run, the first was an old woman, destitute, yet mean, insolent, distrusting, she jumped out of our window as soon as we found her in little bears bed, never saw her again,” Father Bear explained.

“And the second was a little orphan girl who…”

“Broke our chairs and stole our beds,” little Bear said.

“Freeloaded off of our porridge,” Father Bear huffed.

“Stole our hearts,” Mother Bear corrected, finishing her sentence by rubbing her snout against the girl’s cheek.

“Alice, but they call me Goldilocks sometimes,” the girl said, offering Jon her hand.

“Lovely to meet you Goldilocks,” Rhaenyra sneered slightly, taking the offered hand instead.

“You eat porridge instead of meat?” Tyrion asked.

“Occasionally we enjoy the odd meaty treat,” Father Bear said, looking down at Tyrion.

“Well it is a fine arrangement you have, to never run out of porridge,” he said, avoiding eye contact with the bear.

“We thank you for your hospitality and apologise for the broken chair, and offer compensation,” Jon said.

“We do?” Tyrion and Rhaenyra asked.

“What did you have in mind?” Father Bear asked.

“I’ll pay for a new chair, a better one that could fit your son,” Jon said.

“You strike me as what humans call ‘noble’,” Father Bear hummed. “Human’s, know nothing of nobility, it’s a skin…no mask you wear, pretend to be lions, pretend to be wolves, pretend to be dragons when you’re humans, a different, worse kind of animal,” the Bear explained.

“I’ve been taught to keep my word to the best of my abilities, I will do that, you’re strong and smart, what I offer is the chance to better your home. Humans will try to take what you have, my father…” Jon paused as Tyrion gave him a sharp and warning look.

“I am Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and by the authority of my father King Viserys, first of his name, lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, I would declare you lords of this land, subject to the protection and rights granted to a lord,” Rhaenyra explained.

Tyrion shook his head as Jon glared at the girl.

“As lords of this land, you’d no longer need to worry about people intruding in your home,” he elaborated.

“A tempting offer,” Father Bear said. “Not that we’re worried about people intruding now, but you misunderstand little lord, little princess, this place is bound to us, as we are to it, where we go the cave goes with us along with the temptation and the lesson,” he explained.

“And the temptation is home and hearth, whilst the lesson is hospitality isn’t it?” Tyrion asked.

“Finally, a smart human, must have traded height for brains,” Father Bear muttered.

“It is our curse and our gift, our story, there’s power in stories, especially in this new land,” Mother Bear said.

“But stories don’t always have happy endings,” Rhaenyra said and Mother Bear looked down at her, the lips under her nose curved into a smile.

She placed a paw on Rhaenyra’s head and stroked her. Oddly it was not unpleasant to Rhaenyra, there was a warmth in the bear’s fur but more importantly there was a tenderness that was motherly and gentle.

“Dear girl, stories can always change, that’s the beauty of them, their core remains whilst the path is different,” Mother Bear stated and her mate scoffed.

“It isn’t always a good thing!” he said.

There was no place like home

Even school seemed better than home, where she was supposed to be safe. They smacked her, smacked her in her bedroom, locked poor Toto away from her and threatened to take him away if she didn’t behave. She wasn’t a good child, she didn’t pray, she wrote of foal things, looked indecently at others. Uncle was indecent, he looked at the neighbour as much as Dorothy did, aunty looked even more so. They were all indecent, what did a few hail Mary’s matter.

Why was she indecent, why was she wrong, she didn’t feel wrong but people always told her otherwise. Born of sin, born to sin, fuck them she thought, fuck them all!

There was no place like home

Anyplace was better than home

That nasty neighbour came, that wicked neighbour told lies of Toto and Aunt and uncle believed her. Toto was gentle, Toto was hers, Toto was the best boy, why did she hate Toto? They threatened to take Toto away. She wouldn’t let them, the nasty neighbour, nasty uncle and aunt. So she prayed, prayed like they wanted her too and spoke respectfully at the dinner table, offer to clean the plates too. Summer came and school ended, but still they whispered of taking Toto away. And the bullies, those nasty bullies came and Dorothy tried to be their friend. But they kept on hitting her, worse, they hit Toto.

They were always jealous of her, of how smart she was, those brainless bullies. She ‘played’ with them in the wheat fields, laughed with them as they tried to chase her. Ignorant, brainless bullies, looking for her, trying to find her. Around the scarecrow they gathered. Dorothy dragged the shovel behind her, bang on one boy’s head, bang on another girl’s. Four bullies truly brainless, she stuffed the grey matter into the scarecrow, which didn’t do its job considering the crows feasted on what was left of the brainless bullies.

Uncle, vane uncle, chopping his wood, chop, chop, chop, always shirtless, thinking it made him a man. But Dorothy knew, he hit her because he could, because she was small, because he’d never be strong enough. None of the dad’s invited him to the bar, he always looked at the prettier wives, and the younger, too younger girls. Chop, chop with the wood, he went until one day he broke down, his hands ached, and he wept. Wept like a little girl, and Dorothy rubbed his head.

“You are pretty Dorothy,” he said.

Chop, chop Dorothy did with the axe, onto her cowardly uncle’s head. Heartless auntie next, didn’t love her sister, always jealous of her good sister, called Dorothy a sin when she wished she could sin. She never saw a daughter or even a niece, just her sister, small enough for her to punish. But Dorothy had grown, Dorothy grew cold and hateful. She served uncle’s heart to heartless auntie and then chop, chop with the axe.

The wicked neighbour, tried to take Toto from her, so Dorothy went over with cookies, said she was sorry. Cookies stuffed with herbs and powders, the wicked neighbour ate and said with a smile ‘I’ll see Toto put to sleep’. Dorothy was glad the wicked neighbour bashed her head when she fell, her body asleep. Dorothy was gladder still when she felt the wicked neighbour wake up as she put her head into a boiling pot of water. Her face melted off of her bones and still she screamed and Dorothy smiled finally.

There truly was no place like home now!

Darkness had taken the region, as Aragorn slept he saw the Evenstar shatter, saw the flames of war spreading. Dragon’s spewed clouds of darkness instead of fire, warriors from across world’s clashed. A knight who was like a Mountain and a Hound duelled with a warrior atop a red haired horse. A dark army with blue eyes moved to a wall of ice and a lord wrapped in darkness closed his hand around the eye of Sauron, snuffing it out. Then there was a grotesque sight, a blight that spread across an entire city and turned golden roses into writhing flowers of flesh. The next day, Aragorn moved away from his group knowing that Legolas with his elf eyes could see him. He came upon the wounded being treated in a hospice, helped through their last days by women in cloth and men with knives. His sword left behind, Aragorn walked amongst them and tended their wounds, cleaned feat, applied balms to burns and bandages to cuts.

It was not the halls of healing, yet still Aragorn Elassar remained the healing king. Sword replaced with Athelas, strength with kindness he walked amongst wounded and helped. Cole had followed and even the spirit of kindness was left in awe, for he did not have to slice throats to ease pain. Those who could not be saved passed peacefully because they looked upon a king, nay a kind man who offered the hope in the end that there was still goodness in the world. Men who had not known such a thing their entire lives smiled, laughed and cried for what felt to be the first time in their lives.

To walk was to not be Dothraki, this Drogo knew. This he knew as all Dothraki rejected him, this he knew as he walked through the desert, his hair wild, skin burned from the sun. But he would not even have the dignity of dying on his feet, it would be on the ground as nothing. His soul was gone, this much he knew as he moved without passion or purpose. When he was dragged to the tents of the wounded, his body was waiting for someone to put a pillow to his face, to smother what little life he had. However he heard the words.

“Not yet, not now undefeated Khal, you will not pass that easily yet,” there was kindness in Aragorn’s words.

But it was also a command, and a challenge too. Life was breathed in Drogo and he stood, his strength restored as he lifted the Dunedain by his neck. Aragorn though showed no fear, even in the grip of the former Khal, he was the greater man, this Drogo knew. King embraced Khal and challenged him again.

“You who have reaped and raped must put right what you have done to others,” Aragorn said.

It was not just the punishment decided by a king, but in a way saving someone from more than just a deadly wound. To heal another, to save another could also be to raise them up, to tell them death is too easy. Life in defeat was the punishment of Khal Drogo. Hair devoid of its braid, scarred, he was pulled up by a king, a striding king who would go ever onward and tell him to do the same. As Boromir before him, Drogo walked beside a king to join him in ensuring that all men would at least stand up in the face of darkness.

Gandalf had a smile on his face, even in the sickening shadow of the taint around him; he could sense the trail of the king. And even though their story would not truly be told, he saw the journey of two hobbits.

Home was agreeable with Dorothy now. No one came to bother her; she and Toto could play alone. It was bliss for them, and then they looked outside and saw the storm. It was a wind so powerful that she could actually see it, spinning and spinning, dragging across the fields and houses of her aunt and uncle’s home town. She held Toto tightly, feeling the wind pick the house up. Toto stopped barking, whimpering in Dorothy’s arms, the poor dog bit her, so afraid, but Dorothy was more afraid, the dog would comfort her once he saw how scared she was, when they landed he would lick her cheek because he was the best boy.

The house broke apart and they were dragged into the darkness. The wind was gone; instead Dorothy felt a great pressure around her, even though when she kicked out there was nothing there. It was suffocating at first until Dorothy became comfortable with it. She floated, holding her best boy tightly until they drifted downwards, and Dorothy saw the plants she had never seen in books before, the grinning cat looking down at her as she landed softly in the wondrous land.

Toto wasn’t moving though, why wasn’t Toto moving?

“Come on Toto, wake up now,” she said.

The card men found her, the big header nasty queen without a heart screeched at her. But there was more, more people who were no longer home. They wanted what the queen had, wanted home and hearth, but the queen was cruel enough to take it away from them, this was her wonder land and it would stay hers. Dorothy would serve the queen, she wanted a daughter after all, Dorothy could pretend to be good, she had fooled everyone before and could do it again.

Everyone called her wicked before after all!

With bellies full and an agreement made, Jon and his group walked out of the bear cave. Jon carried with him a greater awareness of hospitality, but also of the nature of the new world. Magic was more than just fire and ice and dragons flying in the sky, there was a power in stories and in their meanings. Those meanings though could be twisted and changed. As Alice followed their group, with the family of bears with them, the magic that kept the cave there caused it to shrink down. The bears would carry the lesson with them, inside the jar of oats that Alice had hanging off of her shepherd’s staff. They were more than just teachers on hospitality, but on kindness too.

“A strange found family,” Tyrion mused.

“You wish you could find such a family,” Jon said and Tyrion chuckled.

“My family has its faults, but I would not trade my brother for anything,” Tyrion said.

“I had a sister once,” Rhaenyra whispered.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Jon said and Rhaenyra looked at him, surprised by his compassionate tone.

“From the moment your father declared you heir, you seemed destined to fail, lords against you, and a friend turned on you, brothers and sisters likewise led to believe that you would regard them as a threat, thus the dragon’s could never truly be united. You married a man out of convenience, though a good man he could not truly love you as you wanted so you sought out another. He gave you children, but passed too soon, and though you found some comfort apparently in marrying the rogue prince it was still to your detriment. Your father passes and before you’ve even had time to grieve, that what was promised to you was taken, then your child, and before sympathy can even be won it is the rogue prince who robs you of any sympathy you can gain from your loss. So many dead because people feared a woman on the throne, because people feared losing what was theirs, and in the end you lost everything,” Jon explained.

“From what I’ve read, the wolves enacted a swift and hard justice,” Rhaenyra said. “For what your ancestors did I am grateful, though it pains me that so much of what the Targaryens were, were burned away because of it,” Rhaenyra said.

They finally reached the Billy Goats. Jon rubbed the back of the black furred goat, the biggest of them. He gently climbed onto its back, looking to Rhaenyra as she climbed onto her mount.

“Let us see if we can rebuild what they were, in whatever small way we can,” Jon said.

At first Rhaenyra put her hand to her heart, feeling it skip a beat from the way Jon’s dark eyes looked at her. She saw for a moment the slight shine of Targaryen purple in his eyes and she knew in him she could find an ally.

“Let us put things right, Prince Aemon,” she said.

Next Chapter 17: Renounce the red

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadows

Chapter 17: Reject the Red

It was dead, the poor dog was dead yet the Red Queen held onto it possessively, stroking it as she looked Daylen and his group down.

“BROTHER!” the remaining Lannister yelled.

He was on the floor, still tied to his chair, frantically trying to crawl free. The spear that had skewered his brother suddenly flew back into the Black Knight’s hand. White eyes glowed through the visor at Daylen as the knight moved a few paces away from the queen, pointing his spear at Daylen.

“Silence them,” the queen said, motioning to the Tyrell girl crying by her squire’s corpse.

“Yes your majesty, pardon my guests, and myself, I appear to have broken three, pardon me a moment,” the Hatter pushed his fingers into his chest, there was a pop and the man screamed in agony.

Gradually though the man straightened out his hair, slicking it back with the blood on his arm. His features became calm again, finishing his statement to the queen.

“Four ribs your majesty, these people rudely interrupted the party and they were not invited, no they most assuredly were not,” the Hatter said.

“The lost boy has found us my queen, my apologies for our lateness, but as you see we have found some most notable guests despite how they have upset us. I shall present to you them, the esteemed lord of Castlely Rock Jason Lannister,” the White Rabbit bowed, pointing his sword at the blonde corpse.

“Upon marrying his way into the Targaryen family, he found his marriage to one princess Rhaenyra most troublesome, most troublesome indeed. Despite his best efforts, she found lovers to satisfy her, it was lord Jason who established the saying ‘a Lannister always pays his debts’ to which upon finding his young wife with her lover had the boy quartered and hung in front of the princess. What happened may very well have been an overreaction on the Princess’s part,” the White Rabbit tutted. “Burning the seat of Lannister power to the ground, naturally daddy Viserys backed his daughter and exiled the former Lord!”

“What madness do you speak of, my brother and the princess?” the other Lannister remarked in shock.

“And now we come to Ser Tyland Lannister, Jason Lannister’s twin, the younger by a few minutes, denied a lordly inheritance but in his timeline, his jealousy swelled and swelled until one day poor Jason had a little accident whilst hunting. Oh and Tyland insisted, even to himself that his brother’s frightened horse was an accident, but deep down inside he was relieved when his brother’s damaged skull required Tyland to act as the Warden of the West instead,” the White Rabbit explained.

Tyland looked at the grass in horror, his face paled even more as he heard impossible facts from the White Rabbit. He span, moving across the grass until he was closer to the Tyrell girl.

“Elinor Tyrell, cousin and lady in waiting to Queen Margaery Tyrell, a mere side character in the story of her cousin I’m afraid,” the White Rabbit looked down at Elinor with a false look of pity.

“Alyn Ambrose is her betrothed, young knight, or at least he wanted to be a knight, alas he proved that even those who don’t live by the sword can die by it, or be horribly mauled by a hungry rabbit,” the White Rabbit said.

The White Rabbit’s sword faded away as he brought his hands together, aiming them at Bevin before he bowed.

“Now this is a most esteemed honour my queen, I present to you The Pan! Ruler of Neverland, bearer of the title boy who never grows up, source of the Never Magic, the Westerosi call him ‘the Stranger’,” the White Rabbit said and Elinor’s eyes widened for a moment, looking at Bevin briefly before stroking Alyn’s face.

The Red Queen seemed intrigued for a moment, but her eyes remained on Daylen’s, red on red. Daylen’s shoulders tensed as the Green Knight adjusted the grip on his axe, and the other card knights shifted their positions in response.

“We are not finished my friends, the lost boy, he who wants to be real, made on a mad wish upon a star, tin man, prince of lies, Geppetto’s monster,” the White Rabbit pointed at Pinocchio with a glare.

“Many remember Geppetto as a man who wished only to see his son again, but the truth is stranger than fiction, the fiction is that he was a father, the truth is he was a NARCASISTIC FOOL WHOSE ARROGANCE INSPIRED MEN LIKE JEKYLL AND FRANKENSTEIN TO BUILD THEIR OWN MONSTERS!” the White Rabbit yelled, his muscles tense, hair unkempt from his outburst.

But he calmed himself and looked to Daylen.

“My turn is it??” the Warden asked.

“Yours is a tale that can spin many ways Warden,” White Rabbit said. “The one who has the gift of choice,” he added.

“What was that?” Daylen asked.

The knight’s bowed as the queen stood, Dorothy used her servants as stepping stones, keeping her feet off of the grass and keeping her height taller than everyone else’s.

“How are your eyes red?” she asked. “Are you wicked too like me, Wicked, Wicked man, born of sin, possessed of sinful desires, I am Dorothy Gale, I was wicked once, now I’m fair, be fair to me so I can be fair to you,” the queen explained.

“Your people killed those under my protection,” Daylen said.

“Oh, the young Ambrose and Lannister Lord were under your protection?” the White Rabbit asked with an amused smile.

“They were,” Daylen said without hesitation.

“Then it was your failure was it not?” Mad Hatter asked.

“By that same logic it would be your fault that your tea party failed,” Daylen smirked and Mad Hatter’s teeth nearly cracked as he slammed them together.

“RUDE! RUDE FUCKING RUDE! MADE ME BREAK THE POOR POTS AND CUPS! RUINED MY TABLE!” the Hatter screamed.

The Hatter stopped as Dorothy began to laugh. She stroked the dead dog, passing it to the Green Knight as she put her foot on another servant’s back; the kneeling man supported her weight as she looked down at Daylen. Bringing her clawed gloves to his face, she put her fingers inches from his eyes. Bevin tensed, but Daylen remained still, looking at the queen with neither a glare nor reverence. It was a quiet defiance that went unnoticed by the Red Queen, whilst the Green and Black Knights exchanged understanding glances at one another. The Red Queen stepped backwards, walking gracefully back on the people she made her stepping stones.

“Put him through the test,” Dorothy said, sitting back on her throne.

The Green Knight gave the dog back to her and walked towards Daylen. He raised the axe he carried, holding it out in front of Daylen.

“A game I propose to thou, strike thee and I shall return to you a blow of equal value,” the Green Knight said, tree like arms rustling as he dropped the axe at Daylen’s feet.

It was a large weapon, more a halberd really save for the large axe blade. Daylen bent down and took the axe, looking at the Green Knight whose arms raised to welcome a blow. Daylen though stabbed the end of the axe into the ground and swung his fist at the Green Knight. But his arm slowed, his knuckle gently tapped the Green Knight’s chest.

“There,” Daylen said.

“Interesting,” the Green Knight said as the Black Knight perked in curiosity.

Dorothy laughed whilst the White Rabbit clapped his hands together.

“Good, very good, so many idiots just chop his head off, you are a smart and brave one, yes, yes, what do you desire my queen?” the Rabbit asked.

“They shall return with us to the camp,” she said.

Some of her guards surrounded the group, and Daylen lowered his hands, still trying to gather magic through his fingers, managing a through sparks in his closed hand. They were still outnumbered and trapped, the brown haired rabbit grabbed at Elinor, but she batted his hand away.

“Come on,” the hooded Targaryen said.

The cover across their face was finally removed and Daylen saw a girl Bevin’s age. She knelt by Elinor, helping her up off of the floor.

“We must go,” she said.

“Your compassion does you credit Princess Jaehaera,” the White Rabbit said.

‘Damn, wrong Targaryen,’ Daylen thought, walking with the Black Knight’s spear on his back.

They were led through the very portal the Red Queen and her party came through. It was an act that made Daylen feel even more tired than he was before, as if his inner time had passed quickly. The effect silenced Tyland, whose screams and demands at the servants dragging him turned into bumbling cries. The only one who didn’t seem affected was Bevin, who looked at the others and their sick expressions in confusion. Fresh air invaded their lungs, a ‘real’ smell of grass and a feel of wind through their hair. An open sky welcomed them rather than the ‘made up’ atmosphere of Wonder Land. They were in the shadow of a great city, one that seemed to shine as the sun reflected off of its surface.

“Emeralds,” Jaehaera identified the substance the castle was made of in awe.

Around them was a war camp, from what Daylen recognised of the tents and formations of soldiers and siege weapons. What Daylen could also tell was that they were losing the siege, he could hear the sounds of soldiers writhing and moaning in a tent they walked by, those soldiers standing still had tiredness in their eyes even as the queen and her entourage passed. Daylen looked at the city walls and saw some scorch marks and holes. The way one of the guards pushed his head told Daylen they didn’t want them to know they were losing. Dorothy clicked her fingers and the White Rabbit took out his stop watch and created another portal.

“We cannot go Willy Nilly into any place, otherwise we wouldn’t have to stoop to sieges,” the White Rabbit said.

The gear like gateway rotated like a clock, showing a city and keep on the sea side, another between two mountains and a great city of white. Dorothy motioned to the Black Knight, who put his spear to Jaehara’s back. The red queen then walked on the backs of a few more servants, one who knelt close to Daylen as the queen looked at the mage expectedly.

“Carry me,” she commanded.

Daylen looked between the king and the threatened princess. He lifted up his arms and waited whilst the queen raised her eyebrows.

“Think of dropping me and I will have her throat slit,” she said.

He nodded, feeling sick as the woman placed herself in his arms, putting one arm around his back for additional support.

“Now, shall we walk through?” she pointed to the gateway, showing a desert.

Jaehara was pushed through first, the girl collapsing to her knees as a feeling of sickness overcame her.

“My apologies, the further we go I fear the more ones insides turn, my insides though are already very, very twisted,” the White Rabbit said as the Black Knight followed behind him.

Daylen looked over his shoulder at Bevin, who shook his head as a warning, not to go through the gate. Before, Bevin might have begged Daylen not to leave him alone, but he had grown braver now. ‘The Pan’ seemed revered, which meant Bevin was valuable to the forces of the Red for now. He walked through the portal with the Green Knight following behind. Daylen’s knees shook and he felt bile rise in his throat. Then he felt the clawed tips of the queen’s hand prick at his neck, the woman tutting at him.

“No, no, no, remember I said not to drop me,” she said, shushing him as he took a deep breath. “There, there you are, so strong,” she patted his cheek with her free hand. “All magic has a limit as you know, a point that it runs out, or an element that can overcome it. I come from a place where magic is a contract, its binding until one can find the loop hole. Out there you are going to find a cave and only one kind of person can walk through that cave. The choice you are presented with Daylen is which one of you goes through, you or her,” Dorothy explained, pointing between Daylen and the princess. “She is a Targaryen, so there’s the diamond part, the rough part being the fact she’s grown up during a time her own kin were brutally murdering one another to the point that, spoiler my dear she in her adult life has experienced so much pain and misery that she throws herself off of a tall height, so not my first choice you understand?” she asked, slapping Daylen’s cheek again.

“I think it’s you Daylen who needs to walk that path; I think you’re the one who can go through. You see you and I are both very much similar my dear,” she whispered, putting her lips a little closer, pouting as Daylen pulled his head an inch to the side. “A bastard child, unloved and abandoned, you however,” she grabbed Daylen’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You would be taken in by a kind and loving noble family, the Amells of Kirkwall. Loved, favoured, until it would be discovered that you were a mage and as per the law of your world’s Church, the diamond would be locked away, the right of ownership of home and property and pursuit of marital bliss and propagation denied you, poor you…” she nipped his bottom lip with her clawed thumb.

“Despite this though you never hesitated to aide your best friend, dear Jowan, knowing he would be stripped of his emotions in a Tranquility ritual, knowing he was very much guilty of dabbling in blood magic, a magic you yourself unknowingly used as a boy and would use later on but even before the later on you helped your friend. Once found by the Templars and your teacher Irving, who very much was torn between pride and disappointment, you would be saved from even deeper and invasive imprisonment by the Grey Wardens. The Warden Commander Duncan would take you on to Ostagar to join his merry order, and what an order it was, requiring its members to drink Darkspawn blood in order to sense the blighted creatures, or else be murdered if they tried to back out. Your proud order that would be betrayed alongside the king by his own father in law Loghain Mac Tir,” the White Rabbit stated.

“A man who would hunt you, turn the country of Ferelden against you, hire assassins to kill you, force you to recruit criminals and drunkards as allies. Assassins you would take in, criminals you would redeem, drunkards you would help to better themselves and after turning the country back against Loghain, after defeating him in the political and literal arena, what would you do to this man who betrayed you and hunted you? You would spare him, costing you your new best friend, dear, dear Alistair,” the Red Queen explained, smiling as she heard Daylen contain a fierce breath.

“Oh I think through all that rough you are still very much a diamond, Daylen Amell,” she tried again to move her lips closer.

“Try to kiss me and I don’t care if you have that girl brutally murdered, I’ll slam your fucking head into the sand,” Daylen said calmly.

“Such a tease,” the Queen muttered.

“What do you want me to find in there?” Daylen asked.

“Nothing too complicated, nothing too difficult, just a simple little oil lamp,” the Red Queen said.

“What about you?”

The Queen hummed and Daylen smirked.

“You’re either a spoilt brat or a complete psychopath, something must have happened to make you a diamond too,” he said.

“You say you don’t want to kiss me, but damn you make me want to do far more than kiss you,” the Red Queen said.

The Green Knight stepped forward, bringing his arms out for the queen. Daylen placed her in the Green Knight’s arms, making a show of wiping his hands across his trouser legs. He began walking in the direction the Queen stated, looking back at the group.

“Keep going, keep on going, you really can’t miss it,” she said.

Daylen made eye contact with the princess, she didn’t seem afraid though he saw her hands tremble slightly. Conveying the dignity of a true royal and containing the terror she must have felt. Even those who mastered dragons could fear death. It was a universal fear Daylen felt as he walked further and further, the sun going low to the point that he thought of turning back and just telling the queen he had failed. Then he remembered her lustful gaze, not for sex but for violence. She had it in her to slaughter thousands, and most likely would if she got what she wanted. That, Daylen recognised was the conundrum of black mail. Very rarely could someone be trusted to release another they had coerced into action. The family they used as leverage would just be a loose end, witnesses for authorities, or prisoners to be kept for more long term service. They would never truly be free. He had gone on for miles, that much he knew, thirsty, skin a little burnt from the sun, chilling through the night as it passed again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, falling to his knees.

All the Red Queen and her rabbit had told him, the summary of his life caught up with him. Betrayed, then betraying, abandoned by one who considered him a brother all because he believed in redemption. And through all that he didn’t even succeed in saving his world.

“I’m not a diamond in the rough, I’m just rough, what the fuck was she thinking?” he demanded, punching at the sand. “Fucking loser, no friends, no allies, not even any fucking magic so now you are USELESS!” he yelled, punching the sand a few more times.

“Wow, I thought you’d at least last longer than this,” a voice spoke behind him.

He looked over his shoulder, then rolled his eyes. A dwarf was standing there in armour that exposed his arms, his wild red hair cut short and beard braided.

“I mean it hasn’t even been a couple of days in the sun,” Oghren, or rather the mocking image of Oghren raised a cup of mead to his lips, smacking them together after a sip.

“Fashera hoping for hallucinations to mock or encourage you Kadaan, truly sad,” the judgemental image of Sten stood over him.

“I mean I know I’m one of the Crows worst assassins, but I failed to kill this guy, then again you always had help,” a blonde haired elf stood next to Sten, wearing green leather armour, balancing a knife on his finger.

“And look what you’ve done without help,” a somewhat reassuring smile crossed the image of Zevran’s face.

“The refugees on Isabela’s ship, Bevin, they’re alive because of you,” someone said, someone with their back to Daylen as he looked ahead.

Someone with blonde hair, someone who wore leather armour with fur on the collar, someone whose voice was both mocking and kind, reassuring and taunting, a paradox that made many but Daylen dismiss him.

“You saved Bevin, implanting him with the magic of an entire land, even before that you gave him the courage to fight just as you gave others the courage to carry on,” he turned his head, revealing blue eyes and a kind smile.

“So fail again Daylen,” the image of Alistair, the friend who left him, the friend he betrayed faded as Daylen stood up.

“I’m here, I’M RIGHT HERE!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

The sky began to darken, and Daylen knew there was still plenty of time left before nightfall. Even the stars above seemed to zip about whilst the sand shifted, as if the structure of the world was changing with the sudden fast forwarding of time. Daylen focused on the mass of sand rising in the distance, rising as if something was underneath it, approaching with growing speed. Then when it was a few feet from Daylen it rose up from the sand. A great maw, with grains of sand falling down it. Eyes and stripes formed across the surface along with more elaborate details. The creature coming out of the sand resembled a tiger’s head. It snarled, sand grains falling out of its mouth.

“Who appears before it, the cave of wonders?” it spoke in a language that Daylen did not recognise, yet could understand as if the intent of each word was imbedded within his mind.

“I am Daylen, though given the name Amell I do not know if I’m the bastard son of Revka Amell, or just a street rat she picked up. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve done things I’ve felt were right but others might agree are wrong. Even now I’m pursuing you, because others have been threatened and I even know that if I get what they want they’ll still kill us. I betrayed my best friend, robbing him of the chance to avenge a man who was like a father to him, because I wanted to give our enemy a second chance. I rejected two women who could have loved me, out of spite of the gods they believe in. I’m not a diamond, just a man, if that’s not good enough to…and I can’t believe I’m saying this, to get inside you, then screw you, I’m coming in anyway,” Daylen stated.

A low hum came through the best and echoed in Daylen’s mind.

“You realise what others don’t, none of us are diamonds, yet all of us are too, enter Daylen of the Grey order, touch nothing but the lamp…”

“Wouldn’t my feet touching the floor be something?”

“Don’t get smart, steal nothing but the lamp…now, come inside me!”

“Seriously? Did you have to make it weird?” Daylen asked, shaking his head as the cave expanded.

Daylen walked closer, going towards the mouth of the cave, looking into a drop, a short climb towards a shining light. He set his feet into the holds and began to climb down.

The Red Keep

Basking in the afterglow, curled up with her king, Cersei smiled. Today felt like a very good day, a loving day despite how Rhaegar had put it to her. She had who she wanted, and perhaps soon would have what she wanted. Much could happen in a war after all, her father could influence Aegon, Doran Martell knew this and had his own ambitions too. He also had a quite strong willed daughter, who would not be above her own plots for her beloved cousin Rhaenys, if only to secure her own right to inheritance. And Aemon, despite being the son of Rhaegar’s true love was just a bastard. Not even the North would raise their banners for a bastard child, nor would even the great Eddard Stark. He knew the law and the rights of bastards, even his own kin were not above the law.

“Yet you know this is not true,” she heard the whisper.

Climbing out of the red sheets, she walked to her mirror, looked at her naked form as if she would find the voice behind the mirror.

“The Starks are fierce, savage, but they have not played the game, they will fail in the South,” she said.

“As Lyanna Stark did?” the voice asked.

“Lyanna Stark is dead, gone, no longer an issue, and Elia, however kindly was cast aside for her weakness, I am queen now,” she said.

“Anyone who says I am, is not truly, fool, Lannister’s are not fools,” the voice changed, becoming her father’s deep, scolding tone.

She looked in the mirror and saw her father looking back at her in disdain.

“Put clothes on woman, you wore black before, a clever ploy to appease the Targaryen supporters, to appease those mourning for the dead, but you are not as clever as you think, otherwise Rhaegar would have been yours to begin with,” ‘Tywin’ explained.

“He is mine, he sleeps beside me, he has given me his child, he…” Cersei paused, she felt her chest.

She knew, without shred of doubt that the seed had truly been planted and a life was beginning to form.

“Yes, it looks like you wont have to try again, but a little baby does not make a prince,” Tywin said.

“He will be my son and Rhaegar’s, he will have the right…”

“HIS RIGHT WILL BE NOTHING!” Tywin yelled. “He will scream out, I am the king, but be no true king!”

“No, no, I will not have you interfere, I will not have you claim to know what is best, I am here, you are not, Rhaegar did not and will not pick you as the Hand, I am here, and I am Queen,” Cersei declared.

“For however long?”

The Voice and who she saw changed, a woman, Maggy the Frog, the witch who gave her a prophecy. She was smiling, dirty and unkempt as the day Cersei had met her, but smiling still.

“I told you, you would be Queen, until another came, more beautiful to take what was yours,” she said.

“I am still here, Rhaegar will not…”

“Rhaegar has already proven himself treacherous when it comes to women, and did you actually think I meant a woman trying to steal your husband. What right do you think a queen has, what do you think a queen is,” the witch touched her belly and Cersei gasped, looking at her own reflection and seeing her pregnant swollen belly.

“We are plants for babies, little princes and princesses, useless when the king is dead,” the meaner Cersei sneered at the woman looking in the mirror. “Your own daughter may one day come to take what is yours, THAT was the prophecy you stupid bitch, unworthy of love, Rhaegar’s, Jaime’s, anyone’s,” the reflection whispered.

“Beware the red eyed man,” Cersei whispered.

“Then destroy it, reject it, the red,” the reflection whispered.

“I am queen,” Cersei said.

“The game is still being played, you win or you die…”

“There is no middle ground,” Cersei said.

She looked into the mirror as the reflection began to distort. The surface of the mirror became gold, and flowed like paint.

“Mirror, mirror, on, the, wall, who, wishes, for, more, to, rewrite, the, story, to, become…”

“Fairest of them all,” Cersei whispered.

She looked into the mirror, heard its temptations, saw the reflections of her doubt and ambitions. And above all saw an unspoken promise of what she yearned for, to protect what she loved, to protect her children who both existed in this strange world and would come to exist by her own will, and even more so to protect her power, she wanted more power.

“Most powerful, of, them, all,” Cersei said, moving her hand to the mirror.

Her fingers touched it, and it felt like paint that ran across her hands. Then a sharp tug, and she cried out as she was pulled towards the mirror.

“Rh-Rhae-JAIME!” she screamed.

The mirror did not pull her in, instead she gasped as the gold surface of the mirror swept around her body like paint, coating it.

“CERSEI!” she heard her husband scream, sword drawn.

Her hands came up to her chest, the gold gradually formed a dress, like feathers across her. Particles of the gold clung to her eye lids and brow like makeup and she gasped, feeling the magic of the mirror, of the possibilities it could reflect on those who looked into it. Gold swept over her fingers and her skin became fairer then before, she felt her hair wrap into a bun, felt the skirt of her dress grind against the stone floor, heavy and sharp. She opened golden eyes and looked at her husband with a smile.

“That’s not the sword I want pointed at me, my king,” she said.

Dorne

Gold, that’s what the Martells had in common with the Lannisters. Rhaenys realised this as she looked at the gold dragon on her coat of arms. She left the coat on her table, and looked out at her land, her potential kingdom. Even her love for her people could not fight the sick feeling she had, remembering a conversation she had had with her beloved cousin.

“What you speak of is treason,” she told the woman.

“What I speak of is birthright, under Dornish law, I should rule Dorne, under Dornish law, you should be Queen of the Seven kingdoms, it is our right,” Arianne said.

“Look at Rhaenyra Targaryen, you’ll see then what ‘right’ got her, and are you really advocating for me or your own inheritance, are you so paranoid that you would drag me into a stupid rebellion?” Rhaenys asked her

“I am not rebelling, I’m merely putting forward a question, regardless of whether father passes Dorne onto me or Trystane, I need to know cousin, are you prepared to fight in the arena that matters far more than the training ground?” Arianne asked.

“I’ll fight on whatever arena I need to, in the sands, the fields of the lands beyond our own, in the Red Keep itself,” Rhaenys said.

“Your father has married a Lannister, and they are an ambitious lot, your brother is fostered to the Warden of the West, he is learning from Tywin Lannister at best, or is a prisoner and pawn at worst,” Arianne laughed as Rhaenyrs glared at her. “Oh I remember the gentle boy he was, he has not the inner strength to rule, do you really think Tywin would have encouraged him to be independent and strong, to make decisions by his own wisdom?” the question made Rhaenys grind her teeth together, for she knew her cousin was not without logic.

“Why is Tywin Lannister ruling the kingdom a bad thing?” she asked her own question, she believed was not without merit or wisdom.

“He yearns for a dynasty that lasts a thousand years, he yearns for a legacy, you don’t get that by being the man who taught and advised a king, you get that by having your name attached to the family tree of a king, why do you think he had his daughter marry the mourning king, your father, to begin with. Don’t forget the North, they’ll want their piece, your father, I love him, despite how he treated your mother for he is a true and just king, he made a mistake bedding the Stark girl, having a Stark child,” Arianne explained.

It was all paranoia, but not without reason or merit. Rhaenys dressed into her training gear and took to the arena again. She span her spear, swung her sword, twirled her daggers, weapons she could master but still not be any good at rule or the game of thrones they all spoke of. A game she wanted away with, away, for life was no game and kingship, rule, it was with lives through every decision made. When she had finished her drills, she walked into town, went to the city walls and tried to focus on anything besides the threats of distant futures and the worries of cousins and outsiders. Doran who wanted to protect just Dorne, Boromir who spoke of ‘enemies’ of all free peoples and Arianne with her worry of what she would lose. The sand could give her more than her kin could and she walked across it with a cloak and survival gear. Red filled the sky with the setting sun and she found beauty in it.

“Nothing but the lamp, nothing but the lamp!” she heard a whisper in the wind when she tried to sleep in her tent.

Her cloak flapped behind her and she took up her dagger, gloved hands gripping the handle tightly. She pressed her free hand into the sand and felt the tremors, felt the grains shift from a distant movement. For a moment she considered turning back, asking her uncle for a few men or his own spear. But she remembered she was the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen, a princess of Dorne, inheritor of a name of proud dragon riders. The desert was nothing; the storm was nothing to her. She brandished her blade and moved towards the red of the sun set.

‘I am a Dornish and Targaryen princess, and I will not fear,’ she thought.

Daylen felt his tired arms stop their tensing when he reached the bottom of the cavern. There were rocks around him, going into a short tunnel that led to an even larger chamber. It was a realm too big to even be a cave, a grand city sized place like Orzammar. But even that had taken a large mechanised lift to go down towards, this cave of wonders had been a step way. There was a path set out, through a field of gold, coins of various shapes, with the heads of various kings. Daylen would have looked at the artwork out of mere curiosity of the currency of other cultures, but he remembered the rule. There were fine jewels, necklaces, rings, weapons with gold and jewels. He kept walking around the shining bright treasures, making his way to the doors on the far side of the cavern. The doors themselves were large with tiger heads holding ringed handles on them. Taking hold of the rings, Daylen pried the doors open, pulling one open the rest of the way and looking into a new chamber. The small path to the wall in front of him curved, and the wall stretched onto another pathway, with only a small ledge for him to shimmy across.

‘Oh come on,’ he sighed.

The ledge shifted in a way that made Daylen nervous. Each slide of his foot made his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t even see the bottom of the drop, his temptation to throw a fireball down it tempered by remembering his magic was unstable. Daylen focused on his feet, sliding them carefully across the ledge, keeping his back against the wall, not paying attention to the wall ahead of him. He saw a mural of some kind, but it didn’t matter, the images of a man with a snake staff didn’t matter, the images of a red ghost didn’t matter.

‘Just get across the damn ledge and then, partly free,’ Daylen yelled out his relief.

Then he turned back to look at the mural. He hadn’t focused on it before but it was different now. There were specific details he remembered the previous mosaic mural having but it had changed into a new image. A woman in blue, tempted by a red ghost, casting aside a crown, walking away from a man. Then underneath that there were the images of orange flames around a city of some kind, the woman in blue had her hands to her face, perhaps weeping. She was tempted again by the red ghost.

‘Why do I feel so sad?’ Daylen wondered.

He turned away and walked to the door. This one had golden monkey hands on it. Their outstretched manner made Daylen think of the worst that could happen.

‘Don’t grab me, don’t grab me, don’t grab me,’ he thought, heart beating fast as he took hold of one of the hands.

He waited a moment, the golden hand remained inanimate. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he pulled the door open. The next cavern was dark, so dark that Daylen took two careful steps before he raised his hand and tried to light a spark. His magic wavered again, only sparks of flame appearing in his hand. Snarling in frustration, he focused utterly on his hand, on the feeling of rage he had every time he conjured flames. Suddenly, the fire rose up out of his hand, giving Daylen a view of his feet on the ledge of a sheer drop.

“Shit,” he muttered, before the ledge gave way.

He fell, the flame he conjured dying out.

King’s Landing

Rhaegar carefully watched his wife. She still had the same face, yet there was something very different in her temperament. Cersei looked at her hands, as if looking at new skin.

“What has happened?” Rhaegar demanded, pointing his sword at Cersei.

“You can call the guards if you wish,” she said.

“They might kill you,” he said.

“Concern for me my love, you look at me and I see, I see your reflection my love,” she touched the sides of her face.

Her skin turned gold for a moment, shifting like liquid back into flesh as she moved across the room.

“I am not Lyanna, that disappoints you, but there is love for me in you, I see it my king, I see your dream, the song of ice and fire, the hope that the dragon’s fire and wolf’s ice will defend us from the Others. But there are far dire things that the Others have we have come to learn, as I have come to feel,” Cersei explained.

“What do you mean?” Rhaegar asked.

“I can feel the magics of this world flowing through me my love,” she said, running her hands across her face and down her chest.

“You mean magic,” he corrected.

“No, magics, there are those whom use their own mana to create elements, control forces of energy and will, to weave even blood and wills to their desires and to draw power from the spirits of the fade. Then there is magic contained to objects, rings that allow for the control over the will of the lowly, to turn one’s body invisible, blades that corrode the flesh of monsters, stones that see across vast distances. There are even those my love who are so powerful, that they must take on human form to remain on this plane of existence. Oh Rhaeger,” her voice drifted in bliss, a bliss that Rhaegar had never seen in Cersei before.

Save for when he gave her what she wanted, his love.

“There are realms far beyond this world, this world brought together by an even greater magic, one similar to what resides within this mirror,” Cersei said, pointing at what had given her this power.

“I will not look upon it, it is a cursed object,” Rhaeger wanted to cry out, to call in the guards.

But he didn’t, lowering his sword, he advanced closer to Cersei.

“What do you know?” he asked her.

“The magic of the mirror is the magic of a story, even you my love could claim power, your voice, your songs, they themselves can bear great power. You see there are a string of realms all linked by a common theme in their magic…”

“Stories, all stories have meanings,” Rhaegar said.

“Exactly,” she turned to Rhaegar with a smile on her lips. “The story of the mirror is one of jealousy, of yearning for power, for beauty, for love, she who once looked into this mirror was so petty, so jealous that she tried to cut the heart of a girl who could have been as a daughter to her, an inheritor of her kingdom. I have seen into myself, into the Lannister blood within me, my father wished nothing but ill will on you and yours when Aerys spited him, insulted him, desired my mother,” Cersei sneered.

“My father was an evil, evil man,” Rhaegar said.

“And I will not be an evil queen, I reject that story as I reject the red of the Lannister blood, but I will fight and kill to protect what is mine. I love you Rhaegar, more than anything in the world I love you and I love the children you would give me, and yes, I do desire to replace in your heart the wolf you loved, and I do desire for my children to wear crowns of their own,” Cersei explained.

“But you also desire to wear a crown eternally,” Rhaegar said.

“I am not your father,” Cersei said, walking closer to him.

“You have taken this mirror’s power into yourself?” Rhaegar asked.

“Yes, and I will use it to aid you, to protect our kingdom from anything that threatens it,” Cersei said.

Rhaegar brought his hand to her cheek and Cersei closed her eyes, the touch of Rhaegar’s fingers made her skin turn to gold. He dropped his sword and held her by the sides of her face.

“Show me, mirror, mirror, show me the greatest threat to my kingdom,” he demanded.

Cersei’s eyes rolled back, her skin became solid gold, face still and reflecting Rhaegar’s face off of her surface. He saw the material shift, taking on the appearance of flames, which surrounded a black slit. The eye narrowed and Rhaegar heard the voice in his head laughing, speaking in a grotesque language that made him want to scream out.

“I see you!”

He gasped, on his knees, feeling Cersei’s hands on his head. Rhaegar wrapped his arms around her, sighing in relief, centring himself.

“I thought my father was but…I’ve seen it now, pure evil, this is far greater than anything…”

“There is still hope my love,” Cersei said.

She looked Rhaegar in the eyes, her skin returned to normal and she caressed his cheek.

“We must find them, the new kingdoms, bring them into the fold,” he said.

“Yes my king, like Aegon before you, you’ll unite them,” she whispered.

“They’ll bend the knee to House Targaryen,” he said.

“Or they will die,” Cersei said and both she and Rhaegar closed their eyes as they kissed.

As the queen and king shared a passionate kiss, the moon light shimmered off of the mirror. On the other side of the mirror, Cersei stood up dazed; looking at what to her appeared to be a window. She banged against the glass, watching in horror as Rhaegar brought the imposter into his arms, lifting her up like his bride and kissing her with more passion than he had before. Cersei saw her double look over Rhaegar’s shoulder at the mirror, smirking as Cersei banged her fists against her prison, her terror unseen.

Her screams unheard.

Next Chapter 19: Achievement and suspicion

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadow

Chapter 18: Achievement and suspicion

“Always be wary of gifts my dear, love them and be grateful for them of course but always be wary!”

It was advice Margaery lived by, for with the exception of her son, Olenna Tyrell did not raise fools. The queen of thorns was ambitious, but a survivor at heart and when playing the game if you were alive with your family still holding their lands then you were winning the game.

“It’s a constantly ongoing game, no winner will truly be declared because the players will always be changing, remember my dear if you are going to do anything at least make the next round easier for who comes after you,” Olenna told her.

Words she remembered, even as Margaery spent another night in bed alone. Her husband to be hadn’t so much as graced her with a visit. Margaery loved her family, and she was more ambitious than Olenna. She would do what she would do not just because her father asked, but because she would be queen. Not a queen, but the queen, sitting beside the king who sat upon the iron throne, wielding power and influence and raising the next generation to sit upon the throne. Initially it had been about marrying Rhaegar’s son Aegon, hoping that Queen Cersei would not birth a girl for the prince to marry under Targaryen traditions. So Olenna taught her the tricks to charm and Margaery herself learned of a way to play the game, through the people. Her servants loved her and the people in the villages she passed loved her too, for she would be a people’s queen, charitable, serving the people and in times of strife they would support her rather than hinder her. She would be queen of the seven kingdoms and a loved queen at that.

‘At this rate though, I will be a rebel queen,’ Margaery thought.

She climbed out of bed, wrapping the thick winter gown around herself, covering just enough for warmth, but keeping her neck exposed by the high collar of the gown. Her guards, twins Eryk and Aryk raised their fists as she came out of the tent, Olenna could never tell them apart but Olenna knew her left twin from her right twin, one in green and the other in blue, both identical and well built men sporting red hair and finely combed moustaches. They walked with her through the camp, vigilant of the Stormlanders who had joined ‘King Renly first of his name and king of the Stormlands and Reach’. There were knights of the Eyrie too, but they were knights who only bought with them a handful of household guards, accompanying knights of named families. These knights would partake in Renly’s games, competing to prove themselves worthy of being Kingsguard. Margaery’s brother Loras had a guaranteed spot; his honour and need to prove himself demanded he take part anyway. When Mace Tyrell’s plans changed, Margaery at first welcomed it, Renly was charming and polite and though he and her brother were in love it would not be an unhappy union. She would have a good man as a husband and king and her brother to protect her.

‘But be careful of gifts,’ Margaery remembered.

Remembered the man who came with a ring for Renly, a kingly gift. Oh it was a fine ring, more beautiful than anything Margaery had ever seen. But since accepting the gift, Renly had been different, still charming but unnaturally so. He was always popular in the Stormlands, but he began from the Reach with the bulk of his forces being Reachmen. With every town and village their ranks grew, lesser household guards and bannermen of the Stormlands had joined Renly, even those Margaery heard never had issue with Robert or Stannis joined the younger brother in his bid to take the crown of the Stormlands as well as declare independence from the Targaryen dynasty. Almost as if something had compelled them to join Renly. Despite their success it still left Margaery with an ill feeling, an instinct that something was very wrong. So she walked to the smithy, to where the gift’s that adorned her husband to be had come from. The forge of a man who’s reputation had spread across the kingdoms as the finest jeweller in the realm.

“I wondered how long it would take before you came to me,” Annatar said, his voice smooth and charming.

He was handsome, beautiful even, the kind of person Olenna Tyrell had taught her granddaughter to be most wary of. Beauty rarely came with humility; the most beautiful sacks could contain the most rotting of filling.

“My lord,” Margaery curtsied.

“What brings you to my workshop your grace?” he asked.

“I am not queen yet.”

“Oh but you are, there’s a queen in your eyes, if you were to wear a crown now it would be as something you were meant to wear, there are those who wear crowns but were never meant to,” the forger explained.

“You speak as a man who has served a great many kings,” Margaery said.

“Provided for, I create you see,” Annatar said.

“Is there something special about your rings?” she asked.

“You know what the most powerful form of magic is my lady?” Annatar asked.

“Belief,” Margaery said and Annatar smiled.

“So many dynasties succeed because they establish a firm rule, that they are the ones who hold power. People will follow those who proclaim themselves king because they believe in them, and this belief can come from deed as much as reputation, by continuously succeeding, ones deeds become miraculous and the belief grows even stronger. Such as the conquest of Aegon, even the many deeds performed where I am from have only truly succeeded because people believed in them,” Annatar explained.

“What deeds do you speak of?” Margaery asked.

“The fall of empires, kingdoms who had carried out misdeeds so terrible that their entire continents fell into the ocean, lost to the waves of existence itself so that they may become tales of warning to the kingdoms of men that came after. Isildur, son of Elendil once cut the ring off of the dark lord himself, but so powerful was the legend of the ring, so grand a symbol that Isildur in his arrogance sought to use it. The trinket of his kingdom only assured his fall, so much so that no king sat upon Gondor’s throne after. Helm Hammerhand, king of Rohan, a fine warrior who in punishing one of his vassals turned the man’s children against him. The resulting war cost Hammerhand his sons, but at Helm’s Deep Hammerhand became a beast, killing men with his bare hands, so great was the legend that people believed he had been empowered by his rage, they believed he had become a wraith neither living nor dead. Hammerhand preserved the people of Rohan, but it would be his nephew who would take up the mantle of king, his line that stands today in the house of Earl,” Annatar explained and Margaery felt as if she could see these men in the fires of the forge.

“Westeros has its legends too,” Margaery said.

“Ah yes, the Dance of Dragons, the conquest itself, even the fall of Valyria, foreseen by a Dreamer, Daenys Targaryen was it?” Annatar asked.

“They say Viserys I was a dreamer,” Margaery said.

“Who could not foresee the fall of the dragons his family thought their kin, or perhaps he did in his final moments,” Margaery caught the smile on Annatar’s face, and it made her feel uneasy.

“Who would you swear loyalty to Annatar?” Margaery asked.

“Who seeks order amongst this chaos?” Annatar countered.

“Perhaps one is manipulating it,” Margaery suggested and Annatar laughed.

“A great deceiver in the shadows, a dark lord directing the great houses like a chess player. Do you know why they would be able to do such a thing Lady Margaery?” Annatar asked.

“They would have to have significant power and influence themselves, intellect too I would imagine,” she said and Annatar shook his head.

“Whilst true intellect alone is nothing when one is coercing another, what truly makes a deception so great is how willing one is to believe it. Each of the great houses of Westeros believes it can get closer to the throne, that it can influence it, that they can win the great game they value so highly, higher than even traditional honour and faith most of the time. Lady Margaery, the nobles of Westeros could be deceived into fighting amongst themselves, because they ultimately want to fight one another, because each house wishes to stand at the top, to be the most powerful irrespective of whether they wear a crown or not,” Annatar explained.

“If one is a king then they can make the law,” Margaery said.

“Yet kings often have a council, and no king who ignores his council lasts for long. Hubris my lady, it’s ultimately the greatest of failings, both for my people and for yours,” Annatar said.

“Renly is proud,” Margaery admitted.

“Luckily he has a good queen to temper that pride, or rather, you my lady may one day wed a king whose pride you must tame,” Annatar said.

“I am to marry Renly, it’s just a matter of when and if he can win the battles to come,” she said.

“Oh my lady, you will be a queen, that I know for certain,” Annatar said.

The exchange left Margaery warmer, prouder of herself and the certainty she could win. But she knew also to be even more wary of the gift bearer. Renly’s tent though was closed, and she would not bring the dishonour or shame to both her brother and her husband…her perhaps husband. Still the seed was planted as Margaery wondered if Renly could be king. He had the man power, but Stannis and Robert had the experience and soon those outside of the Stormlands who supported the idea of elder inheritance would reinforce the older Baratheons. Though Annatar, Margaery knew was undoubtedly a wolf amongst the sheep, he had raised good points. Mace and Loras believed that Renly could be king and in turn make Margaery queen, Olenna and Willas however did not. Garlan doubted their campaign could succeed and Margaery had begun to doubt as well. The Tyrell family was split between certainty and doubt and Margaery herself feared what would become of her family after.

King’s Landing

Sleep was delayed for the lords and ladies of court, the servants worked had to prepare tables but there were strange whispers amongst Varys’s birds. They all feared to speak with him, which he found unnatural. It was as unnatural to Varys as the crows that lingered throughout the gardens in the moonlight. The Eunuch and spymaster walked and contemplated the exotic food being brought to the banquet hall, the entertainers being allowed into the Keep. All of the guests of King’s Landing were asked to attend, alongside influential merchants who lacked noble names. The outlander guests of Cao Cao’s land, the Ferelden and Orlesian representatives and even the Cotorie Dwarves, people Cersei wouldn’t normally have tolerated. But still, the queen’s change in behaviour did not disturb Varys as much as the silence of his spies. He had been the only one to show them any kindness, whilst the rest he paid because kindness couldn’t buy food after all. But they all said the same that they had seen nothing when they went to the kitchens. Then there was the uneasy feeling Varys had as he walked and heard the crows cawing around him.

That feeling reminded him all too much of when he was a boy, when the sorcerer put the knife to his flesh and took away what many believed made him a man.

“Lord Varys!”

Cao Cao was a quiet man despite his presence. When Varys turned he was surprised to see that the lord was without his imposing cousins and his more imposing bodyguards. Yet even there was a confidence to his pose and stride that Varys knew bordered arrogance, but well earned arrogance.

“Lord Cao,” Varys brought his fist to his palm and bowed.

“Impressive, most have used the wrong hand and wrong pronunciation,” Cao said.

“Most might have done so deliberately I regret to say,” Varys said.

“You’d be right, a graceful night yes?” Cao asked and Varys nodded.

“The gods, oh heavens you might say have blessed us,” Varys said.

“And they can forsake us in the morning,” Cao said and again Varys nodded.

“If I may be so bold as to ask Lord Cao, are you a man who fears the heavens and gods?”

“You can be favoured one moment and abandoned the last, heaven’s will they call it where I am from. Where I hail, the Han empire ruled for hundreds of years, succeeding the last empire that had done the same. Corruption flourished and the people rebelled, drawn by belief to miracles of the head priest of the way of peace, Zhang Jiao, whose Yellow Turban rebels brought together the great ‘houses’ of my land,” Cao explained.

“And from that rebellion, others took the opportunity to take power,” Varys assumed and Cao nodded.

“First there were Eunuchs,” Cao said, deliberately looking at Varys as he spoke. “Ten Eunuchs who controlled the imperial court to their benefit.”

“Unfortunately I am but one in king’s landing, a pity, I’d imagine such an alliance had some success,” Varys said in good humour.

“They betrayed one another as much as they betrayed the people of the Han. Then came Dong Zhuo, who replaced the emperor and seized power, again we united to stop him,” Cao said.

“Then what happened my lord?” Varys asked.

“The land shook, and our forces scattered, just as Dong Zhuo set fire to our capital, we are a people without an emperor, but not without a purpose.”

“Because you believe this is not your end,” Varys said.

Cao nodded, walking past Varys and looked at the crow perched on the wall. It tilted its head for a moment and then flew away.

“Magic, even the Yellow Turban rebels veered the line between mere illusion and other worldly power,” he said.

“Power resides were men believe it does, and a very small man can hold all the power,” Varys said.

“Yes, Zhang Jiao believed he had the will of heaven on his side and he made others believe in him, the Ten Eunuchs believed they had gamed the law and the system and eliminated anyone who could oppose them, and Dong Zhuo believed that he had control of the emperor and the strongest warrior in the land. Belief can influence many, deeds can enhance those beliefs, but power is itself a tool one can gain to make belief fact, so many break the law because they ignore it yet there are many who follow it because that belief has become in their minds a fact. Have you heard whispers of me Spider Lord?” Cao asked.

Varys felt his wrist tremble for a moment, intimidated by the way Cao Cao turned to him.

“I heard a story, whispered, repeated, as if a warning to me, of what a desperate man did when on the run from a stronger lord, a murderer to some, a pragmatist to others who slaughtered a beloved teacher’s household out of perhaps self defence, or fear,” Varys explained.

He knew that if Cao Cao killed him, the lord would be arrested, and he counted on that fact to shield him. Cao Cao’s eyes seemed to narrow, his gaze darken as he turned fully to Varys.

“One called him a villain, a traitor and he said ‘I’d rather betray the world than let the world betray me,’” Cao Cao said.

Varys understood, and he did not waver or show his fear. He had magic to be afraid of, this he believed, knew even for every instinct told him that something foul was in the air of king’s landing. In the presence of the lord though, Varys was reminded that one did not need magic to be a monster and this he knew was what Cao Cao wanted him to know. But still Varys had a question of his own, which of the monsters in King Landing could he trust to restore the order he needed for the good of the realm.

The bell rang and people gathered in the banquet hall. Even with the music playing around him and drunken yells of delight, Cullen remained silent and still. Dressed in a simple white shirt with a grey vest that bore the Templar flaming sword on the chest, he had temporarily abandoned his robes and armour for the knight. He was also looking at the food on the table. It was more food than anyone should have been able to cook on short notice. That and there was a feeling from the food he could not shake, one part instinct, another ability instilled in him by the Templars. All templars were trained to spot the signs of magic, mages hiding in plain sight, behaviours like how guards could spot thieves before they carried out a crime. Only for Templars it extended and grew to a natural ability to sense the very currents of magic, Cullen did not consider himself the best or worse Templar, but he knew for certain that the food had been conjured by magic.

“Not hungry?” Cauthrien asked him.

“Is it poison?” he asked.

“Definitely not, definitely no spell behind it either, I spent time amongst magic remember, no the only influence this will have on us my friend is to impress,” Hook explained.

He charmingly smiled at Cauthrien, offering her his hook.

“Captain James Hook,” he said.

“Not interested,” Cauthrien countered and the pirate laughed.

“There is magic here, and I don’t trust it,” Cullen said.

“Understandable after what you endured at your tower,” Hook said and Cullen glared at him.

“How did you…”

“Even mages gossip Rutherford, and try to keep it civil, at least slap me with a glove; it would give these supposed nobles something to watch,” Hook said.

“Yes, these men claim nobility but we all know that they spend more time at banquets than in trenches,” Cauthrien said.

“Heaven forbid any nobleman sit in the dirt with commoners,” Davos said, suddenly walking up behind Cauthrien.

“My apologies my lord, we are not of noble birth so certain customs elude us,” Cullen said.

“Look at my hands ser,” Davos pulled off his gloves, showing his severed fingers and the marks on his palms.

“A sailor’s hands,” Hook said approvingly, recognising the signs of old rope burns and salt ridden cuts.

“I am not familiar with the customs of Thedas, but you have a second name Ser Rutherford,” Davos said.

“My family are farmers, the closest thing we have to a household guard is a Mabari hound,” Cullen said.

“And you Captain?” Davos asked.

“My father was a banker, my brother probably became one too, Hook is a name I took as I suspect you did Seaworth,” James said.

“Whilst I still remain nameless,” Cauthrien said.

“Not nameless Ser Cauthrien, one could count lady knights on their hands in Westeros, you my lady have impressed,” Davos said.

“Oh she certainly has,” James grinned, even as Cauthrien frowned at him.

“My apologies for interrupting, but we all stand here, not born to nobility yet still in its service. I know of a lord who is both honourable and practical, Stannis Baratheon is dutiful and he recognises talent. He was steady with the knife on my fingers and the sword on my shoulder, all I am I owe to him for recognising my worth,” Davos explained.

“And here it is, what can we do for you fellow Captain?” Hook asked.

“Renly was an arrogant lad, but he always knew his place, for him to rebel against his brothers is a sign of influence, an influence my lord Stannis believed started with Lord Robert,” Davos said.

“I am was given Knight-Captaincy only out of desperation, and my forces are few lord Davos, we protect mages and remaining Ferelden refugees,” Cullen said.

“The same, my lord is missing and my lady will prioritise our people, we cannot grant favours unless we have a guarantee of a return. It is frustrating, but it also simply is,” Cauthrien said.

“The Stormlands however could become your lands too, at least temporarily, which would require you to defend them,” Davos said.

“I am sorry Ser Davos, but we have very little to offer or risk, to be frank, we’re here begging for help,” Cullen said and Davos nodded in understanding.

“And there are already far too many that might abuse your desperation,” he said.

“Yes, thank you for understanding Ser, I hope you can find support for your lord, excuse me,” Cullen said.

He needed a refill of juice, he’d have mead later but for the majority of the night he wanted a clear head. As he walked around several lords, he came face to face with Ser Jaime, nearly bumping into the King’s Guard, dressed out of his armour and in a red doublet with gold buttons and lion embroidery on his right breast.

“Excuse me sir,” Cullen said.

“My sister whispered to me tonight, of a great announcement, tourneys are expected in the future, and I’ve heard Templars are quite skilled riders, I admit to some eagerness to witnessing their prowess on the field, the competition has been somewhat stale,” Jaime explained, smiling arrogantly

Already Cullen had little like for the man he had heard be called ‘King Slayer’. It wasn’t even for the killing, as Templars were expected to execute mages as much as defend them. Cullen returned the arrogant smile with a forced smile of his own.

“I suppose we might end up sending a representative, I can’t say I’d partake myself,” Cullen said.

“I do have that affect on people,” Jaime smirked.

“But we both know Ser that winning through points is very different from out there, where the lance won’t break, where the opponent will push forward, until he shatters more than just the lance,” Cullen explained and Jaime lowered his smirk slightly.

“It’s a very strange time when you realise we’re all just meat,” he said.

“You see Templars have to protect mages, but we also have to protect others from mages, perhaps you would have made a better Templar,” Cullen commented and Jaime dropped his smile completely.

“Perhaps,” he said without humour or arrogance.

Dandelion swept his fingers through the strings of his lute. The melody tore through the jolliness of people stuffing their faces with food and wine. His voice cut off conversations of politics and deep fears for something far more distracting. A better writer could have written of the lyrics of his songs, but what they could write was of his energy. He slid his feet across the marble floors of the banquet hall, his eyes flirting with ladies of the court, lips spewing songs of past adventures and adventures yet to come. Of course he spoke of the white wolf, the Witcher on the road hunting monsters, wielding the sword of destiny to face the wild hunt itself, to defend golden dragons, to save towns through butchery, to meet with elven rebels and survive. Dandelion had heard the whispers of heroes across the new world, so he sang of these heroes and those songs brought tears to Cauthrien and Cullen’s eyes as they remembered the Grey Warden, the mage who escaped his tower, who survived betrayal at a grand battle between Grey Wardens and the monsters they protected the world from. He sang of the forgiveness the Warden granted his enemy, costing him a friend. Dandelion sang of an oath taken amongst peach trees between three men, though born on different days would die on the same year, same month and the very same day and since then they would be brothers to one another, always fighting together.

Zhang Fei drank more, remembering his distant brothers.

But as the song came to its end and the many nobles and guests present settled into their meals, the guards bowed as the heralds presented the king and queen. Both emerged from the grand entrance garbed in finery and clothing no royal seamstress had prepared. Rhaegar wore his crown and the colours of his family, but highlighted with gold across his chest, on the pads of his shoulders. His cloak was the red of the Lannister family, and its clasps were golden lion paws fixed to Rhaegar’s shoulders like armour.

The Queen wore a red dress of the Lannister colour, patterns of lions embroidered into its fabric. It would have left her shoulder’s bare, if not for the lion’s mane wrapper around her, it had been woven into a gold cloak, a cloak that the nobles saw had dragon like scales across it. She had her arm wrapped around Rhaegar’s and walked with him through the corridor of banquet tables towards the royal seat.

“Lords and ladies of Westeros, my subjects and new friends from distant lands, eat and drink your fill, enjoy the finest things, but know this tomorrow we will require firm answers,” Rhaegar explained.

“The one who sits upon the iron throne is Rhaegar, first of his name, he is king of Westeros, the land of which you now stand upon,” the queen said.

“This is a new world, a new land, but the majority of it is still Westeros, it is still our land and whilst I believe we can offer you all homes, it must still come with a price. One of my ancestors has already returned, but what is to happen if Aegon the Conqueror himself walks through that door, or flies over King’s Landing in the Black Dread. All lords will renew their vows whilst of distant lands will make new ones and in return I will grant them armies to beat back the monsters that are at their doors,” the king explained.

“Em My lord I can get to work on sending ravens,” Pycelle said.

“Ravens have already been sent Maestar,” the queen said.

“What? But that is…I mean, I have been there at the rockery for much of the day, no one has been there,” Pycelle said.

“From tomorrow will be the founding of an alliance of nations, all those willing to seek shelter in Westeros will become a part of that alliance and we shall dedicate ourselves to beating back the dark forces, forcing us together will be their undoing. Lord Stark, you will take your household guard and join with the army we have assembled, then you will move to the Reach and demand a surrender from the Tyrells or raze it to the ground,” Rhaegar explained.

Barristan and Jaime exchanged uneasy looks, both knowing the king whilst Ned’s hesitance on the matter was clear.

“What of Robert and Stannis?” Ned asked.

“They shall be reinforced by Lord Cao Mengde and his forces,” Rhaegar said.

“It shall be done; I will send five hundred men under Xiahou Dun with generals Yu Jin and Bian Xi. Furthermore I volunteer myself, Dian Wei, Xu Zhu and my hundred bodyguards to aid Lord Stark in the suppression of the Reach,” Lord Cao Cao said.

“It is appreciated my lord, but I would rather you remain here, I am appointing you head of the defence of King’s Landing, prove your worth to the alliance by preparing the city for a siege,” Rhaegar stated, to the shock of the others present.

“Granting defence of the city to a foreigner, your grace I…”

“Will serve at my side good brother, Grand Maestar,” the king said and the Maestar stood to attention.

“I will serve in whatever way you deem best your grace,” he said.

“You will accompany the Fereldans to the North and the Night’s Watch, where the mages will be provided with a keep to account for the loss of their circle tower, farmers will be put to work in the North under the care of families, you Grand Maestar will oversee their transfers,” Rhaegar explained.

“O-of course your grace…” Pycelle was about to say something else, the dislike of his new mission was clear in the fidgeting of his feet.

Cullen too was hesitant, seeing the benefit of a place where the mages could settle. But he also couldn’t help feeling that the Templars and their mage charges had been conscripted into the Night’s watch. He and Cauthrien exchanged knowing looks of concern for their people and the potential reality they would be split apart rather than united as prisoners of Northern families. Davos looked across the table at the one eyed man, Xiahou Dun briefly looked over at him and nodded. The onion knight then thought of Shireen, alone in this place.

In the cells, even guards were entrapped by the stories Aristanna spoke. None more enraptured than Arya and Shireen, both staring at the girl as she spoke.

“Years of imprisonment, of having her power abused by the woman who claimed to be her mother had finally taken its toll. She took the shard of the mirror, grip tightly into a fist the back of her hair and she cut,” Aristanna said.

“Her hair, all of her hair,” Arya remarked.

“Yes, her beautiful golden locks, as long as a rope fell to the floor. And in that moment the witch who imprisoned her screamed, desperate, picking up the hair and screaming as it fell apart in her hands. As she picked up the strands of hair, the woman’s skin sagged, her hair greyed and she begged the gods ‘please, please let me stay young.’ But the princess bowed by the side of her rescuer, the one who showed her what was outside,” Aristanna said.

“Oh please tell me he survived,” Shireen said.

“Thank you, he said, whispering it so that she could hear, ‘thank you for saving me, thank you for showing me what true beauty is’. He passed in her arms, her first and only friend and for a moment fear gripped her, for a moment she thought of weeping and remaining in the tower forever more. But then she saw the light through the window and remembered the joy of running across the fields, the beauty of flowers far and wide, of clouds in the sky, of the fireworks flashing in the sky over night, the feel of the cool water under a boat so many sensations she had been deprived of, and she walked out, of the tower that had been her home, away from her prison,” Aristanna explained and Shireen lowered her head.

“A sad ending,” she said.

“Well it depends on how one looks at it really. Power, a tower, an exploiter, they were all prisons really. The princess had been rescued by a dashing rogue, but the act of saving her had ultimately saved him from going down a darker road. He had spent his last moments trying to save something rather than take, thus he was no longer prisoner to his greed. And the princess, rather than give into despair took the chance to see what else was out there,” Aristanna explained.

“Oh and the bitch…”

“Arya,” Aristanna chided her.

“Sorry, the witch, she was still a prisoner,” Arya said.

“To her greed and her fear, in a way the witch was as afraid of life as the princess. For you see all things grow old, you two will both become women one day, but the choice to be imprisoned by that fear or the embrace it is yours,” Aristanna said.

“I’ll be a knight,” Arya said.

“I taught one of my father’s banner men how to read, it would be nice to teach others, no lord would ever marry this,” Shireen said, running a hand over her marked face.

“Oh Shireen, you are beautiful, any man would be a complete and utter fool to not see it, Arya, you see being a wife and a mother as a prison, but for others it’s the greatest joy in life. Not all adventures are grand and happy, as not all stories end happily,” Aristanna explained and Arya kicked the bars.

“Tell us another, but give it a happy ending this time,” she demanded.

“Young lady!”

“I’m not a lady!”

“Arya Stark,” Aristanna frowned and the girl pouted.

“Please tell us another story,” she asked.

“Let me tell you about a prince, a prince journeying across his lands and finding new things. He had found a great treasure and he returned to a…a cockroach lord with six hundred children,” Aristanna grinned as Arya and Shireen gagged.

‘Give me the gold or else you’ll never go over my bridge again,’ Aristanna spoke in a growly voice and the two girls laughed.

“The prince, chest puffed out proudly declared, ‘nay, nay lord Cockroach, this gold belongs to the subjects of the dragon king, it is wealth that should be shared and used, for our world is ever growing, aid me and we will never forget this debt,’ the prince said. Of course the Cockroach king for all his greed was clever too; he knew a favour could be worth just as much as a treasure trove, especially a favour from a king. So for the promise of a share of the gold, he aided the prince and his party, given them men and carriages, and the group returned to the treasure trove as the night passed. The trolls awoke from their stony slumber, all angry and worse, hungry, no worse, HANGRY!” Aristanna grabbed the bars, making them rattle and shocking the two girls.

“‘There’s dinner, yum, yum,’ they said, the Cockroaches children scattered, all fearful, afraid to get squashed. But the prince and his allies stood, the berserk bear warriors rushed into the fray, rolling across the dirt with the trolls. The Avvar goat warriors launched goats at the trolls,” Aristanna let out a goat like scream and her charges laughed. “The time lost princess showed her courage, knocking back her bow, remaining at a distance, firing into the trolls and the prince, the prince drew his sword, which shined in the moonlight and like a man possessed he jumped at one of the Troll’s, driving his sword through its chest. The prince pulled his blade free and raised it high, a rallying call that empowered the Cockroaches children, their shells shattered and revealed that they were in fact men, men brave, men inspired, all following the prince. Arrows, spears, they flew into the trolls until only one remained and then the prince advanced, drawing his second blade, stabbing the trolls arms and with a great swing he slew the troll and it slammed down at his feet. The prince had proven himself to witnesses present that he was indeed a warrior, a leader, a leader of creatures none took seriously before, the prince had the carriages loaded with gold and sent it to his father, who beamed with pride. But he could not value any one child as his heir, for all his children would make their mark, would make stories to be retold,” Aristanna explained.

“I knew the prince would get those trolls eventually,” Arya said.

“He did, he huffed and puffed and he howled in relief, for her had slain his first true monster, but there would be many more monsters to slay after,” Aristanna said, smiling sadly.

“Thank you for the story Aristanna, can we come and visit for another?” Shireen asked.

“Of course you can, you can visit any time you want,” Aristanna said.

She leant against the wall, smiling as the two girls walked away with a skip to their steps. Aristanna looked at the small hole that was her window.

“Heroes gather and fight for what they know to be right, and through it all, those who think they know what is right, unwittingly act against them,” she whispered.

On the floors above, on the balconies of king’s landing, Guo Jia overlooked the rest of the city. He sipped from his cup of wine, pouring more into the cup beside him as Cao Cao approached. The hero of chaos took the cup and drank as his strategist sipped.

“It seems, that Lord Varys is acting exactly as we predicted he would,” Guo Jia said.

“Of course, a shame that he realises too late that his spies are no longer his own, and that there are far greater spies than lost children,” Cao looked over his shoulder, at the raven perched on the gargoyle looking over the balcony.

He bowed his head and the raven tilted its head. The queen opened her eyes, smiling to herself as her new husband played a song on his lute. She caressed her belly for a moment and then looked over at Varys. The Eunuch obviously was going to tell her of his conversation with Cao Mengde, advice she would take into account alongside her husband, Rhaegar was such a beautiful singer. He would continue playing whilst she rested. Meryn Trant and Mandon Moore would serve her for the night. She looked over her sister as the knights followed her, looking through the two men at Ser Jaime. The knight’s eyes were wide in shock, bitterly drinking his wine and tossing it to the nearest servant.

“Truly a beautiful song if I don’t say so myself,” Dandelion said.

“I suppose it is,” Cullen muttered.

“I know that look, a friend of mine would have it when he’d see something amiss, of course despite my recommendation, he’d get involved,” the bard said.

“He sounds like a…a friend I have,” Cullen smiled.

“SOUNDS like my brother,” Zhang Fei burped.

“Sounds like my lord,” Xiahou Yuan said, walking into the conversation.

“Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” Cullen whispered.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just,” Aristanna prayed in her cell.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow,” another prayed in King’s landing.

She gave bags of coins to the children who usually served Varys. She wore black armour down her right arm and shoulder, a single wrist guard on her left and a red and black leather plate with scale mail underneath it. Pulling her hood away, she revealed her red hair and reached for the knife on her belt. She threw the knife, hitting the raven watching her.

“In their blood the maker’s will is written,” Leliana said.

Next Chapter 19: Knight on the bridge

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody Of Blight and Shadows

Chapter 19: The Knight on the bridge

It was Tyrion who convinced the Freys to help them. Anyone else might have walked away with a marriage arrangement, Tyrion though promised Lord Walder part of the gold, treasures befitting all of his daughters. But the bulk of its worth would go to the capital, for the Lannisters and the Targaryens and the Freys would be the ones who gifted them this treasure trove. The reputation of the Freys would be enhanced, they would win respect (not that they had lost respect he of course insisted) and the realm would prosper as a whole. Walder was of course grateful for the elimination of the Trolls yet he was left even more sour as Jon refused to accept further hospitality, not even a horse. Jon gripped the hair of the black goat tightly as they galloped across the road. It was a sight many were puzzled by, children pointed them out and Jon felt ridiculed to the point that he spent time ripping apart the rabbit he caught for supper.

"They were fascinated by you," Tyrion told him as he read.

"I killed them, I killed the Trolls and yet I have had to give up glory to Walder Frey," Jon said.

"Sometimes giving up glory can help you down the road, the Freys will remember," Tyrion said.

"So them Frey's are they all, you know..." Alice smirked slightly.

"Careful with your words, the Targaryens have married their own for centuries in order to keep the line pure," Rhaenyra said, frowning at the girl.

"Oh I heard of Aegon the Conqueror, he married both his sister's right, I would have thought the one marriage would be bad enough," Alice said and Tyrion laughed.

"On that many might agree my dear, Maegor the Cruel took six women as wives," he said.

"Not all at the same time," Rhaenyra corrected.

"His last three wives were known as the 'Black Brides', Elinor Costayne, Jeyne Westerling and Rhaena Targaryen," Jon added.

He cut the rabbit into pieces, skewering those pieces on twigs and hanging them over the fire.

"He wed them in a single ceremony, all three of them the brides of his enemies, Costayne and Westerling gave birth to dead children and supposed monsters, Rhaena went to join her uncle when he made his claim for the throne," he said.

"You're kind of helping the argument on you Targaryens being mad," Alice said and Jon huffed.

"Maybe we are mad, what is it they say about Targaryens Tyrion?" Jon asked.

"Perhaps now would not be prudent..."

"What do they say?" Rhaenyra demanded and the Lannister dwarf shook his head.

"Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin," he said.

"Targaryen kings have been brilliant or mad," Jon said.

"Not true, Aenys wasn't brilliant or mad, nor was Viserys the first," Rhaenyra said.

"True, there have been mediocre kings or kings whose reign was uneventful, our last king was cruel and he succeeded a sickly king who died young, who had succeeded a king loved by the common folk but feared by the nobility," Tyrion stated.

"Why was he feared?" Alice asked.

"Aegon the V was trying to change things, he also wanted to bring back dragons," Jon said.

"Truly?" Rhaenyra looked at Jon surprised, the interest clear in her eyes as she shuffled closer.

"That's what some people suspect Harrenhal was, a ritual on petrified dragon eggs gone wrong, it was the day my father the current king was born and the day my grandfather Aerys met Fausten Amell," Jon explained.

"Who is that?" Alice asked.

"A man from Thedas, where magic still remains, he was travelling across the sea making money as a mercenary and adventurer, mostly hunting dangerous beasts or doing favours for lords, never as an enforcer though. As the summer hall burned, many believed that my grandfather perished, but then Fausten emerged, carrying Aerys in his arms. From then on he and Aerys became friends, Fausten served as a guest officer for a time, earning a lot of favours, people liked him for his intellect, which was also what people feared about him too.

“Fausten though was a son of nobility in Thedas, in the city of Kirkwall, some say his heart would always call him back there. He returned, took over the branch of the Amell family whilst his older brother Aristide ruled the main branch. Many years later, after a series of scandals like his son Damion incurring debts after failed smuggling operations and his grandson apparently being a mage, Fausten took his family and left to seek out a new fortune here,” Jon explained.

”Not all of his family, his older grandson, the one who was a mage was left behind,” Tyrion said.

”Fausten served my grandfather, but took steps to secure my father’s future rule, recognising the madness in Aerys. He discovered my father’s union with my mother Lyanna Stark, kept my Stark uncle and grandfather alive and even ended the rebellion through my mother,” Jon chuckled slightly, looking to Rhaenyra as he spoke.

”He rode out with my mother, fully pregnant to my uncle and Robert Baratheon's army and there Lyanna confessed she had no love for Robert at all, turned one of the greatest warriors in the kingdom into a blubbering mess, Robert actually thought she was in love with him,” Jon explained.

”What of the North and Southern armies, or Dorne and Elia?” Rhaenyra asked.

”The marriage with Elia had been annulled, by her request, she wished to be free, as she had fulfilled her duty and given father an heir, she could return to Dorne and both Aegon and Rhaenys would remain on the line of succession. A Septon loyal to father legalised the marriage to Lyanna, which had been consummated, under Northern honour the deed was already done irrespective of whatever promise had taken place between Robert and grandfather, and though Uncle Ned was Robert’s friend, Grandfather bore little love for Robert when he discovered his lack of loyalty to his betrothed,” Jon explained.

”There had always been a double standard when it comes to the virility of men against women, daughters are thought of as property as much as actual property, why should the warden of the north feel differently?” Rhaenyra asked.

”Why should he feel the same?” Jon asked back.

”What about the mad king?” Alice asked.

”Robert was to be given a daughter of the Riverlands as recompense, the rebellion had been stopped with minimum bloodshed, or expanded, depending on whether you’d side with Aerys or Rhaegar. Someone at court, we’re not sure whether it was Varys or Pycelle told the king that the Northern rebels had joined with Rhaegar and were marching to the capital, he shut the gates, had the city watch prepare for a siege, then my beloved father arrived, offering to defend the city from the rebels,” Tyrion explained.

”The royalists opened the gates and Tywin sacked the city, his intention had apparently been to arrest the king and swear fealty to Rhaegar then and there. But when they reached the throne room, the mad king was already dead,” Jon said.

"What happened?" Rhaenyra asked.

Jon lowered his head slightly, exchanging a look with Tyrion as if seeking some sort of permission. Permission which never came as a deer was suddenly thrown between the prince and the dwarf. The Patriarch bear licked his chops, having eaten his chunk of the carcass he left for his human companions. Silence hung over the camp as Jon proceeded to prepare the deer as an additional feast. Tyrion too reached into his own pack, taking out jars of salt.

"What's that?" Rhaenyra asked.

"Coat the meat in salt and then let it marinade over night, it acts as a preservative," Alice said.

"I'm no cook but after the last adventure my brother and I had, I wished to be prepared," Tyrion said.

He looked at the Targaryen princess, her dye was beginning to wear off, revealing some streaks of her silver hair. Tyrion chortled, eager to a degree to see Jon pin her down again and force her to cut and change her hair. The Lannister dwarf predicted that by the end of their journey, Rhaenyra's hair would again be long enough to braid and shine in its glory, just as he knew she would flower into an woman as his friend would grow into a man. Tyrion looked into the flames wondering for a moment on whether he should tell the girl of his brother's actions and the logic of the king who spared an honourless Kings Guard. A logic the son of Tywin Lannister, the most hated son of Tywin Lannister, struggled to accept himself. Tywin Lannister would never spare a servant he knew could betray him. For all his hatred of his father, Tyrion knew that Tywin was a smart man, and a man to be emulated when it came to playing the great game.

So Tyrion remained silent that night as they ate their fill and slept with bears watching over them.

It was Jon who dreamt that night, he was running through fields of snow and trees with ice for leaves. He was hungry, so hungry, there hadn't been anything worth eating for miles. Mother was dead, his brothers and sisters too, he was alone and all that was left of the pack. But still he would fight and survive, life was shrinking, all that was left were the Others. He spotted life, scurrying through the snow, grabbing at precious acorns. So he ran as fast as he could, jumping at the Squirrel, fangs bare, ready to relieve the hunger that had haunted him for miles.

Jon snapped, tempted to yell, sitting up from his bedroll and supressing that urge to scream. It was a new dream, yet it felt familiar, as if reuniting with an old friend. He felt the tears on his cheeks and balled his hand into a fist, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself.

"A bad dream?"

His head snapped around, looking towards Rhaenyra. She was sat up, still with the blankets she had wrapped over her. The bags under her eyes and the slight shine to them too told Jon that she had been having her own dreams. He shuffled across his spot on the grass, looking over at Alice and Tyrion, the former slept soundly whilst Tyrion kept adjusting his position. There was a snap of a twig in the woods, prompting Jon to look into the distance. Despite his caution, Rhaenyra sat up even more, folding back her blanket slightly.

"I dream about being in utter darkness, yet I can still hear dragons crying, even though they are dragons I can understand them, they're telling me its my fault," she said.

"Your father put too much on your shoulders," Jon said and Rhaenyra looked towards him, putting her hand to her chest and gasping in bashful surprise.

"Are you defending me Prince Aemon?" she asked.

"Your father had a difficult situation, your cousin Rhaenys would not have truly have been the inheritor of the throne, but her son Laenor, granting power and authority to the Velaryon's. And all of history knows of your uncle's qualities," Jon huffed as Rhaenyra smiled.

"He would have been strong," she retorted.

"He was a warrior yes, but strength has to come from more than just martial might, or at least my father seemed to imply as such," Jon stated.

"My father was considered weak, by my uncle and I suppose as the people of your era suggest, most others at court," Rhaenyra said.

"And if he changed his decision he would have been seen as weaker, maybe the dance would have been inevitable, Daemon unable to accept a Hightower controlled king, we never truly know unless we live through those times," Jon explained.

"Then why do you judge your mother and father harshly?" Rhaenyra asked.

Jon tightened his fists, casting his eyes to the ground.

"Honour and duty, its something my uncle often speaks of, yet we're faced with so many grey areas. Be loyal to your king, but what if he wishes your family dead, do your duty, marry and continue the line, but what if your betrothed is a drunkard destined to become a fat lustful creature? Does that justify the choice to abandon that duty, I know what some at court think, the Septon says I am a trueborn son but I know that they whisper behind my back, that they see me as just some bastard born out of an affair destined to fail, Rhaegar had his queen, Lyanna her betrothed, did they wonder for a moment if their actions would result in conflict, what if people had died, people still died when they tried to arrest Robert and Uncle Ned, were the gods punishing my mother and Rhaegar by taking her?" he wondered aloud after his rank.

Rhaenyra remained silent for a moment, she picked up her blanket and made her way to Jon's side of the fire. Wrapping the blanket over her shoulders, she sat close to him, smiling slightly as he looked away from her.

"I could have had many siblings you know," she said and he looked at her with guilt in his eyes.

"Forgive me, I did not think of your own mother," he said.

"We're just history to you aren't we?" she asked and Jon shook his head. "Before Aegon there was Baelon, my little brother dead before I could even see him, and I could have had an older brother but he died without even a name. My mother told me that carrying a child was a woman's battlefield, she tried to make me believe that there was a warrior's strength in being a mother, but I knew she was frightened, she'd lost so many children before she could even give birth but Baelon, there were complications, he had to be cut out, father made that choice, lose mother or lose his heir."

"Did he look guilty?" Jon asked.

"He looked broken, I grieved the brother I could never have and my mother, and rather than seek comfort from father I blamed him, as you blame your father," Rhaenyra said.

"I think I preferred it when you were history," Jon said and Rhaenyra laughed.

"The realm's delight, the Whore of Dragonstone, King Maegor with teats, I like that one," she giggled.

"Rhaenyra the devoted mother, I think that's what history should have most remembered about you," Jon said.

Rhaenyra turned her head away to hide her blush. It was only for a brief moment before she turned to look at Jon again, seeing the solemn respect in his eyes. She braved shuffling closer, only for Jon to lie back.

"We should sleep princess," he pulled his blanket over himself, making an effort to close his eyes as he felt Rhaenyra's back press against him.

When the son rose, Alice made a breakfast of porridge, a watery meal that lacked taste. Afterwards they continued their ride, seeing the great wonders that had been intermingled with the road they knew. There was farmland where once there should not have been farm land, and as they rode through the forests wonder overcame Rhaenyra. She looked up in joy at the trees, seeing the creatures she had not even read of, their names escaping her. But they were small people, big enough to be crushed in her hand, yet they were creatures of great beauty with butterfly wings. Small houses graced the tree branches and one of the creatures, a pixie girl cut an apple off of the tree for Rhaenyra. The delight of her time bowed her head in thanks. She stopped the white goat she rode and took the knife she had on her belt.

"What are you doing?" Tyrion asked.

"Those creatures are small, this apple is bigger than my hand, it could feed her and her family but she gave it to me as a gift, it doesn't seem too much to give as much back," she explained.

She dug the knife into the top of the apple, holding it with one hand and forcing the knife through with the other.

"Careful with that," Jon warned her.

He sighed in annoyance as she swept the knife through, catching the side of her thumb in the process. Rhaenyra brought her thumb to her mouth, sealing the wound.

"Fuck sake, lets see it," Jon suggested.

"It'll be fine," she said.

She took the half of the apple with her unbroken hand, raising it up for the pixies. The small girl from earlier fluttered down with two of her companions, even their robes had been made from the leaves the trees offered. Bowing in thanks, they took the apple and flew upwards to the trees. Tyrion scoffed slightly, finding the display touching but useless. Acts of kindness from people so small would gain nothing, or so his father believed. The Lannister sighed, disappointed in himself for thinking of what his father would think or do. But there was a reason, Tywin Lannister was a successful lord whose promises and threats always paid off. Tying a small bandage around her thumb, Rhaenyra continued riding along with the others, rubbing the side of the goat that carried her. She was no Syrax, and the princess yearned to be on her dragon's back again, feeling the wind rushing through her hair, the wind itself created by every flap of her dragon's wings. There was a pleasant feeling in being grounded, this Rhaenyra realised just as much as she realised how much she imagined the air calling to her. She was a dragon, the Targaryens belonged on dragon back, they were the rightful rulers of this new world.

'Can Rhaegar be the one to conquer it, what other kings would rise to oppose him?' she wondered, looking up at the clouds.

In that moment she bumped the sides of the goat, coaxing it into a full gallop.

"What are you doing, WAIT!" Jon yelled out for her.

The goat jumped over an exposed root, over a set of boulders, the burst of speed Rhaenyra felt sufficed her hunger for the sky. She heard Jon's voice drift further away, becoming a cute whimper to her as she came to a stream. That stream led to a lake and Rhaenyra froze when she saw horses on the other side of the lake. There was a tent, flags of a round table and jousting lances resting against a tree. Then she heard the great crash, the whine of a horse and the frustrated roars of the defeated. Cautiously, Rhaenyra trotted around one of the trees at the edge of the forest, looking at the aftermath of the duel. A knight climbed out of the dirt, leaning against his horse. He was an older man, some salt and pepper staining his goatee and what little hair he had exposed by his chainmail hood. His breast plate was fine but lacked any elaborate markings, save for an almost flower shaped buckle which held his blue cloak to his shoulder. He had a blue band around his head and had dressed his horse in a blue coat, protecting the front of the animal's face with silver armour.

Then Rhaenyra saw the man's opponent, whose own helmet remained on him as he remained on his horse. He looked to be a bit taller than the old knight, and was clad in armour that had a dark tone to it and was further decorated by some gold on the knees, elbows and the edges of his shoulder pads. That was when Jon, Alice and Tyrion caught up, all stopping behind Rhaenyra as the older knight marched his horse towards them.

"Turn back travellers, to take this bridge is folly, seek a longer road and avoid the frustration," the man said.

"And who are you good ser to give us this warning?" Tyrion asked.

"I am Ser Eyck De Denesle, I am faced many a battle and joust and though I cannot claim to have won every tourney, I have rarely known defeat, I have even slain dragons," the knight boldly declared.

"You kill dragons?" Rhaenyra asked with a fury in her voice as she tightened her fists so much blood came from her thumb.

"Aye, such abominations must be purged for good people to continue roaming the land, where goes your group?" he asked.

"North," Jon said.

"That too is where I march, for the Northern lords have called for good men, monsters roam those lands and on my honour I will see such creatures driven from this new world," Eyck said.

"So you are aware of the magic in this land?" Alice asked.

"Yes, the foul sorcery is not unlike the convergence that plagued my land with the curse of magic and all creatures created by it, for better or worse, this is where I am and I will seek a cause that is just," Eyck said.

"Then you are in luck good sir, for this is Prince Aemon Targaryen, son of King Rhaegar Targaryen, going Northward on a mission given to him by his father," Tyrion said.

"Speak plainly boy, have you ever slain a man?" Eyck asked.

"I've killed a Troll," Jon said.

"A good feat, but killing a man is different, I have killed men, robbers, rapists and even good men, I cannot determine what that man is," Eyck said, looking over his shoulder at the knight across the bridge.

"You make him sound like some kind of demon," Alice remarked with a scoff.

"Young lady, that man has done me a great dishonour, I rode with all my speed and struck with all my might and that man held back," Eyck explained.

"Why did you fight?" Rhaenyra asked.

"He defends that bridge and blocks its way for good decent travellers," Eyck said.

"Perhaps we might speak with him," Tyrion said.

"Hmm, perhaps you might miss your chance," Eyck said, pointing to the bridge.

Another knight was riding by, looking to the knight across the bridge. They discussed something in silence, a few simple words to establish the challenge. Then the challenger rode onto the grass, coming off of his horse and drawing his sword. He was praying something silently, a long process it seems as Tyrion rolled his eyes and trotted to the bridge with Jon. The dark knight raised his head, his body betraying his surprise over the fact Jon and Tyrion were riding goats.

"A fine morning ser," the dwarf of Castlyrock said.

"Indeed," the knight said, lifting up his visor and revealing a man's handsome face.

"Why do you block this bridge?" Jon asked.

"Beyond it lies a bountiful land, but a simple one with simple peace loving folk, already it has suffered because people have tried and failed to take from them," the knight explained.

"Beyond that land lies the North, which is not a bountiful place," Jon said.

"Regardless of their own troubles, it does not give them the right to steal from others. The North entrance to that place has its own protector, who drives away your great Northern lords not with steel but words," the knight stated and Tyrion raised his brow in surprise.

"He negotiates?" he asked.

"He sings," the knight smirked.

"We would pass, our journey is one of importance to the realm, to the world, the people of the land you protect are included in that, to block our way is to side with the very monsters that are butchering this new world," Jon explained.

"Who do we address ser, and by whose authority to you elect yourself defender of this bridge?" Tyrion asked.

"I am Lancelot Du Lac, and I have yet to find a king worthy of my sword," the knight said.

"A wild boast, you lack the humility of a knight," Eyck called out from across the bridge.

"Not a boast ser, but a curse, for I have never met my match in joust or duel," Lancelot said.

"Let us pass," Jon said.

"You stand in the way of prince Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, king of the seven kingdoms and protector of all lands that have become our Westeros," Tyrion explained.

"I will not stand aside, turn away prince, or prove yourself in the test of arms under the eyes of God," Lancelot said.

Jon brought his hand to the sword he had found in the Troll's cave, the sword whose twin was held by Rhaenyra. Before he could fully touch the handle though, a voice sounded from behind them.

"For kingdom and glory!"

Jon's party, Ser Eyck included, looked at the challenger who rose with his sword held high for a moment. Ser Eyck shook his head, rubbing his face in embarrassment as the 'knight' mounted his horse. Tyrion and Jon galloped out of the way as the challenger began to ride hard. Lancelot's horse snarled, the knight soothingly rubbed the animal's side. He remained that way as the challenger rode towards him, pointing his sword forward. Gripping both reins, Lancelot pulled on his horse's head. The great black steed stood on its hind legs, roaring like a demon. The opposing horse turned at the last moment and the challenger was left at the mercy of the black horse's hooves. Struck hard in the face by the horse, he was launched off of his own mount. His head landed first against the grass, clicking back unnaturally, his death cry silenced. Rhaenyra and Alice looked at the results of the 'match' in horror, the princess gulping hard to resist the bile in her mouth. She also faced the memory of her brother Baelon's tourney, imagining as her knight Ser Criston fought to impress her, whilst her mother screamed in labour.

"A joke of a knight," Ser Eyck said, looking at the challenger's corpse in disdain.

"Well I suppose that settles that, we'll take the long way," Tyrion said.

"I'll challenge him," Jon said.

"Do you have some other information that informs that decision?" Tyrion asked. "Because just after we both witnessed an older, more experienced and tested knight admit that he couldn't beat this man, we've also seen him completely destroy ser 'Kingdomgloryalot' or whoever that man just was."

"Perfect control of his horse," Jon said.

"I beg your pardon!"

"He knows his horse, he can calm it with a touch, and it responds to him, even kills for him, I'll challenge him to a match off a horse," Jon explained.

"And you think you'll do better, he has full plate, you do not, you've watched melees, armour makes a person slow, but not 'that' slow, he will kill you," Tyrion explained.

"He claims to be an honourable knight, so I'll make him face me in an even match, no armour, just swords," Jon stated.

Tyrion groaned in frustration as Jon rode across the bridge.

"Sir Lancelot, I challenge you to single combat, first blood drawn above the torso, your sword against mine, do you accept this as an acceptable challenge for my party and I to pass?" Jon asked.

"Under the grounds that you will simply pass through this land, but know this, I protect their borders, but they are willing to protect their own land, their is a strength in them you should be careful not to underestimate," Lancelot explained.

"On the honour of House Targaryen and House Stark, I will simply pass through and not interfere with the lives of those who live beyond this bridge, this I swear upon the old gods of my mother and the new gods my father has sworn to," Jon vowed.

"Then I swear to god that if you cut me once I will allow you to pass unimpeded," Lancelot said.

Both climbed off of their mounts, Jon waited as the man removed his sword belt and began the process of removing his armour. Each plate hit the grass, his helmet came off and the women saw his face. Rhaenyra had seen many a knight she could call handsome, Lancelot was perhaps the handsomest of them all. He removed his tunic and revealed a body that had only one scar. It was an old wound on his belly, a stab scar, his muscles though were toned and hardened by continuous battle and manual work. Jon responded in kind, taking off his cloak and doublet, removing the under shirt and dumping it. Rhaenyra saw that though time in the training yard had strengthened Jon, he was still smaller compared to his opponent. Lancelot was no 'Mountain who rides' but he was still taller than Jon and other knights Rhaenyra had met.

Jon drew his sword and felt a surge of energy rush through him. He imagined flipping the sword in his hand, pointing the blade at his heart. Then he lowered his body down onto the blade, feeling it sting his flesh.

"Prince," Lancelot's voice cut through the vision.

He looked at the knight, as if waking up from a long sleep. Lancelot brought his sword up, one hand on his hip as he pointed the blade at Jon.

"En garde," he said.

Jon struck first, swinging his sword at the knight. Lancelot parried, following up with a slow swing at Jon's nose. It was one Jon was able to dodge before he stumbled back, dodging a lunge and swinging his sword around to parry another follow up strike. Lancelot swung his sword, only to pull a feint, shifting his legs and knees, 'weaving' his body to dodge Jon's attempt to cut him. He grabbed Jon's sword hand, dropping his own sword Arondight to catch it with his other hand. It was a move Lancelot quickly performed, grabbing the guard of Jon's sword by crossing his hand over. The move was too fast for Jon to process really, even too fast for those watching besides Ser Eyck. He was familiar with the move, shifting your sword between each hand and utilising the enemy's confusion. Jon felt the sting across his shoulder as Lancelot slashed him. It wasn't a deep cut, just enough to make Jon's right arm bleed.

"There, it's done," Lancelot said.

Rhaenyra widened her eyes as Jon swung his sword at Lancelot again. Gripping the handle with both hands, Jon began hacking like a madman at the knight. Though there was caution on Lancelot's face, each step he took was careful. He grabbed the Jon's arms, pulling him forward and tripping him. Jon rolled across the floor, immediately rushing at Lancelot again.

"You're rage has unbalanced you," the knight said.

"Drink," Jon heard a voice whisper to him.

"Drink upon those unjustly slain, upon Beleg, upon Brandir, then let me drink upon thy own blood, slay unjustly and become Turin Turambar!"

"JON!" Tyrion yelled out.

"He is possessed, unless he lacks a knight's honour," Ser Eyck said.

"You would fight to the death prince, against a knight who is not your enemy, for a stretch of road you could easily ride around, are you worthy of the name?" Lancelot asked.

"GURTHANG!" Jon yelled.

"Fall upon me unworthy master, let me drink thy blood and spare you the torment and failure. You second Turin Turambar, who will love his own kin, who will fail to save her, who in seeking glory will lead her to death. Thy path is the path of tragedy, thy end will be one of blood, Dragon-Wolf!"

"NO!"

He felt arms around him, pulling his arms apart. Rhaenyra was at her side, her hand on the blade of Jon's sword. Tyrion was at his back, pulling at his arm with Alice. The sword was pulled from Jon's grip from none other than Lancelot. He threw the sword into the lake and then turned to Jon and his party. Lancelot let out a sigh as Jon began to wake up, the boy retreating slightly from Rhaenyra's attempt to touch his cheek. The knight knelt at Jon's level, leaning against Arondight.

"There is a good fighter in you boy, perhaps a good knight, perhaps a leader too, are you going to temper that potential?" Lancelot asked.

"The sword, it was..."

"Foul magic," Ser Eyck finished for Jon.

"It was magic, there was a curse behind it, or perhaps the blade itself was sick and in need of healing, something to be fixed rather than cast aside," Lancelot mused.

"Well ser, we have lost, ergo we shall seek another path," Tyrion said.

"You called your prince Jon, what is your true name?" Lancelot asked.

"My father named me for a granduncle, my mother gave me the name of my uncle's foster father, I bear both in honour of them," Jon said.

Lancelot hummed as he stood.

"Go with the blessings of your gods prince, remember there is more than just the Targaryen rule in this new world," Lancelot said.

Jon rose, rubbing his eyes and turning away from his companions embarrassed. The knight Lancelot remained on the other side of the bridge, raising his hand in a parting wave. Through the forest Jon's company continued, alongside the knight Ser Eyck.

"You are on a mission of importance from your king, is it to fight these monsters that plague this new world?" Eyck asked.

"Yes, we'll need good men to help us who will be rewarded befitting their service," Tyrion said.

"Stay your attempts to impress me, if the cause is worthy then that is all a knight needs," Ser Eyck said.

"For kingdom and glory," Alice chuckled.

"Nay, a kingdom changes day by day, the law is another matter entirely, but a knight's duty is to serve the realm he rides through and that is what I shall do, glory will come with righteous acts, which themselves deserve no reward," Ser Eyck explained.

"You work for free?" Jon asked.

"Well, expenses and lodging provided I'd imagine," Tyrion said.

"It is a knight's duty to fight for a righteous cause."

"But a righteous cause can be ever changing, a thief wants to feed his family, a lord wants to protect his property, so obviously you'll side with the lord won't you?" Alice asked.

"I agree, too many knights speak of honour, but still they have the hearts of men," Rhaenyra said.

"That knight, Lancelot," Jon mumbled.

"Is no true knight, mark my words there is something dark and unnatural about that man," Eyck said.

"He seemed sad," Jon said.

Rhaenyra nodded, sensing herself a melancholy from the knight.

"You claim Ser that a knight fights for a worthy cause, what could be more worthy than protecting simple folk from those who would exploit them?" she asked and Eyck lowered his head in silence.

"Simple folk from a place where crops are plentiful, is it just to horde that whilst others starve, there may come a time my lady when we must take from this place of abundance," Tyrion explained.

They rode for miles along the lake that had formed around the new patch of land. In the distance they could see the farm land, rows of grain, cabbage patches, carrots and cows. Rhaenyra stopped, laughing in astonishment as she saw the people farming the lands.

"They look like children," she remarked.

Tyrion huffed, their height comparable to his, but their stride was far different. These 'half folk' wore no shoes but were not bothered by the dirt upon their feet. He focused away from the people across the lake and to the prince he travelled with. Throughout their ride, Jon truly looked like his father with the melancholic look he bore for much of the time. When night came to pass and Alice prepared the fire, he saw Jon looking at the other sword they had taken from the troll cave, the sword comparable to ice in how light it's blade seemed.

"I remember when my brother lost a match," Tyrion mused, going over to where Jon was sitting and throwing a wine skin to him.

"I thought he picked his opponent's well," Jon retorted and Tyrion laughed.

"I've never betted against my brother, even in his earliest days fighting in Tourneys," he said.

Jon shook his head and tried to rub the tiredness out of his eyes.

"I was prepared to kill that man, even though the deal had been made," Jon said.

"You may have to double cross someone eventually," Tyrion said.

"I don't think that man would have deserved it though," Jon remarked and Tyrion shook his head.

"Do you think only the people who deserved to be betrayed get betrayed, I once put shit in my uncle Tygett's boots, I blamed the squire and the poor boy was flogged. One of my aunt's handmaidens would bathe in a lake, the boy that I was would take her clothes and watch her walk back to camp, tits bouncing as she cried," Tyrion explained.

"Can you get to the point?" Jon asked.

"I once's milked my eel into a pot of turtle stew..."

"You what?" Jon raised his eyebrows in shock.

"Made the bald man cry, into the turtle stew, which I do believe my sister ate, oh, that's actually a poor example of the point I'm trying to make. Think back to what I told you about the first woman I ever loved," Tyrion frowned at Jon for a moment.

Jon lowered his head, disappointed with himself before he looked at Tyrion with apologetic eyes.

"I killed my own mother the day I was born, and since then my father and sister have hated me, even as a malformed child they hated me. You believe your mother died for her sins? Bad things happen and they are not always just, they are not always fair, for centuries we've cut off the hands of men who sought only to feed their families, or cut the tongues out of people, not because they were liars, but because we feared what they had to say," Tyrion explained.

"It's the way of things," Jon said.

"It is, and if you are going to take up the responsibility of a lord, a commander, or if the gods have willed it, however unlikely, the responsibility of a king you will have to get used to these things happening to people, to making these things happen to people yourself," Tyrion said.

"But what if you could make a new way?"

The two men looked towards Rhaenyra. She came over to them, carrying her sword, bandages around her hands, her cloak and shirt gone for a vest and loose hair. Clearly she had been in a lake herself, frantically washing away the dye in her hair. Some dark patches were still left, enough to give her hair an almost blonde appearance.

"What if you could change the way things are?" she asked.

"You'd have more than one world fighting against you now," Jon said dismissively.

"The realm's delight, who delighted the realm with lies to keep her power," Tyrion said and bowed his head as Rhaenyra glared at him. "Do not mistake me my lady, I'm not judging you for what you have done in another life, we play the game, if you don't win, you die, there is no middle ground," he spoke without malice, rather a concern that seemed almost like that of a friend.

She supposed that the dwarf and Jon were friends, both children with their own inner torment. Rhaenyra wanted that friendship too, going over to Jon as he stood up with his sword in hand.

"Can you teach me?" she asked.

"Valyrian, can you teach me?" he asked back.

Rhaenyra nodded her head, drawing her sword from its sheath. Jon looked at her for a moment, the way her legs were positioned, how she was holding the blade. All of it was wrong, so he walked to her side and put his hand to her legs.

"Change your footing," he said when she gave him a teasing look.

She allowed him to move her legs, leaning slightly towards him as he worked. Jon put his hands over hers, moving her hands over the handle of the sword. Then he adjusted her elbows, touching her arms and moving them. It was almost like a dance, Rhaenyra looked at him as he turned her hips. She tilted her head slightly, drifting closer towards him.

"That's a better stance, you're less likely to get knocked down and you can parry quicker," Jon said.

He stepped back, turning away from Rhaenyra.

"You could teach me something about Valyrian tomorrow, I'm tired right now," he said.

In truth the words of Gurthang ringed through his mind as he slept. He knew there was a bond developing between he and Rhaenyra, he had rarely contemplated the nature of Targaryen relationships before. At the forefront of his mind, rather than the truth of who Rhaenyra was to him as family, was the possibility this new world offered, of prophecies coming true and as Jon's own family history had told him, the great tragedies that could be born from love.

Far, Far away

Aragorn felt the sea breeze and thought of his ancestors, sailors and lords of Numenor. He thought of the struggle of his people when Numenor fell, exploring a new land and establishing homes. Numenor was to many an example of hubris and corruption, a scary story to remind others never to trust evil. But it was still a home to others and as the waves crashed against the ship, he thought of everything else the new world had to offer. The captain of the vessel carrying them was kind enough to offer help, to offer transport to the place West of Essos. Legolas walked up behind Aragorn, his elf eyes narrowing at something in the distance. The wind seemed stronger in that moment, sweeping through hair, altering the course of the ship slightly.

Then they saw it, the dragon, Gimli's grip on his axe tightened as the red creature swooped over them.

Whilst from the window of his castle, Daemon looked at the ship that had caught Caraxes's interest and smirked, more visitors.

Next Chapter 20: Three kings

Chapter Text

A Grimm Rhapsody of Blight and Shadows

Chapter 20: Three Kings

Joramun, legendary first King-Beyond-the-wall, he who worked with the King of Winter, Brandon the Breaker to defeat the Night’s king. Brothers Gendel and Gorne, joint kings who even killed a Stark king until the surviving Stark’s routed them. The Horned Lord who was said to have used magic, Baelor the Bard who was killed by his own son, who in turn was skinned by Boltons, and Raymund Redbeard who breached the wall only to be defeated by the Starks and Umbers.

As a bard himself, Mance knew that the songs behind these men were greater than they themselves. He was King Beyond the wall, and suspected one day a song would be sung of his rise from a child of Wildling raiders, raised by the Night’s Watch. Yet he was still just a man, who tired of the constricting duty of the Night’s Watch and sought out Freedom. He walked into his tent, carrying the meal he and his wife would eat. Dalla looked up from the fire, carrying his child, she was a good and wise woman but Mance enjoyed the company of other Wildling women.

“He is growing strong?” he asked, rubbing the woman’s belly.

“Strong and impatient. And hungry,” she added.

“Then best eat something before Tormund arrives,” Mance said and she smiled.

Tormund had been a rival for the title King Beyond the Wall, but had become one of Mance’s most valuable lieutenants. It was an army they had built from many Wildling tribes, all desperate enough to try to escape the winter to come. The red-haired man savagely chewed the rabbit meat that night as he and Mance spoke of the events taking place beyond the wall.

“That cunt Craster is dead,” Tormund said and Mance looked at him in surprise.

The Night’s Watch called the man’s home Craster’s keep, yet it was no castle, large enough to house a man and his daughter-wives. Craster was like Mance a bastard of the Night’s Watch and the Freefolk, chased away by the Watch and blessed to get his own land in the haunted forest. He had been afforded some leniency by both Free Folk and Night’s Watch, it was the forest itself the Free Folk feared. Craster worshipped gods long considered fairy tales by those South of the Wall. His fortune had come from the worship of those gods.

“What happened?” Mance asked.

“As you know he gives shelter to anyone who will pay the right price, fucking crows are always giving him wine and shiny things so he can pretend to be a southern lord. According to his daughter-wives he welcomed a man into his home, a man who gave him a shiny little crown so he could act like a king. The man slept in Craster’s ditch and said not two words to the daughter fucker or his spawn. But then one of Craster’s daughter-wives gave birth,” Tormund explained.

“A boy,” Mance said and Tormund nodded.

“The daughter fucker walked into the forest with his ‘gods’ offering, and then his guest followed, and that guest came back with the child and no Craster,” Tormund said with a grin.

“He killed him?” Mance asked.

“A few of us braved the woods, we found old Craster, all two of him, crawling on the ground,” Tormund laughed as he bit into his meat.

“Cut in two was he, I’m trusting the top half didn’t give you trouble,” Mance said.

“There’s the thing, he’d been cut right down the middle,” Tormund said.

Mance imagined it, the man Craster had welcomed into his home following the man as he carried his child. Perhaps the guest saw exactly what Craster was planning on sacrificing the boy to. Then Mance corrected his ideas, of course the man did not know. Unless there were the remains of one of the Others there.

“Was there any sign of the Others?” Mance asked.

“We assumed as much considering Craster was still crawling, we lit a fire to finish him off. His children-wives didn’t stop us,” Tormund said.

Mance continued, his old bard mind conjuring the story of that man wading into the night after the creature that was Craster. Whoever this man had been, he obviously wielded a sword quite capable of cutting through another man’s skull and bones.

“What of the boy?” Dalla asked.

“We spoke to Craster’s children-wives, the guest took the boy, he came back to Craster’s hut and standing in the middle of them he asked them how many of them were dead? ‘Who amongst you tried to stop him? Are any of you injured? Are any bleeding? Are any dead? Who amongst you tried to stop him from murdering this child?’ and of course none of the wives could answer. ‘Cowards, all of you outnumbered him, all of you outnumber me now and yet none of you have tried to take the child back’ or so they said, words might have been different. The man walked off with the child into the night, said none of the women deserved their children,” Tormund explained.

“Did they say anything of what the man himself looked like?” Mance asked.

“Oh that they remembered, could have been a boy or a girl, or just a very pretty man ‘oh the most beautiful man I’d ever seen’ they said. But you know Craster’s lot, I’ve seen Fenn lads prettier than them. They said his hair was long like the shining gold the Crow’s would give Craster, that he wore armour, a fur cloak and a sword. But when he came out of the forest with the babe in his arms he wore the helmet of a demon,” Tormund explained.

“So it is him, the man slaying Night Watchmen and Freefolk alike,” Mance muttered.

“The one who proclaims himself, a king’s Dread,” Dalla said.

Mance nodded in agreement with his woman. What he did not admit was that dreams of this knight with a horned helmet had haunted him, ever since the day he had found them all on a field. The great spiders that the Others rode had been felled, legs and bodies cut apart. Even groups of the living dead were reduced to bits, all by one man. For Mance saw him night after night in his dreams as he saw him in that moment, a knight upon a hilltop, cloak flying in the blizzard, eyes glowing red through the storm.

And then he would hear that mantra:

“Three nations to rise and vie for power over the new world, three heroes who will stand against the great darkness, three knights who will fight for the future, three kings, three kings, three kings who will be saved, three kings who will die, three kings who will rise, one king to kneel, one king to fall, one king to rule them all,” the words sounded like utter nonsense to the guards who had been posted outside of the broken kings cell.

To Keili though there was sense to what he said. As a devote Andrastian and follower of the Chant of Light, she knew the history of Thedas and its connection to Andraste, bride of the Maker who opposed the Tevinter Imperium that once dominated much of Thedas. The Imperium was ruled by mages, magic was valued as much as noble names, land and coin. They practised blood magic, a dark and twisted school of spells that morphed the flesh and mind alike. They practised slavery and the trading of them. They created the Blight and the Darkspawn, through their reckless use of magic breaching the Maker’s golden city and incurring his wroth. But of all their crimes, it was their corruption of the Chant that was the most unforgivable of crimes. They altered the words to suit their own needs, made men the Divine, the dark divines whom ruled over the Imperium. It was their actions that drove humanity further from the Maker’s grace and for that Keili could not forgive them.

‘The new world they call this place, it is a punishment, a culmination of all our sins,’ she thought.

The Fifth Blight that ravaged Ferelden, people were wrong to hope, this Keili knew. She knew Daylen Amell, faithless, proud of his magic, too proud to believe that he could be a hero. Keili’s country suffered for it, her home, the Circle tower on Lake Calenhad burned with the fires of Senior enchanter Uldred’s rebellion. Daylen came as a saviour, yet led those who lived through Uldred’s madness to an even greater danger. The Darkspawn burned Denerim and toppled the tower, and Daylen failed to stop them. He took into his camp and made friends of Qunari Heathens, Apostate Witches, Drunken dwarves, Dwarven golem abominations, Assassins and spies. Even Wynn, Senior enchanter of the tower, had been corrupted by his choices and actions. They said that Daylen had found the ashes of Andraste and healed the wounds of Arl Eamon, yet Keili suspected there was more to it, far more than what anyone cared to admit in the story.

‘They will know you to be the reason we are here,’ Keili thought.

“He who has the hands of the healer, shall heal the land,” Brann the broken said.

The hooded man watched his fellow Fereldan’s, youths who had seen too few winters, training with someone equally as young. Duncan though was taller than most adults the hooded man, known to his companions as Levyn. Underneath the hood, Levyn had a rough beard and shaved dark hair, a look he didn’t consider his. Still, it served its purpose as with trembling hands, he used the blue glow of his creation magic to heal the cuts of those still undergoing treatment.

“Bless you ser,” the boy he treated said.

The child nestled close to his mother, who whispered her own thanks to Levyn. Looking again to the training yard, Levyn watched as Duncan brought his blunted sword to the neck of one of his trainees.

“Shield, use your shield, it’s for more than just protection,” he said, speaking like a Templar scolding recruits.

There were a few Templars still there, Caroll who formerly guarded the docks for the Calenhad circle. Levyn remembered the man being friendly; bored with his job, there was a haunted expression on his face whenever Levyn passed him. He didn’t know if the Templar simply didn’t care enough to recognise him, or was genuinely fooled by his change of hair, Caroll had always been a bit absent minded like that. Ten templars mounted the walls, alongside Daemon’s household guard of fifty men. The greatest defence the island seemed to have was its dragons. Every night the refugees could hear them, their cries almost melancholic, filled with a childlike confusion that the people shared. Humans who had never seen elves before balked at the sight of them, for these humans were native to Westeros and not familiar with elves or the kind of dwarves that Levyn knew.

The red dragon Caraxes circled the castle again, and roared, a warning, there was another ship nearby. Levyn saw a few of the men at the watch tower point out towards the coast. The gates opened as some of the men prepared horses. Someone else was perhaps coming to shore, someone the red dragon deemed worthy of approaching the island.

The captain offered Aragorn and his companions a row boat. Gimli heaved as Guan Yu pulled on the oars, the big man’s powerful arms easily carrying them across the waves.

“Dwarves are used to the countryside, most adept on the mountains and at home underground, we were never meant for the sea,” the son of Gloin said.

“A great many things have happened that were not meant to my friend, we’ve all had to adapt,” Legolas said.

“I thought such was the case, that I was never meant to part with my brothers, yet here we are,” Guan Yu said.

“Here we’re going,” Harding said brightly and cheerfully.

“Much too cheerful and charming,” Gimli grumbled.

“I didn’t grow up in an underground Thaig Lord Gimli, by the standards of both your Dwarves and mine, I’m more elflike, or at least the standards of your elves,” Harding chuckled.

“You are more familiar with trees than stone, tuned to nature and at peace on the road,” Legolas summarised and Harding nodded.

“Our lives are too short to not find something to enjoy, or to think of as ‘our place’,” she said.

“Such feelings are not dependent upon a life span Lady Harding, one can live more in a year than a decade depending on where they go and what they do. Even elves can only live so long, loving one person forever,” Aragorn explained.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that kind of love before, and please call me Lace or Harding,” she said.

“Very well lady Lace,” Aragorn smirked, making Harding laugh.

They reached the beach just as riders reached it to. The armoured men got into a loose and lazy formation; the man at the front was thinner than the others and paler too. His gold cloak hung loosely off of his shoulder, and his white hair was slightly hidden by the helmet he wore.

“Do you bear soldiers or refugees?” he asked as Aragorn walked ahead of the group.

“Travellers, seeking the mainland, we only wish to rest, to restock supplies ideally and to trade information if it helps one another,” Aragorn said.

“And who are you, dressed so raggedly, a ruffian, a rogue, we have our fill of rogues on this island, Daemon Targaryen, a cunt of a rogue who spends his days drinking my wine and spending my gold,” the rider explained and the riders behind him laughed.

“Then if information I have collected is true, it is an honour to meet you Prince Daemon,” Aragorn bowed, an action his companions followed without question.

“Who are you?” Daemon asked as he lifted off his helmet.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, with me are Gimli son of Gloin, Legolas Prince of Mirkwood, Lace Harding of Ferelden and Yunchang of the Xie county,” Aragorn stated, Guan Yu smiling slightly as Aragorn pronounced his courtesy name and home with little difficulty.

Daemon climbed off of his horse, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked at the man leading them. Though dressed roughly, he recognised the air of nobility in Aragorn, a princely stance beyond how he kept his hair or clothes. The man himself too had the respect of his peers, this Daemon saw in how the four others responded to Aragorn and allowed him to speak for them with no complaint. They were to Aragorn what the men who Daemon trained in King’s Landings City Watch were to him, allies for life, willing to fight and to die at his command and to praise and defend his actions no matter what.

“I was king Daemon, despite what the histories some remember say, I am not of this place as you are not of this place, come, eat my bread and salt and be welcome, and we will discuss what we can do for one another, Prince Aragorn, royalty recognises royalty,” Daemon said when he saw the shocked reactions of Aragorn’s companions.

Walking along the beautifully constructed path to the keep, Daemon smiled at the shock of his guests as Caraxes flew by.

“There are other dragons here?” Gimli asked, and Daemon heard the anger in the Dwarves voice, assumed it wasn’t the man’s default state and spoke of a more personal problem with dragons.

“Many, many waiting to awaken as well,” Daemon lied.

There were dragons yet to be claimed, but the majority of the eggs were petrified. Daemon had a few dragon keepers killed for suggesting that there was something the dragons feared worse than their own, and that was why the dragon’s hid. Caraxes answered to Daemon, sharing his courage and his disdain for the new world.

“The dragons we know of are not beasts to be tamed, they possess a human intelligence and often a malevolent intent,” Aragorn said, speaking it not as some zealot spreading a default belief on dragons but simply exchanging information.

“I’ve heard of Smaug the stupendous, our dragons have an intellect, yet they answer to us, for we share in their blood,” Daemon said, looking over his shoulder at his guests with a warning eye.

A warning, I too am a dragon, and you cannot understand me. He noted the perkiness of the red-haired dwarf lady and how she scoffed.

“No disrespect to you your majesty, but in my experience people can claim to be a lot of things, it takes action to prove one has the blood of a dragon,” she said.

“I too share this belief,” Guan Yu said.

“The term if you are to meet with Westerosi monarchs is your grace, and maybe you’re right, maybe I am just a man, or maybe in my absence, Caraxes will become something much worse, for you,” Daemon added with a warning tone.

“You allowed other refugees here?” Aragorn asked.

“For a price, one that has yet to be paid,” Daemon said.

“What price was it?” Legolas asked.

“Nothing you’d need concern yourself with,” Daemon said.

When they saw the castle, Daemon knew that some of them had seen better. Yet they showed the respect and appreciation for their host’s home that was expected. Upon opening the gates, guards with bows and arrows stood at the ready, spearmen lined up with shields and watched the four strangers walk alongside the prince and his bodyguards. When Daemon ruled his Westeros, his kingsguard fell one by one, those who were loyal to the end at least. In that end he dissolved the Kings Guard, deeming that they themselves were too open to corruption. Information from those who passed by in the new world told Daemon he had been right, a mad king felled because of a rat in a lion’s mane, that cunt Criston Cole crowning Otto’s grandson king whilst Daemon’s brother’s body had been denied Valyrian rights along with his will.

The kitchen’s prepared a modest feast, salted meats and wine, though Aragorn drank water as Daemon expected. He suspected the man could hold his liquor, but both needed clear minds for the talks ahead. Guan Yu, or Yunchang as Daemon knew him as parted with his weapon, though not even the strongest of Daemon’s men could lift it. They stood guard over the unique polearm as much as they watched Daemon’s guests. The dark and dreary lighting of Dragonstone offered little in homely comfort, but the guests seemed to appreciate the respite and food. Daemon would not show them the map Aegon made, and there had yet to be a map prepared of the new world, so he used an old man as a basis for their negotiations.

“Provided the weather treats you well it’ll be a week’s journey to King’s landing, I however would request that you go, southward to where I hear a second Dragonstone is,” Daemon said.

“A second Dragonstone?” Aragorn repeated in shock.

“I do not know the king who sits the iron throne now; he could be my brother Viserys, my niece Rhaenyra, an ancestor or descendant, or perhaps not a Targaryen at all. What I know is that no dragons fly in the second Dragonstone, yet it has more soldiers, more to offer, do not mistake me, I wish you to go there not to help you, but to lay the foundations of something,” Daemon explained.

As if by Daemon’s design, Aegon walked into the room with Duncan beside him. The taller knight looked at the guards who had escorted them, analysing the ways he could kill each one in the absence of his sword.

“The Targaryens rule Westeros, that much I believe with certainty, without us the seven kingdoms would have remained divided. I offer what I have heard many lack in this new world,” Daemon said.

“A dragon,” Aragorn determined.

“So we are to be your heralds are we?” Gimli asked.

“Diplomats of a potential alliance between your lands and mine, whomever rules over them, there are darker things than the ambitions of men,” Daemon said.

“That we are agreed on, a dragon can be used to terrible affect, on both enemy and ally alike,” Aragorn said.

“I know ally from enemy,” Daemon retorted.

“Fire doesn’t distinguish between friend and foe,” Aragorn countered.

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” Daemon said.

“Convenient for you, not for us,” Aragorn followed up and the rogue prince laughed.

“Raids, strafing, scouting, I offer wings to traverse the skies and fire to burn enemy encampments and formations,” he said.

“And what can we offer in return?” Aragorn asked the question, refreshing Daemon with the desire to know what some players of the game often didn’t consider first.

He stood, walking across the room and looking at Aegon.

“On a personal note, I wish to know my kin, of the worlds of Westeros I have not seen or heard whispers of. I failed as a king, I wish to know of how others did, my kin Lord Aragorn is out there, I wish to…”

The rogue prince stopped, narrowing his eyes as he looked to the window.

He grabbed his sword from the table and stormed off, walking with a few of his guards, Aragorn and Duncan following behind him. Legolas and Gimli fell behind, ready to protect their friend if anything went wrong, whilst Harding bowed to the shorter Egg’s level.

“You’re related to him in some way, aren’t you?” she asked and smiled as the boy looked at her in shock. “I can see some of the roots of your hair, your eyes give it away as well, it’s okay, we’re hoping to be friends, we just want to help people,” she explained.

Daemon made his way to the watch tower, looking out at the coast and seeing the ships. Some were grotesque, mockeries of what humans made, others bore the banners of Ironborn houses.

“Corsairs,” Aragorn identified the others.

“An invasion force, likely making its way to King’s landing, they’ll split to try and take…” Daemon paused again, his eyes growing wide, more colour draining from his face.

He saw the distant flap of wings, wings that were not Caraxes’s. Daemon knew many dragons, but he did not recognise the dragons flying around the enemy fleet.

“What, what’s happening?” Gimli asked, trying to jump so he could see over the walls.

“Dragons, smaller than Caraxes, but there’s more,” Legolas said.

“What do your elf eyes see Legolas?” Aragorn asked.

“He can see even further than us?” Duncan asked.

“Silence knight, tell me elf what you see,” Daemon said.

“Ships, not Orc, not Corsair, not Ironborn either, they have nests on them, nests for dragons, there is a similarity in design, banners I don’t recognise, bats, some dragons, I think they may all be from the same lands,” Legolas explained.

“They could not be,” Daemon shook his head.

“What is it?” Aragorn asked.

“I must find out, they will split their fleet to take Dragonstone, your friends on the ship, are they fighters too?” Daemon asked.

“They are, are you prepared for a siege?”

“How good are you at preparing a castle for one?”

The rogue prince asked a question with an answer that came almost immediately. Aragorn walked onto the castle grounds, whistling to catch everyone’s attention.

“An army is coming towards Dragonstone, we do not yet know their intention but we must be ready to defend this place if they do, Prince Daemon is already moving to determine the origin of these ships, we will help you all to prepare,” the ranger described.

The red dragon flew over the ship that had carried Aragorn and his group to Dragonstone. Daemon smiled as the panicked crew tensed, spears and harpoons at the ready, a pretty little man in white armour knocked back his bow whilst a Dothraki with cut hair raised his Arakh. Caraxes nestled on the end of the ship, nearly tipping it over as Daemon looked on the crew like the king he was. He raised his eyebrows in curiosity, hearing the slightest chime of bells. A man of the same race as Yunchang walked forward past the crew members, each step he took made the bells on his belt ring. His exposed arms and shoulders showed the tattoos of dragons that lacked wings, a cutlass was strapped to his belt and the man wore a feather in his bandanna. Daemon tossed the item Aragorn had given him, one that would confirm their allegiance. The captain grabbed the silver necklace, the Evenstar.

“I am Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, and I have seen a terrible army approaching, your passenger Aragorn, son of Arathorn stands ready to defend Dragonstone, but he would also demand that back when you are finished defending it,” Daemon explained.

Still looking at the silver necklace and the cracks across its once beautiful surface, the captain of the ship walked towards the starboard side. He leant against the side, looking out towards the incoming ships. The man huffed, turning with a jiggle of the bells on his belt to the prince.

“I am XingBa of the Linjiang county, Gan Ning of the bells, you have yourself a ship, if you want to protect your castle then I would request one thing besides keeping those winged lizards off of us,” the captain explained.

“And what would that be?” Daemon asked.

“A strong wind your lordship,” the captain grinned.

Merlin stood away from the exchange, watching the fallen king carefully. For a moment, Caraxes seemed to look in the blue wizard’s direction. As opposed to quivering as most of the men, even Gan Ning himself, Merlin smiled at the beast. Daemon felt Caraxes pull against him, a wave of fear rushing through the dragon and to its rider. He cooed, touching the red scales softly and whispering Valyrian words to calm his mount. Daemon looked in the direction Caraxes had been looking and saw no sign of the blue wizard. The air rushed against Gan Ning’s ship, making the wood tremble and sails swell from the dragon’s take off. Closer Daemon flew to the split fleet of ships, with sails Daemon recognised from books and stories told to him by his parents. The story was of their ancestor and the land they came from, the Great Valyria, an empire of dragon riders and old magic where the rules of society did not apply because the lords of Valyria possessed the blood of dragons. Armour, banners, even ships, Daemon could admit he did not have a Maestar’s intellect or expertise but he had pride in his Valyrian history.

The Valyrian Freehold was coming for Westeros.

About twenty-three men in Fleabottom came forward, a hundred more had to be dragged out by the City Guard or ‘Gold cloaks’ as Cullen heard them get called. Those City Guards were led by a man named Janos Slynt, a stout man with a build that indicated he enjoyed fine meals more than joining his men on patrol. Even his armour was more showy, fine plate but expensive when duller looking armour would be more practical. Suffice to say Cullen didn’t like the man, contrasting him to his Knight-Commander Greagoir, whom though severe was every bit the fighter he expected his men to be. Of the hundred men were thirty criminals from the cells, thieves who preferred ‘the Wall’ to losing a hand, a couple of rapists who also didn’t want something else chopped off. Most were too thin or too sick, too young or too old.

‘Is he keeping the better conscripts here to protect the city?’ Cullen wondered if Slynt was that smart, he certainly showed he was that malicious.

“A sorry lot, better to freeze at the wall than to dirty the streets here,” he said, pinching his nose in disgust as he shoved a boy into the line of conscripts.

“The place already smells of shite,” Hook muttered.

Those who volunteered again were either too old or too young, both for different reasons hoping to experience an adventure. Some were a little too enthusiastic for glory, Cullen even noted a few that were probably looking for a righteous way to kill. He’d seen it on the eyes of fellow Knight-Recruits when he left his family’s farm, those men and women who wanted the power that armour, a sword and a symbol like the banner of the Templar order could offer. They wanted to bully, to possess authority over another, either having suffered under it or yearned for it due to circumstance or ambition. Some volunteers Cullen struggled to see the use in.

“Oh a fighter, me, oh my no good ser, definitely not,” Jaskier, Dandelion Cullen had heard some call him.

The Bard sheepishly rubbed the back of his head as he walked with Cullen to the barracks given to the conscript force. Older Templars were laying out chainmail shirts and coats of arms or looking over the equipment given by the city guard, blades that needed to be sharpened or just thrown away.

“People will need to know of the exploits of this army and what’s happening elsewhere, that’s where I will succeed in,” Jaskier said.

“But you do know how to fight yes?” Cullen asked.

“Well I prefer running from husband’s demanding duels, I’d rather be considered Craven than dead, or a murderer, pleasure isn’t worth dying for or even killing you understand ser. I’m no great fighter but I have faced dangerous situations before and ensured those I’ve travelled with have come out alive. I can though introduce you to a great fighter though,” Jaskier explained.

They came to the drunk man, tall with his weapon leaning against the wall. To Zhang Fei’s credit the wine smell that permeated him last night was not there now. Cullen curiously watched the man, seeing a focus and accuracy in his movement he did not expect after seeing him drink barrel after barrel of wine. Zhang Fei was holding a brush, and drawing symbols across a sheet of paper.

“Oh I’ve seen this before, Calligraphy” Hook said.

The pirate captain proceeded to pull the paper Zhang Fei was painted on away, prompting Cullen to look at Jaskier as the musician plugged his ears.

“IDIOT!” Zhang Fei bellowed, a sound that made Cullen and Hook flinch. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT!”

The latter’s ears were almost ringing the roar had been so loud. Cullen looked to Jaskier, who nodded his head with a knowing expression in his eyes.

“We would have need of a voice like that Zhang Fei of Yan!” Hook said, clapping Zhang Fei’s shoulder. “Nice calligraphy too,” he added.

“I wasn’t finished,” Zhang Fei grumbled.

Cullen had gotten the conscripts into a formation when the horses came. One rider dismounted his horse, a sword strapped to his side. He lifted off his hood and bowed his head slightly to Cullen.

“We’re here to volunteer for the Watch my lord,” the young man said.

“Mi’lord and I’m not lord, if you’re going to pretend to be common born young Stark you’d best start with a cheaper looking cloak,” Cullen said.

The boy rubbed his black hair in embarrassment.

“It’s the cheapest looking cloak I own,” he admitted.

“I saw very little of you at the feast but be assured I don’t forget faces as easily as you’d like, no matter how much dirt they’ve put on them,” Cullen explained.

“My apologies my lord, but I wish to join you in your march North, Brandon is my uncle, I could speak with him directly to aide you,” Torrhen said.

“And your father? The fact that you’ve come here in disguise tells me you have not consulted him in this decision,” Cullen said.

“I have not ser, I do apologise but I do intend to ride North and aide my father’s family, I am better in the library than I am in the yard, but I have learnt how to use the sword better than most men drawn from Fleabottom,” Torrhen explained.

“Good against servants who don’t want to hurt you is different from men who do boy,” Hook said.

“I want to serve the realm and the North, please,” Torrhen all but begged but Cullen shook his head.

“I do not doubt that you have courage, nor do I doubt that you would be a valuable recruit, but you are the son of a lord and still considered a boy. Your father will be addressed before you leave with us,” Cullen explained.

“Absolutely not,” it was not the Master of Laws who answered, but his wife.

Ned barely had any time to think over what Cullen told him before Asha answered for him. He looked to the woman he loved, seeing the expectation and fury in her eyes. Cullen and Torrhen both stood in front of the desk Ned often used for his work, awaiting the lord’s answer. Eddard’s son looked at his mother in shock before raising his voice in defiance.

“I would not be joining the Night’s Watch, but the Templar order,” he said.

“We never discussed that,” Cullen said, looking at Torrhen for a moment and then to Lord Stark. “We would welcome him of course, there’s no expectation for vows of chastity or disinheritance, but we lack the resources to make him a true Templar.”

“My lady-wife, please take our son outside so that I might speak with Ser Rutherford,” Ned said.

“Father I ask that you let me be present,” Torrhen said.

“Denied, go with your mother,” Ned said firmly.

Asha walked by her son, pointing to the door. He kept his eyes on the floor, not hiding his furious frown as he opened the door for her. When he left the room, the door slammed behind him. The loud bang only made Ned close his eyes, so briefly it could have been considered a blink before he looked at Cullen.

“I will ask frankly sir and I expect a frank answer, what sets Templars apart from other knights?” he asked.

“We’re trained in protecting mages, and killing them,” Cullen said.

“You have tactics different from most executioners?” Ned asked.

“It isn’t just in how we hold our shields or swing our swords my lord, as well as runic enchantments on our weapons and armour, we can also train ourselves to create anti-magic wards,” Cullen explained.

“What’s the cost of this power?”

“Are you familiar with lyrium?” Cullen asked.

“I’ve not heard the term,” Ned said.

“It is a mineral that can enhance magic, templars take it as a catalyst to provide them with their abilities,” Cullen said.

“What does that mean ‘take it’?” Ned asked.

“We have tools that allow us to break lyrium down into doses…”

“Like the herbs and poisons of distant lands,” Ned muttered in disdain.

“It is addictive, some templars are influenced by it, we teach control and discipline, so that we may conduct ourselves and carry out our duties. You may see us like sailors or raiders burying ourselves in drink or poison to numb ourselves and seek new heights, and I will admit we are not a perfect order, I’ve known templars who were both good men and good knights, likewise I’ve known bad ones, I believe your son could be a good one, if he’s anything like his father,” Cullen explained.

“Anything anyone says before the word ‘but’ is horse shit,” Ned said.

“I’ll say ‘although’ then,” Cullen retorted, lowering his head slightly as Ned’s expression remained stone faced. “No but or although my lord, he is your son and as I said we don’t have the means to make him a full templar, we’d accept his sword if allowed, that is all!”

“Has anyone told you you have a skill for politics Ser Rutherford?” Ned asked.

“No, and thank you,” Cullen bowed his head slightly.

“It wasn’t meant as a compliment, the North is different from the South, no honeyed words will help you, caution will be thought of as cowardice,” Ned said.

“Then perhaps you’ll appreciate this upfront ness Lord Stark, lords all over claim they are different, I’ve yet to find anyone in your country who genuinely is,” Cullen stated.

“And that is where honesty will fail you, don’t think or the North as the same, in the North they’ll remember an insult just as they’ll remember a kindness, that advice is what I can offer you Ser Rutherford, as for my son…”

“I understand Lord Stark, I am glad I spoke with you beforehand, is there anything else?” Cullen asked.

“Stay a moment longer, I’ll prepare a letter for you to give the Lord of Winterfell, I will not keep you long for it will only be a few words,” Stark said.

Dragonstone

Many archers could fit upon Dragonstone’s walls, but it would only matter if the enemy landed on the island. Gimli oversaw the quick restoration of the ballistas, left in disrepair, for the castle never needed to fear Caraxes. Other dragons though would be a concern so Gimli oversaw the engineers to repair them, any mockery they had over him being a dwarf was lost as soon as the son of Gloin opened his mouth. Harding too, despite having the carefree nature and adoration of peace and good manners that Hobbits had, was herself a leader. Legolas was a prince and even he raised his eyebrow in surprise as Harding rallied hunters and amateur archers to the castle’s defence. Guan Yu carried rows of armour and weapons from the armoury, far more than other men could carry. Most of what Dragonstone had was chain mail shirts, dented shields and spears with tips nearly blunt. Those who could fight numbered in the double digits, Aragorn counted but he told no one, lords and knights understood numbers but to tell an everyday man that he would fight against far greater numbers would only curse their actions.

“One can fight without a sword or a bow, a fight is not just an exchange of blades, the field itself can be a weapon,” Aragorn said.

Taking off his coat and sword belt, he joined the many working men who struggled in the yard, men large and small but fed well and eager to help. Duncan was among those men with Egg on the donkey behind him. Rocks were gathered to be used in slingshots, and lines were dug with shovels.

“Come on, there’s stew and mead waiting in the castle,” Egg encouraged the men, he had a voice as strong as Gimli’s or Guan Yu’s, this Aragorn recognised about the lad.

“We need tree branches, dig holes but leave gaps,” Aragorn said.

The sea was on their side, slowing the advance of their enemy, giving them the time they needed. Daemon swooped over his guests, shaking his head in dismay over what they were doing to his garden. He considered the Freehold though, so used to cities, so used to the sea. When they would finally hit land, they would be off balance, and in armour expected to walk to the castle on land of steep hills and rocks. The rogue king suspected that the self exiled king would have plans of his own to keep the enemy engineers from building siege towers. He smiled though, for the peons were not his focus or Caraxes’s. His dragon was lonely and had been lonely for years. Ahead of them were dragons and Caraxes was eager to play. For the briefest moment Daemon wondered if his ancestor was on one of those boats, or one of those dragons, if eating them would make him and all his kin before and afterwards disappear? A grim and frightening thought that made the brother of ‘Viserys the young king’ grin in anticipation. When presented with such a possibility he thought ‘well, only one way to find out’.

Daemon had a gift for killing his own kin after all.

Next Chapter 21: The Siege of Dragonstone and crossing North

Meanwhile, bubbles rose from a pool of water. Other than a few shining trinkets within the cave it was primarily dark and silent. But the bubbles became furious and the water steamed as the man rose from it, gasping for air.

Daylen huffed and puffed, dragging his hands over his face and looking to the mound of sand and treasure. There was something in the middle of that small island, a great pillar of rock that seemed a bit too perfect to climb, no light shined at the top of it but amongst shining treasures it was the dark and dank that stood out most to him. So he swam onwards to complete the task which he had been given.