Chapter Text
Deep in the smoky longhall of the Aegonfort, presiding over court, the King who claimed rule over the Seven Kingdoms – Five in practice – shifted in the mess of broken and melted swords assembled by dragon fire, and wondered again what had driven him to hammer his throne. Certainly, the intent that no king should ever rest easy was more metaphorical than literal.
“I miss Orys,” his beloved Rhaenys murmured from her own throne – much lower, but still a queen’s throne. “If only-”
“We must be thankful that Orys yet lives, my love,” Aegon assured her as he leant over to peer down. “The Lady Argella writes that his mood improves – the Citadel seem to have false hands that could aid in his bodily health and recovery, even the Grand Maester defers to their expertise.”
“Yes... Those… Northmen… how would they ally with Dorne?” Rhaenys whispered. “Before his departure I felt that Lord Edmyn had the right of it – that the wolves would not act, only react. Establishing the Northern Marches only increased aggression along the Trident – see now, how the war against Dorne fared once the Riverlands armies had assembled, and the wolves took the field.”
“It is true, and Dorne took this chance to kill our Warden of the Sands,” Aegon hummed as beneath the Iron Throne, more maesters and chancellors debated in low whispers.
In due time the Grand Maester Lyonce sketched a bow: “Your Grace. An… assembly of Winterlanders have arrived, with a plump lad that… they claim to be Lord Qoherys.”
“Ah, old Quenton’s grandson,” so acknowledged the king. “Why have these enemy aliens seized my lord and subject?”
“Gargon the Guest,” the Grand Maester paused at the shamefully true epithet given to the ruling Lord Qoherys, a fat and lusty lad known to attend each wedding in his domain to take the lord’s right of the first night. “Upon attending the wedding of Ser Arlan Paege… the bride’s family come from north of the Neck, Your Grace, and not keen on the first night or that one of theirs would be attacked in your Realm, and did raise the hue and cry and seize him.”
Aegon’s eyes narrowed. “It must be a great house that Ser Arlan welcomes his bride from, that the Lord of Harrenhal could be seized at all.”
“A Flint of the mountain clans, so alleged, though the wedding guests for the bride’s party included the commander of Long Barrow at the Wall.” The Grand Maester hummed, gathering his thoughts that despite his age were still fresh. “Men have lived in the high valleys and mountain meadows for thousands of years, ruled by their clan chiefs. Petty lords, so the Starks call them, though they do not use such titles amongst themselves.”
The king hummed in thought. “It would be the black brothers who had played their part. I have… heard of the Night’s Watch.”
Including their very fierce Lord Commander, yes. Anyone who commanded a castle on the Wall would be reporting to that monster. Aegon’s back had straightened, and he would have reached for his sword were it not necessary to maintain appearances.
Rhaenys, bless her, had already beckoned Ser Corlys to make ready his sword and shield. She too, had met the monster that the Night’s Watch took orders from. His direct vassal would be… formidable, if described kindly.
Gargon Qoherys was carried in stretched out on a pallet between two poles – at least he had all his limbs attached, though he clutched his ribs in a manner suggesting that someone had – rather deservedly – broke them. When the pallet was set down he rolled, the beauty of old Valyria in his face lost in a mask of terror as he scrambled for the twisted blade at the foot of the throne.
With dark wings came dark words – so the saying of the mainland went. On Dragonstone it was not mentioned much, if at all, but never had the sentiment been expressed more clearly than the slow, measured steps that echoed within his own smoky longhall. With every step the nearest brand stuttered, the candle flickered; were it possible, mayhaps in the skies the sun would race for a cloud to cower behind.
Aegon’s grip on the armrest of his throne tightened as the figure approached. The courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, their whispers dying on their lips. Lovely Rhaenys leant back into her own throne, protected by good Humfrey the Mummer.
Though as the nearest brand threw light over the crow’s descent, Aegon could not help but gasp with the rest of his court.
The silent sisters were said to serve the Stranger in wordless, faceless contemplation; to look upon one was thus to face death. Nonetheless, Aegon could not imagine a woman more suited to the title of the Stranger’s wife – above a shapeless dark cloak her skin was a grey hue, her cheeks run through with cracks, like a weirwood barely hung together on its filaments. The greyed whites of her eyes peered out, with rheumy film covering the pupils; her face was blank in the pallor of death, even as she swept down over the rushes of the longhall, finally resting to a stop by the foot of the Iron Throne.
As she halted, her gaze turned up to fix unwavering on Aegon. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet those deadened eyes, to show no weakness in the face of such an ominous presence even as the chill sunk into his bones and the steel of the throne beneath his grasp threatened to cut him.
By the gods, Aegon did not wish her there.
“State your name and position,” Rhaenys recovered first, though her expression proved that she was as disturbed as he had felt. He had heard the stories of the Long Night and the monsters at the north… though why a wight would take the black and fight her own kind eluded his merely mortal ken.
“Your Graces.” Aegon fought down a shudder; the voice was raspy, as though one parched of thirst would murmur. “Danelle Flint, commander of the Long Barrow.”
“…forgive my query, my… lady,” Rhaenys weakly asked after the pause that felt like eternity. “Was a song written, for you? ‘Brave Danny Flint’. The brave young girl who disguised herself to take the black. Her song was pretty, but sad. What happened… was not.”
The flesh cracked, and shadows danced within the ghoulish smirk that was her reply. “The Southron minstrels would leave out the other half.”
“That must be… quite the other half,” Rhaenys whispered, her eyes wide and incredulous as Aegon’s mind reeled.
“Aye. It was almost repeated when Lord Qoherys thought to force himself on my kin.”
Aegon’s expression hardened, the weight of his crown suddenly feeling much heavier. “The bride was a Flint, I see.” His voice stayed steady by some miracle of the gods – old or new or Valyrian he knew not, only that the Old Gods worshipped in the north likely had more power than he had ascribed.
Even if this was likely the work of the monster that they called White Wolf.
“’Tis justice that we would ask of the Stark of Winterfell, and he would deliver.” If the sands of Dorne could be audibly heard in mortal words, it was in this voice. “Lord Qoherys is your subject, and… therein lies the problem.”
Aegon pondered it, his mind racing. With this example before him, he dared not contemplate deeper on how the Starks had negotiated with the White Wolf – it definitely involved Eddard Stark either way, because Aegon could not imagine what steel, bow, or dragon-fire would bend that monster. For a moment he wondered to discuss birthing another child with Rhaenys. Were it a girl, then little Aenys would have a bride; were it a boy… some consideration could be given to peaceful integration of the Winterlands, should a Valyrian beauty be more to taste.
With that in mind, what gains to be had from the Dornish War was not to be considered – at the rate of losses then, what with a leal bannerman being thrown out of the highest tower of Sunspear or the disappearance of Harlan Tyrell that forced him to issue a reconciliation with Gawen Gardener, the Dornish might actually shake the new Throne by its foundations. Building the kingdom took precedence before discussing how to peacefully integrate the ends of the continent.
Starting with placing House Stark squarely between the Crown, and the Wall.
For now, the problem was that of a foreigner in the kingdom being oppressed by his own lord. The injustice inflicted upon the Flint bride could not go unanswered, certainly not. Yet Lord Gargon’s actions, while distasteful, was his right against his Paege vassal.
“We will address this grievance with both swiftness and wisdom,” Aegon declared, his voice steady yet heavy with the responsibility he bore. “Grand Maester, summon the council immediately. My… Lady Flint, would you do… us… the honour of… taking bread and salt?”
“I have only taken my furlough for a moon; the Lord Commander will expect me back come the turn.” Lady Flint’s paleness only highlighted how she lacked any of the small twitches of muscles or veins where life would course through the living. “T’would be quiet if we were to take our rest at the inn outside your keep, beg pardon.”
His mind raced through the possible solutions – it sounded like a threat, and the… woman likely knew it. Dragging Gargon Qoherys here was a mannerly gesture – he would die, certainly; the only difference being that his death would not trigger hostilities across the Northern Marches.
After him, though? There were many Winterlanders, they would intermarry here… much as the Andals and a number of the Valyrian houses have save his own. Certainly, the procedure and writs for naturalisation or denization would need to step up... and an embassy formed with the Winterlands. Mayhaps even with Dorne, though how Orys would take that…
He glanced at Rhaenys, who stood firm beside Ser Corlys. Her silent strength was his anchor in this storm.
“Lady Flint. Though not of dragon-blood, Lord Qoherys shared the blood of old Valyria with us, and it is our kin who have done your family wrong. We insist that a were-gild be made out and that House Paege be assuaged that the Iron Throne protects its subjects. Rest assured that we shall deal with it immediately… court is dismissed.”
Rhaenys was of a mind with him, for they took flight to Dragonstone and did not rest until the Blackwater stood between them and her – the Lady Flint.
“I thought the walking dead were mere fairytales…” Rhaenys shuddered even as she continued to groom her faithful Meraxes. “It is… remarkable, that she would take the oath despite all her suffering. Even… when mortal, she would be a force to match our late sister. I am bewildered that the Stars and Swords would call us abominations when she’s around.”
Eyeing his own mount as Balerion grumbled, sand gathering in his claws, Aegon blew a long breath as he sank to fold his legs under his body to sit on the beach. “Like as not they knew – the First Men and the Andals have warred long before Dragonstone was formed, and the Night’s Watch predates that. Though I reserve my opinion on how the Lord Commander kept his post even with such a… subordinate. The Faith…”
“Remember, brother dear, the Winterlands worship the Old Gods with the strange trees – though one of their major houses do follow the Faith,” Rhaenys shook her head even as she leant on him. “I am incredulous of the fact that those bull-headed blowhards would not chase down and kill her, even with the distance and… the Lord Commander.”
Lady Flint’s very presence, and the fact that half the continent had not banded together to crusade north… implied something about the Winterlands that had the Faith of the Seven in denial to her continued state of existence. That, and the fact that the kingdoms below the Neck had never lacked reasons to ally with the Faith for a cause to war, especially against other faiths long settled to the lands…
“She is… unusually practised,” Aegon decided. “Not only in the discretion of placing such miscreants before their liege and king, also in not staying in the castle. Like as not the kings afore the union have met them before; but kings and lords are hardly known to bend to the demands of enemy aliens, much less warlords or their lesser pieces.”
“Which means that it had happened before, and the consequence, or result thereof, was so terrible that they would continue to send tribute to the Wall, even despite the dragons of old Valyria,” Rhaenys frowned. “The Night’s Watch… was formed to fight monsters.”
They exchanged startled glances, as though their minds had drifted to the same conclusion.
What could face monsters… besides other monsters?
“The late Ollidar was much better at the histories than I, so I confess to Your Graces,” Lyonce shuffled to his lecterns where masses of books and paper were laid out. “The subject was Danny Flint?”
“Yes, Lyonce,” Aegon nodded. “My queen has enlightened me as to the story and song of the brave lady, yet…”
“…yet Danny Flint continues to walk the earth in black, despite her rape and murder by those she called brothers, yes,” Lyonce settled back, his tone morose. “A sweet, sad song if one did not know how it ends. No doubt many a singer had felt the same.”
“The story from the Winterlands I had heard, said that she gelded and killed her own rapists upon her… revival,” Rhaenys interjected then. “Surely the Faith would have heard tell – there are Septons in White Harbour, for one, and House Flint is an old family. I cannot imagine the Warrior’s Sons leaving their creed, even if… the Lord Commander extended shelter.”
Lyonce hummed. “One difficulty of the Citadel’s understanding of the Night’s Watch, was that the remotely plausible could be untrue, whereas the truly fantastic tales serve the strangest chance of being a deed already done. Peremore the Twisted, upon returning of his fosterage in Winterfell, had told all and sundry of the Lyceum of Winterfell; one little-known myth was that he founded the Citadel in imitation of that illustrious establishment.”
“Was that truth?” Rhaenys asked.
“He did not; as he was blood-kin of Garth Greenhand… the Lord Commander has never lacked favour for the children of his war comrades – either true- or false-born.” A short sigh. “For much of his short yet fruitful life, the prince was paid visit by the lords of the Moat, and in his bed listened to the White Wolf’s lectures on the world beyond as did the Stark prince that was his companion. The sparks that drove the prince’s intellect compelled him to surround himself in all manner of wise men, priests, healers, as well as wizards, alchemists and sorcerers… Alas, the Lord Commander departed eventually, despite the offers of lands by the Honeywine and an ample estate to fund his studies. Prince Peremore expired shortly after, with foul rumour having that he had pined for that which he would not have, and thrown himself off the Hightower in his shame and unrequited love.”
Aegon had met the Lord Commander – he could believe the legend.
Leaving aside the scandal if Peremore Hightower had indeed loved his teacher and died for it, or the more prosaic perishing from his famously bad health…
“And the Lady Flint?”
“I believe she served under the Hungry Wolf’s banner when he sailed for Andalos,” Lyonce mused. “Presumably, she had profaned the sacred hills with her presence and yet lived, hence the gods may have determined her worth.”
Despite his token adherence to the Faith, Aegon doubted that the Seven were so easily pacified. He gave no voice to his own speculation; mayhaps, the Stars and Swords had finally met an opponent whose stubbornness extended beyond their zealotry and death itself. Rather than challenge the omnipotence of the gods and have it known of their failure… it was better to maintain this thin veneer of peace.
However, there were always fools… with Gargon Qoherys amongst them, damn him to the seven hells.