Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crownlands

King's Landing has never appeared more queer than these past few weeks. Rodrik never lived inside the city; the smell and clamour are far too much for him. However, his house and farmstead is only a league away from its walls. The best businesses and merchants thrive there, and with the long summer, harvest has been quite bountiful for his family.

But those blasted lights.

The thing in sky is the first to appear, a terrifying streak dyeing the night in red. A burning star they say. It became the talk of the region, filled with fearful gossips and uncertainty. But a travelling merchant assured them that the thing is harmless, nothing more than a comet. He doesn't know what that is, but it apparently come and goes every few thousands of years or so. It'll probably be the same for this one after a few months.

But superstitions are hard to quell. With news of House Lannister spreading death and chaos across the Riverlands, the thing in the sky appears to him as a bloody streak. Lannister red. Is it really a coincidence that such omens are foretold?

Then came the lights from King's Landing. Dazzling, colourful rays piercing bright into the sky, cutting through the clouds. So curious he was that he took the time off to go into the city with his wife and watch it all at the Sept of Baelor. It was the first time since King Robert's crowning that he saw the High Septon, the Fat One as his wife called him. The bloated High Septon's appearance reminded him of tales of corruption present within the Faith. Rodrik was never a pious man; he prays but doesn't follow all of the Faith's rules. What he saw in the Fat One his trust in the Faith lowered, and yet...

The lights came on. Bursting with energy and movement, they shone from the crystal spires in seven colours. So colourful they were that entire swathes of the crowd were bathed in blue, red, and other dazzling colours. Their warmth enveloped him, like the embrace of the Seven. It was a holy miracle, a sight that brought tears to both him and his wife.

The Fat One was talking then,  but he paid him no heed. It was only later that he heard the talk of the town: holy messengers of the Seven were sent from the heaven to lead them in these dark times. Dark times of what? Rodrik does not know, but he feels assured that someone is watching over them.

But over time, the lights have lost a bit of their glamour. Gone were his fascinations and wonder, leaving only a slight annoyance of the lights shining during the times he should be asleep. Every sundown, every sunrise, and at the hour of the bat; the High Septon is adamant in leading prayers. Those poor messengers, Rodrik thinks, yawning after waking up at midnight. He's treating those holy ones no more than entertainment for the masses. I've yet to see the Sept treat the sick and ill in the streets. Ah, why must they be so lost? Maybe that's why those messengers came: to be rid of them.

Rodrik steps out of his house, feeling quite parched. With the lights making the clouds above glow, it nearly outshines the Bloody Streak as some in the city have called it. But then what is that thing? The King returned from the hunt wounded from a boar, and talks of his imminent death are present even in those who are optimistic. Death and hope, shining brilliantly in the sky. Is this the Gods' way of waging war?

Rodrik sighs. Such theological thoughts are far too above him. Those are the matter of the Gods and the Sept, not some farmer in a field of vegetables. As long as they can assure his family's well-being, then he has nothing to fear.

He heads towards his well, just across his field. Luckily for him, the bright lights allow him to walk in the night without tripping. He throws down the bucket and hears a splash. Satisfied that the bucket might already be filled, he turns the crank to draw the bucket out. It's so quiet now, not a single chirp of insects or birds. When the Sept's prayers are finished, he's sure to get a peaceful sleep.

He turns the crank with two hands, feeling it to be quite heavier than usual. Ugh, I should've built a cover for the well. Don't tell me this is another rabbit? The last time one decided to jump into the well, the water was ruined for weeks and he had to use his neighbour's. Since they're not on friendly terms, their interactions were quite awkward. Maybe that's the omen, another dead rabbit in the well.

...

Did I oil the winches? It's not creaking as it used to.

Pulling out the bucket, he tips it out in the light of the Sept and sees... Nothing. Nothing? There's not even water spilling from it, yet it still feels as heavy as a sack of potatoes. Strange... He kicks the bucket over.

A bright flash blinds him, causing him to reel back and stumble on something large. He trips and lands on a multitude of sharp points, piercing his flesh and bones. He lets out a pained scream... But there's no sound. To his horror he can't make a sound. "HELP!" he shouts, but there's nothing. Not even the flailing of his arms cause a splash. But he can still feel his throat straining at the attempted shout. He tries to get up, but the points stabbing into his back secures him in place. He can feel warmth slowly draining from his body.

Weakly reaching behind him, he realises that he's stuck on his harrow. His newly sharpened harrow. Wha? Didn't I... Place it... The chirps and the blowing wind returns, filling the world with sounds of life. There's even a faint sound of laughter echoing within. The light from the Sept dims and disappears one by one. The time for prayers is over. Now, only sleep awaits him.

Sept of Baelor

"Your Holiness, our holy brother Septon Symon wants an audience with you. He has brought a guest."

"So early in the morning?" I haven't even touched my meat yet... Oh bother, might as well get this over with. "Oh do please let them in, fellow brother of the Faith."

The holy brother closes the door as the High Septon readies himself for this meeting. The sun has yet to rise and he still needs to prepare for the Dawn Hymns for today. However, feeling in good spirits, he allows this single interruption. Besides, he knows Septon Symon quite well.

Two men enter the room. One is the recognisable figure of Septon Symon, wearing his holy garb with seven colours and crystals adorning it. A high-ranking clergy must look the part after all, especially for serving the faith for so long. But following behind him is a smaller figure, looking no older than seventeen of age. He is quite dishevelled, his robes and breeches nothing more than cheap and brown fabrics. His hair is dirty and the face is full of freckles, hiding eyes full of fear. Walking barefoot, he tracks mud on the marble floor. But what stands out the most to the High Septon is the smell. It reeks! Just like those whorehouses in Flea Bottom!

But the High Septon keeps his calm; the boy looks to be a fellow Holy Brother, perhaps a poorer one. And the Sept has to accept all sorts of people. "Oh, Septon Symon, it is rare to see you so early in the day. Have you had breakfast yet, Septon Symon? It is the most important meal of the day. But, do tell me, I do not recognise the fellow holy brother by your side. Who might he be?"

Septon Symon bows along with the holy brother. "Thank you for seeing us, High Septon. This is Brother Wymar, hailing from the streets of Flea Bottom."

"I-It is an honour to meet you Holiness!" The boy bows again. He looks nervous and panicky, his eyes darting from the statues to the crystal windows and to others in the room.

Flea Bottom. The thought of that stinking place sends a shiver down the High Septon. A foul place, full of shit and whorehouses and pigsties. Of course that's where the boy comes from. So why did you bring filth to this holy place, Septon Symon? "It is always great to see a fellow of the Faith, Brother Wymar. O, you are shaking. Have you an important mattter for us to discuss, Brother Wymar?"

"Ye-Yes your Holiness," the boy bows again, fidgeting with his hands. At least he knows when to show respect, the High Septon smirks. "Some... Some foul things have been happening in Flea Bottom, your Holiness. P-People murdered left and right in the dead of night. Even the Healer of Flea Bottom c-couldn't heal the one who survived, your Holiness. We had... We had to put them down."

Oh, this issue. "Ah, those strange murders? Yes, I've heard of them, o holy brother. It is such a morbid affairs happening in King's Landing. First the murders and now the King's injuries... Truly, the Messengers of the Seven couldn't have come at a better time. Rest assured Brother Wymar, we pray every day to those who are suffering. Day and night, upon waking and sleeping. However," the High Septon leans forward in his seat, "this is the first time I've heard of a 'healer' in Flea Bottom. Tell me, Brother Wymar, who are they?"

"O-oh, um... They're a visiting healer, your Holiness. A foreigner from a far land. Been healing the sick and crippled, even make some of them walk again. They're-"

"Ah, healing the crippled did they? Tell me, Brother Wymar, could that not be trickery?"

"I'm sorry, your Holiness?" the boy asks, stepping back from the High Septon's gaze.

"Trickery, o Brother Wymar. You say this person is a foreigner, this healer. What do we know of their strange customs when they practice this art of healing? I suspect that they don't even follow the Westerosii manners or the Faith of the Seven. Tell me, Brother Wymar, have you ever heard of the Skagosii?"

"S-Skagos, your Holiness?"

"Yes. Skagos, o holy brother, is a part of Westeros. And yet they've refused our way of living and the Faith as well. They still practice the forbidden tradition of cannibalism, the eating of each other's flesh!" The boy tremble before the High Septon's descriptions. The imagery of such people is no doubt instilling fear in his head. "And if this 'Healer of Flea Bottom' have come from even further away, wouldn't you suspect them of being the killer you chase? Why wouldn't they be the ones carrying this monstrous attitude? A wolf in sheep's skin, as the Crone might say. Is it not?"

The boy looks flabbergasted, unsure on what to say next. The High Septon smiles at his work. "Um- Ah-"

"I think that's enough meandering for now, High Septon," Septon Symon interrupts, looking irritated from the little diatribe. "Boy, tell him what you saw."

"B-But-"

"TELL him."

"Y-Yes, Septon Symon," the boy bows again. This time, his face looks even paler than before. "Last night, I-I think just after the Midnight Hymns, I was walking down one of the alleys in Flea Bottom. Preaching, your Holiness, near a whorehouse named Silk Skin. I-"

"Did you go into the whorehouse, boy?"

"I-I-"

"High Septon, please do refrain from cutting off his story. Continue, and ignore his questioning for now." Septon Symon glares at his superior, much to the shock of the High Septon. Anger is beset in his steely grey eyes.

What is going on here!?

"I-I went down the alleyway, preaching for bread and copper like I usually do. Then, I heard this scream. Loud scream, your Holiness, from one of the off-shoot roads. I-I peer' round t' corner and... " The boy pauses, gulping. "I saw them. I 'eard a rustle and cats, and when I look over, I saw... I saw a dead man. Torn in two, your Holiness, but there ain't blood. And I saw the killers.

"At end of the street, hiding in shadows, there were two girls talking over the corpse. I-I couldn't tell what they were doing or talking, but I saw one wield a fire sword, you Holiness. The other..." The boy whimpers at the memory. "The other was eating t'arm. Long nails like birds. I-I pissed my breeches and came away screaming. They chased me down, tearing up doors, and, and-"

"He stayed over at my cousin's house at Flea Bottom," Septon Symon says, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Was pale as a corpse, like he had seen the Other. Luckily, I was there to visit family, and so I've come here."

"Yes, and so you've came," the High Septon sighs. He's still on edge for what might happen next. "However, I don't see how this is a matter of the Sept, Septon Symon. But, as you've come all the way to tell me of this, then I will make an exception. At the Dawn Hymns, I will lead the prayers to those whose lives are lost and those who are grieving in Flea Bottom. It will ease their hearts in mourning."

"That's not what we want, High Septon," Septon Symon steps closer to the desk. "What we want is for you to stop this ludicrous mummer's lights."

"...What?"

"You heard me. These lights that you're doing, they are unholy. They're not messengers of the Maiden, nor are they any other parts of the Seven, High Septon. They are DEMONS! Demons that pulled the wool over your damn eyes!" Symon shouts, slamming his fist onto the desk. The High Septon flinches, but relents.

"Nonsense! Complete and utter nonsense!" scream the High Septon, spittle dribbling onto the table. "They are Messengers of the Seven, Septon Symon. Not demons or ghouls or whatever you accuse them of. You've seen them; they're young maidens! Surely, the one with seven-coloured wings is a Holy Being? Their miracles and might?"

"Wings," scoffs the Septon. "More like gnarled twigs with shiny rocks than any sparrows I've ever seen. And how about the other girl? The one who wields a great flaming sword? Is she not like that Red Priest of Myr? A follower of the Red Demon? Isn't that right boy?"

"Y-"

"Septon Symon, are you calling the Messenger of the Maiden a fire demon? Don't you know that the words coming out of your mouth is blasphemy?" The High Septon have always known of Septon Symon's nature. That stubbornness and foolhardiness of his are acceptable for the man always carries his position with such care and love. But this? This is too much. "You've blasphemed against the Maiden in the Sept of Baelor, Septon Symon. I implore you to choose your words carefully."

"I'm not the one that needs to be careful, High Septon. And neither am I the first to blaspheme in this Sept. Tell me, was it a week ago that your 'Messenger of the Maiden' planted a fruit tree in the middle of the Sept? No, it was a seed. A seed that grew into a fruiting tree in a matter of days."

The High Septon clenches the edge of his desk, teeth grinding at the accusations. "That... That was a miracle-"

"No it wasn't. Stop kidding yourself; it was sorcery, your Holiness. You've brought sorcery into the holiest place in the Realm and you're expecting me to stay quiet!? And that damn tree. If that tree had been weirwood, I would've seen some sense in it but NO. It's just a random fruit tree! Peach!"

"S-Symon, calm-"

"And what? Do nothing? Sit back all day praying while a couple of demons lodge in our Sept? Do you remember how many holy brothers and sisters we lost when they arrived? And the terror they brought us! You said yourself, High Septon. A wolf in sheepskin."

"I -B, uh." The words can't come out of his mouth. It can't be! It must not be! The Messengers being demons... I- "Guards! Guards!" he shouts, ringing a bell on his table. All manner of holy brothers, having come from all over the Realm for the miracle of lights, enter the room with swords and spears in hand. "Detain them! They've blasphemed against our Holy Messengers!"

But before they could move, Septon Symon draws his sword and holds the High Septon by the neck. The point so close to his eyes that his eyelash is trimmed by the blade. "Make any movements and the High Septon's head will roll! Back the fuck off!"

He tries to fight against the hold, but the Septon has an iron grip. The blade cuts his face, causing him to bleed. His legs tremble, as if wanting to relief himself in front of the Faith's followers. "High Septon," Symon speaks. "I'm asking you once again to get rid of those demons. Do that, then all of us will come out unharmed. If not," the blade presses against him, "you will not see the end of it."

As faithful and pious to the Seven he might be, the High Septon still fears the embrace of the Stranger. He doesn't want to die here, surrounded by holy brothers with a sword to his face. None of it. Please, oh Father or the Maiden, please! "S-Symon," the High Septon gulps, "if you kill me, I will become a-a martyr. Many will rally under my death and the Faith will still recognise the Messengers. T-They will bring you to justice." He's not sure if the threat is enough. He knows that Symon is a hard man to push, but he has to try anything and everything if he wants to survive.

To his relief, the sword is lowered from his face. The High Septon sighs. Has... Has my call been answered? "Let me go now Symon, and I will assure you that none shall come to harm." The High Septon turns his head and sees-

"You're all a lost cause."

Symon throws the High Septon down, the man's fat body crashing on the marble floor. His crystal crown breaks upon the foot of the holy brothers. With the holy brothers helping him up, he sees the face of Symon, or the man he once knew as Symon. He looks so... Different now. Nowhere is the familiar man who taught young septons and septas the ritual procedures. Nor is anywhere the man who likes to jest during luncheon. All that remains is fury and disappointment. A traitor to the Seven, a blasphemer. And yet...

"Septon Symon," says one of the more rugged holy brother, "drop the sword or we'll-"

"That's enough, o holy brothers," the High Septon interjects. Not a good decision, but it's one that has come from his heart. "Let him and the boy go."

The two men stare at each other for a moment before Symon spits on the High Septon's shoes. "Craven," he says as he drags the boy out of the Sept. Dazzled and scared, the High Septon wipes his brow and cheeks with a handkerchief, brushing away the blood.

One of the holy brothers approaches him, confused. "Is this wise, your Holiness? Letting them go?"

"Symon is no longer with us for he has blasphemed. His title as septon here has been stripped from this point on." The High Septon rights himself, grabbing his broken crystal crown. "Tell the City Watch to arrest him if he tries to leave the city. For now, we must prepare for our Dawn Hymns. Call up the Messengers; we need whatever blessings we can for the future."

The High Septon eyes his holy brothers as they go about their task. Symon is not going to be the only one, will he?

Chapter Text

Dothrakii Sea

"Your grace, is there not any other way? Please, I beg of you!"

"Ser Jorah, as my most trusted member of the Queensguard, are you going to fail my first command?"

"...I'm sorry, your grace," Ser Jorah bows.

Drogo's pyre has been aflame since the burning star took to the sky. Inside, his body and that of the horse and the sorceress are nothing more than black cinders now. And Jorah can only watch helplessly as his Queen Daenerys Targaryen, last of her line, casts herself into the fire. The last of the Targaryens, he thinks bitterly. A little girl dying in the flames of her husband's corpse. So far away from her homeland, all for a prophecy that never came.

A final report is needed. To the Spider he will tell that her death is not through his blade nor an assassin's poison, but grief. Grief for what she had lost. How happy Robert must be then, with all the Targaryens dead. And he'll then grant me back my title and land, back to Bear Island. How joyful.

...

He pities the girl. It was not her fault that her father wanted to burn down King's Landing, and it was her brother that caused the Rebellion. She didn't even carry the signature madness of the Targaryen like her brother Viserys. She was just that: a little girl, trapped within the horse lords' domain. None of it are her fault; if anything, it's Jorah's for being unable to prevent it all from happening. But he can't turn back time. Mirri Maz Duur still kills her child and Drogo remains dead.

He shakes his head. No, there is no need to reminisce now, Jorah. She's dead. You can go home now. Though bearing conflicting feelings, what's done is done. She is burning in the pyre. He recites a few prayers for the Old Gods and the New, hoping for them all to judge her soul fairly.

The camp is quiet now with most people mourning within their tents. Drogo's khalasar is no more, having split into two after his fall from his horse. All that's left are her three loyal bloodriders, now part of her Queensguard, and the freed slaves in her name. Slaves... To think that her Grace would be kinder to them than I ever was to poachers.

And now, his mission is to leave for Westeros and claim his ill-gotten reward. But that's a problem: they're in the middle of the Dothrakii Sea, deep within the centre of Essos. They're probably closer to the legendary kingdom of Yi-Ti than Westeros, a fact that he does not take kindly towards. With most of the supplies been raided by the damn new khalasars, it'll be hard. There might be good meat with the horses, but I don't know how her bloodriders would react. Or perhaps I could lie to them about scouting for water and escape...

He sighs and looks up at the night sky. The glowing streak, or the burning star as the Dothrakii have called it. An ill omen as it was its appearance that spelt Daenerys' death. And perhaps an arrow pointing his way to leave; there's nothing more in this land.

He enters his tent and begins packing all the needed supplies. Wineskins full of water, armour, swords, and some dried meat he found beneath some boxes. Their quality are questionable. Maps... I will need maps, perhaps one with images of stars as well. Gold as well. Maybe there's some back in Daenerys' tent? The idea of pilfering the recently deceased girl's belongings hangs heavy above him. However, there's no use in crying now.

He heads to her tent, making sure that no one is around to see him. Taking a deep breath, he enters and-

"Ah, excuse me. Would you be kind enough to tell me where I am?"

-Stops. Standing atop some wolf-skin rugs is a woman. A strange woman for she is quite colourful in appearance. Her blonde hair is styled into the shape of wolf ears with a strange purple object pressed against her ears. Wearing a vibrant purple, red, and gold cape, she exudes a feeling of royalty. At least, someone who could afford the fine silks she wears. A sword is affixed to her hip, its hilt decorated in gold. The bangles on her arm are also made out of gold. She smiles at him, holding a piece of wood with strange writings to her mouth.

He does not recognise her; not the Dothrakiis, nor the freed slaves. He grips the hilt of his sword. "What are you doing here, woman? The Queen is dead."

"I'm sorry, the queen?" she tilts her head.

Does she not know about her? "The Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, the last of her line. She died not long ago, threw herself into the burning pyre outside."

"...Ah, I see. Forgive me for my lack of knowledge. I give you my condolences, Ser Jorah," she bows at him. He's confused now. Who is this woman? Why is she asking where they are? Is she one of the freed slaves? And who gave her those clothes? It didn't seem to be present in Daenerys' available attires, so it must have clearly come from elsewhere.

"State your name and motives," he draws his sword and points it at her. "As a knight of the Queensguard, I demand an answer."

"Knight? Wow, you mean like one of those Western-"

"Name and motives, woman! Or I'll cut you down for pilfering her late Grace's belongings."

"Woah, easy there," she pushes down the sword point with her stick. "I think we've stepped off on the wrong foot. Let me properly introduce myself. Ahem," she twirls with her cape, flourishing it like a mummer. "My name," she proclaims, "is Toyosatomimi no Miko, the almighty Taoist Hermit Prince! You may kneel in my presence, Ser Jorah Mormont, but it is not required."

...None of that titles are recognisable to him. Taoist, hermit... "Prince, you say? You don't look like a prince. Aren't you a woman?"

"Oh, Ser Jorah Mormont, Prince is simply the title I acquire and prefer," she smiles with an arm tucked inside her cape. "Others are more fitting for my status: Saint, God, and many other divine titles. But to be humble towards you, you may call me Prince Miko."

Another madwomen. The last time he entertained the whims of one, Daenerys lost her unborn child. No need to repeat the same mistake, even with the queen dead. "I don't trust you, especially what happened with the Queen. Get out of the tent."

"Well now, I've answered your question. It's only fair that you answer mine, is it not? Where am-"

"Dothrakii Sea. Move it."

"That... Does not explain much, Ser Jorah," she frowns, ignoring the man's vicious glare. "Where is thi-"

"I've had enough with your little games, woman." He steps closer, the events of the past few weeks irritated him greatly. Whoever she is, she saw him searching for something within the tent. It'll only become trouble later on. "Step outside. I'll deal with you later"

"How about we deal now, Ser Jorah?" She walks deeper into the tent before placing her foot on top of a chest. He recognises it as the one that stores all the maps purchased by Daenerys. "You explain to me in detail where I am and I'll let you have these maps."

How did she figure out what I was doing? Wait... Did I even tell her my name? If he tries to run now, he's going to be stopped by her informing the others. It's the same if he tries to kill her here. And so, he relents and sheathes his sword. "This place. We are now in a region at the centre of Essos known as the Dothrakii Sea, realm of the Dothrakii horse lords. This continent is East of Westeros, the westernmost continent of the known world. Are... Any of this familiar to you?"

"No, it does not," she sighs. "However, I have heard tales of horse lords from where I came from, but they were not called Dothrakiis. Hmm..." After pondering for a few moments, she kicks the chest towards Jorah. "Alright then, a deal is a deal. You can have those maps."

"Thank you." Still suspicious of this intruder, he opens the chest while keeping an eye on her. Sure enough, the maps within contains a few star charts visible from Essos. He knows a bit or two about reading these maps. Pilfering it, he notices that the woman is watching him closely, her face half-covered by her cape. I still have to take care of her. Will bribing her be enough?

Stuffing the maps into his bag, he heads to the table adorned with the late Queen's jewels and gold. But before reaching it, the woman stops him in his tracks. "How shameful is it, Ser Jorah, to plunder the belongings of the one you're sworn to protect? As royalty myself, I pity your queen if you are the most loyal of her followers."

"The Queen is dead," Jorah croaks, sadness stabbing into his heart. "I have no place in Essos. No, I must return to Westeros."

"Are you sure of that? Your queen's death?"

"What? She's burning in that damn fire with her husband and a sorceress. I offered her a chance for us to travel further East but she refuses. If she's not dead before then she's already long dead by now."

"...I wouldn't be so sure, Ser Jorah Mormont. Come." The woman grabs him by the collar of his clothes and drags him out of the tent. He's taken aback by her sudden strength but refrains from striking her; if indulging this woman's whims will let him free, he'll gladly do so. A few bloodriders watch them with suspicion as they walk towards the pyre.

It'll be hard getting away from them. They're far more capable than me with a horse. He can see Daenerys in there, a dark silhouette wreathed in light and flames. He turns his head away, not wanting to imagine the horrifying pain the girl has gone through. "If all you want is for me to see her body, Lady Miko, then I'm afraid I've seen too much already."

"It is Prince Miko, Ser Jorah. And she's still alive."

"The sun has set since she's entered the pyre. There's nothing left of her but-"

To his shock, the woman shoves her hands into the burning flames. But her clothes do not burn and neither does her skin. Instead, she grabs that dark silhouette and pulls it out of the fire. Seeing the dark shape, he wants to strike at her for desecrating Daenerys' corpse. But then it moved. The blackened skin is nothing more than ash and soot. The Queen, she still lives.

Clutching her in his arms, he calls for his bloodriders to come and bring the clothes and water. He looks at her unconscious face; though her hair is burnt off, there's not a blemish upon her skin. Alive. He holds her close, tears pouring out his eyes in choked sobs. His Queen, she still lives. And he will continue serving her 'til the day he dies. Tears of sadness or joy, he does not know.

The strange woman wraps the naked Daenerys with her cape. In the heat of the flames, the golden serpents embroidered on it swirls and swims in the sea of purple. The bloodriders come bearing supplies. Upon seeing her, they let out curses and praises, no doubt from the miracle they've just witnessed. Is it a miracle? Weren't the tales of the Targaryens say that they're immune to fire?

"...Lady Miko, thanks for-" he pauses. The woman is laughing madly, crouching down with half of her torso in the flames. Madwoman! But as he stands to pull her out, he hears a loud shrill. Then another. And another.

She stands, grinning towards Jorah. Entwined around her soot-covered neck and arms are three winged creatures, long necks and tails holding on to her. Though he never saw one alive, he knows what they are.

"Dragons..."

"Prince Miko," the woman groans as the creatures slither around her. "How hard is that to remember?"

Dragonstone

The flames burn bright today. And with the red comet, it glows even brighter.

Dragonbreath, Stannis recalls what the Red Priestess had called it. A sign of a brighter future by R'hllor, the Lord of Light. A future that burns bright for all of us.

The raven from King's Landing was a dark one. His brother wounded from a hunt, no doubt a fault in his indulgent drinking habits. But Stannis knows better. He knows the involvements of Jon Arryn and Robert's bastards. That's why he refuses the summons of the new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, to return to the Small Council. He has an army to build, and that viper's nest is not the best place to conduct it.

Here, at Dragonstone, he can ruminate and stew within his own thoughts. When Robert dies, I shall ascend the throne. Not Cersei, and definitely not her accursed incest bastards. His death will not bring joy to Stannis' heart, but neither will it bring sadness. Only acceptance, for it was already foretold by Melisandre that a dark raven shall bear the news of the King's death. How it was all planned by those damned Lannisters yearning for their gold. I'll have their heads soon enough.

He watches with his family the Red Priestess' dance in front of the pyre, swaying and stirring along with each lick of flame. At its centre, statues of the Seven are burning to cinders, signalling Dragonstone's shift towards the worship of R'hllor. It was all helped by his wife, Sylese, who converted all remaining disbelievers on the island. But Stannis himself is still unsure of his faith to R'hllor, though he holds no respect towards the Seven either. No, he sees this as an opportunity to gain the shadowbinder's help. If the prophecies are coming true for him, then there's nothing he should protest.

The dance stops in a flurry of green and blue flames, much to the amazement of his daughter and his men. Stannis stays cold, for he knows what will come next. He leaves his seat and heads towards the burning pyre, the heat forming sweat on his brow. By the flames, Melisandre seems to shine as bright as the red comet. The ruby at her heart glows and throbs like a heartbeat, her warmth nearly overpowering that of the flames. Sorcery or divinity, it does not matter. I'll see its use. "What do you see within those flames, Melisandre?"

With her eyes focused on the embers, her lips parts to give him the prophecies. "When the star bleeds in the night sky will Azor Ahai be reborn. To fight back the Great Other and his throng of darkness and suffering, the warrior shall wield Lightbringer and slay the one who shall not be named." Finishing the proclamations, she gives way for Stannis to walk towards a large, burning statue of the Mother. A longsword is embedded in its heart. Grabbing the searing hilt, he grits his teeth and pulls the glowing longsword out of the pyre. Upon kissing the cold sea winds, the sword is set aflame.

Lightbringer.

"The Warrior of Light! The Son of Fire!" All kneel before Stannis, the future King of Westeros. Reverence, respect, fear, worship. All of it is for him. A swing of the sword leaves a blazing trail in the air, much to the cheers and celebration of his men. He can feel himself smile. For once in his life, they truly respect and fear him.

"Soon," he addresses his men, "the Iron Throne shall have its rightful ruler. One who will bring order and peace to the Realm, who will lead you all against the forces of darkness. My men!" he shouts. "In the name of R'hllor, I-"

The pyre behind him bursts into a great pillar of fire, cutting short his speech. Reaching even higher than the walls of Dragonstone, the heat and winds nearly topples him over. Shielding his eyes from the blinding light, he sees Melisandre, standing next to the flames. Even in this terrifying hot gale the Red Priestess does not move, instead looking enraptured at something within.

Stannis is never one to see divination and prophecies in the flames; it has always been the task of the Red Priestess. And yet- Is someone there!? He sees a faint shape forming itself within the blaze, pulling in the glowing embers of the pyre. He could barely see the long hair of the figure when the fire explodes.

His ears burst and brightness envelopes him as he feels himself falling through the air. Landing with a crash on the sandy banks of Dragonstone, the sword is thrown from his hands. Pain. His lungs burn, his face burns, his arm stabbing into itself. Rising from the black sand, he sees the chaos before him. All his soldiers are running in panic. Some unlucky ones are no more than black husks on the shores, while buildings and trees are consumed by a blaze. Like a dragon has descended upon them.

My men... My- "Selyse! SHIREEN!!" Stannis screams, struggling to get onto his feet. He ignores his pains and the throbbing of his leg; all that matters are his wife and daughter. Hobbling his way towards the pyre, he sees the canopy they had been in burning bright. His heart sinks but he continues on, screaming their name. As he's about to plunge into it, soldiers tackle him and hold him back. "Release! Release me I said!"

His soldiers shouts something back at him, though he can't hear anything besides the ringing of his ears. He struggles in their grasp, but slowly feels himself losing strength. A pair of hands drag him away from the burning canopy, and he can only watch helplessly as the men try to put out the flames.

Stannis sees the man's left hand is missing a few knuckles. "Davos," he groans. "Unhand me. Let me see them."

But the Onion Knight does not yield. Instead, he lies Stannis down on a flat rock outcropping, covering the crippled man's torso with a blanket. Davos looks pained as he speaks to Stannis, but he can't hear a word. He grabs his liege lord's hand, as if assuring him, and joins the others to put out the flames.

He looks over to the direction of the pyre, and sees that it's no longer aflame. Black smoke blankets the sky, threatening to swallow the stars. He can't move his legs. Raising his left arm, all he sees is a black, twisted mess. His face. He can't feel anything.

But Stannis feels fury. Fury that only a Stormlord can bear. His anger grows, not only towards Melisandre but to the fire god R'hllor himself. His faith wavers. What kind of god kill his men and family, devout followers of his faith? Had he been worshipping a false god? A red demon as the Faith stated? Was all this death and destruction a punishment from the Seven?

Contemplating his fate, he sees the figure of Melisandre approaching him. The woman is unhurt and unblemished; not even her red hair is burnt from the flames. And her face... That damn smiling face. Where once her beautiful visage helps to calm his mind to the faith of the flames, now a fire burns in his heart. "Melisandre!" he rasps, coughing up blood. "You damned red witch! What did you do to my men!?"

She keeps her calm and smiles at him. Though he can't hear her speech, he sees the movement of her lips. Though vague, he can string together some of it. "Sacrifice? Sacrifice!? Is my family nothing but a sacrifice to your damned demon!?"

He tries to grasp her neck, choke out that damned fire inside her. But his body feels weak. Tiredness lies heavy against his body, and he falls into a stupor. It would be days before he opens his eyes again.

Chapter Text

King's Landing

The King's is dying. No, he's already in the Stranger's embrace.

The hunt. That was when it had all gone wrong. Robert's drunkenness, Lancel's wines, the boar, the spear... No, not all the blame lie on that. I was there, Ser Barristan Selmy regrets. I could have stopped him from drinking, could have shoved him out of the way from that beast. If I was just quicker or saw that thing sooner, then all of this could have been avoided.

The large man lying on the bed is merely a shadow of his former self. Gone are his laughter, his fury, and even his passions for the serving girls... Leaving only a husk barely able to speak. The King's skin is as pale as the bedsheets, while his fat does not hide his withering figure. When Grand Maester Pycelle patched him up, he had assured them all that the King will be just fine. "Up and hunting again in a matter of weeks," was the exact quote. But it only has been three days since the hunt; no signs of improvement.

Throughout the Red Keep, whether it be the guards, the cooks, or the servants, all are expecting his death anytime soon. None share Pycelle's bright outlook on life. The rumours of his imminent death have spread beyond the Red Keep, and many are prepared for mourning. The Sept of Baelor has been conducting prayers with their strange lights, while Queen Cersei have took it upon herself to prepare his funeral arrangements. It's not odd to sometimes see her wandering the halls of the Red Keep in a black dress, though he has yet to see her cry about her King.

But what will it be for Ser Barristan? Another dead king under his post. Aerys the Mad King, and Jaehaerys before that. And each time, he can't do anything to stop it; how is the one now any different? And with the state of the Realm, I fear that I will attend the fourth, he thinks bitterly. With four kings, am I not a more fitting Kingslayer than that oathbreaker?

Sitting to Robert's side is Lord Eddard Stark, the current Hand after the tragic passing of Jon Arryn.  He finishes writing the King's last wills and testament, stamping it with the royal seal. The man's not much older than the Kingslayer, yet he looks far more aged with greying hair and a wilted face. No doubt the events of the past week have crushed his spirits. Not just Robert, but his clash with the Kingslayer lead to the Lannisters marching into the Riverlands, Catelyn Stark's homeland. Barristan can still see the limp that the errant Kingsguard left him. I'll need to sanction the boy for such actions, but he's with Lord Tywin now. He doesn't even hold loyalty to the crown, oh how the Order have fallen with each king...

But Barristan doesn't want to stay still. Surely, something must be done. Whether that be stopping the Kingslayer's foolish campaign, or keep the King alive until all of this is over. When he passes on, all of the Seven hells will break loose in this realm. The Prince...  Even if he is the rightful heir, I have a bad feeling about it. Lord Stannis could lay claim to the throne. And what then? War? Rebellion? How many more will die because of one King's death? "Lord Stark, may I speak with you?"

Eddard raises his head, his tired eyes opening wide upon seeing Barristan. "Ah, yes yes... Sorry, Ser Barristan, I've forgotten that you're here. What is the matter?"

"Lord Stark, the King is dying. I doubt Grand Maester Pycelle's assurance that he'll be well."

"Yes, I suspect as much," Eddard sighs, holding the King's hand. "There's not much we can do, however. Pycelle, however old and frail he is, is a healer far more skilled than all of us. Even then his skills are lacking. There's nothing left to do but wait."

"Lord Stark, forgive me but I must object to giving up. Even the King will admonish such thinking. No, I'm suggesting we search for another healer."

"Healer?" Eddard raises an eyebrow. "There's someone better than Pycelle? He's the Grand Maester!"

"He may be a Grand Maester, but he's not solely focus on the art of healing. I've heard of a travelling healer staying in Flea Bottom, healing the poor and crippled for no charge. Even merchants from across the Narrow Sea have visited him. We still have time to summon them here, my lord. The sun is still up." Rumours of such a skilled man travels fast. For Barristan, this person might be their only hope of recovering the King. But there is a problem.

"Have you met this healer, Ser Barristan?"

"I have not, my lord."

"Then I don't trust him with Robert," Eddard declines. "We don't know what that man might do, perhaps even going so far as to pilfer this room or, gods forbid," his voice lowers, "kill Robert."

"Death will alleviate King Robert's suffering, my lord," Ser Barristan answers, shocking the Warden of the North. "It is risky, yes, but we don't have any other choice. And as his vassals, it is our duty to keep him alive unless everything unravels." What actual unravelling Ser Barristan doesn't exactly know, but he didn't get this far as a Kingsguard by being absent-minded. He paid enough attention in the courtly procedures to understand the gravity of the Realm's situation. His thoughts about the Spider does not quell his fears.

"Ser Barristan, what if they ask for gold? An exorbitant amount of gold? You know that the Iron Throne is millions of dragons in debt."

"In my honest opinion, Lord Stark, the gold price is easier to pay than the iron price. And I fear that with the Lannisters heading up North, we will be forced to accept the latter."

The fear for the Lannisters strikes worry at Eddard's heart, wiping away any doubts of gold and cost. He glances at Robert's sleeping form, the King's breaths shallow and wheezing. With that, Eddard relents. "Alright. As Hand, I order you to find this healer and bring him here. We can discuss the prices later; Robert's life is far more important."

"At once, L-"

"However," Eddard adds, his voice turns low to not be overheard, "keep this order a secret between you and I. There's some foul play afoot with the Lannisters, perhaps even Lord Littlefinger and the Spider."

Ser Barristan bows and leaves the royal quarters. As there is no active Kingsguard at the door, he heads to the White Sword Tower and finds Ser Balon Swann, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. The rugged man is a capable knight for sure, but Ser Barristan is not convinced that he is fitting as a Kingsguard. In fact, he doesn't find any of the other Sworn Brothers fit as the King's protector. They're either too unskilled, too corrupt, or both. Two in particular, the Kingslayer and Ser Boros Blount, have their hands in the pockets of the Lannisters. He's not sure if he can even trust Ser Balon, but with the other options, he'd rather have a simple knight than a traitorous one. Ser Barristan hold his sigh as he greets him. "Ser Balon."

"Evening, Lord Commander," Ser Balon stands and bows. "Exchanging guard duty?"

"Yes, even a Lord Commander needs a break after all," Ser Barristan chuckles as he takes off his plate armour.

"I see. May I ask, how is the King? You've been by his side longer than any of us."

"He's recovering," Ser Barristan lies. "He was awake an hour ago, but he needs his rest so please try not to disturb him."

"Of course, Lord Commander," Ser Balon replies as he leaves for his duty.

Obedient, strong, but much too simple for my liking. But perhaps that's what I need in these trying times...

Barristan dons a much more conspicuous clothing of brown tunic and leather, making him look closer to a begging brother than a Kingsguard. He puts on a large cloak, enough to hide the sewn-in pockets of armour and his arming sword. He descends to the lowest floor of the tower and rubs the walls for indentations. Finding the correct divot, he presses into it and pulls out the wall, revealing a secret passage. He learnt of these passages many years ago with the help of the Spider who often wanders around these forgotten halls. He's not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed that his fellow Sworn Brothers don't know of such passages.

Walking into the dark stony hall, he travels for a while before exiting at the Hook, west of the Red Keep. A murder of crows and ravens on a nearby tree greet him. He wonders if some of them are the ravens that escaped from the Red Keep's rookery. The smell and clamour of the city is far more welcoming than the eerie stillness of the Red Keep. Barristan looks up to the sky and sees those strange lights piercing the clouds. He never liked those things, shimmering in the sky like a mirage. But the Faith is responsible for its appearance and many call it a blessing upon the Realm.

He can only wonder at such claims; he's not a pious man, but he had never heard of such things in his teachings before. And if it is a blessing, why is the King dying? The Realm's sufferings did not end when the lights and the comet shined, rather it began there. Dark thoughts threaten to cloud his mind but he shakes them off. He continues walking past the praying populace and into Flea Bottom, the slums of King's Landing.

As he passes by many stalls and pot-shops, he comes across multiple beggars and children with bandages and stitches on their body. No doubt the work of the healer, Barristan thinks. He follows the trail towards a no-named wooden building, maybe an inn from the looks of it. At its front he can see many people lined up bearing various injuries: burns, crutches, pale complexions... What he finds most curious however is the fact that he spots a few Red Keep guards among them. So that's how popular the healer is... No wonder merchants come and ask them for help.

But this means he can't enter through the front for risking his identity to the guards. Instead, he enters a nearby alley and go to the back of the building. He pushes on the door; it's unlocked.

Barristan steps into the room, which is quite bright due to the numerous candles strewn about. He closes the door behind him, making sure to lock it. He looks around; the room looks to be a kitchen, though there is no smell of food being prepared here. Instead, the air smells rich and sharp like the sea. Herbs and mushrooms are scattered on the counter along with a set of mortars and pestle. Some of the bottles with green and purple liquids exude a disturbing glow; he avoids looking at it for too long. Does this healer use sorcery? Like a hedge wizard?

He exits the kitchen and enters the main area of the building. Like the kitchen, this room is also full of candles but much more furnished. A bed with no sheets lie in the middle of the room. Treading on the wooden floor quietly, he spots a large longbow leaning against a table. Curious, Barristan picks it up but finds it surprisingly heavy for a wooden weapon. It's well balanced and the wood has quite the fine grain on it, but I can't identify what tree is it from. Ironwood? Elm? Looks far too dark to be oak or ash. The Kingsguard trace his finger along the bowstave, noting the various cuts and scratches. Looks like there's been some use to it. The string... Barristan tries to pull the string back, but for the life of him he couldn't. The thing is as stiff as metal, but it's clear that it's some sort of string. Or is this only a ceremonial weapon of sorts? Some nobility comiss-

"It's rude to play around with someone's weapon without permission," a voice comes from behind him.

Barristan turns around and finds himself face-to-face with a tall woman. Well, not really face-to-face since her face is covered by some cloth and some strange crystal visor. "Forgive me for my curiosity, Lady Healer," Barristan bows, putting the weapon back on the table.

"What do you want?" the woman asks, crossing her arm. He notes the brown gloves and white cloak she's wearing, both of which are covered with speckles of blood. She looks more like a silent sister than any healer he had seen before. "You didn't line up outside, which means that it's something urgent or something annoying," she says with a hint of disdain.

"None of the sort Lady Healer. My name is Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and in service of the Iron Throne."

"Ah, your king."

"Yes, my King, Robert Baratheon, is an urgent need of-"

"No."

"I-Buh, I beg your pardon?" Her answer catches him off-guard.

"I know what you're asking and the answer is no. Please leave," she replies sternly before heading towards one of the tables covered in parchment and begins jotting things down.

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation, Lady Healer," Barristan approaches her table, though he stops the moment she looks at him. Even from behind those strange visors, he can feel her glare. "It is the King we're talking about. The King of Westeros."

"Yes, the very same king that hunted for boars drunk and got his price." A portly  woman descends from upstairs and hands the healer a cup of some hot drinks. She offers one to Barristan as well. "Thank you dear."

"I don't tolerate insults to his Grace, Lady Healer. I'm here not by the Lord Hand's request but by an order," Barristan pushes, but the woman does not budge.

"Why didn't you line up outside?"

"I- It's the King, Lady Healer. He's in a dire condition."

"And so are some of the people outside. Tell me, why should I give him priority of such a treatment and not the ones who waited patiently for my service?"

Barristan knows the answer to that, but it's such a crass and bitter statement that he holds it back. "If the King is healed, then he can instill order to the Realm. And that means less people getting hurt and sick, Lady Healer."

"Less?" she scoffs. "I was here before he had gotten into his little accident and saw no worsening nor improvements in Flea Bottom when he fell ill. In fact, why should I trust such a stupid, uncivilised man to 'heal' this sick realm of yours?" She finishes her drink before continuing her rant, the server staying quiet to the side. "It was your king who had gotten drunk on a dangerous hunt. Such a large man need at least five to six wineskins to raise his BAC to dangerous levels, and he drank eight if the rumours are true. He's a human, not an oni. And now his followers don't even have the decency to line up outside and wait their turn; they're even worse than a beggar! I may be able to cure his wounds, Barristan Selmy, but I'm unable to cure his stupidity. Is that clear?"

...Ser Barristan understands some of the things she just said. Though most of them add up to insults towards the King, which is not unfounded, those last sentences of hers brings some clarity to his mind. "So you can heal him."

"Are you deaf!? I don't want to heal him. Lya, please get him out of here. I'll get the next patient."

"Yes Lady Eirin," the woman answers before leading Barristan back to the kitchen by his arm. Once inside though, he pries himself from his grip and grabs Lya by her shoulders, scaring her.

"Miss Lya was it?"

"Y-Yes, Ser B-Barristan," she stutters.

"Please, are you able to convince Lady Eirin to help me? You know her well, surely!"

"I don't, Ser Barristan," she confesses. "I'm the owner of this building, this inn, before she started to bring all those street urchins and beggars in. And she had the gall to tell me that I was being disruptive on her practice. Now I'm forced to help her! I don't even understand half of the things she rambles on about, let alone those healing sorceries of hers."

"So you're not her assistant? Why not, well, kick her out?"

"Damn wench got a viper's tongue," Lya sneers. "Can't say a word against her without getting a good lashing. Might as well play along for the time being. At least when merchants come by, they leave a few coins."

That is interesting. So this healer works pretty much on her own, unwanted in someone else's home. Then perhaps... "Lady Lya, could you please bring me back to her? I have a plan to convince her out of your home."

"You will?" her eyes shine bright at Ser Barristan, hopeful.

"Yes, you have my promise as a Kingsguard," he smiles. Barristan knows that the best play he could do is to display his kindness. Or more accurately, the King's kindness and gratitude. Unlike his sworn brothers, he can't do much with the display of live steel; not only is it loathsome for him to do so, but he fears what her retaliation might be. She carries herself like an experienced knight, and it's best not to anger the one who heals you. He needs to approach this carefully.

The two enter the main room again where the healer is treating a child with a baby in her hands. She sighs upon seeing their faces. "Not you too, Lya..."

"Lady Eirin, I offer you a proposition. It will be beneficial for all of us. First, I ask for you to heal the King of his ailm-"

"No."

"I'm not finished," Barristan raises his finger. "I'll say it again. You'll help to heal his Grace then we can work out a deal with you. From what I've heard, you've taken up an unlawful residency in Lady Lya's home and turned it into your clinic. Though it is a very honourable act, Lady Lya here has been given the short end of the arrangement. That's why I am making this proposal."

The healer continues to treat the child, seemingly uncaring of Barristan's speech. But he continues. "King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, will be very grateful for the healing you've done to him. And with that, you may request anything within reason from him. Let's say, your own building to treat the ill? Or skilled healers and maesters as your assistants? Is that not much better than having poor Lady Lya here as your helper? I'm not trying to speak ill of her, but don't you find her skills to be lacking?"

Eirin turns to them, her fingers rapping hard against the table. Lya gulps, fearing the words that may come out of the healer's mouth. The child at the table stay silent, anxious. "Lya."

"Y-Yes Lady Eirin!"

"Take a break."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"You haven't had lunch right? It's already sunset, so you still have time to make supper for yourself. Go eat."

"Oh, thank you so much, Lady Eirin!" Lya exclaims before running back upstairs. Barristan can only wonder what kind of trials and tribulations did the healer impart on that poor lady.

"Barristan."

"Yes, Lady Eirin?"

"Prepare clean bandages for this girl here. After that, wash my tools with hot water and vinegar before the next patient comes in. Now."

"I have no experience in-"

"And neither did Lya, but she did well enough. Surely you must be even better, right?" the healer cocks her head. "The faster I treat these patients, the faster I'm going to be with your king. So? Can you do it?"

"Of course, Lady Eirin!"

King's Landing

"Barristan, fill up this flask."

"Right away!"

"Barristan, hold down his leg."

"Yes!"

"Barristan, wipe away the blood."

"At once!"

Barristan moves to and fro, from task to task. They're like a river: unending and in constant supply from the healer. It's hard for him to breathe with the cloth covering his mouth, but Eirin insists that he wears it lest she'll disregard his plea for help. And so he complies to her many orders and demands, acting both as a helper and a cleaner for the healer.

He doesn't know how long has he been here. The pristine brown leathers he'd been wearing is now splattered with blood; he should have heeded the healer's advice to wear a spare apron the inn-owner has. He didn't want to ruin the woman's clean clothes. During all that time, Barristan wrote, cut, and held things down for the healer. As the Lord Commander, he's used to such extraneous activities. Though with the face covering and old age, his exhaustion is catching up to him.

As he wipes away the blood from the table, he watches the healer do her healing arts. She moves the needle and string with such precision that it's more reminiscent with a skilled needleworker than a maester. In a matter of seconds, the cut on the man's leg is stitched up. But what surprises him the most is the sorcery she displays in the open. Whenever she makes an incision, the cut on the body carries a slight bluish glow. Sometimes it's red, sometimes it's green; he doesn't know the difference between each one. Even now with the man's leg stitched up, her finger glows blue as she rubs the cut spot. The skin heals over it like it was nothing. A hedge wizard... No, more than that. Where did she come fr-

"Barristan, transcribe the following instructions."

"Alright," he replies, running over to the quill and parchment.

"Mister Knoll, please consume these pills two times a day, preferably before eating breakfast and dinner, for two weeks. Do not put much strain on your right leg. Though that cane of yours is sufficient, I'll recommend you to get a crutch fitted with Mister Colton at the Street of Steel. Come back here tomorrow and I'll give you the papers to have it fitted; I'll be unable to pick it up myself due to my work here."

"It's free?" asks the balding man.

"I have an agreement with Mister Colton's son," answers Lady Eirin. "Barristan."

The tired Lord Commander hands the man the set of instructions. "Please read them over when you get home, Mister Knoll. I bid you a good night and a safe travel."

"Thank you, Ser Barristan! My son has always been looking up to you, with all your knightliness and what not," Knoll chuckles, standing up from his chair. "A shame he couldn't be one, nor could his father."

"Surviving the ailment you have now is a worthy enough achievement to be proud of, Mister Knoll," Eirin assures him as she leads him to the front door. "Healing and surviving requires a strong will, something that you have in you."

"Really, Lady Eirin?"

"Of course! Just come back here tomorrow, okay?"

"Yes. Thank you Lady Eirin, for everything you've done here."

"It's my job," she replies with glee. She waves the man goodbye befor closing and locking the doors. "Barristan," her voice stern now, "wash my tools."

"At once!"

"Neat up the parchments."

"Of course!"

"Put seven sheets into my case."

"Yes!"

"Place my tools and seven red bottles into my case."

"Right away."

"Good. Let us head out."

"Ye- Pardon?"

"Lya, make sure the doors are locked, okay?" she shouts to the person upstairs. They answer with a muffled confirmation.

"Are we-"

"Yes, go prepare yourself," Eirin replies as she takes off her blood-stained white cloak and head-wear. He's taken aback by how long her platinum hair is; even braided, it still reaches past her ankles. However, her face catches his attention. There's some otherworldly aspect to her look. Perhaps it's her grey eyes or pale skin that reminds him of the previous dynasty, the Targaryens. She's strangely beautiful, yet soething about it sends shivers down his spine. She turns to him with a slight smile. "Well? Are you ready?"

"Oh, sorry Lady Eirin! Please give me a second."

"Take your time, it's your king after all."

Barristan tries his best to wipe away any blood and pus on his clothes; though he's not well versed in the art of healing, he knows enough to understand the importance of cleanliness. And with the King, that is of the utmost importance. After checking through all of his equipments, he's ready to go. "Let us head out."

And so, they leave the bright comforts of the inn and traverse into the dark streets of Flea Bottom. Since there are no lights shining from the Sept of Baelor, Barristan guesses that it's quite late in the night now. By the Seven, I hope we're not too late. As they pass by a few groups of guards and beggars, he notices that they're giving them odd looks and glances. That's when he realises that the healer is also carrying her longbow with her. "Lady Eirin, I think your weapon is giving us some unnecessary attention," Barristan says politely.

"You have your sword, I have my bow."

"I see... I take it that you're an experienced archer then? If it's not rude for me to ask, are you by any chance a warrior?"

"Not really," she answers as they enter a more crowded and lively street. The commonfolk part ways upon seeing the healer. "I'm far more skilled in medicine than fighting, though that doesn't mean that I have not spilt blood."

Interesting, so what is her background then? Do women in her part of the world wield weapons as well? Or is it the healers who do such a thing? So much questions, so little time. "I'm sorry if I've brought up bitter memories, Lady Eirin. It's just rare for me to see a women wield weapons in the open, especially in Westeros." He actually does have experience of women wielding weapons, but that only amounts to the occasional Wildlings he met during his time as a novice knight. This woman doesn't look to be from that sordid bunch.

"Where I come from, women are not as restricted in taking more... Masculine positions, shall we say. Where my home is, it's often women that fight, not the men. In fact, I trained some under me to take over my position after I'm gone. They've done great so far!"

A culture whose commanders and soldiers are women... I'm not sure if I've ever heard of that. "What an interesting place! I must pay it a visit in the future."

"I'm not sure if you would like it," the healer chuckles. "Though I can confidently say that it's much cleaner than whatever mess this city is."

"Even in Westeros, King's Landing is renowned for its smell. Now, we should be reaching our destination." They turn a corner and walk towards the hidden passageway that Barristan exited from. The climb feels far longer now due to his exhaustion, but the woman doesn't show any sign of tiredness. Barristan doesn't bother to change his clothes for it'll take far too long.

As they walk towards Maegor's Holdfast, he notices something odd. Throughout their whole trek, they didn't come across any servants nor guards. Not even at the entrance of the Holdfast. And so when he sees that the door to the royal quarters is wide open, he stops in his tracks.

All of his senses are firing at once. The quietness, the dim lights, and that faint smell of sick and viscera... The Kingsguard draws his sword whilst his companion readies her own bow. With a silent gesture, the two move forward quietly towards the doorway. He can see a faint red droplet on the stony floor. He makes sure to keep the healer behind him before calling out: "Whoever is in there, drop your sword and I may leave you alive!"

"Ser... Barristan..."

Barristan recognises Lord Stark's voice. He looks into the room with his sword at the ready and sees carnage. Furnitures and ornaments are strewn about, many of them broken or have been chopped to pieces. Blood paint the marble floor red. At the centre of the room he sees the unconscious form of his Sworn Brother, Ser Balon Swann. A dagger is sticking out of his side, his white cape and armour dyed in blood. At the foot of the King's bed is Lord Eddard Stark, heavily wounded and clutching a gaping cut at his stomach, his guts threaten to spill out.

Barristan rushes to his side, trying to get the man to a more correct position. Barristan dares not letting him stand for he has fear of causing even greater damage to the already wounded Stark. "Lord Hand! What- What in the Seven Hells happened here!?"

"Barristan, your man," Eddard wheezes out. "Attacked me and... Robert... He-"

"Please stay still, Lord Stark. The healer has come to help. Lady Eirin!" Barristan shouts and sees the healer already wearing her cloth and visors. "Please, Lady Eirin, help Lord Stark!"

"I have grave news for you, Barristan Selmy. I just examined the wounds on your king and he'll need most of my attention. I can only operate one at a time, so think carefully on who I should heal."

Barristan freezes in spot. His heart is pounding in his chest for the decision lies on him. I-I'm the Kingsguard, so I must protect the King. But Lord Stark is wounded and looks to be in need even more so than Robert! What-

"Ser Barristan..." Lord Stark coughs up some blood, "I... Order you to help... Robert..."

"But my Lord, your wounds-"

"That is a command, Ser Barristan..."

Ser Barristan looks into the dying Stark's eyes. Even so near to the Stranger, that cold gaze of him bores deep into the Kingsguard. A stubborn man even to the very end... "I'll carry your orders, Lord Hand. It is my duty as the Kingsguard."

"...Good," Eddard Stark smiles.

"Lady Eirin," Ser Barristan stands up, addressing the healer who is now undressing the King and his bandages. "May I call over for more help? We'll need all the hands we can get for supplies and more."

Eirin hesitates for a second before approving it. "But be quick for I'm cutting into him soon."

Barristan nods and dashes out of the room, heading straight to the main halls of the Red Keep. But even with his confidence, he's unsure on who to actually call for help. He now knows that he can't trust his Sworn Brothers to not thrust a blade into his neck, nor any of the Lannister guards for he remembers the Lord Hand's warnings. The fact that the guards have stayed away from the Holdfast meant that they couldn't be trusted either. So who should I call? Which servants!?

Desperate, Barristan enters the cooking area of the Red Keep. Even this late into the evening, the kitchen is still full of servants and staff, most of which are eating their long-deserved dinner. "S-Seb Bawisten!" the head chef bows at him with a mouth full of bread. All eyes are staring at him. "W-What brings you-"

"I need a bucket of boiling water, clean rags, and sets of vinegars and salts that you have. Bring them all to the royal quarters. NOW."

"Y-Yes Ser," the chef gulps before sending all of the others scurrying for the supplies. "Is there any reason for-"

"I'll tell you later. And avoid any of the Red Keep or Lannister guards if you can. They'll only hinder you, is that clear?"

"Yes Ser."

Satisfied, Barristan runs back to the royal quarters, his breathing now ragged. Upon entering, he immediately covers his face with a cloth and begins helping the healer.

"Fetch me a red bottle and scalpel."

"Yes, Lady Eirin."

"Hold these parts still while I cut."

"Yes!"

"Wow, what a disgusting mess," the healer chuckles as she opens up the old wound. The smell of rot and pus assaults Barristan's nose, causing him to gag at the exposure. "Hold steady, Barristan. We don't want you to puke on the patient now, do we?"

"No."

"Good. Shit, this part here is gone... This one as well..." the healer whispers as she begins slicing off black and green flesh from Robert's body and dumping them on the carpeted floor. "But that's vital, so where am I going to-"

"Ser Barristan, I'm here with the- HOLY SEVEN HELLS!" the chef exclaims upon seeing the room, dropping the bucket of hot water and the requested spices. Luckily it lands the right way up, though some splashed onto the carpet. "What the- What the hells is-"

"You at the doorway, bring me the bucket and items," the healer orders, wiping away the sweat on her brow. "And Barristan, bring me a candle. It's too dark to see here."

Barristan pries off a red candle from the wall and holds it over the two of them, ignoring the heat from the melting wax. The chef, though still stunned and pale, move the bucket over to Eirin's feet before running out of the room. "He'll inform the guards, and they're going to be troublesome to deal with."

"Lock and block the door. Leave the candle."

Barristan complies and sticks the candle onto the bed-frame's whirling decorations. Closing the door and bringing down the beam, he realises that it will not be enough if the guards bring in a ram. So with great effort, he moves a nearby shelf and sofa to block the doorway. "Hopefully that'll hold," the Kingsguard pants.

"Barristan."

"Yes Lady Eirin."

"I need you to follow these instructions carefully. First, take out three small silver needles in my case. They have a piece of paper attached to them; hold it there and not on the metal."

"Yes!" Barristan takes them out of the healer's case. They look like a typical sewing needle, though far thinner than the ones he would see in Myrcella's quarters.

"Stick one into the King's stomach."

Barristan does so, still confused at what the items are used for. The piece of paper slowly changes its colour from white to green while the healer watches it intensely.

"Now stick it to the man on the floor and the man leaning on the bed."

As Barristan turns Balon Swann's body around, he sees that a large gash had been struck into the man's forehead. Protecting the King with his life, Lord Stark has done more in his few months as a Hand than I ever did as a Kingsguard... Sticking the needle to the now dead Lord Stark, Barristan can't help but feel a pang of guilt. If I had been quicker back at Flea Bottom, then all of this could have been-

"Barristan, what's the colour for the man on the floor?"

"Blue, Lady Eirin. Sky blue."

"And the one leaning on the bed?"

"Green."

"Like the one on your king?"

Barristan looks closer at the needle sticking out of Lord Stark's neck. "No, it's darker. Or bluer, I'm not sure, but it's green."

"Tch, I'll have to make do then. Barristan, strip him of his clothes and lay him on the bed. I'll start operating on him."

"Lord Stark is dead-"

"I know, but this not for the Stark." Eirin points at the King. "The wounds your king has are not just from the hunt, but also some fresh cuts and stabs from whatever skirmish happened here. He's barely breathing and not moving even when I'm operating without anaesthetics, and that's a bad sign. If you want your king to survive, then I must take some parts from that dead man."

He looks at the woman as if she had grown another head. Gone is the assurance that she's simply a well-practised healer or hedge wizard; she's a maegi. "Y-You're suggesting necromancy!?"

"No, but if you don't help then I may nee-"

*BANG BANG*

The two look towards the doorway. They can hear the shuffling of feet and an array of voices from behind the blockade. With another thud, the whole thing shakes from the force of whatever is ramming the door. "Shit, the guards!"

"Hurry Barristan!"

The Kingsguard hesitates. He had heard of tales of maegis and warlocks from the land called Qarth, the ones who desecrate the dead and cause ungodly horrors on the world. If the woman here is such a person, then there would be a hidden cost somewhere. All talks of necromancy always had a hidden cost, but he doesn't know anything about magic. She's his only chance at Robert's survival.

The third King...

Steeling his resolve, Barristan draws his dagger and cuts apart the Lord Stark's clothes. He's already a failure of a Kingsguard anyway, but he's adamant to at least keep this one alive during his service. Even if that means dabbling into something very detestable.

Chapter Text

Mountains of the Moon

"Imp, if I have to lose another tooth at your expense, I'll throw you off the cliff myself."

"Wouldn't you be missing some Lannister gold then, Bronn?"

"...Ghh, there better be some gold dragons for this," the sellsword groans.

How long was he imprisoned in that accursed castle? A week? Two? He's not sure. He could see the blue sky in his cell, but he tries his best to pry his eyes away from it. The beckoning of the blue is far too appealing for him there. But looking up now to the sky, he sees a new object hanging there. Something he never thought of actually witnessing in his life. "Well would you look at that, Bronn. A comet."

"Comet? That bloody red thing in the sky?" Bronn points to the celestial object, its tail stretching over some of the mountain peaks.

"Yes, don't you know what a comet is?"

"Entertain me," the sellsword smiles, showing his gapped toth.

"Well, this is what I heard from Maester Creylen back at Casterly Rock, so take it with a grain of salt. The man is slowly losing his wits. A comet, he says, is something that only occurs every few hundred years or so. But they repeat their cycle over, and over, and over again. Apparently, that's how some of the First Men kept track of their times." Tyrion shifts in his saddle, the horse being too large and cumbersome for him. "The last time something like that happened was during the Mad King's reign, so I had reckoned that I'll be long dead before I saw one."

"But there it is."

"Yup, there it is. You know, they say it brings omens to those who see it. And with our luck, who knows of our future."

"Heh, as long as it has a nice hot bath and good food, I'm ready." Bronn goes ahead of Tyrion, whistling with the trot. It's still a long ways away from the Riverlands. Sure, the high road and the entirety of the Vale is full of beautiful mountains and nature, but that's all there is to it. Rocks, trees, and the occasional shadowcats. Wildlings if they are really unlucky. Even after declaring him innocent, the little Lord of the Eyrie still intends to have him dead. Wanted me to fly, that whelp. The day I'd do that is the day I sprout wings. Maybe then I'll become an actual imp

"Do you believe in omens, Bronn?"

"It's shit. Do you?"

"Not really," Tyrion confesses. "Unlike my superstitious sister, I'd keep my head sharp at such notions. However, if it brings us comfort," he points at the comet, "I reckon that's Lannister red. Surely a sign of good luck and prosperity for us."

"Lannister red?" Bronn scoffs. "I've seen your colours. That looks more like a blood stain to me."

Their walk is settled again by silence. The sun hides behind a few clouds, and their surroundings are quite scarce in trees. Bronn groans, cracking his knuckles and back. "Gods, this trip down is longer than our way up. I hope something interesting will happen."

"I pray it'll keep being uninteresting," Tyrion retorts. "I don't think we can fight our way out of the mountain wildlings like last time."

"Then do something interesting," Bronn complains. "You're a dwarf, right? Can't dwarves do tricks?"

"If you want me to piss on your knee, I can do that."

"Mmm... Nah. These boots are brand new."

"Yeah, you got them from Jyck's dead corpse."

"Hey," Bronn chuckles, "a dead man doesn't need any boots."

"If his ghost has to walk down these roads, he'll need them," Tyrion jests. The only silver lining to their trip down the Vale's most treacherous path is that the Arryns gave them horses. Weak horse, but horses nonetheless. "By the Seven, they really are trying to kill us."

"You tell me, Imp. Speaking of killing," the sellsword turns to Tyrion, adamant to earn his entertainment, "you got many enemies, right? I mean, as a Lannister, you seem pretty hated."

"Hated? No no, we're well loved by everyone! That's why Lady Catelyn brought me here to see her sister."

"Of course you are," Bronn chuckles. "So, got any stories to tell? Might as well find some way to pass the time."

"Hmm... How about this? You tell me a story about your life as a sellsword, and I'll pay you with one of mine." It's a good opportunity to learn more about this companion of his, lest he'll find the sellsword's blade upon his throat. Besides, he too is starting to feel the onset of boredom.

"Ah, you're asking for a mummer's play?"

"Is that a deal?"

"Deal!" Bronn looks excited in telling the story. He really is bored. "So, you know Chiggen? The other sellsword? We used to go way back when, close as brothers we were."

"Is that why you slit his throat?"

"Look, he was being a nuisance alright? Couldn't keep his mouth shut when he needs to. Anyway," he continues, glossing over his companion's death, "when was it? Three, four years ago? Some petty lord hired us to kill off some wildlings in the area. Couldn't risk his men. A craven, but generous with his gold. So, there we were, two sellswords near a wildling's hideout. They were hiding in a cave, looked about to be four to five people. We planned to smoke them out with some burning bark, choke them up so they're easier to surprise and kill. So, we did that, right? Burnt up some wood and threw it in. We waited and waited. And just when we thought that it was empty, guess who came running out."

"Wildling women?"

"A bear."

"A bear!?" Tyrion's surprised at the reveal. "Don't tell me you had to kill that beast?"

"Had to," Bronn shrugs. "If we didn't, then it would've mauled us like it did to those wildlings."

"That's quite a feat, killing the bear," Tyrion admits. "So the bear did your job for you."

"Yep. Easy, got all their armour and everything. This sword," he pats his hip, "got it from some poor sod who had half of his face eaten."

"Huh. That explains why your sword looks so... Ugly."

"Nah, that's from another time. Which I will tell if you pay me with a story of your own." Bronn snaps his fingers at Tyrion, his mood much cheerier than before. "C'mon, I already did the service. now tell me one."

"Alright, alright, I got many choices Let's see..." The wind blowing through the mountains is picking up speed. Buttoning up his wool cloak, Tyrion doesn't know what kind of story will satisfy the sellsword. The man probably had seen many fucked-up stuff than he. Maybe I can just lie to him, make up my own story. Ah, but what will he do if he knows it's a lie? Well, I could just tell him that it's one of a dwarf's many talents. "So, there I was, sitting in my father's solar all alone in Casterly Rock. I was a child then, on my tenth nameday, even smaller on account of me being a dwarf. I was just reading a book given to me by the maester about the history of the Lannisters. I was on the page regarding lions and gold when-"

"...Imp?"

"-suddenly I heard a loud crash. A bang right in front of me! When I looked up from my book, I saw the whole shelf full of books and little trinkets have collapsed. The servants ran up to the solar and they, were, FURIOUS! They started yelling and threatening me, saying that I'll-"

"Imp?"

"-be thrown and locked in the dungeon for good. I cried hard, but then my brother Jaime came up to me and-"

"IMP!"

"What, Bronn?" The sellsword has stopped on the side of the road. "I thought you want to hear stories."

"...What the fuck is that?"

Turning around, Tyrion sees something massive moving in the distance. A grey, twisting pillar of dirt and other things, tearing through the valleys. He can see trees and rocks flying like wooden toys, crashing down in great puffs of dust. The wind around him blows into a gale, threatening to knock him off his horse. And the roar... The distant roar like crashing waves and a dragon's screech. He's transfixed to it. Just like that time in the sky cell, or when he saw those shadows as a kid, or-

"Shit, it's coming closer! Run, Imp, RUN!" Bronn is already ahead of him, clearing over rocks and fallen branches.

"W-Wait! Bronn!" Tyrion shouts, having come to his senses. Whatever this thing is, it's coming closer. And if I stay here! "Bronn, I said wait for me!" The horse he's on is not the best, stumbling on some rocks and pieces of wood. It neighs as dust starts to blow all around them, the roar approaching. Before long, pieces of woods and rocks fall from the sky. One hits the horse, sending Tyrion to the rocky ground. The horse's no good anymore. Struggling to get back up, he shouts: "Bronn, come back and help me!"

He can see the sellsword turn around and make a gesture at him. He doesn't look eager to come back.

"Geh, fuck!" Tyrion tries to push past some of the rocks, but the adrenaline and panic is causing him to lose his grip and tumble. He quickly gets back up again, but his hand is bleeding. Shit- "Bronn! The gold Bronn, how about the gold!?" His voice is nearly drowned out by the rushing wind. It's closer now. "You need me alive for the fucking GOLD! GOLDEN DRAGONS!" His voice is getting hoarse.

He can see the man turn around, turn back, and turn again before sprinting to where Tyrion lie. "Damn you Lannisters and your damn gold!" he shouts, grabbing Tyrion by the arm and lifting him up onto the horse.

"And yet you've-"

"Shut IT! Or'll I'll make you really fly!"

The horse quickly gallops down the mountain path. But they're fighting against the wind and the treacherous landscape. Even this far away, the thing threatens to pull them back and tear them to pieces. Before long, the tower of grey descends upon the high road, wreaking havoc upon everything before it. They disembark from the horse and quickly seek shelter behind a large rock as the deafening roar envelops everything around them. Bracing themselves, Tyrion prays. To the Seven, to the Old Gods, and to any others he has read about; he needs them right now. He trembles at its power, fear coursing through his body.

But his curiosity is even stronger. Against his desire to stay safe, Tyrion peeks around the corner to look at it. The thing is massive, stretching high into the clouds and easily wider than the Red Keep's courtyard. Trees are pulled out of the ground and take to the sky while stones dash along the ground. It threatens to pull him but he keeps his ground, holding on to the rock outcropping with his bleeding hands. But keeping his head up and focusing on the thing, he sees something strange. Birds. Crows and ravens flit about at the massive pillar, unaffected by the gale. They flock in strange patterns, dashing all around the area. "Do you see that, Bronn!?"

"Get back here you Imp!" Bronn pulls him back behind cover. "I want my fucking gold!"

And so they wait it out until the roar fades and the wind dies down. By the time they leave the cover, the pillar is already far in the distance, leaving a trail of destruction. The high road is now littered with branches and trees and rocks of all sizes. They see one just behind the rock they're hiding, having been thrown onto the ground with great force and leaving a crater.

"...Tyrion, what the fuck was that?"

"I... I don't know, Bronn. But what I do know is that I need a new pair of breeches."

"Same."

They quickly find their terrified horse between some shrubberies. After calming it down with some berries, they trot down the mountain on the side of the high road. The place is too treacherous now to traverse. As the sun sets, they set up camp near a cold stream. It's easy for them to find branches to make a shelter; that pillar of wind torn all of them off. Heating up their wine and feasting on the last part of their rations, the two sit back and relax. Their worries and troubles slowly melt. Perhaps due to the life and death situation they had just experienced, Tyrion feels comfortable in Bronn's presence. Comfortable enough to tell him stories about his father. And more harrowing ones regarding his first time.

"Wow. Oh wow." Bronn looks at him in pity, sipping on the warm spiced wine. "Your father... How could you just lie there and take it?"

"He's my father, Bronn. Warden of the West, the Lannister Lion," he answers, nibbling on a piece of dried meat and bread.

"Yes, but at the end of it he's still just a man."

"What, you expect me to kill him?"

"Yes."

Tyrion nearly chokes. "Gods, that was a bad joke."

"Not a joke," the sellsword says casually. "If he was my own father, I'll send an arrow right between his eyes. Maybe a crossbow bolt for a man of your stature."

Tyrion wants to reprimand him for suggesting to become a kinslayer, but doesn't have the heart to. The words that came out of the man's mouth is very much fitting for the hardened sellsword. He's only loyal to gold, not houses nor families. Loyal until another person pays upfront. Even to his own father... Gods, what am I even thinking. I need to be drunk for this conversation. He fills a cup with the warmed spiced wine and offers a toast beneath the red comet. "To our survival!"

"To our survival!"

Mountains of the Moon

By sunrise, the two are already on their way down the high road. If they want to leave the Vale, then they must begin their trek as early as possible. The air is crisp and cold, frost forming on the leaves of trees. He brushes away the ones forming on his hand, blowing on them to keep himself warm.

Only now, with a rested mind and calm heart, that he realises how awkward his position on the horse is. With his small size, Bronn suggests him to sit up front, which is what's usually done to a small child. Bronn's arms are to his sides, holding the horse's reins and keeping him in place. Not only that, but the saddle is not designed with a dwarf in mind. It doesn't take long for him to feel pins-and-needles across his thigh. The stirrup digging into his groin makes it all the more unbearable.

"Gods, how much longer is this high road?"

"I think we're getting closer now, Imp. The trees looks like a forest here."

After a while, the road gradually becomes less steep, allowing them to move faster down the mountain. They gallop at a good pace, to the chagrin of Tyrion's thighs, when they spot a group of men down the road. Bronn halts his horse, but not far enough for them to be hidden. "Shit, bunch of wildlings."

The group approaching them are dressed in rusted armour and a lot of animal fur. Some bear's, some wolf's, and even one of a shadowcat's. They carry weapons with them, broken ones like axes and hammers. This is bad. I doubt we can get past them easily, especially with me in the seat. One of the burlier men steps forward, wielding a great war axe and a mighty beard. He seems to be their leader.

"Imp," Bronn whispers, "you know a way around here?"

"I think I do." To Bronn's surprise, Tyrion jumps down from the horse to the laughter of the wildlings. He straightens his clothes and dons his best look. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"What are you doing here, halfman?" speaks the hairy one, his voice deep and gruff. Crows land on tree branches above him. "This here is land for the Free Men."

"Oh, I'm very sorry for intruding your lands. You see, my friend and I," Bronn waves and smiles at them, "are simply looking for a quick way down the mountain towards the Riverlands. Ah, but you Free Men have clans here, right? Tell me, what clan do you gentlemen belong to? I don't want to be rude by calling you by a wrong title." If Tyrion remembers his books correctly, then there should be lots of clans in the Vale. If he can at least make peace with the ones here, he'll get an easy passage through the mountains. Perhaps make allies as well. My words are important here.

"We're the Stormcrows."

Stormcrows... The sellsword group? He looks back at Bronn who shrugs. He doesn't recognise them. "Ah, Stormcrows! Forgive me, it's the first time I've heard of your people. Tell me, how goes life as Free Men? You all look more than capable of defending yourselves from other less-than-savoury groups." Tyrion understands that praises are still effective to even the most uncivilised of men. Perhaps more so, for they are inexperienced in courtly politics.

The mountain men look at each other before answering. "There ain't no more clans, boyman. Only Stormcrow."

"...I'm sorry, perhaps my ears are off from yesterday. What did you mean by no more clans?"

"There are no more clans, boyman. Shagga used to be a Stone Crow, but..." The hairy man looks up at the birds above, who watches them with their beady eyes. He shivers before continuing. "The Great Lady Stormcrow. She took Shagga and all clans under her wings. And those that don't... No more."

That's... Troubling. It's the first time I've heard of mountain wildlings being under a single leader. For those who pride themselves as free... Times truly are changing. "Ah, then give Lady Stormcrow my friendly regards. The Lannisters are always welcome to new faces," he lies through his teeth.

"Lannister? You two lionmen?"

"Well, only me. My friend here is just a traveller."

"A word of warning, boyman." Shagga steps forwards, thrusting his axe into the ground. Tyrion flinches back. "You stay out of the mountains. For your own good."

Tyrion gulps. "Yes, we were just leaving."

Shagga turns back to the others and speak to them in a different tongue. The Old Tongue, Tyrion recognises, but he's unable to translate what they're saying. After a short discussion full of grunts and sighs, Shagga returns to Tyrion. "You get on that horse and go through that valley there." He points to nearby valley, filled with crags and a small stream. "Stay clear of trees. There be shadowcats."

"How about other mountain men?"

"By order of Lady Stormcrow, all are free to leave the mountains. Only entry is forbidden."

"But can you truly assure me of that? I've only met you Shagga, so I'm still unsure if others are as cordial as the ones here."

Shagga looks up at the perching crows. One swoops down and lands on Tyrion's head, its claws digging uncomfortably into his hair. "No one will harm you if you have crow. Lady Stormcrow's blessings."

"...Thank you, Shagga. I will take care of it."

With that, the mountain wildlings part ways, heading up the mountain. The birds follow their ascent. Tyrion notices that they are all carrying bags over their shoulders, as if moving camps. "So... What are we going to feed the bird?" asks Bronn.

"I still have some meat," Tyrion answers. "Besides, I'm sure you can feed on insects, right bird? You don't look like a Citadel raven."

"CAW! CAW!"

"Agh," Tyrion coves his ears. "Please, do not crow while on my head. Damn bird."

The two travel down the road and into the valley Shagga pointed out. The bird follows them, flying from tree to tree, sometimes leading the way ahead. It's nicer here, with flowers blooming on the sides of the path. Before long, they come across another group of wildlings, this time looking far less polite than Shagga's group. But upon seeing the crow land on Tyrion's head, they dare not to approach and give them a wide breadth. The same happens to two more unsavoury groups of wildlings, backing away upon seeing the crow. With a last group, one man defies the crow and charges at their horse with an axe. When Bronn pulls out his sword, the other wildlings restrain the attacking one and decapitates him. The head is given to Tyrion as a sign of apology, it's tongue lolling out of its mouth.

"...This is strange," Tyrion says, throwing away the head after a sufficient distance from the group.

"Huh, maybe there is some truth to what they say. A dwarf brings good luck."

"By robbing it from me. Don't you remember that I was the one to be kidnapped? And what of this Lady Stormcrow they speak of? I doubt she's Lysa Arryn; she doesn't really inspire men to join her, and I don't think they fear her as well."

"Maybe a warg," Bronn adds. "Fought one before, had a large wolf. You know what they are?"

"I know what a warg is, Bronn." He looks up at the flying crow. Is that thing a warg then? Is Lady Stormcrow watching me through the eyes of an animal? Maybe that's how she inspires fear in these strong wildlings for there is always someone watching them. The thought of it gives him shivers.

By sundown, the two is at the mouth of the valley. Just beyond is the more familiar plains of the Riverlands, a few castles dotted here and there. They set up camp beneath the red comet, eating the last portions of their rations. He gives some of the meat to the bird, which jumps happily at the offer. "You should name it," Bronn says. "Gives us good luck, most likely."

"Hmm... How about... Jaime?"

"Your brother?" Bronn chuckles. "You miss him that much?"

"I do. Even if he can be quite stupid sometimes, he's good at heart. Besides, nothing more fitting than the best knight of the Realm for the one that keeps us all safe." Tyrion yawns, tired and aching from the ride. He retreats beneath his blanket, hiding from the coming night chill. "Let's sleep now, we have to get up early."

"Alright then. Goodnight, Tyrion."

"'Night Bronn," he rolls his face away from the camp fire.

"Goodnight, Kingslayer."

"CAW!"

Riverlands

By late afternoon, the two have entered the comfortable grounds of the Riverlands. Well, comfortable might be the wrong word. This is the Tulies' land, after all, and they kidnapped me for a crime I'm innocent of. Perhaps, familiar is the word.

They avoid the main roads and inns, fearing that Tyrion might get kidnapped by another group loyal to the Tullies. Travelling through the wooded areas, they catch a few birds and rabbits, courtesy to the help of Jaime the crow. "You're smarter than you look, Jaime," says Tyrion, holding two dead rabbits by the ears. "Maybe my brother can learn a thing or two from you."

"Caw?" The bird tilts its head before flying off.

They rest for another day in the woods, avoiding any Rivermen eyes. This time, they eat heartily the birds and rabbits they caught. It has been so long since they've eaten actual fresh meat that by the time they're full, they already licked the bones clean. Jaime, not having been left a scrap, pecks at Tyrion's hand in annoyance.

"Geh, fine. Here, have some marrow." Tyrion grabs a leg bone and snaps it into two. The bird pecks at it before flying into the trees.

"So, Tyrion," Bronn says, picking his teeth with a rib bone, "what's the plan? We can't just linger in the Riverlands all the time. And I need my gold."

"In due time, Bronn. First, we'll head south towards King's Landing where my brother awaits. I'm sure I still have some coffers in the chests somewhere. Then, we'll head west to Casterly Rock. By then, your pockets will be so full of dragons that you'll need an auroch to carry it."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Imp."

Next day, the two head south towards King's Landing. However, not long into their travel, they come across soldiers bearing the red and gold banner of House Lannister. Bronn looks confused at Tyrion. Wait, why are they here? Is it because of my kidnapping? They gallop towards the soldiers who exclaims in surprise upon seeing them.

"Tyrion!" a helmeted man shouts. He lifts his visor, revealing the face of his uncle Ser Kevan Lannister. "By the Gods, you're here! I thought you were taken by the Tullies!"

"I was in the Vale, uncle. Luckily, the dungeons of the Eyrie had no walls. Now may I ask, why is the Lannister banners flying over the Riverlands?"

"I think it's best you speak with my brother. He's at the Crossroad Inn"

Even my father is here... What is going on? "Thank you, uncle. I'm sure he'll be happy upon finding the heir of Casterly Rock is still alive."

The two trot behind Ser Kevan. The sight of the Lannister encampment is a strange one, knowing that he was kidnapped not far from here. Tents dot the ground as far as the eye could see. How many are here? Ten thousand? Twenty, thirty? Are they trying to wage a war? Crossroad Inn bears the emblems of the Lannisters at its windows. The usual drinking and clamour is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he sees his father brooding over maps and letters in the middle of the inn. "Tyrion," he says, not looking up at his son. "I see that you are well."

"Of course, father. It is great to see you as lively as ever. Though I'm curious, why are you here and not at Casterly Rock?"

"Retribution, Tyrion. The Tullies have done a great disservice to our honour and pride by kidnapping you. In doing so, they've declared you unfit for the seat of Casterly Rock, something I don't take kindly towards. So, we are here to make a point; the Lannisters are not to be trifled with. However," he gestures towards Tyrion, "I don't think we have any need to siege the Eyrie as well."

"Ah, so you do love me."

"I do not, Tyrion. But my status as Warden of the West relies on keeping you alive. May I ask, who is this man next to you?"

"Bronn, a humble sellsword, Lord Tywin," Bronn bows at the balding old man.

"He volunteered as my champion at the Eyrie, father. Managed to prevent me from flying."

"It's great to see that my son has the capability of finding talented men. However," he looks up at Bronn, "right now I'm discussing family matters. I can assure you that us Lannisters will pay grandly for your services and valour. We always pay our debts."

"Of course. You can find me in the arms of liquor and fine women, Imp. See ya around!"

With Bronn gone, Tywin discards his cheery demeanour. He turns to Tyrion. "How much do you owe him?"

"About a hundred dragons."

Tywin sighs, rubbing his head in frustration. His age is clearer now whenever the talk of money is involved. "And why do you owe him that much?"

"He saved my life twice. First by trial of combat, and the other through an incident at the Vale. It was by the skin of my teeth."

"Frankly, I wish he hadn't." Tyrion understands his father's hatred towards him. The Lion still blames his son for the death of his wife. Not only that, but with Jaime becoming a Kingsguard, that only leaves Tyrion as the rightful heir of Casterly Rock. An Imp ruling over a mountain of gold. Now that's a terrifying thought for the Old Lion. "Tell me, what did he exactly save you from?"

"Well, I challenged the Lord of the Vale with Bronn as my champion and he won quite handily. The second... Is stranger. Some foul winds and a massive grey cone ripped through the mountains, tearing trees and rocks alike. He saved me then as well."

"Grey cone?"

"Spinning, dizzying thing of massive girth and height. No name for it, though I can say it convinced me to get a brand new pair of breeches."

"Your tales are getting taller by the day. Sadly, it won't erase the fact that you're a dwarf."

"Yes, your dwa-"

Tywin slams his fist on the table, silencing Tyrion. He doesn't like the constant reminder of the dwarf being his son; a living monument to his everlasting shame. Letting the anger pass over him, he drinks from the cup on the table. It's watered-down wine. "I half-expected you to die to mountain wildlings. And then throw your body down a ravine."

"Well, those wildlings seem to be fairer hosts than Lord of the Vale nor the Warden of the West. Speaking of which," he points at the crow perched on the windowsill, "that's a gift from them."

"A crow?"

"Jaime the crow."

"Gods, it seems that your time there have turned you mad."

"Not mad, father. Lonely. There's a difference. Now," Tyrion pours himself a cup of the wine, "interestingly enough, the mountain wildlings seems to have eschewed their wild and savage traditions and banded together to a single clan: Stormcrow. Under one they call the Great Lady Stormcrow."

"And why should the matters of wild men concern me?"

"ALL of the mountain clans have gathered under her. That's, what, a quarter of everyone in the Vale? More than what previous lords could muster up, that's for sure. And from the looks of it, they're heading up towards the Eyrie. Fear is driving them, father. Fear of this Lady Stormcrow. Things are changing there. But for the better? I do not know." He takes a large gulp of the wine, savouring its sweet and sour taste. Man, do I miss arbor gold. "My suggestion is to make allies with them. Who knows? Perhaps we'll have a new Lord of the Vale."

Tywin taps his fingers on the table, digesting the information. "Was Lady Catelyn Tully present at the Eyrie during your leave?"

"Yes, though I don't know if she has begun her descent."

"We must assume she must, meaning that there's nothing to gain by climbing up there."

"Mountain men?"

Tywin glares at his son. "We're lions, Tyrion. We don't stoop so low as to make friends with birds."

"Of course, father," Tyrion bows. He does still want to secure that connection with this mysterious Lady Stormcrow. Whatever his father is doing here, extra hands are still good to have. Speaking of hands... "Regarding this quest for retribution, what about the Lord Hand Ned Stark? Won't he find it distasteful that you're seeking to attack his wife's family? And what of Robert? Surely, even with Cersei as his Queen the drunken oaf will not agree to such actions."

"Robert is dead."

"...What?" What in the seven hells have been happening since I was locked up!?

"Well, not dead yet. But soon he'll be."

"Wait wait wait! Please, go back. What happened?"

"A hunting accident. He was gored by a boar through his stomach whilst drunk on the hunt. Lancel was giving him too much wine to drink. Ravens tell me that the King lies dying in his bedchamber, his days numbered. Now, we await the crowning of Joffrey and his naming of me as the Hand of the King."

This... This is all too perfect, too well-planned for coincidences. Tyrion wonders if all of this have been planned in advance. Shit, that Lancel! That boy has always been so eager to please the King... Don't tell me that Cersei has a hand in this. Did she open her legs for him as well? But lastly, Joffrey... Joffrey is what Tyrion worries most. Not only the boy is too young to rule as king, but he has a record. A nasty one if tales of the bodies in the river are true. Damn it, even that drunken fat oaf is well-liked by the commonfolk. "So what do we do now?"

"Your brother Jaime won the battle at Golden Tooth not long ago. The Mountain has conquered Harrenhal and should be returning here shortly. Now, Jaime's forces are besieging Riverrun, the Seat of House Tully. It's only a matter of time until they succumb."

"What of the Starks? I doubt Lord Eddard will just dawdle as this is happening." Even without the title of Hand, the Stark still commands the immense power of the North. Rallying against them AND the Riverlands would be suicidal.

"I have faith in my daughter," answers Tywin.

"I don't have faith on what you've just said," Tyrion replies. "Cersei is Queen, yes. But she's a Queen, not Lord Regent and not her son. What if," he leans closer, careful not to be overheard. "What if the boy fucks up? You've seen his temper; there's something wrong with him."

"Are you insulting the Prince?"

"I'm relating to you, father, that my sister has her faults. You put too much faith in her accomplishing this secret goal of yours. What if she fails? What if she does not follow this plan? Who will rein the two in? Starks? Stannis? Renly? Those Baratheons will fight for the right to sit on the throne, father. I'm sure you know that already." Tyrion finishes his cup. If he had just strung all the words right, then he has a chance to go to King' Landing and right whatever the boy might be thinking of doing.

"Hmm... I hear what you're saying, Tyrion. You're asking me to send you to King's Landing."

"I'm not asking you, I'm merely suggesting."

"And what will you do there, I wonder? Spend your dragons on whores?"

"Though I can't say that I will not do that, I will make it my main goal to control the actions of my sister and nephew." Tyrion still wants that whorehouse luxury. It has been so long since his last taste of a woman.

"By being out of my sight. No, you will stay here with me. At least until this campaign is over. It is a good opportunity for you to put the you've read to good use. If you plan on being my heir, then you must be capable of it." Tywin writes some notes down on a piece of paper and hands it to Tyrion. "Gather a hundred men under your command and I will see if you're fit for battle. And take a bath, you smell like shit."

So much for the warm reception. "Come, Jaime. We have work to do." The crow flies out as he opens the door. Now out of the inn, he notices that there are a few crows and ravens about. He could barely tell which one is Jaime and which are not. "I see your friends have come to visit."

"CAW!"

The sky is full of life; well, too full if the guard chasing a crow with a piece  of bread in its mouth is anything to go by. No doubt they're waiting for all of us to die, he thinks bitterly. Pecking out our eyeballs in the battlefield. Hopefully Jaime is too polite to do that. He looks at the crow, which tilts its head to him. "Well then Jaime, let's go find Bronn."

Chapter Text

Riverlands

It has been days since Tyrion joined his father's forces. All through that time they assured him that the news of the King's death will arrive soon. That the Mountain's men will come and aid them in battle.

Days come and go.

None of it came to pass.

Tyrion visits his father's tent for the daily debriefing. Entering the Lion's domain, he sees the usual stern look of Tywin, drinking from a cup of wine. Shit, this ought to be bad. Tyrion knows better than to trust his father's expressionless face. The man is not one to drink, especially so early in the morning. Something is on his mind. Tyrion is used to seeing all the signs: the small eye twitches and tapping fingers are the largest giveaways. It's his greatest skill in surviving Casterly Rock. His uncle Kevan is aware of it as well, keeping himself quiet in Tywin's presence.

As there has been no words of the King's death, Tywin has given orders to Jaime to halt his siege for the time being. More than cunning or cruelty, Tywin is careful, for Robert's survival may put his entire plan in jeopardy. And with the Lannisters being unpopular, it won't take much for everyone to draw their swords against us.

They the discuss what their next moves should be. Kevan, who's getting tired of simply waiting around, suggests that they simply end the siege and take Harrenhal as payment. "It must be worth something," the man says, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Uncle, may I need remind you that we have no words coming from the Mountain as of late. It might be that they encounter some Rivermen and were slain in battle."

"Nonsense," Tywin replies. "The man's a skilled knight."

"A skilled beast with a knight's sword, father. Even you can barely control him. How about this? I send a few of my men as scouts to the region and see what has happened to the Mountain. That way, we don't have to dawdle around this subject."

Tywin sips his wine. "See it done then."

And that's how Tyrion spends the better part of the day: instructing and securing ten soldiers to ride towards Harrenhal as scouts. He's given then direct instructions to remain as hidden as possible, so they've changed their clothes to more inconspicuous ones rather than the Lannister reds.

As night falls, Tyrion goes to sleep in his own private tent. Filled with books and a few chests with trinkets, he feels quite relaxed. It's much better than just sleeping on some rocks. However, I can't help but think that there's something missing here. Something important...

It's by morning that he realises what it had been: whores. For the better part of one or two months perhaps, he did not have any action. No companion to sleep with him in the night, and really no pleasures to speak of. So of course, the first thing he does in the morning is find Bronn and ask him to find a good whore. Money is not a problem to him.

Another thing he notices is that today, the amount of ravens and crows in the air is quite extraordinary. The sky is absolutely filled with them. He had never heard that crows and ravens could fly in large flocks, but apparently now they do. Everybody consider them a nuisance as they pilfer not only food but also coins and jewels. Pearls were stolen from a whore's chest while men were swindled by cleverer crows. They're acting less like birds and more mischievous thieves. I know that those birds are supposed to be smart, but this is getting ridiculous!

It didn't take long for the soldiers to blame Tyrion for this plague; he brought the first crow here after all. Luckily, he's able to convince them that no, it wasn't his fault that crows began coming here. Though he has his own suspicions about Bronn's words that the crow is a warg's pet, he keeps that to himself. To further secure this, his uncle declares to the soldier an order to exterminate any crows and ravens present in the camp. "That ought to keep these damn pests away," Kevan tells Tyrion.

While Tyrion stays in his tent and feeds Jaime with some hard bread, the soldiers outside begin throwing nets and shooting arrows into the air. Before long, the camp turns into a battlefield full of screams and caws. Curious, Tyrion peeks out of the tent and sees chaos. Though the soldiers have spears and armour, the birds can fly. A small flock descends on a hapless guard, pecking away at his face and eyes. Another flock chases down a running horse, leading it through several tents of soldiers. By noon, most of the Lannisters have given up on ridding the birds. They'd rather secure and lock their supplies and gold rather than deal with another score of blinded men. They lost the ravens in the rookery as well, limiting their communication abilities.

Tyrion, sitting nicely in his tent reading a book, never encounters this problem. Perhaps because of Jaime, the crows and ravens avoid his tent. "If you really are the commander of these birds, Jaime, can you tell them to stop harassing my men?"

"Caw?"

"No, I guess not." He throws a piece of dried meat to Jaime, which catches it in its mouth. "Then again, never heard or seen crows work together like that. Perhaps you're just lying to me with that bird-beak of yours."

"CAW!"

"Lord Tyrion?"

"Yes?" He turns around and sees one of his scout to Harrenhal at the flap of his tent. "Ah, so you two have returned. So, how goes the Mountain?"

"Um, here's the thing, my lord. We... We couldn't find the Mountain nor his men, my lord. Not a horse nor man."

Did he abandoned his post? No, that couldn't be. "Did you check nearby towns as well?"

"We went to Harrentown my lord and ask around with the locals. They told us that two things happened to the Mountain. The first is that after some time occupying the castle, half of the Mountain's men ran out in panic. Something about a demon living in there, I hear. Swallowed the man whole."

"A demon? You believe that, Ser Robyn?"

"W-well," the scout wavers, "a bit, my lord."

Tyrion scratches his temple. He chose his men due to skills and loyalty, but he never thought the need to choose them under the basis of intelligence. I guess that's where I've gone wrong. "Alright, alright. Enough about demons and snarks. What happened to the soldiers then?"

"Under no leader, my lord, they raided Harrentown. Raped and pillaged as they said. Then, under some sort of priest soldiers, they overcame the men and had them all hanged."

"Priest soldiers? The Faith has no militant."

"It wasn't the Faith, my lord. Some queer religion instead with a wooden shrine. They said the gods live on the Isle of Faces, but not the Old Gods either. The last I saw them they were raising a small force. To defend the Riverlands, they say."

Now that's a cause for concern, Tyrion wonders. If they are getting under the banner of a foreign religion, that will cause huge problems. It'll be harder to negotiate with as they have different values. Perhaps they'll even be antagonistic to the Faith, seeing them as failures. That would make sense. I've read stories of splinters of the Seven due to war and strive, creating battles and conflicts all across the Realm. The difference between that and a ruler's reign is that the religious are more willing to sacrifice their lives. The superstitious are more terrifying than their gods nor demons. We'll have to be careful with them in the future, lest it spreads like wildfire. "Alright, Ser Robyn, I'll inform my Lord father about this. Take rest; I'm sure luncheon is still available."

"Yes, my lord."

With that, Tyrion is left alone with Jaime and his book. However, his mind is slowly being preoccupied with worries. Why are crows here in the encampment? Surely, it's not some natural phenomena? He has never heard of crows and ravens moving about like geese or swans during the coming of winter. And we're still in autumn. The cults, the crows, the comet... Why is it all happening now. And where the hell is my whore? Tyrion snaps his book shut and puts on his boots. "Don't tell me Bronn is hogging her all to himself," he says to no one in particular. Finishing his laces, he turns to Jaime. "Ey, don't let any of your friends in, alright?"

"CAW! CAW!" the crow flaps its wings.

"I'll take that as a yes." Tyrion chuckles. The bird is starting to grow on him.

"Excuse me, are you Lord Tyrion Lannister?"

"Who might be asking?" Tyrion turns and finds a black-haired woman opening his tent flaps. "Oh, finally! Yes yes, I'm the Lannister dwarf. Do please come in! Have a seat while I get myself ready."

She enters and sits on his empty seat. As he puts away his book and light a candle, the bird caws and jumps on top of the hat she's wearing. "Hey, Jaime! Don't disturb the nice lady!"

"Oh, that's fine, Lord Tyrion. I'm quite fond of birds myself." She pets the bird's head, which caws in delight. "Quite a nice tent you got here."

Tyrion watches as she crosses her luscious legs, on show from her short skirt. Oh Bronn, I have to pay you well for finding such a beauty. "Well, that makes two of us. I can't say the others are so fond of birds right now. Besides," he undoes his belt buckle, eager to get started, "my place back at Casterly Rock is much better. Full of books and other artifacts."

"Oh, you're an avid reader, Lord Tyrion?" the woman perks up. She looks quite young and lively, adorned with beautiful red eyes. "That's quite rare in this Westeros."

"Most men prefer to battle. As a dwarf, I'd rather use my mind for combat. Speaking of which," he takes off his breeches and lets out his already erect cock, brandishing it. He looks back at the sitting woman. "Have you ever had sex with a dwarf before?"

"Hmm, not really. And I usually do it with other women rather than men," she answers, letting out a sly smile from her soft lips. Those supple, luscious lips. Damn, I really am in a rut. "Why do you ask?"

"Not much really. Just don't want to surprise you with the Imp, that's all. Now," he claps his hands, "it's been a while, so why don't we just get started. Don't worry, I'm gentle to all my night attendants. Pay well too. First, why don't you open your-"

"Oy Imp, got that whore you wan- Oh, nice cock."

Tyrion snaps his head round and sees Bronn, arm linked with a woman in a dress displaying her cleavage. Wait, is that- He turns back to the black haired woman, now grinning with glee, the crow perched on her shoulder. His stomach sinks. "...You're not a whore?"

"Nope."

"BRONN!" Tyrion shouts at the sellsword, red faced and covering up his drooping member.

"What!?" Bronn chuckles. "I'm not the one with his cock out."

"Go away, please!" The two people at the doorway leave the dwarf and his laughing guest, no doubt to have their own fun. "I'm so, so, very sorry, my lady!" He fumbles with the clasp on his breeches. "I can assure you, this is not how I usually am!"

"Is this a Lannister custom, Lord Tyrion? Greeting ladies with flags at full mast?"

"Gods, don't think of my family like that," Tyrion replies, his very words and actions filled with shame. "Don't let one dwarf taint- No, that's a bad wording..."

The woman laughs heartily at his antics, perhaps the silver lining to all of this. Jaime laughs along with her, their caws mixing together. With flushed cheeks and sweaty brows, he rights his clothes and fills up a cup of wine. He nearly trips from all his shaking. "I am so sorry for what you've seen, my lady," he gives the cup to the woman. "It must have been the worst greeting you've seen."

"Oh, don't worry, Lord Tyrion. It was embarrassing and funny, sure, but certainly not the worst," she answers, sipping up half of the wine in the cup. She takes out a sheaf of papers from her pocket and flips through it. "Who was it again? Oh yeah, met some guy named Shagga in the mountains. Didn't say hello or how are you, just dropped his pants and told me to suck it. Fitting his name, you could say."

Tyrion recognises that name. "Mountain men," he cringes. "Can never be disciplined with those lot. I can assure you, us Lannisters are far more civilised than those wild men. Got your own to deal with them?"

"My friend wanted to, but I dealt with him myself. Cut off his dick and made him eat it. All the others greet me properly after that." She refills her cup. "And don't you worry, Lord Tyrion. Yours was an accident; I will not cut it off."

"Good, since I don't think it'll be a filling meal for either of us. I still plan to use it later." With his libido slowly sinking back down, the haze of lust over his eyes slowly disappears. The woman is wearing a short skirt, but the design is not like that of Westeros. A foreigner then, so different values and customs. The hat she's wearing is also odd, being a small piece with red tassels and white cotton hanging from it. Her clothes seem to be made of fine silks, with detailed coloured embroidery of leaves decorating it. And with the hand-held fan tied to her waist and a strange black-and-silver object, she looks to be some sort of noblewoman. A person of a higher class, at least. Cruelty and power were present in her little story, so I need to be careful here. And that part about the mountain men... "Now, why don't we just forget what happened before and greet each other normally. My name is Tyrion Lannister, son of Lord Tywin Lannister and heir of Casterly Rock. And you, I presume, are Lady Stormcrow?"

"Lady Stormcrow is not my real name, Lord Tyrion. It's simply the title the people of the mountains gave me. My name is Shameimaru Aya, but you may call me Aya."

"It is nice to finally meet you, Lady Aya. Though may I ask, what brings you down from the mountains? I've heard that you were doing work up there."

"Oh, my work is finished, so it's my friend's shift right now. No, I'm here because of stories."

"Stories?"

"Yes, stories! I always love a good story, whether it came out of the mouth of humans or fish. Now, I heard that there's fighting in the land of rivers. Fish and lions, fighting to the death! Rivers turned red with blood! Such good headlines that I just don't want to miss it! But..." she lets out a long sighs, languishing on the table. "Ayaya... Can you imagine my disappointment, Lord Tyrion, when all I find down here was just a bunch of humans waving their swords around? And I flew all this way as well..."

Flew? "I can imagine, Lady Aya."

"Luckily for me though, the rumours of a dwarf here is true. Just not the kind I had in mind," Aya adds, letting the crow rest on her head. The way she moves and expresses herself reminds him of Jaime the crow, with all the head tilts and twitches.

"Well, I am the one and only Imp, so that must have been worth something," he chuckles, refilling both his cup and the woman's. Hopefully, if I get her drunk enough she'll let her tongue slip some more. She's already loose-tongued from the looks of it. "If it's not rude for me to ask, did you bring all the birds here?"

"Just a teensy-bit of distraction to avoid myself getting noticed," she giggles.

A warg then. "Now, I doubt you came all the way here with your army of birds to just find stories. May I ask what you want from us Lannisters?"

"Of course!" she beams. "What I want from you is a deal. A little one, not to worry. So, I've recently acquired a beautiful castle seated on a mountain top."

"The Eyrie."

"Is that what it's called?"

"Yes, seat of the Arryns. They've been there for hundreds of years."

"Not anymore," she smiles, emptying the bottle of wine.

Such casual remarks... "So you're now ruler of the Eyrie?"

"Well, that's the problem. You see, I was a bit too hectic on my ascent of the castle and everyone there died. So, I didn't have anyone to rightfully give me the seat or anything like that. That's where you Lannisters come in."

The Eyrie is even more impenetrable than the Wall, Tyrion ponders. And she had done it with mountain men, no less. Mountain men with inferior arms and weapons. How could it fall so fast and easily? "So, you want us to legitimise your rule of the Vale. Is that it?"

"And submit to me as well, yes."

"Su- Excuse me?"

"Hmm?" she tilts her head.

"What did you say?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's a bit forceful for me to just lay it out like that, so let me explain. I want you, your lord father, and your Lannister men, to come under my wings and up to the Eyrie. My mountain men are not very well disciplined, so a more civilised group like you will be great in helping me manage the castles."

"...Lady Aya, do you hear yourself speak? I don't mean to offend but all I hear is the rambling of some madwomen. There's-There's no reason we should indulge in your fantasy, Lady Aya! Sure you've conquered the Vale, but that doesn't mean you can just strut to our camp and demand all the Lannister gold and men!" This craziness warrants him another full cup of wine.

"There is something for you in this deal, Lord Tyrion. We're civilised, after all. Here," she produces an envelope out of her pocket. He glares at her before opening it. Inside... Is a bunch of paper. Some with colours and others with writing on it. "You can have those, and many more, by swearing fealty under me. What do you say?"

"Hmm... How about NO." He throws the envelope to the ground. "I see no benefit indulging some lunatic's demands. You can plunder the Vale all you want, but we Lannisters have everything we need and more. Even your silly white papers."

"Ah, so you're refusing the deal? And here I thought the Lannisters always pay their debts."

"We owe NOTHING to you, Lady Aya."

"Ah, but you do, don't you? What was it again, 'Jaime' the crow?" The bird perches on her shoulder and lets out several squawks and caws. The woman listens intently, much to Tyrion's bewilderment. "You owe me from your safe passage down the mountains, the animals this little girl helped you hunt, and also for the one-hundred and twenty-two crows and ravens killed in your encampment." Jaime lets out a few more squawks. "Oh, but she'll deduct a bit for providing her with meat and bread. She's a sweet bird, isn't she?"

"You keep track of all that!?"

"Of course!"

"CAW!"

"Lord Tyrion, didn't your father wage this campaign of his for one single person? As in, you? Then why is it strange that I demand payments for the killings of my own followers? Is that not what you do here in this Westeros?"

"They're birds! I'm sorry Jaime, you're smart but you're a bird! You're insinuating that, that, the worth of men is less than that of birds and crows." This conversation is slowly turning madder each second, and Tyrion can feel it pounding in his head.

"Of course humans are worthless," Aya says nonchalantly. "They're nothing more than glorified cattle."

She really is mad. "Then I'm sorry, Lady Aya. I see no reason to deal with savages who regard men's lives so cheaply."

"But your de-"

"We always pay our debts, yes. See that chest over there?" He points to one lying beneath some clothes. "That's two-hundred gold dragons, enough for all the ravens you could get in the Citadel. Now, why don't you take it and leave? Or I'll call the guards to apprehend you." He sips his wine, frustrated now at the woman's demands. If this is how she is, then I hope to the Gods that she's as stupid with commanding as she is with negotiating. We're definitely going into conflict later in the future.

But the woman stays in the chair. She sits up straight, all that aloofness melting away from her appearance. Her leaf-fan is slightly covering her face, only revealing her beady red eyes. "Tell me, Lord Tyrion, what do you know about fear?"

"I thought you were leaving," Tyrion says, sitting on his bed and opening the book he was reading.

"Do answer the question, Lord Tyrion. Then we shall leave."

Gods, the comet really is a sign of bad luck. Should've kept Bronn here to accompany me. "...Alright, I'll bite. Fear is when I'd rather not pull down my breeches in front of madmen."

"A bit deeper than that," she moves her fan, a slight breeze blowing in the tent.

"What? Alright. Fear is when... I don't want to talk to my father. Happy?"

"That is good, yes. Fear with something connected so personally to you that you're forever molded by it. But that's not what I want. Something simpler and much earlier."

"How about seeing shadows when I was a kid?" he scoffs.

"Precisely," she grins. "Fear runs deep. Why is it then you fear shadows at such a young age?"

"I don't know... Nanny's stories about ghosts?" he sips his wine, a bit amused at the conversation. The woman seems to like to wax on about some silly shit.

"No no, it is far deeper than that. Did you know, even baby rabbits fear shadows after being born. That is because they know. From their very soul, the fear of their parents and their parents before them and the ones before them; all of it is passed down. Accumulated. It grows and gnaws on them. When the moon first shone onto the world, it created shadows. Night shadows. Something that lurks in the dark when all is asleep, carving fear into the hearts of men and beasts alike. Fear of the unknown."

His tent flaps fluter wildly in the growing wind outside. He can feel a faint chill entering the tent, even under the fiery gaze of this Lady Aya. Tyrion sips more wine, trying to calm himself down. "And so, what? There's nothing in those shadows but wind and plants."

"But once in a while there is something. Unseen to the untrained eyes, it stays hidden in the dark. That's how my people were born, Lord Tyrion. When men imagine what could be in the shadows, they gave birth monsters. When they hear the howls and screeches of the wind, feel the coldness against their back, when they see trees torn to bits by a vicious gale... They gave birth to me, a Tengu."

Tyrion's tent starts to flutter, pegs in the ground pulled out by the movement. He can even hear screams of the guards outside, shouts and caws all mixing into one. "Lord Tyrion," the lady continues, "since the birth of man, they've long revered us and the winds we carry. I gave you that chance, to respect us. To bow before the mighty gale that sail your ships and feed your lands. But you've refused to pay for your debts. So, I will ask from you something different. Like the tempest that devour trees and castles alike, it is one that I enjoy the most.

 "Fear."

Tyrion is knocked off his feet as the wind tears through his tent. The sudden brightness of the sky envelops him, but that's not all that he sees. The clouds above begin to spin like a whirlpool, slowly darkening and lowering itself to the ground. Tents, clothes, branches, all manner of things are pulled into the swirling winds. And the birds. The birds are flying around, making patterns in the sky. He recognises them. The thing in the mountain pass...

"This shall be your payment, Lord Tyrion." The woman stands tall, sporting a malicious grin. Even in the roaring winds and the laughing birds, her voice is crisp and stern. Dust and dirt whip through the air, and the forming spiral above threatens to devour the encampment. Horses run and soldiers flee, but Tyrion is frozen in place by the spectacle. The fear.

I-I need to do- "Lady Aya!" He tries to walk forward, holding on to a piece of broken wood and shielding his eyes from debris. "Please, I have a request!"

"You owe me a debt, Lion Cub."

"I-I know that!" He's nearly hit by a flying branch. "However, please! By Westerosii custom, don't you want to-to earn it!? Isn't it uncivilised to simply take what you want!?" The woman doesn't answer back. Shit shit shit! What do I say, what- AH! "I request a duel! A formal, agreement-based DUEL!"

For a moment, the wind falters before picking up again. She walks closer to Tyrion, her strange shoes making her look much taller than him. She frowns, yet hides it well behind her fan. "...A duel?"

"Yes, yes, Lady Stormcrow! A duel, between you and I."

She tilts her head, her beady eyes staring into his own. Crows begin to gather around them. "You will die, Lion Cub."

"No no, not a duel of swords, Lady Aya. I'm at a disadvantage there, and I'm sure a person as civilised as you wouldn't dare play such an unfair game. I propose... A duel of wits."

"Wits?" the crows laugh.

"Yes, Lady Aya. Wits. It is very simple; no actual battles for each of our forces. And that means no... Whatever sorcery this is," he gestures to the chaos around them. "No, we shall battle with information and words. Our minds are the weapons, not the men or soldiers."

"And what's the win conditions?" The woman looks interested now, the winds slowly calming down.

Shit, what are they? I came up with this on the spot! "The one to get the message of legitimacy from the King. Whether that be for my lord father's rule over the Riverlands, or your rule over the Vale. The first to earn those... Wins the duel."

"And if I lose?"

Tyrion, after witnessing the chaos she has brought upon his men, can only think of one thing. "You, Lady Aya, will forgive me for all the debts I owe you. Not only that, but you are to relinquish your rule over the Vale and of the mountain men. What you do after that is up to you, as long as it is outside of Westeros."

She leans close. "What if I win?"

"T-Then, continue on. I will try my best to convince my father to submit, but he's a very stubborn man. Depending on his answer... How forceful you have to be, I don't know."

"I could just spread fear right now, Lord Tyrion. Kill half of your men and let the rest run to tell stories of how the lions were swept up into the clouds."

"W-Well, that doesn't sound very civilised, Lady Aya. In fact, it sounds to be very much in line with human savages." Upon the comparison, the woman's eyes turn cold. She really does believe herself as a non-human. A mad sorcerer, a powerful one at that. At least with that taunt...

"Alright then, Lord Tyrion," she reaches out her hand, smiling. He grabs it and her nails dig into his hand. He winces in pain. "I will agree to your conditions. It has been a while since I had a good duel myself, and I hope this will be a good entertainment for me."

"By the Seven and whatever gods you worship, I swear to you Lady Aya that none will disrupt our duel." This is still unsure for Tyrion. When his father sees all of this, it's not unthinkable for him to then march towards the Vale. It'll be something drastic that will convince him to ignore her chaos.

The woman pulls out her sheaf of papers and begins writing something down with her metal quill. Before long, she tears it off and begins writing another one. All the while, Bronn and the other Lannister soldiers are watching the deal happening right in front of them. She hands him the pieces of paper, bearing strange runic writings. He doesn't recognise it from any of his books. "Could you please sign both of them? Simply an assurance for this duel of ours."

He looks at her warily before signing it. "I hope you keep your promise, Lady Aya."

"A Tengu never lie, Lord Tyrion." She takes one of the signed papers and stuffs it into her pocket. "Well, let us meet again in the future. We'll have much to talk about. Cheers!" With that, all of the birds and crows around them take off in a flurry of wind and darkness. For a split second, he could see her form sprouting a large pair of wings. She disappears in an explosion of feathers and dust, along with all the birds. All that remain is a single crow; the precocious form of Jaime.

Tyrion feels weak in his legs and collapses back, lying on the grassy remains of his tent. He lets out a weak laugh at the absurdity of it all as Jaime perch herself on his stomach.

"Imp!" he hears Bronn shouts as the man runs towards him. "Are you alright?"

"Shaken, Bronn... Very much so... But alive."

"Who the fuck was that!?"

"That," Tyrion gulps, "that was the Lord of the Vale."

Chapter Text

Casterly Rock

"Robert, tell me and I'll make this easy on you. Where the fuck did you hide the gold!?"

"I-I don't know! I don't kn-" The gaoler's fist meets the bleeding page's stomach, silencing his cries.

"I'll ask you once more. Where?"

"I didn't know what came over me," Robert Brax mumbles through his swollen lips and broken teeth. The chains strapped to his wrists hangs his limp body above the ground, allowing them to dig into his flesh. "I-I was just cleaning my sword when... It was a fistful of gold and-"

With another hard punch to the jaw, Robert is knocked out cold. However, the gaoler isn't done with him. Rubbing his hands together for the next part of his act, the gaoler picks up a bucket full of muck and-

"I think that's enough, Boar."

"Really?" the gaoler asks Ser Damion Lannister, the aged Castellan of Casterly Rock. "He ain't said anything useful."

"And there's not much use in a dead man, Boar. Leave him with the rats; that ought to get him talking."

"Yes Ser," Boar puts down the bucket before stretching his arms and legs. He's a bit disappointed that he won't be doing any torture on the poor boy. "How about the others? Can I..."

"Not yet," Ser Damion sighs. Boar can understand why. He may not be a smart man like the grey-haired Maester Creylen, but he knows his way around the castle talks and relations. All of these men and women in the dungeons have been suspected or caught in the act of stealing gold and other trinkets from the Lannisters. Some are even brazen enough to dip their hands in the Lannister gold in front of Ser Damion. All of that is turning into a great pain in the castellan's mind. "Gods, Boar, what has gotten into them? I've never seen such disrespect and disobedience, even from the Imp!"

"Dunno," Boar scratches his beard. "Maybe cause Lord Tywin's away?"

"Oh please," Damion scoffs. "During the bloody Rebellion no one attempted to steal from the vaults. Even the late Lord Tytos never had this much trouble."

"Didn't his mistress stole some gold?"

"Not steal, Boar. Opened the vault and wore some jewelries. And since she was some common whore, it was even more insulting, but nothing that we Lord Tywin can't manage."

Boar grins at the thought of some harlot from Lannisport wearing the golden lions of the Lannisters, golden coins dappled on her tits and ass. Maybe she'll even be the famed mistress of Tytos Lannister. Gods, it's been a while since I played around with whores. I wonder if Ser Damion will let me play around with some of the people in here? "At least you got the gold back for that one."

"Of course. Unlike now, it was only the whore that took the jewelries, not the guards and maids of Casterly Rock," Ser Damion groans before heading to the dungeon stairs. "Come up with me, Boar. I've things to ask from you and I'd rather not spend another moment in this stinking dungeon."

"Yes Ser." As the two climb out of the dungeon, Boar realises that he's still wearing his gaoler clothes. Not that he has different clothes in his closet, but guards and servants often give him odd and disgusted looks whenever he walks in the more lively regions of Casterly Rock.

Well, lively is a relative term to describe the Rock. Nearly two-thirds of the Seat of the Lannisters are never touched by sunlight, staying forever dark and lit by torches. The Lannisters, being the lions they are, often stayed at the one-third that is basked in sunlight. But Boar prefers the dark; the sunny blue sky reminds him too much of Essos, and he'd rather get that memory out of his head as much as he can. He likes the grimy and cold granite walls of the Rock, so impenetrable from the sun. And of course his job as a gaoler has been a great fun as well. Hearing people scream AND getting paid to do so? He's living the dream. "Robert Brax, Walder Frey, ten guards, and seven maids," Ser Damion breaks the silence. "All of their families have been in service to us for a very long time, so why did they now betray us?"

"Dunno, Ser."

"And so goddamn brazen! Not only do they try and steal from our vaults but they try and steal from my pockets as well! The other day, that maid I sent down to you, what was her name? Lasia? Lassie?"

"Lucy," Boar corrects him. He remembers that girl quite well, always sobbing in the corner as he readies his tongs and knives. Barely a woman, that one.

"Yes, that one. You know what she did? She grabbed my hand and tore my rings off. Damn near ripped out fingers, that one," Ser Damion says as he shows Boar his left hand. Sure enough, there's some torn skin on his fingers that's barely a day old. The Castellan sighs. "Gods, the world has really gone mad. And just when I had to worry about the sudden increase in the Rock's spending, I have to deal with this. How about you, Boar? Want to follow in their steps?"

"I like whips, Ser. But I want to be the one whipping."

"Of course you do, Boar. That's why you're the gaoler." The two enter a large chamber which is guarded by two pairs of Lannister guards, bearing lion helms and sharp spears. At the end of the room is a large ironwood door, carved with the image of a pride of lions atop a shining Rock; it is the doors to the Lannister vaults. "Good day, gentlemen. No one tried to pry open the doors?"

"No Ser," answers one of the guards. "We'll make sure that no one enter these doors."

"Good, let's keep things uninteresting in these parts. Unless, of course, you want to get acquainted with Ser Boar here?" Ser Damion lets out a malicious grin. All the guards visibly shiver at the thought of entering the dungeons.

Of course, Boar is not the one to send someone down to the dungeon; that'll be the job of the Lord of Casterly Rock or the Castellan if the former is not available. And in truth, there's not much difference in the two's cruelty. Ser Damion is always said by the others to be kinder and more forgiving than Tywin Lannister, but to Boar it doesn't matter. The Castellan had learnt much from the Old Lion, and it shows.

"N-No, Ser Damion."

"I'll leave you to it then. Guard those doors with your life."

Boar, though, is unsure whether the guards truly fear the Castellan or simply fear him due to his connection with Tywin Lannister. The Old Lion made a name for himself due to his often cruel punishment, not even sparing his own brood from his claws. But the Castellan... Boar won't voice it, but the old man isn't much of anything. He's simply a Tywin stand-in as the Old Lion prowl around hunting for fish.

Boar, though a simple gaoler for the Lannisters, still takes pride that he's well remembered and feared by those who entered his dungeons. He made sure that every captive has their memories well seared by Boar.

The two continue their journey up the Rock, often climbing nearly vertical stone stairs. They're used to such a trek, but that doesn't mean they appreciate it. Sometimes, Boar would take the supply lits up the Rock, though his presence often drive others away. Before long they enter the living halls of the Rock, entering the Castellan quarters. Damion urges boar to sit on one of the plush, decorated chairs; Boar is reluctant as he's afraid that the slightest touch would damage it. But after the Lannister insists, he relents. Satisfied, the Castellan pulls out some parchment and a wooden quill. "Now, please write down the result of your little interrogations. We need to find out why they're doing this."

"Erm, sorry Ser but I can't write."

"...Pardon?" the Castellan stares at Boar. "Didn't I tell you to ask Maester Creylen to teach you?"

"Didn't have time." That's a lie. Boar did have a lot of free time in his work as a gaoler, but he never really stuck around for Maester Creylen's teachings. He's a kind enough man, but the lessons on reading and writing bore him; he'd rather play with the paper.

"You damn simpleton... Fine, I'll write it for you," Ser Damion says as he grabs the quill and parchment. "So, what do you know?"

"It's strange, Ser. They all say the same things; didn't know a damn thing until the guards caught them. Said had no memories of stealing. Hard to believe since some were handling pocketfuls of gold dragons."

"All of it lies, then."

"I'm... Not sure Ser. I cut off their toes and fingers, but they all sing the same song. And they all look like they were telling the truth, it's all so strange."

Damion sighs. "I'm guessing it's the same for the Brax and Frey."

Boar nods.

"So none remember stealing from Lord Tywin's coffers? Or taking the rings from my hands? Or prancing around the castle with Lannister jewelry like some Summer Island bird? I find that hard to believe."

"Maybe... All of this is planned?" Boar asks.

"But who's the ring leader and how did they convince longstanding servant families to help them? Maybe it's some damn hysteria going around the Rock, but we don't know the cause of- Ah, Maester Creylen, can you come in for a moment?"

"Busy," reply someone behind Boar. He turns around to see the gaunt figure of Maester Creylen leaving the view of the door, carrying something that looks like a large bag with him. The chains around his neck clinks with every step the maester takes.

"Rude," Boar huffs.

"That man is always grumpy, just ignore him. Must have been trying to catch a raven or something," Damion sighs. "Now that another problem! Someone's been freeing all the ravens from the rookery, probably the same person leading all of this thievery. Makes it hard to inform the Freys and Brax."

"Freys?" Boar asks with a bit of curiosity. "I thought they were Rivermen."

"There's no love lost between House Tully and the Freys," Damion replies. "With Lord Tywin marching his forces there, we need all the support we can get. That's why Lady Genna married a Frey; us Lannisters never really had a foothold there. Of course this is made all the more complicated due to your little sessions with the Frey," Damion hisses. "The Lord of the Crossing won't care much if one of his brood went missing for the Twins have many more in store, but he'll not take such things lightly. They're not an honourable bunch."

Boar is now curious about the conflict. If the Lannisters win, then that means a higher pay for him and perhaps more toys to play with. "So how's the Old Lion? Crushed those bloody fish, did he?"

"We don't know."

"Huh?"

"There hasn't been a raven from Lord Tywin for the past two weeks, and oddly enough none from King's Landing as well. The last I've heard from them, Robert Baratheon's dying and Ser Jaime had assaulted Riverrun. Whether he's successful, we've yet to see."

"Wait, the King's dying? How?"

"Gored by your namesake," Damion comments, smiling as he pours a cup of wine for both of them. "Quite funny that one, must be a very painful experience to live through. Just like your tortures."

Boar chuckles at the comment and takes the glass offered by Damion. It's much sweeter than anything he tried before, though he can't say that he had much experience with any Westerosii liquor. "Thank you, Ser."

"You've done great work so far, Boar. I knew it was the right choice to hire-" Damion's praise is cut off as a regiment of guards run past the room. Curious, the two get up from their seat and look out of the doorway. "Hey, what's going on here?" Damion calls out.

One of the guards stay behind, a tall man Boar recognises to be Ser Lucas, one of the head guards. "Ser! There has been some commotion at the vauult. We fear that it's someone trying to steal from it."

"What!? Go there and capture him at once!"

"Yes Ser!" the head guard bows before leaving the two for the vaults.

Damion tighten up his cloak and grabs one of the maces hanging from the wall. The thing looks far too heavy for a thin man like him. "Boar, ready your knives. We're going down as well."

"Yes Ser."

"But don't follow them, it's too tiring running all the way down. Come, we'll take the lift."

Damion enters the supply lift with Boar before the attendant winches them down. The air grows colder the deeper they go; it's only now that Boar can see how deep the Rock actually is. The hole above them seem to stretch on forever into the dark. After a few minutes, they arrive at the vault floor.

Damion brandishes his mace, but from what Boar can see the man is not used to wielding such a weapon. Boar is already prepared with his own knives and tongs, but that's not really much use in fighting. They're hoping that the guards will at least already apprehend the culprit by the time they arrive.

But their hopes are soon shattered when they see the groaning and crumpled forms of the Lannister men. Lucas the head guard is among them, groaning on the floor with a visible dent on his chestplate, as if a warhammer had struck him. Damion ignores all of his injured men and instead focus his attention on the vault doors, which are now wide open. Taking a lantern from the wall, the two enter the darkness.

Boar had never been in the vaults before. Thus, he is amazed by everything that he sees. Gold dragons amounting to several years of work for him litter the floor haphazardly. Rich tapestries and gold-embroidered chests decorate the walls. He bumps into a large marble statue of a dragon, its eyes and scales encrusted with rubies and sapphires. All of the Lannister gold secured in one dark hall. Boar picks up a gold dragon and twirls it between his fingers. Maybe I can just take one and-

"Don't even think about it," Damion chastises, "or you'll be the one in the dungeons."

"But I'm always in the dungeons..." Boar flicks away the coin.

They walk further into the dark, going between pillars of stones and mounds of gold. Soon, they begin to hear the clinking of coins and the sound of laughter. Boar walks in front of Damion, readying his knife. Climbing on top of some golden chests, they see their culprit. Digging into the golden coins with their bare hands is a man with long, grey hair, their bag full to the brim with gold and jewels. He's wearing what looks like some elaborate golden crown on his head and a golden cape clasped to his back. When he turns around, the various jewelries around his neck clang in a cacophony of sound. The two are shocked upon seeing his face. "Maester Creylen!?"

"Who, me?" asks the thieving maester. "Oh, is that this old guy's name? Didn't know that, thanks for informing me!"

"What the- Maester Creylen! What in the Gods name are you doing!?"

"What does it look like I'm doing you old geezer? I'm trying to look golden," the maester replies as he pulls out two sets of gold-and-silver encrusted necklaces. "Tell me, which one matches better with my eye colour, the one on my right or my left? Eh, I'll take both if you two can't decide."

"Maester, have you gone mad? Are you betraying the Lannisters!?" Damion shouts at him, demanding an answer. But the grey man ignores him and continues to put on rings on all of his fingers. Damion looks near exploding in rage. "Damn it all! Boar, apprehend him!"

"Yes Ser!" Boar is quite happy for a fight, but he didn't expect it to be with the Maester of Casterly Rock. He didn't anything against the man, but orders are orders. I need to be careful though, that man is far too frail for my liking. As boar climbs up the mound of gold, the maester puts on a golden lion's helm and takes a fighting stance.

"C'mon you tubby!" Maester Creylen taunts, swinging his fists at Boar in a mocking manner. "I ain't afraid of some pig! Come at me!"

Boar charges at the man with his full weight, intending to just tackle him and hold him down until the guards arrive. But the maester is faster than he looks. He steps aside from the charge and lands a powerful punch into Boar's gut, nearly causing him to lose his lunch. As Boar reels back, the maester spins around for a roundhouse kick. Though Boar blocks it with his arms, it's strong enough to send him tumbling down the mountain of gold.

"That hurts..." Boar groans as he gets back up on his feet. He's surprised by the maester's strength and agility, nothing like the usual hunched figure poring over some dusty-old books. The rings on his hands cause more pain to be sent up Boar's gut, so it's clear that he has some thinking in combat. The man in front of him right now acts like an experienced brawler, like those fighters back in the pits of-

"What in the Seven Hells is wrong with you, Maester Creylen? Do you want higher payment, is that it?"

"I. Want. GOLD, BABY, GOLD!" the maester cheers, throwing a golden goblet at the two. "So much gold it'll drown an entire city!"

"That's it, I've had it with this madness. Guards!" Damion shouts towards the vault entrance. "Help us apprehend this madman!"

"Oh no you don't!" The maester jumps on top of a priceless lion-skin rug and slides down the mound, pushing down Damion in the process. Boar slashes at him with his knife but only manage to cut through his bag of gold. The thief dashes out of the vault as the two try to chase him; sadly, neither are so used to running.

Once out of the vault, they're greeted by a new groups of guards. Servants and maids drag the unconscious ones away to the infirmary. "Ser, what happened here?"

"That damned Maester Creylen, he betrayed us! He stole the gold and took off running!"

"Any idea where he went, Ser?"

"Look," Boar points into one of the corridors. On the stony floor is the unmistakable golden glint of a golden dragon. He goes to pick it up, noticing the notch caused by Boar's knife.

Damion snatches it from his hand. "Follow the gold coins! And don't pick them up," he hisses at them all. "I'll carry them back myself."

They all begin following the maester's golden trail down Casterly Rock. Though Ser Damion insists on picking up all the coins and jewels himself, Boar occasionally picks up some that the Castellan missed. It's the same for the other guards, and Boar wonders on how much richer they're going to be by the end of the day.

The group eventually find themselves on the spiral staircase heading down to the Lion's Mouth, the roar of the sea blasting through the corridor. Even from here Boar can smell the salt. "Check all the boats and ships," Damion commands as they enter the wharf. "Don't let anything exit this harbour."

Boar shields his eyes as he looks through one of the longships. It has been a month or two since he had seen the sun; he's far too used to the dim light of torches and the darkness of the dungeons.

"Ser, there he is!"

At the far end of the wharf, Maester Creylen pushes his skiff away from the dock and starts rowing away, the sail still folded. As he starts to get some distance, Boar sees Damion running up the wharf. "Maester Creylen, stop right this instant and I'll let you live!"

The maester replies back by throwing middle fingers and lannister gold into the sea, jumping and laughing like a fool as he does so.

"That's it, take him down!"

"But Ser, he's-"

"We can get a new maester. Shoot him!"

"Aye!" The guards let loose a volley of arrows and crossbow bolts, though most of them miss the mark. Some arrows bounce off the lion helm. Boar, having a bit of a higher ground on the longship, picks up a crossbow placed on the wayside and climbs up the stern. He takes careful aim at the maester and lets the bolt loose. It strikes him in the chest, sending him sprawling on the deck of the skiff. The golden cloak that he wears slowly turn brown with blood. After a few moments, the guards manages to secure the boat with an arrow tied to some string and start to drag it ashore.

Boar heads down to the wharf and sees Ser Damion biting his fingernails. Maybe he's thinking about Lord Tywin since if I remember correctly, it was him that chose Creylen. Oh, how I would like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

"New maester... Gods, how much will that cost? And of course the Citadel will ask what happened to Creylen," he can hear Damion murmur.

Boar steps onto the boat, curious at what happened to the maester. As the guards turn him around to unclasp the cape, he sees a disturbing smile on the maester's face. Boar touches his neck: no pulse. He's dead for sure. Damion steps aboard as well, taking the bloody coins and necklaces off the dead man. "Disappointed that there wasn't much fighting," Boar huffs.

"Shut it. At least we got back the gold."

"Excuse me, Ser Boar? Ser Damion?"

The two turn around to see a blonde serving girl holding a golden Lannister chest. Boar remembers her as Pina, one of the girls from two years back who stole some bread from Lord Tywin. He had some fun with her. "Girl, why are you holding that chest?"

"Ah Ser, a guard told me to bring a chest to hold all the gold that man stole," the girl replies. Boar lock eyes with her, but she doesn't have the usual yelp or fear; she just smiles back at him.

She got over it pretty quick...

"That man is Maester Creylen, girl. Or was Maester Creylen. Also, I don't remember asking the guards to bring me a chest, do I?" he asks his men. All shake their heads.

"Oh, so you don't need this then?" she raises the chest, its content clinking.

"No, please hand it over. I'd rather not let more grubby hands touch our Lannister gold."

"Sure, here you GO!"

"Wha-"

The girl swings the chest wide and strikes the Castellan right on his side, sending him into the cold brine below. Boar draws his knife but is too slow as the girl does an all-too-familiar roundhouse kick to his jaw, knocking him off the boat as well.

As Boar help the Castellan back onto the wharf, he sees the girl rowing away in the skiff, using the maester's dead body as a shield from the arrows. The shrill sound of her laughter can be heard all the way out of the Lion's Mouth.

Citadel

As Seneschal, Archmaester Theobald holds an interesting privilege in the Citadel. He was not the one chosen by the other Archmaesters; that honour had gone to the old and senile Archmaester Walgrave, the one so skilled in ravens. But as it turned out, the man was too incompetent and forgetful to even lead a Conclave meeting. And thus, Theobald volunteered to the position.

It's a thankless job being a Seneschal. Now he's stuck for one year dealing with documents and diplomats asking for Maesters and a whole load of other things. But with his lead mask and chains, he's at least proficient at handling these kinds of matters. He volunteered after all to analyse closely the functioning system that is the Order of Maesters in relation to Westerosii politics; there wasn't much going on in Westeros when he volunteered.

At least that was the case until a few weeks ago. Now he knows why Archmaesters absolutely loathes the position of Seneschal; he can't do any research. He can't go out there and analyse the political rivalries of the Lannisters, the Tullies, the Starks, and the many houses involved in this burgeoning conflict. History is forming just over yonder yet I'm unable to move from my seat, Theobald groans.

But he'll at least fulfil his duties; he secretly prays that the conflict lasts longer than the year.

Underneath the morning sun, Theobald sips on his mint tea, the sharp taste bringing him back to focus. It's a nice day out. As such, he's conducting this meeting on the Conclave's open-air balcony, enjoying the salty breeze flowing in from the Sunset Sea. The first order of the day is the one he considers to be the most important: the issue of the lost ravens. Just two days ago, for Gods know what reason, all of the ravens in the ravenry escaped. Not a single one was left in their cages. Strangely enough, a messenger from Hightower came to tell them that all of their ravens escaped as well. The Lords of Hightower demand an explanation for this chaos, but Theobald is still unable to provide any.

"Are you sure you locked the doors and windows for the ravenry, Walgrave? I know your record of forgetting things."

"How many times do I have to tell you people that I'm not senile!?" croaks Archmaester Walgrave, his black iron chains clinking against his chest. "I made sure. I made double- triple sure everyday to lock the windows and doors, Seneschal. Ask Cressen, that boy has studied under me for years!"

"Cressen? You mean pate the novice? He barely has a year of service."

"Pate?" Walgrave asks, his face contorted in confusion. Then it dawns on him. "Pate! Yes, Pate is the boy's name. That boy, yes, he'll vouch for me. He saw me lock those doors and windows, that he did."

"And yet there's no ravens in the ravenry," Theobald replies, writing down his notes on some parchment. This dilemma of the ravens is truly something for him to wonder. He doesn't really have any doubts on the Archmaester's claim that he locked the doors; as senile as Walgrave might be, the man didn't earn his iron links for nothing. And even if Walgrave did forget his locks, that does not explain how Hightower and other places throughout Oldtown lost theirs as well. "This is no light matter we're dealing with, Walgrave. Just from the Citadel alone, we lost all of the six thousand ravens from the ravenry. Six hundred of those are the white ravens we prepared for the coming winter. ALL of the white ravens, mind you."

"Geh, don't remind me Seneschal," the old man whimpers, looking as if he's about to cry. Theobald understands why, of course. It's well known throughout the Citadel of Walgrave's dedication and love towards those birds, especially the white ravens. The man even had gone so far as to offer himself to them if he were to die. "Ohh, it's a terrible news, yes. I still remember their names, Seneschal, those white birds. Yerren, Lyla, Ossen, Hyman..."

You remember those names but not the location of the latrine, Theobald wants to comment, but it'll most likely be in bad taste to insult a crying, old man. Instead, he sips his tea and continues his questioning. "How is it then that those birds escaped?"

"Perhaps... It was thievery?"

"Do you still have your key with you, Walgrave?"

"Yes?"

"Then I doubt it's thievery." Theobald hands him the parchment detailing the guards' report of the night of the incident. "Around the hour of the bat two days ago, the guards reported a massive cloud of birds leaving the Isle of Ravens. The sound disturbed quite a lot in the Citadel, thus they went up to the ravenry to have a look."

"I-I think I was asleep for this."

"That you were," Theobald continues. "When they arrived there, they found all the windows leading to the ravenry opened and covered in bird feathers. The doors were open as well, along with all of the cages. Not a single raven, whether that be eggs or juveniles, were left in the ravenry."

"No eggs nor juveniles..." Walgrave mumbles. "Yes, that doesn't sound like common thievery. Ravens would catch a pretty coin sold to the right people, so it's strange. And the eggs and juveniles as well..." The old man continues to read through the report while Theobald refills their cups. Then, "I've got it!"

"Hm?"

"Seneschal, what do you know of ravens?"

"Not much," Theobald confesses. "I never really trained for an iron link, Walgrave. I can send a message like any other maesters, ut they are not my expertise."

"Well, let me enlighten you, young man," Walgrave chuckles, the liveliness coming back to his face. "Ravens, they're smart birds. No, more than that: ravens, white ravens, and crows are all smart. Some admittedly more than others, but they'll remember your name and face like any man."

"That's why they're messengers, I know that well enough."

"Correct, but do you know? Some ravens, they would remember messages spoken to them and repeat it back to their destination. No need for parchment and ink, just your voice will do. Not only that," Walgrave leans closer, his chain links nearly spilling his cup of tea, "ravens, crows, they have their own languages."

"They caw and croak."

"No, language!" Walgrave corrects him. "Not the mindless barks and mewling of cats and dogs, Seneschal. The True Tongue. The Children, they spoke it thousands of years ago, and the birds still do the same."

"What does this have to do with the incident?" Theobald sighs, shuffling through his documents.

"Listen to this. A few days before they flew away, I remember now,  few crows came through the ravenry window. I let them in, yes, but I shouldn't have. The birds. They talked to one another, not in caws but in hushed tones like rustling leaves. It was fascinating, so I watched them hop from one cage to the next, even to the white ravens. Never seen or heard anything like it. Also," Walgrave points to a section on the report, "it says here that wooden and metal sticks were left there. I own no metal sticks, so it must be those birds."

"You mean to say that those birds freed themselves?"

"With the help of those crows, yes. Crows, they're smart. I've seen them use tools and steal keys for food, but never anything like this," Walgrave says excitedly. "It's a conspiracy, I tell you. Those ravens conspired against us!"

Gods, he has well and truly lost it. I do hope we'll find a replacement for you soon enough, Archmaester Walgrave, and perhaps you'll die while at it. "While I do agree that it is a conspiracy, Walgrave, I have doubts about it being those birds. Perhaps someone snuck into the ravenry and freed those birds for a reason: to prevent us from communicating. I mean, it's only been a few days since the raven came bearing the King's illness-"

"Illness!? Why was I never told of this?"

"...You were told, Walgrave. I told everyone in the Conclave. You and Archmaester Ebrose went on a rant about how Pycelle was unskilled in the art of healing."

Walgrave's face goes blank for a moment before coming to a realisation. "Oh yes, I remember now! Ah, I still stand by my statement, yes. That man is unfit to heal our King."

Hearing the old man's senile ramblings is truly a test of patience for Theobald. He thanks inwardly for the teachings of the previous lead-linked Archmaester, Boros, for ingraining into him the importance of staying quiet and smiling. "Thank you, Walgrave. I'll take your explanations into consideration. I'll be seeing you again in tonight's meeting, so do please remember."

With the old man away Theobald lets out a long, tired sigh. There's no tea left but he can't really ask for more as there's still other matters at hand. The matter with the Hightower ravens needs to be dealt with fast. And since they can't answer their request of ravens, then Theobald needs to sacrifice Walgrave. Put the blame on him for the reason the ravens are lost. Were the Hightowers sabotaged as well? And for what reason? The Lannisters have nothing to gain from losing all of the Citadel ravens, so who could have done this?

He puts those thoughts away for now; maybe something will come up to shine a light on this incident. Putting those documents away, he moves on to the next large issue: the stolen books of the Citadel. Normally, the issue of stolen books would be easily dealt with as they are easy to track: the books are heavy, they are all marked, and by the Hightowers' decree all ports and gates are to be checked for books without shipping documents. It'll then be up for the Seneschal to dole out the punishment.

But it has been a week and they have no such results.

Theobald urges the head Citadel guard Corrad to sit with him and discuss this matter. "As I'm aware, you were tasked with finding these thieves but so far has failed."

"I do regret the results, Seneschal," Corrad bows to him. "We've had a hard time finding anyone that may be stealing these books."

"Let's see... This week we've lost twenty books and five scrolls. Including the ones from the weeks before, that brings us to the total of thirty-five books and fifteen scrolls." Theobald raps his fingers on the table. "You know, I asked the Maesters in charge of the libraries how much they cost. Care to take a guess, Corrad?"

"No, Seneschal."

"Good, because any price you said will be far too low. They're PRICELESS, Corrad. Those books and scrolls are one-of-a-kind, and the knowledge they hold can't be found anywhere else! It's not like we can ask the dead scholars to write more for us."

"Um, I asked around the other maesters, and they said that the books cost around seven thousand golden dragons."

Theobald sneers at the comment. "Of course you people would put a coin price on those books. Yes Corrad, they can be sold for that much across the Narrow Sea. That much golden dragons can buy you even the Golden Company."

"Golden Company? The sellsword group?"

"Are there any other Golden Companies?" Theobald sighs. "Did you find out how and when they stole them?"

Corrad hands Theobald a report. "This is what we could come up with. So far, none that we know of occurred during daytime. It was hard to track anyone in the library due to the large size, but we managed to track a single dusty footprint in the Eastern vault."

Theobald looks at the trace drawing of the footprint. From the shape, the design looks to be from that of a boot. There's a five-pointed star print where the heel is, and the size is smaller than his. "Interesting... Only this one print?"

"Yes, Seneschal, just the one."

So whoever this thief is, they're careful of leaving a track. Clever indeed, but why the books I wonder? Does this have a connection with the birds? That would clarify why there was no sign of breaking in. Let's see... Theobald picks up the report for the lost inventory. Perhaps there is some conspiracy in the making here, but who's responsible? Why would they steal books and- Hm? "Corrad, I just noticed that half of these books are about the deeper arts. Is this correct?"

"We asked the maesters, Seneschal. Those records should be correct."

"I think that narrows our search then," Theobald smiles. "Not many in Westeros are willing to learn of the deeper arts. So, it's likely that they either have a connection with Essos, or," he chuckles, "they have a connection with Marwyn."

"Archmaester Marwyn?"

"Yes. That strange man, always speaking to all sorts of whores and vagabonds and strangers. I don't doubt he has some sort of connection to this. He's been acting strange ever since those... things." Theobald shivers at the thought of those things in the vault, glowing in their sickening, vibrant lights. "Where is he anyway?"

"I think I heard that he's receiving some visitor in the guest hall, Seneschal. Don't know what kind though," Corrad shrugs.

"Oh, I'm well aware of the kind." Theobald stands up, putting on his slippers. "Come, Corrad. I'll need to question that man thoroughly and I need you to be there to make sure things go well."

The two make haste out of the Conclave and into the main halls of the Citadel. Statues of sphinxes line the walls, their face resting in thought. Before long, they exit and cross the main courtyard towards the guest quarters.

"Are you sure you saw no one suspicious in these grounds, Corrad?"

"None whatsoever, Seneschal."

"So what's that?"

Theobald points across the courtyard and onto a gathering crowd. Beneath the two great statues of sphinxes, he sees a small platform set up for some sort of show. A few people are moving about said stage.

"Oh that? That's some mummer's show, Seneschal. We checked them out before letting them in; quite popular in the city apparently. Some of the Hightowers even came down to watch them!" Corrad chuckles.

"No one suspicious?"

"Just the usual bit, I think. Dwarves, mutes, some fools and jesters, a girl who juggles skulls-"

"How morbid." So you let strangers into the Citadel without proper checks? Maybe my first decree as a Seneschal is to cut his pay specifically. A new head guard and a new Archmaester, what a year it will be.

They soon reach the palace-like gates of the guest quarters. Due to the frequency lords and ladies that request help from the Citadel, the old architects have designed it fitting for a King: vaulted ceilings, open spaces, decorated tapestries, and anything in between. After asking the acolyte in charge of receiving guests, they stand outside the doors where Marwyn is talking to his guest.

"Stay outside the room, Corrad. The man won't appreciate you standing over him."

"Yes Seneschal," the head guard thumps his spear.

Without a knock, Theobald opens the door and enters the room. Immediately he sees Marwyn struggling to put on his mask and quickly bringing his Valyrian steel staff to attention. "Excuse me, Archmaester Marwyn, may I have a minute of your time?"

"Seneschal, can't you see I'm busy here!?"

"Yeah man, fuck off!"

"Hey, no need to be so rude to the Seneschal," Marwyn chastises his guest.

"Oops, sorry."

Theobald turns to the Mage's guest. Surprisingly, she doesn't look anything at all like what he expected. Her black-and-white dress is full of frills, the same thing with her hat, but what catches him off guard are her hair and eyes: golden, almost a Lannister-look. Did Marwyn brought in a normal guest for once? And from her appearance, perhaps she's some highborn lady. The girl smiles at him and he smiles back. "I'm quite sorry for interrupting your meeting, Marwyn. There's just a little issue I'd like to discuss with you."

"Grey sheep."

Marwyn snickers at the guest's jab while Theobald tries to keep a straight face. He sighs inwardly. No... I'm just mistaken; she's just like the others.

"Seneschal, please do sit with us. We were just discussing a few things."

"Thank you, Marwyn." Thebald sits at the chair adjacent to them. He notes two odd things about this: the first is the fact that there is a third chair already in place even though there's only the two of them. Perhaps it was already there when they conducted the meeting but that doesn't explain how there's already a third cup of tea on the table, half-finished. Those two already have their own cups, so why the need for a third? I didn't see anyone else when I entered this room; but could it have been a third person? Did they jump out of the window? "Ah, how rude of me! I should introduce myself to the guest. My name is Theobald and I'm an Archmaester of the Citadel, currently serving as the Seneschal."

"'Sup! Name's Reimu, and I'm a shrine maiden!" the blonde girl says proudly, thumping her chest.

"A shrine maiden? Forgive me but I've never heard of such a position before."

"It's kinda like a priest, ya know?"

"Yes, a priest from a faraway land," Marwyn adds to the annoyance of Theobald. He wants to see if anything the girl says holds any water, and the Mage is interrupting his questioning. Besides, he doesn't like the fact that the man is hiding his face.

"Ah... And I assume that is your religious garb?"

"Oh, this?" Reimu pulls on the hem of her skirt. "Nah, it's just my day wear. I'm on a break, ya know?"

"A break? As an Archmaester with lead chains, I'm well versed in the study of religions," Theobald lies. "However, this is the first time I've heard of priestly order with such lax free time! Tell me Lady Reimu, what is the name of your religion? I'm interested to know more."

"Shinto," the girl answers a bit too quickly for him to not be suspicious.

"Shinto... Never heard of that as well. Where did it come from, exactly? What part of Westeros?"

"Ah, ya know... Up north," she flicks her hand up.

"Seneschal, why are you here? I'm sure you didn't interrupt my meeting for a little chat with my honoured guest," Marwyn interrupts. Theobald can hear the anger in his words.

"Sorry about that, Lady Reimu. I'm just very interested, that's all," Theobald chuckles. Now he knows for sure that the two are up to something. I may not have platinum links, but I'm well versed in the politics of the North: they don't have such worship there. This 'Shinto' religion may only be some mummer's farce she came up on the spot. The way she acts and says it means that she's a confident liar, but not a good one. And Marwyn, Theobald glares at the man, why are you protecting her? To what end? Are you conspiring against the Order for your own gains?

Theobald explains to the two of how books are being stolen in the Citadel. He watches closely for their reactions: the girl keeps up her confidence and says that she knows nothing of the situation. As it is a simple question, he's unable to discern whether she's lying or not. Marwyn, however, is keeping himself calm. He expected a larger reaction out of the man for the books are in the Mage's area of expertise, and thus it grows Theobald's suspicions even more. So Marwyn is aware of the state of the missing books... I wouldn't think the man is capable of stealing and pawning the books, and yet here he is. I truly am disappointed in you, Marwyn. Stripping your chains will not be enough for the loss of knowledge.

After urging them to report any suspicious individuals, Theobald bids them a good day before exiting the guest quarters with Corrad in tow. After entering the empty hall of statues, he speaks to the head guard plainly. "Marwyn has betrayed the Order."

"Truly?" the head guard says. "Will we need to arrest him?"

"Not yet. I'm positive that there's more involved than just those two individuals. For now, inform the other guards to not let them leave the Citadel. Keep track of them while I prepare the necessary documents for Marwyn's removal," Theobald sighs as he picks up his pace. "Now we'll need to search for two more Archm-"

*CLANG*

"Corrad?" Theobald turns around but sees no one behind him. The spear the head guard was holding is lying on the floor, rolling as if it had been dropped. "Corrad, where are you?"

No answer.

He can feel something watching him and it is not the statues. With cold sweat dripping from his back, he picks up the spear and thumps it on the floor. The sound echoes through the empty hall, but there's no response from anyone. It's only him, the sphinxes, and the spear in his hand.

Shit.

And before he realises it, he falls into the floor as well.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone

Since when have the world gotten so bleak? Davos wonders, standing by the Great Hall's kitchen. Was it when I lost my fingers? No, for that was when I became a vassal for my Lord Stannis Baratheon.

Davos Seaworth, being a poor smuggler from Flea Bottom turned knight, hold high esteem for his liege Lord. It was through Stannis that he can lead an honest life, a truer path than that of a smuggler. Now, his family and children can prosper rather than wonder if he can put food on the table. It is an honour for him to be able to name one of his sons after his liege Lord.

But for such a just and kind man, why must the Gods punish him like this?

"Ser Davos," the cook calls out and hands him a tray, "bring the slops to those two, will ya?" Davos takes a whiff of it and grimaces at the smell. The stuff wouldn't even fit a prisoner, let alone the two ladies confined in the Sea Dragon Tower. But he's not one to judge, is he? Was it not her fault that all of this came to pass? "Now, tell 'em to eat it all up or else," the cooks spits into the food, smiling, "ask someone else to cook."

"I'll be sure to inform them," Ser Davos bows before heading off. It's clear then that he does not worship the Red God, unlike the previous cook.

Davos is careful not to trip on the stone dragon's tongue when he leaves the kitchen area and exits the Stone Drum. Being the castle of Dragonstone, the entire place is littered with ostentatious statues and structures shaped like dragons, which oftentimes unnerves him. Even so, the place is like a second home to him. But with the events of the past few weeks, he feels that the black stone of the castle grows darker each day.

The current Castellan, Ser Axell Florent, now heads the household as Lord Stannis slowly recovers from his wounds. My Lord, left a cripple by Lady Melisandre's machinations... Even he renounced the faith of the Red God. Due to that horrific tragedy, Ser Axell has gone to great lengths to try and purge Dragonstone from the Red God. Entire families were kicked out for their beliefs, guards and knights were dismissed, and a riot broke out when he decided to imprison the two ladies of the Red God. Fifteen people died that day. And I wonder if Ser Axell will add it to Lady Melisandre's death count.

As he passes by a window overlooking the black sandy beach, he sees the site where the calamitous pyre had been lit. All of the remains of the place have been cleaned, leaving only a burnt crater on the sandy beach.

The pyre. Every night ever since that fateful day, his dreams wander back to that site. The burning. The smell of charred flesh. The stand. The blackened bodies beneath. And a demon clad in black and white, laughing over it all. Though not a pious man, he can only wonder if that fireball was a punishment from the Seven for his Lord's acts of blasphemy. Was it the Red God then that I saw laughing in my dreams? The red demon? And what of that woman, birthed from the flame and ashes?

And Shireen. Davos could barely look at her; each time he does so, he has to hold back his sobs. His lord's little girl, barely older than ten. Whenever he sees her, Davos always tries to act like a father: play with her, sometimes tell tall tales, or watch over her as Patches chase the girl around the garden. And now her mother's dead, leaving her the sole Lady Baratheon of Dragonstone. Will I ever hear her laugh again, I wonder.

"...Oh, oh, oh, I know what I know, oh, oh, oh..."

Davos sees the plump fool exit the latrines with a little dance, pulling up his boots and breeches. The little bells on his head jingles with each step he takes. "Patchface."

The fool turns his motley-covered face at him and lets out a hearty laugh. "Oh Onion Knight! No dirt for thee, he he he!"

"It is good to see someone happy for once in this dreary castle, Patches. Tell me, have you seen Shireen for today? I know she's unwell, but I'm sure that seeing your face will brighten her day."

"Shireen, yes, Shireen! Be a green blood she is!"

"...I'll take that as a yes. Just avoid Lord Stannis' quarters, understand Patches? The man is not one to enjoy fools."

"Patches make no promises!" he replies, dancing away from him.

Davos finds the fool to be a queer one, living longer on Dragonstone than anyone else in the castle. His words are always confusing and, strangest of all, Lady Melisandre does not care for him at all. If anything, every act she displays carries an air of hatred and derision for the fool, for reasons that she never tells. She even voiced her desire to burn the fool to death. A horrid end for a strange man, Davos thinks back to the pyre. If I can, I would spare everyone of such fate. But I'm sure Lady Melisandre would go against me.

Nearing the tower, he sees the two guards standing by look at him oddly. After all, the Castellan's purge was not all that successful. Though he managed to weed out most of them, from what Davos can see, over a quarter of the guards and knights here follow the faith of the flames. Due to that, Davos must always be wary of sabotage and other things. I'm not a smggler anymore. I'm a knight in service to Lord Stannis, thus I must protect him at all cost. Especially when he's...

He tries to drive away the image of Lord Stannis in his mind to no avail. Maester Pylos... He's trying his damnedest to keep my Lord alive but all I hear is suffering. Who must I ask for the right path?

Climbing up the long steps, Davos finds himself on the door of the rookery where the prisoners are kept. He knocks on the door first, informing them of his arrival.

"Come in, Ser Davos."

The one who answers is Lady Melisandre; as far as he knows, the other woman does not speak much. Unlocking the door, he greets the Red Priestess before giving her the plate which had been spat at. He doesn't trust the guards enough for them to have their own keys. They'll just free the prisoners and that will cause a lot of havoc.

The room still smells of bird dung and eggs, though there are no more birds in the rookery. All of them escaped during the chaos of the riot, much to the horror of Maester Pylos. So instead of cages, the servants moved them beneath tables and placed a small wooden bed for them to sleep in: Lady Melisandre sleeps on the bottom floor while the other woman sleep on the second. She takes a bite out of the foul stuff but does not frown. Instead, she compliments it. "Thank you Ser Davos for the lovely meal."

"You can thank the cook for that one," he pulls a chair and sits on it. He needs to know more, but not just about Melisandre. "Lady Melisandre, how is the other one one? Lady..."

"Fujiwara no Mokou," the Red Priestess says with an air of reverence, her eyes shining bright. Davos recognises that glint for it is the same whenever the woman proclaims to see visions within the flames. "Our holy saviour from the long night, a daughter born from the fires and ashes, Ser Davos. She will lead us to victory."

"Is she, Lady Melisandre? Has she eaten the food I brought her yesterday?"

The Red Priestess lets out a long sigh. "She has only been birthed from R'hllor's embrace, and thus not... Used to this world. She asks strange things and gives odd insights, but that is for her life is much different to ours. She is the saviour, Ser Davos. And as R'hllor wills it, our world will be rid of the dark."

"Lady Melisandre, is that not the same thing you said to my Lord? That all of the prophecies tell of him as the Prince of Light who'll drive away the dark? Was it all a mummer's farce for you to take a foothold in this castle? To fool and betray him? Because I do not play well with anyone who dares betray Lord Stannis."

"Betray?" Lady Melisandre laughs, the ruby on her choker glowing eerily. "Oh, you are mistaken, Ser Davos. As sharp as you might be, I guess even the Onion Knight might not fully understand R'hllor's plans. Let me explain." She takes a candle from the bedside and, by pinching its wick, she sets it alight. "Like R'hllor, the flame is ever-changing in nature. The visions we see, not all of it can be interpreted correctly. Even I am prone to such distortions, for sometimes the truth may not appear what they first seemed."

"Truth... Lord Stannis followed your 'truth' faithfully, Lady Melisandre. He'd gone so far as to denounce his brother, betray his blood, and declare himself King! Though I'll follow him to the ends of the known world, I must know whether or not this 'truth' you whisper to him shall lead to a road of destruction. I am a knight, his knight, and it is my duty to protect from all enemies, whether they be holding a shield or a candle. Whoever they might be, wherever they might be... Gods, I don't know anymore." Davos sinks into the chair, rubbing his temple with his good hand. The frustration of it all, his Lord's suffering, the followers of different fates... It all has to matter to him. Are the Gods so cruel as to cripple a man for burning statues?

Melisandre caresses his left hand, but her searing warmth gives him no comfort. "Rest assured, Ser Davos, for the flames have named him Azor Ahai reborn. That has never changed."

"But why the saviour? And why my Lord's family?"

"Because," she stares into the candle flame, "the Lord of Light knows of what to come. A greater evil, stronger than when the darkness was driven back by Azor Ahai thousands of years ago. And so, R'hllor have brought us a greater gift."

"Is that why the Red God made my Lord a cripple? Took his wife and nearly did the same to his daughter? Is that what you're saying, Lady Melisandre?" Davos, as calm as he is, still grips strongly to her arm with his stumps.

"Great things come from great sacrifices, Ser Davos. It is a simple fact. Take your hand as an example," she says as the woman lifts his left hand. "Did you not sacrifice those fingers for greater prosperity? Did it not lead to your family's wellbeing?"

Davos pulls his hand back, her touch felt quite sickening to his skin. "But why cripple him? Why not take his life and let your new saviour lead the way? Why must they suffer?"

"R'hllor's wisdom knows no bounds," she smirks. "He knows that Lord Stannis will be unable to fight the darkness alone and understands his importance for his death shall bring the world's doom. And so He crippled your Lord, ensuring that the man shall never set foot on the battlefield and risk his life. With that, our Saviour shall bring us to victory."

Davos feels sick from this talk of sacrifices. What god would maim their own to right their mistake? he wonders. Is he truly a red demon? So uncaring of our lives and sending us to die? "May I speak with Lady Fujiwara? I think I've yet to hear her voice as of your imprisonment."

"You may try, Ser Davos."

Carrying the other plate, Davos climbs up the ladder onto the second floor. Here the cages hang from the ceiling with chains, meaning that the servants were unable to remove them. He sees at the far end of the room on a bed next to the barred window Fujiwara no Mokou, lying on the bed with her hands clasped like a corpse.

When he walks, Davos accidentally steps on a plate of rotten food. He recognises it for the one he left her a week ago. To his left is the one from yesterday, and to the right is near unrecognisable with the flies and maggots swarming it. Did she not eat at all in here? "Lady Fujiwara, I brought you today's meal. I hope you can enjoy it."

No answer.

He can see her chest rise and fall, so clearly she must be alive. He sighs before continuing forward, careful to not ruin his boots. "Lady Fujiwara, I know what happened was terrible. But you must eat, else your-"

She snaps her fingers and the plate in front of him bursts into a pillar of flame. Though he flinches, Davos continues on. "I know you don't want to hurt me, Lady Fujiwara. You could have set me aflame and take the keys, but you didn't."

"...Ughh." She rises up from her bed, her long white hair trailing behind her. Her eyes are baggy, as if she hadn't slept for days or had been crying for the same amount off time. She looks nothing like a warrior. Or perhaps she does, like a knight coming home from a campaign having witnessed the horrors of battle, a broken man. Does she truly regret her actions here? "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"You're my prisoner so I should be giving you some semblance of pain. Take it." The woman grabs the plate from his hands. And her voice as well... Closer to a tired widow than any knightly heroes of fairy tales.

She takes a bite from a piece of something before spitting it back out. Davos watches her set the plate alight, the flames glowing bright orange and yellow. He could see the pieces float in small balls of flame, grilling itself. He's never seen sucha sight even from the Red Priestess. After it's done, the meal carries smoke that smells almost delectable. She looks back at him. "What, gonna watch me eat?"

"If I don't make sure you empty your plate then the cook won't bring Lady Melisandre more food."

Even after cooking it in her magic fire, the woman still frowns when she takes a bite. She looks odd with her bright red pants and long silver hair, all done up with paper ribbons. If the tales spread by Lady Melisandre and the followers of the Red God are true, then she did truly appear from the flames. No smuggling trickery nor disguises; that hair would definitely stand out. Is she a fellow follower of R'hllor as well? I've yet to hear any praises about the Red God from her.

Her eating pace slows down as her face turns somber. "Hey, um, Ser Davos was it?"

"Yes, Lady Fujiwara?"

"You know about the girl? Is-Is she alright? I mean-"

"Lady Shireen is recovering. It's a slow process, but nothing a skilled Maester can't handle," Davos answers. In truth, Maester Pylos have his hands full in trying to care for the injured. We need to request a Maester from a different house and fast. Else I fear for Lord Stannis' and Lady Shireen's chances at recovering. "Why does it matter to you?"

"Because it's my fault," she confesses, her voice almost breaking. "I... I killed all of those people, Ser Davos. Her mother and father, I never intended to, and yet I..."

Davos is taken aback by how different this saviour is to the Red Priestess. She doesn't try to justify her actions, instead taking responsibility for causing all of that destruction. More soulful than Lady Melisandre... If she really had been summoned by her to this world, then I very much pity her existence. A saviour born from chaos. "I know, Lady Fujiwara. I understand that sentiment very well. You've committed a grave mistake. I may not be a priest or a septon, but I will say that it's still possible to right your wrongs. Even I manage to handle something like that and I'm no saviour in anyone's eyes. I hope you can do the same. Now," Davos turns to leave, "I'll be picking up the plates first thing tomorrow morning. I'll talk to you again so goodbye, Lady Fujiwara."

But before he could leave the woman grabs to his hand. And unlike Lady Melisandre's touch, hers feels real and warm. "Ser Davos," she speaks in a whisper, "please tell her that I'm sorry. Shit... I don't know what I can do to rectify this, but I never intended to harm her nor her family."

"I'll be sure to tell her so please, rest easy," Davos smiles back. Her face stays mournful before she looks into his eyes. Her warm red eyes, like the ruby the Red Priestess so cherishes. She slinks back to the bed and lie under the cover, again isolated from the world.

Done with his work, Davos says his goodbye before exiting and locking the room. But as he walks down the tower he feels his heart grow heavier with each step. And halfway down, he can't take it anymore and sits on the steps, leaning against the slick black wall. His mind, so overwhelmed by the past two weeks, it's all coming back to him. He covers his face to stifle his cries, yet it's not much use. The girl and the mother, buried under the burning rubble. And his Lord, forever crippled...

Davos knows. He knows that deep in his heart he must do something. The Red Priestess, once an object of suspicion now has turned into complete fear. She'll keep on going and transform this island into her mummer's farce. But what can I do? I have no heart to kill her!

First is Lady Shireen. I must get her off this island, away from the Red Priestess, away from danger. Her talks of sacrifice... An image of the little girl burning in a pyre forms in his mind and he shakes it away. There has been enough death and chaos, and he must prevent more. And Lady Fujiwara... She'll be used like a tool by her as well. She must be away from her.

...

Davos grabs the pouch on his neck and kisses it, praying to the Seven for their protection. He now knows what to do. For one more night, the Onion Knight shall become a smuggler.

Dragonstone

The hour of the bat. Every smuggler knows well the hours of the night, when darkness is at its zenith and even the crickets fall asleep. At this time, only owls and night-guards prowl the night, and they're not immune to tiredness either.

And at this time of night, a smuggler would be fully awake.

Davos understands well the schedule of the guards; though he wasn't able to read it, he lived in the castle long enough to remember it by heart. Right now, the evening guards are getting ready to change places with the late-night guards, meaning that they're not as aware as before. It has been more than a decade since he had thrown away the moniker of a smuggler. Yet hiding in the darkness, listening to the sound of footsteps and the snores of the guards...

He's in his element.

His first task is to extract Lord Stannis' daughter: Lady Shireen Baratheon. He already made his preparations for this. He instructed Maester Pylos to increase the dosage of poppy milk slightly under the guise of letting her have a long rest. But due to that, she most likely will not wake up when he goes to take her from her bed. Her medicines and salves should be next to the bed on the nightstand. And if it's not enough, I've already supplied the skiff with my own supply from King's Landing. I pray to the Seven that we can get in touch with the Healer of Flea Bottom.

Tiptoeing by the snoring guards, he thanks his wool-covered shoes for covering the sound of the footsteps. Making sure that the door to the girl's room is unlocked, he slowly pushes the door open, making sure to not even creak the hinges.

The room is dark for it is the new moon, the only light coming from the dragonsbreath in the sky. From her soft snoring, Davos is assured that the girl is fast asleep. But there's a problem: the fool Patches is sleeping on a chair next to her bed. In a normal day, he would simply thought of how sweet it is that she has a company to help her sleep. But now it is simply an unnecessary risk, especially when the fool's arm and hat is lying on the girl's blanket. If I move that thing, I might wake them both. I must be careful.

First, Davos stuffs his pocket with the medicines provided on the girl's bedside table. He sniffs the empty cup beside her: poppy's milk, so she should stay asleep. Next is taking the girl. Even in this dimly lit room, Davos can see the scarring all over Lady Shireen's body. His heart tightens when he tries to lift her up and feel the pulsing warmth of her burnt skin; it's becoming too much for him. I'm sorry Lady Shireen. I should've pulled you and your mother sooner out of that fire. But I promise you... I promise I'll get you out of this hell.

Slowly, Davos pulls her out of bed and puts her on a bridal carry. She curls towards him, her face marred with burns and grey skin.

"Agh! Mer-Mermaids blue... Fish and... Seas..."

Davos ducks under the bedside, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest. The fool, shit is he awake!?

...

Hearing no more sound, he peeks his head up and sees Patches still asleep, snoring away on the chair. He lets out a long sigh. Sleep-talking... Thank the Gods.

Carrying her out of the room, he quietly closes the door and heads out of the royal quarters. The guards from before are still asleep and there are no signs of anybody nearby, so Davos takes the chance to dash out of Dragonstone and into the stony cove below.

Climbing down the jagged black rocks to the shore, he feels Lady Shireen stir in his arms. Looking down, he sees that her eyes are still closed, snoring like a baby. As he feels the wetness of the rocks, he sees the shine of his son's lantern.

Before long, he feels the familiar rocking of a smuggling skiff and the whispery voice of his eldest son, Dale. "Father, you sure of this plan of yours? Did anyone see you?"

"If someone saw me I wouldn't be here," Davos replies, settling the girl down on a makeshift bed of blankets and pillows. He hopes the boat's gentle rocking will keep her asleep.

"But must you go back to take that fire woman? You know that she's in cahoots with that Red Witch."

"After everything I've seen, I really doubt that. Remember son, if I don't return, leave straight away and head to Flea Bottom. Find the travelling healer; she'll take care of the rest."

"What do you know of this person?"

"Only that I trust her, Dale. She won't refuse strangers. Remember: grey hair and grey eyes. May the Seven help us."

"Aye, father. May the dark cover your tracks."

Davos climbs back to Dragonstone and now must go towards the Sea Dragon Tower. However, he encounters a obstacle. Unlike the sleeping guards of the royal quarters, here the guards are fully awake, lit candles by their sides. There's no doubt in his mind that they are followers of the Red God. So Ser Axell failed his purge of the castle. There's no way in going past that. And so, he must take a more extreme route.

Davos heads back a little as to not be heard by those guards and opens one of the windows. The Sea Dragon Tower is aptly named for its dragon-shaped design, with stone waves curling all around it and a long tail leading just below the open window. He takes of his gloves to have better grip and steps out into the windy darkness.

He knows it's possible to traverse the dragon's back and waves; he'd seen a knight do it to help retrieve a message blown by the wind. Of course, it ended up with the man falling to his death on the return, but Davos' sure that he won't make the same mistake. The man was cumbersome and armoured while he's more nimble and grips better with his fingers. But the damn stumps makes it easy to slip! He slowly scoots his way over, making sure to not be seen from the guards' open windows.

After reaching the tower's wavy base, he climbs up to the next windowsill, accidentally cutting his good hand on the black stone. After climbing a few more, he feels the chill of the wind and the salty spray slowly turning his body cold. Shivering, he finally reaches the window of the rookery. I'm not like when I was younger... Not fit for a smuggler and not fit for a knight, Davos chuckles wryly. After catching his breath, he inserts a flat piece of metal between the window slits and lifts the latch. It's something his son Allard thought him, but frankly he doesn't want to know where the boy learnt it from.

He quietly opens the window, the warmth of the burning candles inside hitting him. It's a welcoming one, washing away the chill in his bones. Entering the rookery, he sees Lady Melisandre sleeping in her red dress still, facing away from him towards the wall. The sudden brightness nearly blinds him and it takes him a bit to adjust to the light. Finding the ladder, he climbs up to the second floor.

Avoiding the many plates on the floor, he reaches Lady Fujiwara's bed and gently shake her awake. She groans before opening her eyes, looking quite confused upon seeing his face. "Ser Davos? Why are-"

Davos puts a finger on his lips, telling her to stay quiet. "We're getting you off this island," he whispers. "Stay quiet and follow me."

After taking a moment to put on her shoes, Lady Fujiwara follows Davos down the ladder and towards the open window. But before he could step out, he feels a burning sensation on the back of his neck. He quickly turns around, seeing only the confused woman and the sleeping Red Priestess. Tiredness... Just tiredness, he assures himself.

After pointing out to her the rock outcroppings of the tower, the two slowly climb down and back up the dragon's tail towards the main structure of Dragonstone. His hand stings badly on the seawater-covered rock and he can still feel the blood running down his arm. I need to bandage this... Or else I'm going to lose my good hand as well.

However, as they carefully traverse Dragonstone's walls, Davos notices lights and torches being lit throughout the castle. He can even hear a bit of commotion. His heart sinks. Have we been found out?

Reaching the window, he helps to pull her in before the two hide in an empty room. He could hear guards running about, panic in their voices. However, there's no mention of his name or of Lady Fujiwara's: only Lady Shireen. Did Patches saw me take her?

A whole set of scenarios run through his mind. Will they suspect him for the kidnapping? What will Lord Stannis do if they do know he's involved in her kidnapping? Would he punish his family? No, Lord Stannis is not a cruel man. Even he would not dare do such a thing. But how about Ser Axell? The man is quick to anger and Davos had seen how he lash out against others in frustration. Would he, in Lord Stannis' stead, punish his wife and sons? What kind of father would he be to leave most of his family through suffering?

"Ser Davos, do you know where to go?"

Lady Fujiwara's words brings him back to reality. "Yes I do, Lady Fujiwara. But I was so sure that no one saw us."

"Clearly somebody did."

"Yes, someone did. If we get out now, we may still reach the skiff in time."

Exiting the room, the two try to sneak their way out of the castle. But with the torches being lit, it's becoming harder to hide in the darkness. Davos curses his lack of secrecy ruining the extraction. As they enter the Stone Keep, they hear bells ringing throughout Dragonstone, bellowing out of the dragons' mouths on the walls. "Shit, they're waking all the guards and knights. We must hurry!"

As they exit the dragon's mouth, the two come across guards securing the exit to Dragonstone. If I remember correctly, they shouldn't suspect me of being here. So I must play a mummer's farce. "Excuse me," Davos reveals himself to them, keeping Lady Fujiwara behind an open door. "What is all this ruckus? Why did someone ring the bells? Did Lord Stannis pass away?"

"Ser Davos! No Ser, but it's a tragedy nonetheless. Someone kidnapped Lady Shireen from her quarters, Ser."

"What!?" Davos feigns a shock, though he's unsure of how authentic he sounds. "When? Where?"

"Not long ago, Ser. That fool told us that she went missing, but we suspect some foul play with him, Ser. For now, he's being kept in the dungeons."

"Lady Shireen kidnapped... Then why are you dawdling about here? Look for her!"

"But Ser, we need to keep this-"

"You don't need five guards for one door, but you'll need more to find a girl as small as she. Check everywhere, from Aegon's Garden to the Stone Drum's core! I do not want to be the man to tell Lord Stanis that his daughter went missing, is that clear. Split up and I'll guard the doorway. Now move, time is of the essence!"

"Y-Yes Ser!" All the guards part ways, leaving only Davos and Lady Fujiwara. After making sure no one is around, the two exit through the doors and towards the castle's main gate and entry. The coast is clear and they make haste.

"Did you kidnap the girl?"

"Aye."

"Why!?"

"Because I care for her, Lady Fujiwara. The Red Priestess is-"

"Stop right there, Onion Knight!"

The two freeze in their steps. Walking out of the dragon mouth corridors is none other than the Castellan of Dragonstone, Ser Axell Florent. Behind him is a retinue of knights and guards, all carrying spears and shields. His face is full of anger. It's over, isn't it? "Ser Axell, good eve-"

"Ser Davos, why are you running about with the Fire Woman in tow?" Ser Axell asks, drawing his longsword and pointing it at Davos. "Don't tell me you've fallen to her sorcery as well! Here I thought I could trust you, one of Lord Stannis' trusted confidants, yet here you are in cohorts with the Red Priestess. Take off your sword and kneel, Davos. You're no longer a knight in my eyes."

No way out... I'm sorry Marya. Resigning to his fate, with heavy hands Davos unclasps his scabbard and places it in front of him, kneeling towards the Castellan. He hangs his head low in defeat, shame and regret welling up inside him. With tears in his eyes, he can only pray that the punishment would only extend to him and not his family. Lady Shireen... She should already be sailing far away now. My son, protect her with all-

"The hell!?"

"Shields up! Shields up!"

"Fucking demon!"

A hot hand pulls him back up to a stand. Clearing his eyes, Davos sees an unbelievable sight before him. A spinning ball of black flame, and around it smaller balls of colours and light. The things throw spears of fires all around, burning through the knights' shields and even the stony floor. He stares in awe as the woman drags him out of the carnage. "Come on! Let's get the fuck out of here!"

"Y-Yes, my Lady. I'll lead the way!" Davos says, his hands still trembling at the sight.

Davos tries his best to find the correct path that leads out, but at most of them they meet with more guards and knights. Unable to trick them, Lady Fujiwara sets the things around them aflame as distractions as they search for a different path. Though focused on the task at hand, Davos is till fascinated with her magic. It's so similar yet very different to Lady Melisandre, he wonders as the two run through the castle. A living flame... Is what Lady Melisandre said true? That she is our saviour who'll fight back the darkness?

Through all of that chaos, the two find themselves in Aegon's Garden beneath a canopy of pine and roses.The dragonsbreath above bathes the world in a reddish hue. Panting and heaving from all the running, Davos hears guards and knights approach them from all around. Ser Axell florent is there as well, his hair burnt and armour full of dents. Many of them wield crossbows. So much for an escape...

"Enough running, Davos. You're under arrest for treachery, kidnapping, and whatever hell you've unleashed in this castle. Make a move and we'll pin you both with bolts. It's off to the dungeons for all of you! Lord Stannis will be sorely disappointed."

Lord Stannis. I am betraying him, aren't I? There's no doubt about it now...

"Hold on to me," the woman whispers.

"What?"

"Hold on for your dear life and don't let go, Ser Davos."

Confused at her command, he holds tight the woman's right arm with both of his arms. The men around them snicker at the sight.

"How pathetic. Don't you have a wife, Davos? By the Seven, this is why you don't make a knight out of smugglers... Enough laughing. Get the shackles and-"

Lady Fujiwara swings her left arm wide and let loose a curtain of fire. It consumes the trees, ground, and everything around them. But even with that, the guards still release their bolts. One burning bolt embeds itself deep into Davos' right knee. Four more embed themselves into the woman's gut, chest, and skull. As her body slumps against his, Davos stumbles and tries to pull her away from the chaos, trying to get behind some cover.

But then her body bursts into flames and he's lifted off the ground.

Feeling his body dangling in the air, he keeps his firm grip on the woman's arm. But it burns. Her arm sears through his clothes and skin, like a hot iron prod left in a hearth. Davos looks up at her and sees massive pairs of flaming wings sprouting from her back, flapping in the cold night wind. And then he looks down.

He can't believe his eyes. Far below him and receding into the darkness, he sees the menacing castle of Dragonstone, no bigger than a dollhouse. The crags and cliffs of Dragonmont rise not far from him, yet it looks nothing more than a small hill from the air. We're flying. We're flying! "Holy Seven Hells we're flying we're flying! Ha ha ha!"

"Stay still, you're fucking heavy!"

"Sorry sorry!" he shouts, still giddy from what's happening. Davos forgets all about the pain in his arms and leg. They're flying. Never had he thought that he'd see the world from a raven's eye, so high in the sky. The sea stretches beyond and he can see the faint outline of King's landing in the distance. Is this what Aegon saw on the back of Balerion? Westeros sprawling beneath his feet, ready for his sister-wives to conquer and rule?

"It's getting tiring, Ser Davos. Where are we going?"

"Oh- AH!" he accidentally loosens his grip, but luckily Lady Fujiwara grabs his arms.

"Damn it, man! I told you to hold!"

"I'm sorry, my Lady!" Davos shouts the apology, his heart pounding out of his chest. Looking down at the sprawling sea beneath him, the waves look nothing more than ripples on a mirror. The stars shine in the water, and the dragonsbreath stretches through the waves. However, he sees more than just reflections: at the comet's head, he sees what looks to be a small boat. No boat travels this late at night, so that must be- "Right down there, Lady Fujiwara. That's my son's skiff!"

"Alright, hold on!"

"I'm holding ooOOON!" Davos screams as the two dive headfirst towards the water. The salty air whipping through his burnt hair, they skim over the water's surface before crashing into the boat, nearly capsizing it. His son and Lady Shireen shout in surprise. "What the- FATHER!? How did you-"

"We flew, my son. Flew! Like a dragon in the sky," Davos chuckles, catching his breath from the impact. The thrill is more than anything he'd experienced over open waters.

"Flew? How!?"

"Lady Fujiwara's sorcery," he pants. The pain slowly creeps back into his mind, stabbing thorugh his arms and legs. He looks down and sees the barb of the crossbow still stuck in his knees. His arms and chest needs attention as well. I guess Lady Shireen is not the only one who needs to visit the healer. Then he remembers the other bolts. He looks over to Lady Fujiwara but there's not a single wound on her. Did I mistake the bolts striking her? Was it just panic? "Lady Shireen, how is she?"

"Ser Davos?" the girl peeks from behind his son, her face tussled with long hair. "Are-Are you alright?"

"I'm fine... We'll meet the healer soon enough."

"Father, if we don't dress your wounds now it'll fester before we reach King's Landing. Let me-"

"No, those are Lady's supplies, not me."

"Lady?"

"Ser Davos," the little girl holds his hand. "You need them more than I. Use them."

"Her wounds are healing while yours are new. Hold still father while I search for the bandages."

"Thank you, Lady Shireen."

She beams a smile at him but it quickly turns sour as she looks at the woman sitting at the boat's stern. "...You're the Fire Lady, aren't you?"

"Um... Hi."

"You killed mother and hurt father," the girl hisses back. "Why are you here?"

"I helped her escape, my Lady. And she helped me as well." Davos tries his best to calm the girl down to no avail.

"Why? Why!? She's like the Red Lady, she wants to burn everything! WHY!?"

"Not her," Davos coughs. "She's... She's not like the Red Priestess."

"Um, Lady Shireen?" the woman steps up but Shireen backs off. "I-I never meant to hurt your family. Your mother, god I'm- I'm sorry your-"

Before Lady Fujiwara can finish her stammering apology, the little girl runs off teary eyed and hides under the boxes of supplies. The three can hear her stifled sobs. Lady Fujiwara, her face nearly breaking down, collapses onto the deck and covers her face, letting out a stifled cry of her own. Davos can only lie there and watch as his son bandage him up. Two broken souls... By the Gods, I hope the healer can help them. Lady Shireen is a strong one, a Baratheon. She'll recover in due time. But I'm not sure of Lady Fujiwara.

"So much for the Red God's saviour," his son snickers, but a glare from Davos silences him.

And as the four drift silently in the bay, a large raven lands on the mast of the boat. Davos sees a small message tied to its feet before it takes off, flying towards Dragonstone.

A messenger at such an ungodly hour. Dark wings, dark words.

Chapter Text

Winterfell

With each passing day the sky grows colder, and with each passing night Robb's heart grows ever more weary.

How long has it been since he'd last seen his family? A month ago his mother departed for King's Landing in secret, and over two months ago it was his father and sisters. Though he worried for their well-being, constant messages from ravens assured him that they are well and that he had nothing to fear.

But it has been many days since the last raven landed on Winterfell soil, and that one carried disheartening news. It was a message sent by House Tully, detailing the attacks done by the Lannisters on the Riverlands. For reasons unclear, his mother is cited to be the main cause of their attacks, citing 'retribution' for kidnapping Lord Tyrion Lannister to the Eyrie.

Did his mother really do such a thing? Or was it all a lie crafted by the Lannisters to justify their attacks? Robb does not know. And I see no reason why the Imp would be cause for concern with my mother, he wonders. The man's kind enough to help plan a saddle for Bran. But then again, father always warned us of the Lannister's lust for gold and power.

He needs to contact House Tully and check on the Riverlands' status before doing anything drastic. However, there's a problem.

"Maester Luwin," Robb enters the silent rookery with his direwolf Grey Wind, "any messages regarding the Riverlands or my mother and father?"

"I'm sorry, Lord Stark, but no ravens arrived today as well," the old man sighs, closing one of the empty cages. "And with no ravens, we won't be able to contact them either."

"Yes, that is something that must be solved quick. However, can you stop calling me Lord Stark? It's... Odd when you say it."

"Nonsense, nonsense! You're Lord of Winterfell now, not a lordling. As your father trusted you and I trusted your father, then you must stay as Lord Stark. Also," Maester Luwin throws away a bag of loose feathers, "it is something that you will carry in the future. Wearing it early will simply increase your experience in it."

"I suppose it's the same with you then, Maester Luwin. I'd be sad to see you go."

"I have many years left in me, Lord Stark. But not to worry, I'm sure the Citadel will provide you with a fitting maester for the task when I'm gone."

Grey Wind goes about the rookery, sniffing through all of the empty cages looking for anything to eat. "But we can only inform them if we have the ravens. Right now we have none."

"Yes, yes... I still don't know what happened with them, strangely enough," the maester shuffles about, picking up scraps of paper. "Such a large escape... We can request new birds from neighbouring houses, of course. I'm sure House Cerwyn is able to lend you some."

"House Cerwyn... A day's ride at least. Isn't that right, Grey Wind?" The direwolf barks at Robb's comment.

"So no time to waste then, Lord Stark. I'm sure a Stark bannermen will gladly do it for you. Of course, you could just ask the Greyjoy."

"Heh, Theon will take a detour with some girl for the better part of a day. I'll see what I can do. Come, Grey Wind."

Descending the Bell Tower, Robb catches a falling snowflake with his tongue. It's snowing today, but from Maester Luwin's calculations it shouldn't last longer than a day. "Not enough for you to play around in, isn't that right Grey Wind?" The direwolf ignores him and tries to catch a snowflake instead, his massive shape knocking over mounds of snow. Not even a year old and you're already larger than the hunting dogs. What a beast!

As he walks across the courtyard, he sees a crowd gathering nearby the stables. Even Ser Rodrik Cassel is in on it so it must be something interesting. As he approaches the crowd, Grey Wind stops in his tracks and snarls at their direction, bringing Ser Rodrik's attention towards him. "Ah, Lord Stark! Good to see you on this cold afternoon," the old man smiles, bowing with a few others.

"Good to see you well, Ser Rodrik. Tell me, what's going on?"

"Ah, it's just a bit of a beating, my Lord."

"Beating?" Robb raises his brow. "Well I hope it's no one important."

"It's Theon."

"Ah, nobody important then."

"I heard that!" Theon shouts from somewhere in the crowd.

"You have a hunter's ears, Theon! But not their wit!"

"I heard that too!"

"You were supposed to!" Robb shouts, laughing at his friend's foolishness. "So, who's the lucky man who'll be taking his money? One of the guards?"

"Um, no... It's the warg."

"Again? I see why Grey Wind's upset."

"Aye," Ser Rodrik sighs. "Theon... That boy thought himself strong after saving Lord Bran from the wildlings. And now, he's decided to win back the crowns he lost to Lady Momiji. Frankly, he's going to have no coins after this."

"Of course he will." Wanting to watch his friend be made a fool out of, Robb parts the crowd so he can experience it all front-and-centre. He sees Theon to his left, already donning his kraken-styled surcoat and mail. "Theon, the hell are you doing challenging her?"

"The failures of my past have trained me well, Robb. I'll take back the damn crowns she stole!" he shouts from beneath his helm, a size too big for his head.

"You're not ready, Theon," Robb says with a slight annoyance. "Ser Rodrik's not even good enough to beat her; you have no chance."

"Heed the wolfcub's warning, inkboy. You're a fish out of water," says the white-haired warg at the other end of the crowd. Unlike Theon's traditional armouring, the warg wears a wide-sleeved white dress with black skirt and strange shoes. The only thing that looks fit for battle is the leaf-emblazoned shield she wields and the practice arakh in her hand. She shows a wolf's smile at him. "You're fifty years too early to challenge me."

"Fifty!? I'll be an old coot like Maester Luwin by then!"

"Hey, no need to insult Maester Luwin, Theon!"

"You'll be ready in sixty years, wolfcub."

"Hah! Sixty! I'm clearly a better warrior than you, Lord Stark." Robb's not sure why but he can feel Theon stuck his tongue out at him.

"Alright, she said sixty because I'm younger than you, Theon. But isn't that a bit harsh, Lady Momiji?" Robb crosses his arm at the prideful warg. "I've trained with Ser Rodrik since I was nine. I'm sure we'll be capable fighters soon enough."

"And I rode the wind the day I was born, wolfcub."

"Well that's foul play, Lady Momiji. At least I trained to be like my father."

The warg scoffs. "I've seen your 'training', wolfcub. Being able to swing a sword or read a map does not make you a wolflord; at the end of the day, you're nothing but a cub in my eyes."

The crowd falls silent at the warg's insults towards their Lord. Robb keeps a stern face to it all, unmoving. "Taunts don't work on a direwolf, Lady Momiji. Just give Theon his just deserves and we can all return to our duties."

"Of course the direwolf's scared of a true wolf," she chuckles. "That's fine by me; less fools to deal with."

...

"Theon?"

"Robb?"

"Count me in as well," Robb says as he unbuttons his cloak to the cheers of his men. Even more people have gathered now, wanting to see their Lord finally put the warg in her place. Ser Rodrik hesitantly dress him in his mail and brigandine, the running direwolf emblazoned on his chest. After receiving the practice sword and shield, Robb goes to join Theon by his side.

"Now now, what do you want to bet on, wolfcub?" the warg asks, slinging the blade on her shoulders. "Your friend want crowns. Perhaps you want to scratch my ears and tail like that dog of yours?"

"Heh, I bet you want to touch more than that, right Robb?"

"Shut it, Theon. I'm not lewd like you."

"Why the red face then, Robb? Remembering that time you walked in on-"

"I said shut it!" he jabs the laughing Greyjoy's side. In truth, he is remembering that time he saw her bathing in the Godswood hot springs. He tries to forget that naked scarred-and-muscled body of hers and instead focus on her wilder aspect: her ears and tails.

I didn't really believe her claim to be some sort of creature when we found her in the Godswood. But when I saw those fluffy ears and tail attached to- When I saw them, they really are parts of her body.  Not some ornamentations or pelt. Either Maester Luwin is wrong about wargs, or she's that race of creature called... What was it? 'White wolf tengu'?

"So? What'll you give me when I win?"

"You won't," Theon says.

"But if you do," Robb adds, "I'll approve your request to choose one of the wildling bodies. However, you must conduct it far at the edge houses of Winter Town, nowhere near here. Is that clear, Lady Momiji?" At the delectable offer, the warg's ears perk up and her tail wags just like his Grey Wind. But far more bloodthirsty, he reminds himself.

"Wolfcub, you're not making it easy for me, aren't you?"

"Of course not. Ser Rodrik! Four men!"

At the shout, the crowd splits again to let the Stark men-at-arms enter the fray. Ser Rodrik leads the group, wielding a kite shield and a spear. The others wield similar equipment, and all of them excited for the melee. "Ready to be of service, Lord Stark," says Ser Rodrik, closing his visor.

"My my," she chuckles. "And what do you all want?"

"My coin purse back," says one guard.

"My coins as well!"

"M'scarf!"

"My pride!"

"You ain't getting that one back, Mycah."

"Shut it, Greyjoy. I'll earn it by beating her."

"Wolfcub, I've yet to hear your prize."

"Me? Some empty favours would be nice."

"Empty favours? For such a high price, I demand a custom armour when I beat you all. I do love your people's armour design."

"A promise then. My men, form up!"

Robb takes the back group, two men to his sides and Ser Rodrik to his front. Theon acts as vanguard for the Stark men, two other spearmen supporting him. It's a formation the two have trained in before, yet never execute against a single attacker.

As they form their defenses, the warg takes an offensive stance, arakh raised and shield poised at the ready. Robb recognises that form from a previous bout. It's the one where she wields the wind like a horse. Or no, was it the one as a sword? Or-

"I declare that this melee may begin!"

Surrounded by cheering, the warg dashes from her position at such speed he's nearly unable to see her. The first guard goes down with a strike to the gut while Theon barely dodges the incoming blade. The other guard isn't so lucky. Before long, the warg viciously attacks Theon like a beast on a cowering rabbit.

"Ser Rodrik, let's move and help Theon!"

"Aye!"

The guards intervene just in time to block a slash from her before Theon scurries back to Robb. "Damn the gods, she's fast!"

"Had enough you idiot?"

"I still need my coins!"

"GAH!"

They turn their head to see Ser Rodrik being pulled in by his spear. Her shoes connects with his helmet, knocking him out instantly. The skirt and sleeves offers no apparent detriment to her movements. The other guard thrusts his spear before being blocked by the shield. She sidesteps behind the man and strikes his head with the broadside of the arakh. For the last guard she trips him and hold him down with her sword's tip. "Dead." Now, the only active Stark men are Theon and Robb. The crowd has gone quiet in wonderment  of the warg's skills.

"Shit... Theon?" Robb asks his friend. The woman is too busy brandishing the arakh and thus the they're able to speak in secrecy.

"So... Which one of you cubs are going to sleep next?"

Theon steps forwards but Robb pulls him back. "We must work together, else we're no match."

"Where do we aim? Her tail? Pull on it?"

"If you do that, I think she'll rip your hand off."

"Finish talking, little cubs. I still haven't eaten lunch yet."

Raising their shields up, the two move together and slowly close their distance to the warg. Her red eyes peer into his, but Robb shakes away the fear. With a little nudge, the two charge forward with a war-cry.

Theon swings down his sword in a wide arc but is blocked by her shield. She thrusts her sword to his stomach but luckily he dodges it and lands on his feet. Using the distraction, Robb attacks from the side with a shield bash. Though it's blocked, he swings his bastard sword low and manages to clip her right foot. She jumps into the air and lands some distance away. "Not bad..." she smirks. "Fifty years for you, wolfcub."

"Forty for me?"

"Still fifty, inkboy."

"Fuck it. Come on Robb!"

The two play out the same attack. Theon leads with a swing and dodges her attack again. Robb, after bashing his shield, goes for her left leg this time. However, he realises too late that he should've changed their tactics. The warg raises her foot and slams it down on the sword, disarming him. And before he could shield himself, her kick lands on his stomach and sends him sprawling on the muddy snow.

Groaning in pain, he sees Theon's body fly into the air and crashes on top of him.

"Gods damn you... Theon, you're heavy."

"All muscle... Bruised muscle..."

Robb pushes Theon off before sitting up on the cold ground. Catching his breath, Grey Wind runs up to him and licks his sweaty face. "Easy there, boy. I'm already wet enough as is." He feels the dull pain in his stomach, no doubt from that last hit. That'll leave a mark.

The warg walks up to the two, ignoring the sprawling and groaning men all around. Grey Wind snarls when she comes near, but a bark from her sends him whimpering. She offers Theon a hand.

"Ugh, thank you Lady-"

"Your coins."

"Thought so." Theon rummages in his pocket and pulls out his pouch, placing it in the warg's hand. "You're worse than a robber."

"Better, you mean. I have repeat patrons."

"Aye," Ser Rodrik says as he gets up with the help of his spear. "Your skills and martial prowess is astonishing, Lady Momiji. May I ask for you to teach these greenboys your techniques?"

"Fifty years, wolfcub."

"Yes yes, fifty years. At least it's not sixty," Robb stands, brushing away the mud from his ass. Most of the spectators have gone away, leaving only a few guards and his brother riding on Hodor. Glad he watched me get a beating, Robb sighs. "Ser Rodrik will show you the place for your... Wildling body. I must confess, I want to call you a cannibal yet I fear that you're not of men."

"Your fears are correct, wolfcub. And the armour?"

"Ask Mikken for that for he needs the proper measurements. I'll cover the cost for it; lost the duel fair and square."

As the warg and Ser Rodrik leaves, Robb lifts up the still-pouting Theon. Oh yes, I nearly forgot what I came here for. "Theon, I have an important task for you."

"As long as it won't cost me coins, I'll take it. What is it Robb?" he groans, stretching his arms and cracking his fingers.

"Go to House Cerwyn at Cerwyn with five of my bannermen. Ask if they can spare us ravens that are heading towards King's Landing, the Citadel, Riverrun, and other Northern Houses. Most important are the King's Landing and Citadel one."

"Oh yes, Maester Luwin lost the ravens... Can you give me some allowance?"

"And let you squander it on her again?"

"No no, got someone waiting for me at Winter Town, if you know what I mean," Theon chuckles.

"This will come back to bite you, Theon," Robb groans at his older friend's lewdness.

"Hey, you'll understand once you've dipped your wick, Lord Stark. Now, five bannermen... Maybe I'll take-"

"Lord Stark! Lord Stark!"

The two pause as they see the running figure of Maester Luwin, looking quite pale-faced in the cold. Grey Wind stays close to Robb. Something's wrong. "What is the matter, Maester Luwin?"

"A message," the old man huffs, "from the Riverlands, my Lord."

Riverlands? From the Rivermen or from Lannisters? "Theon, leave now and get the ravens! What did it say, Maester Luwin?"

"You need to read it, my Lord. It's urgent."

Feeling the pit in his stomach, Grey Wind and Robb go ahead of the maester up the Bell Tower and into the rookery. There, he finds a single scrolled message, lying on the table with raven feathers to the side. Maester Luwin comes in. "Wha- By the Seven, it escaped again! Damn it all!"

Ignoring the maester's outcries, Robb opens the message, fearing the worst.

To Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell,

We have seized Lady Catelyn Stark and her retinue travelling up the Riverlands. We will ensure her safety if the North does not interfere with our campaign against the Riverlords.

Once our campaign is finished, we will send an escort North with her to Winterfell to ensure her compliance and safety. If it;s not viable, we will have her sent back to Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, in King's Landing.

Again, we will need assurance that the North will not interfere with our campaign.

May the Seven and your Old Gods bless us all.

Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingsguard.

His hands tremble, a soft whimper coming out of his mouth. Grey Wind nuzzles himself to him, trying to comfort Robb. He opens the scroll further and something drops onto the table.

A bundle of red hair, tied with a blue ribbon. It smells of perfume and dried blood.

Winterfell

"Didn't I send you to Cerwyn to bring back ravens? Why have you come back empty-handed!?"

"They had none, Robb. How is that my fault? Lord Cerwyn said- No, don't give me that look! Here," Theon pulls out a letter from his coat and slides it across the solar table, landing on Robb's fingers. "Letter from Lord Medger Cerwyn himself. They declared no ravens and was planning to ask YOU for more. But after I told them, they changed their mind."

"Two Houses losing their ravens is mighty unlikely, Theon."

"I'm not saying they lost their ravens; they DID lost their ravens. What and why? Don't know."

"So you came back here..." Robb sighs. Grey Wind nudges his hand and Robb goes to stroke his muzzle. "Right, so you at least checked with Torrhen's Square as well."

"Torrhen's Square? Of House Tallhart?"

"Are there any other?"

"That's across the Wolfswood. You didn't give me enough supply for that trek."

"Wait, you were away for more than a week, Theon. I thought you took the initiative and went to other Houses as well."

"I was enjoying myself, Robb."

"You went whoring!?" Robb stands from his seat, alarming both Maester Luwin and Grey Wind. "My mother is in the paws of the Kingslayer and you went out to go whoring!? What of this letter then?" he crumples it and throws it back to Theon. "Don't tell me it's some forgery you made for excuses."

"Excuses!? The hells are you accusing me of, Robb? I don't hold much love for Lady Catelyn, but I'd see that she returns to Winterfell safe and sound!"

"You sure of that, Theon? You said you had no love for her even when she showed love to you all the same."

"Love," Theon sneers. "And I suppose Jon received that same love as well? Can't even bear to stay with her and left for the Wall?"

"Why you-"

"Enough of that!" Maester Luwin steps between the two, his chains clattering. "Lord Stark, Greyjoy, all of you sit back down. My ears have enough of your bickering."

The two stare daggers at each other before taking their seats, sinking into the cushions and muttering childish insults. "I should've sent someone better," Robb sips his drink. "Then they would actually get me the ravens."

"Lord Stark, have you forgotten my lessons on Lordship?"

"Nope."

"Well you may have forgotten this part: it is unwise to insult and demean those who are loyal to you, especially if they have accomplished their tasks. This," Maester Luwin takes the letter, "is authentic. I've seen enough of the Cerwyn Maester's handwriting to tell from a glance. Even the wax seal is accurate."

"Told you," Theon smirks.

"But you're not blameless, Greyjoy," Maester Luwin turns to him, his ageing eyes fixed into a scowl. "Lord Stark entrusted you on this important mission, to gather ravens. Though you're not at fault for not bringing any back, you shouldn't have stayed that long away from Winterfell, indulging in some vices. Lord Stark grew worried for your return, fearing the worst."

"You lost sleep over me?"

"I did," Robb hisses. Grey Wind, who's now at full attention, growls at the Greyjoy. "She's my mother, Theon. How would you feel if it was your own?"

"I wouldn't know because I'm here as Lord Eddard's ward," Theon scoffs, though his expression soon turns soft. "Right, right... That was quite harsh for me to say, Robb. Sorry, I shall be quicker next time."

"Quicker in bed..."

"Getting back on the matter at hand," Maester Luwin speaks, "this means that we still have no ways to discreetly communicate with the Riverlands. Sending a rider there might spell doom for Lady Catelyn."

"All I can hope for is that the Kingslayer is kind enough to my mother, but he's a man with no honour." Robb dare not imagine what vicious things those lions may do to his mother; he knows the errant Kingsguard's records with those he's sworn to protect. "Then there is the matter of House Tully. If the Lannisters leverage this against them, then they'd conquer the Riverlands in no time."

"Using your mother as a hostage, such depravity," Theon shivers. "And they'll soon rule Westeros as well. Riverlands, Westerlands, the Iron Throne with that bratty princeling of theirs..."

"Gold and red all around." Robb remembers quite well how the Queen look at all of them during their visit. That cold, distant gaze that reminds him of a hawk, prideful atop of its clouds. She doesn't care for the North or my family. All the Lannisters cared for are power and gold. "We could coordinate this issue much easier if we have some correspondence with my father. As Lord Hand, he should be able to stop this madness."

"But no ravens," Theon adds.

"Yes, I'm sorry for that issue, Lord Stark."

"But can we assume that my father has taken up arms or perhaps thinking about so? He is the Hand, second only to the royal family. And I heard that the King and my father are close friends from the beginning, so it is possible that the Iron Throne has made movements against all of this."

"The King, fat oaf that he is, doesn't look to be the kind of man who'll let this slide. The question is, Robb, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's your mother in their hands. It'll be a great mark on your title as Lord of Winterfell if you let the Lannisters have her."

"So you're asking me to march South."

"It is not a bad suggestion, Lord Stark," Maester Luwin speaks, nodding at Theon. "Marching south will not only aid the Iron Throne, but it'll earn you the respect of both the Riverlands and the Northern Houses, strengthening your relationship with them. Of course, there's the matter of learning how to lead and warfare first-hand, which I will say is quite invaluable."

"They'll have my mother hung if the Lannisters catches a whiff of my scent."

"Then don't stand out," Theon says. "There are ways to head South unseen. By sea, at night, what I've heard about the Neck may be useful..."

Robb raps his finger against the table, pondering on his next actions. He sees the logic in this. And besides, ever since he received the raven he's been itching to do something as well; it's not good for him to stay within the warm walls of Winterfell while his mother is at the mercy of the Kingslayer. But marching South... Will I still hold the same authority as my father? "We have no ravens, remember that. The North is large and it'll take days to ride to White Harbour, let alone the more remote Houses."

"A messenger may take weeks to go through them all, yes. Truly, it is quite the conundrum," the maester speaks.

They stay silent for a while, stewing in their thoughts. The open windows lets in a cold wind and snowflakes, chilling its occupants. Then Theon snaps his fingers. "We could ask Lady Momiji for help!"

"The warg?" Maester Luwin's distaste is clear on his face. "You mean to trust a wildling to carry Lord Stark's banners? She's a savage, I'm sure of that! She shouldn't have been within Winterfell's walls at all, like that Osha girl you have serving the stewards."

"Unlike that Osha, she is much more loyal to us. Or something, I'm not sure what's up with her, but I'm sure she won't betray us. We still have our necks," he chuckles.

"How does getting her involved help matters, Theon? As far as I know, horses don't ride much faster with a warg than with a knight."

"Oh? You don't know about her riding the wind?"

"That martial technique of hers?"

"Oh yes, you were away that day," Theon leans back in his chair. "Well let me assure you: put her in charge of delivering messages, she'll reach all of the Houses in the North in under a week. I'll bet my coins on that."

"You have no more coins, Theon."

"Lord Stark, if I may give counsel," Maester Luwin approaches his side, looking apprehensive as he whispers into Robb's ear. "We know not her allegiance, my Lord. And wildlings are not known for their honour or loyalty, thus she may betray us yet."

"Betray who, greyrat?"

"Ah, Lady Momiji!" Theon stands from his seat, greeting her as she enters the Lord solar. Grey Wind growls at her but a bark sends him quiet behind the table. Robb sees that though the woman is wearing her usual dress, her hands are now covered in metal gauntlets. Its tips are pointed like the claws on a wolf. "Is that from Mikken? Very well made."

"It's only the gauntlets, inkboy. It'll take longer for the rest of the armour. They are of acceptable quality," she says. Yet, there's a little wag in her tail as she flexes her hand, bending the metal joints of the gauntlets. She watches the sunlight shine on the metal, transfixed on the way it moves. "Acceptable..."

"First time wearing armour, Lady Momiji?"

"What? Ah, no it is not, wolfcub. I've worn metal armour before, but they are of different form and designs than the one you have in this land. Never seen of such make before," she smiles as she makes a fist with the gauntlets, her canines peeking out. "Now, what is this talk of betrayal?"

"Lady Momiji," the maester approaches her, yet still keeping a good distance. "You've been a guest of Winterfell for the past few weeks, yet we know nothing of your people. If you would kindly tell us, have you sworn fealty to anyone?"

"I'm from the Inubashiri Family, greyrat," she glares at Maester Luwin. Her demeanour from before disappears as she seems to take pride in that strange name, her red eyes turning sharp. "We are loyal retainers to the Lord Tenma for more than a thousand years, and no amount of change will ever break that."

Those are strange names... I've asked that wildling woman Osha and she knows nothing about it. Could it be that she's lying about her heritage, like Maester Luwin suspects? Or is she from somewhere even farther away from here?

"Ah, this Lord Tenma," the maester smirks. "So you hold no allegiance with the North? None with House Stark?"

"I have no knowledge of your people before coming here."

"I see... As I suspected, Lord Stark, the warg is-"

"I am NOT a warg, greyrat. I'm a White Wolf Tengu, remember that well. And what is this suspicion you have of me?"

"Well, you said it yourself that you have no allegiance with Lord Stark. We fear, well..."

"Betrayal?" she spits the word out of her mouth, like some rotten thing stuck between her sharp teeth. "You dare call the daughter of the Inubashiri family someone who's prone to such a lowly act?"

"So no thoughts of it?" Robb asks.

"Do not joke of that, wolfcub. I'm here of my own free will. I help you and train you for I am curious of the humans who claim to have wolf-blood in them. Besides," she grins at Robb, "I'd like to see you grow into a wolflord, wolfcub."

"O-Oh, well thank you, Lady Momiji." Theon snickers but Robb's glare silences him, leaving only a sly smile on his face. "Maester Luwin?"

"If you find her to be trustworthy then I have nothing else to say, my Lord." Maester Luwin's words sounds tired and defeated. Robb knows it'll come to more arguments between them. But as long as Lady Momiji stays true to her words, he sees no reason to refuse her.

"Thank you, Maester Luwin." Robb implores her to sit on an empty recliner next to Theon. She does so, curling her bushy tail onto her lap. It looks very soft to the touch, but Robb keeps his hand back. "Now, as you've heard of my mother's kidnapping by the Lannisters, I have in mind to wage war on them."

At the mention of war, her ears perk up and some shine settles itself in her eyes. She looks like when Grey Wind is given a chance to chase some small game, yet the one sitting here has far more cunning and brutality than any wild beast. "War, you say?"

"My mother's kidnapping, the state of the Riverlands... There's a need to intervene with the Lannister's campaign. So yes, there shall be a war."

"Good," she smiles. "I was wondering when you all will get off your cushions and stop twiddling your thumbs. Having a wolf be kidnapped by a bunch of glorified-cats is a great tarnish on your name."

"I'm not a Stark."

"Was I talking to you, inkboy?"

"Lady Momiji," Robb continues, "we have in mind that you'll help us in informing all the other Northern Houses. Theon here seems adamant on your involvement."

"Remember two weeks ago when you stole my golden dragons?"

"You lost them."

"Stolen, lost, it's the same thing with you. Anyway, that sorcery you beat me with, the one where you rode the wind... Can you use that to travel far distances and carry messages under House Stark's banner?"

"You want me to act as your little errand-boy, is that it?"

"More than that, Lady Momiji. You'll be representing me, Lord of Winterfell, in calling them to arms. Besides," he leans forward in his seat, smiling, "who better to represent wolf-blooded men than an actual white wolf?"

The praise has a profound effect on her demeanour as her tail twitches in excitement. "Well now," she huffs happily, "I see no reason to refuse that."

"Good. Then-"

"However, there must be some payment for my services."

"Well of course, Lady Momiji. Speak them."

"First," she looks at him whilst stroking her tail, "I want the command of your men."

"...Pardon?"

"It need not be all of them, wolfcub. But enough that I can still command them to instill fear on those glorified-cats."

Robb looks at Theon, who's also uneasy of her demand. "Look," Theon says, "I may vouch for you to help, but don't you think it's a bit much to ask for the command of the Stark men-at-arms?"

"What you know of war, wolfcub?"

"Well," the maester speaks, "I taught him all the importance of warfare and strategies, the same thing that I taught his father. Lord Eddard entrusted me to teach him so."

"Have you been to a battle, greyrat?"

"No, but I-"

"So let me get this straight," she addresses them all. "Wolfcub, a boy who knows nothing of war, is taught by greyrat, an old fool who's never even been in a battle. Who here actually knows something of war? Inkboy?"

"Learnt from Maester Luwin as well."

"Unbelievable..." Shaking her head, she stands from her seat and walks to the shelf of books next to Robb. Grey Wind stays close to his side, growling at Lady Momiji as she traces her the metal claws of her gauntlets across the spine of books. "Tell me, as I can't read your language, what does this one say?"

"'The History of the Targaryen Civil Wars' by Maester Dessick."

"And this one?"

"'The Strategies and Tactics of Robert's Rebellion' by Maester Torren."

"So, you teach the wolfcub from all these books?"

Maester Luwin swells his chest in pride. "I taught him from all of those and more, Lady Momiji. He's a learned man, Lord Stark, only lacking in experience."

"Experience. Now tell me," she closes the distance between them and grabs Robb's head, ignoring Grey Wind's barks and threats. Feeling the metal claws digging into his scalp, he tries to get away to no avail. As blood trickles from his head, Theon draws his sword, urging her to let him go. But she pays him no mind. "When I crush your skull, wolfcub, what would spill out of it, I wonder."

"B-Blood, Lady Momiji," he slowly reaches for his own dagger. "Blood and brain."

"You sure of that?" she bares her teeth at him, the smell of autumn and rotting corpses hitting his nose. "I reckon it would be full of ink and paper from how much you read and sit. Pitch black like the night."

She lets him go. Robb sinks into his chair, breathing a sigh of relief, though his body is still shaking from the ordeal. Theon, sensing the tensions easy, slowly sheathes his sword but keeps a firm grip on its handle. Robb wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. "You know nothing of war, wolfcub; greyrat and inkboy as well. When your father was but a babe in your grandmother's arms, I routed armies with nothing more than logs and trees. And when your dragons ruled the sky, I led expeditions through towns and cities, hunting your kind for meat and sport. And so," she lifts his chin up, "you dare to question my experience when you yourself have none?"

"T-That was not my intention, Lady Momiji," Robb gulps, nearly choking on his own breath. This woman here, this thing, is nothing like the prideful beast he saw in the training yard. No, it's far more than just bloodlust. Cunning, pride... And something else. Something that he hopes to never see yet curious of it all the same.

"You're too smart for such mistakes, wolfcub," she draws back from him, the pressure in the air wearing off from Robb's body. "But I'm sure of the greyrat's intentions."

"I-I'm sorry if my words cause you to take offense, Lady Momiji," Maester Luwin bows to her. "It was never my intention."

The warg clicks her tongue but ignores the comment, instead heading for the door. As she opens it, she turns back to him. "That was my first request, wolfcub. Can you fulfill it?"

"Y-Yes, very much so. I'll hand it to you for who'll come under your command."

"Good. Now, my next request is not as intensive, so be glad of it. And it will be quite beneficial for you as well."

"I'll be sure," Robb sighs, resigning to the whims of the warg. "What is the next request, Lady Momiji?"

The warg's smile unnerves him as she states her request. "For this errand mission, you'll be coming with me."

Chapter Text

The North

"Where are the horses?" Robb asks, though Theon and the warg both ignore him.

"Nice sabatons," Theon compliments her. The warg is wearing the boots Mikken made, though styled in that strange design of her wooden sandals. The metal wedge digs into the snow and Robb can't help but think how it'll be a hindrance in walking. But even with them on, the tips of her ears doesn't break Robb's height.

"Thank you. Now, is this enough supplies?" she raises the bag Theon packed for her. It's mostly just spare clothes and a few food and drinks.

"It'll be enough. I'm sure the other Lords would be glad to have the Lord of Winterfell for the night. How about the maps?"

"The greyrat came out of the floorboards to give me some useful things, including the descriptions of the castles."

"Seriously, where are the horses?"

"First is Dreadfort, I think? You know where that is, Lady Momiji?" Theon asks.

The warg points somewhere to the East of Winterfell. "That direction. I can see it."

"Sure you can," Theon chuckles. "Now, just be careful abo-" Theon is cut off by a snowball to the face. He wipes the snow away from his hair and looks at Robb. "What was that for!?"

"Where are the damn horses!?"

"No horses, my Lord," Ser Rodrik approaches the three. Robb can see a few servants and guards watching them from the East Gate, bidding him farewell. Bran and Hodor is also there, waving at him with Grey Wind and Summer in attendance. He can hear them shout goodbyes and farewells.

"What? You expect us to walk to Dreadfort? I thought it'd be a quicker trip with her."

"We're not walking either, wolfcub. Come and hold my hand."

Robb looks at her sharp gauntlets then back up at her. "Pardon?"

"Hold my hand," she beckons. "And if you're feeling scared, just hold on to me, wolfcub."

"Lady Momiji, I think this is hardly an appropriate time for-"

"Oh, just get on with it, Lord Stark! Shy with a little handholding with a nice woman like her?" Theon says. Ser Rodrik snickers along with him. "Just do as she says and you'll be fine."

Hesitantly, he reaches out and holds onto her left hand. He feels a bit warm, though not from the metal gauntlets. I'm being made a fool of, aren't I? Shouldn't have accepted that second request, it would've been an easy one to refuse. "How is this going to help us travel exactly?"

"Farewell Robb! See you in a few days!"

"Wha- We're not leaving yet, there are no-"

The woman's grip on his hand tightens as she swings her large sword with the other hand. Letting out a melodious howl, the wind whips around the two, sending snow into the air. And before he can ask what's happening, the two are swallowed up by a whirlwind and soar into the air.

Robb screams, clinging for his life to the warg's hip. The wind and air roar loudly around them, as if he's in the middle of a storm. Still closing his eyes, he tries to move his arm and nearly slips from her hold. "I told you to hold my hand, wolfcub!"

"I'm sorry Lady Momiji I'm sorry!"

"And stop screaming or I'll drop you!"

Shutting his mouth, he dares to open his eyes and look down at the ground. The ground and trees whizz past below them. Robb closes his eyes again, not believing what he's seeing. But his feet are dangling in the air and the cold wind form frosts on his hair and face. All of this is far too real for him. Robb's body starts to shake from fear rather than cold, and his head is feeling quite faint.

"We're here."

"Wha-"

Lady Momiji drops him, and for a moment he thinks he'll be dashed along the rocks. But he falls face-first into the snow, some going into his nose and mouth. Still trembling like a newborn calf, he slowly raises his body before vomiting up his breakfast, chunks of sausages and potatoes. "Ugh..." Robb wipes the sick from his lips, staining his grey coat. "By the Old Gods..."

"First time flying?" she asks, helping him get back on his feet.

"There's going to be more of this..."

"You'll get used to it, wolfcub," she smiles, somewhat softer than she usually is. "Everyone's overly excited for their first flight, especially human kids."

"Well I'm-" he burps, holding in the sick. "I'm not a kid, Lady Momiji. I'm already a Lord."

"Keep on calling yourself that, wolfcub."

"Just... I don't want to be dropped next time."

Cleaning his face with some snow, he looks up and sees the surrounding lands. Winterfell is nowhere in sight and the forest is unfamiliar to him. So we really did travel far... And that castle over there. On top of a small hill, the black castle Dreadfort stands grandly over the land. The sharp walls and towers reminds him of a wolf's jaw. Just looking at it sends a chill down his spine.

Old Nan always told us stories of the old Boltons. Do they still hang our skins in their chambers?

The castle gates open and a group of riders come to greet them. Or kill them, depending on how amicable those soldiers are. Lady Momiji is already with her sword and shield while Robb has a hand on his dagger, hidden behind his grey cloak. A knight comes out of the group, his horse decorated with the pink of the flayed man. "Hold it! Who goes there?"

"I'm Robb Stark, Ser. Lord of Winterfell." Robb tries his best to appear like his father, but his coats is far too large for him to feel comfortable in.

"Lord Stark? Dreadfort is a long ways away from Winterfell, so what brings you here?" The knight looks over to Momiji, his horse neighing as she readies her shield and sword. The riders whisper and gawk at her while the knight looks far more than just displeased. "Is that a warg, Lord Stark?"

"I'm no warg, pinkman," Lady Momiji growls at him.

"She is my retainer and ally, so treat her with the same respect you hold me, Ser. I'm here to speak with Lord Roose Bolton regarding urgent matters, though it must be done out here as I'm planning to leave soon."

The knight watches the two cautiously before nodding his head. "We'll inform our Lord of your arrival. And keep her on a leash, boy," the knight smirks before riding back to Dreadfort.

"...What a friendly bunch."

"Boltons and Starks have... An interesting history, Lady Momiji," Robb sighs, kicking the sick under some snow. "Frankly, I'm glad I still have the skin on my back, though I doubt they still do that horrid practice."

"Wargs and whatnot, have they not seen a tengu like me? What of fairies?"

"Sorry, but you're simply strange for most, Lady Momiji. Even me." Taking a deep breath, Robb goes to straighten out his wind-blown clothes. His hair is all tussled up and there's even a tear across his direwolf-emblazoned cloak. That'll be more work for the servants, he sighs. "May I ask, do I look  like a-"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"That cloak and colours are still too big for you, wolfcub. You've yet to grow into the title of wolflord. Have patience."

It's still early in the day, the sun barely risen in the sky. When Dreadfort's gates open again, a procession of banners follow them out. The flayed man flies in the wind as a pink-cloaked man lead the group. Though Robb never met him, he can recognise that the man is Lord Roose Bolton. Still astride his horse, the Lord bows his head to Robb, showing a faint smile. "Lord Stark. And what do I owe the pleasure for your arrival to my abode?"

"A sordid matter, Lord Roose. The Kingslayer have laid his hands on my mother and took her for ransom. He demands that the North are not to interfere with the Lannister campaign in the Riverlands."

Lord Roose frowns as the men behind him goes to another wave of whispers and insults. "And so you've come to call my banners... Though I'll do so in quick haste, why have you not sent a raven? Then I could have marched to Winterfell myself."

"We have no ravens for Dreadfort, Lord Roose."

"I see... We have problems with our ravens as well, so I sympathise. Worry not, Lord Stark; we shall march by morn tomorrow and see that Lady Catelyn is returned safely to Winterfell. However," he smiles, "will you not come along with me? Starks are always welcome at Dreadfort."

"I don't want to disturb your time Lord Roose. Lady Momiji and I are prepared to leave." And I'd rather not find out if Old Nan's stories are true. "Lady Momiji?"

"This time, hold onto my hand correctly, wolfcub."

Robb steels himself for what will come next; it won't do him any good if he were to disturb Lady Momiji's focus. Taking deep breaths, he tries to calm his heart as he grabs her hand. He looks to the Bolton men and see them gawking and watching with interest. "So," Lord Roose says with a hint of amusement, "you've taken an interest in wargs, my Lord?"

"Wait what? No, you misunderstand. She's a sorce-"

The howling wind cuts them off as the two take into the air again. Though Robb screams in surprise, he keeps it to a minimum and opens his eyes. Shaking from the sheer height they're in, he manages to stay composed and see all the vistas around him.

Dreadfort looks as small as a chest in the distance, and the Bolton men are rushing about like ants trying to protect their Lord. But what enamours Robb most is the white and grey land beyond. Flying as high as a bird, the great Northern expanse is before them. All of that under his father's rule. And mine in the future as well...

This flight, this floating and soaring... It's not what he expects. When he imagines man taking flight into the skies, images of birds and dragons and flapping wings come to mind. But this is strange. Though he's still tense from it all, he can feel himself... Floating? He's not sure, but his body isn't exactly dragged down like before. Instead, a soft breeze seems to keep his leg afloat, near parallel to Lady Momiji.

But even this far into the sky, he sees the trail of snow and dirt their flight leaves behind. Like a whirlwind, whipping up the land, yet far faster than any horse or bird. A cold wind still blows against his face, yet none are touching the warg. "H-How are you doing this?"

"I'm the wind, wolfcub. Tengus are born from the gale and storm. This is of no effort for me."

"Can I learn it?"

"Hah! You're having a hard enough time holding a shield and sword, wolfcub."

"I-I see..." Turning back, he sees her tail aloft, a soft breeze rippling its fur. Robb has a free hand. He could reach and pet it, but he knows better than to do so. He'll probably get dashed on the rocks below. But for the life of him, that white tail looks damn soft and fluffy, probably even more than Grey Wind's or Summer's. There's no harm in just asking, right? Right?

"Um, Lady Momiji?"

"Hm?"

"May... May I touch your tail?"

They come to an abrupt stop and his body nearly dangles from her hand, the floating breeze dissipating from around him. She looks down on him, eyes sharp but with a look of... Confusion? Anger? Robb's not sure, but she doesn't look happy. "You want to touch my tail."

"I-I'm sorry for asking that, Lady Momiji! I didn't mean to cause harm!"

The two stay still in the air, and Robb wonders if she'll let him go and fall on the ground. Instead, she lets out a long sigh before shaking her head. "I am no dog to be petted, wolfcub. Unlike that mutt of yours, I have pride as a white wolf tengu. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sorry for asking such a foolish question."

"...Good. Glad to see you have more control than inkboy."

That was a compliment, maybe?

"Besides," she smirks as the wind returns, "we're on an important mission for your mother, wolfcub. Refrain those foul thoughts until we finish this mission at the very least."

As they head for the next castle, Robb inwardly beats himself for even bringing up the question. Damn it Robb! You're a Stark, Lord Stark! Haven't you learnt anything from Septa Mordane's lessons on manners and courtesy!? But before he could foul his mood even further, he sees a twin keep standing beyond a field of trees, their towers abreast on multiple hills.

Descending to the courtyard, her whirlwind blows off several tree branches and banners of white sunburst, sending stable boys and servants screaming and cowering. Robb lands with shaky feet, thankful that he manages to keep his nausea in check, but still needing to hold onto the warg for support. Her metal wedges click on the cobblestone floor.

Quickly, guards and men-at-arms surround the two with spears and crossbows at the ready. A gaunt man with a bastard sword comes forth to confront them. But upon seeing Robb, his face turns from anger to confusion. "Young wolf? What!? How in the hells did you come here?"

"Sorcery, Lord Rickard," Robb catches his breath. "I'm here for an urgent matter. It is about my mother."

"What sort of matter does Lady Catelyn see as an emergency? Your mother-"

"-has been kidnapped by the Lannisters, Lord Rickard. We must make haste to march South and support the Iron Throne, lest my mother shall receive the brunt of it."

Lord Rickard is stunned by Robb's declaration of war, but soon bows his head to him. "Forgive me for my earlier impudence, Lord Stark. I did not notice the direness of the situation. I'll see that my men arrive at Winterfell."

"No offense is taken, Lord Rickard. But may I ask, can you send a raven to Winterfell informing of your arrival? We need to make preparations."

"Ravens?" Lord Rickard frowns. "I'm sorry but an accident caused all our ravens to escape. Once we find replacements we'll be sure to swend you a message."

"Is that so... Alright then, farewell. I'll be seeing your men at Winterfell. May the Old Gods bless us all." And with that, Robb grabs Lady Momiji's hand and the two ascend high into the sky. Unlike before, he manages to stay silent as they speed off towards their next destination. But his mind is preoccupied by disturbing thoughts.

Ravens. Winterfell, Cerwyn, Dreadfort, and now Karhold... Something is amiss, and it does not look like a coincidence either. "Lady Momiji, what do you know of ravens?"

"Ravens?" She ponders the question for a moment. "I can't tell you much of those birds, but I know some things about crows."

"Close enough," Robb replies.

"Crafty bunch, they are. Not one to fight head one, far too boring for their liking. No, they prefer to trick and commit malicious pranks on those they come across. Annoying."

"Are we still talking about birds?"

"Ravens, crows, Crow Tengu, all the same in my eyes," she growls. "No animal likes to be held in cages, wolfcub. Maybe they planned an escape all along."

Birds planning an escape, now that's something Maester Luwin will scoff at. Then again, I am currently flying in the winds like a bird, so maybe it's not so far-fetched. Didn't Old Nan told us stories of ravens speaking?

The sun hangs high in the sky, but the clouds lessen its intensity. Though they're simply holding hands, his arm is slowly getting cramped and tired. "Where are we heading now?"

"Some place called the Last Hearth. The thing doesn't even look like a hearth."

"House Umber... Saw one of them when I was a kid. He could threw me like a ball over Winterfell walls."

Lady Momiji chuckles. "That'd be a sight to see."

"Please don't put suggestions into their head."

"Though it is strange," she continues. "The greyrat told me to avoid some island called Skagos. Aren't they under the Northern fold?"

"Skagos. They're no men but savages, Lady Momiji. They partake in great taboos, like the eating of... The eating of one's flesh," Robb shivers. "Cannibals. Until you corrected me, I thought you came from there."

"I'm no man, wolfcub. And so strange that you claim to fear man-eaters yet you're holding hands with one."

"That's because I know you won't eat me," he hopes. "Only fools dare venture to Skagos."

"Fools often have the best marrows," Lady Momiji licks her lips.

After that uncomfortable exchange, the two continue their unnatural flight in silence, passing over snowy plains and forests. For as large as the North is, it's sparsely populated for the effects of winter drive people either South or towards their Lord's castles. Robb spots a small flock of black birds flying South, and he wonders if any of them could be the ravens from Winterfell.

We're at a good pace, Robb thinks. If we continue this we may finish all the Northern houses in two days, or one if we don't take rest. But I'm not sure of that one; it'd be bad to disturb the Lords from their sleep.

Nearing their destination, Robb rubs his hand to his side for warmth. When it's this far North, so close to the Wall, the air always stays crisp and cold even during the longest of summers. And when winter comes... Thank the Old Gods that Winterfell has springs, though I guess many are not so lucky. Actually, I do wonder how Jon is faring in this cold. I've not sent a raven up there yet.

The whirlwind blowing away the snow from the Last Hearth's steps, Robb lands with steady feet in front of a gathering crowd. At their head is an Umber: a man as tall as Hodor wearing an eyepatch. Statues of wolves and boars watch them all. "Are you the Stark lordling?" asks the Umber, his voice deep and growling. "Why have you come here? And with a wildling warg as well?"

"I'm Robb Stark, yes. My retainer here is Lady Momiji Inubashiri, neither a warg or wildling, Ser. I'm here to speak with Lord Greatjon Umber regarding important matters."

The man glares at Lady Momiji with one good eye before returning a smile to Robb. "Aye, that ain't look like any wildling I've seen. But I'm sorry to disappoint, Lord Stark. The Greatjon left with Smalljon to hunt some deer and bucks. He'll be back by sundown, but that's what he says. He's never back by sundown."

Sundown? It'll be far too late then. "Where did he head off?"

"Over yonder," the Umber points towards the direction of the comet's tail. "Said he'll be near the Last River, but that man always wanders off. Good luck finding him," he chuckles.

"What does he look like?" Lady Momiji asks whilst staring into the distance. Robb notices the twinkle in her red eyes, similar to when Grey Wind is trying to spot some small game.

 "The Greatjon? Large beard and was wearing the cloak with our emblem on it when he left. You trying to find him?"

"Already did. Come, wolfcub."

"Already?" But as he walks back to her, the Umber calls him back.

"I need to speak to you, lordling. Especially regarding that... Woman you brought along," he speaks in a low whisper. "I don't know what manner of beast or sorcery she is, but you best be careful now. A warg or wildling like her, they're savages. You may not know them but us Umbers are well acquainted with their kind. Same with most of us in the North."

"Do I need to remind you Ser that she is NOT a wildling nor a warg. Now excuse me, I would like to leave for Lord Umber now."

Robb leaves the scowling one-eyed Umber and takes flight with Lady Momiji, their whirlwind heading deeper into the woods. Robb wonders if the Greatjon and Smalljon will have a similar reaction to Lady Momiji; that's the one thing he hadn't actually considered. The North don't take kindly to things like that, and he might have a hard time convin-

"Duck."

"Shi-" a branch full of snow and leaves slams into him, leaving his face caked white. Lady Momiji chuckles at him, telling him to keep his eyes open. Robb groans as he wipes them away, seeing that they're slowly approaching the tall Umbers. The large men turn to them as the whirlwind approaches them.

Robb and Lady Momiji lands on the forest floor, her sabatons sinking deep into the snow. Robb wants to giggle but keeps himself composed. Somewhat. The Greatjon looks at them wide-eyed, his snowshoes nearly stumbling as he moves back from the two. "Jon, I might have a bit too much to drink. I'm seeing some bloody strange things."

"Aye," the Smalljon replies, corking his wineskin and righting his boar-spear. "I might be as well. Damn spiced wines, one drink too many."

"We're no visions, Lord Greatjon. I'm as real as the snow under your feet."

"You sure of that?" the large man approaches Robb carefully. To him, the Greatjon looks nearly as tall as a giant, especially with his hairy face. The man pokes Robb's chest, nearly causing him to fall over. "Heh, what do you know. You're real. Do I know you? You're wearing the colours of the Starks."

"That is because I am one, Lord Greatjon. I'm Robb Stark, the current Lord of Winterfell with my father's absence. I need to inform you that-"

"Hah! You're the little wolf from the Stark's brood!" The Greatjon slips his hand to Robb's armpits, lifting him up in the air in both shock and embarrassments. "Look at you! Last I saw you, you weren't even reaching my hip. How goes Winterfell, little wolf?"

"Put me down!"

"Sure." The Greatjon drops him into the snow, about as graceful as Lady Momiji's. "But you're still so young... Lord Stark, is it now? I still can't believe it, right Jon?"

"Such a small boy, father," the Smalljon laughs, ruffling Robb's hair. He slaps him away, now quite pissed from his treatment. Even Lady Momiji is laughing at him, and that's really the worst of it.

"I have no patience for jests, Greatjon."

"Oh, but I'm not jesting, little Robb," the Greatjon chuckles. "And what's with her get-up? Wanted her to play your little wolf games? Such strange interests to have."

"Aye, look at the bloody thing, father! She's wagging her tail like some damn bitch!" the Smalljjon laughs.

Lady Momiji snarls and draws her shield and sword. Robb tries to calm her but to no avail; no amount of arm tugging can soften her tensed muscles. "Say that again," she growls with bared teeth, "and I'll make you bleed."

"Damn, her ears even twitches. Looks so fluffy too," the Greatjon comments, reaching his hand out to her head.

And with a swing, his hand is now in the snow, blood speckled around the ground. The Umbers stare in shock as Robb goes slack-jawed, dumbfounded by the warg's action.

Lady Momiji, who's tasked by him to call the Northern banners, had just lopped off the hand of one of said lords, Greatjon of House Umber. And now his son is up in arms as the larger man falls to the ground, bellowing like some great beast clutching at his stump. It's all falling apart for him. He shouldn't have done this; what was he thinking hiring some unknown to do an important job!? She's not even in his service.

Nothing. Nothing in his life prepared him for this. And so when the Smalljon thrusts his spear at him, he freezes in shock as the warg pushes him back with her blade to avoid the blow. His ass in the snow, everything starts to run again through his mind. The cut. The hand. The shouts. The spear. All of it.

Clutching snow in his hands, he throws snowballs at the two battling warriors, now wildly mad at the warg's actions. "Both of you, stop this instant!" he shouts, yet none pay him any heed. Not even when the snow hits their faces.

"You have some nerves hurting an Umber!" The Smalljon thrusts his spear, only for it to be blocked by her shield. Another swing of her sword cuts it in two, but now the Smalljon grab both ends and continue attacking. The warg is at the defensive, but Robb knows that she can kill him at any moment. Any moment.

Shit, what should I do? What should I do!? The hells the fucking hells! Robb quickly stands and rushes over to the downed Umber, trying to get the injured man up. But instead, the Greatjon pushes him over and towers over them all, his face wrought in fury. "ALL OF YOU STOP THIS INSTANT!"

Robb's ears nearly bursts from the roar and all stops their movement. The Greatjon strides forward, bandaging his stump and picking up his hand, nearly larger than Robb's own head. "L-Lord Umber," Robb stands and bows his head. "I am- It was not my intention to-"

"What?" he cuts Robb off. "To cut my hand? To interrupt my hunt and cut off my hand? Is that it? Far too late for that, little Robb. Far too late," the Greatjon lowers his tone. "This is my sword hand. My maester won't be able to reattach it and all you can offer is a sorry?"

"You have not listened to the wolfcub's reasons, giant," Lady Momiji speaks, flicking the blood off her blade. "If you kept your ears open, then I wouldn't have to cut off your hand."

"Shut it, warg!" the Smalljon threatens. "You're the one who injured my father!"

"And I was not speaking to you," the Greatjon adds. He leans down, coming face-to-face with Robb's terrified expression. The large man's breath smells of garlic and booze. "But I did listen, little Stark. What do you want to tell me, so much so that you're willing to cripple me? It better be worth it," he growls.

Robb imagines that man's hand, so large and powerful it could probably crush his head like a peach. He darts his eyes around, looking for what to say before locking eyes with Lady Momiji. That smile of hers, that damn smirk. It returns the anger in him. "What you have interrupted me, Greatjon, is my telling of my mother's kidnapping by the Lannisters."

"Lannisters?"

"Yes, in the Riverlands. I'm calling you as my bannermen to gather at Winterfell for a march South. If you had simply listened, then you would still have your hand!" Robb snarls, surprising himself with his anger.

The Greatjon looks over at him then at Lady Momiji before standing back up, scratching his beard. "You're showing some teeth there, Lord Stark. Heh, more than I expected from someone like you.  Jon!"

"Yes father!"

"Let us return. If we're to march to Winterfell, we need to prepare things today."

"We're letting them off?" the Smalljon asks, somewhat confused. "Your hand, father!"

"It's useless now," he throws it to Lady Momiji. She catches the thing with her shield. "Keep it. Let it be we create a new relationship, Lady Warg. One that does not incur the wrath of the other."

"I'm no warg, giant."

"Aye, but you're certainly a strange one," he chuckles. "Well, good Lady, I hope to see your swordplay in a battle one day. But now we must head off. See you at Winterfell, Lord Stark. We'll be sure to return your mother safely."

The two Umbers trudge off into the forest, heading back to the direction of the Last Hearth. After hearing no more of their footsteps, Robb falls back into the snow, the wetness seeping into his cloak. Looking at the clouds passing overhead, he lets out a nervous laughter before covering his face and groaning all of his worries away.

Grabbing a handful of snow, he balls it up and throws it angrily at Lady Momiji, who blocks it with her shield. He throws more of them to no avail. "What was that for?" she asks, wiping away the mud and snow.

"The hells did you do that for!? He's a Northern Lord, you idiot! We need his forces!"

"Everything worked out, wolfcub. No need to shout."

"Worked out? Worked out!? Hand! You're still holding his damn hand!"

"Oh this?" she waves the cut hand at him, blood still dripping into the snow. "Quite a large hand. Smells fresh and clean as well; should taste quite good cooked."

"No but- That's- Why!? Why cut off the damned Lord Umber's hand!?"

Looking annoyed, she walks to him, her wedges trudging through the snow. "When those two trampled on your name and title, you did not stop them. Not a bark nor a bite. All I did was show you how a proper wolf should act, wolfcub. And up until that little threat by the larger giant, your barks were not even that good. You should thank me for teaching you proper."

Robb is left speechless at her very dumb reasoning. The reasoning for all of this mess and injuring the Lord Umber of the Last Hearth. She dares to even call it a lesson. A lesson for whom exactly? "I'm... You know what? I'm tired. Let's take a detour and rest somewhere."

"Rest? This is only the third-"

"As I am Lord of Winterfell, the one who entrusted you with this mission, am I not able to request for changes? Or is that simply too much for someone like you?"

Lady Momiji looks at him questioningly before smiling. "Hah, guess that giant managed to put something in you."

"Put what?"

"You'll see for yourself. Now," she drags him back up to his feet, "where are we going?"

Chapter Text

Dothrakii Sea

Five days. Jorah waited five very long days for his Queen to awake with no such luck. His patience is running thin with this woman, this stranger, who claims that she can heal Daenerys. With two days of no sleep, his mind is slowly running wild: what if it's the same sickness as the one with Khal Drogo? What is this woman actually doing to his Queen? And how long? How long must he wait for her to awaken?

"Ser Jorah, do stop tapping your chair. You're being distracting."

"I'll stop when she's awake, Lady Miko."

"Prince," she snaps at him. "Even those horsemen know to properly call me."

Those damned bloodriders, Jorah thinks. How in the Seven hells did you get them on your side? With his tired mind, he can't properly recall the details of the past few days, but he remembers clearly the important parts. It was on the first day, when his Queen was pulled out of the fires, that this fraud prince offered her help. He wasn't sure what she said back then, but it led to her being confined in one of the tents and him asking Daenerys' handmaidens for help.

That didn't work out. His Queen stayed asleep and the stranger won Aggo over to her side. Or was it Jhogo? No matter for it was through one of the bloodriders that she offered her help again. And, in a shameful act that he will forever regret, he relented and allowed her to do the healing.

Jorah had no doubts that she was extorting them: she demanded tools of silver and gold, all of their herbs and spices, and forced everyone present to sing praises about her during the healing. Though they complied, it was not without disagreements and disdain. It was near bloody when she suggested that no one be present in the tent with her for the healing. Jorah had drawn his sword, fearing that it'll be just like the maegi's trickery that caused the death of Daenerys' unborn child.

It was then he saw the influence she had over the bloodriders. Though Rakharo joined his side, Jhogo and Aggo did not. They drew their arakhs against him, telling him that the fraud prince had "good intentions." It was only after a couple of tense exchanges and veiled threats that she allowed him to be in the tent.

And the healing. That gods-damned sorcery... He remembers that first night so clearly. There were no candles alight in the tent and his queen laid naked on the bed, having been cleaned by Doreah and Irri. The people outside were singing halfheartedly, full of empty praises. But when the sun had dipped below the sea of grass, the lights began. Golden orbs spinning in and out of the tents, lighting up all of them in a vibrant glow. The herbs burned and the spices singed while the stranger had gone to work on his Queen. Needles of golds and silver, salves of mints and grass, and other foul-smelling stuff... He didn't sleep that night, his mind far too dazzled by what he just witnessed.

It continued for three nights, culminating to now. By then, the cheers outside the tent were no longer lined with jeers but instead true praises. He saw people pray around the campfire in her name and those two bloodriders accompany her wherever she goes. And yet, after all of that ludicrous display, his Queen remains asleep. What did she say yesterday? That this is a process and not immediate? What farce! No, she's simply doing this to win these people over.

But what can he do about it? If he steps out of the tent and declare her a traitor, how many would go against him? It would be less than half of them, that he's sure of, yet it'll split Daenerys' followers even worse than the death of Drogo did. But that's not the worst of it; the dragons are with her. The pride and symbol of House Targaryen, the last-living remnants of Valyrian legacy, all of it entwined between the arms and neck of the fraud prince. Hatched from the eggs his Queen cared for and cradled like her own child, and now they cling to this stranger. Whenever he gets too close, they hiss and spit fire at him. She even had the gall to give them strange names: Tojiko for the gold-and-green, Futo for the milky-white, and Saki for the black-and-red.

During his one day of sleep, though he's not sure what day it was, he dreamt of those dragons. But they were grown, larger than houses and towering over the black plains. They tore into him, and a demon clad in black-and-white laughed at his suffering. If I don't get them back to my Queen, it'll be the end of all of us. The terror they'll bring will be unlike anything the world had ever seen.

"Prince Miko," he forces himself to say her ridiculous title.

"Ho ho, finally you're addressing me with my rightful title! Took you long enough," she chuckles, swinging her cape around and revealing the dragons perched on her. "Do you have any questions to ask of your Divine Prince?"

Divine Prince... Daenerys is the promised one, not this fraud. "When will the Queen awake, Prince Miko? You promised that she'll be awake within the week, yet I see no improvements in her condition."

"No improvements," she scoffs. "Are you blind to her healing? Her breathing is finer, she skin is not as pale, but most importantly," she takes off her strange head-wear from one ear, "she is dreaming, Ser Jorah. And when someone dreams, that means they're alive and well. She's no longer afflicted with your so-called sleeping sickness, that I can guarantee."

"Yet she still sleeps."

"Then let her sleep," Miko smiles. "She'll wake up when her dreams are finished; no later, no less. Do put your faith in me for once, Ser Jorah. Your desire to kill me is just annoying."

"Kill you? Why would I be-"

"Three days ago, when you agreed to let me help you heal this little girl, your desire to thrust that sword into my throat was quite overwhelming. Greater than your desire to heal her, even. When these lovely little babies," she caresses the milky dragon on her shoulder, "hissed at you two days ago, you desired to separate my head from my body. And just now, sitting there tapping away on the chair, you desired to overthrow me. Even through this earmuff your desire is as loud as a trumpet! Do try to keep it together."

"And what does it matter to you how I conduct myself?" And how in the Seven hells did you know all of that!? Have my expressions been getting the better of me?

"Because I'm a prince and I'm well versed in the court of royalty and politics," Miko replies, putting a cape-covered hand to her mouth. "As she is still unconscious, I shall take over the role as this encampment's leader, placing you well below me, Ser Jorah. And as my subordinate, it matters to me greatly how you behave yourself; even I have limits to my patience."

"I'm no subordinate to you, wench!"

"Wench? Never heard that insul-"

"Shut it!" Jorah shouts at her. "I'm a knight of her majesty's Queensguard and I shall not have that title be sullied by your insults!"

"Oh, I'm not insulting the Queensguard, Ser Jorah. Just you. However," she sighs, "if you are so adamant at proving your worth, why not tell me then what you plan to do after your Queen wakes up? What will be the next steps forward?"

It's hard for him to think clearly as his need to rest is weighing heavily on his mind. However, his need to put down this woman is even greater than that. "First," he begins, "I'll inform her of the events that occurred over the past week. As my Queen, she must understand of the situation at hand to make the right decision."

"Good, what's next?"

"Next... Next is we need to move. We are running out of supplies fast and there is nothing here in the Dothrakii Sea. Only grass and more grass. We may not return to Vaes Dothrak for we are no longer welcome. No point in heading West towards the Lhazareen for they have been pillaged and destroyed, and neither Slaver's Bay for they have the remaining khals. If we go too Eastern, we risk meeting with the other khals and cause conflict. The only way out is through the Red Waste, and by gods do I fear that choice." As much experience he had with the Dothrakii, they never once travelled into the depths of the Red Waste. There's barely anything there, yet it may perhaps be their only chance.

"So you have thought of this thoroughly then. What a fine knight, you are."

"Of course! A Queensguard is more than just a knight, Prince Miko. He's both a protector and advisor to the Queen. And I have my training as a Lord and a knight to aid her grace."

"Good to see that she has capable help," Miko says condescendingly. Jorah's eye twitches at the comment. "However, I'm not just asking about the course for your people. No, I'm asking about you specifically, Ser Jorah. What will you do after she wakes?"

Jorah leans forward, his eyes turning cold. The golden lights from the stranger dims considerably. "What are you insinuating?"

"Well, as I'm taking the position of leadership for the time being, it's important for me to test your loyalties to this girl, your Queen. I've examined Jhogo and Aggo and they seem to be very loyal to Daenerys. The same could be said to her lovely handmaidens as well."

So she seduced them, is that it? She slept around like a whore to win those bloodriders over. Should've known that those men are after the pleasures of the flesh. But how about those handmaids? "And what do you see in me, Prince Miko? That I am distrustful of you?"

"Yes, but there is something more a well," she strokes the dragon sleeping between her styled hair. "I seem to recall a certain thing when we first met. You had such a strong, yet conflicting, desire to leave this place. Why is that?"

"Why? Why!? It's because I thought Daenerys was fucking dead, you wench! You dare to accuse me of betrayal? When you had shown me that she's alive, I wept. I wept for her, knowing that she still has a chance to live a fulfilling life, whether that by becoming Queen or not. How does my love for my Queen betray her trust!?"

She simply stares back at him, smiling. "I must commend you, Ser Jorah, for I hear no hint of desire of betrayal coming from you. Not anymore, that is. However, I do hear a much stronger and somewhat distressing desire emanating deep withing your heart. You said you love your Queen, is that correct?"

"No Queensguard does not love their Queen."

"Yes yes, that is true. I know that well enough from the others. But the one you harbour deep within the recesses of your mind, it's something more than just reverence and loyalty, isn't it?" The woman takes a step closer to him, smirking. "No, what you hold within is lust. A desire to take this little girl as yours, your own Queen. Why, it is the most-"

*SMACK*

Jorah can feel the back of his hand sting from the hit, as if hitting a stone wall. Miko's face is frozen in shock as the dragons awake and spit fire at Jorah, who keeps a well distance away. He can feel his fury building. "You... You accuse me of lust? Of wanting to defile my Queen!? You dare! You dare to accuse me of filth!"

"It is your own filth, Ser Jorah. Your own knightly filth," the woman says, rubbing her cheek that was hit. "Your own wicked desires have brought it forth. But do not worry, knight," she comforts the dragons. "I understand well desires and you may remedy such foolishness by following my teachings."

Jorah draws his sword. "Why you-"

"Is everything alright in there?" a voice calls out from outside the tent. "We heard some shouting."

"Rakharo, take Lady Miko to her tent. Her healing for today is done," Jorah glares at the woman.

"I might be done for the day, Ser Rakharo, but I do need to keep an eye on your Queen. Please, lead Ser Jorah to his tent. He hasn't slept for two days and I fear it's affecting his clarity," she smiles at him.

Jorah waits anxiously for an answer, his grip still tight on his sword. He knows that Rakharo was the only one who didn't join in the praises; the man saw it as a dishonourable thing to do so. But I don't know if he still holds his loyalty to Daenerys. And if he doesn't...

Finally, the Bloodrider gives his answer: "Prince Miko, will you let me escort you back to your tent?"

"I will be glad to, Ser Rakharo. I just need to say a few things to Ser Jorah, so would you mind waiting a bit?"

"No problem," Rakharo says, his silhouette turns to stand near the tent flaps.

Jorah lets out a sigh; the man is on his side. He still has allies in this grassy sea. "Well," Jorah chuckles, sheathing his sword, "I bid you a good-"

His chin is suddenly raised up by the woman's wooden piece. The dragons slither and hiss at him while she sports a malicious grin. "You do not slap a Saint and get away with a slap on the wrist, Ser Jorah Mormont. I'll be looking forward to your repayment. Good night and get some rest. You'll need it," she giggles, draping her cape over herself before exiting the tent. The lights die away and Jorah is left in the dark with his own thoughts. His tired, grainy thoughts.

He needs to do something. Something fast, something drastic, lest this woman conquers the khalasar without even lifting a sword. But who can he trust? He knows well of Rakharo's distrust in her, but what of the others? It's unfeasible to comb through the thousands in the khalasar. Her handmaids?

...

Before long, he slumps over on the chair, his exhaustion overcoming him.

Dothraki Sea

Dany can feel it, as if time has stretched to the end of days. Everything feels so slow yet so fast, her own thoughts mixing with that of nothing.

She sees a crow, riding atop a serpent over a black sea. The storm and the wind blows with them, waves crashing onto cliffs and castles. They feast on the bodies of drowned men.

And it changes again.

A shoreline, yellow sands and a blood-red tide. Bloated corpses line the beach like driftwood, pale milky white. A topless tower, its walls beating red like a heart, washes it self ashore. Then everything bleeds.

And it changes again.

Blackness, neither warm nor cold. Great ruined towers wreathed in shadows, full of sharp teeth and the laughter of children. A mountain of corpses spills into the rivers, turning them black. The beasts within whimper in fear.

And it changes again.

Dark, all around her is a sea of stars and comets, stretching to the beyond. Pink clouds float through the air, soft yet sharp to the touch. And a demon clad in black and white stands at the centre of it all, reading a book. Talking. Cackling.

Smiling.

Daenerys Targaryen wakes.

Opening her eyes, she's assaulted by a sudden brightness, causing her to flinch and close them again. She lets out a groan, feeling her body quite weak and her head pounding with pain. And she's hungry. So very hungry and thirsty.

Then there's a voice.

Soft and comforting, like how she imagines a mother would be. It beckons her away from that strange world of dreams. Away from the past and into the real world. To her knight. To her people. To her khalasar.

Feeling herself propped up by a soft pillow, she opens her eyes again, this time the light not as bright as before. As she adjusts with her vision, Daenerys is greeted by the beautiful face of a woman she does not recognise, her golden eyes and smile shining in the morning sun. She puts the back of her hand on Daenerys' forehead before pulling away. "Good morning, Queen Daenerys," the woman greets her. "I hope you had a good night's rest."

"Y..." Her throat feels weak, thus no words come out of her mouth. Instead, she just nods.

"So your voice has yet to return. Well worry not! I can still understand you. Oh, also, please raise up your left arm."

With the woman's help, Daenerys does so and feels a wet cloth scrubbing away the grime on her skin. When she looks down, she realises that she's naked, a blanket covering her legs.

Slowly coming to, she looks around the place she's in. It's her tent, the same as she remembered it. The hrakkar pelt hangs above the bed while the decorated tent walls are illuminated by the sun. And at one corner, she sees the crouched form of her knight, snoring away in her presence. Wait, I'm in the royal tent. I don't remember coming here to sleep so why did I-

The pyre. She remembers now: the maegi, Drogo, the eggs... Her unborn child.

Daenerys tries to push herself up. She wants to see what remains of the pyre, of her husband and her dragon eggs, but the woman's firm grip holds her back down. She's too strong to fight against and Daenerys' body feels far to weak to even try. "Your grace," the woman says calmly, "it's still too early for you to be moving about. You've been asleep for five days-"

Five days!?

"-so your body is quite weak. Trust me, I know the detriments of sleeping too much," she chuckles. "For now, just stay in bed and think about what you want for the day: who do you want to see? What do you want to talk about? What is it that you want to know? Think on those questions while I clean you, alright?"

Daenerys complies as the woman continues on to her back. She feels a bit odd, getting washed down by this stranger. The last time she was washed it was by her handmaiden Doreah, though admittedly it was more than just washing. So why is she the one tending to me? Where are the others? And why Ser Jorah asleep in this tent? She tries to speak again but all that comes out is a crackle. The woman puts her finger to Dany's lips.

"Your beautiful voice will return in due time, Queen Daenerys. But from your eyes, I can tell that you're wondering who I am. Isn't that so?"

Dany nods.

"Well then," the woman wrings the washcloth and stands, her cape flowing behind her, "I suppose it's time for another introduction! Ahem... My name!" She twirls her cape around, displaying her golden bangles and sword. "Is Toyosatomimi no Miko, the Almighty Taoist Hermit Prince! No need to kneel, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, for you are still unwell. And please," she takes Dany's hand and kisses it, "call me Prince Miko."

"O-Oh," she squeaks out before pulling her hand away. A peculiar name for a peculiar person, Daenerys thinks, feeling the warmth on her hand. She reminds her of the bravos statue back at Illyrio's manse in Pentos: that deep yellow hair, the fineries all about her, and that ornate slender sword at her hip. But strangest of all is the title she refers herself with: prince. A prince... Such a strange title to hold, yet she looks the part. Where did she-

Something at the corner of her eye moves. She turns to look at her chest of clothes and sees something small rustling inside. Then, chirping like a baby bird, a long black neck with a pointy head pops out. Dany's eyes widen and her heart drops.

A dragon.

She points at the little creature, half-scared and half-excited. Prince Miko looks where she points and lets out a tired sigh. "Saki... I told you not to mess up the place! Come here." She moves away from the bed and goes to pick up the baby dragon. The small thing no bigger than a cat crawls up to her hand and slithers around it, chirping away at her. "You already had breakfast, Saki. Be patient for once, alright?"

Dany can't believe it. A dragon. A dragon after all these years of the last dragon's death, the symbol of House Targaryen is back. And its colour. Just like the colours of my family... And just like one of the dragon eggs! Wait, have they hatched? Did those dragon eggs hatched!? She remembers offering them to the pyre for her husband before stepping in. Did she just discover a method to hatch dragons? But what did exactly happen then? What of those five days she was asleep?

But most of all, her thoughts are preoccupied by the strange woman and the dragon she's tending to, the one named Saki. She once heard from her brother Viserys that dragons only obey those with dragonblood in their veins, which for that reason Old Valyria had the tradition of keeping the blood pure. But her brother... He's no Old Valyrian, and neither is Dany nor that woman from her looks. No, perhaps there are other ways to tame dragons? One that has been forgotten in time or never been recorded in books? Or is this person someone descended with dragonblood? She does not carry a Valyrian look, but traces of blood could still be there. Someone from the Free Cities? Or some bastard of a Blackfyre?

"My identity is a long story, Queen Daenerys. It even took me a thousand years to fully come to terms with it," she says as she pets and scratches the head of the dragon. It chirps in affection and Dany looks longingly at it. Prince Miko smiles at her. "Ah, would you like to be petted as well? Or do you want to pet Saki?"

Dany is a bit surprised at the Prince's comment but it does not prevent her from mouthing the words "dragon." And so, she reaches out her arms as the Prince lets the dragon crawl off of her and onto Daenerys' lap.

This feeling. Fear? Giddiness? Happiness? All of it, perhaps, for she is touching a dragon. An actual, real life dragon. Not the one in books and neither the stone eggs. A fire-blooded, scaly, chirpy little creature. She doesn't mind the fact that the dragon is uncomfortable with her and coils away at her touch. Its searing warmth is enough to bring back the fire within her, the one that was quenched upon Drogo's and Rhaego's death.

"Do you like that?"

Dany nods, still stroking away at the black-and-red scales of Saki. She quickly pulls her finger back at the dragon's nipping.

"Now Saki, be a good girl, alright? Stay with Queen Daenerys here until I come back with food for the two of you. Remember, BEHAVE," the Prince raises her finger. The dragon answers with a guttural screech, no louder than a cat's meow. "Good. Please wait a moment, your grace. I'm sure your people will be glad to hear of your awakening." With that, the strange Prince exits the tent with a flourish of her cape.

...

After a few moments, Saki jumps off of her and runs around the tent with newfound energy. Dany tries to call for it but to no avail; the dragon doesn't obey her, and apparently it barely obeys the Prince. Then again, the thing's barely hatched so maybe that's just a baby dragon's behaviour. Speaking of which, what of the other eggs? she ponders as she watches Saki climb up the small table at the centre of the tent. Did they hatch as well? Or have they turned to stone?

It's a bitter thought but one that's a reality. Until now, there has never been dragons for more than a hundred years; all attempts to hatch them have ended in failure and sometimes worse. It's a miracle that an egg hatched at all, but what was it? What about the pyre hatched those eggs?

But one is enough for now, Daenerys smiles. A dragon... None in Westeros would be prepared for their arrival. Not the Usurper and his army, not those Lions of the Rock, none of them. There's a lot that a single dragon can do. All she needs to do is to tend the creature for it to grow large; she wonders if it'll grow as large as the Black Dread and strike fear to the heart of Westeros like Aegon did hundreds of years ago. It may take a year or a decade, but she can bide her time. She still needs to raise an army anyway.

She watches the dragon with amusement as it tries to climb up an unlit candlestick. Then, she hears some commotion from the outside. Some are cheers for Daenerys and her name, but she hears others as well shouting the Prince's name. Most interestingly, she hears them call the prince "healer."

So she's the one that awakened me from my five days slumber? No wonder she's so well liked, but where did she come from? Daenerys goes to scratch her head before realising that she's bald. Right, that pyre... Did she saw the fire and came here? Or did my knight found her out there in the wastes?

She sees Saki leaping from the candlestick and gliding onto her sleeping knight. The man, so undisturbed and restful, is bitten on the nose by the mischievous creature. He screams awake, causing the dragon to leap away into the clothes chest.

Ser Jorah rubs his nose, dabbing at the bite marks. "Fucking piece of..." But when he turns and looks at Daenerys, he turns to shock before rushing over to her side. "My Queen! Dear the Gods, I thought you'd never wake!" he exclaims, clutching her hand as tears stream down his face.

She wipes the tears as he looks up at her. Daenerys wants to comfort her crying knight, assure him that she's alright. But she has no voice thus all she can do is rub his hand.

His face turns from relief to confusion. "Your grace? Is something wrong?"

She opens her mouth and points at her throat, letting out a squeak. "I lost my voice," she mouths at him. "It's temporary," she adds, but her knight doesn't seem to understand her lips. Instead, anger and fury is growing within his eyes, and no silent words seems to be able to calm him down.

The tent flaps open and Prince Miko steps through with a tray of foods and... Two more dragons, perched on her shoulder and neck. "Sorry for the lateness, had to concoct- Ho ho! You're awake, Ser Jorah. Care for a drink?" she places the tray down on a table, sporting a wide grin at the knight.

So all the eggs hatched! They all hatched! Dany can't contain her excitement, which catches the attention of both onlookers. Somewhat embarrassed, she points at the dragons, wanting to take a closer look at them.

"Ah, let me introduce you to these lovely girls as well! This one," she lifts a green-and-gold dragon from her shoulder, its eyes looking curiously at Dany, "is Tojiko. Say hi Tojiko!" The dragon hisses before running back up Prince Miko's arm. "She's still a bit shy to strangers. And this precocious little thing," the white and gold dragon unfurls from her neck and begin chirping and jumping on her arm, "I named her Futo!"

"Why give such strange names?" Ser Jorah asks, glaring at the woman.

"Well, Tojiko is the name of my wife while Futo is... A wife or mistress, depends on how you define it," she shrugs.

"Wife?" he snorts. "So you named those dragons after your... Acquaintances. Tell me," he gestures at the peeking head of Saki, "is that one named after one of your friends as well?"

"Saki? Not at all," she smiles. "I named her after my horse."

Dany lets out a surprise cough, alerting Ser Jorah. Prince Miko hands him a cup of something steaming. "It's a herbal medicine. Let her drink it three times a day and her throat should be better in two days."

Reluctantly, he gives it to Dany. The scent is faintly sweet like flowers and when she drinks it, it tastes almost like honey or nectar. Her throat feels warm and much lighter, but she feels like coughing again once she remembers that the black dragon is named after a horse. A horse! Wasn't Balerion and the others used in Aegon's Conquest named after Old Valyrian gods? Why, of all things, a horse!?

"She was an amazing horse, mind you," the Prince's statement seemingly answers Dany's unspoken question. "She would leap over houses and run faster than the wind. Had strong legs, that one. Rest in peace, dear Saki."

"But a horse," Ser Jorah pinches the bridge of his nose, "is still a horse. A dragon can breathe fire and fly through the clouds! How are they anything comparable to horses? It should be the other way around."

"Well Saki was black-"

"You named the dragon after your horse because of their colour!? The next thing you tell me is that you chose those two other dragon names because of their colour as well."

...

"No... You did, didn't you?"

"They like to dress in those colours, Ser Jorah. Tojiko likes green dresses while Futo always wear her white priestly clothes."

"Unbelievable," he shakes his head as Dany continues to sip the warm and tasty drink. "And to think I let you, wench, to heal my Queen."

That's rude.

"That's rude," the Prince replies, covering her mouth with a cape-covered hand. "If it wasn't for me, your Queen would never be awake," the dragons screech i agreement. "Yet you still don't trust me."

"I NEVER trusted you," he hisses back at her and the dragons. "You just came here, offering your help, with no explanation whatsoever! I don't know the hell you're up to-"

"Well if you don't know, shouldn't you research before creating any overreaching assumptions?" she smirks.

As the two continue to argue and quarrel, Daenerys watches Saki climb out of the chest and gallop to the Prince. She picks the dragon up and tuck her away beneath the purple and gold cape, all while still exchanging sharp lashings with her words at her knight. But did I hear that correctly? That she came to my encampment in her own volition? If she wasn't summoned by Ser Jorah, where did she come from?

But the noise from their shouts is starting to grate on her ears. Annoyed, she sets down the cup and claps her hands as hard as she could. Adding a glare, they both stop their arguing. Ser Jorah, now having calmed down, grabs a piece of paper and charcoal from a chest and hands it to Daenerys. "Your grace, to help you communicate with us easier."

She nods and writes down her first question:

What happened while I was asleep between you two?

Prince Miko looks at the writing, nodding her head slightly with a hand to her chin. "I see, I see... Ser Jorah, please read it out for us."

"Why should I?"

"Well she's a Queen, I'm a Prince, and you're a knight. Quite self-explanatory, isn't it?"

"You know," he smirks, "there's no shame in saying that you can't read the Common Tongue, Prince Miko. Doreah and Irri also can't read her grace's writing."

"Oh, I can read," the Prince says with a golden confidence, but Daenerys suspects otherwise. "I simply want to assert my authority over you, Ser Jorah, as a Prince to a knight."

"Fine..." he groans. "Her grace is asking us why we're arguing. I'm sorry for the disturbance, your grace, but-"

"It's a trifle matter," Prince Miko interrupts to Ser Jorah's annoyance. "It's merely regarding the cost of your healing for you see, while I initially did so out of the kindness of my own heart, your knight's actions has made me reconsider."

"Reconsider?" he recoils. "That's- You never told me of this!"

"Well of course! Your transgression was done last night and it took me a while to reflect on your actions. I never doubted my intuitions in healing you, Queen Daenerys, yet I may have miscalculated how your subordinate may react."

Daenerys quickly writes down a statement:

Ser Jorah Mormont is my trusted knight and advisor, but perhaps what actions he committed was out-of-bounds of my ruling.

"Well," Prince Miko begins, "he confined me to a tent, threatened to cut me down not once but twice, wanted to prevent me from healing you, accused me of some ridiculous lechery... And he slapped me. All others I can take but that? That I won't stand for it."

Daenerys looks hard at her knight who's eyes seem almost pleading. If those things did truly happen, then that's a tarnish on her name. Yet... Can I truly blame Ser Jorah for it? He saw me with Mirri Maz Duur and that assassin, so it's understandable my knight would be cautious with my safety. But that doesn't erase the debt I owe this Prince.

What of the payment?

"That," she smiles brightly, "can be discussed later. After you're well and speaking, of course. For now, please eat and rest up. We have a long and arduous journey if Ser Jorah is to be trusted."

"Yes," Ser Jorah agrees grimly. "We have."

And as the little dragons screech and squeal in unison, Daenerys could only wonder at what lies ahead.

Chapter Text

Red Waste

Daenerys can feel every step of her silver make in the red sand. Every lurch and heave, every dry pants and neighs, even its tiredness and thirst. Like a Dothrakii, she knows her horse well, yet none of it gives her hope.

The air is drier than bones in the Red Waste, scorching sun and windless days with no signs of life. The only thing that grows here are bones and sand, though the occasional devilgrass gives her khalasar some reprieve. And with many dying each day, the Red Waste is not short of bones and flesh to feast upon.

And she watched them. She watched her people die one by one to starvation, to heat, to diseases, and to hopelessness. Yesterday, she followed a freed man at the back of her khalasar, slowly being left behind by the rest. She tried her best to save him, but even with the help of the Prince's sorceries it was of no use. When the man collapsed into the sand, Rakharo spared him from anymore suffering with his arakh. And his body was left there to be eaten by the dust.

Is it not her duty to see her people fed and protected? To understand their plight and suffering, their wants and needs, and to lead them to a brighter tomorrow? But here she is in the Red Waste.

There is nothing here but death, Daenerys thinks, pulling close the hrakkar pelt to cover her sunburnt skin. Was it a mistake? Is this simply a doomed trek, sending more of my khalasar into the herd in the sky?

This dreaded red expanse... It seems so long now when she counselled with her Queensguard and the Prince for their next movements. She vehemently rejected the idea of travelling into the Red Waste, citing it then as "suicidal." She'd been warned before by her sun-and-stars, Drogo, of the futility marching into the badlands. He told her then, underneath a sea of stars, that there's no treasures to be gained there for the land itself is foul.

But there was no other choice. What pushed her over the edge was the Prince and her knight agreeing on this grim trek. And with the help of the Prince, she managed to convince her khalasar to take on this arduous journey.

For they are following the shierak qiya, her husband's star riding through the great herd in the sky. Daenerys told them all, but mostly to herself, that her late husband Drogo shall lead them to their salvation. Yet she wonders. She wonders, she wonders, she wonders. Perhaps her husband is leading her into his arms, to join him and his great herd in the sky.

Or maybe the sun is starting to get into her mind.

She drinks from her waterskin, sparingly placing some on her hand and rubbing it on her scalp, trying to cool herself. But the water soon turns to steam, and she's left as dry as before.

She looks ahead beneath the blazing sun, seeing her Queensguard leading the way. Rakharo, Aggo, and Jhogo: experienced horse riders, yet she fears this desert shall make a fool out of them all. Ser Jorah looks half melted, sometimes clutching at his wounded hip and once nearly falling off his horse. They can't rest in the day for there is no shade for them to hide under. The Prince has been giving him medications, but sometimes Daenerys thinks if it's better to give them to the others in her khalasar...

"Prince Miko," she calls out.

The purple-caped figure slows her horse and turns to look at Daenerys, allowing a smile to cross her face. Yet, Daenerys sees none of the shine from when she first awoke. The dragon Futo climbs up to her shoulder, the rest sheltering under a makeshift birdhouse situated at the Prince's stallion. "What is it, your grace?"

"Please, if you can, survey the lands ahead of us again. It need not be anything large, even a small patch of devilgrass will do."

"Of course, Queen Daenerys."

This forsaken place is even threatening to break her, a sorcerer with no need for food nor drink. But even then she can still smile.

The Prince disembarks from her horse before surrounding herself with golden strings of light. Then, in a puff of dust, she takes flight with the dragon on her shoulder.

Even now Daenerys can hear praises from her khalasar, yet they're much weaker than that night before this doomed march. The Prince created golden orbs of light and took to the sky then, inspiring them all to follow Daenerys and her burning star. With the dragons spitting fires and the praises and songs all around them, the Prince looked like a god.

And that gives her hope, nearly as much as having those dragons. A sorcerer in my service... Not that traitorous maegi who can't even wake Drogo, but one who could wake me. But I wonder... How much of the debts do I still owe her? She worries for the fear of debts hang over her heads. Her brother Viserys had debts and look where it led him: a crown of gold on his head.

As she ponders what the sorcerer may want, she sees the shadow of a horse approach her. It's her handmaid Doreah, her fair hair glowing brightly in the sun. She looks much better now, the Prince having healed her fevers, though the Red Waste is kind to none of them. "Khaleesi, you must rest! The sun does no good for your health."

She refuses. "I'm khaleesi, Queen of my people. I'll stay atop of my silver till the sun sets beneath the sands."

"But you're a growing girl still," Doreah retorts before giving her a piece of dried horse meat and a nearly empty waterskin. "Take it, khaleesi. Good health is important when leading."

Though she refuses again, Doreah insists and places it into Daenerys' vest pockets. Her handmaid won't take no for an answer. Reluctantly, she eats the meat and drinks the water, suspecting it's been medicated by its sour and sweet taste.

"Better, khaleesi?"

"Better, Doreah. Thank you." Yet that small taste of morsel did not quench her hunger. It heightens them. Now her stomach growls, begging for more, but she knows she can't eat all the supplies herself. They're for her khalasar. Passing a few strands of devilgrass, she wonders if they would taste any good.

But before she could find out for herself, she sees the Prince speeding back onto her horse and galloping up to Ser Jorah. In that person's hand she sees... A branch? With leaves and fruits? Daenerys sees her giving her knight something before the bloodriders all race into the distance. Something's happening. Have our prayers been answered? Drogo?

"Your grace!" the Prince shouts, trotting up to Doreah and Daenerys. The golden shine is back in her eyes now as she shoves the branches of peaches to-

"Peaches!?"

"Yes your grace," the Prince smiles, Futo screeching in happiness along with her. "There's a city just beyond those red hills bearing fruits and freshwater. Grapes, peaches, and more!" She hands Daenerys a peach and another to Doreah. "Eat up. Peaches are the heaven's fruit and I'll not let your healing go to waste."

She takes a bite out of the peach, the fruity and sweet taste quickly filling her mouth and throat. As if the nectar of the gods was dropped right onto her tongue, she finishes it all in three bites, licking her fingers clean. Doreah does the same, not hiding her pleasure. "Fruiting trees and grapes... Were these gifts from their men?"

"From dead men, yes," she laughs. "City's all but dead and full of bones; I doubt you could even find fairies in there. Yet, it's our only chance to recuperate and rest in this wasteland."

"The Prince's right, your grace," Ser Jorah adds, riding up to her whilst chewing on his own peach. "Grass and water shall feed our men and horses. If we're to ever continue our trek again, we must resupply."

"Alright, Ser Jorah. Prince Miko, kindly give the rest of the fruits to Doreah. And Doreah, give them to Irri, Jhiqui, and anybody else that needs them. Us three shall ride ahead and see the city for ourselves."

With that, she commands her silver from a trot to a run, following the dust path of her bloodriders. She can hear the cheering of her people, no doubt from Doreah informing them of their salvation.

It takes a while for them to cross the waste and over the hills before setting eyes on the city. Ruined and dead, just like how the Prince described it. The broken towers and buildings itself look like bones, yet she sees splotches of green in between houses and walls. She sees Jhogo inspecting the area, occasionally directing the others to a direction. Their salvation. "Prince Miko, I give you my deepest gratitude in finding this city."

"Thank you, Queen Daenerys," she bows her head, the three dragons now out and about on he Prince. "Ser Jorah, does this city have a name?"

"It's not on any maps I've seen, no," he disembarks from his horse. "A city of bones yet soon to be filled with llife. Your grace, what shall the name of this city be?"

"It may be a city of life soon, but it's currently a city of bones. Vaes Tolorro."

"Vaes Tolorro it is then. Let us find some shade and have a good rest for once."

As the camps are set up and people are gathering water from wells, her khalasar slowly trickles in. Her bloodriders are riding back out into the Red Waste, making sure that no one is left behind so near to salvation. Ser Jorah directs and guards the gate while her handmaids are tending to the children and elderly. The Prince had disappeared somewhere between the ruins and Daenerys is left all alone to explore the city.

Like the Prince had said, the ground is littered with bones and pottery, left to dry and bake in the sun. How long have they been here? she wonders, but is soon interrupted by a cool breeze coming from between the alleys. Even here the wind is alive.

She pushes open the burnt door of the largest manse in the city. Looking up, she can see the blue sky from the caved-in ceiling of marble and sandstone. Ceramic tiling line the floor with images of queer things, but none of it disturbs Daenerys. She has a sorcerer and dragons.

Heading deeper into the building, she follows the sound of wind before coming into a secluded garden, a large peach tree growing at its centre. She can see a broken branch, most likely the handiwork of the Prince. Feeling hungry, she tries to jump up and reach the peaches but finds herself too short by a lot. So instead, she kicks the tree and a scorpion falls onto her shoulder.

But before she could panic, a hand picks up the scorpion by the tail and flicks it out of the garden. "Good grief," the Prince sighs behind her. "At least try to stay alive, Queen Daenerys. It was a LOT of effort to heal you."

"...You were following me?"

"And rightly so," the Prince smiles before sitting down on a dried-up fountain. "Heard a little whisper of desire to explore and tailed you just out of your vision. It's not wise to walk alone through a city, especially an unknown one."

"I thought you said everything's dead."

"Every man is dead. Said nothing of the scorpions." Tojiko appears shyly from behind the Prince's head before dashing out of the cape and climbing up the peach tree. They hear a few screeches and cooing here and there. "Scorpions hold good nutrition too, so it's not a bad food for the dragons," she chuckles.

Daenerys sighs before sitting next to the Prince, leaning and relaxing in the shade. The Prince's scent wafts over in the soft breeze, like a mixture of spices and steel. The two swing their legs, feeling finally able to relax. "You said you followed me from a whisper."

"Yup."

"Of desire?"

"Correct."

"What do you speak of, really? Some sort of sorcery?"

"In a way, yes." The Prince takes off that purple headwear of hers, uncovering her ears. "Desires are just that: desires. What you want, what you feel like you need, your wishes, your yearns... I can hear them. Was born with that skill, like listening in behind closed doors as my father would say."

The statement sounds... Confusing to Dany. "So you can read the mind?"

"Sort of," she sighs, her smile faltering. "Once I could talk and revealed this skill to my father, he threw me into a world of politics and hidden desires. I was barely out of my swaddle-clothes then," she laughs, but Daenerys notes it's a dry one. "Of course, listening all the time is a pain for I have sensitive ears; that's why I wear these."

"The purple headwear?"

"Noise-cancelling earmuffs, improved by kappa technology. Try it out."

Dany takes the purple earmuffs. As soon as it is over her ears, all the sound in the world dies. No wind, no cracks, no nothing. She sees the Prince speaking but is amazed when she can't hear any of it. "YOU CAN HEAR THROUGH-"

The Prince winces in pain before taking the earmuffs off of Dany and putting it back on, sighing in relief. "Yes, I can hear through these. But for the love of the gods, please don't shout when I have these off: sensitive ears, remember?"

"Oops, sorry."

"It's alright..." he Prince replies. Dany sometimes wonder if that hairstyle of hers is supposed to signify ears, or she's simply fine looking like that. Not that it doesn't look good on her, Daenerys thinks.

The two watch the dragon Tojiko crawl about in the tree, its mouth full of scorpions. Though Dany somewhat worry for their stings, it's clear that the dragon's scales are too tough for them to penetrate. They rest there for a while before Dany asks her next question. "You said that you can hear desires, right? Can you hear mine?"

"Will you allow me to?"

"You're already listening without me knowing, so might as well."

The Prince takes off her earmuffs before closing her eyes. This time, Daenerys keeps her mouth shut until it's all over. She watches the Prince's beautiful face, dappled in the sunlight. At the beginning it's all soft smiles, yet it slowly turns into a frown before turning to... Sadness? What is she hearing?

The Prince puts the earmuffs back on before opening her eyes and begins speaking. "You're... Daenerys Targaryen, last of the Targaryens and a little girl estranged from her home of Westeros. You have a lot of strong wishes and desires: the prosperity for her khalasar, the health of your people, and the freedom of those from slavery."

"That's easy enough to discern without mind reading," Dany laughs, but the Prince does not. "Any deeper ones? You said you have good ears."

The Prince sighs before speaking again. "You have love for your people, but you yearn for affection as well. You yearn for the warmth of your husband, Drogo, and your child, Rhaego. Yet both..." The Prince shakes her head. "I'm sorry, your grace. I shouldn't continue."

"No it's... It's fine, Prince Miko," Daenerys lies. She has been yearning for that affection her sun-and-stars always gave her. Yet every time she tries to imagine his embrace, all she can remember is the Pyre in the Dothrakii Sea. The burning star in the sky gives her no warmth in the night. She's been hiding it away since, hoping that it'll make her a stronger Queen, a better khaleesi. Yet... "Continue it, please."

"But-"

"Finish it," she hisses. What else has this sorcerer heard in her?

The Prince reluctantly complies with her demand. "A great desire... Is for you to reclaim the Iron Throne. The one where the Usurper had thrown your family and put them all to the sword. You wish to rule it, as Queen of Westeros and khaleesi of your people, to reclaim for what once was yours. To put a dragon back on the throne."

That part has been known to all who had witnessed her. Yet, deep in her heart, she knows. Daenerys knows that that's not all there is and the Prince is laying it all bare before her. She can ask her to stop now, to keep a secret safe and... What? What then? Deny it forevermore? Live on a lie?

"However," the Prince speaks, each word feeling like needles in Daenerys' heart, "a part of you desires none of that. What you want... Is to go back home. To... Fruit trees, to grass between your toes, to... Your brothers. A peaceful life, but none of them..."

Dany does not hear the Prince stop speaking as tears trail down from her face. She tries to stifle her cries but couldn't, soon finding herself leaning against the Prince and covered by her cape. The Prince pulls the crying girl closer, a warmth enveloping them both. The dragon chirps, the wind blows, and she rests there until the sun starts to set.

Dany feels her tears run dry, her breath still hitching. "I'm..." she whispers. "I'm Daenerys Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, last of my house, the last... But I'll be there." Her hand forms to fist, clutching at the Prince's cape. "For my brothers and husband and child... Fire and blood are my family's words. That... That I promise."

"Is that what you want?" the Prince speaks softly. "Is that what you truly desire?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall help you," the Prince says as she lifts Dany's hand. In the setting sun, her face looks bright and charming, full of love. "It does not befit a Crown Prince to see a girl cry before her and do nothing. And so," she kisses Dany's hand, "I, Prince Toyosatomimi no Miko, offer you my services, Queen Daenerys Targaryen. To see you be seated on a throne shall be my goal for as long as I remain here. You have my word."

Beneath a darkening sky and the burning star, Daenerys now wields a Sorcerer Prince, and the Sorcerer Prince now wields her heart as well.

Vaes Tolorro

Vaes Tolorro is a paradise in the middle of the Red Waste. Here, Daenerys' khalasar can rest and regain their strength after that harrowing journey through the badlands.

In this City of Bones, she can hear the laughter of children where there were none before. The bones of buildings and monuments provides shade, while the water and fruits provide them with life. The dragons grow large and happy in the Prince's care; they're now as large as small dogs, leaping from pillar to pillar, roasting and eating horse meat and scorpions. Daenerys even accepts the naming choice for them as the Prince proves herself capable of caring for dragons.

But this paradise will not last forever.

There's only so much fruit and vines to go around. And while the water is near everlasting, soon they will run out of food. And if that happens, then they will starve again.

Daenerys can't let that happen.

And so she sets out three plans into motion. The first is for Ser Jorah to begin storing fruits and other food materials for their inevitable journey. As she often saw him speak with Doreah, she assigns her to that duty as well. The second is sending her bloodriders into the South-West, South, and South-East, looking for anywhere or anything that may be of use. As they're with fresh supplies, it should last them for some time. The third, if all else fails, is to utilise the Prince's sorcery to grow fruits and trees. Daenerys once saw her making flowers bloom before giving it to a child, so it's possible that she may be able to force the trees to fruit.

And now, she waits. The supplies are still being packed, with the older ones being redistributed for her khalasar to eat. When she asked the Prince about making fruits through the trees, she gave her an odd look before saying "it's possible," or as Daenerys understands it: "I have yet to try it, so let's see what happens."

And lastly, her bloodriders. It has been a week now since their departure and they've yet to return.

In that time, she has taken residence in the broken manse with her handmaids, using the space as a makeshift home and court. Underneath the starry skies, she worries what would happen if they were to die out there. They're her bloodriders, blood of her blood, leaders of her kos. Would the other riders fight amongst themselves? Fight against her? Will those freed people be sold into slavery, like with the other kos that fled after Drogo's death?

"It is best not to worry, your grace," Ser Jorah reassures her, sitting beside the campfire and eating his share of the meal. "I've been with the Dothraki for quite some time, and I know Drogo's kos well. Those three are able to ride to the ends of the known world if given the order, so I'm sure they are safe and sound."

"Personally," the Prince speaks, drinking something fruity from a bowl, "I should have been the one to traverse the place. No need to eat or drink, and I'm sure your grace could take care of the dragons as well." The Prince gives a piece of roasted horse meat to Futo, the dragon chomping away at it.

"While you're more than capable, your sorcery is much more useful here in Vaes Tolorro than in the middle of the Red Waste, Prince Miko," Daenerys answers. At least she's glad that these two advisors are still here as she would not know what to do if any of them were to die.

As Daenerys continues to eat her meal of roasted meat and figs, she sees Jorah shooting a glance at someone. She turns her head and quickly sees Doreah averting her eyes from them, going back to Irri and Jhiqui. Oh my, Dany smiles, seems that my knight has taken interest in my handmaid. Even my old knight still has a fairy-tale love in him. But maybe I shouldn't press on, no need to cause needless conflict.

Dany quickly glances at the Prince, her hair shimmering in the light of the fire. Her sharp eyes and gentle smile are... Attractive? Perhaps here, yes, but she's a woman, not a man. Dany has to constantly remind herself of that, that this feeling she gets from her are nothing more than admiration.

...

Of course, this does not stop her from imagining what this Crown Prince looks like as an actual Prince. Not as tall as her knight in her mind, but maybe a hand taller than the Prince's current height. Lithe yet muscular, and maybe with flowing blond locks, braided or not. The dragons perched on the shoulders complete the image of this male Prince. She can't imagine how the male Prince would look with that strange hair style-

"My, my, like to stare much?" the Prince smiles at her.

Realising her mistake, Dany has to come up with an excuse. "Ah, no no, I wasn't- I was just wondering what you're drinking."

"Oh this?" The Prince lifts up her bowl. "It's peach liquor."

"Liquor?" Jorah asks, looking perplexed. "The only brandy we have left are for wounds."

"I made this myself with the peaches from the garden," she corrects him, sipping from the bowl. "Refined and purified, right up to my tastes."

"Heh, didn't think you're one to get drunk, Prince. Especially for someone claiming to not needing to drink."

"Even once in a while I like to get drunk, especially in celebrating our survival of that ordeal. I didn't become a Taoist Hermit just to stay sour and stiff like you."

"Alright, enough bickering," Daenerys interrupts them. I guess their kindness to each other only lasts as long as the Red Waste. "May I have a taste, Prince Miko?"

"No," the answer is immediate. "You're far too young, especially with something this strong."

"Strong? I bet I've tasted stronger wines at Bear Island than whatever water you concocted," Ser Jorah scoffs.

"Ho ho, is that a challenge? Here, Ser Jorah," she fills an empty cup with the liquor, "drink up if you dare."

"Oh, I dare. Us bears have strong stomachs unlike someone wiry like you."

Might as well let him, Dany thinks, tired of their argument. Maybe drinking will be their bond, though I'd rather not have drunk advisors at my court.

The knight takes the cup, which looks quite small in his hairy hand, and chugs it in one go. But as soon as he gulps, his eyes turn wide and he spits and hacks the liquid back out and onto the fire, making a multi-coloured blaze to light up the broken manse. Dany and the others lean away from the flame while the Prince laughs heartily, the dragons on her lap responding with their own flames.

"By the Old- What!? This is wound brandy!"

"You dare insult my liquor!?" the Prince exclaims looking quite offended by the knight's remarks. "Did you not taste the sweetness of the peaches? You must have an unrefined palate."

"The Bear Knight is now a hairy dragon, spitting fire," Doreah laughs along.

"Gah! Gods, I swallowed some of it! Who the hell would drink this!?"

"Myself, as you can see. My wives, my acquaintances, guests to drinking parties... It's not even a particularly strong drink, this one. The peaches must be of low quality. No, you know what's a strong drink? Demon killer. By the heavens, drink a cup of that stuff and you'd be drunk for a week!" Her eyes and expression looks drunk, and Dany slightly fears what a drunk sorcerer may be capable of.

"Or dead..." Irri adds. "Too much liquor kills a man, it is known."

"Well the drinking parties where I'm from lasts a full three days, so no use in telling them that," the Prince chuckles as she drinks again.

"They have a death wish if they're drinking that," Ser Jorah groans, standing up and taking the empty bowls and cup with him. "I think I've had enough of liquors and headaches for today. Will it be fine if I leave for my quarters, your grace?"

"No need to worry, my knight. I have the Prince here, after all."

"...Right. Goodnight, your grace. Doreah. Irri. Jhiqui." With a bow, the knight exits the broken manse.

With him gone, the Prince looks much more relaxed and the air feels soft. It's quiet now, the two not bickering anymore. Daenerys sighs, looking up to the great herd in the sky. It's a beautiful sight to see, sleeping underneath the stars. But due to the angle, she's unable to see her husband's burning star, just behind the broken roof.

Giving a piece of her own meal to the sleepy Tojiko, she hears some chatter coming from her handmaids. Looking over to them, she sees Doreah teasing the scared Irri and Jhiqui, laughing all the while. "What's the matter?" Daenerys asks.

"Jhiqui is scared of this city, it is known," says Irri.

"It is known that Irri is scared to wander alone to the latrine, even when she needs to," says Jhiqui.

"They think ghosts are wandering this city and are now too scared to go to the latrine by themselves," Doreah giggles at the two's scared expressions. "I can confidently say that any alleyway in Lys are much more treacherous than any old bones you find here. Ghost are like smoke and whispers, not men who are solid."

"While that is true," the Prince interjects, "ghost can be more troublesome than that. They can pass through walls, they can touch you, they can set fire to things, and vengeful ones can hunt and kill you as well."

The two Dothrakii handmaids whimper and huddle closer together. Doreah scoffs at the Prince's claims. "And how would you know that?"

"I know many ghosts! For example, my wife is one," the Prince smiles.

"Oh... I'm sorry to hear that, Prince Miko," Doreah bows her head. "I never meant to insult your late love."

"Late? Ah, you misunderstand. She's dead, yes, but now she's my wife as a ghost!"

...

"Pardon?"

"An accident," she says with a mouthful of liquor. "Wanted to do something, someone sabotaged it, and now my wife is stuck as a ghost. A beautiful ghost, mind you, not some mindless ghouls or spirits."

"...I think you have too much to drink," Daenerys says, snatching away the bowl from the Prince's hand against her protests. "You're just rambling about now, better get some sleep."

"I'm not rambling," she slurs with a thick smell of liquor. "My wife Tojiko is a ghost! Incorporeal body, but she'll let me touch her when we're intimate."

"And you're a woman," Daenerys sighs. "You wouldn't have a wife."

"I'm not so sure of that, your grace," Doreah says, smiling at the two. "In Lys, sometimes a courtesan or female proprietor may take a few female lovers with her. Besides, it's not that rare for a woman to arrive at a pillow house and demand whores to pleasure her, or did my grace forget of our night together?"

Daenerys blushes slightly. Doreah is right. And was there not a Targaryen princess who loved her companion more than her own husband, Rhaena Targaryen? It's not so odd then that this woman Prince may have woman lovers.

"Of course," Doreah continues, "marriage is another matter entirely. For all of the faith present on Lys, I've never heard of one marrying two women. Polygamy, sure, but there must be a man in the middle. Or are you of a faith I've not heard of?"

"Probably," the Prince smirks. "But like you said, the faith I was married in also did not believe in marrying women."

This confuses all those who hear it. "Then... Is she a wife in your eye but not of the gods?"

"She is my wife in my eye and the eyes of the law and heavens," she proclaims. "You see, I didn't always look this bright and gorgeous. When I got married with Tojiko, I looked more like Jhogo except with a beard, more fat, and far more self-loathing."

"Nonsense," Dany says, quite shocked at what Prince Miko is saying. "I've seen you bathe near the well and you had no cock on you, and neither are you a eunuch."

"You watched me bathe?"

"You watched her bathe?"

"Off-topic," Dany waves her hand. "You're a woman, not a man."

"Precisely!" the Prince snaps her fingers, the drunken tone of her voice slipping away. "The monks and priests thought I was a man, Tojiko thought I was a man, and at the time even I thought I was a man! That was the case until I had my own revelation with the help of a... Um, teacher. Say, Doreah, have you ever wished to have the body of a man?"

"Never."

"Well, I wished for the body of a woman. And I achieved it! I mean, look at me!" The Prince spreads her arms wide, displaying her clothed and jewelry-laden body for all to see. "With the hermetic and alchemical arts, I created a new body, far more refined and beautiful than the old. More functional, more fitting, more immortal. And now I look just like my soul: golden, divine, and pristine. No more beards, no more food, no more cocks, and no more loathing!" she proclaims, nearly waking the sleeping dragons on her lap. "The gods hate me for it but I challenge them to take my immortal soul from my immortal body."

All fall silent except for the soft snores of the dragons. This doesn't seem to be a drunken rant anymore, but closer to a madman, a priest, or a god. The gods...

"Careful," Irri peeps from behind Jhiqui. "When you challenge the gods, they shall come, it is known."

"Then let them come," the Prince grins, her voice loud and proud. Gone is the boastful and prideful Crown Prince who once comforted Dany in the garden of peaches. Here, her eyes shine like molten gold and she's draped in a sharp air of cunning; the Sorcerer Prince peeks out from behind the Crown Prince's glamorous curtains. "I've beaten the emissaries of hell and death before, and I will not hesitate in doing it again."

...

"I-I think we're diverting ourselves into a nonsensical topic," Dany stammers out, too scared of what else the Prince might inadvertently show her. All her handmaids nod nervously as well. "So your wife is a ghost. How... How is she?"

"Oh, she's prickly like she usually is," the Prince returns to her drunken aloofness, but at this point Dany suspects it to be a farce. "Brash and bold with her words, but she's the same lovely girl I married oh so long ago. Ah, I do miss her..."

Talking about ghost wives is, frankly, much more relaxing for them to hear. Well, Doreah and Dany; Irri and Jhiqui have retreated to their corners, not wanting to hear anymore talks of blasphemy or spirits. "She sounds lovely," Dany says dryly. "What about the other one, named Futo?"

"Similar manner of marriage: they thought I was a man, I thought I was a man... However, she's not a ghost."

"An improvement," Doreah chuckles.

"Hey, don't speak lowly of Tojiko! She may be a vengeful ghost, but she's a caring and lovely vengeful ghost. Anyway," the Prince continues, taking the bowl of liquor that Daenerys had put aside, "Futo! Such an eccentric one, that girl. Always speaking in an archaic manner, hyper-energetic, quite jumpy and lively-"

"She sounds like a puppy," Dany comments.

"AND more adorable than one, too! By the heavens, I really do miss them..." the Prince wipes a tear from her eye. "Even her pyromaniac tendencies I miss... I hope to see them soon. That's why I named the dragons after them, really."

"And Saki?" Doreah asks.

"Horse," Dany answers.

"A special horse," the Prince yawns, leaning against the marble wall with her eyes drooping. Even her hair is drooping as well. "I rode on her to meet Tojiko and Futo for the first time. Such a good horse... Shame she died so young..."

Dany is a bit soured by this talk of love. From the way the Prince speaks, her loves are all still alive, even if they're not here. Riding her horse to meet her beloved is a nice thought, if not a bit fairy-tale like for Dany. But where does that leave her? Her sun-and-stars is dead, her child is no more, and that maegi's prophecies make the prospect of her future grow even darker. Will I be the last Targaryen? she thinks bitterly. "Prince Miko," she whispers, "may I ask you something?"

...

"Prince?"

...

Dany goes up to the Prince and realises that she's sleeping, snoring softly like the dragons on her lap. Doreah mouths her to be quiet as the two lie the Prince down on some cushions. Dany takes her cape off and drapes it over her and the dragons, but prevent Doreah from removing the headwear; she'll probably be startled if that was removed.

As she realises that it's very late in the night, she bids Doreah goodnight before retreating to her cushions and blankets underneath the stars. The hrakkar's fur comforts her as she slowly drifts off into sleep, with dreams full of stars and a single golden sun.

Chapter Text

The Wall

“Snow! Come here right this instant!”

“Specify please!” someone shouts to the laughter of Northern bastards, but Ser Alliser doesn’t take kindly to the jest.

“I’m not asking for a second time, bastard.”

Jon groans, for this horrific week is steadily getting worse and worse. Guess there’s no luncheon today. “Alright,” Jon stands, giving his meal to Grenn. “I’m not gonna come back in time so just finish my bowl.”

“Should’a given it ta Sam, ya know?” Grenn makes a bloated expression. Jon kicks his leg and the rest of the table laughs. Sam is away with Maester Aemon anyway. At least some of us are enjoying the week…

Buttoning his coat, he heads out the common hall and is greeted by Ghost, his footsteps light on the snow. Jon gives him a good ruffle before confronting the scowling master-at-arms. “What do you need, Ser Alliser?”

“You’re a steward of the Lord Commander yet I see you sitting on your ass away from his supervision,” he growls. “Go to his tower; he wants you to be present.”

“But lu-”

“I don’t want to repeat myself, unless you’re asking for extra training. But I’ve got my hands full with the greenboys, so consider yourself lucky. Now scram,” Ser Alliser says before trudging away towards the Wall.

Jon sighs, knowing that he’ll have to deal with that man for the better part of his life. “I think you’d be a better teacher of swords than him, right boy?” he asks Ghost. The direwolf nudges his hand in response. “Yeah, we’d better not be late. Let’s go.”

The air at Castle Black is colder than ever. Not due to the weather, mind you; Maester Aemon noted that today is a particularly warm day at the Wall. No, but for the events of the last week. Not many Brothers are out and about, most staying inside their quarters or up at the Wall. And Jon understands why.

The bodies, he recalls. He still dreams of that night, of those blue eyes and cold hissing breaths. Sometimes he wakes up in terror, clutching at his neck though he does not remember what it was he dreamt. And sometimes he dreams of his Uncle Benjen, decapitating him with a wood axe. Was it he that killed his Uncle or his Uncle killed him?

The Lord Commander reassured him that what he did was lifesaving, that he did not commit kinslaying. He gave Jon his Valyrian steel sword Longclaw as a gift, yet the weight of the sword felt too heavy in his hands; he kept it underneath his bunk ever since that day. Jon felt no honour with what he has done.

But then again, when has there been honour in the Night’s Watch? he wonders as he enters the Lord Commander’s tower. His fellow Brothers who sees him give him an odd look. Not only a bastard, but now a kinslayer as well. And I had slain the reason I have come to the Wall. Should I even stay at this forsaken place?

Ghost stands by his side, Jon preparing himself in front of the Lord Commander’s door. He rubs his hands, warming it with the tower’s warm air, and knocks. “Come in,” hears a soft voice speaks.

Maester Aemon? If he’s here, then it must be something important. Jon opens the door and Ghost rushes past him, his tail wagging.

The Lord Commander Jeor Mormont sits at the table’s head, looking quite happy for someone who was about to be killed a few days ago. His raven, really the last raven of Castle Black, is tending to its wounded wings. Jon doubts if it can fly well anymore, not even around this sparsely furnished room.

Maester Aemon sits by his side, with Sam attending behind him. Sam waves at Jon and he gives a weak smile back. But unlike the Lord Commander, Maester Aemon is not in a cheery mood. The loss of the ravens must have hit him hard, Jon worries. I hope we’ll have some more from Eastwatch.

But at the front of the table is two people he didn’t expect to be here. Sitting in front of the Lord Commander is the red-and-white Lady Reimu, one of the strangers they found Beyond-the-Wall. She’s far too light-clothed to be anywhere in the North and Night’s Watch have to endure her constant complains of the cold. And for Jon, he has to endure the Lady constantly sinking her hands into Ghost for warmth. Why didn’t you pack thicker clothing…

The other stranger from Beyond-the-Wall… Frankly, Jon always tries to keep his eyes away from her. Ghost does not like her and neither does Jon; something about the way she looks at people makes him feel pinned like a rabbit. Of course, there’s also those yellow tails on her back, which squirm and gyrate in an uncomfortable manner. And those creepy eyes… The only good thing about her is that she’s nice and polite, but sometimes I feel like she’s playing with us.

But in truth, Jon find the both of them very creepy. He saw a few times before how Lady Reimu would walk on snow with no footprints. Frankly, he wishes-

“Are you thinking of becoming a statue, Jon, or are you going to sit?”

“Right, sorry, Lord Commander.” Jon takes his seat next to Lady Reimu where he can be away from that fox-lady.

“Nice to see you again, Jon Snow,” Lady Reimu greets him, smiling quite bright in his presence. Or is it in Ghost’s presence?

“Oh, don’t be so harsh on the boy,” Maester Aemon chuckles. “He’s just surprised to see his Uncle, that’s all.”

Uncle? I don’t know what- “Uncle Benjen!” he gasps, realising that his Uncle’s head is on the table, all neatly wrapped with some paper and twine. There’s two other heads as well, one burnt and one unburnt.

“Sorry to interrupt your luncheon, Snow, but we want to discuss an important matter involving your Uncle.”

“Y-You mean about my kinslaying?” Jon gulps, imagining himself being beheaded or hanged.

“What? We’ve talked about this, boy! Get those thought out of your head unless you REALLY want to die for something foolish. The man’s Watch ended the moment he died, just like the others,” the Lord Commander growls at him, but soon calms back down. “No, it is simply of another matter.”

“Lady Ran and I have spoken together about many things,” Maester Aemon continues, twiddling with his chains like a necklace. “Your Tarly friend here has given us some help as well. What we want to know from you, Jon Snow, is how you were able to kill these three… Undeads, shall we say.”

“I’ve given my side,” Lady Reimu speaks, her hands still deep in Ghost’s fur. “It was short, but they keep asking me to repeat myself over and over again. I know it’s for consistency, but it’s just so… Time consuming. You do it now.”

“Alright then,” Jon settles into his seat. “Where should I-”

“The night of the attack,” says the Lord Commander, cutting a piece of meat and bread for his raven. “Let’s start with the first wight.”

Wight, Jon shivers. Hearing the names of things from legends and bedtime stories spoken so seriously give him a foreboding feeling. “I encountered the first wight, the one in the cold storehouse, after hearing some commotion at night. Ghost and I went out to investigate and found five-”

“Six,” the Maester corrects him. “No worries; their bodies now lie in the ice cells, just in case they rise again.”

Rise again. Another chill goes down Jon’s spine. Fates worse than death. “We found the first one with a bloody dagger. I tried coaxing it, thinking that it was alive. After realising it… Wasn’t, I drew my sword and stabbed it in the back. It didn’t work and my sword was lodged in it.”

“And how did you know to burn him?”

“I didn’t know,” Jon confesses. “Ghost and I were panicked, so I started throwing things at it. Books, potatoes, and finally a lit torch. The thing went up in flames as if made of tinder, Lord Commander. Then it collapsed.”

“So that’s this burnt head,” the Lord Commander points to it with his dagger. “Jafer Flowers, a bastard like you and skilled with a sword. Even in death he managed to beat Ser Jaremy,” he chuckles, but it is a dry one. “What of the unburnt one, then? Othor?”

Jon looks at the head, meeting its eyes. A part of him expects the thing to blink, but Jon manages to calm himself down to speak. “…Me and Ghost went out of the storehouse after realising the other corpses weren’t there. I forgot my sword in the burning body so Ghost fetched me a wood axe.”

“Well aren’t you a good dog~” Lady Reimu coos Ghost.

“I found the door to this tower open. We went in and saw Othor ready to climb the stair. I lopped off his hand and Ghost pulled him down from the stairs. I chopped his head but the thing still kept moving. So I chopped and I chopped and I chopped and I-”

“You killed it,” the Lord Commander smiles. “You should be proud of that, Jon Snow. Not many in the Night’s Watch can claim that they have killed a wight. You’ve grown well since I first met you.”

Did I? Jon wonders. Sometimes in his dreams, the chopped bits of Othor would crawl over him in rotting flesh and devour him whole, leaving nothing but ice and corpse. He dares not to look at the cuts on the floor again.

“You did good,” Lady Reimu speaks softly. “We all have our duties and you managed to stick through it, even if you absolutely loathe it. Don’t worry,” she pats his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”

But I don’t want to, Jon complains. But he keeps his mouth shut.

“And of course,” the Lord Commander continues, “your Uncle, the First Ranger Benjen Stark.”

Uncle Benjen… He can’t bring himself to look at his head, even when it’s wrapped in paper. Just the sight of the long hair is enough for him to start remembering the night. “I went up the stairwell, hearing some groaning and footsteps. That’s when I saw my Uncle. He was dead, a wight-”

“Not a wight,” Lady Ran interrupts, opening her eyes for a moment. “Jiang Shi.”

“What?”

“It’s something we’ve discussed,” Maester Aemon speaks. “Please continue the story for now.”

“Right… He turned and looked at me,” smiling with sharp white teeth like a hound, “and tried to give chase. I tried to strike at him with the axe but he managed to block it with his arm. Gods, Uncle was strong, stronger than when he was… So both of us ran out and Uncle followed. I thought it’d be easier here in the open, but it wasn’t. He jumped at me.” And I still remember it, those cold hands gripping my throat. His breath, like vomit and cold air…

“And at this point, Lady Reimu intervened. Is that correct?” the Lord Commander asks.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I saw some paper stuck to his head and I was able to push Uncle off of me. And then…” I raised my axe, but I hesitated. I heard the words coming from his mouth; he was alive. I heard my name, I heard my father, I heard Robb, and I heard Winterfell. But even then-

“You managed to decapitate it while it was incapacitated.”

“…Yes,” Jon lowers his head.

“Well,” the Lord Commander picks up his Uncle’s head and stares at its paper-covered face, “come to my place any later and I would’ve been dead. Or worse, right, Lady Ran?”

“Quite correct, Lord Commander,” Lady Ran speaks, sounding quite pleased with herself. “When a Jiang Shi bites a human, that human shall turn into another Jiang Shi. If the bite was non-fatal, then it will only last for a night until they return to normal at sunrise. But if it’s fatal, like the one on the late Benjen Stark, then it would be a permanent transformation.”

“Hear that, Jon Snow? Oy!” the Lord Commander snaps his fingers, catching Jon’s attention. “Quit sulking. You’re hanging your head lower than a man at the gallows. What you did was amazing; if it wasn’t for you, Castle Black would be overrun by these moving corpses.”

“I’d prevent that,” the red-and-white scoffs.

“Of course you will, Lady Reimu. And from his testimonies, will you say that their accounts are accurate, Maester Aemon?”

“Very much so,” Aemon nods his head. Sam continues to eat luncheon behind him, which Jon feels a bit jealous of. “Of course, it would have been better if all of this was a farce.”

“So, what do we do now?” Jon asks.

“Now,” the Lord Commander turns grim, “we must prepare. We know almost nothing of the things called wights, and only these two ladies here know of Jangsi. And while they can trace this demon of theirs, we do not know of the origin of these wights. Who placed them there for there was no footsteps? How? Why?”

“…The Others,” the words slip between Jon’s lips. Now everyone present feels the full chill of the Wall. The icy mist. The demons of snow and ice. The thing that brought the Long Night. The cold…

“Maybe,” the Lord Commander sinks back into his seat. “And we’re not prepared. The Night’s Watch has never been prepared for the past thousand years. We barely even know who built the Wall and how! It won’t take that many of them to bring all these criminals and bastards into their cold doom.”

“Um,” Sam speaks, a bit of bread sticking to his cheek. “I-I heard Lady Ran talk about the Wall being a magical barrier?”

“You have sharp ears, Samwell Tarly,” the fox-lady smiles at him with her slitted eyes. “Why yes, I’ve found out through a few analyses that this ice Wall of yours was constructed through some form of magic that is unknown to me. I hypothesise that they sent these three corpses as they cannot cross the Wall themselves. Getting the Night’s Watch to take them in was quite easy for them as well.”

The Lord Commander rubs his beard, thinking on her words. “That may be true. However, you’ve yet to understand the magic of the Wall and wights, is that correct?”

“I must apologise, Lord Mormont,” she bows her head. “I still need time to conduct my research on the magic of this world. Though Maester Aemon and Samwell Tarly have aided me in this task, it is a slow progress. Isn’t that right, Miss Reimu?”

“Hey, I’m helping!” she replies, sounding offended.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“What of the heads?” Jon asks. “Would they be… Coming back to life?”

“For safety reasons, we shall burn all remains of Othor and Jafer Flowers. However,” the Lord Commander taps Uncle Benjen’s head, “I hear you have some plans for this one?”

“I plan to reanimate the corpse, yes,” Lady Ran replies.

“Wait, you can revive him? How!?” Jon stands, but is sent back down a the Lord Commander’s glare.

“Not revival,” she corrects him. “He will still be a Jiang Shi, but his brains should be quite stable as he had been in the extreme cold beyond this Wall. With the correct procedures, we should still be able to extract his personalities and memories. Maybe then we can see the nature of the killers and find out why there’s a Jiang Shi beyond the Wall.”

“I’m still unsure of this,” the Lord Commander frowns. His raven caws in agreement. “What if that thing goes loose and bites all those in Castle Black? It won’t be long before the North is overrun by Jangsi.”

“It won’t,” she smiles. “Jiang Shi follow written commands attached to their heads. It’s magically imbued, so they are unable to break it. If I write them to not hurt a fly, they do nothing. To hunt, they’ll hunt. To die, they’ll die. It is that simple.”

“But won’t you be too preoccupied with your magic research?” Lady Reimu asks, now looking quite serious. “I really don’t want to take care of something that should have been exterminated.”

“I’ll do it,” Jon stands to the surprise of all present. “I’ll take care of my Uncle.”

“…Do you know of any necromancy, Jon Snow?” Lady Ran asks curiously.

“No. But if need be, I can learn how to maintain him by your side. We need any resources we can get, even if it means doing things that are uncomfortable to us. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

Sam flinches at his name drop. He twitches and sweat in fear as all eyes look at him “Work with me,” Jon mouths him.

“Y-Yes, as Jon said, Lord Commander,” Sam stammers out. “We k-know next to nothing of what’s beyond. B-Books in the vaults are useful, but so are the First Ranger’s memories.”

“So you vouch for him?” asks the Lord Commander.

“Yes,” Sam replies.

I owe you one, Jon smiles back. This is perhaps his last chance to do his Uncle well, to apologise and make sure that the Stark name is not tainted. Maybe he’ll make a name for himself as well, learning magic.

Maester Aemon raps his fingers on the table before nodding his bald head. “I see… Certainly if this Jangshi can be controlled, it may not pose any harm to us. And you seem to know a great deal about them, more than anyone at Castle Black at least, Lady Ran. So I see no reason to not conduct your experiment.”

“…Fine, do what you want,” Lady Reimu concedes. “I can just exterminate it if it goes awry.”

The Lord Commander closes his eyes and Jon waits for an answer. He lets out a long sigh before opening them again. “If that thing does go awry, I shall hold you responsible for it, Jon Snow. You’ll be practising necromancy with Lady Ran, something in the eyes of many Gods, both Old and New, find detestable. Are you sure you want to go forward with this foolish act?”

“Yes.”

“…Fine then. Lady Ran, you may do what you wish.”

“Thank you, Lord Mormont,” Lady Ran bows to him before turning to Jon, her golden eyes staring into his soul. He shivers at the sight. “Of course, this means that you shall be under my tutelage, Jon Snow. Necromancy is not a simple magic to be trifled with. Are you truly ready?”

Jon gulps. This may all come crashing back down on him, but he has already made the decision long before this meeting started. On that snowing yard with an axe in his hand, looking down at his Uncle’s face… He knew then that if the opportunity to do him right arises, he will take it. He owes the man at least that much. “I’ll do it!”

“Good,” she chuckles. “Then we shall begin today.”

“You’re just like Yukari,” Lady Reimu murmurs.

“Please don’t say that, it hurts my heart,” the fox lady whimpers.

The Wall

“Jon,” Robb says with great suspicion, “what’s that on the table?”

“Oh this?” Jon lifts up the heavy bag. “You’ve never seen a bag before, Robb? Maybe you ought to get out once in a while,” he chuckles, but his half-brother doesn’t reciprocate.

“I’m not playing around, Jon. I’m far too tired right now for your jests.”

The strange wolf-woman approaches the bag and takes a whiff at it, not unlike what Ghost does to unwashed clothing. “A corpse,” she frowns. “And not a new one, too. It’s been rotting for a while, but the smell is not pungent yet.”

Jon sinks into his chair while Robb covers his own face, looking very much drained. How should Jon begin explaining to Robb the events of the past two hours? That he was entrusted with his Uncle’s head for a safekeeping trial? That they’re going to use necromancy to revive him? Or the fact that their Uncle is dead in the first place?

Did the Old Gods really gave him such bad luck that he’d run to his half-brother on the way out of the Lord Commander’s tower? Maybe.

“Do I want to know why you have a corpse in a bag, Jon? Please tell me at least that that’s a rat or dog.”

“Human,” says the wolf woman. “Unmistakably so.”

“Someone’s head,” Jon whispers. Robb answers with an even longer groan. “And I think it’s important for me to… Show you.”

“Yes,” the wolf-woman tilts her head, her red eyes boring down on Jon and Ghost. “It smelled far too close to you to.”

Jon unclasps the bag and pulls out the head wrapped in some cloth and paper. Jon avoids Robb’s curious eyes as he untangles it, revealing the corpse beneath. He turns the face towards Robb, dreading his reaction.

At first, Robb looks both horrified and disgusted at the head. But as soon as he recognises the face, the air tenses up. Jon even notices a snarl coming onto the wolf-woman’s face but dares not to look anymore at Robb’s. He hears the grinding of wood and teeth. “Is that… Uncle Benjen?”

“Yes.”

Jon hears a whimper and some stifled gasp, but he feels more the burning gaze the two land on him. “If that’s Uncle Benjen, then WHY? Why the hells is his head in a bag?”

“…It’s a long story,” Jon sighs, now having the courage to meet eye-to-eye with Robb. He looks… Haggard and teary-eyed. Just like Jon after he beheaded his Uncle. “This isn’t the way I wanted to let you know, Robb. I’m…”

“How did he die? And what the hells are those paper on his head? And why are you carrying HIS HEAD!?”

“It is because we have plans,” the Lord Commander strides into the room, nearly as silent as Ghost in his steps. His presence causes Robb and Jon to stand to attention. “Please, do sit back down, Lord Stark. A Lord so willing to visit the Wall is of a far higher standing than the Night’s Watch who serves it.”

Jon notices that he’s not here with his raven. The Lord Commander takes the seat next to Jon, causing both him and Ghost to flinch. But the most interesting response comes from the wolf-woman, whose eyes are now bright and her tail is wagging happily. “May I know your name?” she asks.

“Ah yes, you may not be familiar about me. I’m Jeor Mormont, the nine-hundredth and ninety-seventh Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady…”

“Momiji Inubashiri,” she declares proudly, not unlike that time Jon saw the bratty Prince. “A White Wolf Tengu, daughter of the Inubashiri Family. It is great to finally see someone of your calibre, nightlord.”

“Nightlord?” the Lord Commander chuckles. “First time I’ve heard the moniker.”

“Please forgive me for my retainer’s eccentricities,” Robb bows his head. “She never even refer to me as Lord or Robb, so it’s growing to be quite a pain.”

“You earn your name, wolfcub.”

“Wolfcub,” Jon snickers.

“Well, at least it has quite the ring to it. Welcome to the Wall, Lady Momiji. And what a coincidence that you are quite beastly as well; not a warg, I assume?”

“Correct assumption,” she smiles. “But coincidence? Am I not the first of my kind you saw?”

“Well,” the Lord Commander taps the floor with his boot, “I’ve not heard of a thing called ‘White Wolf Tengu’, but a guest of ours that’s staying just downstairs also have quite the beastly qualities. Sharp ears, strange eyes, tails…”

“Lady Ran Yakumo is her name,” Jon speaks, remembering those cold and sharp-

“Wait, the ninetails is here!?” she asks abruptly. “Since when?”

“A few weeks ago, I reckon. But Lady Momiji, they-”

“Wolfcub, I’ll be heading out for a bit. No need to wait for me.”

Before Robb could stammer out his refusal, the woman is already dashing out of the room with a strong gale. “Gods, what the- DAMMIT! She’s going to cause me more trouble!” Robb cries out, nearly tearing out the hair from his head.

“Oh, no worries, Lord Stark. Your retainer seems capable enough,” the Lord Commander laughs, lowering the tension in the room. Jon and Ghost feels more relaxed with the wolf-woman’s presence having disappeared.

“Capable enough to cause problems,” Robb murmurs before slapping his cheeks and setting himself straight. He’s much older now, Jon thinks, looking at Robb’s lord-like attire and stern face. And yet, there’s still very much that childish person I’ve known for some time. “So,” Robb begins, “would you, Lord Mormont, tell me exactly how my Uncle died in your Watch?”

“Men always die in the Night’s Watch, Lord Stark. Even good and skilled men like Benjen Stark. However,” the Lord Commander brings the head closer, careful not to tear the paper, “his death was a special case. Would you mind telling it, Jon?”

Wouldn’t it be better if you tell Robb instead? Jon thinks, but only sighs away his concerns. “Uncle Benjen and two others were found dead Beyond-the-Wall. It was after a few weeks of him going missing. And after we retrieved them…” Jon feels again that strain in his neck. “They were walking again as corpses. Wights.”

“And Jangshi, though we have a hard time pronouncing it,” the Lord Commander shrugs. “Jon Snow dealt with them quite quickly, thus I must thank him for my life.”

“…Yes,” Jon replies softly, looking into the eyes of Uncle Benjen. “I did that.”

…

Robb’s eyes are closed, his fingers rapping on the table. Jon is sure that none of what they said made much sense to him; it didn’t make sense to Jon until he experienced it himself. “Lord Mormont,” he speaks, “I know that I’m new to this position as Lord of Winterfell. You’ve perhaps met my father and was impressed by him. I, too, am trying to follow in his footsteps. However,” he hisses, “I will NOT be made a fool out of when a member of my family dies! I’m far too tired to see any fun in your jests. You as well, Jon.”

Sorry, Robb.

“Now,” Robb relaxes himself, yet Jon still sees the anger in his eyes, “tell me again how Uncle Benjen died. With truth, not some fairy tale Old Nan would tell us.”

“It is with my deepest regret to tell you that what Jon said was the truth, Lord Stark. Not only will I corroborate that, but so too Maester Aemon, his steward Samwell Tarly, the guests below us, and a dozen other Brothers who watched the terror go down that night.” The Lord Commander pats Jon’s shoulders, causing him to cough. “This Stark bastard saved many of our lives that night, and you should be proud to be sharing blood to someone like him.”

Jon feels Robb’s eyes set on him. For once in his life, he feels contempt and anger from his half-brother, the one he often felt from Lady Catelyn. It… Saddens him, to be seen like that in his half-brother’s eyes. “You’ve done all that?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. “And if need be, I’ll do it again.”

“How are you so sure that they are fairy tales, Lord Stark, when you yourself rode in to Castle Black on a whirlwind? Is that not some form of sorcery?”

…Oh yeah, Robb did that, didn’t he? He got you there, Jon smirks to Rob’s annoyance.

“This and that are different things,” Robb groans. “But I see your point, Lord Commander. You truly want me to believe of sorceries at play with my Uncle’s death.”

“Lady Ran, our fox-tailed guest, assured us that those sorts of sorcery are possible. Necromancy, Lord Stark. Playing with the dead,” the Lord Commander states grimly. “But most of all, we fear what it will mean for the coming winter.

“The Others.”

A cold breeze flows through the royal quarters, causing everyone to shiver. Even Rob, in all of his furs and coats, can’t stop the chill down his spine. Jon looks at Robb, and he sees a mixture of horror and confusion on his face. “W-What do you mean?” Robb asks. “They’re just Old Nan’s fairy tales… Aren’t they?”

“Winter is Coming; those are the words of your House. And the Night’s Watch,” the Lord Commander knocks on the table. “By Gods, the Night’s Watch was built to fight against the dark, though much of it has gone into disarray over the past thousands of years. What of those two? Were the Starks not aware of the true threat of winter? Not only of the food and snow, but the living cold who wanders the North?”

“Do you have proof?” Robb asks, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Proof that this involves… Them?”

“No.” The answer is plain. “However, we may have a chance to find out for ourselves. And that is where your Uncle and Jon Snow comes into play.”

“What? How?”

“Uncle Benjen… He wasn’t turned into a wight like the others. Apparently, he was killed and… Reanimated. Yes, by a thing called a Jangshi. Lady Ran,” those disturbing eyes, “she told us that she has experience in necromancy. That she can bring forth Uncle Benjen’s memories and tell us of the things he saw. By reworking his corpse.” And I’ll be helping her, but he keeps that to himself.

…

“Necromancy…” Robb says with a hint of disgust. The words felt wrong in Jon’s mouth, and he’s the one who made the decision to partake in it. How will his half-brother take such a revelation?

“Lord Stark,” the Lord Commander speaks, “I’m sorry that it must come to this with your Uncle. It may seem like we’re trying to desecrate his body but that is never our intention. No, your Uncle will help more of us figure out what’s happening Beyond-the-Wall, of the rumours, of the dead… And of the Others.”

“The Night King,” Robb whispers. “Every man, woman, and child in the North knows of that story. And what you’re suggesting… If people find out what you’re doing here, Lord Mormont, then I fear I will not be able to side with you.”

“And so no words shall spread between us,” the Lord Commander smiles. “You shall send riders from Winterfell to intern his body to the Stark crypts. And when they arrive here, we will have a body ready. But it will not be your Uncle’s. Officially,” he pulls out two papers from his coat, “his cause of death is an attack by Wildlings who then burnt his body as a show of contempt. And your riders shall receive a letter and statement saying so, signed both by Lord Stark and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

“And Jon, in a few days you shall be put into charge of a special recruit to the Night’s Watch. A man that might be slow of wit and unable to show his face, yet strong and skilled enough to be put into the order. You shall train him, watch over him, and perhaps bring him along to your duties. But most of all, you will speak to him and find out how he… Came into our service, shall we say.”

Jon looks at the head. Will it truly be my Uncle when I talk to him? he wonders. Will he even be able to talk? What will he even say? “I see, Lord Commander. I shall carry out my duties.”

Ghost walks up to Robb, giving him some comfort through his fur. Jon hopes that it may alleviate his heart, even just a small bit. “But that’s not all, is it?” he asks.

“No. The next step is more important. Here,” he hands the papers to Robb, “is a list of things the Night’s Watch, or more specifically the Wall, needs. Thousands of years of decline does no good to the Realm of Men, Lord Stark. We could barely defend ourselves against savages in pelts, let alone the winter. Men, food, new weapons, supplies… We’re all lacking.”

Jon watches Robb examine the papers, with his frowning growing deeper and deeper. “I- The North don’t have such numbers, Lord Commander.”

“But your father, the Lord Hand, surely can muster people and supplies to the Wall. Even if it’s for a temporary service to the Night’s Watch, any helps is appreciated.”

Robb puts the papers down. “But I can’t.”

“But you must!”

“I can’t!” Robb nearly shouts. “Winterfell, Cerwyn, Dreadfort… By the Old Gods, all of them lost their ravens. We’ve been stuck here in silence while the Lannisters… I can’t even contact my father.”

The mention of ravens perks the ears of Jon and the Lord Commander. “Robb, what do you mean no ravens?”

“The ravens. They escaped many nights ago, causing a large commotion at Winterfell’s rookery. And now I can’t even ask for help.”

“The ravens of castle black was lost a while ago as well,” the Lord Commander voices his concern. “And Lord Stark, you’re telling me that all the great Houses of the North lost theirs around the same time?”

Something dawns on all who’s present. It’s not a coincidence then that the ravens are lost; someone is controlling them. They’re blinding them all to the North and all matters of the Realm. But who? And for what ends? Is the South of the neck also affected by a loss of ravens? Is that why they’ve all heard nothing about the goings on with the Lannisters and the Iron Throne?

…Is it sorcery?

“Can you send riders South, Lord Stark?”

“No,” Robb groans, tapping the table. “My mother, Catelyn Stark, she has been kidnapped by the Lannisters.”

“Lady Catelyn?” Jon asks. “How? Isn’t she with you in Winterfell?”

“Someone… Someone tried to kill Bran.”

“What!? And you didn’t tell me-”

“Let him finish, Jon Snow. Continue.”

“They tried to kill Bran but failed. Summer and mother saw to that,” Robb smiles, but it soon fades. “My mother went to King’s Landing, sending me ravens all the while. The last I’ve heard from her, she was returning from the Riverlands when she encountered the Lannister dwarf and… Took him to the Eyrie against his will.”

…Jon can’t really believe what he’s hearing. He knows that Lady Catelyn can be quite vicious at times, but to do something as foolish as kidnapping a Lannister? A Lannister!? Don’t tell me that it’s because of her the Riverlands is being scourged by those lions.

“And you may have heard of the Lannisters’ pillaging.”

Of course.

“Yes,” the Lord Commander answers. “We managed to receive that news as well. It was the last raven to arrive at Castle Black, a horrid news.”

“Aye, same for Winterfell as well.”

“So you’re marching South?” Jon asks. “Someone tried to kill Bran, and you’re marching South, leaving him alone in Winterfell?”

“My mother is in the Kingslayer’s hands, Jon,” Robb speaks through gritted teeth. “I will not let those damned Lannisters do anything to her. Bran and Rickon are safe in Winterfell; they have Theon.”

“Theon?” Jon scoffs. “You’re trusting that prick for protection?”

Robb smiles. “Nah, it would mostly be Ser Rodrik, of course. The next thing I know, Theon would be bringing them to whores in Winter town.” The two laugh, with the Lord Commander chuckling along with him. For a moment, all their worries are gone and Jon feels like he’s back in Winterfell. But dreams only last for so long. “Gods, do I need a rest.”

“Well,” the Lord Commander stands, “I shall leave you two to it then. It would be unkind for me to let a tired man like you talk for so long. Welcome to the Wall, Lord Stark. I do hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I’ll make the best of it, Lord Mormont.”

“And Jon Snow?”

“Yes, Lord Commander?”

“Keep the head safe; I’d rather not have the two of us be berated by our guests,” he cautions before exiting the room.

…

“So,” Jon speaks, eager to lighten the mood of the room, “how did you meet someone like her? Lady Momiji, I mean?”

“Gods, I don’t know. I found her in the Godswood bathing in the hot springs, and…”

“You’re red-faced,” Jon grins. “Don’t tell me you’re-”

“Shut it!” Robb shouts to Jon’s laughter. “Gods, you’re just as bad as Theon.”

“Oh wow, thank you for the insult.” After calming themselves down, Jon goes about placing the head back in the bag, careful to not damage it. “Are you sure of this, Robb? That you’ll be marching South?”

“I must,” Robb answers. “If our father had been in my position, then I’m sure he’d done the same. Actually, I know he would be; he’s Lord Hand now, and I’m sure what the Lannisters are doing are breaching the laws of the Realm. He’s no doubt marching North to the Riverlands, or at least the King’s men are. There’ll be one less living Stark in the North, but I promise to bring mother back home.”

“Yeah…” Ghost trots back to Jon, having been thoroughly ruffled by Robb. The look on the direwolf’s face saddens his heart. “We can only pray that it all goes well.”

Chapter Text

Vaes Tolorro

Rakharo is the first to return from the Red Waste, his sweat and dust-covered body reflecting the light of the rising sun. “Khaleesi,” he disembarks from his horse, kneeling before her with a cloth-covered object in his hands. “The South has nothing but the Waste and the Poison Water. However, during my ride I came across the bones of a dragon, so immense that I rode through its skull. In your name, I have taken this as a gift for you, blood of my blood.”

Daenerys steps forward, taking the object in her hands. It’s heavier than a sword, nearly longer than her arm. “Thank you, blood of my blood. Rest your weary head and cleanse yourself with the cold water of the well. You deserve it.”

“Thank you, khaleesi.”

“However,” Ser Jorah interjects. “May I speak to you in my tent? I want to hear details of this Poison Water you speak of.”

Rakharo glances at Daenerys before answering the knight. “That would be wise, Jorah Mormont. I’ll see you after I take my share of fruits and meat.”

“Aye. I’ll leave now, your grace.” With that, the knight and her bloodrider enter the city, disappearing between a myriad of tents and waking people.

The Prince yawns beside her, her golden eyes sporting dark circles below it. Her hair looks even worse, not at all combed to the points she’s used to seeing. “Poison waters, huh,” she comments, wiping eye-sand from her eyes. “Sounds treacherous.”

“Unlike your liquor, not really,” Daenerys chuckles, remembering the Prince drunken sleep last night. “Poison Water is what the Dothrakii calls seawater, mostly due to the water being undrinkable for horses. We have no use for it now; we don’t have ships, after all.”

“Ah… I see,” the Prince nods, though Daenerys thinks it might be to keep herself awake so early in the morning. “By the way, what did he gift you?”

“I don’t know, so let’s see…” As the two walk back into the city, Daenerys begins unwrapping it like a child that has been given presents for their name day. Under the morning sun she can see the blackness of the dragontooth beneath the cloth. She raises it up high, the tooth shining like onyx mixed with charcoal.

The Prince whistles in admiration. “My, my, what an interesting material. What shall you do with it, your grace?”

“A dragontooth… It may be used as a sword or dagger.”

“A sword!?” the Prince sounds quite shocked. “What a waste of material! Surely there must be better use for them?”

“Dragonbone can be made into bows as well, like the one I gave to Aggo. They say bows out of dragonbone will fly the farthest out of any known bows.”

“Bows… Not bad, but not optimal. Ah,” the Prince steps in front of Daenerys, stopping her in her tracks. “May I take that tooth off your hands?”

“What? Why?”

“You see, dragon bones and teeth and scales are all valuable materials in the art of alchemy and in many different types of sorcery. If I may experiment with this foreign dragon bone, I may be able to concoct even more powerful healing potions and spells. So,” the Prince smiles, “what do you say?”

Daenerys is unsure of this offer. The tooth was gifted to her by Rakharo, blood of her blood, and she should cherish it in his name. However, the prospect of healing items for her khalasar outweighs any sword or bow that can be created using the tooth. Why take a life when she can save one? “Only if you promise to let none of it go to waste, Prince Miko.”

“That I promise, Queen Daenerys.” She bows to her before taking the tooth. “Quite heavy, isn’t it?” she chuckles as the two walk past a group of playing children. Some of the Dothrakii and freed people greet them, and she with the Prince wave back at them. It’s a beautiful sight to see her khalasar so happy and lively in the morning. However, something nags Daenerys from the previous conversation.

“I heard you said that this type of dragontooth is foreign to you. Tell me, are there different types of dragons?” She heard before legends of sea dragons in the Sunset Sea or frost dragons at the Shivering Sea, yet none of it has been proven to be true. Only the dragons of Old Valyria are real, at least the ones she’s aware of.

“Well, the fact your dragons looks so different to the ones I’m familiar with, then I must say yes, there are different kinds.”

“Fascinating,” Dany smiles at the thought. There’s more to dragons than she’d ever known. “What do they look like, if I may ask?”

“Well, the ones I’m familiar with looks like this,” the Prince flourishes her cape, billowing dust to some passerby. On the cape, Dany sees a long serpent-like creature with horned heads and four legs, ending with a furry tail.

It has no wings, Dany notes, and it has whiskers like a catfish. “Does it swim or crawl like a firewyrm?”

“They can swim and crawl, but they’re far too prideful for that,” the Prince chuckles before continuing their walk.

“Prideful? Dragonriders and dragonlords are prideful, not their mounts.”

“If you try to mount one of these, they may either blast you with lightning or lecture you for hours on end.”

Lecture? “Are we still talking of dragons here? Dragons are incapable of speech, Prince Miko.”

“Wait, wait,” the Prince stops in an empty road on their way to the broken manse. “What do you mean your dragons are unable to speak? I’m sure they’ll learn human languages as they get older; Saki, Futo, and Tojiko are still hatchlings after all.”

“Dragons of Valyria are unable to speak,” Dany sighs for the Prince does not seem to understand this simple fact. “Do they speak where you come from?”

“Yes! A lot! Wait,” the Prince stands back, now looking apprehensive. “Can Valyrian dragons cast magic?”

“Magic? You mean the dragons themselves?”

“Yes. Do they?”

“No, they- Wait, are you saying those wingless serpents of your land can cast magic?”

“Of course!” the Prince exclaims. “They’re intelligent beings on par with the gods. Though that does not mean someone like my acquaintance can’t keep a young one as a pet.”

Keeping a dragon as a pet… Didn’t all dragons die during my family’s reign? Or is it because of that serpent creature, which does not look at all like a dragon, that people like her thinks that dragons are still alive? “You jest.”

The Prince shakes her head. “My acquaintance, Kasen Ibaraki is her name, uses hers to ride in the skies all the time when she feels lazy.”

“That serpent can fly?” That’s really the most surprising thing of all to Daenerys. “How? It has no wings!”

“Sorcery.”

…

Now that she thinks about it, that does makes sense. The Prince flies using sorcery, so if what she says is true of intelligent serpents, then perhaps they could fly too. And maybe that’s why they’re seen as gods. A part of her screams that this is all a lie, a farce made by the Prince to trick her gullible mind. But her shock looks genuine and I know that she can fly. “So, your dragons are seen as gods where you came from.”

“And you’re saying yours are nothing more than weapons of war?” the Prince raises her brow.

“Dragonblood flows through my veins, Prince Miko. Us Targaryens have a history of riding and using dragons for war; they’re more intelligent than they look, but a far cry from the intelligence of man.”

“…How disappointing,” the Prince sighs. “And to think I can show them off later to her…”

Daenerys grows tense at her words. “Were you thinking of taking them? Taking my dragons to wherever you came from?”

“I was, but now I change my mind after realising that they’re nothing more than glorified siege weapons. I mean,” the Prince floats off the ground. “I already have magic for flight, and I’m sure my magical and divine powers are better than some fire.”

“Dragonflame is not some flame. It can melt steel and rocks with ease.”

“That’s neat,” the Prince nods. “But having a dragon that only breathes fire is a downside for me.”

“Good,” Daenerys answers sternly. “While I enjoy your company and advice, I will not hand over those dragons to you. You may have the privilege to name and ride them in the future, but they shall remain mine to conquer the Iron Throne. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, yes, you made yourself quite clear, Queen Daenerys. Let’s get you back to the manse, shall we? You’ve yet to eat breakfast.”

…

Their walk feels quite sour, especially after Daenerys’ outburst. But how can’t she not be angry at the Prince? She was trying to take her dragons away from her, the eggs that she was gifted all that time ago during her marriage. By all rights, the dragons should be with her, not the Prince! She’s a Targaryen, blood of Old Valyria and the dragonlords of old. The dragons are her children, her keys to win back the Iron Throne!

Yet… The dragons, ever since they were born, have been with the Prince. Daenerys was far too focused with her duties as Queen and khalasar that the responsibility of raising those baby dragons lied with the Prince. And she must give it to her: the dragons grow larger everyday and they look happy as well. If she thinks she’s the one to own the dragons, is it not my fault then? Do they not hiss or scurry away when I try to caress them? Would I truly blame her if she starts riding them like the dragonlords of old? I know nothing of that, yet she has knowledge of dragons from her lands…

Before they walk up the stairs to the broken manse, Dany grabs the Prince’s cape. She turns to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Prince Miko, may I ask a favour from you?”

“A favour?” she breaks into a smile. “Now, what might the Queen be asking from a Crown Prince? Must be something quite important. But worry not!” she declares, flaring her hair and cape. ”I am here to help!”

“Can you teach me sorcery?”

Vaes Tolorro

Aggo is the second to return from the Red Waste, three days after Rakharo’s return from the South. This time, it is not Prince Miko who is deathly tired but Daenerys, half-asleep with bags under her eyes. She nearly glazes over Aggo’s introduction but she manages to keep herself awake and aware.

For now, at least.

“Khaleesi,” Aggo kneels before her, his hands holding out another gift. “The only thing that stands in the South-West are ruins and death. However, I managed to salvage this piece from a broken city. Take it, blood of my blood, and let it adorn your beautiful wrist.”

“Thank you, blood of my blood. Take it easy and rest in the shade; you’ve done well.” Daenerys also wants to rest in the shade, but she knows she can’t do that. No, she has work to do with the Prince.

“Prince Miko,” Aggo says as he walks past the Prince, whose complexion now looks lively. The dragon Saki screeches back in its own mock greeting; Dany wonders if the dragon truly understands speech, like the dragons that the Prince knows of.

“Now,” the Prince approaches Daenerys, “what’s the gift this time?”

Daenerys unwraps the cloth and finds an iron bracelet hidden within. Set into the black iron is a fiery-red opal, like a frozen flame in glass. “Beautiful,” she says, holding the stone up to the late-morning sun. The light emanating from the rock looks as if a swirling fire. “Fitting for a Targaryen.” She puts it on her right arm and admires its beauty.

“Ah, an opal,” the Prince speaks from behind her. “A rare and precious stone, also useful in alchemy, but not as much as the dragontooth.”

“How is your experiments going with that?”

“Oh, splendidly! Never doubt my abilities, your grace, or else you’ll find yourself far outpaced!” the Prince laughs, twirling with her cape. “How about you, Queen Daenerys? How goes your experiments and trials?”

“Please don’t remind me,” Dany groans.

On the day that Dany asked to learn magic, the Prince had given her a lengthy and somewhat nonsensical sermon or lecture that lasted nearly until sundown, leaving her both thirsty, hungry, and utterly confused. It doesn’t help matters that the Prince sometimes ignores questions that Dany might had, especially the ones concerning the idea of Taoism and other such strange manners. She’s very much not a good teacher.

That was day one. Day two is the day of actual training. At the time, she took off and said to Ser Jorah she would be training with the Prince in the broken manse. He didn’t look too happy about it but she received no vocal complaints. However, Dany did complain about her first practice with magic. When the Prince said that her first magic practice would involve fire, she was ecstatic. Dragonblood flows through her veins, so she was sure that she could do some form of pyromancy, or calcination as the Prince calls it.

At least that was the case until the Prince revealed that she’s supposed to turn the fire into water.

What sounded like a plausible practice for her now seems impossible. The Prince showed herself doing it, transforming a cup of burning spices into water, but no amount of burning Dany does turned the ashes wet. She always told her to remember the points of her lecture, but in truth Dany remembered absolutely none of it. The training lasted till sunset with occasional breaks to eat between, but she was deathly tired by the end of it; accomplishing nothing absolutely drained her.

And now it’s the third day. As they walk back into the broken manse, Daenerys sees her handmaids waiting at the doors, looking quite anxious. “Good morning,” the Prince and Saki greets them. “You seem to be looking for something. May I ask what for?”

Jhiqui is the first to speak. “Um, it is known that sorcery is powerful. We wonder if… You can teach us as well?”

“Teach?” the Prince’s eyes light up.

“Yes,” Doreah speaks. “As we’re always by her grace’s side, we want to make sure that we’re able to defend her should it ever come down to it.”

“Oh ho… Ha ha! New pupils, yes! Alright, let’s all go inside,” the Prince ushers them into the manse, not asking Dany whether this is a good idea or not. When not around, the handmaids would usually help around in preparing food for the khalasar or distributing the Prince’s medicines, but Dany guesses that it would be good to take a break once in a while.

As Dany goes about preparing the bowl of dried leaves, she hears the Prince talking in great lengths and details about… Ah, she’s doing her sermons again. I’m so sorry Irri, Jhiqui, Doreah. You guys have to listen to it all like me. But the thought of them experiencing the same frustration she did brings a bit of comfort.

Saki sits on the makeshift pillar-table with her. Dany carefully pushes the bowl to the dragon who quickly sets the leaves aflame. This is easy enough for Saki to follow, Daenerys thinks, but when will I be able to make them breathe fire with commands? At least by being with the Prince, I can spend some time with the dragons, Dany smiles.

She goes through approximately seventeen bowls of leaves before growing tired. The sun is now high in the sky and the Prince is still going on with her non-stop talk; she does not look tired at all. The same can’t be said for the handmaids, who all look pleadingly at Dany. She smirks, but she’s not so cruel as to leave them there. “Prince Miko,” she interrupts the sermon, “may I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it?” the Prince turns to her to the relief of the others.

“Where did you learn all this sorcery and… Alchemy? Certainly you were not born with this knowledge.”

“Of course not! You see, I had a great teacher to teach me the ways of the Tao and of alchemy and other sorceries. She’s extremely skilled in hermitage as well, and the reason why I’m like this,” the Prince claims proudly.

Something nags in Dany’s head, especially regarding this Prince’s record with other women in her life. Like the tales of her wives or the illicit relationship she has with a priest of a rivalling faith… “Is she also your… Paramour? Like the one-”

“No.”

Oh, that was quick. “I’m sorry if I’ve brought forth unnecessary ghosts, Prince Miko.”

“It’s alright… Just keep with your training. If you’re still unable to do it, meditate on my sermons.”

But I do not remember your sermons …

By sunset, Dany has no progress except in creating a pile of ashes. The Prince takes them, saying that it’ll be useful in creating medicinal herbs and poultices. As the Prince leaves with Saki and the ashes, Dany and the handmaids sighs in relief before succumbing to a fit of laughter. I guess doing it with others is more enjoyable, huh?

The next day, Jhogo has yet to return. So instead, she continues her magic training with the Prince and her handmaids. However, Doreah asks to be excused on the first lesson. Irri and Jhiqui whispers to each other that Doreah is most likely meeting with Ser Jorah. The thought of her handmaid with him is… Funny, but certainly heart-warming. At least there’s some love that blossoms in this city… Dany thinks, glancing at the Prince before continuing with her burning.

Futo is far too excited with their dragonflame, setting ablaze to more than just the leaves in the cup. Though her flames are smaller than Saki’s, it feels hot all the same when it brushes with her fingers; luckily it doesn’t burn her.

And again, the day ends with failure. She’s slowly growing tired of this repeat. And so, when the Prince gathers the ashes, she asks: “Am I simply unskilled in magic? Is this simply a useless act I’m doing?”

“Nonsense!” the Prince answers. “Your aptitude in magic is quite good.”

“How? I’ve made no water.”

“But you feel tired, don’t you?” the Prince smiles. “Someone who burns normally will not feel tired from such an act. Here, you’re actually feeding into the flames, trying to turn it into water. There’s progress here, you simply are not seeing it.”

“But how much longer then?”

“Patience is a virtue, at least that’s what my friend told me.”

“The monk?”

“Just continue what you’re doing and you’ll be fine,” the Prince says, taking the ashes and dragon.

As supper is being served, Doreah arrives looking quite happy. She hears a few giggles here and there with her handmaids, but Dany is too tired to hear much of it. She sleeps early that day.

Waking up with the sky shining, she realises that she has woken up late. Dany still feels quite groggy from yesterday, but at least she has energy to-

“Your grace!” Ser Jorah bursts into the broken manse. “We’ve spotted riders coming from the South-East.”

Riders? Her knight’s words slowly awakens her. “You mean Jhogo? Has he returned?”

“Please see for yourself, your grace,” Ser Jorah answers before dashing off towards the gate.

Curious, she tells her handmaids to change her into her best Dothrakii vests, trousers, and leather sandals before heading to the gate with them. When they arrive there, she sees the Prince already awake with a hand at the grip of her sword. Though smiling, she looks ready for a confrontation.

In the distance, she sees her bloodrider leading the group of riders. It seems that he has brought not gifts of trinkets, but people. Then there must be something to the South-East, a city or settlement.

But what catches everyone’s attention is not Jhogo but the creatures their guests are riding. They’re not riding on horses, no. Daenerys has never seen anything like it, and from the looks of Ser Jorah and the Prince’s faces, neither have they. They have tall legs, its yellow fur and skin is accompanied by a long, upright neck sporting a head smaller than a horse’s. But the thing’s massive, taller than even Ser Jorah. But the strangest of all are the humps on their backs, the riders sitting between two of them like a saddle.

As they all stare in awe at the beasts, the first guest comes forward, descending from the creature and bowing to Daenerys. The man has a bald head and milky-white skin, his nose with jewels set into them. He looks rich like a royal, with cloths of spun silver and gold. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the khaleesi of her people,” the man speaks, his voice courteous and careful in the Valyrian tongue. “I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a member of the Thirteen of Qarth. I’ve come to bring her grace and her khalasar into the city, where she may live a more splendour life than here in the Red Waste.”

Qarth, I ’ve heard of that before. The legendary city in the East, far from the eyes of Westeros. Are we truly setting our eyes on there?

The second to descend from their beasts is a strange woman, draped in a black silk robe and wearing an ornate, lacquered-wood mask. Its red colour makes it stand out even more. She bows her head to Daenerys before introducing herself. “I am Quaithe of the Shadows,” she speaks in a whisper, yet spoken in the Common Tongue. “I’ve come to see the one with dragonblood in their veins.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Daenerys answers.

“Oh my, what do we have here~?”

Daenerys turns to look at the one speaking, a woman astride the strange beast. Like Quaithe, she looks queer as well. But instead of red and black, the woman is dressed all in blue. She wears an ornate blue dress exposing her left breast, though most of it is covered by strings of gold and jewels. A gold-and-silver necklace hangs from her neck, each circlet punched with large holes. But strangest of all is that, like the Prince, she has an odd hairstyle: two circlets behind her head held by a large ornate hairpin. They look to have been dyed sky-blue.

“Dearie me,” she speaks, her voice sounding as sweet as a courtesan or lover, yet strangely enough Dany can’t pinpoint her tongue. “Is that you, Crown Prince? I never expected you to be here~! How have you been?”

Crown Prince? “Do you know her?” Daenerys asks the Prince, but she looks half-angry and half-scared, gritting her teeth as if ready to run away.

“No, your grace.”

“Of course you do, silly~” the woman giggles, taking out the large hairpin from her hair. “Oh, where are my manners? Let me introduce myself.” The woman descends- No, she’s floats down from the beast, her blue silk shawl billowing behind her like clouds. “My name is Seiga Kaku the Wicked Warlock Hermit, owner to the House of the Undying.”

Qarth

Their departure from Vaes Tolorro was met with some resistance from the riders and freedmen. However, Jorah’s ample supply of fruits and water made sure that none of them goes hungry in their journey towards Qarth.

“We shall follow the shierak qiya through the Red Waste,” was what his Queen declared. “Drogo, who rides through the night sky, shall lead us to our salvation. So onwards, my khalasar.”

At times, Jorah does wonder if there is actually a great herd in the sky. He’s still quite faithful to the Old Gods, but there’s scarcely any weirwoods here in Essos, and least of all the Dothraki Sea and the Red Waste. Yet, the burning star in the sky feels more than just a coincidence. If you are there, Drogo, I hope you can see how much she has grown. I hope whatever sign you give shall lead her to prosperity.

Jorah rides along as Daenerys’ Queensguard, with Doreah, irri, and Jhiqui in tow as well. But it does not comfort him for the fact that the fraud prince is riding closest to her, often speaking things to her ears. Corrupting things, Jorah reckons.

And sure, while he must commend her for helping the sick and starving, he saw it. He saw her expression when they met with the Qartheen delegates; she knows something. Especially that warlock, Seiga Kaku. From what Doreah has told me, their relations was that of teacher and student, yet she suspects far more. And I the same.

The only question then is “what?” The only interaction between those two have been quite confusing for Jorah. Each time the warlock approaches his Queen or the fraud, the fraud would move away from her. She’s not aware of these camel beasts nor about the existence of a city called Qarth. Are they working together then? Or are the relations between them have ended in the past?

Even then, he still puts no trust in them. Better be careful than sorry, yet all it gives him now are near-sleepless nights.

Once they near the city, Jorah can smell the scent of salt in the air. Irri and Jhiqui are uncomfortable from it. The sea… It’s not far from here. Qarth may have ports then, and a way to sail West.

It surprises him greatly that none in the khalasar have perished in the journey. He gives thanks to his Queen’s planning.

As they ride through the morning sun, Jorah sees a company of men riding atop camels approach them. Warriors adorned with golden spears and curved helms, but their beasts are even more generously adorned. He reckons them to be even finer than any Lords in Westeros. They exchange a few words with the delegates before creating a column for Daenerys, leading them towards the city.

And when they see the city…

Jorah hears gasps from everyone present. A great city of awe and majesty, an oasis of the Red Waste. Three sets of walls guard Qarth, stretching far to the East and West and guarding the green from the desert. The first gate opens through the red sandstone wall, decorated with depictions of beasts and dragons. The second is white granite with images of war and bloodshed. The Dragons spit their flames at the sight. And lastly, the tallest of the walls made in black marble. Images of men and women engaged in the seven sighs and sixteen seats of pleasure graces the khalasar, and his Queen blushes at the sight.

The last gate opens. As they all flinch from the bright sunlight, Jorah is caught by surprise from the sudden fanfare of trumpets and gongs and flowers. Cheers and praises erupts from the city’s inhabitants as the khalasar enter its grounds.

Setting his eyes upon the city, now he sees why it’s been deemed legendary. He’s been to King’s Landing, yet the seat of Westeros does not look half as lively and colourful as Qarth. Buildings are painted and as colourful as rainbows, sometimes with jewels adorning its walls. Narrow and colourful towers rise high into the sky, statues of serpents and men lining the pillars. Even there he sees women with one breast bared throwing flowers and trinkets from the balconies.

As they pass by an arcade of marble statues, Doreah rides back to him, breaking his wide-eyed wonder. “Doreah,” he speaks softly, careful of sharp ears, “how goes our Queen?”

“Like you, she’s quite enamoured by everything she sees,” she snickers, brushing her silver hair from her beautiful eyes. “She’s still a young girl, like Irri and Jhiqui by her side, but sharper than them. However,” she glances about nervously, “I fear we’re being played a trick by the Qartheen, Jorah.”

“How so? I have my own suspicions about this city.”

“Indeed I as well. I see tattoos marked on the greeters’ breasts, arms, and face. I fear they’re nothing more than slaves, at least most of the ones present here.”

Sure enough, upon a closer inspection, they all bear those markings. He recognises a few tear drops and other things on the Qartheen, but some are also plain. “A mummer’s farce,” he hisses. “To soften us before this city devours our Queen whole.”

“We can still gather supplies here,” Doreah adds, “but we will need to leave soon after for our safety.”

Jorah looks up at those camel riders, or camelry as he calls it. He reckons he could strike the beast down with a good swing to the legs, yet he fears that the spears have a greater reach than him. It’ll be hard to take them down, and even more so within the city walls. Hope my armour shall not come to use. “What of our little golden fraud? Has she said anything that may be of use?”

“She speaks fluently in different tongues it seems, but nothing else of late,” she confesses, reining her horse as she nears one of the camels. “Khaleesi is still close to her, lending her ear whenever the woman speaks.”

“And learning sorcery as well,” Jorah groans. “That will do her no good; if anything she should be learning how to rule, and none of it should come from the lips of that fraud. Nothing more on those two’s relations?”

“I apologise,” she lowers her head. “Though the warlock loves to speak sweetly, the Prince’s mouth is shut on the matter.”

“Is that so…” Jorah watches his Queen riding in between the three delegates, her bloodriders leading the way. He sees the black dragon astride on her while the other two are on the fraud’s mount. Some of the Qartheen are greeting them in their melodious language. “Do you know anything of Qartheen language?”

“Little, Jorah.”

“What are they shouting then?”

Doreah takes a moment to listen in. “…They’re calling her the Queen of the Dragons, and some the Queen of Qarth.”

“Who? The Queen with one dragon or the fraud with two?”

Doreah stays silent on the matter, simply frowning.

“Alright then, we’ve stayed idle for too long. Keep your watch and earn Irri and Jhiqui’s trust. I’ll ride up ahead with her grace.”

“See you later, Jorah.” The handmaid gives him a quick peck on his cheek and leaves for the back of the khalasar. He touches the remains of the kiss. Jorah knows that this is nothing more than a play to fool anyone curious, and that his love still lies with his Queen. And yet…

Jorah shakes those thoughts away. No, he must focus on the mission at hand. Who else can I bring against the fraud? he wonders. Even Rakharo, who has put trust in Jorah to keep the Queen safe from that fraud, may not be able to carry the same sentiment to his riders. If anything, they may see it as an act of betrayal and treason, something so grave and taboo especially as bloodriders.

And there’s not much trust to be gained from the freed slaves, he thinks. They sing praises to that fraud and is enthralled by her, so it’s not possible for them to see her as a traitor. But luckily, they’re not the ones with bows and arakhs. Irri and Jhiqui… Perhaps if they feed our Queen with distrust for the Prince, she-

Jorah pauses for a moment, looking down a road to the right of him. He sees the sea at its end, its water bright blue like the sky and as expansive as the Dothraki Sea. There’s a few ships down the port: he recognises the shape and sails of Tyroshii slaver ships, swan ships from the Summer Islands, but what catches his attention is something surprising.

Tied to one corner of the port are a few cogs, surrounded by flying black birds in the air. He recognises the ship design to be from Westeros, yet he does not remember the coat of arms on the sail: a black raven with wings spread and a pair of golden eyes in its wings, perched atop a blue skull with black eyes, all on a sail of white and red. Is that a new house from my absence? Or has my exile well and truly rotted my memory? Either way, the next goal is clear: find information on Westeros.

Realising he’s being left behind, Jorah rides back up to the head of the caravan, careful of passing by the masked-woman’s camel. He’s still unsure of that one as she rarely speaks of anything. As the group passes beneath an arch of bronze snakes and jade roses, he overhears a conversation from the merchant. “-and everything in this city shall be yours, O Queen of dragons. Whatever you fancy and whatever your eyes are set upon.”

“Oh, no need to listen to those pretty words, Queen dearie~” says the warlock, lying or floating atop her blue-draped camel. “You don’t own Qarth, and neither does the sparkling Xaro here. That prestige goes to the Purebloods, but even they are vying for power with many curious people. The Tourmaline Brotherhood, the Thirteen-”

“I’m a member of the Thirteen,” Xaro interjects, but the warlock ignores him.

“-the Ancient Guild of Spicers, and of course, yours truly~” she giggles, crossing her long legs and facing Daenerys. Jorah spots strange papers tied to her ankles. “Why, it’s a wonder no blood has been spilled yet~!”

“The words of warlocks are as good as dust, O Queen of Dragons. It is best to heed my advice instead and head to my palace where your khalasar shall spend their time in luxury in their own decorated rooms,” Xaro smiles. “And we shall shower you with gifts beyond your imagining, and in no time will your people be adorned with silver and gold.” Jorah doesn’t like his demeanour, that politeness feels far too fake on him.

“While I accept your offer for a place to stay, what I want is simple. I want King’s Landing,” she declares to all who’s present. “I want my rightful seat on the Iron Throne across the Narrow Sea. If you plan to give me gifts, give me swords and ships, Xaro, Lady Seiga, Quaithe.”

Such brashness, Jorah frowns. I fear if you state it like that, the Qartheen-

“Oh my, is that what you truly require?” asks the warlock.

“It is so,” his Queen answers with a dragon screeching on her shoulder.

“If that is all, then allow me to give you these things, Queen dearie.” The warlock waves her hand and lets a piece of paper to land on her hand before giving it to Daenerys. “Follow my perfumes to the House of the Undying and you shall find not only ships and swords, but men to hold them as well~!”

“I’ll see to your offer then, Lady Seiga.”

Jorah and the fraud prince takes this time to intervene. “Your grace,” Jorah calls from behind her, “may I have a moment with you?”

“Yes, I need to speak to you as well,” says the fraud.

The three slow down and let themselves be joined with the freed people of the khalasar. “What is it?”

“Your grace, we should not put our trust with them,” says Jorah in a low tone. “All are planning to take advantage of you.”

“I second that,” the fraud prince speaks to his surprise. “Seiga… She’s as wicked as she claims to be, and I can attest to that, your grace.”

“Ser Jorah.”

“Yes your grace.”

“As my trusted advisor, I always listen to your opinions on matters beyond my reach. I understand your concerns; these people may not be the best to put my trust in. To follow willingly into their homes. But know this: who are we to gain help from, then? We need ships for Westeros, swords to cut that usurper and murderer of my family, and men to hold them. We need help, and I’m not so blind and stubborn as to refuse it when it’s offered to me. Is that clear?”

“…Aye, your grace,” he bows his head.

“And dear Prince Miko-”

Dear.

“I wonder if your worries truly stem from her untrustworthiness, or is it perhaps from a foul relations you had with her? Your heart is your burden, not mine. So tell me, with her by my side, will she be useful?”

Jorah glares at her, yet the fraud’s face looks as if ready to give up. “Yes. With her by your side, we will be strengthened. But I wonder if it is truly worth the sacrifice, your grace. She’s wicked.”

“But I must make compromises. Wicked men have their use, and your words only strengthen my resolve,” the Queen smiles, still looking as young as the girl Jorah met so long ago at Pentos.

The fraud’s meekness is a great enjoyment to Jorah, though he never lets it show on his face. Even when she sometimes look sharply at him. Such an effect… Perhaps I can create a falling out using the warlock? But that is for later. “Your grace, I spotted some ships from the Qartheen port. Westerosii ships. We may-”

“Ah, those ships?”

Jorah is caught by surprise of the warlock’s sudden appearance on the rump of his horse. “What the!? Get off you-”

“I’m just here for a bit, no need to be so angry~” she giggles. “Ah, those ships. They sailed from the West and landed here, saying that they wanted to establish good trade connections with Qarth. An interesting lot, they are, and one of the reason why I consider helping you.”

“What’s happening in Westeros?” his Queen asks, ensnared by her words.

“Oh my~” the warlock grins, shining the pearly white teeth beneath her dark-blue lips. “Haven’t you heard?”

Chapter Text

Riverlands

“The King is dead! Long live the King! Long live Joffrey!”

The soldiers’ and knights’ merry cheers ring throughout the camp. Tywin had broke the news of Robert Baratheon’s death, and all of the Lannisters are busy celebrating. It is a rowdy night, the sky tinted orange by the many bonfires and the red comet. Some of the men have taken it upon themselves to hunt and roast boars in the largest bonfire Tyrion has ever seen, a mockery of Robert’s death. Soldiers dance arm-in-arm with whores, men drink themselves to a drunken stupor… It’s a change of pace from the tension present after Tyrion’s meeting with Lady Aya.

But Tyrion doesn’t participate in the festivities. His mind is far too addled by the thoughts of that sorcerer who commands the birds and winds, of their little duel. With Joffrey on the Iron Throne, it should be a pretty easy win for him. Yet, he worries what the madwoman might do in retaliation. Will she accept her loss gracefully, or act like a sore loser and attempt to kill him? He knows that she’s more than capable of doing so, and that worries him. Tyrion looks to his left and sees Jaime the Crow preoccupied with a piece of meat stew. The one Tyrion wanted to have to himself. He sighs, drinking his wine. “I suppose it’s going to be my win, Jaime?”

“Caw?”

“A bittersweet one, that is. I doubt anything good will come about my nephew’s ascension, especially with my sister leading him. But I’m sure that beats being in the sorcerer’s claws.” Tyrion slept uneasily after his fateful meeting. He does not fear her mountain men since the Lannisters can easily crush them, but of her birds. Her birds and that vicious storm she conjures. Sometimes he wakes up in cold sweat, feeling for his eyes and cock and glad that they’re still there. He had gotten off lucky with a destroyed tent and soiled breeches.

He knows something is off, but he’s not sure what. That Lady Stormcrow is planning something, I know it. She said she would contact me soon, and I’ve yet to hear from her.

Then again, Joffrey is King. However much he loathes his nephew, they’re still family. And with family, they will look after themselves.

“Tyrion, we need to talk.”

Most of the time.

“Stay here,” he commands Jaime, but is doubtful that the crow will just stay still. With her out of the way, Tyrion enters his father’s golden tent. They have since moved out of the Crossroad Inn’s lodgings and marched further into the Riverlands, taking them closer to the Neck. As such, his father had set up a tent fitting for the Old Lion. But the atmosphere within is… Strange. Not solemn, but neither is it serious. His father turns to him and he can see why. There’s a twinkle in Tywin’s eyes, barely perceptible to Tyrion’s sharp caution. Not only that, but from his gait and the slight hum Tyrion can hear, the Imp fears the worst. His father is happy. By the Gods his father is happy. I’ve never seen him like this. Has he finally gone mad? “Um, father, is something of the matter?”

There’s not a ghost of a smile on his father’s face, but Tyrion is sure of it. “I see that you’re not drunk,” Tywin says with an air of condescension, sipping on his own crystal cup.

“Father, there’s no need to always think so lowly of me. Robert may have been a drunken oaf, but he’s a respectable enough man to not have me shit-faced in his funeral. Besides, my mind is more preoccupied with urgent matters these days.”

“Do these matters involve dropping your breeches in front of potential allies?”

“Precisely that, though it was an honest mistake on my part.”

“Honest mistake,” his father swirls his cup. “I’ve listened again to your fantastical stories of this woman, this warg sorcerer. Against my better judgement, I sent a scout to the border of the Vale to verify your claims. They were met with extreme prejudice by a flock of birds and some mountain men, so I must accept your stories as true.”

“Yes, the mountain men told me explicitly that no one is allowed to enter the Vale.”

“As you said before, that must mean she controls the Vale in its entirety. And what did you do? You’ve made a fool out of the Lannister name and gambled it for some idiotic duel!” Tywin nearly shouts, his voice returning to the stern tone Tyrion is so used to. “I’m disappointed by your actions, Tyrion. I thought I have beaten the lesson into you, and here you have discarded it for lewdness and stupidity.”

“For that moment, maybe. But you must admit father that we are at an advantage here. Joffrey is on the Iron Throne, not Robert.”

Tywin’s lips twitch, threatening to smile. Tyrion shivers at the thought. “Yes he did, and it was no thanks to you. Jaime shot down the raven bearing the news.”

“Didn’t know a crow could shoot arrows.”

“Your brother, Tyrion. Not that damn bird. Why do you still keep it anyway?”

“That is what I call a jest, father. You should try it sometimes. Now, regarding Jaime the Crow, I keep her due to Lady’s Stormcrow’s warnings and threats. If she sees, hears, or knows that the bird is hurt, I fear she’ll just increase the price of our debts.”

“Debts,” Tywin scoffs. “Amounting to feathers and bird meat.”

“Maybe they’re special birds, who knows,” Tyrion replies, finishing his cup before going to refill it. “Speaking of birds, Cersei now controls the throne. Joffrey’s still too young to do so, after all. What’s our next actions?”

“Now,” Tywin raises a parchment splattered with blood, “we continue our campaign. We’ve spent too long staying still while the Rivermen gather their forces. Once we’re done here, I’ll march towards King’s Landing and take my rightful place as the King’s Hand where I shall guide Joffrey until he is of age.”

“The Hand? You’ll have to pry it off Lord Stark’s cold, dead hands. He was appointed by Robert and is unlikely to follow my nephew or sister’s every whims.”

“Eddard Stark is dead.”

Tyrion chokes on his wine, coughing some of it back out his nose. “I’m sorry father, my ears must be mistaken. He’s dead?”

“Yes, around the same time as Robert. Such a close friendship, even to the end.”

Around the same time? Doesn’t that mean… “How exactly did Lord Stark die, father? He looks old but he’s a spry man, barely two years older than Jaime. I doubt he succumbed to whatever illness Robert might had.”

“We don’t know,” Tywin sighs. “Not a word was given to explain his death in the letter. But the thing has a royal seal, so it must be an official declaration by the Iron Throne. Cersei likely approved of it.”

“You don’t mean that Cersei-”

“While I do hope that she has better self-control than you, I can’t disregard the possibility.”

By the Seven… Cersei what did you do!? Did you really assassinated the Warden of the North!? “What of his daughters then, the ones named Arya and Sansa? Any news regarding them?”

“No, but I suspect that Cersei will hold them in custody for the time being.”

“Hostages,” Tyrion adds. “They’ll be her hostages against the North. Smart, but it’ll bring their ire even harder down upon us. Coupled with our little excursion into the Riverlands, Robb Stark will see it as some grand conspiracy by the Lannisters to take the Iron Throne. No explanations on Eddard Stark’s death, Lady Catelyn’s suspicions towards me, all of it will lead them to march South.”

“Though I did not prepare for Lord Stark’s death, I have planned for the North’s eventual interference,” Tywin boasts. “They have a great connection with the Rivermen and will likely join forces against us. I estimate in two more days the ravens bearing that man’s death will arrive at Winterfell, meaning that we have about a week to prepare. Our forces are currently split into three: the ones in this camp, the one led by Jaime to take Riverrun, and the Mountain with Vargo Hoat, though we know nothing of their condition. If the North is to attack one of them, especially with the help of the Rivermen, they’ll no doubt drive us back.”

“We’re up against fishmen and wolfmen then. We need reinforcements.”

“Yes, and what a shame to lose all of our messenger ravens in such a dire time, isn’t it?” Tywin stares daggers into Tyrion.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Tyrion answers his father’s growing anger. “The birds were loose before my meeting with Lady Stormcrow.”

“And who brought the first crow here, or is that thing just some wild bird you caught in a bush?”

“To be fair, Lady Stormcrow sent them in. It wasn’t me that attracted them to camp. But we’re getting off topic here, father. How do you plan to communicate to Casterly Rock? I assume it’s going to be through more… Traditional methods, shall we say?”

Tywin stares hard at Tyrion before continuing. “…Yes, that is correct. I plan to send riders, less than a hundred of them, West through the Riverlands to carry my messages to Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Then they will return here with those forces.”

“And I can guess that that’s not only their mission,” Tyrion adds, finishing his drink. “You’ll probably want them to check other places as well, for example Harrenhal which is just South of here. Perhaps communicate with Jaime regarding an update for this campaign, and a little bit of spying while passing by a few seats of the Riverlords. A risky business, that is. One that will require not only speed but finesse on the riders’ part, lest the rivers be dyed red with their blood.”

Tywin raises his brow, impressed. “I see there’s no need for me to explain the details.”

“Great minds think alike, father. The only difference is that I pity the poor sods who you’ve assigned the task to,” Tyrion chuckles before refilling his cup of wine. As he sips from it, his eyes meet his father’s staring back at him.

…

“No.”

“Though I do not pity the ‘poor sod’, I understand that it will be a hard task. Do not think of it as a punishment, Tyrion. Instead, it is a great opportunity for you to return to the Rock. Your sellsword still needs his gold and you will want to talk to Jaime, your brother. You’ll avoid the field of battle as well, at least until you return here. Then maybe I can send you to King’s Landing in my stead.”

Tyrion rubs his head, the drink slowly getting to him. “Look, father, can’t you assign this to Uncle Kevan instead? He’s a far better horse rider than me.”

“Unlike you, your uncle is willing to put his life on the line for the Lannister cause. Besides,” Tywin’s voice turns to a sneer, “he’s not the heir to Casterly Rock. As much as it pains me to be reminded of it, I’m stuck with you unles your brother throws away that foolish white cloak. And as my son, you must be able to handle yourself in any situation, whether that be a banquet, a battle, or a messenger run. This task I’m giving you will be one of the easiest you’ll have in your life. And if you fail this one, I’ll make damn sure you won’t fail the next.”

Tyrion understands his father’s logic and thinking well, and he’s sure that most of it was done to inflict the greatest amount of suffering. And he has no grounds to fight against his father here. Casterly Rock… “…Geh, fine then. Less than a hundred men, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Good, always needed to trim the fat from my men anyway,” Tyrion slams his cup on the table; the wine tastes much more bitter now. “May I take the letter with me now? It’ll be better if I can prove my words during the trip.”

“I have no further use of it.” Tywin hands his son the bloody parchment. “Enjoy tonight’s festivities, Tyrion. But do sleep early, you’ll have to wake up before dawn tomorrow after all.”

“Good night, father,” Tyrion bows before exiting the tent. He looks to the table he was on previously and sees that Jaime had followed his order to stay still. “Kept you long, Jaime?”

“CAW!”

“Alright,” Tyrion sighs, letting the crow perch herself on his head. Though the bird is most likely an enemy spy, he has no heart to drive it away; he has to agree with Lady Aya that the bird is, indeed, ‘cute’. “You know where Bronn is, Jaime? Have to break the news to him.”

“Caw!” Jaime answers before flying towards the direction of a lit camp. She caws again, leading Tyrion to the tent.

When Tyrion opens it, he finds Bronn balls deep in the woman he brought for Tyrion a few days before. The naked sellsword greets his employer with a choice of curse words. “Glad to see you too, Bronn. If I may disturb you-”

“You may not, Imp.”

“Well I’m doing it anyway because this is important. You may be happy to hear that you’ll be getting your gold dragons, and more, soon enough,” Tyrion smiles.

Bronn looks at him oddly, his hands still on the woman’s breasts. “That’s… Good. But what’s the catch?”

“The catch is that we’ll be going to Casterly Rock to retrieve them ourselves. We’ll be taking a bit of a detour, though. A little sightseeing trip at Harrenhal, Riverrun, and a few other Riverlord castles. See how they fare in the Lannister campaign.”

The sellsword groans, knowing the implication of what Tyrion is saying. He seems to have lost interest in continuing his activities with the whore. “That is… Why couldn’t you just pay me here?”

“My father asks for you specifically to retrieve the gold from the Rock. You’ve seen him.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the bastard as well. Why must all bald men be so distasteful?” Bronn goes to put on his sleeping clothes before talking to the woman. “Sorry love, but I’ll have to end it here. For your troubles,” he hands her a pouch of coins.

She looks into the pouch, counting the coins, before frowning. “This ain’t enough!”

“Well I’m sorry but we didn’t really finish what we agreed upon because of the Imp here. Got anything to compensate her?”

“She’s your whore, Bronn. Besides, I left my coin purse back in the tent.”

“Well,” the woman huffs, “I’m not leaving here until I’ve been-”

“SKREE!”

“Eep!” she shouts in surprise as Jaime sweeps into the tent, carrying between her beaks a small coin purse. The bird lands next to the woman and tips out the coins onto her hands. Tyrion sees that some of it are crowns. The woman looks at it in surprise. “I can have this?”

“I think so,” says Tyrion, a bit bewildered by the situation as well.

“I bid you goodnight Ser Bronn, Lord Tyrion,” the woman smiles sweetly at them before leaving the tent.

“Whose coins are those?”

“I don’t know, Bronn. I don’t speak crow.”

“Caw!”

Saying his goodnight to the sellsword, he leaves him to find the other soldiers to bring to this mission. Though he reckons that he’ll need only about fifty men, he barely remembers their faces. The night makes it even harder to spot them. However, the dark doesn’t impede the crow. Jaime flits about, passing from tent to tent, bringing Tyrion to his men. Most were shit-faced while others are surprisingly sober. They didn’t take kindly to his mission revelation but agrees to do it anyway; the promise of golden dragons really warmed them up.

Tyrion ends the night by entering his tent, tired and full from the boar he ate during his little search. The place has been rebuilt, though not all of it is in one piece. Many of the books and trinkets are either muddy or broken, and he can’t bring any of them for the mission. Right now though, he’s curious about a few little things. He opens the chest near his bed and retrieves a small envelope, the one Lady Stormcrow had offered for his men. Jaime perches herself on a makeshift branch Tyrion provided, curling up and sleeping on it.

Tyrion didn’t really take a closer look at them during his initial meeting. Now, having both the patience and time, he goes about examining each piece the madwoman has to offer. The first is a parchment filled with letters and punctuations. He notes the paper’s strange neatness and white colour. The letters have been neatly written on the page, though from the way they are arranged Tyrion doubts any maester is able to write like it. Not a single one amiss, all in a straight, vertical column. The ink used is thick, though he sees no visible pen-strokes or smudging from it. A curiosity indeed, but not worth an entire army.

The next piece are actually multiples of similar objects. Under candlelight, Tyrion can see the sheen of smooth wax that had been applied on the square papers. Waterproofing? But what catches his attention are the small square painting embedded on the paper. He says embedded because he can’t feel any brush-strokes from them, just like the writings on the white parchment. The images are also strange, depicting rivers and mountains from a point of view that Tyrion can only describe as bird-like. A lot of detail has gone into it; he doubts that any painter would take their time creating an accurate bush leaf by leaf. One painting shows a group knights defending the Eyrie from above. Did the woman perhaps use her warg sorcery to see from the eyes of birds? Maybe… But she did say that she flew into the Lannister camp. No one saw her enter and leaving, but I doubt she can actually fly. Or maybe she transformed herself into a bird?

How the things are made are still up to debate for Tyrion. He remembers the woman mentioning a friend of hers working on some projects, but there was no name or description. So she’s proposing with me the methods of these parchment creation. Though it might be useful in spying, I am no Varys.

Tyrion yawns loudly, causing Jaime to stir in her sleep. Before tucking in for the night, Tyrion pulls out the parchment that carries the news of the King’s death. The thing was sent for Riverrun but Jaime’s archers manage to shoot the raven down. Glad to see someone still has their ravens, Tyrion thinks to himself. He opens the bloody letter and reads it, making sure that he did not miss any details.

…

Just like my father said, huh. King’s dead, so is Lord Stark with no explanation, and Joffrey is being crowned King. He traces his finger on the seal and signature just below the letter’s main body. These looks authentic as well. Neat handwriting and very polite, so the writer must have been Grand Maester Pycelle. If it was Cersei I would expect there to be some harsh or veiled threats in the letter, but there’s none.

Tyrion stuffs it into the envelope along with the sorcerer’s trinkets; he plans to bring them all along for the mission, perhaps asking Maester Creylen about the parchment’s construction.

Tyrion blows out the candles and tucks himself beneath a nice blanket for the night. This will be his last comfortable sleep for a while and so he’ll enjoy every second of it.

Riverlands

“My men, be quick with your disguises! Nap time’s over and we must move before first light, else we’ll miss my Uncle’s horn.”

“Does he always toot his own horn at this ungodly hour?” Bronn lets out a loud yawn as he puts on a septon garb.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’d be happy to provide you with an appropriate answer.”

“Better keep my mouth shut around him, then.”

The fifty men awake tonight are the best of Tyrion’s men, but none of their qualities shine through at this time of day. Well, none of it shines through in daylight either. Those two are only sparing me lackwits and half-bakes, as if they want me to die in the first place.

Like Tyrion and Jaime the Crow, all of them are still half-asleep. The only one who’s wide awake is Bronn, whistling away as he tidies up his boots and bag. Really, he’s the reason the supplies got packed early in the first place. That’s another crown for him then.

“So,” Bronn stretches and cracks his body, the sound unnerving Tyrion, “all your plans ready?”

Tyrion pats his pouch. “Map’s marked, papers in the bag, all we have to do is reach Ser Stafford at Lannisport and Ser Damion in Casterly Rock.”

The sellsword whistles. “And I though all the Lannisters are here.”

“We always have spares, Bronn. We always do.” Tyrion groans as he climbs up his mare and onto his specially designed saddle. But since it hasn’t been used, the leather feels as hard as wood. Gods, hopefully my hips survive the trek. “How goes the disguise?”

“Fits like a glove worn by a gravedigger,” Bronn groans, correcting his garb. “This stinks like a goat’s ass. Where did they even st- Hah!”

“What?”

“You-You…” Bronn tries his best too keep in his laughter as Tyrion puts on a fool’s hat, the bells swinging side to side.

“Like it?” Tyrion displays the red and blue tassels on his arms, causing the man to break into laughter, waking everyone present. Even Jaime is laughing at him. “I know, it was a lark for my late Uncle Gerion to give me this.”

“Gods,” Bronn wheezes, clutching onto his horse. “Do-Do the little bells-”

“I’d rather not be chased about jingling all the way,” Tyrion groans, flicking the ones on his hat. “And this is actually a kindness from him, the last gift he ever gave me before sailing into Valyria.”

“Maybe he wants you to follow in his footsteps.”

“I may be dressed like a fool, but I’m no lackwit.”

“Caw!”

“Shut it Jaime.”

“Still,” Bronn trots up to him, “at least they’re coloured silks unlike my mess. Couldn’t I just be a sellsword? They’re common enough in the Riverlands.”

“What kind of begging brothers have that much money?”

“Maybe a devout sellsword?” Bronn smirks. “Alright, even that’s too big of a stretch.”

Tyrion rides over to his men and finds them already on their horses, supplies packed and disguises on. “We shall run by my Uncle’s horn. He should be here any moment now so be ready.”

And so they wait. And wait. And slowly their waiting turns into an hour. Tyrion watches the sky anxiously, seeing the way the red comet move through the dark. “Is… Is your uncle asleep?”

“He woke me up, so he shouldn’t-”

A loud gallop appears from the dark and his Uncle rides forth, still in his sleepwear. And from his eyes, Tyrion can tell he had just woken up. At least have the courtesy to see me off! “Men!” Tyrion shouts, bringing them all to attention. “Ready your horses.”

So finally, astride a horse under a new moon and the red comet, Kevan Lannister blows his horn.

And with that, the fool and his merry men charge off into the night.

Jaime flies ahead, high into the sky. She caws and directs Tyrion through a more favourable path in the dark. Tyrion has no doubt about her intelligence, but what of her loyalty? You are still with that Lady Stormcrow, are you not? Are you helping me because you’re sure of her victory? Well, I must prove you wrong then; an imp I may be, but I’m still a lion.

By first light, their encampment is nowhere in sight. Tyrion spots a growing grey gloom over where they’re heading. Bronn gallops over to him. “A bloody good chance we’ll be drenched when evening comes, and all ‘cause of your uncle’s sleepiness. Any suggestions?”

Before Tyrion can pull out his map, Jaime lands on his head. “Caw!” she says before flying South-West.

“Follow the bird.”

“Follow the Kingslayer!” Bronn shouts to their men. They all soon head South-West.

As the sun rise higher in the sky, the company find themselves in a forest of elms, oaks, and birch. Tyrion sees the Crossroad Inn not far from the forest’s edge, still unoccupied. “If we weren’t delayed by my Uncle, we should reach Harrenhal by two days from now at most.”

“But because of him…?”

“We’ll reach there in due time,” Tyrion sighs, “if we don’t get rained in. But enough of maps; I’m starving. Who has breakfast?”

“Septon Barron’s distributing breakfast.”

“Ah, the Faith is being charitable for once. Fetch me a drumstick, will you Bronn?”

“I ain’t your servant.”

“But I’m paying you to keep me alive,” Tyrion smirks. “Don’t want me to die of hunger now, do you?”

“Alright, I’m taking one for myself as well. A breakfast fitting Lord,” Bronn says as he gallops to the back of the group.

Tyrion lead his men through the forest, following Jaime’s leaping from branches to branches. And on this relaxed trot, he can’t help but enjoy this small slice of the Riverlands. Streams and brooks criss-cross between large boulders and massive trees, filling the air with a relaxing melody. There’s even small ponds throughout the forest, filled with reeds and ducks. I see why they call this place the Riverlands… A shame it’s filled with Riverlords, though.

A rolling thunder breaks his sightseeing. The clouds are far, but he can see the curtain of rain bathing the land. He hopes that once it reaches them, the clouds offer nothing more than a drizzle.

Bronn comes back and hands Tyrion a drumstick that so large that he has to ask: “Are you trying to stuff me like a turkey?”

“With another turkey? No.” Bronn bites into his own drumstick. “Bread and spices maybe, but you’re too small to roast.”

“Why so large then?” Tyrion takes a bite and enjoys the sweet and savoury taste of the roasted leg. He throws a small shred to Jaime in the trees.

“The septon,” Bronn speaks with his mouth full, “he decreed that growing boys should eat lots and grow as big as their fathers.”

“Well sorry to disappoint but I am a man grown. Any other wisdoms he gave out?”

“Said that whores are sinful.”

“And water is wet, Bronn. Next thing you know, he’ll tell us the sky is blue and night is black.”

“Heh, that’s what you get from the Gods,” Bronn chuckles. “Half lucid and the other being pure madness.”

Continuing their idyllic trot, they manage to avoid human contact by noon. Well, there was one vagabond living underneath a leafy hut, but Bronn made quick work out of him.

Tyrion opens his map, allowing his horse to follow Bronn’s. Lost time because of my Uncle means we could have gone this far… We passed by the inn so we should be here. At worst, Harrenhal by three days, but that’s only if we continue our trek to midnight and leave before first light. That’s going to be a pain.

Folding them into his pouch, Tyrion looks up and sees their scenery having changed significantly. No longer are the leaves green but now bright orange and red, filling the sky like a glowing sunset. The sign that Autumn has come, yet he has never seen them as bright and beautiful as this. A soft breeze blows between the trees, causing a soft rain of leaves to fall on them.

Their horses crunch the leaves underfoot like snow, and Jaime is jumping about in piles of leaves, sometimes coming out with small beetles and lizards. Bronn whistles, picking a red oak leaf from the air. “Would you look at that.”

“Certainly the most beautiful autumn I’ve seen, Bronn. Makes you appreciate the little things in life, doesn’t it?”

“Most of the time it’s been dull and dreary, other than harvest festivities of course. Then the maidens and ladies come out of the woodwork to celebrate.”

“Sad that it’ll only last for so long,” Tyrion sighs. “There’s always the next autumn.”

“Winter is coming.”

The company suddenly stop. That was a woman’s voice. They look about, hands on their weapons, when Tyrion spots a woman sitting atop an elm tree. Her hair shines like the sun, and she’s wearing a dress as red and ornate as the falling leaves, a crown of it in her hair as well. In one hand she holds a green leaf and in the other… A paint brush? “These are beautiful leaves you’ve painted,” he calls out. “Certainly takes a lot of patience to do a whole forest.”

She smiles softly at him, her face looking quite radiant and… What exactly? There’s something he can’t pin down about her, like the sun peeking behind a dark cloud. “Thank you, Tyrion Lannister,” her voice as soft as the rustling leaves. “It’s rare to have someone compliment my efforts.”

“Oh, every artist and painter deserve their praise, especially with as large a painting as this,” Tyrion muses, motioning Bronn to ready his crossbow. “But I think you have the wrong person. Why, I’m but a humble fool named Bells, not that handsome lion from Casterly Rock.”

“Why did the bird call out for your name then?”

“…You can speak crow?”

“I can understand them well enough,” says a voice from behind him. He turns around and sees the same woman atop a still green elm tree, painting it leaves with a stroke of a brush. He looks back at the oak and back at the elm. They’re the same.

Twins? Or sorcery? “There’s two of you.”

“One and the same,” says another one from further away, brushing a tree and letting its leaves fall from the branches. “A Goddess like me can have more than one body, which is easier for me to paint the leaves with.”

A sorcerer, capable of creating multiple bodies. His mind quickly run through several scenarios. If she’s anything like Lady Aya, then he’s pretty much trapped; a crossbow will simply anger her. But she sounds kind enough. Kinder and softer than Lady Aya, that is, which admittedly is not that high of a bar. But he does wonder… Can he bring her to his side?

Tyrion is not so blind as to ignore what’s happening in Westeros. Lady Aya, the tales of demons and cults near Harrenhal, the talks of walking things near the Wall… Something is changing in the world, and he’s sure as hell not going to be left behind. He needs her on his side, even if it means delaying this mission. What is an army to someone who can control the storms and winds? He must take the risk here.

And so, to Bronn’s and his men’s confusion, Tyrion disembarks from his horse. “I think it’s time for a proper introduction. Why yes, I am Tyrion Lannister, the heir of Casterly Rock. May I ask your name as well?”

“Shizuha Aki.” A painted leaf falls from her hand and onto Tyrion. There are strange symbols on the leaf. “I’m the Goddess of the Autumn Leaves, the fleeting reminder of winter’s coming.”

Claims herself as a goddess again, but of a humble thing. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Shizuha, Goddess of Autumn Leaves. And I must say again, it is a lovely work you’re doing to this forest. Why, it looks almost as lovely as yourself!”

She blushes and lets out a giggle. “Why thank you, Tyrion. I do try to hone my craft.”

So she’s weak to compliments, huh? “But forgive me, may I speak to you face-to-face? For a short man, I have a hard time craning my neck up, you see.”

“Only if you tell your friends to put away their weapons,” she smiles back.

“Bronn?”

“You sure, Imp?”

“Friendly relations, Bronn.” And I’d rather not find out what she can do.

With a groan, his men put down their weapons. Bronn steps down from his horse and walks closer to guard Tyrion. “You better know what you’re doing,” he whispers.

With a wave of a hand, the leaves from the oak tree falls and forms another Lady Shizuha at its base. He can hear his men mumble curses and fear beneath their breath, but Tyrion does his best to keep a straight face. “Such an awesome skill you have, creating multiples of yourself, Lady Shizuha. Many would benefit from such a thing.”

“Oh please, it’s something basic for someone divine like myself,” she declares proudly. She sits herself on a nearby rock, looking at Tyrion eye level with great interest. “So, what makes you come through this forest?”

“We’re travelling South to the castle of Harrenhal, Lady Shizuha,” he answers, taking a seat on a broken stump, the points digging into his thigh. “I have my duties as heir to my father’s title, and so I must fulfil them. It is hard work, but not without its rewards. But I’m also curious about you, Lady Shizuha. In all my life I’ve never heard a Goddess of Autumn Leaves, especially in Westeros.”

“Oh, I’m not from this place.”

Lady Aya is also a foreigner to this land. “May I ask where from? Essos?”

“What’s Essos?” she tilts her head.

Now that’s curious. “Oh just… Another place near here. Where did you arrive from?”

“A place called Gensokyo. It’s a small area full of mountains and forests and valleys. There’s a lake as well and several rivers. It’s a wonderful place,” she says wistfully, looking up at the other her painting the leaves. “The Tengus called it a prison, but it’s like a paradise for me.”

Tengu? “Ah, crow tengu,” Tyrion says, trying to bait more information out of her. Even Bronn is curious of her words.

“Yeah… White Wolf Tengus, Crow Tengus, Yamabushi Tengu… I miss their rowdiness in the mountains. It’s so serene here, the forests I mean. I heard some awful things about the outside, though,” she frowns. “As if we’re not already on the cusp of winter.”

“Certainly, it is an awful thing happening in the Riverlands. Which is why I’m here to prevent it.” A half lie. Sure, he’s gathering more forces to enter the Riverlands, but defeating the Riverlords quickly will surely bring a quicker peace, something that this woman clearly enjoys. Of course, the woman’s list of different tengus also brings him to rapt attention as well. So there’s more to the enemy then, and this woman knows of it. I must get her on my side. “If it’s possible, may I ask for your hand in ending the madness in the Riverlands?”

She points to herself. “Me?”

“Yes,” Tyrion smiles. “A fine and beautiful goddess like you will surely bring peace to everyone’s heart. Of course, that means coming along with my company to the castle south of here. Perhaps you can talk some sense to these warring men.”

“Oh… But I have my duties as well. There’s so many leaves to be done, I’m not sure when I’ll be finished, even with this land’s long autumn.”

“I see… Not even with your ability to be at multiple places?”

The woman closes her eyes and goes to thinking. To Tyrion, she looks like when Myrcella is trying to come up on some sort of prank for Jaime, a hint of mischievousness in her face. Then she smiles and snaps her fingers, a set multi-coloured leaves appearing between her fingers. “Here,” she hands them to Tyrion. “I may not be able to come with you for now, but you can use these to have my aid. You seem a nice enough man, after all.”

“Ah, thank you,” he takes them with a slight bewilderment. They’re oak leaves, arranged by colour from green and soft to dark red and crunchy. All have that strange symbols on them

“Nice gift,” Bronn snickers. “Could have given you something like that myself.”

“What do these do, exactly?”

“If you need help, throw one of them into the air and I’ll appear before you. It’s a gift, from a Goddess to nice man. And if you need it to be stronger, pray to my name and I’ll reply back in kind.”

Prayers and faith… Didn’t Lady Aya say something on similar lines to that? To be born out of fear? “Why thank you, Lady Shizuha. I shall keep these safe on my person.” Tyrion takes out the map and fold it around the leaves, careful to not damage it. As ludicrous as it might be, her powers are real enough. “We should meet again, perhaps at Casterly Rock. I’m sure, once they know of your beauty and divine powers, they will worship you as readily as any other gods.”

“Thank you, Tyrion,” she beams a bright smile at him. “I’ll be sure to take up your kind offer. And if you want to talk to me, just look for autumn leaves and call my name. I should answer soon enough.”

“Well,” Tyrion rises from the stump, glad to not have spikes digging into him, “I think it’s time for me to leave. Time is of the essence after all.”

“Winter is coming,” she says solemnly.

“Aye, and I’m not staying still until it comes; I have work to do!” He and Bronn climb back up on their horses. “Would you mind showing us the way out of this forest? South, preferably.”

“Sure,” says the one on the oak, pointing towards a small orange path. “Just follow the path of leaves and you’ll find yourself out. Watch out for fairies!”

“Thank you, Lady Shizuha. May your beauty grace the Riverlands and its people.” With that, the company marches on through the forest.

The trees slowly turn back to the more familiar green and blue as they near the forest’s edge. As the sky darkens with heavy clouds, Bronn rides up to him. “Was that really the right move, Imp? You know what happened with that Lady Stormcrow of yours.”

“She acts fine enough, wanting nothing more than faint praises,” Tyrion answers. “Besides, with that done, we have something great in our hands. Tell me Bronn, what do the Lannisters have that other great Houses don’t, hmm?”

“Gold?”

“Everyone has that.”

“…The Old Lion?”

“Correct, but father is already past his golden age. I’ll take his mantle a decade from now perhaps.”

Bronn hums before shrugging. “Got nothing.”

“Precisely! We have a great seat, gold, and men; but so do all other houses. Our Valyrian steel sword is lost, and gold can run out if we continue this campaign in the Riverlands. But this?” Tyrion pats his bag. “Sorcery? I only know of Lady Aya who wields it. None in the Lannisters’ past have dabbled in the dark arts. Uncle Gerion died before reaching Valyria, most likely. Other Houses? None in recent memory for the Targaryens lost their dragons.”

“But she’s asking for worship,” Bronn adds. “Can you fulfil your end? Sounds kooky if you ask me, especially her advice of fairies.”

“I’m sure I can introduce some smallfolk to her little cult; I’ll make sure to have control over it. What’s important is to have her by my side in the end. She knows something of Lady Aya as well, so even there it’s quite valuable.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll ride ahead and see if I can find a nice place for tents. Keep yourself safe, Imp. I need my gold.”

Gold, Tyrion scoffs to himself. Our family only has its worth in gold, isn’t it? The mines will run out, we still have debts to pay, and what are we then? For all his talk of family legacy, father truly does not see it, huh? And Joffrey’s on the throne, he shivers. I doubt he’ll bring anything good towards me. But magic… Establishing myself like that will surely make a different mark on the Lannister name. What was it Aunty Genna said? That Uncle Gerion didn’t want to be like father?

Well, That ’s something to yearn for. No longer the Dwarf of Casterly Rock, no.

Imp.

Chapter Text

Riverlands

Tyrion breathes a sigh of relief as he enters the tent Bronn hastily erected, taking off his wet fool clothes. Though much smaller than the one at the Lannister camp, he can’t really complain as he’s the one who insisted on bringing small ones for ease of travel.

But here underneath the cold and dark rain, the tent feels far smaller than it actually is. Bronn’s quick riding managed to find them a spot in a grove of trees, but the leaves does little to block the raindrops. At least this place is away from any rivers and streams, Tyrion thinks as he takes off his wet boots. Those places would be bursting their banks by now, and I’d rather not try my luck swimming.

Bronn barges in, soaked but with a lit lantern in his hand. He looks more like a wet dog than a wolf. “So much for your predictions, Imp,” he grumbles, taking off his wet septon garb and opening a bag of clean clothes. “This don’t look like a drizzle to me.”

“I’m no maester, Bronn. However, I am correct when I said it should be lighter than before, or else I doubt the tent would fare well underneath the torrent.”

“One out of one correct guesses,” he chuckles. “Your dwarven luck at play, I see.”

“Guilty as charged,” Tyrion smiles, “though I doubt we’ll have much success doing a midnight’s march. We’ll have to postpone it to dawn, unless the rain doesn’t let up until morn.” He peeks out of the tent, his head immediately graced by a cold shower. Though he can still see out, the sky is slowly darkening for they are near sunset when setting up the camp. His men are still moving about and erecting their own tents, no fires having been lit. Fair enough, every single thing here is soaked to the bones. Gods, I do feel- “Gah!”

A flurry of wet feathers hit his face as Jaime flies into the tent, shaking off the droplets on her feathers and wetting everything inside. “Caw!”

“…Thank you, Jaime. You’re a real sweetheart.”

“Caw?” she says, settling herself on Tyrion’s damp blanket.

“Can’t the bird just sleep outside?”

“And what, let her get sick and draw Lady Aya’s ire? I plan to live long, Bronn, not die early being swept up into the sky. Besides, I’m going to defeat her.”

“With what? Leaves?” Bronn chuckles.

“Sorcery, Bronn. If Lady Aya can summon a storm with feathers and birds, I’m sure Lady Shizuha can conjure up something with leaves.” Hopefully my conjecture is true, else I’ll be more like a fool than my late Uncle ever intended me to be. Those things look nothing more than leaves with writings on them.

Tyrion crawls across the tent and opens his bag. He retrieves two things: the painted leaves from Lady Shizuha and those strange paper documents Lady Aya wanted to use for offerings. With careful eyes, he compares the two objects and sees similarities with the symbols on them. So they do come from the same origin. Damn it, I should have stayed behind and asked her all about tengus! Maybe I could use one of the leaves and call her forth? No, that’ll be a waste; I only have five of these… Whatever these things are.

Speculating on the strange symbols, which is unknown from any books about sorcery or history he has read, he wonders if there’s much difference between them. Are the symbols a different written language like how High Valyrian are written in glyphs? Lady Shizuha explicitly mentioned her leaves to be magical, but Lady Aya didn’t do the same for her papers. Is it the material that carries the magic, or is it the writing? Maybe I should try and test something…

With his nail, Tyrion folds an empty area of Lady Aya’s white paper and licks it before tearing a piece of. He cuts it to smaller pieces, roughly as large as his palm, before fishing out a piece of writing charcoal from his bag. Bronn, who has been doing maintenance on his equipment, pauses and asks: “What are you doing?”

“Trying to see if I can replicate magic,” Tyrion answers. “What if sorcery works through the written language? I’ve heard tales about the First Men and the Children having weapons carved with runes, and even Old Valyrian magic mentions something similar. I must test it out.”

“As long as the tent stays grounded, go wild,” he chuckles, sounding quite disbelieving of Tyrion’s effort in practising sorcery.

“Oh, I’ll show you sorcery, Bronn. I shall become the first Lannister to conjure magic, so witness me.”

“I’m witnessing you, alright.”

Shit, what first? He decides to copy the hard-to-see symbols on the leaves instead of the paper, remembering Lady Shizuha’s words. Using the charcoal, Tyrion tries his best to match the strokes and cut and shape of the largest symbol on the leaf. Getting an acceptable drawing out of it, he wonders what to do next. Pray to her? And so, he closes his eyes and clasps the paper. “I pray to you, oh Goddess Shizuha,” he speaks softly, “to bring forth your sorcery and come before me. Now, appear!”

He throws the paper into the air, catching the orange glow of the lantern’s light, before it falls softly to the ground like a dead leaf.

Nothing happens.

Bronn and Jaime laugh in unison at Tyrion’s folly. “Gods, maybe those clothes are turning you into a fool,” the sellsword wipes the tears from his eyes.

“Caw! Caw!”

“Alright you two, enough of that. I still have more papers to go so don’t be so quick to judge.” Gods, this is becoming a joke, isn’t it? Sighing and with his spirits weakened, he decides to take a different method: the Common Tongue. Perhaps she wrote it in a language that she understands, but I must do it in the one that I understand. As he’s about to write down her name, Tyrion realises that he doesn’t actually know how to spell Lady Shizuha’s name. Pronouncing it is one thing, but writing it…

He throws the next paper into the air. Nothing happens. Figures. If simply writing one’s name can cast curses, then Cersei would have killed half the court by now. But what then? How does magic work? Thinking back on the two sorcerers’ words, what were their similarities? Symbols? Hand movements?

…Fear?

“Bronn, have you ever been afraid?”

“Afraid?” The sellsword looks at him suspiciously. “Why do you ask that, Imp?”

“Well, I remembered how those two talked about fear and reverence, how their magic depend on how much people react to them. Figure I’ll try something with that.”

“Bunch of peacocks,” Bronn scoffs, continuing to oil his dirk. “All boast of fear and reverence, but they’re only doing that to sway your heart, just like a commander’s speech. Because then you’ll fear and respect them, hold them to a higher esteem than need be. None of that fuels magic, only egos.”

“I suppose you’re right, but then again we do not know how Lady Shizuha was capable of that.”

Bronn shivers. “That was disturbing. Don’t tell me you’re about to do the same, Imp?”

“Imagine that, one of me fucking a beautiful whore, another feasting on boar, and another annoying my father and sister,” Tyrion laughs. “That’s just a dream, Bronn. I’m just trying to conjure up something, anything from sorcery. Even a puff of flame is good enough.”

“Tell you what, an advice from an experienced sellsword,” Bronn’s voice turns serious. “You’re much better of training with a blade than trying to play with magic.”

“A blade? Have you looked at me? I’m not Jaime.”

“You did well enough with a shield so why not a blade?”

“Desperation, Bronn. An actual knight would have knocked me over and cleave me in two. Besides, at least I can hold a piece of paper. Your sword is taller than I am, and with a shield I’ll look more like a turtle than a knight.”

“So you forgo a normal blade to a double-edged one. One that would cut your hand every time you use it.”

“Better than a blade that I cannot wield.”

“You know,” Bronn turns to Tyrion and points at his chest with the dirk. “In the amount of time you try to spit leaves out of your mouth, my blade would have gone through your heart and empty your guts. All of that before any sorceries brushes my skin.”

“That’s… Visceral. Thank you for the image, Bronn.”

“No problem,” the sellsword smiles. “Speaking of guts, are they done with the fire? I’m starving.”

Tyrion’s stomach growls. Their last meal was during their ride before meeting Lady Shizuha, thus his hunger is even more palpable now. Looking out of the tent, he feels no more drizzle and sees the red comet shining bright in the night sky. There’s already a small campfire at the centre of the grove, his shivering soldiers gathering around it for warmth. “Ser Barron,” he calls out, “anything for our meals? We’re dying here.”

“Sorry about that, my Lord,” the knight approach the tent, having already changed into his sleeping clothes. “I’ll get some meat and onions cooked up for you.”

“Some for me as well,” Bronn adds, poking his head out above Tyrion. “Can’t leave out your Lord’s protector now, can you?”

“Get your own meals, cutthroat.”

“Behave yourself,” Tyrion admonishes. “My friend here is also requesting for a meal. Give him the same one you’ll give to me, understand?”

The knight glare at Bronn before answering. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Sheesh, so much for knightly politeness,” Bronn chuckles as he settles back into the tent.

“I don’t think knights take kindly to a man who’s only loyal to their gold.”

“Nah, they’re simply jealous because sellswords are better than them.”

“Really? Pray tell, why?”

“Simple. A sellsword will attend a hundred battles when a knight will only do twenty. You never know if those painted spurs of theirs came from their skills in battle or because they languish with other flowery lords. You can’t trust a knight to be skilful, but a sellsword’s sign of skill is staying alive.” As he explains this, Bronn twirls his dirk around, catching the shine of the light. “My blade’s been with me for a long time, and I can bet many dragons that this thing is more skilled than those knights outside of the tent.”

“Better to keep you loyal, then,” Tyrion comments.

“As long as I get my gold, you’re alright.”

“M’lord,” Ser Robyn opens the tent with bowls in his hands, “stewed meats and bread for supper. Cooked to perfection.”

“Thank you,” says Tyrion, taking a sip of the broth. It is, indeed, quite sweet and savoury. “Compliments to the chef, Ser Robyn. Do get some rest; we’re planning to depart before dawn as well.”

“Before dawn,” the young knight frowns. “I’ll tell the others, M’lord.”

“What’s the plan, Imp?” Bronn asks after the young knight leaves, already halfway through his stew. “Another mad dash?”

“Not really. Let me see…” Tyrion puts down his bowl and opens up the map of the Riverlands before them. Jaime takes this chance to eat some of Tyrion’s meat. “We should reach the Trident by first light, but it all depends if we’ll be able to pay for a ferry at Harroway Town.”

“If they’ll even let us cross.”

“Correct. If all else fails, we can travel a bit downstream at cross at the Ruby Ford. But even then the river may be overflowing from all the rain today so we would have to wait.”

“There goes my dreams of finding rubies,” Bronn says before yawning and putting his empty bowl outside. “Well, I should sleep early again. Turn off the lantern when you’re done, alright?”

“Good night, Bronn.” Tyrion takes his bowl from Jaime and eat the remaining meat and bread. Now full, he places his bowl on top of Bronn’s before continuing his experiment with the leaves and papers. So… Large symbols didn’t work. How about the small ones on the leaves? Drawing them on a piece of paper, he feels his head ache before yawning loudly, tiredness slowly seeping into his mind. Gods, I should sleep early as well.

Saying a little prayer for Lady Shizuha, he throws the paper into the air. And just like before, it flits about before landing on Bronn’s leg. The sellsword simply snores in response. Well you’re a quick sleeper. Giving up for the day, he puts all the materials back into his bag before snuffing out the lantern. In the dark, he can hear Jaime settling on the other end of his blanket, getting all comfortable and warm.

It’s been a while since he slept with another person nearby; a shame that it isn’t a whore, though. But should he feel safe with Bronn and his blade so close by? Have I even earned his loyalty? Or can that man be bought out by my father and sister to fuck me over? The Lannister gold is not really his, after all, but his father’s. What can I give him then to earn his loyalty? Better equipment? Knighthood? Land and title? Would he even accept those things?

But those are questions for another day. Even the commotion outside the tent does not keep Tyrion awake as he falls into a deep slumber.

Riverlands

“M’lord, forgive us for-”

“For what? For experienced landed knights to be tricked by a bunch of children? Is memory failing me, or have you not risen from being a squire?”

“My Lord, please forgive Ser Robyn’s failure,” Ser Barron steps forward, already dressed in his septon disguise. “We tried our damnedest but there were too many of them. I believe I saw more than thirty hiding in the woods.”

“You believe or you know? Well then, I believe that you must have swung your sword blindly through the trees rather than catch the intruders. Look, if you have qualms about killing children that’s fine; frankly, rather not have another Mountain in my midst. However, at least put some effort in apprehending them? Get back our gold?”

“M’lord, we have no qualms in attacking wretched thieves! Ser Barron slew seven while I did four with my sword and crossbow.”

“So why is your sword clean?” Tyrion asks. “Where’s their blood, their bodies?”

“Robbed by ghosts, we were,” Bronn sneers as he rides over on his horse, not dressed in his still-wet disguise. “And a bunch of greedy ghosts, too.”

“Violent as well,” Tyrion adds. “Is it true that those ‘ghosts’ stole half of our bolts and arrows? Well? Were we robbed by ghouls trying to wage wars from their graves, or are you simply too unskilled to catch or strike down thieves?” The two knights doesn’t answer Tyrion’s frustrations, instead just looking at each other with looks of doubt and unease. “You know what? I’d rather not hear more of your excuses. Get on your horses; we’re leaving for the Trident.”

As the two run for their mounts, Tyrion climbs up his own horse, groaning from all the trouble his men are causing. Being the Dwarf of Casterly Rock has never taught him to be frugal, but he’s sharply aware when he’s short of funds. “Damn children stole three-quarters of our gold, Bronn.”

“What a lucky day to be a Rivermen,” the sellsword chuckles.

“A dwarf’s luck, but the gods never smiled for me. There’s not going to be enough for a ferry across at Harroway.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. I doubt they’ll let suspicious men with gold cross the river easily. We can just cross the Ruby Ford,” Bronn says. “I heard it’s quite low at this time of year.”

“Before the rains, maybe. But that damn place must be overflowing now.”

“There goes my dreams of riches,” the sellsword smiles before a flash in the sky interrupts them. They both look up and frown as there are barely any stars are visible in the night. “Lightning,” Bronn groans. “And with this much clouds, bet it’s going to rain.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Bronn. I’m sure if Septon Barron pray loud enough the Seven will disperse them for us.”

“Might as well pray to that Lady Sorcerer of yours for dry weather. Ah, speaking of which,” Bronn rolls up the length of his breeches and shoves his hairy leg at Tyrion. “What the fuck is this?”

“What’s what?”

“This, Imp. The paper stuck to my leg.”

Paper? Curious, Tyrion trots over to Bronn and sees the small piece of paper from last night stuck to him. Its edges are line with reddish scratches. “Can you not just peel it off?”

“First thing I tried doing with no result. The damn piece itches as well.”

Interesting, Tyrion scratches his chin while hiding his  growing smile from Bronn. “And you’ve tried using water to rub it off?”

“Paper’s not taking water and stayed dry. What’re you going to do with this, Imp? This is your damn paper from last night.”

What indeed… Taking a closer look, he sees that it’s not the one with the larger symbol written on it. So it’s the smaller corner symbol then, but which one? Shit, I should remember it since it was only last night! But this… This can only mean one thing: I can do sorcery. A giddy feeling bubbles up inside him, just like when his brother gifted him that trained mare. Tyrion Lannister, the first Lannister to ever cast and work with sorcery. A strange and simple one, but like any beginning knight he’s only rough around the edges for now. In the future… I need to know how it works, but who else must I contact? Maybe Lady Shizuha if her talks of speaking to trees are truthful, but who else? An Archmaester at the Citadel?

“Well?” Bronn asks, bringing him to attention.

“Don’t know,” Tyrion shrugs to the sellsword’s annoyance. “Better just to ride it out. I’m sure you’ll forget all about it with all the sores from the journey.”

“You better hope so, Imp.”

As the two survey the soldiers’ disguises, Jaime lands on Tyrion’s saddle. “Caw!” she says, earning a playful pet from him.

“Alright, so we’ll be heading South towards a small town not far from here. Can you lead the way?”

“Caw!”

“That crow’s more competent than your knights,” Bronn comments, low enough for the people around them to not hear. “Following orders, accomplishing tasks… You should get it knighted.”

Tyrion sighs. It’s true enough that he relies on Bronn and Jaime for help most of the time, but that doesn’t hide his disappointment with the rest of these soldiers and knights. A man loyal to gold and a bird loyal to the enemy… Might as well have actual lions in my ranks. At least then they’ll eat the thieves and be too full to eat me. “Are you all ready?”

“Yes, Lord Tyrion!”

“Alright men, we shall ride for the Trident. Onwards!”

The Lannister company depart from their little grove and gallop South through the Riverlands. Jaime takes off, barely visible in the night sky. Luckily for them, the red comet appears from behind the clouds, allowing him to see the bird’s guidance. the comet’s tail curve in the sky, and from this angle it looks more like a demon’s grin.

Their run is not as fast as before due to the quagmire formed in the rain. The small streams he so enjoyed before has broken their banks, making their journey slow and sometimes treacherous. The Trident must be worse as well. At least with this pace, my hips may survive the journey.

“Caw caw!” Jaime lands on Tyrion’s saddle, looking quite excited.

“What is it, Jaime?”

“Caw!” The crow takes off into the air, but this time heading sharply to the West. That’s not where Harroway is. Must be hungry, Tyrion reckons. Should have fed her some morsel before departing.

“Do we follow the bird?” Bronn asks.

“She’s looking for food. Just keep South until we see the river.”

“CAW!” Jaime now lands on top of Tyrion’s fool hat, cawing to the top of her lungs. “CAW! CAW!”

“Damn it Jaime! Haven’t I told you about cawing on my head?” The bird ignores him and begins pecking at his hair. He tries to push her off but to no avail. “Stop that! Have you gotten a taste for dwarf blood!?”

“You’re small and look like a morsel,” the sellsword laughs.

“Caw!”

“Do you want to be put in a cage, Jaime? Because that’s how you-”

Tyrion’s threats are cut off by the sound of shouts and splashing from behind him. Stopping and turning his horse around, he sees Ser Robyn’s and Ser Barron’s horses tripping and falling into an overflowing mud bank. But before he could hurl insults at those buffoons, more of the horses fall and his men fall into the mud below. Another flash of light, but the sky is clear now. Another group of experienced horses fall into the mud.

Something ’s wrong.

“Caw!” Jaime calls out before taking to the sky, circling the scene before them. A shiver runs down Tyrion’s back. Though he’s never been in a battle before, he can feel tension rise in the air. Something is happening, and even Bronn knows enough to draw out his sword, his face fixed with worry.

“Up on your horses now!”

But before the soldiers can follow his commands, their surroundings light up with strange colours and shine. Glowing orbs and arrows appear from all around them, bursting out of shrubberies and trees and even the streams. For a moment, everyone freeze in awe as the Riverlands become as colourful and lively as a carnival.

Then those orbs and arrows strike the fallen men, filling the cool night air with screams and sparks.

“Form up!” Tyrion shouts, trying to get the situation under control. “Form up and-” A blinding beam of blue cuts through his shouting, leaving a trail of scorched mud and grass. His horse whinnies and nearly cause him to fall off. Looking around frantically, he sees them coming from behind the tree line, small silhouettes flitting about in the dark. “Bronn! For every sorcerer you kill I’ll give you a crown!”

“Not enough, Imp!” Bronn answers back, looking ready to make an escape as another beam tear through bushes and setting them alight.

“A dragon then! Now go!”

“Aye, and get yourself to safety!” the sellsword shouts back before charging towards the sorcerers, dodging a red beam of-

“SHIT!” Tyrion ducks, nearly hit by the red beam. He needs to find somewhere safe, but where?

“Caw caw!” He sees Jaime fly by, glowing orbs following her tail. He can’t ask her for guidance.

Shit shit SHIT! Tyrion gallops his horse through the muddy ground, trying to find a safe spot between trees or bushes or rocks. He sees the survivors of the initial volley scatter into the night, but their attackers can see them all the same. Another glowing barrage of purple arrows fly into the air and hit their mark, releasing screams from his soldiers. Who the hell is ambushing!? Lady Stormcrow!?

He stops his horse and barely dodges a volley of purple and green arrows, the projectiles hissing in the wet ground as they disappear one by one. If he’s hit by that…

He spurs his horse again, now running towards Bronn’s location. There’s no use in him trying to find his missing men in the dark, and at least he knows where Bronn is. The horse jumps over the mangled body of a man, one of the many corpses in the area. The screaming, the lights, the smell of charred flesh… Shrill laughter fill the air, coming from all around. A battlefield is no place for a dwarf.

Racing wildly towards the trees, a stream of green orbs appears to his left and swings wide towards him. Tyrion ducks his head again and feels the cold heat of the light strike his hat, luckily avoiding decapitation.

But his horse isn’t so lucky.

The mount under him bucks and crashes into a stream, throwing him off into the water and rocks. Lanterns sparkle in his eyes, but he’s unsure if they’re from the sorcery or the fall. “Fucking hells…” He rises out of the water and spits out the mud in his mouth, wiping away his face. It stings. The corpse of his horse lies- No, that’s Ser Robyn’s horse, not mine.

A bloody taste lingers in his mouth and his ears are still ringing from the chaos all round him. But now, the sounds have gotten quieter. Did they win? Or is he going to die? He pats himself down and realises that his bag has fallen off somewhere. And since no projectiles are flying near him, he cautiously crawls across the bank of the stream, hiding in the bushes as he searches for his bag.

Another stream of blue and red flies high above him, coming out from the tree line. He glimpses a long blade striking down one of the origins, snuffing out the lights. Glad to see you alive and kicking, Bronn. A shame that you’re over there and not with- He ducks as a large spiralling pattern of glowing arrows flies through the sky, forming flower-like patterns in the air. Whoever is conjuring up these projectiles are obviously quite wasteful. Or so powerful that they can afford to waste it. And with this ambush, who’s the perpetrator? Did Lady Stormcrow break her agreement? Or did Lady Shizuha lure me into a trap? Perhaps the cult I’ve heard Ser Robyn talk about…

Just when he’s about to give up his search, he sees his bag caught in the outstretched hand of a dead man, threatening to flow even further downstream. Tyrion crawls faster towards it, ignoring the brambles and thorns before reaching the water’s edge. Standing up, he wades into the water and-

“He he he~”

…A laughter from behind him. A child’s laugh. The thieves?

He turns to see who it is but flinches upon setting eyes on them. A little girl, only as big as a cat yet with the appearance of an eight year old, float in the air before him. Her dress is as green as her eyes and hair, but what disturbs him the most are the glowing wings on her back, shaped like that of a horsefly’s. Tyrion gulps. “H-Hi there little girl,” he stammers out with the best smile he can muster. “What’s your name?”

The girl doesn’t answer but simply smiles back at him, giggling. Her wide eyes do not blink. A sprite, a Children, a ghost, or… Fairy. Lady Shizuha warned me about them.

Tyrion slowly walk backwards towards his bag, keeping his eyes on the girl. “A fair maiden like you shouldn’t get up so early in the day, lest you’ll row wrinkles like my sister,” he laughs. But the girl doesn’t. Just a stare and a smile. Damn it, where the hell is my bag!?

A red beam crosses the night sky as another little girl appear from the bushes, double the first one’s height. And another one appears. And another. One even rises out of the water beside him, holding a crayfish and a bright smile. The girls giggle at each other, their wings fluttering with the wind. His heart is nearly beating out of his chest. Though they look so child-like and innocent, he doubts they’ll simply play tea time with him.

“Well, I’m a fool and I have many japes. You love japes, don’t you? S-So, once upon a time there was a bear and-” His fingers touch the strap of his bag. Clasping it, he pulls his hand forward and… He can’t move his arm. What!? Something’s holding my hand! He tries to turn around but something in the water grabs at his legs. Tyrion can feel it slowly creeping up his body before revealing itself to be tendrils of greenery, wrapping around like a kraken ready to drown him. “HELP! Bronn! Come help me and-” Several strings of vine muffles his mouth. He bites away at it to break free, but all it does is fill his mouth with the taste of grass.

The girls giggle again looking at his captured form. He looks at them with weary eyes, pleading. The larger one steps forward and lends her hand. A cruel joke for it is not an offer of freedom from the bonds; her hand glows bright-red, like that beam he saw in the sky. Closing his eyes, he prays for salvation and mercy to anyone: the Old Gods, the Seven, he even adds in that sorcerer Shizuha. Any of them in this time of need.

He awaits his doom, regretting for not reaching Casterly Rock sooner and for not making love to a whore before doing this. How he wishes to die in a warm bed with wine and women by his side.

Then the girls scream.

Opening his eyes, he sees the large winged girl with a quarrel sticking out of her forehead. Her face is stuck in a pained expression as she falls into the shallow stream, her body disintegrating into the water. Another one readies an attack but is downed by another bolt. The rest scatter into the dark, laughing and crying all the while.

Straining his neck, he sees that his prayers have been answered: Ser Barron rides to him on a wounded horse while Ser Robyn approaches with a spent crossbow, a few soldiers in tow as well. “Mmmmph mmmmph!” he commands his knights. They got the message as Ser Robyn unsheathes his sword and cuts away at the plants on his mouth. “By the Gods, am I glad to see you!” Tyrion laughs.

“We saw your lights, M’lord, and we came running,” says Ser Robyn as works to free his Lord.

“Lights, what lig- Ah!” Looking at his bag, he sees that whatever inside is glowing brightly as ever. He’d seen this glow before, like the radiant shine of Lady Shizuha. Did-Did she actually answer my prayers!? “Shit, we must move now,” he says, freeing himself from the last strands of plants. Ser Barron lifts him up onto his horse before the group of men departs to a safer place. “To the woods, Ser Barron! We can hide there!”

Though they’re able to ride some distance towards the trees, another barrage opens up from the stream and strikes down some of the men. At this rate, they’ll all die before escaping. Tyrion rummages around the drenched bag and finds one of the glowing leaves, as dry as paper and glowing bright against his eyes. “My lord, what is that!?” Ser Barron shouts.

“Our salvation.” Holding the leaf close to his lips he recites a short but honest prayer. “Oh, Lady Shizuha, come forth and smite these fucking attackers. Send them all to hell!” He throws the leaf into the air. Tyrion can feel his strength drain away from as the leaf multiply itself into a silhouette of the sorcerer. Then in a flash of orange light, she splits apart into hundreds of leaves and flies off into the distance.

And Tyrion, with all his energy taken out of him, collapses onto Ser Barron’s back.

…

Opening his eyes, he sees that he’s not on a horse anymore. His body doesn’t feel tired either. “Must have been a long sleep,” he groans, slowly getting up from the leaf-covered ground. The sun shines bright in the sky, dappled by the leaves overhead. “…Where am I?”

There’s no one around him. No sign of the battle, no sign of Bronn or the knights, not even Jaime. Just him, some leaves, and a forest of… He’s not sure what kind of trees these are with its whirling green bark full of mushrooms. He stands up, and realises that this is not where the battle had taken place. There’s no streams, no ponds, no nothing.

He walks around this unearthly forest, calling out for Bronn and Jaime, sometimes for the knights. The only answer comes from a rustle in the leaves of trees, as if someone’s tracking him. Sometimes, when he comes across a dark path, Tyrion sees the strange mushrooms glow in eerie blue and green.

What the fuck is this place?

But before he could wander anymore, he feels a cold splash of water on his face. Opening his bleary eyes, he feels as if an auroch had slept on top of him. He blinks, realising that the sun is only breaking at the horizon. Bronn stands over him with Jaime on his shoulder, the sellsword’s smile lacking another tooth. “Wakey wakey. You’ve got a long enough beauty nap, Imp.”

Tyrion groans. Looking around, he sees his men dragging the dead bodies of fellow Lannister soldiers, with some scavenging the field for supplies. It seems that they’re in a small isle between a few streams. “What… Did we win?”

“Caw!”

“I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”

“How?”

“Damned golden leaves of yours nearly cut me up, you know. Nipped the Kingslayer on her tail too, but nothing we can’t manage,” the sellsword sighs, crouching beside Tyrion. “Lost my horse, though. I chose that one myself, so it was a good one. The leaves did a number on those things, and the rest was done in by your knights.”

“…I did sorcery,” Tyrion speaks softly.

“That you did. On your first battle too, so that’s something to celebrate! Hurrah!” Bronn laughs. Tyrion laughs along with him, though he starts to have a coughing fit once he gets too loud. “Yeah… First time for everyone. Not too worry, for a man like you will spend most of his time behind the battle.”

“The others?”

“Half of ‘em are dead.”

“Half…”

“But that means you only lost the bad ones, so take some solace in that fact.”

Half of his men are dead, all in a single night… What will his father say about this failure of an excursion? But he shouldn’t dwell on that for now. In fact, he has another question for the sellsword. “Hey, Bronn?”

“Yes?”

“What’s in that sack?”

“Oh this?” He raises up the sack in his left hand, the content within struggling to get out. Bronn grins at Tyrion. “Revenge.”

Chapter Text

Oldtown

“Oy Alleras, what do you think of this one? Reckon it’s real?” Armen asks, standing over a round wood and metal shield half-buried in Oldtown’s sandy beach. “Looks finely crafted.”

Alleras walks up to the thing and rolls up his sleeves before pulling it out of the sand, causing a bit of splashing. He turns it round, seeing the black paint and the golden kraken emblazoned upon it. There’s some strange runic glyphs around the image as well, some of which he recognises to be Valyrian while others are harder to discern. “You might be right,” he says, scratching the kraken and looking at its yellow flecks. “Might be gold leaf as well.”

“Shit,” Armen grins. “How much it’s worth, do you think?”

“I don’t know anything about shields.”

“And here I thought you’re the one with the iron link, Sphinx.”

“Hey, the link taught me about the generalities of war, not the cost of specific shields,” Alleras confesses, strapping the leather hold to his arm. It feels much heavier than it looks due to being waterlogged, or maybe he was just too young to remember the time he played with his dad’s shield. “Might be a few groats worth, or a star with all this gold leaf intact.”

He hears Armen whistles in admiration. “Well, you can keep that one then. As a gift, of course.”

“Oh how kind of you,” he chuckles. “And here I thought you’re just being greedy.”

“I am, but I found something even better than a shield. This!” Armen lifts a fearsome black steel battle-axe from the sand, hefting it in his hands. The blade is wider than his head, sharpened to such a polish that the glimmer of the morning sun causes Alleras to shield his eyes. An image of a kraken devouring ships is engraved on the head with similar writings carved into the wood handle. It’s half as tall as Armen is. “This is going to fetch me a pretty pair of crowns, I tell you.”

Alleras can’t help but frown. “How in the Seven hells did that wash ashore? Ever heard of an axe floating?”

“Who cares? I got an axe,” Armen says, swinging the thing about as if he has any semblance of martial skills. Not that Alleras has any, but at least he’s good with a bow.

“And why krakens? They’re the Greyjoy symbol, so the Ironborns must be going South.”

“If by that you mean underwater, then they’re going South alright. Must have crashed somewhere near the Honeywine and now they’ll spend their time with their Drowned God and mermaids deep under. And good riddance,” he chuckles, flipping the axe in the air only for it to slip from his grasp and land in the sand. Armen pretends nothing happened. “Of course, if they managed to get here they’ll rape and pillage all they want.”

“Maybe they’re looking for a maester.”

“As is you’ve ever heard of a Greyjoy looking for maesters. About as rare as seeing an actual kraken. Nah, they might gobble you up though, mistaking you for a lady and take you as their salt wife. Hah!”

“Oh, you think I look like some blushing maiden?”

“Well, you know,” Armen gestures vaguely at Alleras’ face.

“No need to blush, maiden boy.”

“Am not you damn Sphinx!” he blurts out, turning away from him to hide his reddening cheeks.

Alleras laughs; it’s always fun teasing Armen like this. He might be Alleras’ senior by a few years, but the acolyte never ceases to amuse him. It’s a charm of his, one that Alleras has taken quite a liking to. He only hopes that Armen will realise a bit more of their feelings towards each other, but then again not everyone is raised Dornish.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Armen doesn’t reciprocate him. More than once they’ve gotten brief moments of intimacy, whether that be in drunken merry or just playful japes. Simple japes. Nevertheless, he still have time until the chains of the Citadel will collar his neck, and with Armen that’ll be even longer. Not that I’ll say it to his face.

The Autumn wind sweeps in from the Sunset Sea, enveloping the Honeywine with cool winds and crashing waves, though none of it is enough to dissuade the smallfolk from playing in the waters. And with the sun barely risen, it’s a good time as any to enjoy its warmth before the coming of Winter.

As the two walk side-by-side, they see their friend Mollander poke out from behind a rocky formation. “Oy! You might wanna see this!” he shouts.

“What? Caught a kraken, have you?”

“Maybe, dunno. Help us, though.”

Curious, the two clamber over the crag and sees a large black thing being dragged out of the water by Mollander and Roone. Something trails behind it in the water, squirming around like tentacles. “Seven hells, you did caught a kraken.”

“It ain’t a kraken, it’s cloth,” says Roone, panting from all the effort. “C’mon, help us!”

Working together, the four of them manage to pull it onto dry land. It’s some sort of a large sail with its rigging still attached. But once they splay it out for all to see, they all freeze in awe.

It’s a sail alright, but large enough to drape the main gate of the Citadel black and with much more to spare. Apart from the scant few crabs and shrimps making their home on it, it’s undamaged. And the image emblazoned upon it, a kraken of golden threads with eyes of rubies, is as large as the real thing. None of it sits right with Alleras for it looks almost alive, staring back at him with its hateful eyes. Writhing. Waiting. The halls of the Drowned God…

“Holy hells…” Mollander mutters as he steps onto the sail, looking over it all. “This thing’s fucking massive!”

“Could swallow up ma’s house with this,” says Roone as he joins Mollander in trying to pry the rubies off the kraken. “The gem won’t budge. Ey Armen, lend us the axe.”

“Get your own one.”

“Prick,” Roone spits. “Ain’t sharing with you the rubies then.”

“I guess that explains why we’ve been finding krakens all around. And that sail,” he looks over it, “must have been a mighty warship at that. Only two that I know of with Greyjoy allegiance on the top of my head: Iron Victory or the Great Kraken. Both of them longships, but massive ones.”

“You know your ships.”

“The iron link isn’t just for fancy, Armen. You should get one as well.”

“Remind me after I get my silver link, then.”

“Damn those squids,” Mollander spits at the kraken’s face. “Gramps got cut up by one of ‘em during the squid’s rebellion. One less kraken in the sea, at least.”

“Ain’t that right,” Roone says.

But why did this captain crash this one? Alleras ponders. This is a large warship, meaning that a skilled captain would be leading it. And if Ironborns are known for anything, it would be their supremacy at riding and taming the sea for their ships. If forced to choose between their castle or ship, they would choose ship.

And it crashed. A warship. Crashed.

There’s pieces of wood all around the beach so Alleras is sure that there had been a wreck. But where? No news in Oldtown, and with the Hightower lit at night a wreck in the dark would still be visible to their watchmen. Yet it’s only now people are talking of it. Did it not crash nearby, but drifted in from elsewhere?

“That’s strange,” Armen says, crouching down to the sail.

“What is?”

“Same writings as on the shield. And on the axe handle as well.”

Right, he has a tin link. “Can you read them?”

“I’m still not used to Valyrian glyphs so give me a moment.”  Armen studies the chalk writings on the sail, untouched by the sea. Upon closer inspection, every part of the sail is absolutely covered with these small glyphs and runes. “I see one here saying ‘saltwater’, which makes sense. Ah, I can recognise ‘valar dohaeris’ anywhere. Something here as well about bounding and chaining…”

“What of the runic ones?”

“I don’t even recognise them, so no bother in trying to… Actually, you’re planning to bring that shield with you, right?”

“May or may not store it somewhere safe. Why do you ask?”

“I’m quite close to Archmaester Guyne, the one with tin links around his neck. He’s always so interested in strange and esoteric languages, reciting poems from Yi-Ti and collecting books full of the unknown, so I’m sure he’s the one that may recognise this,” Armen taps the shield. “He’s free at noon.”

“Eh, I have to attend Perestan’s lecture on Jaehaerys so I’ll miss it. Haven’t eaten breakfast yet as well,” Alleras adds, rubbing his growling stomach. “How about near sundown? Is he free then?”

“Actually, yes, if I remember his schedule correctly. So how about it? We see what this dead Greyjoy have to offer, and maybe I’ll treat you for supper.”

“You mean me,” Alleras smirks. “The last I remember, you could barely afford the good cider.”

“Alright you two, break it,” Mollander groans. “Any of yous helping us drag the sail?”

“I’ve got coins,” Alleras answers.

“I have an axe,” says Armen, brandishing the thing and slinging it on his shoulder. “We have what we need. You guys can keep the sail.”

“And rubies.”

“Yes Roone, and rubies. Come Alleras, might as well not be late for breakfast.”

They leave the two boys who are now folding up the sail for easier transport. The coast is full of wooden pieces from the supposed wreck, with even more shields stuck in the sand and in between rocks. People have gathered now, hoping to score a find for themselves. And if Alleras’ eyes have not failed him, then he spots a Hightower among them lifting a sword from the water. Which son or Ser he does not know. A damn big ship have wrecked here.

For the past two weeks, Oldtown has been in quite the ruckus. There’s the fact that no ravens reside in the rookeries anymore, something that most in the Citadel is certain to be a sabotage. Riders calling for resupplies have to be turned down, making it a very tense moment for all involved. The need for communication between those in both the Westerland and the Riverlands certainly does not make the situation any better.

Alleras has seen a few ravens and crows about, and there have been many who attempted to capture them yet to no avail. And those that did… He tries to get that image out of his head, the time he saw a man with his guts-

Sometimes, he’d see a bird behind the slats of his windows in the middle of the night. On days like that, he can’t find himself in the comfort of sleep. They’re all being watched.

“You heard of the Seneschal?”

Alleras snaps out of his thoughts, glad that Armen is there to distract him. “The man’s still missing, isn’t he?”

“Not anymore.”

“Really!?” he asks in surprise.

“Well, not technically, no. He’s still not in the Citadel, but a servant there found a ransom beneath a few books. Apparently a kidnapping, and now the Seneschal is somewhere up North near the Honeywine. The Old Man sent Ser Garth Hightower to take care of that little problem.”

“Heh, I pity those fools.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not,” Alleras scoffs. “Him going missing created a big disruption on my scheduled lectures. Could have gotten the copper link a month earlier if it wasn’t for that,” he huffs. But at least there’s some silver lining to all of this. “Do you think he’s… Dead?”

“Don’t know,” says Armen, walking close to Alleras as the two go down Oldtown’s main market street. He eyes a few pawn and blacksmith shops, all of which are still closed this early in the day, before returning to their conversation. “They’ll have to elect a new Seneschal if that does happen. Most likely Perestan.”

“Gods be damned if it is Perestan,” Alleras seethes to Armen’s laughter. “That’ll delay my copper links even longer. Maybe the Mage is better.”

“Ah yes, even he had been a Seneschal once before. Do you plan to study under him?”

“Could be interesting, though I hear the man has been as reclusive as ever. You know, with the…”

“Yes, that.”

A forbidden topic, one that the two are reluctant to speak of within the walls of the Citadel; the Spider has ears everywhere. It’s not a well-kept secret that the Citadel owns several glass candles in its vaults, used in the ritual most acolytes refer to as the glass trial. Trying to light them aflame always ends in failure, teaching them to be humble and that with all its books and inks the Citadel is still in the dark about most of the world.

But then there are whispers among those foolish enough to speak it. He once overheard talks of the candle lighting up during an acolyte’s ritual, while others said that the candles are being kept in Marwyn’s quarters. All guards and maesters are silent on the subject, oft mentioning their lack of knowledge and feigning ignorance. But whether it’s true or not Alleras can be sure of one thing: the Citadel is not taking any new maester’s vows. And that is something.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Have you seen the candles?” asks Armen, a sly smile crossing his face.

“No.”

“Want to-”

“I’d rather keep my head, Armen.”

They’re soon greeted by the pair of sphinxes sitting at the front of the Citadel’s main gate, their onyx eyes staring back at them. Two guards step forth from their nooks, spears in hand and eyeing the two with apprehension. “Why the weapons?” asks one of the guards, Willem if Alleras remembers correctly. He’s the replacement for the missing Head Guard. “Are you planning on raiding the Citadel?”

“What kind of raiders would step through the front door?” Alleras chuckles. “No, we found this at the beach. Some Greyjoy ship must have crashed near the Honeywine, and this might be worth some coins.”

“And we have links,” Armen adds, raising his necklace.

“Alright then. We can’t be too careful nowadays,” says Willem as the two guards give way. “Store them somewhere safe; there’s some rats flitting about these walls.”

The two acolytes part, both of them heading to their quarters at separate ends of the Citadel. Alleras’ place is located atop an inn on a stony bridge, one of the larger rooms paid for by his father. Though much of it is lightly furnished, he does have a few trinkets here and there: his goldenheart bow and quiver with arrows, a shelf with books he borrowed from the main collections, a few oddly-shaped shells he picked from the beach, and a small dagger Armen gifted to him for his name day.

With the shield, he tries to hang it above the foot of his bed. Though it’s a good placement, he does not like the way the kraken looks at him. So instead, he slides the shield beneath his bed and cover it with a spare blanket. With that done, Alleras grabs a couple of sheets of paper and leaves for the mess hall.

It’s as rowdy as ever here, novices and acolytes moving about with their bowls full of soup and bread. Alleras takes his meal and sits himself at his usual table, noticing that none of the familiar faces are with him. Mollander and Roone must still be dragging that thing into town. Armen must be playing around with that axe, and Pate is with Walgrave. That leaves me with-

“Well hello there, Sphinx.”

Leo… Alleras groans, trying his best to ignore that Tyrell boy. Ever since the Seneschal’s disappearance, the novice is adamant in getting something out of all of them. The last time they talked, he was begging Alleras for coins since he lost it all playing cyvasse in the Checkered Hazard. “Where’s my money, Leo? You’ve still not paid back my crown.”

“Oh, it’s an investment, dear Sphinx.”

“You mean you put it on bets.”

“Hah, you know me quite well. Tell me, how’s your Dornish advances on our dear friend Ar-”

Alleras points his knife at the Tyrell’s sharp smile. “Speak of that again and I’ll make you a eunuch. Might as well if you’re planning to become a maester.”

“Heh, quite hot blooded today, aren’t you?” He pushes down the knife with his fork before returning to his bread. “Let me ask you a different question then; what have you heard regarding the glass candles?”

Now this time every table around them fall silent, all eyes watching them talk. “…You’re really just looking for trouble?” Alleras whispers, glaring hard at him.

“Well, I am a student of the most coveted and forbidden Archmaester of the Citadel, and I must find out what others think about them,” Leo chuckles, not at all careful of being overheard. “So, what do you think of those rumours? Do you feel that they’re grounded? Delusional?”

“More water?” asks a servant girl.

“Thank you love,” Alleras replies. Looking at her face is a nice break from listening to Leo, though he doesn’t recognise the blonde girl at all. Must be some new hire. “If you don’t mind, I shall be leaving now. Can you take the my bowl and cup as well?”

“Of course!”

A new hire. Older ones would just tell me to pick up for myself. With the girl taking his finished breakfast, Alleras picks up his papers and heads to the door out. But before he can exit, Leo shouts at him: “It’s a dangerous world, Sphinx! A flock of sheep won’t protect you from what’s coming!”

“I’ll protect my damn self!” he shouts back, exiting the mess hall and walking towards Archmaester Perestan’s lecture area. The air is fresh here, especially with fruiting trees all around the Citadel. Even with all the tragedies the place still intends to be quite festive, celebrating harvest season with some mummer performance within Citadel grounds.

Alleras passes by one such performance, some troupe that called themselves the Purple Umbrella, not that the audience nor him knows what an umbrella is. Even some of the mummers he talked to didn’t give much of a good explanation. They’ve some standard plays and japes with dancing pigs and mediocre acrobatics, but that’s not what people came to them for.

No, they come for the magic.

Alleras watches as the main performer walks onto a stage: a girl with dyed blue hair and mismatched eyes. She carries with her a stick with some cloth and fake tongue and eye attached to it. Her first trick is quite good, juggling skulls on her instrument and gradually increasing it from one to six, but Alleras has seen better. Then comes the main part of the show.

Spears of rainbow lights appear from her implement and flies up into the sky, bursting above the cheering audience. Even Alleras can’t help but simply watch the colourful spectacle. He had seen pyromancer on the ports of Oldtown before, and none of them came close to whatever this girl is doing. And even with those people he suspects them of burning some strange minerals for the colours. But this one? He can’t feel any heat from it, and instead feel a light sprinkle of water dribbling his skin whenever the lights burst above. Some said my father practised sorcery, but I’ve never seen anything from him. I must ask for that girl’s name, and maybe recommend her at least to travel to Sunspear. That’ll be a nice gift for him.

By the end of the show, a rainbow appears at the courtyard of the Citadel. The mummers bow, the audience cheer, and they all leave until the next showing. That’s when Alleras realises he’s going to be late and he sprints to his lecture room. Luckily for him, Archmaester Perestan is late from watching the mummers as well, though nothing on his face shows a sign of happiness.

The lecture begins and ends quite simply, detailing the reign of Jaehaerys II Targaryen and the involvements of Septon Barth’s documentations. Most of it is something Alleras is already aware of, mostly due to his studious reading. If all his lessons are going to be like this, then I shall have the copper link in no time at all, he reckons, the though bringing a smile to his face. Not much longer until I have all the links needed for becoming a maester, and by then all this trouble would be over and finished.

Ah, to return to Dorne as a maester. My father and sisters would be so proud.

Perestan’s lecture ends not long after noon. Alleras asks a managerial maester about Archmaester Guyne’s whereabouts, and like Armen they say that the man is busy with a lecture on the language of Yi-Ti. What use is that? Alleras does not know; he’d never seen a Yi-Tish individual come ashore in Oldtown before, not even back in Dorne.

Not wanting to waste his time in the Citadel, he instead heads back to his room and takes the shield with him to determine its price. He has no more lectures to attend today, at least not the ones he’s focused on. An acolyte can take any lecture at any time as long as they can prove themselves in the tests for the links. Alleras has no problems with that.

It’s not too sunny today with a few clouds, and Autumn brings comforting winds with none of the Winter chills. A faint smell of apples and citrus is in the air, a long-held tradition of the Hightowers to plant fruit trees along the main roads and streets. Makes the city livelier AND helps to feed the smallfolk, a great solution overall.

Alleras has a certain smithy in mind, the one that forged his iron and gold link. Tykker is his name, a man generous with his discounts and pricing on weapons, even at times willing to help him restring his bow at a lowered price. It’s a bit ways away from the Citadel, but he does not mind the leisurely stroll, though people do give him quite the occasional glare.

He passes by the Starry Sept and sees it much livelier than before, no doubt still arguing about the Great Sept of Baelor’s announcements of a divine messenger. Alleras cares not for it; his faith is not as strong as most. Besides, he wonders if those messengers could just be sorcerers in disguise, though he doubts the Faith at the Great Sept is that inept.

Crossing a stone bridge over the Honeywine, he sees something large and black in the water. Actually, it’s the sail from before, the red-eyed kraken staring back at him with its ropes trailing behind it. That’s odd, Roone didn’t pry off the rubies from its eyes, Alleras thinks, watching it drift away towards the Sunset Sea. Must have been too much for them to carry. Figures; a group of sailors are needed for a dry one, let alone something that large soaked in seawater.

As he nears Tykker’s smithy, he sees a crowd gathering at its doors. They don’t look at all happy, causing Alleras to be worried. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Have there been an accident?”

“Maybe,” says an old woman. “Ol’ Tykker drowned, that he did. Dead in his smithy.”

“Drowned? Fell into his tub of water?”

“Dunno, I just got here.”

…Damn, never expected him to actually pass so soon. And I was about to ask him for bow maintenance as well. “How about his kids, or the smithy? Any plans on that?”

“Like I said, lad, I just got here,” the old woman huffs before walking off.

It’s an odd feeling hearing about his death. The man was only his acquaintance, yet he knows quite alot about his family life; he’d always talk about them whenever he had the chance. And now he’s gone. Alleras gives a silent prayer for the family’s wellbeing before finding a different smithy to ask for pricing, this time much closer to the Citadel.

But the talk doesn’t go smoothly. The greetings have been cordial enough, yet it soon devolves into a shouting match between Alleras and the blacksmith, arguing about the proper price. By the end of it, he storms out of the place, yelling back: “It has gold leaf, you idiot! Not fucking paint!”

Feeling pissed, he decides to find a place for a drink and snack. As he purchases some rye bread for luncheon, a group of City Watchmen run past him and towards the edge of a nearby canal. He watches whilst chewing his bread the men drag something out of the water with ropes. There’s some shouts as well; someone drowned. Poor sod must have been drunk, Alleras chuckles. But when he sees the drowned body, his face goes pale.

It’s Roone.

Dropping the bread, Alleras rushes over to them. “You know the boy?” asks one of the Watchmen.

“I-It’s Roone.”

“Who the hell’s Roone?”

“A… A friend of mine, a novice at the Citadel.”

“Explains the link,” the Watchmen says, taking off the leather necklace with a single copper link attached. He hands it to Alleras, the metal still cold and wet from the Honeywine. Roone had planned to get a gold one next, fancying it to look neat around his neck. “Sorry for your loss, lad. If it’s alright with ya, take the link back to the Citadel. We’ll inform them of your friend’s passing.”

“Yes, yes that’ll be quite alright.” Alleras can’t even look at Roone’s face, all grey and contorted from the water, crawling with wharf roaches. “If it’s possible, can you inform as well the-”

“Ser!” shouts a Watchmen from the canal. “Another body!”

This time, Alleras spares no time to look over the stony railing and into the canal. Staring back at him from underneath the greenish water is none other Mollander, his face gagging with lifeless brown eyes. The crabs have gotten-

He gags, nearly vomiting from the sight. Roone. And now Mollander. Both of them are dead, yet something nags at the back of his despairing mind: they were born and bred here in Oldtown. They know the tides and currents like the back of their hands, and both of them are much better swimmer than Alleras.

Something’s not right.

After explaining to the City Watch about Mollander and retrieving his black iron link, Alleras decides to head back to the Citadel and inform Armen of what happened to them. He needs something to distract his mind from this, and a little bit of Armen will do just-

He hears a woman wailing by the side of the road, clutching a little girl no older than a toddler. The people gathering around her whisper: “lil’ girl drowned.”

Another body is dragged out of the canal, that of a middle-aged man with a fit body.

A baby is carried out of a house, with people speaking that they drowned in their crib.

…

Alleras sprints through the streets of Oldtown, pushing past mourners and drowned bodies alike. He grits his teeth, heart pounding and praying to the Seven that Armen is safe. By the Gods he’s praying.

He reaches Armen’s quarters, sweat making his clothes stick to his skin. Climbing up the building, he sees that everyone else have left for lectures or classes; the only door that’s firmly closed is Armen’s. He’s inside. “Armen,” he knocks loudly, “it’s Alleras. Open up, we need to talk.”

No answer.

He knocks again, harder this time. “It’s about Roone and Mollander, Armen. They’re… We need to talk. Open the door.”

Nothing.

Alleras paces back and forth in front of the door, biting the nail of his thumb. He’s just sleeping, he assures himself. That lazy ass likes to sleep in, sometimes needing me to drag him out of his blankets. That’s all. He’s probably waking up now, not wanting to let his dear Sphinx wait. Yes, that’s it.

…

Water seeps from under the door.

The door has an inside latch. It’s weak; the Citadel doesn’t bother to improve the older buildings. Lucky for Alleras. He straps the shield over his shoulder and rams the door with it. The first hit sends a jolt of pain through his arm, but he’s determined to get it open. By the second hit, the latch breaks and he falls through the open doorway.

Armen is there on the floor, hand twitching and water leaking out of his mouth. He’s alive.

Barely.

“Shit shit SHIT! Armen, stay with me Armen!” Alleras calls out, feeling the pulse on his neck. He’s still warm, but the water is making him colder. Leaning the head only pushes out the water in his mouth. What do I do what do I do what do I-

A lesson. Ebrose. Drowning rituals of the Drowned Priests of the Iron Islands. What did they do again?

Alleras places his mouth over Armen’s and blows air into it; his lips taste of saltwater. Then he pumps on his chest. One. Two. Three. Come on. Come on! Water spurts out of the mouth, but he’s still not breathing. He blows in air again, pumping harder. More water comes out, but Armen is still-

“Gods damn it! Please Armen!” Alleras cries out. Again he breathes air into him and again he pumps, but Armen stays still. He’s too late. He’s doing it wrong. He’s failing. Tears stream down his face as he pumps down on Armen’s chest, feeling the cold settling into his body.

Then Armen coughs.

He coughs and hacks and with the help of Alleras he vomits out water and wharf roaches. The colour is returning to his face. He’s still alive. By the Gods Armen is still alive. He slumps against Alleras, breathing still wheezing but his eyes sees him. “Alleras…”

“I have to get you to a maester,” says Alleras, lifting Armen up with his shoulder and supporting him as the two walk out of the room. The nearly-drowned acolyte coughs up more water, nearly falling over if not for Alleras’ support. “The hell’s happened to you!?” Alleras asks, voice mixed with both fear and relief. “There wasn’t any water in your room, was there?”

“…Kraken,” Armen whispers, another roach climbing through his hair.

“Shit.” The stairs are much harder when you’re supporting someone who can barely walk, though soon he can feel Armen’s steps getting firmer. “Smeone ought be able to treat you, get your lungs dry and back in shape.

“Kraken.”

“Yes, Mollander and Roone…” Is it best to talk to him now about this? “They… I’m not sure how else to say it but-”

“Kraken!” Alleras feels Armen jerk in his hold.

That’s when he hears the creaking of floorboards from above them. Alleras turns around and sees something large looming at the top of the stairs. A dark shape, its head a writhing mass like worms. Then, in the glint of sunlight, he sees the shine of Armen’s axe in one hand and the shield in the other.

Water pours down the stairs along with seaweed and strange soft critters. The thing wears metal boots, each step a heavy thump that causes even more water to spring forth. Alleras is frozen in fear as he hears hissing and bubbling come from the thing. It’s not normal. It’s not human.

It wants to kill us.

Alleras takes a tentative step back, and the thing raises its axe in response.

And so the two break into a run, with Armen still holding tightly to Alleras’ arm. Out of the building and into the main area, he sees now the thing that chases after them: a monstrosity of metal and the sea, its face nothing more than a writhing black squid with a large cloak of golden scales. It billows as if lighter than silk, yet with every step the stone beneath its feet crack and burst with water.

“Guards! GUARDS!” he shouts, bringing to attention a group of them patrolling the area.

“What’s the matter with you two?”

“Some-Someone is chasing us, axe and shield and armour! An Ironborn!”

At the name, the guards ready their spears and look ready for combat. “Did they actually come to shore? Where did you see them?”

“There!” Alleras points towards the running thing, its cloak shining bright in the afternoon sun. Armen is now fully awake, standing up on his own next to Alleras.

But the guards look at the two with confusion. “Where’re you pointing, lad? No Ironborn there.”

“What!? Are you blind!?”

“Can’t see them,” says Armen, still coughing but looking much more fit than before. “They can’t see them.”

“What do you mean?” Armen asks.

“You two better not be playing japes with us,” one of the guard growls. “Days’ been tough with security, and I’d rather not deal with something foolish like-”

Alleras and Armen manage to dodge the incoming swing of that thing’s axe, but the same can’t be said to two of the guards. As the axe cuts into them, it splits apart like water before forming again once out of their body; there’s not a single dent on their armour. As if the thing they’re dealing with is nothing more than a mirage. And for a moment, Alleras can see the thing smile.

“-pranks or whatever you have in mind,” the guard continues, oblivious to the hateful thing in front of him. “Now tell me, why the hell you- Agh!” The two guards collapse onto the ground, coughing and hacking up seaweed and water. Wharf roaches crawl out of their mouths and noses as the two painfully drown on dry land. The other guards try their best to help them to no avail.

Then the thing turns to them.

Armen and Alleras are next.

“Come on!” Armen shouts, breaking Alleras from his trance. The two run again. Where? Where can they escape from that thing?

They can feel their sprint slowing down as they pass the empty mummer stage. All that running is eating away on Alleras’ legs, and Armen is in no condition to run. Then the two feel themselves slip on the wet ground, slamming onto their back. Dazed, Alleras feels the water gushing out from the rock beneath him. It smells of the sea, cold and dead.

He can hear the crunching of that thing’s footsteps coming closer, but he also sees the silhouette of a short person over them. Alleras realises that they’re actually the blonde serving girl from before, lending a hand to the two. “Careful from slips,” she says quite nonchalantly. “You could break your neck.”

“That thing,” Alleras huffs out, far too tired to actually get up.

“Thing? What th- OH SHIT!”

She can… She can see it? “Help.”

“Oh shit, yeah just wait a- Fuck, I left it back there!” The girl stomps her foot down on the muddy ground, splashing it on Alleras face. “Sorry. You know what, there’s only one thing to do: YUKARI!” she shouts for all the world to hear. “HELP US!”

For a moment Alleras feels like he’s floating in the wind, darkness and eyes all around him. The next thing he knows, he slams onto a bed with Armen landing on top of him. Both groan in pain. “The hells was…”

They’re not in the courtyard anymore. Instead, he’s greeted by Leo’s insufferable grin. “Hah, never expected you to be here,” he chuckles, prodding the two with his boot. “Get up, we have some work to do.”

Alleras sits up, carefully moving Armen off of him. They’re inside some dilapidated building, one that he recognises to be the Southern Dome of the Citadel. The place is brightly lit with strange black… “Glass candles,” he whispers. The flames glow brighter at their mention, shining in radiant red, blue, yellow, and white. Sitting next to them is none other than the large form of Marwyn the Mage, and above them…

Above them…

Above them…

“Don’t look at it for too long,” the girl from before covers his eyes. “Not good for the mind, ya know.”

“What the fuck is happening?” Alleras whimpers out, clutching Armen’s hand and covering his eyes.

“That’s what we’d like to know as well,” the girl sighs. “All kinds of fucked is happening. And you know what I call that?”

“…What?”

“An incident.”

Chapter Text

Kingsmoot

Man was born in the watery halls of the Drowned God in the shape of their creator, and into the brine they shall return where they will feast with mermaids and krakens alike. Only the Ironborn are beholden to this faith, this truth that they all have come to know. The sea is their realm, it was once told. The ships their castles and the captains Kings.

And so it is up to Aeron Damphair to bring about the Old Way again to the Iron Islands, to bring the Ironborn back to their former glory.

His faith is strong, and his influence is even stronger. He knows himself to be the holiest man on the Iron Islands, having been drowned twice before and drinking seawater. Even Tarle the Thrice-Drowned heeds to his call for action. His heart lies in the sea and the sea is in him.

And with all that faith, the Storm God saw it fit to test him.

The first one came with the arrival of a raven more than a month ago, one from King’s Landing. Heretics from the green lands have apparently found their ‘holy’ champion to lead them, a descendant from the demon whose names are numbers. Aeron snuffed out the bird’s life then to the protests of Maester Qalen. Those damned ravens only ever carry dark words to their homes, and so he felt no guilt when they escaped and killed the ageing maester with them.

So the Storm God have managed to sway even those heretics, is what Aeron thought at the time. He knows for a fact that the Storm God and those green lands’ men are adamant for the Ironborn’s destruction, and so he came up with grandiose plans to prevent that.

But when he was about to enact upon them, the second test came. His brother Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands and Twice-Drowned, have been snatched away by the dark winds of the Storm Gods. Those who saw him fall say a black mist pulled him out of a window, while others say it was a six-legged fly and even stranger are those who claim that it was a giant raven’s claw.

But whatever it was, his brother is dead.

He prayed hard that day, never eating and never sleeping, sustaining himself on raw sea life and salt water. And in his eventual salt-driven delirium, he heard a voice beneath the storming waves. “Victarion shall be my champion,” it commanded, Aeron’s eyes watching the fish and shrimps school all around him. “Make it so!”

The call, so clear and enveloping like sea foam… A miracle, he thought then. A guidance to lead us out of this chaotic storm. There is only one way to make sure of this succession, of course. To show the Ironborn that Victarion shall be the one who lead them to their untold glories and riches.

A Kingsmoot.

And now Aeron stands among them all, captains and warriors born from the salty sea and clamouring for their chance at the Seastone Chair. Most shout their claims early and are shot down by Asha Greyjoy’s sharp tongue. Aeron hoped that she’ll speak her piece before Victarion, but that turns out to not be the case.

To make sure Victarion has the best possible chance to be chosen, Aeron blesses him before the captain makes his speech. His booming voice brings to attention all captains and crew present, offering them simple words and plentiful bounties. The weapons and gold by his feet are soon taken by eager men shouting his name, taking even one of his niece’s champions.

A smile manages to escape from Aeron’s lips, but he soon hides it beneath whiskers of hair and sea weed. Victarion… I know you may be a dullard at times, but you’re my better in many things. And to be the Drowned God’s champion, one does not need be a maester. A captain like you will ravage the green lands like no other, displaying the true might of the Iron fleet, he reckons.

But then the third test appears.

Interrupting Victarion’s speech is the sound of metal scraping against stone, so numerous that one might think they’re inside an active mine. All fall silent as they see the dark shape rising up from behind Nagga’s cradle. Looming above them all is the great sail of a longship, its black sail heralding a white horned demon with horns and chains of red and blue. Though he does not recognise it, Aeron’s stomach sinks the moment he looks upon its eye.

Blood red.

Euron is here.

The ship climbs into the view of the terrified captains and warriors, all cowering before its shadow. The wailing maiden at its prow looks more lifelike than the last time Aeron saw it, with its eyes of onyx and rubies. Crawling on its oars high above the ground, it reminds him of a sand roach from the way it undulates and pierces the ground with each step. Black smoke leak from its ports, and golden coins fall from each lurching it makes. And below them…

Euron steps forth from the shadows, a soft smile on his lips and a maddening gaze in his smiling eye. A necklace of bird skull hang low from his neck, bleached white from the sun. In his right hand he holds a black trident that whirls with every step, but to everyone’s surprise the Crow’s Eye do not have a left hand anymore. Instead, his stump is held together with two bracelets of green and white serpents.

The damned crew of the Silence appear from the shadows as well, a collection of rabbles and wild men from all over the known world. Like their captain, they all bear the same vicious grin as they bring forth a palanquin of gold and ebony. Whoever sits there is obscured by silks and wood, but Aeron can see their shadow well enough.

“Why are you here, Euron?” Victarion bellows out, his black iron battle-axe ready for battle in his hands. “After what you’ve done here, you and your ship have no right to set foot on these islands. Begone with you!”

“Is that how you greet your older brother, Victarion? A family member you’ve not seen in the past two years?” he chuckles at the future King’s anger. “I know my rights, dear Vic. Is it not correct that my banishment ends with the death of our brother Balon?”

How do you know? Aeron wants to shout, but a single glance from the man sends him cowering behind Victarion’s large frame.

“Ah, my dear brother Aeron! The last two years have done wonders on your hair, have it not? Tell me, did you pick the sea weeds yourself or did you let them grow into your skull?”

Aeron have always despised his brother, this madman who wanders the night opening doors to his bedroom. But now, that insult angers him more than anything. Gathering his courage, Aeron steps out of the cowering crowd and stands before Euron. “Your banishment may have ended, but this is a godly tradition we’re partaking. A godless man like you have no place here.”

“Godless?” Euron scoffs. “Seems that you’ve become even dumber than when I last saw you, Damphair. The kingsmoot accepts all captains who were born with salt in their blood, or did the din of the waves made you forget that? Is that the state of the drowned men today, fellow Ironborns? That your head priest prefers to braid his hair with leaves like a flowering maiden rather than inflict the will of the Drowned God upon those heathens!?”

The captains around them laugh at Euron’s insults, and even Asha is smiling. But a slap from Aeron’s salty wineskin bring them all back to silence. Euron simply smiles back as bleed begins to seep from the cut on his cheek. “You are a fool to be here, Crow’s Eye! I know my place with the Drowned God; I’ve been a priest longer than you’ve been mad!”

“Are you sure of that?”

“And this sorcery,” Aeron gestures to the Silence, standing over them all. “It is mere child’s play to what the Drowned God offered. HE came to me with a prophecy. HE came to me underneath the waves. And it was HIM that had chosen our champion. You have no right to disrupt His will!”

His anger only makes Euron’s smile grow wider. “And who did this voice say shall be our champion?”

“It was His words for me to bear. And when it rings true, I shall voice the words again.”

“You hear that!?” Euron shouts. “My brother has said that the chosen King shall be the champion who leads you all to victory! The voice in the waters have asked for this Kingsmoot, and the voice shall have it! Step aside, Aeron. It is my turn to make a claim.”

Aeron is pushed away by the trident as the Silence and its crew march along with Euron to the centre of the Kingsmoot. The ground trembles with the thudding of oars on the rocky ground.

“Victarion,” he brings the Iron Victory’s captain to attention. “I see you’ve made your claims to be king, but I fear if you’re truly adequate to lead the downtrodden Ironborn.”

“My steel and bite is sharper than yours, Euron,” Victarion spits. “I’m a better captain, a better warrior, and a much better King than you shall ever dream to be.”

“Oh, I’m sure that you can hold yourself in any battle, dear Vic. So tell me, if your enemies have settled themselves in the Dothraki Sea, will you sail the Iron Victory there?”

“There’s no water my ship can’t sail, Crow’s Eye. With my command, I…” His answer is drowned out by the raucous laughter of the surrounding captains. Even Aeron can’t help but to let out a disappointed sigh. “The hells are you all laughing at!?”

“The Dothraki Sea’s a grassland, you dolt,” Asha shouts.

“A man who braids like a maiden and a man who thinks he can swim in grass: are these your soon-to-be leaders, Ironborn? They may be krakens but they can’t tell the difference between their beaks and their arms!” More laughter. And some have begun chanting for Euron’s name.

No! Aeron shouts to himself. This is a test, a test for Victarion to be worthy! The Drowned God shall see him to be worthy, he must! HE gives a nervous glance at Asha. Though the girl sticks his tongue at him, he’s glad that his niece at least have a mind to step forward. Even her in place of Euron will be better!

“My Uncle may be a bull in mind but he’s a bull in body as well,” Asha shouts in defiance of Euron, a smirk forming on her lips. “And what of you, one-eyed and one-handed kraken? I’d say my Uncle can fight with one hand tied behind his back, but I see you have no need for that handicap.”

“Oh, but this is no handicap, my dear niece.” That’s when Aeron realises that the bracelets on his brother’s left arm are no mere ornaments but actual serpents, writing and spinning as Euron wields the trident two-handed. He flourishes the weapon, occasionally nearing Aeron’s terrified face before slamming it hard into the ground, cracking the stone beneath. “My eye sees all and my hands wield weapons like no others! Nothing can ever best me on land nor at sea!”

The Silence moves again, this time pacing around the Kingsmoot like a shark ready to pounce. “No kraken can truthfully say that they challenged two demons, and no living man can say that they’ve bested them. For the price of my hand and my lies, the Silence can sail the lands faster than any horses. None in Westeros shall sleep soundly in their high castles when our ships raid their battlements!”

The Silence shudders as it goes above the captains, dumping gold and jewels and chests of treasures from its deck. Many clamber over each other to get their share of gold and weapons. Even Asha is not immune to Crow’s Eye’s bribing. “Euron!” they all begin to shout. “Euron! EURON! EURON!!”

It’s all falling apart for Aeron. The prophecy, the voice, Victarion, all of it. “Can you not see this heresy!?” Aeron tries to remind them all to no avail. “He’s no pious man, he worships demons! He’s no Ironborn!”

Euron snaps his fingers. With that, the gold and treasure on the ground shivers before all of them float like leaves and gather above the golden palanquin, swirling like a maelstrom. The ungodly spectacle brings both cheers and shouts from the Ironborn. “Call for my name,” Euron declares, “and you shall have more than gold. Power. Walking ships. Drowned men! Dead lions and dead wolves! All shall sink beneath the brine! The kraken will reign the drowned world as it’s meant to be. FOR THE IRONBORN!!”

“EURON! EURON! EURON! CROW’S EYE!!”

Pyke

Why?

Why?

Why is it all like this?

Why is it all falling apart?

Was His words mistaken? The voice beneath the waters of Pyke, did the Drowned God not named Victarion as His champion? Nothing was said about that heathen Euron, nor his idol of demons and sorcerers and his walking ship. Damned demon worshipper, nothing more than a godless corsair. Aeron bites his hand raw, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

He thinks. He drinks more saltwater. He prays and prays and prays. He sobs into his dyed wool cloak and bites into his weedy beard, nearly tugging all his hair out. He must do something, anything to stop the heathen from being crowned. Can he leverage the influence of the other priests? How about tell Victarion to break the traditions? Will that prevent Euron from sitting on the Seastone Chair?

…

What am I thinking… He’s already sitting on the chair. It’s already been a week since the Kingsmoot’s finished, a week since Euron was crowned King and a week since he settled himself in what was once Balon’s room. And Aeron is no longer standing below Nagga’s sun-bleached ribs but instead huddled into a corner of the dead maester’s room, books to his left and right. Why is he here? He can’t even read.

No, no that’s not right. I was… I was… Aeron doesn’t remember. None of him remembers why he’s here in this unpleasant room away from the sea where he belongs. A nearby window is open and he can hear the waves crashing below. It’s night. Aeron had failed his God, and now the God is angry. The roaring, the fury, the anger. But Aeron knows that his God is very disappointed in his lack of results, throwing to the winds His holy words and prophecy. Only a fate worse than death is-

The door to the quarters creaks open and Aeron shrinks back into the corner, shielding his face with a book as he whimpers. He’’d been here before, back when he was just a little boy and Euron was awake during-

“Stand up, Damphair. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

That’s not his voice. Putting the book down, he sees instead the large looming figure of Victarion. The older man is wearing some sleeping wear but holds an axe in his hands, though he doesn’t seem eager to use it. “Brother.”

“My niece said that a rat has been wandering the walls of the Bloody Keep. But here I found a coward instead. Sleep in actual bed for once, Damphair.” With that, Victarion exits the room. Aeron quickly follows after him.

“Brother! Brother, you must understand,” Aeron calls Victarion, but the man keeps on walking.

“Euron won the Kingsmoot. The Kingsmoot that you planned and conducted, Aeron. You said that the choice was blessed by the Drowned God himself, and I trusted you,” the large man snarls. Was it Aeron’s fault then that Victarion did not become King? Did his actions bring about the failure?

No! It must not be! I am the Drowned God’s prophet, not a simple priest! The words, the words, the- “The Drowned God, brother. He chose a champion. It’s supposed to be you sitting on the Seastone Chair! You are his champion, not that heathen who claims to still be a kraken!”

Victarion stops walking, his grip on the axe tightening.

“Victarion,” Aeron speaks softly to his brother. “I heard Him beneath the waves. He said your name, not Euron’s.”

“Maybe you’re mistaken,” he replies, shocking the priest. “Maybe… Maybe your ears are going bad, brother. Euron is my King, and he is your King as well. We shall do no more of this treasonous talk if you want to keep your head.” And with that, the Iron Captain walks away into the depths of the Bloody Keep, ignoring the shouts of his younger brother.

…

Aeron now knows that at the very least, Victarion is very unhappy of the decision of that Kingsmoot. No man is happy, least of all someone with a personal hatred of Euron. Yet, it’ll be hard in trying to convince him to go against his brother. His King. The Iron Captain is as dull as a bull but more stubborn than one, making this treasonous decision hard to accomplish.

So how?

Aeron decides to leave the walls of Pyke altogether. Ever since that heathen sat on the Seastone Chair, he had put up strange symbols of his demonic idols all around the castle. Every corner of every hall and on top of every door he’ll find them. And for a Priest of the Drowned God, such blasphemous things are not at all welcome.

Now he stands at the beach with its grey sand and clay shelf. The moon is a waning crescent now, and in a few days’ time it’ll be a new moon. The only thing that shines brighter in the sky is that red streak, bathing the beach in a dim red glow. Aeron knows it to be a message of war but from whom? The Drowned God or the Storm God?

The tide is currently receding. He postponed this meeting for too long and now not have much time let to be in the hands of the Drowned God. I must be a better priest, Aeron thinks as he disrobes himself, placing his clothes at the shoreline. No, even more. A better prophet, one who’ll understand our God’s words.

The waves lap around his body, the cold water softly caressing him and sending vicious chills down his body. But this is nothing, just a normal part of his worship. Once the water reaches his stomach, he secures his feet in some rocky crevices before dunking his entire body under the water. The salt soon fills his nostrils and burn his eyes, but he must endure it. He must know what the Drowned God has to say to him.

…

But there’s no answer. Resurfacing and gasping for air, a part of Aeron wonders if his God had truly abandoned him for his failure. Euron is King. No, I am his prophet! I will hear his words! Ad again, he dunks himself under the water.

To be in the sea is to be in the hands of his Lord. Here, the line between the dead and the living blurs as his body cools to be one with the sea. Now water fills his mouth and he can see animals gathering around him. Only here can he be safe from Euron’s heretical sorceries, away from those demons and idols.

Aeron feels his chest tighten and slowly struggling for a breath of fresh air. But moments before he resurfaces he can hear low whispers in the water. Sadly, his body can’t stand much longer and he stands back up into the sea air, coughing out the water that has gone down his throat. The water has dipped even further now, and soon he’ll be unable to speak with Him until tomorrow.

His throat hurts and his eyes burn, but he must do it. One more time, he convinces himself. One more time and I’ll hear my God’s message. One more time!

He dunks his body again, using his arms to push himself lower into the water. The pain is fiercer now, a few cuts appearing on his body for brushing against the sharp rocks of the beach.

But the voice comes to him precise and clear, like a blade sharpened to a glimmer. “Victarion is my champion,” says a passing school of catfish, swimming under his nose. “Crow’s Eye will not stay here,” says an octopus, wrapping its powerful tentacles around his neck. His vision is getting weaker, and he can feel his body turning cold. “Do what needs to be done!”

Aeron bursts out of the sea, dragging himself to dry ground and coughing out the water filling his lungs. He hits his chest, each time spitting out more sand and water from his mouth. Crabs fall out of his hair and the octopus slithers back into the water. Now he’s alone at the beach, not even seagulls to watch his revelation. What needs to be done.

What needs to be done …

…

Aeron smiles. His God has spoken to him again; he’s still His prophet. He is still worthy. “What is dead may never die,” he whispers into the sea, “but rises again, harder and stronger.”

He stands there at the beach as the tide recedes, leaving him to dry with the cold Northern winds. Above him stands Pyke, the seat of House Greyjoy and the place where the Seastone Chair now resides. And now the Great Keep is a place of idolatry and vice, he spits into the sand before wearing his clothes again.

Now the question lies on how Aeron will depose that heretic, that man who cavorts and dances with demons of shadow and smoke. No part of Euron’s flesh is devout, thus he’s not at all fit to even touch the Seastone Chair. In the end, he must make Victarion take the throne; by force if needed.

But what of kinslaying? he wonders. Even if it’s to remove a heretic, that act is so sinful that even the Storm God would grow disapproving of it. Aeron sighs; there’s still so much for him to do. This is not even considering the heathens back at the green lands and their supposed sorcerer prophets; maybe Euron gained support from them as well. But at the very least he’s sure of one thing.

That red streak in the sky.

It is a call for war.

Pyke

"So,” Asha yawns as she leans on her open door. It took Victarion several hard knocks to wake her up, and even now she looks half-asleep. “Did you kill the rat?”

“It was no rat, Asha. Damphair was in the maester’s quarters.”

“Explains all the whimpering,” she chuckles. “The man’s more than twice my age but he cries like a sweet maiden whenever he sees Uncle. No kraken is supposed to be that weak in the knees.”

“Have you seen what our King has done to the Great Hall? As a fellow devout like Damphair, I find what he has done there nothing short of blasphemy.”

“Oh, don’t be such a hard-ass, Uncle. Your brother’s King! And like any good reaver, he’s simply showing us all the plunder he has taken! Have you seen the jewels he put up near the doors? Never seen anything like it. Besides, as King, he wants to impress his court, wouldn’t you agree?” She smiles smugly at him.

Victarion wonders since when have his niece gotten so… Detestable. He suspects that perhaps it’s because his late brother Balon allowed her to captain her own longship, or perhaps even before that with Theon becoming a ward of the Starks of Winterfell. A kraken imprisoned on land… So Balon let a girl become a captain. But worst of all, he sees a shadow of Euron in her words and actions. “You still pray to the Drowned God, don’t you?”

“Pray to him every night and day and every time I step onto my ship, Uncle. I’m not stupid…” She yawns again, louder this time. “It’s pretty late and I have some plans with my crew in the morning. So, see ya.”

“Asha, I am not fi-”

*SLAM*

He tries for the door but hears a bar being set down. There’s no use in trying to break down the girl’s door with an axe, so he’ll just talk to her in the morning. “Such disrespect,” Victarion grumbles. “I’d expected Balon to have raised you better than this.” I never understand why he didn’t just marry you off to the other captains once you first flowered, but instead we have you here. Captaining a longship.

What a disgrace.

But there’s no use complaining about it now; he’ll talk to her again in the morning. It’s near the hour of the wolf now. Not even the thralls or servants are awake at this time, leaving Victarion all by himself in the Great Keep of Pyke.

But he feels no peace.

Balon is gone, feasting with mermaids and krakens in the watery halls of the Drowned God. Now, there are only two more krakens in charge of their new brother-King, Euron. Euron Crow’s Eye. The heathen who dishonoured Victarion not that long ago.

And now that he’s back at Pyke, the new Iron King seems to have made it his mission to debase the land even further. Victarion enters the Great Hall where the Seastone Chair stands, but most of it is obscured from the various wooden scaffoldings Euron had put in place. The man assigned some of his strange mutes to draw and carve into the ancient walls of Pyke, writing into the stone strange glyphs and images. It doesn’t matter if the men in charge are skilled for they are still defacing millennium old Greyjoy history.

But that’s not the most blasphemous thing Euron has done. Standing to the Chair’s left and right are two tall wooden seats, its inside hidden away by coloured veils of silk. The seats of Euron’s ‘demons,’ one encrusted with rubies and lapis lazuli while the other is wreathed in chains of silver.

Never once did Victarion saw the ‘demons’ hidden away in the shadows, and even now they’re not present here. But at least he knows something lives there for the amount of food and liquor they consume. What demon is satisfied by cheap brandy? Victarion wonders. Must be some beggar or sorcerer Euron had picked up.

The only fine addition to the place is the two skulls adorning the seats: Baelor Blacktyde and Gylbert Farwynd. They raised their arms against his brother, and as the Iron Captain he brought them both down. Only a fool would go against the first Iron King in more than three-hundred years.

But it’s strange. The Blacktyde’s betrayal was expected; Victarion never puts trust in a man who follows false gods. But the Farwynd? The old man shouted strange things as he was dragged to the block, but never once did he shout for his life. No, he voiced out ridiculous claims that Euron stole seals and spotted whales from his islands. None of them died by drowning and their bodies are going to be buried on land. No honour for traitors, especially one with mad ramblings.

The closer he walks towards the seats, the stronger the smell of liquor and rot become. His King made a point of their bodies by feeding them to the ‘demons,’ or cannibals. That’s another thing Victarion is not going to get used to: they house cannibals in the Pyke. But it’s his King’s words, so he must follow it through.

His King.

Euron.

Euron is King now.

The brother he convinced Balon to banish. The brother who took down the golden kraken for demonic heralds. The brother who litter Pyke with his trinkets and blasphemy. The brother who dishonoured and gifted Victarion with his spawn.

…

The Iron Captain takes a deep breath before releasing the iron grip on his axe. Euron is my King, he reminds himself. I must serve him appropriately. Treasonous thought are not fitting for the Captain of the Iron Fleet.

But the seats, the demon banners, the renovations… None quells his anger nor worry. He’s reminded of Damphair’s words, how he was supposed to be the Drowned God’s champion. None of that came true. You’re supposed to be His prophet, Aeron. Was Euron right when he said that your ears are blocked to the truth?

Victarion hopes that all this thinking will make him tired enough to go back to bed, but sadly it does not come to fruition. Seeing what his home is slowly turning into is keeping him awake longer than the promise of battle.

So instead he decides to continue his walk through the halls of the Great Keep; either sleep finds him or he does. But even here in the area only traversed by servants he can find signs of his brother’s doing; strange carvings lie eye-level at the walls bearing symbols unknown to him. And below an unfinished image are some hammer and chisels, no doubt the workers will be back by morning. What madness did he pick up during his banishment?

Turning a corner he finds his brother leaning on an open window. The grip on his axe tighten for a moment. “Ah, brother,” Euron speaks, a sly smile on his face as he sips from a golden cup. “Care to join me on this fine night?”

And since Euron is his King, Victarion can’t really refuse the offer. But the man’s appearance… He was only away for two years yet he has come back looking like this. On his fingers shine bejewelled rings, while his serpent hand’s scales glimmer in the dark. The older man haven’t aged a day since he left Pyke, with most of his features free of wrinkles and scars.

But what pisses the Iron Captain more is the Iron King’s clothing. Rather than the usual black and golden attire worn by previous Lord of Pyke, Euron have eschewed it for some ostentatious green and blue frilly robes. What will people say when they see my brother in court? That the Lord Reaper of Pyke, the Iron King, dresses like a eunuch!? You bring ruins to our name by existing, brother.

“You don’t look happy,” the Iron King chuckles as he watches the world outside. “Care to tell me why, dear Vic?”

“Don’t ever call me Vic. And you damn well know why, Euron.”

Euron tuts at his words. “Now now, Victarion. I may not be wearing a crown right now, but I have no need to remind you I’m King now, do I?”

“…No, your grace,” Victarion bows his head. “I apologise.”

To this shameful act, the Crow’s Eye’s grin grows larger before breaking into laughter. Victarion looks up in confusion. “Oh brother, you actually did it! That was merely a jest, a sibling jest. No doubt you lack that while I was away, hmm? Come now, raise your head. When we’re alone, I am simply your brother.”

…He’d just been made a fool. And it takes nearly all his patience and devotion to not slam his axe down into his brother- his King’s skull. Committing two great sins at once would be…

“Would you like a cup?” Euron offers a silver goblet containing some sweet-smelling blue liquid, with his serpent hand no less. “This should calm you more than walking ever will.”

“No.”

“Alright then.” He pours it out the window. “But accompany me, brother. I’m sure you have a lot of things in your… Mind.”

Victarion opens a window further away from him, keeping a careful glance at his brother as well. The sea breeze is such a fine thing tonight, for the Drowned God brings the ocean onto land. But now… “Euron.”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you come back?”

His brother chuckles, and the answer is not immediate. “I… Care for what happens to you, Victarion. You, Aeron, little Asha, even Theon who is kidnapped by the Starks. I want to make your futures… Extraordinary. That’s why I’ve come ashore.”

“And crown yourself the Iron King?”

No answer.

“An Iron King holds not only the name of House Greyjoy, but the honours and traditions of the Ironborn as well. As your brother and Captain of the Iron Fleet, I shall say this: you are a godless wretch put ashore by the Storm God to test us. Aeron is right.”

“Damphair,” Euron sneers. “Look down below for our dear prophet, brother. The one who bathe with crabs and talk to the fish. What do you think of him?”

“A craven.”

“Hah, truly?”

“The man hides behind books in your presence,” Victarion says as he watches his younger brother march on towards the main gate of Pyke. “A kraken who hide is no kraken, brother. But even with all of that, he’s more of an Ironborn than you’ll ever be. Your ‘demons’ too are cravens, hiding beneath their silks. And what of you, brother? You godless heathen who wrenched the Seastone Chair from us devout?”

“Godless,” Euron scoffs. “I remember him telling me that he hears voices under the water. One of my mutes can hear voices as well, though they mostly convince him to carve open little girls. Do you not wonder then, brother, where does the voice Damphair hears come from?”

“The sea.” Aeron have been a great guiding force for all in the Iron Islands. The man led Balon to greater plans and truths, and forged the Ironborn to be of one faith and one truth. But the voice he heard told him that I’m the Drowned God’s champion. So why…

“The sea…” Euron sighs, leaning even lower on the open window, pouring out the rest of his drink and dropping the cup. Someone will have to fetch that later. “May I tell you a story from my voyage?”

“No.”

“It’s worth it, trust me,” Euron grins, his bright blue eye shining in the red streak’s light. “After I made a deal with those demons, I… Planned to sail North. But when I passed Lannisport, that old place, you know what I saw?”

…There’s no use in not answering, is there? “Whales. A cog full of gold.”

“A mermaid! A damned real mermaid, the first ever I’ve set my eyes on,” he exclaims, clearly excited in telling Victarion this story. A far-fetched tale, but at least nothing blasphemous about it. “It was a beautiful thing with the fair face of a maiden and blue hair like the sky. And no man could resist its beautiful body, I can tell you that much.”

“And so you hunted her.”

“As with our late brother Balon, I’m a firm believer in the Old Way. What is mine I take from others.”

Others. Like what you’ve done to my wife. “A mermaid as a salt wife. That would be an incredible feat, but I didn’t see any mermaids at the Kingsmoot.”

Euron sighs, no doubt in Victarion’s mind from another lie. “It is a shame I must admit, brother, that I accidentally speared her through the spine with the trident. Such a powerful weapon, but perhaps far too strong for a mermaid.”

“Of course you did.”

“But we did bring her onto the ship, cold and dead like the sea. Her clothes are the ones I’m wearing now,” he spreads his arms wide. “Such strange materials, like spider silk. The rest of her body was quite smooth as well. I gave her gorgeous head and torso to my crew while I toiled with the lower, more perplexing part. The thing that differentiates merlings with man. And you know what I found?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Euron sighs again, now sounding dejected. “Her fish parts tasted like bream and her organs were like a human woman’s. But if I’m honest with you, that’s not the most interesting part. For you see, during the hunt where the demons aided me, the mermaid screamed and prayed for her life. Do you know which god she called for salvation?”

Such simple questions. Even Asha can answer this, and she’s not one to hear Aeron’s teachings. “Mermaids serve dead Ironborn in the watery halls. They have no lords but the Drowned God.”

“Wrong!”

“Wrong!?” Victarion turns to Euron, both parts confusion and anger. “What is this blasphemy you speak of!?”

“It’s not my blasphemy I speak of but the mermaid’s, brother. Take it up with her,” he chuckles. “Yes, she did not speak for his name but instead some queer god that even I have not heard of. But the demons have heard of that name,” Euron grins, lips as blue as his eyes. “They know that name and hundreds more.”

“You lie.”

“I can’t lie, brother. I sold my hand and my lies to have the demon’s services.”

“I don’t believe your words, heathen,” Victarion huffs. “Stop speaking of blasphemy.”

“And they tell me even stranger things,” Euron continues, ignoring his brother’s complaints. “One said that the history, present, and future of our world have been written down in squid ink on a… book. We are simply living out what’s already written. But I wonder, are there any other books on that shelf? Do you ever ask yourself that, brother? Can the ink from this book stain all the others black?”

“…You best keep that speech away from the others,” Victarion threatens him. The King might be older, but the man has lack of control for his tongue. “It’s fine to speak strange riddles in my presence. But if Damphair hears any of this, let alone all the other Lords and captains… Even I will be unable to help.”

“Of course you think of them as riddles,” Euron snorts. “Of course… As the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, are you not my right hand man? One of my most trusted advisor?”

“Yes I am,” he steps closer to his King. “I command them in your name.”

“And you shall do a fine job at it, brother. You will be my champion then.”

Champion? “And what do you mean by this?”

“It is the truth when I tell you that I care for your future, Victarion. But while I have sailed through the secretive lands of Essos, most Ironborn here have not seen further than the Stepstones. You’ve sailed to the Free Cities, and no doubt Asha did the same, but none have raided Westeros since our rebellion many years ago. But that will change. Kneel.”

Victarion kneels, holding his axe below his chin, not sure of what’s to come. Then he feels the familiar scent and taste of saltwater pouring down his head. A blessing from his King.

“I have great plans for us all. One that shall make every green dweller fear our names, and no castles shall be able to hide them. And you,” he feels Euron’s serpent hand wrap around his shoulder, “shall be the Reaper of Westeros. The devout, the faithless, the maidens, the mothers, the warriors, all shall fear your golden kraken. And so rise, Victarion Greyjoy. Be the chaos in my stead.”

Victarion. He might be a stubborn man, a devout man, a vengeful man. But under the command of his King, he must comply.

From that night on, he’s no God’s champion. Only Euron’s.

Chapter Text

Pyke

“C’mon you sleepyheads! The King’s one-handed but I’ve seen him lift boxes faster than you!”

“Then why isn’t he here?”

“Cause he’s the King, you dolt. Maybe you should be called a moron rather than a maid.”

“Ain’t the sharpest sword, are you Qarl?” Tristifer Botley laughs, the wind playing with his long hair.

“At least mine’s bigger and has a sheath,” Qarl bites back. “What are you even doing here, Botley? This is Asha’s ship, yours is to the West of the Iron Victory.”

“You dare speak to me like that, thrall boy?” Tris drops the boxes, causing arrows to litter the deck. “Why, come-”

“Oy!” Asha slaps the Botley’s back with the flat of her axe. “No fighting! We ain’t even out of Lordsport! Pick up those arrows and put the boxes else step off my ship. The Black Wind don’t like her own crew’s blood be spilled, but you’re not my crew. Are you, Tris?”

“Sorry Asha,” he answers back, picking up the boxes to the snickering of her crew. A glare keeps them silent but not wipe the grins off their faces.

She huffs, latching the axe back to her belt. Asha knows well that Tris has affections for her. And sure, he has grown out of the pimply skin he used to have as a boy and into that of a handsome man, but none of his advances appeals to her. Especially all that children bullshit. The only true relationship she has is with her ship the Black Wind. Maybe Qarl as well, but they both know to keep it loose.

Compared to the Maid, Tris is an anchor keeping her on the Islands, and she’d rather forage to the Stepstones than stay.

“Where are we even going anyway?” Qarl asks, putting down a box full of supplies and cracking his back. “Seems awfully large for a trip to the Arbor.”

Asha stands up on the prow of her ship, scanning over the entirety of Lordsport. So many ships gathered in one place. The last time it was this full was during their failed Rebellion by her father. Don’t tell me Uncle is planning the same thing… We have even less ships than before! “Don’t know, I can’t read Uncle’s mind.”

“Heh, betcha the man went a bit mad with booze,” says Six-toed Harl, tying up the ropes for the sail. “Whispers in the wind said Lord Balon was mad as well.”

“You starting to listen to the Storm God now? I thought Damphair was the only one,” Asha chuckles before adding steel to her voice. “That’s two overlords you’ve insulted, both of them my blood. Wanna become No-toe for a change?”

“Oh come on, can’t I do a jab? He’s your Uncle!”

“Yeah, and he fed Lord Farwynd and Blacktyde to his silk demons. He’s not father, I can tell you that much.”

“Fine,” Harl grumbles. “The Arbor better have damn good maidens and peaches.”

“Why take maidens from there when we have Qarl?”

“You sick fuck!” Qarl cackles.

“Hey, put a blindfold on and you can’t tell the difference!” The crew laughs, and the Botley boy seems to take it all in good stride as well. So early in the morning, the sun’s barely over the horizon and yet here she is with her crew. Not that she’d rather be anywhere else; her Uncle Victarion’s love is often as cold as his axe.

Her answer to Qarl was a bit of a white lie as well. While she doesn’t know the specific, she heard enough bits and pieces here and there about Essos and Qarth. The thought excites her since she barely went beyond the Free Cities in her raids. And that’s going to be quite the surprise for my crew.

“Aren’t cha going to help?”

“I’m captain,” she grins, “and a lady. Why must I do the man’s share of work?” She languishes on the prow of the ship, earning a few grins and long stares from her crew.

“The Maid here’s more a lady than you are.”

“Hey! That’s… True, actually.” Qarl nods.

“Fine, I help you bunch of pansies out.”

The supplies consists mostly of dried meats, some water, and lots of arrows and spare weapons. The plan is to take the Arbor’s supplies and wines, but Asha does wonder if her mad Uncle-King remembers the Redwyne Fleet. If any of their ships see the Ironborn near their waters, they would soon be on them like sharks to a dead body. He surely has a plan, right? He won’t just charge our ships into the war galleys, the same one that took down our Rebellion?

“Asha! Got a minute?”

Putting down a box, she turns to the wharf and sees none other than her Uncle Rodrik the Reader. A book in hand of course, the man never leaves home without one. “Sure. Not much going on here anyway.” She jumps down from her ship to the complaints of her crew. “It’s been a while.”

“Ever since that Kingsmoot, yes,” he answers her, though his eyes stay glued to the pages. Asha may be able to read, but she much prefers throwing axes than to be some bookie. Leaning over she sees the cover: The Great Iron Kings.

“Want to see how my other Uncle compare to those lot? A bit unfair since his ink is not even dry.”

“Not exactly,” he closes the book. Oh, this is serious. “We need to talk, Asha. In a more private area. Mind we go back to my ship?”

“No problem.”

The two walk down the wharf and into the main port before heading East. Though Rodrik’s ship is a sizeable one, the others catch more of her attention. Cogs and galleys litter the port, no doubt prizes from Ironborn raids. The two great longships Iron Victory and Great Kraken stands out among the rest, overshadowing even the likes of her Black Wind. She wonders who’ll captain her father’s ship since the man died.

Her Uncle-King’s ship however, the Silence, floats alone from all the others on the Easternmost wharf. Her strange mutes scuttle about on the port, giving Asha strange looks that make her spine shivers. Come to think of it, I saw them near the Great Kraken as well. Fucking creeps.

Finally she climbs aboard Rodrik’s ship, the Sea Maester. A sad name for a sad man, she thinks. After shooing away the rest of the crew, the two sit down in the captain’s quarters. Books litter the desk as her Uncle sighs deeply, dark bags hanging from is eyes. “Someone dragged you under the waters.”

“It’s about Aeron. He came by your mother yesterday.”

“Mother… Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve seen her. How is she?”

“She’s as fine as she could be, though sometimes she like to speak about ill things. But that’s not what I dragged you here for. No, it’s your uncle,” he raps his fingers on the table, brows furrowed as the man tries to build his words. In Asha’s eyes, all that reading have not made him a poet. “I fear he has betrayed our King.”

“…Betrayal.”

“Yes.”

“And what proof you bring to this baseless accusation?”

“I know for sure that Damphair did not take Euron’s crowning lightly. You saw how he laughed during the Kingsmoot; that was not the sound of a person with a sound mind.”

“He was never of sound mind, Uncle. Why do you think he hears voices in the waves?” Asha scoffs. “Is that all?”

“No. I couldn’t get much out of your mother; you know how she is. However, when I tried to offer him a room to stay and some food, he refused and instead went back to his ship the Salt Tongue. My men at sea last saw the ship sailing to the North, taking with him some of the drowned priests on the island. They tried to give chase but your uncle never lost his skills,” Rodrik lets out a dry chuckle. “I think…”

“Spit it out.”

“I think he’s trying to find the boy, Theon. Bring him back to the Iron Islands.”

Her brother… How long has it been since he was taken from the Iron Islands as the Starks’ prisoner? She barely remembers him all those years ago, nothing more than a little boy. “He’s with a pack of wolves, Uncle. I doubt he’s even a kraken.”

“But Aeron wants him all the same,” Rodrik pushes. “He’s Balon’s only living son. If Damphair tries to raid the Starks in order to gain him back there might not be much chance of a success. But what if he informs them of our plans, get them to go against us? Then we have the Seven Kingdoms knocking on our doors again and blood will fill the seas.”

“We’re already going to raid the Arbor, break our pact with the Iron Throne, Uncle! We sail South and-”

“-And the ravens would fly. They fly far and wide, carrying with them dark words of our coming. Then the Redwyne Fleet would be ready for us, no matter how much scheming Crow’s Eye is doing with those damn demons. Forget the Arbor, we wouldn’t be able to sail past the Shield Islands if that was the case!”

Asha drums her finger on the table, frustration slowly setting in. “And why tell me this? Why not Uncle, our King?”

“He frightens me,” Rodrik confesses, his voice lowering to a whisper. “You were away when he was banished, Asha, and were too young to know of what he did to his eye. Damn it, I still remember that day,” the man shivers. “If I tell him this, his first act would be to kill Damphair and Theon.”

“I doubt he’ll commit kinslaying,” she leans back on the chair.

“Do you truly believe that, Asha? A man like your Uncle would refrain from such a sinful act?”

She groans; there’s truth in his words, and she does not like that one bit. Though she won’t take kindly to her own brother trying to usurp a position that is rightly hers, killing him is far too much. “So what are you proposing? He’ll be sure to expect Aeron present for the meeting.”

“I’ll say that his ships are on Harlaw, resting for the journey. And if the King sends ships to my island, I’ll say that Aeron has taken it upon himself to scout the North. It’s not much of a lie, but at least it’ll explain his presence there. And here’s what I’ll do.” Rodrik pulls a map from a shelf, splaying it out on the table. It shows the Western coast of the North, from the Neck up to and beyond the Wall. “I’ve sent small ships and skiffs on the lookout for Damphair; none would be missed in the Iron Fleet. If all goes well, they should drag him back to Harlaw for safekeeping and a messenger would be sent for me.”

“And if he reaches Theon first?”

“…Then we can voice his betrayal,” he folds the map up. “I’ll tell Euron that Aeron deceived me with his talk to prophecies and ask for justice to be put against him. Hopefully it will not come to that,” Rodrik sighs. “I’d rather nip this problem in the bud rather than risk killing one of your blood; the Greyjoys are getting shorter as of late.”

“Right then,” Asha stands up. “Uncle’s meeting should start soon so you need to go now if you want to lie.”

“Aye, that I shall.” Rodrik grabs a new book from the table before departing from his ship. They passes by one of the strange mutes, a large bearded man with mud-brown skin. Good thing they can’t talk, Asha thinks. Here’s hoping that they’re as dim as they look.

The walk to Pyke is an uneventful one, though as they near the gatehouse she sees quite a few lords and captains already gathered for the meeting. Fortunately, being family, she can cut the line and walk straight into the Great Keep.

Though Asha spends most of her time at sea rather than Pyke, there’s no love lost between her and her birthplace. It has always been a damp and dreary castle, with no kind winds of the sea and far too much dampness to be comfortable. At least my room likes to stay dry. Soon they reach the chattering inside the Great Hall, but upon looking inside she sees the Seastone Chair empty. Her King is not here, and neither are the shadows inside the palanquins.

“I’ll be staying here, to inform him when he arrives,” says Rodrik, his head buried in a book. “You going back to your ship?”

“Yes. Though I’m curious about our plans, I’ll let my Uncle Victarion hammer out the details of this voyage. No doubt they’ll be asking for my hand if I stay here,” he grimaces, watching the younger sons of captains and Lords stare at her with hunger.

“And fingers will litter the floor.”

“Cocks too,” she chuckles. “Stay safe.”

“You as well.”

And so she turns to the bridges for the Sea Tower, where the Lords of Greyjoys’ past reside with their solar and bedroom. Though her Uncle’s plan sounds all well and good, she has a nagging feeling that it’ll bite her back soon enough. Maybe it’s best I inform Uncle, she thinks to herself, whistling as she walks. I may care for Damphair, but if it’s my neck or his on the block, I’ll choose his. Of course, she still plans to plead for mercy, however that much is worth to the Crow’s Eye. Maybe mercy is only an axe to him.

She crosses the first stone bridge easily, then the second one slower due to all the built up moss making it slick. The third bridge, the ropeway, she holds tightly the ropes as a wind sways the bridge left and right. At this height she’ll break her neck the moment she hits the water. “Damn it,” she growls. “A thousand years and you still haven’t made it stone!?”

Finally she reaches the mouldy door to the tower. Before she could knock, Asha hears the sound of the bars lifted and latch unlocked. The door swings open by itself; no one’s there. Not a guard nor a servant. Her hand is on the hilt of her dirk as she enters the tower, looking cautiously as the only light is from open windows.

The door slams shut and she whirls around, stabbing the blade to whatever fool is trying to take her. But there’s nothing- No, there is something. Wispy black smoke twirls around her blade before retreating back into the dark. She gulps and puts the axe on her right hand. Someone’s here.

“Well that’s kinda rude, don’t cha think, girlie?”

Asha turns around, back to the door as she scans the room. That was a voice she does not recognise, quite young at that. No odd shadows hiding here, but there’s a glint of movement coming from atop the stony spiral staircase. “Come,” the voice beckons. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to just stand around. Take a load off and relax!”

“Show yourself, craven!” she spits, wary of what’s around her. Is that person the only one? Where is the King?

“Hehe, fine fine, I’ll yield.” Black smoke billows all around her and gather themselves up the spiral staircase, as if a whirlwind come to life. Then it takes form and turns solid, absorbing all light before revealing…

“The demon.”

“That’s me!” the demon cheers, swaying a bit with a half-empty wine bottle in hand. “Suika Ibuki is my name!”

The demon… Is not at all what Asha expected. She thought the creature would be some fucked up amalgamation of horns and flesh, but the one standing before her looks like a little girl with shining orange hair. A strange dress adorns it while chains wrapped around its arms and legs. If one saw the demon from the neck down, they would assume it to be some girl slave taken from a Tyroshi ship.

What makes the thing stands out however are the large branch-like horns adorning its head, all decorated nicely with white and purple ribbons. And those teeth, Asha shivers. A vicious mixture between boar and and shark. A demon true to their name…

“Why so pale?” the demon asks, downing the bottle before setting it down on the stairs. Its brown eyes shine in the dark like a hungry cat. “First time seeing a demon?”

“…Yes.” Asha clips her axe but keeps her dirk out; there’s no telling what this creature will do. “The stories are certainly wrong about what monsters appears as. And I thought you’re merely some sorcerer taken by my Uncle.”

“Taken ain’t the right word, though I can’t say the same for the other,” it cackles, sitting cross-legged on the bottom steps. After getting her wits together, she realises that the demon looks real short, probably shorter than herself when she was ten. Its head barely reaches her chest. “Nah, both of us lost the challenges and signed binding contracts with him. We help him out here and there.”

“Here and there,” Asha draws closer, smelling the alcohol and sweet rot from the demon’s breath. “Like making the Silence walk? Or that trick with the gold coins?”

“Ain’t that cool? My idea by the way, certainly not the other demon’s,” it waves its hand dismissively. Fairy tales said that demons like to lie, so is this thing telling the truth? “I could make your ship walk if you’d like. I have power to spare.”

“No, I’d rather feel the sway of my ship rather than let a demon row me into hell. Where is Uncle?”

“Mister Eyepatch’s upstairs in the solar room, though he’s busy with the other demon. Very busy,” the demon smirks.

The nickname makes her chortle; seems that the thing is more amiable than she expected. “Very well, I’ll interrupt him. I’m sure his niece is more important than whatever a demon talks about.”

“Suit yourself.”

Asha steps over the creature’s horned head and walks upstairs, but glances back to make sure that the thing is not following her. Nearing the solar, she quickens her pace but stops upon hearing some noises. Groaning, slapping, and a lot of moaning. She closes her eyes, pushing down that horrible image back into the depths, before descending the stairs, not caring that she kicks the demon’s head. “Ow, careful now,” the demon complains, a different bottle in hand still full of brandy. “So how’s your uncle? Managed to interrupt him?”

“My Uncle is fucking a demon.” Those words feel so foreign to her lips, just like- Gods no, get out of my head! “Care to tell me why?”

The demon shrugs. “They have a thing for ship captains. And since your uncle has that eyepatch, a nice ship, and a mysterious air about him, damned demon couldn’t keep their hands off of him!” it cackles. “So much for claiming to be older when you’re so easily pleased by a toy. Not that I’m complaining,” the demon drinks the bottle before setting it aside. How much could that thing handle? “From the sound of it, he’s a good fuck.”

That much is apparent, though not at all palpable to Asha’s ears. Listening from the bottom floor, she can still hear some of the other demon’s pleasured cries. She eyes the little demon Suika carefully, wondering if the other one looks similar to it. So that’s the kind of person my Uncle’s after. “You’re telling me you demons are willing to lend your mighty hands for some good dicking? Well, lucky for you I know a few in my crew that-”

“I ain’t easy, girlie,” the demon shoots her down. “Not interested in men anyway. What you need is a good bottle of booze to win me over. That and a bit more.”

“If it’s wine you’re after then- No…” Realisation quickly dawns on her. The plans to raid the Arbor. “Are you telling me that we’re raiding the Arbor for your sake? So that wine could fill your damn belly!?”

“An island of wine sounds like a dream come true for me~” the demon’s words slurred from all the wine in its blood. “My suggestion as well.”

“Do you know what else the Arbor has? The Redwynes!”

“Red wine’s nice, sweeter than white wine.”

“No, the Redwyne Fleet you drunk!” Asha flicks the demon’s forehead, causing it to flinch. “Damn biggest navy in Westeros right now, all because of our failed rebellion a decade ago. And you want us to sail right into their ranks and steal the drinks from their table? Have that thousands of years of drinking made your head soft?”

“I’m only a thousand year old, girlie, and a few centuries.” The demon leans back on the steps, looking quite carefree with its decision to send the Ironborn to their doom. “I told you to relax, didn’t I? All that stress ain’t good for your muscles.”

“And an axe to the head is not good for my neck.”

“I’m helping you guys out. Trust me, those ships of theirs would be no problem. Wanna drink?”

“No.” Asha feels doubtful of its words. It’s one thing to lift a ship into the air and make it walk on land, but another to suicidally charge into a navy fleet. To be led around by a drunk and a whore… Is this what it feels like to be that fatty Robert Baratheon? “I’m leaving. Tell Uncle that his subjects are already waiting at the Great Hall.”

“Will do. But hey, may I spare ya a few words of advice?”

“What?” Asha turns around, hands already lifting the bars of the door. “If your advice is to drink and fuck, my crew has that covered.”

“Nah, not that. A simple advice, that’s all,” the demon’s grin grows wider, as if it knows some terrible secrets that’s best left unsaid. “Love your other uncles and say your goodbyes before the voyage. Ye won’t be seeing them for some time.”

“Is Crow’s Eye planning to send them off?”

“In a way,” the demon chuckles, this time its voice sounding far more deep and threatening. “Good luck, girlie. You’ll need it.”

Asha leaves the Sea Tower, welcoming the sway of the rope-bridge and the salt-spray of the sea. All much better than the dark smoke the demon exudes. Though the sun’s not far up from the horizon, she feels as if having gone through the whole day sprinting and sailing. A nap is what she needs right now, maybe in the cot of her ship with familiar smells and sounds.

“Fucking demon fucker…”

Pyke

For most Lords, there’s no better way to spend their time than to drink and feast to their heart’s contents. The Kitchen Keep of Pyke have been doing tremendous work over the last few days to prepare today’s meals which is attended by most Lords and captains of the Iron Islands. It’s a celebration after all in preparation for their eventual raiding of not only Westeros but Essos as well.

The tables are littered with pork stuffed with birds, squids and clams marinated in exotic spices, grilled swordfish and tuna decorated with flakes of gold; all food fitting for an Iron King.

But he ’s not here.

Victarion sits nearest to the Seastone Chair, dressed in his finest black leathers and his heavy golden kraken cloak. He swirls the wine in his hand, passing the time until Euron arrives to conduct the meeting. Some softer lords suggested that he simply eat his fill, but he would have none of that; a meeting with the King is not supposed to be done while drunk, but these Lords seem to not mind that fact.

Neither do they mind the bones of the late Farwynd and Blacktyde hanging above the demons’ gold and ebony palanquins. Not that Victarion cares for them: they’re traitors to the end, and none of their bones deserve the sea.

On his plate are half-carved pieces of pork and squid. Though the savoury spices relieved his stomach, it does nothing to quench his worries. Not unnoticed by him is that his niece Asha and brother Aeron are not present. He has an inkling of where she could be, and he’s disappointed that she won’t be attending this one. But what of Aeron? He last saw the man aboard his ship the Salt Tongue, departing for Harlaw with a gaggle of drowned priest. I hope the Drowned God will lead him off the treacherous path he’s on. It’ll be the death of him.

He spots the Reader sitting near Lord Gorold Goodbrother, though the man is more focused on a book rather than his plate. Victarion can’t read the title and nor does he care; reading is for fools who care more about past glories rather than the future. Weaklings.

Sipping on his wine, he feels goosebumps rising on his skin. The clamour dies down and a cold autumn chill settles on their bones. Something’s wrong.

Then the main door shakes, as if a battering ram hitting against it. The servants and maids scatter to the side rooms, hiding behind pillars as the Lords and captains draw their weapons. Victarion curses himself for leaving his axe back in his quarters as he grabs a nearby dagger. Who dares to attack us when our best is-

The door bursts open and a thick black smoke blankets the room, enveloping all the attendants. It feels as if a thousand fingernails are pricking his skin. “At arms!” he commands. “Secure the doors and open the-”

“My my, so quick to action aren’t you, dear Vic?” says the billowing smoke. “That is a fine quality.”

“…Crow’s Eye.”

If darkness could smile he would have seen it. The smoke slithers past their legs and clambers over the terrified servants before coalescing at the Seastone Chair. And there, swirling like a whirlwind of the Storm God’s making, Euron appears before them all. Clad in jet-black and gold attire, he wields the strange shifting trident with his normal hand and a driftwood crown upon his head. His demonic herald sway in an unseen wind, greeting him as the shadows appear inside the palanquins.

The awestruck Lords break out into raucous cheers and chant his name, but Victarion doesn’t follow their lead. Some more craven Lords hide and whisper to each other things in secret, and a few stand frozen with their faces plastered in horror. What monster are they serving?

“Fellow Ironborn, forgive me for my lateness,” says Euron with a cold smile. “But my duties with the demons will bear fruit soon enough. With their powers and my guidance, all dwellers of the green lands shall fear the shadow we bring upon them. We will stretch our reign like a kraken’s arms for even the land shall not hold us back! So let us eat for this is our last feast before their doom!”

“EURON! IRONBORN! CROW’S EYE!” More cheers and thumping of mugs. Smoke still drifts along their legs as Euron sits on the Seastone Chair, the dark colours melting into one. The man looks like a bloody raven in Victarion’s eyes, especially with the necklace of crow heads he wears. A part of him wonders if his brother was sent by the Storm God, but he soon pushes the idea away. “The Storm God sows discourse” is what Damphair always said. That’s how that thing wants me to think.

Euron stops a maid from setting his meal down. “But before we continue, let us have our favourite priest conduct the prayers. Bless our mission so that we may find victory beneath the waves.”

But no one comes forward. Murmurs ripple through the Great Hall as the Lords wonder where the man could be. That’s when Victarion notices the Reader standing up from his seat. The man’s forehead is sheen with sweat and his face is pained. “My King,” he speaks, “Aeron Greyjoy have left the Iron Islands to survey and defend us from the North. He told me as such when he visited me at Harlaw.”

“Did he now…” Euron smirks as the shadows dance in the palanquins. “Why did he not inform his King then? Why leave without my call?”

The Reader gulps, and Victarion sees him as nothing more than a weak man for not braving his brother. “My King, I am sorry to say but Damphair does not… Does not like to be in your presence.” Some of the Lords call Aeron a coward and traitor, but the Reader continues. “However, the man pledged to serve the words of the Drowned God and the Ironborn cause. He simply saw it as an opportunity to aid without… My King’s interference. I’m sorry to say,” the Reader concludes, sitting back down on his chair. Black smoke seem to gather around his seat.

“So you’re telling me the truth, Reader? One of my demons do certainly hate liars,” the Iron King smiles.

“Yes, my King,” the Reader answers. “My words are as true as my steel.”

“Or your books,” Euron chuckles before turning to Victarion. “Dear Vic, what do you make of our dear devout brother Damphair? Do you… Approve of his actions?”

“Aeron is a craven,” the Iron Captain answers. “He should be here standing before you rather than drift away with the waves. However, if he is truly doing this for our benefits, then I will give him my thanks when he returns.” Some nearby captain whispers his name, but they shy away from his eyes. Cravens, Victarion thinks. If this is what you people are like, then no wonder my brother became King.

“Fuck the North!” shouts the Drumm, carrying with him a few agreeing nods. “The wolves give no chase upon the sea, and those mermen lay East of the green lands. Death lies upon the Redwyne Fleet; their numbers are greater than ours!”

“For a House bearing the herald of red and bones, the Drumms fear death more than a mermaid,” Euron and a few others laugh. “I have not forgotten what they did upon our Iron Fleet, Lord Dunstan, nor am I going to forgive them. It is… One reason why we must strike them first so that none shall ever give chase to our ships. You have seen the powers of the demons at my call, correct?”

“Yes, and that walking Silence of yours.”

“But I can assure you all that you’ve only seen a fraction of their capabilities. When the demons crush their ships, the Arbor’s cask will be open for our goblets.” More men agree with the words of their Iron King, wishing to drink the Arbor’s expensive wines. A fine dream to sit in their halls, yet is he making false promises?

“I trust your words, my King,” says Urek Ironmaker, here in the stead of his cripple grandfather Anvil-Breaker. “But I do not trust the words of those foul demons. Tales of old say the demons lie with their silver tongue, and just like the crows they’re the cloud spawns of the Storm God.”

“Perhaps clear the clouds in your head before speaking of dangerous things, Urek,” Euron warns. “The demon holds no love for liars and crows, and for them they’re one and the same.”

“The King wears a necklace of raven heads, idiot,” the Stonetree sneers. “You have the eyes of a blind fool.”

“No need to insult the blind, Lord Stonetree,” Euron jests to more laughter. “But there is true fear to be had. From what I heard, ravens have all left your keeps and halls. Is this true?”

“Damn birds can nest elsewhere!”

“Yes, and they will roost with the storm.” Euron’s words cause an uneasy silence to drape over them. “The demons… They advice me on all matters of magic and faith of the world. And especially of crows,” he smirks. “From their dark wings fly dark words, and no words are darker than a gathering storm. Those birds… It is no coincidence they fly at the same time. I’m sure you know what it all means, don’t you?”

Yes, Victarion realises. Aeron has warned him before, time and time again. The man always received the true words of the Drowned God, and one of them have come true. “The Storm God have made his move.”

Cries of anguish fill the halls, but they soon turn to anger. Anger for their Drowned God will be trodden again by the cruel and sharp winds. The hall erupts for even the servants are devout. “Where’s Damphair when we need him!?” shouts a drunken Lord. “The Drowned One shall cast him into the sea!” shouts another. “His winds will not bend us!”

“A storm is coming!” Euron stands, his serpents writhing and the shadows clamouring. “A storm unlike anything living eyes have ever seen, enveloping all the seas and land! But we are the Ironborn! Salt is in our blood and our bones iron. What do we say to the one who dwells in clouds!?”

“Your winds shall not bend us!”

“We are the Ironborn!” Euron shouts. “Westeros knows our name but what of the East? How will they know to go against the oncoming storm!?”

“We reave! We burn! We take their wives and their lives!”

“The iron price!” the Iron King laughs, his voice half-mad with glee. “The iron way, the iron rule, the iron price! But I am one and there must be another, he who is worthy to remind the lions and birds and horses of who rules the waters. The one with an iron will and and iron bite! And I only know of one worthy to take that place. Victarion Greyjoy, come before me!”

The Iron Captain strides forth through the cheering of all the Lords and captains around him. He kneels before his King, his golden cloak a kraken in prone. The trident is upon his head. “Lord Victarion Greyjoy,” says Euron with an air of magnificence, “you are my champion. You are my axe that bites into the skull of my enemies. You are the water that drowns any heathens. You are the beak of the kraken that sinks any who stands in our way. What shall he be worthy of, Ironborns?”

“A ship!” a voice shouts. “A mighty ship,” shouts another. “To cleave our enemies like the waves on our prow!”

“And there’s no mightier ship in all our glory than the Great Kraken itself! Receive its hull, brother, one with Greyjoy blood on its deck. The Redwynes shall know your name and Westeros shall tremble before your shadow. Make mothers weep and maidens cry! Everyone, shout his name for our champion is Victarion Greyjoy!”

“VICTARION! VICTARION! VICTARION!”

“For what is dead may never die! You shall rise again, Victarion, harder and stronger! Accept your gift! Our champion!”

The crowd gather around him to cheer and congratulate his new gift, a new ship, and a new title. And Victarion… Smiles. A joy so rare that he thought to never have it again, yet here it is. He drinks, he yells, he celebrates with his men and allies. And such joy he finds in these halls that he forgets a simple fact, one that he often reminds himself over and over ever since his brother’s arrival.

Euron’s gifts are poisoned.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone

Sleep is no easy feat when the dreams are full of fire and fury.

Ever since waking up six days ago, Stannis dared not to sleep again. The dreams, the nightmares, the fires he encountered there are unlike anything he had ever seen. But Maester Pylos, in misguided kindness, always administered him a concoction of nightshade to relax his body and force him into a routine slumber. Slumber that he came to fear.

He only remembers pieces and fragments of his dreams, but those are enough to paint a sure picture. Towers of black iron spikes topped with screaming bodies, a sun that shined so bright the shadows turn into blades, a sea of blood stretching as far as the eye could see, and golden chains wrapping around the black sky like a slave’s collar. There are no doubts in his mind of what he saw.

Hell.

Are the dreams visions of the eventual fate as ordained by the Seven he had wronged? Or is it a hell made by R’hllor for he had blasphemed and cursed against His name and priestess?

Those who could answer his questions are in no state of doing so: he had thrown the septon into the dungeons, a maester have his mind doubtful of magic, and Melisandre is…

But today’s dream is different. There’s no burning fires here, no sun, no blood, no black spikes. Only an endless expanse of night sky, a darkness only broken by the twinkling of stars. The air is cold, and he can see his breath as he floats along in the emptiness.

Then he sees something fall, a star winding and turning into a six-pointed snowflake, its crystals ever so intricate and delicate. He reaches out, to grab it, to touch it, to melt it in his hand. But the flake cuts through his hand and arm, blood flowing freely from-

Stannis wakes in a start, clutching his chest and finding his heart beating. A sigh of relief; he’s still alive. Nothing more than a dream.

A sharp pain on his left arm. Wait, where is he? Where is-

Calm down, he breathes in deeply. I’m in my room. It’s clearly nighttime now, the room only lit by a single candle on his desk. He wonders who left that there since he’s had enough of fires in both his dream and reality. He grabs his pillow, so soft with a hint of lavender, and throws it off the bed; there’s no comfort to be found in slumber. Not for him.

Autumn chill is in the air, blowing in from the open windows. His blanket is on the floor. Must have tossed it off in my sleep. And outside, where the sky is still dark, he can only see the dim red glow of the red comet, out of sight from his bed. Damn the cold. “Guards,” he calls out, his voice still so weak from all this time confined to his bed. “Guards, enter my-”

…

That pain again.

Three weeks he has been in this room, and only six days of it awake. His right hand has burn marks along its back and palm. He caresses his face, so rough and stiff, stinging with every touch. His left- His left arm is gone. Nothing more than a blackened bandaged stump. “Damn it!” he slams his fist into the mattress, causing down feathers to fly out the seams. That’s right, that damn pyre. The pyre of his own making that consumed his family and army. “What happened while I was asleep?”

He remembers now, Ser Axell Florent. The man had been Castellan during Stannis’ time in the Small Council, and so he might be in the position due to his condition. And in fragments of half-lucid conversations, he may have heard Ser Axell swearing against Melisandre. And that worries him to no end. Ser Axell may be able to protect a castle and keep it in working order, but to root out Melisandre’s creatures…

“Guards!” he shouts again. “Wake Ser Axell and Davos! Bring them here!”

He drags himself to sit up and sees the simple sleepwear he’s in, put on by Maester Pylos to ease his healing perhaps. While he may put more trust into Davos’ views in discerning the men of Dragonstone, no one would follow him for being a mere knight lifted from Flea Bottom. I must do it myself then. “Guards! What is taking you so damn long!?”

…

Are they asleep? No they shouldn ’t be; the night guards should still be wide awake by now, especially near my quarters. Have they gotten lax in my absence, or…

He pulls his bandaged legs over the side of the side, flinching once they touch the cold floor. The maester may berate him for moving so much, and his chest still stings from the fall, but he’s a Baratheon. Just like Robert, his brother and King, a stag is not stopped by mere burns and a missing limb. Taking a deep breath, he steels himself. I’ve walked through mud and arrows during the Greyjoy’s Rebellion. If I’m unable to do this, then I’m not even fit to take the Iron Throne.

So with a strong push, he stands on his bandaged legs-

“AAARGH!”

-and collapses onto the floor, tears streaming down his pained face. It’s back again, the burning pain covering his body. His stump itches, his face itches, and the black floor of Dragonstone provides no relief from the heat, And the smell… Like singed hair and charred flesh and the pyre and the sword and his wife and his daughter and-

“CAW!”

He’s still here, in his room in Dragonstone, lying in a heap on the stone cold floor with fingernails scratching the tiles. The smell of lavender is still on his clothes. “Get a grip, you craven,” he chides himself. “What are you, a boy with his first kill?” Lifting his face off the floor, he sees a large raven perched on his seat with a message tied to its leg. Stannis sees his own reflection in its beady eyes, face half-burnt like the Lannister bastard’s hound. “Have you come to eat me, bird? You’re fifty years too early and three weeks too late. I’m alive!”

“Caw,” says the raven before it opens its message tube and lays the paper out on his desk. “Caw!” it says, hopping from one feet to another.

“A smart bird, yet you’ve come to the wrong room. Do you see any of your brethren here?”

“Caw?” it tilts its head.

“Fine, I’ll have you in a cage by morning.” There’s not much strength in his legs, nor does his knees feel up to the task. And so, he settles on an undignified crawl across the floor and towards the door. But as he approaches it, his hand lands on a wet patch near the door. Red.

Blood.

More seeps from under the door, but even injured he’s still quick to action. He’s been to a siege before. Quickly now, he shuffles towards a curtain and pulls off its golden-yellow ropes, before bringing it bact to the door and lashing it so that it’ll hold.

“That’s not enough,” he realises. Brute force can still break the door, and frankly he has no strength nor mobility to move his dresser. So he lends his ear to hear of the commotion. No talking, no footsteps, but a distant ringing of metal. There’s still fighting, but someone is already dead by my door.

He knows that a Lord wouldn’t be left alone here. There must be his or the enemy’s guards stationed near him at all times, or they would be killed as soon as the enemy take the castle. But fools know better than to invade my fortress. After all, even with all the damages he still commands a large number of ships. So this must be someone from the inside. At best Ser Axell is leading a purge of Melisandre’s men, but at worst… What will happen to my wife? Shireen?

“If my doom is soon,” he speaks to no one, “then I must leave nothing unsaid.”

Now he dares to crawl on his knees, each step sending a jolt of pain through his body. By the time he reaches the desk, blood have stained the bandages red. First is parchment. Next is quill. He glares at the crow: “Stay put.” The bird caws in response, ruffling its feathers. “Smart.”

On the other side of the castle, somewhere in the dark, torches go to right and left. People are running, but for his cause or the enemy’s? The crashing waves mask the chaos, but he knows it’s coming here.

I am Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, Master of Ships, and brother to King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name. To whoever reads this, I may be long gone and my castle fallen.

The commotion is getting closer, clashing of steel and blood-soaked screams. His fingers ache as they write.

Selyse Florent is my wife and Shireen Baratheon is my daughter. They are to be my heirs when I am dead. Traitors who caused my castle ’s fall shall be put to the King’s Justice. Melisandre shall be put to the King’s Justice.

The last scrapings of steel is gone; the battle is won and lost. They’re coming to his room.

The Crown Prince and his siblings are Lannister bastards, spawns of Cersei. Jon Arryn knows. Eddard Stark knows. Varys the Spider knows. Check my brother ’s own bastards.

Boots echo from behind the door. They’re close, but duty drives him. Fear and duty.

Protect my wife. Protect my daughter. May the Gods have mercy on my soul and yours.

The door rattles, but the rope keeps it from opening. A voice calls for him but he ignores it. King’s blood is precious, Stannis remembers the Red Priestess’ saying. A small part of him wishes that it’s true. He flips the paper over before putting a hand onto his bloody bandage; a bloody hand print shall do for a seal.

The door is being kicked, but luckily the rope keeps its strength. “Come here, bird!” It follows his command before he stuffs the paper into its tube. “Now fly! I don’t care where you go but fly with my words!”

The raven looks back at him, and he wonders if all that sleep and nightmares have made him mad. But the bird answers: “Caw!” before flying out of the window. Dark wings dark words, but not this-

A sudden heat and bright lights assault his eyes. He looks at the door and sees the rope burning in orange flames. His heart sinks; there’s only one person he knows that’s capable of this feat.

Melisandre.

A golden letter opener engraved with the image of the Baratheon stag is all that he has to fight. His head throbs and his legs feel like burning. The stretched skin on his hand is torn as well, blood dripping down his arm. But he must fight.

Finally, the door is kicked open and knights rush inside. “So you’ve all betrayed me!” he shouts at the offending soldiers, freezing them in their place. Their shadows look so small against his own. “You’ve betrayed me and my household and took her as your leader!?”

“Y-Your grace, you’re awake!” says one of the soldiers, lifting up his visor to reveal none other than his squire, Bryen Farring. “I-I thought you were-”

“Asleep? I was, turncloak, and I thought you’ve sworn loyalty to my name as well.” He eyes the younger boy next to him. “And you, Devan Seaworth. Have you no shame betraying your father’s liege Lord!?”

“M-My father,” the boy stutters, “he-”

“Stannis!” a woman’s voice calls out for him, wrought with worry and delight. For a moment he thinks that his daughter have come for him, or his wife. But neither would sound so happy. A flurry of red silk and hair soon answer his worry. “You should not have gotten out of your bed,” says the Red Priestess, the touch of her fingers hotter than the flames of the pyre. “Pylos, come and-”

Stannis thrusts the letter opener to her breast, to end it once and for all. But for either his weakened body or her sorceries, the blade does not pierce her flesh. “Die!” he growls for another stab. “DIE!”

But his two squires soon restrain him as other soldiers carefully lift him up to his bed, kicking and struggling all the while. And with Maester Pylos’ quick thinking and medicines, he soon falls into an uneasy slumber.

Winterfell

Snow is falling again on Winterfell, a bit heavier than when Robb was here but not enough to build a snowman. It’s a bit of a habit for Bran to run around and play with Rickon in the snow, pranking the guards and throw snowballs at each other. Jon would try and drown them in snow while Arya would be a bit more vicious in his play. And with Summer by his side, it would be so much more fun!

But times have changed. Jon left for the Wall, his sisters for King’s Landing, and he can no longer walk.

And the seasons have grown colder.

Bran sits with Maester Luwin in the Lord’s solar, learning the finer details of farming and agriculture in the North. It’s not the first time he’s seated at his father’s chair, but he’s always surprised by how big it is. And that soon, he’ll be the one taking its place.

When his brother march South with the Northern bannermen, he’ll take the title of Lord of Winterfell in his stead. His mother is in the Riverlands after all, in the clutches of those Lannisters and the Kingslayer.

And he doesn’t like that one bit.

Hodor waits by the burning hearth, asleep with the occasional mutterings of “Hodor.” Not that Bran can blame him, the lesson having taken most of the afternoon and that he considers it to be one of the most boring ones. He nods and jots things down as the maester continues his explanation, though sometimes the boy is lost in his own thoughts. Like now for example, he looks out the window and sees Rickon playing with Shaggydog, Grey Wind, and Summer. A part of him wants to join in on the fun, but he knows that this lesson he’s learning now is quite important.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Maester Luwin closes the open book before coughing into his hand.

“Really?” He didn’t expect the lesson to end so soon.

“If you want. After all, it’s hard to teach a boy when he spends all that time staring out the window,” the maester chuckles as Bran feels heat rising to his face. “My voice must be quite the lullaby.”

“Ugh, sorry…”

“We can continue this lesson at a later time; the ink are already dry after all. But, if you’re still willing to learn, may I give you a proposition?”

“Proposition?”

“An offer. As soon you’ll take the role of Lord of Winterfell, there won’t be much time for you to learn from books, rather from direct experience instead. So instead,” he gestures to all the books present at the shelves, “rather than being bored at the growth of wheat, why don’t you tell me what you want to learn? I have many links upon my neck, so I’m sure I’ll be able to sate your curiosity.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” the maester nods. “Within my abilities of course, though I’m sure I can get a few books that are less sleep-inducing.”

Bran drums his fingers on the table, wide awake and excited at this new opportunity. So many things he could ask, like for example trying to explain the strange dreams he’s been having. Like the three-eyed crow and prophecies and the dreams of him flying. Wait! “I want to fly!”

Maester Luwin is taken aback by the answer. “You want to… Fly?”

“Yeah, like Lady Momiji and Robb! It’s hard for me to ride horses and I can’t… I can’t become a knight. But Lady Momiji can fly without wings! You’ve seen them yesterday, right?”

“Yes, I saw them yesterday. So did everyone in Winterfell,” he grumbles. “But I must shatter that dream, Bran. I can’t teach you how to fly.”

“Oh…” Why didn’t that thought arrive to him earlier? Of course Maester Luwin can’t fly, or else he wouldn’t be complaining about the number of steps on Winterfell’s towers. Bran sinks into his blankets, dejected and hiding from the chill coming from the open windows. But that’s when he realises: “I can ask Lady Momiji to-”

“No.” The maester’s answer is sharp. “You will not be speaking of flight to the warg. That matter is final.”

“What? Why? Robb can fly with her so why can’t I?”

“I need you to listen- no, learn my words,” the maester turns sterns, standing to Bran’s side and shadowing him.  “Your mother told you once to stop climbing the towers. I showed you then what happens to a clay boy when falling from that height. But you kept on climbing, and climbing, and climbing… And here you are. Yes, you can sneak away on Hodor. Yes, you can ask the warg to teach you magic. But the clouds are as tall as mountains. And when you fall from that high… ” he shakes his head. “No amount of sorcery can put you together.”

“I under-”

“Bran,” the maester grabs his hand. “Look into my eyes, Bran. I may be your maester, but I’ve known you since the day you were born. I’ve seen how your mother wept for many days and nights after your fall, staying awake and refusing her meals and water. The fall from the broken tower… The Gods, Old or new, helped you. But I don’t know if they’ll do the same. I’m sure you don’t want to make your family mourn, do you?”

He was in a coma then, stuck in his dreams of crows and flight. But the thought of his mother, her face wrought in tears and sadness… “No,” Bran sniffles, wiping his eyes. “I don’t want that.”

“I know you don’t, Bran. That’s why I’m warning you of this,” Maester Luwin pats his hand. “Magic… Is a dangerous thing,” he begins, tugging the chains around his neck. “I may only have a single Valyrian steel link on my chain, but it taught me enough to know of that. They’re real enough, as shown by that warg, but they’re simply glass blades and swords without hilt, cutting its wielder as it does the enemy.”

“Osha said that many people Beyond-the-Wall use magic, like wargs and wizards. And that Lady Momiji’s friends could do things with the wind and water as well.”

“And perhaps they’re telling the truth. There’s still so much more to the world that the citadel never told us… But as Septon Barth once said, ‘some doors ought to be left closed.’ All magic have a price.”

Bran looks confused at the maester. “But, Lady Momiji looks fine.”

“Fine,” the maester lets out a dry chuckle. “The woman has wolf ears and tails, and a bite to accompany it as well. It is my theory that she sacrificed her human roots to achieve that sort of sorcery, and no doubt in my mind that she intends to do the same to you. But you’re not a Wildling, are you?”

“No, I’m a Stark.”

“And soon to be Lord of Winterfell. While your emblem be that of a direwolf, the most beastly I’ve seen you is when you ate a piece of chicken that fell from the table.” The two laugh at that sweet memory, back when Bran could still walk on his own. “Later, when your Uncle or Jon comes to visit, you can ask them all about those lot. I’m sure they have interesting stories to tell.”

More interesting than Old Nan’s, Bran hopes. Unable to move without help, he’d been relegated to a tower with Old Nan and her stories. Repeating stories, ones he heard so much about that he’s becoming quite sick of it. But he has no heart to stop her since it’s pretty much all she has left. “Maester Luwin, can I go play with Summer?”

“It’s still Autumn,” the maester laughs. “Of course you can. Just tell Hodor to be careful when throwing snowballs.”

“I don’t have him throw snowballs.”

“You were always good at climbing, but never at lying. Go now before I read you another book about wheat.”

They wake Hodor up by yelling and slamming books on the table; he have always been a deep sleeper. After strapping Bran onto his back, the two bid goodbye to Maester Luwin as they leave the solar.

Mixed feelings run through Bran as Hodor trek through the halls of Winterfell. He’s worried about his eventual title of Lord of Winterfell, and how all will see him as some broken boy rather than his hard and proud-looking brother. Added with the fact that it may have well been his own making… “Hodor, do you think I’ll be a good Lord of Winterfell?”

“Hodor,” says Hodor.

“Right,” he sighs. There’s no use talking to the simple man as his answer is always the same. But he remembers that the man’s name isn’t always Hodor; Old Nan said that he’s named Walder. “Hodor, do you want to be called Hodor or Walder?”

“Hodor.”

“Hodor it is.”

“Hodor,” he replies, leaning down so that Bran doesn’t hit the doorway.

Exiting the great keep and onto the courtyard, they’re hit by a cold gust. Hodor shivers as Bran close his cloak and blankets; it’s not uncommon for boys his age to perish from the North’s cold. Being the son of a Lord, he’s a lucky one. Some of the guards and stableboys bow their head to him, at at this height he can’t help but feel delighted. He was never a particularly tall child like his brother, but being on Hodor makes him see the world in a strange new light. For example, the guard Alebelly has a bald spot on-

“OW! Hodor, watch the posts!”

“Hodor Hodor.”

Bran rubs his head. There’s some downsides over being tall, after all. But that’s because I can’t control where I go. Like Maester Luwin said, you can’t lead a man like-

A snowball hits his face and Hodor as well. Wiping off the muddy snow, he sees the Winterfell ward Theon Greyjoy standing in the courtyard. “Oh, it’s just you.”

“It’s already snowing, no need to be so cold,” Theon chuckles before throwing another snowball.

Bran blocks it. “I never took you for a person to play with snowballs.”

“Damn boy kept running around outside of my watch,” Theon spits. He must be referring to Rickon. “Him and the direwolves as well, even threatening me to sic the black one on me. So,” he gathers another snowball, “I’m going to teach him a lesson.”

“I saw him on the wall not long ago,” Bran replies. “I need to get Summer too.”

“On the wall, is he? Well, come along with me then.”

As they get up on the wall, they spot a few guards here and there. However, no direwolf nor boy. “Damn it!” Theon kicks a snow pile. “Must have caught wind of us.”

Bran looks over the wall and out to his father’s land. Winter Town to the East, Wolfswood to the South, and a wide snowy expanse to the North. If he could fly, how small would all of it look? Houses for sparrows, castles for ants… I could fly to King’s Landing and see my father and sisters, he realises. Or surprise Jon at the Wall or meet my Aunt at the Eyrie. I can climb mountains by f- “Ow!” he rubs the side of his head, wet with snow. “What gives?”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming,” says Theon. “Have your nightmares come to haunt the afternoon?”

“No… I just want to fly.”

“Fly? You can’t walk but now you yearn for wings.”

“I know but…” Hodor sits on a nearby box, sensing they’ll be here for a bit. “Lady Momiji and Robb can fly and they don’t need wings or legs. But Maester Luwin forbade me from asking her help since he’s scared that I fall. I… Kinda feel scared too.”

“You should be,” Theon replies. “Kinda sympathise with the old coot since you did fall and cause all that ruckus. Besides, a bird still needs legs to land. Not to be harsh but yours…”

“Hodor.”

“Thanks,” Bran sighs. “But I want to see father and Arya and Sansa again. Mother is gone now too, and Robb is going away as well… I worry,” he confesses, holding back the tears in his eyes. “I-I dreamt of strange things, Theon. Of ravens and flying wolves and the cold. I saw Robb getting struck by an iron bolt, and father sleeping in the crypts. They all felt so real.”

Theon listens to all of this, closing his eyes and nodding along. After Bran is finished, he snaps his fingers. “I think I know your problem.”

“You do?” Bran sniffles.

“You’ve been stuck in the castle for far too long,” Theon answers, pacing around as he picks up more snow for snowballs. “The Wildling woman and Old Nan’s stories been messing with your head, even while asleep. You should ask Maester Luwin to move you elsewhere, maybe back to your old one.”

Bran feels like Theon simply ignored his woes, but it’s more than what Maester Luwin said of his nightmares. “I’ll take your advice then.”

“Heed them,” Theon smirks. “I’m more experienced than Robb in more ways than one, so I’m the best person to ask. Actually, tell you what, if you can convince the she-wolf to give me back my coins, I’ll sneak you past Maester Luwin and the guards.”

“You will?”

“If you get the coins, I’ll help,” he reiterates. “Maester Luwin is smart, but too cautious for his own good. That and he holds grudges. You weren’t there, but Lady Momiji called him a rat that lives under the floorboards. Didn’t take kindly to that one,” he chuckles.

“Wait, she did!?”

“Oh yes she did. Maester Luwin never liked her, but the insult was the final straw. Her being a she-wolf is simply an addition; though I agree seeing her as inhuman, I wouldn’t go so far as to call her an abomination,” Theon leans on the wall’s crenelations. “Every time I see those ears and tail of hers, I just want to pet them!”

“I think she’ll bite off your fingers if she hears that,” Bran jests.

“Not the first girl I have my fingers in,” Theon lets out a sly smile, the meaning of which is lost on Bran. “Ah wait, you’re too young for that.”

“Hodor,” Hodor nods.

“We have a few days before the first Lords from House Cerwyn arrive, so plenty of time to learn how to fly. And to get you out of that stuffy tower, how about coming with me to hunt again in the Wolfswood? Bring the Wildling woman as well; I’m eager to see if my skill matches up with her.”

Riding on Dancer again… That’ll surely lift his spirits up. “Tomorrow then.”

“Good. Now, let’s find your brother.”

With Hodor’s help, the three manage to gather a frightening amount of snowball before tracking down Rickon. Thankfully, the direwolves with him left quite a track for Theon to follow. Soon, they find him terrorising a poor stableboy with the wolves, barking along like a feral dog. He’d always been a wild one.

Theon is the first to launch snow, then Bran with his high vantage point. But rather than supplying the two with more snow, Hodor shouts and throws all the gathered snow at once in a huge pile, burying the poor stableboy. Rickon sticks his tongue at them and rides away on Shaggydog. “Hodor,” Hodor huffs.

“Oh come one, you damn lackwit!” Theon slaps Hodor’s back. “You missed!”

“My brother could have been buried!” Bran slaps his head.

“Hodor!” he cheers, raising his hands into the air. “Hodor.”

“Tch, of course,” Theon spits into the snow. “Have to chase after him again… At least your wolf stayed put,” he points at Summer, the direwolf’s tail wagging. “Should have chained the little monster to his bed. Right, see you later then.”

Bran says goodbye before whistling at Summer to follow him. “Come on boy, it’s getting cold out.”

They find Maester Luwin talking with the Winterfell’s master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, near the armoury. Bran’s reasoning for moving to a different room is accepted by the maester, and with the help of servants his clothes and other affects are carried back to his normal room. Old Nan is sad to hear him leave, but he much prefers the more open space of his new dwellings.

By the time all of it is done, Bran is ready for dinner. A simple one of roasted lamb and onions, mainly due to Robb being away. It’s Autumn as well, meaning it’s best to be frugal in what they eat lest their supplies run out. What is Robb and Lady Momiji eating though? he wonders, slicing apart some lamb chops. Maybe they’re staying in a castle and eating lavishly.

Soon enough, a moonless night welcomes him to sleep. His lack of leg use makes him strangely lethargic by the end of the day. After Maester Luwin’s initial check-up, he bids the man farewell and sinks into his warm and furry blankets.

And he’s falling again.

No, he’s not falling. He has wings and paws and fur. No longer a crippled boy secluded in Winterfell but a winged wolf, wings spread as he takes into the windy night. “Be careful boy,” says a sharp voice to his side. The three-eyed crow. “You have yet to open your-”

But Bran quickly takes off, ignoring the bird’s call. The pain he felt here was far too real, like his head actually splitting open with each strike of the bird’s beak. No, he wants to see the world again, unchained by his legs and Winterfell.

He flies South, seeing the mountains and forests stretching before him. To the West, he sees… His eyes hurt when he tries to peer into the sea mist, so he ignores it. He passes by a towering castle writhing in darkness. In the mountains to the East, he sees crows and ravens dancing beneath a starry sky, accompanied by a cloudless storm. Even further South, lights unlike anything he has ever seen before dazzle the sky, as if wanting to clip his wings.

Then he takes off across the Narrow Sea, to see the strange lands of Essos. But the things he sees are terrible. A city burns in purple flames, its black walls melting as people dance madly in the chaos. A yellow pyramid stands drenched in blood and viscera, and red chains seems to sprout forth from its halls. And lastly he sees a terrible insect curled around a mountain range, a thousand legs and a thousand segments, devouring battalions of warriors and horses. “A dream,” the winged wolf whimpers. “Only a dream.”

“Not just a dream, boy,” the raven catches up to him, its wings darker than its words. “Follow my guidance to see the truth. Now, you must-”

Bran dashes away again, this time heading even further east where lush jungles grow and a gloomy city resides. But before reaching it, he sees a dark line cross his vision. So thin yet unbelievably deep, like a crack in the world itself, that he can’t help but to-

“NO!”

The moment his paw touches it, he falls in.

Black winds and dark tides rushes past his head as he falls deeper into the line. No matter how much he howls or flaps his wings, the line keeps on drawing him in. No more birds, no more lights, no more clouds; only darkness. He closes his eyes, waiting for all of it to end.

Then he comes to a sudden stop.

He’s no longer in the skies of Essos or Westeros, but he can see a see of stars stretching all around him. Strange clouds of pink floats by, and between them a grid of purple. When he moves his paw, the grid shatters before reforming. And when he tries to bite into the cloud, it dissipates into a fine mist. At that moment, something reveals itself from behind the stars.

Bran whimpers. A demon clad in black and white floats into view, its red hat stretching into the blackness. A demon, yes, that’s the only thing it could be. It bears a woman’s figure and face, yet there’s something wrong with its eyes. Far too deep and swirling, like what he saw on the crow’s third eye. “Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m simply the one who dwells here,” it answers, a gentle smile forming on its face. The demon’s voice resounds itself over and over through the endless grid. “And you are Bran Stark, the winged wolf. Congratulations on being the fourth to come here.”

“Fourth?” Have there been others?

“A squid, a crow, and a dragon,” it counts, “but only two dared to speak to me. And now you. So what will it be? Would you like to peel back the curtains and see the truth? If so…” A book appears before the two, purple in colour and emblazoned with a golden emblem. “Open it.”

Certain doors are best left unopened, Maester Luwin’s voice whispers back to him. He flew too high in the sky. If he opens the book, then he’ll surely fall back to the earth where no sorcerer can save him. He should have stayed where his feet is grounded. Yet curiosity is a dangerous thing. “I-”

“Stop it,” says a familiar voice carried by black wings. “You’ve disobeyed me for far too long, boy. Let us leave this place for you still have much to learn. This nightmare have gone on long enough.”

“But you opened the book, crow,” the demon smiles smugly. “Why are you so scared of it now? There’s a quicker path to see the truth and that is open the book, Bran. See between the words and beyond the pages. Open it.”

Bran’s paws reach out but are stopped by sharp talons clinging to his back. “No!” the crow shouts, holding tightly onto his wings and pelt. “Return at once and I can show you! It is too soon for you, boy. Too soon!”

Then his flesh tears open and out comes Bran, no more a wolf but a broken boy. And in no time, he grabs the book from the demon’s hand and opens it.

That night, Winterfell is awoken by his screams.

Chapter Text

Winterfell

“Lord Stark, do you truly think this is the best decision?”

Robb looks to the man asking the question, Lord Medger Cerwyn of Cerwyn. An old man, older than his father and closer to Ser Rodrik, but nowhere near as solid. Here at Winterfell’s walls, the Lord keeps his cloak close and his daughter closer; Robb knows why he brought her here. “The plans I have outlined will not require the North’s full might. As you are well aware, we have a situation on two fronts.”

“Yes, one with Lannisters and the… Others,” says the old Lord, shivering as a cold wind blows past them. Below the walls of Winterfell lies Winter Town, much livelier ever since the Cerwyn’s host arrival. More than three thousand men eat, sleep, and train here, though not all have been informed of the plans. “Ill things for the Lord Commander to say, Lord Stark, not that I don’t trust your accounts. But to invoke such childish fairy tales for recruitment… Truly, honourable men is lacking on the Wall these days.”

“Quite true, and with Benjen Stark dead there’s even less,” Robb replies, causing Lord Cerwyn to shift uncomfortably in his boots. “There’s more foul things afoot, Lord Cerwyn, stranger than the kidnapping of my mother. The dead walk Beyond-the-Wall. Ravens are missing from all the Northern Houses, great and lesser. No explanations from Maester Luwin satisfied me.”

“Sorcery,” Lord Cerwyn’s daughter Jonelle pipes up, but a glare from her father silences her.

“Maybe,” says Ser Rodrik, tugging on his beard. “Everything’s been odd since that bloody comet in the sky. There are sorcerers at the Wall, we got a warg-”

“Two wargs,” Robb corrects.

“Ah yes, we must not forget House Reed’s contributions,” Rodrik smiles. “Of course, none of them wants to be called wargs and none are men, yet they still plan to help us all the same. If they are wildling, certainly more dutiful than certain Lords I know.”

Robb nods, silently thanking Ser Rodrik for the help. Seems that I need to do a bit more to convince him. “When was the last time you visited the Wall, Lord Cerwyn? Five? Ten?”

“Twenty years,” says the Lord. “It pains me to say that there’s not much there to marvel at, simply a cold ice wall.”

“You are correct. And did you know that other than my father and I, the only other Lord that visited them this past year is a Lannister? The Dwarf to be exact.” Lord Cerwyn’s eyes widen in surprise, and Robb does his best to suppress a smile. “House Mormont, Glover, Tallhart, Locke, and Manderly all have agreed to send their men up North. If you truly wish to keep all your men on the journey South, then by all means I’ll allow it. They say it’s much warmer there after all, even during winter.

“But I will tell you this,” Robb turns and lock eyes with the Lord. “When the cold breaches the Wall, and the Northern men lay their lives for the realm of men, none will carry your banners. Let it be known that when the North freeze, Lord Cerwyn of Cerwyn basks himself beneath the sun like a Southron. I’m sure they will love you for that.”

Jonelle is in shock at his words while Lord Cerwyn’s face is frozen in a frown, his eyes twitching with fury. A few deep breaths calm him down, though it does not hide the anger in his voice. “House Cerwyn never raised no cravens, boy.”

“Lord,” Ser Rodrik tuts.

“If this fairy tale is what you pursue, then fine. Take a thousand of my men up to the Wall, and when they return the halls shall ring of laughter for your foolishness,” Lord Cerwyn huffs, staring at Robb before slowly cooling back down. “…Right, sorry for my anger, Lord Stark.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Robb smiles. “And this is quite sudden, after all. I understand your anger.”

“Perhaps… I will pray at the godswood if possible. Pray for your mother’s safety and ours; the gods help us all. Come, Jonelle.” With that, Lord Cerwyn takes his leave. His daughter glances at Robb for a moment before following him down Winterfell’s walls.

…

Robb slumps his shoulders and lets out a long sigh; he knew that keeping the lordly appearance and pressure is tough, but certainly not this much. He rests against the wall’s parapets, looking at the bemused expression of Ser Rodrik. At least someone’s enjoying my suffering. “…There’s still time before the other Lords arrive, right?”

“Around a week, I reckon. Plenty of time to harden those jelly legs of yours, my Lord.”

“You spent too long with Theon,” Robb groans before he looks over Winter Town. All those soldiers, pledging themselves to save his mother… And if the Lord Commander’s claims are true, to defend the Realm of Men as well. I have to convince the others of that. “Rodrik, I did not hear much from you during the planning. Tell me, what do you think of it?”

“A fine plan, one that even Luwin can’t refute.” Though with the compliments, his face grows sour. “The only issue I see comes from our two… Collaborators, shall we say. Wargs.” Ser Rodrik walks closer to Robb, glancing about to see if anyone is near. “When other Lords learn of their involvement, women and foreigners to the North no less, their opinions of the Starks will plummet. They’ll see you nothing more than a green boy, more malleable than clay.”

“Then I’ll take your advice and steel myself,” Robb counters. “I am not my father. I do not know much of the other Lords other than from his lessons, so I must experience it myself. I will learn who to trust with what, and they shall learn what it’ll be under my command.”

“And the wargs,” Rodrik scoffs. “Being led by their plans… The Lords won’t take such slights kindly.”

“But they must. Those two have proved themselves capable of strategising battles and war plans, and there is no honour in robbing them of their valour. There should be no issue in integrating them as well.” At least that’s what I hope. Lady Momiji is already well known for those in Winterfell and Winter Town, but not so much to the Cerwyns. Even less so is Lady Reisen who came with the Reed children. Hopefully, my suggestion of having them participating in hunts will work. “So, what do you think of them?”

Rodrik looks over to the Wolfswood where the hunt is taking place. “Lady Momiji I’m already familiar with, though I’m somewhat surprised to learn of her commanding capabilities. Not that I doubt her of course,” he shrugs. “Lady Reisen I’m still wary of, though I must commend her for being much more lady-like than the other. At least she has some courtesy in her.”

And she knows of Lady Momiji. Robb couldn’t forget the moment of recognition the two had and how familiar both of them with each other. That makes her the third person, counting the ones at the Wall. All of them said that they came from a place called Gensokyo… Do other maesters know of that place? “She claims experience in commanding soldiers as well.”

“With those rabbit ears, I wonder if soldiers would laugh behind her back,” Rodrik notes. “Especially if she keeps on insisting on using crossbows. A craven’s weapon.”

“But not uncommon with the crannogmen.”

“The crannogmen are not like other men, and she’s not even a man to begin with. Then again, those plans she came up with are quite in line with those of the Neck: sneaky, deceitful, and some may say cowardly,” he says with a bit of venom. “It may be easier to convince people to protect the Wall than support the plans, my Lord.”

“It’s easier to convince them of a Lannister threat than of the Others,” he corrects him. “We have support from House Reed to garrison Moat Cailin for our purposes. If any of them have problems with that, I’ll kindly tell them to take it up with Lord Reed and Lady Momiji.”

Rodrik laughs at Robb’s little jape. “Ah, and let them have a few fingers short? You really are starting to sound like the warg. Didn’t you say that Lord Howland Reed had left for the-”

The sound of a horn being blown cuts him short; the hunters have arrived. A black stream of people pours out between the trees of the Wolfswood, carrying with them large games and trophies. A few stand out among them, like the large lavender splash of Lady Reisen’s hair and Lady Momiji’s white and red colours. “Let’s see what they’ve got for the feast,” says Robb before the two descend the walls for their horses.

With Grey Wind following them, the two head out on horses towards the returning hunters at the edge of Winter Town. Soldiers and commonfolk cheer for his name as they pass by. “WINTERFELL!” shouts a bowman. “LADY CATELYN!” shouts another. “LONG LIVE THE STARKS!”

He greets them all with smiles and waves, but a part of him is still anxious for what’s to come. Would he still be up to the task of leading all these men? And when I leave for the Neck, Bran will take my place in Winterfell. The thought of his frail nine-year-old brother under the pressure of the Northern Lords… “Ser Rodrik?”

“Yes?”

“When I leave, help Bran in the goings-on of Winterfell. You and Master Luwin will ensure everything goes smoothly here.”

“That goes without saying,” Rodrik smiles. “When you bring Lady Catelyn back home, all will be right in the North, I can assure you. Besides, I’m sure the harvest festival would cheer him up quite well.”

“I hope so,” Robb sighs. Grey Wind dashes past them to take a whiff of all the game brought in, causing a few men to jump. Even Robb can smell the blood from this far away, that metallic and strangely enticing scent.

Tables are set up for the butchers and hunters to get to work. Most of the game are smaller boars and elks with fowls and foxes in between, but the largest ones lie on an approaching wagon. Two brown beasts lay dead in there: a tusked boar and a bear, female from the looks of it. Robb whistles at the sight.

“You missed out on the fun,” says a cocky voice. Theon Greyjoy strides up to the two, his quiver empty and his gloves bloody. “Hunting is hectic with more people in your party.”

Robb descends from his horse and walks over to the dead beasts, looking at their injuries. This thing would make a fine cloak, he reckons. Several arrows are sticking out of the bear’s head and many more on its sides. “Who got the final shot?”

“Yours truly!” Theon thumps his chest.

“Liar!”

“It’s the truth, wolfboy.” The confirmation comes from no other than Lady Momiji, her sword streaked red with blood and a few droplets in her fluffy white hair. She wears something new around her neck: a necklace of silver and bones, the origin of which Robb feels apprehensive of. “He’s a better archer than I thought.”

“Well of course,” Theon huffs. “Unlike Lord Stark, I take my time in training myself to be stronger and more skilled.” The smile Lady Momiji gives the Greyjoy elicits a pang of jealousy. Then again, it’s Robb’s fault for avoiding Lady Momiji’s increased hounding for training sessions ever since they came back. “Of course, it was Lady Momiji who tracked it down.”

“The thing smelled delicious from a mile away,” she says with a vicious glint in her eyes, her tail wagging about. “It’s rare for me to taste bear, so I’m looking forward to the best cuts.”

“Hey now, my kill.”

“My tracking. Finders-keepers, squidboy.” Without warning, she easily drags the massive dead bear out of the wagon and carries it to a gathering crowd, ready to be butchered. It always surprises him how much strength she wields in that short body.

Robb raises his brow at Theon. “Squidboy?”

“Said that she’s impressed by my hunt. And how did you earn the moniker, wolfboy? Your silence on the matter speaks all,” Theon smiles slyly.

“I already told you I don’t know.” And that’s the truth. Ever since they left the Wall, she’d been calling him wolfboy instead of cub for more than a week now. Whenever he tries to find out the reason why she would bark at him and demand his attendance in her rigorous training. “Let me ask you this instead: what of Lady Reisen? Have you confirmed her sorcery?”

Theon taps his foot on the muddy ground before answering: “maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I wasn’t with her for most of the hunt,” he shrugs, “though there are two accounts of something that might be sorcery. Care to hear?”

“Of course; that’s the reason why I sent her with you.”

Theon chuckles. “Well first thing’s first, she wasn’t so keen on hunting things. Said she’d prefer to eat beets and carrots, bloody rabbit. It kinda came ahead when a few of the Cerwyn hunters spotted some rabbits. Good size, fat and juicy, but she complained that we shouldn’t hunt rabbits.”

“A reason not to put ladies on a hunt,” says Ser Rodrik. “Often too soft a heart for those critters.”

“Lady Momiji isn’t soft. You’ve seen her necklace?”

“I have doubts she’s even a lady,” Rodrik smirks, “but seems that Lord Stark and Greyjoy here already know the truth to that.”

“Off-topic, Ser. Continue, Theon.”

“Well, people like me ignored her complaints and tried to hunt those rabbits. Emphasis on tried because every time I shoot my shot, damn arrows always miss.”

“Maybe you’re just shit.”

“Shit!? You accuse me of such a thing? Mind you I have Lady Momiji vouching for my skills! Also, I wasn’t the only one not hitting anything. All the while, Lady Reisen just stood in the back smiling to herself as we brought no rabbit game. Could strike birds out of the air though, so we just don’t have rabbits.”

Robb looks at the butchers cutting away at the boars. “I thought the hunt lacked some hares. So… Magic?”

“If you call making people miss their arrows magic then sure, magic.”

Making people miss the arrows they lob at us… Sounds like something she described herself. “Useful on the battlefield. Any other examples?”

“Oh yes,” Theon snaps his fingers. “She killed that boar.”

“Boar?” Robb looks over the remaining beast’s body, examining it for wounds. “I don’t see any crossbow quarrels here, and the only injuries I see is a… Cracked skull?”

“Killed it without touch. Apparently, Mycah watched as the beast went wild in her presence and proceeded to smash its head on a boulder. Repeatedly. Said that her eyes were glowing red or something, not sure how much you could trust that.”

Robb looks into the beast’s dead eyes, frozen in a state of both anger and fear as blood drips out of its mouth. For a brief moment, he sees not a boar but a man’s face there. “Well,” he gulps, “that’s certainly something. Be glad that she’s on our side, Ser Rodrik.”

“Aye, I’d like to keep my head. Speaking of which, where is the Lady?”

“HEY! STOP IT! HEY!” someone shouts. Robb quickly recognises it to be Lady Reisen’s voice. The three look at each other worried.

“Must be trouble. Grey Wind, let’s go and- Grey Wind?” Robb realises that his direwolf is nowhere in sight. Come on, just when I need to scare some… Fuck. “Of course,” he groans before running towards the commotion.

A small crowd has gathered near the main well of Winter Town watching the small spectacle. There, Grey Wind is playing tug of war against Lady Reisen using her long braided hair. A few people laugh while others look too scared to help; Robb steps forward and lets out a loud whistle. “GREY WIND! Boy, let her go!”

“Hear your master, come on!” she pleads, tears on her face.

Seeing that it’s not ending, Robb walks up to Grey Wind and grabs him below his front legs. The dire wolf lets go of her hair in surprise but not without barking in protest, his large form struggling against Robb. “Down boy! The hells’ wrong with you!?”

“Rabbit’s a hound’s prey, wolfboy,” says Lady Momiji with a chuckle, blood on her hands from the butchering. She glances at Lady Reisen’s scared form before taking her dropped bucket. “You good?”

“I’m-I’m fine,” she takes a shaky breath before standing back up and brushing herself of the mud. “I’m just not good with dogs, that’s all.”

“Alright, nothing to see here. Move along now,” says Ser Rodrik as he trots along on his horse, dispersing the crowd. Satisfied, he glares at Robb. “Lord Stark, Grey Wind better be controlled during the feast or else he’ll go biting some important bannermen!”

“Damn it boy, why you go attacking her all of the sudden?” he shakes the large direwolf, but Grey Wind simply looks back at him panting like a dog with a bone. “Maybe you need to be disciplined by the kennelmaster…”

“L-Look, the dog’s not at fault,” says Lady Reisen, grabbing her crossbow with a nervous smile. Her large rabbit ears are still drooped near her face, but Robb doesn’t know a rabbit’s body language. “No need to be harsh with him.”

“Will you behave if I let you go, Grey Wind?”

“Woof!” the direwolf barks happily, and Robb notices how she recoils from it. Lady Momiji laughs at her for that.

“You’re a fool; there’ll be many beasts in the field of battle, rabbit” she sneers, pulling out the bucket from the well and washing away the blood on her hands. “You know what, you need to train to not be afraid of hounds. Come to my place at the edge of Winter Town.”

“What? No no, there’s no need-”

“Nonsense. Wolfboy, you’ll be there as well.”

“What!?” he exclaims. “I have Lordly matters to-”

“Lordly-schamnzy, bet your nose would be buried in books with the greyrat. You’ve been avoiding me for too long and now your skills are rusting. Bring that dog with you; I shall teach you how to gain proper control of him.”

Robb and Lady Reisen share a pained look before being dragged by Lady Momiji’s cold hands.

It’ll be a long time before he gets rid of the soreness on his body.

Winterfell

The week comes and goes, and now Winter Town is full to bursting with the Northern Host. Over eleven thousand soldiers, knights, bowmen, and others have settled here, waiting for their march against the Lannisters.

With most of the Lords and Ladies present, Robb must confront the fact that not all of them are as amicable as Lord Cerwyn. Seated on the King of Winter’s throne of old, he watches over all the feasting guests with a half-smile and cautious eyes. Though he had doubts of doing something almost as lavish as King Robert’s Winterfell feast, Maester Luwin convinced him by stating that: “men’s wills are easier known with full bellies and mugs.”

And that seems to be the case.

Tables full of meals and drinks are spread around the great hall. At the centre are the two greatest games: the boar and the bear. Butchered, marinated, and roasted to perfection, the only untouched things are their heads and pelts, used to decorate said tables. Smaller games are carried around by serving girls to different Houses, earning them lewd remarks and impromptu groping.

The rowdiest bunch comes from House Umber, their banners a giant breaking chains. So late in the evening, the Smalljon has taken the hand of a bewildered servant to dance and be merry with to the singing of the other men. The Greatjon meanwhile is drinking his mug with such speed that the servants are having a hard time refilling it. To Robb’s surprise, Lady Momiji is with him drinking at a similar pace. “Seems that the Greatjon has forgiven her actions,” he speaks softly to Ser Rodrik, standing guard to his side.

“Don’t know much of the Umbers for forgiveness, but they do like strength,” he replies with a chuckle. “If I recall, the Greatjon challenged her for a drinking contest. And by the Gods, the Umbers are losing.”

“Damn cheater must be spilling the drink below the table then,” says Theon, walking up to Robb’s table. “That or she’s using sorcery for an endless stomach. Wouldn’t put it past her. By the way, Lord Stark?”

“What is it, Greyjoy?”

“Eat up. You look too stiff right now for a Lord. Be glad that everyone’s drunk.”

Robb twitches at his answer, but heeds his friend’s advice. For all the silver-furs and brooches and metal boots he wears, he still feels unwelcome with his Lordly title. And our little plan, he taps the paper in his pocket. In truth, that’s what he’s most anxious about. Hopefully I won’t need it, but even Maester Luwin suspect that it will happen. The meal of confit duck with gravy has gone cold as he cuts into it. Unfortunately for him, he’s not the only Stark without an appetite. “Bran,” he whispers, “are you alright?”

His younger brother looks at him with tired eyes and a sad expression, not unlike their mother after the boy’s fall. “I’m… Just tired, that’s all.”

“You can go back to your chambers, you know. I can even send the Reeds for you if you want. These people are all here for my presence, not-”

“No,” Bran cuts him off. “I don’t want to go back to bed. I don’t like having nightmares,” he whimpers.

“Alright, you can stay then,” Robb sighs before whispering to Ser Rodrik: “I want you to tell Maester Luwin to prepare something for him. I don’t want Bran to lose sleep over some dreams.”

“Will do,” he replies before marching off.

“Where’s Lady Reisen by the way?” Robb asks Theon. “If everything supposed to go off without a hitch, she needs to be beside me.”

“She’s a bit busy at the moment,” he nods towards a table. There, beneath the pink banners of the Boltons, Lady Reisen sits with her purple hair undone. It’s so long that it mimics Lord Roose Bolton’s cape who sits near her. She looks uncomfortable there, the Bolton knights laughing around her.

That’s… “Why is she there, exactly?”

“Lady Momiji’s call, apparently. Something about discerning intentions and allegiances, I don’t know.”

“We already know who they’re aligned to: the Starks. Father wouldn’t question such things, else he’ll bring those Houses’ ire on him.” But then again, that was father, he reflects. Of course, these Lords would have different opinions of me, and Lady Momiji saw through that. But to send Lady Reisen there…

“My my, never thought the rumours to be true. The Starks do have direwolves,” an old woman laughs, causing Summer and Grey Wind to perk their ears from where they sleep. “Good evening Lord Stark, I believe we met back at Bear Island.”

“Of course, Lady Mormont. It is a pleasure to see that you’re able to come here.”

“Good evening to you as well, young Stark,” she bows her head to Bran. “My condolences for your fall.”

“Thank you,” he replies softly.

Lady Maege Mormont looks about the great hall with a sly smile, lingering for a while longer on Lady Momiji and Lady Reisen. “Quite the characters you’ve surrounded yourself with, Lord Stark. A woman who’s half-wolf and now one that’s part rabbit; seems like you have a taste for people with wildness in their blood.”

“I wouldn’t say so myself,” he replies. Then again, how long has it been since he’s started seeing Lady Momiji in a different light?

“Some Northerners spread rumours of us Mormont women, that we warg with bears to make our children. Though I will not confirm such a thing, I can say that my daughters are unlike any Ladies you’ll find in Westeros, North or South.”

Another marriage proposal. “I will take them into consideration.”

“Of course you will, boy, just like the dozens of other Ladies in this hall,” she spits with annoyance, causing a few others in the hall to look in their direction. “You and the Greyjoy are old enough to be my grandson, yet you plan to tackle the Lannister force led by the Old Lion? Such a foolish thing!”

“But something that must be done,” he presses, steeling his words for all to hear. “My mother was kidnapped by an oathbreaker, the Kingslayer, for a hostage in his unjust war. He trampled against the King’s wishes and of my father, the Lord Hand. Who am I, a Stark, to stay silent in this matter?”

“The Starks have ruled the North for thousands of years,” says Lord Roose Bolton, his voice soft enough that all others have to hush. “Yet not all are born equal; us Boltons know that well. Tell me, why must I listen to the orders of a boy who trained under a woman for their sword?”

“Because I only trained under the very best,” Robb answers, earning a few laughter among the Northern Lords and the Boltons, but he stays firm. “I confess that I’ve not seen battle as much as you, Lord Bolton, but I know you were not born with the knowledge to fight. Like you, I’ve learned from all who are skilled in it, and Lady Momiji is no ordinary person.”

“Aye, I- Ugh, I can attest to that,” says the Greatjon, looking ready to fall over from all the drinking. Next to him is the triumphant looking Lady Momiji, her tail wagging as she raises another mug to drink. “Damn bitch could fight and drink like a giant.”

“Call me a bitch again and I’ll have your left hand as well.”

“Hear that? Hah! Damn wolf got a bark as bad as her bite! Ha ha haagh,” he nearly keels over, carefully held up by his son.

Robb smiles as he looks back to the Bolton. “If you are so unconvinced of her prowess, Lord Bolton, then perhaps you’d like to challenge her to a bout? She’s quite keen on that front, all in Winterfell can guarantee,” he says with a bit of glee, earning more laughter from his men. “Or perhaps you mean to challenge someone like Lady Mormont and Dacey Mormont? In which case, I give them my consent to hold a duel in Winterfell’s grounds, with your leave of course.”

Lord Bolton’s smile curls into a small frown, his pale grey eyes staring back at Robb with such intensity that he thought a cold wind would sweep through him. But instead, the man sits down proclaiming: “fighting women is beneath me.”

“So you cower in fear, so much for a man of Dreadfort,” says Lady Mormont. Even the Bolton knights laugh at that remark, earning them all a deathly glare from the Lord. Lady Reisen scurries away from the table and quickly stands by Robb’s side.

“I don’t need a fellow Northerner to question my abilities on the field of battle,” Robb continues. “The Kingslayer shall have a taste of it soon enough.” His men’s cheers for the Kingslayer’s death is followed by other Houses. “We will help my father and the King end this foolish war, make the Lannisters pay for the chaos and wretchedness they’ve spread across the Riverlands!” More cheers and more cries for the Lannisters’ death, and some for the victory in the name of Robb Stark.

But as soon as it dies down, another voice raises their concern. “A fine one, boy,” says Lord Rickard Stark, a servant refilling his mug. From the shine on his beard, he looks to have drunk quite a lot. “A fine one, you marching South and Lord Eddard marching North, putting the Lannisters in a pinch, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, and I mean to end it swiftly,” Robb answers, giving a quick glance at Lady Reisen. He’s sure of what the man will say next.

“Aye, and end it swiftly you will,” he chuckles. “But a question for you, boy, one question, a simple question: if the Lannisters’ to the South, why are you planning to send some of us North? Did you mistake your head for your arse or you truly believe some childish fairy tale? Makes sense why you’d have a fairer sex advising you, boy.”

And there it is, Robb sighs. All that planning for the past few days leading up to this: the question of the Others. Fail now, and none of them will hold respect for him, let alone send support to the Wall. Luckily for him, Lady Momiji, Lady Reisen, Theon, and Maester Luwin was quite thorough. And with a nod from his companions, he starts the piece. “Is that how you see it, Lord Karstark? A fairy tale to be set aside?”

“When’s the last time we’ve heard of the Others? Two, three, five thousand years ago? They’re long dead, just like the Children and the giants before that; the Night’s Watch should be ashamed of putting up some mummer’s farce for recruitment,” says the Karstark. His sons nod their heads and thump their mugs in agreement.

Another person joins in, this time being Lord Cerwyn. “I agree with Lord Karstark,” he says, standing proudly with his axe-emblazoned cloak. “We must not waste our strength on a dead myth and lies of the Night’s Watch when Lady Catelyn is in the hands of the Lannisters. Even Lord Eddard Stark would not waste much time dawdling in the North.” More people proclaim agreement with him.

Lady Momiji was right, Robb huffs, his voice was one of the first to go. So I must nip it in the bud now. “And when have you all been to the Wall, I ask? Lord Cerwyn here says it has been twenty years since he had seen the sorry state it’s in. Its defences are poor, and the Mormonts and Umbers know that any wildling can slip easily over the Wall.” Robb stands, his sword drawn and planted before his feet. All eyes are on him now, and Lady Momiji shows a sharp smile. “But what of the cold?”

On cue, a cold wind bursts through one of the closed windows, blowing out some candles and giving a few knights a bit of fright. “Walls don’t matter to the cold,” Robb speaks, his voice low and threatening. “They can seep through the air and stone alike, freeze your blood and kill your crops. It has been a long summer, Lord Karstark, ten years now and still counting. But you know of my family’s words, don’t you?

“Winter is coming.”

This time, a slight red flash comes from Lady Reisen’s side. He feels his body raising goosebumps all over and a deep sense of unease settles into his stomach. Robb watches as the Lords and Ladies present, so tough and forward in challenging him before, squirm in their seats. Robb stifles the twitching in his eyes and fingers; I’ve been through the training, he tells himself. I’ve been in worse. “The Others,” he speaks, his voice as collected and calm as before, “and their ilks have been spotted Beyond-the-Wall. The dead roam the snow, Lord Karstark, and before long the cold will reach below the Wall. My Uncle, he was among the first casualty of the cold. He rose from the dead as a wight.”

Now fearful murmurs erupt among the Lords, and those with sceptical eyes are visibly tinged with worry. Good, I can still keep this up. “I was there when his corpse was still moving,” Robb lies. A simple one, but easy enough to support. “I saw the Lord Commander burn him to kill the wight, and you may see the corpse in Winterfell’s crypts if you dare. But I can assure you all: the dead walk the earth, and I don’t mean for them to rule it either.”

“The Others…” says Lord Karstark, his voice shaking. “You telling the truth, boy? The dead walk again?”

“Someone had stolen all our ravens,” Robb continues, now getting used to Lady Reisen’s unnerving sorcery. “They mean to keep us blind as Winter encroaches, keep us confused and ignorant as the Others slip into our realm. No one wants that, do you?” he asks, and receives no answer. Frowning, he strikes the granite floor with the tip of his sword, breaking their stupor. “DO YOU!?”

This time, the Greatjon slams his mug so hard that it breaks; he’s far too drunk to feel scared. “Damn the cold and damn the Others! We won the Long Night before, and we’ll win it again! Some bloody living ice will not take our children from us!” he shouts, earning cheers from his men. Lady Momiji thumps her mug, signalling Lady Reisen to release her hold. Robb sighs quietly in relief, and more people now clamour against the oncoming Winter.

“So I ask you all, will you lend your strength to the Wall?”

“Half my men, young wolf,” says Lady Mormont. “We Mormonts are tough people, the cold is nothing to us!”

“Giants do not cower from the cold,” the Greatjon bellows. “Half my men to command the wall! We’ll stand tall at its top!”

“A kin to the Starks, we know well of winter’s wroth,” says Lord Karstark, wiping the drink from his chin. “My son Harrion shall personally lead my men there.”

Soon enough, everyone is calling for their support, pledging half their forces to aid the Wall. The clamour grows and grows, and Robb can only grin widely as he raises his sword into the air. “FOR WINTERFELL! FOR THE NORTH!”

“FOR WINTERFELL! FOR THE NORTH!”

“Fuck the Others!” the Greatjon shouts, earning him howls from Grey Wind and Summer. And with that secured, the feast continues on to the night.

Winterfell

Robb stands alone in the dimly lit solar, a bottle of wine on the table and the hearth burning away in the corner. But the windows are open now, letting the cold night air brush against him as he enjoys the drink he’s holding. His cape and sword are on the table as well; he’s no Lord now, only Robb

The feast has died down to a rumbling snore with most Lords and Ladies retreating to their guest rooms. Bran is asleep soundly as well, the maester’s medicines taking full effect. And from here, he can see the twinkle of stars in the clear night sky, framed by the streaking red comet. He imagines it to be a herald of blood for some take it as an ill omen. “Lannister blood,” he assures himself. “If only father can see me right now… Will he be proud?”

“I have no doubts on that, wolfboy,” says a familiar voice. Lady Momiji walks into the solar wearing thick cotton wear, something fitting for sleep in the cold Northern nights. She picks a silver cup from the table and smiles. “Care to share?”

“Was it only a few hours ago you competed in a drinking contest with an Umber?”

“Only a fool would bet against a tengu,” she chuckles, her sharp canines glinting in the candlelight. “Besides, all that swill only made me a bit tipsy, that’s all.”

“Well, this one is no swill.” He walks to the table and pours her cup. “Dornish red, a gift from the Manderlys. They do like their trades, even during times of strive.”

Lady Momiji sips from the cup and her ears perk up in surprise. “Now this is some fine wine,” she exclaims, laughing a little as she struts over to the open window. “Let me guess, not really a free gift, is it? What did those mermaids want?”

“The usual,” he sighs, joining her side. “They’ve been hinting at marrying me to Lord Manderly’s granddaughter, a maid named Wylla. A strong one, they said, but I’ve never met her… That and brokering some trade tariffs. I’ll get to that one soon.”

“Heh, wolfboy getting quite popular these days,” she slaps his back, nearly making him spit out his drink. “A perk for you being a Lord at such a young age, especially to a fine castle like this.”

“More like a curse,” he spits. “Father hasn’t decided yet who I’ll marry, and at this rate, I’ll have to make my own decision on the matter. Maybe it’ll be a gift for the House with the most contributions… That or I can ask my mother when she’s back.”

“Bleak.”

“By the way, I want to ask you something. What was that with Lady Reisen asking around the Boltons? Theon said it was your plan and I’ve never heard of it.”

Her face turns nervous for a moment before the familiar wolfish smile returns. “Heh, just a bit of information gathering, that’s all. Nowhere near as good as those damn crows, but even I can pick up a thing or two. You should’ve seen her face when I suggested it,” she cackles, “scared as a hare.”

“Huh,” Robb finishes his cup, his body feeling quite warm now. “And what did you learn, exactly? From the Boltons.”

“Just some silly facts, you know you can’t always trust those books in the greyrat’s room; gotta learn for yourself,” she says, picking up the wine bottle and refilling their cups. “Actually, you never mentioned; anyone you fancy around here?”

“Fancy?” The wine is starting to get to him.

“If you didn’t have to marry for political reasons. The Mormonts looked pretty good if you prefer that ‘wild’ taste the bearlady suggested,” she smiles. In the dim light of the red comet, her eyes shine deeper than his mother’s jewels. And that smile…

“Maybe I do,” he answers quickly, looking out the window and avoiding eye contact. “How about you? Planning to marry anyone back in your place?”

He fears the answer; of course someone like her would be married off. That’s what his mother and father expected of his sisters, so how would her family be any different? But instead… “Nope. Been the daughter of the Inubashiri family for more than a thousand years now, so no plans to change that. Though, I wouldn’t mind kidnapping a few people here and there.”

Robb pauses, look at her with terrified eyes, and asks: “did you say kidnap?”

“Oh, it’s not some horrid thing. Most of the time, anyway,” she downs her cup. “No, it’s only for when I see someone worthy of being called a tengu and take as my own. That’s how my parents found me. Alas, I’ve yet to find someone like that… Until now, that is.”

“You mean me?”

“I’ll confess, when I saw you back in that hot springs I didn’t think much. A young boy wearing the pelt of wolves and live in a place decorated with their image; nothing more than a curiosity. But the more I stayed around, I came to realise that you’re prime tengu material, boy. Wolf tengu, even,” she wags her tail. “That’s why I kept on training you. Well, that and another reason…”

“Kidnapping… Guess that’s why you were so adamant on the plans,” Robb smiles.

“Your suggestions were truly the brainchild of youkais, boy. And how you used fear at the feast? Truly, I can’t be more proud as a tengu!”

Proud… “May I… May I ask for a reward then? For that?”

She cocks her eyebrow. “Reward? How bold of you, little wolf. But a little reward for your efforts now and then wouldn’t hurt…” she tilts her head in thought. “Sure! As long as you promise to attend ALL my training from now on.”

“Gods, all of them… Sure,” he laughs nervously, heat slowly rising to his face. Should, should I really ask this? “If-if you don’t mind… May I touch your ears? O-Or tail, if- You know what, sorry, forget I asked,” he cowers behind his glass. Gods, did I really just say that!? Fucking idiot!

He looks back to her, expecting that same face he saw when the two flew together above the North. But instead, she does not look at all apprehensive; a mischievous smile adorns her face when she answers. “Really now? Spent too long with dogs and mutts, I tell you that. But if you see that as a fitting reward…” she leans her head towards him, her ears upright and inviting. “Go ahead.”

“…Uhm-”

“But remember, I’m not some mutt. Pet too hard and I’ll bite.”

“R-Right.” Robb quickly sets down his cup. He glances at the open door, worrying that Theon might pop up at any moment. Now sure that they’re alone, he takes a deep breath; the soft scent of fallen leaves wafts from her hair. Without her strange shoes, she stands quite short compared to him. His heart pounds unlike anything before. Right… And with a tentative hand, he reaches down and pets her head.

…

Soft …

That’s the only way he can describe them.

He pets her ears carefully, just like he would to Grey Wind or Summer. Her snow-white curls are more like fur than hair, so thick and fine that it takes all his will to not lose control. Temperament of Shaggydog, he reminds himself, but her ears… Never in all his life he could think to be in this situation, yet here he is. Petting Lady Momiji’s ears. Her hair between his fingers. Robb gulps. What would Theon-

She yawns and he quickly retracts his hand, his good sense coming back to his alcohol-addled mind. “Satisfied?” she asks.

“Yes-um, yes,” he coughs into his hand, trying his best to not be awkward and failing. “Right, sorry for… That was unbecoming of me, as a Lord. Yes, um…” He taps his fingers on the table. I really just did that. His cheeks are flushed, and they become redder once Lady Momiji starts ruffling his hair.

“Gods, you are just like a puppy. Should’ve stayed a wolfcub for much longer!” she says with some glee. “Well, it’s getting quite late now. Sleep tight, wolfboy, got long days ahead of us.” And with that she leaves the solar, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

…

His heart skips a beat. Maybe I should ask Theon for advice.

Chapter Text

The Wall

The caged carriage from Mole’s Town rolls onto the main yard of Castle Black. Though still early in the morning, a few people have gathered here for one reason only: new recruits, possible ones at least. That always brought some excitement to the dull tedium of a Night’s Watch’s routine. But while the Brothers contemplate the convict’s crimes, Jon and Sam share an uneasy look. They know the truth, after all.

The driver spits before dragging out the ragged-looking prisoner, a sorry sod wearing long-sleeved brown clothes with bandages and a hood over his face. Hidden beneath its shadow is a piece of paper tag that Jon and Lady Ran designed. Seeing it fluttering in a light breeze, he can only hope the thing stays on.

“Here,” the man throws the manacles’ key to the Lord Commander. “Bastard’s named Wyman. He’s yours now.”

“And his crime?” asks the Lord Commander, giving some piece of bread to the raven perched on his shoulder.

“Too handsy with my whores and didn’t have any coins with him. Gave him a few licks before coming here,” he chuckles, and for a moment the man’s eyes meet Jon’s. A crooked smile appears on his face before continuing. “Don’t let him come to Mole’s Town, you hear!?” And with that, he leaves Castle Black. Jon hopes the bribe they gave him will keep his lips sealed.

“Sounds like an idiot,” says Dolorous Edd, whispering to Jon’s ear. “Only a fool commit crimes so close to the Wall, other than your kinslaying of course. That earned you honours and a fancy sword,” he cackles. “Might as well have my brother here-”

“Quiet,” Ser Allister growls.

“Welcome,” the Lord Commander greets the prisoner. “Never expected to be here, aren’t you? Or perhaps you heard of our offers on warm black clothes?” A few of the older Brothers laugh while some new recruits frown; even Jon felt he was tricked into coming here.

“WALL! WALL!” the raven squawks before jumping on the prisoner’s shoulder. “STARK! STA-”

“Right, enough of that,” the Lord Commander grabs the protesting bird and putting it back on his shoulder. “I’m Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, though you may already know of that. Now, I trust you won’t try to run in my presence?” The only answer Wyman gives him is a cold, dead stare from his grey eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’ll bet you a few groats that he has his tongue cut,” Grenn whispers to Jon.

“I’ll take that,” Jon smiles.

Ser Alliser strides out of the crowd and stands before the prisoner, his face stuck in a permanent scowl. Jon gulps, praying that the man isn’t too rough with his Uncle. It took a lot of work and retching to put him together again; to have it be undone here will spell doom for Jon.

“All men of the Night’s Watch must be able to fight, lest they become arrow fodder for the Others. Can you hold a sword?” the master-at-arms asks, and he doesn’t respond kindly to Wyman’s silence. So the man slaps his face instead, the ring causing Jon to flinch. “I said can you hold a sword, halfwit!?”

Seconds pass before the prisoner answers. “Yes…” he rattles with a voice deep like broken wood. “I can… Use sword.”

“Dimwit,” Ser Alliser sneers. “Grenn, Toad, fetch me two swords. Live steel,” he accentuates with a malicious glint. “No need for an extra mouth if the dullard can’t protect himself.”

Grenn groans and hands Jon a few groats before running off; a pyrrhic victory for the mummer’s farce is in threat. Jon locks eyes with the Lord Commander, but the man solemnly shakes his head before giving his bird more feed; stopping it now would look far more suspicious.

The two return with a short sword and a greatsword. As if a cruel jape, Wyman is given the greatsword which he can’t seem to hold properly. “Let’s see what you’re made of.” With a swift slash, Ser Allister gives a cut on Wyman’s left arm before jumping back. Jon sighs in relief for a few strands of cloth still hold the sleeve, hiding the corpse-grey arm. “No reaction… Just like a dummy.”

As if reacting to the taunt, Wyman’s right hand grips the sword and he begins to move. His steps are stiff and shuffling, dragging both snow and the sword behind him. Ser Alliser strikes the hand with a broadside but the man does not drop it. “A sword is not a shovel! Do that again and I’ll personally cut your hand off!”

In response, Wyman raises his sword up high for an attack. But so slow is his movement that Ser Alliser simply steps aside, letting it hit the dirty snow and mud. “Allister…” he groans, though no fog forms from his breath.

“Ser Alliser,” he says, kicking the sword from Wyman’s hand. “What a pathetic waste… Bastard, come here!” Jon marches out of the crowd and stands before the master-at-arms. The man shows a rare grin to him. “Since you’re so adamant in training greenboys, take him on. He’s more of your level, after all.”

So now Jon stands in the training yard, a sword in hand and his Uncle staring him down. Dead Uncle, he reminds himself, though he’s somewhat glad of this position. Doing it myself means less wounds to tend. And at least Ghost is with Lady Ran or else he’d try to intervene.

Though most of the face is obscured by bandages and a paper tag, he can still see his Uncle. That gaunt, laughing man who convinced him to join the Wall. The same one that I killed. “Focus Jon,” he whispers to himself, “just play it all out.”

Jon makes the first move, landing a shallow blow to the stomach. Wyman swings his sword one-handed and misses, giving Jon more chances to strike. But Jon notices something: with each swing and turn of the sword, his Uncle’s movements are getting faster. Lady Ran said something of this, that the muscles relax with more exercise.

Jon pants at the exertion. Looking back at Ser Alliser, he sees that most of the people have dispersed for other matters. Damn it, I haven’t eaten brea- “AAGH!” he shouts in surprise as the greatsword swings past his head. That would have easily knocked him out. “Getting into it, are you?” he asks Wyman with a half-smile. “Don’t be tired-”

“Snow…” his voice calls out to Jon. No longer are his eyes cold and dead, but they’re now filled with fire and fury. Anger. His lips stretch and crack, baring sharp yellow teeth for all to see. “Why…?”

“…Uncle?” And in that moment of distraction Wyman swings down towards Jon’s head. Too late to dodge, Jon blocks the hit with his sword. But he has forgotten an important point with Jiang-Shis: their strength is nothing to scoff at.

The moment they make contact sparks fly. So terrific is the impact that Jon’s legs scream in pain and give out under him. The sword moves to his head but in a stroke of luck the point strikes dirt in a splatter of snow and mud, barely missing his skull. Jon quickly rolls aside with trembling legs, patting down his body before confirming that he is still whole.

“I’ve seen enough,” says Ser Allister, grabbing the sword from Jon’s hand and Wyman’s. “Woe the fate of the Wall if you lot are their best,” he spits before turning to the Lord Commander. “What do we make of this Wyman then?”

“Rough, uncut, but there’s potential,” he replies, tugging at his beard. “We are losing rangers by the day, so we need more people in those positions.”

“You mean to have these fools take Benjen’s position? Don’t make me laugh.”

The Lord Commander lay his cold glare at Jon. “Not these, no. Qhorin Halfhand or Blane deserve the title of First Ranger. Besides, the man has yet to say his vows. Needs training like any other, right Snow?”

“Aye, strong but…” Jon looks back at his Uncle, eyes slowly glazing over with frost. “Unpolished.”

“And I’m not one to polish fools,” Ser Alliser sneers. “Let Lord Snow here teach him, and we’ll see if there are any improvements.”

“What do you say to that, Snow? Can you do it?” The Lord Commander’s eyes bore down on him hard. He knows what it means; his last chance to abandon the path of dark and blasphemous sorcery. But his answer is still the same.

“I’ll do it,” Jon smiles.

Ser Alliser looks as if he’s about to say a few things, but leaves them with a scowl instead. With no strangers that could overhear them, Sam rushes to Jon’s side. “You were great!” he beams. “I don’t think anyone noticed that he’s Benjen Stark.”

“You’re only half-right, Tarly” says the Lord Commander, examining the standing corpse more closely. “No one noticed the farce.”

“No one! No one!” the raven caws.

“But you, boy, that performance you did was flawed.”

“Flawed? But I-”

“-Got distracted twice and nearly killed each time,” the Lord Commander cuts, his voice sharp as steel. “If Benjen was still alive your head would be lopped off before you know it. Hells, a Wildling could throw a rock to distract you. Ser Alliser was right in calling you inexperienced, Snow. Now let’s go, someone’s waiting for us.” With that, the Lord Commander walks with Sam in tow.

‘Ser Alliser was right.’

Of all things the Lord Commander could have said, that stings the most. He always thought that the master-at-arms was too harsh on him and new recruits, but to hear the Lord Commander support his view…

Jon clicks his tongue. “I’m better than Robb,” he whispers to himself. What would they think of the Lord of Winterfell being worse at sword fighting than his half-brother? But since no one is here to hear his grievance, he sighs and goes to work on his Uncle.

He fishes out several rolled pieces of paper from his pocket: orders dictated by Lady Ran and written by Jon himself. He looks at the chicken-scratch written on it with blood-mixed ink, trying to remember if the one he’s choosing will make his Uncle docile. Docile… The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Confident in his choice, he reaches up and swaps the two pieces of paper. For a moment the body jolts before straightening itself, eyes blank and unfocused. “Follow me,” Jon commands.

Catching up to the two, they soon descend the dark tunnels of Castle Black and through the cold vaults. It’s best not to be seen entering the King’s tower after all, especially with a new recruit in tow.

A short walk down several corridors lead them up a staircase through the King’s tower. Cold wind blows through open windows, only the Lord Commander and Jon’s Uncle are seemingly unaffected by the cold.

So they enter the topmost room, the King’s room. Though their guests are sleeping in the Queen’s quarters, the King’s room has been transformed into a lab for the fox sorcerer. And it’s clear how much work has been done here since the room have practically been turned upside down. Piles upon piles of ancient tomes and scrolls litter the floor, causing Sam to gasp in horror. Candles both lit and cold are stuck on said books, using them as makeshift candle-stands. The shelves and bed have been moved from the walls, which are now coated with occult and strange glowing writings. And last of all is the sorcerer herself, scrawling on the walls with chalk.

“We have visitors,” Maester Aemon croaks from a corner, seated on a chair with furs over him.

“Sorry to intrude,” the Lord Commander bows his head, carefully stepping over scrolls from Valyria. Sam gathers them up, not wanting any damage on those precious pieces of history. “You’d be glad to hear that Benjen Stark’s integration was a success.”

“Good. Great. Please wait,” the fox lady replies in monotone.

“She’s been at it since last night,” the maester chuckles. “And that one there been snoring since yesterday’s supper.”

A human form lies asleep underneath a pile of books and fur on the King’s bed. And Ghost, Jon notes. “Glad to see my direwolf brings you comfort, Lady Reimu,” Jon laughs, causing the sleeping woman to stir awake and yawn loudly. With a whistle, Ghost wakes up and runs over to Jon, causing the woman to groan in annoyance. “You know, it’s hard to believe Lady Ran’s words that you’re some sort of hero or priestess when all you do is eat, drink, and sleep!”

“Hey…” she yawns again, stretching and combing back her wild bedhair. Since they didn’t bring a change of clothes, the Lord Commander had his men purchase some clothes in Mole’s Town. Now, the two women look like a native. If one ignores the fact that there are women at the Wall. And Lady Ran’s tails. “Unlike that priest I at least stay sober,” she says, nearly knocking over an empty bottle of wine while sitting up. “Most of the time.”

“Sure,” he rolls his eyes. Even Sam snickers at that.

“Don’t act like that, young man! Ran, explain to him that I’ve been helping you out.”

The fox lady’s many tails twitch and rotate before she answers. “Certainly. Miss Reimu has been helping me retrieve books from the vaults and sorting them as well.”

“See?” she smiles smugly.

“She has also helped me relax through her snoring, which provided a vicarious way for me to rest. Her ministrations on my tails were also-”

“WOAH woah woah, alright!” Lady Reimu interrupts and waves her hands wildly, cheeks flushed from the accusations. “Fine, I’ll get out of bed.”

“Sam, do fetch me and the two ladies here some breakfast. I’m sure Lady Ran is quite hungry from staying up all night,” says Maester Aemon.

“Yes, maester,” Sam replies before dashing down the steps.

“So,” the Lord Commander sits himself down on the study desk, “anything that we should know about of the cold scourge? Or perhaps ways of fighting them?”

“I have a few things of note,” she replies, eyes still focused on the wall. “But I’ll explain it after I finish… This… Formula…”

…

“It’s going to take a while,” the maester smiles. “Though, she’s quite quick in picking up written Common Tongue. Just need a bit of help now and then.”

“Your help is ever appreciated, Maester Aemon.”

“I see…” the Lord Commander sighs before picking up a random book from a nearby stack; something about the Targaryens and the Wall. “You heard the man, make yourself comfortable, Snow.”

Haunted Forest

A thick blanket of snow covers the haunted forest, painting the area in a beautiful white. “Like a newly cleaned bedsheet,” was what Edd said of it, “till someone pisses on it.”

It’s not yet sunset, though the sky has gained an orange tint as of late. The trees are thick enough here that he’s not blinded by the snow’s reflection, though he can easily see the length of his shadow stretching across the ground. There’s only a few hours left before the night, and with the snow being knee deep means their horses have to tread it slow and carefully.

“How much farther away is it?” asks Lady Reimu, wrapped up in black furs and walking on top of the snow. Jon doubts she’s even human, more like a ghost in not leaving footprints. “It’s getting real cold now.”

The forest livens up with the Lord Commander’s laughter. “It’s only Autumn here up North,” he says with a bright smile. “When Winter strikes us, even Winterfell down South will be buried in snow, ain’t that right?”

“Half-buried,” Jon corrects him. “We have hot springs to keep the castle walls and people warm, so it never felt too cold in there.”

“Hot springs…” she sighs dreamily before shaking her head. “Ugh, why can’t I be transported there instead of an actual ice wall?”

“Perhaps it’s the Gods’ way of saying you’re needed here,” says the Lord Commander, spying the trees for anything out of place. The only thing they see right now though is Ghost leaping through the snow chasing down a hidden prey. Gods, do Jon feel hungry right now. “After all, who wouldn’t want the Hero of Gensoko to help us defend the Wall?”

“Well if you say it that way,” she laughs into her hand, steam coming off her face. Jon looks at Sam, both of them starting to doubt the veracity of her claims. “Hey, is your Uncle getting left behind?”

“Wha- Oh.” Jon looks back and sees his Uncle’s horse some ways away. “Uncle!” he shouts, “gallop faster or you’ll be buried in snow!” With that, he sees the trail of snow kicked up from the horse’s run. Jon sighs; it took a custom order to allow his Uncle to ride a horse because as Lady Ran puts it: “riding a horse is a complex process.” If I need to change his tag every time, how much good can he be in a fight? he wonders.

“How is the clime in your part of the world then?” asks the Lord Commander as they pass by a few weirwoods. They’re near where Sam and Jon took their vows. “Is it like the South where they get some snow?”

“Gensokyo is located a bit to the North,” answers Lady Reimu’s floating red-and-white ball, another bizarre artefact that makes Jon thinks the true hero here is the fox sorcerer. “Though we never have unstable seasons like what you have in Westeros. Ours is divided into four but they fit into a year and last only a few months. Where we came from, a single season lasts approximately three months.”

“Three months?” Sam exclaims. “That… That sounds like paradise!”

“So no years-long Winter there?” asks Jon, now curious on where in the world such a thing could be possible. “Is there even snow?”

“There are. It was autumn when we were transported here,” says Lady Ran’s voice.

“No need for a maester to track the seasons,” Sam realises.

“And no fear of food shortages,” says the Lord Commander before pointing to his left. There, Ghost stands beneath the carved face of a weirwood, sniffing all around it. Even Jon can smell the old earth beneath the snow. “That’s where you made your vows, correct?”

“Yes, Lord Commander, and the place should be near here. Ghost, remember where it is, boy?”

The direwolf wags its tail in silent confirmation before running off due East. The sun is setting so they must be quick. Following the deep tracks, they finally enter the clearing where they found the bodies. Jon descends from his horse and quickly sinks up to his knees; Lady Reimu tries her best to hold her laughter. Cheater, he thinks before moving to his Uncle and pulling him down as well.

He replaces the riding tag with the one used during the yard fight, the neutral one if he remembers the term correctly. Benjen’s eyes flicker violently before locking onto Jon; they’re not kind. “Why…?”

“Sorry Uncle,” Jon gulps and backs away, “but we need your help.”

“First Ranger Benjen Stark,” the Lord Commander calls out from his horse, making the walking corpse turn his head. “Welcome back to the Night’s Watch. We sorely missed you,” he smiles. “I must apologise for waking your eternal rest but we have problems festering Beyond-the-Wall. I assume that you remember where you died? Or at least where you were brought from?”

The corpse doesn’t respond, instead offering a cold glare to both Jon and the Lord Commander. A grumble escapes his mouth as he turns and trudges through the snow further East. “Follow him,” the Lord commands, “and prepare the torches, boys. It’s getting dark out and I don’t want shadowcats ambushing us.”

Lady Reimu seats herself on her Uncle’s horse as the five continue their trek deeper into the forest. Jon lights his torch and set aflame Sam’s, keeping an eye out on the treeline. Ghost appears from the dark, sniffing at the walking Benjen. A sharp scent of sweet rot assaults Jon’s nose, no doubt from his Uncle. Maybe we could mask it with perfumes, he thinks. But would that be right? What kind of Brother of the Night’s Watch- what kind of men dress themselves in perfumes? Even the Others will mock him for that. Jon intends to keep his Uncle’s good name.

“Have you heard the reports from Shadow Tower?” asks the Lord Commander, breaking the deafening silence of the forest.

“T-The Wildlings,” Sam shivers in the cold. The sun has set beneath the horizon now, leaving only a reddish glow in the East. “A messenger said that empty camps were found along the Wall.”

“When I last went there, that place was full of women and children,” the Lord Commander huffs, a grim look hanging on his face. “Wildlings may be savages, but they’re not stupid. They wouldn’t leave their homes of generations if it were not for something important. Which leads me to two possible reasons. Tell me, have any of you heard of Mance Rayder?”

Jon did from a story Uncle Benjen once told. “A Brother of the Night’s Watch at Shadow Tower, right?”

“Was a brother, that damned turncloak,” the Lord Commander spits into the snow. “Half a wildling that one, so no surprise when he escaped the Wall to join them. A Wildling hostage said that Mance is gathering men up in the Frostfangs, that large fires have been sighted elsewhere in the West and East. And reports of large footprints…”

“A ranging,” Jon suggests. “We could make one to find out their plans.”

“Aye, and strip the Wall of a third of its forces. No, we shall wait for your half-brother’s promise. Lord Stark should be sending men up North pretty soon,” he sighs. “At least someone South of here knows our plight.”

“What’s the second reason?”

A cold look set on the Lord Commander’s face. “I think you already know the answer, boy.”

Jon keeps his lit torch close to him, its warmth a welcome comfort in the haunted forest. But looking out now, he truly understands why it has been called that. The flame’s flickering casts queer shadows in the woods, tricking his eyes with human silhouettes. And the silence, Jon notes, hearing nothing more than his breath and their footsteps. Why are there no animals so late at night?

The five continue their trek following Uncle Benjen’s path. At least, that is until Sam stops and whispers: “there’s a body.”

They stop in their tracks with Jon blocking his Uncle’s path. “Where?” asks the Lord Commander.

Sam brings his torch up to a column of pine trees. There, in a dip of snow and dirt, a fur-covered corpse lies with its face obscured. Jon can’t tell if it’s a wight, a Jiang-Shi, or just a body. “Alright,” says Lady Reimu, floating off the horse. “I’ll-”

The Lord Commander stops her. “No need for a Lady to do this work; Snow and I will take care of it.”

She gives him a dirty look. “I’ve done exterminations ever since I was five, Jeor Mormont. I can handle a corpse.”

“No worries, Lady Reimu,” Jon says as he pulls out the bundle of magical paper tags. “I need to practice magic as well, so just intervene if it goes sour.”

“It will NOT go sour, boy,” the Lord Commander growls as he wraps his greatsword with a length of cloth. He then grabs Jon’s torch and set his sword alight, a perfect weapon against a wight. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Lady Reimu grumbles before seating herself back on the saddle. “Suit yourself.”

The two slowly approach the corpse as Sam and Benjen stay well behind, looking out for other bodies. Ghost pads up to it, sniffing and biting the exposed hand; it does not move. And its skin is blue, just like frostbite. But then again, Uncle’s skin is grey…

At sword’s reach, the Lord Commander stabs the corpse’s neck with his burning sword. But the body doesn’t burn nor move, instead it lays dead still on the snow. With that confirmation, Jon quickly places the many paper seals all over the body: arms, legs, hands, head, and torso. By the time he’s done, nearly half of his paper stack has run out. Lady Reimu said that the effect is weaker due to me not being adept in magic, he frowns, so I must compensate. With a nod from the Lord Commander, he flips the body over.

The smell doesn’t hit as hard as the sight. The corpse’s face is all torn up, most likely chewed by some animal. The same can be said of its torso, guts spilling out with worms and maggots crawling in its half-frozen blood. Jon puts a hand over his mouth trying not to gag, commanding Ghost to stay still and not eat the viscera. “Not a walking corpse,” he chuckles.

“Not yet. Cut up the body so that the wild can eat it, boy; we have no time to burn this.”

“Cu- Do we have to?”

The Lord Commander raises his brow before sighing. “Snow,” he grabs the boy’s shoulder, “you are a Brother of the Night’s Watch, or have you forgotten that? Did seeing this dead body make you want to throw your lunch out? Makes you want to turn back on your duties, the one you have volunteered and sworn to do until death?”

“N-No.”

“Then cut this body up, boy! Cravens die and no Stark I know is a craven. Your uncle wasn’t, your father isn’t, and even your brother wishes to march South and save his mother. I do NOT want you to be a disappointment. Here,” he pulls Longclaw out of Jon’s scabbard and places it in his hand. “Valyrian steel cuts through bone like butter, so use it. Tarly!” he shouts, “help your fellow brother in disposing the body. I’ll keep a lookout.”

Jon holds the sword in his hand, so light that it feels almost wrong to wield. Sam approaches with a worried look. “You don’t have to cut,” Jon assures his friend. “Just drag the parts away from here, alright?”

Taking a deep breath, Jon makes the first cut by decapitating the head. The Old Bear was right, Valyrian steel cuts through flesh like water. Not much blood spills out, most of it frozen from the cold. As Sam drags the part away, Jon goes cutting apart the rest of it. But as he’s engaging this morbid task, a sour thought fills his head.

Robb.

Jon always loved his half-siblings like they’re his own, yet sometimes he can’t help but be in the shadow of Robb. Now Lord Stark, he frowns, lobbing off the limbs. Even here they still compare me to him. He’s got father’s looks, love of the girls, and now Winterfell. But not that good with a sword, he smirks. I’ll be a Lord Commander in the future, and then everyone will acknowledge my deeds. I’ll return to Winterfell with men and full honours, you’ll see. “Right,” he huffs, looking at the pieces strewn about. “Ghost, help me out here. And by that I don’t mean eating it.”

The stink of the viscera sticks to Longclaw and his clothes; he’ll have to clean this out thoroughly if he’s to sleep well tonight. Sam vomits and Jon pats his back, but the smell from his gloves may have caused him to vomit some more. After wiping down Longclaw with some snow and leaves, the two return to the horses where the Lord Commander converses with Lady Reimu. “Done?”

“Done,” Jon answers, taking back his torch. “Are we continuing on?”

“No, I think this is enough for the day,” the Lord commander huffs. “Not good to stay so late Beyond-the-Wall now. Though, Lady Ran requested us to stay put so that she may do… What did you call it again?”

“Leyline imaging and barrier measurements,” says the floating orb. Some of those words sound normal to Jon’s ears. “The Hakurei orb is a great tool for spiritual and magical probing, if you know how to use it.”

“Hey, the orbs are better as bludgeons,” Lady Reimu pouts.

“Best to put Benjen on the horse now,” says the Lord Commander. “Once she’s done we’re departing.”

Jon swaps the tag on his Uncle and straps him to the horse; Lady Reimu floats off with no complaints, though she does pull out a small bottle from her pack. Knowing her, he frowns. “Really?”

“It’s getting dark,” she says, gulping down the wineskin. “Besides, not much to do so late in the day. Best to spend it eating, relaxing, read a book or two, and sleeping.”

“…Right.” For you maybe, he sighs. “Ghost,” he calls out, “come back, we’re leaving soon.”

But the direwolf stands tall looking deep into the forest, ears perked and tail stiff as a mast. Goosebumps raise up his arms as a familiar rotted scent enters his nose. “Wights!” he shouts, alerting the others.

“Where, boy?”

“I-I don’t know but they’re near,” Jon replies, pulling out Longclaw from his shoulder scabbard. He shines the torchlight all around him, peering into the forest for any of the dead. But instead he just sees a group of animals prowling the area, a few deers here and there, a small boar, and… Blue eyes, shining brightly in the night. “Dead animals walking!”

“Lady Ran, how much longer?”

“Not much longer so please wait warmly.”

“Great, time to go to work,” Lady Reimu says coolly, pulling out long needles from her pack. “Shouldn’t have drunk that wine.”

“You think? Tarly, protect the horses,” the Lord commands, tying up more cloth to his sword before lighting it up. “When we’re running back, blow that bloody horn three times, you hear!?”

“Y-Yes!”

Jon grips his sword tightly, his other hand holding the torch while his heart thumps hard against his chest. Ghost goes to his side, baring his teeth and ready to strike. I’ll show you, Lord Commander, he assures himself, that I’m worthy of that position, that Robb can’t hold a candle to my swordplay!

A beast with spotted fur bursts from the undergrowth, its belly empty and torn open. But before it could pounce, the Lord Commander strikes it with his burning sword and set it aflame, ceasing its unnatural life. “Bloody hells that worked!” he laughs. “Seems your account is truthful, Snow.”

A small boar charges out of the dark but Jon manages to dodge it before Ghost pins it down. A single hit with the torch set it aflame. “As fragile as tinder,” says the floating orb, “fascinating.” Another shadowcat appears from the bushes but Lady Reimu’s needles stop its movement, allowing Jon to hack it to pieces with Longclaw. “So not only humans become wights but also thaaaaAAA-” The orb flies past Jon’s ear before smashing a nearby wolf to bits.

“Damn,” he whispers, watching the ball bounce around in the forest and killing more of those things. But as soon as he’s about to help the Lord Commander, a dark shape knocks him down and bites deep into his left shoulder. He cries out in pain as ice-cold claws dig into his back, pinning his face into the snow. Luckily Ghost is quick to move and wrestles it off of him.

Jon touches the wound and sees his hand drenched in blood. My blood, he gulps. I’m not going to die here! Though moving that arm shoots bolts of pain through him, he sets the dead wolf alight all the same. Ghost rips off its frozen tongue, quickly swallowing it down. “Shit, how many more are-”

Then comes the sudden snapping of branches. From the sound of its steps, something larger than a shadowcat is coming close. Jon readies his torch but his spirit dampens upon seeing the beast. Slowly walking out the darkness is a massive elk near twice as tall as he is with antlers that could rip open a giant. A wolf pelt is tied around its neck, written on it strange symbols like worms on a corpse. And to Jon’s horror, its eyes don’t have that icy blue stare. “Jangsi…”

“Snow! We’re running back!” shouts the Lord Commander as he leaps onto his horse. “Lady Reimu, find a path for us!”

“On it!” she says before flying high into the sky.

Jon quickly clambers back onto his horse as the elk begins to move. “Ghost, follow her!” he commands, prompting the direwolf to run ahead of the group.

They race towards the Wall following the direwolf through trees and thickets. Smaller beasts try to stop them but they’re either run over or cut down with swords, crunching their bodies under the snow. No, their main threat lies in the crashing footsteps behind them, the elk giving chase. As Jon tries to stop the bleeding Sam blows the horn, its sound more like the dying bleats of a deer. Three blows mean the Others, he remembers, wincing as jolts of pain rush up his arm.

Soon they burst out of the forest and fire arrows rain down from the Wall. The wights catch fire but the elk shrugs them off; with no trees in the way, the beast is slowly gaining speed. Jon turns back and sees it plowing through the thick snow. A Jangsi’s strength is nothing to scoff at, and Lady Reimu is already back at the Wall. So he spurs his horse even harder, causing it to whine and run faster to the open gate.

And in the nick of time as well because as soon as he enters, the gate slams down and the beast rams against it. The sheer sound of the impact nearly topples him from his horse, and he can even hear the ice tunnel groan and crack under the pressure. They quickly rush out and close another set of gates, fearing that the beast will come through. Though some brothers have taken swords and spears, he feels that it’ll be mere toothpicks against it.

Then…

…

…

Nothing.

Not another hit, no stomping against the gate. Just… Silence.

A guard winches himself down from the Wall, reporting that the beast ran off after the first hit. As all the men sigh in relief, Jon can only groan in pain.

There ’ll be more nights like this.

Chapter Text

Haunted Forest

“Right, that’s the last one,” Dolorous Edd groans as Jon helps him drag and strap the sentinel log onto the sledge. With a whistle, the mule rider pulls it towards the Wall and back to Castle Black. “Gods, how many more do we have?”

“About a dozen,” Jon answers, “of the cut ones, I mean. The rest, well, just look at the forest.” Though the Lord Commander ordered the border of the haunted forest to be cut back by half a mile, all the week’s work they’ve done only moved it back by less than a quarter. The reason is obvious: there are not enough men in the Night’s Watch. It’s a far cry from the ten-thousand of Aegon’s reign, making this simple task a lot more challenging.

Edd ties a rope for the next log before he goes complaining. “We’ll be here for a month at this rate.”

“It’s important work,” Jon adds. “The dead hides under the trees, and it’s harder to hit them with arrows if branches are in the away.”

“Our bows don’t even reach this far… You know what, I blame the recruiters for this. All those stories of honour and glory of being a ranger, they robbed all the stonemasons and woodcutters and hard-working men of the dream of becoming a builder. Right where they belong…”

“Uncle Benjen i- WAS a ranger,” Jon cuts himself short.

“And look what good it did to him,” Edd cackles, his voice sharp with derision. “Ah, all the rangers do is go out into the cold and die. Might as well offer the Others our firstborns if we’re at it, forcing them to kill their fellow Brothers. Why do we have to respect the dead when they don’t do the same? Help me, will you?”

The two drag the log onto the awaiting pile, ready to be carried off. All this work does no good to Jon’s wounds, especially with his now stiff left arm. In truth, this is the most manual labour he has ever done in his entire life; nothing in Winterfell ever involved him dragging so much stuff. “So,” he wipes his forehead from sweat, “why didn’t you become a ranger?”

“Are you deaf? They die! You know, the recruiter told me that ladies and maidens alike love men in black. By the Seven, I was foolish back then. Now, the only women who’ll compliment me need to be paid first, so I might as well choose to be a steward. Much closer to Mole’s Town.” Edd cracks his back before turning to a riding ranger stabbing his spear into the snow. “Oy Giant! Got any bodies for us?”

Jon recognises Giant, or Bedwyck, simply from his very short stature. He’s well-liked by new recruits for he often eats at their table, telling japes and stories about the Watch. But now the man’s aged face hardens to a scowl, spitting into the snow before thrusting his spear down. His torch burns bright on this cloudy day. “Ain’t got nothin’. Boy, you sure there were wights ‘ere?”

“Must be,” Jon answers. “The three bodies were found in the snow, and the dead animals must have hid somewhere.”

“Right…” the ranger huffs before turning his horse. “Deeper into the woods it is, then.”

“Careful now,” Edd smirks. “Elks and shadowcats are running the place, no need for giants to rip us apart as well.” Bedwyck throws snow at their faces before disappearing between the still-standing trees. Edd tuts in disappointment. “Another man for the Others.”

“Not if we can help it.”

“By cutting down trees? Ah, the dead and the Children do love their trees. You know the tale, right? Of how a dead knight’s ghost was appeased by a maiden’s offerings of pine cones and sentinel trees?”

That’s… “Never heard of that one. Is that a common story in the Vale?”

Edd snorts at the question. “Of course not, green boy!” He pats Jon’s back, causing him to wince. “Still, all that wood is useful for bonfires… Chance maybe we break bread and salt with the Others over an open flame. Perhaps they respect the living more than the dead, hah!”

“I doubt it…”

The two soon go back to work, with Edd helping to chop the trees while Jon uses Longclaw to trim its branches; a sad use for a Valyrian steel sword, but he can’t wield axes all that well. Yet dread still follows closely as he gathers up the cut wood: where are the wights? Do those things just disappear like snow? No, of course not. We still have one other corpse back at Castle Black. It doesn’t move, but…

Not wanting to wait for the other rangers, he whistles and Ghost comes out of the woods. The direwolf looks at him with wide, bright eyes as Jon gives him a command: “can you sniff out bodies under the snow?”

Ghost does a little wag of the tail before sprinting off. Jon gives chase, causing Edd to grumble something about Lordly children before following him as well. “This better be good, Snow.”

Ghost sniffs around a few groves and trees before stopping near a bare oak tree. A familiar sharp scent enters his nose. “Smell that?”

“I smell snow, sweat, and ice,” Edd shrugs. “I need a bath.”

So he can’t sense it… Am I smelling from Ghost’s nose then? Is that it? A strange thought, but not one he can so easily discredit. And he can feel even more as Ghost digs up the snow and bites into something bitter. I should ask Maester Aemon or Lady Ran, maybe they know what it is. “Got something for us?”

The direwolf pulls out the stiff carcass of a mountain goat, its fur falling apart between his teeth. For a moment Jon thought Ghost has found himself a morsel, but then he remembers that the Frostfangs are leagues away from here. And those blue eyes! He quickly brings Longclaw down, cutting the carcass in two. Its sudden burst of movement surprises Edd but Jon hacks it up before it can do anything.

As Ghost goes to eat its cold flesh, Edd gives him a wary smile. This won’t be the only one.

Soon they abandon the task of cutting wood and instead join the other rangers to search for bodies; Edd says it’s a builder’s job anyway, not rangers’ nor stewards’. With the help of the direwolf, they manage to dig up dozens of bodies before noon. Mostly wolves, shadowcats, and a few smaller elks and deer. None of them the Jiang-Shi, he notes. And watching Ghost eating the thighs of deer and shadowcats makes Jon’s mouth water, much to his disgust.

Luckily for them, the Lord Commander always sent cooks with food down to the haunted forest, and this time is no different. As Hake provides them with stews of salted beef and onions, the rangers and builders sit on the stumps of fallen trees. “Is it me or is the meat going grey?” asks Edd.

“It’s still good, Tollett. But it ain’t enough for that damn dog,” Hake chuckles, pointing his wet ladle to Ghost.

“That damn dog is better than some rangers I know,” Edd smirks.

“Hey!”

“He might as well be a Brother of the Night’s Watch. What do you say to that, Snow?”

“Doubt he can keep the vows, let alone speak,” Jon smiles, finishing his meal quickly and handing back his empty bowl. Ghost is too busy gnawing on a leg bone to care. “But since he’s my direwolf, in essence he’s already a Brother.”

“That’d be a sight, a wolf wielding a shield and sword,” Bedwyck laughs.

“Weren’t you here a week ago? You saw the she-wolf the young Lord Stark with, right? A bitch with a sharp bite, that one,” says Pyp.

“Aye, the young wolf’s a lucky man,” all the Brothers laugh, but Jon gives a dry one. A lucky man… Lord of Winterfell, a Lady by his side, and now I’m stuck here at the Wall, he sighs. Now… Now he’s quite resigned to his fate. Even with all that grievances, the thought of disappointing his father by breaking his vows is not something he wants to think about. Then again I’ve dappled into taboo things… If Arya knows what I’m doing here, what will she think of me? Would she still see me as an older brother?

Edd seems to notice Jon’s sour expression because he quickly changes the subject. “Speaking of Ladies, what in the Seven hells is Lady Ran doing?”

They all look at where he’s pointing. At the top of a tall sentinel tree is none other than Lady Ran, standing over them all like a Lord in his tower. Jon notices the wooden staffs she holds by her many tails; he helped her carve them a few days ago, a type of warding sorcery if he remembers correctly. Which makes sense as he watches her attach one of them to the tree before flying off, like a golden snowflake in the wind.

Though Jon has seen this more than a dozen times now, the awe has yet to wear off. After all, all the tales and Maester Luwin’s explanations have told him that all creatures require wings to fly: from birds to bees to dragons. Yet here she is, a woman who has none but can soar into the air. I even heard that Lady Reimu is a better flyer than her, if she ever gets out of bed. Yet she says that I may not be able to…

“Close your mouth or you’ll catch weasels,” says Edd.

“First time seein’ a woman fly,” Bedwyck whispers, picking up his dropped bowl.

“First time seeing anyone flying!” Hake exclaims “I wish I can fly, then at least the trip to Mole’s Town could be quicker.”

“There’s more to flight than just impressing whores, you know. I for one would use it to leave you in the snow when the Others attack,” Edd jests, earning him a jab from the cook. The two laugh before the man’s smirking face turns to Jon. “Care to explain what she’s doing, Snow?”

Jon gives the older man a wary look. “Why are you asking me?”

“Ah, it’s simple: you’re the Old Bear’s steward! They say men in that position are the first to hear, first to act, and first to die. He must have talked lots with you, or at least you would have heard of him speaking of such matters. After all, I doubt she would be doing… Whatever that is without his leave.”

“I mean, she could,” Bedwyck shrugs.

“Not the point, Giant. So…” Edd leans forward. All the others are also waiting expectantly for Jon’s answer.

A bit of a problem for him since he’s unsure if the fact he’s training in magic should be kept a secret. The matters of his Uncle was decided by the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon, but not much counsel was given to his other magical training; he was only approved of them. Then again, if I speak the truth the others would laugh.

“Your silence is telling, Snow,” Alan of Rosby pipes up, broth dripping from his thin beard. “Don’t tell me you’ve broken your vows already!”

Warmth creeps up his cheeks. “Did not!”

“Eh, most of us ‘ave gone to Mole’s Town,” says Bedwyck. “Old Bear won’t mind a bit of whores now and then. Ever got your wick wet before coming here, boy?” Jon shakes his head, causing a bit of surprise among the men. “Really? Well, thought a Lord’s boy be popular ‘fore coming ‘ere.”

“I don’t want to sire bastards,” Jon declares. I know what it’s like to live as one.

“No fun,” Alan laughs. “You know, if the Old Bear wasn’t hawking over them, I’d gone and see if the vixen would squeal like a real one in bed. A lot of highborn ladies are screamers, and I tell that from experience.”

“Alan, I think-”

“Oh come on, I know that you’ve thought about it, Edd, even just a little,” he prods the man’s knee with his spoon. Cold sweat drips down Jon’s back as he sees a familiar fox-eared figure approaching them.

“Well, can’t say that, but I think-”

“What, you wouldn’t want to bed someone as gorgeous as her? Surely you jest,” he chuckles, though the others don’t join in as they shift awkwardly on their seats. “And by the Seven, the clothing they picked up from Mole’s Town fits her far too well. A knight would kill to have her hand I can tell you that.”

“…Alan,” Edd motions with his head.

“What? You guys being silent are ju- OH FUCK!” he drops his bowl upon seeing the woman standing behind him. Lady Ran stands tall over them, her smile sharp and eyes glinting gold in the afternoon sun. Jon knows her enough that something more is hidden beneath that visage. “Gods, L-Lady Ran!” he stands up, brushing off the spilt stew from his black breeches. “I am so, so-”

“No need to apologise,” she says quite sweetly. “Your compliments about my clothes do give me something to think about. Instead, care to help a lady out in her task?” her smile grows wider. A cold shiver runs down Jon’s spine and even Ghost backs away.

“A-Anything! Of course!”

“Good. Now…” Her many tails quickly wrap around Alan, causing the man to yelp as it turns him in a certain direction. The only thing that comes to Jon’s mind is a kraken, not a fox at all. She then points deep into the forest. “Do you see that tree, standing tall among the rest?”

“Y-Yes,” he struggles to speak out. Edd and the others stand back in fear.

“What I want you to do is to plant this,” she stabs one of her staffs into the ground, “on top of that tree. I’m quite tired and this is the last one, so would you mind placing it for me?”

“Of course not, Lady Ran!”

“Good.” She lets him go before pushing him onto the staff. He stares back in confusion. “GO.” And with a single word, the ranger scurries off to his horse and into the forest, far too eager to complete the task. After watching the man ride off, Lady Ran sighs and her tails relax. She turns to the others and asks: “do any of you want to climb a tree?”

They all shake their heads.

Acknowledging the answer, she takes a bowl from Hake’s shaky hands and sits where Alan was before. It takes until she finishes the bowl for someone to finally break the silence. “Um,” Pyp pipes up, “what were those wooden poles for?”

“Wards,” she answers simply. From the looks of it, she’s too annoyed to explain further. So instead, Jon takes it upon himself to clear the air.

“Lady Ran and I have been working on objects that would repel wights and Jangsi-”

“JIANG-SHI,” she corrects him.

“Sorry, yes, Jiang-Shi.”

“So… Perhaps I’m missing something here, but how does a piece of wood ward off the dead?” asks Edd. “Even spears, I think, rely on being held. Unless you mean the trees come alive...”

“They’re uhh… Sorcery,” Jon adds. “Magic.”

“Magic?”

“Magic.”

“Magic…” Edd leans his head back, tapping his feet on the snow. “Makes sense.”

“Edd, pray tell how does that make sense?” Bedwyck whispers.

“She can fly, so I have no doubts about magic and maybe even stranger things. But what I have doubts about is the fact that you,” he points to Jon, “are helping her. You could barely hold an axe and yet you claim to practice sorcery?”

“The boy is a fast learner,” says Lady Ran. “Care to show them?”

I guess it’s not a secret then, he sighs before pulling the sheaves of paper from his pocket. All the ink and scribbles he made himself; she claims that using your own power to create your tools will make them quite effective. That and to pray to the Old Gods, she said. “Anyone wants to be a target? Doesn’t hurt… Much.”

“Eh, I’ll go.” Bedwyck stands before him, the man’s head barely reaching Jon’s nose. “C’mon boy, do your mummer’s farce.”

“Oh, it isn’t a mummer’s farce,” he smirks. With a quick blow on the paper and a flick of the finger, the topmost tag flies off and wraps itself around the Giant’s right hand.

Though initially startled, the man then begins laughing. “That’s it?”

“Try and move your arm.”

“I can move my- Wait.” He looks at his arm, stiff as a board and not budging. “Oh.”

“Jon, try it on me!” says Edd, holding out his left arm. Jon flicks the pile again and the paper wraps around him. The arm quickly goes limp, earning a hearty chuckle from the man. “This is… Incredibly strange. This is magic!?”

“That and many more,” says Lady Ran, her tails squirming behind her. “Jon Snow here has trained under my guidance, though he’s nowhere near perfect like Miss Reimu.”

“Aye,” Jon replies, shaking his now tired right hand. That always happens whenever he does the paper flicks; using magic drains his strength by quite a bit.

“Those paper tags can have many different functions: to restrict, to control, to burn, to kill,” she grins, sharp canines poking out of her smile. “So, are any of you interested in sorcery?”

The Wall

“This is foolish,” Alliser spits, glaring at the Brothers in the training yard from the open window of the Lord Commander’s tower. “This is madness! Why is she allowed to conduct a mummer’s show in Castle Black!?”

“Now now, Ser Alliser,” Maester Aemon sips from his cup of steaming tea. The sweet scent of warm honey fills the air. “This training was put forward and approved before the Lord Commander’s judgement. If he says so, then I see no reasons to argue.”

“I do. If only you could see what’s happening down there, Maester Aemon.” The sight upsets him. As a knight of House Thorne, it took him some time to earn the position of master-at-arms of Castle Black. He takes pride in this, making sure that the greenboys and fools the Watch recruits know who’s in charge and to lay their lives on the line.

But here he is, watching his work be undone. By a woman, no less.

Those recruits he drilled so hard with swordsmanship have instead taken slips of paper as weapons. Papers. Madness, like a bunch of maidens throwing garlands at the Others. By the Seven, the Watch is becoming an embarrassment.

“Try not to grind your teeth,” the maester lets out a raspy chuckle. “That’s your last set, after all, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want wood ones. Tarly, another cup please.”

“Yes, Maester Aemon,” replies the fat tub of lard as he refills the drink. A glare from Alliser sends the boy quaking in his boots like jelly.

Pathetic. “Ser Piggy, care to explain why you’re not in the training yard? Or is throwing paper too much for that soft arms of yours?”

“N-No, Ser Alliser, Ser,” he stutters out, face pale like pie. “I am M-Maester Aemon’s steward, so I must remain by his side. A-And, um,” he lowers his head, “I… Didn’t pass the initial test.”

Alliser guffaws at the boy’s answer, his voice sharp like an old black crow. “So you weren’t good enough. Too weak to throw scraps of paper,” he steps forward, causing Sam to back away in fear. “It’s a wonder that you’ve been accepted to the Watch; I would have sent you back to your bloody father in the Reach, let them deal with you rightly,” he smirks, causing the fat boy to shiver. Ser Piggy, what a load of-

“Sam,” the maester cuts through his thoughts, “I’m feeling a bit peckish right now. Mind fetching me some stew from the mess hall? And a bit of bread as well.”

“Y-Yes, Maester Aemon,” he bows his head before quickly rushing off, all too eager to get away from the master-at-arms.

Now alone, the old man calmly taps his blackthorn cane against the wooden floor. His face is everything but happy. “You know,” he begins, “I quite like my current steward. A craven, yes, but most boys are when coming to the Wall. Besides, unlike Chett he can read, better than even Clydas. Certainly makes managing books that much easier.”

“Chett can’t read but the man can fight,” Alliser replies. “Unlike the Tarly boy, he can hold a sword proper and protect you if things go awry. But that boy, the cold will eat him alive before Winter comes.”

“Then perhaps you should train him better,” the maester’s lips form a thin smile. Though blind, the old man seems aware of Alliser’s expressions. “The cold will harden most men, and I have no doubts the Tarly would be the same.”

“The cold would tear through paper before it could even touch steel, Maester Aemon. It’s a fool’s errand to teach these recruits sorcery when most don’t even know how to wield steel.”

“Then train them better,” the maester chuckles, earning a scowl from Alliser Thorne. “If the boys forget how to hold steel after wielding paper, is it not the fault of their teacher for not drilling it enough? You’ll find no compatriot for detesting magic in me, Ser Alliser. Unlike most maesters, I for one have certain interests in the strange,” he says, tugging on his chain collar. Alliser notes one of the links having the signature shine of Valyrian steel. “Perhaps you’ll find a like mind in the Lord Commander. Speaking of which…”

The solar door opens and the Lord Commander strides into the room, a basket of fresh bread in one hand and a greying raven on his shoulder. The bird looks almost as old as the owner, yet nowhere near as sharp or as large. “Ah, Maester Aemon. Care for some fresh bread? Hake just baked this one.”

“No thank you, I’ve eaten breakfast already.”

“Bread!” the raven caws, jumping off the man’s shoulder and onto the table. “Bread! Bread!”

“Alright, stop your yammering,” the Lord Commander groans before seating himself and throwing the bird a piece of bread. It eats it happily. Smiling at the sight, he then turns to the master-at-arms. “Ser Alliser, not often do I see you here.”

“Lord Commander,” he bows his head, “I want to voice concerns regarding the training happening in the yard right now.”

“Problem with the swords?”

“No, the other one.”

“Ah, the sorcery training you mean.” The Lord Commander looks pensive for a moment before pulling out a few sheets of paper from a shelf. The man starts writing and…

Is the Lord Commander ignoring me? “May I voice it?”

The man sighs before putting down his quill. “This training has only been conducted for a few days, Ser Alliser. Only fifty are attending it as many others are still apprehensive of both her and sorcery. Though some interesting things are coming out of it, I do recommend waiting until the results bear fruit for criticisms of its effectiveness. Besides,” he taps the table, “it’s unlike anything we’ve ever done at the Night’s Watch. There’s bound to be a few mistakes here and there, but anything that may give us an edge over the Others is appreciated. Our enemies are not men.”

“So that’s it? You’re letting this woman ruin all the training I’ve done for them with scraps of paper?”

“Scraps? Oh no, the woman never wanted scraps,” he laughs. “Always clean paper or parchment. Let’s see… She calculated by herself the amount of paper needed to arm the men at Castle Black; simply a lot. That’s going to hit our coffers,” he sighs, “but we can do things to remedy that. She also estimated the number of people that might be proficient enough to wield sorcery at the Wall, amounting to about two hundred. A small number but certainly not bad, though she never wrote down her calculations.”

“I asked her to run the numbers again and they are quite accurate,” says Maester Aemon. “She wields such a strange mind in that head of hers, but certainly impressive. Complex arithmetics and counting can’t be so easily done in your head; trust me, I’ve done it. No wonder she holds fantastical knowledge an understanding of magic. An old friend of mine at the Citadel would certainly enjoy discussing such things with her; she makes for great company after all.”

Alliser silently curses the two of them but keeps his face neutral. People often say that wisdom grows with age, but he feels as if surrounded by fools at all sides here. Age has made them soft, he realises, so much that they’re dappling in this blasphemous and dangerous act. To think I hold them in such high esteem… “So she… Appealed for your support by promising to kill the Others?”

“To ward off the wights and Jangsi from the Wall to be exact, though my steward’s push did help me to approve her training regiment.”

Steward… SNOW. His face scrunches up to something fierce. The bastard insulted him in the training yard, took away the recruits he was training, and now plans to turn them to mummers. Perhaps the boy is even planning to take his place as the master-at-arms. That. That he absolutely won’t stand. “Thank you for the information, Lord Commander. I shall take my leave.”

“Any time.”

Alliser stomps down the spiral staircase, huffing at the prospect of confronting the bastard. You think of yourself so highly to undermine my authority, boy? I’ll show you what happens to- “GAH!” He collides with Aemon’s steward, spilling the broth all over his clean clothes. Alliser spits at the fat boy’s breeches. “Watch where you’re going!”

“S-Sorry Ser!” he stammers before running up the stairs.

“Pig.”

Exiting the tower, he’s soon greeted by the glare of sunlight coming from the Wall. He squints his eyes before strolling up to the training recruits, most of which make way for him. At least some understand who’s in charge.

Now up close, the state of the yard angers him even more. The dummies made for target and sword practice are now covered with pieces of paper; who’s going to clean that up? Several men sit around painting empty sheets with black ink, making him think of children rather than fellow Brothers. But worst of all are the veterans participating: Whiteye, the Black Jack, and even Clydas are throwing paper. He would’ve thought that they understand how useless all of this is, but turns out he’s mistaken. Alliser grips the hilt of his sword. “Disappointments,” he whispers, “all of them.”

Nonetheless, he’s here for someone. Throwing paper at the far end of the yard is none other than Jon Snow, his dog and the fox woman by his side. He walks towards them, head high with his shadow draping over the boy. “Ah, Ser Alliser,” the woman greets him, “interested in the training?”

“I know what you’re doing, Snow,” he growls, jabbing his finger to the bastard’s chest. “Don’t think I’m blind like Aemon or soft like the Old Bear.”

“Ser Alliser, I’m just training,” the bastard replies. He sees a small smirk on the boy’s cheeks, no doubt not taking the master-at-arms’ words seriously.

“Is this what you consider training?” he gestures to the dummies and idiots covered in paper. “I hardly believe that your father is Lord Eddard Stark when his son is this weak.” The boy’s eyes twitch and Alliser smirks in response before pressing further. “You gave yourself to the Watch, boy, but I’ve seen nought improvements from you. The man who trained you back at Winterfell must be some poor man’s excuse for a knight.”

“I will NOT have you insult Ser Rodrik,” the bastard spits into the snow, fire in his eyes. But the master-at-arms knows how to snuff it out. “What do you want with me? Else just leave me be.”

“Prove to me that you are what you say you are, Lord Snow,” he sneers. “You want to be a ranger like your dead Uncle, yet I don’t see a fragment of him in you. If you refuse then let it be known that the Lord of Winterfell’s half-brother is a fool who’d rather play with ink and paper than a sword. Join your friend Piggy where you belong.”

“…Fine. Ghost, stay to the side. I’ll deal with this.”

Now all the Brothers have stopped their training to watch the two duel. Instead of interfering or trying to stop them, the fox woman simply steps aside and watch. Maester Aemon is right, she is smart. The Auroch fetches them swords and shields, but Alliser notes that the bastard forgoes the latter. Overconfidence, he scoffs. I’ll show you why this farce of yours is worthless. “Ready, bastard?”

The boy nods, face hardened as he pulls out slips of paper from his pocket.

“And with that,” Dolorous Edd shouts, “BEGIN THE DUEL!”

Alliser moves first, confident that the bastard is not strong enough to hold himself up for long. This will be swift and painful for you, boy! Alliser feints with his shield, making the bastard flinch and allowing him to strike for the boy’s stomach. But instead of leather and flesh, it hits nothing, the bastard leaping back from the attack. “Come back you craven!”

“I’m no craven like you,” he taunts.

The boy is faster than Alliser would like him to be, but he’s not one to acknowledge the bastard’s skills. Gritting his teeth, the master-at-arms decides for a different attack. Charging with shield up and sword raised, he lets the boy parry the sword before kicking the bastard down; no shield means no way to properly block. Alliser swings for his chest, but to his surprise the bastard blocks it again. He stomps his foot down in anger and misses the boy’s face, hitting the muddy ground instead. Now there’s some distance between them again, no doubt a craven tactic. “Bastard!”

“No need to remind me,” the boy smirks, wiping the mud off his face. The Brothers around them laugh at the jape, and Alliser notices the Lord Commander smiling as he watches from his tower.

“Dare to make fun of me!” He attacks again, now not caring if the sword will strike the boy’s soft head. But before he can swing his right arm goes limp, dropping his sword into the mud. “What,” is all he could mutter before the bastard kicks his legs out from under him and rip off the shield. Mud covers his face, adding insult to injury.

“I think that’s enough,” says the cocky bastard before walking away to his friends, leaving Alliser to be dragged up by the ranger Thoren.

“You alright?” he asks.

Confused, the master-at-arms shrugs him off before looking at his limp right arm. That’s when he realises that a piece of paper has wrapped itself around his wrist. “When did that…” Alliser rips it off and watches as the paper burns itself to ash, flying away in a breeze. Sorcery. He can hear their laughter now, jeering at him for being covered in mud and beaten by a piece of paper.

A piece... Of paper...

He storms off, hatred and anger nearly bubbling over him. I will make you regret coming here, bastard!

Chapter Text

Winterfell

“Like I said, something’s going on with those two,” Theon snickers as he watches Mikken hammer out Lady Momiji’s brigandine plates. “She came out of the Lord’s solar with tail wagging and a pep in her step whilst in her nightwear. I saw it with my own eyes!”

“I’m sure ye did,” Mikken huffs as he hands the plate for the apprentice to attach. The heat of the smithy is a welcome from Winterfell’s cold yards, even when it’s not snowing. But the blacksmith is not so keen on someone coming here to interrupt his work with some rumours, especially the ones coming out of Theon’s mouth. “Best be not spreading gossip of M’lord, ye hear? Also, give me some of that drink.”

Theon hands him the cup and goes to pick up a plate from the table, but the heat from it makes him think otherwise. “How’s her armour going?”

“Would be finished already if yer not here. Ya know how hard it is makin’ armour for someone with a tail? Lotsa things to consider,” Mikken grumbles, handing back the water. “She be here not long from now, so no time to waste. Hafta work fast.”

“You know who else is going too fast?” Theon smirks, pausing for some flair. “Robb. Damn boy got suitors all around him; from Mormonts to Cerwyns to daughters of landed knights, but he chose the she-wolf. Imagine the Lords’ and Ladies’ faces once they figure that out…”

Mikken’s eyes widen in surprise. “Ye mean it’s official?”

“Might as well! Our little Lordling asked me for love advice before leaving, so I suspect it’s only a matter of time before he announces it to the others. Dare I say, they may have rutted?”

“Gods, don’t make me picture that,” Mikken groans.

“Hey, I’m simply a friend who wants to see him succeed. So when he asked for counsel, as his vassal and friend, I gave him one.”

“Which are…”

“The usual.”

“The usu- Bwah!” The two break into raucous laughter, distracting the smith’s young apprentice at work. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Mikken turns to the boy with a wide grin. “Oy lad, didn’t Greyjoy here gave ya the same advice?”

“Yes Ser and Milord. You told me how to… Say it. To Rose in Winter Town,” the red-haired boy answers, a little bit of anger and red apparent on his face.

“Oh yeah, I remember you, kid,” Theon chuckles as he sips on his wine. “When was it, two months ago? How did that go?”

“…Milord, I think you already know.”

“Pray that Lord Stark doesn’t heed yer advice, young man. Else there’ll be one less mischief in this here castle,” Mikken warns, though most of it is in jest. “Speaking of, why are ye here and not with Lord Stark?”

“Don’t know, why don’t you ask him?” Theon answers briskly, finishing his cup. The air is getting quite stale with that little question. “Hey, how goes those bolts I asked?”

“Ah yes, here they are.” Mikken pulls out a full quiver from under the table. Theon inspects them by pricking his finger on the tip. “Metal heads fer ten bolts and twenty arrows, enough for the young Lord’s hunt. Sharp and barbed, just like ye asked. Now, coins?”

“Here,” he pulls the pouch from his belt and hands it to Mikken; not his coins but Bran’s since the she-wolf wrung him dry. “Thanks for the help, and finish up Lady Momiji’s armour, you hear?”

“I get it, now shoo!”

Exiting the smithy, Theon is greeted by the bright glare of the sun and a cold breeze; the North’s proper welcome, even if he never fits here. A clear sky is the sign of good hunting, so he has no time to waste. At the West gate is the hunting party. Twenty guards flank Bran atop his Dancer and the Reed kids as well; Ser Rodrik said it’s necessary protection after the assassin and Wildling threat. Not gonna have much to hunt then, their sound will spook the animals half a mile away. Then again, we’ve hunted through it during the feast. “Ready?” he asks, climbing up his mottled grey-and-white horse.

Bran nods, but his baggy eyes are far from happy. He looks far frailer than before beneath his furry cloak. Hoping that it’ll change, Theon leads the hunting party out of Winterfell.

It was less than two weeks ago that Bran’s state took a turn. Maester Luwin theorised that the screaming fits were caused by a fever of the mind, but Theon suspects it to be the whispers of that creepy boy Jojen Reed, the one with pea-green eyes. Whatever the case, Bran now secludes himself in his room and seldom come out, only with the Reeds or Lady Reisen as company. And with her gone, now he’s just with the Reeds. That boy told him ill things about dreams, as if everyone doesn’t have nightmares now and then. Gods, why did you leave with them, Robb? I can’t handle a bunch of brats.

He prides himself in being better at fighting and hunting than Robb, yet none of that convinced the young Lord Stark to place him by his side. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik is enough to keep Winterfell’s peace, so why? Because you don’t want me to outshine you? Want to make yourself look good for the other Lords?

…Or is it because I’m still the Starks’ hostage?

A foul ghost that haunts him, and no amount of fucking can kill it. It’s the reason why he’s here, why he can meet Jon and Robb to befriend them: he’s the Starks’ prisoner. It was his father Balon Greyjoy who committed treason, yet Theon paid the price. Robb learnt much from Lord Eddard, so he may hold me in the same light. We trained together, we ate together, and this is my fate? He grips his reins tighter, the rope creaking in his hand. I’m a man grown, so when can I return to Pyke? When my father dies? Never?

“Oh come on, cheer up,” a girl’s voice breaks his anger, though he realises that it wasn’t aimed at him. Meera Reed pats Bran’s unresponsive leg, comforting the boy. Theon takes a good look at her: short, slim, likes to wear scales instead of silks, carrying weapons… I’m starting to suspect the Stark boys to have a certain taste in women, he smirks. Maybe Jon is the same, and Rickon as well. “Father said that forests are blessed by the Old Gods to heal one’s spirit. Being here will surely drive away your foul dreams, though I must confess,” she looks around wide-eyed, “never been to a forest this large before. Nor dry.”

Though Theon is well acquainted with the Wolfswood, he’s still amazed by how colourful it is at this time of year. Leaves of oak and ash tree paint the landscape golden like an everlasting sunset. The coming of Autumn welcomes the winter… And the Others. A cold chill runs down his body; he truly hopes that Robb’s claims are mistaken, else…

He shakes his head. No need to foul the hunt, one of the few times he can leave Winterfell. So instead, he watches the red leaves fall and a woman painting in the trees. Feeling content, he rides to the front of the group to see if-

Wait what the FUCK!? He turns his horse around, but catches no glimpse of that red-dressed woman from before. Theon rubs his head, thinking that he needs a bit more sleep next time.

“You alright there?” asks the Reed boy, his creepy eyes staring back at him.

“Maybe need more sleep, that’s all,” he grumbles before riding on.

“Everyone needs a good dream now and then,” the boy continues much to Theon’s annoyance. “Some people see a lot in their dreams. For example, I dreamt that you drank saltwater in the Wolfswood. You said it tasted like blood and smoke but kept on drinking anyway.”

“Didn’t do that, never planning to do that. There’s not even a sea in the Wolfswood, boy.”

“Yes there is,” Jojen insists, “I saw it in-”

“Your dreams, and everyone knows you should base your decisions on dreams. Sorry to say but we’re not in a dream, this is real life,” he laughs, but Bran flinches at his words. It was Old Nan and now Jojen. Bad influences all around. “You know what I dreamt of? A hot broth from a delicious rabbit soup, which we will catch from this hunt.”

“Lady Reisen won’t like that,” Meera muses.

“Well lucky us that she’s away. Speaking of which…” Theon rides up close to a set of prints barely visible in the melting snow. New ones, he notes the dung, so the games must be close by. “Bran, see those tracks near the blackberries? Tell me what animal made it and the direction it went.”

Bran’s horse Dancer trots up close, nearly stepping onto the fresh prints. It takes him a bit before declaring: “Deer, going South-West of here.”

“Should be a bit quicker. Mycah, care to tell me about those tracks near your feet?”

“Ah!” the guard quickly leaps back, stepping into a wet pile of leaves. After careful consideration, he erroneously says “squirrels, must be.”

Theon sighs. “Care to correct him, Bran?”

“Rabbits, maybe half a dozen.”

“Stay as a guard, Mycah. You ain’t getting much around being a hunter,” he jests. “Come on, let’s get us some dinner.”

Theon and a couple of skilled guards track down the deer: a good sized doe that falls with a single arrow to the skull. Pulling the arrow out, he commends himself for the good shot. Lady Momiji would be quite proud.

Bran, Meera, and Jojen are the ones to track and hunt the rabbits. Turns out, her fish spear and net is as useful on land as it is on water as they’re able to catch and kill five rabbits with it. Bran is also getting used to the crossbow, bringing down a rabbit and a fat-looking treecat that almost went unnoticed. “Two out of three bolts, not bad,”  says Theon as he brings them back for the guards to carry. “Still want to continue? It’s only been past noon.”

Bran nods quite enthusiastically, so different from the gloomy boy just this morning.

And so they head deeper into the woods, crunching the golden leaves underneath and- Theon swings his head round, swearing that he saw the woman again. Maybe I’m the one who needs so medicine, he sighs. Before long, the group encounters a very exciting track: a boar’s track, not as big as the one Lady Reisen killed but impressive nonetheless. “Well now,” he takes a boar spear and descends from his horse, “I’ll be getting myself a new pelt.”

Due to the danger, Theon tells the Stark and Reeds to stay back as Mycah, Gyles, and two others accompany him with bows at the ready. It’s a fat one, some juicy thing that’ll fill our bellies. He can’t help but to lick his lips at the thought of roast boar. The one at the feast was cut too small for it to satisfy his stomach.

But the deeper into the Wolfswood, the tracks turn a bit… Strange. The boar moves back and forth a bit, circling around as if threatened by something, before bursting through a bunch of bushes and trampling saplings. He follows the track, hoping to find the boar at the end of it, but finds instead drag and blood marks in the snow and leaves. There’s bootprints as well; clearly someone killed the boar before they did. “Didn’t know hunters staying this close to Winterfell.”

“Maybe a mountain clansmen,” Gyles shrugs.

“Let’s pay them a visit. I want to see the beast they’ve slain.”

Theon whistles a jolly song whilst following the tracks. This is not near any settlements he knows of, but maybe he’s just misremembering it. After all, some mountain clans like Branch and Woods live in the Wolfswood. But as they come up on the little campfire, unease slowly sets in. Smoke drifts from the burnt wood, having been put out mere seconds ago. There are axes and leather packs strewn about, none of which looks like mountain clan’s property. Most damning of all is the strung up boar, its body half-cut with the knife still stuck in it. Someone doesn’t want to be seen.

The guards draw their bows taut while Theon lowers his spear. He’s not adept with it, but it’s the one in his hands. “Mind showing yourself?” he asks no one with a smile. “Quite rude to greet guests with suspicion.”

“You are in the Starks’ territory!” Gyles shouts, hoping for a response. “Come out or we will root you out!”

The weapons look too nice for Wildlings, or perhaps they stole it from the Night’s Watch? He counts the tracks and comes short of seven. We can take them on.

The rustling of a nearby bush alerts them and a guard lets loose an arrow into it. “We’ve come in peace!” they shout. Why does the voice sound so familiar?

“Then show yourself.”

Coming out of the foliage are… Not what Theon expected. Five of the men are fully armed with mail and steel helms, and some carry shields with them. His heart drops upon seeing the heralds: a red bony hand, a grey leviathan…

And a golden kraken prowling a black sea.

The man at the head of the group approaches them with hands raised. “I mean no harm,” he rasps out before looking straight into Theon’s eyes. He smells of salt and sweat, seaweed braided through his hair and a cold look in his eyes. And if were not for his voice, Theon would have only seen him as some dirty vagabond. But instead…

“Uncle Aeron?”

“It has been a long time, nephew. We need to talk.”

Winterfell

“The hells do you mean I can’t leave?”

“Tis’ simple: you can’t leave,” Ser Rodrik nonchalantly states as he pours himself and Maester Luwin a cup of wine. The smell of bird shit in the rookery does not ease Theon’s nerves. “Though Lord Stark have assigned the three of us to care for Bran and Rickon, that does not mean you have the leave to do what you want.”

“Rodrik is correct,” the maester clears his throat with the warm wine. “Lord Eddard has entrusted Rodrik and I to care for Winterfell, which also means making tough decisions in his stead. However, this,” he taps the table, “is not one of them. Even Bran understands what needs to be done.”

“The boy didn’t understand, he barred my Uncle from being a guest here!”

“By putting a sword over his knees, the proper way to refuse guests,” Ser Rodrik adds. “Even Wildlings know what that gesture means and they’re less civilised than the she-wolf.

“Tch, the boy can’t fucking walk and he dares to use his knees against-”

Rodrik slams his hand on the table, causing the empty cages around them to rattle. His eyes are full of anger as he glowers at Theon. “You will not insult Lord Bran, you hear me, Greyjoy? Did your courtesy leave as well as your common sense?”

Yeah, but I’m still stuck here. Theon sinks back to his seat with a scowl. If these two won’t budge, then he has little chance of ever leaving Winterfell. But he still holds it out for that sliver of hope that they’ll change their mind; surely they must have some sympathy for him.

“What do you plan to achieve by doing this, Theon?” asks Maester Luwin. Though clearly unhappy, his voice is not nearly as angry as Ser Rodrik’s. Gods, Lady Momiji was right, his face does look like a rat, Theon smirks, causing the maester’s eyes to twitch. “If Aeron Greyjoy’s accounts of the Iron Islands are correct, it means that you are not the successor of the late Balon Greyjoy. After all, your sister Asha is older than you and your Uncle Euron proclaims as the rightful ruler of the Iron Islands.”

“He declared himself King,” Theon reminds him. “King of the Iron Islands. He means to betray the Iron Throne.”

“Just like your father before. And like him, he’ll break the Iron Fleet on the Redwyne’s prow. Their numbers are not as great as before,” the maester sighs, tapping his fingers on the table. “Gods, if only we have a raven to tell the King of what we know…”

“You… You can’t simply ignore my Uncle! Do you even know who the Crow’s Eye is!?” Though more than a decade away from any Greyjoys, nothing will make him forget of the Crow’s Eye. From the way Uncle Aeron shivers when describing him, to the tales men whisper in the dark about him… As far as Theon knows, Crow’s Eye is Harren the Black reborn but with far more cunning.

“A fool,” Ser Rodrik sips on the wine. “A traitor. Some say a monster. That’s what you get if you were raised there for a tradition of reaving breeds ill will. Look at the Wildlings for an example. Gods help them when the King’s justice strikes true, but I feel no sympathy.”

“He has demons by his sides,” Theon whispers, practically pleading for them to change their minds. “What if he could control dark sorceries? Turn the sea red or call down storms or-”

“Demons,” the maester scoffs. “Followers of the Drowned God call weirwood trees and the Seven demonic, yet they never seem to reflect on their own faith. Euron Greyjoy may have a couple of foreign priests beneath his sail that the Ironborns call demonic. But even if they’re sorcerers, I sincerely doubt that they’ll be able to do anything. People like the warg are rarer than Valyrian steel, so we have no cause for concern.”

“That and the Sunset Sea is not under the North’s jurisdiction,” Ser Rodrik reminds him. “We have no ships. So unless the Iron Fleet land on our shores or the Iron Throne summons us, we shall focus on more immediate things. The Lannisters are a good cause for concern, as well as the upcoming harvest feast. How’s the numbers though, Luwin?”

“Harvest has been very plentiful for the past few years, though the question lies on the length of upcoming winter. The Wall’s talk of the cold brings us no comfort, and neither is the lack of ravens from the Citadel.”

“Heh, hard to believe. They say the Others march on the Wall, yet they still have time to ask for clean parchment,” Ser Rodrik jests, causing the two to laugh heartily.

As Theon watches the conversation drift away with the wine, he realises how useless it is in convincing the two old men. So instead, he apologises for his rudeness before stomping down the tower. Entering his room, he slams the door and slumps down on the bed, a long groan escaping from his throat.

…

Like Jon, he’s not alien to some brood and gloom. Unlike him however, he likes to share it in the company of a woman. At least, that would be the case if this one isn’t so… Painful. Looking out his window, Theon can see the dark edges of the Wolfswood. My Uncle is waiting there, waiting for me… He pulls out the small bottle he has under the bed and drinks from it, but in frustration he throws it against the wall. “Gods damn it,” he bites his knuckles.

Is he sad for his father’s death? No, not really. The man was never really all that involved with him. He even reckons that he won’t feel that much if his Uncle Aeron is to pass for he looks nothing like the Aeron Theon remembers. But of all these things, giving up the chance at the Seastone Chair and making his own name…

That he won’t give up.

The bastard often said that he and Theon are no different, but Jon at least has Stark blood in him. Theon… Aeron called his blood watery and Theon never felt home with the Starks, not with Lady Catelyn here. Just when I thought I would have peace, Robb plans to bring her back. What a lousy thing, he snorts.

But now a single opportunity presents itself. And all he needs to do is to get to the Wolfswood.

…

*KNOCK KNOCK*

Theon quickly hides his supply under the bed before straightening out his hair. “Who is it?”

“Hodor,” says Hodor.

“Don’t need you here, prick. Go away.”

“Hey, don’t be mean to Hodor,” says Bran. “He’s just a dimwit.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

“Oh…” The voice sounds very dejected.

However, knowing that this would probably be the last time the two can talk to each other, Theon relents. “Fine, you can come in,” he sighs. “But don’t mess up the place.” Unlocking the door, Hodor’s large form ducks down to enter the room, causing Bran to hit his head on the doorway. Theon snickers as the boy is placed down on the bed while the large man sits in the corner, smiling. “How’s your day, Hodor?”

“Hodor.”

“Fantastic to hear. Bran?”

“I think it’s the first time I’ve been in your room,” says the boy as his eyes wander about. “It’s… Small. And cosy.”

“I know. Your mother said that a prisoner doesn’t deserve lavish quarters. Not much to impress girls with, I can attest to that.”

“…Sorry.”

“Hey, it ain’t your fault,” Theon smirks, patting Bran’s shoulder before gripping it tightly. “But you know what is? That shit you pulled in the Wolfswood. So, did you come here to ask for forgiveness?”

“…Jojen told me to do it,” Bran confesses, not keeping eye contact. “He-He said that you leaving will be very bad. A-And that I saw bad things in my dreams,” he sniffles, “the dream demon showed me what would happen if you leave, bad things. I don’t want you to…”

“Nice to hear the decision to keep me prisoner was decided by two good counsels: a creepy boy and a boy’s creepy dreams. Winterfell is in good hands,” he jests, laughing dryly at his own joke. Hodor laughs along, but the man doesn’t seem to understand it. “Anything else?”

“…My dreams. They said that our futures have been written down, in books and strange light things. Our fate, the demon said-”

“Many things, I’m sure. Didn’t Old Nan’s stories ever told you that demons lie, Bran? To get something out of you? What, did it tell you that you’ll never walk again?” The boy keeps his head low, maybe feeling guilty of keeping him here. So instead, Theon kneels and hugs Bran, surprising him. “Just because some silly dream told you that it’s your fate to not walk doesn’t mean that it’s true. You’re never one to stay still, whether that be with Dancer or asking Lady Momiji how to fly. Gods, that fall never broke your spirit, did it”

“No…”

“Good.” He ruffles the boy’s hair before letting him go. “It’s getting dark out, so why don’t you go and eat supper? Hodor, come here.”

“Are you coming?” Bran asks ash he is being secured onto Hodor’s back.

“Those two old coots’ scolding is a good enough meal for me,” he pats his stomach. “Go on, and tell me how that deer tastes. My kill, so it better be good.”

“…Alright. Theon?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. See you later, Bran.” He watches Hodor walk down the hall before locking the door. Theon may not like kids much, but he’ll be lying if he says that he won’t sorely miss the boy. “See you when you’re older, kid,” he sighs before pouring himself his last cup of wine. Leaving Winterfell is a cause for celebration.

Wolfswood

Due to the feasting guards during supper time, Theon manages to easily sneak through the main keep and out of Winterfell in mere minutes. After all, he knows their patterns and behaviour like the back of his hand; nightly excursions to girls in Winter Town aren’t possible without a little bit of craftiness. All he needed was a good length of rope and some weights.

With the muddy ground beneath his feet, he keeps close to Winter Town’s shadows before sprinting towards the Wolfswood. Reaching the edge of the forest, he leans against the tree to catch his breath and look back at Winterfell. Though there’s a few torches at the walls, none are moving fast from an alert. “You’ve outdone yourself, Theon,” he giggles to himself. “I’m fucking free!”

He continues deeper into the Wolfswood with only the light of the moon and red comet guiding him. Lighting up a torch right now would be a mistake. Even so, he can’t help but to jump and skip through the forest; he’s been yearning for a return ever since being taken to Winterfell. But he can’t waste time. Not long from now, the Starks will finish supper and question why didn’t Theon join them. And with his belongings, he can’t hope to out-race horses on foot.

He passes by a familiar weirwood and a fallen tree before entering the boar’s track again. And not long after, he sees the glow of the campfire in the distance. “Oy Uncle!” he waves his hands, causing all the men sitting around to stand to attention. Theon rushes over to be near the flames, greeting his Uncle who stands with a driftwood staff. “I’m ready to go.”

“Are you now?” the priest asks with some suspicion. He circles around Theon with a careful eye, looking at his gloves and arms and clothes and- “Is this all you have?” he pats the bag. “Ten years of living with the Starks amounts to a small bag and some… Jewels.” The priest turns up his nose, clearly insulted by some aspect of the young man.

“I did not live in Winterfell, Uncle. I was their prisoner. My home is back at Pyke.”

“Yet you hunt with the wolves,” says the bearded Volmark man, “and wear silver like a whore.” He reaches out with his axe and pulls out Theon’s necklace from beneath his shirt, a fine ornate thing he bought from White Harbour. “What’s the meaning of this then? You paid gold for this shit?”

“Are you accusing me of not paying the iron, Ser?”

“Ser?” the large man guffaws, holding the belly beneath his mail. “I’m not some painted knight of the greenlanders. I am Gunthor, an Ironborn! A man of the sea and follower of the Drowned God and his prophet! And who are you, boy who smells of summer?”

“I am Theon Greyjoy.” He grasps the end of the axe, pointing it away from him. “Son of Balon Greyjoy and the rightful heir to the Seastone Chair, Gunthor. Remember that when you pull your axe against me again. And if you’re so curious, I killed a Wildling for this necklace,” he lies. “The man killed a Night’s Watch for it and I kill him in turn.”

“Killed a savage,” says the Drumm man, a gaunt looking fellow with a grey beard. “Barely half men, those things.”

“And I killed him all the same. Let me ask, did you do that for your nice helm?”

Before the other could protest, Aeron thumps his staff. “We must leave soon. Boy, did you have their leave?”

“No. And don’t you call me boy, Uncle. I’ve fucked and killed like any Ironborn.”

“And you’ve yet to taste the sea and captain a longship. Gunthor, Rolf, pack up all the meat you can carry. The forest here is unkind,” the priest whispers, his eyes nervously scanning the dark. “We’re too far from the sea and the wind howls with the Storm God’s tempest. Let us leave before those tree worshippers notice his absence.”

Like Theon, none of the men here ride horses. Must be hard to fit on a longship, he reckons, and bet my feet will be very sore come the morn. They light up torches as Theon help them navigate through the forest. The occasional wolf howls give them pause, and he realises that they’ve encountered them before. “One bit me in the leg,” says Qarl One-Eye who’s holding the Greyjoy shield. “Killed it, I did, and its fur made a fine cloak,” the man smiles as he pats the pelt on his shoulder.

Though he would like to catch up on the goings on of the Iron Islands, his Uncle’s appearance always catches him off guard. He looks nothing like the jolly man who pisses in hearths for bets and giggles. No, he looks dour, sunken even. His hair is long and unkempt with the occasional braids of seaweed. He knew that his Uncle was imprisoned by the Lannisters during the failed rebellion, but… What happened? “I never took you for a godly man, Uncle. They call you a prophet now?”

“The Drowned God must have his servant, and I’ve come to take the place.” He downs another gulp from his waterskin. “I’ve become His prophet for I hear His voice in the waves. He leads us towards our salvation, to finally join Him in His drowned hall beneath the sea.”

“You… Hear him?”

“Damphair heard the command to bring you back,” Gunthor shrugs. “So you must be of some import to His will.”

Theon wants to laugh. That makes his Uncle the third person who rely on the voices in their heads for counsel, and who knows many more in Westeros. Gods, the world is going mad. “Well, I sympathise with you, Uncle. Crow’s Eye is unfit to be King.”

“My own Lord swore an oath to him,” Gunthor spits hard into the dead leaves. “The boy has a softer head than you.”

“What am I when I return to the Iron Islands, Uncle? A Prince? King? Lord of Pyke?” Damphair stays silent on the matter, muttering prayers between his cracked lips. Suit yourself, going to find out one way or the other.

Another wolf howl breaks the silence, this time far closer than he would like. “Keep the fires up,” he whispers to them. “Wolves keep bay from the flames and steel. Just keep an eye out and we’ll be safe.”

“I’m not scared of fire, squidboy.”

They stop in their tracks; he recognises that voice. Looking up, he sees a familiar dark silhouette seated on a weirwood branch, her tail swishing and her red eyes reflecting the torchlight. From her voice, there’s no doubt that she’s smiling. Qarl curses and pulls out a throwing axe but Theon quickly drags his arm down. “I know her,” he assures the Ironborn, but all look up with tension in their muscles. Clearing his throat for he knows that it’s on the line, he greets the she-wolf. “Good evening, Lady Momiji. How goes the Northern-”

“Save your chattering, I’m not a damn crow,” she growls, the sound sending goosebumps up his arms. “Care to tell me why you’re out here in the middle of the night? With men who smell of salt?”

Dark shapes move about in the dark, their eyes glinting from the torch. Those are not treecats. “…I’m leaving Winterfell.”

“Oh, now that’s interesting,” she cackles. “And since you’re sneaking around, I’ll take that it’s not an official leave. Why? And be quick, the wolves are hungry.”

I can see that, Theon gulps as he watches a wolf’s drool drip down its mouth. “Family matters, Lady Momiji. Complicated family matters. Uncle?” He motions the stiff looking Damphair to explain the situation. Though there’s a bit of hesitation and fear, the man relents.

“My brother Euron, the heathen and blasphemer, has taken the Seastone Chair and commands the Iron Fleet to their doom. My nephew, Theon Greyjoy, has been prophecised by the Drowned God to fell the sinner for he is untainted by the Crow’s Eye’s reach. That is why I must bring him back to the Iron Islands… Lady Momiji,” he finishes it by bowing his head, but the wolves keep drawing closer.

“Heh, so that’s why you’re leaving. For some glory on a faraway island.”

“Aye, and you know what that’ll get me? The Seastone Chair, that’s what. Not long from now, you’ll call me krakenlord instead of squidboy for I will rule one of Westeros’ strongest navies. I will help Robb fend off the Lannister. I will raze Lannisport and send those Lannisters a message. Robb will regret the day he told me to stay put in Winterfell,” Theon thumps his chest proudly at his claims. After all, proving his worth to none other than the she-wolf would be quite the feat.

“Your sister’s tougher than you, and she’s a woman,” Qarl laughs. “You mean to hold the Seastone Chair?”

“You have doubts on my claims?”

“I doubt you know the sea, greenlander.”

“I can learn, One-Eye. And I know a thing or two about sorcery, even if I can’t conjure up-”

“Quiet,” Damphair whispers, “no more talk of magic. Crow’s Eye have demons under his wings, so we must not fall for the same tricks!”

“Demons?” she says intrigued as her tail stops moving.

“Demons of storm and smoke, aye,” the priest clarifies. “They eat men whole and bathe in darkness, tainting the Drowned God’s sea with their discord and sins. Tis’ no doubt the work of the Storm God,” he shakes his head.

“Black smoke…” She stays silent for a while as wolves stare them down, as if contemplating whether or not to kill them where they stand. Theon fingers the hilt of his dagger, but he knows that it won’t be enough to stop her. Luckily for him, she gives a positive answer. “Sounds like real trouble, so I’ll leave it to you, squidboy.”

“Truly?”

“Ridding demons from an island is a tale worthy to be told and remembered,” she chuckles. “But I want your promise. Kneel.” He quickly falls to his knee, head down beneath the branches of the weirwood. “If I ever catch a whiff of betrayal or hurt towards the wolfboy, I’ll hunt and gut you like a salmon. Do I make myself clear?”

“I swear, Lady Momiji, that my actions will not harm you nor the Starks.”

“Good.” With the clap of her hands, he rises to see the wolves galloping away in the dark. Never knew she had her own pack, or perhaps they’re at her call and beckon? “I will not inform Winterfell of this but I will tell the wolfboy. Hold your promise true and we’ll see each other again, squidboy.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“A simple question: what happened back at the Wall and after the feast? Something interesting between you and Robb? Saw it with my own two eyes,” he smirks.

A snowball hits his face. “Nosy brat,” she grumbles before flying off in a flurry of snow and leaves. That was a vague answer, but enough to paint a vivid picture in Theon’s mind.

“Who the bloody hell was that!?” Damphair exclaims, his mouth agape. “She can fly!?”

“Unholy beast,” Gunthor mutters.

“Yep. That’s Lady Momiji Inu-something, Lord Stark’s wolf bride. I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, let’s keep on moving.”

Chapter Text

Xaro's Palace

Daenerys lets out a long-held sigh as the cool water of the green marble bath envelops her body and soul. She feels ready to drift off to sleep as the scent of rose and other flower petals wash over her. In the water, small golden fish flit about and eat away at her calluses, like a tiny massage all over her body. And with a soft breeze flowing through the open balcony, she feels truly at peace.

When Xaro offered his home for all of Daenerys’ khalasar and horses, she thought the man was full of empty promises. At least that was the case until they saw the palace. It’s a massive colourful complex, larger than a market town with more rooms than she could count. So large in fact that the entirety of her khalasar can be put into the palace’s East wing with rooms to spare. With fresh food, cold water, and gentle air, Qarth is almost heaven.

Almost.

“A towel worthy of your beauty, oh Queen of Dragons,” says a boy in High Valyrian as he places the cloth onto the side of the bath. The servants here, at least from what she can see, are all slaves. Boy slaves with scant few girls here and there. And they’re not even fully clothed, Dany notes for the boy only wears sandals and sheer silk around his waist, though there’s body paint as well.

It’s a sharp reminder that no matter how comfortable this place is, Qarth is not her home. They own slaves here, but not in Westeros. The Qartheen politeness only extends to the free man, and even then it remains suspect.

“May I ask your name?”

“This one has no name, oh Queen of Dragons,” the boy bows with a soft smile.

“But if you are to be around me, then there must be a name I can call you.” She looks around her lavish room, trying to come up with a fitting name for the boy, and her eye settles on a floating flower petal. “Is the name Rose fine with you?”

The boy gasps and tears flow from his eyes, surprising Dany. “Any name coming from your lips is a gift greater than jewels, oh Queen of Dragons! I shall treasure it as I serve you, oh Queen of Graces.”

“…Thank you. And if you would so kindly turn around, I’ll be getting out of the bath.”

“As you wish.”

Still feeling apprehensive changing with a stranger in her room, she moves behind a standing table to dry herself and put on the clothes gifted by Xaro: golden sandals in the shape of serpents and a traditional Qartheen dress with one breast bared, accentuated by rubies cut into the shape of flowers. It feels nothing like the leather and fibres of Dothrakii wear, far softer and… Comfortable. “I can’t stay here,” she whispers to herself. “The Iron Throne is waiting for me.”

And yet the most she has seen of Westeros is a fuzzy haze at the horizon during her stay in Pentos. But Jorah knows of my Kingdom, and Viserys…

…

“Is everything alright, your grace?” Rose asks with the slightest hint of worry.

“I’m fine. Just, reminiscing,” she chuckles, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her brother, the one who often told her wondrous stories of Rhaegar, the one who fed her in the slums of Pentos… The one who sold me for a promise. The one who beat me in front of my husband. For better or for worse, he’s dead. The dragon has three heads, and I’m the last. A lone Targaryen is a terrible thing. “Rose, may I ask what you know of the Kingdoms of Westeros?”

“I must apologise for my ineptitude, oh Queen of Westeros, for I know nought of your land. Mayhaps I bring you a book to-”

“There’s no need for that, Rose, thank you.” All she knows of Westeros now is what the warlock Seiga have told her: “A terrible war has broken out and Westeros is on the brink. North killing West killing East killing South, at least that’s what the crows told me~” To be so jovial in recounting the loss of lives… I see why Prince Miko detests her. “Can you lead me the way to Prince Miko’s quarters? I wish to see my dragons.”

“Certainly, your grace.”

The two walk down the quiet halls of Xaro’s palace, with Dany occasionally stopping to admire the mosaic murals on the walls. One of which is of a great red dragon torn asunder by lightning, such a vivid image that she wonders if the mason was there to witness it. Viserys once told me that Dragonstone and the Red Keep are the finest castles in the whole world, that nothing can beat their magnificence. But what of this palace then? What is a merchant’s home to a King’s castle? Does the Red Keep have fish gardens with captive peacocks and jewelled snakes?

The sound of footsteps echo from a nearby hallway and her bloodrider Aggo comes into view, messily chewing on some orange slices. He turns to her and drops the fruit, shocked perhaps from her dress, her presence, or both. “Khaleesi,” he kneels before her, “I am honoured to see you in good health.”

“Rise Aggo, I’m glad to see you clean as well.” As the older man stands, she notes that his clothing has changed from the one in the Red Waste. No more is it the thick leather breeches but a linen one decorated with jewels. His chest is also fully covered for once, and the soft smell of scented oils waft from his body. A Dothrakii will only wear these when in cities, at least that’s what my knight told me. “Have you seen Prince Miko?”

“I saw her taking the dragons to the… Poison waters,” the Dothrakii scrunches up his nose before spitting on the clean marble floor. A glare from Daenerys makes the man realise his mistake and wipe the spit away with his shoe. “I apologise, khaleesi.”

“The servants here are slaves, I do not wish to make their lives harder.” She offers a glance at Rose, whose expression stays smiling throughout the interaction, and asks him a question: “I hear from Xaro that this palace has a beach. May I go there?”

“Oh Queen of Dragons, every room and every trinket of this palace is yours. I shall show you the way.”

As Aggo escorts Dany to the beach, the boy goes on to tell stories told in the murals in High Valyrian. As the bloodrider doesn’t understand the language, he simply keeps an eye out with a hand on his arakh. Hearing Rose recite them with such emotion and candour gives Dany a dreadful feeling. How much did he suffer to do all of this? “Before I came to Qarth, what were you doing, Rose?”

“I serve my master, the merchant prince Xaro Xhoan Daxos, with my heart and body,” the boy says with glee.

Aggo chuckles darkly next to her. “Lhazareen,” is all he says. Daenerys understands what he means.

The sound of waves and the smell of salt beckons her to walk faster. Her ever fierce Aggo looks pale, more than the time Saki tried to burn his braids. But knowing the importance to be by her side, he keeps on walking with a forced swagger.

Then they set foot on the sandy beach. She had seen the blue sky so many times in the Red Waste, but this one is far more welcoming. Palm fronds dapple the sun as she walks closer to the water’s edge where her handmaidens are playing. Well, Doreah is playing while the others cower, she giggles, watching as the Lyseni girl splash the scared Dothrakii with sea water, laughing all the while.

Aggo walks on the sand with shaky steps, and turns to shock when Dany walks into the ankle-deep water. “Waves, they drag you under, it is known. The poison water has no bottom.”

“But this one has,” Dany smiles, lifting out her sand-covered foot. “And where it is deep, we use wooden horses to traverse.” Off to the side, she’s surprised at seeing Saki and Tojiko leaping about in the sand, occasionally splashing at the water’s edge and burning a poor crab here and there. Where’s Futo? “Where’s Prince Miko?”

Rose scans the shore before pointing to a broken tower in the middle of the water. There, seated on the rocky edge, is a very familiar gold and purple shape. “The Prince of Dragons,” the boy explains, “can take flight like the beasts of legends, oh Queen of Dragons! I saw her beauty grace the sky with her golden colours. May this lower one see you fly as well?” His eyes sparkle with childish expectation, perhaps not unlike her every time Viserys told tales of her family.

We’ll see. Dany cups her hands around her mouth and shouts: “Prince Miko! What are you doing there!?”

“Fishing!” she screams back. “Wanna try!?”

“No boat!” Dany laughs, gesturing at the beach.

Acknowledging this, the Prince leaps off the rock outcropping and flies at speed towards her before landing with a cape flourish. The white dragon at her shoulder screeches in delight. “A pleasure to see you at the beach, Queen Daenerys. Care to join my fishing?” She offers her hand, small golden lights floating around her wrist.

A bit of heat rises to her cheeks. “You mean to take flight?”

“There’s no boat, your grace, lest you chance to swim?” the Prince jests.

“I’d like to stay dry after a bath, my Prince. Though…” Flying. I’ll be… Flying. Other than the Sorcerer Prince here, who else in the world has had a chance to fly? She turns to Aggo who looks at her in horror; horses can’t swim the poison waters and even less so gallop through the clouds. But dragons can. “If you promise to be gentle.”

“What am I if not a gentle Prince,” she smiles, grabbing Dany’s hand and pulling her into a sudden embrace. The Prince’s smooth skin is cool to the touch. “To make sure you don’t fall, your grace,” the Prince’s voice so close to her ear it causes a delightful shiver in Dany. “After all, you’re still far from being an alchemist, aren’t you?”

“If those were my only troubles…”

“Khaleesi…” Aggo pleads, and even the handmaidens are watching her.

“I trust her Aggo, so don’t worry.”

“And a bit of advice: close your eyes if you’re scared.” Futo screeches in agreement.

Dany scoffs. “I have the blood of dragons, Prince Miko. Flying is in my natuuuaaAAAAA!” In the blink of an eye, she’s in the air and screaming, the beach receding beneath her. The roiling waves crash far below and she can even see the tops of the palace, but she cares more about hugging the Prince for dear life. “By the Gods by the dragons this is-”

“And here we are!” The flight comes to a sudden stop and she feels the solid ground beneath her feet. But with her legs trembling like a newborn foal, she holds onto the Prince for a while longer before letting go. “Should have closed your eyes, everyone’s first flight is always too much of a thrill.”

Dany sits down on a broken pillar, calming her rapidly beating heart as she looks back at the beach. She sees Doreah waving her hands and Dany waves back. “I-I flew.”

“Yep.”

“…Will I be able to learn this?”

“Maybe,” the Prince shrugs. “Flight is a strange magic full of trials and errors; what works for me may not work for you. Ah, and before I forget…” The Prince drapes her cape over Dany, the scent from it making the poor Queen’s heart race again. “Can’t let the sun burn your skin again.”

“Thanks,” she pulls the cape close before standing back up. Indeed, this place looks to be a remnant from the palace; it even has the signature mosaics set into the floor. Nearby is a chest where Futo is feasting on some fish, always the gluttonous dragon. “May I watch you fish? I fear I’ll make a fool out of myself if I were to try it.”

“Of course, your grace.” The Prince lifts a large fishing rod nearly thrice as tall as she, banded with silver and gold. Must be Xaro’s gift for her, or something she requested. Placing a jittery crab at its hook, she swings the rod wide and the bait flies far to the Summer Sea. “Futo, my wife not the dragon, said that fishing teaches one patience and patience is a virtue,” the Prince explains with a chuckle as she sits at the tower’s edge. “She never took her own words to heart, that one. Always pulling the hook in far too early… But she taught me how to fish, and that’s only a small part of the love she showed me,” she sighs, leaning back and enjoying the salty breeze. “This fishing rod will make a fine gift for her.”

To say that Dany doesn’t feel a pang of jealousy from hearing the story would be a lie. Feeling daring, she sits next to the Prince and leans her head on the woman’s shoulder. The Prince’s only response is to cock an eyebrow and smile. It is… Relaxing to be by her side. She watches the calm waves caress the broken tower and black birds flying in the sky. They can see much from up there, she reckons. How long will it be until I can fly on my dragons’ back? Before or after I reach Westeros? “Prince Miko?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you remember the warlock’s words?”

The Prince’s shoulders stiffen in response. “Clearly. However, I must put doubts to the claims she made of your Kingdom.”

“I don’t want to trust blindly, my Prince. That’s why I sent Jorah to question the people at port himself. She’s right, my Kingdom’s at war. Houses die and new ones are born, like the House Stormcrow at port.”

“Civil war, huh…” The woman taps the fishing rod, deep in thought. “We’ll have the advantage then. Unity means a strong resistance, but discord? If we play correctly, there may not be a need for a direct invasion,” a sharp smile appears on her face, just like that time in Vaes Tolorro. “Pitting them against each other would be a fine method for there are ways to keep their conflict eternal. Fighting roosters do not see the tiger.”

“But the last thing I want is to be Queen of ashes. Aegon and his sisters forged Westeros into one, and I mean to rule it intact. Magister Illyrio told me that people await the Targaryen return, that several strong Houses pledge support for my claim. I intend to ally them, not wipe them out!”

The Prince meets Daenerys’ concern with an amused expression. “You won’t, that I promise,” her voice comes out laced with sweet poison. “You’re not the only royalty whose father left them with a ruin. I’m well versed in politics and religion and human nature, your grace, and I know how to unify a broken Kingdom. Your lands, your cultures, your peoples may be different, but some things transcend them all. War, death, damnation, greed…” her smile grows wider. “You want peace, but peace is never peaceful, your grace. A paradox for scholars like me to ponder but for a ruler like you to enact, and no doubt it would be an arduous task. But nothing’s impossible,” she shrugs.

“I… See…” Sometimes, Daenerys forgets that this elaborate woman is an actual Prince, not a charlatan nor a simple sorcerer. Though, I wouldn’t call any of her magic simple. “Perhaps you should stay as my advisor for a while longer, then. A Queen needs her Hand, and I’ve yet to make my Small Council.”

“Though I’m delighted by your offer, I much prefer to be on the throne,” the Prince laughs, though it sounds more like a threat to Daenerys. “A joke, so don’t look so angry.”

“…I remember a promise you made to me underneath a peach tree.”

“And I, Toyosatomimi no Miko, shall uphold it. But I can’t stay by your side forever, your grace. I have a mansion to look after, disciples to teach, and wives to hug. Once you’re seated on that very uncomfortable sounding throne, I shall take my leave. But,” she tugs at the fishing rod, “that is far in the future, and like the seasons it is ever-changing. Who knows, perhaps my time with you will stretch on. Only time will tell, and I much prefer to live in the moment.”

“The moment, huh…” Though the sun is still high, she can see the faint glimmer of the moon in the horizon. “Right now, it’s not even assured that we’ll have ships. Lady Seiga promised us men and swords, and I want to see if she’ll make true on her offer.”

“I fear she will fulfil her offer for her definition of ‘men’ and ‘swords’ differ to most,” the Prince frowns as she pulls in her catch of a small fish. Throwing it back, the gluttonous Futo burns and gulps it up. “Having her by your side is not without risks, your grace.”

“The same can be said about you,” Dany smirks.

“You’ve heard too much of your old knight’s complaints.”

“Says the Prince who claims a thousand years in life,” Dany jests, causing the two to laugh. “But still, my knight is sharp with many things, and I’m not blind. There’s a lot of similarities between you and Lady Seiga: your dress sense, your speech, the fact that you’ve learnt magic under her…”

“Geh, her wickedness must have rubbed off on me,” the Prince grumbles, wiping her hand on the mossy rocks. “We have a long history, though it’s not one I tell to many people.”

“Care to tell me then?” Dany asks sweetly. “You’ve seen my ghosts and heard my anguish, it’s only fair that I hear yours as well. So?”

The Prince doesn’t look at her, instead staring out contemplatively at the sea. As soft winds play with her hair, she lifts off her earmuffs with one hand. She’s listening to me, Dany realises, her heart quickening its pace. What can the woman hear right now beneath the sound of waves and wind? How much can she peer into the Queen’s heart? The Prince sighs; in tiredness or disappointment, Dany does not know. But whatever it is, she puts them back on before telling the story. “You already know that she’s the one who taught me alchemy and hermitage.”

“And I take it that she’s also one of your…”

“Wives? No. Our relationship was much more… Illicit, shall we say. If knowledge had spread at the time, it could have doomed my years of planning. Seiga taught me in cheating death and… Cheating. She was as lovely as one can be,” the Prince smiles, “and maybe still is. But no flowers stay in bloom forever.

“I started to notice… Odd things. Whenever she was around, Futo and Tojiko would fall into arguments and quarrels. It started small, but each time it escalated with more shouting and more fighting until-” the Prince stops herself, and Dany can see the broken floor she’s gripping crack underneath her fingers. Gone is the overflowing confidence and haughtiness, and something else takes its place. Something more angry, more sad, more… Vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, she continues. “So I asked Seiga if she’s the cause of all this and for what reason did she want to hurt Tojiko and Futo. With her usual smile that always melt my heart, she gave me an answer. And for once in my life, I would have preferred a lie.

“I distanced myself from her, yet whatever I do she knows how to make holes out of it.” The Prince drums her fingers against the fishing rod, now lying flat beside her. “Maybe this is my punishment for defying the Gods, to forever be accosted by that vexing hermit,” she lets out scornful laughter, wiping at the tears in her eyes. “Ah, life truly is sinful…”

Dany is frozen, not at all expecting such a terrible ghost to reveal itself. A feeling of guilt washes over her; she was the one who kept insisting on bringing the warlock into the fold. But she reasserts herself: I’m the Queen and she’s my advisor. Her woes are not mine to carry. Yet when she looks at the Prince’s pained expression… “Maybe it’s best that I reconsider her involvement.”

“No, there’s no need for that, your grace. After all, I’ve made my promise, haven’t I? What kind of Prince would I be if I were to break it?” Prince Miko smiles, the usual sunny confidence returning to her face. Or is it just the setting sun? “Seiga… Can be dealt with in many ways. Our time together taught me much of her, so I know she’ll never leave you well and truly alone. Might as well have her benefit us, then.”

“My Prince… Do you still love her?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, that I do.” She holds her hand out to Dany. “But that’s the past, and the present says it’s time for supper. Care to return with me?”

Xaro's Palace

Xaro promised a meeting. Xaro promised a feast. He fulfilled all of this and so much more.

Like the palace it is in, the feast is unlike anything Dany has ever seen. She once thought the meals at Illyrio Mopatis’ manse and her own wedding were extravagant, but this is truly something else. Though there are less than one hundred guests in the palace’s main hall, one can’t guess that by looking at the meals: roasted swordfish with sea cucumber stuffing, great squids stretching more than a table’s length, an entire camel cooked from the inside-out, and even a dolphin. “Did they kill a whole menagerie for this?” she whispers.

“No animals here are worth more than a dragon,” says Ser Jorah, giving a piece of grilled dolphin to Tojiko who’s perched on Dany’s shoulder. “They’ve come here to see a creature thought long gone, your grace. We must keep ears open lest their politeness trick us.”

Though her khalasar were not invited, the merchant prince saw for them to be well-fed with similar feasts in their rooms. Here, only Ser Jorah and the Crown Prince attend to her. Well, Rose is here as well. She glances at the black-haired boy by her side, dressed like all the other slaves flitting about this room and attending to guests’ needs. “Another man bears you gifts, your grace,” says the boy, slinking behind her. “A member of the Thirteen.”

“Oh Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Dragons, I am humbled by your presence,” says a large pale man in High Valyrian, lapis set into his ears. Tojiko hisses at him but he pays them no heed. “Please accept my gift, oh beautiful Queen, for I am Xahan Saha Ves of the Thirteen. Qarth has been graced by your presence.”

He looks at Tojiko when talking to me. “Thank you, Xahan. I shall keep your name in my heart.” She opens the gilded box and takes out the silver and onyx necklace inside. A beautiful piece, just like all the others. Clasping it around her neck, she gives the empty box for Rose to put the rest of her gifts: scrolls from Old Valyria, patterned silks of golden threads, live hooded snakes and masquerade monkeys, a horn carved from a massive sea snail, and so much more. The only ones she has put on herself is the necklace and an ornate dragon crown with three heads and jewels for eyes. That was gifted by a member of the Tourmaline Brotherhood. “I look forward to talking with you again, Xahan.”

“Thank you, oh Dragon Queen. Xaro and I know each other well,” he bows his head before returning to the tables, followed by a gaggle of slaves.

“I have no use for these things,” she tugs at the necklace, more like a collar than jewels. “How many ships will this be worth?”

“I do not know, your grace, but I fear it’s taboo to do so here,” Ser Jorah whispers. “From what I’ve seen, gift-giving is important to the Qartheen. Selling them may bring their ire onto us. Perhaps today Xaro shall gift you with ships.”

“He already gave his gifts, or did you not see my knights?” she hisses, remembering the insult from yesterday. Xaro gifted her a thousand knights in ornate armours inlaid with precious jewels and gold. They would have been exquisite gifts if they weren’t the size of her pinky. “Xaro thinks of me as a little girl, not Queen of Westeros. He promised me ships, but I fear they’ll fit in the palm of my hand,” she sighs in disappointment. “At least there’s one prince who can keep their promise.”

She can hear her knight’s armour rustle beside her as she drinks from her cup of watered-down wine. “Yes, that one. But may I ask why she is here, your grace? I’m sure I’m enough of a protection.”

Daenerys watches the Prince talking and laughing away with two finely decorated merchants, no doubt in her mind members of the Thirteen. “She knows sorceries to hear people’s hearts, Jorah. And if it helps us in knowing who we can trust, I shall take advantage of it.”

“Is that so…” Her knight’s face is not at all happy, perhaps in doubt about the claim of her magic. Even after you saw her heal me and fly. “And what will she bring, I wonder?”

“You can ask her yourself.”

The Crown Prince breaks off from her talk and approaches Daenerys side. “Evening, your grace,” the Prince greets her with the usual flourish, the two dragons at her shoulders chewing on some meat. “I see that your beauty has amassed great gifts.”

“Yet none of them is what I need,” she grumbles. “Did you hear anything of interest, Prince Miko?”

“Of course. Ah, but,” she glances over her shoulders, “maybe it’s best to move from the crowd if that is alright. I’m not the only one with ears.”

“Rose, please take care of any arriving gifts.”

“Of course your grace!”

The three move their conversation onto the palace’s terrace overlooking the crashing waves of the beach. Underneath the full moon and the shierak qiya, she feels freer than inside the feast. The two dragons climb onto a nearby statue of a naked warrior while the Prince recounts her observation. “Seems that they desire the dragons.”

The knight snorts. “Even a child knows that. Merchants are not Lords. These people sell spices and men for treasures, and there’s no greater treasure than a dragon.”

Tojiko screeches in agreement before leaping off Daenerys to join their siblings. “They will never have them. What else?”

“An interesting information regarding our host Xaro, though it is more of a confirmation than anything. He’s gay,” the prince laughs, much to the confusion of Ser Jorah and Dany.

“Everyone in this city dresses flamboyantly, Prince. The men set jewels into their own faces and cry on command, or have you been blind for the past few days?”

“I do not mean that kind of gay, knight. I mean gay, like me,” she reiterates.

“While I will say that your cape and hairstyle is a bit extravagant, not that it doesn’t fit you, I wouldn’t go so far to compare it to the merchant prince’s jewels,” says Dany, still not understanding how a merchant’s clothing style will help her.

“No, I mean- Gods, do you guys not know? Xaro likes men the same way I like women.”

“…I see what you mean. No wonder all those slaves I see are boys,” Jorah sneers in disgust. “I merely thought it odd for a man to surround himself as such, but to think it’s that…”

Wait, doesn’t that mean- Dany turns to see Rose receive a gift assigned for her. Standing this far away with that smile and round face, he looks scarcely older than…

“I fear so, your grace,” the Prince interrupts her thoughts with a grim look. “His desires were… Apparent whenever certain slaves approach him. That and-”

“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Dany cuts her off, sparing a pitiful look for Rose. “Just… Gods, tell me anything else.”

“I have other things of note, but I doubt it’ll give you levity,” a dark grin crosses her face. “I listened to their desires regarding you, your grace. None that I’ve listened to hold you up as an actual Queen; at most, a lucky girl with dragons at her side.”

“They gift me with toys and paper soldiers to play with. Do they not know I’m a widow and khaleesi of my khalasar?” Dany rolls her eyes, but she notices that the Prince doesn’t seem too angry at the insults. “You think me as a child.”

“It’s hard to think otherwise when…” The Prince raises her hand to the top of Dany’s bald head showing their difference in height.

“Just because you’re here doesn’t mean you can insult her, Prince,” Ser Jorah growls, stepping in between the two.

“I’m simply stating a fact, Ser. You balding knight. You whose age is written in wrinkles,” she prods his breastplate with her wooden piece before Jorah slaps her hand away. “Some of us here needs to be reminded that our Queen is… How old are you again, your grace?”

“I’m-”

“She’s fourteen,” Ser Jorah answers for her.

“See? You know it yourself!” the Prince laughs much to Dany’s growing frustration. “So why do I hear familiar mutterings in your heart? Is it the Qartheen dress? Or did my warnings before she awoke not quench your desires?”

The knight’s face grows red and he grits his teeth. “You better watch your tongue or I’ll-”

“ENOUGH!” Daenerys exclaims, pinching the bridge of her nose. Even the dragons are struck by her anger. “I will not have you two bickering in the middle of a feast. In front of POSSIBLE ALLIES.”

“I must apologise, your grace. It was my mistake to think that Ser Jorah would be receptive of helpful advice.”

The knight scoffs. “Helpful? The words out of your mouth are neither true nor-”

“What did I just say!?” Dany speaks in a hushed tone, careful not to attract those deceitful merchants’ attention. “I need you two to be far apart if I’m supposed to have a proper discussion.” Without much thought, she turns to her knight. “Ser Jorah, mind guarding my gifts? I’m sure Rose would appreciate a helping hand.”

The knight makes a choked sound before nodding his head. “As you will it, my Queen.” But before leaving, he gives a terrible glare towards the Prince who simply smiles and waves. If looks could kill.

With him away, Dany lets out a long sigh and leans against the statue. Sensing her distress, Tojiko climbs down and curls up around her neck. “Prince, please mend your relations with Ser Jorah. This is getting too much.”

“I always try, your grace. But the man distrusts me from the very beginning,” she shrugs. “And he has his own problems, many of which he keeps secret from you.”

Dany traces her fingers along Tojiko’s neck, soothing her anger. Even the dragon’s playful nipping is welcome. “Then mind telling them to me? You seem to know it, and perhaps I can help. He’s one of my closest advisors.” And the other is you.

“I think it’s best to hear it from his lips, your grace, lest you and he see it as misconstrued words,” Prince Miko smiles, leaning against a bench and bathing in the moonlight. But a dark cloud passing overhead darkens the open terrace. “He’s a knight of many desires, some honourable and some less. Unlike you, not much good for a Taoist.”

“Oh, I feel the same way about Mister Knight~”

The voice startles the two. Turning around, they see no other than the blue-haired warlock Seiga sitting in the empty air, her silk shawl floating about like sea jellies. A terrified-looking Rose pours a cup of wine for her. “My my, look at what the merchant prince did to your look,” she coos, floating over to Daenerys. A touch from the warlock’s hand sends goosebumps down her arm. “All dolled up in their clothes… I much prefer you in leather and grass, Queen dearie.”

She slaps the hand away and the Prince comes to her left, face hardened in a neutral expression. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Seiga. I thought warlocks were not invited.”

The warlock puts a hand over her mouth. “My words… Crown Prince, you’re finally talking to me~!” The woman goes in for a hug but with a cape flourish the Prince disappears and reappears to Daenerys’ right. “Oh meanie,” the warlock pouts, “and here I thought you’ve forgiven me.”

“NEVER,” she hisses before softening to resignation. “But as to aid her grace, I shall be extending my hand… To you.”

“Ahh… Did you regret living in this palace, little Queen? It’s far too big for anything and smells a bit queer,” she giggles, the unnerving scent of death wafting from her- Wait, is that blood on her dress? “But the House of the Undying is always open for you and the Prince. It’s the perfect size as well, though in dire need of a proper dusting.”

“I shall visit you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow?” she gasps. “Well, aren’t you hasty? But I won’t blame you; Prince Miko here can be a bit hasty at times~” Seiga winks, causing the Prince to groan. “Ah yes, I forgot to ask. What do you think, Crown Prince? Does this dress look good one me?” She twirls around displaying the blue and gold-laced Qartheen dress, not unlike the one she wore in Vaes Tolorro.

“We’re asking for your help, not-”

“And I won’t help if you don’t comment,” the warlock grins. “I know where your eyes are staring, Prince~”

“…It looks beautiful.”

“Hmm, lacks in enthusiasm, but I know it’ll return,” Seiga pats the Prince’s cheeks, causing them to flush. “Now, I must go before-”

“Ah… The wicked warlock Seiga Kaku,” a voice interrupts. Xaro and several eunuch guards approach them, the dragons hissing at their sight. “I did not remember extending an invitation to you.”

“I was just passing by, Xaro, nothing nefarious~” she giggles. “Oh my, do I smell roasted dolphin?”

“Those sea beasts make fine meals. If you’d like, I can send a dozen to your house and fill your mouth with their exquisite taste. Or perhaps you prefer a swordfish to fill your belly? A fine meal to end the day, I hear.”

“But the night’s still early, merchant prince. I had in mind something more… Scaly. And spicy,” the warlock licks her lips, making Dany shiver. Rose fills back her cup with shaky hands. “I think you offer something like that here, didn’t you?”

“My slaves prepared spiced sea lizard, though I must confess to only having a few,” his soft smile slowly curls up. “Acquiring such meals… Was hard. I’m reluctant to part with my favourite dish.”

“Aww, not even a slice?” The warlock frowns, pointing at a table back inside the feast. “Surely you can spare a small plate for a hungry hermit.”

Xaro looks at the table then back at her with such suspicion that Dany worries of he’ll break that mask of his. But as quickly as he frowned it turns back to a sweet smile as if all those veiled threats never happened. “Of course, oh great warlock. We are not greedy as to let a poor woman starve. I shall have it sent in a box.”

“Thank you, dearie.” With the merchant prince and his eunuchs walking away, the warlock turns to Dany. “I’m sorry for that display, I’m feeling quite hungry today. The meal in the House of the Undying can’t compare to the merchants.”

“You have no need for food nor drinks, Seiga. Why don’t you drink mist?”

“Oh Prince, you know I don’t plan to live in boredom. Well, I still have work to do, so see you tomorrow, dearie~!” With a tap of her hairpin, a hole opens up on the floor and she falls through. And as soon it opens it closes again, leaving nothing amiss.

“…I guess she’s officially with us now,” Dany mutters, taking comfort in petting more of her dragons. These needy creatures are still far too small to pressure anyone with their presence. How much longer until they grow? One? Two? Five years? “Will you be coming with me tomorrow, my Prince?”

Prince Miko stands by her side, looking up at the full moon. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, your grace.”

Chapter Text

House of the Undying

The splendour and riches of Qarth slowly peel away as Daenerys’ retinue enters where magic and sorceries dwell: Warlock’s Way. Tall scrying towers dot the area while windowless buildings close in around them. Those who dwell here cover themselves in cloaks of blue and grey, and none dare show their faces. A slave pulls a cart full of jars, the smell metallic and full of rot. Even Saki does not like it here, she notes, watching the dragon sniff and hiss at nearby onlookers.

Rakharo approaches her and whispers: “Maegis and warlocks bed with demons. It is known, khaleesi.”

“Lady Seiga is not Mirri Maz Duur,” she assures him with a smile, “and not a true stranger if the Prince is to be believed. I’ve made my promise and I mean to see it through, blood of my blood.” Though still troubled, the man nods and heads back into position. She plans only taking Ser Jorah and Prince Miko into the House of the Undying; too many guards will make her appear weak.

Deeper into Warlock’s Way, buildings are replaced by tall black trees and blue canopies. Leaves fall like ashes all around them, the only sound here coming from the horses. A few figures stand still as statues in the shadows, wielding tall spears and dark helms.

Finally she sets eyes on the House of the Undying, yet House of Dust seems a more fitting title. It’s a low building with no windows nor upper floors, slithering through groves of black trees like a dying serpent. Parts of the walls are crumbling and the shingles cracked, though some masons and slaves are working on repairs. As Dany steps out of her palanquin with Saki, the building’s mouth-shaped door opens. “Ah, welcome~!” the cheerful Lady Seiga greets them. “Right on time. Please ignore the renovations.”

“Home of the warlocks,” Ser Jorah chuckles. “I expected something more grand.”

“I know, those Undying don’t care much for appearance,” the warlock sighs, “but at least they’ve reinforced this place with magic.”

“Is that so?” Prince Miko tugs at the empty air with Futo mimicking her movements. “Explains the foulness in the air. Such magic… Can you sense it, your grace?”

“Maybe,” Dany answers for she doesn’t know much of magic. But the air does smell odd, as if a thunderstorm had just passed by.

“Ah right, refreshments!” With a clap of her hands, a tiny dwarf walks out the building holding a platter of drinks; cups of dark blue liquid to loosen their tongues. Lady Seiga sips from one and shivers at the taste. “Delightful… Care to join?”

Miko, ever the curious drinker, takes a deep gulp from one and immediately regrets it. Ser Jorah can’t hide his joy as the Prince coughs it all back up. “Ugh… That tasted so…”

“Delicious? I know~” the warlock giggles as she takes another sip, much to the Prince’s horror. “Shade of the evening, made from the black leaves and used to enhance magic. A warlock’s tea, if you will”

“Feels like drinking quicksilver,” the Prince spits, “and rotten beef…”

“Care for one, mister knight?”

“If she can’t handle it then I must politely decline.”

“More for me then~ Come, let’s not dwell longer outside.” And with that, they enter the warlock’s home.

Only the candles have ever seen the true horrors of this dreary place. There are empty jars full of strange bones scattered in the halls, some of which marking doors and pathways. A thousand doors and no windows… Like in the gullet of a sea dragon. Prince Miko traces her wooden piece along the wall as she walks, sometimes pausing to chip at some worn-down symbols. “So this is the Undying’s magic…”

“Hard to notice without the drink,” Lady Seiga raises her cup. Nothing looks magical to Dany but the warlock continues. “Though crumbling, their magic expanded this complex to such lengths that it barely resembles the outside. They don’t even have a full map of it. A shame they don’t beautify the place,” she shrugs, “or themselves.”

“Strangely similar to hermitage… Though mine is still better,” the Prince gloats before turning to Dany. “Perhaps we can learn from these Undying.”

Upon hearing that, Lady Seiga bursts into laughter. “Ah~ They’re not in a state to teach nor talk. Why, I can teach you how-”

“The Prince’s lectures is enough to handle, Lady Seiga.” That and I’d rather stay by her side, Dany thinks, moving closer to Prince Miko. Even then, I can’t let all my mind be taken by all these sorceries. I’m a Queen; politics is more intricate … she sighs. Perhaps someone like Doreah might be-

“Skraw!” Saki screeches and tugs at Dany with their sharp claws; something behind them? Turning around, she sees a little girl in ragged clothes staring back with bright purple eyes, her silver-white hair tied in a messy ponytail. Why does she look so- But before she comes to a realisation, the girl scurries off to an open door.

“Strange… Lady Seiga, who is-” No one’s here. She’s alone within the House’s empty halls. Hoping that they’ve only walked ahead, she continues to the end of the corridor but finds no trace of them. They wouldn’t abandon their Queen, would they? “Which door?” she wonders. As if answering her, the door where the girl walked through opens wider, creaking for her attention.

…

Dany strokes Saki’s leathery wing, feeling their warmth to calm her heart. Blood of the dragon, she reminds herself, shades are nothing to me. And so she walks through.

Open doors lead her way, each more distant than the last. Though accompanied by Saki’s chirping, she often hears soft whispers in the moving air. The Qartheen tongue, yet it sounds far too longing… Another door opens, this time leading up a stairway; this building doesn’t have an upper floor. But she climbs it anyway.

As the whispers grow louder, a faintly sweet smell grabs her attention. Following it, she finds at the end of a spiralling hallway a grand door guarded by two pale soldiers, their face covered by a steel helm. Under closer inspection, intricate paper tags hang from them as well. “Where am I?” she asks, but none answers her. Still as statues… Is it not painful for slaves to remain like this? “I shall enter this room. If you see your master, tell her that Daenerys Targaryen is here.”

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, that thick honey-like scent envelops her. This looks to be a dining room, yet it’s nothing more than a storage for jars right now. Dany looks up and sees… A dark blue heart, pumping out glowing smoke. And the whispers are louder here, threatening to drown out her thoughts.

She approaches the large jars placed on the dining table’s chairs, the source of that constant whispering. Saki bristles at their smell; from hunger or terror, she does not know. Dany can barely make out the mournful words of the Qartheen tongue, their yearning for-

“Ah, there you-”

“AHH!” Dany jumps back, nearly crashing into the others if not for the warlock’s grip. “Oh, it’s just you, Lady Seiga…” she sighs.

“It’s just me~” the warlock giggles, twirling the Queen around and dusting off her dress. “Try not to get lost around here, I’d rather not have those two yell at me. Come, let’s get back to the others.”

As Dany follows the warlock out, she looks back at those whispering jars, their soft voice and scratching filling the air and haunting her mind. She does not know their wish, but fears it all the same.

House of the Undying

“So~” Lady Seiga sinks into a pile of rose-patterned cushions atop a stone platform, swirling a cup of evening shade. She smiles down at them, smug as a cat, before asking: “Have you all calmed down?”

“You have no right to question that for you-”

“My expectations of you were low but to think-”

“Air your grievances later,” Daenerys snaps at her two advisors, returning them to their cushioned seats. “We have important matters to discuss.” She picks up a cup and frowns upon realising it’s more of that blue concoction; she puts it down.

Unlike the dilapidation of the building, the warlock’s solar, if it could be called that, is far more clean and elaborate. Although there are no windows, light shines unnaturally bright from the purple candles towering above them. A few tapestries hang here and there and a… Six-legged thing lies asleep near the cushions, receiving occasional pets from the warlock. “You have dragons, I have Mimi,” she says, earning a low satisfied growl from the beast.

“So you do, Lady Seiga. And as I recall, you claimed to hold men and swords as well, yet I nary saw a single soul in this complex. Is it true then that the words of warlocks are as good as dust?”

“I do live in the House of Dust~” the warlock jests, earning no smiles from Daenerys. “Of course, I didn’t invite you here without preparations. I have a few plans to create a standing army for you.”

“Plans.” That word tastes vile in her mouth. Illyrio Mopatis had grand plans for Viserys, and look where it got me. “I was promised actual men, not dreams nor paper ships. If you have none then I shall-”

“I have them! Tch, so impatient…” Raising her now empty glass, she hits it with a fork and summons one of the armoured guards Daenerys saw back in the hallways. Ser Jorah bristles but keeps his cool, yet the Prince’s widening eyes gives her some worry. The warlock gestures at him with her hairpin. “This one I named Lao, Queen dearie. A strong one, though no replacement for my dear Yoshika, wherever you may be,” she says wistfully. “I have a thousand just like him at the ready, and expect a thousand more soon.”

Daenerys looks into the dead eyes beneath that helm. “Slaves.”

“No,” the Prince cautions. “Necromancy.”

“…Necro-”

“-Mancy~!” Lady Seiga declares cheerfully. She floats over to Lao and takes off his helm, revealing…

…

A choked sound escapes Dany’s mouth as her breakfast threatens to climb back out. She pries her eyes off of him, that extensive damage to his- A walking corpse. This place is full of walking corpses. And I will be the one leading them. “The Master of Corpses, the Mother of Shades,” she mutters, “No. I can’t use this. I won’t!”

“Before it was the drink and now my help,” Lady Seiga pouts. “Why refuse my gifts?”

“Lady Seiga, the gifts you’ve shown us are cursed things,” says Ser Jorah. “You are suggesting the Queen of Westeros to retake the Iron Throne with corpses! All the gods, the Seven, the Old, even that damned Drowned God will condemn us for this! Why, we might as well use slaves and Unsullieds in our army.”

“Which I refused,” Daenerys adds. “Free men, mercenaries, all may join me. But slavery is not welcome in my khalasar, and corpses…” She looks back at the body, a disgusting shiver going down her back upon locking eyes with it. “We may have some support with the commonfolk, but that can still change. Having an army of corpses will not help. Isn’t that right, Prince Miko?” She turns to her advisor. But instead of an agreement, the woman looks contemplatively at the corpse’s ruined face. “Prince?”

“…I’ve heard of worse ideas,” the woman muses, shocking Daenerys. “Jiang-Shis are known for their strength, not so much their intelligence. They would certainly hold their ground…”

The Queen scoots over to her advisor, whispering: “They’re corpses. Bloodmagic. I will not become the master of the dead.”

“Your grace, if you remembered my lectures you would know that necromancy and bloodmagic are two different things,” the Prince chides. “And the dead may be foul things, but most of your people are not fit to fight. Why risk their lives when we can use one that don’t have them? While I won’t trust everything Seiga say or do,” she glares at the warlock, “this is not outside some good reason.”

“But I still need living men. And support of the people. Corpses, they won’t bring me this.”

“Correct, but corpses will bring us military might, something we sorely lack. The heart of the people… That we can deal later, your grace.”

That doesn’t solve my problem, she wants to scream back, but from her answer the Prince is receptive to using corpses. Moving corpses. And if the Prince finds the warlock’s proposal acceptable, then it should be fine for me… Right? Ser Jorah’s look of disapproval nearly sways her, but she will trust the Prince’s judgement on this. Of course, Daenerys doesn’t intend to enter this deal blindly. “You say a thousand, yet the Usurper wields tens of thousands in his name.”

“So many questions and worries,” the warlock pokes Dany’s nose, causing Saki to snap back. “Feisty little thing, so eager to fight when you’re not even grown~” she giggles. “Well, lucky for us that new shipment of corpses shall arrive soon. Heard of the fighting in Slaver’s Bay?”

“Words spread,” Daenerys replies. Most of which were from Ser Jorah’s investigations and Xaro’s own retelling, but she’s sceptical of how accurate they are. “The cities of Meereen and Yunkai have fallen to some red miasma, and now Astapor is under threat as well. Slave rebellions are occurring and masters are being killed by the thousands.” Not that I care about them, she huffs. Those slavers may rot in hell. “I suppose you have a hand in this?”

“In corpse retrieval, yes,” the warlock answers. “They’re sending all sorts of people there: the legions of New Ghis, camelry from Qarth, even mercenaries from a place called the Free Cities. Must be a terrible conflict, oh I do yearn to see it~” a cat-like grin crosses her face. “Alas, dragons interest me more, and so I must stay in this painted city. Never expected them to be so cute~!”

Under the warlock’s hungry eyes, Dany pulls Saki closer. “So the corpses will increase.”

“In due time, yes.”

“Each enemy fallen can become ours,” the Prince adds, scratching at Futo’s head. “An insidious plan… I expected nothing less from a wicked hermit.”

“Aww, thank you-”

“That was not a compliment.”

“How about command, then?” asks Daenerys. “I doubt corpses can lead men to battle.”

“Well, you have me~” Lady Seiga smiles. “I also have a few warlocks and mages under my tutelage, though none I fear are as good as me. They can act as fellow commanders for the corpses.”

“And all of them would be under you, isn’t that right?” Ser Jorah points out.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it! Why, you can be their general, mister knight. Or my lovely Prince here. She certainly knows how to take charge,” Lady Seiga goes to caress the Prince’s cheek but her hand is slapped away. She smiles back in response before returning to her cushions. “Of course, Queen dearie, you could always appeal to the Pureborn to lend you experienced men. In fact, I shall help you in making bribes for them!”

“You would do that?” Daenerys cocks her brow. “Why?”

“Kindness.”

“Dark desires,” the Prince corrects with a scowl. “I can hear your heart loud and clear, Seiga. Spill it.”

The warlock’s eyes narrow and take a vicious glint as she refills her drink. “Nothing ever gets past you, my lovely Prince~ I simply want to repay the kind and polite messages the Pureborn sent me, but alas my warlocks and I are no longer allowed near their homes. But a dragon Queen? Why, they would be very grateful of your gifts! Well, my gifts, which you will be giving to them.”

“…You mean to gift them poison, Lady Seiga.”

“No need to ponder on the silly thing,” the warlock smirks, “just think on accepting my help.”

“They’ll track it to me.”

“As I said, dearie, worry not.”

Daenerys does nothing BUT worry. She once heard that the Pureborns send Sorrowful Men, assassins of Qarth, to eliminate those they see as a threat. Though she’s always protected, what of her khalasar? Would they try and use them as hostage? Would Xaro dare to hurt them? If he hears of my involvement, would he not throw us back into the streets?

However, what position does she have to refuse the ‘help’? Xaro’s gifts are more false than the warlock’s and Daenerys has yet to hear anything from the masked woman Quaithe. At this point in time, Lady Seiga is the only one offering genuine help. Even if I stayed with Xaro, I have no doubts he’ll tell me to beg the Pureborns. If that’s the case…

Daenerys rubs her black bracelet, the one Aggo gifted her back in Vaes Tolorro. But here in this dreary room she can barely see the metal’s patterned grain. This decision will lead her down a dangerous path, but is that not the life she’s living? “If you see that as the best path forward, then I shall heed your advice, Lady Seiga. But promise me this.” She stands and climbs up the stone platform, looking down at the warlock. “You will never bring ruin into my Kingdom, never bring ruin to my people, and you will help me rend the Usurper once and for all. Promise me this and you shall have a seat at my court.”

“I will accomplish that and so much more, oh lovely Dragon Queen~” She takes the Queen’s hand and kisses it, yet it doesn’t bring the same flutter as with the Prince; only coldness and disgust. It leaves a faint blue print on her hand. “Trust my words that the Iron Throne shall be yours. For now, let us deal with these Qartheen, shall we?”

Qarth

“How was the Pureborn?”

“What do you think?” Daenerys seethes, chewing away on some grapes. The sway of Seiga’s blue palanquin brings no calm to her heart, and neither does the occasional hungry chirps of Saki. “They had your bribes in their hands, yet still dared to refuse me with politeness. A Dothrakii’s crass words are more reassuring than their soft refusal,” she says, earning some laughter from her bloodriders.

“Horselords or Milk Men, no one likes a beggar,” the Prince chuckles, refusing to refill Dany’s wine cup. “To beg is to be seen as weak and pitiful. Why, I’d die of embarrassment if I had to grovel in front of a hundred people!”

“Oh, don’t be so mean to our little Queen, Prince. I know you like to beg sometimes,” the warlock teases, breaking the woman’s confident visage with a blush. “Besides, I suspect the Pureborns refused because of your hair. From what I heard, you used to have such fine silvery locks~ Tell me, you’ve been using my ointments, right?”

“I have,” Dany replies, running her fingers through her short hair. The warlock is adamant in making her regain ‘beauty’ as it were, giving strange concoctions meant to heal her skin and regrow hair. She knows the importance of appearances in appearing as the Dragon Queen. But it wasn’t enough to sway those Milk Men. “I could have bought a ship with all those bribes. Their tears were not worth all that gold and neither were my pride and time. To think this city is ruled by them…”

“Their sleepy eyes are blind to Qarth’s fermentation,” Lady Seiga smirks. “Be glad that they’re so soft and polite; all they wanted was to see the horsegirl with dragons on her shoulders.”

“And none saw me as Queen,” she groans, looking out at the gawking crowd around the palanquin. Usually terrified of a warlock’s presence, the chance to see dragons overcame their fears. “Does anyone in Qarth see me as Queen?” Her eyes glance at the Prince, too preoccupied in feeding Saki, Tojiko, and Futo to give her much attention. All three are quite hungry after their display back at the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. Larger everyday…

“In due time, your grace,” the Prince answers, no doubt hearing her unease. “You’re still young, after all.”

“Which does not change that I’m the rightful Queen of Westeros,” she scowls before turning to the warlock. “What manner of gifts were they, Lady Seiga? I saw beetles and butterflies in gilded cages; are they meant to poison? Bite them in their sleep?”

“Gu,” says the Prince, “cursed insects that carry great risks in creating them. With proper care they bring prosperity, but neglect brings doom to their owner’s blood.”

“Correct. Poisons are far too suspicious~” the warlock cackles.

“Like how Mirri Maz Duur cursed me?” She didn’t remember doing any rituals or chanting when giving the bribes; only instructions on how to feed the insects.

“No, it is more… Abstract, shall we say? If Egon Emeros is to choke in the middle of dinner, the Pureborns would suspect your involvement in his death. But if he twists his ankle and cracks his head on the steps, would it be your fault or his own wide girth? Would a warlock be responsible for Wendello Qar Deeth’s trade failures or Mathos Mallarawan’s dogs finding his marrow tasty? Of course not~! Besides, those pale men insulted me,” Lady Seiga sneers, an uncharacteristic frown settling on her face. “They questioned my magic and compared me to the wrinkly Pyat Pree, such mortal fools.” She takes a deep drink of her shade before wiping the blue with her arm, the usual sly smile returning to her face. “Why ask, Queen dearie? Feeling pity for the Pureborns?”

“No.” She has no kindness for slavers, especially those that refused to help her noble cause. “As long as it’ll earn me ships and men, I will never cry for them.”

“Xaro’s advice be damned,” the Prince laughs. Dany smiles before turning back to the passing scenery. Qarth is a beautiful city, she thinks to herself, and I have no doubts King’s Landing would have similar splendour. But knowing the Prince won’t be with her at the end, the glimmering Red Keep loses its lustre. Is there nothing that I can say to have her as my…

A sudden jolt brings her back to the palanquin. A large crowd blocks the way over the serpent bridge and towards the House of Dust. For a moment she thinks it’s for them, but all Qartheen present are keeping their eyes on the commotion atop the bridge. “What is it?” she asks Aggo.

“Pointed riders, khaleesi,” he answers. “And bejewelled women.”

Jogos Nhai and the warrior maids of the Hyrkoon Patrimony. Ser Jorah once said that the two are fierce enemies, both killing and enslaving the other for thousands of years. If they’re the ones blocking the roads, blood will be spilt if it hasn’t already. But that doesn’t seem to be the case as the city’s camelry has yet to intervene, waiting instead at the bridge’s mouths.

The warlock cares for none of it. “My my, I do hate traffic… Lao, be a dear and clear up the-”

“Wait,” Daenerys interrupts her. “I’ve met the Jogos Nhai before, I can speak to them.”

“Will you now~?” Lady Seiga sighs before plopping back into her cushions. “Suit yourself.”

Though she doubts they’ll actually listen to her, it’s far better than letting a walking corpse ‘clear’ the road, as it were. Taking Saki and the Prince with her, she cuts through the Qartheen crowd before confronting the Jogos Nhai, though she takes a step back at the zorses’ scornful neighing. “Explain what is going on,” she says to the one named Hagus Nohos who leads a caravan and once gifted her two zorses.

“Dragon Queen,” he replies in a bastard Valyrian, bowing his pointed head. “We don’t mean to disturb your-”

A shout from across the bridge cuts him off, prompting the Jogos Nhai to bark something back in their sharp tongue. The zorses move, taking positions around the bridge as if ready for battle. Even the waiting camelry seem to side with them. With her apparently near-limitless knowledge of languages, the Prince translates: “Threats between the two, your grace. The Jogos Nhai intends to capture the… Hyrkoon, was it? That they’re not welcome in Qarth. Such enmity…” she tuts.

Pushing past the angry riders, Daenerys walks across the serpent-shaped bridge to see the Hyrkoonian. She hopes that the warrior maids Aggo spoke of will be more willing to talk. But upon seeing them, the two pause in shock.

There are more than forty of the warrior maids and all are grievously wounded. Strange pink boils cover their dark skin, oozing sickly green pus onto their furry vests. Even their stout grey-mottled horses are not spared from the malaise, some of them wasting away from some invisible disease. The Prince grimaces upon seeing a jewel drop from a maid’s loose cheeks.

Though a few croak out amazement of Dany’s dragon in their strange tongue, they’re soon silenced by someone she presumes to be their leader. The woman is taller than Jorah and wields a gold-banded spear taller than herself. Her missing arm and eye do not detract from her sharp gaze as she scrutinizes Daenerys and the Prince. Nodding her head, she thumps her spear and takes off her embroidered cloak, revealing battle-scarred breasts. “I’ve seen you before,” she croaks out in the Dothrakii tongue. “Back in Vaes Dothrak, the horselord Drogo’s girl-wife,” she smirks, the rubies in her cheeks more red than her wounds.

“I am Daenerys Targaryen, warrior maid. Mother of Dragons, Queen of Westeros, and the khaleesi of my khalasar.”

“Khalasar? A scrawny girl like you lead them?”

“Drogo’s dead, and I’m no girl.” Saki hisses at her anger, but the warrior’s gaze does not falter. “Who are you and why are you in Qarth?”

“Qarth welcomes all, from horselords to warlocks,” the warrior laughs before breaking into a fit of coughs, though she regains composure quickly. “I am Kalakaham Habashad, General of Bayasabhad’s Mountain Brigade, Skinner of Zorses, Scourge of the Jogos Nhai, and mother of three commanders! But we have not come for trade nor war. No… We’ve come for refuge. And they,” she points at the zorze-riders, “have refused our passage.”

“The whore warriors kill,” Hagus spits while keeping his distance; even wounded, all the Hyrkoonian are armed. “Dragon Queen, they will bleed your men and burn them atop fiery mountains!”

“Your blood have no worth and we are unable to return, fool,” Kalakaham snaps back, a grim look settling on her face. “A great beast now lay claim to the Bones and our glorious cities. A wicked creature with a million legs and a million eyes that curl around mountains and spread miasma onto the land.”

“They have iron tongues! All their words are lies!” the Jogos Nhai shouts. “They will churn this city red before gelding the men for their queer gods. Qarth will not welcome them!”

“I’ve traded in Qarth, you fool.”

As the two turn again into shouting matches, the Prince whispers: “I hear no lies nor ill intent in the general’s heart, not to us at least. And I fear the part about a monster is…”

“I know my decision. Stop their quarrelling.”

The Prince raises her scabbard and for a moment unsheathes her sword, releasing a golden light that even Daenerys has to look away from. As the two groups blink their bleary eyes, she walks over to the general. “Crossing the bridge will anger the Jogos Nhai, and the camelry supports them,” she says, not allowing the woman to protest. “However, as Queen of Westeros I shall shelter you and heal your wounded. The Prince and the warlocks will help in the latter.”

Kalakaham raises her brow. “We don’t speak to Pyat Pree.”

“I know not of him; Lady Seiga leads the warlocks now.” Taken aback by that reply, she turns to the other warrior maids and discuss in their native tongue. “Lady Seiga can house you,” she adds, nearly causing the Prince to burst into laughter. “The House of Dust has more rooms than one can count, I’m sure the warlock can spare a few.”

After a few agreeable mutterings, Kalakaham offers Daenerys an ornate iron ring with golden carvings of mountains. “My thanks,” she says, “for we are guests under your roof. There will be more of my maids, days away walking on the Sand Road.”

“Lady Seiga will take them.”

“…Thank you.” Grasping Daenerys’ hand firmly, she gives her the heavy iron ring before returning to the other warriors. With a shout and a few spear thumps the group departs towards Warlock’s Way, no doubt a surprising sight to those reclusive warlocks.

As she puts on the iron ring on her thumb, the Prince shakes her head in disbelief. “Forcing onto Seiga the act of kindness… What a hilarious thing to see.”

“We’ve walked the Red Waste, Prince Miko. They’ve endured similar pain and deserve reprieve for their journey. If Lady Seiga objects to this, I’ll remind her of the incomplete deal. She has no ground to argue.”

“How sharp. You’re going to be a splendid monarch, your grace.”

“I learn from the best,” she smiles at the Prince before turning her attention to the angry Hagus Nohos. “I’ve sent them away, just like you demanded.”

“No, you housed them. You gave those mountain whores food and strength.” Seeing the man’s grip on his sword, the Prince steps in between them and Daenerys. “Dragon Queen, do you know what you have done?”

“I am helping them.”

“WHY!? You wear their ring knowing those mountain whores will geld your knights and warlocks! Madness!” he spits, the insult making her eyes twitch. “They will corrupt you, Dragon Queen!”

“Oh, I doubt it,” says Lady Seiga, floating int he air before taking a seat on the bridge’s stone railing. “And what gives the Jogos Nhai the right to infringe her decision, hm? It is my home they’re living under, not yours. Ah, do you mean to infringe on my authority?” Lady Seiga’s grin turns malicious as she twirls her hairpin. “Defying a warlock is a rare and foolish thing. Care to see it through?”

Though he has greater numbers, injuring Daenerys may result in the camelry’s involvement against the Jogos Nhai. So instead, Hagus bites a lead coin and throws it down at her feet; an ominous sign. With a grunt, the Jogon Nhai leave with their zorses, finally clearing the bridge from any obstructions. She breathes a sigh of relief, though somewhat empty knowing the potential for future conflict. Staying in this city for too long will be the death of me. “Let’s return to the palanquin.”

“No need to walk, Queen dearie, I’ll bring them here. But next time, try to consider my duties as head warlock…” Lady Seiga groans before floating off.

“She already did,” the Prince chuckles with Saki.

Chapter Text

Lannister Camp

Donning his gold-embroidered scarlet doublet and black satin gloves, Kevan Lannister prepares for the war council with his brother: the Warden of the West Tywin Lannister. Appearances are important, especially if you’re related to the Old Lion; he won’t accept anything less than perfect. Satisfied with his reflection, Kevan straps his sword and exits his tent to the light of the setting sun. Fellow knights and soldiers salute as he passes by; while only a household knight, he is still a lion.

Entering the ornate red and gold tent, he bows his head. “Greetings, Lord Tywin. Apologies for the late arrival.”

The Warden of the West stands tall at the head of the table, the candles flickering in his green gaze. The man is only two years older than Kevan, yet his unsmiling visage is carved from immeasurable years of cunning, wisdom, and experience. As much as the Lannister knight tries to reach that height, he will never come close to casting a shadow upon the Old Lion. “Sit.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Kevan takes the seat to Tywin’s right, placing himself directly behind the map of the Riverlands and the box of tokens for different Houses. He greets the others with a smile and a nod: Ser Daven Lannister looks more like a lion than his father Ser Stafford owing to his large beard, Ser Harys Swyft corrects the blue chicken brooch pinned above his heart, the gallant Ser Addam Marbrand acknowledges him with a kind smile, and the dour Lord Leo Lefford is too busy with his papers to even look at him. Though these are the main commanders of Lord Tywin’s army, there are a couple of notable people missing at the table. Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard is one of them, though he’s accounted for as he is currently besieging Riverrun. But the other-

“The dogs and goats have yet to return with their game,” Tywin begins, tracing his finger along the Gold Road. “If this continues, we will need to establish a supply train between the Westerlands and our two camps, which carries risks.”

“Though the Mountain and Ser Jaime have done work in crippling the South-West portion of the Riverlands, we must not forget that there are still Rivermen,” Kevan adds, pointing out several castles on the maps. “Mallister men were once spotted not far North of here, and Ser Addam saw a gathering army at the Crossings.”

“Near four thousand men,” Addam pipes up, “with about a thousand mounted knights. Pelted us with arrows once my outriders got near, yet did not break ranks to chase us.”

“We know not the number of House Whent. Darry castle was retaken by House Darry once we left. House Erenford is unquestionably among the four thousand of the Freys, attending the marriage of Lord Walder. And…” With each House he lists, Lord Tywin’s countenance grows darker. A cold bead of sweat runs down Kevan’s head, threatening to drip from his nose and onto the expensive map. But he hastily finishes his list before wiping his face with some cloth. “That is all we know, my Lord. What shall we make of this?”

Tywin’s lips twitch before giving his answer. “…I’ve come here to enact retribution yet my men are blinder than bats. Ser Harys.” The knight jolts up in surprise, wiping his droopy eyes. “Why did you not report the numbers from your scouting?”

“W-Well my Lord, tis’ hard to count when there’s fighting, my Lord. You see, I was leading a charge against some men of-”

“Hard to count?” Daven scoffs and holds up his gloved hands. “The Seven gave us fingers for a reason. Care for a better excuse?”

“No, Ser, I DID know how many there were,” Harys corrects himself. “I counted them myself and went to write a message, but the Imp. It was his fault that the… Losing of… Ravens…” The man wilts against Tywin’s intense stare, slowly sinking into his plush seat before muttering “apologies.”

Kevan coughs into his hand before sending a glare at the Swyft knight. “While Tyrion’s foolish act has costed us, did it not occur to you that a rider can be sent to carry messages?” In truth, Kevan has doubts if it were truly his nephew’s fault. From the accounts of him and that sellsword of his, this Lady Stormcrow commands crows and ravens with more finesse than a Targaryen with dragons. Losing our ravens is an inevitability, but my brother would not hear any of it. Truly a shame… That boy could grow like you with the right guidance and be welcomed at this war council, rather than hearing more of my good-father’s remarks.

“And with the Imp riding West for our sake, what does that make you, Ser Harys of Cornfield?” Addam raises his brow before sipping on some wine. “Lord Leo, is it possible to establish a supply line from Golden Tooth?”

“My keep is rich in gold, but swine and wheat?” He shakes his head. “That’s another matter. The craggy hills my keep rests on is never meant for sowing. What I have in reserve is meant for the coming Winter, which will surely be a harsh one. If I were to relieve that…” Lord Leo gives a careful glance at Tywin.

“What of our current supplies?”

“Ahem, well,” the Lord shuffles some papers about before handing it to Tywin. “That is our numbers, my Lord. I’ve been frugal with some of the rations, meaning that we have over a month of good eating. For Ser Jaime, I suspect closer to two months due to his smaller numbers. Of course, this does not account for any possible attacks from the Riverlords nor unexpected storms, shall we say.”

“So we have no choice,” Daven mutters. “Once again, Lord Tywin, I implore you to let me take command of a foraging party. I shall supply the Lannister army with meat and bread to keep well-fed. Under my command, all shall fear the lion’s roar, not the bleat of a goat or the baying of hounds.”

Tywin stands still, no doubt mulling on his decision. With each tap he makes on the oaken table, it sends uneasy palpitations into Kevan’s heart. Finally, he gives his answer: “Even a young lion needs to extend his claws now and then. If I hear no reports of the Mountain nor the Bloody Mummers in two weeks, then I shall allow you to forage. Any objections?”

“None, my Lord,” says Kevan, his voice joined by the others. He always defers to his brother’s better judgement.

“Now, on striking the Riverlords.” Tywin’s hand moves over to Riverrun, running his fingers through the tokens piled atop it. “Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken currently reside in Riverrun to protect the castle. But with such proximity, enmity is brewing in their hearts. The rivalry between the two Houses runs deeper than their Lords.” He moves red horse tokens towards Raventree Hall, home of the Blackwoods. “Stone Hedge is nothing but ruins; the Mountain saw to that. Would the Brackens not take the chance to take this keep, especially after losing their own?”

Understanding the command, Leo smiles. “I’ll prepare the necessary colours, my Lord. Would a hundred men suffice?”

“Enough to turn their weirwood into tinders,” Lord Tywin replies. “Ser Addam, you shall be the one commanding this host.”

“It would be an honour, my Lord,” he bows. “They shall mistake lions for horses.”

“The Freys still stand, though,” says Daven, twirling his beard, “holed up in the Twins. It’d be a great folly to besiege such a castle.”

“Not all Freys are in the Twins,” Kevan corrects, surprising Daven and Addam. “Two hundred Frey soldiers have taken up arms to aid Ser Jaime’s siege. They’re led by none other than Lord Walder’s own son and knight, Ser Emmon Frey.”

The four’s expressions collectively sour at his name. “Sevens save us,” Harys whispers. Even Tywin can’t hide his distaste as his scowl grows. It’s a feeling that Kevan shares yet dare not voice for his own integrity. After all, Tywin fought hard as a ten-year-old boy when their father Tytos Lannister wedded the unremarkable and spindly Ser Emmon with their sister, Genna Lannister. “We came short on that bargain,” was what you said, brother.

“Will Genna be joining us?” Tywin asks.

“Aye, she will.” That answer brings much-needed relief to the war council. While Emmon Frey is a pathetic example of a knight, Genna is still a lion even under their drab colours. “What of Walder Frey, my Lord?”

“The Late Lord Frey is a craven,” Harys spits, “for he sits in his keep to fondle his young wife while the Riverlands burn beneath his feet. The only thing greater than his greed is his senility.”

“Which is a benefit for us,” Ser Addam points out. “While we can stomp out an army of four thousand, it’ll be with significant losses. Let him stay in that castle; less of our knights will bleed on Frey swords.”

“Ambitious he may be, it is not without wisdom,” says Tywin. “His action is reminiscent of the Battle of the Trident: he sides with the victors, which shall be us. We only need shine it through his clouded eyes.” The candles cast a vicious shadow on his face, giving shivers to all present. “Once Riverrun falls, others will follow. Walder Frey will strike down the salmon herald faster than they can swim. However, this is not guaranteed. Ser Daven, any reports of Northmen?”

“None so far, my Lord. Rest assured, my messengers shall ride here once they spot them,” the Lannister knight smirks, earning a grumble from Harys Swyft. “But should we worry much of their involvement? They have no reason to march South for our campaign is just in the eyes of the Seven and the Iron Throne.”

“I hear from Jaime that the Stark boy is still wet behind the ears,” Addam chuckles. “The boy learnt from the late Eddard Stark, who I never considered much of a commander to begin with. Not many will answer his banners, leaving him with scant men if he does march South.”

“That is until he marches to the Crossing, earning him four thousand men by your own accounts.” Tywin’s answer wipes off the Marbrand knight’s smile. “Need I remind you Catelyn Stark is a Tully? If she reaches Winterfell, her words will coddle the boy into marching South. No, the Freys must be dealt in haste, preferably through unions of blood.”

Marriage, Kevan realises. He’d always known how Tywin used marriages between Houses to the Lannister’s advantage, even so much as earning a place at the Iron Throne. “On that subject,” he coughs into his hand, “I put forth my son Lancel into consideration. A dutiful boy and a King’s squire, surely he’s worth his weight in gold dowry.”

“A dead King’s squire,” Daven sneers. “Not even a knight. If my father allows it, I shall put myself into consideration. It’s about time I settle down,” he stretches his arms, “letting someone groom my beard and birth my child.”

“A Lannister is worth a hundred Freys,” Tywin reminds them coldly, “but every war has its price. A rider will be sent for them at the coming dawn, bearing the terms of marriage. Lancel shall be the first offer and hopefully the last. Objections?” Again, none raise their voice. After all, who are they to argue the Old Lion? “Good. Onto a more delicate matter: the Vale and its new overlord, Lady Stormcrow.” The Lord’s expression grows dark, causing more sweat to dampen Kevan’s clothes. “If I’m to trust Tyrion’s accounts, then House Arryn of the Eyrie is no more, brought down by sorcery and crow feathers. And,” his fist tightens, cracking the wooden tokens between his fingers, “he was so foolish as to make terms without MY approval.”

…

“W-Well, if I may add.” Kevan loosens his collar; has the tent always been so stuffy? “The terms were to not carry out physical conflict against Lady Stormcrow’s men and for us to receive the King’s approval. Other than the occasional tense verbal exchanges between scouts, the first term is easily managed. The second… Well, we would be hard-pressed to receive approval from King Robert. But from King Joffrey?”

“I have faith in my daughter,” is what Tywin says. “And we know the Red Keep still has their ravens. However, that does not mean we will be negligent. We are dealing with sorcery. And though I doubt much of it, it pays to be cautious.”

Leaving the table, he takes a heavy book from a nearby shelf before dropping it onto the map, scattering all the tokens. Its title reads Of Magic and Sorcery within Westeros as seen by Archmaester Marwyn, and written below it is Property of Tyrion Lannister. “For once my son’s interests and mine align,” the Lord quips as he flips through the pages. Kevan gulps as terrifying illustrations of death and wondrous pain pass his eyes before stopping on a page with an illustration of a man wearing a wolf pelt. “From all observations, I believe we’re dealing with a warg.” The word sounds so foreign to their ears, especially coming from Tywin’s tongue.

“A warg…” Daven knocks the table in thought. “My nanny once told me tales of wargs wearing animal skins to steal maidens and children. If she is changing skins with birds…” A look of horror creeps onto his bearded face. “By the Seven! She’s spying on us!?”

“And here I thought the Lannisters were being generous with their gold,” says Ser Addam with a nervous laugh. “So when I shot down a raven yesterday and received some coins-”

“-You were rewarded for killing a spy,” Tywin finishes. “No man is so foolish as to hunt them after the chaos my son brought, for free that is.”

Goosebumps crawl over Kevan’s arms. This feeling of being watched is not all that dissimilar to the time he slept in the Red Keep; he assured himself then that the scurrying he heard were rats. Rumours among the guards said they were the Spider’s little birds. But for actual birds to spy on us? “To think the Spider is being outmatched.”

“Clearly,” Addam gulps. “Damn it, they must have followed me to the Twins as well… How many birds have we killed since this decree came to be?”

“Sparse,” Lord Leo answers, reading through a piece of paper. “Nary twenty birds, fifteen crows and five ravens, were killed and given to the cooks. Though there are fewer birds than before, the archers are still hesitant in treating them ill. Anyone caught feeding or tending to the birds are imprisoned for treason and to be judged by Lord Tywin.” Would Tyrion be imprisoned for harbouring that crow of his? Kevan thinks, and knowing his brother the answer might be grim.

“It is clear that we know too little of sorcery, which is why I’m giving a task for all of you.” All sit straight to hear the Lord’s command. “If any of your scouts or outriders catch a whiff of a hedge wizard, a woods witch, or anything magical in nature, secure and bring them before me. Every brick has its place, and with this unnatural threat, we must adapt. Objections?”

“None,” all answer.

“Good. Kevan,” he turns to the Lannister knight, “my command was for you to secure anyone of interest leaving the Vale. How are your findings?”

Kevan scratches his head, hanging low to not meet Tywin’s eyes. “It is my shame to say that they do not amount to much, my Lord. Most leaving were terrified commonfolk and men of ill repute, providing us with mere whispers and hearsays. A few hedge knights joined our cause, looking for pay and chances to become landed knights.”

“If all you’ve done amounted to whispers, what were they?”

Kevan takes the list out from his breast pocket and recites them under Tywin’s sharp scrutiny. “Ser Brynden ‘Blackfish’ Tully is assumed to be dead for he accompanied Tyrion through the Bloody Gate and into the Eyrie.”

“A fine knight of wide renown yet such an ignoble death,” Ser Addam shakes his head before raising his cup. “A toast for the one I shall never see in battle!” Daven and Harys join in but Kevan can only frown at their attitude before continuing.

“Though she unified the mountain clans, the same can’t be said for the more brave-hearted Knights and Lords of the Vale. In opposition to her and currently trying to reclaim the Eyrie are: House Arryn of Gulltown, House Corbray, House Coldwater, House Tollett, House Hersy…” The list goes on and on until Lord Leo yawns and rubs his weary eyes. “Her rule is not supported nor seen as legitimate,” Kevan concludes, handing the paper to Tywin. “That is all I have, my Lord.”

“Which is more than a certain knight in this council,” the Lord glares at Harys. The man opens his mouth to retort but quickly shuts it, a wise decision on his part. “As the Vale lays in turmoil, who shall lay claim to the overlord of the mountains?”

“In all good graces, I’m unsure, Lord Tywin,” Kevan answers. “Magic is such an exotic method of warfare that I have no predictions. Perhaps a warlock from Qarth would know the answer…”

“If it comes to a bet, I put my coins on the woman,” says Daven, surprising Harys Swyft.

“She has savages,” the Swyft knight presses. “All the birds can do is taint a man’s armour with their shit.”

“Was it not you who fought a losing battle against the crows using a sword?” Daven reminds him, causing the knight’s cheeks to go red. “Whispers say the woman can fly. That she comes with the wind and departs with it, a demon from the Seven hells who can sing a storm with her laughs.”

“The singer has been getting into your head,” Addam chuckles as he sips from his drink. “The man exaggerate for coins and a hot meal, Ser, not to tell us truths.”

Tywin raises his brow. “Singer?”

“Aye, my Lord. A young man named Morrow who came from the Vale. Must have been quite prolific there for he asked if I knew him. A good lad with a fine voice, though his hand broke in a bar fight so his woodharp leaves much to be desired,” the knight shrugs. “Still, a nice break from the camp’s monotony.”

“Tell me, does he have sandy brown hair?”

“…That I do recall.”

“And was it his right hand that broke?”

Addam looks confused. “My Lord, by chance have you heard him play?”

“No, but my son had. A sandy-haired singer named Marillion accompanied Tyrion up the Mountains of the Moon before breaking his playing hand in a scuffle with the mountain clans. Tyrion said the lad stayed at the Eyrie to heal and sing for Lysa Arryn, but if the castle is in ruins…”

All turn to look at Addam whose face slowly pales. “…Shit,” he mutters before standing up and rushing out of the tent with his sword drawn, knocking over the wine cup he had been drinking from. A worried Daven follows him out.

“Clear the table.”

“Aye, my Lord.” Ser Harys clears up the tokens while Lord Leo dabs away at the wine with his handkerchief. The Old Lion straightens his back, his shadow looming over the map as Kevan folds it up.

“Fetch me Tyg,” Tywin commands with steel in his voice, calmly putting on black gloves. “Lannisters always pay their debts, so let us pay to hear this singer’s last ballad.”

Lannister Camp

Shit, Marillion curses himself as his barely-healed fingers missed a chord of his woodharp. Pausing a moment to flex his playing hand, he sees that it is nearly sunset. And I’ve yet to acquire supper, he bemoans before getting back to his instrument.

Most of the Lannister men are too busy eating or drinking to take notice of his beautiful voice, but he at least has a few captive audiences. A raven hiding atop the largest tent in camp watches him with great interest; it brings some joy to his heart that even beasts enjoy his singing. But he did hear of a decree made by the Lannisters: kill blackbirds and you shall receive coins. Lady Stormcrow won’t take kindly to people hurting her pets, he thinks, wondering how much wroth will the Lannisters bring about to themselves.

His other listener is a man, a knight from the looks of it. And a gallant one as well with long hair that burns bright like the sunset. A fine one for tales and ballads, but a shame I don’t recognise his herald. The last of his watcher is a man who is no doubt a Lannister owing to his blonde mane of a beard and the lion-styled armour he’s wearing. Yet again, I do not recognise this man.

With a flourish, the singer perfectly strums the last chord and bows his head with a smile. The copper-haired knight gives some small applause before throwing some coins into Marillion’s hat. “A good show,” says the knight, “but the woodharp feels lacking.”

“Sorry, m-my Lord of Westerlands. A bar can be unscrupulous at times,” Marillion raises his healed hand with a nervous chuckle. He can’t tell them that the Lannister dwarf was the one who injured him; even less the fact his hand was healed by Lady Stormcrow’s blue-haired friend.

To his surprise, the two watchers burst out laughing. “Look at the lad, hands all shaky,” the Lannister grins, pointing at him with a fork.

“None of us are Lords, lad. I’m Ser Addam Marbrand and that bearded lion back there is Ser Daven Lannister, son of Lord Tywin’s brother in law.”

“It is an honour to meet you, kind Sers. The name’s Morrow of the Hills, no doubt you’ve heard me perform elsewhere?”

“From the Vale? I fear not.”

Excellent. “Well, good Sers,” Marillion smirks, “should any of you have the need for a singer in a Lannister celebration, Morrow is your man.” His fingers glide along the strings, opening his way to their hearts. “I can sing thee The Rains of Castamere, The Lies of Little Lann, or anything else that you may fancy. For some silver, of course. Even a singer needs his due.”

“Hmm… How about you sing us something now? Daven and I need to attend Lord Tywin’s meeting and a song will surely put our hearts in the right mood.”

“Certainly, my Sers.”

“But no Lannister songs,” the bearded lion grumbles. Ah, a fitting title for a Lannister. “The Seven cursed us to always hear The Rains of Castamere…”

“Even Lord Tywin knows it to be a good song, Daven.”

“A good song, aye, but not one you’ll want to hear before having a meeting with him,” the Lannister knight spits. “I’m already loyal to the Old Lion, Addam. I don’t need a constant reminder about what happens to those who betray him. Give a Lannister something different for once.”

“Need not worry, my knight of Lannister, for I shall heed your request.” Marillion plucks the woodharp, stringing up the melody for his next song. “I’ve composed a brand new piece, inspired by my travels in the beautiful mountains of the Vale. Mayhaps this song shall be remembered by all singers to come.”

“Hopeful, aren’t you?” the Marbrand knight snickers. “Well, on with it then. I’ll pay you with dinner.” With the knight leaving, the singer tunes his woodharp and quietly recites the first few verses. He may be no Tom of Sevenstreams, but a man like Marillion have no need for written lyrics and notations; the Seven gave him memory for a reason. I can create joy and sorrow with the flick of my tongue; even Lady Stormcrow know my worth! And so he begins his piece.

The Lannister frowns upon hearing the first foreboding tones; this is not a song for a jolly time. In truth, this was made under the Lady’s guidance and was assigned for him to sing down the Riverlands. All Lords and Ladies want songs of exploits. But hearing the notes brings up other memories: of howling winds and crumbling towers, of screaming children and the caws of birds. Taking a deep breath, he begins to sing:

“And so I hear the first crow speak:
Why do we live so high?
The second speak in smiling cheer
Of Lady Stormcrow’s might.

Cages and clips will hold our wings
When men are so inclined,
But Stormcrow heart has no man’s blood
For her wings are divine.

Her laughter brings oh so much joy
As her tongue sow the winds.
When knights go up to reap the storm
They bleed their hearts and minds.”

As he sings, the Marbrand knight returns to give him a bowl of beef stew. The singer gives a silent thanks as the knight sits next to the Lannister. A peek at the raven and Marillion sees it hopping in joy. A smirk crosses his face as he continues to the next couple of verses.

“The sky is hers, the hills are hers,
And her castle the clouds.
Oh so high up, we love it here,
Looking down from above.

And when we dance the storms come down
Raining on all the men,
“Oh please,” they cry, “please spare us all,”
But floods pay them no mind.”

Marillion’s chest swells with pride; it was he who suggested the last verse, and even Lady Stormrow praised his chosen lyrics. With the darkening sky and his burgeoning excitement, he swears he sees a gathering crowd before him, clapping and stomping to his music. Alas, every beautiful song must end.

“And that is why we live up high
and roost in mountaintops.
We sow the wind, they reap the storm,
And that’s the life of crows~!

We sow the wind, they reap the storm,
And that’s… The life… Of crows…!”

With a last pluck and flourish, he stands and bows before his gathered audience… Which are still only the two knights and the raven. Their half-hearted claps leave much to be desired. “In hindsight,” says the Lannister as he puts down the empty bowl, “I’d much prefer Castamere.”

“Certainly not the best song I’ve heard. Quite disappointing,” the other cringes. “And why sing of that sorcerer, Morrow? You came from the Vale!”

“You never know who you’ll sing to, good Sers,” Marillion tries to reassure them. “One day it may be the Knight of the Vale, the next a Lannister, the next-”

“What, a mountain wildling? The crows?” The Lannister laughs. “Savages don’t even know the Seven, let alone good music. Come on, Addam, leave the lad to his meal. Maybe with a full stomach he’ll come up with a better song.” With that, the two knights leave him alone by the small fire.

…

“Says the knight with a lion’s mane,” Marillion whispers to himself, plucking a sorrowful tune. “Why must Lannisters be deaf to beautiful music?” That’s a question that continues to haunt him ever since the dwarf stepped on his hand.

Soon enough, anger boils in him. I’ve been chosen by Lady Stormcrow herself! This is my adventure! he wants to shout to the skies, but that’ll be foolish. No, he must keep the secret to himself. After all, was it not fate that he was spared from falling rubble? Just wait, oh Lannisters, for I will create a piece that’ll render your heart like a maiden to a knight!

His stomach rumbles. It’s time for supper.

Lion-Men Camp

Cawa roosts herself tightly between the tent folds, careful to not be heard as she listens in on the human’s meeting. She suppresses her need to yawn; these things go on for far too long and far too stale. Where’s the dancing of birds or the loud shouts over everyone’s wings? To think they’re the ones who keep us in cages…

She was assigned personally by the Great Lady Aya, Blessed Be Her Name, to watch over one of her many human singers: a young one named Mari-something. In truth, she cares less for those humans than the tiny ticks that live between a sparrow’s feather. But if it’s Her words, then I shall carry it out, she thinks proudly.

Born and bred in the Great Prison on the shores of the Great Western Sea, Cawa came to learn the many strange tongues of the humans. Of course, she now holds the honour to wield that skill against her torturers, the ones who kept her captive for many moonturns. And one day, once their bodies have grown overripe and bursting with maggots, she will plead to the Great Lady to be the first to take a bite. Oh, what joy will that be!

Cawa prides herself in being one of the most devoted and devout of the ravens, and a few days ago she proved herself among the most intelligent for she avoided death by resting in the enemy’s home. They shall never suspect their own nest, she ruffles her feathers, suppressing her want to laugh. Of course, there are others more devoted than her who gave their life to the cause: the martyr Tere the Raven had given his life into tricking these lion-men via a false message. And they’re still following it too! Your sacrifice lives on in the wind, Tere.

The flutter of wings alert her as another bird lands on the tent; a large crow with white speckles by the name of Toro. “Cawa,” he speaks, “anything of import?”

“The lion-men speak with fear of other humans. They think our Great Lady is nothing more than a nuisance.”

The crow can’t hold his laughter, prompting Cawa to smack him with her wing. “Apologies,” he says, crooning his beak. “I remember our Great Lady’s wisdom: better be invisible under the moon than stark black beneath the sun. If they do not fear us, then the less they shall suspect.”

“But for them to see Her in such low regards…” She flares up her feathers in frustration. “They’ll learn soon enough.”

“I hear our Great Lady has taken a few humans in the Red Stones as her thralls,” Toro adds in a low whisper, “that they’re the one who created the false message. Words in the wind speak of the Great Lady preparing an official arrival to the human leaders, perhaps to speak of alliance and repayment. Must be a comforting thought for you ravens,” Toro laughs. As a crow, he never had to suffer much under the human’s featherless wings. No, the likes of him are free to live wild in the forests and shingles, earning Cawa some small amount of jealousy.

“They wear shining metals, Toro. Their greed knows no end.”

“Perhaps they’ll ask us to make them fly. Of course, our Great Lady can do just that,” he says with a hint of malice. “I’ll be back at dawn to see if anything new has arisen. Let Her wings guide you, Cawa.” And with that, the crow flies back into the night.

…

The raven knows the crow is talented, but to have the bird be of a superior position… That she does not like. But no matter, Cawa tells herself, for I shall ascend those peaks soon enough. Oh, how I dream to roost by the Great Lady’s wings, to have my own human retainer carry my nest as I-

The cloth suddenly shifts under her claws, almost causing the bird to caw in surprise. Curious, she slides down to the tent’s edge and sees a couple of humans with shining armour storm out, sharp weapons in hand. From the direction they’re walking, they appear to be approaching the Great Lady’s singer.

…That’s not good.

Fearing the worst, Cawa takes off from the tent and watches from behind a wooden stable. They’re talking too fast for her to understand but it’s clear that they’re angry. At the singer? Wait, have they figured out who he is!?

Sure enough, the singer throws his unfinished bowl of food at them before sprinting away into the dark. “Shit!” Cawa takes flight, keeping an eye on the singer’s dark shape as he moves through the torches and tents. Soon enough it’s not only those two humans but a whole host of them chasing the singer down. Some carry those sharpened metal while others have bolts and arrows on hand.

Seeing him climb up a horse, Cawa quickly swoops down and shouts “Follow me!” Arrows whizz past her, some clipping a feather or two but none hitting her body. She shouts again for the singer, hoping the fool will follow her guidance rather than die to these lion-men; she’ll be punished if the Great Lady’s pet dies! Luckily for her, the singer still has common sense about him as he follows her trail in the sky.

She ascends further, avoiding the arrows and bolts aimed at her, hoping that the red streak in the sky is enough for him to see her. “By the Great Lady,” she caws ruefully, “you ought to be-”

“COME BACK HERE YOU CUNT!”

Another rider burst out from the glimmer of the camp: a lion-man in golden armour, his sharp weapon shining red beneath the bloody streak. His steed is faster than the singer’s and in no time he would be on his tail. Cawa needs to intervene now… Or should she? The only intervention she can do is a direct one and that will risk her life. But failure beneath Her gaze… That I will never do!

And so she swoops down at the lion-man’s head, her talons digging into his scalp as she bites hard into his skin. The human yelp and howls, swinging his arm at her and narrowly misses. She takes to the air again, having stopped the man’s run. He swings his weapon wildly into the dark, nowhere near hitting her. “I KNEW it!” he roars. “By the Seven you fucking birds are DEAD!”

“Try me,” she cackles before leaving him a particularly nasty parting gift. The lion-man’s angry shouts are music for the wind.

Soon she finds the singer moving through a small patch of woods. “Don’t rest now,” she caws, “we’re still too close to the lion-men.” She doubts the singer can even understand her, but it’s better than nothing. I wonder what Toro will think. Perhaps I do deserve to fly higher in the sky for saving the Great Lady’s pet? Hopping happily tree to tree, Cawa and the singer go deeper into the night. 

Chapter Text

King's Landing

“They’re demons!” Septon Symon downs another mug of ale, his face flushed and flecked with foam. “They’ve tormented us for too long!”

“Hear hear!” all the drunken patrons shout. Royce the Baker raises his tankard in good cheer, but none of the alcohol goes down his gullet; he’s never one to be inebriated. It didn’t take him long to find the disgraced septon’s little hideout though he must commend them for avoiding the Gold Cloaks’ watchful eyes, not that they’re competent at their duty.

Ahh, poor Symon of Flea Bottom… To think someone like you would pull a blade upon the Fat One. The man that stands before him looks nothing like the regal septon that reached for the position of Most Devout: his hair is unkempt, he smells of cat piss, and there are odd stains on his robes. Nevertheless, his name and voice still gather a sizeable crowd in the slums. Reputation goes a long way, Royce smirks, remembering the whispers and documents regarding Symon’s history in Flea Bottom.

“The Sept,” Symon wobbles and needs to be righted by a begging brother, “the Sept is corrupt! Their crystals are stained by the blood of mothers and children!”

“A demon killed my mother!” a lumpy-nosed man beside Royce shouts, his eyes red and wet. “They found ‘er, they did. Ripped apart in my alley! The Faith cursed us and… And…” He breaks down in a drunken sob, leaning awkwardly against Royce as he cries his lungs out.

“Them demons… Killed me daughters,” an old man growls. The other drinkers nod along. “Left ‘em fucked up in a ditch,” he shakes his head before slamming his fist on the table. “I want their blood! For my daughters!”

“Red demons!” says a mother, holding a crying baby against her breasts. “Red demons from across the sea! They’ve come to feast in our homes, damn them all!”

The patrons call for blood and justice. And though Royce’s clamour is half-hearted, he can’t help but smile at this development. Never did he expect a chance encounter to sow the seed of disarray within the Faith. Now all he needs is to tend it well so it may grow like weeds.

“Yes… YES!” Symon roars. “We shall have their heads!”

“Heads!”

“We shall clip their wings!”

“WINGS!”

“And we will not let those demons trick us!” Symon climbs up a table and draws his blade. “For the SEVEN!”

“FOR THE SEVEN!” All bang their feet and cups; a miracle that no one tried to interrupt them for noise complaints. But it’s time for Royce to go; he has other matters to attend to.

“Good man, good man. Sorry for this but I must leave,” he carefully lifts off the now half-asleep man from his shoulder. “I’ve got bread to bake, yes. Sweets and cornbread, oh yes.”

He discreetly exits the building and takes a quiet walk through the alleys of Flea Bottom. Not much goes on in these parts, earning them the blind eye of the City Watch. Perfect for conspiring, Royce thinks as he enters a more crowded area of the slums.

A splinter in the Faith … Such a rare thing to occur. How much longer will it be until they reach the point of violence? Perhaps they need… A little push? A few ‘messages’ from the Starry Sept in Oldtown? Or should it be the other way around, telling Oldtown of the Great Sept of Baelor’s activities and convince them to support these fringe groups? My oh my, things are getting quite foul with the Faith.

Royce walks past the inn where the Healer used to reside. There is no queue for her; after all, she and Barristan Selmy are awaiting this afternoon’s trial. And knowing what I know, it would be unfavourable for them. The knight could still be of use. I should lend a few words to Queen Cersei then. But losing the Healer? Oh, how unfortunate for the people of Flea Bottom. Let’s see…

Royce disappears into an alleyway and enters a dark building, not to emerge again for another while.

…

Mudface the begging brother walks out of the dark building, huddling his moth-eaten wool cloak and walking barefoot through Flea Bottom’s grime. He hobbles his way through the crowd and towards his favourite bowl-o-brown shop, Rose Bowl, saying “pardon” and “excuse me” to everyone he accidentally touches.

He takes his usual seat at the corner of the noisy pot-shop, away from any discerning eyes. He can never be too cautious here. Rose, the plump serving woman and owner of the shop, approaches him with an annoyed look. “What ya want?”

Mudface gives his usual answer: “Oh, um, a bowl, please. And hold the salt.” The woman nods, understanding the message.

The first to arrive is a warm cup of water. He fishes out the parchment at the bottom and reads it:

No news of Riverlands or Vale.

“Figures,” Mudface murmurs before drinking the paper down. He hums The Bear and the Maiden Fair while he waits for the bowl, tapping his feet to the tune. Due to the missing ravens, he’s been forced to conduct a more direct investigation throughout King’s Landing. I wonder if my little birds are alright. To not hear of them for so long does not ease my heart. Of course, he needs to figure out the missing ravens because it’s not only him; everyone in the Crownlands professes the same problem. How am I to fake a message then?

Rose comes to his table and places a large bowl of brown. Though he can see the vegetables floating in the brown broth, he has many questions about its freshness. None of it is going to be said in front of the server, of course. “Eat up, I added a lil’ treat for ya.”

“Thank you, dear.”

He swirls around the bowl, scooping out the hard contents inside: a groat with a dragon, a rat skull, and… A bird claw? A curious message, one that Mudface never thought of receiving.

This means Daenerys Targaryen has attained something of great power. An army, a company, slaves, it is still unclear. But the future is… Very promising, Mudface smiles. His happiness even hides the distaste for the bowl-o-brown as he drinks it all up in a single go. He wipes his chin clean with the woollen cloak. Better to leave now lest I linger longer with this foul stuff.

Three silver stags under a bowl should be enough. Exiting the fine establishment, his mind wanders on all the stirring waves. A Targaryen gaining power, insurgency in Faith relations, Littlefinger’s plays around the Riverlands… This is not mere chaos but something more. Perhaps my young Prince across the-

Mudface bumps into someone, nearly knocking them over. “Sorry,” he says, bowing his head low.

“No problem,” the man replies.

Mudface recognises that voice. After walking further ahead, he turns around to see quite the surprise: Ser Davos Seaworth, limping along with his son Dale and two other people. He recognises the small girl to be Shireen Baratheon. And just like his whispers reported, the girl bears vicious burns along most of her neck and arms, a sorry sight to behold.

But the other… A young woman as tall as the Onion Knight with haphazardly cut black hair and strange red eyes. For a moment Mudface fears that she’s the shadowbinder from Asshai that Stannis Baratheon brought over, but a fragmentary knowledge of them corrects him: R’hllor’s followers use glamours for their disguises, not badly done hair dye that stains the clothes. She must be the other pyromancer, a new one named Mokou. And to have both of them here… Oh, Ser Davos, are you committing treason against your own Lord? A smirk threatens to cross his face but he soon suppresses it.

Mudface flicks the groat from before into the bowl of a mute little bird. “Follow them,” he whispers. The child scurries off into the masses.

After hearing nothing new in the rat pits of Flea Bottom, Mudface takes his leave from the slums and enters the Great Sept of Baelor. Most men avoid him while other holy brothers simply keep their courtesy; Brothers of the Faith, after all. Cordoned off by metal gates is no other than the body of the late hand, Lord Eddard Stark. People here and there leave flowers and he spots a few Stark household guards paying their respects. Moving past them, he looks down at the man’s pale long face and tuts. A shame that he has to leave so early. A man of his quality is rare to find. Gone are the days of honourable knights and lords, if they ever existed in the first place.

But Mudface dares not wander deeper into the Sept; there are unwelcome things there. Some say the Messengers are truly divine and holy and the likes of Symon calls them demons. But to him they are no more than sorcerers and maegis, not that it makes it any better. I’ve crossed the Narrow Sea to be away from such disturbing things, but to see them display their powers for all to see… Maybe I should contact the Starry Sept, he sighs.

Realising the time, Mudface quickens his pace towards the base of the Red Keep where servants dump the latrine. Shooing away the gathered crows and birds, he sneaks between a broken wall and enters a secret passage.

…

Varys exits his humble chamber, all dressed in his flower-embroidered purple and gold damask and wearing a sweet lavender perfume. The oils do well to his skin, keeping his bald head moisturised and helping to clean the grime from all his travel. As the Master of Whispers, he understands well the importance of appearances, whether that be in court or the streets of King’s Landing. In the presence of noble eyes, he's nothing more than a plump and effeminate eunuch working hard to serve the Realm.

And that’s all they need to see.

Though the trial isn’t to be held until noon, the throne room is already bustling with the chattering of Lords and Ladies alike. The Iron Throne casts a long shadow on them all, though the one sitting on it is not the King but his son, Joffrey Baratheon. He sees the Queen seated to the Throne’s right, comfortable in her plush red cushions and high-back seat. There are red and Gold Cloaks scattered about along with the remaining Kingsguard, though none really makes a formidable presence.

Of those involved with the trial of Barristan Selmy, he spots a few interesting characters. As his whispers told him, Janos Slynt is preparing his little speech by the side of Maester Pycelle. Ah, a rigged trial. My my, how bold for a man cloaked with gold. Varys spots the cook among them as well as the head of the Lannister guards, both witnesses to the Kingsguard’s eventual arrest. Of course, the Throne will call upon Varys as well. He has all the needed information: either to pin the killings on Barristan or to set him free, though he has yet to decide which. The severity of his punishment will be quite high, and a man of his values is a rare find…

Looking over the stands, he sees the crying Stark children in dark clothes and surrounded by the Stark household guards. A sorry outcome for the little girls, but it certainly could be worse. He has heard a few things regarding Littlefinger’s plans, none of which will leave the Stark Lord in high standing. His name is untainted, leaving the Starks more neutral in this matter. I wonder what his son and wife will think of this, however. Retrieving those two girls would be of most paramount for them and I have no doubts Cersei will keep them close.

That’s another thought: what will Cersei and Joffrey do? The King won’t stay alive for much longer knowing the Queen’s hatred of him, but what of the young Prince? What damage can he do to the Kingdom once he takes power? Varys smiles at the thought. Once those two destroy any semblance of order… Perhaps a Targaryen would not look too unappealing for hesitant Lords.

He takes note of all the people present: Jalabhar Xho in his extravagant feathers is talking to wide-eyed guests, all the relevant Stokeworths are present, he sees Lord Gyles Rosby talking up a server, Lord Lodos Chyttering is keeping his distance from the Paxter twins, Lady Talia Manning is getting quite close to a rugged Lannister guard…

Several Houses are missing from this trial, notably the ones currently under Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone. They’ve yet to make their moves, no doubt the fire incident cowed their faith. However, that’s not what Varys is worried about, no.

Where’s Littlefinger?

This sea of connections and opportunities is a prime meal for the coy Lord, yet he sees no sign of him. That can’t be good.

Citing the need for the latrines, Varys exits the stuffy throne room and walk down the halls of the Red Keep. Servants and servers scuttle about but the Spider much prefers the quieter halls near the royal quarters. And no doubt Baelish as well. I’ve yet to discuss with him this matter of Barristan arrest. Ah, perhaps I’ll gloat over his failure to secure Eddard Stark. If so, there’s only one place he could be.

He walks up a set of stairs towards the Red Keep’s eastern garden. A private space, more often used by Myrcella and Tommen rather than Robert or Cersei. If he remembers correctly, those two are being guarded in their rooms by Ser Arys Oakheart. Not a Kingslayer or Barristan the Bold, but a fine knight all the same. Reaching the top, he opens the doors and-

“CAW!”

-a flock of birds greet him. He looks around bewildered for crows and ravens are perching on the walls and trees of the Red Keep in terrifying numbers. All of their beady eyes stare at him; for once the Spider is the one being watched, and he doesn’t take kindly to that. Frowning, he walks briskly past their dark feathers, hoping to find Littlefinger and extract him from the area.

But Lord Baelish is not alone. Varys sees a woman with him, sitting atop a statue of the Baratheon stag. The two chatter and laugh, their friendly air unnerving him to no end. Of course, all of that he never shows. “Ah, Lord Baelish,” the Spider interrupts the two, “I apologise for not seeing you here. I hope I’m not interrupting something terribly important.”

“Lord Varys,” Littlefinger turns on his heels with a bright and empty smile. “Worry not, dear friend, for it is I who must apologise. After all, my absence at the throne room is surely noticeable.”

“I shall not blame you for that, Lord Baelish. It does take a certain amount of will to stand the bustle of that place,” the Spider smiles before turning to the oddly dressed woman. Black hair, red eyes, and strange clothes… I don’t recognise its design. “A friend of yours, I assume?”

“Soon to be,” the woman answers, swinging her legs from her perch on the statue. “My name is Shameimaru Aya, but you may call me Aya.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Aya,” Varys bows. An unfamiliar name. Where did she come from? “Not often do I see new faces at the Red Keep, so your presence does brighten up this gloomy day.”

“It’s sunny,” she chuckles.

“The weather, yes, but not the people’s hearts. Days in King’s Landing have been dark for the soul, you might find.”

“Eirin Yagokoro’s trial, ‘Healer of Flea Bottom,’” the woman’s laughter brings caws from the birds around them. “Ah, this is such a sordid affair, and so SO interesting! Words on the wind said you two are involved in the trial, correct?”

Varys gives a careful side-eye at Littlefinger; the man simply shrugs. “Correct, Lady Aya. It should begin in a little while longer.”

“Excellent!” She claps her hands, sending the birds flying. “That’s enough time to talk business. Do not fret,” she grins, “because I think this is in your best interest.”

Flea Bottom

“I must apologise for your hair, Lady Marge. My son really should have-”

“Like I said, it’s alright Ser… Dumfrey,” Lady Mokou corrects herself. “Hair grows back; burnt skin and wounded knees do not. Not without intervention, that is.”

“…Yes Lady Marge.” The assurance does not wipe away his feeling of guilt. After spending a decade attending the Baratheons of Dragonstone, it made him well aware the importance of a Lady’s appearance. Though she claims to not be a high-born, Lady Mokou’s long pearl-white hair would not be a simple thing to maintain. And Dale had cut it all off with sheep shears. Damn it, son! he frowns. At least cut the damn hair properly.

“Worry not father,” his son whispers, hefting their supplies in a large sack. “She looks far more common now. That white hair of hers will make us stand out for miles.”

“You could have chosen some better hair dye, though,” she complains, running her fingers through her hair and getting them stained.

“Not many want to dye their hair black,” Dale shrugs. “And thank the Sevens that mother’s clothes fit you, else you’ll be wearing our jerkins,” he laughs.

“I’m fine wearing pants.”

“It would be uncouth, Lady Marge. And stop suggesting strange ideas, Dale.” Davos jabs his son with an elbow. Sighing, he turns to the hooded girl holding his hand. “Are you feeling well, Ashley?” Though she does not answer, the nod and hand squeeze she gives brings warmth back into his heart. That’s good.

What’s not well however is her silence in their journey into King’s Landing. He knows she’s a quiet girl who keeps to herself and Patchface, yet he hopes to see her smile today. Lady Shireen is strong, he reminds himself. A Baratheon. By the Seven, she’ll understand what we’re doing.

Their walk into Flea Bottom is slowed by Davos’ injured knee. The damned bolt missed his kneecap but must have cut something important; they’ll need to get it treated soon, or else…

Dale gags and the others cringe upon passing a nearby rat pit. Ever since moving his family out of Flea Bottom and into Cape Wrath at the Stormlands, Davos had come to miss a few things from this stinking city: the Great Sept of Baelor, the pot-o-browns, the rat pits… But this smell? That he’s glad to be away from. “When you were young you used to play among the rat pits, throwing rotten fish guts at the rats. You should try to relive your childhood, son.”

“Gods, don’t remind me, father,” his son coughs. Davos lets out a hearty chuckle; it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

“Is Eirin really servicing people in a place like this?” asks Lady Mokou who’s face is scrunched up in disgust. Shireen is preoccupied with staring at a nearby rat pit, the yipping of dogs coming from within. “She’s a bit of a clean freak, and this place is everything but.”

“It’s where she works,” Davos answers. “She established herself inside an inn not far from here. It’s just down that street and to the- Keh!” The onion knight nearly tumbles if not for his son’s quick thinking. “Thank you, Dale. Apologies,” he smiles, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His knee throbs, bringing sharp pain with each step.

“Alright. Father, you need to rest. All this walking will do your leg no good.”

“Nonsense. I can still-”

“Dale’s right,” Lady Mokou cuts. “We’re looking for Eirin to be healed, not to get injured. Dale, do you know a place around here that’ll take us?”

“Been a while since I’ve walked these parts,” he admits, scanning the area for a welcoming place before pointing one out. “Ah, maybe that one?”

Davos follows his son’s finger and sees a small inn nestled between a worn-down tavern and several rowdy rat pits. Just from its appearance, he has his suspicion on its seediness. “Perhaps we can find one-”

“Do you have money?”

“Aye,” Dale pats his pouch. “Groats and crowns at the ready, and a few silver stags as well. We can stay more than a week there if need be.”

“Sounds great!”

Davos groans but he can’t do much against both of their dragging. Lady Shireen meanwhile still clings tightly to his hand. She’s scared. “No need to worry,” he whispers, “as no ruffians will touch you. My son is good with his dagger and the Lady is, well…”

“I’m scared for you,” she finally speaks, her voice straining under the hood. “I don’t want you to get hurt like father.”

“I won’t,” he smiles back, though the girl doesn’t return it. “The healer is going to make you healthy and treat my leg. I’m sure Lord Stannis will be very surprised upon seeing you running about Dragonstone again!”

A small smile appears on her face. “Thank you, Ser Davos.”

“It’s my duty to help you. But call me Dumfrey lest someone recognise me.”

“Oops!” she covers her mouth with a giggle. At least she has some humour back, he thinks before entering the inn.

Unlike the outside, its interior is less dilapidated and is aglow with open blinds and lanterns; none of which quenches Davos’ worries. They walk past all sorts of people: a bunch of sellswords, a few whores, some poor gambler and a couple of street urchins… Having been a smuggler, he can feel a hostile air surrounding all of them. The onion knight gulps. This is no place for a little girl. Even I don’t feel welcome here.

“‘Scuse me,” Dale steps forth with Lady Mokou, “who’s the innkeep of this establishment?”

“What ya want?” says a round stubbly man, wiping away at some beer spillage on a table.

“Do you have spare rooms available?” Lady Mokou asks him. “We’re looking to spend a few nights.”

The man eyes the four with some suspicion, lingering on Davos who avoids eye contact. Damn it, I should have cut my hair! he curses.

The man points at them. “Not from ‘round ‘ere, are ye?”

“We hail from Lord Tully’s domain, at least we were,” Dale’s voice grows grim, taking on his disguise. “Lions prowled onto my farm, you see. I barely escaped with my wife and daughter. Father, the Sevens bless him, he took a bolt to the leg. We need a place to sleep until we can travel further with relatives into Oldtown, safe from all this chaos.”

Davos must admit that his son made a great lie. He’s heard of the troubles with the Lannisters and no doubt King’s Landing would be taking in people fleeing from the Riverlands. The question is whether or not this man will.

“Them lions, causin’ up trouble,” the innkeep grumbles before replying in a low voice: “I mean no ill to her grace the Queen, but Kingslayer ain’t the best of ‘em. Got family there, but moved ‘em ‘ere after I ‘eard the news.”

“Good for business, you know.” The voice comes from a drunken sellsword, a cup in his hand and a dagger in the other. “Mates been hired left and right, they’ll be rich by the end of this,” the man laughs.

“Ye got the coins?” the innkeeper asks, ignoring the sellsword.

“Ay-”

“Bumfucks ain’t got no coins!” the sellsword shouts. “Them farmers never have much other than goats and eggs, and now they have none.”

“We have coins,” Davos says, quite irritated by that man’s behaviour. “So my goodman, how much for a week’s stay?”

“Fer you four? Three groats a night for seven nights which means...” The innkeep takes a moment to count before declaring: “Twenty-five groats.”

“Twenty-one, you mean,” Lady Mokou corrects him.

“You haggling? Fine, twenty-one for the fine lass,” the innkeep chuckles.

Davos cringes. “That much? Never heard a night so expensive here.”

“War,” he replies simply.

“Hey, HEY!” the sellsword shouts. “You bumfucks low on coins? How about renting that wifey there? I got silver coins and lotsa pearls for her breasts, ain’t that right lads?” The other sellswords laugh and jeer along, though it only draws the ire of both Dale and Lady Mokou.

Their clamour dampens once the pissed-off ‘couple’ reaches their table. Davos sees a flicker of light between the Lady’s fingers. “Mind repeating that again, young man?” she asks with a smile. This is bad.

“I’m a decade older than you, lassie,” says the sellsword as he downs his tankard, “and more experienced than he. What, your husband wanna watch me play my longsword over-”

Dale stabs his dagger into the table. The sellswords all rise with their hands on their scabbards, no sign of all that drunkenness. “Apologise to my wife,” he hisses, “and maybe you’ll leave with your swords intact.”

…

The ringing of steel sounds as their swords are-

*BANG BANG*

All freeze and turn to look at the angry innkeeper, his fist cracking the wooden table. “No fightin’ oin ma inn!” he bellows. “I don’t want ‘em Gold Cloaks knocking my ass again, ye hear!?”

“Tell ‘em to back the fuck off!”

“Harys! Many times’ I’m tellin’ ye disturbing ma customers! Even whores won’t play ye! Pay your drink or get out of here you worthless bum.”

“Fine!” the sellsword throws down his cup before sheathing his sword. “This place’s shit anyways!”

“Yet you always come back!” the innkeeper retorts, sinking into his chair once the sellsword is out. “Sorry ‘bout that, business been bad lately.”

Davos lets out his held breath, loosening the grip he has on Lady Shireen’s trembling hands. That could have gone… Much worse. Would they survive it? Most likely, especially with Lady Mokou on their side. But that means discarding their disguises and unleashing fires onto Flea Bottom, a terrifying prospect for this city.

“Right, lower ye to twenty groats fer that,” he sighs before clapping his hands. “Alfie! Help ‘em up and show the rooms!”

“Yes pa’,” says one of the street urchins who then guide them up the stairway. “This the room,” the boy opens the one at the end of the hall, revealing a humble place with two beds, a table, and a small dresser. “Pa’ servin’ no dinner or lunch for now, maybe when war’s over.”

“Thank you, kid.” Davos sends him away with a half-groat before settling into the room. The bed is not too dank, easing the weight off of his legs. “Either me or you have to sleep on the floor,” he says to Dale. Lady Shireen will have to sleep with Lady Mokou, he thinks. But seeing the girl climbing onto the bed he’s on gives no confidence of that notion.

Dale places down the supplies before taking out several coins. “I’ll look for the healer and ask if she can come here,” he says.

“Can I tag along?” Lady Mokou asks. “I know her well. It’ll be easier to convince her if I’m with you.”

“No need, Lady Mokou. I think it’s best if you stay with father and the girl; none of them are going to be good in a fight. Protect them with your flames, o saviour from the night,” he grins.

Though she frowns at the jab, she concedes anyway. Once he leaves the room, Lady Mokou opens the window next to her bed and stares out at the city. “Your son’s looking about confused. You sure he’ll be alright?”

“Dale was raised here,” Davos answers, unpacking the supplies they brought. “He can take care of himself. Besides, the healer is quite popular here. He can ask around if lost.”

“Is that so…” A soft breeze plays with her hair, luckily not bringing in much of the city’s stench. Curious, Davos can see quite the amazement in her eyes as she looks over the city.

“First time to King’s Landing?”

“First time to a city like this,” she answers. “Everything’s so… Large here. And stony. The buildings, the walls, the… That red building on top of that hill right there.”

“The red building? Ah, you mean the Red Keep. It’s the royal castle of Westeros, seat of the Iron Throne. King Robert lives there.” I think he’s still recovering from the boar wounds. Hopefully the Red Priestess’ words are false.

“The monarch lives there? Shit,” she chuckles before catching herself. “Ah, shouldn’t have said that.”

“…Fine.”

“Hmm? Did you say something, Lady Shireen?”

“I said it’s fine!” she reiterates before covering herself with a blanket.

At least they’re talking to each other, he sighs. “Well, try to refrain from fouler language. Lady Shireen is only ten, after all.”

“Got you.”

“So,” Davos continues their conversation, “not many castles where you came from?”

“No, there are a lot of castles. They’re just much more wooden and nowhere near as large as that. Didn’t stop noblemen from gilding their roof with gold,” she smiles. “Of course, I also prefer to live in seclusion. The bustle of a city like this can be a bit too much.”

“Not fond of city life?”

“Too many and too hectic,” she complains. “And this city has a certain… Shall I say, air about it.”

“Some say King’s Landing is an acquired taste, like eating snails and lampreys.”

“Gods, this atmosphere is not as tasty as lampreys,” she bemoans, earning a burst of laughter from Davos.

“Well, even I who was born and raised here became disillusioned once I set sail upon the wide sea. The wind, the salt, such a difference in smells… But enough of an old-man’s ramblings. What about you, Lady Mokou? You said that you know the healer?”

“I doubt there’s someone else named Eirin Yagokoro around here. Yeah, I usually help out in guiding and transporting patients to her clinic.”

“Ah, the same homeland? Must be an interesting place to have such amazing magic.” He looks back at Shireen. Though the girl is quiet, he knows that she’s listening in quite intently. “Is it somewhere in Essos?”

“I don’t know what Essos is.”

…Huh!? “A fine jest,” he smiles, but Davos can only see confusion in her eyes. “You… You don’t know of Essos? The land across the Narrow Sea?”

“Nope.”

Either she’s lying or truly from the great unknown… And I fear she’s not lying. “Where is this mysterious place then?”

“Have you ever heard of a set of islands called Japan?”

“No.”

“That’s where Eirin and I came from, somewhere between the mountains and valleys in a place called Gensokyo. It was by coincidence that we met, actually. We made our homes in the same forest,” she laughs. “Fate does play us for fools.”

“Forest… So both you and the healer live in seclusion? Is it not bad for a clinic?”

“Oh, very,” she grins to his surprise. “The forest is full of strange youkais and those fuc-foul rabbits,” she corrects herself. “The bamboos all look the same, making it hard to even know which way is East or West. Without my guidance, travel through there is challenging. Lots of people get unlucky, with some being eaten by wolf-sized rabbits before ever reaching Eirin’s place.”

He hears Lady Shireen yelp in fear but leaves her be. “That’s… Foul.”

“Well, she never intended to open a clinic in the first place. One thing led to another and over time she became quite popular. For me, I just enjoy cooking up those stray rabbits. Sometimes I even invite a friend from the nearby village over,” she says wistfully. “I do miss her cooking… Her company is a lovely one.”

“Ah, rabbit stew.” Davos remembers the first time he made his own after being given a keep and the grounds to hunt. “There’s always a unique taste when you’re the one who caught it.”

But now he wonders at this woman’s strangely modest life in the forest. This is nothing like a noblewoman’s routine, sounding more familiar to the hunters that live near Davos’ keep. And even the healer lives deep in the same forest… Are those two linked by Melisandre? Did she bring two innocent people into this mess to fulfil a false prophecy? Knowing her actions against my Lord Stannis, it is not unthinkable. Perhaps I really should have…

“Whoa.”

“What is it, Lady Mokou?”

“Looks like there’s a storm coming.”

The rumbling of thunder answers her. Looking out the window, Davos sees dark clouds gathering beneath the blue sky. Is it him or are the clouds forming above the Red Keep?

“Maester Cressen said Autumn brings large storms,” Lady Shireen peeps out from beneath her blankets. Her blue eyes and burnt skin makes for a sorry sight. “That’s why Storm’s End and the Stormlands are called that.”

“Aye, that’s correct Lady Shireen.” That brings a smile to the little girl’s face, giving Davos’ heart the relief it needs. “There’s still much to learn of my new land in the Stormlands. Though I will say that storms on land are far more manageable than on water.”

“At least there’s dirt to stand on,” Lady Mokou jests causing the three to laugh. Soon they hear the pitter-patter of raindrops on the inn’s roof and walls. “Better close the windows.” Even with a half-open blind, the room is now in darkness. But with a little bit of her magic, she lights a candle and sets it on the table. “Ser Davos, can I speak to you in private?”

“Sure. Stay warm, Lady Shireen,” he ruffles the little girl’s hair before exiting the room.

The two glance around them; no one’s on the upper floors. “Listen,” she speaks, rubbing the back of her neck. “Well… I’m not sure how to say it but… I’m sorry. Again, Ser Davos, I-”

“Action speaks louder than words, Lady Mokou. You need not repeat your apologies,” the onion knight sighs, feeling the pouch of bones dangling on his necklace. “But what you’re doing right now certainly exceeds my expectations. Compared to the red priestess, you’re at least taking responsibility for what you’ve done.”

“What about Shireen? Is she…”

“Going to forgive you? I don’t know; that is the Lady’s decision, not a smuggler’s,” he gives a sad smile. Davos wonders if the girl is listening to them talking. “For now, just give her time. The death of her mother, Lord Stannis’ injuries… It’s a lot for a young child, aye. But she’s a smart girl, a Baratheon! Her father is gilded with justice and her Uncle is the King, their blood runs through her. I’m sure she’ll understand your efforts to correct your mistake, Lady Mokou. You’re not the only one with a stained past,” he pats his bone pouch. “The Father gave us law and justice, after all. We’ll be judged fairly.

“Let’s simply get the little Lady healed first; those burns must be very painful for her.” They both cringe with Lady Mokou expressing some guilt as well. “After that… We should set sail in the night towards Storm’s End where her Uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon, currently resides. I’m a landed knight of the Stormlands, Sevens that’s a strange thought, and the young Lord may help us. Or at least have the kindness to care for his niece. And with that done, maybe you can try to find a way back to your home of Japan.”

“How about you?”

Davos taps his good leg. “I’ve faced my Lord’s justice once and so I must face it again. What the outcome will be I do not know, but I shall trust his judgement for my future.”

Her eyes widen. “What if he executes you?”

“If he wills it… I shall accept it,” Davos gives a solemn nod. “The kidnapping was my plan, Lady Mokou. I will not let you nor my sons and family to take the blame.”

Lady Mokou shifts from one feet to the other, clearly not liking his decision. “I’ll come back with you to that island.”

“No. You’ll stay with the healer or with Lady Shireen at Storm’s End. This is my song to end.”

“You say that but wasn’t it me and that red priestess who began all this chaos?” He has no reply to the retort. “If I come with you, I can help you testify against her! Maybe convince her to confess the crimes? I’m not sure but you won’t be alone, Ser Davos. Let me help you, alright?” She offers her hand to Davos, slightly inked from the cheap hair dye. “It’s the least I can do.”

He’s reluctant to agree since he fears bringing her back to Dragonstone would be to the red priestess’ benefit. But if my Lord can see her remorse… Davos shakes her hand. The warmth of her skin isn’t as unnatural as Melisandre’s but he soon lets it go. “I’ll vouch for your name to Lord Stannis, Lady Mokou. I pray his punishment will not be too heavy but…”

“I know,” she sighs. “Don’t worry, Ser, I fear no blade. I’ll make it so you come out the lightest out of the three of us.”

“Two,” he corrects. “Dale will be in the Stormlands with his wife after this.”

“And here I thought I was the wife.” Their laughter brings some levity to this grim talk.

As they’re about to return to their room, he hears wet footsteps coming up the stairs. Appearing around the corner is his son Dale, drenched with rain from head to toe. “Forgot your cloak?” Davos smirks.

“Damn rain came outta nowhere,” he grumbles, wringing the water from his gloves and clothes. “And so hard too.”

 “You’re alone. Is Eirin coming here?” Lady Mokou asks.

The young man shakes his head and Davos feels a pit in his stomach. “Father, we have a problem.”

Chapter Text

Throne Room

The day is as radiant as Cersei’s golden locks, yet as always dark clouds threaten to dampen her mood. A single thought preoccupies her: should she be worried about everything that has happened? None had gone down as planned, sure, yet did they not all work out? Eddard Stark dead, that wretched Robert in his death bed, a person to hold all of the sins… Are the Gods smiling down on her beauty for once?

I’ve always been meaning to rid the Kingsguard of that Selmy, Cersei takes a sip of her spiced red wine. The man is too old to protect my son. She considers it somewhat rash to have Ser Balon Swann did what he had done, but no one’s the wiser. A smirk slowly crawls over her face; what an accomplishment this week has been.

With her only threat rotting in the Sept of Baelor, she can relax regarding her little… Infidelity with Jaime. With Robert out of the picture, soon she’ll have total control of the court; who will she put as Joffrey’s hand? The soft and oafish Mace Tyrell? His cripple of a son? Or perhaps Uncle Kevan? Or father? He has experience being a King’s Hand. The Mad King’s. By then, the Lannisters will reign supreme over the Iron Throne. Deer were never meant to lay with lions…

Jaime will become Lord Commander, of course. Oh, how I wish I could send a raven to you. You’ll love me even more. She takes a long drink, but a sour taste climbs up her throat.

She still has to deal with Robert. If not for that bitch from the filths of Flea Bottom, everything would be in place! But that’s a small matter, Cersei, she assures herself. That bumbling maester is in your purse and Littlefinger dances on the palm of your hands. It’s only a matter of time.

She sinks back into the cushions of her gilded ebony chair. The preparations for the trial took some time to get together, but with Littlefinger’s help, all have gone down smoothly. Even a petty Lord has its use. The head of the Gold Cloaks, Janos Slynt, is one such person who has been bribed and prepared. All the words coming out of his mouth are the mockingbird’s, not the toad's.

Speaking of which, where is that little bird? Actually, I haven’t seen the eunuch as well. Ah, they must be conversing with each other in the garden. A bird and a spider, she wants to laugh. None worthy enough to take on a lion.

Instead of looking for them, she watches the glee and joy of her little boy Joffrey atop the Iron Throne. It may be too big now, but he’ll soon grow into it. And for that Petyr Baelish to suggest my son, the CROWN PRINCE, to stay out of the trial… The audacity! He may be on my side right now, but the next treasonous thing out of his mouth will earn him the black cells.

Then again, how is he any different from other Lords and Ladies? In her mind, the court is filled with nothing but greed, fools, and greedy fools. There’s some satisfaction in knowing that none of them understands Joffrey’s true parentage. That the next King shall be a pure Lannister, not a Baratheon. And with that deviant Renly out of the Red Keep, I will have no Baratheons against me.

But her plans are still long from over. After the trial, she plans to eliminate all of Robert’s bastards throughout King’s Landing. I’ll give my thanks to that senile Jon Arryn for dying and leaving his notes; the Gold Cloaks will take care of that soon enough.

“What do you think, your grace?”

“Hm? It’s fine, Janos Slynt. Just wait until the trial starts,” she shoos him, yet the man is persistent.

“Your grace, may I suggest some changes to the words? Maybe a few sentences?” He smiles, stretching his lips like that of a frog’s.

Ugh. Might as well have an actual frog in that gold cloak. “You want to change the words?”

“Only some, like-”

“Take it up with Baelish. If he approves, change it. But no more than that,” she hisses. “I am still Queen, Janos Slynt. Mind your tongue when asking for favours. Get back to your position.”

“Y-Yes, your grace,” he stammers before scuttling back to the Gold Cloaks. Did she even let him climb the stairs, or did the man presumed his own standing in court? The Lord Commander of the City Watch is still far beneath me, she huffs.

But he’s not the only one, is he? All these chattering nobles on wooden pulpits see her nothing more than Robert’s wife, not the respect a Queen deserves. Though seething, the flame is quenched by more wine. I should have watered this down, she covers her mouth before burping. Ah, those fools will understand soon enough.

No one here is worth more than a glance. Besides, it pisses her off that not all are present for her son’s first trial. For example, House Celtigar and Velaryon are not here. A tinge of paranoia suspects that they’ve betrayed her… Or maybe it’s the wine talking. And then there’s the Starks. She glares at the crying girls surrounded by Stark men-at-arms. If Eddard Stark was against her, why not their children? He’s the one who raised them to be distrustful of Lannisters.

She has plans for them, grand plans. As hostages if the North ever makes a move against her brother and father, or perhaps as pawns to be married off to certain Houses. Take them up as my ward, that cold Catelyn surely wouldn’t mind, she smirks. Perhaps what the septas said about the Seven descending from the heavens to aid the crown is true; Eddard’s death is a blessing in disguise. Barristan Selmy did it. A wench from Flea Bottom did it.

Not her. And isn’t that beautiful?

That Sansa girl wants me to marry her to my son. As if a wolf deserves to lay with lions. No, perhaps marrying her to a Tyrell? And the other… Cersei clicks her tongue remembering how the little rat dared to hurt her son! That runt doesn’t deserve a Hill… Then a vicious thought enters her mind. Who better to pair with a rat than an imp? The thought of those two bedding disgusts her to no end; perhaps their whelps would look more fitting in a mummer’s troupe than noble clothes.

A forgone trial, a wine cup in hand, and her son atop the Iron Throne; today is truly the best of-

“Do pardon my intrusion, your grace.”

Gods, why do the Kingsguard let people speak to me left and right!? Do they have no discipline? Slowly coming back into the Red Keep, she sees no other than the Fat One at the foot of the throne room steps. Though dresses in his holy attire, his crystal crown is cracked. Here comes the Faith, she groans, no doubt peddling me with more talk of worship and piety. Might as well entertain them for a bit. “Your Holiness, you are always a welcome sight at the Red Keep,” the sweet lie rolls off her tongue. “But do please climb the steps so that I may hear your words.”

The holy man waddles up the stairs, earning some laughter from her son and the Kingsguard. Even that unsightly Hound is grinning at the display. “Your grace,” he bows his head, nearly out of breath.

“So,” she taps her wine glass, “have the Faith decided to preside over this trial?”

“O yes, your grace. Why, the days grow shorter and the nights more terrible! Murder in the streets, unrest in the Realm, all of it are connected. That red streak in the sky, an omen coming from the Seven who-”

Gods, the Fat One does like to drone on. “Save the sermon until after the trial is decided, High Septon. Explain the current decision.”

“Very well, your grace. The Most Devout and I saw it fit to uphold the Faith in this upcoming trial. To those who commit foul sorceries, to those who planned to betray the king they’ve sworn to protect, all must pass under the judgement of the Seven!”

Here we go again …

“The sinful walk the earth with no repercussion for far too long! But this trial will remind the Realm that all are still under the will and watchful eyes of the Seven Who Is One. And thus,” he finally says, “I implore your wisdom and judgement to let two of our representatives hold court along your grace and Prince Joffrey. Let those with the Seven on their side judge those blasphemers and criminals!”

Reeling in from that extended declaration, Cersei begins weighing the merits. On one hand, for someone to have a say in the ruling other than her and her son is disconcerting. It’s a miracle that the more disagreeing of the Small Council are not present and she dares not ruin that.

“T-They may be of use, y-your grace,” the wrinkly Pycelle approaches her side, his breath smelling of sour fruits and spraying spittle with each word he speaks. “The-The faith is well known for their d-disdain for the dark-”

“While I appreciate your counsel, cover your mouth when you speak.” Cersei wipes her hand on his robe before ushering him away. “Where was I… Ah yes, High Septon. Well of course, the Iron Throne have always been beholden to the Faith. The Seven’s judgement is always at home in court so I see no problem for representatives to oversee the trial.”

“Your kindness and wisdom are truly as radiant as your beauty.” His flattery does pinch her smile upwards. “Ah, but no need to provide seats, your grace. We have prepared our own.”

How lovely. Must be the Most Devout then. Why can’t we have someone younger? “I’ll inform the servants.”

“Thank you, your grace. I pray for your husband’s health and safety.” The Fat One bows before waddling back down to the laughter of Joffrey. Why need fools when the court attendants are like these? They have feathered beggars if it adds to the charm.

You did a fine thing, Cersei. Now you have a foothold in the Faith. After all, she once heard that the Crown is in debt to the Sept; she’ll put Littlefinger in charge of that matter. As the Master of Coins, he seems good with money.

Now, what to do for my son’s coronation? Ah, a glorious tourney perhaps, one so extravagant it’ll put the Targaryen past to shame. She can see it now: a shower of flowers as she and Joffrey walk in a glorious display, a knight naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Oh, so many will fight in her honour, such gallant and handsome knights in their glittering armour. Some may become the Kingsguard while others… It would be something that a Queen like her deserves.

“Your grace.” Now it’s the Hound’s turn to interrupt her fantasy. “The Prince wants your presence.”

“…Of course he does.” Putting down the cup, she climbs up the Iron Throne whilst displaying her fine velvet red-and-gold dress, embroidered with lion heralds. The nobles present understands the message.

Reaching the top she sees her sweet son Joffrey. He looks so much like his father, she thinks, admiring his golden locks and forest-green eyes. However, he’s fidgeting more than usual. “What is it, dear?”

The boy bites his nail. “It’s about father.”

For a moment she thinks of Jaime, but Robert’s face ruins all of that. “What about him?”

“I-Is he going to be alright? That damn Pycelle s-said-”

“Oh, don’t worry my little prince.” She brushes his hair from his face, taking a look at his sad face. “The King is going to be just fine, I promise. Grand Maester Pycelle is simply careful, that is all. Soon, everything that wench did to him will be undone.” Complimenting the old fool brings bile to her mouth, but she swallows it down. The man is talented when not wagging his tongue, though his compliments on the prisoner’s stitches bring suspicion on how much skill he boasts.

“B-But- Mother! They’re TRAITORS!” He slams his fist onto the Throne, nearly cutting himself. “They hurt the King! Assassination! Why trials when we can have their heads!?”

“Trials are a King’s procedure, sweetie,” she speaks softly, easing the boy’s temper. Did he pick that up from Robert? “It’ll show to the others that you’re just and wise.”

“They’re all guilty,” he seethes.

“But not in the eyes of certain fools. This trial is meant to show the traitors’ crimes, to lay out all their sins into the world. None of them will be missed, and the Realm will thank you for your justice.”

“I was born just, mother,” Joffrey huffs. “I’m the Crown Prince; my word is law!”

“And how right you are.” With his temper taken care of, she pecks his forehead before returning to her seat. However, she soon realises that the hem of her dress has been cut up by the Throne. Gods, now I need to have a new one made. And to think I brought it all the way from Casterly Rock…

Another person interrupts her. And before she could throw wine onto his face, she sees that it’s actually the Kingsguard Ser Boros Blount. In her eyes, the man is only marginally better than Barristan, owing to his younger age. “Your grace,” he speaks with a rasp, “the High Septon has returned with his retinue. Where would their chairs be set?”

Traditionally, those involved in making the judgements should be seated abreast. But Cersei has a point to make. “Set them on the lower steps, Ser Boros.”

“As you wish.” With a wave of a hand, the Lannister guards open the throne room doors. The court soon falls silent and turn to see the procession.

Leading the Faith is the Fat One, though he’s soon passed by helpers carrying a pair of chairs. The seats have been made out of white birch and embedded with crystals, playing with the sunlight as they are placed on the lower steps. Cersei doesn’t like the way they glare.

Ten septon and ten septas enter the the room, lining the way for the Fat One and his representatives. Such a bloody spectacle, she scowls, and all for a chance at the court. Did it not occur to your fat-addled mind that almost all present follow the Seven!?

Last to come are the representatives, but their appearance prompt whispers and murmurs in the pulpits. Even Cersei is bewildered. “They’re… Children!?” she sneers.

“Praise be the Seven and their holy judgement present with us today,” the Fat One declares, gesturing towards the older child. “The Holy Messenger of the Maiden, Tenshi Hinanawi, shall be overlooking this trial.”

Many in the pulpits rise but Cersei stays seated; a lion answers to no one, her father once said. And ‘Messengers of the Maiden’… Where have I heard that before? Truthfully, she’s not one to pray nor pay attention to matters of the Faith. She’s been to the occasional wakes and scattered prayers in her time as Queen, but never too in-depth. This matter is quite new to her. Did I hear it from a servant’s gossip?

However, even that won’t betray her cool. “I welcome you to the Red Keep, Lady Tenshi. The Iron Throne welcomes your presence.” But what an odd presence it is. Nothing about her looks like a proper lady: not her dyed-blue hair, not her black hat, not the short skirt, not the fact that she’s wearing black breastplate and vambraces… Why? Why is a little girl wearing armour? What manner of madness did you bring here, Fat One?

“Of course my presence is welcomed,” the little girl scoffs before turning to the Queen with a smug grin. “My glory is a magnificent gift for you, worm.”

…

Worm?

Cersei’s nails dig deep into the cushions. “Do you know who you’re speaking to, brat?”

“No, who’s this insect?”

Insect!? The whispers in the pulpit are louder now.

“Ooh, I know! I know!” the younger one raises her hand, hopping on her feet. “Are you the Queen?”

“I am,” she spits. “I am Cersei Lannister, Queen of Westeros and daughter of Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock. And who are you to call me such vile things?”

“Y-Your grace, I apologise immensely for their conduct,” the Fat One’s deep bow nearly takes off his crystal crown, not that any of it quenches her anger. “T-They’re not used to the court, that is all.”

“And never taught proper manners. Did you bring them before me as an insult? Are you demeaning the authority of the Iron Throne?” The Gold Cloaks bristle at her words.

“No no, that was never m-my intention,” he stammers before quickly changing the topic. “Oh, yes! Please, let us greet the second Holy Messenger of the Maiden. Her Holine-”

“Hiya!” The blonde girl jumps forward with strange crystal ornamentation attached to her back. And again, her skirt is not even close to proper. Cersei’s beginning to suspect that the Faith is taking whores and claiming them holy by adorning crystals on their heads. “My name’s Flandre Scarlet but Tenshi calls me Flan. She says it’s cute!”

“Of course it’s cute!” She brings the blonde girl to a hug. “Flans are soft and sweet on a plate, just like you.”

“Yep!” the girl giggles.

…

Cersei pinches her brow. If this is what she has to deal with at the trial she wishes for more flagons of wine. But taking a few deep breaths, she begins to assess the situation. The most important fact about the Faith’s representatives is that they’re children. The blue-haired brat may be stubborn, but the blonde one looks to be a simple girl with energy to spare. I could manipulate them… Yes, I could. I can do it. If I can bear with Robert and coo that Stark girl’s heart, then these brats should be no problem. Blinking a few times, she returns to her regal posture. “Do you two understand the responsibilities you’ve been given?”

“We’re to overlook a trial,” Tenshi answers with a shrug, “You know, do the Yama’s job and see if the person deserves to be free or die. I heard they tried to kill the King?”

“They’re both traitors for hurting my father,” Joffrey declares from the Iron Throne. “They are GUILTY. But I’m sure you two know that already.”

“Who’s that little tick?”

“Hmm… Oh, it’s the King’s daughter! Princess Jessica, is it?”

“I AM PRINCE JOFFREY BARATHEON!” he screeches, causing even Cersei to flinch. “I am the son of King Robert Baratheon who slew the Targaryens at the Trident! I am not some bloody GIRL!”

“Could have fooled me,” the brat chuckles at the Prince. “Why do I need to remember the names of all ants I come across?”

“Ser Mandon!” the Prince shouts, now enraged by the insult. “They’ve insulted their Prince; teach those wenches their lessons.”

“Sheathe your sword, Ser Mandon,” Cersei interrupts the Kingsguard whose sword is half-out of the scabbard. With every word the brat speaks her head throbs even harder. The last thing I need is spilling blood before the trial begins. And so she must concede; there’s always more time to choke the life out of that brat. “Dear, save your power and anger towards the true traitors. I’m sure you can have a word with the girls after the trial?”

She watches her son’s red face sink back into the Iron Throne. “…Right, let us get on with enacting justice then.”

“And High Septon, care to explain the extra twenty people you have brought to the throne room?” She doesn’t like the way they look, far too calm and quiet.

“They’re the appointed guards for their Holiness, your grace. These are dark times, and safety is of most paramount.”

Guards, she snorts. Prude men and women whose eyes will burn upon seeing a tit or cock. But if it appeases them… “Janos Slynt, see that these ‘guards’ are positioned around the throne room.”

“I’ll do so, your grace. Please, follow me.” From the way they move there’s clear discipline. But even a child can form lines. Enough to protect us from imaginary devils.

“Please, take your seat. The trial begins soon.”

While Tenshi walks over to it, the blonde one grabs her hand. “Um, my seat is in the light. Can I have it moved?”

“Certainly,” Cersei holds in her sigh. “Ser Boros, mind moving the chair-”

“Nah, that side has sunlight as well,” the brat interrupts much to her annoyance. “You know what? I got this.” With a  wide grin, she unclasps a golden-and-brass object from her belt. It looks like the hilt of a sword with some red tassels, but without a blade it looks very odd when she points it at the ceiling.

For some reason the Fat One scurries back, but nothing happens. A few snickers bounce around the pulpit at the silly children.

But they soon realise their mistake.

A horrifying red glow engulfs the room and the air pulsates like a beating heart, turning it fiery and icy cold. Screams erupt from the guards and nobles alike as Cersei shield her eyes from that painful glow. And once the castle trembles beneath her feet, she screams as well.

“Make it stop!” Joffrey shouts. “Make it stop make it stop MAKE IT-”

“Alright, calm down! Enough with the shouting…”

With the glow dimming and voices calming, Cersei dares to peek and sees something… Mesmerising. A red beam spurts forth from the girl’s sword hilt, punching through the stone ceiling like a needle through cloth. As it disperses into a fine red mist, a piece of rubble falls with a crash. That’s when the Kingsguards decide to move.

Ser Boros covers the trembling Cersei while Ser Mandon and Ser Meryn protect the steps up the Iron Throne. But even with swords drawn, they look so small beneath the girl’s sorcery. “Throw down your weapon,” shouts Ser Boros, but the shaking of his hand belies his fear. “You’re fools to threaten her grace in her own home!”

“Threaten? I’m just making it less sunny for Flan! What, I can’t treat my girlfriend now and then?”

“Tenshi’s so cool!” The blonde one kisses her cheek, making the brat blush. “She can go whoosh and make it rain!”

“Heh, I am cool.”

“The coolest!”

“Hold your tongue, girly,” Ser Meryn growls. “We have the black cells for the likes of-”

*CRACK BOOM*

The sound of thunder silences the Kingsguard. Looking through the large painted windows, they see a wild storm gathering outside the Red Keep. The room slowly darkens and the only glow comes from the scant few candles and the blonde one's crystal ornaments. As lightning flashes, Cersei sees the septons and septas' smiling faces...

She grabs her cup and downs the wine. What in the Seven hells is happening!?

"Ahh, ain't that nice, Flan?"

"Yep. Dibs on the left seat!"

Black Cells

Hours and days mix into one beneath the Red Keep. The darkness is forever in the black cells, only broken by the occasional passing of torches by the guards. Some men scream as they’re dragged to and fro the cells, but Barristan knows how to keep his wits. So do the healer, he sighs, remembering the woman he dragged into this mess.

The only thing keeping him sane is the occasional whispers of hymns and prayers to the Seven from his lips. The food comes infrequently, intended to keep the prisoner questioning and on the brink; he understands the schedule quite well. But even as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, this numbing torture slowly chips away at his mind.

The darkness grows an ill fog in his head, and slowly he begins to question his place in this fleeting world and of memories from days long gone. How long has it been since Lady Eirin fell asleep? he wonders, turning his head to the woman chained to the wall.

A door slam rings through the black cells. Dull footsteps followed by the crossing of a torch; the King’s Justice is not alone. For a moment he thinks their doors are being unlocked but soon relaxes upon realising it’s their neighbour.

“…this one is…”

“…take the black with…”

“…how are…”

“…a man knows of…”

A wandering crow, Barristan thinks. Is it Yoren, the one Lord Stark wanted to give the prisoners to? The thought of the dead Hand brings a bitter taste to his mouth. The Stark was a diligent and honourable man in his eyes, and no doubt Jon Arryn had been of great influence to his conduct. And now he’s gone… Would he have survived if not for the Kingslayer’s actions?

But the old knight shakes his head. He could lay the blame on the boy as much as he likes for it does not change his failure to save Lord Stark. If only I was quicker at the bandages, quicker at cleaning the tables, I could have intervened… Right? And now I leave his two daughters in a viper’s pit. Barristan clenches his fist, knowing his failure as a…

No, the King still lives.

But for how much longer? Lord Stark’s warnings were not empty yet he only has an inkling on the conspiracies afoot in the Red Keep. Who can I trust?

Another door slams shut and the torch passes again, casting light on the healer’s sleeping face and the wounds on her arms.

…

Barristan is a Kingsguard, the Bold many call him. He slew Maelys the Monstrous and ended the Blackfyres. He was knighted by Aegon the Fifth himself and served three Kings. All that honour and valour… None of it prevented the healer’s tortures. He could still see it beneath closed eyes: the glow of a hot iron poker, the grinning face of the gaoler, and the healer’s defiance to let out a sound…

What am I without my sword? What am I with my sword? Regrets haunt him in the darkness. The screams of the late Targaryen Queen… Back then he had his sword, yet he only stood by as the Mad King raped her. For a mad moment he wonders if the Lannister boy was right in breaking his oath and killing Aerys, to end the screaming that haunted the Red Keep’s halls.

“What are you mumbling?”

“Sorry?”

“You’re speaking to yourself,” the healer whispers, a soft yawn escaping from her.

“Forgive me for disturbing your sleep,” he sighs. “They were… Unkind memories. Nothing important.”

“Nothing important, huh…” The healer moves but he can only hear the clinking of chains. “How kind of the Queen to give us this place for healing her husband. Such a fine treatment for a doctor,” she sneers.

“I regret having it come to this, Lady Eirin, but healing him was of paramount. If Robert died then… I’m not sure what will happen to Westeros.”

He hears a snort coming from the healer. “Is that so, Barristan Selmy? Is your country so weak and haemorrhaged that a drunken oaf is all that holds them together?” The amusement in her voice confuses him. “I heard he took the throne from an older dynasty, one that you once served. Why stay by his side, then?”

“B- He’s the King! And the Kingsguard is sworn to protect one’s King with their life!” he asserts, and yet where are his white cloaks? The Lannister guards didn’t even need to strip him of it; he had put it away in a chest in the White Tower.

“I did not ask about your duties,” she groans. “I’m asking why you stay by his side. What is the man’s worth?”

“King Robert is generous to his subjects. He’s a capable commander and a fine warrior with his hammer.” For a moment, an image of the Dragon Prince being smashed to pieces by Robert flashes by; Barristan shakes his head from that foul thought. “He can turn foes into allies. Men bend their knees willingly for him.” And he’s not Aerys, he wants to add, but madness was never a desirable quality in any man.

“And all of it undone by his drinking,” she chuckles. “What of the murders in that room then? Were they done by his enemy-turned-friends?”

Barristan eyes their little enclosure. Even down here… “The walls have ears,” he whispers.

The healer breaks into raucous laughter, earning them angry shouts from the gaolers. He can see a mad smile plastered on her face from the passing torchlight. “The walls have ears~ That’s what you humans always do. Conspiracies after conspiracies after conspiracies… What a fine life you lead, Barristan Selmy, trapped inside this filthy city with its filthy people and their filthy culture.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, worried that the darkness has breached her mind.

“Some migraines, some hunger. Nothing a good execution won’t fix.”

“Please don’t jest about death. If you name the Stranger…” But with their upcoming trial, that is a large possibility. If Queen Cersei and that boy see it fit… “I am sure the trial will be just, Lady Eirin. They’ll see you as innocent.”

“And I’m sure the systems of justice here will do us just fine,” she says with sarcasm. “None of it matters to me. However, on the slim probability they don’t execute you, what will you do after the trial?”

…

What will I do? If he’s found innocent, would he tarnish the white cloak’s prestige by wearing it? Can he even serve the King again? Or should he look for someone else to swear his vows towards? But who? “I have… Regrets in my life. I’ve failed people before, sent them on a mortal journey they’ve yet to see the end of. And as an old knight…”

“You could help them, you know.”

Barristan taps the cold stone floor, his nail scratching at the grime. “I’ll be abandoning all that I’ve worked towards, sixty years of my life down the gutters. For a Lord Commander to discard the white cloak…” he shakes his head.

“And because of that you won’t right the wrongs you’ve caused? Truly the finest knight of Westeros,” the healer scoffs, her words stabbing deep into Barristan.

“And what would you have done?” the knight barks. “Apologies for my crassness, Lady Eirin, but a Lady knows not of a Kingsguard’s vows. Do you know what it means to shirk one’s duties and responsibilities? To abandon them in a mere whim or fancy?”

“Yes,” she answers in a whisper, “I’ve done that.”

“…You have?”

“I wasn’t always a healer nor a doctor,” Lady Eirin begins. “The Yagokoros are one of the most powerful Families in our Lunatic Kingdom and I was its head. I led technological and magical advances you people could never comprehend, but for all that I still made a mistake,” her voice darkens. “A grim one that led someone dear to me to be banished in my stead. The years I spent without repercussions were haunted by regrets and self-loathing, I’m sure you can relate.” He sees a hint of a smile on her face, but he has no reply to her tale.

“But then I was given a chance,” her voice brightens. “To correct my mistake and be with the one I love, I abandoned my home and family to make a new one with her. I never looked back.”

…

“I… I’m sorry for making assumptions, it was never my intention to-”

“Save your words for the trial, Barristan Selmy. You’ve said your piece,” the healer sighs. “But for the sake of your mistakes, here’s an advice from your elder: correct them. Unlike me, your years are getting shorter and now’s the only chance to right your wrongs.”

“Thank you for the counsel, Lady Eirin. This old knight needed that,” he coughs, feeling the dryness of his throat. By the Seven does he need a drink. “The young do enlighten their elders sometimes…”

“I’m older than you, Barristan.”

“…I’m sixty-three.”

“And I’ve lost count of all my years,” the healer laughs. “I’ve watched mountains rise and fall, witnessed the death of Siddhatta Gautama, and destined to see existence decay to mere strings and foam. When the stars die I will watch the spectacle with the Princess by my side, a drink in our hands to reflect our eternal love.”

…

A chill crawls up his spine. Madness is all he could see. He saw it before in the Mad King, in Maelys Blackfyre, even in the young Joffrey Baratheon. But the magic she wields, her unearthly appearance… “What are you?”

“I am Eirin Yagokoro, Healer of Flea Bottom,” the darkness answers. “For now. With my age, Barristan Selmy, you’ll understand that not all things last. This lofty fantasy… With patience, it’ll be wispy memories of a fitful slumber. Give it time, old knight.”

Before he could say something, the black cells trembles deep. A flurry of rats and dust run past him, heightening his fear of being swallowed alive by the Red Keep. A few seconds later it stops, leaving only the screams of prisoners and the commanding shouts of the gaolers. His heart nearly beats out of his chest. “An earthquake,” he whispers, “Sevens save us, did Dragonmont erupt?”

“Not quite,” the healer observes, giving an inquisitive hum before elaborating. “That was a magical pulse, one fuelled by both pure magic and faith. Must be the ‘Messengers of the Seven’ your people are clamouring about,” she chuckles. “Oh, to think those two are worshipped as prophets.”

“You’re acquainted with the Messengers?” Did they come with her, or is the healer spouting more madness?

“I’ve treated them before back home. If I remember correctly, one came to me to treat her wounds after a fight while the other needed weekly medication to treat her… Well, I shouldn’t divulge patient records freely, especially to someone who doesn’t understand it.”

The revelation sinks his stomach. He had certain doubts before, but now? “Are… Are the Messengers-”

The sound of footsteps interrupts his speech. The key to their door turns and they’re soon bathed by the light of torches, momentarily blinding them. “Get up,” says one of the guards, a Lannister due to his red cloak. “Barristan Selmy. Healer of Flea Bottom. Your trial starts soon.”

In the light, he can see the dirty garments he’s in. Lady Eirin’s clothes are in a better condition, but not by much. They’re not in the right state for a trial. “May we have a change of-”

“The Lady can have a cloak. You?” The young man looks him up and down before smirking. “You can stay like that.”

“A naked Kingsguard,” one of them jeers, earning the snickers of the gaolers and guards. But the King’s Justice’s gruff croaking stops them. “Right, unlock their manacles and drag them to the throne room. If any of them tries to run, kill them.”

The two doesn’t resist as they’re led up the winding stairwell of the black cells. Marching towards a finality, he can only pray that madness does not consume the Realm.

Chapter Text

Throne Room

Barristan stood a thousand times in front of the throne room’s great oaken doors before, but never with manacles around his wrists. He shivers at the cold breeze carried by the gathering storm, the pattering of rain still audible deep within the Red Keep. Yet there’s some comfort in the rumbling thunder; it reminds him of home, back in Harvest Hall. What will they think of my trial? he wonders. Do they even know without ravens?

The healer pulls the red Lannister cloak close before asking: “Are we supposed to wait for-”

“Silence,” Ser Meryn the Kingsguard growls, hand tightly gripping his sword. “Her grace will see you when she sees fit.” The swagger he wields belies his shaking hands at the crack of thunder. No, it’s not only him but the Gold and red cloaks as well; their faces are sheen with sweat. Did something happen before our arrival?

“I will lead,” Barristan whispers, “I understand the procedures.”

“Fine. I’m not interested in some-”

“SILENT,” the Kingsguard thumps his scabbard. After some time brooding with the storm, the doors creak open. Expecting a dimly lit court, his eyes are assaulted by colourful beams of bright lights. Flinching, his vision slowly adjusts and sees…

“By the Sevens,” he whispers, watching strange colourful orbs dance high up between the throne room’s columns. “Is that magic?” he asks the healer but she simply shrugs before walking at the guards’ urging. They look familiar. Where have I seen them before?

Colourful speckles dance on the faces of whispering ladies and laughing lords, pulpits walling in their path. Barristan regains his wits and keeps a firm face and back; his manacles are disgraceful enough, no need to add another. The Iron Throne’s sharp shadow looms over them, a great beast of Targaryen make; he sees now why prisoners often soil themselves before the King.

With a small cough, the bumbling Grand Maester takes the stand. “S-Ser Barristan Selmy. Lady E-Eren Yagokoro. You are standing trial f-for the suspected involvement in the d-deaths of Ser Balon Swann and the Late Lord Hand Eddard S-Stark.”

“We’re innocent,” the healer clicks her tongue, prompting an angry shout from a Lannister guard.

Barristan wonders if that man is a Lannister creature. After all, it was he who ordered King’s Landing’s gates to be opened during the Rebellion. Another cough and Pycelle begins listing out their judges. “Her Grace, Queen C-Cersei Baratheon.” Barristan is sharply aware of her smirk, not unlike the one Petyr Baelish often sports. Lord Stark fears their conspiracy against the King, yet how can I convince others? “His Grace, t-the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon.” Ever since he laid eyes on Joffrey, he always thought the boy had his Uncle’s looks. Is he part of this conspiracy, or is he another one dancing to the mockingbird’s tune?

“And the M-Messengers of the Maiden, Lady Tenshi Hinanawi and Lady Flandre Scarlet. M-May the Seven bless this trial,” the Grand Maester concludes before retreating to his corner.

…

He can’t help but stare at the two young girls in shock. They’re the Messengers!? Wait, the healer- “Can you convince them to-”

“You both have heard the accusations,” Joffrey proclaims, cutting through his whisper. The boy is tiny atop the Iron Throne. “Do you plead guilty to these crimes?”

“Nay, I am innocent,” says Barristan Selmy.

“I plead innocence,” says Lady Eirin.

The Queen’s smile sharpens at their answers. With the crack of thunder, she gives the confirmation. “In the name of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynars, and of the First Men, we shall begin the trial.”

The first person to be called is no other than the Spider, his perfumes of lavender and scented oils washing over Barristan. He never once trusted the eunuch, for he believes the man fuelled the Mad King’s paranoia. “I have received many whispers ever since Ser Barristan’s arrest,” Varys begins, throwing a sad glance at the frowning knight. “Some say on that fateful day Ser Barristan wandered the slums of Flea Bottom, garbed in such poor clothing one could mistake him for a common sellsword.”

“Like the one he wears right now?” asks Cersei.

“Perhaps, your grace. I must apologise for later accounts, however, for they are varying. Some claimed he entered a brothel at the end of the Street of Silk, while others say he went to the inn where the Healer of Free Bottom resided. In any case, the last reports are all the same: he marched to the Red Keep’s hidden passage with a silver-haired woman in tow, no doubt for the King’s bedchamber. That is all I have.” And with that mummer’s performance, the eunuch bows his head.

“…Kingsguard in a brothel…” someone in the back whispers.

“…sullying the honour…” says another.

“Ser Barristan Selmy, Lady Eren. Are these whispers true?”

“…Yes, I did visit Flea Bottom,” he admits to the gasp of many. “But it was not for whoring nor vices! I would never break the sacred vows,” he glares at the Spider who looks offended at the gesture. “No, it was to see the healer, Lady Eirin, and bring her here to heal the King!”

“You brought a stranger to the Red Keep,” the Queen scoffs, “someone who nary knows poultices and ointments.”

“No, she’s- Lord Varys!” he calls out, surprising the eunuch. “You have eyes and ears all over King’s Landing yet you claim ignorance of the healer’s presence? You must know of her reputation.”

The Spider tilts his head in thought before answering. “Why yes, she indeed has quite the reputation in Flea Bottom. Many street urchins, beggars, and sometimes sellswords of ill-repute visit her establishment.” The whispers are louder now. “Not only that but there are some interesting accounts from her patients as well. For example,” he pulls out a small sheet from his sleeve, “a young man named Cory explained that ‘the main room was filled with blades and eerie glowing potions. Often the table would be speckled with blood as if one was butchered there.’ I’m sorry to say but I’m not familiar with a healer’s space, so perhaps such a state is a common occurrence.”

“I must s-say it is not,” the Grand Maester peeps up, tugging at his beard. “Even a travelling septon understands the importance of cleanliness. To c-claim to be a healer with that conduct?” He shakes his head. “Disgraceful.”

“I always try to keep my operating area clean, Varys,” Lady Eirin answers, voice lined with anger. “I don’t know who gave you that information but I can assure you it’s an exaggeration. Besides, the space would be much cleaner if my assistant followed orders,” she clicks her tongue.

“Ah yes, the innkeep by the name of Lya…” the eunuch smirks but makes no additional comments. “What shall you make of this, your grace?”

“We heard from your tongue that you did visit this woman, Ser Barristan Selmy. If I recall, you were tasked to guard Robert’s bedchamber that day. And so you left your post, your ill and vulnerable King, to have liaison with this Eren?” the Queen tuts. “Do you have no shame, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”

“The man’s barely a Kingsguard,” says Petyr Baelish, “he’s not even in white.”

“I did not want to sully my cloak when-”

“Ah, afraid to stain your white breeches? They did say the older you get, the less control you have,” Littlefinger japes, earning raucous laughter from the pulpit and reddened cheeks from the old knight. The healer cringes; Barristan can only imagine the shame she feels at such disgusting accusations.

“Your whispers have been enlightening, Lord Varys. For now, I have no doubts about their involvement in this tragedy,” the Queen concludes. “Joffrey?”

“You’re not fit to be a Kingsguard,” the Prince spits. “My father should have crushed your chest like he did with Rhaegar! Alas, here we are. Be grateful that my fellow judges have the hearts of women, traitors.”

“Says the boy who cried at a little light show,” the blue-haired Messenger cackles. To Barristan’s surprise, the Prince doesn’t bite back at that comment; the boy’s face looks conflicted, half torn between yelling or keeping calm. “Hmm…” the girl flexes her black gauntlets. “The wrinkled bug looks pretty guilty if you ask me. You though,” she points at Lady Eirin before smirking, “well, let’s hear more words from the others. Flan?”

“Hmm?” the blonde girl blinks her tiredness away. “Yeah, um, mister knight sounds shady,” she yawns. “Can I have a drink? I’m thirsty.”

“Certainly, your Holiness,” the High Septon bows before procuring a drink from a septa. So they’re higher ranking than him. And if they’re the ones who cast the lights… There’s an advantage here, he knows that. A Kingsguard is not only the King’s protector but also one of his counsels, yet he’s a Selmy, not a Spider.

As Varys leaves the stand, Barristan whispers: “What do you know of them, Lady Eirin? What do they like?”

“Violence,” she replies. A disheartening answer. Or maybe...

Lightning flashes through the painted windows as Janos Slynt takes the stage. With a crooked smile, the rumble of thunder carries his accusations. “Hear me, oh Lords and Ladies, when I say that I, Commander of the Gold Cloaks, understand violence. You must have heard of the murders in the streets of King’s Landing, such foul and grisly affairs. Poor mothers and their whelps murdered beneath the veil of night. Well,” the man’s jowls shiver, “what I saw in the King’s bedchamber were much worse.”

Barristan doesn’t like the way he talks. The knight had been acquainted for some time with Janos Slynt, and the words and cadence he uses here are far too… Skilled. Someone paid him, of course, and wrote his words! Who was it that convinced Robert to keep him? Varys? Littlefinger?

“T’was a foul scene, not for the faint of hearts,” he glances at the Messengers. “Blood seeped through the marble cracks! Tables were hacked and walls painted red; a butcher’s shop. ‘The Stranger came through here,’ was what I thought.” Pale faces listen the man speak, and Barristan hears weeping from the pulpits. He recognises their voice but keeps focus on the trial. “And I saw them there, lying on the cold ground. Ser Balon Swann, Lord Eddard Stark, both good men who died too young,” Janos sniffles and wipes his eyes, but Barristan sees no tears. “Valiant men who-”

“YOU MURDERER!” someone shouts and a wooden cup hits the knight’s back. Turning around, his stomach drops at seeing the young Arya Stark, her face full of rage and tears as she struggles against Stark guards. “You bloody traitor! You killed FATHER YOU-” her voice is cut off as the guards begin to scold her, but- No, I shouldn’t have looked back, he gulps. There are no sympathetic eyes for him.

“We are all impacted by this tragedy,” says the queen, flicking tears off her reddened eyes. “But we must not let it impede justice. Janos Slynt, please continue.”

The man clears his throat before speaking. “I was there with Grand Maester Pycelle for he feared wounds on the King, but for now I will relate to you what happened to these two valiant men. Ser Balon was likely the first to die for he was the victim of a cowardly attack.” Snapping his fingers, a servant comes forth with something wrapped in cloth. Janos unwraps it to reveal a familiar-looking dagger, dried blood coating its blade. “Recognise this, Ser?”

“That… That’s my dagger but I did not-”

“You hear that, Lord and Ladies!? He admits that this is his own BLOODY DAGGER!” he smirks before twirling it in his hands. Shouts erupt from the pulpits, some clamouring for the honour of Ser Balon while others for Barristan’s head. “You drew this blade on your fellow Brother, knave,” Janos points at the knight. “A stab to the side to undo the good Ser, for he was distracted perhaps by that Valyrian harlot of-”

“ENOUGH!” Barristan jolts forward and Janos jumps back, dropping the dagger before falling on his quivering behind. Ser Meryn knocks the knight to a kneel, jabbing into his calf with a sword scabbard. “I did not kill Balon Swann and I did not kill Lord Stark! That blood is a forgery, taken from some-”

A punch to the jaw sends his vision swimming, the colourful orbs glowing brighter than before. “Do not harm the witness!” Ser Meryn shouts into his ear before pulling him to a stand. His clearing eyes see the Queen trying hard to hide her smile.

“S-See his anger!?” Janos scrambles onto his feet and grabs the dagger as sweat drips from his thin hair. “An innocent man would not have attacked me! No, that man is a knave and a craven through and through!”

“Any attempts to harm the judges or witnesses will be dealt swiftly,” the Queen glares down at him. “Is that clear, Barristan Selmy?”

I never laid a finger on the man, is what he wants to say, but he hangs his head low. After everything that has happened, Barristan is tired. “…Yes, your grace.”

She seems satisfied with that. “Thank you for the account, Janos Slynt. The evidence has certainly painted a grim picture. Ser Barristan Selmy, do you still plead innocent to these crimes?”

…More forgeries, he thinks. If I go forth with this, House Selmy will bear the burden; there’s no justice to be found here. And I doubt they’ll let me take the black without my hands and tongue cut. But if I plead guilty… He sneaks a glance at the healer, her expression full of disappointment. This march to their doom seems nothing more than a mere annoyance to her. With patience… Gritting his teeth, Barristan stands straight and lock eyes with the Queen. “I plead innocent, your grace. Their murderers are not us.”

She cocks her brow. “Do you truly wish to move forward with this trial, Barristan Selmy?”

For a moment it seems as if the Queen is giving him an opportunity, but he throws such notions away. She wants to be rid of them quickly, the witnesses to her treasons. But the old knight is stubborn; he’s not one to cower before an enemy, especially with so many eyes on him. “Yes. The Father’s justice will see us innocent.”

Whatever it takes.

Throne Room

I should have suspected his stubbornness, Cersei sneers as she sips her wine. You have that in common with Robert. But no worries, dear Selmy, I’ll have you two meeting soon.

In truth, everything would have finished much quicker if the man had pleaded guilty to the accusations. She might be kind enough to spare him by sending Barristan to the Wall, with his tongue cut of course. But of course, he intends to ruin my day… Well, it has been a while since Ser Ilyn wet his blade, she smirks. But truly, another reason for her urgency is due to her newfound fears of the ‘Messengers’. Monsters, she calls them, but dares not do it directly. No, they’re a burgeoning problem that needs to be swiftly taken care of. Perhaps the Spider knows something of their origins… Or know the location of their bedchambers.

She sighs deeply, swishing her wine as her body sinks into the cushions. Littlefinger’s scheme to besmirch the old knight’s name and honour have failed. Sure, the words were excellent, but the petty Lord gave the responsibility to Janos Slynt and not the Captain of the Lannister Guards, Vylarr. She bribed the ugly man a generous amount of gold dragons for a very sub-par performance; a mummer with paints would be a better candidate. Baelish may have good ideas now and then, but a mockingbird possesses no cunning. Of course, she can only thank then her lapdog whose loyalty and skills are unquestionable. “Grand Maester Pycelle, please inform us of your findings.”

“Y-Yes, your grace.” The old man shuffles his feet onto the stage, his chains reflecting the dazzling colours of the orbs overhead. His young serving girl follows him with a tray with pieces of ‘evidence’ at hand, nervous under all this scrutiny. That girl… Cersei smirks. She’d been informed by the Spider regarding the maester’s infidelities but has yet to make mention of it. Just in case.

As Pycelle begins his lengthy preamble, she wonders what role the eunuch has in all of this. She has yet to put trust in the former man for he claimed to serve the Realm; she scoffs at such a notion. “No one serves the Realm. Only fools and dreamers do,” was what she said to him once. She wonders now who the broods in the Spider’s nest: the wolves? The stags? Perhaps he made a nest in a bed of-

“A-And so,” the maester’s words interrupts her thoughts, “I must present you all this, the stitching thread of our good King Robert Baratheon.” He takes a set of brown strings from the tray and raises it for everyone to see. For all Cersei knows it may as well be strands off a beggar’s robe. “Sers and Lords present m-may be familiar with such a material, perhaps applied to one’s gashes after a fierce battle… Or at a tourney’s mishaps. When one cuts these strings too early, t-they may risk the man to become… Undone. Suffice to say, this is what I found at the King’s bedchamber, cut and discarded on the bloody floor.” Cersei sees a few men nod along to Pycelle’s ramblings as if understanding any words he just said.

“Now, it is no secret that a b-boar has gored our King’s stomach, but I dissuade you all of those foul rumours regarding his demise. After all,” he raises a finger, “he was recovering steadily until this incident brought-”

Cersei coughs for the wine nearly goes down her windpipe. Stifling her hiccup with a handkerchief, all look at her with concerned faces. “I’m… I’m fine,” she says with a slight hitch in her voice. “It’s just… Such foul affairs to threaten my husband…” As the nobles voice their sympathies, the Queen tries her damnedest to not burst out laughing. After all, it was by Pycelle’s ministrations that the oaf’s health slowly festers like the rotten meat he is. Calming herself down, she takes a deep breath before regaining the position of Queen seeking justice for her sick King. Celebrations can be done later.

“O-Of course your grace. Such tragedy is, well…” The maester tugs away at an invisible knot in his beard before turning back to the accused. “N-Now, there is no doubt at Ser Barristan Selmy’s involvement in the deaths of S-Ser Balon Swann and Lord Eddard Stark. However, this does not absolve Lady Erin of her crimes for she committed a foul act against-”

“Eirin,” the wench cuts him. “My name is Eirin.”

Gods, no one cares about your name, Cersei scowls. She ignores the soft giggling coming from her right. Another trouble for another day, she tells herself.

“Ah, my sincere apologies, Lady Eirin,” Pycelle bows his head. “I-It was not my intention to stain such a beautiful, exotic name. May I ask, where does one acquire it?”

“Japan,” says the woman, taking a few seconds before adding: “Lunar Kingdom.”

“Lunar… Ah, I see, I see,” the man strokes his beard. In her half-drunk mind, Cersei sees a white cat in place of the maester’s flowing whiskers. “Tell me then, w-which cardinal direction may I find this ‘Japan’?”

“In the Far East, at the edge of the ocean.”

“Ocean you say…”

“Pycelle, may I ask-”

A single finger silences the disgraced Kingsguard. With sharp eyes, the maester studies her up and down, lingering on certain parts just like Robert. Just the thought of his name makes her want to vomit. “Interesting…”

“Well?” asks her son Joffrey, fingers and heels tapping the Iron Throne. “What do you accuse her of?”

“Well, many things, your grace,” Pycelle’s whiskers form a tight smile as he slowly straightens his back. “For one, I fear you’re not telling me the truth, Lady Eirin. That is certainly the case, yes.”

The woman cocks her brow. “I speak no lies.”

“And that is another lie,” he chuckles. “Words of wisdom from your elder, young lady: never lie to someone wiser than you, more learned than you, more experienced than you,” he warns with such sharpness the man looks a decade younger. “Here is why I know you lie, Lady Eirin. You say the name of ‘Japan’, of a ‘Lunar Kingdom’ in the Far East. Well,” he swells with pride, “as Grand Maester in service of the Realm, I know maps as a raven knows flying. I can recite to you the necropolises of Yi-Ti, the royal families of the Summer Islands, and many more if one wills it. Yet from the valleys of the Shadowlands to the well-trodden stones of the Free Cities, I never once heard a mention of ‘Japan’ nor ‘Lunar Kingdom’. Where do they lie in relation to the Bones, Lady Eirin? East? South? North? Beneath its sunless seas?”

“Maybe your maps are inadequate,” she retorts. “I’ve seen the ports; your ships are pathetic, unfit to sail the open oceans let alone travel to my once home.”

“They can’t even fly,” Cersei hears their snickering.

“Maybe,” the maester nods, his chains clattering as one. “Maybe the maps are inadequate. Maybe, yes. Maybe you did come from beyond the Grey Wastes, from beyond the jungles of Ulthos and the unknown seas. Maybe you did hail from this unknown seashore where East becomes West and where the sun rises from the Sunset Sea. However,” he waves his hand, “that is all pure conjecture. No, there are far simpler explanations for this. Ahem, Tana,” he turns to his serving girl, back hunched again. “C-Care to describe me the Lady’s appearance?”

“Yes, Grand Maester. Um…” It takes her a second to form her words. “She’s tall, yes, taller than the knave. She has silver-”

“Platinum,” Pycelle corrects her.

“Y-Yes, platinum hair. Grey eyes and a… A beautiful face…”

“No need for the flattery,” he shakes his head before dismissing her.

“Why curious of my appearance?” the woman asks.

“Well, as w-we all know, people of different lands carry with them different bodies and looks. You claim to be from the Furthest East yet I see no trace of the stout Ibbeneese from you. Nor can I see the d-dark skins of the Dothrakii and the Hyrkoon Patrimony. No, your appearance is quite reminiscent of a more… Familiar people.”

Finally, Cersei stifles her need for a groan before sitting up. “What do you make of this, Grand Maester?” Of course, she already decided on the answer.

The old man tuts before retreating from the wench. “I f-fear the eunuch is right, your grace. His warnings, we should have followed them…”

“What is it!?” Joffrey shouts, leaning out of the throne.

“The platinum hair, the face, the eyes… Y-Your grace, this is no mere incident. T-This woman is a Targaryen assassin sent from across the Narrow Sea to kill the King!” he declares to the horror of everyone present. Though Pycelle suggested the idea, it was her who decided to blame the Targaryens. After all, what are they going to do against these accusations? Swim their horses across the Narrow Sea? Who’s here to defend their-

“What’s a Targaryen?”

…

“Pardon?”

“What’s a Targaryen?” the blonde girl repeats her question, much to everyone’s silent bewilderment. Cersei blinks once, twice, three times to make sure she just heard that correctly. In the silence, she can hear the howling winds outside the Red Keep.

“Dunno, but it sounds cool though!” the blue once cackles.

“I know~! It sounds sharp, just like my teeth.”

…

Were they dragged out from under some mud!? No, even the dimmest stableboy would know of the dragons… The Fat One rushes over, his jowls jiggling as he breathlessly reaches their sides and whispers something into their ears. Where have I seen this- Ah! She remembers now, back when Myrcella was but a toddler swaddled in smallclothes. The innocence, the fact they know nothing of this world and laws… When they say the Maiden is the embodiment of purity and innocence, does that mean not knowing the sufferings of the world? No, but then why would that brat… All this thinking hazes her mind; she takes another sip of wine and asks her servant to refill it.

…

“Oh, so it’s like that?”

“Yes, your Holiness.”

“So they’re the previous-”

“Yes.”

“And the ones across the-”

“Yes.”

“And this one is-”

“Correct, your Holiness.”

The blue one nods her head. “Alright, I get it. Leave us for now,” she waves him away before smirking. “Heh, at least that grub can be useful at times.”

“Hey, don’t be mean to Mister Fatty,” the blonde girl pouts. “He can be fun to chase around!”

“Heheh, yeah, there’s that too. Ah, right!” The girl grabs their attention by clapping her gauntlets, their sounds no different to thunder. “We’ve received the needed information regarding the Targaryens; very interesting history for a bunch of bugs. Carry on with the trial if you will.”

“Is she cool for being an assassin?”

“Oh, very cool…” The two continue talking in low tones without a care in the world.

…

Cersei looks at the maester; the old man returns to his position, righting his beard. “Ah, f-for that reason you tried to assassinate the King. Remove his medicine and alter his health... Despicable.”

“How many times do I have to repeat myself that I’m not- Geh! You two!” the wench shouts at the Messengers. “I need your help!”

Ser Meryn approaches with a sword at the ready. “No shouting at the-”

“Tell this man I’m not a spy,” she continues, ignoring the Kingsguard’s command. “Tell them I’m a doctor!”

“It’s cool that you’re a spy,” the blonde girl answers with a giggle. “You should continue being one, Miss Eirin!”

The woman clicks her tongue before giving up. Much to Cersei’s relief, the two doesn’t declare the woman innocent; that would have ruined everything. “A Targaryen assassin?” she asks the maester a prepared question, feigning a fearful expression. “What is her connection then with Ser Barristan Selmy?”

Pycelle tilts his head. “W-Well, your grace, Lord Varys’ insight might be able to answer that question.”

“That is certainly true, Grand Maester,” the eunuch bows his head. “This one is an interesting matter, I must confess. During small council meetings, should anyone mention plans to be rid of Daenerys or Viserys Targaryen Ser Barristan Selmy would readily voice his disapproval. Seems like he’s not ready to rid the world of the last dragonlords,” he concludes. Cersei grins at seeing the growing anger in the nobles. None of them will defend these two.

Barristan is wide-eyed at the account. “T-That is-”

“Untrue, Ser?” Littlefinger smirks. “You know, I was present as well when King Robert suggested the idea. Your counsel went well against the King’s will, and oftentimes made him so mad he’d storm off without getting anything done in the small council! If you meant to delay your beloved Targaryen’s deaths, well,” he shrugs, “it’s effective, I shall not lie.”

“Effective... And despicable,” Pycelle quivers, the bejewelled chain links rattling against his chest. “They’re the children of Aerys, the M-Mad King. His blood runs through their veins, Sers and Lords. We will not know w-when the madness emerges forth, like a dragon that burns babes and their mothers. The Targaryen words, ‘Fire and Blood’, are ill omens. A-A warning to us all.”

“Even Lord Stark refused the King’s plans to kill Daenerys Targaryen,” the old knight spits, leaving a red mark on the floor. “All were witness to those words for he and I share similar ideas about killing a helpless child. And as per the King’s last words, Robert planned to stop sending threats to dispatch of the girl...”

Doesn’t matter, she smiles to herself. She was given the King’s last will by Vylarr, still sealed by the stamp of the Lord Hand. Of course, she reads its content before throwing it into her brazier. The conspiracy of my children’s parentage... Gone like the ashes! Ah, nothing can get better than this.

But she stand corrected.

As she’s about to give a final verdict, a cup hits Barristan’s head. “Dragonspawn!” someone shouts. Though the first assailant is unknown, the next one wears the colours of House Harte. He throws his cup at the wench, shouting “Death to the Targaryens!” Soon, more objects fly through the air and the sounds of thunder meld into the shouts.

“Death to the Mad King!”

“Death to dragonspawn!”

The nobles’ anger grows into such a clamour that Ser Boros Blount readies himself to stop them, but Cersei raises her hand. “Let them be,” she grins. “It’s what’s needed to be done.”

“…Aye, your grace.”

Cersei watches the chaos with wine in her hands. All manners of cups, plates, brooches, and even a few shoes cross the pulpits to meet the supposed accuser. Some of the nobles are cheering others on, no doubt this atmosphere is bringing out all the joy from within them. And many throw the objects with such ferocity that Ser Meryn has to close his visors and retreat with the Grand Maester. A few wine droplets hit her neck as a golden cup hits the knight square on the head. “Serves you right, TRAITORS!” her lovely son cackles from atop the Iron Throne. Does it matter if the two accused whisper to each other in the chaos? No, of course not!

Redness seeps through the knight’s white hair. Should I stop this? she wonders.

“Death to Viserys!”

“Death to Daenerys!”

“Death to the whore!”

No, I should wait a little more. After all, the Messengers are also pleased with this, she thinks after seeing the two girls cheer on the violent nobles. For the embodiment of innocence, they enjoy conflict and violence far too much.

As the barrage slows to a trickle, Cersei motions for the Gold and red cloaks to step in. Valuables are picked up, shoes are put to the side, and nobles are heavily reprimanded in their conduct. She looks down at the two, so tiny from atop her wooden throne. The wench has a cut on her forehead while the knight’s hair is slowly turning red. The Queen smiles at her work. “We will give our final verdict once my guards return. Do you have any last statements?”

“I’m innocent,” the woman repeats, though much more interesting is the old Knight’s face. His looks turn and swim, looking here and there before... Relaxing. Accepting his fate? This will make it much easier. Shame you didn’t do it much earlier, Ser Barristan, else you would have survived.

The knight steps forward, standing at the centre of the throne room. Taking a deep breath, he gives the proclamation: “We demand a trial by combat.”

Chapter Text

Winterfell

I shouldn’t be here, Bran sours as he’s looking out from his window onto the wide expanse of the North. I should be with father and Arya and Sansa in King’s Landing, admiring Balerion’s skull and eating all kinds of Southron food, see the tourney they talked about. But that’s a fleeting dream; he can’t even walk.

And now there’s only two Stark’s left in the whole North if what he heard about Uncle Benjen is true. Only him and Rickon ever since Robb left on a mission to rescue their mother. “I should be with him,” he complains to the halfwit Hodor. “I could squire someone and become a knight, the wolfknight they’ll call me! If I could walk, would I make a fine warrior, Hodor?”

“Hodor hodor.”

“Why can’t you say more words,” he sighs.

Being the oldest Stark in Winterfell, Bran now carries the great responsibility of being its Lord. He saw how it changed Robb from a kind and playful brother to be almost cold at times. Will I turn like that? he wonders, making drawings on the glass pane. He may now be a Lord but the boy still yearns for his mother’s embrace, his half-brother’s playful japes, his sisters’ constant tricks and complaints… He even misses Theon, the annoying one who felt like an older brother to him. The one who abandoned him for the Greyjoys at the Iron Islands. “Hodor, me and Theon are family, right?”

“Hodor.”

“And Jon is family?”

“Hodor.”

…

He’d rather not idle much longer in his room lest he falls asleep, and by the Old Gods he needs to stay awake. He saw too much in his dreams, too much. “Hodor, bring me to Meera’s and Jojen’s room. Maybe they know some games you can play as well.”

Walking through the quiet afternoon halls, he hears some loud talking coming from his father’s solar. Signalling Hodor to stop and for Summer to stay quiet, Bran listens in on their conversation.

“…the boy would be fine?” asks the gruff voice of Ser Rodrik. “We’ll be having the harvest festival in one more month. The Lords and Ladies who stayed behind will want to see the Stark leading them, but the boy…”

“Is troublesome, I know,” replies Maester Luwin’s calm voice. He can hear some clinking of cups. “But we must have patience. Even Lord Eddard wasn’t born knowing the intricacies of Northern politics, especially being a second son. He may be somewhat slow on the lessons, but he will grow into the direwolf cloak.”

“But how much longer, Luwin? The boy still cries in his sleep and is now too scared of his nightmares to do much of anything! Admit it, the boy’s weak.” Weak. That statement causes much pain in Bran’s heart, but he listens on with wet eyes. “Gods forbid, Luwin, what if Robb…”

“Now what did I say about voicing ill thoughts?” the maester cautions. “He’ll be fine, Rodrik. The young Lord is quick on his feet and has many brave men by his side.”

“And women in mail,” the master-at-arms scoffs.

“If there’s someone to blame it’s the Lannisters, not Robb’s bannermen. Were it not for their actions, Lady Catelyn would be home safe and sound and Robb would have no need to march South. But trust my judgement, Rodrik. Bran is smart, he’ll adapt.”

“Gods, I hope you’re right, Luwin.”

I hope you ’re right as well.

With a gloomy heart, they knock and enter Meera’s room. “You’re here early,” says the older girl with a smile, one that brings much-needed warmth to his cheeks; he still refuses the Greyjoy’s notion that it’s love. Her brother Jojen is busy helping to mend the net they used for the previous hunt with Theon, broken through by some particularly vicious rabbits. Bran is plopped down on her bed with a sigh. “Did the maester’s lessons bore you?”

“I don’t have any lessons today,” he replies. It seems that each new topic the maester introduces is harder and more confusing than the last. And at times, Bran’s eyes would simply glaze over what was shown and said. Not good for a Stark, he chides himself. I need to focus like Robb. “Do you really not have maesters in Greywater Watch?”

“Why need it?” answers Jojen, pushing away Summer from trying to bite the net’s rope.

“We’re crannogmen, Bran. My father knows the Neck better than any Southron maester,” Meera laughs as she ties up the loose strings on her net. “We also don’t have ravens. Why use it when Greywater moves? Did Lord Stark not tell you about our customs?”

“No, he did. He explained many things to me, like how Lord Howland Reed helped him at the Tower of Joy. It’s just… I’m supposed to be with him in King’s Landing, learning how to become a knight or be a better Stark. But now,” Bran grimaces, patting his numb legs. “And Robb is gone too, on a mission to get mother back from the Kingslayer.” He knows that his father once told him not to trust the Lannisters, yet he’s still in disbelief that the gallant Kingsguard Ser Jaime would do such a thing! Why kidnap mother!?

“So what will you become?” asks Jojen. “A wolf with broken legs can’t be a knight.”

“Jojen!” Meera smacks her brother’s back.

“I know I can’t become one,” Bran agrees with the Reed boy, sparing him much of his sister’s scolding. “Maester Luwin said I could become a maester like him, but that would mean travelling to Oldtown. I’ve never even been South like my sisters, so how would I do that?” And a part of him knows that they can’t offer him anything on magic, proclaiming his greatest interest as nothing more than fairy tales and child’s play. Magic is real! Lady Momiji can fly so why can’t I?

Summer licks the boy’s hand, easing his worries. Jojen, a fellow dreamer like him, confides that: “Your dreams can make you more, Bran. Use it!”

But the Stark boy shakes his head. Just remembering those nightmares gives him an unbearable chill, colder than any night in the North. He still remembers the demon’s words, their sharp laughter, the smug remarks. “The demon,” he gulps, “the demon said everything I know is a dream. And that when the dreamers wake up, mom and dad and Robb and Jon and Sansa won’t be there. I won’t be there. We’ll just be… A dusty pile of books and a shining box of lights,” he whimpers. “Is-Is that the future, Jojen? You said dreams can see the future!” He shakes the Reed boy who keeps a calm face. “What… What did it mean by that?”

Taking Vran’s arms off, Jojen pinch his chin in thought before asking: “You said there was a crow, right? A three-eyed one?” Bran nods, remembering how disappointed the bird had been when he made the decision to open that accursed demon’s book. “I saw something similar when I was younger.”

“Really?”

“It was one of those nothing dreams of trees and leaves and bogs. I saw it perched atop the tallest tree in the world and it looked at me with such sharp eyes that I thought it would kill me. But then it uttered ‘not you’ before flying away. I never saw it again,” the boy concludes. “But you did. You saw it multiple times in your dreams, Bran. It spoke to you. If it’s the same one, then it wants you for… Something.”

“You did say the crow warned you not to talk with the demon,” says Meera, sitting beside the blushing Stark. “And maybe the crow’s right. Have you ever heard stories of demons telling the truth, Jojen?”

“Only lies for blood and names.”

“You both sound like Theon,” Bran laughs. “Yeah… Maybe I should try to find him again. He flew away once I opened the demon’s book, so maybe I could ask for forgiveness…”

“If it sought you out then I doubt it would abandon you that quickly. Perhaps it’s hiding in your dreams, watching from afar to make sure you don’t do any more mistakes,” Jojen assures, “but I still wonder why you specifically. Other than the crow and demon, do you have any different dreams?”

Bran looks around Meera’s room, trying hard to remember anything other than the nightmares… Then he locks eyes with the direwolf. “I once dreamt I was Summer.”

Jojen and Meera look surprised by his answer. “And what did you do as Summer?”

“I… I don’t remember,” he shakes his head. It was like a normal dream to him, so vivid yet nothing more than mist in the morning. The direwolf looks confused at the mention of his name. “Is it important?”

“Maybe…”

“I think it’s better to clear our heads before coming to a decision,” says Meera, righting her clothes before standing up. “We’ve not gone to the Godswood today. Want to come with us? You’re the Lord of Winterfell, after all.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

Summer is the first to enter the Godswood, running around the autumn leaves and trying to catch resting birds and squirrels. The air is fresh here with the slight hint of age coming from thousands of years of packed earth and leaves. Though they’ve been here before, Reed children are in awe at this place’s size.

Various trees grow in the Godswood, but none as large and old as the weirwood heart tree sitting in the centre, surrounded by pools of hot water that tastes faintly bitter. The Crown Prince once said the tree’s sap-filled face scares him and Bran can’t help but agree; not many would be comforted by its twisted expressions. And yet at its base is where Bran learned about the Old Gods with his father, watching him work on the Valyrian steel sword Ice. Hodor places him in the little nook of roots, his father’s usual seat. After some prayers, Meera traces her hand on the tree’s red sap. “Some say the Children see through weirwood eyes,” she muses, “and speak through crows and ravens. But I don’t know if they’re still here.”

“Osha said some are, Beyond-the-Wall,” Bran replies, remembering the many wild tales the wildling woman spoke of. “And if Robb confirmed that there are the…” A cold wind brushes his neck; he dares not to say the word.

“Then maybe the Children are real, hiding beneath the snow or some unknown crannog,” Jojen finishes, sitting beside him and skipping a pebble across the spring’s surface. Though the boy is only four years older than Bran, at times he would look wiser than even Maester Luwin. “I think that’s the case with your dreams, Bran. The crows, the warnings, even the one about your direwolf… I think you’re a greenseer.”

“A… A green what?”

“Greenseer,” Meera repeats. “They’re dreamers like Jojen but far more powerful. Some say they could enter animal skin better than any warg, see the future clearer than any sages… At least, those were the tales,” she shrugs. “They’re as present as giants and the Children.”

“But you might be one, Bran. Ancient Kings of the North could warg to direwolves, and added by your prophetic dreams… Remember this,” the Reed boy looks directly at him, his green eyes gleaming like a summer forest, “speak to the three-eyed crow. If it refuses, chase it down. You may be broken here but you’re a direwolf in your dreams. Catch it. Nip its tail if you need to! They have the answers, Bran. I can only give you so much.”

“Becoming a greenseer…” Looking up through the heart tree’s canopy, he sees the faint outline of the red comet. Taking a few deep breaths, all his worries seem to melt away. He has a goal now, something he can be. I can’t carry swords like Robb or be studious like Maester Luwin… But I can dream! I can see the future! I can be Lord Greenseer! Wait- “Can greenseers fly?”

“In the bodies of eagles and crows, yes,” the Reed boy answers.

So that means I can fly alongside Lady Momiji and not get hurt! That’s when a bright idea pops into his head. “Hodor, put me up on the branches!” And ever so compliant, he follows the order much to the bewilderment of the Reeds.

“Bran,” Meera looks at him oddly, “what are you doing? Wait, be careful!” she exclaims as the Stark boy pulls himself up even higher on the branches. “Why are you climbing up!?”

“Maybe if I sleep on a weirwood I’ll have the crow dream again,” he says excitedly. After all, that’s where crows roost, right? And isn’t the Children linked with weirwoods.

“I don’t think it works that way,” says Jojen, sharing a concerned look with his sister. “You can still have dreams on the ground. Or maybe on the tree’s roots? It’s safer!”

“…Oh.”

“M’lord, what are you doing?” asks the wildling woman Osha, here for her usual late afternoon bath in the hot spring. “Aren’t you… Not allowed to climb things?”

“I’m trying to see the future,” Bran replies, “but I think I did it wrong.”

“…D’you need help to get down, M’lord?”

“…Please don’t tell the guards.”

“I think they already saw you. I’ll get you down myself,” the wildling groans before preparing herself to climb the tree.

As he waits for his rescuer’s arrival, Bran can’t help but feel anxious to dream again. Will he scream awake like before? Or will the crow fly away, never to meet again? He shoves those thoughts away; after all, it’ll do no good to wonder before he even tries. I’ll surprise you in King’s Landing, father, he smiles, watching sparrows fly from Winterfell’s towers. I can promise myself that!

Flea Bottom

Davos never really met Lord Stark before; only the occasional glances and nods of heads in the early days after the Rebellion. The man’s solid sense in honour and justice was even more renowned than that of Lord Stannis, and perhaps rightfully so. Would he have supped with my likes if we were in the same hall? he wonders, looking down at Eddard’s pale face wreathed in fragrant wilting flowers. Would a man like that spare my life after decades of smuggling?

“Gods, the Stranger took him too early,” his son Dale tuts, placing a lit candle among the many that have burned through the night. Members of the Stark household guards are here as well, offering prayers and tears for their dead Lord. Silent sisters are always near the body, their veiled faces offering no hint of emotion as they replace the old flowers. “I always thought of him to be older, yet he was five years younger than you, father.”

“A saying goes ’a man ages five years with each family death.’ There’s a reason why the Starks were involved with the Rebellion, Dale. The Lord’s sister, brother, father,” Davos shakes his head. “I do not know of more Starks, other than his children and Tully wife.”

“Do you think it was him that did it? The old Kingsguard?” asks his son.

He knits his brows at the question for he never considered the gallant knight who once played with the little Lady Shireen for someone who would kill Lord Stark, let alone his fellow Brother and the King. Even with his demand for a trial by combat, many of the commonfolk still hold him in high regard. Which means someone else had a hand in their deaths. Lord Stannis once voiced to me his suspicions about King Robert’s children, but the exact manner of it… Davos clutches his pouch of bones and gives a silent prayer.

“Father, do you think it was-”

“Hush. Not here,” he glances about the gathering crowd. “There are rats in these walls. Come, let’s take the Ladies for the lights.”

They meet Lady Mokou and Shireen in front of the altar for the Maiden, though the way candles shine upon the statue’s face reminds him much more of the burning of the Seven at Dragonstone. Unlike her father and mother who converted for R’hllor, the little girl is dutiful in praying to the Seven. The same can’t be said for Lady Mokou who stands awkwardly at the side, fiddling with her hands and not making eye contact. Like how I was when I first sailed to the Free Cities. Strange Gods, strange lands, strange people. “Finished with the prayers, Ashley?”

“Mhm,” the girl stands up before timidly grabbing Lady Mokou’s hand.

She’s getting better, Davos smiles, and Lady Mokou can talk easy as well. “I hear the lights are starting soon. Wouldn’t want to be late for that, do we?”

The four exit the main Sept, though Davos’ bad leg slows them down. He’s not used to this newly bought cane nor does he like the cost. “But it’s better for your leg,” says Dale. “Less weight on it.”

“I’ll trust you, son,” he sighs. Descending to the great marble plaza, the shimmering holy lights grace the sky in all their colourful glory. People kneel to pray all around them, but Dale decides to lift Shireen to his shoulder for a better view. As a green beam brighter than wildfire cuts right above the crowd, Davos can only mutter “Sevens grace us.” Lady Mokou is nonplussed by this. “Seen a lot of these back where you came from?” he jests but is surprised at her nodding. “Truly?”

She lists each one as “fire magic, elemental magic, fire magic… Divine magic that blue one, I think,” she remarks. “They’re a common sight back in Gensokyo. Can be annoying at times.”

“A land full of magic and gods…”

“You’re not wrong about that, Dale,” Lady Mokou chuckles before pointing up. “Look, some poor flock doesn’t know what they’re flying into.” Barely visible in the evening sky is a group of birds, geese most likely. About a dozen are burned in a flash as the lights cross over the birds. “We use these spells for duels and battles, though mostly non-fatal as we wanted it to be beautiful rather than destructive. But these,” she clicks her tongue, “I know I’ve seen them before, I just don’t remember who it was…”

“So the Healer of Flea Bottom, the Messengers of the Seven, and the Saviour of R’hllor went into a bar,” Dale jests, spinning round-and-round to the little girl’s laughter. “Such a question for maester to ponder at.”

“Perhaps the Gods saw it fit for divine intervention, whatever that means,” Davos muses. If so, how does Lady Mokou and the Healer fit atop all of this? Is she the Warrior’s Maiden then with her fiery might? And the Healer is of the Crone for her knowledge and wisdom?

“Don’t you remember it was the Red God who summoned her?” his son retorts. “Maybe up in the North the Old Gods summoned someone else to be their champion. Hells, they might be preparing for war.”

…

Davos doesn’t like that ill talk. He had seen his fair share of human battles, one fought with wood and steel and flesh. None are ever as glorious nor gallant as the bards sing, and the smell after the battle lingers for many years in his nose. He knows of fairy tales and the Others, even tales of the Storm King Durran Godsgrief and Azor Ahai from Melisandre’s many prayers. All those have at most two gods, but for all of them to descend and wreak havoc upon the world… A knot turns in his stomach, tainting the once wondrous lights.

Without warning comes the odd ringing of bells and shouts from their right. “Demons!” they say, “the Great Sept has been corrupted by demons! By those of the Red God, the Others, the Stranger!” Most of the commonfolk grumble at their preaching but many others are drawn to it, curious. “The Warrior shall slay the demons, the Smith will fix the Realm.”

“Red God. Heh, they’re calling for you,” Dale chuckles, earning a jab from Lady Mokou. “No need to be violent about it.”

“Isn’t the Stranger an aspect of the Seven?” asks Lady Shireen from her perch. “Why is that septon saying it’s bad?”

“No one likes death, Ashley. Even The Song of the Seven does not mention Him.”

“But some people yearn it,” Lady Mokou adds with a melancholic look. “Like it or not, it’s a part of natural life. Without it…”

Ignoring the Lady’s words, Shireen continues peering through the crowd. “Hmm… Ah, I see Gold Cloaks!”

Shit. “Let’s go, Dale. We can’t be dealing with them right now,” Davos commands before cutting his way out of the crowd, past Baelor’s statue, and down Visenya’s Hill. Right on time too as a stream of Gold Cloaks close in on the crowd, dispersing the prayers before trying to detain the shouters. With Shireen back on her feet and hood over her head, the four walk down the Street of the Sisters. “Well, that was certainly interesting,” says Lady Mokou.

“You get a few of those lackwits now and then,” Dale laughs. “Father, remember that time when I was-”

“Pardon, good man,” a stranger taps Davos’ shoulder. He stops in his track, quickly deciding whether to talk or turn and whack them with his cane…

He decides on the former. “Why disturb us?” he asks but is taken aback upon seeing the teary-eyed small girl the stranger is gripping. In his other hand- “Is that my coin purse?”

“Aye, this is,” the older man hakes it, creating a loud jingle. “Was watching the lights, I did, and saw this bloody urchin,” he squeezes the girl’s wrist and make her cry out, “snitch up your purse and ran away. But caught her, aye, caught her I did.”

“S-Ser, I did not,” the kid whimpers. She looks even younger than Shireen. “I was just-”

“Silent girl!” the man smacks her with the coins. “The Gold Cloaks will have a-”

“I think that’s enough,” Davos cuts in, chafed by the man’s roughness. “Coins,” he says and the man tosses it over, looking at him with some curiosity. “And let the girl go,” he adds before taking out a few groats and giving them to her. “For your troubles, kid. Run along now.”

“T-Thank you, sir!” she beams before scampering away into some alley.

The man scratches his head, a confused smile on his face. “Heh, not good to give an urchin those-”

“Are you done, good man? My family would like to go home for the night.”

“Oh, apologies! Never meant to hold you up. Well, let the Seven bless your day,” he laughs before parting. Davos watches him walk away to the night and into a nearby brothel, his steps a bit too quick for a man with nothing to hide.

…

“That girl didn’t look like an urchin,” Dale whispers, “because someone like her would have bitten than man’s arm off. I know I would.”

“And any purloiners would know to cut the purse rather than steal it,” Davos adds. “I don’t like that man either. Looked too long at my hands… He must have noticed us from your little carry back at the Sept.”

“You mean someone’s onto us? Shit!” Lady Mokou curses.

“What’s going on?” Shireen asks, looking a bit worried.

Davos gives his son the coin pouch. “Go to the inn and give the innkeep a payment for the night. Try to pack our supplies. I’ll meet you there.” With a nod, Dale runs off. “Lady Mokou, is anyone watching us?”

She looks around and shakes her head. “They’re either not here or skilled in their tracking. Hopefully not the latter.”

“And so it’ll surely be,” Davos clicks his tongue before picking up his pace as the three continue down the Street of the Sisters and into Flea Bottom. With the evening light, it’s hard for him to spot anyone that might be following them. With my leg, it’ll take me us a bit to exit through the Iron Gate and towards my hidden skiff, he thinks as his cane dig into some mud. And that’s if the Gold Cloaks don’t recognise us.

“Where are we heading after this?”

“Home.” And that means sailing across Blackwater Bay, circle around Massey’s Hook, and into the Stormlands towards Cape Wrath. That doesn’t account for the possible storms they may meet along the way, especially after the one a few days ago. Unfortunately, his fears are justified for he can smell a hint of rain beneath King’s Landing’s sweltering haze. “We must be quick, or else our journey will be rough.”

Luckily for them, they encounter no problem walking to the inn. The tavern is filled with the usual unique characters and Davos sees a familiar foul-mouthed sellsword in the corner, talking to his buddies. “Saw your sonny running. In a bit of a rush?” he cackles as another sellsword laughs while dusting off his large hat.

At least they’re not heckling us. “Innkeep, my son gave you the coins?”

“Aye,” he flicks into the air a few coins before stuffing it down his breeches. “Bit sudden, ain’t it?” he chuckles. “But na worries, e’ryone got their own things. Upstairs.”

Entering their room, he sees Dale pushing all their clothes into a bag. “No time to be neat,” he smirks before tying it off. Davos latches the door behind him. “Ah, Lady Mokou, catch!” She’s surprised by the sudden dagger in her hands. “Flames AND a blade are useful in tandem. I think. I don’t know how, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Hmm, been long since I fought with a blade,” she says, twirling it in her hand. “Nothing for Shireen?”

“I have my sword,” says Davos, strapping the belt and scabbard to his waist. He’s not much of a knight but it’ll do. “Gods be good, the Gold Cloaks will let us through. If not-”

“I’ll create a distraction.” Lady Mokou snaps her fingers and a spark of flame comes out, causing the little girl to yelp. “I’ll be careful, of course. No need to burn down this city.”

“Go with Lady Mokou, Shireen. You’ll be safer.” And faster. “Dale, once on the skiff set the sail for-”

“Father, I know how to sail. You taught me!” he laughs before putting on the bag. It may look heavy but Dale is a strapping lad; his time on Black Betha grew his muscles. Davos can hear the soft pattering of rain hitting the window, meaning muddy grounds and cold nights. It’s now or never. After making sure nothing is left behind, Dale push open the door and-

*SLASH*

Hand.

All stare in horror at what was Dale’s right hand, now nothing more than a bleeding stump at the wrist. Shocked, the young man stumbles backwards before falling over screaming, clutching his bloody arm.

His son is-

“DALE!” Davos rushes over to his son and tries to pull him away from the door but is immediately stopped by the entry of armed men. One of them holds a bloody sword while another bears the grinning face of the sellsword from before; Davos backs away, unsheathing his short sword. Some of them look too well-dressed to be mere hires.

“Heh, some ‘farmers’ you lot,” the sellsword jeers before kicking Dale hard in the ribs, earning a pained wheeze. He grabs the cut hand and throws it at Davos’ feet, splattering his boot and cane with his son’s blood. “Keep it, buncha fucking liars.”

“Good evening, Ladies and Sers,” says the last man to enter the room, his swagger paired with a large hat and a smoking pipe. No, Davos has seen him before. Those green eyes, that silver hair, that green cape…! “My name is Aurane Waters, the Bastard of Driftmark. Forgive my men’s rudeness but we do want this to be quick,” a wicked smile plaster his face as he blows smoke at Davos; it smells of sweet herbs and lies. “Under the command of Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone, you are to surrender and hand over the two captive ladies. Do so,” he gives a pitying look at the bleeding Dale, “and you Seaworths will be alive to see his justice. You have my word on that.”

“Words are wind,” Davos seethes, “and yours are nothing but smoke, Aurane. Why would Lord Stannis trust you when he could have sent Lord Monford for his daughter? Or Ser Axell or Ser Hubard Rambton? Why you!?”

The Bastard’s grin grows wider at the questions. “Men, grab them and-”

“DUCK!”

A whirling fire lance nearly hits his head as Davos drops to the floor. Engulfing one of the sellsword, Lady Mokou throws more of them to drive them back. Some hold up their shields while others writhe and burn in the growing blaze. Taking the chance, he crawls to his son and drags him back by the leg. Gods, his legs are warm! My son is alive!

But his cheer is cut short by a sudden sword swing, the metal leaving a burned scratch on his cheek. “What!?” Davos exclaims, jumping back for he sees standing figures within the fire. Though the sellswords lie black and burned on the scorched floor, the shielded men bear no marks on their clothes. The Bastard laughs as he lowers his cape, the only thing singed being his feathers. “How did-”

“Would you look at that, Melisandre was right!” Blowing out the flames with his cape, Davos spots many strange paper inscriptions stitched to the inside. Wait, they were on Lady Mokou’s red clothes. Do they prevent burning? Magic!? He sees even more of them attached to the soldiers’ shields and armour. “Little Lady, come with me,” Aurane beckons with his longsword, but Shireen hugs Lady Mokou tighter. “Please, Shireen. Lord Stannis cried upon learning of your kidnapping.”

“Liar! Father never cry!”

Davos watches his son twitch, his good arm reaching for the belt. A few spots on the wooden walls are still aflame, leaving burned holes as it licks up to the ceiling. “Nay, he did cry, little Lady. I saw him cry when he learned of Lady Se- AAGHH!” the Bastard screams as Dale’s dagger digs deep into his left boot, letting blood seep through them. Righting himself with a bloody smile, the young man goes for his stomach.

But the Bastard is quicker.

With a single thrust, the longsword disappears between Dale’s shoulder and neck before sticking out of his stomach, red and dripping. He tries to grip and attack but with a sickening sword twist… He drops the dagger.

Dale.

His first son. His Eldest. The one who stole his way through Flea Bottom. The one with a wife waiting back on Cape Wrath. Dale.

And now he lies still, stamped by the Bastard’s bleeding boot. “Gods damn it, fucker got me,” he spits on him before stabbing again, earning not even a twitch.

…

Nothing matters anymore. Not his wound, not the mission, not the growing flames. With sorrow in his heart, Davos charges sword in hand for the Bastard’s neck. But the soldiers are trained and blocks his blade; soon two are on him, his weapons nothing more than a wooden cane and a short sword.

Tears mixing with sweat, he swings them left and right to no avail. The only blood he draws is his own as a sword’s broadside bashes him on the jaw. They pin him to the now hot floor and he can see Dale’s pained expression so near to his own. They shout commands to his ears but all he can think of is his son.

Dead.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!”

Breaking eye contact with Dale, Davos can only watch as Lady Mokou struggles against her fireproof assailants. The man who grabbed Shireen’s arm is in turn grabbed by the Lady on the visor, her flames bursting forth from inside his armour. She kicks the Bastard before engulfing them in a fireball, pushing away the fearful men. For a moment he thinks they have a chance to escape, to drive them back and run away.

Then a stray sword swing cuts her skull and- Davos closes his eyes, only hearing the dying flames and Shireen’s wail. Oh Gods, oh Gods…

“Steff,” he hears Aurane’s shout, “what did I tell you about harming her!? She told us to bring her back unharmed!”

“S-Sorry Milord, it was not-”

“Look at her head and tell me which part is intact, Steff. There goes my chance at a Lordship,” Aurane groans to the crying of the little girl. “You know you have to answer to her fires, right? And with the arrival of Lord… Wait, what the-”

“SHIELDS UP SHIELDS UP! Move back, Milord!”

Feeling no hands holding him down, Davos sits up and sees something terrifying. Lady Mokou’s dead body writhe and twitch as tendrils of orange flames wrap around her kraken-like, resealing her wounds and regrowing her long white hair. So scared are the soldiers that they don’t have a hold on Shireen—she runs to Davos and he hugs her tight, both of them backing away from the body.

When the fiery wings sprout from her back, all hell breaks loose. The Lady lunges at the men like a shark, grappling and scorching them with burning intensity. She manages to get her hands around the Bastard’s throat before being chopped off, but the flames grow them back and she continues her relentless attack. Davos tries his best to shield Shireen as her flames burn through the walls and ceiling, letting in the cold Autumn rain. He can even hear shrieking from the floor below. Realising the direness of the situation, the Bastard retreats with only one survivor in tow. “COME BACK HERE YOU FUCKING-”

“Lady Mokou!” Davos shouts, pulling her out from a fiery rage. As the rain cools her skin, the flames around her dissipate to reveal her spotless body and the burned tatters that were Marya’s dress. Standing tall before him, he sees not a Lady but the Saviour of the Dawn. “You… You can heal? You can heal yourself?”

“Yes,” she answers, giving him a bright hope.

“Please, oh Gods, please heal my son, Lady Fujiwara!” he prostrates before her, tears flowing from his face. He knows his son is dead, a burnt mess from the fighting, but Lady Mokou can heal him, right? The Saviour of the Dawn can bring back his son? “Please, I beg of you! I’ll do anything!”

“Please,” Shireen pleads along with him, “I don’t want Dale gone. I don’t want Ser Davos crying!”

“I… I can’t.”

“Please, oh Gods, he was…”

“Davos, I’m sorry but I can’t. I-I can’t revive others.” Her warm hand pulls him up to a shaking stand. When he looks at her face, all hope of getting his son back shatters. Though the rain drenches away the blaze, none of it quenches his anger, this feeling of betrayal in his heart. Why be a Saviour when all they can do is burn? “Dale is gone. I’m…”

Davos slaps her hand away before wiping at his tears, now mixed with the rain. Seeing her hurt expression, he mutters: “Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” But his words get stuck in his throat as he falls to his bed, sobbing.

Dale is gone.

…

…We can’t stay here. I will… I will mourn later. “Lady Mokou, please turn Dale to ash,” he whispers. “I can’t bring him back to Cape Wrath.” Shireen squeezes his left hand, comforting the mournful knight. “And after you get dressed… Fly us to the skiff. It’ll be the first time you fly, Lady Shireen, aren’t you excited?” he tries to cheer the girl before vomiting at the smell of burnt flesh. “Sorry, sorry I-”

“It’s okay,” Shireen hugs him, “it’s okay, my knight.”

As he watches Lady Mokou burn away his son, Davos grips hard the bones in his pouch—they crack. No prayer comes to his lips.

Marya, forgive me. Our son...

Chapter Text

Stormlands

”Is there anything more beautiful than an ancient forest in autumn?” the young Lord Renly muses, catching a falling leaf riding with the cool morning air. Their usual hunting paths are obscured by leaves of red and gold, but any Baratheon knows the way through Storm’s End’s hunting grounds. Their horses leave deep tracks in leaves, each step causing small bugs and critters to scamper away. Still so near the horizon, the rising sun dapples through the golden canopy and bathe them all in a lively glow. “If only someone could capture this beauty in silk and metal,” he sighs, “don’t you think so, Loras?”

“You shouldn’t be here, my Lord,” the flower knight grumbles, brushing off a stray piece of greenery on his armour. “We shouldn’t risk your body for some broken men, especially after his Grace’s little incident. My blade is more than enough,” he pats his scabbard, a thing of onyx vines and gilded roses.

“I’m no Robert, Loras. I have the good sense to be sober while hunting,” he smirks before tossing away the leaf. “And for you to say that of all things? Why, I remember a time when the flower knight was only a rosebud that couldn’t wield a sword,” he laughs, causing his lover to roll his eyes in annoyance. There’s no danger to the young Lord here, not when wearing a fine steel plate armour and guarded by a dozen men. Though this one looks a bit shabby, Renly thinks as he flexes his steel gauntlets, grimy from the storage. It’ll be hard to reach Tobho Mott in that viper’s pit. Speaking of which- “Care to follow the Queen’s invite, Loras?”

The young knight pulls a strange face before replying: “I sincerely hope that was a jape, my Lord.”

“Half-and-half,” he smiles back. “While the Queen’s words are certainly of suspect, a duel between Kingsguards is the stuff of songs and dreams, Loras. Don’t a young knight like you yearn to see such a bout?”

“It’ll be a sore sight to miss,” the flower knight sighs, “but I’d much prefer to keep my head AND yours, my Lord. If the words are true, then the Lannisters managed to rid themselves of Lord Stark,” he whispers as if anyone here would be so loose-tongued. They kept their mouth shut on Loras and Renly’s relationship, so why would they speak on this matter?

“A shame for that man. Robert always did say Eddard Stark was his best friend, and now both of them will meet again in their graves,” he tuts. “As for Ser Barristan Selmy and his mistress, well, that’s certainly new,” he chuckles, wondering if that claim holds water or another one of the Queen’s machinations. “That oathbreaking still pales in comparison to the Kingslayer’s, though. But in terms of skill… Tell me, Loras, could you take on the Kingsguard?”

“Ser Balon, Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, Ser Arys, and Ser Mandon; all dead men against my sword,” the young knight proclaims with such bright confidence that Renly almost believes him. Then again, at seventeen he’s become quite renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms. His boast is not an empty one. “However,” he frowns, “Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer would be a challenging fight. I heard they trained under much better steel, the White Bull.”

“But five out of seven is not bad,” Renly assures, admiring the flower knight who has long surpassed him. When I become King, you’ll be the first of my Kingsguard. Wait- “House Selmy is under my rule,” he realises, trotting ahead of the group. “If Barristan Selmy wins his duel, I shall bring him to Storm’s End as my knight. What a wonderful idea! I’m sure you lot would appreciate his teachings.” That earns some laughter from his men but not from the frowning Loras.

“Let’s focus on finding these brigands first, my Lord. Didn’t your men’s reports say they’ll be nearby?”

“Lest Ser Cortnay was blind. Ser Colen,” Renly calls for the grizzled knight of Greenpools who’s holding hound leashes, “found anything yet?”

“Seem the hounds sniffed something bad, my Lord,” he replies, tugging on the whimpering dogs. “Perhaps a large animal was here. They say bears forage in autumn before a long sleep, after all.”

“Or a boar,” Loras jests before lowering his visor and drawing his blade. The golden roses at its guard gleam as bright as his eyes, fitting for a Tyrell. “Maybe these brigands are so foul-smelling that the dogs can’t handle the stench. That’s certainly a type of shield,” he laughs.

“Yet I see no one. Ser Colen, do you think your hounds are too old for-”

*CLACK*

Something bounces off Renly’s pauldron hard, leaving a dent in the fine steel. Closing his visor, he yells for his men to form up. A crossbow bolt flies from somewhere and strikes off Loras’ armour gilding with a thud, earning the flower knight’s wrath. “Reveal yourself, you bloody cravens!” he demands, pacing around like a hungry shadowcat. When another bolt strikes his helm, he turns to the source and charges through the bushes, cutting down a hidden man while scattering the others. As if on cue, the brigands erupt from their covers and attack with terrible shouts.

Unluckily for them, Renly’s retinue is armed and ready.

Several men in mail are cut down by polearms while Ser Colen’s hounds savage a brindled man in furs. The knight himself slays one with a quick stroke of his longsword; these broken men are unskilled, weak, or both. Not wanting to miss all the glory, the Lord rushes out and drives his lance through two men, leaving them a bloody mess against the red leaves. “FOR RENLY!” he hears Loras shout as the knight chases down a man in mail, leaving a flurry of leaves behind him. In that short distraction, someone tries to stab Renly’s steed but a good jab with his lance ends them. No need for harm.

Before long, the dozen or so brigands are cut to two captives. One’s a wrinkled old man in tattered maester robes named Qyburn while the other is a scarred-face Dothrakii who prefers spitting to talking. “That one didn’t even try to fight and started kneeling,” the flower knight reasons his sparing, “while I ran over that one and broke his arm. Not much of a horselord without horses, are you?” he taunts, earning a spit on his metal boot. For that the Dothrakii receives a hard kick to the groin, causing even Renly to wince.

"This one has no chains, my Lord,” Ser Colen says, raising Qyburn’s chin with his bloody sword. “Maybe he killed a maester for those robes. Shall I remove his head for you?”

“I’d like to know who they are before the block, Ser Colen. Well?” Renly looks down at the two. “Will you speak or should I have my knight here cut through your words?”

While the Dothrakii is too busy groaning in pain, the old man is more than eager to plead for mercy. “I am a maester, my Lord, in service to the Brave Companions and Vargo Hoat prior to the massacre at Harrenhal.”

“More foolish than brave,” the flower knight smirks as he wipes down his blade.

“Brave Companions, you say…” Where have I heard that name- Ah! “The sellsword company from Essos?” he asks, and Qyburn nods. There can only be one reason such an ill-omened company to be in the Riverlands and Renly fears the answer to that question. And so he won’t ask it. Not here, at least. Maybe with a little push, they can tell me more about the goings-on further north… “Tie their arms,” he commands. “Lead me to the rest of your group and I shall spare you for the black, understand?”

“Your mercy is beautiful, my Lord! You have my sincerest thanks,” the old man bows again before his hands are tied up. “There were two dozen of us, my Lord. We took refuge in nearby cottages not far from here. It’s to the-”

“I know where those are, scum,” Ser Colen huffs before roughly pulling Qyburn to his feet. “And from you lot, I pity the poor hunters that live there. They have kids, my Lord,” he says simply.

“Made deal,” says the Dothrakii in broken Common Tongue, having recovered from Loras’ assault. “Don’t kill family for shelter. That was deal.”

“But rape and steal you approve of,” Loras scoffs. “Always knew your people were savages. Why else would the Targaryen girl wed your likes?”

“But Iggo is right, my Lord. We made a deal with that village’s protector for not harming anyone,” says the maester. And for such a ludicrous statement he receives the loud laughter from every man present. Both he and the Dothrakii are very confused at their reaction.

“Maybe back at your little corner in Essos, maester,” Ser Colen grins, “but here in the Stormlands, there are no village protectors. Hells, that ‘village’ you claim to reside in is no more than a small collection of moss-roofed huts and cottages. Here’s an advice for a man who lost touch: if you want to lie to a Lord’s face at least make it believable,” says the knight before smacking the two of them with his sword. “Walk.”

As they march deeper into the woods, the leaves pile up to a knee’s height. Every step they make is accompanied by loud crunching and stomping, slowing their rides’ pace and alerting anyone within a mile away. Yet it’s very quiet here, the only other sound being the jingling of bells in the Dothrakii’s oily braid. “Aren’t the hunters supposed to clean- Oh right, they have you with them,” Renly sneers. “Tell me, self-proclaimed maester, where are your chains?”

“Must have lost it when he laid eyes on some young wench,” Loras jests, earning a chuckle from the young Lord. Unlike Robert, he never understood the appeal of breasts nor whoring.

“Nay, my Lord and Ser. I lost my chains for daring to challenge the Citadel’s understanding. Those grey sheep… Ebrose especially, they never understood the importance of my work. I could see beyond the books, beyond what we call life and death, yet they dare to call my research horrid and wasteful,” the old man grumbles. “Stripped of my links, I wandered Oldtown ‘til I met with Iggo here at a port and travelled to the Free Cities. The rest, my Lord, is history.”

“A disgraced maester,” Loras whistles. “Maester Barrow at Storm’s End will have a grand time with you.”

The Dothrakii grumbles something in his rough tongue before spitting into the leaves. “What’s he saying?” Renly asks, suspecting an insult from the scarred man.

But that’s not the case. “He doesn’t like Westeros, my Lord, said it’s too cold and wet,” the maester translates as the horselord continues talking. “That and the forest is full of… Strange ghosts? He… Heard children laughing in the middle of the night and saw a strange woman painting leaves… W-Well, my Lord, a Dothrakii’s culture is certainly a queer one to Westerosii ears. Full of superstitions and whatnot,” Qyburn concludes, sweat rolling down his wrinkled chin.

“Maybe it’s all the maidens and mothers you savaged haunting you,” says Loras. “How many have you ruined, Dothrakii? A hundred? A thousand? A-”

“AAAAGH!”

A scream from the west cuts through the quiet, stopping their march mid-step. Not long after that, they hear the loud snapping of branches before a large crash, throwing leaves and shrieking birds into the air. Now curious, the retinue ready their weapons to investigate it. Ser Colen’s hounds have a different idea, however, whimpering away from the sound and resisting the knight’s commands. “Gods be damned, maybe I do need new hounds,” he groans before tying the dogs up to a nearby tree.

The scene is not far from where they deviate, but what they see certainly baffles them. Lying broken in a crater of leaves and branches is a massive oak tree, felled near its base. Tracing his blade along the rings, Loras counts a few hundred years at least. “Doesn’t look like an axe’s handiwork,” he mumbles. Renly sees no other souls around the area, but his men manage to pull out the mangled bodies beneath. Some look too gory for his stomach. “Yours, not-maester?”

“Yes, Ser, but may I?”

Loras looks at Renly. It doesn’t take a maester to see that they’re dead… “Allow him, Loras. Maybe one of them is his friend.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” the old man bows before looking closely at the corpses. Renly doesn’t like the shine in Qyburn’s eyes as the man sniffs and prods at them. “…A single cut through the plate? Who could have-” His curiosity turns to horror as the man leaps back, wide-eyed. “Oh… Oh Gods, did those bloody fools angered her!?”

Though Renly is confused by his words, the Dothrakii seems to understand it all too well. “Protector,” he shivers. “Two blades maiden. Who break… Shagwell!”

“Of course it would be the motley fool,” Qyburn shakes his head before kneeling for the young Lord. “I beseech you, my Lord, to stop this bloody battle. Westeros has seen too much bloodshed already, and this one is no exception.”

As if you’ve any right to say that. “Alright, we’ll save this ‘protector’ you speak of. And the fool? Shagwell, you say?”

“A motley dog with foaming teeth and hurtful japes, my Lord. You’ll do a great service in ridding the world of him.”

“Loras, Ser Stef, Ser Rob, ride with me. These brigands will hurt no more. Onwards!”

As they race past tall trees and golden leaves, a certain thrill beats through his heart. This is not just a mere skirmish or bloody fights, no. This is the dream of every young knights and squires: to ride into battle for a maiden’s safety. Is this what Robert felt when he rode for the Trident? he wonders, the wind flowing through the visor’s slits. A Lord and the flower knight riding into battle… A shame we brought no singers with us!

As the moss-roofed hovels come into view, a man in mail crosses their path. “Leave no survivors!” Renly shouts, prompting Loras to run over the man before ending him with a good slash. Several terrified commonfolk run past them, nearly getting trampled by their horses. “Out of the way!” they shout, searching for more of the sellswords and find this maiden in danger. But the scene they see is…

…

There are signs of a bloody battle here. Trotting around the stony houses, they find a few more bodies cut to pieces. Renly can’t stand the smell of viscera and so stuffs a handkerchief down his helmet; it doesn’t help much. He turns over one of the dead men, revealing a chestplate cut so cleanly as if it’s made of paper. “I doubt Valyrian steel can do that,” Loras comments, “at least that’s what my brother told me.”

Renly sees a few more dead bodies behind a drying rack, half-covered with leaves. A couple of people in mail bear the same bisecting cut, but one of them is different. It’s a child, her clothes ripped open and a dagger… “Ser Stef, any signs of living brigands?” he asks through gritted teeth. “I’d like to try my lance on those savages.”

The knight peers into the forest before pointing past some burning campfires. “I see deep footprints, Milord, going South. A good gallop should let us reach-”

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” A large man barrels through the bushes and back into the clearing, leaf-covered and a bloody axe in his arms. Taking the chance, Ser Rob draws his bow-

*SLASH*

-but a silver streak cuts through the air, creating a gust of wind and leaving the brigand in four bloody pieces. And behind the falling curtain of leaves, they see their dual-wielding assailant. “Well,” Loras chuckles, “I think we found our maiden.”

The silver-haired girl flicks her arakh-like blades, ridding it of dripping blood and viscera. Speckles of it remain on her green skirt. But upon laying eyes on Renly and his men, she turns her swords at them. “Who are you?” she yells, her voice sounding a bit younger than Loras’.

“I may ask you the same thing,” Renly replies, lifting his visor for a clearer look. He wonders who she could be for he only knows of one sword-wielding maiden; this one is too short and fair to be her. And what in the Seven Hells is that floating thing!? he shivers as a wispy mass swirls around the girl, scabbards in its mist. Did House Tarth gained… No, that man has no wives. “I mean you no harm, little Lady. We’re here to solve a… Bloody dispute, shall we say?”

“Solve?” That answer lowers her sword by a hand’s breadth. She inquisitively tilts her head before asking: “You mean you’re an incident solver?”

Incident solver? “Well, this battle is certainly an incident… And I’m here to end it,” he replies with some wariness. What does she mean by that? The ruler of this land? A knight?

“Really!? Oh, thank the Yama! I thought I was the only one,” the girl sighs before sheathing her smaller sword and walking towards them. His horse whines and trembles at her approach, so he descends much to the protest of Loras and the others. “Um, hello fellow incident solver,” she bows to him. Up close, the girl’s head barely reaches chin height; he tries his best to not look at the wispy thing to her right. “It’s rare to see a male human take the mantle. May I ask your name?”

“I am Lord Renly Baratheon, Overlord of the Stormlands and Master of Justice of the Iron Throne.” There’s a shine in the girl’s eyes as he mentions ‘justice’. That’s a good sign. “May I know yours, little Lady?”

“I am Youmu Konpaku, Miss Yuyuko’s gardener!” she declares with pride; that white thing bobs up and down as if agreeing. His eyes twitch at the sight, but he has a more pressing point to address.

“Did you say ‘gardener’?”

“Yup.”

“Is…” He looks back at Loras who simply shrugs. “Is that someone who tends gardens and flowers, my Lady, or is it a title? For a… Warrior maiden like you?”

“Hmm? I’m Miss Yuyuko’s gardener,” she repeats, “I tend to her plants and trees.”

He looks down at her armaments. “With SWORDS?”

She raises her large curving blade, its grey and black steel catching the morning sun’s light. “I usually use this one for trimming hedges-”

What?

“-and cutting down branches from the cherry blossom tree.”

WHAT?

“If I need to, I can shave a rock’s profile so that-”

“Alright, alright… I’ve heard enough of this sword abuse,” he pinches the bridge of his nose; no doubt Loras and the others feel the same about her statements. She’s not as sharp as her weapons. Not as bad as Lolys Stokeworth, but still, a smile grows on his face, I can take advantage of this. “Lady Youmu, would you be interested to have the position of Storm’s End gardener?”

“We don’t ha-”

A raised hand stops Loras. “It’s a formidable place, little Lady. Unlike here, there’ll be no danger of brigands nor beasts, not that you’re unable to protect yourself,” he nods at the body.

That little act seems to have dislodged something in her mind. “I’m supposed to cut down Shagwell! That fiend killed Sasha!” the girl stomps her foot, prompting sharp movement in the wispy thing.

Is that thing a part of her? Magic? Renly shakes his head. Questions for later. “A terrible thing he did, I’m sure. And as Lord, knight, and incident solver,” he quickly adds, “it’s my duty see him met with justice. Ride with me, Lady Youmu, and peace shall prevail in Westeros.”

“I… I don’t know if I should ride with you,” she fidgets. “Miss Yuyuko said I shouldn’t join up with strangers I just met. And by doing that… Won’t I be betraying her?”

Sounds more like a mother than a Lady. But bearing a last name and her clean appearance… She must be a noble-born from Essos. “Ah, but consider this! Lady Yuyuko wouldn’t want her gardener to sleep in such poor conditions, right? Nor have her be hurt by unruly men?”

“No… I guess she wouldn’t.”

“Then come under my care, Lady Youmu. Your Lady will be happy to learn that her gardener was well taken care of. We shall both chase down this motley cur and bring peace into this forest, thus,” he flourishes, “solve this incident once and for all.”

As fast as falling leaves, her hesitation turns into a bright smile. “I see now, working with you will be a new experience! Lady Yuyuko always told me to reach that… I accept your offer, Lord Renly.”

“Please, call me Renly, Lady Youmu,” he offers his hand. “We’re fellow incident solvers, after all.” And with a shake of hands, their deal is sealed.

“Finally,” Loras grumbles. “Not to interrupt you, Lord and Lady, but we have brigands to kill. That bloody fool must have run a mile by the end of your speech.” Acknowledging the knight, Renly returns to his horse and lowers his visor. But before he could get going, he whispers to the Lord: “Are you sure about this, Renly? What if her Lady comes looking for her?”

“The kind of person who’d abandon a girl like her in the middle of my forest is the kind who won’t return,” he whispers back, watching the girl clean leaves off her skirt. “I’m doing her a kindness by bringing her to Storm’s End. Besides, I’m not one to spare good swords. Lady or not, she’ll make a fine addition to my strength.”

“…Fine,” Loras sighs.

“Why, jealous?” Renly chuckles. “I have many knights under my antlers, but there’s only one flower knight, you know.” He playfully taps Loras with his lance who’s no doubt blushing underneath his helm. “Would you require a horse, Lady Youmu? I’m sure one of my knights can offer you a ride.”

“No need, I can fly.”

“Can’t have you walk… Oh…” His jaw drops as the girl’s feet leave the ground, now floating above him. “You… You can fly!?”

“Can you not?” she asks back and all shake their heads. “Oh, I thought all incident solvers can- No wait, there’s some in the human village who can’t…” she mumbles to herself, slowly drifting with the autumn wind.

“Regretting your decision now, Renly?”

“Absolutely not!” he laughs. This will be… Very exciting!

Highgarden

“Growing Strong,” Willas Tyrell smirks at the head gardener Devan, a browning yellow rose in his hand. “Can you consider this to be growing, Devan? These wilted petals and drying leaves?” He takes a closer look at the flower; realising there’s a fairy sleeping inside it, he places it back into the rose bush. “What of the canals?” his cane taps the dry waterways. “Was the connection between here and the Mander destroyed during the skirmish?”

“N-No, Milord. I was ordered to stop the flow of water by… Lord… Tyrell…” the older man shrinks back at the Tyrell’s sharp gaze. “Apologies…”

“Apologies doesn’t regrow leaves nor water plants, gardener,” says the gap-toothed Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns and Willas’ grandmother. “Even Right and Left know that.” The twin guards by her sides, Arryk and Erryk, nod their heads. “So, my puff fish of a son saw it fit to deprive this castle of its beauty?” she tuts like a mother towards a misbehaved child. “Such a shame… Tell me, gardener, what were his exact words?”

“I think father wanted to-”

“Hush, Willas. Are you the gardener? Do you have dirt and goat excrement underneath your nail? No? Then let the man speak for himself,” she dismisses her grandson. “Oh, and do speak loudly. Age has eaten away at my hearing, it seems.”

You can hear just fine, the Tyrell smiles as he watches the old man squirm at his grandma’s questioning. “W-Well, Lord Tyrell ordered me to cut off the Mander’s supply towards the gardens, Milady. He wanted to… Dry the plant woman up and be rid of these bug children.”

“And I can see it worked,” she says to the smiling gardener. “Why, I saw thirty fairies flying yesterday while today I only saw twenty-nine. A very noticeable difference,” she clicks her tongue. “As if my oaf of a son knows anything about plants. Leave him in the woods for a fortnight and he’ll gorge on every mushrooms and berries he comes across. But you,” she taps her cane, “you understand plants. So tell me: with autumn rains and climes, do you expect all the plants to die any time soon?”

“…No, Milady.”

“But will they die in the winter?”

“…Yes, Milady.”

“And if all greenery perish from our castle, will this place still be called Highgarden?”

“…Yes?”

“NO. There’d be no Highgarden without golden roses and hedge mazes, gardener. Now, you’ve heard my son’s reasoning. Foolish, wasn’t it? Speak plainly.”

Devan glances nervously at Willas. “His-Milord’s order was… Certainly unique, Milady.”

“Unique,” she scoffs. “And so, if I want to enjoy a green expanse from my balcony, what should you do as a gardener?”

“But the or-”

“If he complains about the breaking of orders, tell Lord Puff Fish that his mother demands it,” she huffs. “Maester Lomys has said it’ll be a long winter, and perhaps my last. Would you want to deprive this old lady of her fruits and flowers? No? Then go. Don’t forget to turn on all the canals,” she adds as the gardener runs off. “He’s so near my age, yet follows Mace’s words rather than his own wisdom…”

“Father won’t like that,” Willas chuckles, leaning on his cane.

“Mace doesn’t like a lot of things. For one, he doesn’t like it when we wander in our grounds with anything less than a dozen guardsmen,” she glares at the additional men around her, barely fitting in this hedge maze’s path. “Why should a Tyrell be scared of their own home?”

“It’s father’s orders,” says his brother Garlan, the scars on his face having slowly healed back. “I know what it was like, grandma. The sorcerer is a fierce thing with-”

“-thorns and fires at her command. I’ve heard it all before, young man,” she taps his boots. “Yet with that ferocity and destruction, you still returned to the castle alive. Perhaps she’s not as vicious as you say.” Thirty-two men died, Willas wants to add, but his grandma already knows it. He saw her expressions when reports of Garlan’s injuries came. “Besides, two weeks ago you went into the maze with spears and swords. Now… Well, you’re still armed but it is for protection, not an attack. There are other ways to bend a sorcerer,” she cackles before walking on with her twin guards.

“Will Margaery be like that when she’s older, Willas?” Garlan whispers.

“By the Seven, I hope not.” But grandma means well, the eldest brother thinks, remembering her many lessons in courtly politics and her push for House Tyrell’s interests. She may be born on a grapevine, but she’s a golden rose now.

Before they can turn a corner, Ser William Wyther blocks their path with a polearm. “A possible threat, my Lord. We’ll take-”

“Would you look at that~” Lady Olenna shoulders past him with Arry and Erryk; Willas gives the squirrel knight a pitying look before walking on with his brother. “Aw, isn’t that sweet?” she coos. “When can I expect great-grandchildren from you two?”

“When Willas finally decides to marry,” Garlan chuckles as the Tyrells watch fairies playing in the pond. Some splash about trying to catch minnows while others swim through the water lilies like a frog, blowing bubbles underwater. The three laugh as an especially small fairy tries to use a sunflower as a bludgeon but falling over from its weight instead. “Gods, if children are always like this…”

The gardener must have let the Mander through as a fish-shaped fountain suddenly pours out water from its mouth. Spooked by the noise, the fairies scatter into the sky, leaving bits of leaves here and there. “They have mouths yet they can’t talk. Are they mute?”

“I doubt it,” their grandma walks on, going past the pond and into another set of hedge mazes. “A precocious one with butterfly wings came by my balcony last night, asking if I was a forest crone. I opened the window and shooed her away with my cane,” she cackles, “and now that old thing smells of sour grapes. This is a new one,” she taps the ground. “Why, I much prefer when they have half the brain of a crow’s.”

“The Maiden blessed us with children’s innocence,” Willas muses.

“And the Stranger his bride,” she scowls, looking up at the now overgrown hedges. “Let us not forget why we’re here.”

“We never did,” says Garlan, kicking aside a bloody gauntlet laying on the ground. There’s bound to be more within these hedges but that’s the gardener’s problem, not theirs. The group passes by a tall tree trunk breaching the paved ground and Willas sees the shadow of a man above. Dead. While the twin guards keep their cool, the same can’t be said for the others. “Come now, they’re only plants,” Garlan the Gallant assures them, but Willas can see his brother’s twitchy fingers.

Finally, they reach the flower gate that marks the centre of the maze. But instead of brass, this one is wrought in wood and purple flowers. A fairy sleeps on a nearby stone bench, her butterfly wings tucked underneath some leaves. “Excuse me, little one,” Willas wakes her, “is the one named Yuuka Kazami here?”

“Mmm? Oh, visitors…” she yawns and stretches her arms. “I’ll go tell her,” says the fairy as she lazily floats over the hedge and into the maze’s centre, not even bothering to flap her wings.

…

“Do they even need wings?” Garlan wonders.

A soft breeze greets them as the flower vines pull apart like a curtain. The guardsmen ready their polearms, but hopefully they’ll not need for it. Hopefully. And so, with confident strides the Tyrells enter the clearing.

“This is… Cleaner than when I was here,” Garlan comments. Indeed, it’s nowhere near as wild as the rest of the hedge maze. The sun shines bright on the grass, dappling the neatly growing vines and a wide array of flowers… There’s even more of them than before, Willas notes the lilies growing below the fountains.

But what surprises them most is the sorcerer.

“How terrifying,” their grandma makes a snide remark. “I’m trembling to my toes.”

“That’s…” Having heard Garlan’s accounts and witnessing the horrific whirling pillars of lights during the night assault, Willas expects the sorcerer to be a terrifying thing of rose thorns and writhing vines, or perhaps a shade born from man’s vile nature as told in books and prophecies. Never would he have expected a beautiful woman with rolled-up sleeves tending to a bed of flowers. The monster who brought death to thirty guards and knights… Is now planting some forget-me-nots!? “Are… Are you by any chance Lady Yuuka?”

The woman points at a set of chairs and says “Sit,” before turning back to her plants.

…

There’s a point to be made about her rudeness, but he stops the guardsmen from mentioning it. “We’re in an antlion’s pit, no need to wake it,” Lady Olenna warns before taking a seat beside Willas. At least now they can rest their weary legs, but Garlan keeps a sharp eye on the sorcerer and a hand on his sword hilt. “Ahh,” she picks up a teacup to ease the tension, “I remember this dainty little handle. Margaery’s?”

“Her spare teaset,” Willas confirms. “This table was a spare from a guest room, same with the chairs and that bed,” he points to one at the corner of the area, its top covered with vines. “She also demanded gardening implements, as you can see.”

“Sleeping under the night sky like a Dothrakii,” his grandma whispers. “She’s looking to stay-”

“That should be the last one,” the sorcerer huffs before wiping away a speck of dirt from her green hair. For a moment her red eyes meet his; a terrible feeling crawls down his spine. Hatred, is all that he sees. The guards tense up as she walks… Past them. The confused Tyrells watch on as the sorcerer picks up some clothes from her bed and walks into the fountain before grabbing the hem of-

Garlan and Willas turn away, motioning the guards to do the same. Why in the Seven Hells is she doing this now!? Olenna continues to look on at the source of humming and splashing. “She looks like I did when I was your age,” their grandma reminisces much to the brothers’ horror. “Your grandpa Luthor liked it when I-”

“Sevens help us,” Garlan whispers as he covers his ears as well.

After some time, Olenna’s cane taps Willas’ leg brace. They give sighs of relief upon seeing the sorcerer fully clothed in red plaid skirt and vest, a small smile on her lips. “How kind for you to hold a lady’s honour,” their grandma laughs. “Just like maidenboys.”

“I have a wife,” Garlan huffs, clearing the redness on his face. This time her approach is true and the brothers stand to greet her. “It’s a pleasure to meet- Oompf!” The woman roughly pushes the Tyrell knight aside as she takes his seat, eyes on the tea rather than any of them.

“…It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Yuuka,” Willas continues. “My name is Willas Tyrell, son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. This kind Lady is my grandmother, Olenna Tyrell,” she gives the woman a soft smile, “while this gallant knight is Ser Garlan-”

“Three chairs,” the sorcerer interrupts whilst pouring herself a cup of tea. “Those flower-wearing men in tin only brought me three chairs. If the knight wants a seat, he may do so on the dirt,” she smiles at them; he can’t put an emotion in her expression. “Mind the flowers.”

“A rose stands tall, my Lady, and so I shall remain.” His solid façade can’t hide the twitching in his eyes.

“I must apologise if water was an issue in the past few days, Lady Yuuka,” Willas explains, “for there were miscommunication between the gardener and-”

“The Gods gave you tongues yet you humans can’t use it properly,” the sorcerer sips her tea. “And was it not your father’s command to deprive this place of water?” So she knows… Did she overhear the gardener’s conversation? Was it the fairies? Or can she listen through the flowers? He sincerely hopes for the former, but considering her magic-

“That oaf,” his grandma groans before pouring herself and Willas some tea, “there’s more air in that head of his than wisdom, I tell you. If I’d known he’ll grow to be like his father, I would have caned his behind a hundred more times!” That little jab earns a larger smile from the sorcerer, a sure progress. Sorry, father. “I can complain all day about my dear son, but you know that’s not why I’m here. For a courteous Lady such as yourself, I find your conduct to be quite lacking.”

“I can say the same of your tin men,” the sorcerer replies. “They’ve been trampling the beautiful flowers and bushes around here, quite disrespectful for humans bearing flowers as their image. All my actions were acts of retribution for those poor things.”

Humans… “Though I regret the damage to the gardens, it was a necessary move, Lady Yuuka. Father feared for his family; there are many children in Highgarden, after all. Not just Tyrells but also our bannermen,” Willas adds, hoping to gain sympathy as he sips on the… This is extremely sweet. “Roses are important to us Tyrells, yes, but so are our men. And while plants can grow back, the same can’t be said of men’s arms.”

…

“Can’t they, now~?” the sorcerer’s smile turns sharp. He gulps upon realising the mistake. “Your left leg looks quite useless,” she says, her words laced with thorns. Garlan draws his sword and the other guards prepare theirs, but how useful is it? “Care to try out your hypothesis, little flower bud?”

“There’s no need,” says Olenna, waving away the sorcerer’s threat. “Unlike you and most of everyone here, I know my plants quite well. Let’s see…” His grandma taps the rim of her cup, feigning deep thought. “It’ll take a month or two for a cut stem to root, while a man’s arm will rot in a few days. I’m quite surprised that you’re not knowledgeable of this, Lady Yuuka, then again I am your elder,” she smirks, earning a twitch from the sorcerer’s eyes.

“I’m older than your castle’s foundations, frail one,” she seethes.

“Ah, apologies to my elder! I must say you don’t look a day over twenty-five. Care to tell me your secret? Is it ignorance? Perhaps that egregious lack of knowledge is what preserves your youth? It would explain how all those halfwit fairies with frogs in their mouth remain as children. Or maybe your head is so full of rose petals and seeds that you’re unable to express higher thoughts? That’s what Maester Lomsy said of squirrels, at least.” She ends the barrage of insults with a quick sip of tea. “Well? Care to explain to this frail old lady?”

…

Straight as a birch tree, the sorcerer stands with a bright smile on her lips, her shadow draping over the old Lady. Garlan ever so slightly moves closer while Willas’ hand wanders to his dagger. “Tell me, frail one, what flowers would you like on your grave?”

“Hmm… Maybe the ones grown from the seeds in your-”

Her hand grips around Olenna’s throat, fingers creaking like deadwood. Garlan strikes her neck but no blood flows as vines burst out of the cut. “WHAT!” is the only word out of his mouth as rose petals and thorns wrap around him with such strength it dents his steel. Grass blades cut through Willas’ tunic and pull him to the ground; he can hear the guardsmen fall with the grinding of metal.

“Your flowers are fake,” says the sorcerer, taking off the old Lady’s cloth-of-gold hair net, “and so is your bravery. Yet here you are, smiling.”

“Oh, the Stranger knocks on my door every night,” Willas’ grandma wheezes. For the life of him, he can’t cut the grass blades to help her. “An old friend… But you have none in the Reach.”

“There is no need when I have flowers, dear~!” she spins the old Lady among an audience of roses, lilies, and nightshades. He can hear a deep rumble as tree roots dig holes near the hedges; the grass now pulls him along the ground.

“When you bury us, it won’t just be the Tyrells,” Olenna warns as she’s dragged towards a smaller hole. “Redwynes, Hightowers, Tarlys, the Reach, the Stormlands… Westeros will come down on Highgarden like flies to an overripe peach.”

“A hundred, a thousand, a million… Let them come! I’ll rid this beautiful land of pests!” she cheers as tree roots drag Willas down into the earth.

“But nothing survives a ten-year winter!” For a moment the plants stop their pull; the sorcerer pulls a terrifying face. “Ah… Thousands of years of knowledge and you don’t know of Westeros’ climate. Perhaps age does not equal wisdom,” the old Lady laughs as the woman drops her to the ground.

“Speak.”

“A cold so long and fierce it’ll freeze your tears as you weep for the flowers. Highgarden will die without proper care, without us as stewards, and with the endless barrage of Westeros’ might. This,” she pats the earth, “will all be for nought.”

Willas bites through the dirt and roots in his mouth before dragging himself out of the dirt, his tunic of golden roses torn to shreds. The sorcerer looks down on him with such malice that it hurts, but it all melts away into a kind smile. “Why didn’t you say so in the beginning~?” she offers both of them a hand, but none take it.

“You… You tried to kill us!” Garlan growls as he cuts through the rose vines. “You-You-”

“Kill you? Oh, no no no,” Lady Yuuka tuts. “I was testing you, knight of roses. What sort of person wears flowers on their chest? Now,” she refills the cups of tea, “I think we can discuss the finer details. Come come, take a seat!”

Using a tree to stand up, Willas helps his grandma to her feet. “Thank you, dear,” she pats his hand. His grandma, the Queen of Thorns who stared down a monstrous sorcerer, the one who saved them all…

Her hands are trembling.

Growing Strong are our words. A dozen roots are better than one.

Chapter Text

Riverlands

“Bloody little- Ouch!” Bronn cries out as the little fairy he captured bites his thumb, drawing some blood. The little blonde thing barely the size of his hand giggles, drawing the sellsword’s ire. “Is that how you wanna play, is it?” Quickly snatching her, he ties her legs up with some yarn before letting her hang upside down. “How’d you like this!?” With a wind-up, he twirls the fairy around like a slingshot with such speed that the thing starts screaming. But a sharp leaf ends the punishment short, nearly freeing it from his grasp.

“Why are you people so mean to fairies!?” the self-proclaimed goddess Shizuha huffs, readying other leaves to throw. Even her painting duplicates turn to glare at him from the trees.

“Mean!? Little brat tried to shove a crayfish down my nose!”

“And little she may be, she’s a prisoner of war,” Tyrion adds, cutting a bandage for the poultice on his arm. Here in this little grove of reddening trees, the sorcerer assures them of protection from fairies. Yet still advocating for their release. “That little thing ambushed and killed half of my men, stealing valuables and corpses like they’re made of gold. I’ve no sympathy for bloodthirsty dolls.”

“They’re not bloodthirsty, they’re just playing around.”

“Play- Why, that would make Bronn the best companion for children! Isn’t that right?”

“Heh, you know me,” he replies, shoving the tied-up fairy into a canvas bag. Jaime pokes at it with her beak like some tasty morsel. “Love those little bastards.”

“You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t, Holiness Shizuha, and that’s the problem.” Bronn cringes at the title but anything to keep her by their side. “Fairies, magic, you… All are foreign to Westeros.” Or anywhere else for that matter. I very much doubt the Dothrakii fear winged children in dresses. “At times, I even wondered if that midnight assault was by your doing.”

She looks aghast by the small accusation. “I-I warned you of fairies that day!”

“And that’s as useful as telling me grumkins and snarks roam the night, granted I could have taken the warning more seriously,” he shrugs before pulling out some clean sheaves of paper and charcoal. “But without context and knowledge, warnings will fall on deaf ears, Holiness Shizuha. And so to help us, care to explain what fairies are? You seem quite familiar with them.”

And so the sorcerer speaks of strange concepts such as the “embodiment of nature” and its “innocence,” none of which he saw during the assault. Even so, Tyrion scribbles it all down; this talk of magic is of great interest to him, even if it dabbles into foreign concepts of balance and the like. No matter, he’s a fast learner. Looking through the notes, he asks: “What of intelligence? I’ve only heard them giggling or screaming rather than actual words.”

“Intelligence…” She plucks a read leaf from the air before continuing. “Not that smart, really. Someone once said they’re like children, only half as smart and twice as curious. They can make simple traps, though, and sometimes help each other.”

“Which we experienced,” Bronn nods, looking down at Tyrion’s diligent form. “Neat handwriting.”

“This is what Lannister teaching gets you.” He reviews all the notes on fairies and their propensity for random assaults. But none of that was random, he thinks. They aimed for our rear to stop us in our tracks before an ambush. They may be too dumb to organise themselves, but with an intelligent leader… He eyes the smiling sorcerer but the word ‘intelligent’ doesn’t match her. Whoever the culprit is, Tyrion wants to repay the debts and throttle them blue. No, it must be- “Your Holiness Shizuha, I seem to remember you mentioning tengus before?”

“Tengus?” A soft breeze flows through the grove, stopping Jaime in her tracks. The crow and sorcerer tilt their head at his question. “What about them?”

“I have a certain… Problem with them. You see, the one-”

“CAW!”

“…The-”

“CAW!”

“…”

“CAW!”

“Bronn.”

“Quiet!” The sellsword throws a pebble at the crow, sending it away. “Damned bird’s informing on us.”

“Is the name Aya Shameimaru familiar to you? Black hair, red eyes, and sharp ears?” Recognition flashes over the sorcerer’s face before settling into a deep frown. Tyrion smirks. “I take that as a yes?”

“One of the more annoying tengus,” she grumbles, the many duplicates mimicking her expression. “She’s nosy and abrasive, pointing her camera here and there like she gives a damn. I always try to be gentle to those sorts but she well and truly tug at my annoyance. The great tengus never took many actions against her; I suspect they gave up in trying to rein her in,” she sighs. “Sometimes, I wish the Four Devas still rule the Youkai Mountain.”

Writing down the new and familiar terms, one of the words pops out to him. But do we have time? “Bronn, any news of the scouts?”

“Not yet,” says the sellsword, peering out of the grove. “Might still be looking through the castle. Or dead.”

I have time then. Circling a word on his sheet, he asks: “What is a ‘camera’? A sort of weapon?”

“Aya likes to call it a weapon but it’s just her pride speaking. It’s a tool to make photos of her… Unfortunate victims.”

“And what are photos?”

“Oh, does it not exist here?” A leaf lands on her head before she hums in deep thought. “A photo… Is like an instant painting. It, uh, captures a scene and turns it into a picture? I’m not sure how it works though, you’ll have to ask a kappa for that.”

Kappas, devas, great tengus… The maesters never told me of your- Wait, pictures? He produces one of the small wax-smooth paintings from his satchel, the image of red forests matching the sorcerer’s hair. “You mean something like this?”

“Ah, you do have one!”

“A souvenir from that damned tengu,” he says, handing the picture over. The sorcerer looks over it with a bit of glee. “What can you make of it?”

“Well, as much as I detest her presence, there’s no doubt in her photographing skills.”

“Keep it. The image of an autumn forest seems a fitting gift for the Goddess of Autumn Leaves,” Tyrion bows with a smile, but his heart and mind are racing wildly at the implications. No need for painters, no need for maesters, accurate reconnaissance… He can only imagine what kind of warfare she can bring with such a magical tool. His only hope lies in the disorganisation in trying to command wild rabbles and actual birds. No, we do have one advantage. “In truth, Your Holiness, Lady Aya has been a sharp thorn in my side.”

“Oh no, did she take embarrassing pictures of you?” she tuts. “That tengu never had a sense of privacy.”

“No, but she did threaten to kill me and my father.” The sorcerer’s face pales as Tyrion recounts Lady Stormcrow’s many threats and terror, with some embellishment of course. Bronn soon joins in with the tale in the mountain pass, dragging in the other knights for their accounts of the Lannister camp’s crowing terror. Jaime hops from branch to branch, looking quite angry at their discussion and giving Tyrion a semblance of mirth. “All of that,” he concludes, “simply because I care for my family.”

A lie. He’d watch his father and sister be eaten by crows with glee. The rest he can wave away.

The sorcerer is at loss for words, her duplicates having stopped their painting. “That… That DAMN TENGU!” She stomps the ground with such force a small jolt ripples through the air, turning the surrounding woods bald as all their leaves fall. “I thought she moved past doing these cruel- Ugh, that little…”

“Which is why we need you, Holiness Shizuha.” Tyrion stands from the fallen tree he’s sitting on, approaching the sorcerer. “We Lannisters are adamant in bringing about peace, especially with my… Nephew on the Iron Throne.” Gods, Joffrey is on the Throne. “The Seven won’t answer our prayers and neither would the Old Gods nor these Devas you spoke of. But we do have you. And so I pray to thee: help us. Help us secure peace upon Westeros, help us clip this errant tengu’s pride and terror.”

The sorcerer’s eyes tear up as she leans down and grabs his hands; hers are soft to the touch. “As my first worshipper in this unknown land, I’ll do my utmost to answer your prayers. You have my eternal blessings, Tyrion Lannister.”

Looking at her beautifully glowing visage, his heart tightens for a moment but he shoves away such feelings. Not here, not now, and not with this deluded sorcerer. “And you shall have my worship,” he smiles back before letting go. “Now, let me suggest you a few… Actions.”

Harrentown

With Tyrion finishing the sorcerer’s preparations, the Harrenhal scouts return. “Not a soul, M’lord,” says their weary leader, “at least, not the parts we scoured.”

That doesn’t bring much confidence. “Look alive, men,” Tyrion replies as he climbs onto his replacement horse, “and lead the way.”

Harrenhal is not that far from the grove; he can see the silhouette of its towers in the distance. While taking that castle under House Lannister would be a great achievement, it’s been some time since he had both hands full of a whore’s tits. “Ser Robyn, did you not say there’s a town near Harrenhal? The one with demon worship?”

“Harrentown, M’lord. I’d advise against going there,” the young knight shivers. “I saw Rivermen throw the Seven’s drawings into the God’s Eye, Father help us.”

“Planning to go there, Imp?” Bronn smirks, keeping a firm grip on the bagged fairy. “Thought you’d be interested in world wonders.”

“First, Harrenhal is no world wonder but a half-melted candle from by-gone days. And second, wonders are best admired from afar. Learnt that the hard way with the Wall,” Tyrion huffs. “Had I wanted a frozen heart, I’d stay behind with my father at Casterly Rock. Then again, I heard there are great tapestries within the castle.”

“Heard it’s a haunt, Milord,” says Ser Barron, twirling his grey beard. “’Ole Harren the Black melded the stone with children’s blood, gathered by that witch Mad Danelle. Whole land’s cursed.”

“Tell me, Ser Barron, can you read?”

The older knight grimaces. “Fear not, Milord. Why?”

“Oh, nothing.” A smarter man would have known the two hundred years difference between them. Then again, I’d rather not contend with a like mind, Tyrion muses. The only other shining intellects here are Bronn and Jaime, and one of them is a bird. Yet your allegiance shines through, he thinks, watching the crow fly up high and never greet him. Trust as far as I can throw them…

“We cut through this forest, M’lord. Safest to be hidden.”

“Lest those fairies hide here as well,” Bronn groans before entering the woods. The trees have yet to turn orange, but the air feels staler than a crypt. A man’s corpse lies rotting near a tree, bitten to hell by some wild animals. And for all of that, not one utter a call in this place. Some of the men whisper prayers to the Warrior while others surprisingly call for the sorcerer’s name. What do you know, your first true believers, Tyrion smiles before exiting the forest and…

…

As a dwarf, there are many times he felt small and helpless. In his father’s shadow, near the Wall’s icy blue… But none are as oppressive as the curtain walls before him. He had seen drawing’s of Harren’s folly before, both its completion and Balerion’s work. To read that it’s larger than Winterfell is one thing, but this…

Hundreds of unmanned scorpions litter the wall, making him wonder how many men were supposed to hold the castle. A deep unease churns his stomach as the retinue pass beneath the towers’ immense shadow, bathing nearby lands in darkness. Hill-sized rubble litter the area, half-consumed by trees and weeds. The shaken leader directs them towards a massive gate, immense enough for even giants. Did Harren Hoare expect them as guests? Murderholes the size of his head dot the stony ceiling with the promise of death, though luckily none falls through.

But all stop at the sight of the towers. Piercing the sky like mountain peaks, the glimmering towers stand tall in their half-melted glory. As the sun’s rays peek through their ruined tops, they seem to stare down at him. Tyrion gulps. He can’t be here, shouldn’t be here. “Bronn, Robyn, prepare your disguises,” he commands, “because we’re scouting Harrentown.” And away from this damn place. “Ser Barron, I trust you can set up camp here?”

“Of course, Milord.”

“See if you can find traces of the Mountain, or the sellswords, or whoever. Anything to get father off my back,” he spits before turning to the gate and riding out. Putting on his scuffed-up fool’s hat, he sees Jaime roosting atop one of the scorpions. “Not coming?” The bird flies to the towers. “Suit yourself.”

“Is this truly a good idea, M’lord? The town is-”

“Cursed?” Bronn scoffs. “Bet those ones you call demons are just piss-poor sorcerers tricking people with coin tricks and nifty lights.”

“Or someone as capable as Lady Stormcrow and God- Lady Shizuha.” Slip of the tongue, nothing more. “That’ll be a vicious problem.”

“Doubt it,” the sellsword replies as they trot out of the forest and towards the small town in the distance. “I’ve seen my fair share of hedge wizards and woods witch, Imp. Their claims to predict the future and whatnot. Those two women are rarer than virgin whores, I tell you. My question is how many men this one control.”

“The town’s allied with those demons,” says the knight. “Even saw a few household knights with ‘em. Maybe more than a hundred?”

Bronn whistles. “For a bunch of no-names? Impressive,” he chuckles before being interrupted by the thrashing fairy. He gives the bag a good whack before sighing. “Should have left this at Harrenhal… Ah, right! What was my disguise again?”

“You’re my father,” says Tyrion, “and I’m not so sure if that’s an improvement.”

“You’re what, my half-wit dwarf child?” he smirks. “Hey, could be worse.”

“Ser Robyn will play as your younger brother, Bronn. Once there, we’ll buy the necessary supplies before the investigation of these supposed ‘demons’. Will anyone recognise you, Ser?”

“I don’t think so, M’lord,” the young knight answers. “Didn’t wander too long in town. We shouldn’t as well,” he nods towards a few gallows and posts lining their path. Bodies of men hang high from ropes, filling the air with a foul stench. House Prester, House Clegane, House Lannister, and that one’s a Lorch, Tyrion notes as they pass by their tattered clothing and shields. Good thing I dyed my hair, then.

“Halt! Who goes there?” two armed men demand with rope-decorated spears in hand. There are no identifying sigils on them. Must be commonfolks.

“Rivermen, good Sers,” Bronn descends from his horse and urges the others to follow. “We journey to King’s Landing and in need of supplies. Lions be prowlin’ here,” the sellsword spits. “This here’s my brother, Robyn. Killed the fucker who killed my wife, let the Father see them justly.”

“You have my condolences,” the taller guard nods. “Any man who kills a Westerman is a friend of ours.”

“Is that a dwarf?” The shorter one points at Tyrion with a large grin. “Hah! Look at its face, Koryn! Bet my balls have a better… Oh, is that your son?”

Bronn’s face strains to stifle a laugh. “Yep, little Giles I call ’im.”

“Ah, my deepest condolences. Can’t imagine having that as a child,” the guard cringes.

“What’s your name?” Tyrion asks in a falsetto. It won’t do to forget this idiot’s name.

“Ben,” he replies. “What you planning, Bronn? Earn a few coins with that motley boy of yours?”

“A few coins wouldn’t hurt. Are we allowed in?”

“Go ahead,” says Koryn. “Just… Careful when around those with painted shields, you hear? They’ve been jumpy as of late.”

Painted shields? With a quick goodbye for the gatekeepers, the three enter the fortified town of Harrentown. Only, the wooden walls are brand new, bordering some burnt-down buildings and spear-wielding sentries. “Don’t remember it to be like this,” Bronn mutters. “The town’s always been on the dinkier side…”

Unlike the rest of the Riverlands, Harrentown still holds vibrant life within. Children and urchins dart between stalls and markets, men and women carrying out their poor lives in the street… But what worries them most is the abundance of soldiers present here, and not just mere hedge knights. “They’ve increased,” says Ser Robyn. Among them, Tyrion sees Blackwood shields, Bracken horses, Mallisters, Mootons, and even a few Tullies.

A few people point and laugh at the sight of Tyrion, but he pays them no heed for now. Alerting his brother Jaime of this town would teach them. As the two men buy their share of supplies, the Lannister scans the buildings for any places that stand out. There’s one. Near the town’s square, he sees a small inn surrounded by men emblazoned with red stallions. Green serpents are painted on its walls. “Know anything about that?” he asks Ser Robyn.

“Aye. That’s where the demon worshippers gather,” he replies, stuffing the horse’s pack with bread and dried meats.

“No demon would hire Brackens as guards,” he whispers back. “There must be some nobles in there, and perhaps the sorcerers as well.” Tyrion pats the autumn leaves in his pocket, a goal forming in his head. “We need to get inside.”

“They won’t welcome strangers,” says Bronn, “let alone a dwarf.”

“So we’ll sneak in, distract the guards somehow.” Now, what would draw the attention of Brackens? Walking not far from the building, Tyrion passes by a tavern full of bawdy cheering. A soldier stumbles out laughing, all red-faced with beer stains on his House Blackwood tunic. A smirk crosses the Lannister’s face. “Excuse me, would you-”

“W-Woah! A bloody dwarf!” the man cackles, throwing spittle onto Tyrion’s face. He props himself up on a beam before asking dumbly: “Is… Is a mummer’s troupe in town?”

“…Sadly not,” Tyrion groans, wiping his face clean. “A Blackwood man, I presume?”

“Oh, this?” he tugs at the tunic. “Aye, Lord Brynden Blackwood’s best guard, you’ll find. Trust me, and don’t listen to the other twats at the bar! They’re just jealous.”

So his eldest son is in control of this detachment… Hopefully, the boy’s still wet behind the ears. “Well, every House would benefit to have a man like you,” Tyrion remarks, patting the man’s knee. “However,” he adds, “maybe not so much Lord Bracken.”

“Ugh, those horse pricks,” the man spits. “Daring to strut around as if they’re stallions when they’re simply a bunch of asses.”

“And the insults they speak of,” the dwarf huffs, glancing at the now curious man. “Once I heard them say the honourable Lord Brynden to be a wood-whelp, or a little sapling made for a dwarf’s bow. They have no respect to fellow Riverlords, and Blackwoods least of all.” All lies; he never once heard an insult about Blackwoods. But that’s all he needs to rile him up.

“…They said WHAT!?” The man’s posture straightens as his hand wanders down to the hilt of his sword, fury growing in his eyes. “Those bloody bastards!” Bronn and Tyrion’s grin grows wider as he marches down the tavern’s steps-

-and is stopped by Ser Robyn’s firm hand shaking him by the shoulder. “Calm down, Ser! You can’t just attack those guards” says the young knight, churning the Lannister’s stomach with a foul taste. You cunt! He was just about to- “It’s no good for a lone assault. Call the others to help.”

…

“Aye, that’s a fine thought!” the soldier grins before running back inside the tavern. The three step aside as about a dozen armed and drunken Blackwood soldiers march towards the guarded inn, insults and anger lining every movement.

“…Wow,” Tyrion chuckles as he watches them shout down the guards. “I certainly did not expect that from you, Robyn. My my, I’ll have to find you a good keep then.”

“M’lord is too kind,” the young knight scratches his head. “I strive to be in your good grace.”

“Smart lad. Now,” he gives the knight the horses’ reins, “tend and ready them once we’re back. Let’s go, Bronn!” As the screaming match turn violent, the two slink behind the building and see no guards. Satisfied, Bronn climbs into a second-floor window before hoisting Tyrion up into the empty room. It’s a bit dusty here, an old shield depicting the bats of House Whent hanging on the wall. As the clamour outside grows louder, Bronn peeks out and sees an empty hallway. Tip-toeing their way to the stairs, they overhear an ongoing conversation.

“…and move this army to Stone Hedge, I say,” a gruff voice commands. Peeking from the stairs, Tyrion sees a tall sandy-haired figure with a brown cape decorated with red stallions. “It’ll place us near Riverrun, allowing quick assaults and retreats for the Kingslayer’s camp.”

“Yet you’re complaining that Stone Hedge is a burnt mess,” a younger man sneers. He must not be older than the Snow bastard up North, but this one carries far more weight and pride. “Admit it, Harry, you want your natural father’s good graces by rebuilding his castle. We’re at war. How are you supposed to be my elder?”

“Suppose we’re focusing on the wrong thing, my Lords,” says a man with a raspy voice, obscured from Tyrion from his vantage point. He fishes out one of the sorcerer’s glowing leaves from his pocket, vibrating from anticipation. “While the Riverlands have the Lannisters, our true enemy lies up North. My son, he saw ill dreams of Winter’s coming and-”

“CROAK.”

The two nearly jump out of their skins as a fucking frog hops onto Bronn’s foot, croaking all the while. “Shoo,” he whispers, pushing it towards the stairs. It takes one last look at the two before hopping down. “Get on with the fucking spell.”

“Patient,” he hisses back. Holding the leaf between his fingers, he closes his eyes and prays- nay, demand for the sorcerer to slay these men… But it does not respond. Come on, now! He tries again, whispering the sorcerer’s name and her supposed divinity, yet it does nothing. Is this one damaged!?

“My Lords!” Some wounded Mooton man from the outside barges in and kneels before the meeting. “Th-There’s a scuffle, my Lords. Some Blackwood men attacked the guards with live steel.”

“WHAT!?” the Bracken man roars, knocking over his chair. “Attacking my men!?”

“Yes, they-”

“I told you not to mess with me, Brynden!” he points at the boy who’s looking on, quite confused. “You and your father are always a thorn in my father’s side. My lady, we should have never trusted them!”

Lady? Pausing his prayers to rack through his memories, Tyrion doesn’t remember any mention of leading Ladies in the Riverlands. Well, he doubts Shella Whent to be leading them from her advanced age. Must be the sorcerer then. Gods, why must the ones skilled in magic be women? He wonders if that’s why they demand to be called goddesses.

“Your father? You’re a bastard!” the Blackwood jeers. “That ‘red stallion’ couldn’t even sire a son with his wife and had to drag you out of the shoddy shack you were born in.”

“Why you-”

Someone slams down their hand on the table, stopping the two quarrelling Lords. “While I do enjoy some quarrels myself,” says a husky voice, “we have more pressing matters. For one, there are intruders in this inn.”

Tyrion’s heart freezes as he looks nervously at Bronn, his lips mouthing the word “run.”

“What? Even crows shouldn’t be able to- Tch, the fucking guards! Where are these intruders!?”

“My informant says upstairs,” she answers, a frog croak accompanying her words. “Two men. One tall and the other much shorter.”

Bronn pulls him by the shoulder, urging them to go. But the Gods be damned, Tyrion wants to see the sorcery through. This is his only chance to kill all these fuckers at once, to help Jaime and convince his father that he’s a worthy son for Casterly Rock. “Come on, Lady Shizuha, work with me! WORK!” The creaking of wood sounds closer and Bronn lets go of his shoulder. The glow on the leaf dims as he tries harder and harder, bubbling more frustration as it tears under his-

“YOU! Put down your-”

“ARGH!” A chair flies over Tyrion’s head and hits the Mooton man square on the chest, sending him down the stairs and breaking the Lannister’s concentration. Bronn grabs him roughly by the arm and drags him to the window as the two scramble out of the building. “Damn it Imp, why are you always making it hard!?”

“I did it once, Bronn, and I can do it again,” he huffs as they both run for Ser Robyn and the horses. But with Tyrion’s legs, it’s enough of a delay for the Lords to exit the building and point their men towards them. Stuffing the crumbling leaf into his pocket, the three gallop past the gaggle of commonfolks and head straight towards the gate guarded by those two men from before.

Those fighting stallion men behind them break away from the scuffle and climb onto their horses, giving the three a chase. In front, the two lone guards raise their spears to hold the three’s escape. But seeing something that Tyrion doesn’t, Ser Robyn and Bronn draw their hidden weapons and shouts “CHARGE!” with all their lungs, spurring their horses and sending dust onto Tyrion’s face.

Whether it be the blades, the horses, or the natural fear of being trampled, the two guards drop their spears and scamper away as the three riders rush out of Harrentown with unwanted companions in tow. Slowing down, the two warriors move to the sides of Tyrion as they gallop for the forest. An arrow flies past their heads, nicking Bronn’s steed. Another punches through the top of Tyrion’s fool hat, earning a gulp from the Lannister.

But as they enter Harrenhal’s stretching shadow, the chasers come to a sudden stop. They pelt a few more arrows before yelling a few curses and riding back to Harrentown, leaving the three tired men to their heartbeats. “Gods,” Tyrion wheezes, “that was-”

“Stupid,” Bronn spits, “very very stupid. The hell were you waiting around for, you almost died! What about my golden dragons, huh!?”

“Bronn, M’lord is-”

“No, Robyn… Bronn is right,” he confesses, looking at his pocket of leaves. That BITCH! Was this a trick all along? Is there something she’s not telling me? Why the HELL WON’T THE LEAVES WORK!?

…

Taking a deep breath and unclenching his fist, Tyrion turns to the looming shadow of Harrenhal. Or maybe she’s tired fro spying? Whatever the answer, he’s too tired to care right now. With the lowering sun, its top looks as aflame as the day Balerion was set upon it. “We secure one of the towers and fortify it. Once I hear their reports and rest, we’ll move for Riverrun. Gods be good, we encounter no more nightly troubles.”

Chapter Text

Kingspyre Tower

With the sun slowly setting upon the Riverlands, Tyrion’s men have gathered under the tallest structure in Harrenhal: Kingspyre Tower.

At least, that’s what maesters and surveyors called it after Balerion’s burning. They’re not even sure if this is where the last Hoares died, but the fact still remains that it’s the single tallest tower in the Riverlands. As wide as the Red Keep’s great hall, the tower would require a hundred servants and guards to properly man. Alas, Tyrion has barely more than twenty.

Men with winched crossbows look out of the grand dining room windows, watching for any signs of movements coming from Harrentown. For fear of being noticed, they use small lanterns instead of torches for the night.

Tyrion seats himself on the dining room’s grandest chair of velvety cushions and bat-shaped carved wood, cleaning his nail with a small dagger. Laying on the dinner table is a stone fist brought in by Ser Barron, its size dwarfing his own hand. He recognises the headgear for only one man could withstand its weight: “Ser Gregor Clegane’s?”

“Maybe,” says the old knight, downing a bit of wine they’ve pilfered from the cellar. “Found it among torn metal plates and a bent greatsword, Milord. That and a couple of broken shields. I heard his greathelm was decorated with this, so…”

“But no bodies.”

“Some blood on the wood and dirt, but aye, no bodies,” the knight nods.

“Then your man escaped,” Bronn snickers as he gives a bit of old morsel to Jaime. “Saw the battle going badly for him and decided to take no chances.”

“What kind of person would even budge The Mountain That Rides? I heard he even killed his own horse in front of Robert! The man has no fear… But neither is he a fool.” Downing a much needed cup of Arbour Red, Tyrion remembers the few times Ser Gregor Clegane visited Casterly Rock. My father sure has chosen interesting companies… Not that I don’t have one myself, he sighs. Though the sorcerer’s failure still weighs heavily on his mind, he’ll have to wait for tomorrow to bring it up. “If the Mountain’s truly become a robber knight, he’ll soon come to conflict with father.”

“Which means…”

“It’s not our problem,” the Lannister smiles as two guards bring them supper. Bronn and Tyrion sup on the newly bought beef, onions, mushrooms, and some gravy mixture they found in the kitchens. Ser Robyn and Ser Barron get their fair share as well for today’s work; the others will make do with the remaining rations. An uneasy expression rests on the sellsword’s face as he scoops up more of the onions. “Problem, Bronn?”

“Curiosity, that’s all. If those Riverlords got the men and forces for it, why haven’t they moved here? This place’s got wines, jewels, proper armaments, and is far stronger than their dingy wooden palisades.”

“Unlike Milord here, not many would brave the ghosts wanderin’ these halls,” says Ser Barron with wary eyes.

A snappy remark nearly escapes Tyrion’s lips; the knight is right. If they’re following the advice of the woman sorcerer, then there’s no doubt they listen to every drivel she speaks of. He should know considering he followed Lady Shizuha’s advice blindly, and look where that got him. At least we’ll have peace tonight, so thank you unknown sorcerer for your baseless fears. Finished with his plate and a goblet of wine, a faint tired buzz is setting in. I should sleep, but… “Ser, are there any books around here? A good read is important for a good night’s dream.”

“Well, the lower towers have a few books, M’lord, but I’d advise against going there so late. And of this tower…” The young knight drums his fingers on the table in thought.

“We’ve not checked the floors further up,” says Ser Barron.

“Why, scared of ghosts?” he snickers at the two knights. Hearing no response, he sighs and jumps off his chair before walking to the stairs. “Come with me, Sers. My hands are not that adept at carrying many books, you see.”

“W-Well, Milord, the upper floors are-”

“Don’t mistake my words. That was an order. What men are you to be scared of the dark? I see now why my father called you bottom-of-the-barrel,” Tyrion scoffs, glancing at now their emboldened stance. “Oh, and bring that lantern. Can’t scare away the ghouls without some lights, can you?”

Tyrion is used to living in tall structures before with Casterly Rock being near three times taller than the Wall, but that castle had a system of lifts and winches for him to take. This? This is all stairs, at least the parts that survived. “How many damn floors is this place?” he grumbles, climbing onto the next floor. He hopes that when Jaime conquers the castle he’ll build winches just for Tyrion.

And the air here is dustier than the Hall of Heroes in Casterly Rock. Nothing like a few hundred years’ worth of grime for a guest, he thinks, kicking a piece of rubble.

One of his men walks out of a room all dressed in gold-embroidered robes and jewels. “Ah! Evening, M’lord,” the soldier bows. Tyrion raises an eyebrow at his get-up. “O-Oh, I should take this-”

“No no, keep it. Take whatever trinkets and coins here as your rewards for last night’s valour.” He peeks into the room and sees a couple of men trying to unclasp a tapestry from the wall. “But leave the wall hangers,” he adds, “father expects a semblance of the original decorum.”

The further up they go, the more apparent that Ironmen built this place. Images of waves and longships are carved onto the walls. Beneath their feet are dusty mosaics of krakens and whales and sea dogs, all dancing to the Drowned God’s tune. The next stairway is decorated with a sea dragon’s maw, its eyes as dead as the stones it’s carved on.

And there’s something in the air. Not a smell nor dust, but pressure. Pressure pressing all around them that even darkens the flickering lantern. Tyrion keeps his nerves and moves along, eager to find some form of entertainment for the night.

“Ahh, this might be it,” he grins, lighting up a large doorway lined with images of ravens. A maester’s quarters, must be. Inside, his eyes are immediately drawn to the grand shelves clawing at the ceiling. Most of them are empty though, a great disappointment for the avid reader.

Taking the lantern from Robyn he goes straight to the nearest full shelf. His eyes wander from spine to spine, a finger tracing each word of the leather-bound tomes. History of the Wall, The Might of House Hoare, The Drowned God and His Rituals… Midnight Upon the Empire of the Dawn sounds interesting. He pulls it out and gives it to Ser Barron; perhaps he can add to his collection back at Casterly Rock. Another book titled The Blood of Magic piques his esoteric interest. Is there anything about dragons? he wonders. The flame sputters as he turns the next corner-

A face.

“GAH!” Tyrion leaps back as Ser Robyn draws his sword against the vagrant. “Bloody- You said this place was empty!” he yells at Ser Barron, hands still clutching the lantern.

“Name yourself and you may leave this place alive,” Robyn demands with a poke of his longsword. But the man lies still, unblinking, the lantern light reflected in his dull grey eyes. Now calmed down, Tyrion sees what a massive one he is. His beard melds with the rags on his body, making him look more bear than man. He turns his head — Gods, he’s alive — and looks at the dwarf with a terrified expression, snot and spit dribbling out of his mouth. “…What should we do, M’lord?” the knight whispers.

“Tell him to-”

The three flinch at the man’s sudden movement, but he’s not attacking. No, he’s grabbing at his head and sobbing, dropping onto the floor a bent knife and a torn-up red ribbon. Tyrion notices that his clothes are no mere rags but a beat-up surcoat. All their eyes widen at the emblem. “…Ser Gregor Clegane?”

“T-That’s the Mountain, M’lord!?” Ser Robyn cringes. “By Her Holiness, his hands! What happened to him?”

“I don’t know, but the man’s still alive. Ser Barron, run down and get a few men to move him. Oh, and place the books on the dinner table.”

It takes seven men to budge the head of House Clegane from his corner and five to hold his massive frame. As they march him down to the dining room, Tyrion notices a few festering wounds on the man’s back. Bite marks, he realises, like the ones in the forest.

Gregor makes no effort to resist as he’s seated on the largest chair available, still creaking under his weight. Under bright lantern light, it’s clear how emaciated the man is. Though still a massive frame, his muscles have wasted away. His skin is pale and eyes sunken, like someone you’d see begging in a dirty corner of Lannisport. Ser Robyn shoves a waterskin to his lips but some trickle down his beard. “Can you talk, Ser?” No answer.

“Don’t bother,” says Bronn, “the man’s a lost cause.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s broken.” Jaime lands atop Gregor’s wiry hair, poking at it like a piece of meat. “Seen his like many times in the Riverlands, a bit more common with greenboys than older sellswords and knights. Seen enough horrible shit, they break like a twig. Some become mad bandits, others…” The sellsword clicks his tongue with a rare look of pity. “I say we end him here, Tyrion. Less nightmares for him, less dead weight for us.”

“Nay, we should bring him to Lord Jaime’s camp, Milord,” Ser Barron interjects. “Even if he’s become a halfwit, I’m sure there’s use for men like him. And he’s the head of House Clegane for goodness sakes! He has no sons and his brother refused to take a knight’s vows. We can’t just-”

“So that’ll be the end of House Clegane,” says Bronn. “He won’t be the first House who met their end, and certainly not the last. Your father has to look for a new hound to play with.”

…

Tyrion walks around Ser Gregor, making sure to keep his distance if the man ever wanted to try dwarf-tossing. He tries to convince himself that it’s because of the knight’s headaches and addiction to milk-of-the-poppy, nothing more. But his eyes keep on focusing on those bite marks, so deep and gouging as if it had been done by lions.

And knowing what happened last night, he doesn’t want to take any chances.

“Robyn, take yourself and seven men to the upper floors and scour every room you find. If there are any survivors, bring them here. And if there’s trouble, well, fight on if you can kill whatever has caused this,” he gestures to Gregor’s wounds. “Is that clear?”

“Of course, M’lord,” the young knight replies with some worry in his eyes. Fear of ghosts...

To brighten his spirit, Tyrion fishes out the crumbling leaf from his pocket and hands it to Robyn. “Keep it. It’ll be of more use to you.” That thing is useless anyway, Tyrion thinks as the knight’s face lights up in awe. Well, if it’ll help the lad’s fight for me… “Pray to that leaf and she’ll come to aid. But remember: one use.”

“Aye, M’lord! Thank you!” And with that, the young knight and his men march up the stairs.

“Ser Barron, secure the Mountain so that he won’t try and kill us in our sleep. And the rest,” he turns to the crossbowmen, “keep guard, alright?” Tyrion taps his foot on the floor in thought. “Ah that’s right. Bronn.”

“Yep?”

“Carry those books to my bedroom please. I’ve had a long enough day to deal with,” he yawns, “and I think I deserve a good night’s rest.”

“And I think I’ve earned my coins, Imp. Remember what I said: I’m no servant of yours.”

“…Fine, I’ll carry the books myself,” Tyrion grumbles, choosing the lightest of the two. “And worry not for coins: a Lannister always pays their debts.”

“Aye, and I’m counting them.”

Going up with a lantern in hand, Tyrion opens the door to the room Ser Barron reserved for him. It’s quite dusty from many years of disuse, so he opens the window to let in the cool night’s air. Jaime flies in and perches herself above the curtains. “What do you want?”

“Caw,” says the crow, tilting her head before hopping onto a soft cushion. There, Jaime nestles herself before closing her eyes.

Sighing, Tyrion sets the lantern on the bedside table and climbs onto the bed. He prefers a whore to warm his side but tonight his company is a book. No matter. I’ll find one at Jaime’s camp. And with that, he opens Midnight Upon the Empire of the Dawn and starts reading.

Kingspyre Tower

Water.

He can feel it lapping at his feet as he stands atop Kingspyre Tower, laughing madly into the salty winds. Longships swim and crash against the waves, clouds swirl and churn like a whirlpool, and high above the moon kisses the sun.

The birth of dragons. The belief of some backwater Dothrakii from the Essosi plains. But the moon’s dark circle doesn’t crack like a serpent’s egg. No, for its shadow creeps ov-

“CAW! CAW!”

“Gah!” Tyrion is startled awake and pushes the heavy book off of his face. His drool stains the illumination of God-on-Earth’s many wives, turning their golden jewels muddy. Around him the room is still dark and cold, a soft breeze blowing through the open crack of the window. Autumn. And this chill is too cold for comfort. His lantern is nearly out and a soft red glow emanates from the red comet outside. “Gods, what time is it?” he groans, shooing the crow from his chest and rubbing his-

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

“Lord Tyrion! Are you awake, Lord Tyrion!?”

“Now I am.” Tyrion puts on his shoes before taking the lantern. Jaime caws again but he ignores her. “Why wake me?”

“T-There’s a problem, my Lord. A large one.”

Always a problem to deal with… “What, you’ve found more survivors? I’m sure Ser Barron… Could…” All his hair stand up ends as a black mass blocks the window of twinkling starlight. A deep rumble fills the room as if he’s surrounded by hungry lions. Wispy black tendrils slink through the crack, tugging at the curtain and window frame like a kraken. But perhaps due to the Lannister’s stillness, the darkness slips away noiselessly and light graces the bedchamber. Tyrion gulps.

That … That’s a problem.

He swings open the door and nearly crashes into the soldier’s knee. “What in the Seven Hells was that?” he whispers as the two rush down the stairway, Jaime passing overhead. Recognising the man as one of the excursionist, he asks: “What happened?”

“Long story, my Lord, bu-”

“Keep it short.”

“Upstairs was full of bones, my Lord. Something stalked us. A snark, a ghoul, the Others… We don’t know but it was a vicious thing. If it wasn’t for the lad’s thinking we won’t be here,” he grins before turning dark. “And he, well…”

The knight — Ser Vali if Tyrion remembers correctly — opens the dining room door to reveal the hectic mess within. Tired-looking men rush to move their supplies down the tower. Ser Gregor is tied onto a stone pillar, his shallow breaths whispering prayers and nonsense. And on the dinner table where Tyrion ate his meal lies the young Ser Robyn, bleeding profusely from horrific wounds on his- Tyrion looks away, intending to keep the dinner in his stomach. “He earned his steel, my Lord,” says Ser Vali, “worthy of lands and titles.”

“I simply prayed, Ser,” the young man winces as Ser Barron tries his best to stitch the wound. Bronn sits on a nearby chair whistling as he whets his longsword to a sharp shine. “It was Her Holiness’ blessings, Her powers which saved us.”

The sorcerer’s blessings? Wait… “Ser, where did you stash the leaf?” he asks with worry.

“I… I used it, M’lord- Geh…” Ser Barron ties a tight tourniquet above the elbow before wiping his brow; the old knight looks hopeless with blood all over his hands. “It bit through my mail and bent my sword, that ghostly fiend. But when I thought all was lost, I called Her name and She drove back that foul darkness!” the knight laughs before being smacked by Ser Barron.

“Be still, lad!”

“Sorry…”

…Tyrion’s eyes twitch at the thought. Someone other than him using the sorcerer’s spells? What!? How!? How did this bloody green knight call for the sorcerer’s power? I prayed to- Nay, she named me her first worshipper! Does that not put me in her good grace?

“…Shit, that’s all I can do, young man,” the old knight huffs while looking at his stitches. “Ain’t no maesters around here to help, else they’ll know how to stitch that properly.”

“Even with maesters, that arm won’t recover,” says Bronn, standing tall with his longsword in hand. “I’ve certainly seen worse, lad. But I can tell you that that,” he lies the blade’s edge on the inside of the elbow, “won’t survive the night. You know what I mean, don’t you, Robyn?”

Did he curry some favour when I was not looking? Tyrion ponders, looking into the knight’s terrified eyes. No, he was with me from the very beginning. Was it the prayers? No, both of us prayed and I’m sure I called upon the sorcerer the most.

“I’m a knight,” Ser Robyn spits at Bronn’s boots. “My hand is my tool, cutthroat. I will wield my sword for my Lord Lannister ‘til the end for it is my calling.”

“And once all that mess turns green, all that will be calling is the Stranger,” the sellsword cackles, souring the knight’s face. “I’m doing you a favour here, young man. That green will rot you ‘til your ribs go hollow and full of yellow pus. And frankly, you have potential,” he smirks before nodding at Ser Vali and Ser Barron. The two hold down Robyn as the knight struggles weakly against them; blood loss is an effective sedative. Shoving a ball of cloth into the knight’s mouth, Bronn lifts his sword and- “Ah right, permissions. Tyrion, mind if I shorten him a bit?”

The Lord’s mind still swims in trying to find the reason for the sorcerer’s selectiveness. What quality does the man being held down has that Tyrion doesn’t? Not a sharp mind, nor his words, nor his interest in magic… Or is it because I’m…

An ill thought for an ill night; Lady Shizuha doesn’t seem the kind of person to hold such judgements… Or does she? What would make her any better than those whores in Lannisport or… He clicks his tongue; this woman might be different. Maybe… Maybe…

“Uhh, Tyrion?”

“Hmm? Ah, the arm… Cut it,” he waves with nonchalance before walking to his satchel. Ah, there’s my hat. He hears a sword’s swoosh before a chop; if Bronn didn’t fill the knight’s mouth up, Tyrion would have gone deaf from the screaming. Though he keeps his eyes away, the feeling of mirth and disgust jostle about in his stomach. “Well,” he whispers to himself, “I’ll still give him a keep. He deserves that much.”

The guardsmen present can only cringe at the impromptu surgery; one nearly heaves his dinner. “Stitch it up now,” Bronn huffs before wiping down his sword and picking up his cloak. “And quit moaning, Robyn. If you’re worth your steel, you’ll survive,” he pats his shoulder before going to Tyrion. Jaime grabs a piece of bloody flesh before landing near them, cawing for more. “The lad should be easy enough to carry, but what do we do with the Mountain? We’ve got no wagons and I doubt any of our horses can hold him.”

“Then leave him here,” says Tyrion as he dons the hat and coat. “We’ll confirm for Jaime that Ser Gregor is… Well, physically here; I’m not so sure about his mind,” he glances at the empty-eyed giant-of-a-man. “And regarding Harrenhal… I’ll need to convince him of sorcery and-”

*THUMP THUMP*

The walls tremble at the sound, loosening decades-old dust into the air. A few candles drop and break on the floor, alerting whatever is above. Drawing their swords and pointing their crossbows, the men’s faces droop as an inky black mass seeps through the ceiling like clotted blood through cloth. Ser Barron keeps a firm hand on Robyn’s mouth, though his own lips are muttering the Seven’s prayers. Ser Vali’s sword trembles at the sight; was it this thing that wounded Ser Robyn? The one who chased them down the tower? Tyrion notices Bronn eyeing the stairway but steps on his toes, reminding the sellsword who’s filling his coffer. The others…

To say they’re not at wit’s end right now would be a lie.

And the rumbling again, deeper now and clawing at the Lannister’s beating heart. As the blackness drips and floats above the floor, pearl-white gnashing teeth form at its surface. The lanterns flicker again, now sputtering one by one and leaving only a single dim light on the dinner table. But in this room, the shadows dance with them all.

Tyrion has no idea what that thing is. It looks like no phantom nor demons of fairy tales; just a ball of inky darkness. Like an endless hole poked through the world, none can take their eyes off of it and its swimming teeth. He gulps and sweat drips from his nose, waiting for that mass to move. To attack, to grab them, to...

…

…

Is… Is it not moving? Tyrion realises as it remains suspended in the air. Jaime and Bronn remain still in its sight- Wait, does that thing even have eyes? Or is it like those blind troglodytic creatures told in books? Is it even alive? A dangerous idea forms in his head. Bronn’s eyes widen as Tyrion reaches slowly into his bag and pulls out a piece of charcoal he used for writing. And with sweaty hands, he throws it towards a group of chairs, creating a small clatter.

And the thing moves towards it. By the Seven, that thing is blind.

As the black mass grope and scour the chairs with black tendrils, Tyrion takes off his boots before taking the lightest of steps towards the stairway. Seeing no reaction from the thing, Bronn does the same as they slowly make their way to the exit. His men with their armour slowly scoot their way as well, keeping their crossbows aimed at it. Jaime looks ready to fly but Tyrion waves his hand; many windows are open and she can escape la-

*THUNK*

A quarrel is accidentally loosened into a chair near Ser Vali, knocking it down with a loud thunk. With terrifying speed, the black mass slams into the chair and pulls it into the darkness. The good knight bites his thumb as to not cry out in terror while the thing rips the wood to splinters. The offending man is given a death glare before continuing their slow escape; Tyrion will be sure to remember-

“Eww, this one tastes bad,” says... A little girl’s... Voice...

What?

Pieces of cloth and wood fall out from between the mass’s many teeth. Wait, are they frowning? “I’m hungry,” the mass complains, clacking its many teeth. Bronn and Tyrion look at each other, making sure that they’re not imagining this. Gods, that is a child’s voice! Is that thing trying to trick me, or is it like those fairies? “Where are you, Mister Dog-shirt?” it asks with a childish inflexion, the sharp tendrils scratching at the floor and table as it floats away from the terrified Ser Robyn. “I want my dinner!” the teeth clack and rattle, nearly putting out the lantern nearby.

Wait, hunger... Tyrion waves for Ser Vali’s attention and points at Robyn’s cut severed limb. Though distraught by the command, the knight grabs it by the torn-up hand and throws it near Ser Grogor. The wet slap attracts its attention as the mass lunges at it like a hungry wolf. The Mountain misses its tendrils by a mere foot, sparing the man’s life. For now.

With the thing fully distracted, the men rush out with quiet steps. Tyrion can hear the nasty crunching of bones and- Ugh, I’m going to be sick. Ser Robyn is helped by Ser Barron and Vali out of the room while Jaime quickly flies out the window and into the safer knight. Bronn snatches the lit lantern and Tyrion...

…

No. No, he should leave. Leave that thing behind to consume whatever spoiled meats and rats in this accursed castle. Let it kill Mister Dog-shit for all he cares — it’ll be mercy to that pitiful baby-murderer. But his attention is still grabbed by that black mass, the one that can talk and think and... Bronn grabs his shoulder but Tyrion shrugs him off. “Let’s go,” the sellsword whispers; the Lannister pulls open his satchel instead.

Inside he can see the multitude of glowing leaves, the supposed powerful weapons from the sorcerer. Yet when he wanted to use it the most, her magic failed him. How useful would that be in a dire situation if Ser Robyn still lost his good arm? Not only that but he must come to great deals with the sorcerer, convince her of his piety and... It’s all just taxing. But the thing in front of him, the one that speaks like a child, the one who may not be half as smart, the one who could slip through walls and tear through metal...

Father once said ‘Every tool have their use.’ Some jobs require lions, while others hounds and goats. And I only have a paltry...

Tyrion fishes out a couple of dice he won from the singer back at the Vale of Arryn. Well, now the Vale of Stormcrow. He can feel the weighted sides of the dice in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he throws it at the shadow and stops its incessant chewing. The teeth turn to him. “Who was that?”

“Greetings,” he smiles at the dark mass, “my name is Tyrion Lannister. May I know yours?”

Chapter Text

Riverrun’s Lannister Camp

“Pardon me, Lord Jaime?”

“Hm? And who are you?” The golden-armoured Jaime Lannister tilts his lion-shaped helm at the boy before him. A wiry one, chinless with brown hair and weak eyes, unfit for a battlefield. That’s when he notices the blue bridge herald on the boy’s surcoat — the Lannister’s free hand reaches for his sword pommel. “Now what’s a Rivermen doing here?” he growls. “Eager to test your steel?”

“N-No, my Lord! I’m Willem Frey, son of Ser Cleos Frey, your cousin.”

“…Ah, those lot,” Jaime clicks his tongue before relaxing. In truth, that side of his family is barely considered Lannisters, looking more like weasels than lions. Emmon Frey’s blood is quite unworthy of Aunt Genna, siring meek boys like you… “Right then, what’s the matter? Ser Emmon wanting someone to finally train him to fight?”

“Well, Lord J-”

Jaime flicks the boy’s forehead hard, leaving a bright red mark. “It’s Ser Jaime, Frey. Did your father never teach you the difference between a Lord and knight? Any low snot-nosed brat like you can become a Lord, but it takes skill and dedication to become a shining knight like myself,” he grins beneath his visor. The boy should be ecstatic to learn from a Kingsguard but his face is simply stuck in nervousness. “Care to repeat what you said before? With proper titles?”

“Of course, Ser Jaime. I came here with Ser- Aie!” the boy yelps as an arrow nearly plants itself in his foot.

The Lannister groans at the interruption and picks it up for the quiver with all the others. “Run to camp now, Willem. That surcoat will do no good in catching arrows.” With the boy out of his way, he turns back to the stretch of land and water between him and the salmon-heralded walls of Riverrun. At its ramparts are the snickering Tully bowmen, ready with more arrows. “OY! Don’t you people have manners!?” he shouts. “Don’t disturb my talking!”

“Your blood will spill, KINGSLAYER!” a man in an ornate black cloak yells before snatching a bow from the Tully guards. With a true aim, his arrow breaks directly on Jaime’s chestplate, amusing the Lannister. “You and that IMP will PAY!”

“Do NOT bring my brother into this!” Jaime draws his golden sword, the bright glare from it intimidating the more eel-boned Tullies. “Come down and fight me, you cravens!” Alas, his enemies have no spine. This is a near-daily occurrence now with Jaime demanding a fight while the Tullies prance about in their castle. In truth, this siege is starting to truly bore him. Where’s the fight? The thrill? The blood running down his blade? “We have Edmure Tully you fools! The Tullies will soon be Lordless!” Another arrow — Edmure’s capture seems a distant past now. That surprise assault was one for the singers. Two more arrows graze his helm. I wonder what that boy wants… Seeing no progress in his demands, Jaime sheathes his sword before leaving for the camp. A raven caws at him, disappointed at the lack of flesh.

He hands the quiver of arrows to the smiling Ser Tytos Brax atop his horse. “A dozen arrows,” the older knight chuckles, “at least we’re wasting their quivers. I’d say we wait ‘til Winter, Ser, and march on the frozen rivers whilst freezing their nets.”

“Aye, and freeze my balls off as well.” At least I’ve sired children, he nearly adds. With Riverrun being placed between Tumblestones and the Red Fork, the Tullies have ample supplies of salmon and trout. And though they have Edmure, he’s much more useful alive than dead.

Soon the smell of roasted lamb and coals grace his nostrils. The camp is lively this afternoon as no one expects a battle or skirmish any time soon. Soldiers and camp followers flit about between tents while the ringing of smiths’ hammers fill the air. Near a group of horses, he finds the Frey from before; Jaime takes off his helm before talking, letting loose his golden mane. “Willem.” At the call, the boy stands at attention. “Why are you here again?”

“I’ve come with Ser Addam Marbrand, my-”

“Ser.”

“S-Ser Jaime,” the boy gulps, “by orders of Lord Tywin. I know nought more, Ser.”

father’s orders? That can’t be good. “Lead me to Addam, then.”

The two slink past the many colourful tents before arriving at Jaime’s red-and-gold one. Upon entering, he sees the red-haired Addam laughing at Genna Lannister’s jests, both of them already holding half-empty cups of wine. Jaime’s squire, Jaan Vikary, runs over to the knight and starts to dismantle his armour. “Ah, Jaime!” his friends greet him with a bright smile. The wine seems to have seeped a bit into him. “Lady Genna here was just talking about you. I take it the siege hasn’t gone that well?”

“Slow progress, they say,” the Lannister sighs before putting on a red doublet decorated with golden lions. Giving his aunt a quick kiss on her hand, he takes a seat at the head of the small table; Jaan is quick to provide him with wine, a small reprieve for today’s disappointment. “You told your squire to retrieve me?”

“I know you, Jaime. You’d have spent the whole day shouting at those Rivermen ‘til your sweat wet you like a river,” Addam laughs, earning a smirk from the Lannister — the armour is uncomfortably hot during the day. Until Winter marches South, at least. “I think it’s best to inform you both of my mission after all, just in case one of your men decides to shoot me.”

What about Ser Emmon? he nearly asks, but even Tytos Brax knows what a stupid question that is. He’s grown even less receptive to the Frey ever since he joined this campaign. We could have conquered Riverrun weeks ago if he didn’t slow down the building of siege equipment, Jaime grumbles. Since when did he think he’ll be rewarded with Riverrun? Besides, Aunty Genna is the one spearheading that relationship. “Is that why you’re wearing Bracken clothes, Addam? Or is it because the red stallion matches your hair?”

“Matches my hair and steed, doesn’t it? Shame that the Brackens are our enemies…”

“Behave yourselves,” Aunt Genna huffs, the rolls on her arms swaying as she demands more wine. “I have a busy day today and can’t spend too much time here. Get to your point, Ser.”

“Apologies, my Lady,” the Marbrand bows his head. “Lord Tywin’s plan for this is simple: disrupt any possible sense of cooperation between House Bracken and Blackwood.”

“Cooperation,” Jaime scoffs. “Spend a night here and you’ll hear them shout from Riverrun.”

“But their sons may not hold the same blood ire,” Addam wags his finger. “And that’s where my riders come in. We’ll set aflame Raventree Hall from root to stem, light a flame in the Lordlings’ little hearts, and let anger do the rest. Do it well enough and Stone Hedge will turn to ash,” he cackles, a glint of light catching his brown eyes. “After that, well, we can easily snatch it from their grasp. I see no losses in our men for this, Jaime. Not the initial raids, at least.”

“Heh, a fine plan indeed,” the Kingslayer clinks his cup with his friend’s. “However,” he glances at the Frey, “better to keep that one here. It’ll keep him safe, lest you’ll draw Aunty Genna’s-”

“If the boy can’t ride and follow his knight, what good will he be as a man?” she quickly rebukes, causing Willem to flinch. However, her expression softens with some lingering thoughts. “Still, keep an eye on my grandson. He can be quite… Flighty at times.”

“He’s improved since last year,” Addam smiles whilst tussling the boy’s hair. “Better swordplay and can certainly light a torch. I’m sure he’ll be a fine knight in no time.”

“Take pride in Ser Addam’s knighting, Willem, for there’s only one other who’s better than he,” Jaime proclaims, referring to himself of course. “So… What other plans did my father conjure? He won’t be satisfied with just one.”

Addam taps the rim of his glass, filling the tent with nervous tension. “The Mountain’s disappearance — along with Amory Lorch and that sellsword company — was a great blow to our continuous supply. For that, Daven will arrive in a couple of weeks to help secure our supply lines.”

“My cousin, huh?” Jaime muses, leaning back into his chair. An improvement from that brute Gregor Clegane and his merry men. He dares not the Mountain a knight, something he and the Hound have in common. The sight of gore beneath a red cloak comes to mind but he shakes it off. “I’ll ready the singers with The Rains of Castamere. You know how much he enjoys that,” he jests, but it doesn’t earn a smile from his friend. “Other issues, I assume?”

“Seven save us, I wish that was all,” Addam groans before downing his cup. Willem is quick to refill it. “You surely have heard of the one named Lady Stormcrow?”

“…Whispers here and there, yes. A new Lady of the Vale, was it? Some queer black-haired witch who prefer the company of birds to men, at least that’s what the messenger I sent father returned with. Can’t say it’s an improvement on Catelyn Stark’s hag of a sister,” Jaime shrugs.

“An improvement it is not,” his friend sighs. “Damn wench came to our camp one day and treated with your… father. Well, challenged him, more like. Now the Vale is also moving against us, though our scouts have yet to see offensive movements other than the occasional Wildlings.”

The Lannister snorts at the revelation. Someone like that coming to the camps is funny enough, but to challenge his father? The Old Lion of the West? The man who single-handedly remade House Lannister’s glory and crushed all the Houses who opposed him? The man who would… “A foolish and empty boast, Addam. Even if she did conquer the Eyrie who would want to legitimise her claims? Certainly not my s- nephew Joffrey,” he catches himself, luckily unheard by the others.

“And neither would the Valemen, Ser,” says Aunty Genna as she swirls her wine with a smirk. “Though not our friends, their noble Houses are known for honour and valour compared to her savages in furs. If not the Vale knights, I’m sure many green men in Tywin’s host could cut down those smelly lot.”

“Aye, that might be so, Lady Genna… But not when they’re armed with sorceries.”

Jaime raises his brow. “Pardon?”

“Lady Stormcrow… How do I put this?” Addam pinches the bridge of his nose in thought, earning strange looks from the Lannisters. Even Willem is unable to stand still, rocking foot-to-foot. “On that day, the warg brought her birds to camp and threatened to destroy us with whirling storms. If not for… Lord Tywin’s negotiations, who knows the damage she would have caused.”

…

Jaime bursts out laughing, surprising both his friend and the squires. For that Addam snatches the wine from the Lannister’s hand and slams it on the table, nearly spilling it on the ornate doublet. “Oy, what gives!?”

“Damn it, Jaime, we nearly died there!”

“Oh, be serious, Addam. Her coming to father’s camp was suspicious, yes, but I very much doubt she caused an actual storm.” His Aunty nods as well — someone with common sense. “It’s Autumn, is it not? ‘The season of storms’ Robert used to say before the boar got him. Maybe that’s what it was, just some ill wind coming from somewhere. Tyrion could explain it better than I.” His friend’s eye twitches at the mention of the smaller Lion. As much as Jaime cherishes their friendship, he’ll admit that Addam has no love for Tyrion.

“…I am serious about Lady Stormcrow, Jaime-”

“Sure you are.”

“-and Lord Tywin is already making moves against her. As does Ser Kevan, Lord Stefford, and even your cousin Daven! We had a war council, we decided on-”

“’We’?” Aunty Genna scoffs, the chair creaking dangerously beneath her. “I know my brother well, Ser, and I’ve attended a few of his councils. Why, there is no ‘we’ on the final decision; it’s all Tywin. The most Kevan ever gave was reports and choices, never a disagreement to his elder’s plans. Always the obedient little brother,” she chuckles, swirling her cup before sipping it. “Tywin’s smart, yes, but no one is exempt from errors such as this one. And with him, he won’t accept criticisms all that well.”

Jaime scratches at his growing stubble; I should cut it soon. “We could write a message to father voicing-” but his words are cut short by a pinch to his cheek.

“Sweet nephew, what part of ‘won’t accept criticisms’ don’t you get?” his Aunty tuts before releasing it all red and sore. “Voice something once and he’ll shun you for half a year,” she sighs. “Let my brother realise it on his own — this is his campaign, after all. He’s smart, he’ll realise his mistakes soon enough.”

“B-But Lady Genna, Ser Addam is right,” stutters the Lannister’s grandson. “The crows and ravens are spying on us! The warg speaks with them on the wind!”

Aunty Genna pinches the boy’s ear and tugs him to a kneel. “Don’t fill your heads with fairy tales, dear, else you won’t be a good knight. And that goes for you too, Ser,” she glares at Addam, “for it’s your influence over his.”

“Sevens be- Ugh, I should have called a war council…”

“And be laughed at by all the Lords and knights,” Jaime smirks, earning a few giggles from his squire Jaan. The Marbrand’s stare silences the boy. “Even Ser Emmon wouldn’t be so receptive of your claims, Addam.”

“Lord Tywin’s orders. Did you not hear what I said before? This was all Lord Tywin’s orders!” Addam looks at Jaime’s face and then to Aunty Genna before down at the floor, tapping his cup. After a length of silence, the knight lets out a long sigh before standing up, his eyes as fiery as his hair. “Willem, we’re leaving.” The squire is quick on his feet and readies the helm and sword; Jaime raises a brow at the sudden change. “If my Lady and Ser of Lannister are not heeding Lord Tywin’s words… Then I’m not arguing. But here.” he takes out a sealed letter from a pouch and places it before Jaime. “Your father’s orders. Do best to heed them.”

“…Sure,” he places it with all the other documents; Addam clicks his tongue at that. “What? I’ll read it later.”

“I know you, Jaime,” Addam sighs before putting on his helm. “Ready the horses, Willem, and tell the others we’re heading for Raventree Hall.”

“Ah, before you go,” Jaime stops him at the tent flaps and hands him a small bottle of Dornish red. “When you return to camp, can you give this to Tyrion? His imprisonment must’ve been quite dry and he’s fond of the bottle.”

“Too fond,” his Aunt adds.

“Either way, say it’s a gift from his brother Jaime. Hopefully, I’ll ride to him soon enough, whenever the Tullies decides to surrender,” he smirks, “or die.” But to his surprise, Addam hands him back the bottle.

“I’ll come back after I burn some weirwood,” he says, climbing onto his red-maned stallion. “Besides, the Dwarf’s not at camp; he’s heading to Harrenhal. Your father’s orders, Jaime.” And with that, the Marbrand rides off with his squire.

…

The bottle breaks at his feet.

Riverrun’s Lannister Camp

“Cousin, maybe it’s best to reconsider-”

“What, Cleos? Stay here and wait out this bloody siege? See if my brother returns on a horse or in a sack? Sevens be damned, have you no backbone, Ser? And here I thought you share blood with him,” Jaime glares at the Frey, prompting him to sink into his chair in dejection. The other Sers and Lords stay quiet at his outburst — he’s the leading commander of this camp after all, yet asking for help seems like a wasted effort with them. He gives them all a once-over, seeing only tired faces after he pulled them out of their dinners. “Do I need to repeat my command?”

“I think everyone here heard them well enough, Ser Jaime,” the wispy Lord Andros Brax sighs, looking a good deal gloomier than his son Tytos. Giving Tywin’s letter one last look, he hands it over to Ser Forley Prester before rapping his fingers on the table. His dark eyes give Jaime no sense of agreement. “A hundred riders, is it?”

“At least, else we won’t be able to cover enough ground and find Tyrion.” The Lord’s eyes twitch at his name; not many here hold love for the smaller lion. And least of all my father, Jaime thinks, adding to his worry. Considering his father’s propensity for cruelty… “If my Lord prefers, we can ride out tomorrow morning and let the men rest tonight. We won’t find much under the red comet’s light.”

“That is not the problem here, Ser. May I remind you that we’re at war?”

The Lannister scoffs. “You’re truly asking that question, Lord Andros?”

“Yes I am, young man. We have the Rivelords under siege in Riverrun, we have their Tully heir, and we have our siege engines at the ready. Yet why are we still sitting on their lawns!?” the Lord spreads his arms wide, earning a few spirited nods from the others. Jaime clicks his tongue at the gesture. “And with this in progress, you want to take away the riders? By the Sevens, it’s as if you want this campaign to end!”

“My good Lord, I plan to see the Red Fork turn red from Tully blood. But with riders?” the Lannister smirks. “If you plan to drive your lance into their moat and walls, then be my guest. Or perhaps ride up our half-finished siege towers and onto their ramparts?” That one earns a few smiles from the knights. Taking a quick draft of water he continues: “Over twenty-five hundred riders are in our camp, some of which are freeriders and weighing greatly on our coffers. Sending them South will ease their tensions, I know that quite well.”

“Easing tensions,” the Lord sneers, “this is just an excuse for you, our leading commander, to cure your boredom by cutting down some farmers and their-”

Jaime slams down his hand, cutting the Lord’s words short. “…I’d advise you against questioning my honour, Lord Andros Brax. I’m no Mountain nor Black Goat, I can assure you.”

“Of course not,” the Lord smiles beneath his wrinkly moustache. “My apologies, Kingslayer.”

…

“To clear this accusation you have for my nephew,” Aunty Genna breaks the stillness, “he’s been meaning to lay a strong siege against Riverrun from the very beginning. Yet I hear it was the voice of a certain knight who opposed the method, something about keeping the castle’s beauty. An odd notion, even for a Lady,” she sighs. “Alas, I was not in those meetings to know who it was.”

Ser Emmon opens his mouth but a single glance from his wife snaps it shut. Jaime wonders why he’s even a knight.

The letter has now been passed on to Lord Quenten of Banefort, his hooded herald not nearly as dark as his eyes. Giving a glance to the Lannister, he hands the paper to the Freys before whispering something to Lord Regenard Estren — Jaime doesn’t like their expressions. Lord Quenten is the first to speak: “It seems to us that the Imp’s departure-”

“My Lord, my brother carries a name. I prefer you to speak it.”

“Of course, Ser Jaime. Well, Tyrion Lannister’s departure for the Southern regions of the Riverlands was done per the orders of Lord Tywin. And from the date it’s only been a few days since, giving us no reason to send aid.”

“And who are we to refuse Lord Tywin’s orders?” Lord Regenard shrugs limply as if that solves the problem.

“Are you disobeying Lord Tywin’s- Nay, your father’s orders, Ser?” Lord Andros adds with a sharp look, earning an eye-roll from his son Tytos. “A Kingsguard you may be but he’s the Warden of the West.”

“I’m not disobeying father’s orders, my Lords, I’m adding to them. Tell me, does anything there say that my host is not allowed to move? Or when he asks us to gather hedge wizards and wood witches for some bloody reason, are we to fiddle with our bolts and thumbs in camp? May I remind you that Rivermen scatter in our presence?”

“It’s the spirit of his words and not what’s written, young man,” the Lord huffs.

“But I disagree,” says Aunty Genna as she sips from her wine. Considering her size, it’ll take quite a lot to get her drunk. “I know my brother better than any of you here. And from this letter,” she snatches it from Ser Emmon’s hands, “I know he meant us to search for these wizards and witches, as said by my nephew.” Jaime gives her a small nod; where would he be without his Aunt?

The commanders glance about with nervousness, a few whispers bouncing among themselves. His father’s reputation far precedes his old body, meaning that many here already fear retribution for disobedience. Not that it’s unfounded, Jaime thinks, reminding himself of The Rains of Castamere. Yet all the more problems to make them do something.

It’s the black-haired Ser Garth Greenfield who first pipes up. “You know, some gossips among the men said that a woods witch is living in a nearby hill. We could certainly ride there, I won’t mind my prophecies told,” the young knight chuckles. This one seems to be on my side. “Who knows, maybe I’m destined to wed a beautiful maiden.”

“I think you’ll be fucking boars before a maiden, Garth,” Ser Tytos laughs. “Frankly, watching you shout at the Tullies have grown quite stale, Ser, and my steed has been demanding for longer rides. Same with my men… I can bring about twenty to this excursion.” His words seem to stab his father quite good, earning a deep frown from the Lord.

Due to the two’s inclusion, soon more men volunteer to join Jaime’s force. And though he welcomes them all with a smile and a laugh, he knows that they don’t care about Tyrion. They care about Jaime, the golden Lannister, the one who serves Kings and Queens. And killed one of them. Maybe they hope to earn favours from him, to give their sons as squires and voice at the King’s court. Who wouldn’t want to be knighted by a well-known Kingsguard? He can see a few — maybe Tytos, Cleos, and perhaps Garth — who wants to help. A sorry lot for my brother’s rescuers, he thinks, but three hundred men are not something to be scoffed at. And that’s not counting the freeriders leeching off Lannister gold.

“Of course, you’ll need to appoint a head commander for this camp,” his Aunty points out, “since you’ll be searching for Tyrion.”

“Lord Andros,” Jaime smiles at the frowning Lord, “I hope you’ll receive this position graciously?”

“…I serve Lord Tywin with duty and discipline, Ser. I’ll see this castle be taken, no thanks to you.”

Thank the Seven, please do it swiftly. “And Ser Emmon, I assign you with securing the defences and proper functioning of the Eastern camps.” Though the Frey answers, Jaime nods at his Aunty instead; she smiles at him back.

“All of you, we’ll ride tomorrow morning with full colours. Let those Riverlords cower before our might!”

Riverlands

The night is short for Jaime, mostly filled with calls for the freeriders and uneasy sleep. He dreams of strange things: a churning black sea and his brother in the midst of it. Is he laughing, is he drowning, or both? It gives him no rest whichever way.