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Chapter Text

"And it grew both day and night, till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine, and he knew that it was mine."
—A Poison Tree, by William Blake​

The fallen leaves tell a story.


JON

Jon awoke with a startled gasp. His body moved, driven by adrenaline and fear, reaching for the blunted sword laid at his bedside. His actions stirred the slumbering direwolf at the foot of his bed. Ghost lazily raised his head and peered at his master inquisitively, perplexed by his sudden movements.

In his half-woken state, Jon swore he saw someone with a brandished blade in hand. Instead, he found no one. His room was empty and barren, his belongings undisturbed. He looked around, searching for a potential intruder, but found no one.

A moment passed before Jon sighed, letting the tension bleed from his muscles. He slid the blunted sword back into its sheath, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

"Another dream," he murmured with a frown.

For reasons Jon could not fathom, dreams plagued him for the last few months or so, so vivid and fantastical he nearly thought them to be reality. They spoke of an epic, dark and dreary and worthy of songs, yet he could not understand why he dreamed of them. He did not know if it was hearing one too many of Old Nan's tales or if the dreams were a message from the gods. What message the dreams entailed, he did not know. In the end, he merely dismissed them as fanciful and nothing more.

That, and Jon sorely believed the gods would deign to speak to a bastard child.

His father, Lord Eddard Stark, is the Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. The Stark lineage is long and storied, dating as far back as the days when the Children of the Forest once freely frolicked across the planes of Westeros and dragons soared the skies. The Northern climate is harsh even in the best times, but such conditions gave rise to warriors and survivors. These people came to call the freezing winds and white-laden lands home when House Stark once ruled like kings.

Like other kings in ages past, however, they were made to bend the knee and swear fealty to a wayward conqueror from the eastern lands of Essos.

In nearly three centuries, House Stark managed to retain its influence and power, and according to some, it boasted a stronger connection now more than ever thanks to the rebellion nearly twenty years ago. In his younger years, Eddard Stark fought alongside and befriended Robert Baratheon, once heir of the Stormlands and now King of the Iron Throne. While relations between the North and the South remained tense and uneasy, the friendship between the king and the Northern Warden offered no small amount of political power to the Northern lands. Eddard Stark's actions and accolades made him popular in the North, respected, and recognized as a worthwhile leader of the house and of the North.

And yet, for reasons few could fathom, Eddard Stark welcomed his own bastard child into Winterfell.

Although Jon got on well with his half-siblings for the most part, the same could not be said of Eddard's lady-wife Catelyn. She did not demean or insult him, and she never once raised a hand against him. That would imply she deigned to interact with the boy at all. Her weapon toward him was a stare, cold as the winter winds, and a silence as dead as the crypts. Any cruel barbs or insults were reserved behind closed doors and away from sensitive ears, in the privacy of her room or his father's solar.

Jon never understood why his father welcomed him and raised him with the rest of his half-siblings. Perhaps he did it out of duty, or perhaps out of familial love. Perhaps it was made because of a promise to his late mother, a woman everyone knew little of. The identity of Jon's mother is a secret known only to Eddard Stark, a secret he seemed adamant about taking to the grave. Jon lost count of how many times he asked about his mother's identity. When Lord Stark refused to give a name, he asked what sort of person she was. Again, Lord Stark refused to say beyond that she loved Jon with all her heart.

He vaguely remembered the rumor that danced about Winterfell years ago when he was but a few name days, how the servants speculated his mother was a woman named Ashera Dayne. He recognized the name, if only from his studies; Ashara Dayne was one of ladies-in-waiting for the late Princess Elia Martell, sister to Prince Oberyn Martell and heir of Dorne. The servants often spoke of her beauty, how it captivated and bewitched so many, his father supposedly among them. Any talk of Ashara died the moment Lord Stark heard the rumors, and with a snarling rage that wouldn't be out of place on a direwolf.

Jon did not know whether Ashara was his mother, but he felt no attachment to the name. It did not stir anything in him.

Jon took a few moments to relax, calming his nerves before he finally laid himself back down to sleep. Daylight had yet to break through his curtains, meaning morning practice and chores could wait a while longer. He wanted to sleep a while longer despite the horrid experience from earlier. Ghost padded its way up next to him, gently laying at his master's side while Jon lulled himself back to slumber.

No dream assailed his sleep then.

(linebreak)

"You look like shit," was the first thing that came out of Theon Greyjoy's mouth when Jon joined him and his half-brother Robb for morning practice.

Jon rolled his eyes, recognizing the barb for what it was. Robb, on the other hand, looked concerned. "Is everything alright, Jon? You don't look well."

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Just had another strange dream is all."

He told Theon and Robb of his dreams once before if only to have some peace of mind and the vague hope they might be able to help make sense of them. Theon told him he listened to Old Nan's stories one too many times whereas Robb wore a disturbed, if curious look, often inquiring about every detail Jon could remember. Ultimately, the dreams still made little sense to either boy.

"Same as before?" Robb asked.

Jon nodded. "Same as before."

"I keep telling you, you listen to that hag's stories too much," Theon said. He hopped over the wooden fence surrounding the training yard and grabbed one of the blunted swords from the rack, giving it a few swings to test its weight. 'They're amusing to hear, but ol' Nan's barking mad, I tell you."

"And her stories often have a grain of truth to them, you bloody arse," Robb groaned as he joined Theon in the yard. "And we shouldn't dismiss Jon's dreams so off-handedly. For all we know, they could be green dreams."

"Oh, come off it. When's the last time one of your greenseers showed up?"

Jon pursed his lips in thought. Truthfully, he wanted to agree with Theon. Whatever dreams they were, they were certainly not green dreams. The last records of the greenseers was during the days of the Andals' arrival in Westeros, that which supposedly marked the end of magic and of the Children of the Forest.

He put the thought out of his mind and joined his half-brother and Theon in the yard, engaging in the routine practice of clashing blades. It was these moments that made Jon feel like a trueborn Stark. Each time he clashed swords, he felt his hackles rise and his wolfsblood whisper. Instinct propelled him to move faster and strike harder, in turning making Robb and Theon more competitive. As they continued to exchange blows, Jon felt his worries bleed away.

By the time the sun was in the sky and the servants were up and about Winterfell's halls, the morning routine reached its end. The boys were caked with sweat and their swords nicked. As always, Theon struggled to keep tempo with the Stark-blooded boys, though Robb looked tired, having tried to keep up with Jon and failing. When Rodrik arrived, they had already returned their swords to the rack and separated. Robb left to Maester Luwin and continue his lessons while Jon went with Theon to the eastern wing.

"Say, Jon, you heard what's been happening over in the South lately?" Theon asked suddenly as they walked through the halls. "Heard some sailors talking in a tavern the other day. Something's got the high and mighty nobles there twisting their nickers."

"Like what?"

"Somethin' the sailors saw near the southern coasts off Essos. Dunno what, but with how pale the sailors' faces were, I'd thought they'd run into my uncle Euron." A shudder went down Jon's spine, noting the disturbed look on Theon's face. Admittedly, Jon knew little of the Ironborn beyond hearsay and what Theon told him, but even then, he knew nothing of their people and culture. Even so, the name invoked a feeling of indescribable dread.

As Jon and Theon rounded the corner, a familiar head of dark hair barreled into him, nearly throwing him to the floor. He grunted, nearly losing his grip on the wooden box in his arms. "Ow!" a familiar voice whined below him. "H-hey, who put a wall there?"

"Guess again, Arya," Theon snickered.

Arya Stark, Eddard Stark's youngest daughter and child, often described as a wild child more interested in how to swing a sword than sewing. Besides Robb, Jon felt he was closest with her out of all his siblings. Try as his father did, it was impossible to tame her. She took to her lessons with the septa as well as a fish took to dry land, or so Theon had said. He thought she was closer to a direwolf, free and wild as the wind.

Arya blinked and looked up from her spot on the floor. "Oh. Hey, Jon."

"What? No hello for me?" Theon gasped in mock pain, making a grandiose gesture of clasping his chest as though he were in pain. "I'm hurt, Arya."

Jon rolled his eyes, ignoring the squid for a moment in favor of his half-sister. "On the run from the septa again?" he guessed.

"It's not my fault the lessons are boring," Arya whined as she picked herself up off the floor. "I'd rather listen to Luwin than the old hag."

"Come on, don't say that. I'm sure she means well." He only said that to keep appearances, of course. Jon didn't particularly care much for Septa Mordane. The old woman was doing her job and could be kind at times, but such temperament was usually reserved for Sansa and her mother. She was respectful to the men of the household, all while expressing mild displeasure with him. She didn't call him out or make snide remarks, but she was certainly rude when she wanted to be.

Not that he expected anything different.

His sister recognized the lie for what it was and scoffed. "Oh, please. I'd much rather join you, Robb, and Theon in the yard."

"You're always welcome to get your ass kicked," Theon japed. "I could use a friend in the mud. Your brothers have an unhealthy tendency to beat each other into the ground when their blood goes to their sword arms."

"And you're any better?" Arya challenged.

Theon smirked. "Oh, I never claimed to be. As fun as it is to chat with you, we should get going. We've an errand to run for the blacksmith, and I'd rather not get chewed out again."

Arya gave him a skeptical look. "…did you lay with his daughter again?"

"You make it sound as if I've seduced her. I assure you, it was the other way around."

Jon sighed. That certainly explained why Sir Mikken looked a hair's breadth away from cutting Theon down where he stood.


ROBB

After his lessons with Maester Luwin ended, Robb went to join his father and continue his studies into lordship when he happened across his lady mother, Catelyn Stark, speaking with one of his father's men outside his solar. He recognized the soldier as Sir Carlos, a newcomer to Winterfell but easily one of the most devoted men its Master of Arms had the pleasure of teaching. He crossed blades with him once before. While Sir Carlos was not as good as he or Jon, he still had an amazing sword arm.

"…he's been in such a mood since the letter arrived," Robb heard his mother say. "You do not know what was written?"

Sir Carlos shook his head. "I am afraid not, my lady. I dared not ask for fear of incurring Lord Stark's wrath, not with the way he glared at the raven."

Robb frowned. What sort of letter arrived to put father in such a bad mood?

His lady mother heard his approach and turned, smiling kindly when she saw him. "Oh, hello, Robb. Have you come to speak with your father?"

Robb nodded his head in greeting. "Yes, mother. I want to continue where we last left off in our studies from the other day, though I fear I have picked a bad time. Forgive me, but I overheard some of your conversation. Father received a letter?"

"Yes, Lord Robb," Sir Carlos said. "The letter came from King's Landing bearing the seal of the Crown."

Robb's eyes widened significantly. "From the king?"

Like many, Robb heard the stories of how Eddard Stark became friends and sworn brothers with King Robert Baratheon during his father's time in the Eyrie, and how it'd been the Starks who first answered Robert Baratheon's call for war when Lyanna Stark, his aunt, was stolen away by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the Mad King killed his grandfather and uncle, Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark. Even now, bards continue to sing the tales of the Wolf and Stag Lords. What the bards failed to realize was that whatever friendship between his father and King Robert had evidently soured.

Oh, his father spoke fondly of his time under Jon Arryn and his friendship with the king, but there was always a bittersweet tone. Whenever he spoke of the king as of late, he did so with trepidation. Robb asked what could have happened to sour their friendship. He did not say, but his expression told Robb all he needed to know. The king did something that his father could not stomach.

"I cannot say. All I know is that its contents have put Lord Stark in a foul mood," Sir Carlos said before bowing his head in apology. "Forgive me, but I must return to the yard. Sir Cassel wants to put us through our paces, and I do not wish to incur his wrath."

"Please, do not let us keep you," Robb said. The knight smiled gratefully at the young lordling and left, disappearing down the hall.

His mother offered him a kind smile before she left as well, mentioning something about talking to the septa. Robb watched her leave before he turned to the door to his father's solar and took a deep breath. If his father was in a mood, he knew better than to press his luck. Even on his best behavior, Robb knew he wasn't the perfect student. There were times when Maester Luwin would look at him with disappointment or when his father shook his head, though admittedly Robb knew it was deserved for having acted out in those moments, and even then, the mistake was corrected shortly after. A student's job is to learn, and a student who doesn't learn shouldn't be a student at all, or so the Maester had said.

Robb rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame of the door. "Father, it's me."

"Enter."

He opened the door and stepped inside. Lord Eddard Stark, Paramount of the North and head of House Stark, sat at his study with the look of scrutiny. Sir Carlos' words were proven as he saw his father level a look mixed with bitterness and resignation, a furrowed brow implying dueling thoughts.

Robb closed the door behind him and stepped in front of the desk. "Is…everything alright?" he asked, choosing his words carefully. "Sir Carlos and mother are worried."

Eddard said nothing for a short while, staring at the letter on his desk before he sighed, pinching the ridge of his nose before looking up at his eldest. "A letter arrived from King's Landing, written by His Grace. It seems he wishes for me to ride for the Red Keep and join him to investigate a foreign land."

Robb blinked. "A foreign land?" he repeated, befuddled. "I do not understand. The lands surrounding Westeros have been known to us for years."

Were this news in relation to the Sunset Sea, Robb might have been willing to believe such talk. To the best of his knowledge, not a single ship that made its voyage across the Sunset Sea never returned, either having sunk to the bottom of the ocean or disappeared, never to be heard from again. There were many theories and stories of what laid beyond the Sunset Sea, with the Lords of the Lonely Night having no shortage of tall tales and fables, but that was all they were. Robb once asked Theon about them, hoping to find some grain of truth, but it seemed not even the Greyjoy heir knew for certain what laid beyond the western seas of Westeros.

In contrast, most of the lands to the east were documented and mapped, albeit to a point. The lands beyond the Bones, the Further East, remain largely unknown.

Eddard must have seen the thoughtful look on his son's face and spoke, addressing the thoughts in his head. "A band of sailors returning from Lys were caught in a storm and were adrift at sea for a time. According to them, the seas were unnaturally violent and unruly. They'd been missing for at least two months before they managed to reach Driftmark."

"Two months is a long time, even for a voyage between Lys and Driftmark," Robb noted. "How bad was it?"

"They lost four men," Eddard replied sadly. "Two fell overboard during the storm, and two more died of starvation." The lord shook his head. Although he did not know the sailors, he mourned for the senseless loss of life all the same.

"They starved?"

"I imagine they believed it would be a short voyage," he replied. "Sadly, the gods old and new are fickle. They went four days without food and water when they ended up drifting through a thick fog. Past it, they found a land they'd never seen before, one with a giant tree standing sentinel from over the distance."

Robb frowned. "A giant tree? Sounds like the sort of tale a bard would think up."

"I thought much the same at first, but the sailors reports lead me to believe otherwise."

From there, his lord father told him what King Robert relayed to Eddard in the letter. The sailors docked on foreign shores, driven by hunger and desperation. Whether by fate or luck, the foreign land they discovered was inhabited as they were happened upon by a roaming band of soldiers. The soldiers flew no banner they recognized, but were thankfully hospitable. The sailors were offered lodgings and food in a village, as well as some supplies for the return trip home. They also brought with them trinkets and gifts during their admittedly short time in that foreign land. One such trinket was included with the letter.

Eddard handed the trinket to Robb. It looked like a far-eye, albeit in the color of polished silver rather than dull bronze. The round glass attached to the end was smaller as well, though he couldn't help but notice the intricate, thin markings where the glass and metal coupled. He also took notice of the odd ring-like protrusions in the middle of the tube. Stranger still, the protrusion moved when he rubbed his fingers across its surface.

"Look into the eye and twist the ring," his father ordered.

Robb frowned, but did as he was told. He looked through the far-eye and at his father's face. He twisted the ring and—

He gasped, nearly dropping the far-eye as he pulled it away from his face. His father hadn't moved from his desk. He looked through the far-eye again, this time twisting the ring in the opposite direction. Robb watched in fascination in shock as the eye's view expanded. Where before he saw his father's face, he now saw the study in its entirety, and his father in full view.

Robb breathed in amazement, gently setting the far-eye on the desk, fearing he might break it with the slightest mishap. "That is… What is this? What sort of contraption is this? A new invention from Myr?"

"The sailors said it's called a spyglass," Eddard said. "Robert had Grand Maester Pycelle have a look at it. While the Grand Maester is no expert in the crafts of Myr, he said it was far and above anything he'd seen of their make before."

"Then, it was crafted in this foreign land with the large tree?"

"Aye."

Robb saw the expectant look on his father's face. Suddenly, he realized he was being tested. He was not shown the spyglass and told of the letter's contents for nothing. There was more to this, something his father wanted him to understand. Robb thought on what he learned up until now, and then recalled his father's words, of the soldiers who flew banners.

"The sailors," he started, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Did they find out who ruled this foreign land, or to whom the soldiers swore their loyalty to?"

Eddard's slight smile was one of approval. "They claimed to serve Nepheli Loux, Lord of Limgrave and keeper of Stormveil Castle."

Robb frowned. "Forgive me, father, but I do not recall any noble house by the name of Loux."

"Nor do I," Eddard said. "Some in the small council believe the sailors are mummers making up fanciful tales, but Robert believes otherwise."

"That does not explain why he wishes for you to journey with him to these supposed lands."

His lord father sighed heavily. He gave another glance at the letter on his desk, his face in deep contemplation. After a moment of silence, he looked up at Robb. "The Lord Hand is ill." Robb's eyes widened. Before he could open his mouth to ask questions, Eddard raised his hand and stopped him. "He is not dying, but Grand Maester Pycelle believes he is not long for this world. It's hard to tell whether it's disease or old age, though I'm inclined to believe the latter. The chains of the Hand of the King bear as heavy a burden as the crown, and while Jon Arryn is a stalwart man of principle, he's as mortal as the rest of us."

"And old," Robb said thoughtlessly, cursing when he realized he spoke out of turn. "I mean, that is to say—!"

Eddard chuckled. "Peace, Robb. You are not wrong. Jon was old even when I fostered under him, and I doubt he's grown younger since I saw him last. Although he's been fulfilling his duties faithfully, Robert believes it may be time for him to step down. I am to help him convince Jon to resign from his post."

"And the voyage to this foreign land is to be your excuse? Surely, simply going to King's Landing would produce the same results."

"There's more to it than that," Eddard said. "Robert…" He paused as if thinking about what to say before sighing. Eddard seemed older than he was, as old as the portrait of Robb's grandfather, the late Rickard Stark. "Robert wants to discuss me replacing Jon as the Hand of the King…and discuss tying our houses together."



JON

Jon didn't remember how or when he fell asleep. By the day's end, he'd been so tired from chores and training in the yard with the guardsmen that he found himself retiring earlier than usual.



"The fallen leaves tell a story."



It was the same dream again.

A land was wreathed in flame, dark as night with a ghostly pale tinge. Everywhere he looked, he saw fire and corpses, bodies strewn across the grassy planes consumed by the flames. Some died impaled on spears and swords and left to rot. Amid the flames, he saw inhuman figures committing wanton slaughter with odd weapons designed to skin and flay rather than pierce and cut. They looked human, but their proportions were wrong. Some were tall and lanky while others were wide and fat, each thundering stomp sending ripples across their rolling pale and stitched flesh.

Only it was not flesh, but skin sewn into cloth. Jon's stomach churned in revulsion when he saw what looked like faces etched into the fabric, stretched, and formed into looks of utter anguish.

The only one not participating in the slaughter was a woman clad in elegant white robes. He could barely see her face beneath the white hood pulled over her head, only making out glimmering eyes of dusk and black hair cascading down past her chin and ending where her neck met her shoulders. In her hands was a bundle of cloth wrapped around a bulk of misshapen, writhing white flesh. Jon watched in disgusted fascination as the lump of meat writhed in the woman's arms, cradling it as if it were a child.

All the while, he heard the wailing cries of a babe, louder than even the cackling ghostly flames.

Jon shielded his face as a roar of flame exploded in front of him. Strangely, he felt no heat from the fire, only a soul-crushing cold that dug into his bones and sending chills down his spine.



The scene changed. Where before him once stood a grassy plain with a burnt towering tree now stood large, jagged mountains and a brick tower. The tower was crumbling apart, slowly falling into decay. The sky was burning, alight with a sickly yellow flame. The mere sight made the back of Jon's eyes burn in a way he never thought possible. It felt as if someone took a branding iron to the back of his eyeballs. A sharp pain erupted in the back of his skull, so intense and crippling he fell to his knees. He gritted his teeth, clenching them while trying to power through the agonizing pain.

A direwolf whimpered at his feet, its fur tinged in soot. It looked oddly familiar, yet for the life of him, Jon could not figure out why. It was weak, barely able to stand on its feet. As he reached to comfort the direwolf, Jon saw figure standing before the tower. He saw a tattered cloak swaying in the wind, hands stretched out in jubilation while looking up at the sky. As the tower finally crumbled into nothing, not even a pile of rubble, Jon heard whispers. Cries of joy, of freedom. Free from the pain of life, of suffering.

"May chaos take the world," they chorused. "May chaos take the world."

Jon clamped his hands over his ears, blocking out the voices.



The scene changed again. The pain vanished, almost as if it was never there at all. In its place was a dreadful cold sinking deep into his bones, his flesh feeling like ice. Around him was a field of snow, giant spikes of ice jutting up from the ground like spires. He found corpses, bodies laced with patches of ice. Some looked barely human, with pale skin and baleful eyes that glared at him with such dreadful hate. It was not hate born from personal grudges, but for the sake of living. The corpses despised him for having warm blood in his veins.

A thundering roar and booming cracks of lightning drew Jon's attention to the sky. Far above, he saw a creature that no longer existed in this world; a pair of dragons, soaring through the thundering sky, fighting some unseen foe. With each burst of thunder, Jon saw something amid the clouds.

The direwolf at his side growled, baring its fangs at the thing approaching. Jon forced himself to look forward. Through the cold mist obscuring most of his vision, he saw glowing blue eyes. Eyes that stared at him with the same cold, dead hatred as the corpses around him.



A gust of wind blew across Jon's face, forcing him to shut his eyes closed again. The gust became a gale. The bastard yelped, the wind throwing him on his back. As he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at a glittering night sky filled with stars, shining far brighter than he knew possible. Among them was the moon tinged with a dark color. It was as mesmerizing as it was unsettling. Jon groaned, forcing himself to sit upright. There, he saw a sight that horrified him.

It was Winterfell, lying in ruin. The walls were no more than mere piles of rubble, the roads upended and ripped apart as if a giant knife from the heavens gouged the earth, and the keep torn down. The ghostly flames he saw before licked and ate away at the stonework.

The direwolf howled, both in rage and in mourning. Jon could only stare numbly at the sight, wanting desperately to belief this was no more than a terrible nightmare. He only barely registered the sight of a ghostly tree, similar to the towering burnt one in the foreign lands, standing ominously in the distance.

Suddenly, Jon saw him. A figure walking through the flames, clad in vile armor and a helm marked in ash. He saw a ghastly face emblazoned on the helm, a corpse with black eyes burning with the same ghostly fire that burned Winterfell to naught but ashes. In hand was a black sword wreathed in the same fire. The figure approached at a steady gate, not at all concerned by the direwolf, even as it snarled and growled and barked at him. When the figure continued to approach, the direwolf charged and leaped with its fangs bared.

Despite being the size of a man, the figure seized the direwolf by the throat, holding it aloft in the air as though it weighed nothing and plunged its flaming sword into its body.

Jon screamed in horror. "NO!" He leaped to his feet, drawing the sword from his hip and charging blindly at the armored monster as it callously threw the dead direwolf to the ground. Jon swung his sword, driven and fueled by rage. The figure batted it away easily, countering with a punch to the face that stunned him, long enough for the figure to kick him to the ground. He tried to get up, but found the flaming black sword driven into his chest. He gasped, feeling no pain. Instead, he found the same dreadful cold from before claiming him. The world bled away, turning into murky shadows.

As the world turned to shadows, as Jon felt his senses dull and numb, fading into nothing, he saw a scarred hand reaching for him. Weakly, he reached back, clasping and gripping the offered hand. The arm pulled, and Jon was pulled out from the darkness. The sky above was alight with shining stars and a familiar pale moon, its blue-tinged sibling sitting behind it like a shadow. Standing over Jon was a woman, her hair burnt black, her right eye milky gray, and her left a glowing gloam.



"Of the Promised Lord Without a Throne."

Chapter Text

ROBERT

“What do you mean, I can’t go with you?!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake…

For the umpteenth time, Robert wondered why he didn’t try harder to convince Ned to wear the crown. It would’ve made life so much easier for the both of them; Ned would be the king kids heard songs about and turn the Seven Kingdoms into paradise while he went off and lived like a Hedge Knight. They were all dreams and flights of fancy at the end of the day, mere daydreams of a much simpler life well out of reach. The reality was that King Robert Baratheon lived an unhappy, miserable life while trying and failing to live up to the standards others set for him.

There had been a time when he enjoyed the weight of his crown and the power it brought him. However, the taste of kingship was long sour, and Robert would give anything to be rid of it. It was an exercise in futility maintaining appearances, being a king the people could cheer for when in reality, Robert knew he was anything but. At the end of the day, he was a drunkard who could barely fit in his armor. Worst of all, no matter how much Robert loathed his flaws, he seemed incapable of correcting them. Oh, he tried several times, even having given that diet the old fop Pycelle recommended to him once upon a time, but the lessons never stuck.

Much as Robert disliked the Iron Throne and the crown that came with it, he was loathe to hand it off to another. Stannis seemed like the ideal choice, but the man was too rigid, too uptight and too much of a right fucking prat. Robert barely remembered the last time the two shared a civil conversation with each other that didn’t involve the brothers glaring at one another or doors being slammed on their way out. Renly was…slightly better, but not by much. He was popular with the smallfolk and had a way with words, but there was the matter of his…interests. Oh, Renly thought he was being clever, but Robert had his youngest brother by the balls. It was only because Robert liked Renly slightly better than Stannis that he kept silent on the matter, though Renly’s orientation was yet another reason why he couldn’t hand him the crown and throne.

And as for Joffrey, his eldest son and the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms… Well, suffice to say, there was not a chance in all the Hells that Robert would ever consider giving up the crown to his little shit. He hoped his son would take after him, but Joffrey was not at all like him. He was impulsive and quick to anger like his father, loathe as Robert was to admit it, but Joffrey had none of the discipline Jon hammered into his skull. Worse, the boy was utter shite when it came to matters of martial prowess. He could shoot a crossbow worth a damn, but when it came to swords, he had a piss arm and even worse desire for the battlefield.

Were that all Robert found unsatisfactory and unworthy of succession, Robert would have left it at that. But that was merely the tip of the iceberg. Something about Joffrey left Robert unsettled, the way his attitude rubbed him the wrong way. It did not help that Cersei coddled the boy, shielding him from lessons and the discipline that would’ve straightened his sorry ass out. The Kingslayer wasn’t much help despite him and Selmy being Joffrey’s personal instructors, having about as much success as the Red Keep’s Master at Arms.

It wasn’t just matters involving the sword, either; while Robert admitted he was a piss-poor student when it came to books, he would have been more lenient with his eldest son if he was bookish. Grand Maester Pycelle reported Joffrey rarely paid his lessons any mind, even questioning his tutelage at one point. Even Robert knew better than to mouth off at a scholar.

Between these factors and that fucking incident involving Tommen’s pet cat, Robert knew he couldn’t leave the kingdom in Joffrey’s hands. The boy had all the makings of a second Aerys II Targaryen, and he’d be damned if he let another Mad King come into power. There were moments when he debated killing his son, addled and inebriated after one too many cups of wine, but that was a line few men dared to cross. And while Joffrey was an utter shit, he was still Robert’s son.

“I won’t say it again, boy.” Robert glared at the crown prince, looking up from the letter on his desk. “This isn’t an affair involving a whelp. Last I heard from Pycelle, you’ve fallen behind on your studies.”

When the sailors returned with trinkets and wild tales, Robert thought them mummers until he saw what they brought with them. The spyglass was amazing, with Pycelle and Varys working several nights to discover its secrets and how it was made. That was not the only gift they brought. One of the weapons they brought with them was a blade of exotic design. It was the length of a regular sword, but the blade was half as wide with a slight curve and a circular hilt. They called it an “Uchigatana”. The Kingslayer took the blade for a spin, testing its edge and weight in the training yard.

“It’s surprisingly light,” his goodbrother told him with a look of awe. Robert noted with amusement how he begrudgingly returned the sword and stared at it like a carnally driven man would stare at a freshly flowered maiden. “But it made small cuts in the armor and nicks in the swords out in the yard. I had a blacksmith take a look at it. As far as he can tell, the blade’s made with a metal the likes he’s not seen before.”

A sturdy blade and a far-eye that could peer farther than even the best Myrish creations could. It went without saying how interested Robert and so many others were.

“But I’m a prince,” Joffrey whined. “The next king! I should be going to this place too!”

Gods, was I this fucking entitled at his age?

Bittersweet memories of his parents flashed through his mind, and of the incident that claimed Steffon Baratheon’s life. Another reminder of what the Targaryens took from him. Robert’s face grew stormy, just barely keeping his anger in check. “Oh yes, a boy who can’t swing a sword for shit, the prince of the seven kingdoms, going to a place we know absolutely nothing about. I’m sure you’ll be able to defend yourself in case shit goes belly up.” Robert took some pleasure in watching Joffrey’s face twist into something resembling uncertainty. “I’m going because I’m your king, you foolish boy. We’d shame the whole realm to our mysterious neighbors if its lord wasn’t there to speak with theirs.”

Well, that, and he wanted to at least live out some of his old aspirations. It wasn’t everyday one explored foreign lands.

Joffrey opened his mouth to protest, but he was thankfully silenced by a knock at the door. “Enter!” Robert shouted. The door opened to reveal the Kingslayer himself, Jaime Lannister. The king envied how fit his Kingsguard looked, still in the prime of his youth and reaping the benefits of his lineage whereas his gut grew every passing year. Oh, how he longed to fit in the armor he cherished so long ago!

“Pardon the interruption, Your Grace, Your Highness” Jaime bowed. “The Queen wants to see Joffrey.”

Joffrey frowned. “What does mother want?”

“In regards to the possibility of your betrothal, I would think.”

Robert repressed the urge to sigh, remembering how loud his wife had been when he broached the topic of marrying Joffrey off to one of Ned’s girls. He never realized she could scream like that.

It’d been a personal dream of his, wanting to bind House Baratheon and House Stark. Ever since he became friends with Eddard Stark during their time under Job, Robert considered him the brother he never had. Stannis was too uptight, and Renly was…distant, if something of a prat on his good days. Ned resonated with him in a way he longed for. Oh, they had their spats in the past, but their friendship blossomed for it. When Robert learned he was to marry Ned’s younger sister Lyanna, he’d been over the moon.

In the short time he came to know Lyanna, Robert knew he would love her. The girl was a spitfire if ever he saw one. She could be ladylike, but she was a Stark. Wolfsblood ran in her veins, and when her she-wolf bared its fangs… Ah, the sight of it made his heart flutter as if he was some hapless maiden in love.

And then fucking Rhaegar happened, Robert internally snarled, his fond memories turning sour at the mere thought of the dragon bastard who stole Lyanna from him and her family. Even now, he wasn’t sure which pain was the worst; that the woman who enraptured him fell prey to a monster or that he barely had any time to know her.

When the rebellion came to an end and all loose ends tied up, save for the standing issue regarding the whereabouts of Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen’s whereabouts, all that was left was to let time heal his wounds. Things between Robert and Ned became tense after a…disagreement regarding Princess Elia and her childrens’ deaths, one that left a rift that Robert worked on mending. It had only been after the memory of Lyanna, after nearly twenty years, became an aching wound than a gaping scar that he decided to pursue binding their houses again, this time through their children.

Robert’s plan was twofold; his personal interest of uniting Houses Baratheon and Stark, and to give House Stark clemency to the Iron Throne. He still believed Ned would make for a better ruler, and what little he knew of Northern culture told him those of the North had similar values. House Stark’s long and proud history of noble kings and lord paramounts gave them no small amount of pedigree, and this very same prestige would quell any doubts the other Great Houses might have regarding a Stark being put on the throne. Of course, there wasn’t any guarantee the children born from this potential union would be anything like Ned, but they were still a better alternative. Cersei may be his wife, but she was a Lannister.

And the lions will always look after themselves first and foremost.

There was one problem with this plan, Robert knew, and that was Joffrey. As his eldest child and heir, it was natural he would be paired with Ned’s eldest daughter (Sansa, he remembers, Her name was Sansa). It wasn’t an ideal choice, not with Joffrey’s attitude, but it was the most logical and practical. The backup marriage, so to speak, was between his daughter Myrcella and Ned’s eldest son. A small warm feeling bloomed in his chest, remembering how Ned named his firstborn son after him.

Robert personally wanted to go with the second choice of pairings, but there were traditions and expectations to uphold. Who knows, maybe this might work, Robert thought wryly. If that old hag and I can make marriage work, maybe Sansa and Joffrey can.

“We’ve already talked about me marrying that Stark girl,” Joffrey huffed indignantly. “Admittedly, I don’t fancy the idea of marrying a Northern woman, but I’m willing to give her a chance to prove me wrong. I fail to see why mother is so against this choice of pairing. You would think I was being wedded to a peasant!”

Jaime chuckled. “Mothers are overprotective of their children. She just wants what’s best for you is all.”

“Go see your mother,” Robert ordered. “Seven knows she’ll probably hunt you down and scream your ear off as she did mine.”

Joffrey sighed, reluctantly obeying him and leaving the room. Robert sighed and slumped into his chair, running his hand through his greasy dark locks. “Fucking gods. Where did I go wrong with that boy…?”

“He’s just at that age, Your Grace. I remember how rebellious I was when I was one-and-ten,” Jaime said in jest. “Still…speaking personally as his uncle, I believe keeping him here is the right choice. We’ve no idea what sort of people we’re dealing with, much as I would love to see what their soldiers are capable of.”

“Spoken like a warrior,” Robert snorted. Not that he was much better. After holding that Uchigatana, Robert wondered how skilled and deft one’s sword arm must be to wield such a weapon and who could design it. “Did you come here only to grab your nephew?”

“Not quite. The Grand Maester told me to inform you about the Lord Hand’s health.”

Panic spiked through Robert’s heart. He nearly sent his chair topping with how fast he sat up. “Is he…?”

“Sir Arryn still breathes, but Pycelle believes he has a year left, if the gods are generous.”

Robert’s heart sank. He knew Jon’s health hadn’t been the greatest; the man was seventy, itself a damned miracle in a profession where even the best knights died young. It was a miracle he was still alive and able to fulfill his duties, but he was old nonetheless. A meeting with the Stranger at such an age was long overdue, yet Robert could barely stomach the thought of losing the man he considered a second father to him. When Steffon died, it had been Jon to fill the hole his father inadvertently left behind. While Jon could not teach him to be a better lord, he taught him how to fight, and how to channel his anger in war.

He looked back at the letter on his desk. It was hardly important, merely a report on how things were progressing in regards to the upcoming trip to this mysterious foreign land. By now, Ned should have received his letter and prepared correspondence.

I know we haven’t seen eye to eye on a lot of things since the rebellion ended, but I need you here, Ned. Now more than ever.

SANSA

Winterfell was surprisingly active this time of year. Everywhere Sansa Stark looked, she saw people coming and going about their lives, many pushing carts and wagons full of sacks and wooden crates. Merchants beckoned travelers to inspect their wares, hawkers doing the bulk of their work in advertisement, and children laughing and rushing about, some diving headfirst in the small piles of hay littered about the muddy path leading into the heart of the town.

It had been a while since the last time Sansa came to Wintertown. The last time she’d been here was just after Bran’s name day, when her mother took her to the local apothecary for purchase some tonics. The servants handled purchasing the tonics while her lady mother took her to a craftsman to procure a late gift for Bran. Sansa had bought him a gift, but she could not find it for some reason. She initially blamed Arya, her chief suspect when it came to missing belongings, but Bran’s gift was hardly something her wild child of a younger sister would nick. In the end, she was unable to find her gift to Bran and promised to buy him a new one.

This visit was of a similar nature, though instead of the craftsman, they instead went to see the seamstress. Ordinarily, the seamstress would come to Winterfell personally when summoned either by Lord Stark or his wife Catelyn. The news of a potential betrothal with the Baratheons lit a fire under her mother’s dress and forewent summoning the seamstress in favor of making a personal visit.

Sansa’s mind danced with familiar fantasies she often dreamed of from her collection of novels. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine she might be married to a prince, much less the prince. She couldn’t get ahead of herself, of course. Right now, the discussion of arranged marriages was just that, a discussion. Nothing was set in stone. Yet even so, Sansa dearly wished her father and the king would settle the matter. Oh, how she imagined what sort of life she might live, both as the bride of a prince and her potential future as a queen of the seven kingdoms. Already, she imagined the sorts of parties she’d be invited to.

No offense to the ladies of the North, but Northern tea parties were dreadfully dull. Especially with the Greatjons. Not that she’d admit such a thing out loud. She wasn’t Theon, for gods’ sake.

“I don’t wish to be rude, mother, but isn’t this premature?” Sansa asked. “Father is still considering the king’s proposal, is he not?”

“Perhaps,” her mother admitted with a nod. “But it would not hurt to receive your measurements in advance, would it not? You are on the cusp of maidenhood, my dear. The sooner, the better.” A smile danced across her face, gently leading her daughter down the road. “I remember how, when I was your age, I dreamed of wearing the finest dresses in all the realm. I never got to wear such dresses, but even now, I can still see it my mind’s eye.”

“Did you dance with a prince?”

“I danced with someone better. The love of my life. I never knew that man would be your father until after Robb was born, of course.”

Sansa did not miss the brief moment of hurt flashing across her mother’s face. She knew why she made such an expression. She was thinking about Jon.

Sansa’s thoughts about her bastard half-brother were mixed. On the one hand, he was proof of her father’s infidelity and weakness, the literal stain on his honor. On the other hand, Jon was by no means a horrible person. In fact, he was a gentleman who endured harsh words and jeers made at his expense, much less the frigid silence Catelyn subjected him to. He was kind and courteous, and the few times they interacted, he’d been nothing short of gentlemanly. Her mother still advised she keep Jon at arm’s length, telling her she was better off not associating herself with him. She obeyed, believing her mother knew best.

Was it cruel of her? Perhaps it was, but it was not as if she deprived Jon of companionship. Arya and their brothers made up for her absence in his life and then some. Admittedly, it did hurt, knowing she was depriving herself the chance to get to know her half-brother better, but it was for the best. When they grew older, Sansa knew Jon would fly the coop in favor of greener pastures, strike out on his own. He certainly made no secret how much he wished to see more of the world, no matter how often their father told him his future was here in Winterfell.

Thinking about her lord father Eddard Stark, Sansa couldn’t help but notice an odd disparity when it came to how he treated Jon. It was not that he treated Jon coldly and cruelly; if anything, she believed her father favored Jon over her trueborn brother Robb. By that same token, however, he seemed oddly adamant about keeping Jon in Winterfell. It reminded her of how her mother had been when she was but a babe, exploring the vast halls of Winterfell at the servants’ expense.

It was not as though her father was embarrassed by Jon. No, there was something else afoot here, but Sansa did not know what it could be.

Oh great, now I sound like Arya.

The matter with the seamstress was a short affair, contrary to what she expected. Aside from having her measurements taken and some questions about what her dress would look like, time flew by quickly. When Sansa and Catelyn arrived in Wintertown, the sun was waning. By the time they left the seamstress’ shop, it was beginning to fall below the horizon.

As they made their way back to Winterfell, Sansa stopped when she caught sight of something unusual. A merchant was sitting off the side of the road, his pack mule resting beside him with an array of goods spread out in a wool cloth. While the sight is nothing new, the merchant drew Sansa’s curiosity. His garb was nothing she’d seen before; he was dressed mostly in red, with a tip-pointed cap atop his head and a mask drawn over the bottom half of his face. Atop his shoulders was a red-and-white mantle with a fur collar wrapped around his neck. The rest of his attire was plain, no more than a black shirt with muddy trousers and leather boots.

Between the cap and mask, she could only make out a wrinkly old face, sickly yellow eyes that seemed to glow like fading embers, and straw-like graying hair.

Sansa glanced at his wares, finding all sorts of trinkets and bobs and ends, one of which caught her eye. She quickly tugged on her lady mother’s sleeve and pointed at the merchant. “Mother, would it be alright if I purchased something from him?”

“Are you sure? He doesn’t seem familiar.”

“Mother, please. We’re in Wintertown. I doubt he’d try something brazen, especially with so many soldiers walking about.”

Catelyn frowned, but she agreed nonetheless. Sansa smiled and thanked her before approaching the merchant, preparing her purse in advance. “Excuse me?”

The man looked up. For a moment, Sansa felt something in her chest writhe in discomfort as she stared at his eyes. They seemed wrong somehow, but she didn’t understand why. Everything else about him seemed normal.

“Well, well…” The man’s voice was raspy, wizened almost. He sounded as old as he looked. “A noble lady, come to peruse my wares. I rarely receive such customers. Regardless… What do you seek from my wares, my lady?”

Sansa collected herself, mentally berating her foolishness. “Yes, that wood statuette. How much does that cost?”

“Twenty halfpennies.” Sansa beamed. It was surprisingly cheaper than she expected, but she was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She dug into her purse and pulled out five pennies, dropping them into the man’s waiting palm. He then handed the small wood statuette over to her. “Thank you, kindly.”

“It is no problem, sir,” Sansa replied before growing curious. “Forgive me for asking, but you seem unfamiliar. I know most of the shopkeepers and merchants here in Wintertown, but yours is a new face. Are you a traveler?”

“Aye, my lady. I am Kalé, a purveyor of fine goods. I am what you might call a nomad, wandering from place to place to sell my wares. As a matter of fact, I arrived in Westeros naught but a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, are you from Essos?” Sansa asked out of curiosity, It was rare to receive visitors from the east.

Kalé chuckled. “Not quite. A little further south. In truth, where I am from makes no difference. Only where the winds take me. A question of curiosity, my lady, but I’ve heard the winters here in Westeros can last for several years. Is this true?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded strongly. “They last for a very long time, and it isn’t unheard of for small hamlets to be buried in the snow.”

“That must be quite difficult for you, both during the winter and spring when the snows melt,” Kalé remarked. “Yours must be a hardy people.”

Sansa smiled. “That is simply how we live in the North.”

“Perhaps so.”

“If that is all, sir Kalé, then please excuse me. I must be getting back to my lady mother.”

As Sansa turned to leave, the merchant called out to her. “One moment, my lady.” The girl turned around, finding the merchant digging through the pouch next to him. He pulled his arm out and held out his hand. Sansa gasped, seeing a beautiful braided bracelet dyed in vibrant colors, a mix of green, white, and blue with a beaded tassel. At the end of the tassel was an insignia she did not recognize. “A gift, as my last customer during my stay here in Wintertown.”

“Are you sure?” Sansa asked, gingerly accepting the bracelet. Even in the dim sunlight, she saw how dazzling the beads glittered and shined. “I mean, I have enough coin to pay you.”

“No need for that. I’ve made plenty of coin already. It’s high time for me to move on anyways.”

“Sansa!” Catelyn called out. “We are leaving!”

“Yes, mother!” Sansa quickly rushed back to her lady mother’s side, shooting Kalé another grateful gesture before taking her leave. As they made their way back to Winterfell, Sansa looked at the small wood statuette she purchased. It was beautifully crafted, far above any craftsman’s work she’d seen. The attention to detail was amazing, from the way the carver took great care to emulate the bushy fur of the horse’s mane to the horns adorning its forehead.

“Bran will love this.”

Braided Bracelet of Eochaid

A bracelet woven from plants dyed and soaked in waters found in Eochaid’s most sacred rivers.

Increases faith and arcane.

These bracelets are given to revered women of high spiritual status, considered by many to be living saints. To wear a bracelet is to make a solemn vow, and to break this vow is to commit an unforgivable sin.

Chapter Text

NED

It’d been four days since the letter from King’s Landing arrived. Since then, Ned found himself visiting the family crypt more often than not.

“Times have changed, father… We have new neighbors. An unknown foreign land, south of Essos’ shores.”

Ned still had trouble wrapping his head around it. He could not understand how such a land could be hidden from them, even with the sailors’ claims of the thick shroud of fog hiding it from prying eyes. Were it not for Robert’s letter and the spyglass, he would call them mummers or bards with their heads in the clouds.

“His Grace…” The lord of Winterfell paused, furrowing his brow in thought. He spoke again, this time with a more uncertain tone. “Robert… He wants me to accompany him there. He also wants me to replace Jon Arryn as his Lord Hand, and bind our houses together. I wonder, would others accuse me of having Southern ambitions, like you did?”

While Rickard Stark was by no means a failing lord, he was not without his detractors. For as long as the North could remember, rarely did they intermingle with Southern houses for reasons beyond honor and love. When Rickard announced the marriage between his eldest son Brandon and Catelyn Tully, there’d been an uproar. It wouldn’t be until during Robert’s Rebellion that Ned understood his father’s reasons for agreeing to the marriage, and years later when he came to sympathize with him. To be lord was to place the sake of the realm above that of yourself and those close to you. Being lord is to prioritize the realm above all else.

Not for the first time, Ned wished it was Brandon standing here and not him. He would have made a far better lord than he, perhaps even a better husband and father to Catelyn and their children. His sons and daughters would be Brandon’s. And Jon would…

…well, there was no point dwelling on flights of fancy.

On the one hand, Ned understood the gains House Stark stood to obtain from this union. The Starks would have as much a claim to the Iron Throne as House Lannister, nevermind the influence the South could offer to the North during the winter season. On the other hand, that same union would bring him trouble. The North preferred to keep Southerners out of its affairs, though with good reason more often than not. He lost count how many times his father warned him of the deadly politics and court intrigue played by the Southerners, which they called “the game”.

How many enemies would House Stark make by marrying into the royal family? Would the Lannisters take offense to the union? How many would try to take advantage of them? The more Ned pondered, the more concerned he became.

Another point of concern was the rumors he heard of the crown prince. Although Ned knew of the prince through word of mouth, there were few kind words to say about him. What he heard painted a grim picture, one for him and a worse one for Sansa. His eldest daughter, so very much like her lady mother some days, lived with her head in the clouds. She dreamed of fairy tales spoken of only in fables and old stories penned by sweet summer minds. While the idea of her marrying a prince sounded like a dream come true, Joffrey Baratheon did not sound like the “knight in shining armor” Sansa longed for in a husband.

Perhaps Robb and Myrcella would make for a better match, Ned thought before grimacing. It would be to protect Sansa, yet how much would the Lannisters view it as an insult, choosing their secondborn child over the crown prince? Oh, how I wish you were here, father, Brandon.

“…May gods old and new grant me the strength to see House Stark through this confusing storm,” Ned said to the silent ghosts of the crypt. He turned and left, though not before catching sight of the figures who haunted his dreams.

And may I have the strength to continue keeping my promise.

“So, you will be leaving for King’s Landing?” Catelyn asked shortly after breaking the news to his family. “Will you be succeeding Lord Aryn as the Hand of the King, then?”

“That is assuming Robert and I can convince Jon to stand down from his post,” Ned replied, a wry smile making its way to his face. “I doubt old age has done little to his temperament. Once he makes a commitment, only the Stranger may stop him.”

“And what of the marriage proposal?”

Ned chose his next words carefully, aware of the expectant look on his eldest daughter. “I am still considering the proposal. Marrying royalty is not something to be taken lightly. My aim is to have a better understanding of Prince Joffrey’s character during my stay in King’s Landing, to separate rumor from fact.”

“I’m sure people exaggerate His Highness’ character,” Sansa said with a dreamy smile. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, father.”

“How long do you think you will be gone?” Robb inquired, no doubt wondering how this might impact his studies. “Will you return before the year’s end?”

“That is my hope, at least.”

“Can we come with you?”

“Bran!” Catelyn scolded her second born child. “Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

Ned smiled slightly at the sight. It was always a joy to see his family gathered at the dinner table. His only wish was that Jon did not sit at the far end, distanced from his own blood. Speaking of his son, the boy wore a brooding look on his face, brow furrowed and his face crinkled deeply in thought. Dark circles sat below his eyes. Was he not sleeping well, perhaps? Mayhaps a new bed was needed.

“You’re still young, Bran. Trips across the sea always carry risks, nevermind that we are to visit a foreign land unknown to us.” He paused, then turned his attention to his eldest. “That said… Robb, do you wish to come with?”

Robb blinked in surprise. “Can I?”

Ned didn’t want to bring his son with him, but this was a rare opportunity. It would do Robb well to expand his horizons. It would be a good learning experience as well, to understand the dangers lurking in the South’s shadows and the viper’s nest that was King’s Landing. As a father, he didn’t want to expose his son to that kind of danger, least of take him to a place they know nothing about, but his duties as a lord came first. It was a lord’s duty to teach his successor how to rule, and to offer him guidance whenever possible.

As he expected, Catelyn didn’t look happy about the offer. This was the first time he brought it up, so it was natural she and their children would be caught by surprise. Arya seemed the most offended by the offer, no doubt driven by her curiosity and wanderlust. Of his children, she was the most wolfblooded of them all. Some days, she acted as if she were Lyanna Stark reborn, a thought that brought him shame and grief. A reminder of his failure.

“Is that wise, Ned?” Catelyn questioned him. “As you said, this will be a dangerous trip. Robb is but four-and-ten.”

“It’s fine, mother,” Robb said, resolve quickly flashing in his eyes. “If you believe I’m ready for this undertaking father, I would be happy to accompany you.”

Sansa sighed. “It’s not fair you get to go to King’s Landing. You must bring back souvenirs when you and father return!”

“I doubt they can match that statuette you got Bran, but I’ll try my best.”

“Speaking of that, where did you get it?” Bran asked curiously. “It’s so well-made, and I’ve never heard of a horse with horns before.”

“I bought it off a wandering merchant by the name of Kalé,” Sansa explained. “He’s a rather interesting fellow. I’ve never met someone with an accent like his. He said he’s from a land south of here.”

Ned narrowed his eyes upon hearing this. Perhaps it was simply the night wearing on him and the upcoming expedition to foreign lands weighing heavily on his mind, but he could not help but feel suspicious, more so of Sansa’s words.

A stranger from lands to the south… No, there would have been word of a foreign ship landing on our shores.

He would have to look into this when he returned.

When dinner reached its end and the Stark household went to retire for the evening, Ned caught sight of Jon and Robb making their way to their chambers. He remembered the look on his child’s face, the dark rings beneath his eyes and the troubled glare he sported.

“Jon,” he called out, stopping both boys in their tracks. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m unsure of what you mean, father.”

“You look like you’ve barely slept.”

For some reason, Jon was reluctant. He stared at the floor, his eyes reflecting conflicting emotions. Robb looked at his half-brother in concern before turning to their father. “Jon has been having strange dreams lately,” he said, causing Jon to look up and stare at Robb in betrayal. Ned furrowed his brow. “The same dream for the last few nights.”

“It’s nothing,” Jon insisted. “I’m sure they mean nothing.”

Ned frowned. “What sorts of dreams?” he asked. His sons stiffened at his tone, for he spoke not as their father, but as Lord Paramount and patriarch of their house.

In the face of his lord, Jon could do nothing but reveal the nature of his dreams. Certainly, they sounded odd and worrisome, particularly the sight of Winterfell being burned to the ground at the hands of an unknown warrior, but the part that made his hairs stand on end was when Jon spoke of a snow battlefield, of dragons taking flight into the air to combat an unknown foe, and living corpses glaring hatefully at him. An old tale from the North’s history, of the age of First Men, came to mind. The Long Night and the White Walkers, the wights beckoned by the Others with a deep hate for any with warm blood in their veins.

The first thought that sprung to Ned’s mind was that Jon was a greenseer and his dreams were prophecy. The thought terrified him down to his very core and brought a cold chill down his spine. The dreams did not make sense, but greendreams were said to be mysterious and understandable only to the dreamer. The problem inherent, however, was that greenseers haven’t been seen in Westeros since the Andals arrived. The Targaryens could be considered greenseers themselves, but records claimed that dragon dreams were more cryptic and often misleading, moreso than even the most confounding greendream.

Therein laid the problem. If Jon was a greenseer, what did the dream mean? What sorts of trials and tribulations awaited them? When would these events occur, if at all?

“You must think me crazy.”

Ned gently squeezed Jon’s shoulders, looking his son in the eye. “I know you well, Jon. Whether these are indeed greendreams, I cannot say. In any case, I would be a fool to dismiss them as mere fanciful dreams born from hearing Old Nan’s stories so often.”

His words did little to reassure his sons. Robb looked at his father expectantly. “What can we do?”

“The only thing we can do, Robb. Prepare, wait, and hope.”

ROBB

“So, you’ll be leaving with Lord Stark to some new land?” Theon asked as they traded blows. He parried and overhead swing and stepped closer to his left side, sneaking his foot around his ankle in an attempt to trip him. He held his ground and pushed back with his shoulder, forcing the squid to stumble and raise his blade in defense when he countered with a riposte. “Must be exciting to finally stretch your sea legs for once!”

“Says the squid who’s forgotten how to swim!” Robb retorted, his wolfsblood growling in his ears. To his mild frustration, Theon laughed at his attempt to rile him up.

As usual, the Stark and Greyjoy heirs were in the midst of their early morning routine. Jon elected not to join them in favor of getting a head start on his chores. The sparring session did good for Robb as it helped to forget the doubt and anxiety gnawing at his mind. His conversation with his father last night was fresh, as was the trepidation of the upcoming expedition.

He understood why his father wanted him to join him on the voyage. Just as he said, it would be a good learning experience, though it was a journey into the unknown. Like his father, Robb dread what sort of dangers awaited them. There was also the matter of Jon’s dreams to consider as well, regardless how his half-brother might dismiss them as fever dreams or some other sort. It was an ill-omen, and the image of Winterfell falling to ruin and assailed by ghostly flames did little to ease his worries. A thought came to him when he retired to his chambers. What if Jon’s dream was prophecy, a warning of what could happen while they were away?

Robb shared this dreadful thought with his father and thankfully understood his worries. Fortifications and guard placement in Winterfell would be strengthened when they left for King’s Landing, and ravens would be sent to neighboring lords to keep an eye out of suspicious activity. His lady mother Catelyn and Sir Rodrik would be in charge of Winterfell while they were away. It was not a perfect solution, but it was the best they could hope for.

That was all Robb could do. Hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

Theon pivoted on his heel, dodging a downward slash and countering with an upward swing. Robb pulled his head back, feeling the cold wind rush across his face along the swing. Without losing momentum, he snapped his head forward and brought down on Theon’s skull, causing him to yelp and stumble. He pushed forward, smashing his shoulder and knocking him to the ground. Robb was on him in moments, pinning him to the ground and aiming his blunted sword at his neck.

“Yield.”

The squid glared up at him, teeth gnashed in preparation for an insult that never left his lips. Theon let go of his sword. Robb felt his blood cool and removed himself from his friend. He offered a helping hand, but Theon batted it away. “I’m not some hapless maiden, Stark,” he bit out as he climbed back up to his feet and picked up his sword. “Vicious this morning, are you? That worried about falling overboard?”

“More like what will happen while we are away.”

“I tell you, you worry too much. Jon’s dreams are fanciful and full of doom and gloom, but that’s it. Perhaps it’s a sign your mother is finally wearing him down.”

Robb frowned, finding the reminder unpleasant.

It was no secret how his lady mother viewed Jon, a bastard child born from his lord father’s loins and an unknown woman. Mercifully, his mother never raised a hand in violence or spoke harsh words in public, but her cold silence was more than enough. On more than one occasion Robb tried and failed to get his mother to see reason, to look past Jon’s status and see him as his own person. His words landed on deaf ears each and every time. Worse, his mother’s attitude rubbed off on Sansa, though thankfully his sister chose to interact and speak with Jon whenever given the chance, even if she did keep her distance.

Robb knew Theon said the words in jest, but he found them unpleasant all the same. Before he could reprimand him, he saw Rodrik approaching them with a stern look. The two straightened themselves out and stood at attention.

“Sir Rodrik,” Robb said respectfully.

“At ease, boy.” The two relaxed, if only barely. The iron-clad look on the master-at-arms’ face had yet to fade. “Is Jon not with you this morning?”

“He went to fulfill his chores. Is something the matter?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Rodrick assured him. “Lord Stark is making adjustments to the guards rotation for when the two of you leave for King’s Landing. He doesn’t want to leave anything to chance.”

“No offense to Lord Stark, but is he really expecting some daft oaf to try and attack Winterfell?” Theon asked skeptically. “You’d have to be a damn fool to attack this place.”

Robb repressed the urge to smile. While Theon might bemoan having to live with the Starks, even he found no fault in the castle or its defenses. Even as far back as their days as kings, the Starks and Winterfell stood amidst the harsh winds of winter and any who dared assail its walls. The scars and renovations throughout the years were a testament to its might and longevity.

“A keep is only as good as the swordhands that defend it, and I’ll be damned if any of the whelps here be found lacking,” Rodrik spat. “And its better not to leave things to chance. This business with a foreign land has Lord Stark spooked, and the other houses see blood in the water.”

“You mean the Karstarks.”

It was no secret that there were hints of rivalry between the two Houses. Among the Northern houses, the Karstarks proudly wore their status as House Stark’s closest kin as its cadet branch. Intermarriage between the two was frequent to the point of expected, though in recent years, relations between them steadily soured. Some fearmongers believed they would attempt to usurp House Stark as their dead cousin cadet branch House Greystark had in the past, though Robb’s father dismissed such rumors during a feast with Rickard Karstark in attendance, though it had not escaped Robb’s notice how bitter the man looked during the feast.

He believed his father in that there were no plans of rebellion, but that did not mean the Karstarks wouldn’t try something.

“Aye, and the Boltons,” Sir Rodrik nodded. “Though Lord Stark has a plan in mind to keep Roose in line.”

“Oh, he’ll be none too happy ‘bout that, I suspect,” Theon chortled before turning to Robb. “You know, it’ll be boring without havin’ you around. Gods know Jon’ll likely be miserable, even if he’s got Arya and the others.”

“Just don’t corrupt my brother, will you?” Robb japed. “Last thing I need is to hear how you’ve roped him into one of your schemes. Isn’t the blacksmith still wroth with you for bedding his daughter?”

“And I’ll tell you what I’ve told everyone. She. Seduced. Me.”

“Theon, the day a lady willingly spreads her legs for you without the promise of coin is the day I retire as master-at-arms.” The squid sputtered and stared at a smirking Rodrik before glaring at Robb, who did nothing to withhold his laughter.

After two weeks of preparation, the day of departure arrived. A hundred men gathered at the southern gate with their lord and his family. Robb stood next to his father as they exchanged goodbyes, his stomach and heart tied in knots.

“I don’t want you to go!” Bran sniffled and cried with Rickon, the youngest of the Stark sons clutching at his tunic and burying their snotty faces in his waist. Their father smiled, ruffling their hair and kneeling to embrace them properly.

Their mother approached, her expression one of longing and dismay. Ned rose to his feet and embraced her. They stayed like that for a long while before reluctantly parting. “Return home safely, my love,” she begged. “I refuse to let our children grow up without their lord father.”

“It is not a promise I may keep, but it will be one I endeavor to fulfill all the same, Cat.”

Arya and Jon came up to Robb. In comparison to the rest of their siblings, they were remarkably composed, though no less saddened to see them go. Looking at his younger sister, Robb saw how she struggled to keep her face stiff and composed. Jon’s countenance was somber, though such an expression was almost common for him. The realization he would not see them for some time made the knots in his chest tighter.

He pulled the two into his arms. “I’ll come back,” he swore. It was not a promise like the one his father made to his mother. It was a solemn vow.

“You better,” Arya hiccuped.

Almost reluctantly, the three siblings parted. Robb saw his father looking at him expectantly and nodded. It was time to leave. He turned and was about to make for the wheelhouse when Jon stopped him, grabbing his sleeve.

“Jon?”

“A gift,” his half-brother said, holding out a dagger nestled in black leather. Robb took it, unfastening the strap keeping the knife sheathed. It was beautifully crafted, unbloodied and steel polished with a shining gleam. The metal reminded him more of a mirror with how clear his reflection was. “Hopefully, you won’t have to use it.”

“With any luck,” Robb agreed. “Thank you, brother.”

Jon smiled.

It was that expression Robb wanted to protect, more than anything.

Mirror Dagger

A beautifully crafted dagger from a foreign land, lost to the fog of antiquity. Although ceremonial, it is sharper than an ordinary dagger.

Although its homeland has since been lost to history, an old superstition haunts the mirror dagger. To bloody its pristine shine is to condemn oneself to a life of conflict, with no hope of reprieve.

Chapter Text

JAIME

Jaime slipped out the door with a practiced smile, garbed in a different set of clothes than he wore hours ago under his white cloak and armor. No one would notice the difference unless they looked closely. He stood attentively by the door as he closed it shut, making it look as if he were standing guard. In a way, he was. He was there to ensure no one would disturb Queen Cersei as she got dressed. As far as their usual trysts went, making love in one of the empty spare rooms was least exciting than, say, the royal bedroom, but no less risky than anywhere else in the Red Keep. It would be disastrous if they were caught in the act, but the possibility of being found out riled Jaime more than he cared to admit.

Not that Cersei complained, not with how she was screaming his name.

A shame we won’t be able to do this until we return from our voyage to that strange land the sailors won’t shut up about, the kingslayer thought.

It was decided ages ago that Jaime and at least two other members of the Kingsguard would accompany Robert when they and representatives of Houses Baratheon, Lannister, Stark, Tully, Arryn, Martell, and Tyrell sailed to a land unknown to them. Like many, he thought the sailors were mummers until they showed off the trinkets they brought with them. The memory of the Uchigatana and its weight in his hands wrought shivers down his spine. He could not help but wonder what sort of craftsmen could design such a beautiful weapon or what sorts of warriors could wield them.

When the small council and king finally recognized the foreign land as truth than a mummer’s tale, there’d been a week-long debate as to how they would deal with their new southern neighbors as well as arguments and questions as to how in the Hells they remained hidden from Westeros and the rest of the known world for so long. Cartographers, map makers, and anyone with extensive knowledge of the seas were brought before the court to answer their questions, and to their dismay, they had very little.

They did not know where the foreign land was beyond the sailor’s accounts, but an educated guess placed them between Lys, Volantis, and the Summer Islands. Maesters spent countless nights going over the oldest maps in their archives, requesting maps from Essos and even Dorne, who’s relationship with the Iron Throne had not been the best since Robert’s Rebellion. Not that Jaime blamed them, not after what happened with Princess Elia and her children. There were many others who thought the same, though they wouldn’t dare speak such thoughts aloud, and especially not in front of the king. To say Robert Baratheon despised House Targarten in its entirety was like saying a dragon breathed fire.

Half the small council wanted to ignore their new southeastern neighbor and sweep it all under the rug, the other half wanted to open up and establish relations and trade routes, and the minority wanted nothing to do with them. Jaime was part of the second camp, if only to see what sorts of warriors this new land cultivated. Robert sided with the second camp as well. What’s more, it was a decision made without the counsel of the Lord Hand, a rare feat in of itself given how the Lord Hand was all but the true power in the Iron Throne. It was both enviable and pitiable how an old man so close to his death bed was the sole person in all of Westeros capable of calming and reigning in the king.

Jon Arryn was a rare breed, and someone Jaime had decent respect for. The man was traditional, but he had a good head on his shoulders and was not so arrogant to believe he could do everything by himself. On days he coughed up blood, Jon asked for assistance, either from the Grand Maester or to another member of the small council willing to reciprocate, Stannis being the most frequent. It also helped that he was one of the people in the Red Keep who didn’t use Jaime’s moniker like it was a fool’s crown. He treated Jaime respectfully as a fellow peer, though he could tell the man was wary of him.

All because he broke his oath and killed the Mad King.

A sardonic smile formed across his lips, remembering the moment. Nearly twenty years later, and he could still vividly recall it as though it happened yesterday. How Aerys II Targaryen died a miserable sobbing wreck on his throne, his blood staining his white robes.

He should have been hailed a hero, yet people looked upon him with scorn. What would they say if they knew the truth? What would they say if he told them what the king intended? Would they look upon him with awe, then?

Of course they won’t, the treacherous voice purred in his ear. They don’t give a shit about knighthood or chivalry anymore.

“Shut up.”

“Did you say something, Jaime?”

The kingslayer’s façade faltered for a brief moment. Before Cersei could see it, he slipped on the same smile he knew she adored. “It’s nothing. Pay it no mind, sister.”

“Are you sure? You seem troubled,” Cersei pointed out with a frown. “Are you worried about the upcoming voyage? I can try and convince Robert to send somebody else. Seven knows Joffrey needs his uncle to look after him when his own father won’t.”

Jaime wisely bit his tongue and kept his thoughts about his son to himself. He loved Joffrey, he truly did, but even he could not defend the boy. There was something wrong with him. He took too much after Cersei, and in all the wrong ways. When Cersei could be smart when she put her mind to it, Joffrey was as blunt as a hammer and with a mouth as foul as the sewers down by Flea Bottom. He didn’t have a swordsman’s arm, though that was the least disappointing thing about Joffrey. What really rankled Jaime was how he treated his younger siblings. Myrcella was the sweetest little girl to ever grace King’s Landing since her birth, and Tommen was a bright-eyed child with a keen mind. They did nothing wrong, yet Joffrey found enjoyment in mocking and yelling at them.

Jaime couldn’t understand it. Why would Joffrey act so demeaning? What was wrong with him? Why was he so…different?

The treacherous voice cackled. Perhaps he’s too much like his daddy.

Jaime dug his fingers into the palms of his hands, nails digging through the leather gloves.

Cersei left for the gardens to spend time with her daughter. Jaime would have joined her were it not for his duties as Kingsguard. He joined Robert at his small council, expecting to find the Masters and Grand Maester. With the exception of Stannis, all were in attendance, though there were two unexpected faces among the council.

“Long time no see, Jaime,” Tyrion Lannister smiled, either oblivious or reveling in the sheer hateful loathing he was getting from their lord father. “Did you get shorter while I was away?”

“Tyrion?” Jaime started in surprise. “Father? What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d come to King’s Landing when it was time for the voyage.”

The years were somewhat kind to his lord father. Tywin Lannister was five-and-five, yet his countenance was that of a young, fiery lord ready for the battle that was politics. As always, his expression was taught and grim, eyes narrowed as if burrowed in thought, always judging those around him. By contrast, Jaime’s imp of a little brother changed very little since he saw him last. His grin was wide, and his eyes twinkled with promises of mischief. No doubt the little bastard was plotting a trip to one of Littlefinger’s whorehouses once the meeting was over or thinking up some dastardly plot to annoy their father.

In the years following Robert’s Rebellion, Tywin occupied himself at Casterly Rock when duty did not demand he go to King’s Landing. Most of those visits were attempts at convincing Jaime to relinquish his white cloak and return it to the king, renounce his oaths to the Crown, and take his “rightful place” as heir of House Lannister. Jaime lost count how many times he told his father he would not break his oaths, no matter how much he loathed Robert Baratheon.

Jaime’s first thought was that this visit would be yet another attempt to convince him to leave his post, though he banished it when he saw Tyrion. The fact that his father bothered to bring him along meant this was pure business.

“That was my intention,” Tywin replied with the same tone as someone saying the sky was blue. “Until I learned this oaf of a king did not bother to inform me he intends to wed my grandson to a Northern savage.”

Robert bared his teeth at the golden lion. “Watch your fucking tone, Lannister. Ned is a good man, far better than any of the fucking lot here in King’s Landing.”

“That does not change the fact you would wed Joffrey, the prince, to a Northwoman,” Tywin scoffed. “I’ve dealt with the North before, Robert. Mark my words, your plan is doomed to fail.”

“Be that as it may, I’m your king, Lannister,” the king retorted. “If that’s all you came to talk about…”

Tywin’s face grew sour as if he bit into something highly unpleasant, all while glaring at Tyrion. “Not quite. Due to some certain…circumstances back home, I will be having Tyrion accompany for the voyage.”

Jaime blinked at that. It was no secret how much his father loathed and despised his youngest son, blaming him for his wife’s death. The only reason he hadn’t killed Tyrion was because, despite his deformities, he was a Lannister. There were many lows Jaime knew his father would stoop to, but kinslaying was too far beyond the pale, even for a man like Tywin Lannister. As such, Tywin wanted little to nothing to do with his youngest son and left him to his own devices.

What in the world happened at Casterly Rock for father to decide to bring Tyrion?

Curious as Jaime was, he knew better than to ask such questions while they had an audience. Idly, he noted that Cersei would likely be in a foul mood once she learned of their brother’s presence; unlike their lord father, his twin had no compulsion to keep silent on how much she disdained him, though Jaime suspected her reasons had less to do with mother and more because she found his existence repungent.

As for Jaime, he…

Do you really have any right to call him brother , after you lied ? When you stood by and did nothing ?

Jaime barely found the strength to hide his snarl.

“An odd chance,” Robert commented, eyeing Tyrion curiously. “Yet truth be told, I’ve been curious to speak with the so-called imp for some time now. I must confess, I am disappointed. I heard you had horns and a tail.”

“The horns had to be filed down,” Tyrion replied smoothly. “Sadly, my lord father here demanded my tail be cut off so as to not trip the servants in the halls.”

Robert stared at Tyrion for a moment before he threw his back in laughter. Tywin scowled in silence, his expression making it clear he would have words with his youngest son behind closed doors.

Oh, great, Jaime thought morosely. Tyrion’s gone and endeared himself to the king. As if I need more of a headache.

There was no doubt on his mind that when Cersei learned of this, she would be howling his ear off and demanding that their father take Tyrion away. Or perhaps she would secretly pray to the Seven-Who-Are-One that Tyrion would fall overboard during the voyage.

Either way, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

EURON

When he was young, Euron Greyjoy, dreamed he could fly. For an Ironborn of purest blood to dream such a thing was worthy only of the cruelest mockery from his brothers, though Euron paid little heed to their taunts. The dreams were fascinating as they were liberating. There’d been a time in his youth when he wanted naught but to be free of the name “Greyjoy” and experience the world in its entirety. Alas, such dreams were but the dreams of a naïve summer child, and such dreams were better left forgotten.

As an accomplished man if ill-repute across the known world, Euron could not help but make the same mocking taunts his brothers made of him in the past toward his foolish self all those years ago. Having seen the world and cultivated in the embrace of his fellow squid, Euron came to realize he did not want freedom. He wanted what everyone else wanted. What they crave and desired with all their hearts. Wealth and power. The strength to accomplish their heart’s desire. Euron was doing just that, amassing a loyal crew and scouring the seas in search of plunder and knowledge. Some among the Silence tore their tongues of their free will in a show of allegiance, whereas others had to be…convinced. They came around with time, as others would.

Like his brother Balon, Euron possessed ambition. His was a grand dream, one that went beyond the Seastone Chair. He desired more. For the sake of such ambitions, Euron sought to break free from Balon and that fat Greenlander king’s edicts. There were plenty of ways he could have left the Ironborn Islands; impregnating Victarian’s salt wife was one of those methods, and perhaps something he took great pleasure in doing. Even at his age, he never forgot the insult from their younger years and sought to repay those insults tenfold. What better way to do so than to plant his child in Victarian’s favorite whore and make him kill her to preserve his honor?

His travels paid off for the most part. He gleamed a great deal of wealth and information, be it of the lost mystical ways of the Age of Heroes or the whispers of politics. He even managed to pilfer himself a dragon’s egg, though whether it was such a prize, he had no idea. Not even a Myr and his furnace could hatch it. If nothing else, it would fetch a high price the next time he wandered to Essos in search of his “dragon”. Rumor was the fallen heirs of House Targaryen were somewhere in Essos, with the disgraced crown prince forced to be a beggar asking for pitiful scraps. The sheer irony nearly made him smile. It was not Viserys Targaryen he sought to claim, however; no, it was his sister, little Daenerys Targaryen, he wanted.

A kraken’s seed and a dragon’s womb…what sort of prince might be born from such a union?

The thought would have made him smile…if not for his current predicament.

Euron Greyjoy looked out the window of his holdings, seeing clear black skies and a glowing moon sitting among its lesser lights. It’d been some time since he was captured. When last he looked out the window, the sky was blue and cloudy. How long had it been since then? A few hours? A day? He did not know, and it irked him.

The silver lining was that he was left to stew in silence. Save for the crashing waves against the hull, there was remarkably little noise. His captors left him little to free himself with as his holdings were remarkably barren. There was no iron to cage him, but instead a door made of steel. Beyond it were two men, garbed in clothes he had never seen before. He would have thought them Greenlanders, if not for their vessel.

As a trueborn squid of iron and a man of the seas, Euron took great pride in the Silence. It was a fine ship, one worthy of a man who would one day rule the world, and yet he was forced to admit defeat when faced with a ship dwarfing his prized vessel. It was far larger than any ship he’d seen, with a craftsmanship rivaling even the best shipmakers in the isles. Curious still was how its crew spoke in a foreign tongue, neither Old Westerosi, Essosi, or even Valyrian.

Some of his crew was killed during the raid. Those who were spared were taken aboard the ship and separated. Where they were, Euron did not know. Perhaps they were being tortured or interrogated, for all the good it would do them. What sorts of faces did they make when they discovered those who sailed under him were stripped of their tongues?

Euron thought back to the raid. Like any self-respecting man, he loathed loss and would seek retribution for defeat, yet in this instance, he could not help but view his capture as a most interesting learning experience. The people aboard the ship fought in a way he didn’t think possible. They fought with swords and bows, but their blades were of foreign make like themselves. He initially wrote off their armor, noting how flimsy it appeared, yet his doubts were disproven when he saw how well their armor held up to tested steel. If anything, it was the crew of the Silence who fared poorly. The strength of their weapons and swordplay saw them bested within minutes.

One warrior in particular stuck out in his mind. A female warrior was a rare sight, and while most may dismiss them, Euron was most wary of these sorts of warriors. The woman fought as if she were the greenlander’s Stranger. Not a single blade reached her, and every stroke of her blade drew blood. The sight was captivating as it was terrifying. The memory chilled his blood and made his heart soar.

What manner of woman was she, to make a kraken feel like a summer maiden?

The stillness of the night was disturbed when Euron heard footsteps from outside his holdings. He looked at the door, wondering who would be visiting him at such a late hour. He heard the foreign tongue again, this time from a woman’s voice. The metal door opened, and Euron smiled.

It was the woman who bested him and his crew.

No longer in the heat of battle, Euron took a moment to properly appreciate her beauty. Her skin was pale, nearly the color of Westeros’ northern snowfields, and unblemished as if she were a newborn maiden. Her hair was a solid black, vaguely reminiscent of the Baratheons' hair, but with piercing yellow eyes and slitted pupils; not those of a cat, but a fearsome beast born to rend men asunder and cook their flesh. She did not wear the strange armor of her fellows, but instead the garb of a proper seafarer; a plain tunic and black trousers with a red sash tied around her waist. At her side was that curious blade of hers, neatly tucked away in its sheathe.

The two captains studied each other, locking eyes and waging an unseen battle. The woman’s stare was glacial as it was passionate, for behind her stare, he saw her desire to cut him down. Euron, meanwhile, maintained his smile and composure, lazily lounging about in the sole wooden seat provided for him in his apparent cell.

“…I’ve heard tale of you, Crow’s Eye.” Euron blinked in pleasant surprise. The woman spoke in Old Westerosi, rather fluently he might add, but with an accent he could not place. “Men quiver in fear when they see your black sails. Few are spared from your wroth, and those that are either plead for death or have their tongues silenced.”

“My reputation precedes me,” Euron chuckled. “Forgive me, but you have me at a disadvantage. You know me, but I don’t know you. If these are to be my last moments, I would like to know the name of the woman who will kill me.”

“In the Land of Reeds, I was named Kuroshi.”

The Land of Reeds, Euron thought. I’ve never heard of such a place before.

Euron heard tale of a foreign land south of Essos’ shores, undiscovered until a wayward ship found its way there. Representatives from the Free Cities all ventured there in pursuit of answers and trade, and word was it that the Greenlander king planned a voyage to form a rapport, in a show of good faith and cooperation. His spies in the isles reported that Balon was interested in testing these newcomers, even expressing some glee at the prospect of pillaging its lands in the name of plunder. If this Land of Reeds was indeed the same land, and not someplace further east, then Euron could only pray to the Drowned God his brother died a painful and undignified death.

Or for him to fall upon their blades. Whichever came first.

“I am not here to kill you, Lord Greyjoy. If I were, we would not be speaking.”

“Then what brings you here, my lady?”

Kuroshi did not respond verbally. Instead, she dug into the patchwork satchel affixed to her sash and pulled out a familiar object. Euron recognized it immediately, simply based on the pattern of the shell. It was the dragon egg he pilfered, only it was no longer whole. No, it had been cracked apart, leaving only half of its shell. Having gone great lengths to claim such a prize, Euron should have felt annoyed or even outraged she destroyed such a valuable treasure. His irritation was halted when he took notice of the state of the ruined shell, how it seemed to have cracked apart from within. The edges of the shell were tinged with soot and burns.

“You will answer truthfully,” Kuroshi said. “Or I shall drench the deck of Kusabimaru with your blood.”

She leaned forward. Belatedly, Euron realized with excitement what eyes she had.

They were not the eyes of a man.

“How did you claim a drake’s egg?”

They were the eyes of a dragon.

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

In another lifetime, Daenerys Targaryen would have lived like a queen. She dreamed of it often, envisioning the Red Keep that was the Targaryen dynasty’s home and of its grandeur, of the many servants at their beck and call, of the knights ready to fulfill their liege’s orders, of her father seated on the Irone Throne holding court, of her mother sitting beside him with her children in tow. She dreamed how beautiful, how simple life would have been.

These dreams were her only escape from the unfair reality she lived in.

Danny, a poor girl of three-and-ten, wore tattered rags fit for the lowest of smallfolk and lived in a hovel unfit for any royalty, much less a noble. They had little in the way of belongings, and fewer still in coin. It was not long ago that her brother, the rightful Crown Prince Viserys Targaryen, sold away the last of their possessions; their mother’s own crown, the sign and symbol of the queen of the seven kingdom’s authority. To have given up the last of his belongings, the last of their mementos of their family, turned her brother into a wrothful man, liable to lash out at the drop of a hat. “Don’t wake the dragon,” he warned her in his foul moods, which were becoming increasingly frequent as the days went on.

There was a time when he was a kinder man, a boy who pulled her into bed when she could not fall asleep. She remembered the smiling face of her dear brother as he told her stories of Westeros, of the home they’d lost in Robert’s Rebellion near twenty years ago.

Now, her brother told no more stories. Now, he spoke of how he would reclaim his birthright.

In truth, Danny didn’t believe Viserys would reclaim his birthright. Such was the hopelessness of their situation. Scarce of coin, living off scraps and disgraceful begging that would surely see their ancestors rolling in their tombs… This was the life of royalty. This was the life of an exile, doomed never again to see home. To know her birthplace.

Vividly, she remembered speaking once upon a time of starting a new life across the vast ocean seas. Her childish mind was fascinated with the Free Cities, the exotic sights they offered, and the ocean’s promise of the unknown. Her brother did not take kindly to the suggestion, not at all. Even now, she remembered the sensation of him twisting and pulling at her hair as he screamed in her face.

As the days and months went by, the kind brother Daenerys remembered was slowly fading away, replaced by the dragon hellbent on reclaiming the Iron Throne.

Even though it’s little more than a flight of fancy by now, Danny thought unkindly.

Viserys had an unflattering reputation in Pentos if not most of the Free Cities. “The Beggar King”, they called him. The mere mention or reference to that name sent her older brother into a fiery rage, stirring the slumbering dragon within him. The sight of his fury only incensed those mocking him, dragging his reputation further into the mud. Danny wanted to comfort him, clinging desperately to the fleeting memories of the man he was, who she believed still existed deep down within him, but Viserys took none too kindly to her “patronizing”. She took some small comfort he hadn’t deigned to strike her then.

Not too long ago, Viserys attempted to strike a friendship with the Golden Company; a mercenary known far and wide throughout Essos. The Blackfyres, a branch house with ill-repute due to the actions of the treacherous Daemon Blackfyre, formerly Daemon Targaryen and brother to King Daeron, had a long history with the Golden Company. One might say the Golden Company is House Blackfyre and House Blackfyre is the Golden Company. Viserys hoped that the promise of helping the rightful heir to the Iron Throne would be enough to persuade them to the cause, and the promise that the Golden Company would be well rewarded.

Danny shivered, remembering how the Golden Company laughed and taunted him after accepting his gold whilst telling him they would have no part in his “scatter-brained scheme”. What made the moment all the more painful was that the gold Viserys procured in the hopes of buying their service was earned from selling Queen Rhaella’s crown.

It went without saying that Viserys wanted nothing to do with the Golden Company since, if not swear he would wreak vengeance upon them one day.

Danny groaned as her stomach rumbled and growled, demanding sustenance. It’d been two days since they arrived in this hovel they now called home, two days since their last meal. Viserys was working on procuring supplies, once again forced to swallow his Targaryen pride while leaving her to her solace. Truthfully, she didn’t know whether to be glad she was not in his presence when the dragon reared its ugly head or lamenting her solitude. She despised the lack of sound, the lifelessness around her. She couldn’t feel at ease in this place at all.

The odd dreams as of late were little help, either. Try as she might to decipher their meaning, they made no sense to her.

She—

Her stomach growled again. Danny could feel her own insides eating away at her. She wondered if this was how she would die, of starvation and hunger far from the home she yearned to see.

“What awful hurtling.”

Danny leaped to her feet in an instant, reaching for the chipped leather knife tied to her waist. A woman entered the hovel without a sound, standing so close to the young princess she could have easily seized her by the throat and left her none the wiser.

“How fill’d with pangs of hunger art thee ‘fr thy stomach soundeth liketh a fell wolf? It took Danny a moment to realize the woman spoke in Valyrian. Not High Valyrian, but Old Valyrian. It was an old language, a tongue not spoken since the Doom. To the best of her knowledge, only the Targaryens’ kin in Volantis, ever reclusive and dismissive of their Westerosi cousins, spoke it. She bore an odd accent, yet her tone and voice made Danny think of her mother and how she envisioned her in her dreams.

A long white cloak adorned most of her body, hiding much of her form under the fabric. Her features were pure Valyrian, so perfect Danny would have thought her a beautiful man if not for her voice and peaking bosom. Silvery-white hair framed the curves of her face, spilling down past her chin and shoulders and ending at her waist. The sides of her face were decorated with mirroring tattoos, though the markings were so odd she could not properly describe them. Her eyes captured Danny’s attention the most; the irises were large, nearly swallowing the sclera entirely, and the pupils narrowed and long like a glaring dragon’s, surrounded by a pinkish-red hue.

She could almost swear the woman’s eyes were glowing.

“Well?” the woman said irately. “Shall thee answ’r, ‘r shall thee standeth th’re gawking liketh a blinking idiot?”

Danny swallowed the lump in her throat. The knife in her hands felt as heavy as a stone. “W-why do you care if I am hungry?” she challenged, trying to muster the courage of her lineage.

“I careth because the hurtling offends me,” the woman replied curtly while staring down Danny as though she were little more than an ant. “I couldst heareth t a mile hence.” She took a step forward. For but a moment, the woman grew taller, reaching toward the sky like a great monolith. Danny took a fearful step back, her body all but trembling. “T offends mine own ears. I can barely standeth to hark to thy stomach.”

Danny attempted another rebuttal, ready to threaten the woman and leave her alone, only for her stomach to growl once more and the pain in her gut to rear its head again. She inhaled sharply, no longer capable of holding the knife aloft. It slipped out of her hand and clattered to the dirt. She fell to her knees, clutching her stomach and whimpering. Were Viserys here to see her pitiful state, he’d yell at her for such a disgraceful sight. She wouldn’t blame him, either. It was one thing to be brought to her knees because of something meager like hunger, but to do so in front of a mere stranger? It was beyond shameful!

She felt the woman’s stare linger on her prone form before hearing her sigh. Her cloak shifted as she knelt, parting just enough to expose black robes with intricate gold lacings, carefully woven into the fabric with such mastery and dexterity beyond any clothmaker Danny knew in the Free Cities. Suddenly, Danny became keenly aware of the wonderful smell emanating from the woman’s person.

She looked up, and felt her mouth water. The woman held out a loaf of bread, freshly baked at that.

“Art thee going to consume t ‘r not?”

The princess didn’t question whether the woman poisoned it or why she offered her food in the first place. She didn’t care for decorum or what her brother would have thought. Daenerys didn’t think much of anything.

All she could think about was how delicious the bread tasted, and how her stomach ceased to howl.

“I do not wish to sound ungrateful, but why did you offer me food?” Danny asked after having scarfed the loaf down. The woman sat down next to her, seemingly uncaring whether the dirt besmirched her white cloak. She was still suspicious of the newcomer and kept her knife within arm’s reach, but she allowed a degree of trust. The woman earned that much at least. “If my stomach offended you so much, you would have left.”

“True,” the woman acknowledged with a wistful smile. “I couldst has’t hath left and spareth mine own ears from thy stomach’s insuff’rable growling. If’t be true I didst yond, howev’r, I wouldst beest leaving a issue to suff’r. I am many things, dram wench, but I am not heartless. Mine own l’ord broth’r wouldst has’t mine own h’rns be true I disgrac’d myself in such a mann’r.”

It was times such as this when Danny wished she knew more Old Valyrian. She barely understood half of what the woman said, making it difficult to discern her intentions and sincerity. The mention of a “lord brother” piqued her curiosity, as the choice of wording implied the woman was of noble stock. Sadly, Danny knew as much about the Volantis nobility as Viserys and everyone else, and that was little to nothing whatsoever. Her Essosi kin were a reclusive bunch with arrogance to match their solitude. Danny entertained the idea the woman might be of Volantese nobility, but dismissed it soon after it appeared in her mind. There was no reason for a highborn noble to come to Pentos, much less seek out her Westerosi cousin.

This, of course, only reignited her paranoia. “…who are you, exactly? I’ve never met anyone who could speak the ancient tongue of the old empire, and so fluently.”

“Has’t thee nay mann’rs, wench?” the woman retorted with a glower. “Is’t not courtesy to giveth thy nameth bef’re demanding anoth’r’s?”

Danny winced. She earned that, she supposed. “…Danny,” she said hesitantly, careful not to give out her family name. “My name is Danny.”

“But t is not thy true nameth,” the woman observed. Was it her imagination, or did she sense approval? “Still, thee’ve proven thee has’t mann’rs.”

The woman smiled, and Danny felt a shiver run down her spine. She saw not pearly white teeth, but serrated, jagged fangs.

“I am hath called Lansseax, of the Lands Between. Daught’r of Gransax, sister to mine own l’ord broth’r Fortissax, and f’rm’r priestess of the dragon's cult of Leyndell. T’s a pleasure to meeteth thee.”

…what?

It took but a few seconds for Daenerys Targaryen to register Lansseax’s words, and yet another few seconds before breaking into a cold sweat.

THE MAIDEN

The lampwood sat in the distance, as it always did. Ever sentinel, ever present, yet never reachable. No matter how far one ventured, no matter how close it seemed, they would never touch it.

Such was its purpose, to stand as a guide to wayward souls, and yet it never overstepped its bounds.

The spirits of the realm grew restless. Although she traveled far from the Lands Between and its now welcoming embrace, the maiden saw the howling spirits waging a pointless, unwinnable war. The ghosts haunting Westeros hailed from a myriad of ages, some tinged with old magic. It was not enough to pose any real threat to the ghostflames and its bearers, but it was enough to deter them. Enough to lock them into a stalemate, though even she knew naught how long it would last.

When she found herself in this realm, a reflection of the world she fought and gave her life to protect, she did not know what to think at first. That she found herself in foreign lands, in a world so similar yet very different from her own, was all the more confusing. It had not been until she heard the voice of the Lunar Princess that the Maiden understood.

I do solemnly swear.
To every living being, and every living soul.
Now cometh the Age of the Stars.
A thousand year voyage under the wisdom of the Moon.
Here beginneth the chill night that encompasses all, reaching the great beyond.
Into fear, doubt, and loneliness…
As the path stretcheth into darkness.

The knowledge that Queen Marika the Eternal was succeeded was surprising as was the identity of who surpassed her. Ranni the Witch, the thought-dead princess of Caria, one of the three Empyreans. Theirs was a passing acquaintance, and a vow that they would not interfere in each other’s affairs. It helped that Ranni’s desire for the Lands Between tied neatly with the Maiden’s own plan to crown a new Elden Lord by any means necessary, even though such an action would be in direct defiance toward the Golden Order.

There were many Tarnished of great repute who returned to the Lands Between in the wake of the Shattering, would-be champions who might claim the vacant seat and return order and sanity to the realm.

Hoarah Loux, chieftain of the Badlands, also known as Godfrey, the first Elden Lord. One of the greatest warriors the realm has ever seen, bringing countless neighboring kingdoms and races to heel before the Golden Order’s luster. Although stripped of Grace and sent to foreign lands, he returned to reclaim his post and title.

The Ever-Brilliant Goldmask, fundamentalist of the Golden Order and bar none the most renown follower and scholar of the Golden Order. Whatever past he once had was long abandoned in the name of fundamentalism. Such was his devotion and desire to understand the Golden Order and its mysteries, its intricacies, that he discarded his very name.

Fia, the Deathbed Companion. A kind soul with empathy, even for those beyond the Golden Order’s tolerance. Many described her as being a gentle lover and a warm mother, offering comfort and kindness to the dying nobles she laid with. Although many in the Lands Between scorned and persecuted her and those like her, she never faltered in her desire to aid the legacy of the dirtied Golden Prince.

Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing. Of those who would be Lord, he was a man shrouded in mystery. Once hailed as the royal spymaster, he dedicated his life to learning every secret, every scrap of knowledge, every heresy ever put to paper or carving. He was no scholar, merely a man driven by an instinctual desire, a raging ambition to know all there is to know of the world and beyond.

The Loathsome Dung Eater. A criminal people compared to the like of Shabriri, the most reviled man in all history, for his acts of wanton murder and slaughter did not cease in bloodshed. The Dun Eater earned his name for the heretical, horrific acts he inflicted upon his victims, sullying them so thoroughly in body and soul that they would never return to the Erdtree. They would exist outside of Grace; a fate many considered worse than death.

And yet, for all the grandioise achievements and power these renowned warriors and scholars possessed, none reached the throne. The post of Elden Lord, and title of consort eternal, was taken by a Tarnished of no renown. A bloodied warrior, from the Land of Reeds.

The Maiden pursed her lips, recalling their first encounter. She wondered what the Elden Lord was doing, now that he was wed and in service to Ranni the Witch. Her musings paused when she caught movement up ahead. The trodden path laid out before her was covered in corpses; freshly slain if the pools of bright blue liquid and flickering motes of light from their dissipating forms were any indication. Further ahead, standing over a small pile of fading ghosts, was a dreadfully familiar sight. She recognized the knight almost immediately, unable to forget the spear in his hand or the ruined state of his armor.

She narrowed her eyes, slowly reaching for her dagger while taking stock of the flickering and fading bodies strewn over the beaten path. They were garbed in plated metal, fur cloaks adorning their bodies like capes. Branded on their cloaks was a house sigil. A wolf with bared fangs. The motes drifting from their fading bodies were tinged scarlet, the same as any spirit with hostility toward the living.

Many spirits in this realm were driven mad. This was a land for warriors who fell in battle, yet many were left unsatisfied. Some craved more bloodshed, others wished to continue serving their lords even in death. Although the realm was meant to be a reprieve, a chance for them to let go of their worldly bonds and make the pilgrimage, their inability to let go left them maddened and succumbed to the dark nature of their new reality. Even the Maiden, guided and protected by the gloam fire alight in her breast, felt the gnarled claws reaching for her values and beliefs.

The Tarnished of Antiquity remained rooted on the spot. His form was remarkably solid like hers, yet she could see the blurred edges of his existence. He was no more a spirit in this realm than herself.

“…I see you’ve been released from your bondage and gaol,” the Maiden spoke, addressing the Tarnished with a calm and even tone despite the worry gnawing at her breast.

Ever so slightly, the knight in ruined armor turned his head, acknowledging her existence. “And you have fulfilled your purpose,” he replied. “The warrior who stumbled me in the mountaintop, the Reedlander… Were they yours?”

“Yes.”

“…I have no quarrel with you, maiden.”

“I know better than to trust the word of one who consorted with the Three Fingers.”

“What I did, I did for her.”

The Maiden turned her gaze downward. “I know.”

He laughed bitterly, the sound of a man who realized his folly and was left with no choice but to lay in the bed of his own making. “Will you not laugh, maiden who crowned the Elden Lord? At this poor, pitiful fool who could not save one who championed him and betrayed her trust irreparably?”

The Maiden retracted the path of her hand, gazing upon the Tarnished of Antiquity with pity. She knew his story well. In fact, she would have chosen him had a Finger Maiden not approached him, partly out of admiration for his long and storied prestige since his return to the Lands Between and mostly out of a desire to see him crowned. He had the qualities and strength needed for lordship, chief among them compassion.

No one knew it was his compassion that would lead to his ruin and his Finger Maiden’s demise.

“There is no greater curse than love,” Kind Miquella once told her. She didn’t realize how true his words were until she learned of the Tarnished’s imprisonment in the gaol up in the mountains beyond the Forbidden Lands.

“…why have you come here?” the knight questioned, ceasing his laughter. By now, the pile of corpses at his feet faded into nothingness. All that remained were the floating motes of light, dancing around his body like fireflies. “Do you seek the frigid lands to the north?”

The Maiden shook her head. “I seek the castle belonging to kings of forgotten ages,” she answered.

“For what purpose?”

“The wolf yet to become a dragon.”

A lull silence fell over them.

“…Valmar of the Tylth rides to the North. In search of the Throneless Lord.”

The Maiden frowned. “For what purpose?”

“Only the Ghostlord knows that,” the Tarnished of Antiquity answered. He turned on his heel, settling his accursed and madness-touched spear on his back. He walked past her, the scent of frenzy and dragon blood clinging to him like a cloak. “Pray he does not find you, maiden. His Huntsmen are many things. Do not expect mercy, and offer them none in kind.”

The gloam-eyed woman nodded, uttering a word of thanks as she continued her trek northwards. She looked up at the dark moon hanging in the night sky, the representation and symbol of a new order.

A world where one may decide their fate as they see fit.

“I cannot help but wonder, old friend… Is it by your hand that I yet exist, made anew with flesh and flame? Or does fate have need of me still?”

The Dark Moon offered no answers, as she expected. Only silence.

Chapter Text

NED

The last time Ned set foot in King’s Landing was during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Little changed, least of all the horrid smell invading his nostrils.

“Old gods be good, what is that?” Robb gagged, clawing at his nose in a futile attempt to stop the invading odor. “Even a rotting carcass doesn’t smell nearly as bad as this.”

“Welcome to King’s Landing,” Ned said glumly.

He didn’t have fond memories of this place, before and after the rebellions. He came here three times before; the first for the tourney at Harrenhal, and the second during the Sack. Even after nearly twenty years, Ned remembered the fires, the stench of dead bodies, bloody rivers flowing through the streets, and the man he once considered a brother in all but blood laughing over a pair of dead children and their mother.

Has he changed since I saw him last, Ned wondered, not for the first time.

As strained as their friendship had become in the years since Robert’s Rebellion, Ned held out hope kingship and its burdens helped to wizen his friend. He heard a few things from travelers, some speaking of the current state of affairs in King’s Landing, but it was hard to discern fact from truth. At the very least, the smallfolk spoke of him more fondly than they did of Aerys.

Not that that was hard.

A guardsman awaited them at the northern gate, a gold cloak adorning his shoulders. Ned disembarked his horse as the Gold Cloak approached. At a glance, he couldn’t be any older than seven and ten, something that disturbed Ned. Was the City Watch so understaffed they resorted to hiring young blood now?

“M’lord,” the guardsman greeted amicably. “What brings you here?”

Ned produced the letter bearing Robert’s seal form his cloak, holding it for the guardsman to see. “I am Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North and patriarch of House Stark,” he said. “I have come to answer King Robert Baratheon’s summons.”

The guardsman took the letter and inspected it. After verifying it indeed bore the king’s seal, he handed it back to Ned. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Lord Stark.”

“Out of curiosity, guardsman, do you know how many lords of the Great Houses are in King’s Landing at the moment?”

“You are the last to arrive, m’lord. Prince Oberyn Martell and his entourage arrived just yesterday.”

Ned pursed his lips, trying to remember the last time the leaders of the Great Houses convened in King’s Landing. Ordinarily, they would convene when a lord called for a Great Council; a meeting to decide who may rule the Seven Kingdoms and all Westeros or discuss other matters concerning the realm. Only thrice has the Great Council been called; all to decide the matter of succession.

If nothing else, this voyage should prove interesting, Ned privately thought to himself, wondering how this ‘expedition’ would fare.

The months spent traveling gave him quite a lot to think about, as well as time to prepare his eldest son and heir what to expect. So far, Robb proved his studies were not in vain and held himself admirably in the face of scrutiny, but he was still a boy. More importantly, he was of Northern stock. Ned knew well how the practices of the North would not fare well in the South, where the nobility were more concerned with matters such as coin, prestige, and power. He tried to wrap his mind around it once, only to find himself suffering than learning. He tried to understand what could have enticed his lord father to garner “Southern ambitions”.

It raised more questions than answers. In the end, Ned preferred the comforts and normalcy of life in the frigid North. At least there, he could understand what drove his people and fellow lords.

It took thirteen minutes to park the wheelhouse, and another four to properly disembark. Robb got off his horse and joined his father, still attempting to block out the city’s foul odors. Ned braved the odor as best he could, though at the moment it was the warm weather that was his biggest enemy. The North, ever cold and chill, had been his home for as long as he could remember. The rebellions took him to many places across Westeros, even briefly to the seas, and in both Robert’s and the Greyjoy’s, he found the warm climate of the South to be slightly unbearable.

The long months of travel certainly hadn’t helped, least of all the gnawing worries that grew with each passing day. He was dreading this voyage for a multitude of reasons.

“Where to now, father?” Robb inquired.

“We make for the Red Keep,” he said before looking to his men. “The rest of you will find lodgings. Assuming it is still there, Baelor’s Rest should offer enough room for you. If not that, spend time at the taverns. I trust you lot will behave yourselves?”

“So long as the Southrons keep to themselves,” one of his bannermen replied. “How long do you think discussions will take?”

“With any hope, not long.”

The Red Keep remained as intimidating a sight as it had fifteen years ago. Without question, it was the grandest of any castle or palace ever built, its red walls withstanding the test of time. Once, long ago, it’d been the seat of power held by Aegon the Conqueror and his descendants near three centuries ago. Now, it was held by the lions and the stags by way of marriage and descent. Through Rhaella Targaryen’s relation to House Baratheon, Robert and his kin held the closest qualifications to claim the crown and throne, more than any other House.

Ned set foot in this place in the aftermath of the rebellion, when he relayed news of his sister’s death to Robert. It was not a pleasant memory for either man. Ned was still wrothful with his friend and sworn brother for his disgraceful acts toward Elia Martell and her children, but there’d been enough friendship to tell him what became of Lyanna. Robert was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve and proudly bore his emotions on his face. The sight of one of the strongest, most hard-headed men he knew weeping like a child made Ned wonder if there was still a smoldering remnant of his old friend left in the hate-filled husk he’d come to know since.

Upon arriving at the throne room, Ned gazed upon his old friend for the first time in years. Looking at him now, the Northern lord could not help but wonder what had become of Robert in the past decade. He was no longer the fit, burly boy who excelled under Jon Arryn’s tutelage. Nay, kingship turned him fat. Muscles became pig-like lumps, his belly as rotund as a haystack, and his cheeks puffed like some woodland creature.

The sight of what had become of Robert Baratheon broke Ned’s heart. He knew then that his friend had changed, and it had not been for the better.

“Eddard fucking Stark!” Robert’s voice boomed across the room, his smile so wide Ned feared his face might split in half. “You are a sight for sore eyes!”

Robert all but stomped up to him. Ned made to kneel, only for the king to pull him into a one-armed hug. Inwardly, Ned grimaced as he smelled the familiar scent of alcohol deeply tinged with Robert’s stench. Evidently, becoming king did nothing to curb his drinking habits.

“Your Grace,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Oh, none of that crap. We’re sworn brothers, you and I. I owe you that much, at least.” Robert turned his gaze to Ned’s son, who promptly stood at attention. “And this must be your son. Robb, was it? You’re a fine lad.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Robert smiled as he waved his hand in dismissal. “Call me Robert. You’re the son of my friend, after all. Consider it a royal priveledge.” His smile dimmed as he turned back to Ned. The Lord Paramount frowned, recognizing the somber look in Robert’s eyes. “To be honest, I’m glad you came when you did.”

“Is Lord Arryn well?” he asked immediately.

“Aye, well enough. A stubborn old bastard like me, but lately, he’s been coughing more than usual. Half the time, I fear he might spit blood. That old fop Pycelle thinks he has a year in him at most.”

Ned’s heart swelled in sorrow. A year? Is that all he truly has left?

In the time spent fostering under Jon Arryn, Ned found a second father in the Eyrie. He was a kindly old man not dissimilar to his own father, but different enough for Ned to form a bond all the same. Where Rickard Stark taught him how to be a lord and warden of the Northern land, Jon Arryn taught him how to be a knight and honorable man. To his shame, he didn’t write to Lord Arryn nearly as often as he had in recent years, finding himself too busy in the affairs of his fellow Northmen and the rise of Wildling sightings. Likewise, Lord Arryn didn’t write back due to his responsibilities as Lord Hand.

Despite the long years since their last meeting, Ned considered Lord Arryn a dear friend and more. To learn that his reward for all he’d done was a measly year of life left was disheartening. His heart lurched and clawed at itself in a way that made his chest writhe in discomfort.

“…I’m sorry, Robert.”

For but a moment, Ned swore he saw the true face of the king appear. “He’s a good man. Better than I deserve, if I’m being truthful. But now you understand why I need your help convincing him to resign from his post.”

“He must be a proud man, to continue holding the post of the Lord Hand despite being so close to death,” Robb said.

Robert laughed. “I think you mean stubborn, whelp. He’s more pig-headed than me! At any rate, now that you’re here, we can call for a proper meeting.” The king grinned, showing off white and yellow teeth while looking out past the windows and into the open view of King’s Landing in its full splendor. Past the high towers and bustling castle-town below was the great wide ocean. “I’ve not felt this excited since when I first rode with Jon to deal with a bunch of Mountain bastards causing trouble in the Eyrie. My first real taste for battle. I’ll never forget it. Can you imagine it, Ned? A land no one’s heard of until now. It makes you wonder what we’ll find there.”

Ned allowed himself to smile. “With any luck, it will be honorable men and not savages.”

“I wouldn’t mind if they were a tad like the Dornish,” the king remarked. “Especially the womenfolk.”

…Well, I see kingship’s done nothing to slake your lust.

As a man of the North, Ned should have felt disgruntled with the knowledge Robert had not ceased his whoremongering ways since ascending the Iron Throne. Instead, a part of him felt relieved.

Perhaps there was still some of his old friend left in this fat king after all.

OBERYN

“You know, it’s a shame you’re a Lannister.” The ‘stain’ of Tywin Lannister looked up from the book in his hands in befuddlement, meeting the cheery grin of Dorne’s Red Viper. “You would’ve made a fine Dorneman.”

“Don’t let my father hear that,” Tyrion replied with a cheeky smile. “He still thinks me a Lannister despite seeing me as less than dog shit. I have to ask, though. Do you say that because of my height, or because we’re both eyeing the same woman?”

The maid cleaning the floors from across the hall was a catch. She looked plain, but her freckles and curly dark hair gave her a curious look that made him yearn to take her to the bedroom. Of course, it helped that when he happened upon the maid earlier, she fidgeted and squirmed under his gaze with rosy pink cheeks. She was timid in his presence, but it was clear as day she wanted to see if the Dornish were as “insatiable” as everyone said. Something he would be more than happy to prove if given the opportunity.

Oberyn had to admit, Tyrion proved better company than expected. He first met the midget sometime after he’d been born. His mother wished to pay Lady Joanna her respects after receiving news of her passing, bringing a then-young Oberyn and Elia with her to Casterly Rock. Of course, there had also been possible talks of marriage between them and Tywin’s children. Nothing ultimately came out of that due to both siblings being disinterested in Tywin’s children; Elia thought Jaime a poor match, and Oberyn found Cersei too obsessive and boorish, though she did prove a minor amusement when he discovered the twins’ habits of switching places. Oh, what fun it’d been to discover their secret. Tyrion Lannister, then a small babe, had been an ugly little thing he couldn’t help but dismiss.

In the day spent around the dwarf since, Oberyn amended his thoughts of Tyrion. Any belief the midget would be a bitter man like his contemptuous father were dismissed. Oh yes, Tyrion was indeed a bitter man, but he learned to hide it with a smile and a few choice words and a charming grin. Deformed as he may be, he was a Lannister, and Lannisters were nothing if not creative in how they integrated themselves with others. Oberyn had been suspicious of how easily Tyrion approached him in the guise of learning about the famed Red Viper of Dorne, but before long, they were mostly eased. He hadn’t truly let down his guard, but the man earned some degree of trust.

That, and Oberyn loved how Tyrion’s mere existence made Tywin’s face sour as though he bit into a lemon.

Now, if only could run his knife through the lion’s ribs…

“Beg your pardon, my lords, but His Grace is calling for you.”

Oberyn blinked, not realizing another servant entered the room. The viper and imp looked at each other and shrugged, the latter sliding the book back where he found it.

“Do you know why he wishes to see us?” Oberyn asked as they walked.

“It would seem the last of the Great Lords has arrived. Lord Eddard Stark and his heir arrived in the Red Keep nary an hour ago.”

Tyrion chuckled. “So, the heirs and lords of the eight great houses have come together in one place. All we need now are the Greyjoys, and this would be a Great Council.”

Come to think of it, the heir of Balon Greyjoy is Lord Stark’s ward, Oberyn vaguely recalled. I wonder if he brought the boy as well, then we may truly be in a Great Council…

The servant led the pair to the throne room. Upon entering, Oberyn laid eyes on the fat king Robert Baratheon, seated on the Iron Throne. The luster and intimidating presence it bore was set off-balance by the man seated on it, though that was the least of the prince’s attention. Instead, his attention was on the gathered lords. He found Eddard Stark and his heir easily; Northmen were a rare sight in the South and rarer still in Dorne, but he learned to recognize their features and the cloaks adorned to their shoulders.

Curiously, the patriarch of House Tyrell was not present among the gathering. Instead, it was the Queen of Thorns herself; Oberyn knew of no other wrinkly old woman who could so easily sit in a room full of lords and accomplished men without batting an eye while seemingly bored. At her side was who he assumed was her granddaughter Margeary Tyrell. Although only four and ten, rumors of her beauty did no justice to seeing her in the flesh. For but a moment, Oberyn could not help but remember dear Ashara.

“The man in armor next to Lord Stark is Edmure Tully, I believe,” Tyrion murmured next to him. “And the man with the stony face is Lord Stannis, the king’s brother.”

Now there is a man in desperate need of a woman’s touch, Oberyn cannot help but think. At a glance, Stannis Baratheon has the bearings of a man of discipline; he stood at attention, shoulders broad and with a fierce countenance belonging to a warrior on the battlefield. On closer inspection, however, Oberyn saw the signs of bitter resentment, carefully concealed but present, hidden under his stern glaring. It seems the hearsay of a brotherly feud between the king and his Master of Ships is not unfounded.

Doran would love to hear that, he thought to himself.

“Is everyone present and accounted for?” the Lord Hand asked, his wizened voice echoing across the great hall. The great lords and heirs in attendance stood in silence, awaiting for the king to begin the council in earnest. “Very well. We shall begin. Let us not beat around the bush, as it were. You’ve all heard, by now, the tale told to us by sailors who returned to Driftmark bearing trinkets and gifts the likes of which never seen before in Westeros. Gifts from a land previously unknown to us, one somehow hidden from spying eyes for all these years.”

“And if there were any doubt whether this foreign land exists,” King Robert boomed, holding up a letter in his hand. “This dispelled them. Our Master of Ships sent a ship to verify the sailors’ claims. This arrived little over a week ago, confirming the existence of the land off the southern shores of Essos.”

“What do we know of it?” Olenna Tyrell asked sharply. “Surely, you don’t expect us to sail and discover who these people are by ourselves.”

Stannis answered in place of the king, who to his credit didn’t look remotely displeased by the Queen of Thorns’ sharp tongue. “The people there call it the Lands Between. They are currently enjoying themselves under the Guest Rights of Nepheli Loux, the Lady Paramount of Limgrave and ruler of Stormveil Castle.”

Oberyn blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say Lady Nepheli?” Although it was not unheard of for a house to be ruled by a matriarch, with the Tyrells being the best living example (Mace can proclaim otherwise all he wants, everyone knows his mother has him by the balls), it was still a rare occurrence. The last time he heard of a matriarch was Rhaenyra Targaryen, though whether she was indeed Queen was still up for debate.

“Aye,” the Lord Hand nodded. “Admittedly, our scouts are still in the midst of learning more of the Lands Between, but so far, they’ve been given a warm welcome. At the very least, Lady Loux is receptive to the idea of meeting foreign dignitaries.”

“How much do we know of this land?” Lord Tully inquired with squinted eyes. “Is Lady Loux the sole ruler, or are there other countries?”

“As I said, Lady Loux is the Paramount of Limgrave,” the Lord Hand answered. “North of Limgrave is the territory of Caria, ruled by Queen Rennala, and to the east is the land of Caelid, though word of that region is scarce. That said, according to Lady Loux, both she, her fellow lords, and even the Queen of Caria bend the knee to the High Queen and her consort, who rule from the capital city of Altus, Leyndell.”

“As riveting as this is, I feel we must ask an important question,” Oberyn said, bringing his fellow Great Lords’ attention to him. “The lands east of Westeros are known. Every map maker worth their ink and maesters worth their chains spent lifetimes charting seas and lands. Were this Lands Between to have been found to the Further East, I’d believe the sailors claims, but off the southern shores? Between Lys and Volantis? Even you, Your Grace, must realize that is suspect.”

King Robert chortled. “And yet, it sits there all the same. First the sailors, and now even our own scouts. You raise a good point, Red Viper, but isn’t that all the more reason to open dialogue with our new neighbors? Let’s be frank; we are not the only ones interested in that place. Crone’s saggy tits knows all of Essos likely learned of them first and are racing to learn all they can.”

So he’s trying to take the initiative, Oberyn realized. I guess the fat man isn’t so lazy.

Indeed, the king spoke true. There was no doubt in their minds that Essos likely learned about the Lands Between long before they did. It was more than likely they already established open dialogue with them, hoping to learn their secrets and discuss trade. Oberyn recalled seeing one of the gifts the sailors brought to the Red Keep, proof of the Lands Between’s existence. The Uchigatana had not been the only blade they brought with them. There’d been another, a weapon with two blades, one at the top and one at the bottom; “twinblade” they called it. He held it in his hand for a scant few seconds, yet he could not deny how light, how perfect it felt.

The Uchigatana and the twinblade, weapons of such exotic design and make never seen anywhere else in Westeros. The purpose and necessity of such weapons did raise a question in their minds, one that raised more frightening possibilities.

What sort of life did the people of the Lands Between lead, if they felt the need to craft such weapons?

Chapter Text

ROBB

King’s Landing was not at all what Robb thought it’d be. He was slowly getting used to the smell, but the sheer size and bustle of the city was far and above anything he saw. It made him realize just how sheltered he was from the world, and how small Wintertown was by comparison. Even walking through the narrow streets made him aware of the disparity between smallfolk and those of noble houses.

In the North, everyone struggled and learned to support each other. The harsh winters in particular saw both noble and smallfolk united. Food was vital for survival, none moreso than in the frigid northern regions of Westeros. This was the first lesson Eddard Stark pounded into his eldest son’s head when he began his studies into lordship, and it was a lesson still ongoing.

Southern goods seem to be of varying quality, Robb thought as he strolled through the markets. The prices ranged from something as low as a handful of halfpennies to an outrageous ten stags. Some items he saw were most definitely not worth such an absurd amount of coin. He almost argued with the stall owners, only ceasing when he realized he was in another part of Westeros and in the capital of the entire realm. All commerce and trade was centralized in King’s Landing, with many a merchant seeking to establish themselves. Others were left little choice but to compete with their wealthier competitors, including in prices.

It was certainly an eye-opening experience, though one that left him sour. Despite the stories and tales of its storied history, King’s Landing was not what bards made it out to be. His father’s grim look when he saw the state of the city made sense now that Robb walked through the city streets. The city was yet to heal from the scars inflicted upon it during the Sack.

How can his Grace possibly allow this?

It made no sense to Robb at all. Although vaguely aware of the strained friendship between his father and King Robert, Robb wished to judge the king with his own eyes. As far as first impressions went, Robert Baratheon was quite unimpressive and shattered the image Robb built in his head, having expected a man with a build similar to a Greatjon with a physique to match. At least his personality seemed well, speaking frankly with Lord Stark as a dear friend than his king. Having watched King Robert embrace Robb’s father, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was that strained their camaraderie.

Still, Robb felt disappointed with his king all the same. Kings were meant to hold themselves to a higher standard, with King’s Landing meant to reflect that. What did the state of the city say if the king did not maintain it, content to let it wallow in disrepair?

As the Stark heir walked through the streets, he eventually came upon a startling sight. A pair of men garbed in golden cloaks surrounded a woman in ratty garbs. Dirt and muck clung to her tatters and hair, her skin so thin he could see the bone underneath. What made the sight so ghastly was that the girl couldn’t be any older than one and ten. In a scarred but thriving city, how could a child so young grow starved?

He was too far away to hear the City Watchers words, but if the look on the girl’s face was any indication, they were not pleasant. Desperation wrought her features, reaching out to grab one of them. Anger roared in Robb’s ears when one of the gold cloaks backhanded her, knocking her to the ground and the other reached for the sword at his hip. His wolfsblood pulsated, demanding he bear his fangs. His hand grasped the pommel of his sword—

A warm, gentle hand seized his. A young woman of four and ten with lovely brown hair and eyes looked him dead in the eye.

“Don’t.” Despite the softness of her voice, there was a sharp edge to it. A warning, spoken in a tone better fit of a lord than a waif. “Not here.”

Robb opened his mouth to protest, but the young woman’s grip held firm. He looked back at the gold cloaks and the girl, only to find the watchers now standing over a corpse. The girl laid in a pool of blood, her tatters stained crimson around the stomach. One of the gold cloaks spat at the corpse at his feet before he and his compatriot took their leave, not giving the body so much a second glance. The sight left him aghast, having not expected to find such disgusting and cruel behavior from those meant to defend the citizenry.

The young woman released her hand from Robb’s wrist. The northern heir stared accusingly. “Why did you stop me?” he demanded. “If you hadn’t, that girl—”

“—would have died sooner or later,” the young woman cut him off. “What would you have done, ser Stark? Killed them to defend her? You would have been forced to explain to the Lord Commander of the City Watch and His Grace, and make your father’s life and position here in King’s Landing difficult. Even if you simply fended them off and gave the girl coin, you would only delay the inevitable. Girls like her are too common a sight here in King’s Landing, and so close to Flea Bottom.”

Robb frowned. “Flea Bottom?”

“A poor slum and blight of King’s Landing. It’s little more than a haven for criminals of all sorts as well as the downtrodden, from bastard children of nobles to abandoned babes forced to fend for themselves. I could tell you countless stories of small children fighting for scraps or girls as young as ten name days forced to work in a whorehouse.”

“And His Grace allows it to fester?”

“The Targaryen kings of old tried to change it, with mixed success and failure. I’m afraid King Robert has little care for it, much as he does the rest of the city.”

Robb should have reproached her, told her off for speaking ill of the king, yet he could not bring himself to speak. Loathe as he was to admit it, the young woman made a point. From how thin the girl was, what was the point of giving her coin? If there were others like her and in similar situations, wouldn’t he have simply set her up to be robbed and beaten?

No, he couldn’t accept that. There had to have been a way. Something he could have done.

He looked at the young woman again. Her shapely figure and silken garbs told him she was of noble stock, and her face was familiar. He remembered seeing her the other day. “You were with Lady Olenna Tyrell.”

“Margeary Tyrell, at your service, ser Stark,” she smiled. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

MARGEARY

As her grandmother expected, the men of House Stark were honorable. A rare trait in the South, one Margeary adored in fact, but a detriment that could easily be turned against them. If there was anything she learned as a member of House Tyrell, it was the intricacies and dangers of “the game”.  

“There is no better play in the game than a Tyrell,” some claimed.

They were not wrong to believe so. The Tyrells persevered precisely because of their experience in “the game”, and their familiarity with the antics and motivations of their fellow players. Her grandmother Olenna considered herself a good judge of character, usually able to discern a person’s value after one or two conversations. It made navigating King Robert’s court that much easier, given how much of a louse he was. As sad as it was to think, Margeary didn’t respect Robert Baratheon. Rather, she pitied him. Stuck in a loveless marriage, an heir with a penchant for violence and trouble, and a kingdom on the verge of collapsing into wanton anarchy; the greatest shortcoming in the stag’s reign, and the one that might very well spell the end of its depressingly short dynasty.

The six kingdoms bent the knee to the Targaryens out of fear and respect, the might of dragons seared into their very minds. When the Dance of the Dragons passed and the mighty winged beasts died off, the lords bent the knee still; wingless though the Targaryens became, they were still dragons, and dragons bore fangs and claws. Ironically, it would not be until the Blackfyre Rebellions that saw the Targaryen dynasty slowly crumble, in no small part thanks to the disaster wrought upon them by Aegon the Unworthy. The depraved Targaryen, now called the predecessor to the Mad King, and his decision to legitimize his bastards became a cautionary tale for noble houses. Even the septons began speaking about the dangers of ambitious bastards, though such talk was rare among the Seven’s faithful.

When the Baratheons claimed the Iron Throne, there’d been a great many hopes. It hadn’t taken long for them to realize that although Robert Baratheon was an improvement from Aerys Targaryen, he was nowhere near the benevolence or repute as the Conciliator or Daeron the Good. Indeed, Robert Baratheon was a creature of opulence and decadence. Thankfully his depravity was nowhere near the revile nature of Aegon the Unworthy, but it was still disappointing. That was to say nothing of the fact that, within almost two decades, the Crown was in debt.

Such blatant weakness was proverbial blood in the water, and the noble houses became like sharks. Many plans were forming, and the recent discovery of a seemingly unknown land paved the way for a great many opportunities. Such was the reason why, instead of her father, Olenna elected to join the voyage with Margeary as her aide. She was groomed with the intent of becoming the next queen, and with that in mind, she was to learn as much as she could; how to rule, how to tempt, and most importantly, how to temper her future husband.

“Men are weak creatures,” she remembered her mother telling her once. “Especially those distracted by matters of the flesh. And for as stubborn as some are, all it takes is a good woman who knows the right choice of words to calm them.”

There’d been talks of a potential marriage contract between Margeary and the crown prince, a match she was admittedly skeptical. There were plenty of rumors about Joffrey Baratheon, and not a one painted a pretty picture. The visit to the Red Keep was meant to be a way for her to ascertain his character, but so far, she’d yet to see neither hide nor hair of King Robert’s eldest. It had, however, given her the opportunity to meet the heir of Eddard Stark.

House Stark was one of the great noble houses, and had been at the center of Robert’s Rebellion fifteen years ago. Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon were killed by King Aerys II, and demanded Eddard Stark’s head as well as Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn’s for the supposed crime of treason. It had been the excuse needed to light the powder keg the Seven Kingdoms had been sitting on in recent years, and sparked the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty. Truthfully, the Tyrells held no interest in the North due to its continued isolation, their willingness to stay out of Southron affairs unless necessary, and the harsh climate of the northern region. Previous southern attempts to cultivate land there ended in failure.

Recently, however, there was renewed interest in House Stark, or to be more precise, in its Lord Paramount and his heir. If rumors were to be believed, Robert Baratheon intended for Eddard Stark to succeed Lord Arryn as the Hand of the King, and either his eldest son or daughter was to marry into the royal family. Last Margeary heard, it was still undecided whether Joffrey or Myrcella would marry one of Lord Stark’s children, which was a partial boon for House Tyrell and their deigns to have one of their blood sit upon the Iron Throne.

Encountering Eddard Stark’s heir was little more than a stroke of luck as much as it was a chance to gain insight into his character. She saw him about to intervene, ready to defend that hapless girl as though he were a gallant knight. It warmed her heart, reminding her of old fanciful dreams when she was naught but a young child of a few name days, but it worried her all the same. It was clear Robb Stark was impulsive, driven by his honor.

She could not allow him to tarnish himself, no matter how much she shared his feelings of discontent.

Convincing him to return with her to the noble quarters was surprisingly easy, though given the troubled expression stuck to his face, she supposed he was thinking about that willowy girl from Flea Bottom. She witnessed enough death to know the act of killing was unavoidable, especially where injustice is concerned, but like Robb, she felt disgusted by the behavior of the City Watch. Even before the reign of the Mad King, it suffered from the rot of corruption, though never with such blatancy.

“Would you like some tea, Lord Stark?” Margeary inquired.

The Stark heir shook his head. “No, thank you. And…call me Robb, please. ‘Lord Stark’ is my father.” Margeary nodded in acquiescence, albeit a tad disappointed. Tea was better enjoyed with company. “Forgive my rudeness, Lady Tyrell, but why did you bring me here? Are you not worried about rumors?”

“Words are wind,” she replied. “And any such talk with disappear before long. Gossip amongst the servants here in the Red Keep quickly changes. Before long, they will tire speaking of secret rendezvous and move on to another topic altogether.”

“I see.” Robb fell quiet for but a moment. “…what we saw in the alley earlier. Is such a sight common?”

Margeary grimaced as she sat down across from the young lordling. “Corruption within the City Watch is an open secret, though that such a blatant occurred so close to Flea Bottom means few, if any, will care much for it. There has been no shortage of people wishing its destruction and removal from King’s Landing altogether.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You must understand, Lord Robb, that ever since its founding, King’s Landing expanded to where it is the crown jewel of the Targaryen dynasty, tarnished as it now is after the rebellion fifteen years ago. When Aegon the Conqueror first established it, it expanded without much thought as it is now. As Aegon’s successors began to expand King’s Landing with their own respective visions in mind, a section of the city was abandoned and left to the devices of the smallfolk. The lack of oversight meant that section grew festered with unsavory aspects, such as criminals and questionable establishments. Before long, it became a haven for the smallfolk oppressed by the City Watch and the corrupt nobles.”

Margeary took a brief pause to collect her thoughts. “To the many lords, Flea Bottom is a disgrace and an eyesore. The only reason it has never been torn down or put to the torch is the same reason it has been left alone.”

“The nobles who find its presence convenient,” Robb accurately surmised with a troubled frown. “The South is more complicated than I expected…”

The young woman smiled beatifically. “I would imagine many say the same about the North, Lord Robb. Actually, if you’re willing to sate my curiosity, would you mind answering my questions about the North?”

Although the Tyrells had no interest in the North, there was the possibility things would change in the event Lord Stark and King Robert convinced Lord Arryn to stand down from his post as Lord Hand. The changing of posts and shift in power always meant new avenues, and it would do well to forge connections, especially if this voyage proved fruitful.

Still, Margeary didn’t want her talk to be all business. “Do you have any siblings, Lord Robb?”

The Stark heir smiled proudly. “I do. Two sisters and three brothers. Sansa takes after my lady mother while Arya is something of a wild child. My younger brother Bran dreams of becoming a knight one day, and Rickon’s something of a handful. Some days, I think him more direwolf than boy with how often he bites.” For some reason, Robb’s smile turned sorrowful. “And then there’s my half-brother, Jon.”

Ah, the infamous Stark bastard, Margeary thought. While she knew little about him, she was aware of his existence. It was one of the few noteworthy things about Eddard Stark during the days of the rebellion fifteen years ago.

“Of my siblings, he’s about as old as I am,” he continued. “He’s hard-working, and spends most days with a sword in hand to better himself. Truth be told, he’s the better warrior between us.”

She could tell where this was going. “But not everyone in Winterfell approves of him?”

“…Lady Catelyn. My mother,” he admitted shamefully. “She doesn’t abuse him, thankfully. Instead, she merely glares at him. I can count the times she’s interacted with him on one hand and every time, I could tell she wanted to be anywhere else. She thinks him a mistake, a stain on father’s honor.” Robb sighed and shook his head. “I wish she wouldn’t be so hard on him. It is not his fault.”

“I am surprised Lord Stark would raise his bastard with his trueborn siblings,” Margeary said.

“You and many others, Lady Tyrell. I remember how some in Winterfell, including the septa, argued about allowing Jon to study alongside us. Father would hear none of it, however. He insisted that Jon live as though he were a trueborn son.”

“What of his mother?”

“Dead, or so I’ve heard. Father refuses to tell anyone of her, not even Jon.”

Well, now wasn’t that interesting? Still, as curious as she was, Margeary knew better than to pry. It wouldn’t do well to harm the beginnings of a beneficial relationship.

The topic diverged to more lighthearted topics, with the two heirs trading stories of their childhood and comparing their lives in their respective lands. The tales of Winterfell sparked Margeary’s interest, and Robb expressed an interest in seeing the assortment of flowers and roses they grew in Highgarden.

THE WARRIOR

The winds had changed significantly in the past year.

Limgrave and its southern neighbor, the Weeping Peninsula, weren’t strangers to stormy weather. Strong gales and storms were common, with winds so strong even the hardiest of trees would fall from sheer power alone. The Peninsula was frequently drenched in rain, which of course meant frequent flooding. Lady Rodrika suggested the construction of a canal to divert the floods back into the oceans, offering the funds from Castle Morne’s dusty coffers. Haight gave her leave to enact her project. Ordinarily, such an undertaking would take many months, if not a few years to accomplish, at least with normal labor.

Trolls, thankfully, were not “normal laborers”, and neither were sorcerers worth their staves.

The canals had been finished for months now, just in time for the rainy season. Truthfully, the warrior doubted the rainy season this year would be as disastrous as it was in the years prior. Ever since the beginning of the new age, something changed within the Lands Between. She couldn’t put her finger on it, save that the air itself seemed different. There was a charge, a change occurring as the people adapted to this uncertain period, and the warrior knew it would not be something simple. Few things involving the Tarnished of No Renown ever were.

“My lady,” Gostac called. “Lord Haight is calling for you in his study.”

The warrior turned to her servant. “I shall be there shortly,” she said. “Have you seen the Westerosi as of late?”

“I have, my lady. A messenger bird arrived not long ago. It seems the ruler of Westeros and members of the great noble houses of yore will embark on a voyage here to speak with you.”

“They’ve likely already embarked on their voyage,” the warrior said with a bemusement. “Messenger birds… Such inefficiency.”

“It cannot be helped. From the sound of it, magic has long since lost its luster in that land.”

When foreigners first landed on the Weeping Peninsula’s shores, the warrior and the great lords of Caria and Altus gathered to discuss what to do with the recent arrivals. They were adrift sailors, so offering them supplies and sending them back on their way was the simplest solution. The real problem came with what the sailors would tell any who would bend an ear to listen. Even in the early years of Marika the Eternal’s rule, relations with foreign lands was no more than a shot in the dark. The mandate and law of the Golden Order was clear; submit and embrace the Graceful light, or perish under the weight of its faithful. Some agreed to convert, whereas others resisted and waged war. Of particular note was the Land of Reeds; to the warrior’s best understanding, it had been Marika the Eternal’s ultimatum that sparked a difference of opinion that would eventually descend the Land of Reeds into bloody civil war. One side wished to submit to her rule, and the others wished to maintain autonomy. A scant few took offense and desired war with the Golden Queen. The differences could not be mended, and so lines were drawn, banners were raised, and war enveloped the land.

The sheer ferocity and madness of such a place were so great that not even Hoarah Loux, the Lord of All That is Golden, could bring the land to heel. A “blood-crazed madness” indeed. Small wonder, then, it produced a Tarnished of skill worthy of the warrior blood in their veins.

Those who suffered most in the Shattering, the lords of antiquity, argued conquest in the name of the now-abandoned Golden Order. Others wished to kill the sailors and maintain anonymity, still nursing their wounds and unwilling to interact with the outside world. Those such as the warrior wished to open dialogue. In this uncertain age brought about by the Tarnished and the Lunar Queen, the absence of order left many to question their purpose, and the warrior stayed the course. Her duty as Lord of Limgrave was to provide for her people, to act as their sword and shield.

The Lands Between could not remain isolated forever.

The war hawks and isolationists had little choice but to concede when the warrior raised these points to her fellows. As one of Hoarah Loux’s tribe, her words carried significantly more weight than a Limgrave heir should. There’d even been talk of the warrior being the one meant to succeed Lord Radagon as Elden Lord. The moment she heard it, she laughed. Tempting as the thought was, the warrior possessed not the strength to claim the crown. No, there was another worthy of it, with the power meant to bear its weight and burdens.

Even now, it is laughable, the warrior mused to herself as she left the room, heading for Haight’s study. That one such as you would be without achievement. Fitting, then, that you should be the unsung hero.

And yet, that raised a question that plagued all in the Lands Between, herself included:

Where is Lunar Queen Ranni and her consort eternal?

Where is the Elden Lord?

Chapter Text

JOFFREY

“This is so stupid,” Joffrey grumbled under his breath, pacing back and forth in his room. “Father’s a fool, and mother is overreacting. I should be going with them on the voyage, not sit here like some toddler!”

Even at a young age, Joffrey Baratheon knew he was not like other nobles. His grandfather from his mother’s side was Tywin Lannister, a man of no small infamy for having rendered a noble house extinct for a slight against House Lannister. His parents were king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. His uncle was one of the greatest swordsmen alive. He was the crown prince, the heir of a dynasty that overthrew the conquering dragons that came to Westeros nearly three centuries ago. There was no doubt in Joffrey’s mind that he was destined to do great things.

And that was the problem. Everything conspired against him, seemingly to prevent him from taking the appropriate steps to realize that destined dream of one day succeeding his father and becoming king.

He was decent with a crossbow and, loathe as he was to admit it, woefully average with a sword. Physically speaking, he didn’t have the strength to swing a war hammer in battle, much less wield it. Robert was disappointed to learn his son didn’t inherit his mighty strength…and it hurt. Academically speaking, he didn’t really see the point in learning such trivial information. Who cared about the past? Who cared about the Targaryens? The once-proud lineage of conquerors was forever tarnished by the Mad King, and his last surviving children were exiled. To return here was to suffer a death sentence, if not a fate worse than death. Truthfully, he was quite eager to see what sort of punishment his father might inflict upon them if the last Targaryens really were that stupid.

And yet his mother bade him to learn when she wasn’t busy doting on him. His father and grandfather complained how she coddled him too much, saying she was spoiling him. Perhaps she was, but wasn’t that what she was supposed to do? She was the queen, and he her son, the prince who will one day become king. It wasn’t like they would remain parent and child forever. And, if Joffrey were frank, even he felt like his mother was a tad too affectionate sometimes. Some days, she would hunt him down even though all he wanted was to be alone. Why couldn’t she shower useless Tommen or simple Myrcella with love instead?

Joffrey was desperate to find a way to prove himself to his father. If he could prove he was indeed a worthy heir, perhaps he would change his tune. The question was how? Joffrey came up with an idea years ago. It was widely known that the king had a fondness for hunting game, so Joffrey decided he would commit a hunt of his own. He tried to convince his father to allow him to join him on one of his hunts, believing his skill with a crossbow would be more than enough to bag a nice big beastie to earn Robert’s approval, but Robert denied his request, telling him he would have to wait until he was three and ten; the same age he’d been when he went on his first hunt. In his impatience, Joffrey decided to hunt whatever furry beast he could find in the Red Keep.

His quarry had been a cat that stalked the kitchens. He overheard the servants often complaining how it snuck inside the pantries and absconded with food, with the head chef struggling to snatch it despite his lanky frame. Joffrey decided there was no better target, and hunted the little furry bastard down. All it took was one bolt and the beast died in an instant. Joffrey never felt so proud and practically raced to his father’s solar to show him proof that he was as good a hunter as any.

Instead of praise, Robert’s hand struck him clean across the cheek. It was the first time the king ever raised a hand to his son, and what a blow it’d been. Two of his teeth were knocked clean from his mouth. Joffrey didn’t learn until later the cat had been Tommen’s, and how it had a tendency to sneak out of his room in search of mice. Joffrey believed it was his younger brother’s fault father struck him, but he never had a chance to enact vengeance because of his fool of a mother.

He didn’t understand where he went wrong. It was a cat. A dumb animal! Tommen cried for days, which only exacerbated Joffrey’s annoyance with him. If he that depressed over a dead animal, why didn’t he just get a new one? There was surely no shortage of disgusting felines running around Flea Bottom!

After the incident, Robert made it painfully clear to Joffrey he would never be brought along for a hunt. Furthermore, he demanded the Master at Arms and the Grand Maester be more strict in his studies, something his mother took umbrage with. Joffrey agreed with her sentiments, but there was no point questioning the king’s orders. All the prince could do was stew in annoyance while voicing his complaints to his mother and the Hound, and sometimes venting his frustration on whatever servant was unlucky enough to find themselves in his crosshairs.

With the recent discussions of marriage with some Northern wench coinciding with the discovery of a foreign land, Joffrey find yet another new opportunity. It was all everyone talked about, and not without reason. Even Joffrey was enthralled by the promises of adventure and grandeur, especially when he saw the trinkets the sailors showed. It was not only glassware that put the Myrish to shame and weapons but other trinkets as well. Textile works, fabric, and other exotic items.

The plan inherent was for the leaders of the Great Houses barring the Greyjoys to venture to this foreign land and speak with its lords about potential trade and cultural exchange. If all went well, there was even the possibility of settling there, expand the Seven Kingdoms’ reach. There was no better way for Joffrey to prove himself as Robert Baratheon’s heir, and establish himself as the future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms! …well, that was the plan until his father forbade him from coming with.

“He’s not planning on setting me aside, is he?” Joffrey’s mind wandered to the unthinkable. It wasn’t unheard of for the crown prince to be passed over regarding rights of succession. “He’s planning on marrying me off to a Northwoman, so that can’t be it.”

Despite assuring himself he was still heir, the doubt would not go away. It gnawed at him deeply, almost physically so. His face scrunched, unable to bear the thought that his birthright would be taken from him. He couldn’t let that happen. He refused to let it happen. He was Joffrey Baratheon, the crown prince and heir of House Baratheon. He was not only a stag, but a mighty lion as well!

He would prove himself to his father, one way or another.

JON ARRYN

“It’s an honor to meet you at last, Lord Hand.”

Jon smiled kindly at the red-haired Stark. Although his appearance leaned more toward the Tully blood in him, Robb bore the faint traces of his lord father. He was glad to see that Eddard’s life as a married man proved fruitful. His own experiences with marriage were not pleasant, much as he tried to make it work. Lysa was a beautiful woman, albeit wasted on a feeble old man like himself. She deserved better, and unfortunately, she believed so as well.

He pushed the dark thoughts away for the moment. He didn’t want to expose his weakness to one of his brightest students and his heir.

“Your father told me a great deal about you, Robb,” Jon said. “It’s a shame I’m no longer the youthful man I once was. I would have gladly taken you under my wing as I did your father.”

“Perhaps it is for the best,” Eddard japed. “I consider you a second father, make no mistake, but by the gods, you were my worst nightmare during my fosterage.”

“As was my post as your teacher. At least you bothered to listen, unlike Robert.”

Robb chuckled. “I can see why father named my half-brother after you.”

“And how is Jon the Younger? I’ve not seen him since he was but a babe when you returned from the Tower of Joy at the rebellion’s end.”

Eddard’s smile grew noticeably strained. “He is well.” Jon waited a moment for Eddard to continue, and when his student remained tight-lipped, he grew concerned. He saw the child only twice; the first time had been when Eddard returned with Lyanna Stark’s corpse in tow. The sight made his heart tremble in grief, knowing that regardless of the truth behind her being with Rhaegar Targaryen, the poor girl spent the last moments of her life away from her family. In his mind, there was no worse fate than to die in the absence of kin. He barely noticed the bundle of cloth and the slumbering babe within. The second time had been after the surprisingly tame argument between Eddard and his lady wife when she discovered the babe’s existence, having briefly cared for the child while Eddard went about making amends and convincing Catelyn to allow the child to live alongside his half-siblings.

Eddard’s silence about Jon Snow was worrying, if not curious. He was about to press the Lord Paramount of the North for answers when he felt a familiar tug within his breast, followed by a hot pain in his chest. A wet cough exploded from his throat, nearly sending him to the floor in a violent fit.

“Jon!” Eddard was at his side almost immediately, offering support to his former teacher. The Lord Hand continued to cough for a moment longer until the pain subsided. The clenching sensation in his breast lingered longer than last time, which reinforced what he knew already. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he wheezed. “It… It will pass.” Jon took a moment to collect himself, relaxing his breathing. Eddard gently helped him sit down on his chair. “My apologies. I didn’t want you to see that.”

“How long have you been sick?” Eddard questioned.

“Since the beginning of the year, I wager. It was never this bad, not until recently.”

Robert nearly broke into a fit when Jon told him. It was somewhat amusing, he’d privately admit, watching a grown man break into tears, though it died moments later when he realized how little kingship changed his former ward. Despite having grown fat with indulgence and trapping himself in a loveless marriage (one Jon himself advocated, much to his shame. Oh, if only he’d known…), the young man who came to him from the Stormlands was still there, trapped under the layers of fat and wine. How quickly the young stag latched onto him, as though he were kin and not a teacher in the art of warfare.

I should have tried harder with you, Robert, Jon mourned. I taught you how to be a warrior. Steffon should have taught you how to be a lord.

And yet, more pitiful the fool was he for not teaching him how to be a lord in Steffon Baratheon’s place. Would Robert have grown to be a worthy king if he had?

“I’ve no intention of allowing sickness to claim me so easily,” Jon boasted with a wry grin, forcing it onto his face if only out of stubborn pride. “I’ve a year or two in me still.”

“Even so…”

Eddard sighed in sadness and resignation. “I see Robert was not exaggerating. Old age truly has done little to make you less stubborn.” Despite his words, a fond smile made its way to his face. “Despite the circumstances… It is good to see you again, Lord Arryn.”

“And I you, Ned,” Jon chuckled.

Although Ned came to inquire about preparations for the voyage, it hadn’t taken long for Robb to break his silence and ask about Ned’s younger years. It was with great amusement that Jon told the Stark heir some personal tales, some of which left Ned red in the ears. One particular story involved a mountain clan who made a nuisance of themselves in the Vale. Although smaller than most bands, the clan managed to evade pursuing knights for several months before Jon finally caught up to them. It’d been Ned’s first excursion since his fosterage began, and despite Jon’s initial expectations, the boy held himself quite well. It helped that Robert was there to watch his fellow’s back.

What made this excursion so memorable was the revelation that the clan took to kidnapping women, some taken during their travels and others torn from their homes and their families slaughtered. A few of those women were sadly defiled well before Jon and his band could catch up to them, including the women of noble birth. A tragedy that would lessen their marriage prospects, and in worse case, damage their standing within the families, even though it was far outside their control. Jon learned after the fact that some of the women they rescued were so scarred by the humiliation inflicted upon them by the mountain clan that they took their own lives, unable to bear the shame.

Amid this bitter tale, however, was a promising beginning. Ned’s actions proved he was not some dawdler and showcased his swiftness with a blade. Jon heard stories of the so-called wolfsblood, but he hadn’t believed it until he saw Eddard Stark in the heat of battle. He wasn’t the only one to notice, either. One of the women they rescued, a rather comely-looking girl, was rather taken with Ned and wished to repay him. Ever the standard of humility and honor, Ned politely refused. Not that it stopped the girl from pecking his cheek.

“Jon, please…”

The old man laughed at Ned’s embarrassment. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about, you know. The bards love to spin tales of a hapless summer maiden and a dashing young knight.”

“It does sound like quite the tale,” Robb agreed. “I think Sansa would appreciate it.”

“An unexpected betrayal, my son.”

“As amusing as this is,” Jon said. “I’m afraid my weary bones demand I rest for the day. We will depart King’s Landing by the week’s end, and I’d rather muster my strength in the meantime.”

Ned nodded. “Of course, Jon.”

“Before you go, Ned, I’d like to speak with you in private.” The lord of Winterfell raised a eyebrow, but shrugged. Robb bid his father and the Lord Hand farewell before departing the solar. Jon waited, straining his ear and listening for the sounds of footsteps bouncing off stones before speaking, his tone bereft of jesting cheer. “Robert didn’t just send for you for the purpose of visiting our new eastward neighbors.”

It was not a question.

To his credit, Ned didn’t even flinch. “He’s admitted more than once in his letter about his growing fears regarding your health. Furthermore…” The Northern lord grew uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and wringing his hands. “He’s asked me to take your place as the Hand of the King.”

The ailing Arryn patriarch sighed. Ever since word of his sickness spread and his failure to hide it from the king, Robert and a few others from the small council repeatedly bade him to step down. He refused, of course. He was dying, but he wasn’t dead yet. There was yet life in those old bones, and he would not relinquish them. Not when he still had a purpose, not when he needed to fulfill his duty to the realm.

Not when a succession crisis was on the horizon.

It didn’t surprise Jon to learn Robert wanted Ned’s help in convincing him to step down from his post. If anything, he was glad to hear that despite their strained bond Ned willingly answered Robert’s call.

Even so—

“You’d make a poor Hand, Ned.” The Lord Paramount of the North blinked in confusion and stared at his former teacher. “I’m sure you’ve guessed as much already, but kingship has done Robert few favors, and his marriage with Cersei has since become my greatest shame. I’m afraid I made many mistakes with Robert, and I refuse to allow you to suffer for them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Allow me to speak plainly, Ned. Your honor means shit here in the South.” Ned reeled as if struck by the sheer bluntness of Jon’s words. “There’s a reason why your forebears wished as little dealings with the South as much as possible. It’s nothing so simple as political disagreements. For all intents and purposes, the cultures of the South and the North are too different to be reconciled. Here, in King’s Landing, such differences may very well warrant your death.”

Ned frowned in concern. “What do you mean?”

“Although honor has yet lost its meaning, too many are willing to forsake it in the name of ambition. Here, honor has as much worth as a single halfpenny.” Jon shook his head and sighed in bitter resignation, leaning back in his chair. “The lords and ladies play a deadly game, Ned. A game of thrones. And in a game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.”

Jon saw the conflicting emotions on his former ward’s face. It pained him to deliver a bitter truth to a boy he adored ages ago, but it was necessary. The burden of the King’s Hand was a heavy one, and so few could bear its weight as much as the king withstood the weight of his crown. Jon buckled under the weight of his chains as he tried and sometimes failed to reign in Robert in his more outrageous moments, to try and douse the flames of anger, and yet it was only as he neared the end of his life that he realized the truth.

He was doomed to fail from the start. Robert was never meant to be king. He didn’t even want to be king, only going along with it because Jon suggested it. In his mind, Robert was the best and only choice. The Baratheons were kin to the Targaryens, both from its founding (assuming one believed the rumors that Orys Baratheon was indeed Aegon the Conqueror’s bastard brother) and from Robert’s grandmother. Although the Targaryen dynasty was no more, it was their blood that provided the quickest means to crown a king. Robert was the ideal choice in that regard, and the realm was in desperate need of a lynchpin. Jon saw the cracks, and all he could do was race to fix them before the rebellion damaged the seven kingdoms irreparably by devolving into civil war.

If only he knew then what he did now. Alas, the die was cast, and now all the old fool could do was mitigate the damage done by his impulsiveness.

“You are a good man, Eddard Stark,” Jon said softly to his former ward. “But I’m afraid your honor would make you a poor participant, easily manipulated by those seeking to use you for their own ends.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Ned asked miserably. “Deny Robert? As much as things have changed between us, I still consider him both friend and brother to me. Don’t ask me to break that bond, Jon.”

Jon sighed. Oh, how he had forgotten the boy’s stubbornness. “I am not asking you to. I merely ask that you ponder my words.”

Ned grimaced, likely already seeing the truth in Jon’s words. His expression shifted into something akin to curiosity. “You said Robert was in a loveless marriage with the queen.”

For a moment, Jon pondered whether to bring Ned into the fold. This business with the Lands Between was perhaps a blessing and a curse. It started as mere suspicions at first, passing thoughts that would earn a visit to the chopping block. Then Varys made an ‘innocent’ suggestion that fueled those suspicions, making him pay more attention to the king’s children and the queen’s interaction with her brother. The only person he shared these suspicions with was Stannis, and he was of the same mind.

Certainly, bringing Ned into the fold would be a boon onto itself and would likely make convincing Robert less stressful. On the other hand, he didn’t want to burden Ned with this knowledge.

“…Robert was drunk the night he consummated his marriage with Cersei Lannister,” Jon said carefully after a moment of consideration. “And it was not her name he spoke.”

Ned stilled, then dragged his hand down his face. “Gods dammit, Robert…”

“Ever since, there’s been notable friction between them. The queen herself has been reluctant to perform her wifely duties, and Robert’s temper tantrums are not helping. Quite frankly, it’s a miracle there’s been no talk of regicide as of late.”

“I would assume Jaime Lannister has done nothing to re-enact his actions during the Sack?”

“He’s kept mostly to himself if that is what you mean,” Jon said. “I suspect it is because the queen herself demanded he do nothing to act on her behalf. A saving grace, considering Robert’s tendency to let his temper rule him.”

“I see…”

Jon stared at Ned a while longer. The thoughts pervading his mind previously faded as the dying old man made his decision. He could not afford to involve Ned in these affairs. It was for his own good.

With their business settled, Jon dismissed Ned and went back to his work. Although everyone focused on preparing for the coming voyage to the Lands Between, there was still work to be done.

“…Jon.” The Lord Hand blinked and looked up. For some reason, Ned remained in his solar. “There is something I would like to speak with you about. I…require counsel. In regards to my…bastard son.”

Jon grew curious. “What advice do you seek? Is this perhaps regarding fosterage?”

Ned shook his head. “No. I would rather Jon spend such time at Winterfell, though I appreciate the thought. As much as I would enjoy the idea of him learning under you, it is not the matter of fosterage that concerns me. My son has been having dreams as of late. Worrisome ones, at that.”

From there, Ned told him about his bastard son’s dreams. Certainly, Jon understood why Ned was so concerned. As a whole, they made little sense, but the last moments of the dreams were alarming to say the least.

“I know not whether these are greendreams, but that Jon should suffer these dreams the same time when the Lands Between made itself known to us…” Ned grimaced. “I cannot help but think they are an ill omen.”

“A sign of the gods, perhaps,” Jon hummed. “I see why you are concerned.” Of particular note was the mention of a great tree. The sailors mentioned a similar sight during their brief stay in the Lands Between, and the scouts they sent ahead verified its existence. Tall, towering, and seemingly burnt with ash-gray bark and naked branches. “I would not dismiss them, though deciphering their meaning… I’m afraid that is beyond me. Although…”

“Although…?”

“Recently, Lord Stannis has made the acquaintance of a follower of R’hllor. A priestess who calls herself Melissandre. I’ve met her only twice. I’ve seen men of incredible faith, but I’ve never met one with such devotion to their god. Supposedly, she receives visions from the Lord of Light. I claim no insight into spiritual matters, but if she possesses such a talent, perhaps she can decipher the meaning of Jon’s dreams.”

“I see. Do you know where I may find her?”

“She clings to Lord Stannis like a shadow. Where he is, she will not be far behind.”

Ned nodded. “Thank you, Jon.” He turned on his heel, leaving in search of the red-clad woman.

The Lord Hand sighed exhaustedly, sinking into his chair. Now more than ever was he starting to feel his age. “I wonder if Maester Aemon at the Wall feels this way,” he mused to himself with a wry chuckle. “Still… Ill omens, indeed.”

And yet, I cannot help but wonder… The visions that speak of undead abominations, dragons, and colored flames that burn the world…

Are they greendreams…or dragon dreams?

Chapter Text

VARYS

It was not often Varys found himself browsing the dusty old tome held within the Red Keep. Although its collection paled in comparison to the library found in the Citadel, it still held more knowledge than any other place in Westeros. In the early days following his appointment as Master of Whispers by the late King Aerys II, Varys took every possible opportunity to study the tomes in the Red Keep, or at least those with marginal importance and information. At the time, his collection of birds was nascent, at least within Westeros. It would take time before he could have his network anywhere close to what he had in Essos. He was rather thankful that the Mad King hadn’t tied a noose around his neck, still deep in the throes of paranoia and jumping at shadows.

It'd been quite the sight, witnessing the madness within Aerys Targaryen. He heard tales of it before, but he grossly underestimated the stories. The small council told him Aerys became worse after the Defiance of Duskendale, intensifying his paranoia to where he suspected everyone. It was only because of his affiliation with Essos and reputation that Aerys even deigned to bring him to the Red Keep and task him with discovering potential treason and plots against the crown.

How I wonder the late king would have reacted to the appearance of this Lands Between, Varys mused. He suspected others, including the exiled Targaryens, were asking themselves much the same.

Like everyone else, he expressed no small amount of wariness and excitement. Excitement from the sheer unknown of a land no one knew of, and wariness for the same reason. Maesters and map makers spent several sleepless nights and burnt many candles going over every map they could get their hands on, looking for any reference regarding the Lands Between. It was unheard of for a foreign land to go unnoticed for so long, especially within the space of the known world. The surrounding lands of Essos are known to all. A landmass does not suddenly appear without warning.

Not unless magic was involved.

Unpleasant memories reared their ugly heads. Varys’ loins burned in a way he found almost unbearable, but the pain was familiar enough that he ignored it. The sailors brought with them many exotic items and spoke of the wonders they witnessed, up to and including a tree so large and tall it could be seen for miles. They described it as a towering sentinel, its branches so long and expansive they thought it covered almost half the land. The wildlife sounded normal, save for the sea creatures roaming the beaches. A mass of writhing tentacles with a bird-like beak.

There were mentions of magic, but the sailors never saw anything of the sort, only relaying what the knights in service to this Lady Nepheli Loux told them.

Although magic was long gone from the world, traces of it yet existed. The dark lands of Asshai, the ruined remains of Valyria, the City of Winged Men… Even dark tales involving the followers of the so-called “Lord of Light” spoke of priests gazing into the flames for divination. One such practitioner made herself at home in the Red Keep; a priestess in service of Lord Stannis Baratheon. Varys never saw hide nor hair of her, and he wanted to keep it that way. His birds told him of her behavior, and it reminded him far too much of his ‘master’.

While he held a distaste for all things magical, Varys was not above putting aside his prejudices to see how such things may prove useful. If the nature of magic in the Lands Between proved beneficial, he could find a use for it. He suspected the king thought much the same, what with his recent talks with the High Septons. The faith of the Seven-Who-Are-One was staunchly opposed to any practices involving magic, deeming it heretical and dangerous. There was no proof magic existed in the Lands Between, but the fact rumors existed at all was enough to set the sept on edge.

After spending a fair amount of time reading one too many times, the Master of Whispers sighed and returned the tome in his hands to its proper place on the shelf. There was not a single mention or reference to the Lands Between, raising the possibility it was indeed a land displaced by magical means. He could not begin to fathom what sort of ritual or power was needed to accomplish such a thing. Quite frankly, it terrified him.

“My, I haven’t seen you read this much in the archive since you first came to the Red Keep,” the familiar voice of Grand Maester Pycelle reached his ears, followed by shuffling footsteps. The plump spymaster craned his head and found his fellow shambling toward him. “Might I ask what has you so flustered?”

“Merely searching for references regarding the Lands Between,” he admitted, seeing no reason to withhold the truth. “I would have thought the tomes here might provide some insight. Alas, I’ve found none. I don’t suppose the Citadel has anything to offer…?”

“I have asked as such from my peers, but I’m afraid their search proved as fruitless as yours,” Pycelle replied. “They also found no record of a House Loux anywhere, not even in the ancient Valyrian tomes, or at least the ones still eligible to translate.”

As a repository of all manner of knowledge and scholarly pursuit, the Citadel researched various subjects, including matters of historical significance. One such historical subject was that of the old Valyrian Empire that once spanned the entirety of Essos. In the wake of the Doom and the rapid fall of the empire, all manner of knowledge about the empire was lost. It was this very same event that drove Aegon the Conqueror to go westward and lay claim to Westeros, even though the Valyrians previously wanted nothing to do with it for unknown reasons. Varys heard tales of ancient archives within the black walls of Volantis, but despite his best efforts, he was unable to find any purchase within the city. The so-called “last true Valyrians” jealously guarded their knowledge, and would allow no one to set foot within their most vaunted of sanctuaries.

Varys recalled somewhat fondly how the Mad King once demanded he find a way to steal at least one tome from Volantis pertaining to their treasure trove of knowledge. It was the very same year that Prince Rhaegar lit the spark that spurred Robert Baratheon to raise the flag of rebellion.

“Such a shame I shall not be able to accompany the lords and ladies on the voyage,” Pycelle sighed. “Oh, what wonders must await us there…”

“Is there not a maester attending the voyage?” Varys inquired.

“There is. An archmaester with an iron, bronze, and copper chain. Goes by the name of Thorren. I believe he was of House Forrester.”

Varys raised an eyebrow. “If I recall, House Forrester is in service to House Glover, is it not?”

Pycelle nodded. “Aye. He’s regarded as something of a recluse among his fellows and is seldom seen. The Conclave nonetheless chose him to accompany the king and the lords to the Lands Between.”

“Well, let us hope their trust is not misplaced.”

TYWIN

“We will sail to the Lands Between by the week’s end,” the Lord Hand told him. “If the weather favors us, we should arrive within two months.”

“With any luck,” Tywin snorted. “Myself and Stannis have sailed before, and in our experience, the seas rarely favor the sailors.”

While he did not sail across the vast waters as often as the lord of Dragonstone did, he was familiar enough with the trembling wood of a ship and the salty gales. The War of the Ninepenny Kings and the Ironborn Rebellion some years ago saw to that. Lannisport was part of his domain, and a Lannister was not one to renege on their debts. He owed the squids a blood debt, and he saw it repaid tenfold. He and his kin saw to that, be it slaughtering reavers and raiders alike and casting enemy ships to the flame. What few vessels survived were taken and refitted to better serve their naval strength.

That said, Tywin much preferred short trips. The idea he would be stuck on a ship for two months with little else to do beyond suffering in Tyrion’s presence did little to please him, as was the idea he would be forced to listen to Robert for the duration of the voyage. The only silver lining was that he had an opportunity to gleam insight into the workings of his rival lords, particularly the Tyrells. It came as a surprise that Olenna would be joining them instead of her son Mace, yet all the same Tywin viewed it as a boon. The Queen of Thorns was the only one he deemed an “equal” for lack of better word. There was no one more experienced in the game of thrones, and none better in the art of wordsmith. There was a reason that many view her as the true power of Highgarden rather than her son.

One thing that did trouble him, however, was the presence of Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper claimed he was attending the voyage on behalf of Prince Doran, but Tywin knew better. He knew well the man had not forgiven House Lannister for the deaths of Elia Martell and her children. In a way, he understood where Oberyn was coming from. As a man of principle and values, if he suffered similar indignities, Tywin would move heaven and earth to slaughter those responsible. It was precisely because of this understanding that Tywin was cautious of the Dornish prince. He had little doubt Oberyn intended to possibly kill him during the voyage. The question was “when”, not “if”.

“Speaking of Lord Stannis,” Lord Arryn said. “Have you spoken with him? I understand he was searching for you earlier.”

The secondborn son of Steffon Baratheon indeed sought him out, his Red Priestess not far behind him. Tywin was forced to admit that for a woman of a repulsive religion, she bore a shapely figure and hauntingly beautiful eyes. For but a moment, he pondered whether Stannis was as rigid as people claimed him to be before dismissing the thought from his mind. They were strangers beyond occasional meetings in times of strife and war, but the two men had a mutual understanding. The only thing Tywin held him in contempt for was his rigid adherence to the laws. Such a quality made him better suited as Master of Laws than a Master of Ships, yet Stannis Baratheon was too lawful, and in his opinion too eager to enforce the laws.

Their conversation had been a rather short one. The lion half-expected it to be about his intentions in the Lands Between. Instead, it’d been about his plans for Casterly Rock and King’s Landing in his absence. Stannis was rather blunt in questioning Cersei’s aptitude for ruling, but Tywin had no issues. In fact, he shared in the lord of Dragonstone’s concerns. His daughter may be queen, but she lacked the necessary qualities. She bore three children, and yet only one proved to be of barely passing quality. He heard more than a few complaints that Cersei acted more like a child than a grown woman with an esteemed station. The blame was not entirely hers, though. Despite being married, Robert never ceased his penchant for visiting whorehouses or laying his hands on the female servants. It would not surprise him if he had a couple bastards running around.

The thought that the king had illegitimate children running around concerned him, recalling the Blackfyre Rebellion and how it came to pass. Aegon the Unworthy, the worst king Westeros suffered under before Aerys II, legitimized his bastards before his death. Of the Great Bastards, two raised the flag of rebellion against their trueborn half-brother. Daemon Blackfyre thought himself the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, despite all the good-will King Daeron showed him and the rest of the Great Bastards. In the end, only the Bloodraven proved himself loyal to the crown in his willingness to ensure none would challenge the Targaryen dynasty.

Tywin ordered the deaths of Elia Martell and her children to prevent any chance of rivals toward whoever would be declared king. He believed the one who would be crowned king would be Robert Baratheon due to his mother’s blood ties to the Targaryens from his grandmother, and his thoughts were proven when Jon Arryn pushed for Robert to stake his claim on the Iron Throne. While Robert proved a lacking ruler, he at least had some level of dignity. That did little to ease his concerns and worries that Robert would do the same foolish act Aegon the Unworthy did. It was unlikely the oaf would die anytime soon, and Cersei entertained the idea of anyone other than her children ruling the Seven Kingdoms as much as he did, but he still worried Robert would do something foolish. It was that same reason that made him loan Gregor Clegane to Cersei and enforce the rules.

And perhaps kill Robert’s bastards, should they be discovered.

Tywin initially intended on having Tyrion stay at Casterly Rock while he went with the other Great Lords on the voyage. Much as he loathed that loathsome thing’s existence, he could not deny he knew how to rule. If nothing else, he made an excellent proxy. Unfortunately, recent events in the Westerlands made that idea impossible, thus he appointed Kevan to serve in his stead at the Rock. Jason Lannister, one of his few decent kinsman, was to assist Cersei and offer counsel. Despite what Jaime and Cersei claimed, he’d sooner slit his throat than believe Lancel could amount to anything of worth.

Although their conversation had been a short one, Tywin couldn’t help but note how tense the air around them became as they separated. He certainly didn’t miss the way the Red Priestess looked at him. Her stare left him unnerved, and he didn’t like it. He refused to kowtow to fear and submit to it, and he would be damned if he allowed some charlatan intimidate him. He didn’t know why Stannis kept the priestess around, nor did he care, but he certainly wished to make it known he would never fall for her trickery.

“He expressed concerns about leaving Cersei to rule King’s Landing without His Grace at her side. I told him my cousin would offer her counsel in Robert’s stead. If you would answer a question of my own, Lord Hand, what did you speak with Eddard Stark about?”

“Nothing of any real importance, save Robert’s insistence that I leave my post and allow Ned to succeed me,” Lord Arryn shrugged.

Tywin repressed a scowl. He never did like how the king valued his bond with the North. He certainly wasn’t blind to the true purpose behind the marriage contract between their children. Did Robert take him for a fool?

“And what did you tell him?”

“That he would be better off refusing.” That caused the old lion of the Westerlands to blink in confusion. “I know my old student well, Lord Tywin, far better than you do. His honor is admirable, and it makes him worth of his status as the Lord Paramount, but it would make him a weak player in the grand scheme of things. I believe you will agree that he’d fare poorly here in the South.”

“…yes, he would. I admit, I am surprised you would advise him to reject His Grace’s designs.”

“It’s hardly so strange. He is my former pupil, and I would rather see him excel than suffer. The Southron Houses care little for honor, only how it may be abused and twisted.”

While he’d never admit it, Tywin could not help but begrudgingly respect Lord Arryn. Oh, he’d been jealous beyond words that Robert picked his teacher to serve as Lord Hand, but it was quickly made apparent that few if any within the small council were capable of reigning in Robert’s temper. Whether because he knew Robert well or because Robert respected him, Lord Arryn was the only man with any real influence over the king. It would not be too much of a stretch to say that it was Lord Arryn who ruled the Seven Kingdoms, not Robert Baratheon. For that, Tywin could respect him. It certainly could not have been easy to direct such a cumbersome oaf who was more concerned with whoring, drinking, and hunting than he was with ruling.

Even so, Tywin knew Jon Arryn was not long for this world. His health was deteriorating, and it would not be long before he perished. When that happened, there would be nothing left to keep Robert in check. Indeed, the lord of Casterly Rock agreed with Lord Arryn that Eddard Stark would make for a poor lord. His honor would make him predictable as much as it would make him vulnerable. He could name no less than ten nobles off the top of his head who wouldn’t hesitate to manipulate Lord Stark for their own ends. Robert, of course, failed to realize this, blinded by his friendship with the Northern lord.

No, Eddard Stark could not become the next Hand. The realm needed someone to ensure Robert’s foolishness could be kept in check. And fortunately for him, this voyage would provide an excellent opportunity to prove just that.

Indeed, there was none better suited to ensure the reign of the Baratheon Dynasty than the one who ensured its rise to power.

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

It hadn’t taken long for Viserys to hear about Lansseax. Despite Daenerys’ best efforts to keep their meetings a secret, her brother’s newest ally proved surprisingly influential in Pentos. Even without seeing his obese form, she recognized Illyrio Mopatis by reputation alone. Although not one of the ruling powers of Pentos, Illyrio was nonetheless an impressive magister who dabbled in a variety of fields, including spices, cheese, and slaves. Viserys had yet to explain how he made an acquaintance with a magister, save that the man offered his assistance in helping her brother reclaim the Iron Throne from Robert Baratheon.

Viserys was none too pleased to learn she involved herself with a foreign woman. Truthfully, Daenerys expected him to beat her as was wont to do when irate. Instead, he looked upon her with a dreadful expression, so foreign that she barely recognized him.

“You mustn’t speak with that woman ever again. Do you understand me, Danny?” Viserys said. “The people of Volantis are not to be trusted.”

Daenerys wasn’t sure why Viserys assumed Lansseax hailed from Volantis, even if she herself once thought the same. The Valyrians of Volantis were seldom seen beyond its black walls, and not without a lack of trying. She supposed her brother’s wariness around her was because of his previous attempt at securing Volantis’ aid in his ambition, which ended in failure like many others.

For a time, she obeyed her lord brother out of fear of reprimand and violence. Ever since Illyrio offered his support and welcomed the Targaryens into his home, her brother’s mood improved, if only slightly. He was yet prone to fits of anger, but the servants managed to quiet his moods with Illyrio’s honeyed words and platitudes. Young as she was, Daenerys knew he was merely brown-nosing, trying to get into her brother’s good graces. It was why she could barely keep calm in his home, even if his servants were surprisingly kind. Among them was a gold-haired Lysene maiden by the name Doreah. She seemed somewhat friendly with her brother, though Daenerys was not so ignorant as to know why, not when the walls were so thin.

As comfortable as their short time in Illyrio’s manse had been, Daenerys never felt comfortable. A cynical part of her told her it was only a matter of time before Illyrio discarded her and her brother.

Although she’d been a small babe at the time, she still had vague recollections of her early life in exile. After Ser Willem perished from sickness and the servants made off with everything in their home, they had little choice but to leave Braavos. Daenerys cried for weeks when they left their home; the house with the red door and lemon tree was the closest thing she had to a home. Her fondest, earliest memories involved that house. Inside that house, she wasn’t an exiled princess, but a normal girl living with a gallant knight and her beloved older brother. Such days were mere flights of fancy, yet she remembered them as being so much more. Some days, she yearned to return to that place and relive the past.

One day, the stifling atmosphere of Illyrio’s manse grew too much. Under the guise of leaving in search of fresh air, Daenerys fled the manse. Her destination was the familiar salty-scented docks of Pentos, where crystal blue oceans stretched on for miles.

Having travelled across Essos for the majority of her life and visiting nearly all the Free Cities, Daenerys was intimately familiar with ships. Every so often, she dreamed of sailing the vast oceans. There’d even been a time when she dreamed of imaginary lands unknown to the world, waiting to be found. She dreamed of the lands past the Sunset Sea spoken of by the Lords of the Lonely Light. In those dreams, she likened herself to Jaenara Belaerys, a dragonlord from the days of Old Valyria who explored Sothoryos. Although her journey turned ended in failure for having found only jungles and deserts, there were none like Jaenara. Indeed, the woman had become something of an idol for the young Daenerys.

The docks thrived with people, mainly those disembarking their ships and loading cargo for the next voyage. Some of those she saw working were garbed in familiar armor gold-colored armor. The Golden Company was here in force, something that unsettled the young Targaryen. Her last encounter with the sellswords had been Viserys’ failed attempt to secure their loyalty. She vividly remembered the mocking sneers and the cruel smile on the company commander’s face.

Daenerys turned her attention away from the sellswords in favor of looking elsewhere. There, her eyes spotted a familiar white-cloaked woman standing at the edge of the peer, her mystifying eyes gazing out in the far distance as if searching for something.

It took only a moment of hesitation to ponder what Viserys might do were he to learn she spoke with the Valyrian woman before swallowing her fears. Cautiously and carefully, as if approaching a catspaw, Daenerys walked up to Lansseax. “’llo,” she greeted somewhat lamely, much to her chagrin.

Lansseax peered down at the exiled princess, her lips curled into a ghostly smile. “Well, anon,” she said pleasantly. “T’s been some timeth since I’ve seen thee, dram wench. What endues thee to the sh’res?”

“Wanderlust, mostly,” Daenerys admitted. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you as of late. My lord brother, he…does not take kindly to my association with you.”

“Thy l’rd broth’r,” Lansseax hummed in thought before her eyes lit with recognition. “Ah, thee speaketh of the one those gents calleth the beggar king, Vis’rys?”

“Vissy,” Daenerys corrected her with a wince. She was grateful her brother was not present to hear Lansseax utter that name, knowing it would inspire a dreadfully familiar wrath within him.

Lansseax had become Daenerys’ teacher in the ancient Valyrian tongue and other matters. It started as a small and childish request, which Daenerys wasn’t expecting Lansseax to grant. After all, why would a woman of Volantis deign to teach her the tongue of their ancestors? That the woman agreed to it while admitting to not hailing from Volantis at all when Daenerys questioned her was surprising, as was the knowledge that Lansseax’s homeland was not Volantis or even Essos, but in fact the foreign land that had been the talk of Essos for months since its appearance. There was not a soul on the continent who hadn’t heard of the mysterious Lands Between. Viserys admitted having some interest in it himself, but ignored it in favor of finding a way to gain allies willing to aid him and his cause.

When Daenerys learned Lansseax hailed from that unknown land, she pestered her with all manner of questions.

“What sorts of animals live there?”

“What is it like?”

“Does it have nobles and kings?”

“What sorts of knights are there?”

To her credit, Lansseax was nothing if not patient. In fact, she wore a bemused smile as she told her tale after tale. She told her of the lush greenlands of Limgrave and the gentle rains of the Weeping Peninsula. She told her of the inhuman creatures called demihumans, primitive beings speaking a language barely understood by even the most intelligent scholar. She told her of the misbegotten, winged men with tails and horns who largely kept to themselves due to persecution. She told her of the stormy winds and thunderous clouds that often prevailed around Stormveil Castle and its neighboring lands, how the whipping gales often sounded like the wails of dying angry men and how wolves hunted in packs, preying on any foolish enough to wander without a blade or crossbow in hand.

The ruler of Limgrave was not a man, but a woman. Lansseax called her Nepheli Loux, warrior and clansmen of Elden Lord Godfrey, Bravehearted Consort of Queen Marika the Eternal. Lansseax described Godfrey was a giant of a man, with thick bulging muscles and enough strength to turn a man’s skull into paste. Wherever he went, his faithful beast Serosh followed. She described him as the embodiment of warrior’s blood, tempered by regal kingship. Before he became Elden Lord, he was Hoarah Loux of the Badlands, a land that lay far beyond the reaches of the Lands Between and a place of such wanton brutality and bloodshed only those willing to abandon all notion of honor could survive.

Lansseax described “Lord” Nepheli as a woman of honor and strength. When she ascended to lordship of Limgrave with the blessings of both the current Elden Lord and another noble by the name of Kenneth Haight, she decreed that they would never again suffer injustice at the hands of the lawless brigands who made Limgrave their home.

The tale fascinated young Daenerys, especially since, to the best of her knowledge, the only female ruler she knew of with the full might and recognition of the Iron Throne was Queen Rhaenyra I Targaryen. Viserys was surprisingly adamant that Rhaenyra was the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, her father having proclaimed her as heir apparent and not his son from the treacherous Queen Alicent Hightower. There had been Targaryen queens in the past, but none were ever recognized as the true, dominant power typically held by kings.

“I assume, then, thee hath found thy new home to beest stifling?” Daenerys nodded at the woman’s question. “Thou art anon und’r the careth of a magist’r, art thee not?”

“Yes. He is…a kind man, albeit one who sees opportunity, and my brother is too blinded by greed to see it.” Daenerys sighed, shaking her head in dismay. “I miss the days when he was not so obsessed with reclaiming his birthright.”

“’tis a t’rrible thing, to loseth yond which thee did hold so lief,” Lansseax replied. “’tis an coequal w’rse thing to covet t to the pointeth of obsession.” The woman’s face shifted into a look of familiar grief. “I knoweth yond humour well. Too well, I am afraid.”

Daenerys blinked. In the short time she knew Lansseax, she never saw her look so…pitiable, so vulnerable. Thinking about it now, although she told her somewhat of her homeland, Lansseax never told her anything about herself. As she cast her gaze into the horizon, the lonely look in her eyes reminded her so much of the look her brother once had, back before his desire for the Iron Throne consumed him.

It was a look he often wore when he thought about their lady mother Rhaella.

Daenerys never had the chance to know her mother. The events of Robert’s Rebellion left a toll on her body, and the voyage to Dragonstone was equally as stressful. Her childbirth destroyed her health, robbing her of what little strength she had. Even without Viserys’ harsh words of ridicule and bursts of anger, she was under no delusions. Daenerys killed her mother from the womb, and she could never forgive herself for it. The only thing she could do was honor the promise she made to Ser Willem before his passing and become her brother’s rock and confidant, his closest friend and adviser. A promise she struggled and believed to have failed in.

What manner of hardships have you suffered so, Lady Lansseax, to bear such a lonely look?

Impulsively, the exiled princess reached out for the woman’s hand. Her fingertip had just brushed against Lansseax’s pinky, momentarily startling the woman when—

“Master Lansseax!”

“Placidusax holp me,” Lansseax hissed under her breath. Daenerys was fairly certain she wasn’t meant to hear that or see the disgruntled look on her face. She schooled her features into that of an irate master at arms. “What has’t I toldeth thee about ref’rring to me as “mast’r”, thee clotpole knave? I doth not rememb’r ev’r agreeing to such a thing!”

A young man of Valyrian features smiled bashfully as he approached the white-robed woman. His blue hair was cut short, just barely above his ears. It paired well with his dark blue eyes—

Daenerys blinked. At a second glance, she would swear his eyes were purple. She shook her head and took stock of his appearance. He was a sellsword or a squire at the very least, clad in a battered leather cuirass over chainmail. An orange-yellow sash was wrapped tightly around his waist, acting as a makeshift belt to hold the sheathe of his sword. He looked to be of five and ten name days, at least.

“Sorry,” the young man said. “I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds. You’ve taught me much these past few months, and I…” He trailed off, only now noticing Daenerys. The girl stiffened when she saw how his eyes shifted, narrowed and searching. Their eyes met, and for but a moment, Daenerys feared she’d been had. The look disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by an charming smile. “Forgive me, I didn’t see you there. Was I interrupting something?”

Daenerys quickly shook her head. “N-no, you’ve done nothing wrong, ser.”

“Ser? I appreciate the compliment, but I am no knight. I’ve yet to even become a squire!” the young man laughed. “I’m Griff. Well, Griff the Younger or Young Griff, but I prefer Griff all the same when not in the presence of my father.”

“I’m Danny. It’s nice to meet you, Griff.” Inwardly, Daenerys frowned. Where have I heard that name before?

“Is th’re a reasoneth thee’ve cometh to both’r me?” Lansseax asked impatiently. “I only did teach thee the basics of a twinblade out of the lady’r b’redom. Nay matt’r how many times thee asketh, I shall not becometh thy teachest’r.”

“Be that as it may, Master Lansseax, you taught more than any other in our band ever has,” Young Griff said passionately. Lansseax clicked her tongue in annoyance but kept her tongue silent of rebuttal. “As such, I consider you as much a teacher as I do father. Actually, he’s why I’ve been looking for you.”

The woman eyed the young man suspiciously. “Yond sir still insists I joineth thy m’rcenary band? I believeth I madeth t cleareth I has’t dram int’rest in becoming a sellsw’rd, much less involve myself in the affairs of oth’rs. As t is, I’ve did stay in Pentos longeth’r than I careth to admiteth.”

“Oh,” Daenerys said pitifully. “You’re leaving soon…?” An unpleasant feeling swelled in her breast. It had been so long since she basked in the company of another, especially one who had no interest in her past. It was another reason why she elected not to reveal her identity to Lansseax even after she deemed the woman trustworthy.

She knew the worldly woman would leave her at some point. She admitted only days prior that she was staying in the Free City for a short time and would move on once she grew stale of Pentos’ offerings. Daenerys understood this, but it did little to ease the ugly feeling festering in her chest. A treacherous part of her thought of following Lansseax, abandoning Viserys in pursuit of her own ambitions, yet the moment such a thought made itself known, she squashed it under her heel. Viserys was the only family she had left, and despite the horrid man he’d become, she still loved him. She would not abandon him. She swore to herself she would stay by his side and reclaim their birthright.

“I has’t ov’rstay’d mine own welcometh h’re, dram wench,” Lansseax told her gently. “’tis timeth I seeketh out most wondrous’r pastures.”

“Where will you go?”

“I believeth I shall seeketh out the fabl’d First Daughter of Essos. Many a timeth has’t I been mistaken f’r a mistress of Volantis, and their w’rds rouse mine own curiosity.”

Griff grimaced. “In that case, Master Lansseax, I advise you take great care. I believe they’ll welcome you more warmly than others, but the Valyrians of Volantis are, how to put this, a reclusive bunch and quite mistrustful of outsiders.”

“Is yond so? I shalt taketh thy warnings into consid’ration, knave,” Lansseax said.

She opened her mouth to continue speaking, only to pause. Her face changed, and for a brief moment, Daenerys saw her eyes change from pink-red to glaring gold. Her head snapped back to the ocean and bared her teeth. Daenerys recoiled, finding sharp fangs in place of tarnished whites.

“Is something the matter, Master Lansseax?” Young Griff questioned, oblivious to the sudden tension brewing around her. He followed her gaze, turning to look at the ocean past the docks, and paled. “What in the hells…?”

Daenerys turned and saw a large ship, far bigger than any she’d seen before, with pitch-black sails bearing the sigil of a two-headed dragon bearing its fangs at its necks.

Beside her, Lansseax breathed in a voice that couldn’t possibly belong to a human. She spoke a foreign word—a name—with dripping venom and hate.

“Coequal h’re, thee’d continueth thy foolish hunteth, o’ fallen drake warri’r?”

THE RED PRIEST

At the Red Temple of Tyrosh, in most hallowed marble halls of devout and the holy flame of the Lord of Light, a nameless priest fled for his life.

“What manner of devils are these?!”

“Foul trespassers! You dare sully R’hllor’s domain with your presence?!”

“Don’t let their flames touch you! Push them back!”

Priests and warriors sworn to the Lord of Light brandished their weapons, charging to fend off the invading army who dared taint the halls of the Red Temple. The priest would have joined them were he not terrified beyond words. Although he tried to join the fray, the sheer wrongness of the invaders and their pitch-black flames inspired a near-primordial sense of dread and bowel-dropping terror in his bones. The moment one looked at him with dead, pitch-black eyes, he dropped his blade and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

He thought them to be the enemy spoken of in the flames whispers and by one of their most devoted apostles. There was no force so disturbing, no foe so otherworldly, that could inspire such feelings in a man who entrusted himself to the flames and the embrace of his god. And yet their appearance was wrong as was the power they wielded; their portions were too lanky and thin, too wide and fat, and they bore not ice but fire. The sight of those flames, black as the night sky, sent shivers down his spine.

The nameless priest rushed toward the inner sanctum. The vault lay hidden there, possessing priceless treasures and ancient texts known only to the highest authority and powers within the Tyroshi sect of R’hllor.  He had the most auspicious position to not only possess one of the two keys capable of opening the vault, but also the authority to open the vault when the higher authorities deemed it necessary. They would surely lambast and degrade him for daring to go against protocol, but the priest did not care. All he cared about was surviving this dreadful nightmare. He would gracefully accept whatever punishment would come upon him.

They must know. Their fellows in the other temples must know what has transpired. They must know of the defilers bearing the pitch-black flame.

The nameless priest arrived at the doors leading to the inner sanctum, all but throwing them open and falling to the floor. He hurriedly picked himself up and closed the doors shut. His heart hammered against his chest, tears rolling down his cheeks as he listened to the agonizing, painful cries of his fellow believers. They threw themselves to their deaths, little more than ripe wheat to be reaped from the fields. The invaders found no opposition. The nameless priest knew they would all die, and only he would be spared.

“Forgive me, my brothers,” he whispered, hoping they could hear the voice of the man who left them for dead so that he may spread their message and knowledge of the defilers. “May we meet again in the lord’s embrace.”

He stepped away from the doors and turned around. The moment he saw that white-clad figure, his body froze on the spot.

The inner sanctum was a large room, big enough to house the dragons of old were they still alive. White pillars held the roof aloft, the red banners bearing R’hllor’s sigil and glory proudly on display as they hung from the walls. Effigies of R’hllor’s champions from ages past decorated the left and rightmost sides of the room, as though standing sentinel and alert for signs of danger. They were from a bygone era scant few can barely recall from memory, epics, and what few historical records remain of the forgotten ages. At the far back of the temple was a grand brazier, decorated with silver and red trims, carefully etched and laced into the stone and the round pedestal it sat on.

There, she stood. A woman clad in white garbs with a hood pulled over her head. He could not see her face, not with her back turned to him, but he recognized her garbs as the same worn by the invaders. Hers were of finer make, pristine and unblemished without signs of stitching or even flesh-like faces woven seamlessly into the fabric. Instead, delicate golden markings were sewn, intricate, and carefully made by the steady hands of a master craftsman.

The nameless priest’s heart beat so loudly it nearly drowned out all other sound. No words escaped him, for fear seized him by the throat and cowed him into trembling silence. The woman stood before the brazier, alight with orange-yellow flame. Then, ever so slowly, she turned and gave the priest a clear look at her face.

The Valyrians were famous for their looks. Even the most unattractive of them with the weakest blood looked fairer than the average man, it was said. Of the Westerosi Valyrians who settled in Westeros near three centuries ago, the Targaryens were noted to possess such fair looks. Princess Elaena Targaryen, the fifth and youngest child of King Aegon III Targaryen, was famed for her beauty (so much, in fact, her husband Ossifer Plumm is said to have dropped dead the night they consummated their marriage). Some described the standard of Valyrian beauty as “otherworldly”.

The white-clad woman was no Valyrian, for hers was a beauty that could not possibly belong to a human. Flawless pearl-white skin with nary a blemish nor freckle, her features belonging to a master stonemason’s statue of a goddess, beautiful lips capable of tempting even the most chaste of married men, and baleful eyes of dusk.

The nameless priest’s knees wobbled as he threatened to fall to the floor. He could barely breathe.

“W-who are you?” he finally found the strength to ask.

The woman stared at him for a moment, then smiled in a way that was neither kind nor malevolent.

Suddenly the priest felt a large hand seize him by the back of his head, long fingers wrapping around his skull. He felt his body rise, feet dangling off the floor, and then—

The last thing the red priest of R’hllor saw as his life came to an unceremonious end was the tiled floor, the brief glimpse of the gloam-eyed woman’s empty smile, and the chilling sight of the orange-yellow flames turning pitch black.

A section of this chapter was removed due to feeling it revealed a lot of things far too early in this story. Special thanks go to TheStrangerOfNowhere and Mrsauce906 from Spacebattles for their feedback and opinion.

Chapter Text

OLD WRITINGS

A series of unpublished papers penned by Archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure within the Citadel for his pursuit of knowledge, however esoteric or heretical.

The writings are faded and barely legible, describing the ruling powers of Limgrave and the beginnings of Lunar Queen Ranni’s dear consort eternal.

“Although not of the Golden Lineage, Nepheli Loux’s relation to first Elden Lord Godfrey, formerly Hoarah Loux, Bravehearted Consort of Queen Marika the Eternal and Chieftain of Clan Loux of the Badlands, ensured that with the blessing of both Lord Kenneth Haight and the nameless Elden Lord, the consort eternal of Lunar Queen Ranni, she had full authority and means to establish her Great House. Thus began the Great House of Loux, successors to the extinct bloodline of the Great House of Stormveil, the first monarchs to bend the knee to Queen Marika in the early years of the Golden Order.

“Strength through purpose” serves as the words of the Great House of Loux, referring to the harsh and unforgiving lifestyle of those who live in the Badlands and the words once spoken by the clan chieftain.

As the Great Lord of Limgrave, Nepheli Loux’s first act was to restore order to the region. Although mercifully spared from most of the atrocities committed during the Shattering, both Limgrave and its southern territory, the Weeping Peninsula, suffered from war, famine, and disease. In the final years of the Shattering, Limgrave became a haven for the downtrodden and outcasts, including notorious brigands and sellswords who swore themselves to the Lord of Grafting. With the backing of House Haight, the Great House of Loux waged a brutal yet effective campaign against the band of brigands infesting Limgrave. For this, the smallfolk dubbed her “Nepheli the Stormhawk”, for she was never seen without her faithful winged companion.”

“House Haight once served the Erdtree faithful as one of the Great Houses of the Altus. Its founder and patriarch are said to have been one of Queen Marika’s closest confidants before her eventual marriage to Godfrey, and in the years that followed, they soon established the cadet house Shanehaight, who would rise to prominence as one of the foremost zealots of Golden Order fundamentalism. Unfortunately, House Haight would fall out of favor with the House of the Erdtree during the reign of Elden Lord Radagon, the former King of Caria and Queen Marika’s second husband. Exactly what led to the disgrace of House Haight in the eyes of Leyndell is unclear, save that they swore never again to return to the royal capital so long as the “leal hound” remained Marika’s husband.

Notably, House Haight was one of the rare noble houses that did not share the same prejudice toward the inhuman natives of the continent as the rest of their highborn ilk. Shortly after swearing allegiance to the Great House of Stormveil before its downfall and eventual extinction, they enlisted the services of the neighboring demihuman clans. The sight of demihumans, reviled and despised like so many other inhuman beings outside the Golden Order’s guidance, was oft said to have been a disturbing yet welcome sight. Unfortunately, this would not endear them to House Morne, whose bloody history with the misbegotten left them with inconsolable hate for all inhuman creatures.”

“House Morne was among the first vassal houses of the Great House of Stormveil, granted ownership and governance over the Weeping Peninsula. Even before the persecution perpetuated by the zealous followers of the Golden Order, House Morne possessed immense hatred against the inhuman creatures native to the region. Before the rise of the Erdtree and its faithful, House Morne regularly engaged in bloody conflict with the demihuman clans, though it was the misbegotten they seemed to hold a particular hatred towards. When the Golden Order established itself in the Lands Between and Limgrave bent the knee, House Morne subjugated the inhuman races within its territory, eventually sowing the seeds of resentment and hate that would eventually doom House Morne.

Castellan Edgar, the late Lord Morne’s most trusted adviser during the final years of the Shattering, would assume temporary lordship while working to restore order. To this end, he enlisted the services of not only demihumans, but even the misbegotten. Sadly, this proved a fatal mistake; the misbegotten had not forgotten their humiliation and torture at the hands of House Morne and its allies, and so they turned their fangs, claws, and blades against those who would extend a helping hand. Loyal servant and knight alike were slain, and the stones of Castle Morne ran red with the blood of countless victims, both guilty and innocent.

The nameless Elden Lord, then a mere Tarnished of no renown, arrived at Castle Morne to put an end to the bloody revolt. Sadly, they arrived too late. House Morne was no more. Castellan Edgar went mad with grief after having found the broken and bloody remains of his daughter Irina. The tragedy and fall of Castle Morne has yet to be forgotten.”

“Lady Rodrika Hoslow of Castle Morne is said to hail from the nobility of foreign lands, though she seldom speaks of her home and family. From what could be gleamed of her character and words, she was naught but a victim in the grand game of court politics.

Although of foreign nobility, Lady Rodrika was appointed the new castellan of Morne in place of the now-extinct House Morne until such a time when a new lord may succeed and gain lordship over the Weeping Peninsula. Of the many denizens within the Lands Between, Lady Rodrika is notable for being a “Spirit Tuner”, an evocation described as having an affinity for communing with all manner of spirits, both good and ill. It is said she offered her services to the Tarnished of no renown during their journey to claim the seat of Elden Lord.

Despite the reservations of Great Lord Nepheli’s vassals and her adviser Lord Haight, Lady Rodrika became a much beloved lord for providing relief efforts for the smallfolk of the Weeping Peninsula. Within a year of her appointment, Great Lord Nepheli declared that Lady Rodrika would serve as the Lady of Castle Morne in a permanent a more permanent capacity, thus joining her and her fellow lords of Limgrave at Stormveil Hall when discussing matters of importance within the region. In an effort to create stronger ties between Limgrave and the Altus region, which had yet to fully heal from the scars inflicted upon it in the Shattering by the time King Robert I Baratheon arrived at its shores, Great Lord Nepheli arranged a marriage between Lady Rodrika and Great Lord Juno Hoslow.”

“Records of the nameless Elden Lord are scarce. There are no written records of them prior to their arrival in the Lands Between, and only secondhand accounts and their closest allies know little to provide any information of true value. Of what can be decisively discerned is that they were called a “Tarnished of no renown” hailing from the Land of Reeds, a land said to be engulfed in a centuries-long civil war described in a manner akin to the Dance of Dragons over a century ago.

At the time, other contenders for the seat of Elden Lord were recognizable names, such as Ser Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing and Hoarah Loux, the first Elden Lord who had been exiled alongside countless others some centuries before the Shattering. In comparison to a man more knowledgeable than any maester worth their chain and a former king, the Tarnished was indeed inconsequential.

And yet, many described them as having warrior blood in their veins. During King Robert I Baratheon’s stay in the Lands Between, one of his Kingsguard overheard the smallfolk singing a tune about the nameless Elden Lord:

            When kings rise against
            Have it writ on their grave
            The old gods were felled
            By a mortal unnamed”

Chapter Text

MELISANDRE

Months ago, the God of Light showed her a terrible vision, the likes of which sent chills down the Red Priestess’ spine. Although many visions required interpretation and guess-work, Melisandre gleamed their meaning and purpose more often than not. Such was the problem with visions, rarely discernable in purpose and meaning. Others would express frustration and dismay with such vague and cryptic visions, yet for those of the red faith, such things were tests. The vision that spurned Melisandre to Westeros in search of Azor Ahai, who she seemingly found in the Master of Ships. Of course, whether he was indeed the one she searched for remained to be seen. Such was why she stayed by his side, offering counsel and the wisdom of R’hllor.

Earning Stannis’ trust had not been easy. The man was slow to trust, and not without reason. He was a man of rigid principle, a staunch believer in law and judgment. It baffled Melisandre that such a man was tasked with managing a naval fleet and not handed the post of Master of Laws, but alas, the affairs and beliefs of King Robert I Baratheon were none of her concern.

The enemy grew in strength, and it would not be long before it made its move. Even now, the flames whispered tales of stirring ghosts and wights in the lands far beyond the Wall. The Others wouldn’t return, not yet. They were still growing in strength.

Melisandre was confident her faith would see her through, but recent events as of late left her trembling in fear and anxiety. Her lord had not simply deigned to grant her visions of the Long Night’s return. He showed her something else.

A woman with dusk-colored eyes standing amid a pyre of pitch-black flames, holding a newborn babe wrapped in a patchwork cloth made of stitched, discarded flesh.

A man with his back turned, arms spread in rapture as the world burned in a sickly yellow flame, surrounded by a cacophony of anguished cries of despair.

The two visions left her deeply disturbed, for she could not understand them. The first vision baffled her, having spent weeks deliberating and trying to understand what they could mean. Much of her concern laid with the black flames; the mere sight of them made her recoil in disgust and fear, as though simply gazing upon them would burn her. The second vision was more worrisome, for within that burning haze of things yet to come, nothing truly inspired dread than the whispers and painful cries.

“May chaos take the world,” she repeated the whispers spoken with a sour expression.

Never before have such words inspired such ugly feelings. Melisandre tolerated many things, be it non-believers, heathens, and even fools so entrenched in their dogma that they could not think for themselves. Even the followers of R’hllor held themselves to a higher standard, taking liberal interpretation of their lord’s will when performing acts in his name. And even then, there were some within their order who acted for their wanton desires and not the lord’s. Yet the one thing that infuriated her beyond words were creatures who wished for nothing but madness and despair. What use was it to live as though there was no meaning to life? What purpose was there to drag others into nihilistic beliefs that amounted to nothing? Although she knew not what these sickly yellow flames promised, Melisandre knew they offered nothing but lies and promises of falsehood.

There had been a third vision, one that plagued her mind for weeks since receiving the visions from her lord. In it, she saw ghastly flames, pale and tinged with shadow. Translucent figures akin to will-o-wisps stood amid scorched ruins, accompanied by gaunt figures clad in armor of a make she did not recognize. A young man bearing the features of Eddard Stark kneeled before a warrior clad in pitch-black armor and a skull-faced helm, the warrior’s flaming sword impaled through the young man’s chest like a fleshy sheathe. Melisandre watched, befuddled and intrigued, as the flames wafted and flickered. The armored warrior and his entourage vanished, leaving the young man cradled in the arms of a fair maiden, hair scorched black, her right eye a milky gray and her left a familiar gloam.

It was not the fair maiden and the young man that entranced Melisandre so, but the two figures watching from afar. She could not see them, only able to make out vague descriptions; one dressed in white with a wide-brimmed hat, and the other wielded a sword glistening in cold moonlight.

Melisandre knew not the meaning of these dreams, but she endeavored to discover their purpose all the same.

Imagine her surprise that it was not only her who dreamed of such things.

A few days before the king and his royal entourage of great lords and ladies departed King’s Landing aboard the Golden Celeste, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell approached her. She knew of the Northern Lord mostly from hearsay and what everyone else knew of him. His father and older brother were killed by the Mad King, prompting the North to join Robert Baratheon when he raised the banners of rebellion against House Targaryen, and before that, he fostered under the Lord Hand alongside the heir of the Stormlands. Evidently, he sought her out after learning of her from Lord Arryn, which roused her curiosity.

Lord Stark told her somewhat hesitantly of how his bastard son suffered strange dreams involving colored flames, frost-touched men with a burning hate toward anything with warm blood in their vains, dragons, and an unknown assailant burning Winterfell to the ground. What was more surprising was how Lord Stark’s bastard’s visions were different than hers, more clear in that it showed foreign lands involving a towering burnt tree and a ghostly counterpart.

If he had simply told her about the colored flames, Melisandre would’ve asked to see this bastard son of his when they returned from the Lands Between. The moment Lord Stark mentioned his son dreaming of dragons and wights, Melisandre knew a visit to the North was required. This was no coincidence; whether by fate or the will of her god, Lord Stark’s bastard son had a role to play. The question was what sort of role fate the powers that be had in mind.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Stark was resistant to the idea. He was surprisingly protective of his bastard, which she could admire. It spoke a great deal of his character, but she wouldn’t back down, either. In the end, Lord Stark begrudgingly agreed to allow her to meet with his bastard once they returned. When Melisandre relayed what transpired to Stannis, he approved the visit so long as she did not cause him any unwanted trouble in the North. While Stannis was not of the red faith, not yet at least, she was a known addition to his household, and thus her actions would reflect on him.

Politics truly were aggravating, but nonetheless, she knew how to navigate them all the same.

“F-father… I don’t think I’m cut out for sea life.”

“You’ll earn your sea legs, Robb. Just be glad Lord Velaryon isn’t here.”

Melisandre turned her gaze, finding Lord Stark and his heir Robb near the railing. The latter’s face was an ill-shade of green while Lord Stark gently rubbed his son’s back. She repressed a small smile of amusement, noting how unpleasant her first experience across the sea had been.

The Golden Celeste was a roundship unfit for naval combat, though according to Stannis, that was the point. A roundship was not built for warfare, but for exploration. One such ship was built and sailed alongside Corlys the Sea Snake, one of the most notable Velaryons of the noble house who lived through the Dance of Dragons, though it was debatable whether it could ever hope to match the splendor of the ship that earned Corlys his moniker. It was a fine vessel otherwise, with capable hands manning its sails, wheel, and ropes. Including King Robert, two of his Kingsguard, and Melisandre herself, there were thirteen passengers in all. The rest were deckhands, all chosen by the Master of Ships Renly Baratheon. Some of the deckhands personally served alongside Renly and House Velaryon, and the latter was known for its history with seafaring.

Stannis opted to remain in King’s Landing, intending to remain to serve in the Lord Hand’s stead. The king and Tywin already gave him their seal of approval, meaning not even the brother-fucker could dismiss her lord without abuse of power. If she did, well, that would be yet another point in their favor. They couldn’t remove her too quickly, however. They still needed time to prepare, time to amass the strength needed for Stannis to claim the Iron Throne. The visions R’hllor sent her were clear. Within the next year, King Robert I Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, would die, preceded by the untimely death of Lord Jon Arryn and shortly followed by Lord Eddard Stark’s execution. Deducing their deaths was easy enough to deduce; Jon Arryn would succumb to poison, Robert would die at the hands of a boar, and Stark would fall to treachery. How such events came to pass, however, was something she’d yet to discern.

Unless the grand tapestry of fate was altered, King Robert and Lord Stark would not die in the Lands Between. It was not their fate.

Melisandre pursed her lips, the mystery of the foreign land returning to the forefront of her mind.

Although the existence of the Lands Between was unveiled to Westeros some months ago, the truth was that it appeared nearly a year ago. Its sudden appearance had not gone unnoticed; all the Red Temples’ braziers were lit aflame the likes of which had not been seen since the Age of Heroes. Through all of Essos and even Dorne, the red faith all received the same vision.

A land where magic still yet exists.

A land where the Age of Heroes never ended.

A land where gods walked amongst men.

A land that did not belong in this world, for only within its confines could one gaze upon its patron deity and guide. Not the burnt tree whose branches covered a third of the land, but rather the dark companion of the moon sitting in its shadow.

The reactions amid the followers of the Lord of Light were great and varied. The most common reactions were fear and excitement. Although the gifted among the priesthood were blessed with R’hllor’s visions, even Melisandre knew the arcane arts were fading. As the years went on, she felt the power wax and wane, lulling with every passing year. Soon, there would come a time when magic fully vanished from the world. The “promised age” that R’hllor spoke of eons ago with his champion Azor Ahai, the world of men, would come to pass, and in that world, the red faith would no longer need the flames to guide their path. They would instead find their own way in the world.

The emergence of the Lands Between raised many questions, chief among them being where it came from and why it was here in the first place. Melisandre had a theory, but she did not want to spread misinformation. She needed to be sure, and the only way to confirm her theory was to venture into the unknown. Truth be told, she felt like a child for the first time in years, eager to see what sorts of ancient magic awaited them in the Lands Between.

The red priestess elected to wait on deck a while longer, enjoying the sea breeze while keeping her eyes affixed to the horizon. They would not arrive at their destination for another two months.

She could hardly wait.

(linebreak)

BARRISTON

“So tell me, Ser Barristan,” the king asked him as he peered out the porthole with an excited grin plastered across his pig-like cheeks. “How does it feel, knowing we’ll be visiting a land that showed up out of nowhere? Does it compare to when you went off to face Maelys the Monstrous?”

Barristan Selmy shrugged. “This and that are two different things, Your Grace. Though I confess, I would be lying if I claimed I did not wonder what we may find. Truthfully, I wish to speak with this Lady Nepheli Loux. What our scouts told us of her character intrigues me.”

“You mean the fact she’s got more balls than we menfolk do to ride with knights and put down some fucking dogs and footpads, or that she apparently dresses in hardly anything?”

It did not surprise the Kingsguard in the least to hear Robert say such things. By now, he was used to his king’s wanton lusts, having heard him slaking his lust on a few of the maids in the Red Keep. He, of course, made sure the queen never learned the identity of the maids and ensured they were employed elsewhere. Although the queen held no love for Robert, she was a nightmare to any wench who had the misfortune of catching Robert’s eye. Barristan suspected it was because she feared the maid would birth bastards; not an unreasonable fear to have, but he could not stomach to hear the thoughts and plans she espoused when in the privacy of her room. Even Ser Jaime shifted uncomfortably whenever he heard such talk, and he was Cersei’s closest confidant.

The scouts reports of Nepheli Loux painted the picture of a woman told only in story books. Very rarely was a woman ever made the head of a noble house, and rarer still was to hear stories of a woman being as deft with a blade as a man. It reminded him of the stories of Visenya Targaryen, one of Aegon the Conqueror’s sisters and wives, a comparison made stronger the further he read the reports. Her territory, Limgrave, was ruled by a brutal and monstrous man who employed criminals into his ranks, with said criminals allowed to run amok so long as they dealt with any “unwanted guests” or “Tarnished”. From the sounds of it, the latter term was used to describe people of a ‘rank’ or ‘culture’, though the scouts weren’t sure. All they knew was that the former lord of Limgrave would not suffer their presence and hunted them down with religious zeal.

When Nepheli Loux ascended to lordship, one of her first acts was to denounce the criminals and sellswords in service to her predecessor and hunt them down like wild dogs. The smallfolk claimed her hunts were brutal as they were a crusade, for Lady Loux and her knights did not rest until every last sellsword and brigand they found was put to the sword or hanged. The woman was very insistent on meting out justice for the crimes they committed against her smallfolk. Barristan smiled when he learned this, noting how she sounded like the ideal knightly lord he dreamed of serving in his youth.

The king Aerys could have been, had he not succumbed to the Targaryen madness and paranoia, Barristan thought with a grimace.

Although many denounced the late Aerys II Targaryen as a madman, so many were quick to forget he was not always like that. Granted, he’d been a bumbling lord when he took the throne, and terribly awkward in courtly matters, but he was charismatic with an air about him. Many in the realm had high hopes for him, including Barristan. In the end, however, the old adage about the Targaryens came true.

“When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.”

Unpleasant memories from his days under King Aerys II returned, memories he wanted to forget. He banished them from his mind, instead focusing on the present.

The purpose of meeting Lady Nepheli and her fellow lords was not something so simple as a ‘meet and greet’, as Lord Tyrion once put it. This was a meeting to determine Westeros’ future cohabitation with the Lands Between, and whether they should prepare for war. They knew nothing about the land or its people. For all they knew, they would experience a second Conquering. Thus King Robert wished to make the first move, determine where the Lands between stood politically, then offer a hand in friendship. If the worse came to pass, then he and Ser Jaime would be there to defend them alongside the other lords. Having briefly seen Lord Stark’s skill with a blade during the Greyjoy Rebellion, he was confident about their chances. If all went well, Westeros would have a new political ally to deal with in trade, something Lord Lannister was eager to delve into.

“Honestly, I don’t believe half the shit I read,” Robert scoffed. “Really! Winged beasts, bats the size of men, fucking giants? Next thing they’ll tell me is that there are fucking dragons there, too!”

Barristan frowned. “Suppose there are dragons there,” he said cautiously, careful not to mention the name ‘Targaryen’ lest he sour the king’s mood into something ugly. “How should we handle it? Whatever loyalists remain might attempt to use them, and that is assuming they are anything like the ones we are familiar with.”

Robert’s face darkened for but a moment. Thankfully, the infamous Baratheon tempered cooled quickly and turned into something resembling contemplation. “Much as I hate Targs, I’d give an arm and a leg to see a dragon. It was every boy’s dream growing up before the Dance and Aegon the Dragonbane happened. If nothing else, we could try our hand at dragon hunting.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I do not fancy turning into a lump of coal. Neither would the Lord Hand if you suffered the same, I’d wager.”

“Bah! Where’s your sense of adventure, man?” The king shook his head, then slumped in his seat. The chair groaned from the shifting weight of fat atop it. “Now that I get to thinking about it, where’s the Kingslayer and that twit Lancel?”

“Ser Jaime is speaking with the Lord Hand I believe,” Barristan said. “I believe it was about who would safeguard the queen during our absence. He had some concerns regarding Ser Meryn and Ser Boros.”

Concerns he himself shared. Ser Meryn was somewhat decent. Granted, Barristan was skeptical about his skill with a sword, but he overlooked it since he was granted the honor of bearing the white cloak. Ser Boros, on the other hand, made him question what in the Hells the king and queen were thinking when they made him part of the Kingsguard. While skilled with a sword, he’d since grown stout and pudge-faced, and even then, his skill with a sword was matched by his cowardice. That wasn’t even going into the fact that Boros repeatedly broke his oaths of celibacy. His regular visits to the whorehouses in Flea Bottom were an open secret, much to his disgust.

“As for Lancel, I saw him engaged in conversation with Lady Olenna’s granddaughter.”

Robert barked out a laugh. “Well, fucking good for him! He needs a woman’s touch to loosen up. That Margeary girl reminds me of the Sword of Morning’s sister. You know, Ashara. You’ve met her before, right, Ser Barristan?”

He nodded. “I remember her, Your Grace. Her beauty was unsurpassed, both in the Crownlands and in Dorne.”

“You’d better fucking believe it. She even had poor Ned swept off his feet from what I heard!” Robert laughed harder this time, causing his chair to grown and threaten to snap from under his weight. “Men were tripping over their feet, daring to test Ser Arthur Dayne’s sword arm just by daring to ask her for a dance. She could have gotten herself any man she wanted, I wager. I would have dared to do the same, were I not…”

The king trailed off, his jovial tone gone in an instant. His smile disappeared as his lips hardened into a thin line and his eyes grew stormy. Barristan flinched when he saw Robert’s hands curl into tight fists. The Kingsguard belatedly realized the king was thinking about Lady Lyanna Stark, the woman who had been betrothed to Robert once upon a time. Everyone knew the story and tragedy surrounding the poor girl and her role in starting Robert’s Rebellion, but few if any in the Red Keep dared to speak her name. Queen Cersei forbid any mention of the Stark girl within her presence, threatening to tear out the tongues of any who she heard speaking Lyanna’s name, and the brave souls who dared utter her name in the king’s presence found themselves staring down a quiet, but angry stag. Barristan learned quickly that the only thing more dangerous than an angry Baratheon was a Baratheon who knew when to temper and control his anger, saving it for something he well and truly wished to kill with extreme prejudice.

He reckoned that was what killed Prince Rhaegar in the end.

Before the king’s mounting temper reached a boiling point, Barristan wisely changed the subject. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Your Grace, but was it wise to leave Grand Maester Pycelle in King’s Landing? I do not mean to dismiss Archmaster Forrester’s skills, not when he came with such glowing recommendations, but we hardly know the man.”

The change in topic dismissed some of the king’s answer; not all of it, but enough to distract him from his thoughts. “I discussed it with Jon and Cersei beforehand. The old goat didn’t mind, saying he would be of more use in King’s Landing. Besides, he wanted to be there in case we don’t return by the time Cersei gives birth.”

Barristan’s eyes widened. “The queen is with child again?”

“She might be,” Robert shrugged. “She suffered the morning sickness the day before we left, so Pycelle wants to be sure. Hopefully whatever tyke pops out of her womb will look like a proper Baratheon.” The king shook his head in distaste. “Three brats, and not a one that looks like me. Damn Lannister blood. You’d think they were ruling the Seven Kingdoms and not the Baratheons!”

Barristan wisely chose not to say anything. It’d always been a sore spot for him, how none of his children inherited his hair or eyes. Cersei’s Lannister blood was strong it seemed, as the princes and princess all bore golden hair and green eyes and not the Baratheon’s dark hair and blue eyes. It hadn’t helped that the king found his children wanting, especially his eldest. Barristan and many others shared in Robert’s chagrin; Prince Joffrey’s attitude had always been a problem, and the rumors surrounding his “hunt” with Prince Tommen’s cat were blatant enough to raise some concerns within many of the old guard.

Barristan served a Mad King before, and he would not suffer a second one.

A sharp knock at the door to the king’s cabin ceased any further conversation between them. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace. It’s captain Yemon, he wants to speak with you.”

Robert raised a curious eyebrow and glanced at Barristan. He shrugged, unsure what to make of it himself before stepping closer to the king, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Enter!” the king bellowed. The door opened, revealing Captain Yemon. He looked like a man of Tyrosh, with wavy blue hair and tanned skin. “What’s the problem, captain?”

“We’ve found a stowaway, milord,” Yemon told him. “Found a lad hiding below deck. Lad himself in a barrel of all things. Only reason we found him at all is because he was puking his guts out.”

Robert laughed. “Poor lad must not have decent sea legs, then.”

“What is the standard procedure regarding stowaways, captain?” Barristan inquired.

“Ordinarily, they would be tossed overboard or made to earn their keep,” the captain replied before frowning. “Thing is… The whelp says he’s Prince Joffrey, Your Grace.”

Barristan stiffened, feeling his heart stutter in fear. He glanced at his king, once again finding that stormy glare consuming his eyes.

Chapter Text

NED

Robert’s fury was a familiar sight. It was especially common during the days of House Targaryen’s downfall, though somehow it paled to the admittedly difficult spectacle happening on the deck.

The king’s face was as red as his strained tunic, his every word louder than warring thunder in a storm. With each word, Prince Joffrey flinched and shrank in on himself, visibly cowering while futilely looking for any means of escape. He would find none, for he was the sole focus of the king’s wrath. He hadn’t spoken a word of rebuttal, not since Robert slugged him clean across the cheek.

Ned bit the inside of his mouth, physically keeping himself in place. Beside him, Robb’s shoulders and clenched fists trembled. The only thing keeping them restrained was the fact that Joffrey brought this upon himself. The king forbade the prince from coming along on the voyage to focus on his studies of lordship in King’s Landing under the Grand Maester. Instead of obeying instruction, he disobeyed and followed after them, putting himself at risk in the process. The Lands Between was rife with unknown qualities and threats, and there was no guarantee they could protect him if the worse came to past.

Even so, the Northern Lord couldn’t help but pity Joffrey. The boy was young, so a breach of conduct could be forgiven to an extent. Sadly, Robert was anything but forgiving.

“You’ll stay in your cabin at all times unless myself or the Kingslayer call for you,” Robert glowered. “I hear one word of disobedience from you, one peep, and I’ll throw you overboard myself. Am I clear, boy?” When the prince didn’t respond immediately, Robert took a step forward. Joffrey’s face paled. “I said, am I clear?”

“Y-yes, Your Grace!”

Robert grunted. He gave his eldest son a final glare before turning on his heel. Jaime looked at his nephew, then back at the king. He gave Joffrey a pitying look before following after the king. Joffrey stood still, crestfallen and staring emptily at the deck floor. The onlookers moved on.

“I heard tale of the king’s temper,” Robb whispered. “But seeing it so close, and directed at the prince no less…”

Ned sighed.

“A word, Lord Stark?”

The last time Ned met the oathbreaker, it’d been at the rebellion’s end. Back then, Jaime Lannister was a handsome man of Westerland features, sun-kissed gold hair and cat-green eyes. He seemed more kingly than Robert, though Ned’s opinion of him soured years ago when he found him lounging on the Iron Throne, his white cloak and steel sword stained in the king’s blood. Now, he looked much older; the beginnings of a thick beard blossomed across his face, dark rings of exhaustion sat under his eyes, and his hair was unkempt and partly groomed. There was a tiredness in his step, a weariness that clung to him.

Ned frowned. His last meeting with the young Kingsguard ended in barbed words and contempt on his party, his upbringing as a man of honor demanding he try and convince Robert that Jaime was to be punished. Loathsome as the Mad King was, the act of regicide at the hand of a sworn knight was beyond the pale. His words fell on deaf ears, and Jaime was allowed to keep his cloak and position, much to his chagrin.

Understandably wary what the former heir of House Lannister wanted, Ned chose his words carefully. “May I help you, Ser Jaime?”

“I was hoping you might speak with Robert,” Jaime said, surprising him. “He’s already two cups into his wine, and usually the only one he listens to when he gets like that is Lord Arryn.”

“And Jon can’t speak with him?”

“Maester Forrester is looking over him. He had another violent fit that nearly threw him to the floor.”

Ned ignored the familiar pain in his chest. There was a reason the Kingslayer sought him out specifically. “You think he’d listen to me?”

“You know him best, and he likes you more than anybody else that isn’t the Lord Hand,” Jaime shrugged. “For the record, I’m not asking you to make him more lenient with Joffrey. I love my nephew, I do, but even I know he’s gone and done something stupid this time.”

“…very well.”

Jaime nodded and walked away. Ned glanced at the hall leading to the king’s lodgings, wondering what he could possibly say. He knew how Robert could get when deep in his cups, but that’d been when they fostered. He was a king now, and nearly two decades on the throne changed him. Who was to say the drunk within changed as well?

He thought about it a moment longer, then grimaced as he walked down the hall. His heavy footfalls echoed alongside the creaking boards of the ship. It was evening now, and the quiet air let him hear the waves crashing against the hull. He could scarcely remember the last time he set foot on a ship.

When he arrived at the cabin, he found Robert, cheeks rosy pink and drinking from his goblet. Worryingly, there was no cupbearer in sight. Worrisome still was the stench; even from the doorway, he could smell the wine.

I wonder if Ser Jaime meant he was two bottles deep and not two cups, Ned thought.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to be bothered,” Robert snapped without looking up.

Ned took a breath. “Is my company unwanted?”

Robert looked up, blinking. “Ned?” He rubbed his eyes, as if making sure he wasn’t seeing a phantom. “Fuck, I’m drunk.”

“Really? I could scarcely tell,” Ned said, dredging up feelings from the past. Serious as he was, he had his casual moments. Moments reserved for the closest friends.

Robert guffawed, sending ripples across his fat body. The Northman joined the king, taking a seat across from Robert’s desk and observed his old friend’s face. Beneath the drunken bluster and frustration, he could see a faint twinkle in his eye. It looked like…pride.

“…I shouldn’t have hit him.” Compared to his booming howls from earlier, Robert’s voice was as quiet as the crypts. Gone was Baratheon temper. A father sat across from Ned. A man trying to be a father. “I’m fucking pissed he went and came aboard. We got no bloody idea what’s waiting for us in the Lands Between. All we know is that the wildlife is fucking weird, the great lord in charge is a fucking woman, and fuck all else.”

“But?”

A heavy sigh fell from Robert’s lips. “…but I’m proud all the same. He’s a right shit, but he’s still my son. He listens to his mother more than he does me, and he can’t swing a sword worth shit, but for once, he took charge and did something that reminded me of when I was his age. You remember the day I turned two-and-ten?”

“You scaled a tower,” Ned recalled. “Scared the hell out of me and Jon.”

“Got no idea what I was thinking back then. All I remember was how birds liked to sit themselves up there, watching us men muck around in the mud and dirt. Jon always talked about how we should get a lay of the land, or some tripe. I thought I could understand what he meant if I saw things from how the bloody things did from up on high.”

Robert took a drink from his cup. Compared to the swig he took when Ned entered the room moments ago, it was little more than a sip. The memories and folly of youth dimmed the haze on Robert’s mind, enough to slowly sober him. Not nearly enough to wipe away the foul smell.

“It made for a hell of a sight when I reached the top. No towns, no villages, no castles or keeps for miles. Just mud, grass, the mountains, and a starry night sky with the endless sea in the distance. You know what I thought at that moment, when I saw the water?”

Robert sank into his chair.

“I wanted to see my father.”

Ned looked at the floorboards, his own thoughts turning to the ghosts haunting his every step. He never understood Robert’s pain until the Mad King killed both his father and brother, though his pain paled to his friend’s. Robert suffered that pain far longer than he did, losing his parents to the seas in an ill-fated journey across the seas between Westeros and Essos in search of a bride for Prince Rhaegar. Even now, the broken remains of the Windproud sat in Shipbreaker Bay.

A tense moment of silence fell upon them. Robert set his wine goblet down, the pink-red liquid sloshing, dripping down the silvery metal, and spilling onto the surface around the goblet’s base. The king stared out the porthole, out at the night sky. Ned watched him, trying to ascertain his thoughts and what he could possibly say.

“…Joffrey isn't fit to be king.”

Ned felt every muscle in his body go taut. He kept his face even, but his eyes told Robert everything. The fat lord seated on the Iron Throne was sober, and with it came a cold clarity. He finally bore the look of a king, yet there was a sadness, a fear Ned never knew existed.

“I dunno if it was me who fucked him up or it’s because of Cersei coddling him like the rest of our children, but Joffrey ain’t right in the head. He’s…” He struggled to find the words. He didn’t need to. Ned understood what his friend wished to convey. Suddenly, the unsavory rumors surrounding the crown prince bore an inkling of truth, born straight from the lips of the prince’s sire. “He ain’t right, Ned.”

“If the queen coddles him, then why not send him away to foster?” Ned inquired curiously. “Tense as your relationship with Stannis is, he wouldn’t dare refuse you. If he can’t whip the boy into shape, I doubt anyone could.”

“I tried. Stannis told me to fuck off.” The Northman blinked in shock at the bluntness in Robert’s words. His mind reeled in confusion. Stannis refused to foster Joffrey? The crown prince? Seeing the confusion on his face, Robert continued to speak with an annoyed huff. “I don’t know what crawled up his ass and died, but Stannis likes Joff as much as I do these days. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he actually hates my son. Don’t know why, but then again, who the fuck knows what goes on in Stannis’ head these days.”

Robert sighed. “I tried to get him to see reason. Hell, I even asked fuckin’ Renly for help, and it did fuck all ‘sides piss off Stannis even more.”

“What of your bannermen? Surely, someone from the Stormlands would have fostered him. Unless I’m mistaken, Harold Hardyng is heir presumptive until Jon’s son comes into majority.”

“Tried that to, but Cersei and Lysa shut me down. It’s the only time those two ever agreed to something, and half the time, they’re glaring daggers at each other as if trying to see who can kill the other by staring,” Robert groaned. “I wanted to send him off to you to foster, but half my own fucking small council all but rose up in arms!”

In hindsight, it may very well have been for the best. Although the North since accepted his decision to marry and solidify relations between his and Catelyn’s Houses, there was still a fair amount of tension. Some like the more vocal Karstarks believed he was repeating the same mistakes as his father. He could only imagine what sort of opinions they would have if he fostered the crown prince.

“I got no fuckin’ clue what to do with him anymore, Ned. All I know is, if I keep him in the Red Keep, he’ll be no prince. And I’ll be damned before I let another Aerys II Targaryen sit on the Iron Throne.”

OBERYN

On a quiet night like tonight, Oberyn found himself lost in his memories.

The day before he left Sunspear, he spoke with his brother Doran. The sun set beyond the piercing peaks and left the sky matching the orange mountains and scorching earth in summer winds.

“This is an opportunity.”

Ever since Elia’s defilement and death, Prince Doran Nymeros Martell had changed. He was never sold on the idea of peace and reconciliation when Elia married Prince Rhaegar. Oberyn shared in his skepticism, if only out of worry. It’d been three years since the Defiance of Duskendale, and by that point, deaths at the stake were a too common sight. Many times had Oberyn sent letters of worry to her, and each time, she replied with sweet words of reassurance. When news came of Lyanna Stark’s “kidnapping” and Robert Baratheon’s declaration of rebellion, all of Dorne shared his feelings of anger and betrayal.

When Rhaegar came to Sunspear, asking for reinforcements, it’d taken godly effort not to strike the crown prince down where he stood. Oberyn’s fantasies rampaged throughout the tense meeting, imagining the proud dragon on his knees, bloodied and defiled in ways that would make him unsightly. Yet for all the creative ways he imagined, they would never change or heal the insult the Targaryens dealt them. The Mad King’s paranoia and suspicions hadn’t helped.

Ever since the end of the rebellion nary twenty years ago, Dorne kept themselves out of Westerosi affairs unless they were needed. Although the Baratheons now ruled, relations remained tense, not helped by Robert Baratheon listening to the golden bastard and denying the Martells vengeance against Gregor Clegane. Doran espoused the belief Robert might even be a pawn or willing collaborator of House Lannister, and so the snakes sent vipers into the den of corruption and politics, into the heart of Westeros.

Oberyn didn’t have much of an opinion about the new king, save that he was barely a step up from Aerys. His hate for House Targaryen was well-known as open knowledge as was his whoremongering, which made him easily manipulated. Admittedly, it made interacting with him a dangerous gamble, given their “alliance” with Viserys Targaryen. Truthfully, Oberyn had no hopes for the wayward lost prince and princess, but he went along with his brother’s schemes.

Although Robert’s Rebellion saw a change in the status quo, Westeros itself hardly changed. The Seven Kingdoms sat on a wildfire cache waiting to go off, and when it did, sides would be taken. Oberyn knew that day was coming, and soon.

Then waylaid sailors returned, bringing fanciful tales and trinkets of a foreign land that showed up out of nowhere.

“A bit early to say that, don’t you think?” Oberyn said, lounging against the windowsill and gazing out at the orange-tinted sky above. “We hardly know anything about the Lands Between and its people.”

“Perhaps,” Doran agreed. “But the appearance an unknown contender has made an opening. King Robert intends to journey to the Lands Between, learn its customs and people in the hopes of building a rapport. The heads of the Great Houses barring the Greyjoys will be summoned.”

Oberyn caught on to his brother’s words almost immediately. “I hope you don’t mean to have us kill the Lannisters by way of ‘lost at sea’. That’s too blatant, even for us.”

The ruler of Dorne smiled strangely. “Tywin Lannister won’t be coming along for the voyage.” Oberyn raised an eyebrow, waiting for his brother to explain. “There was an incident at Casterly Rock. I know little of it, but the severity has forced him to send his youngest son Tyrion to travel in his place while he manages affairs in King’s Landing.”

Oberyn recalled vague memories of the so-called Imp. An ugly little thing, albeit one worthy of pity if the stories about what happened to his first wife held a grain of truth to them.

“A rift grows in House Lannister, and the Lands Between offers us an opportunity,” Doran repeated with a toothy smile. “The question, dear brother, is who shall benefit from it.”

The Red Viper closed his eyes and sighed, pulling himself back into reality and away from his memories. “I hope this doesn’t come to bite you, brother,” he muttered under his breath.

King’s Landing would be a veritable hotbed during the king’s absence. Cersei Lannister was a great many things, but a reputable lady, she was not. She was a coddling mother who treated her children more like dolls and toys than as persons. Gregor Clegane was a monster who abused his position and the protection the Lannisters afforded him in return for his service. The only stabilizing presence in King’s Landing were the king’s brothers, but their power could easily be overturned by the queen’s royal authority. Not helping matters was Petyr Baelish, an unknown quality who enjoyed “the game” as it were. Oberyn spoke with him once, and he could hardly get a read on the man.

No doubt plans were being made in secret, plans for the Lannisters to begin securing their hold over the Red Keep and the Iron Throne. Other players were no doubt moving in the background. All the while, the Martells worked to claim vengeance. If there was anything Oberyn could criticize his older brother for, it was his obsession. He wanted justice for Elia as much as he did, but they also needed to think about Dorne’s future. They had to focus on the bigger picture.

And so while Doran kept his eyes on the Red Keep, Oberyn looked to the future.

And just like his brother, he found an unexpected opportunity.

The meeting was by no means planned. Oberyn wanted to take a nightly walk when he happened to hear sobbing from a nearby cabin. The door was slightly ajar, giving him the barest glance of the occupant.

It was a gamble, he knew. There was every possibility this could go wrong. That the king might turn his hammer on him.

And what was Oberyn Martell, if not a betting man?

Chapter Text

EDMURE

It’d been two months since they departed Westeros. The journey was thought to take that much time or longer, depending on whether the seas would cooperate. Whether by luck or the Seven taking pity on Lord Edmure Tully’s tested patience with that cantankerous old witch of House Tyrell, the journey proved pleasant enough that on more than one occasion had he journeyed up to the deck to enjoy the sea breeze. It brought back some fond memories of his days during the Greyjoy Rebellion; not those of blood and steel, but of the sea breeze and waves. He could not help but remember the simpler days when he journeyed across the seas with his lord father on business trips to the Free Cities regarding matters of trade.

When word came that the lords of the Great Houses and the King himself would journey to foreign lands, Edmure felt excited. He wasn’t particularly thrilled during his stay at the Red Keep, somewhat comforting as it had been. It have him ample opportunity to reconnect with his goodbrother Eddard and his nephew Robb. By that same token, however, it also reunited him with fucking Littlefinger, the roach who nearly sullied his sister’s honor. It’d been years since the whole affair, but Edmure refused to forgive nor forget Petyr Baelish for daring to ask his older sister for her hand in marriage, not when she’d already been promised to House Stark. It was especially galling to know the king declared him the Master of Coin.

He knew better than to waste his breath on the fop, and was content to ignore his presence unless interaction was unavoidable. When he didn’t have to suffer in Littlefinger’s presence, Edmure sought out his fellow lords to hear their thoughts and opinions, hoping that the voyage would give him ample time to form new ties. Riverrun was stable for the moment, but its position among the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was still shaky. He couldn’t afford to let his father’s hard work go to waste. Admittedly, it wasn’t easy, but Olenna Tyrell was at least willing to bend the ear for him.

Edmure wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not, as he learned the stories involving her wit and tongue were not exaggerations. If anything, they undersold her.

“Gods old and new…” Edmure heard the Lord Hand utter as their destination came within view. In fact, most of their retinue was on the deck, gazing upon the sight with full attention.

When the waylaid sailors came to King’s Landing with stories and trinkets, Edmure thought them mummers from the tales they told. They spoke of sights that could not be possible.

Seeing that ashen tree sitting in the distance, taller than even the Titan of Braavos, Edmure swore he would buy those sailors a drink if he ever happened upon them.

“How big is that bloody thing?” Prince Joffrey asked with wide-eyed wonder. “How did it even grow that big?”

“Unless I miss my guess?” Oberyn quipped. “Magic and an entire ocean’s worth of water. I heard the sailors talk about it, but seeing it is another matter entirely.”

“How long until we reach the shore?” King Robert asked Captain Yemon, eyes alight with naked hunger and awe.

“We should breach the shore within the next few hours. I understand we’ll be met with one of your scouts upon our arrival?”

Lord Arryn nodded. “Aye. The commander is Donnal Waters, I believe. I recall meeting him once some odd years ago. A fine lad, though I doubt he’s rid himself of that habit of biting his nails.”

“I’m starting to feel nervous,” Edmure’s nephew murmured. “What will await us there, I wonder…?”

“I suppose we’ll find our soon enough,” he replied, clapping Robb on the shoulder before he retreated back below deck. Just as he reached the stairwell, he cast a glance at the Red Priestess, her expression as blank and empty as a white canvas. He could not understand what thoughts might be going through her head, and in truth, he did not wish to know.

While he was no devout follower of religion, he disliked the faithful of R’hllor. It was not their faith he disdained, but rather their practices. To sacrifice one to a pyre and receive their god’s blessings was abhorrent and revolting. He knew not all followed the red faith’s teachings so dogmatically, but he could not bring himself to trust any who willingly indulged in such horrid practices and shows of faith. Were it up to him, he would sooner throw the Red Priestess overboard and wash his hands of her. The only thing staying his hand was that she was Lord Stannis’ confidant and ally.

It was not only Melisandre that worried him, however. The presence of Prince Joffrey was unexpected, and the king made it quite clear he was wroth with him. No doubt the poor boy would be belted when they made landfall and the Baratheons were behind closed doors. The Martells, however, clearly saw an opportunity as the infamous Red Viper wasted little time in worming his way into Prince Joffrey’s good graces. He was not sure exactly what Oberyn said or did, save that Joffrey received his attention well.

Thankfully, it was not a sudden camaraderie. The prince was standoffish even at the best of times. He clearly took after his father with his hotheadedness. Just as the king demanded of him, Prince Joffrey worked alongside the deckhands in their work, be it moving crates and cargo to inspecting the knots and sails or even helping the chefs cook dinner. It was menial work expected from sailors and smallfolk, but for a prince, it was degrading and disgraceful. It was perhaps the best form of punishment to curb the boy’s arrogance. Unfortunately, said arrogance and punishment made it difficult for the wards of Houses Stark and Tyrell to approach and form a rapport with him; Margeary’s presence was entertained but ultimately rebuffed, and Robb often received a cold shoulder. Even the imp of Casterly Rock faired little better in trying to bond with his nephew.

With any luck, this voyage would temper the prince’s attitude and arrogance. If not, then Edmure worried for the future of the Seven Kingdoms and of Riverrun if this was what he could expect from the next king.

By afternoon’s reckoning, the ship made landfall and beached itself on the shores of the territory called Limgrave. The port was smaller than he expected, barely bigger than the average Crownlands smallfolk village. It was not the size of the port or the craftsmanship that elicited his attention, however. Rather, it was who came to greet them.

A scout bearing the colors of House Baratheon greeted them, kneeling on King Robert’s approach. He was a comely man nearing somewhere close to twenty name days with dark hair and brown eyes. Beside him was a man near seven heads tall, if he even was a man. He was gaunt, skin leathery and clinging to bone with numerous horns curling around his face, some cut clean at the stump and others neatly trimmed and filed down. He bore an unruly mane of fiery red hair, brighter than even the hereditary hair of a Tully, and striking green eyes the color of vibrant gemstones.

“Your Grace,” the scout greeted. “It’s an honor to receive you. Scout Wyll, at your service.”

The king’s eyes flickered back and forth between Scout Wyll and the horned giant beside him. “Er, right…” He coughed awkwardly into his fist and narrowed his gaze onto the scout. “Well, what’s the word here? There been any trouble since you lot settled in?”

“None, sir. Lady Loux has been most gracious and allowed us to establish lodgings near the port outskirts, even sent us some help as well,” Wyll answered. He then gestured to the horned giant next to him. “This is sir Darrick. He’s a scribe in service to Lord Haight. That is to say, one of Lady Loux’s vassals. He’s been most helpful in getting us up to speed here.”

The scribe bowed his head. “Greetings, King Baratheon.”

Bloody hells, he’s a scribe ? Look at the size of him and those horns of his! He could poke someone’s eye out if he butted heads with them!

They had not even been in the Lands Between for an hour, and already Edmure knew the faith would be in a tizzy. He glanced at the seldom maester accompanying them, a man he scarcely saw throughout the two months spent journeying here.

Archmaester Thorren was a man within forty name days or so, with a thick beard and unkempt dirty blonde hair, dark rings under his light brown eyes. With his sullen and gloomy look, Edmure would have mistaken him for a man of House Stark with such countenance. In the few times he saw the man wandering the ship when he deigned to step outside his quarters, he wore the same disinterested face and kept his face buried in parchments and worn-out books.

Now, however, he looked less like a half-dead man and more like starved smallfolk standing before a feast. His eyes were so wide Edmure feared they might pop from their sockets.

“Er, pleasure…” King Robert said awkwardly. To see so giant a creature was surprising enough, but to hear it speak the common Andal tongue so fluently was another. He quickly gathered himself and shook his head, recomposing his thoughts. He turned back to Scout Wyll. “I assume you’ve lodgings for us? As much as I’d like to meet this Lady Loux, I’d rather spend some nights in a soft bed than a fucking hammock.”

“They’re not as prestigious or clean as the royal quarters, but I dare say they’re decent enough for you and your entourage, Your Grace.”

“And what of food?” Edmure couldn’t help but ask. “I think I speak for everyone when I say I’ve had enough fish to last me a lifetime.” Murmurs of agreement echoed around him.

“We’ve decent enough cooks,” the scout replied easily, even smiling. “The local delicacies are a must-have, if you’ll excuse my enthusiasm.”

“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout it, lad,” Robert waved him off with a smile. “I’m curious about their wine. Don’t suppose you might be willing to share a bottle while your captain gives us his report?”

“Of course, Your Grace. Er, I should warn you, their Gold Arbor doesn’t go down easily. Its worse than firewhiskey, if you ask me…”

Decent, Edmure recalled with befuddlement. They called this decent.

While the furniture and comfort was not up to par with the quarters typically found in castles and keeps, the lodgings provided to them did not belong to the standards of smallfolk. The beds were of a soft material and stuffing that made him feel as if he laid atop a cloud than a pile of straw and cotton. To say nothing of the pillows which were of similar quality. The food was curious to be expected; bread and salt were expected, but the meat was of a delectable taste and flavor that was equal parts curious and overwhelming. Fruits were unusually provided, but their sweetness and taste made him and many others crave more.

They feasted like starving men, and for a moment, Edmure feared this was a honey trap of some kind. Surely no one could provide such a wondrous meal and not hide some manner of poison. Minutes passed, yet none looked ill. The prince craved more, even attempting to demand seconds, only for the king to box his ear and reprimand him.

Dinner was not a casual affair, though. It served a purpose, to help them relax and get a glimpse of the exotic qualities the Lands Between had to offer. It made a good first impression, but that didn’t dismiss their worries and concerns.

Commander Donnal Waters was a willow of a man with sunken cheeks and dark green eyes. He was an older man, nearing sixty name days judging by his graying thin hairs. Despite his thin physique, he carried himself in a manner reminiscent to the hunters Edmure partied with whenever his father was in the mood for game. In his hands was a thick stack of papers. The sight made him groan.

“Your Grace,” Donnal bowed his head. “Welcome to Limgrave. I trust there were no complications?”

“Save my brat stowing away when he should be back home, no,” Robert grunted. “And don’t bother beating around the bush, Waters. We’ve waited two months for this. What are we dealing with?”

“This.” The commander set the stack of documents down on the table, giving it an almost affectionate pat before looking at the gathered lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. “We’ve spent little over half a year here in the Lands Between, learning about its culture, its people, its politics. I could tell you of some of the absurd sights we’ve born witness to in that time, but I feel I should start with the most relevant. The sort that will likely infuriate the Faith of the Seven beyond measure.”

Despite what many said about him, Edmure was not dull or dimwitted. He knew exactly what the commander was going to say and braced himself. Old stories his wet nurse used to tell him echoed in his ears, tales meant to frighten children into obedience.

“Magic is alive and well here. It thrives in ways I’ve only ever heard tale of from books and tall tales spoken by bards and mummers.”

The heir of House Tully glanced around the table. All stared with rapt and varied expressions. Some like the king and Eddard were curious and interested, the latter perhaps the most tolerant of magic due to his being a Northman. Others like the Lord Hand wore pinched faces. The Arryns were believers of the faith, some more devout than others. The Faith of the Seven preached that magic was an abhorrent, dangerous practice. In the olden days before the decline of House Targaryen, before the bloody Targaryen civil war known as the Dance of Dragons, the supposed witches and warlocks were tolerated at best.

Edmure had no opinions of magic, save whether it could improve Riverrun.

“What manner of magic do they practice?” Maester Thorren inquired, stroking his beard. “Trueborn magic or parlor tricks done by street urchins and the like?”

“’tis no mummer’s farce, maester. I’ve watched men in robes wave staves bearing glittering stones and creating arrows of light shooting from the tips. To say nothing of men throwing fistfuls of fire or conjuring rocks from thin air. Such sights must be seen to be believed.”

“And has one such magician come to dazzle us?”

“Afraid not. They’ve made themselves at home in Stormveil Castle, the seat of Lady Nepheli Loux. They’ve been called to arms.”

Lord Arryn narrowed his eyes sharply. “Is there some sort of conflicting brewing in Limgrave?”

Commander Donnal nodded gravely. “Aye, Lord Hand. Footpads who’ve taken to terrorizing the small folk. Call themselves the Black Hand. Lady Loux’s been hounding them for the last few weeks. From what I’ve seen and gathered for myself, they’re comparable to the Kingswood Brotherhood.”

Ser Jaime chuckled wryly. “Well, if we happen upon them, I for one would be most interested to see a re-enactment of one of your greatest achievements, Ser Barristan.”

Ser Barristan smiled dimly whilst giving a shrug. “Unless they’ve a Maelys in their midst, I doubt that,” Robert chortled, unimpressed. “I’ll assume, then, the kind Lady Loux is unable to receive us?”

“Likely not, Your Grace. The honorable Lord Kenneth Haight, Seneschal and Steward of Limgrave in Lady Loux’s absence, is acting in her stead. He’s as eager to spoke with you since he received word of your arrival.”

“What sort of man is this Lord Haight?” Olenna Tyrell questioned. “And where in the ranks of nobility would he fall?”

The commander pursed his lips in thought. “If memory serves, the Haights were once a noble House of great repute until they did something to anger the Elden Lord. That is to say, the consort and spouse of the queen. The Lands Between has no qualms of gender in regards to rights of succession, it seems, though to my understanding there have only ever been two queens in the Lands Between.”

“Two?” Bafflement rippled across the retinue. “From all that we heard, I assumed that the Lands Between existed for a few centuries at most.”

“The previous queen’s tenure lasted near a thousand years.”

In a rare moment Edmure burned into his memory, the Queen of Thorn’s face became like that of a fish. Beside her, Margeary gasped and held a hand over her mouth.

“Surely you jest,” Lord Arryn wheezed. “Or is this yet another feat of sorcery at work?”

“I cannot say for certain. At the very least, the people revere and worshipped her as a god. Queen Marika the Eternal, they called her.”

“Bloody hells. The more I hear about this, the more I wonder which is true and which is a mummer’s tale,” King Robert muttered.

Eddard frowned. “Hold a moment, Commander. You said the Lands Between has known two queens. Am I to assume, then, that a new ruler succeeded this Marika?”

“Aye. Her stepdaughter, Ranni of Caria. She was born to Queen Marika’s second husband, Elden Lord Radagon. I’ve heard remarkably little of the man beyond that he was as devout a follower of the faith of the Golden Order, and that he was once married to Rennala, Queen of Caria and head of the Academy of Raya Lucaria.”

Edmure and Eddard blinked in surprise. While it was not unheard of for a noble’s extended family to assume lordship of their territory, it was another thing to hear of apparent foreign royalty, step-child or no. Such events were far and few in Westeros. To the best of Edmure’s knowledge, rarely when House Targaryen marry outside its house did its extended family gain considerable power. Even Rhaenys Targaryen’s marriage to Corlys the Sea Snake provided the latter any real power beyond the honor of becoming dragon riders.

Edmure did not ignore the other interesting piece of information Commander Donnal shared. Until now, they’ve heard remarkably little of the power structure within the Lands Between. All they had was scarce information of a woman who led a Great House, the unusual sights of wildlife, now-confirmed whispers of magic. Now they knew the Lands Between had its own faiths and religions as well as royalty.

They could not get to all of it immediately. The day waned on and sleep beckoned. They would continue and learn more of the Lands Between in-depth come the morning. Edmure found it difficult to sleep, his mind plagued by questions upon questions. Through the far and uncertainty of the unknown, there was excitement and wonder. It was as though he were a child once more, listening to the stories told by his late mother and his wet nurse.

In his futile attempts to quickly drift into slumber, Edmure remembered his father’s words. Although the Riverlands enjoyed a new sense of security and partnership with House Stark, they were not strong enough. Lord Tully saw something his heir did not see, much to said heir’s frustration. Something that made Hoster Tully fearful. When news came of the Lands Between’s existence and the King called the Great and Noble Houses of Westeros to King’s Landing, his lord father bade him to act in his stead and find a means for House Tully to grow stronger. Strong to weather the unseen storm that only he saw.

Frustrated and confused as he was about what sort of threat made his father so fearful, Edmure obeyed. He would do as he was told and secure a brighter future for House Tully.

The question now, was what sort of future he would carve out for House Tully in this strange land…

Chapter Text

MARGEARY

Margeary awoke in the early morning dew, stirred by faint sounds of creaking floorboards and activity on the floor below. A quick, painful glance toward the window showed her beams of dim sunlight. It was early morning. Rarely did she ever wake up at such hours, yet she knew the fault lay at her bed and her own exhaustion. The royal retinue retired early into the evening, exhausted from the long voyage and digesting all they learned from Commander Donnal Waters, and the bed was the most comfortable thing she ever experienced since her brief stay in the Red Keep.

Idly, she made a mental note to herself to inquire who created such soft bedding and fine sheets and acquire their services. For Highgarden’s services, of course.

Tempted as Margeary was to return to blissful slumber, she forced herself out of bed. Her grandmother was already awake as the bed next to hers was empty. She had little doubt Olenna was dressed and inquiring on the state of affairs within the Lands Between. Although they’d yet to learn all there was to know, what information the commander shared was enough to mesmerize Margeary beyond words.

Countless tales and fables from the time of the First Men spoke of the forgotten wonders of magic. When the last dragon died after the Dance, people believed magic began to dwindle and fade away. There were stories told of those times, and even as a wee child sitting on her mother’s knee, Margeary dreamed of living in some of those stories. Never in her wildest dreams did she believe she would see displays of magic, much less that it was alive and well in the Lands Between. Even her grandmother smiled toothily in great anticipation.

Not all took this news in stride, however.

Some hid their discomfort well, but as someone taught to recognize tells and the subtlest shifts in expression, Margeary recognized the wary suspicion in the eyes of some within the royal retinue. Among them, the Hand of the King was perhaps the most disturbed by this revelation. It was not unexpected, of course. Many houses of the Vale were pious, and House Arryn was no exception. A man did not need to be devout to be religious, and while Jon Arryn was no man of the Sept, he still believed in its teachings.

Another who seemed distasteful of magic was the infamous Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. He wore his expression well, but she caught the way his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. It surprised her somewhat to learn that a man of the Kingsguard did not approve of the arcane arts.

As she removed her smallclothes and allowed her attendants to change her into something more presentable, Margeary recalled one of the more interesting events yesterday. She was eager to speak with the horned scribe called Darrick. She never met anyone so tell, and with such…exotic features. It still boggled her mind to know such a curious being was a scribe, but it was certainly not her place to judge. She needed to remind herself that she was a stranger in even stranger lands. It might even be accurate to say she stepped into another world.

Once she was properly dressed and her hair brushed to acceptable standards, Margeary departed downstairs. She saw Prince Oberyn at one of the tables placed near the corner of the room, a mug firmly in hand. Across from him was the infamous imp, Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf of Casterly Rock was a surprising addition to the retinue, but not someone she could complain about. Aside from a few crude jokes and raunchy remarks that made even her blush, he proved to be surprisingly welcome company. His surprising and quick friendship with Oberyn Martell was surprising, however. It was an open secret to all Southron Houses that the Martells had yet to forgive the Lannisters for the Sack of King’s Landing, or more accurately, the deaths of Elia Martell and her children.

The gruesome tale of Princess Elia’s death and defilement was one of the few things that made her grandmother’s face sour in disappointment and disgust. She told her why Tywin Lannister ordered Elia and her children’s deaths, but the manner of their deaths and what happened afterward was something she would never condone. “Pointless and vile”, she remembered Olenna saying to Mace. “No other reason than to be a sadistic monster.”

Perhaps Tyrion was but a means to an end, a way for Oberyn to find a “chink” in the Lord of Casterly Rock’s defenses for the day he slid his poisoned blade into his neck. Or perhaps he simply desired companionship with the dwarf and overlooked his blood. Either way, it was of little concern for Margeary until it concerned the Hightowers.

“You’re up early, my lady,” a familiar voice called out from behind.

A rare smile blossomed its way across the young girl’s face as she turned to greet Robb Stark. His face was flushed, caked with a thin layer of sweat and garbed in simple plainclothes with a sheathed blade dangling from a strap in his hand. Behind him approached Lord Eddard Stark, dressed in similar fashion with the heirloom of his house sheathed at his waist.

“Lord Robb, Lord Stark,” she greeted and curtsied. “A good morning to you both.”

“You as well, Lady Tyrell,” Lord Stark said.

“Margeary, please. Lady Tyrell is my grandmother,” Margeary insisted. “If you must refer to me as Lady, then ‘Lady Margeary’ shall suffice, Lord Stark.”

The Northman nodded in acquiescence. “Very well, then.”

In the two months spent journeying here to the Lands Between, Margeary took the opportunity to try and befriend the heir of House Stark as well as the crown prince. In the latter’s case, she was raised and taught to one day become a suitable wife, and with any luck, a stabilizing influence on Prince Joffrey. Truthfully, Margeary hadn’t put much stock in the rumors about the Baratheon heir’s unsavory qualities, but the trip proved her naïve. He was as rude and entitled as she was led to believe, much to her chagrin. Still, she was used to boys like him before. Olenna was nothing if not an effective teacher. Such days were embarrassing to talk about, even if nothing inappropriate happened.

Her unexpected companionship with Robb Stark, however, was a welcome surprise. It was childish to think, but he was very much like the kind and chivalrous knight she read in story books, even admitting as much a month into the voyage. He smiled and told her she would get along very well with his sister Sansa, who she recalled briefly from when they first met. While her grandmother didn’t disapprove of their friendship, Olenna warned her not to “give the Stark boy” any ideas.

What does she think I mean to do, court him? Margeary shook her head. They were no more than friends, much as she appreciated those cherry locks of his. Besides, she learned the king was working on potential marriage plans between Houses Baratheon and Stark, with a marriage contract between Robb Stark and Myrcella Baratheon being considered alongside a betrothal between Prince Joffrey and Robb’s sister Sansa. Regardless of which marriage plan went through, House Stark would marry into the Iron Throne. So long as Prince Joffrey was unwed, Highgarden was unconcerned, so Margeary should be unconcerned.

Still, it was a shame. She couldn’t help but think how Wilas would appreciate having Robb for a goodbrother. She doubted Robb would appreciate having Olenna for a goodmother, though. The Queen of Thorns was an acquired taste.

“Lord Stark!” Oberyn called out. “Lady Margeary! Come join us! The imp here has wondrous stories to tell!”

“Not so loud, damn you,” Tyrion groaned. The pale parlour in his face and tired tone told Margeary enough. Not surprising, seeing as how the man was deep in his cups last night. “How in the weeping hells are you so fucking chipper this early? Is this a Dornish thing or is it a you thing?”

“Now that, my dear Tyrion, would be telling.”

Margeary shared a glance with the Starks, an unspoken conversation held between the three of them before they came to a decision. They mingled well enough with the Red Viper to make his acquaintance, and he made decent company if nothing else.

They made to join the two men at the table, Margeary seating herself between the Starks. She did not like the smell wafting off the two. Judging by how Lord Stark scrunched his nose, he likely thought much the same.

“That smells…potent.”

“Caelidan Ale,” Obery said. “Old stock from a land west of here. Hard to swallow at first, but gods old and new does it kick. Were it not for how quickly ale sours in cooler rooms, I would have asked to take some back home with us. Doran might appreciate it, I think.”

“He neglects to mention how it’ll knock you flat two cups in,” Tyrion grimaced. “I think I’ll stick to what the Westerlands make, if you don’t mind.”

The Dornish man shrugged nonchalantly. “Suit yourself,” he said, taking another drink of the wine. A dribble of scarlet red slides down the corner of his cheek before he sets the mug down and turns to Lord Stark. “On the subject of wine, Lord Stark, do you fancy yourself a drinking man of fine taste?”

“When the mood strikes me,” Lord Stark replied stoically. “I prefer to keep myself sober, if you recall.”

“Oh, I remember well. You hardly drank from your cup when we last spoke near twenty years ago,” Oberyn chuckled. “A shame the same could not be said of your brother.” His easy smile dimmed, replaced by something akin to regret with melancholy. “My condolences, Eddard. The pain of losing a beloved sibling… It’s an awful thing to experience. I wish it upon no one.”

“…my thanks, Prince Oberyn.”

The Red Viper nodded solemnly. He cast a somber look at Lord Stark’s son. “I pray you will never experience we have, Robb.”

“I will defend my siblings with my life,” Robb declared with words forged in steel. The tiniest of smiles tug at Margeary’s face. “And any who dare threaten them will fall by my blade.”

Oberyn’s smile brightens, but the sadness within has yet to fade. “May you live to fulfill those words.” He took another deep drink of his cup, longer than the last, before setting it back down. “Per chance, have you all taken a moment to speak with that horned fellow? The scribe, Darrick?”

“I have not,” Margeary answered. “I have been meaning to. I would imagine he has a great many stories to tell us about the Lands Between, if not whatever Commander Donnal fails to mention when we speak again later.”

“You’ll likely be waiting a long while, Lady Margeary. The maester’s been badgering him since first light, and likely still is.”

“Not surprising,” Robb shrugged. “If Maester Luwin is any indication, the men of chains are the sorts who pursue all manner of knowledge.” He paused, scrunching his brows in thought. An uncertain expression flittered across his face as he leaned on the table. “Although, something about archmaester Thorren unsettles me. Last night, when Commander Donnal told us briefly about the Lands Between possessing magic, I believed he would question the commander all night. I’ve never known a man to look so obessive over knowledge, however wondrous.”

“Some claim knowledge is powerful,” Tyrion said. “In some cases, they’re right. The more you know about your enemy, the less likely they are of catching you with your pants down. Father rarely taught me anything of note, but what he did teach me, I took to heart. From what I gather, the archmaester strikes me as the type who hounds all manner of knowledge, even things better left alone.”

Margeary frowned. “They would allow such a man in the Citadel?”

“Knowledge is knowledge, and its pursuit is to be encouraged,” Lord Stark answered in the Red Viper’s stead. “Or so Luwin claims. That said, one should know better than to allow that pursuit to consume them. Lesser men have committed great follies in overreaching.”

“A lesson we should all take to heart,” Oberyn said.

Margeary pondered his words.

JON ARRYN

“Spit it out already, Jon. I know that damn look.”

The Lord Hand stared at his lord, liege, son in all but name, and king. Robert stared back, nostrils flared indignantly and eyes glaring back in defiance. He was in yet another foul mood, born not from some foolish act by Joffrey, but from observing his faithful servant. Jon knew he could hide little from Robert, and what he could, he ensured they would forever remain out of his reach until he felt comfortable speaking the truth. That day felt further and further away, slowly growing out of reach. He could feel it, now more than ever.

The secret he kept buried in his chest may very well be one he’d take to the grave with him, and his work carried on by Stannis.

“It is not my place to question you, Your Grace.”

Jon thought using placative words would ease Robert’s temper. Instead, the king’s glare burned hotter than the sun. His words came with restrained anger. “I’m not your fucking king, Jon. Right now, I’m the man you helped raise when mother and father sank to the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay. Now, out with it, damn you! What’s your problem? Ever since Donnal told us magic’s a common sight, you look as though someone shat and piss in your bed.”

Of course it’d be that, Jon thought mirthlessly. He was used to such crass language by his former charge, and in any other instance, he would’ve felt some amusement if not chastised Robert for being so “uncouth”. Instead, he felt tired. For but a moment, he considered lying to his king, but Robert’s expectant and fiery look made him reconsider. After a moment of pondering, Jon realized there was little he could do to escape the situation. He grimaced and sighed, letting his weary body sag in the cloud-like bed.

“I am no man of the faith,” he started. “I am no Septon, but I believe in the Seven Who Are One. What the gods represent, what they mean. This talk of magic, Robert…” He shook his head. “The Faith will not accept this, Robert. You know this.”

Even before Commander Donnal told them, there’d been whispers of magic within the Lands Between. There was even talk of how the Lands Between itself was brought to the known world through magic, as there could be no other explanation behind its discovery after all this time. Even with the thick shroud of fog meant to hide it, surely there would be some record of its existence. There was not, making it seem as though the foreign land appeared from thin air.

The more prevalent and likely this theory became, the more unease grew within the Red Keep. Such talk eventually reached the ears of the septons, and before long, the court began receiving visits from the sept. At one point, even the High Septon himself came to speak against the Seven Kingdoms having anything to do with their new westward neighbor. That the fat one was now speaking against involving themselves in a land, then only suspected of being magical, only further raised concerns. The fat one was barely worth his station in Jon’s eyes, and yet for as corrupt as he was, the man’s office held a great deal of weight.

In recent years, tension brewed between the Iron Throne and the Faith of the Seven. It started with Aerys II Targaryen, his paranoia convincing him he could trust no one, not even the septons. So deep in his fears, jumping at shadows that weren’t there, that he made many great disrespects toward the septs. It was only thanks to Tywin that he hadn’t gone and brought a Red Priest into his court.

When Robert ascended the throne, Jon hoped bridges between the crown and Faith of the Seven would be mended. And they had, albeit for a while. As the years waned and Robert’s drinking and whoremongering became an open secret, the sept once again grew discontent. Not helping matters was Varys’ whispers claiming there was strife within the faith itself, of how the fat one’s blatant corruption alienated a septon of surprising influence.

Jon hoped Robert might see reason, that he’d understand that they needed the faith’s support. It was thanks to the septons the Targaryens were even recognized and held the power they did when Aegon the Conqueror arrived on the shores of Westeros. The aspirant look on the king’s face told him otherwise. His next words made him feel the heavy weight of the chain around his neck.

“They’ll accept whatever I damn say,” he growled. “And I’ll be damned if I have to listen to one more fucking thing that comes out of that fat pig’s mouth.”

“Robert…”

“Crone’s saggy tits, Jon, do you not see the opportunity here? If even half of what Donnal told us is true, we’ll never have an opportunity like this again! Imagine what we could do if we learned how to use their magic! Their smithing techniques!”

“For what purpose, Robert?”

He knew the answer well before Robert spoke. The dark look in his eyes, the coldness matched only by the harsh winds of the North at its coldest… He knew that expression very well. Every time he saw it, he thought it may become the only face Robert would wear.

The face of a man consumed by hate and rage. A man driven by grief he refused to relinquish.

“…you haven’t given up on it, have you?” Jon mourned. “You haven’t given up on the Targaryens.”

“Until I see their heads on the ground, they’ll haunt my dreams. You’ve heard what sort of man Viserys is, Jon. He thinks his father was the greatest man to walk the Earth, and would see all who turned their swords on his House sent to the pyre, just as the Mad King did years ago.”

“They are children, Robert. They are neither Aerys nor Rhaegar. The ones who killed Lyanna are dead and gone. I will not ignore the claims he intends to reclaim the Iron Throne from you, but he’s young. He can be made to see reason! If not him, then perhaps his sister…”

“They’ll never make peace,” Robert shot back heatedly. “Targaryens only know one thing, and care about one thing. Conquest. Taking from others what they can’t have themselves. I don’t know why that fuck took Lyanna from me. To this day, I still don’t. And I. Don’t. Care. What I care about is that so long as a single Targaryen lives, they’ll come looking to take back their precious fucking throne!”

He drove his fist into the table beside him. To the craftsman’s credit, it trembled beneath the blow but did not buckle or shudder.

“I don’t care how long it takes me,” King Baratheon growled. “One way or another, House Targaryen dies. I don’t care how long it takes me.”

Jon could say nothing, knowing his words would be no more than wind in his former ward’s ears. All he could do was sit there miserably, staring at his greatest failure.

Hours later, a man would arrive at the Westerosi scout’s outpost, carrying with him the sigil and crest of the Great House of Loux.

“Greetings,” he spoke amicably and politely in the common Andal tongue, rough but concise enough to sound eligible to the trained ear. “I am Lord Kenneth Haight, steward and adviser to Nepheli Loux, stalwart lord and head of the Great House of Loux. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

First came the dreadful calm, then came the howling storm. Fire rained down upon the port, bombarding Pentos’ docks and killing hundreds in an instant. It came so suddenly, so quickly, the young Targaryen princess did not understand what was happening until Young Griff grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away, heedless of her cry of pain. She would have voiced her protest were it not for the growing stench of smoke and chorus of horror echoing around her.

“W-what’s happening?” she shouted above all the noise and chaos. “What’s going on?!”

The sellsword Valryian did not respond, more focused on getting them as far away from the carnage as possible. As fire continued to rain down upon the port and the smell of smoke grew thick, Daenerys heard the rumbling of storms. She looked above and saw angry black clouds, flashing bright red. The sight beggared belief, and for a moment she doubted her eyes. It was a clear sky moments ago, and she knew nothing of red thunder.

C-c-crack!

A violent, angry cry of thunder boomed. Daenerys yelped, feeling her eardrums shudder and shake from the clap and something catching her foot mid-run. She nearly hit the ground, grabbing onto Young Griff’s tunic like a lifeline. He stumbled, nearly tripping and falling to the ground with her in tow. The moment was enough for them to stop and turn, in time to see something that made their breaths stop.

In her dreams, Daenerys saw dragons. She saw them as mighty winged beasts, just as they were described by Viserys and in what few tomes they were able to bring from the Red Keep before House Baratheon usurped them from King’s Landing. She envisioned flying on one’s back when she was naught but seven name days, feeling the bright sun washing across her skin and the winds rushing all over her body. In those dreams, she thought of better days, when Viserys was a kind brother. He’d ride beside her, on a dragon as large as Balerion the Black Dread.

For a moment, the exiled princess wondered if she was dreaming. Beneath the stormy clouds and cracking thunder, she saw it amid smoke and fire.

A pale white-scaled beast, four wings of glittering gold, and glowing red horns.

“Dragon,” she breathed.

LANSSEAX

When foul Bayle enacted a great betrayal to his kin, the Dragonlord made a decision. A gamble, depending on who you asked.

In those days, when the dragonsworn had yet to earn the name of Drake Warrior, they were untested. They fought dragons before, some having managed to slay their enemy, but they never fought the likes of a trueborn like Lansseax or her lord brother. The drakes, their lesser kin, children of that vile usurper, were weaker, cumbersome. It was a common sight to see the drakes fall and die, felled by the dragonsworn or even at their own hands, hoping to claim greater strength and rise to the same heights as the Dread. Some worried that the dragonsworn would grow overconfident once the true empowering nature of communion became clear to their allies. Ambition was emboldening as it was dangerous.

As the drake hunts grew, so too did the dragonsworn. Fighting trueborn children of the Dragonlord gave them experience, which they used to fell countless drakes. Some desired to fulfill the wishes of the Dragonlord and slay Bayle the Dread. Others had their own aspirations, propelled by ambition. The truly foolish wished to achieve apotheosis, to transcend mortality and become as those they swore themselves to.

Lansseax did not know whether to feel grief or scorn, witnessing many would-be Drake Warriors become flightless wyrms with no real thought or reason. Instead of ascending, they became pale imitations. No better than the drakes. For a time, she lost faith.

Then she met a Drake Warrior beyond peer. The man she believed would become Elden Lord.

And then she lost him to the Frenzied Flame, to grief and madness. Even in this Age of Stars, with a future uncertain, when the man she yearned for was long gone, she still thought of sweet Vyke. He showed her things she ignored or didn’t want to see, that there was more to life in the Lands Between. It was his memory that spurned her to see what lay beyond the scarred land she once called home, to see what sort of world the Lunar Queen brought them to.

She never expected to learn that one of the most accomplished Drake Warriors of the olden days come to Pentos.

Lansseax met her only but once, during the final days of the Shattering. Like the Tarnished of No Renown who scarred her scales nary a year ago, the one called Kuroshi hailed from the blood-soaked Land of Reeds. The warriors from that land were a rare breed, versed in the art of war with a code of honor. They fared well in the Lands Between, but it hadn’t been long before they discovered their codes were useless. They needed to adapt to survive, refine their killing techniques further. Of the lot, Kuroshi proved the most adept.

The dragon came across Kuroshi in the aftermath of a drake hunt. Three of Bayle’s progeny laid dead at the Reedlander’s feet, her sword caked in their blood. She was wounded, but alive with a glint in her eyes, the gleam of victory and desire. At first, Lansseax thought she might be one of the few who may prove capable of slaying the Dread once and for all, yet whenever she thought back to that meeting, when she remembered the look on her face when she descended down to greet the new Drake Warrior…

Now, the uncertain, ugly feeling returned, this time with validation.

Lansseax struck first, bringing down her thunderous glaives down upon the ship. A translucent blue barrier repelled her, clashing with her thunder and matching it with equal measure. Beyond the barrier, the dragon saw her opponent and glared. There Kuroshi stood, slightly older with lines etched deep in her skin and hair tied back, clad in black-tinged armor of leather and iron, a pair of Uchigatanas at her hip and a black glaive resting upon her back.

Pale yellow eyes with slits stared up at her, the faintest hint of a smile on the fallen Drake Warrior’s face.

“It’s been a long while, dragon priestess.” Lansseax gnashed her teeth. Kuroshi greeted her as though she were an old friend. “Or do you prefer Lady Lansseax?”

“I wouldst has’t thee silence thy tongue!” she roared back.

Once more, she struck with her glaive. Once more, her attack was rebuffed. From behind the translucent barrier of glintstone sorcery, men clad in similar Reedland armor took a stance. Magic poured at their fingertips, forming into the shape of a greatbow. Lansseax narrowed her eyes and beat her wings, taking flight upward just as the archers took aim and fired. The spell was familiar to her, having once visited the royal Carian Manor. The apparition of Loretta, an albinauric knight without peer, defended Queen Renalla’s ancestral home with a spell, empowered by three equally powerful apparitions, fending off all who dared approach. Although their spell paled in comparison to the albinauric knight, Lansseax knew better than to underestimate her enemy. She nearly made such a mistake with the Tarnished, and she dared not repeat it.

Their glittering arrows sailed far and vast to reach her. The mighty ancient dragon flew further until she was just out of range, then mustered an incantation fashioned after the one her brother taught her before tragedy befell the Golden Prince. She grasped red thunder, imbued and molded it with her magic, and with another guttural roar that shook the very heavens, she descended down upon the ship and her enemy. The archers took aim, but to cast such a spell took time. Enough for her to close the distance and drive a thunderous spear into the center of the barrier. She growled and pushed, pouring as much power into it as she could. The shield rippled and trembled, holding steady in the face of draconic might before it finally struggled and cracked.

Lansseax roared, and with a push, the barrier finally shattered before her. At that moment, the archers let loose their magical arrows.

It would be easy to smite the vessel then and there, endure the pelting of arrows and wipe the fallen Drake Warrior off the face of this earth. Had this been in the past, Lansseax would have done all that and more, reduce Pentos to mere rubble to strike down her enemy. What stayed and compelled her hand to relent, to force herself back into that cumbersome human shell, was the bittersweet memories of her beloved knight. Not for the first time did Lansseax curse Vyke’s name, wondering how such a creature could make one such as her go “soft”, as one might put it.

In the shift from dragon to man, the arrows sailed past her lithe form as she landed on the deck. The moment her feet touched the floorboard, she leaped at Kuroshi, weapon drawn from beneath her cloak.

An Uchigatana dyed blood red clashed with a gold, intertwined spear.

“The Bolt of Granssax,” Kuroshi spoke the weapon’s name with a hungry glint. There was not a Drake Warrior alive that did not recognize the weapon. “A fragment of your liege’s famed spear, but I recognize the scent well.”

“A gift from the Elden Lord. Answ’r me, loathsome wyrm!” Lansseax growled in the fallen Drake Warrior’s face. “Wherefore has’t thee cometh h’re?! Coequal h’re, doth thee wisheth to becometh a dragon?”

“I’m not picky about my dragons,” the woman replied with a thin smile. “And I’ve grown curious from Crow’s Eye’s stories. They say the Targaryens carry a dragon’s blood. I’m curious to see if there’s truth to the claim.”

Cold dread seeped into Lansseax’s bones, followed by white-hot rage.

“Thee shall not toucheth h’r!”

The two parted, only to clash blades once more.

Red and gold thunder clashed with putrid flames and frost-laced lightning.

YOUNG GRIFF

For moments, the sight lingered in Griff’s mind. The dreams and sketches did little justice to describe the beauty, the majesty of the scaled beast. He even dared to believe the mighty dragon who descended upon the foreign ship was larger than even the likes of the Black Dread; a great feat to claim, given the reputed size of the Conqueror’s trusted companion.

The mesmerizing sight was only further emboldened when he bore witness to feats of magic. He and Danny watched the four-winged dragon conjure red thunder, commanding the storm as though it was called on its behest, and wield it like a blade. They watched on baited breath as the dragon attempted to strike down the foreign ship, only for a glittering dome to shield it from harm.

It’s as if we’ve stepped into a bard’s tale, Griff thought to himself, still star-struck.

“Where did it come from?” he heard Danny question, sharing in the awe-inspiring sight with him. “A-and who is it fighting?”

And therein lied the million gold question. The size of the ship and its banner were unknown to him as was the banner on which it flew. The dragon motif made him think it was perhaps a new house, one who swore allegiance to House Targaryen, but to the best of his knowledge, there was no new house with such a banner. It was unlikelier still, given King Robert Baratheon’s famed hatred for any and all things related to his predecessors and kin. The man would sooner slit his throat than allow any to use draconic imagery, save perhaps the exiled and disgraced House Blackfyre, though even that was unlikely.

Whatever the case, Griff understood that whoever sailed that ship did not come to Pentos with well intentions. They came to wage war and conquer, though that raised even more questions, for who in their right mind would pick a fight with a Free City? Pentos might not have been the greatest of the Free Cities, but it had power all the same, and its magisters would do everything in their power to keep hold of their influence. They would use all the slaves and wealth at their disposal to repel and kill any would-be invaders. And when the other Free Cities and their magisters learn of what transpired, the invaders would find themselves hounded until all were slain.

“Someone too ambitious for their own good,” Griff said. “We must flee at once! If we linger, that dragon will take all of Pentos with us to destroy that ship.”

“We can’t! My brother’s still in the city! W-we have to find him!”

Griff bit his lip and weighed his options. He was not keen on meeting the beggar prince for a multitude of reasons, chief among them being his disgraceful behavior. He also doubted Aerys’ son would take kindly to meeting one of the sellswords who spurned his offers of glory and robbed him of his coffers, gold he only later learned was gained from selling off his lady mother’s crown. Much as he found Viserys Targaryen wanting, even Griff pitied him for his dire straits, forced to relinquish one of the few icons of glory of House Targaryen and a memento of Queen Rhaella beside.

Yet he’s kin all the same, the voice of reason told him.

After a moment, he reluctantly nodded. “Where can we find him?”

“At Sir Illyrio’s manse!”

Griff nearly did a double-take. “Illyrio?” he nearly shouted. “Illyrio Mopatis?” Why in the world were they—? No, he could think about that later. For now, he had a beggar prince to rescue.

Navigating the chaotic streets proved a challenge, but Griff was nothing if not nimble. Every now and again, he would look back at the carnage happening behind him. The fires all but consumed the port, smoke rising toward the sky. It was then he caught sight of the foreign ship’s crew; warriors garbed in unfamiliar armor. The guardsmen, frenzied and panicked as they were, realized their identity quickly and went to slay them on the spot. Griff could not see the battle unfold on account of the sea of bodies obscuring his vision, but the brief glimpses told him the guardsmen fought a losing battle.

The dragon disappeared in a crackling burst of red, right as the translucent blue dome defending the shield shattered like glass. Griff wondered what happened to it, but pushed it to the back of his mind. He could ponder such questions later when the danger passed and his kin was safe.

When they arrived at Illyrio’s manse, they were greeted with a sight of blood and violence. Danny flinched and cowered behind him. The path to the steps leading up to the iron gates lay decorated with corpses, guards and smallfolk alike. One body was impaled on the wall by a slender spear, punching clean through the guard’s breastplate. One of the weaponless bodies, a servant if her garb was any indication, was stained crimson with a great bloody puddle beneath her still form.

“What the hells is going on?” Griff growled under his breath, reaching for the blade sheathed at his hip. “Stay close, Danny.”

The girl clung to his tunic tightly, shaken but with steely will. A small dagger was taken somewhere from her person and clutched firmly in both hands. The two stepped into the manse, greeted with yet another bloody sight. More slain bodies strewn about the place. Blood sprays caked the walls. A guardsman’s corpse was slumped near the entry to the leftmost corridor, his throat and breastplate caked in crimson. A quick glance told Griff the cut was neither clean nor precise, yet the width of the cut was too wide to have been done by a normal blade.

He recalled hearing fishmongers tell tales of foreign warriors, thought to hail from Yi-Ti from their features alone. Supposedly, they wore armor made of leather and iron, wielding blades the likes of which they’d not seen before. The sight of the invaders from the foreign ship and the armor made him ponder whether they’re the supposed warriors from Yi-Ti, only to dismiss that thought. Brief as their visit was, he remembered seeing the warriors and guards of Yi-Ti. They were nothing alike, too different in terms of presence and conduct.

There was also the fact the invaders possessed magic, for how else could they conjure a glittering barrier capable of defending their ship from a dragon wielding lightning?

As more questions piled, the more confused Grif became. He—

The young sellsword froze, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He gripped the handle of his blade tight, his muscles tightening as he slowly approached the entrance to the rightmost corridor. Danny followed close behind, dagger at the ready.

Just as Griff reached the threshold, a gleam of silver flashed. Instinct and reflex took over, and Valyrian steel was drawn. Swords clashed, sparks flying. Out from the shadows came the attacker.

“Jon?!” Griff exclaimed, eyes as wide as saucers.

An aged face with dyed blue hair with streaks of frost gray stared back in surprise. Immediately, the sword was drawn back. “Boy,” Jon started. “What the hells are you doing here? Why…” He trailed off, taking notice of the exiled Targaryen princess behind him. His eyes widened in recognition. “Princess Daenerys…?”

“You know me?” Daenerys questioned in surprise. She stared at Jon a while longer before her eyes widened. “You…I know you. You’re from the Golden Company. Commander Griff.”

“Aye, my lady,” Jon nodded. “I’m surprised and glad to see you remember me. Such talk can wait for the time being. Why are you here? The city’s in chaos right now!”

“We’re aware,” Griff answered. “We’re looking for Prince Viserys. Orders from the princess.” He gestured to the confused and wary girl behind him. Her newfound caution was understandable; while he had not been present for Viserys’ humiliation at the hands of the company commander, he heard tale of it from Jon. No matter how much of a twit the prince may have been, the company commander went too far. “I don’t suppose you’ve found him?”

Jon shook his head, to his disappointment. “Afraid not. My being here is partly by chance. Illyrio summoned me for an important matter, refused to say anything more except in person. When we arrived, the attack was well underway.”

“The magister?”

The look on his foster father’s face told him everything. He inwardly swore, both for having lost a valuable ally and answers as to why Illyrio was harboring exiled royalty. Such information was important, especially with plans for their eventual return to Westeros.

“We need to leave,” Jon said urgently. “Now.”

“But what about—”

Danny’s words were silenced by the sound of whistling wind and steel. Instinct barely saved Griff’s life as he rounded on his side, blocking a blade from reaching him. He stared at his attacker, gobsmacked to find the most unlikeliest of foes, the ones least likely to engage in such stealthy slaughter. He recovered from his shock, taking advantage of the stunned surprise on the fool’s face as he parried the blade and stepped forward, driving the blade into his chest.

The Ironborn sputtered and gurgled, choking on his own blood as he stumbled, barely held up by the sword using his own body as a fleshy sheathe. Griff grunted and shoved the dying Ironborn off his family’s heirloom, letting the bastard die bleeding on the floor.

“What in the hells is going on?” Griff demanded to no one in particular. “First some ship comes along and sets the port ablaze, a bloody dragon shows up and starts throwing thunder around, and now fucking Ironborn?”

“Dragon?” Jon questioned. “Young Griff, what are you… No, nevermind that. We can talk later. We must flee. Now!”

“But, what about my brother?!” Danny shouted. “I-I can’t! I won’t leave without him!”

“I’m sorry, but you must think of yourself for the moment, princess.”

Danny glared, bearing her teeth at the man. She looked ready to blow. The only reason she didn’t was that they were set upon once more. More Ironborn arrived, attracted by the sounds of yelling and battle. They were not alone; accompanying them were the foreign warriors Griff heard tales of. Another mystery with no answer.

He gritted his teeth and let his dragonsblood sing. Jon took to his side and fell into a stance, the two standing between their enemy and his Targaryen kin.

Never before had Blackfyre felt so heavy in his hands.

VISERYS

The last prince of the Seven Kingdoms awoke. His head throbbed and ached, the world a blurry mess of harsh light. His wrists burned with pain, steel biting into his flesh. His mind was lost in a haze, barely conscious and able to think coherently. All he could think about was the pain and the light. He blinked, even shutting his eyes for a while, to give himself time to adjust. As the haze clouding his mind faded and his thoughts became clear, Viserys took stock of his surroundings. He was still clothed, but the fine silk Illyrio provided was stained red and tattered in some places. He was mostly uninjured, save for the cut beneath his eye.

Where am I?

He was not in the manse, but a place that reeked of piss of smoke. At first he thought it to be some kind of barn or animal pen, but he saw no straw or signs of housing for any such beasts. The floor was wooden, somewhat scorched from a fire ages ago, and the walls made of brick. A window sat on the wall to his left, giving him a clear view of the city. Great stacks of smoke and the orange glow of an inferno lit up the skyline. The sky itself was wrothful, full of black clouds and thunderclaps tinged scarlet.

The sight stunned Viserys, momentarily at a loss for words. He searched his memory, trying to recall what could have happened while unconscious and what brought him here. After a moment, he remembered the attack. It came so suddenly the manse guards were caught unawares, not realizing what was happening until it was too late. The attackers came as though they were catspaws and not warriors like their armor suggested; they remained silent up until a servant screamed, happening across one of the guardsmen being impaled.

Credit where it was due, Illyrio was quick to react and gave orders, first and foremost being Viserys’ protection. He was given three of the magister’s best and two servants to accompany him. Viserys was reluctant to leave at first, not when Daenerys wasn’t here. He only obeyed the magister’s suggestion when he reminded him of his duty and vow to reclaim the Iron throne from the usurper.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t escaped very far. The only just managed to flee from the back when the attackers came upon them. They came so suddenly and quickly Viserys didn’t realize it was over, not until one threw him to the ground and slammed his face into the dirt.

As his memories returned, humiliation and anger soared in his breast. Not only had someone dared to strike him, they held him prisoner. Not even ignorance would spare them from his wrath. When he was free of his bonds, he would show them how much they erred.

Amid the faint sounds of madness from outside, Viserys heard footsteps nearby. Someone was coming. Perhaps one of the ones who kidnapped him and dared to defy his house. He mustered his dignity, the kingly presence demanded of him that would judge the bastards for raising their hands against. Far from his sight, he heard the door to his holdings open. The footsteps grew louder. Four men and two women stepped into view, half clad in the same odd garments as the ones who attacked Illyrio’s manse. The others dressed in something more familiar to the prince. They were plain, but the designs matched the ones he saw in the books he read during his brief stay at Dragonstone years ago.

“Ironborn,” Viserys spat. “I should have guessed.”

“It seems the prince knows us,” one of the Ironborn said as he approached, stepping out of the shadow and into the moonlight. “How flattering.”

The moment his kidnapper showed his face, Viserys felt his blood run cold. Cold sweat poured down his face like a great waterfall. This was their first meeting, yet the young boy knew him all the same. Sailors and smallfolk spoke his name with tones of fear and loathing, telling tales of madness and horror. As he looked into his eye, Viserys knew there was truth to the stories.

“Eyes are windows to the soul,” his mother told him once. He never understood what she meant. Not until now, when he looked at his captor, staring back at madness and evil.

“Hello, Your Highness,” Euron Greyjoy said with a smile full of teeth.

Blackfyre

A Valyrian sword, once wielded by Aegon the Conqueror and his descendants and the namesake of the traitorous house founded by Daemon of the Great Bastards.

Alongside its sister blade Dark Sister, Blackfyre was the ancestral blade of House Targaryen and is believed to be the symbol of their power as Westeros’ monarchs. Telling, then, that the house’s decline since the Dance of Dragons worsened when it was claimed by a would-be usurper and taken by his half-brother and co-conspirator.

Chapter Text

OLD WRITINGS

A series of papers penned by Archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure within the Citadel for his pursuit of knowledge, however esoteric or heretical.

The writings are faded and barely legible, describing the land of Limgrave, the great power that ruled over the Lands Between, and the religion that dominated the land with such zealotry.

            “The territory of Limgrave was originally a land ruled by a coalition of noble lords who broke away from the Duchy of Caelid. Records of life prior to the rise of the House of the Erdtree are scarce and surprisingly difficult to piece together, but the scholars and scribes of Leyndell and Raya Lucaria have helped me paint as best a cohesive picture as possible.

            During what I’ve tentatively come to call the Age of Shadow, in reference to the infamous Land of Shadow, the supposed birthplace of Golden Order fundamentalism, the lands of Limgrave were ruled by two Great Houses and four minor noble lineages who served as their vassals. The lands surrounding Stormveil Castle were ruled by the Great House of Stormveil, and to the south was the Weeping Peninsula, ruled by the Great House of Morne. Records of this time indicate there was a fierce and bitter rivalry between Houses Morne and Stormveil, stemming from a failed betrothal in which a daughter of Stormveil was spurned by her apparent suitor, falling to a state of depression so severe she would eventually throw herself off the ramparts and plummet to her deaths on the jagged cliffs surrounding the walls of Stormveil Castle. The Stormveils, by all accounts, were said to be stern but fair nobles, but their capacity to hold grudges was immense. Tensions remained thick between the two houses, lasting until the House of the Erdtree appeared.

            It is unclear when Queen Marika the Eternal rose to prominence following her ascension into godhood, only that her first order of business was to unify the Lands Between under the golden branches of the Erdtree. To this end, she would lead a brutal campaign that lasted well over three centuries, subjugating countries and putting the non-human races to the sword. Some, however, chose to bend the knee to Marika and swore fealty when she demonstrated her godly power before them. The Great House of Stormveil and one of their vassal houses were the first to swear allegiance to her cause. The Great House of Morne and their allies, however, rose up in arms and attempted a pre-emptive strike against the conqueror. Exactly what occurred during the so-called “Siege of Morne” is unclear, save that it lasted barely three months and half the peninsula bathed in the blood of soldiers and non-humans alike before the Great House of Morne surrendered and swore fealty to Marika. By then, two of the four vassal houses were rendered extinct or declined to the point they were noble houses in name only. This is reportedly when the Weeping Peninsula earned its name.

            With the Kingdom of Altus and the lands of Limgrave under her banner, the House of the Erdtree established itself in the political power bloc of the Lands Between. Inevitably, the Caelid Duchy and the House of the Erdtree almost immediately came into conflict, leading to the forty-year-long War of the Red.”

            “The House of the Erdtree was founded by Marika, a woman who ascended into godhood by the guidance of the Two Fingers, a curious race of non-verbal creatures. The Two Fingers are thought to be envoys and oracles of the Greater Will, a godly entity and Marika’s patron from whom the Golden Order Fundamentalism holds with reverence and esteem.

            At the time of Marika’s ascension, the Lands Between was ruled by four countries; the Kingdom of Altus, the Kingdom of Caria, the lordly coalition of Limgrave, and the Caelid Duchy. The Kingdom of Altus was the weakest of the four, having suffered a rapid decline of influence after a series of weak-willed rulers and a seemingly corrupt small council of lords content to allow their smallfolk to wallow in rot, filth, and despair. Marika’s arrival heralded what House Haight came to call the “Resplendent Era” of the kingdom.

            According to official records provided by House Haight and the Great House of Hoslow, Marika’s arrival was one of celebration as news of her ascension and appointment by the Two Fingers already spread throughout the realm. The corrupt nobles believed they could tempt her into their decadent court, perhaps believing they could use her godhood to their advantage. The Great House of Hoslow also speculates they were cautious and wary, fearing she had come to overthrow them and secretly plotted her assassination. Their fears proved ultimately correct, for within a single night, Marika single-handedly slaughtered the corrupt nobles and rendered their lineages extinct. In the bloody aftermath, Marika was approached by the monarch of the Kingdom of Altus, who kneeled before her and offered her his crown.

            Thus began the reign of Queen Marika the Eternal, godly lord of the Kingdom of Altus, and the founding of the House of the Erdtree.

            It was no secret that Marika desired to unify the Lands Between under the Erdtree’s banner. For that reason alone, the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid Duchy feared and mustered their forces for the day she inevitably came to conquer them. The conquest did not begin immediately, however. Due to Altus’ waning power, even the god-queen knew she would have no hope of unifying the Lands Between with her power alone. Thus, she sought to bolster and raise her forces. To this end, she made a journey to a region known as the Badlands.

            Unfortunately, there are no records of where the Badlands are located. Given what we know now regarding the appearance of the Lands Between within our known world, this is understandable but no less disappointing, yet I digress.

            By all accounts, the Badlands lived up to its name. Imagine the Dothraki Sea, the Great Desolation where “kingdoms of the grass” rose and fell over a great myriad of years, with the same underlying cause: brutal, relentless war for the sole purpose of survival. Resources were so scarce that conflicts among the tribes and “countries” (I use the term loosely, for these regions were not ruled in any capacity by noble or sensible men but by savages that would disgust even the most base of men) were so frequent, any hospitable patch of land was scorched and burned. It is said that the ash-gray plains and jagged mountains of the Badlands stretched on for miles without end.

            Around the time of Marika’s rise as queen, however, an unexpected development occurred in the Badlands. A tribe of warriors known as Clan Loux, led by “Beast-Warrior” Hoarah Loux, began unifying the other warring tribes. It is unclear when Marika learned of him, save that she sought him out personally and extended an offer of friendship. An offer that, unexpectedly, shifted into marriage after the War of the Giants.

NOTE There are scarce mentions of someone named “the Impaler” amid what few reports I could muster in my research of the Lands Between’s history. What little I discovered paint a grim picture reminiscent to that of Maegor the Cruel if he were part of the Faith Militant. Despite the macabre details of his work, there’s no record of his name or even so much as a description. It is almost as if someone took great pains to erase any and all mention of this man from written history. At the very least, I was able to discover a written account of the Impaler’s actions during the War of the Red.

            “Those who bear their fangs against the Erdtree and its people shall all meet death. In the embrace of…”

            The rest of the writing is illegible and smeared.

            “Although Queen Marika the Eternal is hailed as a god, she is not the object of worship. She is revered and possesses numerous followers, but it is more accurate to call her a “High Septa” who rules both kingdom and faith. The patron behind her ascension is a god known as the Greater Will, the arbiter of life and creator of the Elden Ring. This object deserves far more study than what I have already done for other persons of interest in the Lands Between’s storied and faded history, thus I shall touch upon it another time.

            The Golden Order came about shortly after the War of the Giants ended and the people of the Lands Between were forever barred entry unless given permission by Queen Marika herself. Similar to the faith of the R’hllor Red Priesthood, Golden Order Fundamentalism is a monotheistic religion that espouses and reveres a singular god. As its name implies, the religion is a curious blend of faith and intellectual pursuit in which followers would attempt to study, discern, and interpret the meanings and teachings of the Greater Will. This study into religion somehow birthed a school of magic, of which birthed two great practitioners; the second Elden Lord Radagon and his son Miquella, one of the Twin Prodigies.

            This curious religion gave rise to numerous academic pursuits and laid the foundation of an era of peace under Queen Marika’s rule, though as with most other religions, it had little tolerance toward heathens, heretics, and non-believers. Unfortunately for the non-human races, the Golden Order had no tolerance for any who existed beyond its purview. Within the thousand-year-long rule of Queen Marika the Eternal, the Golden Order demanded nothing short of absolute obedience and xenophobia. No less than seven sapient non-human races within the Lands Between were rendered extinct, and numerous kingdoms from neighboring countries were given an ultimatum: Bend the knee to the Golden Order, or be put to the sword.

            As a religion promoted by the dominant human species, non-human races such as trolls, giants, demi-humans, and misbegotten were put to the sword, enslaved, and exiled from their homelands. Toward the end of Queen Marika’s reign, there was some stability amid the demi-human and misbegotten races whereas trolls and the artificial lifeforms known as albinaurics found safety and refuge under the more welcoming Kingdom of Caria. Some regions of Limgrave were tolerable toward the “lesser” races, with House Haight commonly in contact with the local demi-human tribes. The only race that found its place alongside humans in the Golden Order were the dragons, thanks to the efforts of Prince Godwyn the Golden, Queen Marika’s firstborn son and heir presumptive.

            Of all the non-human races to suffer under the yoke of Golden Order fundamentalism, however, none were as abhorred and abused as the Omen. I call them a non-human race, yet I cannot help but suspect they are cursed beings, for even a child born between two humans of noble bearing could produce an Omen child. It is said that Queen Marika despised the Omens above all other races, so much in fact that when she bore two Omen children, she cast them into the Subterranean Shunning Grounds nary a day after their birth. It was an all-too-common practice for Omen children to be cast aside or killed.

            In Lunar Queen Ranni’s Age of Stars, which promotes freedom of thought and social belief, Golden Order Fundamentalism has waned considerably. It still bears great influence within the Altus Plateau, the former home of the defunct Kingdom of Altus, but whatever political power it had is long gone.

            NOTE Certain documents make mention of a non-human race referred to as the “Hornsent” who apparently ruled the Land of Shadow. I’ve uncovered surprisingly little about them, save that the manner of tone used to refer to the Hornsent implies that any and all of their kind found outside the Land of Shadow were marked for death.”

Chapter Text

ROBB

Lord Kenneth Haight looked surprisingly average for a man of his station. Before he introduced himself, Robb thought him a septon for his flowing robes, however tailored and laced with fine trimmings they were. He wore his father’s countenance, the face of a man exhausted by leadership yet trudging onward regardless. What stood out to the heir of Winterfell the most about him were his eyes, bearing a faded gold luster.

“An honor to meet you at last, King Baratheon,” Lord Haight spoke to the king with an even tone, his words careful and courteous. “We’ve heard much talk about you since your scouts arrived.”

“Good things, I hope,” Robert replied with a smile. Robb worried how Lord Haight might receive the king’s appearance, yet to his relief, the man barely bat an eye. “I’ve heard a fair bit about you myself, though not as much as I would’ve liked, if I’m being honest.”

“A fact that will soon be rectified, with any luck. My sincerest apologies for my late arrival. Blackguards and footpads have become somewhat common in the area as of late, not helped by ongoing discussions with our newest neighbors. Ever since word of our existence reached foreign shores, we’ve had no end of visitors.”

“Have you met with anyone from Essos as of late?”

Lord Haight sighed. “Far too many, particularly of the overenthusiastic lot. To say nothing of the less…amicable sorts who prefer talking with blades and conquest.”

Robb was not surprised. Such a possibility was raised by his lord father and Prince Oberyn during the voyage. With a land of such unknown quality and intrigue, there were many who saw opportunity. The royal retinue of Westeros saw to establish foreign trade and political alliances, if not potential colonization. Others saw lands fit for plunder. He had little doubt the Lands Between were already acquainted with the Ironborn by now.

“Any come bearing the banner of a squid?”

“Ah, you’re familiar with them,” Lord Haight observed. “Are they a common threat?”

“The Ironborn have been around for as long as any of us can remember,” Robb’s father answered. “Some time ago, they raised the flag of rebellion and were crushed for it, though some refuse to accept the branch of trust given to them. Raiding and reaving is part of their culture, I’m afraid.”

“You’d have better luck trying to convert them to another faith than to get them to stop raiding and raping,” King Robert snorted. “How often do they come to test their luck with you all?”

Lord Haight sighed in exasperation. “Far too often.”

The discussion of the Ironborn, ironically, helped to lessen the tense airs around them. The foreign lord remained stoic, but his dim eyes seemed to glow a bit brighter amid different conversations and topics. It would be some time before they were ready to depart for Stormveil Castle, time Lord Haight chose to use wisely by informing them about the history of the Lands Between, and more specifically, of Limgrave and its neighboring territory, the Weeping Peninsula.

Originally, two houses of noble prestige ruled over Limgrave, the Great Houses of Stormveil and Morne. The Stormveils perished in the years of the Shattering, a brutal period of strife and war that nearly saw the realm torn asunder and scarred beyond hope of healing, whereas the Great House of Morne were extinguished more recently. The last of its line, Castellan Edgar and his daughter Irina, died over a year ago. Now, Limgrave and the Weeping Peninsula were under the care of the Great House of Loux, founded with the blessing of Lunar Queen Ranni and the Elden Lord, and its founder and head, Nepheli, bearing the blood of the first Elden Lord and leader of Clan Loux, Godfrey. The fact she bore what was essentially “royal blood” was no doubt why the lords accepted her sudden rise to highborn status and leadership.

As far as territory went, Limgrave was fairly small. A glance at the map provided by Lord Haight showed it was roughly the size of the Crownlands, sitting between the territory of the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid region. To the south was the Weeping Peninsula, a separate land connected by a stone bridge and barely half the size of Limgrave, surrounded by water on all fronts. By Lord Haight’s own admission, the Shattering left most of the land a shadow of its former self and left much of it uninhabited. Despite Lady Nepehli’s best efforts, brigands still maintained a foothold and preyed on what few villages were left standing, with the lady doing her best to care and defend her people. From what was said, she seemed to be succeeding.

“She sounds like a woman after my own heart,” King Robert mused with a cheery grin. “Speaks well of her to ride out and hunt down the bastards herself. Kind of reminds me of you, Ned!”

Robb’s father smiled slightly. “Such is the duty of a lord. I must ask, how have the brigands managed to elude Lady Loux thus far?”

“Familiarity of the land, and if I’m being honest, damn good luck,” Lord Haight answered grimly. “Before Nepheli took her place as rightful heir of Limgrave, this land was once ruled by Godrick the Grafted, the last of Lord Godfrey’s Golden Lineage. He was nothing short of shameful and incompetent, not to mention a craven beyond the pale.” The lord’s face darkened, his teeth showing behind thinned lips as he spoke with venomous contempt. “I could spend the rest of daylight telling you of his sham of a rule, but I’m afraid we’d be here all day, and I refuse to be a poor host. What I can tell you, however, is that between Godrick’s inadequacies and the Shattering destroying much of Limgrave and its armies, we were forced to rely on sellswords and cutthroats to serve as soldiers. Godrick allowed them the run of the castle while he entertained himself in his craft whilst giving orders to hunt down the Tarnished.”

Robb tilted his head. “The Tarnished? Who are they?”

“A group of people who were stripped of the Erdtree’s grace, my boy.” Lord Haight gestured to his eyes and their faded gold luster. “Once, the Erdtree shined a brilliant golden color, imbued with the very Grace that guided us through even the darkest times. Those blessed by Grace bore a golden shine in their eyes. Those stripped of their Grace were deemed Tarnished, cursed, and labeled as outcasts.” He sighed and shook his head. “Among their number was Lord Godfrey, who after defeating the last of Queen Marika’s enemies, lost his Grace. Marika exiled him and the rest of the Tarnished. It was naught until recently when the Tarnished were welcomed back, though I’m ashamed to say we did not receive them warmly, least of all by Godrick.”

He paused, then a light smile formed across his face. “As a matter of fact, our current Elden Lord and Lunar Queen Ranni’s consort eternal is a Tarnished as well.”

Sansa would love this, Robb thought. A warrior stripped of status, returning home to claim the seat of power and marry into royalty? It sounded like sort of tale his sister would enjoy. There was obviously more to the story, but there wasn’t time for such talk.

“Back to the topic of the Ironborn,” Lord Edmure started. “When did they raid you last? Any casualties?”

“It gladdens me to say there were none. They only just breached our shores when we gave them a rather…hearty welcome, I would say.”

King Robert guffawed. “I’m liking you people more and more. I’d love to hear some stories from you on the road!”

“It would my pleasure, King Baratheon.”

The wheelhouses and horses were prepared within the hour. By Lord Haight’s own estimation, they would reach Castle Stormveil before the sun set, though he mentioned the weather had been unpredictable as of late. The gray clouds and harsh winds proved his claims as they took to the road, arriving at one of the scars of the Shattering. The sight was both unfamiliar and familiar to Robb, described in manuals and accounts from the last rebellion. Adjacent to the paved brick road leading to the path taking them to Stormveil were ruined remains, houses and huts and toppled outposts, scorched and broken under the weight of siege weapons and mortar shells. Much of the ruins were already being reclaimed by the earth, patches of grass, dirt, and vines creeping along the cracked walls and broken ceilings.

The sight disturbed Robb as much as the fact the dead were left to rot. He found one skeleton too many, half-eaten by the earth and still clad whatever they wore at the moment of their deaths. Worrying still, he saw more soldiers than smallfolk.

“First time seeing such a sight, lad?” a knight in service of House Haight asked him.

Robb turned, taking stock of the man properly. When they first met, his attention was fully turned to his lord and liege. Looking upon him for the first time, Robb made sure to ask about their smiths. The armor was simplistic in shape and clearly saw battle from the number of dents and nicks, but the sleak black metal and gold markings spoke of a master craftsman. Even when braving the elements and marred in dirt, its black luster glowed in the light. He looked every bit the knight he read about in his younger years when he read with his lady mother to put little Sansa to sleep.

“I’ve only seen sights like these in tomes and such,” he admitted. “How long have they sat there?”

“Too long, I’m afraid. The Shattering ended by the time I was born, but the scars were still fresh. Even as a wee little thing, I got used to the sight of corpses and the smell of dead flesh.” Though he couldn’t see his face, Robb had the distinct impression he was grimacing. “The number of dead was so great, the ones that the earth hadn’t claimed were thrown in a ditch and left to rot.”

Robb’s face paled. “Gods…”

“Aye,” the knight agreed grimly. “Unfortunately, the dead brought disease with them. It wasn’t uncommon to hear of villages succumbing to plague than being put to the sword. The lack of authority and men of honor also led to a lawlessness that doomed just as many as disease had. There were more blackguards than decent men.”

“Is that what made you become a knight?” Robb asked.

The knight chuckled. “Many would call me a fool, but I simply wished to do right. I knew I couldn’t do much by myself, though. A good man is only worth as much as a lord he puts his trust in. It’s how I found myself with the Oathseekers.”

“Is that the name of your order?”

“Aye. As our name implies, we seek those worthy of our oaths, to serve them until the end of our lives. Some go their whole lives searching for a worthy lord to serve, whereas I found one well before I started sprouting gray hairs.” The knight looked toward Lord Haight, who rode with the lords of the royal retinue, leading at the head of the group. He was deeply engrossed in conversation with the Lord Hand. “He was rather skeptical of me at first. I had little in the way of accomplishment beyond a skilled sword arm, and I was no more than a mere farm boy. Even so, he accepted my oaths of fealty. I’ve never regretted swearing myself to him, not when he led us through some of Limgrave’s darkest hours. My deepest regret was being unable to be at his side when Godrick’s men took his ancestral home.”

The knight paused again, this time in belated realization. “Ah, forgive me, little lord, I’ve abandoned my manners. I am Leon of Caria.”

“Robb, of House Stark,” the heir of Winterfell replied. “It’s an honor, ser.”

JOFFREY

Joffrey rode quietly alongside his father and the lords of the retinue. He barely paid the foreign lord any mind as he spoke at length with Lord Arryn, trying his best not to show his frustration.

The plan was simple as it was perfect. His father liked it when people took charge, and his mother’s coddling was stifling, more so now that discussions between Westeros and the Lands Between were about to take shape, there was no better time than to “flee the coup” so to speak. He was the crown prince, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne, so he was allowed this much, was he not?

That had been his thinking. A line of thought cruelly struck down by his father’s hand. The last time he ever saw him so angry was over Tommen’s stupid cat. Actually, his father’s anger this time was worse. Just before the blow connected, the hand was balled into a fist. He would have struck him, his son, with a closed fist over a palm. Even though it turned into a slap at the last moment, it was still a sobering and cold reminder that he was not enough. His father still refused to acknowledge him.

The days spent aboard the Golden Celeste were nothing short of humiliating. Despite his station, his father demeaned him by having him act as though he were a cabin boy of all things, assisting the crew with menial tasks and labour better off in the hands of smallfolk. While such tasks alone were humiliating for a highborn like himself, his lack of sea legs didn’t help. The voyage disabused any notion of enjoying trips across the sea. How his uncle liked living at sea was beyond him. He couldn’t stand how the boat’s constant trembles and shakes made his stomach churn inside out.

Their arrival at the Lands Between provided some relief, especially when they were back on dry land. The scouts told them a brief history about their new eastern neighbors, the presence of magic, and the lord in charge of Limgrave. Joffrey chose to withhold judgment about this Nepheli Loux, but he couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied. A woman in charge of a region sounded like a joke. Poor student he may have been, but he understood what led to the Dance of the Dragons well enough. No matter the qualifications a woman held, it meant nothing if they were not recognized, if they did not have the strength to secure their power. Rhaenyra Targaryen was unfit to be queen, no matter how hard she struggled in vain to secure her claim to the throne.

But, Joffrey was not one to look to the past for guidance. He trusted only himself and his judgment. If nothing else, the trip told him who may be of use and who was no more than appeasing brownnosers.

Edmure Tully was as obvious in his approach as he was in flaunting his foolishness. Joffrey questioned Hoster Tully’s sanity in allowing that bumbling oaf to be his representative. He was socially aware, but in the brief moments they spoke with one another, his political maneuvering left much to be desired. He had an inkling Edmure’s talent for strategy was just as shoddy.

Margeary Tyrell was a beauty, but it was plain that she hoped to curry favor with him. Not unsurprising, as his mother warned him the Tyrells were well-versed in matters of courtly intrigue and desired the Iron Throne. She was pleasant, if nothing else. For now, he would indulge her and wait for the moment when she overstepped.

Robb Stark was…odd. They were around the same age, and if things went according to the king’s designs, they would be goodbrothers. He seemed fairly likable, but something about him made it difficult for Joffrey to approach, much less like. They spoke at length about their respective families, with great focus given to Robb’s sister Sansa. The girl sounded boring and dull, but he supposed there were worse choices for a bride.

Oberyn Martell, the infamous Red Viper, was someone that Joffrey was on guard against, and for good reason. His grandfather made it clear that the Martells were no allies of the Iron Throne, least of all the Lannisters, not after what they did to Elia and her children. They were no doubt plotting revenge, and it was almost certain this trip was an excuse. Every time they spoke, Joffrey was on edge, wondering whether this was the moment the Red Viper would kill him, consequences be damned. No such thing happened, of course, but that only made him even more concerned and worried. It didn’t help that, for all the caution and wariness toward the prince of Dorne, Joffrey, against his better nature, found himself liking the man. Something about him drew him in, and he couldn’t understand why.

The meeting between the royal retinue and Lady Nepheli Loux was close at hand. Joffrey’s hands pooled with cold sweat, his nerves clenched as he wondered what he could possibly do to regain his father’s favor. He couldn’t stand to bare his future, his legacy, be put to the ground because of his inadequacy. Surely, there would be an opportunity for him to prove himself, to show his father he was a tried and true Baratheon, no matter his hair and eyes.

Fate, as it turned out, favored him. The trip was halted midway through as they approached an encampment up on the hill leading to Stormveil Castle. One of the guardsmen posted by the gate approached the retinue, more specifically Lord Haight.

“Forgive me, milord, but you’ll have to delay your trip,” the guardsmen said. Joffrey nearly balked by the audacity of the man, speaking to his better with such attitude. “There’s been an incident further up the road.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Lord Haight demanded. “More cravens come to pilfer our people?”

“Worse. Some daft fool’s gone and stirred the runebears.”

Lord Haight swore. The king raised an eyebrow and turned to the foreign lord. “Runebears? What are they?”

“Imagine a beast standing on all fours, larger than a man and coated in fur,” Lord Haight said. “Now imagine that beast is as big as a house, with claws capable of rending a man in half.” The imagery caused several among the retinue to shudder. Joffrey, meanwhile, wondered whether it was exaggeration and what sort of pelt it’d make. “It’s odd for one to be so close to Stormveil. Normally they stay close to their habitat in the Mistwoods.”

“One of the men who saw the bloody thing said it had a spear stuck in its hide,” the guard informed. “Whatever brought it here, it’s bloody mad and wreaking havoc. We’ve lost three men already, and several more are wounded. Best we can do is ward people off.”

“If that’s the case, then all we have to do is kill the fucking thing!” King Robert bellowed.

Lord Haight stared agape. “King Robert, with all due respect…”

“I agree,” Lord Stark interjected, his face stern as Stannis’. “If this beast is as dangerous as you say, we cannot leave it unattended. I understand we are guests here, but please, Lord Haight, allow us to assist.”

Lord Haight’s face was a conflict of emotions before finally settling on gratitude. “You have my thanks, but I must warn you, the runebear is no beast of game. Treat it as you would an enemy soldier.”

Joffrey smiled.

Perfect.

Chapter Text

SANDOR

King’s Landing was always shit. You could make it look fancy, doll it up with powder and flowery colors, but Sandor spent enough time in the Crownlands to know it was a steaming pile of shit. No one had to look any further than Flea Bottom, the one part of the whole damn city people didn’t know what to do with. Some wanted to keep it around for Seven fucking knows what, and the others wanted it and everyone inside burned to the ground.

He cared nothing for it. It just represented what King’s Landing really was at the end of the day.

Recently, the city became a powder keg. Two months passed since the king and his entourage of nobles and lords went to visit their newest neighbors. Queen Cersei was left as regent, and unsurprisingly, she wasted little time in throwing her new weight around. Orders were given to soldiers, white cloaks and all, securing order and routing any “unsavory” elements. On a good day, at least four bodies decorated the streets, with throats slit or hanged at the gallows. On worse days, there were too many bodies to know what to do with. Some days, the bodies piled up so quickly that they had to get carts to carry them off.

The Hound never thought he’d say this, but he sorely missed his previous post. Even on a good day, Joffrey Baratheon was a right prat in desperate need of an ass-kicking, yet strangely, Sandor enjoyed his presence all the same. At the very least, he treated him decently, if only because Sandor never questioned his orders and had a staunch loyalty toward House Lannister. Then the boy had the daft idea to go off and sneak aboard the Golden Celeste, with Sandor only realizing what’d happened after the fact.

Suffice to say, Queen Cersei was fucking pissed. For ten days the woman raged and wailed over the foolishness of her son, near all but certain he was going to get himself killed. Sandor was inclined to agree; the prince had no talent for swordplay, and he had no sea legs to speak of. He also doubted the king was pleased. It was no secret that there was tension between Robert and his son after he went and killed the second prince’s cat, all because Joffrey wanted to prove he was also a “hunter”, if that made any fucking sense. Sandor stopped trying to understand what went on in that kid’s head a long time ago.

With the crown prince absent, the queen took to hoisting her affections on her younger children. To their credit, the brats were already uncomfortable with Queen Cersei’s obsessive acts of affection. Her amplified efforts only made them squirm, often finding excuses to evade her, which of course led her to seek matters of affection elsewhere.

Sandor grimaced, remembering the noises he heard as he passed by the royal quarters one night. The sounds were familiar to him, though he was mildly impressed by how the queen sounded less like a woman and more like a squealing pig. For all she raged and seethed over the king’s infidelity, she was not much better than her husband. For the poor bastard’s sake, Sandor hoped the king never discovered this lest he bring the hammer down on the sod’s skull.

Not that it was any of his business. Sandor’s job was to listen to the crown’s orders. What the queen did was none of his business unless the Lannisters said otherwise.

When he wasn’t tasked with cutting down dissidents or sending fools to the gallows, Sandor enjoyed his free time walking through the streets, particularly those near the port. On windy days, the cold winds from the ocean soothed the burns on his face, if only barely. Today was not for pleasure, however. Today was business.

Like any soldier, Sandor needed to keep his equipment in decent shape. He made regular visits to the smiths in King’s Landing, either to purchase new equipment when the need arose or when he needed his blades sharpened and the dents in his armor sorted out. He had no preference for who did the job, so long as they did it adequately. So far, he had no complaints and the smiths were happy with his coin. Lately, Sandor pondered the pros and cons of becoming a regular of a particular smith, said to be one of the best in the city.

Master Tohbo Mott was a man of Qohor. Sandor recognized the features easily, having dealt with them once in the past before he became Joffrey’s sworn knight. His smithy skills alone would’ve been enough to earn him a royal permit, but if the rumors were to be believed, he was one of the few metalsmiths left who knew how to work Valyrian steel. It was a rare quality, though it was obviously not something he advertised. The man preferred simplicity and humility, though he never complained when someone gave him more coin than what was agreed on.

Sandor asked for Mott’s services only thrice; the first when he noticed a crack in his sword after an engagement with a mountain clan wreaking havoc in the Crownlands; a rare occurrence when they preferred the mountain ranges, but nothing worth fearing. They fell like any other. He barely paid the smith’s work any mind until he took it to combat and found the blade performing better than before. The second had been when he participated in a tourney at the prince’s behest, a joust that saw him unhorsed and with a sizable dent in his breastplate. Mott fixed it with ease, and Sandor paid him a few more coins for the good work.

This visit was the third time. After years of wear and tear, his armor was finally in a state to where it was no longer viable, and therefore needed a replacement. He sent a missive to Mott with a bag of dragons, asking for the best armor he could forge with the materials he had on hand. It took a week, but Mott got back to him with news saying the armor was ready and awaiting delivery.

Sandor found the old smith working deeper in the shop. To his mild surprise, he wasn’t alone. Evidently, the old man took an apprentice. His back was turned so Sandor couldn’t see his face, but he could tell by his figure he was in his teens, mayhaps ten and two or ten and four name days.

“Ser Clegane,” Mott greeted with a wry grin. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”

“Here for my order,” Sandor replied gruffly. He had no time for pleasantries, much less idle chatter.

The Qohorik smith nodded and went to the back of the shop, returning with the Hound’s new armor in tow. It was nothing fancifcul with intricate designs or engravings. Sandor preferred function over fashion, no matter what Joffrey insisted. He took the breastplate from him, wrapping his knuckles against the steel. The metal was sturdy and thick, capable of withstanding a blow from a hammer, mace, and sword. He grunted and fished for his pocket, pulling out a few extra coins.

“For good work,” he said simply.

Mott smiled wryly, graciously accepting the coin. “Many thanks, ser.”

“None of that ser, shit. I’m not exactly sworn when my charge’s gone and run off to visit that weird place everybody’s obsessed with.”

Mott grimaced, but said nothing. Sandor turned to leave with his armor in tow, only to stop when he got a good look at Mott’s apprentice. It was brief, barely a few seconds, but he saw a young boy on the cusp of manhood; a Stormlander with tangled black hair and stormy blue eyes.

He looked like a younger Renly Baratheon.

STANNIS

“The queen goes too far,” Renly told him with a grim face. “Surely, you agree with me on this, brother.”

It was rare for the brothers to interact, given their conflicting personalities. Rarer still was Stannis remembering when they were boys, struggling to keep their people starved during the siege while their older brother went to war against the Targaryens and their loyalists. It was Stannis’ first taste of reality, and what it meant to lead their people. Although he considered it a necessity to become the man he is now, back then he thought of it as the worst period of his life. The frustration of watching garrisons starve, smallfolk left to rot outside the walls of Storm’s End, wondering whether each day would be their last…

Stannis took a calming breath. He found himself lost in old memories as of late, an unwanted distraction keeping him from his work.

The source of Renly’s frustrations and worries was Cersei Lannister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her recent “purges”. Laws were enforced to a degree he found near criminal, with gold cloaks regularly taking people off the streets and from their homes to either be hanged or put to the sword. The city smelled foul with all the mud and shit. Now it smelled of rotting corpses.

“It is not a matter of whether I agree, Renly,” Stannis replied, choosing his words carefully. He knew better than to speak with loose lips, especially in the Red Keep. There was no telling who could be listening. “We do not have the power to challenge her, and we’d be fools to. Do not forget, she is regent until the king returns from the Lands Between.”

“And when he does, he’ll find a mountain of corpses piled right outside the front gate!” Renly hissed. “I’ve kept my tongue silent for the same reasons as you, but now even children are being put to death! It’s a miracle no riots have taken to the streets!”

And yet, it’s only a matter of time…

Stannis knew Renly wasn’t wrong. The queen’s bloody acts were intolerable, but credit where it was due, said “acts” were well within the rights and boundaries detailed in the rights and powers bequeathed to the regent. It didn’t surprise him in the least, seeing as how she was a Lannister. Even at her most blatant, the queen knew how to work the system in her favor, how to play others to her tune. They could not accuse her with flimsy evidence. No, they needed something more definitive. Actual proof.

Patience, Stannis reminded himself. There was no point in getting worked up over such a matter. The people could recover, but the realm itself was another story. It was fragile, sitting on a wildfire cache waiting to explode. Tensions were high, now more than ever thanks to the presence of the Lands Between and the unknown opportunities it presented. Depending on how negotiations and discussions went, another war may be on the horizon. That was not even going into the matter of the queen’s cuckolding and infidelity with her own godsdamned brother.

It hadn’t taken Stannis long to realize the true underlying intent of Cersei’s actions were, not when Tywin spent a few days talking with her before he returned to the Westerlands. They were looking for Robert’s bastards.

Cersei Lannister was a vain woman, driven by paranoia and caution. She adored her children, the “crown prince” most of all. She would do anything to secure his rule, even killing innocent babes for the sole crime of being born from Robert’s loins. Even though they were bastards, there was always the chance they could be legitimized, if not recognized by the crown. The small council and Great Houses could debate their legitimacy, but all Cersei saw was a threat, a rival for the throne, and she would suffer no “pretenders”. No, the bastards had to die.

Stannis recognized the signs early enough that he was able to mitigate the damage. An anonymous message and pre-emptive warnings managed to save a few lives, but not all. He had no idea whether they survived or not, and there was still a chance they would be killed. So long as one survived…

“We do not know when the king will return,” Renly continued grimly. “For all we know, he may very well not.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes, catching the hidden meaning behind his younger brother’s words. “Careful what you say, Renly…”

“I’m just stating the worse case. We’ve no idea what kinds of people these foreigners are. They could be like the Ironborn, or worse. If the king dies there, the queen will have total claim to the Iron Throne.”

“She will need to remarry, if such is the case.”

Renly scoffed. “Come now, brother. I know you aren’t naïve. We both know Cersei Lannister prefers only one man’s bed, and it is most assuredly not Robert’s.”

Stannis raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed that his younger brother managed to learn the truth about the king’s “children”. He would have to give Renly more credit than he thought.

Before they could discuss more, a sharp knock came to the door. “Beg your pardon, milord, but the Master of Whispers has called for a meeting with the council.”

Stannis and Renly looked at one another with matching frowns.

“Varys? What could he possibly want?”

“Only one way to find out, I suppose…”

Unsurprisingly, Cersei decided not to involve herself in the meeting. Instead, she entrusted the task to one of the white cloaks tasked to remain in King’s Landing to defend her and her children. As always, the sight of that pig Boros Blount repulsed Stannis. He still wondered what Robert was thinking, naming that man a member of the Kingsguard.

“It’s been some time since we’ve called a council,” Petyr Baelish commented, lounging on his chair almost leisurely so. The Master of Ships noted there was a hint of tension in his shoulders, and his jaw tight. “And curious still for you to call for us. Have the wayward Targaryens returned to claim vengeance at last?”

“Must you joke at a time like this, Lord Baelish?” Grand Maester Pycelle sighed.

“What can I say? I like to bring some enjoyment. And besides…” He cast a sidelong glance at Varys. “Something tells me this is no small matter we’ve been called to attend.”

Indeed not. The face of the Master of Whispers was solemn, carved from solid stone with a dreadful cold stare. Clutched in his hand were a series of letters, which he laid out on the table.

“My birds in the riverlands bring dire news,” he began. “Lord Hoster Tully, and Riverrun, are no more.”

A cold, dreadful silence befell the small council.

It would be minutes before Baelish found his voice again, his sly smile all but gone and his face pale. “What do you mean?” He rose from his seat, his voice rising and echoing across the room. “Varys, what do you mean?”

“I received this letter yesterday.” The Master of Whispers held up one of the letters for all to see. “It was written by a survivor, a man of House Tully who bore witness to the castle’s end. In the dead of night, with none the wiser, a group of men garbed in armor assaulted Riverrun and put everyone to the sword. None were spared.” He set the letter down, then raised another. “This arrived yesterday, written by the hand of one of my birds. They backed the survivor’s claim and described the sight. Riverrun now sits as ruins, bathed in pale white fire.”

Cold sweat ran down Stannis’ face. Melisandre’s visions of colored flames came to the forefront of his mind. “The survivor,” he started. “Did they say anything else?”

From there, Varys began to detail the letter’s contents. The survivor was a household servant tasked with attending to Lord Tully due to his frail health. In her letter, she described how the attack began. As Varys stated earlier, the assault began in the dead of night when most of the castle retired for the evening. The servant awoke to the sounds of screaming and battle, happening just outside her door. She described the assailants as men clad in rusted armor, colored black with chipped gold. Some bore faces wreathed in horns, others in helms bearing ghastly visages of laughing skulls.

The servant swore up and down what she writes is the truth, and how she wishes it were all a nightmare to be awoken from. She continued and wrote how they wielded ghostly flames and black swords wreathed in pale fire. She recalls hearing stories of villages in the riverlands being attacked by unknown brigands, with no survivors to be found. All were burned to the ground, leaving only piles of ash and dead bodies. By her recollection, three villages fell to the ghostly flames by the time the brigands came and slaughtered everyone in Riverrun. She does not know whether Lord Tully escaped or if he perished with the rest of his guardsmen. All she remembers was the sight of Riverrun being consumed by a pale white inferno as she and several other servants, escorted by guards, made their escape.

“My birds verified her claims, and sifted through the rubble when the flames ceased to burn,” Varys continued. “Lord Hoster Tully’s body was among the dead.”

For but a moment, there was a dead silence. In the next, the small council erupted in an uproar. Masters argued, demanding questions and answers. Who was responsible for this massacre and treachery? Who would be so brazen, so daring as to kill a lord in his own keep? Who had the resources to carry out such a feat? Throughout it all, Stannis kept his thoughts and words private, all while looking curiously at Baelish. He was the only other person in the council who remained silent, if only out of stricken grief. His face was pale, wrought in disbelief and shock. Vaguely, Stannis remembered that Baelish was originally fostered in Riverrun before his disgraceful behavior led to his removal from the castle.

Did Baelish show true, genuine sorrow upon hearing Hoster’s death? Or was it yet another fanciful mask? Either way, he couldn’t be sure.

Regardless, Stannis Baratheon knew one thing:

“You picked a bad time to leave Wetseros, Robert.”

Chapter Text

JOFFREY

“Er, my prince, a-are you sure this is a good idea? D-didn’t his grace order us to…?”

Honestly, so useless. I should have brought Sandor, Joffrey groused. He looked back at his party, a small band of four consisting of soldiers brought along by his father. They didn’t have the same look as his sworn knight. At a glance, he doubted they saw much combat at all. No doubt they were regular soldiers stationed in the Red Keep who never saw combat, spending their days guarding empty halls.

Sandor was competent, but that was to be expected. He was a Clegane, and the Mountain’s younger brother. A Lannister, especially Tywin, would never settle for anything less. The Hound followed his orders to the letter, didn’t bother asking useless questions, and had no qualms about doing what needed to be done. The only gripe Joffrey could say about him was his reluctance to teach him swordplay. The Master at Arms in the Red Keep was decent, personally chosen by the king, but Joffrey found Sandor the better teacher. Sadly, he refused on account of worries about his mother heckling him. He grumbled at first, but conceded to the point. His lady mother was a pain, even on a good day.

Joffrey wanted to bring Sandor with, but a man with such distinct features would attract the wrong attention. Joffrey’s form was average, but just small enough to fit in a barrel. The same cannot be said about the Hound. The prince never realized how much he missed his sworn knight until the voyage.

Shortly after his father declared he would support Lord Haight and his men in their hunt for this runebear creature, the more capable members of the royal retinue readied themselves and whatever soldiers fit to travel with them. As his father never gave him any orders to sit by, Joffrey chose to join the hunt, albeit by way of neglecting to inform him what he intended to do. He was clearly still wroth with him, and he did not wish to rouse the king’s ire again so soon. He mustered what few soldiers he could among the retinue aligned with Houses Lannister and Baratheon, though it hadn’t taken him long to realize they fell woefully short of the mark. If nothing else, they would serve as excellent fodder.

Honestly, how bad can this creature possibly be, anyway? They’re probably exaggerating.

Although the thoughts were born of arrogance, there was also a hint of frustration to them. It’d been two hours by his reckoning since they set off, and so far, they found nothing. Any other group they happened upon while looking for the runebear also reported no signs or creatures matching its description. While the lack of discovery was enough to annoy him, the surrounding woodlands were perhaps more annoying. They were not so dense he could not see the paved roads or clearings to provide some comfort and respite, but they were big enough to get lost in. The odd weather was just as bad.

Joffrey remembered how, in his drunken ravings, his father talked about how the Stormlands earned its name for its unpredictable weather. One half day, the sky was clear and crystal blue with gentle winds, and the next half day, the sky was dark and angry with lashing gusts capable of throwing a man off his horse with a single blow. Evidently, his father’s homeland had a distant relative in the Stormveil region; while the sky was cloudy without signs of thunder, the winds were outlandish. They ranged from being powerful gusts that made it difficult for him to see and breathe to being outlandishly strong enough to lift him off the ground.

“P-perhaps we should go back, your highness!” one of the soldiers said, his voice barely heard amid the harsh winds. “I fear if we stay any longer, the winds will cast us away!”

Joffrey rounded on the arrogant fool who spoke, mustering his Baratheon blood. “And who are you to order me? Are you the king?”

“W-what? N-no! No, of course not, your highness!”

“Then silence your tongue, lest I rip it from your mouth!”

Cowards, the lot of them. Had they no pride? Weak and pitiful as they were, they were still soldiers picked to defend the Red Keep. Surely at least one would have a steel spine worthy of his station! Were they so incompetent they could not accomplish such a base task? The prince clicked his tongue and turned away, disgusted by the coward and unwilling to tolerate his presence any further. He had half a mind to leave them behind and hunt for the runebear himself.

Once he found the beast and presented its corpse, surely his father would—

A chorus of howls pierced the howling winds. Joffrey went still, his face paling as he realized the howls came not from wild dogs, but of wolves.

And they were not alone. Another sound quickly followed. The sound of a primal creature, a beast unlike any the prince knew of. Its roar did not match the wolves’ howling, but the sounds that followed were enough to paint a vivid picture. The sounds came from a distance, to his left where the forest grew thicker. Beyond the treeline, he could just barely make out some giant shape going on a rampage. The crossbow in his hands grew heavy, and his heart drummed against his chest. Sweat pooled in his palms.

There could be no doubt. It was the runebear. Despite his nervousness, Joffrey managed to form a shaky, confident smile.

“I can do this,” he whispered. “I can do this. I’m a Baratheon. I’m a Baratheon. I’m a prince. I am the next king! I can do this!”

“W-wait, your highness!”

Joffrey was beyond listening. Recklessly, heedless to the dangers and thinking only of glory, he charged toward the sounds and the rampaging shape. As he drew closer, he could see more and more of the beast. Fear, awe, and terror filled him as he finally took sight of the beast, now realizing that Kenneth Haight had not exaggerated the runebear.

On the contrary, he was underselling it.

The prince saw a bear once in his life. It’d been during a trip to the Westerlands, to enjoy a family dinner with his Lannister cousins and grandfather. The king elected not to attend, disinterested with the affair while granting his family leave to do as they pleased. The trip was unremarkable as it was boring. Sandor had yet to enter his service, meaning the only decent company was his siblings, bothersome as they were.

Joffrey remembered the sight clear as day. The bear wandered into the open road, its fur bloodied and its face scarred. Arrows sat in its hide, and the broken remains of a sword lodged in its eye. The beast barely seemed to register the party, seemingly focused on something only it could see. It wandered past them, ignoring the Lannisters outright, stumbling to someplace unknown to them. Uncle Jaime said it was looking for a place to die, and until it did, it wouldn’t stop. The young boy would never forget the sight, carving it into his mind. It was the first and last time he saw a bear, and the scarred beast he saw that day was majestic beyond words. A warrior in the form of a beast.

Now, he stared at yet another awe-inspiring beast, one that made the scarred bear from so long ago look like a mutt’s pup.

The runebear, true to its name, was a mighty beast coated in thick fur, three times the size of a normal bear. Truthfully, Joffrey didn’t know if it was a damned bear at all. The scarred bear from his youth bore a rotund belly and stumps for feet. The runebear was muscle, with arms thick as tree trunks and claws as long as daggers. It swatted the pack of wolves around like they were nothing, as though they were annoyances and flies. When it brought its claws down, the earth trembled.

The wolves, undeterred, continued to bite and claw and snarl at it. Joffrey watched the futility of their efforts, and found the grip on his crossbow slacking. The wanton slaughter happening right before his eyes brought a cold dread, coating every fiber of his being. Dimly, he was aware of the soldiers behind him gasping and clamoring in shock and fear, now understanding the dangers of their quarry.

“To hell with this!”

Joffrey blinked. He turned and gawked. “W-where are you going?!” he shouted in dismay. He couldn’t believe his eyes; his own men were deserting him! “Come back, you cowards! Come back here this—”

A bloodied wolf with a crooked head sailed past him, bouncing off the dirt and smashing into a tree. Joffrey yelped, stumbling. In his panic, the crossbow slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered to the dirt below. The runebear roared, snatching the last of the wolves in its burly embrace before slamming it straight into the ground, kicking up dirt and dust and leaves. With another roar, it threw the corpse aside and cried in triumph, celebrating its victory.

For a moment, there was dead silence. Joffrey sat there, still as the dead and afraid to move.

The runebear growled and chuffed, slapping its claws on the ground before it turned to leave. Joffrey nearly breathed a sigh of relief, stopping when the runebear abruptly halted and lifted its head. Its nose twitched.

It turned its head. The two locked eyes.

Almost immediately, the runebear bared its fangs and roared, turning and stomping its meaty limbs. Joffrey screamed, scrambling to get up to his feet. The ground was too soft, too muddy, and his panic left him flailing. He tasted mud as his face hit the ground. The tremors of the beast’s stomping grew closer, and he felt the creature right above him. He didn’t dare look up, unable to stare his coming death in the face. Instead, he shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, waiting for the end to come.

The runebear brought down its claw.

“—Foul beast.”

Joffrey’s eyes snapped open, just as he heard the sound of something crashing hard into the earth. He turned, nearly suffering whiplash from his fast he spun his head around, and saw a woman clashing with the runebear, wielding a golden axe the size of Gregor Clegane. She wielded it with but a single hand, somehow swinging it as though its size betrayed its weight. The runebear was knocked off balance, stumbling on its hind legs.

The woman slammed her foot back, assuming a stance as she gripped the axe with both hands, and with a mighty swing, drove her axe into the beast’s face. Accompanying the blow was an act of sorcery, for a whirlwind accompanied the swinging axe with such force that it sent Joffrey off his feet and into the tree behind him. He just barely caught sight of the runebear’s body hitting the ground, the left side of its face slashed and bloodied. It groaned weakly, trying to rise back up to its feet when the woman  suddenly planted herself atop its head, the axe now held in an underhand reverse-grip. The sight reminded him of a guillotine.

“I command thee, kneel.”

She slammed the axe straight down, ramming it atop the runebear’s head. It was a testament to the creature’s supposed strength that its skull was not reduced to red paste and gray matter. The same could not be said about the ground beneath it. Joffrey’s mouth hung open as the earth shattered, upended and ripped apart from a single blow. The strength was inhuman at worst, and godly at best. The earth shuddered and shook, as though buckling under the weight of the woman’s might.

The air grew still, and the tension slowly bled away. Joffrey could barely hear his own thoughts over his heart as it hammered away inside his chest. It was only after the danger passed that he took in the woman’s form in full; exotic, but “too manly” to be considered a bride by anyone without queer tastes, with dusky bronze skin etched with toned muscles belonging to a warrior. Her garb would make even the most unabashed prostitutes blush with how revealing it was, little more than strips of cloth bound with leather. Her toned stomach and abdomen were on clear display as were her bare legs, the calves and feet hidden by wrappings and worn sandals. Despite the roguish state, said garb was lined with golden threads, with a gray cloak on her right side bearing an insignia. A lion, like his own house banner, but drawn with bared fangs and axes behind it.

The woman glared down at the fallen runebear before stepping off its corpse. She took notice of Joffrey, and her expression cooled.

“Are you unharmed, child?” she asked.

Joffrey opened his mouth to speak. The words were stuck in his throat. Dumbly, ashamedly, he nodded. The woman looked at him, then at the fallen crossbow.

“Awfully brave to hunt a runebear with nothing more than a bow,” she noted. Was it just his imagination, or did she sound impressed? “Still, you should be more careful. Even in the best of moods, a runebear is naught to be underestimated.”

You killed the damned thing like it was nothing, Joffrey wanted to rebuke. He found his strength returning to him. He pulled himself off the muddy ground and up on shaky legs.

“Who…” he started. “Who are you?”

“I am Nepheli Loux, warrior.”

NEPHELI

Regarding first impressions, Joffrey Baratheon was surprisingly simple to understand. A year with Kenneth’s guidance and tutoring did wonders to help her navigate the intricacies of noble society, and while she felt she was woefully lacking in some areas, she could ascertain a person’s character. Better than she had her father, blind and ignorant to his true, scheming nature, at any rate. The boy was cocky, hunting a runebear with only a crossbow and some cowardly guardsmen, but he had heart. Misguided, perhaps, but there was an underlying sense of desperation, a need for approval. It hadn’t taken her long to understand where such feelings came from when she met King Robert Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms.

The reunion between father and son after the latter’s harrowing escape from death should have been cause for celebration. Instead, there was a cold tension as Robert glared down his son, who looked so small and insignificant he looked like a mouse cowering before a lion. No words were exchanged, but the stormy look on Robert’s face indicated there would be punishment at worst and heated words at best. Nepheli pondered whether she should intervene on the boy’s behalf, but ultimately stayed her hand. She was an outsider, and thus had no place involving herself in the Baratheons’ affairs, especially as it was a family matter.

Yet it reminds me of Ofnir all the same, she thought bitterly.

“Fucking hell, that’s a huge axe.”

Nepheli looked away from the king and prince and at the one who spoke. At a glance, his features reminded her of those from the Badlands, but a second look told her he was not of her homeland. He was too clean, unmarked by the harsh realities of fighting for dear life and survival. His frame was lithe and fit, with lustrous black hair framing his face. No doubt the common woman would find such a man attractive, for someone like Nepheli, he looked pompous.

Drat. There she went again, needlessly judging by looks. An awful habit, one she and Kenneth were working hard to correct lest she insult someone she wished to befriend or forge an alliance with.

“A spoil of war,” Nepheli said in response to the man’s observation. “It belonged to a bastard of a lord who tormented his people. It was a gift from a dear friend.”

“I bet there’s a story behind that.”

“There is,” she acknowledged. “Perhaps we might speak of it when we reach Stormveil.” She paused, then remembered social cues in times like this. “Forgive me. I have not introduced myself. I am Nepheli Loux, head of the Great House of Loux and lady of Limgrave.”

The man smiled wryly. “Sorry for sounding awfully blunt, but you don’t seem very lady-like to me.”

Nepheli shrugged. “Depends on the lady.”

“Forgive him, Lord Loux,” the somber-looking man with wolfish eyes next to him said, stricken by his companion’s casual nature. “He meant no offense.”

“There was none to be had, kind ser. Truthfully, I prefer such bluntness over useless politicking, even when it is necessary.”

The somber man was surprised by her words whereas his companion grinned. “I think we’ll get along fine, Lady Loux. I am Oberyn Martell, younger brother to Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne and his stand-in. I represent Dorne. The dour looking fellow here—”

“Oberyn!” the man hissed in objection.

“—is Lord Eddard Stark, patriarch of House Stark and Lord Paramount of the Northern Westeros.”

“Well met, Lord Stark, Lord Martell,” Nepheli nodded in proper greeting.

There were more introductions to be had with the rest of the Westerosi retinue, but such things required a proper place and time. The muddy paths leading to Stormveil Castle were far from appropriate, much less pleasant. There were also pressing matters to attend to as well.

Kenneth approached her after she exchanged some pleasantries with the two lords, his face wrought with concern. “Were you successful in your hunt, Nepehli?”

Inwardly, Nepheli smiled. It took the better part of the year since the beginning of the Age of Stars for Kenneth to address her so casually.

“For the most part. The Black Hand’s leadership is broken, and its leaders dead. Only a handful of their numbers remain. The Stormbreakers have taken to routing the rest.”

Ordinarily, Nepheli would handle the matter herself. Ever since she became the lord of Limgrave, she took her duties seriously and set her mind to accomplishing every task set before her with all due diligence. The safety of her people was always her greatest concern, first and foremost. It’s why she took it upon herself to alleviate their burdens and hunt down the vile brigands and sellswords who worked for the Lord of Grafting.

The Stormbreakers, hedge knights who rallied under her banner after declaring her a worthy lord to serve (and they proving their loyalty in turn), became her standing army for the most part. The Shattering and Godrick’s awful practices left Limgrave nearly devoid of resources and defenders. Even with Kenneth’s help and the Great House of Hoslow’s assistance, Limgrave was still a shadow of its former glory. Despite this, Nepheli and her new order of knights worked day and night to protect and provide for their people. She cared not for songs of praise, only that they needn’t suffer from violence and famine. For the most part, she succeeded.

Despite the support she received, Nepheli was sometimes stubborn, too used to accomplishing matters by her lonesome. She had a hard time asking for help, a habit she was slowly curbing with Kenneth’s aid. She didn’t want to ask the Stormbreakers for help, but they assisted her anyway. It was their insistence that they destroy the remains of the Black Hand while she went to fulfill her lordly duties. She would have felt insulted that they told her to prioritize politics over helping the people, but she knew the Stormbreakers well. She fought and bled alongside them. They would succeed, with or without her help.

Admittedly, the trip back to Stormveil proved more exciting than she expected. She didn’t think she would find the prince of the Lands Between’s westward neighbor hunting a runebear of all creatures, much less a prince who reminded her far too much of how she’d been with Gideon.

“You’ve spoken with the Westerosi,” Nepheli started as she and her most trusted adviser went to their horses. “What do you make of them?”

Kenneth’s reassuring smile told her all she needed to know.

Evening descended by the time they arrived at Stormveil Castle.

It took almost the entirety of the castle’s coffers and half of Kenneth’s to restore the castle to its former glory, much less procure adequate staff. In the early days of its restoration, it served as a makeshift refugee camp, with ramparts near full of people without homes and in need of healing or treatment. It was a trying time, and worse still as she watched some perish from starvation and wounds. Those perished under her care were all the more reason to restore order to Limgrave, spending sleepless night after sleepless night to seek justice and reclaim what stolen goods she could from the lawless bastards raising havoc in her domain.

It took the better part of the year before Stormveil Castle was restored. Some areas were damaged beyond repair and were left as is, repurposed or cordoned off to ensure some poor unfortunate soul did not go wandering off and got themselves lost, or worse, encounter that blighted thing sprouting from the rocks and roots.

Rogier, what were you thinking , seeking something like that?

“It almost pains me to admit it, but this place is incredible,” Edmure Tully said, marveling the sights as they made their way to the dinner hall. “Riverrun cannot hold a candle to this place.”

“I must agree,” Eddard Stark concurred, similarly awestruck. “Even Winterfell falls short of this place, though I’ve noticed some places seem damaged.”

“You’ve a keen eye, Lord Stark,” Nepheli said. “Toward the end of the Shattering, Stormveil Castle came under siege. Margit the Fell, an Omen warrior in service to the late King Morgott of Leyndell, mustered a small band and assaulted the castle. The purpose was not to defeat or kill, but to instead wear down Godrick until he was no longer a threat. It helped that Godrick was both craven and coward who rarely took to the field himself. He lost most of his standing army in the siege, which is what led to him hiring bandits and sellswords to make up for his losses.”

“And in turn, leave his people free to suffer their abuses,” Oberyn Martell scoffed. “He sounds like the kings of old before House Targaryen came to Westeros.”

Although Nepheli was unfamiliar with Westeros’ history, she did her best to work with what she could. The scouts who came to better understand and prepare their king brought with them some tomes of knowledge, but nothing of any great significance. Among the information found within those tomes was House Targaryen, a noble lineage from Essos who came to Westeros nearly three centuries ago. To her understanding, they were fleeing a cataclysmic event called the Doom of Valyria, which spelled the end of the Valyrian Empire of antiquity, leaving its people scattered and to fend for themselves. Aegon I Targaryen, better known as Aegon the Conqueror, saw to claim Westeros as his own and for his people to thrive anew. Such dreams came to an end when the last Targaryen ruler and his son caused a civil war.

Robert’s Rebellion, a conflict that occurred near two decades ago, saw the end of House Targaryen. The king was killed by his own royal guard, the prince was slain in battle, the prince’s children and their mother killed to ensure House Baratheon’s ascension to the Iron Throne, and the queen’s children left in exile, with the threat of death should they ever return to Westeros’ shores.

“I take it the lords of antiquity were unfavorable?” Nepheli questioned.

Jon Arryn, a feeble old man and King Robert’s adviser, nodded gravely. “Some were. Part of the reason why Aegon the Conqueror was so quickly accepted was that, for all people feared him, he offered them safety and security by slaying their despots. The lesser of two evils, as it were. It did help that he seemed a fairly benevolent ruler. The same cannot be said for his successors, I’m afraid. Tell me, my lady, how much do you know of our history?”

“Little, I’m afraid. I’m more familiar with recent events, such as the war that saw House Baratheon ascend to kingship. I believe such talks are better discussed at the dinner table.” Nepheli found herself smiling as she looked at the pudgy king. “I must confess, I have been quite eager for this talk of ours, King Robert. I’m most curious to hear tales of your battles. Perhaps we may trade stories.”

“Only if you tell me how in blazes you can hold an axe as big as one of those giant lugs in the North,” the foreign king replied. “What were their names again, Jon? Greatjons?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“But of course, King Robert. Now then…”

The doors to the dinner hall were thrown open. Almost immediately, Nepheli’s nose was bombarded with an array of tasty-smelling dishes. Spread across the table, stretching for nearly half the length of the room itself, was a veritable buffet, capable of feeding an entire village. The kitchen staff spared no expense, it seemed.

She would have to go hunting for them later. It was the least she could do for their hard work.

“Lords and ladies of Westeros,” Lady Nepheli of the Great House of Loux said as she and Kenneth ushered them into the hall. “Welcome to the Lands Between. It is my hope our discussions shall prove fruitful for the both of us.”

Chapter Text

ROBERT

“We will die again where the oceans end
Over and over in the dragon’s fire
We will testify shoulder to shoulder
In the Lands Between
Spirit’s sharp and clean
Mused with a purpose
Through the scarlet mist for the maidenless
We rise unburdened again we rise again”

“Fancy choice,” Robert commented, savoring every bite he could stuff in his mouth. He thought the decadent foods in the Red Keep were incredible, but this? It was almost enough to make him throw away the crown and leave Westeros for the Lands Between. He entertained the thought of poaching Nepheli’s cooks before taking another drink from his goblet. The wine was not bad, either. A shame wine spoiled quickly, otherwise he’d ask to keep a bottle with him as a souvenir. “This about them Tarnished we’ve heard about?”

“Aye. What have you heard of the Tarnished, King Robert?”

“Little beyond that they were exiles. Lord Haight mentioned they were stripped of the Erdtree’s blessings.”

“Indeed. For a time, my kind were frowned upon. Some deigned to call us heretics, simply for having our grace stripped. Others called us unworthy of the Erdtree to begin with.”

Robert raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You were an exile as well?” That raised several questions, and in turn, raised his admiration for her. He appreciated nothing more than a woman who rose above conceptions.

Lyanna would’ve loved her, I would think…

“For some, being born outside the Lands Between was reason enough to be declared Tarnished,” Nepheli said. “I hail from a place known as the Badlands. ‘tis a lawless, unforgiving place where wanton kindness is a quick way to the grave. Every day was a struggle to survive, a place where only the strongest had what it took to thrive and live. Clan Loux was among them, in no small part thanks to our chieftain Hoarah. Many believed that had Queen Marika the Eternal not approached him with an offer of service, he would have united the Badlands under Clan Loux.”

Robert leaned in, intrigued by her tale. “What sort of man is this Hoarah Loux?”

“A great man, and a greater general. The day he set foot on the battlefield when he was naught by twelve years old, the Badlands knew his name. He believed that it is through strength that we find purpose, and because we possess strength, we must use it to better ourselves and others.” A fond look overcame the noble lady’s face, a smile slowly forming across her lips. “I took his ideals to heart. Although I was named a noblewoman, I have not forgotten the creed of my clan. To be born a Loux is to find purpose through strength. Such is our way of life.”

“Your house words,” Robert nodded in understanding. “Seems to be you’re living up to your words. I’ve heard nothing but great things from your people.”

On the way to Stormveil, both before and after they joined up with Nepheli, Robert and the retinue had a chance to speak with the smallfolk along the way. Jon asked for their opinions and thoughts of their liege lord, and each time, they spoke with glowing eyes and smiles. They remembered fearing life under Godrick the Grafted, fearing how he might one day come for them and their loved ones so they could partake in his twisted arts. Then he perished, and shortly afterward, Nepheli Loux succeeded him as heir of Limgrave. She laid low Godrick’s former servants, and worked to better the lives of her people, offering them warm food, kindness, and shelter. She event as far as to go hunting for game and make warm food for them.

Were he any other man in Westeros, any other noble, they would scoff and call her naïve. Robert, on the other hand, was reminded of himself in his younger years. The way he saw it, Nepheli was like the landed knight he once aspired to be, the dream he had before Jon convinced him to wear the crown.

He didn’t want to be king, nor did he wish to return to Storm’s End. It was his home and birthright, but he had few fond memories of that place, save for the days he spent with his beloved grandmother. Although she was Targaryen, Robert couldn’t bring himself to despise her. She was nothing like the mad fucker who killed his parents by sending them out to sea or that fucking prince who took Lyanna from him. The mere thought nearly sent him fuming, and only the fact he was in Nepheli and company’s presence kept his tongue and temper in check.

Whether by thinking of House Targaryen or listening to the minstrels and their ballad, Robert recalled one of the lyrics, and his face grew severe. “You have dragons here?”

“Aye, though they’re of a different breed than the ones you are familiar with,” Nepheli assured him. “There are two kinds of dragons here in the Lands Between. The most common are drakes. From what I’ve learned of your land and its wildlife, a drake is no different than a dragon, save that their wings are feathered. They’re also quite territorial,” she added with a twinking eye. “One such dragon has taken up residence in a lake to the south-east of here. Bandits who took to hiding out there discovered Agheel does not take kindly to unwanted guests.”

“And the second kind?”

“We call them Ancient Dragons. The name is warranted, as they’ve lived since before the Age of the Erdtree. I’m uncertain as to how long Ancient Dragons live, save that they are among the oldest of beasts to be found here. Early into Marika the Eternal’s reign, we were once at war with the dragons.”

That drew the attention of most of the table, or at least those closest to Nepheli and Robert. The archmaester in particular nearly flew out of his seat. “I beg your pardon, but did you just say you were at war with dragons?” he asked incredulously. “Do you mean to say these Ancient Dragons possess human-like intelligence?”

“They are capable of human speech and wielding magic.” Nepheli’s words shocked them into silence. “It was not unheard of for them to assume human-like forms so that they might commune with us.” A wry smile crossed her face, leaning slightly in her gilded chair while taking a sip from her goblet. “When you arrive in Leyndell to speak with the Great Council there, you will see the truth of my words. Granssax’s corpse still yet decorates the royal capital.”

“Did you win?” Robert couldn’t help but ask, his mind a whirlwind of jumbled thoughts.

“We made peace,” Nepheli answered. “Thanks to the efforts of Godwyn the Golden. It would not be inaccurate to say he was our Jaehaerys I. His kindness and empathy made him well beloved by the people, and many more believed he would succeed Queen Marika, even though he was not Empyrean.”

Robert was disappointed by her answer. More than that, he was anxious.

In his youth, he dreamed of riding dragons. It was a common dream shared amongst boys his age. Even Stannis dreamed of it before he got a stick up his ass. Such dreams were pointless since the age of dragons ended with Aegon the Dragonsbane, when the last dragon perished despite his best attempts to rekindle the Targaryen’s greatest legacy and weapon. In a roundabout way, the Dance of Dragons created an unexpected boon despite its bloody history; with the dragons dead and gone, no more than bones decorating the Red Keep, the Mad King and Rhaegar were as human and vulnerable as any other man. Without their dragons, House Targaryen was nothing special.

And yet…dragons yet lived. And if what Nepheli said was true, they were different than the ones they knew of. More powerful, dangerous.

Varys gave him semi-frequent reports of the exiled Targaryens. Viserys, the Mad King’s secondborn son and the self-proclaimed “rightful heir” of Westeros’ Iron Throne, was a vengeful little shit hellbent on reclaiming his birthright. By all accounts, he was shaping up to be yet another Mad King, perhaps worse. If Viserys learned that dragons yet lived in the Lands Between, Robert had little doubt that Viserys would try and claim one for himself. The age of dragons had seemingly come again, and it instilled a sense of dread Robert hadn’t felt since the early days of the rebellion years ago.

On the other hand, Nepheli claimed the dragons of the Lands Between were different, intelligent and capable of wielding magic. If they were, would they truly bow down to the whims of a whining child? One of Varys’ latest reports mentioned how the brat failed to earn the cooperation of the Golden Company, and while he was inclined to believe it was because they wanted to cheat the “Beggar King” out of his coin, Robert also believed it was because they were Blackfyre loyalists. They’d sooner support him than a Targaryen, and the chances of that happening were about as likely as the Hells freezing over.

The thought of Viserys being killed by a dragon was entertaining, but the possibility the Targaryens would reclaim their greatest weapon terrified him.

He came to the Lands Between in the hopes of forging long-lasting bonds, making trade routes and speaking the possibilities of cohabitation should his people seek greener pastures in the Lands Between. The revelation magic still thrived only enticed him further and created new opportunities, new possibilities to explore if he could get the septons to play ball. The dragons complicated things.

Could he really trust the Lands Between, if they knowingly consorted with them? Different or no, a dragon was a dragon. The records from both noble houses and the Citadel about the Dance was well-known to him. It was one of the bloodiest wars Westeros ever endured. How bloody would the next war be, if magic-wielding dragons descended upon them?

Was Jon right?

The minstrels continued to sing, unaware of the Westerosi king’s internal plight.

“Though graceless and exiled
We’re loyal the same
Return to roots through the
Worst of our pain when kings rise against
Have it writ on their grave
The olds gods were felled by a mortal unnamed”

“I am curious, Lady Loux,” Ned spoke up. “The bards, who do they sing of?”

Robert pulled himself from his thoughts, hoping the topic would distract him long enough to get his mind in order. Nepheli’s smile was wide and brimming.

“Only the greatest warrior to ever set foot in the Lands Between. A dear friend, one who I had the honor to fight beside. There were many aspirants who wished to claim the seat of Elden Lord, all with different designs for the Lands Between. Among the greatest were chieftain Hoarah Loux, once called Godfrey, our brave Lionhearted Consort of Queen Marika the Eternal. The Ever-Brilliant Goldmask, a fundamentalist and advocate for true understanding of the Greater Will and its Golden Order. The Loathsome Dung Eater, a vile and despicable cretin who wrought the worst sins since Shabriri. Fia, the Deathbed Companion who sought peace for Those Who Live In Death.”

“And yet…none claimed the throne, save one. A warrior without peer, hailing from the bloodsoaked Land of Reeds. A Tarnished of No Renown. Our Elden Lord, and Lunar Queen Ranni’s consort eternal.”

MELISANDRE

Unlike the majority of the retinue, Melisandre clung to the shadows and observed from afar, studying all that she could. She expected a great many things, but the past two days alone provided her with more than she dared believe. Excitement rushed through her, basking in the atmosphere.

There was no doubt about it. The air teemed with energy in a way she hadn’t felt in decades, centuries even. Not even the grandest of the Red Temples bore such ambience, such raw power. Even as she tapped into the barest minimum of her abilities and talents, she could feel her skin tingle alight. She could feel it, sense it. She never felt magic react in such a manner. It was almost as though it were alive.

Perhaps it was. When the voyage drew closer to the foreign land, she felt the stirring even from afar. The soft whispers, a tongue with no voice or song to accompany its silent words. Each hymn and verse sent chills down her spine. She could not remember the last time she felt her magic respond with such vigor. The feeling only intensified the closer they drew, and by the time they set foot on the Lands Between’s shores, the voiceless whispers became a chorus. She could feel it through her skin, seeping into the very marrow of her bones. She felt a tugging at the back of her mind, a pull she had not felt in so long.

When the festivities drew to a close and the retinue retired for the evening, Melisandre retreated to her room. As Stannis’ aid and representative, she was given a private suite to herself. The lodgings were perhaps a tad too opulent for her tastes, certainly grander than her room back at Dragonstone, but she ignored it in favor of the hearth. The mantle was carved from marble, neatly and carefully chiseled with runes etched onto the surface. She could not read them, but she felt the thrums of magic as she traced her fingers across the mantle’s surface. There was no better receptacle. In a place overflowing with energy, there was no doubt she would hear the Lord of Light’s voice and guidance. Providence drew her here, and she would have answers.

Firewood was already present in the room, likely in the event of a cold wintry night. Once the logs were set in place, Melisandre took two stones and struck them together. Whisps of magic flowed at her fingertips, coiling around the stones like snakes. Instead of sparks, a fan of orange flame spilled from between the clashing stones. The wood caught fire easily. Immediately, the pleasant scent of cone leaves and her temple’s incense filled her nostrils.

To bear the smells of what my heart craves most… I wonder, from what tree were these logs cut from, Melisandre wondered to herself before shaking her head.

She knelt before the hearth, bowing her head and clasping her hands in prayer. Ordinarily, a life was needed to receive blessings and commune with her god, but the Lands Between’s abundancy negated such requirements. Even now, she felt her lord gently brushing against her mind, asking for her presence, to answer her calls and pleas for further guidance.

“I beseech you, R’hllor,” the red priestess whispered, staring into the fire with rapt attention. Faintly, she saw images within the flame; the beginnings of a dream—a vision. “Show me the path. Show me what I must do to prepare the way for Azor Ahai.”

The flames crackled and danced in a way Melisandre had not seen in decades. Her mind grew raptured, her senses dulled, and her mind sank into the warm embrace of flaming light. She opened herself to her god, and R’hllor answered.

The dream came with such vividness that the priestess thought she was not in Stormveil Castle, but somewhere else. She stood amid a battlefield, the ground caked in mud and crimson. Bodies lay scattered about in a macabre display. Some were burnt into unrecognizable lumps of charred, black meat. Others were slaughtered without any mercy, their armor torn open by a wickedly sharp blade and impaled on silvery spears with a curved hook at the end. A few were in the process of burning, touched by pitch-black flames that instilled her with a sense of cold dread.

She saw the banners, and her heart faltered. She recognized some as the heraldy of noble houses. One banner was familiar, too familiar. It was tattered and being burnt to nothing by the dark flames, but even in its ruined state, Melisandre could never forget the banner and sigil of her faith.

“What…?”

A cold laugh, calm as tranquil waters, came from behind her. Melisandre whirled around, nearly tripping over herself, and saw a woman with otherworldly beauty and gloam eyes glowing ever so faintly.

“I see you.”

—Melisandre screamed, throwing herself as far away from the hearth as possible. Her heart hammered in her ears, pounding angrily against her chest to where she feared it may very well break free from her body. Sweat poured from her face like a great waterfall. Her chest heaved and caved in rapid succession. She watched as the orange flames were snuffed by its black counterpart, consuming it until there was naught but glowing embers and ash.

As the Red Priestess calmed herself, slowly regaining control of her breathing and her heart returning to its natural rhythm, she remembered the visage that stared back at her in those pitch black flames. The warning her lord issued with all due haste. The presence of a new enemy, one she knew nothing about.

The smiling face of the dusk-eyed woman would haunt her dreams for weeks to come.

JON SNOW

The thick silence of Winterfell was almost suffocating at night. Even the smallest sound could stir the dead.

Jon awoke not because of the silence, but because he felt something was wrong. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and his palms felt unnaturally hot. The greatest indicator was Ghost, the direwolf bearing his fangs and growling. Instinct took over, reaching for the worn-out practice blade sitting at his bedside as he climbed out of the bed. Slowly and carefully, he tiptoed his way to the door.

“Hello?” He spoke barely above a whisper, yet his voice rang above his own thumping heartbeats.

Ghost kept close to him, ears perked and head held high. The two advanced further into Winterfell’s halls, all while Jon strained his ears.

Something’s wrong… This doesn’t feel right.

It was not the silence that bothered him. It was the lack of wind. Even in a quiet night, he could hear the cool winds lapping against the stones and windows. Tonight, he heard none. The chill air common to the North, breaching even the warm halls of a keep as built as Winterfell, felt colder than normal. Each warm breath Jon took was as visible as a cloud in the blue sky.

Aimlessly, the bastard of Eddard Stark cautiously walked through the halls until he reached the eastern annex. Just as he reached a crossroad of halls, a sensation buzzed down his back. Then, ever so faintly, he heard it. The soft chinks and clanks of a suit of armor.

Right behind him.

Once more, instinct took over. He whirled on his heel, raising his sword, just in time to block a sword coming down on his head. Jon’s eyes widened, greeted by a horrid sight.

“Old gods preserve me, what are you?”

The thing in front of him could not be called human. It’s “face”, if it could be called that, was a mangled mess of horns sprouting from flesh. Beneath the mask of curved ivory and barbed horn, he saw snow-white skin, wrinkled and stretched so thin it ripped and exposed the bone beneath rotted sinews of flesh. It wore a twisted parody of armor, dulled and rusted with flakes of black. It towered over Jon by two heads, with a body more stock and built than an Umber.

Its ghastly form alone horrified Jon, but what made him tremble were the ghostly pale flames clinging to its form. With the creature so close, he expected to feel heat. Instead, he felt nothing. Not even a biting cold. It was as though the flames weren’t there.

Ghost snapped into action, barking and snarling as he leaped. He sank his jaws into the rusted bracer. Due to his small size and youth, his fangs found no purchase. The distraction was more than enough for Jon; the moment the foul creature turned its attention from him to the direwolf, he gathered his might and pushed, shoving the creature back as far as he could and going for a stab at its exposed neck.

It was when the creature seized his blade with its armored hand and crumpled it that Jon remembered with dread that his sword was not made of steel. It was a practice blade, made of hardy wood and capable of holding up against average metal. Against castle-forged steel, however, it fell woefully short. He watched with rapidly mounting horror as his sword, a treasured gift from Arya, shattered into splinters. The creature seized him by the throat, lifting him high into the air. Its black sword glittered in the dim lights of the hall.

For but a moment, Jon stared down death as it primed its blade, ready to claim him. He shut his eyes, little more than a sniffling child—

“Promise me,” the woman wearing Arya’s face said to a younger-looking Eddard Stark. “Promise me, Ned.”

Suddenly, Jon fell to the cobble floor, coughing and gasping for air. It took him a moment to realize someone was standing over him with a bloodied blade.

“T-Theon?”

“Who else?” The Greyjoy heir looked as though he escaped a fight for dear life. His clothes were stained crimson, flakes of blood dashed his face, and in hand was a sword bathed in dripping black ichor. Dimly, Jon was aware of a shivering Sansa right behind him. His senses came back in full when Theon offered him a gloved hand. “Get off your arse, bastard! We’ve no time to dawdle!”

Ghost barked in agreement.

“What the hells is going on?” Jon demanded. “Are we under attack?”

“Fuck if I know! One moment I’m asleep, the next I hear clashing steel right outside my door!” Theon cast a glare at the dead monster beside him. The ghostly flames that clung to its form were gone. “Bastards showed up out of nowhere, and I found a few dead guards on my way here. Picked up Sansa along the way.”

Cold dread seeped into Jon’s bones. “What about Arya and Lady Stark? Are they safe?”

“Where do you think I was goin’?” Theon spat angrily. “Grab that thing’s sword and come on!”

Jon didn’t hesitate. He walked over to the fresh corpse, briefly looking back at its horned face, and grabbed hold of its weapon. It was black with a red glittering diamond near the pointed end, the outline of the blade vaguely shaped like the steeple of a Sept.

He did not know where these creatures came from, or what that strange vision as it had him dead to rights was. All he knew, all he cared, was that Winterfell was under siege. Someone was trying to kill Lord Stark’s family. His half-siblings.

The bastard wolf of House Stark bared his fangs.

Over my dead body.

 
Helphen’s Steeple

 

Greatsword patterned after the black steeple of the Helphen, the lampwood which guides the dead of the spirit world.

The lamplight is similar to grace in appearance, only it is said that it can only be seen by those who met their death in battle.

Chapter Text

ARYA

Winterfell was in chaos. In the dead of night, in windless silence, a group of armed monstrosities appeared and begun slaughtering any sworn to House Stark, smallfolk and soldier alike.

Arya was sleepless when the attack came, sneakily wandering the halls with Nymeria in search of the pantry. An innocent that nearly saved her life, happening upon a soldier fighting for dear life against some horn-faced monstrosity clad in rusted black armor. The sight nearly terrified her, but not her faithful wolven companion. Nymeria leaped into action and assisted the guardsman; although her fangs could not break through the armor, her claws and size made it easy for her to force the monster on the backfoot and make it stumble. It gave the guardsman ample time to go on the counterattack and kill the damned thing.

It was not until they heard the warning bell being rung that they learned the full scope of the attack. This was no infiltration or assassination, but an invasion.

Someone was attacking Winterfell.

“Quickly, my lady! This way!” the guardsman yelled over his shoulder. Arya followed after him with her direwolf, a stray blade held in hand. Briefly, Arya wondered whether her mother and older sister would chastise her for being so unladlylike, but even she knew they would forgive her in such a trying time. Their lives were being threatened by an unknown force.

While she was not as deft with a blade as her elder brother and half-sibling, Arya was capable with a blade all the same. The difference between a practice blade made of hardy wood and one made of castle-forged steel, however, was apparent by how heavy the damned thing was.

Shouts and battle cries echoed throughout the once silent halls of the castle, the chorus so loud Arya could barely hear her own heartbeats.

The guardsman rounded the corner, vanishing from Arya’s sight. She caught up with him a moment later, only to stumble and shriek as a helmed head bounced at her feet. The guardsman’s face was slack with horror. His headless corpse fell a moment later, blood gushing from the stump on his neck. A horn-faced monster wreathed in ghostly pale flames wielding a bloodied sword with jagged edges stood over the corpse. A black eye stared down at her. Their eyes met, and Arya felt her heart stop.

She saw nothing but a vast black emptiness. There was no emotion reflected in that onyx eye. No sadistic pleasure from the act of killing, no grimace of begrudgingly following orders. It was the gaze of a lifeless corpse, dancing on strings.

The monster raised its blade. Nymeria growled, ready to pounce in defense. Arya was too frozen in fear to react.

“ARYA!”

A wave of sheer jubilation and relief flooded Arya, hearing the wrathful cry of her half-brother and the snarling howl of his runt of a direwolf. Ghost leaped at the horn-faced monster, biting and clawing at its deformed face. Nymeria joined him and latched onto the creature’s sword arm, preventing it from swinging its blade. The creature reached for Ghost, but found itself slain by Jon and Theon a moment later; the latter cut clean through the creature’s arm and send it flying to the ground while Jon drove a strange black sword through its chest.

The creature died on the spot, its flames sputtering into lightless sparks. Ghost and Nymeria released their fangs from the fresh corpse, returning to their respective owners.

The moment Jon turned to face her, his face battle-weary and marred by strange black ichor, Arya threw herself at him, burying her face in his stomach and wrapping her arms as tightly around his waist as possible. Jon stiffened for a moment before returning the gesture just as strongly.

“Thank the gods, you’re alright. When we found your room empty, I feared the worst.”

“’m fine,” Arya sniffled.

Jon gently pried her away from him. His face was taught with concern and worry. “Are you uninjured?”

“Y-yes. I was…” Her gaze lingered on the decapitated guard’s lifeless head. She could not bare to look at his horrified face. “O-one of the guards, he was protecting me when…” Arya took a deep breath, recalling Septa Mordane’s lessons. “Jon, what in the hells are these things? Are they demons?”

“Does it matter?” Theon snapped. “Whatever the hell they are, they’re here to kill us all.”

“They’re killing everyone, even the staff,” Jon said. He looked at her blade, then back at her. “Can you still bear arms?”

Arya remembered the moment she froze in terror moments ago. It was the most shameful, most unpleasant moment in her entire life. She would not freeze up again. She would not falter. She was Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden and Lord Paramount of the North. She was a wolf, and she would not cower before the enemy.

Jon saw the resolve reflected in her eyes, smiling encouraging for only a moment before it fell from his face. He turned back to Theon, the squid nodding back in unspoken agreement.

“We need to find our siblings and Lady Stark. With any luck, Ser Cassel should be with them.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s fucking go!”

No doubt Septa Mordane and her mother would have her tongue for speaking such profanity, yet Arya could not bring herself to care.

Not when her family was in danger.

CATELYN

“Stay close to me,” Rodrik Cassel told them. “Don’t wander ahead, understand?”

Sansa nodded fearfully. The poor girl, her darling daughter, clung to her like a lamprey and refused to part with her. It made Catelyn’s heart tremble in dismay, to see her eldest daughter so terrified. The sight of poor Mordane’s blood on her face was almost too much.

Before the warning bells were rung, Catelyn was adrift in blissful slumber when she heard the sound of combat outside her chambers. When she exited her chambers, she found the Master-at-Arms locked in combat against some devilish creature in ghostly flame and rusted black armor. The sight nearly made her faint as much as the creature’s weapon of choice. A black sword forged in the visage of a sept’s steeple and wreathed in pale flame, otherworldly and wicked.

Ser Rodrik triumphed, suffering only minor injuries thankfully, but that was just the beginning. The sounds of combat exploded across Winterfell, and when she heard the bells, Catelyn knew the worst came to pass. Ned’s fears came true; someone was attacking Winterfell while its lord was away, but it had not been the Karstarks or Boltons. Their attackers were literal devils from the seven hells, for what else could they be if not monsters meant to torment the living?

Ser Rodrik fulfilled his duty and then some, rallying whatever soldiers they came across on their way to her children and fighting against the invaders. When they found Sansa, her oldest daughter was taking shelter with the old septa. The old woman, stout of faith and ever the dutiful tutor and confidant, shielded Sansa from one of the demons. Catelyn watched as the old woman died on the spot, her blood splattered across Sansa’s face like a coat of paint. The sound of Sansa’s screams still echoed in her mind.

“The battlefield is no place for a woman,” she dimly recalled hearing once. She did not remember who spoke those words during Robert’s Rebellion when she wished to join Ned’s side and offer him whatever assistance she could, but she understood the truth of their words. She saw the bloodied and broken states of the brave men who fought against House Targaryen and the loyalists, some returning as corpses to be buried and others missing limbs and wrapped in bandages. Every time her father and older brother marched, she feared she would see them among them.

Catelyn hoped Sansa would never experience the horrors she did. The gods were cruel, it seemed, for they cared not for her wishes.

Is this my punishment, for breaking my promise?

Her chest tightened, and held Sansa closer to her as they marched through the halls toward Rickon’s bedroom. As they drew closer, they heard the sounds of combat and howls. Lady heard these sounds and howled in response, speeding past Ser Rodrik and his men. Catelyn realized what that meant, and her heart hammered with fear. Her sons were in danger.

“Hurry!” she yelled.

They quickly chased after Sansa’s direwolf, catching up just in time to see an unexpected sight.

“Get the hell away from my brother!”

Grating as it was to admit, Ned’s bastard took more after his Stark heritage than his mother, whoever she may have been. For but a brief moment, Catelyn swore she saw her lord husband from the days of the rebellion, his icy visage emblazoned with the fury of the gods themselves and brandishing one of the devil’s own blades against them. His runt of a direwolf fought alongside him as did Nymeria. Not far away was the Greyjoy heir, similarly locked in battle. To Catelyn’s fright, Arya was right beside him. She nearly screamed for her youngest daughter when she caught sight of Shaggydog knock one of the devil’s down to the floor and maul it furiously, slavering away at it with such wanton ferocity it nearly made her stomach churn.

When Ser Rodrik and his men joined the fight, the battle came to an end swiftly. There was no need for honor against horrid beasts. They attacked from all sides, slashing and stabbing at every exposed flank and weakness they could find. Within moments, the demons lay dead at their feet, and Catelyn was reunited with her children.

“Mommy!”

Catelyn cried in relief as Rickon jumped into her arms, no worse for wear and remarkably unscathed. As she had with Sansa, she held onto her son for dear life, afraid he would disappear in her very arms. She felt Arya join her, discarding her sword and holding onto her siblings in equal measure. The sight should have brought her joy, yet all she felt was a deep sorrow. Long had she wished to see Sansa and Arya approach each other like proper sisters should, and now she bore witness to it in a bittersweet manner marred by strife and the threat of death.

“Glad to see you boys took my lessons to heart,” Ser Rodrik said, giving the boys an approving nod. “Did you come across any of the guard on your way here?”

“We did,” Jon said wearily. “They…fared poorly. Caught unawares like the rest of us.”

The Master-at-Arms swore. Catelyn wondered how many soldiers died in defense of Winterfell and its occupants, and how many were faces she knew personally.

“What should we do, ser?”

“We fight to defend Winterfell,” the old man solemnly declared. “But I won’t call anyone here craven for wanting to leave. We make for the stables. Saddle the horses and take Lady Catelyn and her children as far away as possible.”

“And what if we can’t hold Winterfell?” Theon’s voice was strained. “Have you seen the size of these bastards and their swords? It’s a bloody miracle we’ve killed as many as we have as it is!”

“Winterfell can be rebuilt. Lives cannot.”

“Ser Cassel is right, Theon,” Jon said. “At the very least, Arya and the others have to escape.”

The Greyjoy heir didn’t respond. His face puckered and soured, conflicting emotions warring across his face before he grimaced, spitting out a curse before looking at Catelyn and her children.

His eyes narrowed and frowned, noticing something was amiss. “Hang on… Where’s Bran?”

Catelyn and her daughters froze. Horrible realization, and her blood turned cold as the North’s white-laden lands.

Through the thick sounds of battle and chaos happening across Winterfell, a young boy’s shriek pierced through the chaotic chorus.

Ned’s bastard was the first to react, racing past them all with a speed she did not think possible, Grey Wind and Ghost hot on his heels.

JON

Adrenaline and fear raced through Jon’s veins as he rushed toward the source of the shriek. The black sword felt heavy in his sweaty palms. All thoughts of the invaders fled the forefront of his mind in favor of finding Bran. Arya and Rickon were safe and sound, and Sansa was in Lady Catelyn’s care. Only the thirdborn son remained unaccounted for.

He did not come this far to lose a member of his family, and he would not fail. Not yet. Not now.

Grey Wind, the eldest and strongest of the litter, Robb’s faithful companion, led the charge. The direwolf easily navigated the winding halls of Winterfell and the Great Keep before they finally arrived at the Great Hall.

The once great hall decorated and marked with the banners of House Stark and its loyal vassals lay in disarray. Piles of ruin lay scattered about the hall, accompanying the countless bodies on the floor. Pools of red and black intermingled and stained the carpet leading to the steps of the high seat as well as the very stones. The horn-faced monsters and proud guardsmen of Winterfell decorated the great hall in macabre glory and honor while ghostly pale flames burned and ate away at the stonework and banners.

There, in the center of the bloody carnage, was a tear-faced Bran shielded by a growling Summer. The white and brown direwolf bared its fangs at Bran’s attacker.

Jon laid eyes on the armored man, and suddenly found the world disappearing around him. A familiar vision of colored flames and death stared back at him, heralded by a skull-themed visage and a black sword wreathed in the flames burning Winterfell to the ground. He blinked, and the world returned with dreadful realization.

It was just as Robb feared. The nightmares haunting him for weeks came to pass. The end of Winterfell had come, and the armored man heralded its demise.

Jon’s grip on his ill-gotten sword tightened. He barely acknowledged how the sword became alight with the same ghostly flames as the ones that burned all around him.

His voice echoed across the empty hall, speaking less like a bastard and more like a trueborn Stark. “Do not touch my brother, craven.”

Bran sobbed and stared at him in joyous relief. Summer saw its litter mates and barked happily, all while keeping its glare pinned to the armored man, who turned to face him.

He looked exactly as he did in the haunting visions. Vile armor marked with jagged cuts and spikes, emblemed with bone motifs that could not possibly have been made by human hands. A jet-black sword as long as an Umber’s arm sat in his hand, its blade thin and coiled by that dreadful ghostly flame. A helm bearing a golden skull for a visor and visage stared back at Jon. Even at a distance, he could see pitch black eyes devoid of life and emotions.

The armored man turned away from Bran, no longer concerned with the Stark boy and his direwolf. His full attention was directed at him now.

“A man of House Stark?” Jon frowned. The man spoke in the Westerosi tongue of old, a language once spoken in the North before the common Andal language replaced it. His voice was gravely and rasp as if he were a foot in the grave. “How fitting a treacherous dog should offer himself to my pyre.”

Jon’s expression turned severe and wary. From the man’s words alone, he would assume him to be a Targaryen loyalist, for who else but a follower of the fallen house should speak to one of House Baratheon’s most ardent allies would refer to House Stark with such venom and vitriol? And yet, he felt there was more to his words.

“Lay down your arms and surrender.”

The armored man scoffed. “Impudent welp. An emperor kneels to no one.”

Emperor?

“You stand before the Dread Lord, Valmar of the Tylth. Offer yourself, boy, and become the foundation for the restoration of my empire.”

Jon did not understand his words, nor did he care to. “I refuse.”

Valmar stared at him for but a moment before raising his baleful blade in challenge. “On your head be it.”

The direwolves heard enough of his words. Grey Wind, Ghost, and Summer all charged at Valmar and lunged at him with claws and fangs. With naught but a sweep of his arm and a wing of crescent flame, the so-called Dread Lord threw them aside as though they were nothing. Jon cried out in alarm, shouting for his wolven companions and their siblings before he found himself raising his blade in defense. Without warning nor sound, Valmar was upon him and grinding his sword against his. Clashing pale flames breathed around them, as if responding to their respective wielders’ wishes and desires.

“Jon!” Bran yelled.

The bastard of Winterfell gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of his opponent’s sword as it bade him to lower his sword and die. He resisted and pushed back with all the strength he could muster. “Get out of here, Bran!” he shouted at his younger half-brother. “Go find Lady Stark and Ser Cassel!”

“But what about you?!”

“Just go, damn you!”

His attention on Bran quickly shifted back to Valmar, who suddenly seized him by the throat and threw him across the great hall. Jon’s body rolled through the floor before coming to a halt. He quickly climbed back on his feet and assumed a combat stance, just as Valmar began to walk toward him at a measured pace. His posture was lax and confident, as if assured in his victory. His strength carried such feelings well, and for a brief moment, Jon’s mind grew clouded with doubt.

He steeled resolve, and glared back at his enemy and would-be killer. Even if he died here, he would ensure his family’s safety.

With Valmar’s attention squarely on him, Bran reluctantly made his escape. His direwolf Summer gave Jon a parting glance, as if telling him to win, before following after its master. Instead of fleeing with their sibling, Ghost and Grey Wind stood their ground and joined him, standing side by side.

“Thank you,” he whispered to his wolfen companions.

And so began a clash of steel.

The first strike was Jon’s. Valmar was already in motion when he struck, the steeple blade clashing against the Dread Lord’s own. The strike was to gauge and test, delivered with a measured amount of force, enough for Jon to easily slide out of the bladelock and sidestep into his foe’s blindspot. He swung upwards, aiming for the arm. His blow struck true, yet to his frustration and dismay, his sword bounced off the metal. Valmar retaliated with an elbow strike, the jagged spike just barely missing Jon’s face as he hastily stepped back to evade. He raised his sword in time to block his foe’s counterstrike, keeping the grip of his sword firm and tight. The blow nearly knocked it out of his hands.

Grey Wind and Ghost charged at Valmar from his flanks, the larger and oldest of the direwolves going for the invader’s stronger side while the runt went for the leg. Even if their fangs and claws could find no purchase, they would at least hold him in place long enough for Winterfell’s bastard to deliver a fatal wound or injury. They underestimated the Dread Lord’s strength, however; Valmar easily caught Grey Wind by the throat, keeping its fangs and claws at bay while paying Ghost no mind. Fearful, Jon aimed for Valmar’s sword arm and the gap in his armor, hoping to cut flesh and stop him from hurting his companions.

His blade struck true. The steeple’s edge and pale flame cut through flesh, spilling black ichor from the Dread Lord’s arm. Valmar growled, almost inhumanly so, as he tossed Grey Wind aside and kicked Ghost away from him, knocking the runt of the litter to the floor. He shrugged off Jon’s blade, uncaring of his bleeding wound, and conjured a “wing” of ghostly flames.

Jon quickly jumped back, barely avoiding the unnatural flames. A stray sputter flicked across his cheek and felt all warmth drain from his face, as if someone dunked him in a pail of frigid water.

I must not let those flames touch me, Jon realized, not wishing to understand what would happen if the flames made full contact.

Another wave of flame came hurtling toward him, swung in a wide arc from Valmar’s blade that fell like a crashing wave. He threw himself to the ground, curling and rolling to evade the fire before quickly climbing back up to his feet. Valmar was already upon him, swinging his sword down upon his head, quickly followed by a series of rapid slashes. Jon’s arms trembled and shook each time their blades clashed. It took all the strength he had to endure, to keep hold of his sword.

Gritting his teeth, he drove his foot against Valmar’s chest and pushed. His armored foe barely moved. Worse, he grabbed Jon’s leg by the ankle, and in a show of strength far beyond any mortal man, threw him over his shoulder and down onto the cold stonework floor. An explosion of pain erupted across his back, the bones rattling on impact. For a moment, Jon felt the world around him flicker and fade out of focus, just barely cognizant to see Valmar over him, wielding a handful of that cold flame.

Biting out a curse, Jon rolled away, barely avoiding the falling hand. The fire thrashed wildly against the floor, shattering stone like a hammer. Back on his feet, Jon quickly moved to counter while the opportunity stood before him. Valmar’s neck was exposed for but a moment. All it would take is a single slash.

The strike came too late. Jon’s sword clashed against helm rather than exposed flesh, the blade bouncing off the armor. Valmar’s sword retaliated in kind, slashing through his tunic and flesh.

Jon screamed through clenched teeth as terrible, excruciating pain sank into the wound. He could not feel the warmth of his blood. Instead, he felt cold. Terribly cold, as though he stood naked amid the worst wintry storms the North could muster. So great was it he found himself forced to a knee. His arms were as heavy as stones.

The bastard felt Valmar’s passionless glare as he made his way toward his weakened prey. Jon attempted to rise to his feet, muster strength for a final assault, but his body refused to obey. The dreadful chill continued to spread through his body.

Angry snarls and barks came from ahead. Jon’s eyes widened when he saw Ghost rise up on shaky legs, limping, but charging at Valmar.

“No, stop!” he shouted in vain. He knew from his direwolf’s vengeful glare it would not stop.

It jumped into the air and lunged for Valmar, maw wide…

“No!”

…and a black sword wreathed in flame pierced its body, holding it in the air. Ghost’s snarls turned to painful mewls. Almost callous cruel, Valmar did not so much as pull the direwolf off his blade as he had kicked it off, throwing its bleeding carcus to the floor.

Jon felt a new pain, far greater than the bleeding wound on his chest. With it carried a heat so warm it burned. A primal scream tore at his throat, his strength returning in a mad frenzy. He shot to his feet and swung his sword with no thought or reason, technique and precision forgotten in favor of white-hot rage.

The first blow took Valmar off guard. The ghostly flames clinging to the steeple blade burned hotter than before, enough to give Jon’s ill-gotten blade enough power to bite into the Dread Lord’s foul armor; not enough to pierce flesh, but enough to damage. The second strike drew blood as he again managed to cut into Valmar’s arm when he attempted to defend himself, the gauntlets slightly thinner than his cuirass. The third blow was met by Valmar’s blade. The fourth was blocked and parried, Jon’s swing diverted upwards.

And the bastard of Winterfell felt an ice-cold blade sink into his chest.

“Rejoice, boy. Your death shall be a sacrifice; the resurrection of my empire. Let your grave herald my reclamation of Westeros.”

Valmar tore his sword from Jon’s body. He fell to the ground, every ounce of strength drained and unable to move. His vision flickered and blackened, the world growing unfocused with every passing second. A dreadful cold seeped into the marrow of his bones and the sinews of his flesh. Jon felt his breath grow strained. He could hardly breath.

The Dread Lord stared blankly at his soon-to-be-dead body before walking away, fit to leave his fallen foe to bleed out on the floor while the room burned and crumbled around him.

Jon felt something nuzzle against him, barely hearing a wolf’s whines. It sounded so far away.

His eyes drooped as the darkness encroaching him grew thicker. Soon, he could not keep his eyes open any longer.

The dark embraced him.

Jon Snow took his final breaths, and finally…

Chapter Text

MAESTER’S WRITINGS

A collection of papers written by a maester from the Citadel, supposedly a colleague of Archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure both despised by his colleagues for pursuing matters deemed forbidden and lauded for his contributions in understanding the Lands Between’s culture and history.

The papers went through numerous revisions and rewrites. They were only published after extensive peer review from the Conclave and approval from the Seneschal.

            “The Lands Between, like our own Westeros, is no stranger to conflict. Queen Marika the Eternal’s reign was marked by one brutal war and crusade after another, only ending when she bore no rivals to challenge her or the House of the Erdtree. Although the history of the Lands Between lies largely incomplete before Marika’s ascension to godhood, the earliest years of her reign are cohesive. In fact, Queen Marika the Eternal’s first challenge came not from uniting the Lands Between under the Erdtree, but from one who also could be proclaimed a god.

            You must understand that Marika was not born a god, nor did she possess godly heritage. Indeed, what little Archmaester Forrester pieced together implies she was naught but an ordinary woman, but one who was chosen to become a greater god’s champion and representative. The Greater Will, an entity and patron of the House of the Erdtree, the source from which all incantations of faith originate and the very being who the Golden Order’s fundamentalism seeks to understand, sent forth a creature referred to as the “Mother of Fingers”. This creature, on behalf of the Greater Will, chose Marika to champion the Greater Will and create the foundation of a new order. Through the Mother of Fingers’ guidance, Marika ascended as a god, but reputedly below the Greater Will in terms of rank and power. Indeed, by all accounts, Queen Marika ruled as regent and lord, but never as a divine lord. Such is the implication and meaning behind the status of an Empyrean; one chosen by the Fingers to lead the Lands Between.

            Marika was not the only Empyrean, however. There’d been another claimant. The identity of this challenger is unknown, save for her title: The Gloam-Eyed Queen. She challenged Marika’s right to rule, but more than that, she sought to make the god queen bleed. Although little is known about the Gloam-Eyed Queen herself, there are too many horrific details describing her followers, the Godskin Cult. Even as I put the Archmaester’s findings to this page, I hesitate to write the atrocities I now transcribe. Never before have I heard of such barbarity, to hunt down those with divine blood and flay their flesh as some sort of trophy. For what reason the Godskin Cult engaged in such horrific practices, no one knows. All any knew for certain was that the Gloam-Eyed Queen sought war with Marika. And it was war she received.

            The battle between the fledgling god queen and her counterpart is said to have lasted a hundred years, recorded by the Great House of Hoslow’s scribes as “The War of the Empyreans”. Despite boasting the power of an impressive army, the majority of it personally trained and under the command of Elden Lord Godfrey, the Godskin Cult somehow fought on equal footing and slew many of Queen Marika’s children, stripping them bare of their flesh and parading it around as new garments. Several sources mention how the Godskin Cult wielded magic flames as black as the night sky.

            According to Golden Order fundamentalists, this magic is known as the Blackflame, a type of arcane fire derived from the Rune of Death, or Destined Death, which Queen Marika sealed away to provide her people with a form of immortality. It is believed the Rune of Death originated from the Gloam-Eyed Queen, and it was only after her defeat that it was sealed. In doing so, the Godskin Cult lost their greatest weapon, and before long, they were broken before the House of the Erdtree’s might. This was made possible thanks to the loyal shadowbound beast gifted to Queen Marika after her ascension as a god. The stories surrounding Maliketh, the Black Blade, deserve special mention, if only for the sheer amount of destruction he left in his wake during Queen Marika’s campaign in the War of the Empyreans. She trusted no one with the sealed Rune of Death, save for the one she affectionately called her loyal brother.

            It was never explicitly stated what happened to the Gloam-Eyed Queen, as there is no mention of her fate beyond that Queen Marika emerged victorious in their climactic battle at Mt. Gelmir nearly a thousand years ago. The fate of her Godskin Cult is more explicit; with their leader gone, the cult quickly fell apart and into disarray. Although records state they are still present in the Lands Between, they are scattered about and seldom found, having gone into hiding. Only recently have they undergone some sort of resurgence, though whether they aim to challenge Marika’s successor, Lunar Queen Ranni, remains to be seen.

ADDENDUM: A few short weeks after this writing, there are rumors of a group matching the Godskin Cult’s description on Essos. The reports paint a grim picture, as it seems they’ve now taken to pointing their stitchers and peelers to mortal men…”

FADED JOURNAL

A diary penned by an unnamed mortal from the Lands Between. Its bindings are worn, and the pages are on the verge of falling apart, yet great care was taken to put ink on them. It was a treasured gift from whoever owned it.

            “The more I learn the truth about the Godskin Cult and Marika, the more I question the purpose of the Empyrean. The Gloam-Eyed Queen and her counterpart, described as sisters by that Count, seemed forever fated to be at odds with one another until only one remained. At first, I thought it was simply because Marika would suffer no rivals. She and she alone would bear the Elden Ring and create a new Order. Now? Now, I ponder whether she fought her counterpart as a form of mercy.

            The Count’s willingness to part with some of his more personal tomes came as a surprise, but it’s proven rather useful. Particularly where matters of the lampwood are concerned. Any time I think of that odd blade bathed in ghostflame, I cannot help but question the nature of the lampwood. For what purpose does it serve, beyond to guide lost souls who fell in battle? Is it not our fate to one day return to the Erdtree, or was there more to death even before Maliketh sequestered Destined Death within his Black Blade?

            My curiosity about the Land of the Pale is not mine alone, thankfully. Ranni seems eager to learn more about it as well. Once my business in the Land of Shadow is concluded, I will return to Mt. Gelmir. With any luck, Rya will be willing to lend me some of Tannith’s more personal effects…”

            The rest of the page is smeared and ineligible.

TATTERED SCROLL

A parchment from the archives of Manus Metyr, and one of Count Ymir’s most prized possessions. It bears the seal of Destined Death.

            “Before Destined Death and the Twinbird offered finality, the faithless and the lost were doomed to wander the Land of the Pale, where departed souls roam in endless pursuit of the guiding lampwood. No matter how far one goes, they will never reach the tree. Before long, the lost souls burdened by guilt will become dark reflections of their former selves.”

Chapter Text

Exactly what it says on the tin. Been debating this for a while, but I've decided to say "screw it" and go right ahead with it. I'll be hosting a similar AMA on Sufficient Velocity as well.

A few things before we start off. First, I will not be answering questions that veer into spoiler territory. I can answer some things, like what the next two arcs will be about and who will be the focus characters, but that's it. Secondly, there will be no discussion of pairings or lewd topics. I'm aware both are important in ASOIAF, but I'm not quite comfortable talking about that, much less writing it.

That, and I know better than to bring up pairings. Wars have been waged over who's better suited with who, and I am not going down that route.

EDIT: The AMA is now closed! Huge thanks to everyone who participated.

Chapter Text

“The fallen leaves, tell a story…

Of the Promised Lord without a Throne. A lord who may never have existed.

 

In that forsaken land, beyond the blessed realm of gold enshrouded by fog, the Lands Between…

 

An old tale, lost to the annals of history, forgotten by even the lorekeepers bleeding blackest blood…

 

The cardinal sin has wrought unseen change to the Pale Lands, and the Age of Stars stirs ghosts long forgotten…

 

Can you not feel it? The death march? The death chill despising all with warm blood in their veins? The end approaches, and the night looms over the horizon…

 

And yet…the starlit night wakes those yearning for the dawn…

 

The crestfallen drake warrior…

The blighted, forsaken Tarnished…

The gloam-eyed traveler…

The twin-faced saint…

 

And one other, who wakes in the Pale Lands… A prince yet to be, born both dragon and wolf…

 

Go, ye nightwalkers… Travel the realm beneath the lampwood…

And bring forth a new dawn…”

JON SNOW

“…well, I’ll be damned. I wasn’t mistaking things!”

Jon groaned, slowly opening his eyes and expecting to see the hells. Instead, he found himself looking up at a foreign sky. It was not a starry night sky or a clear blue sky. It was not even cloudy. Rather, the colors were muted; pale, lifeless, and gray.

A helmed visage hovered over him, squinty eyes peering down at him through the visor. “You’re really awake,” the man observed. “And here I thought I’d gone and nursed a corpse.”

Were it not for how his body ached and he could barely move, Jon’s instincts would have taken over. Instead, he mustered a glare at the armored man. He could not recognize the make, nor find any symbols or heraldry that would imply who he served. He was a hedge knight at best. He saw no weapons on the knight’s person, but that did not mean he was in any danger.

“Who…” He immediately regretted speaking. His throat was soar and raw, his mouth dry as a desert.

“Whoa, hey! Take it easy…” The knight pulled away from his field of vision. Jon heard him rummaging through something, a pack maybe, when he suddenly returned with a leather flask in his hand. Carefully, gently almost, the knight pulled Jon to where he was sitting up and brought the flask to his mouth. “Here. Drink slowly. Small sips.”

Something cool and sweet spilled into his mouth. The taste reminded him of wine, but more tolerable. He did as the knight instructed, drinking the liquid in small intakes. As he drank more, he felt the aching pain slowly subside. His body felt warm, like being bathed in the sun’s rays in summer.

Once he drank half of what was in the flask, the knight pulled it away from his lips. “There, good. Should be right as rain in a while, give or take,”

With his mind clear and unburdened, Jon finally took a moment to look at his surroundings. It was not the throne room of Winterfell he was in, but a ruin. The whole room was in shambles, ceiling and walls torn down and reduced to shattered rubble. Tapestries were unrecognizable, torn and ripped to shreds and barely recognizable tatters. Ruined banners of House Stark. Stranger and more disturbing were the black roots pushing through the stone and spreading through the area, crawling up the walls, and wrapping around broken pillars. Disturbing still was the rotten gold light pulsating from within the bark of the roots.

Where the hells am I?

“Have to say, you gave me a right scare!” the knight laughed, ignorant of his charge’s growing confusion. “Just bloody showed up out of nowhere. Practically landed on top of me, too. Have to say, you’re lucky. You were bleeding all over the place.”

“Where…” Jon licked his lips. “Where am I?”

“You mean, this place?” The knight glanced around the shambled ruin. “Er, not sure. To be honest, I’ve just been wandering from place to place since I woke up. I don’t pay much attention, I just…go wherever the wind takes me. Well, if there was a wind.”

Jon didn’t understand what the knight meant, not until he realized he couldn’t feel anything. Not the freezing cold, the northern winds, nothing. Nothing at all.

“Oh, right. I forgot to introduce myself,” the knight laughed. He unfastened the belts holding his helm in place and removed it. A middle-aged man with a bald head and a kind smile looked back at him. “I’m Lapp. Nice to meet you, friend.”

“…Jon Snow,” Jon said after a moment. “A pleasure. And…thank you. For saving my life.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

“If I may ask, Ser Lapp, are you perhaps a hedge knight? Or do you serve a lord?”

Lapp chuckled awkwardly. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.” Jon raised an eyebrow, prompting Lapp to explain. “I’ve been in the Pale Land for so long, I barely remember anything about myself. I think I served a noblewoman at some point, but I can scarcely remember her name and face. Tanith, I think she’s called.”

Jon furrowed his brow. He knew no noble who bore the name “Tanith”. More troubling was what Lapp called this place.

The North has been called by many names, some kind and others unflattering, but I’ve never heard it referred to as the Pale Land… Or, perhaps…

He looked up at the muted gray sky.

Perhaps this is not the North… But, if that is the case, why is there a banner bearing the sigil of House Stark here?

More questions piled with each passing moment, and too few answers to make sense of them.

…in any case, he was alive. If he still breathed, then there was only one recourse; gather information, get his bearings, and return to his half-siblings and Lady Catelyn. With any luck, Bran managed to escape with the others and—

AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The air trembled, and the ground quaked as a howl, too monstrous to belong to a wolf and too inhuman to belong to a man, echoed in the distance. Jon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, goosebumps running across his arms. Instinct took hold as he reached for the closest weapon he could find, the sword he claimed from the horned assailant that nearly killed him during the attack. He nearly leaped to his feet, only stumbling when his side began to throb.

Lapp looked warily at the direction from where the bestial howl came. “Oh dear, that sounded closer than last time…” The knight grimaced and shook his head. “I should have heeded that fellow’s warning and steered clear of this place.”

“What was that?” Jon asked. “That was no wolf. It sounded…monstrous.”

“The Dire King,” the knight answered gravely. “He rules these ruins and slaughters any who dare trespass. I saw many corpses on my way here, mauled and ripped apart as if killed by a rabid dog.”

Another monstrous howl echoed, bouncing off the walls and all around them. The sound grated on Jon’s nerves, as if the so-called Dire King was a hair’s width away.

“Perhaps it’s best if we simply wait for it to leave,” Lapp suggested nervously. “It goes out on hunts, so perhaps then we can… H-hey, where are you going?!”

“I’m sorry, Ser Lapp,” Jon said. He genuinely meant it, too. The knight nursed him back to health, gave him a second chance. For that, he was forever in his debt. Yet even so, he could not stay. He did not have the luxury to wait around. Not when the Starks were still in danger. He needed to get back to them. He needed to know they were safe. He needed to know whether Ghost…

He took a deep breath, then glanced down at himself. His garb was in ruins, and his tunic was worn and damaged. He would have to replace it at some point. Only the black sword was his most trustworthy weapon.

“I cannot afford to wait.”

Jon ignored Lapp’s cries and pleas and shouldered on, walking past the archway and down into the dilapidated, ruined hall before him.

Jon grossly underestimated the state of whatever keep he was in. He thought the damage was self-contained, but it was more extensive than he realized. Piles of debris and rubble blocked several halls and rooms, passageways impeded by thick trunks of those warped black roots with glowing rotten gold scars. Some rooms were in shambles, furniture overturned and decorations demolished. A portrait of a family of four was slashed and clawed until it was unrecognizable.

He was almost certain that the keep was a holding of House Stark at some point, as he found more tapestries and heraldry belonging to the noble house.

It also hadn’t taken long for Jon to realize it was not only the so-called “Dire King” who was a threat. Others inhabited the keep, men clad in thick wools of clothing with armored helms wielding axes, swords, and spears. Some bore capes bearing the insignia of House Stark.

They were not friendly.

Jon did not know what madness possessed them to attack him. The moment they laid eyes on him, they brought their weapons to bare and rushed at him, howling with murderous rage. Their eyes disturbed him the most. They were without iris and pupil, completely blank with black ichor dripping from the corners of their eyes like tears.

“Cease at once!” Jon shouted to no avail. “I am not your enemy!”

They did not heed his words. He half-believed they were incapable of hearing him, lost in whatever madness took hold of them. They did not fight like men, but rather like berserkers; without thought or reason, mindlessly swinging their weapons like flails. Few if any displayed intelligence, or at least enough wits to demonstrate proficiency with their weapon. Although it made culling them easy, it left a sour taste in Jon’s mouth. Furthermore, he was starting to question whether he was still alive.

The corpses did not remain dead. Rather, their forms grew translucent and dissipated into colorless motes, twinkling brightly like stars before fading out of existence.

“Where the devil am I?” Jon asked himself.

He had half a mind to double back and ask Lapp where in Westeros they were. The only reason he didn’t was because he could no longer recall which direction he came from. The keep’s halls were winding and twisting, and it was difficult to navigate while remembering which passages were blocked off by debris and roots.

Jon looked down at his sword, carefully holding it by the handle. The black blade was alight with the pale-colored flame. He discovered how to set it ablaze during an earlier skirmish, just as Winterfell’s assailants had, and while it proved useful in fighting the keep’s crazed inhabitants, he couldn’t help but feel wary. Never before had he seen such fire, nor did know fire could burn so coldly. Even holding his hand near the flames made it feel as though it drained him of warmth.

What sort of weapon is this, and more importantly, who were those men who attacked Winterfell? Jon thought. Valmar of the Tylth… Dread lord… Reclamation…

None of the titles sounded familiar, and he couldn’t be certain whether Valmar was a Targaryen loyalist. Perhaps he was affiliated with them, especially since he identified House Stark as “traitors”, but that raised more questions in his mind.

He would find no answers here, however. He needed to know where he was first, and get a proper lay of the land.

Jon tugged on his fur cloak and pushed ahead, delving deeper into the keep. His footsteps echoed loudly across the stonemasonry. Without the sounds of the wind, the noises echoing around him sounded louder than normal. A sense of dread settled in the air like an ill omen. The black sword sat heavily in his hand.

He reached the end of the hall, entering what looked to be the entrance to another grand room. Another hall stared across from him, while to his left was a staircase leading to a set of double doors made of wood and metal. Carved into the wood were the sigils of House Stark, though he noted the inscriptions written beneath the wolf’s head. He frowned, stepping toward the door to get a closer look.

“What language is this…?” He did not recognize the letters. While he was far from a stellar student, even Jon recognized Valyrian. The inscriptions were most assuredly not Valyrian. He sorely wished he had a paper and charcoal on him so as to write the inscriptions down for study. For now, he ignored them but did his best to memorize the writings before pushing open the doors.

The wood creaked and groaned as the shifted, the clouds of dust indicating it’d been a great many years since someone entered. Appearing before Jon was what appeared to be a reception hall, ruined and in disrepair as the rest of the keep. Shattered remains of tables laid scattered on the floor, broken pews jutting up like pillars and imbedded in the ground or walls. Stained glass windows lined the walls, depicting various scenes, mostly those of warriors fighting alongside giant wolves and battling ghoulish creatures.

One section of the wood stood collapsed, giving Jon his first glimpse of the world beyond the walls of the keep. He approached and stared out at the horizon.

He gasped. “What in the hells…?”

In the distance stood a great tree, so tall and towering it could be seen for miles. Its branches, mangled and twisted around each other, reached toward the muted sky like great claws. What made it such a bizarre sight was that the tree was translucent and shimmering, like a mirage in the desert.

Strangely, Jon felt as if he’d seen such a tree before, but for the life of him, he could not remember where.

AWOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Jon felt his heart stop, spinning so quickly on his heel he nearly tripped and fell over himself. The bestial howl was close, so dangerously close. Worse, he felt the keep shaking under his feet as something thrashed around nearby. The ceiling shook and trembled, dust falling with each quake.

When the cracks started forming, the bastard threw himself as far as he could. At that moment, the ceiling collapsed and gave way, falling apart and spilling down onto the floor. Groaning, Jon rose to his feet, eyes stinging and throat burning from the smoke and dust. He rapidly blinked, trying to see through the murky cloud and discern the source, the beast who called itself king. That was when he heard it.

The growling.

Slowly, he made out a shape. Twice as tall as a Greatjon, standing on all fours, and a wild mane reaching all the way to the floor. The dust cleared and revealed the Dire King in full; it was an honest-to-Old Gods wolfman. A beast clad in ruined armor, half-burnt and fused into melted scarred flesh. Its mane was a straw-like mess of tangles and messy braids half-woven into each other, creating an unruly matted mess. Half the beast’s face was burnt, still scorching with flickers of green embers. A red and green eye glared at Jon with utter malevolence and madness. In its hand was a sword as big as he was, a greatsword of tinted-blue steel with a serrated edge.

Disturbingly, the sword reminded Jon of Ice, House Stark’s ancestral Valyrian sword.

The Dire King bared its mangled teeth at Jon, growling before it rose on its haunches and howled.

“AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

THE DIRE KING, RULER OF THE PALE FROSTLANDS

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!”

The Dire King let loose a furious roar, lunging at Jon with its greatsword high as if to slam it down atop him. He rolled and dodged, the sword slamming into the ground next to him. He scrambled to his feet, gripping his ill-gotten sword with both hands and setting it ablaze with its pale flame. He knew not whether his sword would strike true, only that he had to try. He had to fight. The alternative was death.

He swung at one of the exposed patches of flesh, the blade cutting into the scarred hide. He felt the sword sink and cut, but whatever joy he had was short-lived as the Dire King, either ignorant to the pain or uncaring, leaped away and, in a surprising move of acrobatics, swiped at him mid-air. The length of the greatsword cut deep into the ground. Jon gritted his teeth as he held his sword in front of him and moved away, blocking as much of the flying debris as possible. A few jagged pieces of rocks flew past his face and sliced open his cheek. When the Dire King landed, it wasted no time in going back on the offense, this time swinging its sword at an angle.

“Shit!”

Jon barely dodged out of the way, the greatsword slamming upon the ground like a warhammer. The floor shuddered and cracked, debris and chunks flying through the air. With a swiftness that was impossible for something of its size, the Dire King struck again, vauling over its own blade and spinning around for a sweeping strike. Jon’s eyes widened in panic, raising his sword in a futile attempt to defend. Predictably, the force and power driving such a gigantic weapon proved too much against an ordinary human. Although he managed to maintain his grip, Jon found himself flung across the room and into a wall.

Pain exploded across his backside. His vision flickered, flickering lights flashing in his vision. He found it difficult to breath, much less stand.

If I hadn’t blocked that attack… Gods old and new, what the hells is this monstrosity?!

Panic and fear seized him. Adrenaline forced him back to his feet, his grip tightening. The Dire King roared and launched itself, lunging forward and thrusting its sword in his direction. Jon evaded, the sword flying past him, and he retaliated with a swift strike across the beast’s abdomen. It was a shallow cut, barely sinking into the wolfman’s flesh. For the first time, the beast clenched its free hand and raised it above its head, intending to smash Jon into the floor. He saw the danger and jumped out of the way, avoiding the fist as it slammed into the ground.

Once more, he felt the earth beneath his feet, shudder, and the floor further cracked apart.

Gritting his teeth, Jon mustered his strength and chargd, belting out a war cry that would shame a Baratheon. A reckless charge driven by desperation, but one that gave him the strength to dodge another sweep of the greatsword to get in close, grip his flaming sword tight, and drove it as deep into the Dire King’s exposed stomach as he could. Black ichor spewed across his form, some splattering across his face and into his mouth. The vile, rancid taste nearly caused his stomach to upturn and threaten to climb up his throat to greet him.

The Dire King cried out in pain, its howls stricken in grief before it snarled in indignation. Jon pulled his sword out and attempted to retreat, only for the wolfman to seize him in its iron grip. It held him up to its face as if to look him in the eye. So close, he could feel its breath, as frigid and cold as the worst wintry storms and as foul-smelling as a rotten corpse left to burn in the sun. Its maddened eye glared at him with seething hatred. It squeezed, and Jon whimpered. He clenched his jaw and clamped his mouth shut, refusing to scream. He would not give the beast satisfaction.

As it continued to squeeze the life out of him, the creature’s eye suddenly changed. For but a fleeting moment, its wrath was gone. It looked upon him in confusion.

Then—

“EEEEEEDDAAAAAAAAARD…”

Jon wheezed. It knows father?! How—

Its grip loosened for a brief moment, then squeezed tighter. The pain was too much. Jon screamed, feeling his bones shuddering and threatening to break. Wrath again shrouded the Dire King’s mind, and with a ear-piercing howl, slammed Jon down into the floor.

The ground shuddered and bent alongside Jon’s body. Callously and rudely, the Dire King threw him and he bounced off the ground like a ragdoll, groaning and lying on the ground in pain, his sword lying not far from him.

It…hurts…

Jon tried to get up. He tried, but his body refused to obey. A twitch was enough to make him whimper and cry. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. He saw the Dire King stalk toward him, its blade held aloft in preparation for the final blow. He could do nothing but watch as his death approached.

Father…Robb…everyone… I’m…sorry…

The Dire King bared its fangs and readied to end the bastard’s life. It took a final step forward…

…and the ground finally gave way.

Jon felt the floor beneath him shudder and groan before it fell apart. He slid forward, flailing in vain to stop his fall. In his panic, he tried to grab one of the exposed black roots. His fingers grazed the bark, unable to find purchase.

And so he fell. Down into the black abyss…

…for the second time today, death eluded Jon Snow.

“Nnrgh…”

His body groaned and throbbed and ached in ways he never knew possible. His limbs felt as heavy as stone, and the dim light above hurt his eyes. He could barely see anything amid the misty darkness surrounding him. He heard various sounds, echoes and such, but they sounded so far away.

His mind was adrift, threatened and overwhelmed by the pain consuming his body. He could not form a single coherent thought, only focusing on the parts of his body that didn’t hurt. He could twitch his fingers and shift his toes, even managing to curl his right hand into a fist, but the rest…

How…am I…alive…?

Truthfully, Jon felt the need to question if he was alive at this point. The sights of the realm he’d seen thus far, the ghostly tree, the maddened denizens of the keep, and even the Dire King… There was no way such things could possibly exist in Westeros, much less anywhere else. They defied reason. The only recourse, the only logical explanation, was that this was not the land of the living. This was one of the hells. It had to be. Why else was he tormented with such nightmares?

He wanted to laugh.

So, this is…my reward…for all my efforts…

Bitterness gnawed at his chest. Frustration swelled.

“…it’s not fair…”

He worked tirelessly to prove himself to his father, to make something of himself and prove to others he was not a burden. More than anything, he wanted to repay his lord father for taking him in at the cost of his honor and relationship with Lady Catelyn. He did everything he possibly could, endured the silent insults and seething glares of Lord Stark’s lady wife, even risking his own life to save her children, his half-siblings…and this was his reward? This was what he earned? A life of torment? To lay at the bottom of a dark pit, left to rot for the rest of his days?!

Tears spilled down his cheeks. Sobs echoed through the pit he landed in.

Suddenly, a new noise echoed in his ears. Sloshing water. Something moving, drawing closer. He strained his ears, trying to find the source. He strained his neck, forcing himself through the pain to sit up, barely enough to get proper bearings. He was in a cave of some sort, rocks surrounding him on all sides with an open path directly in front of him. He could barely see, the dim light of the hole above barely providing any lamination, but he could see a figure approaching through the shadows. A figure wielding an ax.

A rueful chuckle escaped Jon as the figure drew closer. It was one of the maddened denizens, clad in armor with the sigil of House Stark adorned on its cloak.

“Killed by my own house,” he mused. “Funny…”

He had not the strength to defend himself. Instead, he waited as the figure approached, glaring as he raised his ax high.

He should have been happy, he supposed, to die at the hands of another fellow of House Stark.

And yet, for the third time, death refused to claim him.

Jon gasped when a blade pierced the man’s chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly. There was no blood coating the blade, and even in the dim light, Jon could see how the sword glittered and shined. The blade’s owner yanked the sword out from its sheathe and rudely kicked the corpse. He landed beside Jon, lifeless eyes staring back as he slowly faded from existence.

The bastard stared at the translucent corpse, then at his apparent savior. He was tall, not quite the height of a Greatjon but taller than the average man, garbed in a pitch-black tattered cloak covering every inch of his form. Beneath the cloak, Jon could barely make out a set of gilded golden armor. He looked at the blade, a pristine cloud-white sword of unusual make. He had never seen a sword whose blade was shaped like a spiral. He looked back at its owner, who approached him with a hurried step.

“Are you alright?” his savior asked.

He pulled back his hood, giving Jon a clear view of his face. He looked ten years his senior with a handsome face, smirched by a festering black infection that seemed to writhe across the left side of his face. His eyes were that of a dull gold, enveloped by a midnight blue ring surrounding the iris. Pale white hair cascaded down his shoulders, with well-knotted braids circling the back of his head and down the sides of his temples.

Jon slowly nodded, still staring at the ugly mark.

“Can you stand?” The stranger offered him a hand. Jon looked at it for a moment, then carefully clasped it with his own. The stranger easily pulled him to his feet, then held him steady when he threatened to fall. “Careful, now. I’ve got you.”

“Who…” Jon swallowed. “Who are you?”

The stranger smiled tiredly. “I am…Godwyn,” he said. “Godwyn the Tarnished. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

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Chapter Text

JON SNOW

“What is this?” Jon jostled the glass flask around in his hand. The vibrant cherry-red liquids sloshed and swirled, the color seeming to shift shades every few seconds. It was fascinating; he never knew of such a concoction, much less one that glowed.

“’tis a flask of crimson tears,” Godwyn told him. “A rejuvenation potion capable of healing even the most grievous of wounds.” He paused, then chuckled awkwardly. “Well, barring severed limbs, I’m afraid.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at the man, then at the flask. He was hesitant to drink something so foreign at a stranger’s behest, but he knew there was nothing to lose. At worst, he would die.

Assuming I am not already dead, he reminded himself with a grimace. He stared at the flask a moment longer before sighing in defeat. He uncorked the top and brought the lip to his mouth, tilting it back and letting the liquid slide into his mouth and down his throat, quickly gulping it out of fear of a rancid taste like the potions Maester Luwin brewed whenever one of the Stark children fell ill. His fears were ill-founded; the crimson tear tasted wonderful, an explosion of flavor that tingled the tongue in all the right ways. Incredibly, he already felt its effects in moments. The horrible pain he suffered was gone, reduced to a minor ache. He pulled the flask away from his mouth and rolled his arm, feeling little discomfort.

“Incredible…” he marveled. “Did you brew this yourself?”

Godwyn shook his head. “The flasks are common in the Lands Between. The crimson tears is brewed using the sap harvested from the erdtree and its lesser cousins.”

“You hail from the Lands Between?” Jon was surprised. The land seemingly appeared out of nowhere months ago, and to the best of his knowledge, the foreign realm made no attempt to contact Westeros. Rather, it’d been Westeros who made the first move.

“Aye. Though if you ask about matters involving myself, I’m afraid I can give you few answers. I remember scarcely little of my past.” Godwyn looked rather troubled by his admission, his brow marred by creases. “I know I have a family, but I can neither recall their names nor faces. The only thing I remember is a name. Fortissax. Beyond that, however, my past is a blank canvas.”

“I see… I am sorry to hear that, Godwyn.”

“It is of no matter. I shall find answers to my past, one way or another.” Godwyn smiled, this one dimmer than the last. It was obvious he was burdened by his missing past more than he cared to admit. Jon wisely chose not to press on the matter any further. He would have to question Godwyn about the Lands Between if the opportunity presented itself, though. Such knowledge would surely be a boon for those who had yet to venture to the foreign land. “But, that is enough about me. Tell me, Jon, how did you wind up all the way down here? From the looks of it, you had quite a drop.”

Jon laughed mirthlessly. “That is one way to put it.”

He recounted his experiences thus far to Godwyn, sparing little detail. How he awoke here in the care of a knight named Lapp after being grievously injured by Valmar of the Tylth, and in his haste to reunite with his family, he recklessly charged his way through the keep and fought the Dire King, for all the good it did him. He made it a point to make Godwyn understand he fared poorly in his challenge to the wolfman, even lambasting his foolishness.

“I shouldn’t have rushed in blindly. I should have heeded Ser Lapp’s warnings. Instead, I ran headfirst into danger like a thrice-damned fool.”

“You were desperate. No man can fault you for that,” Godwyn shook his head. His tone was gentle, not at all scolding or harsh. Ser Cassel would have had Jon raked over the coals for his foolishness. Oddly, the imagery got a wry smile out of the dour-faced bastard. “And now you know better. A lesson learned.”

Jon sighed. “And yet no closer to leaving this godsdamned place.”

Godwyn nodded. “Indeed not. The Dire King blocks the way, and now that he has your scent, he will likely chase you down until he’s certain you are dead.” He gestured to the cave around them. “The caves are vast, but they offer no escape, I’m afraid. They lead back into the keep, and rife with hessians.”

“Hessians?”

“You’ve seen them before. The wandering lost souls.” Jon knew what Godwyn spoke of. The maddened denizens of the keep with no life in their eyes. “Before, they were men. Now they are anything but. There is no reason left in their minds, only wanton bloodlust and hate for those around them.”

“Like the Others,” Jon murmured. Among Old Nan’s tales were the old legends of the North, chief among them being the stories of the Long Night. That was all they were, though, and he hoped they would remain as such. He did not fancy the idea of facing down a horde of living corpses, much less otherworldly beings who passionately despised the living.

“In any event, the Dire King remains the greatest obstacle,” Godwyn continued. “If we are to leave the keep, we must slay it. A head-on assault is ill-advised, so instead, we must ambush it. Take it unawares and cripple it.”

“And how, exactly, do you suppose we do that? It is nimble and fast, nevermind the size of a troll.”

“As I said, unawares. And a bit of planning.” He stood up, dusting off the clinging debris from his cloak. ‘For now, I suggest we leave this place. Assuming you wish for my company.”

“…forgive me for my skepticism, sir Godwyn.”

Truthfully, Jon was torn. On the one hand, Godwyn seemed like a kind man and offered him a helping hand when there was no reason to. On the other hand, he was a stranger. Trusting him was the same as taking a risk, but he also knew he would have a better chance at surviving if he had someone to watch his back. The best way to determine such things was to see how Godwyn fared with his sword.

For now, he would place his trust in his savior, and hope it would not earn him a stab in the back…

Godwyn could use magic.

The maddened cravens, “hessians” Jon now knew them as, wandered the ancient tunnels as they did the keep above. They fared little better than their allies in the keep, though Jon was forced to keep in mind that he had to fight in a confined space with little room to swing his sword. He learned that lesson well when his sword caught on the ceiling, snagged by some jagged rocks and nearly left defenseless when a hessian attempted to bereft him of his head. It was only thanks to Godwyn’s intervention he still breathed.

It'd been a sight to behold, to be sure. A parry that saw the hessian’s ax go flying, a sword swing strong enough to throw a man halfway across the tunnel, and the counterattack capped by a spear of yellow-black lightning. It sailed and screeched, lighting the dark passageways like a bonfire before exploding on impact, destroying a chunk of the hessian’s torso.

“What’s the matter?” Godwyn asked as he recovered. “Close your mouth, you’ll let a fly in.”

“You can wield magic?!”

The records of magic were scarcely recorded. Although the arcane arts were acknowledged by the Citadel, the maesters were skeptical men by nature and scrutinized every so-called miracle, even those performed back when dragons still roamed the sky. Bearing witness to what could only be called magic for himself, Jon would argue the maesters would have no choice but to acknowledge what Godwyn did as a true miracle. There was no way anyone could possibly conjure a spear of thunder in their hand.

Godwyn laughed at the sight of Jon’s incredulous expression. “Is that what you Westerosi call Incantations? If so, then yes, that was magic.”

“I…” Jon swallowed. “I heard rumors how magic thrived in the Lands Between, but it is another thing to see it for myself…”

“Does Westeros not possess magic?”

“No. Magic died with the last dragon over a hundred years ago.”

Godwyn paused mid-step. He turned and stared at Jon with large eyes. “The last dragon?”

Why is he so surprised? Everyone knows…

Jon stopped, then internally cursed at himself. Of course Godwyn wouldn’t know! He was from the Lands Between. Still, his reaction was curious. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, or maybe…

“The Targaryens, the former rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, were famed for their control over dragons,” he explained. “It’s how they brought nearly all of Westeros under their banner. The number of times ordinary men managed to fell a dragon can be counted on one hand alone. With their power, House Targaryen’s authority was unquestioned until the Dance of Dragons. It was a civil war that saw nearly all of House Targaryen destroyed, with nearly all dragons killed. Some disappeared, but they’ve not been seen nor heard from in over two centuries. Aegon the Unlucky was the last Targaryen king to see the birth of a new dragon, but it was so frail and sickly, it died not long afterward. There hasn’t been a dragon in Westeros since, much less anywhere else in the world.”

Godwyn stared at Jon for moments. The silence was tense, the air uncomfortable. Invisible weights sat on Jon’s shoulders. After what felt like hours, Godwyn turned away, his face etched in a myriad of expressions the bastard couldn’t quite make out. “I…see…” His brow deepened, as if in contemplation. Jon was ignorant to whatever thoughts his companion had, but wisely chose to leave him be.

The two continued onward, delving further into the tunnels ahead. They eventually reached a fork in the road, with two paths split evenly; one to the left, the other to the right. It was a coin toss to decide which path to travel. They chose the left path.

It proved to be the wrong choice.

Upon reaching the end of the path, finding only jagged rocks blocking the way, Jon felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Ever so faintly, he heard the echoing sound of a beast’s growl. It was not the same growl as the Dire King, being less intense and loud, but the sound was inhuman all the same.

“Behind you!” Godwyn’s warning spurned Jon to pivot on his heel, swinging his sword around just in time to block a strike from a club caked in ice. He stared at his attacker; another hessian, but far more bestial than the others. Whereas the others bore the faces of men, this one looked similar to the Dire King, clad in fur with an elongated snout, jagged teeth, and wild frenzied eyes. It wore battered leather armor, arrows sticking out from its backside and one half-broken shaft still lodged on the side of its neck.

The beast roared in his face and pushed against him. Jon gritted his teeth, mustered his strength, and kicked the beast away. Within moments, he set himself upon it and went on the assault, swinging his sword while mindful of the narrow spaces. He clung to the sides of the passageway, carefully positioning his arms and swinging them to ensure the blade would not be caught on the rocks. The bestial hessian blocked the first strike, but the second saw it stumble back. He seized the advantage and drove his sword hilt-deep into its stomach. The beast groaned weakly, the light fading from its eyes as it fell to its knees. Jon grunted and pulled the sword out of its body, kicking it to the floor where it began to fade and dissipate into flickering motes of colorless light.

“Are you alright?” Godwyn asked in concern.

Jon nodded slowly, panting. He winced from the dull aching pain, but he’d slowly grown used to it. His body was on the way to recovery. With any luck, he would be in perfect condition to fight the Dire King. That said, he was deeply troubled.

“That hessian… It looked different from the others,” he told Godwyn. “I noticed it also lacked the sigil of House Stark.”

Godwyn narrowed his eyes at the fading corpse, studying its armor before it could vanish fully. “Your heraldry is that of a wolf, yes?” Jon nodded. “Strange… The others bore the image of your house, but this one did not. Perhaps this one is not from the keep.”

“Why is this one different from the others?”

“It is not so strange,” Godwyn shrugged, much to his bafflement. “Lost souls lose themselves in many ways.”

That makes no sense, Jon thought. He wanted to press his companion for more details, but thought better of it. There would be time to talk more after they dealt with the eminent threat of the Dire King.

With any luck, their second bout would end differently than the first.

The right path was the correct one, just as they expected. That said…

“Awfully convenient there was a ladder at the end of the path,” Jon couldn’t help but note as he helped Godwyn out of the hole.

“Are you really going to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“No, but I question who chose to build a ladder leading to a cavern they haven’t converted.”

Then again, this damn place makes little sense. If this truly is the hells, I dare not ask which one it is…

At any rate, they were in the decrepit keep once more. The ladder led them outside, once more giving Jon a clear view of the world outside the keep’s walls. He saw the ghostly tree in the distance, standing sentinel as if watching over all within its view…

“By the gods…” Jon gasped. What else could he say before the sight in front of him?

Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but ice and those awful black roots, curled and snared around everything they could touch. He saw buildings in the distance, towns and castles, all tainted by the elements. The roots speared through walls and erupted out from the ceilings, wrapping and warping around all within its embrace. The buildings left untouched by the roots were stricken with ice, thicker than anything he’d seen before. The sights stretched on for miles, all the way to the furthest reaches, where overturned mountains and twisted peaks warped around the region like a shell.

Further out, past ruined civilization, were the black roots, far larger and greater than those before. They twisted around each other like serpents, coiling around towering structures. At a second glance, Jon realized they were not towers, but trees. They were all dead, the life squeezed out of them and left to rot as gray limping husks, supported by the very roots that suffocated them. Even the branches, the thinnest and most fragile parts, were not spared.

“What…is all this?”

“I do not know,” Godwyn said. “The black roots were already here when I awakened in this forsaken place. Whatever they are, they are not part of the lampwood.”

Jon turned to him. “Lampwood?”

The pale-haired man pointed to the ghostly tree. “Do you see that great tree there, in the distance? That is the lampwood. Just as the Erdtree is the foundation for all life under the Golden Order, the lampwood is the guiding light for all wayward souls. It is said that whoever reaches the base of the lampwood will find eternal rest, and never again know the pain and suffering that haunted them throughout their lives. And yet…”

Godwyn smiled sadly. “And yet… No matter how far one travels, the lampwood remains out of reach. Perhaps it denies us, or perhaps it tests us, to see who deserves eternal rest. Or perhaps…”

Suddenly, Godwyn lurched forward, erupting into a violent coughing fit that nearly saw him thrown to the ground. Immediately, Jon was at his side, holding him upright as Godwyn clamped a hand over his mouth in a futile attempt to stop the fit. Each cough made Jon wince and fearful. Such sounds belonged to a man on his death bed.

A few minutes later, the coughing subsided, yet Jon was not relieved. Black fluids seeped between his fingers. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, thin strands laced with rotting gold stretched between his palm and his lips.

“F-forgive me,” Godwyn rasped, wiping the fluids away with his sleeve. “It’s been some time since this happened…”

“Godwyn… What exactly is wrong with you? That black fluid…”

“My blood.”

Jon gaped at him. Godwyn smiled ruefully and explained. “It’s been this way since I woke up in this place. My blood is pitch black with rotten gold. Why that is, I know not. The explanation I have is that it’s related to this.” He traced his fingers across the writhing black mark on the left side of his face. “I know not where it came from, save that it perhaps has something to do with the Black Knives.”

“The Black Knives?”

“They are…an old order. Their existence is well-known, for they are the loyal shadowblades of the queen. It is by her order that their knives silence any and all who dare threaten the Golden Order. Their reputation is second only to the Black Blade.”

The names meant nothing to Jon, yet he remembered them all the same. Questions to ask another time.

“The last I recall before I awoke here was feeling the Black Knives carve their blades into my back. I remember the flames clasped around them, so dark…” Godwyn’s smile was strained, and his shoulders trembled. He was seeing something, reliving a moment from his past. A moment that scarred him irreparably. “You cannot possibly imagine it, Jon Snow… The blackness, the suffocating shadows that threaten to swallow you whole. Moments of nothingness that drag on endlessly, as if lasting for an eternity… Moments where nothing you do matters, when all you can do is pray you feel something. Anything to make you remember you are alive…”

“Godwyn…”

The pale-haired man closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled. The trembling ceased. When he opened his eyes again, he appeared calmer, more himself. He offered the bastard an apologetic smile as he steadied himself, gently prying Jon’s hands away from him. “Forgive me. I am better now. And…thank you. For listening to me. There are so few souls here willing to listen to a doddering fool like me.”

Jon said nothing, but returned Godwyn’s thanks with an appreciative nod. He was greatly disturbed by what Godwyn revealed to him. Or rather, he was disturbed by how easily Godwyn would reveal such things to a boy he’s barely met. It only occurred to him then that he knew nothing of Godwyn beyond what he shared.

How long have you traveled this place, to have only the wind as your company?

Jon pitied Godwyn. A lonely existence that reminded him of what he could have been, had his lord father not taken him in.

No sooner had the pair found a way back inside the keep were they accosted. A group of hessians literally came stumbling out of the corner, weapons bared and ready for battle. By now, Jon was accustomed to the sight and wasted no time in charging ahead, Godwyn following quickly behind him. Strange as it sounded, the pair quickly fell into a routine within the battlefield, a rotation in which one would strike and the other would follow up with an attack of their own. When the enemy retaliated, they bolstered their defenses, supporting and watching each other’s backs.

A hessian wielding a spear attempted to impale Jon upon its pointy edge. He responded by slamming his foot down on its shaft mid-thrust, forcing it down to the stone and lopping off the hessian’s head with a single stroke of the blade. Behind him roared the sound of clapping thunder, Godwyn swinging lightning as though it were a glaive. The hessians before him died as quickly as they appeared. Six dared to face them. Three were cut down in moments.

The last of them came rushing at them blindly. Jon side-stepped around the one nearest to him, easily evading the swinging ax and cutting him down with two well-time slashes, each trailed by pale flames. Godwyn dealt with the remaining two with a surprising flourish, his sword practically gliding through the air. Despite its length, the sword seemed easy to swing. Godwyn’s own movements resembled a dancer than a swordsman. With practiced movements, refined from years of battle, Godwyn easily cut down the remaining two hessians. They barely had any time to react or raise their weapons in defense.

There was no time to celebrate victory, however. The Dire King’s howling seemed to draw ever closer the further in they went. Jon saw no familiar landmarks, as they were in another part of the keep, somewhere beyond the blocked off halls. Godwyn suggested they explore in search of supplies, all while advising caution should the Dire King come barreling through the halls to hunt them down. They found scarcely little, with meager scraps at best and shoddy equipment at worst. At best, Jon found a weathered cuirass to replace his tunic and a decent pair of metal gauntlets.

There was one other thing of note during their search. A portrait half-torn and ripped to shreds. Most of the upper half was destroyed, and the lower half barely intact. Painted onto the canvas was a family of six; the father and two of his children were destroyed, leaving only the youngest and the mother. The mother and daughter looked like older versions of Sansa and Arya respectively, the former with a beatific smile full of warmth while the daughter had a mischievous smile. The brother looked like Bran with Stark coloring.

Jon frowned. “I swear, I’ve seen this portrait before…”

“Jon,” Godwyn called out from beyond the door. “I found the stairs.”

He looked at the painting a moment longer, his gaze fixated on the daughter, before reluctantly leaving the room.

“AWOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

Jon stiffened. “He’s close…”

“Aye,” Godwyn agreed warily. “Come, this way.” He ushered Jon up the spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. There was a tense silence as they walked up the stairs, suffocating almost to the point of deafening. It unnerved Jon how he heard neither the wind nor the stones’ groaning aches as a great and mighty beast trudged through its halls. The longer he persisted in this place, the more wrong it felt. By now, he questioned whether he was in the hells or someplace else, someplace worse.

He did not want to entertain such thoughts. They scared him more than the Dire King did.

The stairwell led them up to the second floor. At a glance, the encompassing halls fared little better than what little of the keep Jon saw. Torn-down walls, piles of debris blocking off hallway passages, and rooms thrashed beyond repair. The only silver lining was the diminishing appearance of the black roots. They were still present, but he saw less of them compared to on the first floor.

The tension was high as the pair carefully walked down what halls weren’t damaged or blocked off. There was no sign of the hessians, yet they heard sounds coming from below and around them. Sounds of violence and rage, of furious howls and destruction.

“Why is the Dire King attacking its allies?” Jon questioned. “If it’s a hessian like the others…”

Godwyn shook his head. “Unless I miss my guess, the Dire King was driven to madness far more than any hessian here. Even if it is a soldier of House Stark, it doesn’t…” He stopped, frowned, then held up a clenched fist. “Hold.”

Jon stopped. There was nothing up ahead, but he heard the sounds. A battle was being waged nearby. The two shared a pensive look, the older gesturing the bastard to follow while crouched. Slowly, carefully, as if sneaking about like catspaws, the two approached a nearby doorway. Godwyn gently pushed the door open, allowing the two step out onto what looked to be a balcony. Down below was a large open room, similar to the reception hall Jon fought the Dire King in. Were he to guess, he assumed it was a ballroom. He saw demolished tables, rotten and splintered into pieces, some embedded in the table, pews broken into nothing, and a large feast table at the far back, crumpled and half-cracked against the fireplace. In the center of it all was the Dire King, holding a hessian clad in armor in its grasp. It struggled and thrashed in its grasp, but the Dire King refused to let go. Instead, it opened its maw and brought the hessian up to its mouth.

Jon turned away as the Dire King clamped its jaws shut. Godwyn grimaced, barely tolerating the disgusting sight.

The Dire King tossed the hessian’s corpse to the ground as one would when tossing a piece of trash It let out another howl, either out of triumph or to announce its intent to hunt down the others.

Godwyn stared at the wolfman with narrowed eyes. Jon could see the gears in his head turning and the way his eyes lit up. A plan was forming in his mind. Slowly, he stood up and brandished his sword. Jon realized what his companion intended to do and reached out to stop him. “Wait!”

He grasped naught but air. Godwyn had leaped down and landed firmly on his haunches, the ground shuddering and cracking upon his descent. The Dire King stiffened, slowly turning to face its newest challenger. The pale man stood across from the wolfman, staring it down with his sword at his side. He grabbed at his cloak and threw it aside, revealing his gilded armor in full; weathered and rusted throughout the ages, its golden luster long faded, but more immaculate and prestigious than any armor Jon ever laid eyes on.

“I am Godwyn! Warrior!” The air seemed to quake at his war cry. “Come and face me, foul beast!”

Jon did not know if Godwyn was brave or a demented madman.

If his plan was to provoke and send the Dire King into a fury, it worked wonders. The Dire King roared back in defiance and wasted no time in lunging toward its opponent with its blade raised high and brought down with a slam. Godwyn dodged it easily, falling into a roll and just as quickly climbing up to his feet right as the Dire King pulled back his sword. Seizing the opportunity, Godwyn casted an Incantation and conjured forth his black-and-yellow thunderous glaive, swinging it twice at the Dire King’s exposed side. The blows struck true, hitting the burnt and worn-out armor and visibly causing the wolfman to recoil. It snarled and countered by jumping over Godwyn and swinging its blade mid-air, just as it had done to Jon before.

Once more, Godwyn rolled out of the way. He did so again when the Dire King went in for another attack, dragging its sword across the ground as it swiped at him twice. It followed up by jumping into the air and bringing its sword straight down, as if intending to impale him.

Godwyn jumped back, evading the attack with ease. He couldn’t defend against the shockwave that came after as it knocked him off his feet and sent him halfway across the ballroom. He was back on his feet quickly enough, in time to counter the Dire King’s next assault. He braced himself, glared at the wolfman, and—

“What in the name of…?!”

Jon was realizing that Incantations were perhaps something more than simple magic. He witnessed his companion create bolts of thunder or create a glaive of lightning seemingly from thin air, and he watched him throw fireballs and rings of light that cut through the enemy like finely-honed blades. What he saw was far above that. Godwyn did not create a weapon of thunder, throw flames from his hands, or send out a ring of light.

No, he summoned the head of a dragon.

It was not a transformation or shapeshifting of any kind. The dragon’s head hovered above Godwyn’s own, the bottom of the neck was transparent and vanishing just as it reached his shoulders. The dragon differed from the illustrations he’d seen in Luwin’s tomes; it bore some of the hallmarks; an elongated snout with jagged crests on its brow, curved sharp fangs lining its mouth, and leathery skin armored by thick bony protrusions. That was where the similarities ended; the scales and leathery skin were dyed ink-black, throbbing golden veins etched into the left side of its face, and crimson thunder sparking across its horns.

With a mighty bellow, a resounding roar that drowned out the Dire King’s own howls, the dragon head spat out a flurry of thunder from its maw. The spewing electricity washed over the Dire King completely, bathing it in red arcs. Whether because of a high pain tolerance or simply being driven by rage, it powered through the electric breath and lunged at Godwyn, thrusting its sword straight at him. The Incantation was dispelled at the last second, his sword raised just in time to block the oncoming attack. The force of the blow sent him flying again, this time into the wall at the far end of the ballroom.

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!”

The Dire King roared and charged, swinging its greatsword about as if it weighed nothing. Godwyn recovered in time to roll under the Dire King, evading the oncoming assault, though the wolfman refused to let up. It continued to swing its sword about in a wild frenzy, forcing the warrior to dodge and roll for his life. When it ceased its assault, the Dire King skidded to a halt while dragging its greatsword into the ground to slow its retreat. Godwyn had room to breathe, and once more conjured the head of a dragon. In response, the Dire King opened its maw. Jon saw the air around the wolfman grow cold, frost forming across its burnt fur and armor. The moment Godwyn unleashed another breath of crimson thunder, the Dire King countered with a breath attack of its own; a wave of pure frost, exploding into giant icicles that charged to meet the thunder head on.

The two attacks collided and clashed, raging against each other for but a brief moment. Steam exploded and swallowed the ballroom.

Jon couldn’t see anything happening down below. He heard the sounds of battle, of bestial and draconic roars, but he couldn’t make out anything within the steam fog. Occasionally, he would see flashes of red and black and gold thunder or feel the temperature of the ballroom drop further and further, faintly seeing ice spewing up from the steam cloud.

He’s able to fight that thing to a standstill, Jon thought bitterly. Anger burned hotly in his chest. And yet here I am, sitting around like some craven…

The sound of battle raged on for several minutes before the steam cloud finally began to dissipate. Jon saw the state of the ballroom and paled, noting the sheer level of destruction on display. The ground was ripped apart and scarred, either by giant spires of ice or burnt by thunder. Even the walls hadn’t been spared. What little decorations adorned the ballroom were now obliterated.

Then he saw Godwyn and the Dire King, and paled.

Godwyn was kneeling, using his own sword to support him. The black liquid tinged gold spilled down the side of his face and ran down his body. The Dire King was covered in wounds, yet somehow it stood proudly. Most of its body was now burnt by the thunderous magic Godwyn had sent its way throughout the battle, Black ichor dripped from the gaping wound on the left side of its body.

Godwyn was panting, visibly exhausted. He had a familiar glass flask in his hand. To Jon’s horror, the flask was broken, and its crimson tears dripping down to the cold stone below.

“Oh no…”

The Dire Wolf growled. It sounded pained and weakened. It was putting on a show, Jon realized. It was badly wounded, but out of stubborn pride, it refused to show weakness. Just as a true Stark would. It readied its greatsword, ready to deliver the fatal blow. The moment Godwyn was dead, Jon knew he was next. Perhaps he stood a chance at defeating the beast, but he knew better. He would die. The only option was to cut his losses and leave.

And that would mean leaving Godwyn to his fate.

Jon Snow was many things. A loathsome bastard, a stain upon his father’s honor…

…but he was no craven.

Jon took a deep breath. His grip on the black sword grew tight as a vice. He stood up, and with foolish bravado, leaped off the balcony’s edge. He had but one chance. One chance to make a difference. One chance to save his companion’s life. One chance to turn this around.

The Helphen’s Steeple, as if responding to its wielder’s desire, was set ablaze in its ghostly pale flame.

The blade sunk hilt deep into the Dire King’s neck. Jon cursed, having intended to aim for the beast’s head, yet his surprise attack yielded results all the same. The wolfman howled and roared, violently thrashing about. Its free hand clawed and reached to grab him, and the violent shaking nearly threw Jon off more than once. It was only out of stubbornness that he maintained his grip, grabbing hold of both his sword and what scant hairs remained on the Dire King’s flesh. He bared his teeth, taking hold of his sword, and pulled.

He felt the sword cut through flesh, the flames easily searing through the resistant meat. He dragged his sword, still hilt-deep and buried, further down the Dire King’s neck. Its foul blood spurted across the side of his body. He paid little heed to it or the Dire King’s roaring. With a final yank, he removed himself from the wolfman and landed directly below it. Behind him, the Dire King stumbled and coughed, its claw clamped on the bleeding wound on its neck. It fell down to a knee.

Jon seized his chance almost immediately. A wolfish roar tore at his throat as he charged at the Dire King and drove the black sword as deep into the beast’s face as he could, stabbing it through the eye and into its skull.

The air went deathly still. For a moment, Jon felt something change.

“…EDD…ARD…”

The Dire King murmured his father’s name with its last breath, before its body was taken by the pale flames. It consumed its face, then began to spread until it was no more than a beast wreathed in unnatural flames. Jon pulled the sword out, only to find that whatever strength propelled him to act had left him. The sword slipped out of his grasp, and he fell on his back, grimacing.

“…it would seem I owe you thanks now,” Godwyn called out as he approached. Jon saw him limping, and a pang of guilt stung him deep. Had he acted sooner, if he chose to fight alongside Godwyn instead of waiting at the last moment, would his companion have suffered as he did now? “Are you alright?”

“…tired,” Jon replied honestly. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and rest. It was wrong, how comfortable the cold stone beneath him felt. “And you…?”

Godwyn smiled. “No worse for ear.”

“…I am sorry. If I had acted sooner…”

“It is fine, Jon. Cowardice is nothing to be ashamed of. You should only be condemned if you elect to remain a coward. You performed admirably. Given enough time…” Godwyn’s smile grew just a tad. “You would’ve made a fine Tarnished.”

Jon wanted to ask what he meant by that, but kept his tongue in check. It was yet another question to ask him. He grunted as he pulled himself upright. With the Dire King dead, they could now find a way out of the keep.

After that…

A glow out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. There, by the still-burning remains of the Dire King, floating above the ground, was a coalescence of glowing, vibrant mist. It changed shape constantly, even appearing solid at some points, only to lose focus and return to being some shapeless mass. Stranger still were the whispers. He could hear voices coming from it.

“A remembrance,” Godwyn explained, seeing his tense expression. The fact he regarded it so blasely meant it was not anything dangerous. “I didn’t think they would appear in the Pale Lands…”

“…Stark…offer…if you…kneel before…”

“…what…see only…king…”

Jon frowned. The voices echoed in his ears, distant and barely audible. They were not hushed whispers, but they continued to fade in and out as they spoke.

“Jon?”

The bastard ignored Godwyn, reaching for the remembrance. His fingers brushed against one of the dancing strands of light and—

“Stop! Stop it! I beg of you, stop! Cease this madness! Punish me all you want, but don’t kill him! The blame is mine to bear! Please! PLEASE! FATHER!”

Jon blinked. He was no longer in the dilapidated keep, but rather a plaza of some kind. Around him was a crowd, incensed and crowing for his death. Goldcloaks stood guard, their weapons brandished in the event he tried something. Further ahead, overseeing the proceedings, was the most disheveled man he’d seen in his life. His robes barely hung on his skeletal frame, his hair a tangled mess reaching down to his knees, and his nails long and curled. Atop his head was a golden crown. Standing beside him were men clad in armor and white cloaks, grim faced but otherwise standing sentinel beside their apparent lord. Further behind him was a man with Stark features, battered and beaten and chained down as if he were an animal.

“Rickard Stark!” the willowy man bellowed in a hoarse voice. “You allowed your unruly son to dare utter threats of harm to my son! Your prince! I have all the rights in the world to have him hanged at the gates for all to see, and for you to burn like the treacherous dog that they are! Yet know that I am not without mercy! Prove your loyalty to me! Disavow your child, and kneel before the dragon! Do this, and I shall spare you!”

“What?” Jon started. “What the devil are you going on about? I’m—”

“Dragon…? I see no dragon…”

Startled, Jon turned around. Behind him, tied to a post surrounded by hay, was an older man well into his twilight years. White frost colored his dark hair, wrinkles engraved in his flesh, and a bushy beard adorning his jaw.

Jon knew this man. He never met him; this was his first time laying eyes on the man, but he recognized him instantly. His portrait hung in the main hall of Winterfell for all to see. Him, his lady wife, their three sons, and his daughter.

Rickard Stark glared at the willowy man. He was standing before death, ready to be sent off to the Stranger, and yet he remained unbowed.

“I see a mad king.”

“…so be it!” Aerys II Targaryen looked every bit the madman people described him as. “Burn!”

“No!” Jon screamed, futility reaching out for Rickard. “Stop!”

A torch lit with wicked green flames sailed through the air, flying through Jon’s body. It bounced off Rickard’s ratty tunic, setting it ablaze. When it touched the hay, the platform erupted with wildfire.

—Jon recoiled, pulling his hand away as if he’d been bitten. The remembrance swirled around his him, sinking into his flesh and creating waves of warmth and discomfort. The sensation was unpleasant, but it paled in comparison to the lingering feeling of wildfire devouring his flesh. He tripped over himself, gasping and gripping his chest, steadying his heart.

“Gods above…” Jon shuddered in disbelief. His body trembled, the sensation of his very being set aflame still vivid and present. He could still feel the wildfire burning through his flesh and into his bones. “That… That was…”

“Jon? What’s the matter?” Godwyn grasped his shoulder in concern. “You’re shaking like a leaf. What happened?”

“I… I knew him.”

“What?”

“The Dire King.” Tears cascaded down his face like great rivers. “That… That was Rickard Stark. That was my grandfather.”

REVENANT FELLED

Remembrance of the Direwolf

Remembrance of Rickard Stark, the Dire King and former patriarch of House Stark, woven into pale echoes.

The power of its namesake can be unlocked by the Nameless Blacksmith. Alternatively, it can be used to gain a great bounty of Echoes.

In his final moments, Lord Rickard Stark of the North stood bloodied, broken, yet unbowed before the madness of King Aerys II Targaryen. In defiance, not a soul heard him scream amid the wildfire, for his dignity as one of the last lords of the North would dare not suffer a shameful defeat.

Although the wolf may die, the pack shall survive.

Chapter Text

JON SNOW

An uncomfortable air of silence hanged over Jon as he rested against the warped tree. Godwyn had fallen asleep, curled up in thick wool blankets with his sword sitting on the ground beside him. It was almost strange, how such a sickly-looking man could bear the image of a hardened warrior while awake, yet look so frail while asleep. The writhing mark on his cheek seemed less active as well, still and calm as though it too were asleep.

It hadn’t taken the pair long to find a way out of the keep. The way out had been through a collapsed wall on the second floor, with plant overgrowth making for a useful improvised ladder of sorts. Godwyn seemed to have a destination in mind; a patch of woodlands others called the Frozen Forest. Jon didn’t ask why he wanted to go there of all places, nor did he have the mind to. The visions he received from the remembrance plagued his waking moments, hounding his thoughts at almost every turn. Even now, when his body demanded rest, he could not stop thinking about what he’d seen.

Through the haze of confusion, and all evidence before him, Jon could no longer believe he was anyplace that was not the hells. The old septa spoke of them, as was part of the faith’s teachings, but little was described other than they were forever ablaze, each layer deeper than the first. This place, these “Pale Lands”, were thus far a frozen landscape infested by madmen, some even turning into monsters.

Worse, Rickard Stark was among them.

Lord Stark spoke scarcely of his late brother, his lady mother, and his lord father. He spoke little to nothing of his late sister, Lyanna. Having heard the story of how Robert’s Rebellion began and witnessing Rickard’s last moments, Jon understood why. It was another thing altogether to experience it. He couldn’t forget the sensation. Although he’d been but a spectactor, he felt his grandfather’s emotions, his thoughts and feelings. Resigned to death, yet fearful for his children. He knew Brandon would not survive, he feared what’d become of Lyanna, and what would become of his second eldest son.

The Dire King was a monstrous beast, as wild and ferocious as the wolves from which it doubtlessly earned its namesake. In a way, it felt fitting that his grandfather was recognized as a powerful being, yet such acknowledgement did little to ease the pain and grief Jon felt. Words failed to express the grief and horror he felt, knowing the identity of the beast he killed with his own two hands. What was he to tell his father when he saw him again? What was he to tell his half-siblings?

…as if I would ever see them again.

The bitter thoughts came easily, especially in a quiet night. He never understood just how creepy the world felt without wind or light, much less devoid of color. The sky barely changed, now only a mite darker, perhaps a darker shade of gray now.

He could rationalize he wished, but Jon knew the truth. He remembered the feeling of Valmar’s blade piercing his flesh, and its pale flames seeping into his body. The cold embrace of death. It was unforgettable.

Jon Snow was dead. Nothing would change that.

The realization of this fact made Jon frown, lips curling in bitter disgust. He wanted desperately to scream in frustration, but he knew that as well would be worthless and meaningless in the end. Crying would do nothing. Screaming would do nothing. Complaining of the unfairness of it all would do nothing. He knew this, yet still, Jon wanted nothing more than to see his family again, to know they made it out safely. Even that arse Theon, who fought at his side to help whisk Lady Catelyn and her children out of Winterfell.

“…what do I do now?”

—The question without an answer hung over his head like a guillotine. In the realm of the dead, a land unknown to him, what could Jon possibly achieve? What could he even do? He glanced at the lampwood, the ghostly tree sitting in the far distance. He remembered Godwyn’s words, how wandering souls chased after the tree in the hopes of finding peace, yet so few achieved their final rest.

If he sought the tree out, would he find peace? Or would he become a hessian like all the others? Would he suffer the same fate as his grandfather?

A heavy sigh escaped him. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. All he wanted to do was rest, and save such dire thoughts another time. He pulled on the wool blanket over his shoulders, adjusting his posture to make himself more comfortable against the tree.

Perhaps I shan’t wake again, and I might find rest after all, he thought sullenly to himself as he closed his eyes.

He—

“Greetings, traveler of the living.”

Instinctively, Jon reached for the sword on his hip, ready to draw it and cut down whoever snuck up on him, only to stop and stare. A woman seemingly appeared from thin air, approaching him at an even pace. A tattered black cloak clung to her form, scorched and burned by flames.

She stopped a few short paces away from him. She was within striking distance, but nothing about her screamed ‘danger’ as the hessians did. The fact she was speaking at all implied intelligence. Slowly, as if to show she was no threat, she raised her hands and reached to pull back her hood. Doing so parted her cloak, revealing tarnished garments and what looked like a golden dagger sheathed at her hip. He saw her hands, small with slender fingers, covered in healed burns.

She pulled her hood back.

Jon gasped. “You are…”

A familiar face stared back at him. A woman with soot-black hair, her right eye milky white, and her left a soft-glowing gloam.

“I am Melina,” the woman of his dreams spoke, kneeling as smallfolk would before a lord. “I offer you, an accord.”

DAENERYS

Daenerys had forgotten how peaceful it felt, to ride aboard a ship and listen to the crashing waves against the hull. There’d been a time when she wished to live on the seas, living out the stories told by sailors and by Corlys the Sea Snake from back during King Jaeherys and King Viserys I’s reign. Now, she scarcely remembered such times. Those memories felt far away, replaced by frightful thoughts of what’d become of her brother.

In their mad escape from Pentos, they found naught a trace of Viserys. She supposed them unable to find a body was cause for celebration, but that in turn led to her questioning what became of her brother. Complicated and harrowing as their bond become in his pursuit of the Iron Throne, she still loved her brother dearly. Young Griff promised they would search for him, but she had doubts. Especially when she realized who Young Griff was in alliance with.

The connection should have been obvious from the start. She knew Griff when Viserys went to secure an alliance with the Golden Company, having briefly seen the man. He never spoke during the affair, only keeping vigil with a hand on the pommel of his blade. When Viserys threw a fit when the Captain-General laughed him out of their encampment, he looked ready to draw steel.

Suffice to say, Daenerys did not have good opinions of the sellswords. That Viserys took out his frustrations on her played a partial role, but she was just as bitter they refused to help. She knew the company’s history well-enough; a group of exiles who sided with one of the Great Bastards of Aegon the Unworthy, the man who would go on to found House Blackfyre, a once-cadet house of the Targaryens. Viserys taught her the histories of the Blackfyre Rebellions, and how the War of the Ninepenny kings, the unnamed fifth rebellion led by Maelys the Monstrous, last of House Blackfyre, helped their father rise to prominence as king. Traitors the Blackfyres were, they were still kin. And with House Targaryen in similar dire straits, surely that would be enough for them to join hands and fight. Evidently, she was too naïve.

Daenerys’ opinion of Young Griff soured, moreso when he all but rudely shoved her aboard their ship and held her prisoner. There was no guard stationed at her door or locks keeping her trapped, but she was in a prison all the same. Where else was she to go to beyond the watery depths of the sea around them?

She thought of her dear Vissy. She wanted to cry. “Brother, what should I do…?”

A knock came to her door. “Lady Daenerys, it’s me.” A scowl marred her features. “May I come in?”

She was tempted to usher him away and curse his name. Her patience won out, as did her curiosity. For what reason would Young Griff seek her out, despite knowing her animosity toward him? “Come in,” she called out begrudgingly.

The door swung open. The company commander stepped in first, his hand nowhere near his blade for once. Following him was Young Griff, who ditched his armor and tunic for simple garments such as a short-sleeved cotton shirt and stained slacks with holes around the knees. His blue hair was freshly washed, water dripping from the fringes and down onto his temples and neck. Only his hair was no longer blue, but a familiar shade of silver. His eyes, once dark blue, now gleamed like purple jewels.

A trueborn Valyrian, Daenerys thought in surprise.

“I hope your accommodations are to your liking, my lady,” Young Griff said with an awkward smile. “It was…the best we could do on such short notice.”

By all rights, her cabin was nothing so meager or pisswatery. The sheets were made with fine silk, there was enough hay to make her feel as though she were laying on clouds, and the porthole gave her a good view of the ocean waters outside the ship. They were even kind enough to give her a decent-sized bucket to “relieve herself” in.

“…they are fine,” Daenerys said, struggling to keep her emotions in check. Although her house lay in tatters, she could not forget she was a princess. She would not cower or bow. Viserys taught her better.

Young Griff sighed in relief. “That’s good. Truth be told, I…hoped we would meet under better circumstances.”

Daenerys stared, her brow crinkled and an eyebrow high up into her temples. Griff looked at his squire and son with a frown. “Your Highness, with all due respect…”

Highness?

“I’ve heard your counsel, Jon, but as it stands, whatever plan sir Illyrio and Lord Varys schemed is no longer viable,” Young Griff chided. “Especially now that my uncle is now in the wind, and sir Lord Illyrio literally in pieces.”

Daenerys grimaced. During their brief search for her brother, they stumbled upon the fat lord’s corpse. Or rather what was left of him. The marauders, whoever they were, were more like butchers in how they slaughtered him. Despite her suspicions of how he was only using the siblings for his own gain, Daenerys felt sorry for Illyrio. No man deserved to die in such a barbaric way.

Griff stared at his charge a moment longer before sighing and hanging his head in defeat. “…yes. It is as you say.”

“I’m sorry, but… What is going on?”

“I gave you a discourtesy the other day, when I introduced myself to you,” Young Griff told her. He approached her bed and, to her surprise, kneeled. “In truth, I knew full well who you were before we met, Daenerys. We knew who you were before Viserys came to the Golden Company, asking for our blades in his bid to retake Westeros from the Baratheons and Lannisters.”

“What?”

“Please, let me introduce myself properly.”

Young Griff smiled. For but a brief moment, his face overlapped with another; a face she’d seen only in vague dreams, the man with the sad smile.

“I am Aegon Targaryen. Son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his lady wife, Princess Elia Martell of Dorne. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Aunt Daenerys.”

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

Daenerys felt the world around her spinning. The young man who kneeled before her stared, awaiting her response. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, clashing and jumbling into an incoherent mess. The silence was insufferable. When she finally found the words to speak, they came out in a hoarse whisper.

“Do you take me for a fool? My nephew died in the Sacking.”

Whenever Viserys recounted the Sack of King’s Landing, the fates of Elia Martell and her children, her niece and nephew, always brought forth feelings of wroth and dismay. The manner in which they died, and the defilement of Elia’s corpse, were painful to speak about, so much that Viserys could barely continue his stories. Even Daenerys struggled to listen.

Little Aegon, a babe, smashed against a wall and his head cracked open like an egg.

Poor Rhaenys, stabbed and brutalized by a sadist.

“When we return to Westeros, I’ll make Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane suffer a million deaths,” Viserys promised.

Daenerys stared at Young Griff in disbelief. She wanted to yell at him, demanding what madness possessed him to proclaim himself her deceased nephew, yet the ghostly face of the sad, smiling man from her dreams prevented the words from falling past her lips.

“That is the story told by Lord Varys, Princess,” Griff said. Daenerys turned to him as he finally removed his hand from the hilt of his blade, instead pressing it against his breast. “Permit me to introduce myself proper. My true name is Jon Connington, formerly of House Connington. I served as your father’s Hand of the King for a time during the rebellion, and now serve as part of Prince Aegon’s Kingsguard.”

The girl choked.

While Viserys did much to inform her of their family’s recent history, its storied legacy, and its court, even his knowledge had limits. There had indeed been a man named Jon Connington in King Aerys II’s court, and he indeed served as the Lord Hand. While Viserys didn’t know how effective he’d been as the Lord Hand, save that his failure to defeat Robert Baratheon and the main forces at the Stoney Sept caused her father to not only dismiss him from office and sentence him to exile but also strip him of everything; his titles, his lands, even his wealth. The Usurper rubbed salt in the wound further by taking the title of lordship from House Connington, taking their wealth, and reducing them to mere landed knights by redistributing their ancestral lands to his most loyal.

What became of Connington in his exile was a mystery. At most, Viserys knew Connington joined the Golden Company and rose through the ranks, but eventually fled in disgrace when he was caught stealing from the sellsword band’s war chest and later drank himself to death.

Daenerys’ mind reeled, trying to discern whether she was told truth or lies. The part of her raised by Viserys at his worst, the part that grew up skeptical and questioning even base kindness from those “offering” aid to the exiled royals, wished to call them mummers and throw them out of her cabin. Another part of her, the sweet girl called Danny, wanted to believe them, as it meant she was not alone, that she and Viserys still had family.

That was the scariest part. She’d been hopeful so many times, only for that hope to be mercilessly crushed.

“If you are truly who you say you are, good ser,” Daenerys eventually managed to get out, looking at the two with uncertainty and suspicion. “Then tell me how two dead men stand before me. And what does a traitor have to do with any of this?”

“Contrary to what you believe, Princess, Lord Varys remains a faithful servant to House Targaryen,” ‘Connington’ answered. “He understood that subterfuge was required for the Targaryens to reclaim the Iron Throne. It did not take a blind man to realize the rebellion would end in Robert Baratheon’s victory. When Lord Varys realized the true aim of the Lannister forces, he switched Prince Aegon with the son of a tanner, whose father sold to Lord Varys in exchange for a bottle of Arbor Gold.”

“When the Sack of King’s Landing began, Lord Varys had me carried to safety while the tanner’s son died in my place,” Young Griff continued. “I was raised by those secretly loyal to our house after Robert Baratheon claimed the Iron Throne from us. When Lord Varys discovered Jon’s existence, he sent me to stay with him, given his close relationship with my father and your brother.”

“How awfully convenient,” Daenerys scoffed. “That two men thought dead by the rest of the world should be in each other’s care, and with the Golden Company. How do I know you are not Blackfyres? That this isn’t some ploy for me to support your cause?”

Young Griff didn’t break his gaze away from her. “We can offer you only words, my dear aunt. If you cannot trust my claims, then at the very least, believe this.” He bowed his head, offering her his neck as if in surrender and an act of respect and loyalty. “Since the day I claimed our ancestral blade… I’ve wanted nothing more than to reunite with my wayward kin. Three dragons reunited at last.”

Daenerys gasped. The words were different, yet—

“The dragon must have three heads,” the sad man said, holding the Dornish woman close to his chest.

Her hand clawed at her chest, gripping the fabric of her dress in a tight fist. Tears threatened to spill past her cheeks. She knew this feeling, and she hated it. So many times had this feeling betrayed her, hurt her. She wanted to believe this is all still yet some grand farce. Perhaps it was, and she was all the more foolish to fall for it.

Even so…she wanted to believe.

“…you speak true? Are you truly my nephew, Aegon? You…” Her voice cracked, nearly breaking into a sob. “You…are my family?”

Aegon lifted his head. His smile reminded her so much of Viserys in the years before the dragon reared its ugly head. “Yes, Aunt Danny. It’s me.”

The tears come freely as Daenerys threw herself at her beloved nephew, clinging to him for dear life. She did not care if she seemed unsightly, or that she bore her weakness to Ser Connington. She did not care that she may have deluded herself into believing a lie.

She just wanted to feel happy amid the dark cloud hanging over her head…

AEGON

Oh, how long I’ve waited for this, Aegon thought to himself. He smiled like a summer maiden who discovered her true love. Words failed to describe the euphoria in his breast as he recalled the conversation years in the making a mere hour ago. If only he were here as well, then the moment would be even greater…

“I still believe we revealed ourselves too early.”

Aegon frowned. His jubilant thoughts scattered at Jon’s words, loathe as he was to admit the truth behind them. His warden and surrogate father stared disapprovingly from across the table.

“I know, but I couldn’t stand to see her in such a sorry state any longer. She lost her brother, and me, my uncle. She deserved to know she was not alone.”

“And I sympathize, but we’ve exposed ourselves much sooner than intended,” Jon argued. “You know how I despised living in a lie these many long years, but I understood Lord Varys and Illyrio’s reasons for secrecy.”

“Speaking of our late benefactor, did you know he harbored Uncle Viserys and Aunt Daenerys?”

“Yes.” Jon’s answer was blunt and straight to the point. Aegon appreciated that, at least. The words irked him all the same. “Lord Varys instructed that you were to be kept out of the loop until it was time to make our move.”

His fingers curled into his palms. He tempered the dragon fury beating in his chest, keeping his voice steady. His aunt fell asleep from exhaustion, and he had no wish to stir her awake for such trivial matters.

“I had a right to know.”

“You did,” Jon nodded. His face softened, and spoke with a regretful tone. “Even so, I agreed with the Master of Whispers. You are too emotional, Aegon, especially when matters of kin are concerned.”

“And when did you plan to inform me of my Aunt’s presence in Pentos?”

“When we felt it was right. Illyrio had a plan in the works. He used Prince Viserys’ name to attract the attention of a Dothraki warlord named Drogo. Among his ilk, he’s considered the most formidable and leads a host of forty-thousand khalasar.”

“An impressive army.” The princeling understood the magister and Varys’ plans easily enough. Viserys certainly made no secret of his desire to reclaim the Iron Throne, their birthright. An army like Khal Drogo’s would certainly prove a useful boon, assuming he dealt with them accordingly. The stories surrounding Aegon’s uncle were unflattering, to say the least, and it would take nothing short of a Seven damned miracle for Viserys not to do something as foolish as insult a Dothraki’s pride. The Golden Company clashed with them enough that Aegon knew they would not take kindly to some whelp order them around as if they were his. “I assume the incentive was marriage?”

Jon nodded. “Indeed. From what I’ve heard about him, Drogo has no ambition for the Iron Throne. His interests lie in an old Dothraki legend. Perhaps he believes himself to be his people’s fabled stallion, or that a child born from a Targaryen womb will be the stallion who mounts the world.” He frowned and shook his head. “With Illyrio dead and Prince Viserys gone with the wind, however, it is fair to assume any plans of wedding Princess Daenerys are no longer viable.”

“Which puts our own plans at square one,” Aegon groused. “An army of Dothraki and the might of the Golden Company would’ve been a sight to behold.”

“Not necessarily,” Jon disagreed. “As I said, this was a plan in the works. There was no guarantee Khal Drogo would accept Princess Daenerys as a bride, nor that he would offer his forces in exchange for conquest.”

“Any aid he would have offered would still have been a boon,” the prince countered. “The Dothraki are warriors bred for the battlefield. You and I know this well.” His warden and surrogate father nodded in agreement. Aegon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am still cross that you withheld such information from me, but I understand yours and Lord Varys’ reasons. Would I be correct that this is not the only secret you are withholding from me?”

“No, your grace, there are no further secrets.”

Aegon was almost inclined to believe him.

Aegon retired for the evening shortly after his argument and discussion with Jon. When dawn broke, he swiftly cleaned himself with the bucket of water beside his cot and went to work assisting the rest of the crew. A good ruler joined his men in their daily tasks, and a better leader knew to form a rapport with his brothers-in-arms. These men were not on the level of the Golden Company, but they were trained well in matters of martial prowess, one and all sworn to secrecy.

It irked Aegon how little contact he and Jon had with the Golden Company despite their close relationship. He understood the reasons for it, especially since Jon needed to keep up the ruse and tall tale spread by Varys, but their limited interactions with the mercenary band made it difficult to discern who was trustworthy and who was likely to stab them in the back. Soldiers of fortune could scarcely be trusted and were hardly known for their integrity, the Golden Company least of all. As much as the accusations stung, Daenerys was right to be suspicious of him and his choice of allies.

Truth be told, Aegon sometimes wondered whether he was indeed who Jon claimed him to be. There was no doubt he was of Valyrian stock, his hair and eyes proved that, but there were many of Valyrian descent in the lands once belonging to the fallen empire. The Blackfyres were but one of many, descended from House Targaryen and later exiled because of their failed rebellion. The house supposedly fell with Maelys the Monstrous, a two-headed ogre reviled for his depravity and cruelty, but many whispered only the male lineage died with Maelys, that daughters of House Blackfyre remained. He did not know if the rumors were true, but they weighed heavily on his mind all the same.

As he leaned over the railing, gazing out at the vast ocean he’d been all but born on, he traced his thumb against pommel of his claim to legitimacy. The very blade that earned the treacherous house its name. Jon had been over the moon when he saw Aegon return with Blackfyre in hand. The sword had been lost sometime after the death of Bittersteel, and despite the Golden Company’s best attempts, none managed to find it. Aegon had, guided by odd dreams that begged belief. They were too vivid to be dragon dreams, yet they guided him all the same.

Blackfyre was as much a symbol and claimant as Dark Sister was. With it in his possession, few would dare dispute his claim for the Iron Throne. Yet he was not so quick or arrogant to forget the blade’s history. Although it’d been wielded by Targaryen kings of the past, it was more recently wielded by would-be usurpers.

Aegon did not believe he was a Blackfyre pretender, yet the ugly thoughts gnawed at his mind all the same. Jon assured him multiple times he was a trueborn Targaryen, a prince born of the seven kingdoms, and Aegon wanted to believe him.

Yet the man I’ve come to know as a second father keeps secrets from me, a treasonous thought echoed in his ear. Who’s to say my true lineage is but another secret he hides?

“Aegon?”

A melodious voice stirred him from his dark thoughts. He turned and found his aunt behind him. The rags she wore for the last few days were gone, replaced by a simple cotton shirt and pants. Not the most fitting thing for a lady of her station, but it was all they had on such short notice.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

“Not long,” she answered. “Are you well?”

“Yes. Dueling with unpleasant thoughts is all.” Aegon pushed away from the railing and turned to address his aunt fully. “Is there something you require?”

“It is Ser Connington. He wishes to speak with us.”

DAENERYS

Ser Connington waited for them in the captain’s room. Although the knight was not the commander of the vessel, he was trusted enough that the captain allowed him free use of his private quarters. It suited their needs quite well, especially with a crew sworn to the utmost secrecy.

Once the door was shut, the knight wasted little time. “With Illyrio gone, we’ve lost substantial support,” he began gravely. “Therefore, we will need to look elsewhere for allies.”

Daenerys frowned. She’d been made aware of her brother and Illyrio’s plans to sell her off to a Dothraki, a fact that left her deeply troubled. She warred with herself over whether her brother would truly do such a thing before realizing, yes, he would do something so cruel. There were many lows he stooped to in order to get them coin. Selling her away was par for the course, she imagined. It was the worst thing possible, but somehow it didn’t surprise her as much as it should.

It did little to ease the pain of betrayal.

“Currently, Westeros sits in a time of unrest. While he’s a better ruler than the Mad King…”

Daenerys’ fingers curled into her palms, her head bowed in shame.

The discussion of her father was but one of the many topics she discussed with Aegon when her nephew revealed himself to her. Viserys always spoke how people slandered Aerys II, proclaimed them traitors and how their father was a wise and just ruler, surrounded by corrupt leaders and traitors taking advantage of him. It was with great disappointment and horror that both Aegon and Ser Connington revealed the truth. King Aerys II Targaryen’s moniker was not earned because of malicious slander or the work of those around him. It was entirely deserved, for even before the Defiance of Duskendale, he was already enthralled by paranoia and jumping at shadows.

The princess wondered whether Viserys told her those stories to spare her the ugly truth, or if he truly believed their father was not a tyrant.

“What do you think, Aunt Daenerys?” Aegon’s words broke her from her thoughts. She looked up and found both men looking at her expectantly. Her nephew frowned in concern. “Aunt Danny? Is something the matter?”

She took a calming breath. “Forgive me, I was lost in thought. What were we discussing?”

“Allies in Westeros,” he answered her patiently. “Although King Robert is popular among the smallfolk, he’s a poor ruler. He throws tourneys and celebrations, wasting his coffers and drowning himself in debt. There are rumors he’s in debt to not only the Iron Bank, but also the Lannisters. There are further rumors his marriage with Cersei Lannister is far from perfect.”

“The Lannister wench has been ruling King’s Landing with an iron fist since Robert left for the Lands Between,” Ser Connington reported grimly. “She hasn’t endeared herself to the smallfolk, especially when her acts are but a pretense to hunt for Robert’s bastards.”

Daenerys was surprised. “Vissy joked that the Usurper was Aegon the Unworthy come again. Now I wonder if his japes hold truth.”

Ser Connington shrugged. “If he’s aware he has bastards, Robert’s made no move to claim or legitimize them. His reputation suffers in the meantime. I digress, however. As it stands, what few Targaryen loyalists that remain in Westeros are under heavy scrutiny, and Lord Varys questions their intentions. The Tyrells would probably aid us, though he remains skeptical. They are better players in the game than most, and they value self-preservation.”

“What of Dorne?” Aegon suggested.

Daenerys frowned. “Dorne?” she questioned. “Would they truly aid us? Vissy once told me relations between the Martells and our house were horrendous after our brother Rhaegar set Princess Elia aside for Lyanna Stark.”

“Perhaps,” her nephew grimaced. “And their reluctance is understandable. That doesn’t mean we are without an olive branch. Lord Varys discovered that, before his death, Ser Willam Derry signed a secret marriage pact between Uncle Viserys and Lady Arianne Martell, with Prince Oberyn and the Sealord standing witness to the signing.”

“Ser Willem mentioned nothing of this,” she exclaimed in surprise. “Neither had Vissy. He would have spoken of it at length if he had!”

“It was made without his knowledge. I believe the explanation was that, at the time, Uncle Viserys was too emotional and immature to keep such knowledge to himself.”

Daenerys winced. Much as she wished to argue otherwise, Viserys’ outbursts had no filter, only vitriol.

Ser Connington grunted. “Dorne may be willing to renegotiate the marriage pact with Arianne and Aegon, but in the best case, this still leaves us with little few allies.”

“Where do you suggest, then?” Aegon questioned Ser Connington with an annoyed huff. “Our closest ally in Pentos is dead, and the Magisters are no doubt swooping to collect his fortunes like vultures as we speak. We can’t afford to return to Westeros when we still have so little support.”

“Then we will go to the one place that has no direct ties to Westeros.” Daenerys and Aegon looked at each other, then at Ser Connington in befuddlement. The soldier pointed to the landmass south of Lys. Daenerys recognized it instantly. Aegon’s eyes alighted with understanding. “A place that’s still finding it’s footing here.”

It was a logical plan, Daenerys understood. The place Ser Connington referred to was still forming ties and relations with the known powers of the world. Surely, there would be at least some sympathetic to their cause.

And yet…

“It’s a bold plan, I will admit,” Aegon voiced her thoughts. “Especially since King Robert is touring there at the moment.”

Ser Connington nodded. “He is, though there are whispers of a place there few dread to go. A place tainted by a foul plague that scarred the land. The daring claim there are people there who’ve managed to survive in such conditions. If they speak true, we will find our allies there.”

“With any luck,” Aegon countered. “What is the name of this place?”

“They call it Caelid, your grace.”

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

“What do we know of Caelid?”

“As much as we do about the realm it dwells in,” Ser Connington replied. “Only rumors and whispers. They say it is a hells-stricken land, perverted and corrupted by a sickness that makes the Great Spring Sickness and the Shivers outbreaks nearly a century ago seem tame by comparison. A plague that scars the very land. I’m not one to trust rumors, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

Daenerys gaped at the soldier. “You wish to find allies in such a place? I beg your pardon Ser Connington, but are you mad?”

“I must agree with Aunt Daenerys,” Aegon frowned. “From the sounds of it, we would find little in the way of allies if Caelid is truly in such dire straits. What makes you believe we will find willing allies there?”

“I do not expect to find many, but a meager few, even a sellsword company or two, are worth the trouble. Aegon the Conqueror did not build his empire within a day. Along the south-easternmost coast of Caelid is a cove. It houses a settlement. A merchant ship from an Essosi trading guild stumbled across its way while working on sketches of the Lands Between for the map makers. Said guild is a friend of the Golden Company, one I’ve had dealings with before. We can trust their word if nothing else.”

“What sort of settlement is it?”

“They call it Redclif’s Cove,” Ser Connington answered his charge. “It consists mainly of refugees, but it is also home to a band of mercenaries who call themselves the Stones of Sellia. To my understanding, they are sorcerers.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened. “You mean, they wield magic?” There were all manner of whispers about the Lands Between, the supposed stories of magic thriving in the foreign realm bar none the most recurring. Viserys put little stock in the stories, but he had a curious glint in his eye, wondering if the stories were true. All sorts of questions threatened to burst from the exiled princess, but she reigned in her curiosity.

“Aye. Supposedly, there’s even a town that teaches magic, though it’s since fallen to the plague that scarred Caelid. They call it the Scarlet Rot.” Ser Connington looked at her nephew expectantly. “If we could procure the Stones of Sellia’s services, their magics could prove useful. We would need to see it for ourselves and approach them, however. Ultimately, the choice is yours, your grace.”

Aegon fell silent. He stared at the roughshod sketch of the Lands Between, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He soon turned his gaze to his aunt. “Aunt Daenerys, what do you think?”

Daenerys was surprised. “You…are asking for my opinion?”

“But of course. You are my aunt, and I trust my kin’s counsel as much as I do Jon’s.”

Something unknown squirmed under her skin. Viserys was always certain of what course of action to take. He was the navigator, and she a lowly passenger. She obeyed his whims and orders without question. She was the younger sibling, nevermind a sister. He was the older brother and heir to the throne, her future king. Whatever decisions he made, she would have no choice but to obey. The only counsel he heeded was his own, and whatever honeyed whispers Illyrio Mopatis spoke in his ear.

When the meeting started, Daenerys expected she would be little more than a witness to the proceedings and continue as she had under Viserys. When Aegon turned to her, asking for her opinion, she was flat-footed.

It was the first time since Ser Willam’s death that someone asked for her opinion.

She glanced at the map, then pondered Ser Connington’s suggestion. As he said, they couldn’t afford to be picky. They needed support, numbers, and allies to reclaim the Iron Throne from the Usurper. The Lands Between had no stakes to claim in the known world unless they started conquering neighboring lands. If they had an inkling of ambition, there would assuredly be those looking to side with House Targaryen in exchange for prestige, coin, or a lofty position among their ranks. Ordinarily, Daenerys would immediately agree with this course of action, but the rumors of Caelid’s blight gave her pause.

No matter how she looked at it, going to Caelid was a risky move. There was a good chance they might contract the Scarlet Rot there, and an even higher chance of encountering the Usurper and his loyal allies. They were not prepared for such a confrontation. Not yet.

“…I agree with Ser Connington’s plan,” Daenerys finally said. “We should take precautions, however. Both regarding this Scarlet Rot and the chance we may encounter the Usurper.”

Aegon’s smile caused her heart to flutter in a way it hadn’t since she lived in Braavos. “I agree.” He turned to his loyal knight. “Jon, do you think you can arrange for a meeting with the captain-general of the Stones of Selia?”

“If the guild managed to set up shop in Redclif’s Cove, I believe I might be able to. I doubt we will encounter Baratheon in Caelid, however. As I mentioned earlier, the region is under quarantine and is blockaded, with only suicidal fools and trusted warriors allowed passage.”

“Then we sail for Caelid, then. Let us hope the seas offer good tidings. I’ve had my fill of choppy waters since our daring escape from Pentos.”

The following weeks spent sailing toward the Lands Between were uneventful. Daenerys took it upon herself to assist the ship’s crew, partly because she wished to be of help, but mostly to help alleviate her own boredom. One of the few Golden Company mercenaries with Ser Connington was a bit of a bibliophile and offered her one of his manuals to read, and while she enjoyed literature, she found sparse enjoyment. She felt more at ease helping on the deck. Ser Connington made no move to stop her, but she didn’t miss his disapproval. Her newfound nephew, however, not only smiled at her efforts but also assisted.

“The people will not follow a lord they cannot trust,” he told her once.

The days at sea reminded her of the time she suggested she and Viserys become sailors. Having spent most of her life traveling across Essos, she felt right at home aboard ships. The sea breeze, the salty air, it felt normal. More than anything, she enjoyed the way the winds whipped across her face at times, as they would when she dreamed of riding dragons.

One day, she spent her time daydreaming while leaning across the railing, peering at the vast blue oceans. Somewhere in the distance was the Lands Between and its fabled great tree. Supposedly, it was so large you could see it from miles away, well before you’d see land. She recalled the stories Lansseax told her, and imagined herself as a wayward hedge knight, galloping across the land to defend the smallfolk.

Sadly, her daydreams were cut short. The memory of her teacher, however brief her time had been, caused her to frown and fear for her safety. There’d been no sign of Lansseax anywhere during the attack, and the port had been reduced to smoking ash and burnt wood when the dragon descended upon the ship like a vengeful god. Like her brother, they had not the time to search for her, yet unlike with Viserys, Aegon was certain Lansseax was still alive somewhere. Their time together was brief, but the woman found a way into her heart. Daenerys considered her a friend, if not a welcome teacher.

Perhaps she’s found her way home, she thought. Or she’s gone to Volantis as she said she would.

Whatever the case, she prayed to gods old and new Lansseax of the Lands Between was safe.

“Bloody fucking hell,” she heard someone exclaim behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, then turned her gaze to the horizon and gasped.

Beyond the faint beginnings of fog, she saw the silhouette of a great tree piercing the very heavens above.

They arrived at the Lands Between when the sky grew dark. The starry night sky seemed gloomy, the moon sitting high above with a dark glowering countenance that brought shivers down their spines. Daenerys’ main concern was the unusual cold that crept into the air. A chilly night breeze was nothing new, but this was different. The air felt…wrong. Instead of salt, she smelled something sweet.

Though they’d yet to dock at the cove when it came into view, already the foreign land felt odd, compared to the lands of Essos. One need only look at the jagged, rocky cliffs above the ship that served as Caelid’s foundation. The very stone was dyed scarlet, a curious sight to be sure, but what earned their fascination and fear. Buried within the rock was a skeleton, a veritable giant spoken of in legends and myths. Its size rivaled even the Titan of Braavos. Worrisome still were the dead, chalky roots wrapped around the bones, one tendril snaking its way through the socket and poking back out the mouth while wrapping around the right side of its jaw.

Suddenly, the rumors and whispers about the Lands Between’s magical nature felt less like a mummer’s farce.

“Gods,” one of the crew whispered beside her. “Is…that a giant?”

“What manner of beings live in these lands?” another wondered.

Daenerys wondered much the same.

After sailing around the cliffs and eerie calm waters, Redclif’s Cove came into view. Daenerys thought it would be a small settlement as Ser Connington implied, with houses and buildings built from clay and wood. Instead, she found something grander; there were buildings, but they were not made from wood and clay. Nay, they were built from stone, carved from the very walls. There were wooden buildings, but they were built atop wooden canopies and paths along the jagged walls. Glittering bluish-green stones sprouted from the walls and ceiling, gleaming with a shine unlike any crystal the exiled princess laid eyes on. For a time, she swore she saw the stars themselves shining within their luster.

The ship docked. Aegon, Daenerys, and Ser Connington were the first to disembark and set foot on the pier. Already, a small crowd gathered to see what the fuss was about. Daenerys saw many curious faces, some inhuman and matching the stories Lansseax told her; misbegotten, she called them.

A man clad in armor approached. Polished steel adorned every inch of his frame, average of height with a tattered blue cloak adorning his shoulders. Fastened to his hip was a sword.

“Stranger,” the man bellowed. “Who are you?”

Aegon smiled and bowed respectfully. “Greetings!” he called back cheerily. “I am Griff the Younger. Young Griff to some. Beside me is my lord father, Griff of the Golden Company, and my cousin, Danny.”

“We’re here on behalf of the Golden Company to speak with a representative of the Braavosi merchant’s guild,” Ser Connington said. “We apologize for arriving unannounced. We had little time to announce our arrival.”

The soldier stared. Daenerys grew fearful when she saw him reaching for his sword. Beside her, Ser Connington responded in kind.

Then a great shadow appeared behind the soldier, unnoticed by all until it spoke in a deep, raspy voice. “Peace, Rowe. I know whom they speak of.”

Daenerys blinked, then stared in naked awe and shock. Aegon sputtered. “How the devil…? How does a giant sneak up like that with nary a sound?!”

Indeed, the great shadow could be called little else other than a giant. A gray cloak hid much of its hulking frame, yet the width of its broad shoulders implied how great a beast lay hidden beneath its robes. Its face was marred with deep wrinkled, each crease implying countless years of age, with frayed gray hair sprouting from the back of its head like a lion’s unruly mane. Two long strands cascaded down from the sides of its cheeks like thick tubes. Its eyes were sunken, almost pitch black. Were it not for the blue orbs staring at them, she would have thought it blind.

The giant cast its gaze upon them, stared as if to measure their worth, then bowed its head. “Greetings, last kin of the Great House of Targaryen,” the giant spoke. “I am Harrel of Sellia.” It moved its arm, opening its cloak and revealing a withered body with a gaping cavity in its torso. “Come… The Stones of Sellia await your arrival.”

Chapter Text

AEGON

“I feel we are walking into the lion’s den,” Aegon hissed to Jon as they walked, Daenerys following close behind. The giant, Harrel of Caria, led them through the open streets of Redclif’s Cove. He felt stares around them, some curious, but most suspicious. He could hardly blame them. They were strangers who arrived unannounced.

Never had he wished to hold his sword as much as he did now.

The moment Harrel addressed them as Targaryens, he knew this would be far from a simple meeting. Worry gnawed deep in his breast. Suspicions and fearful thoughts raged rampantly in his mind. He feared Robert Baratheon’s stories spread, and that the Stones of Selia would sell them to him in the hopes of currying favor. Sellswords typically acted in such a manner, after all. It was unusual for a band to be concerned with matters that didn’t involve influence or coin. That the Stones of Sellia were the ones to initiate this meeting, revealing their identities before a crowd, left them cornered and little else to do other than begrudgingly accept their “request” for a meeting.

Aegon looked at his surrogate father for the past decade. His gait was tense, and his fists were clenched so tightly that the metal ground against the leather. Daenerys clung to him, gripping at his sleeves like a timid wallflower at a social debutante. His frown softened, remembering what life had been like since Ser Willam’s death and her life of poverty. Did she fear she would lose him, as she lost Viserys?

If it came down to it, Aegon would draw steel. Whether he was a trueborn Targaryen or a Blackfyre pretender, it mattered not. Dragonsblood ran in his veins, and his fury matched even the lowest of Baratheons.

…though, he wasn’t confident in taking on a gods-damned giant. He wasn’t sure what baffled him, the sight of the creature or that hardly anyone batted an eyelash. It made sense, he supposed. Just looking about the crowd made him feel overwhelmed. Men and women with foreign features, different tones of flesh, and some clearly not human. The most curious of the lot were the pale-skinned folks with silvery hair and eyes. He would have mistaken them for Valyrians if not for how odd they seemed.

“You are not the only one.” It seemed Jon shared his ward’s concerns. “Still, best not to draw steel here. I don’t fancy our chances.”

“You needn’t fear.” Aegon flinched at the sound of the giant’s voice. “I assure you, there shall be no violence today. Marshal Wylder has forbidden conflict so long as Sister Lakia remains.”

“Sister Lakia?” Aegon parroted with a raised brow. “Is she your Captain-General?”

Harrel shook his head. “She is the commander’s most trusted. A wise woman.”

Curious…

While the idea of a woman being held in high esteem wasn’t unheard of, it was a rare occurrence. Society valued the prowess and abilities of menfolk, often overlooking the fairer sex as a result. Aegon met enough women with cunning ambition to know that this was both disadvantageous of women, and a great boon. That menfolk underestimated women gave them reason to act beneath notice. There were plenty of stories in Essos where a woman slipped a knife through some magister’s throat or filled wine with poison at a party.

The giant led them further into Redclif’s Cove, eventually stopping before a small hut with tattered cloth draped over the entrance. “She awaits you within,” Harrel said. He stepped away, positioning himself beside the entrance. He looked upon the three with the same cold orbs, now filled with a dreadful menacing glare. “Draw steel upon her flesh at your own peril.”

Aegon swallowed, but otherwise, he steeled his nerves. He gave Daenerys’ arm a reassuring squeeze and an assuring nod to his mentor and surrogate father. He boldly stepped forward, pushing the curtain aside and stepping inside the hut. Almost immediately, he smelled something he hadn’t in a long while. Memories of a time long ago flittered past. Vague recollections, blurry memories he scant recalled. Two women standing over him, one with the gentlest smile and the other with a smile so wide her cheeks struggled to contain it.

The tension in him bled away. The heavy weight of Blackfyre on his back grew light.

The hut was small and modest, its wooden walls lined with drawings he could scarcely make heads or tails of. A table to the right of him stood laden with a map of the Lands Between, more detailed than any map maker worth his salt could draw. Beside it was a map of Westeros and the known world. Scattered about the hut were candles colored a soft purple, holding a tinged violet flame aloft. It took Aegon a moment to realize the candles were incense.

In the center, sitting languidly on the stony floor, was a woman who could be mistaken for a septa; a plain and ragged robe that went down to her ankles and past the tips of her fingers. Bright gold hair, dirtied and stained by mud and grime, neatly tied into a long ponytail reaching to her shoulders. A wooden wheel sat around her neck, creaking and groaning from even the tiniest motions. A strip of white cloth covered her eyes. Through the dim lights of the candles, Aegon could barely make out the signs of burns around the cloth’s edges.

She was not facing them, nor did she turn to address them despite hearing their approach. Instead, she drew a finger across the rocky floor beneath her, cutting through the dust and dirt and creating an image of some kind. Perhaps an idle drawing or a curio born from boredom.

“A man who yearns for a prince he failed,” the woman began. Jon stiffened, his eyes wide as saucers. “A girl who yearns to see the red door to her home.” Aegon heard Daenerys gasp behind him. “And the prince unsure to which brood he truly belongs.”

Aegon stared. Surprise overtook him, weighing his shoulders down until it lessened and gave way to curiosity.

“You have me at a disadvantage, seer,” he said. “You seem to know the three of us, yet we know nothing of you.”

“Knowledge is a dangerous thing, wayward dragon,” the woman said. “For there are things man is not meant to know. Some questions are like corpses. They are best left well alone.”

“And knowing who you are is dangerous?”

The woman smiled. It’s gentle, but at the same time, filled with sorrow. The wheel around her neck creaked as she turned her head toward them. “Only when one refuses to offer their names. I may be able to see, but that does not mean I can see you.”

Riddles and words that made no sense, but Aegon wasn’t surprised. If there was anything those strange dreams taught him, it was that seers rarely offered the truth in its simplicity. They made a game of it, though not often of their own volition.

“I am Aegon Targaryen. Beside me is my caretaker and sworn shield, Jon Connington, and my dear aunt, Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Be welcome, wayward dragons,” the woman said. “I am Sister Lakia, adviser and Marshal Wylder’s second-in-command.”

“If you do not mind me asking, how does a seer become the second-in-command of a mercenary band?” Aegon inquired curiously.

At this, Lakia smiled wryly. She raised a hand, fingers curled as if holding something aloft. Flickering embers suddenly appeared, dancing within her palm for but a brief moment, before erupting into a smoldering flame. An act of sorcery rivaled only by the red priests, but with none of the flourish and fanfare. Effortless, even, as if she knew how to cast magic with but a flick of the wrist. She closed her hand, snuffing the flame from existence. When she opened her hand, there were neither burns nor signs of soot.

“Simply because I cannot see what is front of me does not make me a hapless babe,” Sister Lakia grinned childishly.

Aegon chuckled at the starry-eyed look his aunt was giving the seer. At Lakia’s behest, the three seated themselves around her, the menfolk of the group setting their weapons aside and away from their hands as a show of trust.

Lakia did not waste time. “I know why you have come, Prince Aegon. You see the Stones of Sellia. You seek allies who will aid your reclamation.”

“We are willing to offer a tidy sum,” Jon said. “As it stands, though, we are in no position to wage war as of yet. Instead, we would ask for the Stones of Sellia’s promise of aid when the time arrives.”

“We will not require gold or currency. We shall lend you our aid. Of this, you have our promise. I swear it upon the dark moon of Lunar Queen Ranni.”

Aegon blinked, surprised by her words. “Just like that? You would offer aid freely, without compensation? Forgive me for my skepticism, but that sounds too good to be true.”

“We do not offer our aid out of altruism. We act on self-preservation.”

“Self-preservation? What for?” Daenerys asked. “Lady Lansseax told me enough to know about the Lands Between that you would have little to fear from Essos or Westeros. Even the Ironborn would flee in terror if even half the stories she’s told me are true.”

“It is not the threat of man that I fear, Princess Daenerys,” Lakia said. “It is that which man fears.” The three looked at each other in confusion, unable to understand her words. Aegon, however, felt a sense of dread starting to creep up behind him. Something about her words stirred loose a memory. No, not a memory. A dream that felt like a memory. Hazy, blurry like murky water. He could scarcely recall the details, only the words spoken. A promise and a song.

Lakia spoke again, with a gravitas in her words. “I do not know what the seers of your land are like, but the Prophets of the Lands Between have always been viewed with scrutiny, in large part because of the nature of our prophecies. The future is ever-changing, and a single action can create a ripple, altering even the smallest of events. As such, our visions are constantly changing. Despite this, we saw one prophecy in the past. A prophecy that spoke of the cardinal sin, an act so egregious and horrid none dared believe there would be anyone foolish enough to commit it. My kind spoke of this prophecy, that one day the great Erdtree would be set ablaze, and for that, we were labelled heretics and liars. The kindest fate was to be forced to wear these collars. The worst fate befell the Tarnished.”

“The Tarnished?”

Daenerys answered in Lakia’s stead. “People who were stripped of the Erdtree’s blessings,” she explained. “Lady Lansseax mentioned them. She said the first Elden Lord became a Tarnished and was exiled.”

“Those born of the Erdtree’s blessings bear a golden hue in their eyes,” Lakia said. “When one becomes Tarnished, the hue disappears. Since the beginning of the new age, however, the blessings have since dulled and lost their golden luster. For some, it was a horrid fate. A fate heralded by the very thing we Prophets warned.”

Aegon remembered the sight of the great tree when they drew closer to the Lands Between. It’d been a grand sight at a distance, but closer to the realm it dwelled, the grandeur was short-lived. It was still an amazing sight to be sure, but numerous questions and fears arose when they realized the great tree, a towering sentinel reaching to the very heavens, was scorched and dead gray.

“I was among the Tarnished Prophets,” Lakia continued with her tale, her smile dim and without mirth. It was the smile of a broken woman. “I escaped the fates of my fellows when General Radahn allowed me safe haven. It was his benevolence that I was allowed to remain in Caelid, and it was thanks to him that I could provide succor and relief when the Scarlet Rot took root. I thought my purpose was to bring relief, to aid Caelid despite its suffering.”

“But…?” Aegon pressed.

Lakia raised her head. “When Lunar Queen Ranni brought about her Age of Stars and delivered us from the Golden Order, even going so far as to carry us to a place far beyond its reach, I suffered many visions. I bore witness to ghosts of the past, seeking to claim what was once theirs in the name of glory and conquest. I bore witness to the sickly yellow flame that would correct the “mistake” made by the Greater Will. And…”

She turned toward Aegon. He felt as though they were looking each other in the eye. Her next words brought with them a harrowing weight.

“…I bore witness to the frost-touched once-dead, raised by those who loathe any and all with warm blood in their veins. In the farthest reaches of Westeros.”

The dread hanging above Aegon fell upon him like a boulder. He felt the room itself run cold. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jon take a deep inhale, jaw clenched with herculean strain. The dream that used to be a memory grew in focus, returning to the forefront of his mind.

A promised prince.

A song of ice and fire.

A long night.

“The dragon must have three heads.”

“Whether you believe my tale is not necessary. If you must believe anything I tell you, you may believe this: Our fates are entwined with the wayward dragons, for better or worse. For that reason alone, we will offer our blades when you go to claim your throne.”

“…you have our thanks, Sister Lakia.”

Sadness touched the seer’s smile. When it became clear their business had concluded, the three rose to their feet and left the hut. Jon took his leave first, grunting in acknowledgment when Harrel nodded at their exit. Daenerys briefly stopped, looking as if she wished to say something to the seer before thinking better of it and shaking her head.

“One final thing, Prince Aegon.” The prince stopped just short of the entrance, his hand on the curtain when Lakia called out. He looked back at the seer, in turn, stared back past her blindfold. Her expression was somber, almost saddened, with an emotion he could not place. “Longing to reunite with your long-lost kin is understandable, but you need not give haste. The last of the three shall find his way to you.”

Aegon stared in shock. Then, he smiled. “…your words have given me more hope than you may realize. I owe you thanks, Sister Lakia. I shall repay this debt one day.” With that, he took his leave.

Sister Lakia stood alone in her hut, still looking at where the prince stood.

“…I am afraid that is a debt that shall go unpaid, little dragon.”

DAENERYS

The seers’ words left a profound impact on Ser Connington and Aegon. She could tell by the looks on their faces that they were troubled by something, perhaps the warnings Sister Lakia gave them when offering the Stones of Sellia’s swords to their cause. It should have good news to have allies, yet she left the hut with great concerns and just as many questions. She wanted to go back and question the seer, press her for details about her visions, but she was little better than her nephew and his sworn shield.

Ever since arriving in Caelid, Daenerys felt something stir in the back of her mind. There was a sound, so quiet and hushed she barely heard it, but it was there, just loud enough for her to take notice. It was not some incessant buzzing of an insect. It sounded like something closer to a hymn or melody, though she hesitated to call it “music”. No, this was something else.

She questioned Aegon and Jon about it, but they told her they heard nothing. She questioned some of the people of Redclif’s Cove, but they heard nothing either. She thought she was growing mad. Worse, she feared that perhaps the Scarlet Rot was taking hold of her. The “song” harrowed her ears, following her wherever she went.

What did it mean?

Daenerys wandered aimlessly, vaguely aware of her surroundings. She hoped she could take her mind off things by exploring Redclif’s Cove proper, speak with its people, but the “music” plagued her thoughts so much she paid sparse attention to the people around her. They were in no rush to leave as they needed to stockpile on supplies, even engaging in trade to see what the people of Caelid would be willing to offer. The princess cursed whatever affliction ailed her mind as it ruined the wonder around her. So many new things, and she could not enjoy any of them!

So lost was the Targaryen princess in her addled thoughts that she found herself colliding with someone. Daenerys stumbled, almost falling to her rear. She cursed herself for not paying attention while her mouth was already spewing apologies. “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere. I should have…”

“Well, well.  If 't be true t isn't the dram princess.”

Daenerys stilled. A familiar voice overpowered the “song”. The voice spoke with barely any levity, casual with a hint of fondness, yet to her, it was overpowering every other sound around her. The whole market seemed to fall into silence while the people went about their daily life, unaware or uncaring that Daenerys was held in the arms of a cloaked woman. She wanted to look up. She wanted to see the speaker’s face. Fear would not let her budge an inch.

A tender hand cusped her cheek. “Cometh anon,” the voice chided her. “Has't thee grown coequal m're timid since I did see thee lasteth, Daen'rys? Certes thy beggar prince of a broth'r did teach thee bett'r mann'rs than yond.”

The girl powered through her fears, emboldened by the stern but kind lecture. She lifted her head and found a woman of pure Valyrian bearing, so charming and otherworldly she could easily be mistaken for a beautiful man, odd markings curved around the sides of her face.

“Well?” Lansseax smiled. “Has't thee nothing to sayeth? Or has't thee hath lost thy tongue?”

The tears came quickly. Danny all but threw herself into the woman’s bosom, holding onto her like a child would their mother. She sobbed, burying herself into Lansseax’s chest. All the while, the woman gently caressed her head and stroked her back.

“You’re okay,” she hiccuped. “You’re really okay…”

“Hush, little culver. Did shed as many drops of sorrow as thee wanteth. I am not going anywh're.“

Danny did not know how long she cried. By the time her tears ceased, her eyes were puffy and red. The marketplace felt awkward with so many people looking on with curiosity and worry, but they did not flee, not when a warning glare from Lansseax sent most of them back to their business. The woman led Danny away from the market and closer to the docks, where the crew was hard at work loading supplies to and from the ship.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Danny said for the umpteenth time. “When those awful people attacked, and the pier went up in flames, I feared the worst.” A timid hope threatened to burst from her chest. “Um, d-did you happen to see my brother? Was Vissy with you?”

“I am afraid not,” Lansseax replied, to her disappointment. “I didn't seeth thy broth'r throughout yond madness in Pentos.”

“O-oh…”

She should have expected as much. She knew better than to get her hopes up, but seeing Lansseax here, alive and well… Still, no news was good news, she supposed.

“What happened to you?” she dared to ask her teacher. “I was so worried when all the fighting started.”

Lansseax exhaled deeply. “Yond is a longeth st'ry, wench. To giveth thee the sh'rt v'rsion, I journey'd to the ship carrying the foe hest'r and desired to cutteth h'r headeth.  I did fail.  The lady wast stout'r than I anticipat'd.”

“You went to fight them? Alone?!” Although she only had Aegon’s words when they first met to give any indication how skilled in martial prowess she was, the idea of Lansseax braving an enemy vessel and fighting its crew by herself boggled her imagination. “How did you escape?”

“With luck,” the woman grinned. “Though t wast not easy.  Kuroshi wast relentless in h'r desire to rend mine own heart from mine own chest. Enow about me, dram dragon.  Bid me of yourself. Who is't is this new brood of yours?”

“Oh, they’re with the Golden Company,” Danny said. She did not think it prudent to breach Ser Connington and Aegon’s trust by divulging their true identities to her and spoke half-truths. “Though they’ve struck away from the band for the time being. They were kind enough to offer me shelter and allow me to travel with them. They’re kind.”

Lansseax nodded in approval. “I suspect'd as much with Griff the Young'r. A fine fellow, if 't be true p'rhaps did wet 'round the ears.”

Danny giggled. What sort of face would her dear nephew make if he heard Lansseax speak of him in such a manner? Her next words ceased in her throat when the “music” suddenly rose in pitch. It was still quiet, but now it joined the cacophony of noise around her.

“Is something the matt’r?” Lansseax asked, noting the girl’s discomfort.

Danny grimaced. “Ever since we reached the Lands Between, I’ve been hearing this…noise. I wasn’t thinking much about it, but it’s been getting louder.”

“A noise?”

“It almost sounds like a song.”

Lansseax’s expression shifted, all brevity gone without a trace. Her eyes narrowed, and the slits of her pupils seemed to sharpen to a dagger’s point. The change frightened Daenerys. Suddenly, her teacher didn’t seem like a normal person anymore. Her hackles rose and shivers traveled down her spine. Something in her blood stirred, as if reacting to the abrupt dominating aura surrounding the cloaked woman.

“Thee can heareth h’r?” Lansseax hissed. Her lips parted, giving Danny a brief glimpse of her teeth; sharp and curved like a set of fangs.

Her words gave Danny pause. “…you can hear it too? Wait, what do you mean by her?”

“Not imp’rtant. Daen’rys.” Danny shuddered at the way Lannseax growled her name. “Speaketh, and speaketh true. Doest a dragon’s blood runneth in thy veins?”

“It-it’s said House Targaryen is descended from dragons, but what does that have to do with the singing?”

“T matt’rs because yond is not a m’re hymn ‘r lyric thou art hearing,” Lansseax told her. “Yond is the ‘ring death caterwauling of a pitiful drake hath left to roteth.”

Chapter Text

OLD WRITINGS

A series of unpublished papers penned by archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure within the Citadel for his pursuit of knowledge, however esoteric or heretical.

The writings are faded and barely legible, describing the Duchy of Caelid, the events leading up to the War of the Red, and the horrific Battle of Caelid.

            “The Caelid Duchy is one of the oldest powers, and reportedly one of the first kingdoms born in the Lands Between’s earliest histories.

            The Caelid Duchy, also known as the Dukedom, was ruled by an offshoot of a cadet house of Carian royalty, though its name has long since been lost to history, and whatever records of its founding were lost forever following the Battle of Caelid. Thankfully, even the main branch, the Great House of Caria, has no records after its last matriarch, Rellana of the Twin Moons, willingly abdicated and sundered all connection and relations to the Great House of Caria.

            From what little historical records remain of the Caelid Duchy, they were the greatest political power within the Lands Between, if not perhaps the greatest country after the Kingdom of Altus’ rapid decline prior to Marika’s rise to godhood and eventual apotheosis. Their military power and mastery of glintstone sorcery is said to be second to none. It is oft rumored that Queen Rennala of the Full Moon studied in the famed town of sorcery Selia, which would inspire her to create the Academy of Raya Lucaria. Despite controlling only the south-eastern part of the continent and being smaller than even the Coalition of Limgrave, its Great Houses feared the day when the Duchy raised its banners and went to war.

            It is especially curious to note that unlike the Coalition of Limgrave, which bowed to no lords save themselves, the government of the Duchy adheres to a democratic system, in which the power to elect officials and leaders is given by the smallfolk. Such a system of governing has not been seen since the rule of King Aegon V, who attempted such a system but was met with harsh criticism by the other houses of Westeros, including his greatest allies. The leader of the Duchy is bestowed the title of Grand Marshal, and his small council, the Consulate. Contenders for the title of Grand Marshal would go on several weeks-long campaigns, espousing their views and promises for their vision of Caelid. The one with the popular vote would be named Grand Marshal. The contenders of the Consulate, meanwhile, were chosen by the Grand Marshal himself, and the worthiness of the contenders was tested by the Alabaster Lords, who could be considered the equivalent of Maesters with greater ties to the government.

            At the time of Queen Marika’s rise to power within the Kingdom of Altus, the Caelid Duchy and the Kingdom of Caria enjoyed a period of lasting collaboration and partnership, with both countries making strides in sorceries.”

            “When the Coalition of Limgrave bent the knee to Queen Marika and her House of the Erdtree, both the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid Duchy prepared their banners and their armies. The day Limgrave bent the knee, the soon-to-be ruler of the Lands Between sent a messenger to both countries with an ultimatum: Bend the knee and swear themselves to her cause, or fall to the sword and be forgotten. The message was clear, and war was unavoidable.

            Although Limgrave sat between the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid Duchy, it was not defenseless. Marika’s most recent allies, the warriors of the Badlands, became the swords and shields of the region, defending against incursions from both sides while simultaneously waging war on Caelid. As the strongest country at the time, Queen Marika focused her efforts on conquering the Duchy, thus beginning what would come to be called the War of the Red, a long and brutal conflict spanning forty years that supposedly saw the rocky regions of Caelid permanently stained in the blood of the fallen.

            Despite the overwhelming martial prowess of the Badland tribes, the sorcerers of Caelid possessed enough magical might to match them, as had the supposed mastery of gravity by the Alabaster Lords, who for the first time joined in battle. Until then, they had never involved themselves in martial matters. Such was the grave threat posed by Marika and her allies. It is worth noting that many non-human races were present in the Duchy, and home to many misbegotten. The leonine sub-species of misbegotten were common, and even made up the bulk of Caelid’s army, as they were the most combative and hardened warriors among their kind.

            For three decades, the House of the Erdtree and Caelid were in deadlock, neither side able to gain an inch while Limgrave and the Badland tribes worked to fend off attacks from the west. The tides of war abruptly changed when Queen Rennala and her twin sister arrived, having circumvented the naval blockade around the Kingdom of Caria’s shores. Many records from Raya Lucaria paint a vivid picture of the newly minted Queen of Caria, barely a month after having worn the crown, and her sister, her loyal blade, defeating countless warriors and even managing to invade Limgrave. For a while, it was thought that the Caelid Duchy would claim control of Limgrave and prepare a coordinated assault on the Kingdom of Altus.

            Any such hopes were dashed when a warrior of no renown appeared, single-handedly driving back the invading forces and retaking lost territories. None had seen this warrior before, but in the years to come, he would be remembered as the Conqueror of Caelid, King of Caria, and later, the second Elden Lord.

            With Hoarah Loux, the warrior led a renewed assault on the Caelid Duchy, boasting a mastery of Golden Order incantations never seen before. Within eight years, the House of the Erdtree conquered most of the Duchy. The remaining two years of the war were spent laying siege to Redmane Castle, where the Grand Marshall managed to secret away the Queen of Caria and her sister back to their kingdom. In the final days of the War of the Red, the Grand Marshall negotiated terms of surrender with Queen Marika, meeting with the Empyrean with no armed guards to defend him at her encampment in Limgrave. He would willingly offer his head, and the Consulate would disband, but the Alabaster Lords would continue to offer counsel to the people of Caelid. Queen Marika would only later agree to the latter portion of the terms after a lengthy discussion with the Alabaster Lords.

            Fifteen days after the discussions, the Grand Marshall was executed, and the Consulate was disbanded. Radagon would be named regent of the country, working to consolidate power and pacify the populace before reforming the Consulate with his most trusted officers. During this time, he also led a brutal campaign against the misbegotten races, particularly the leonine sub-species, with such barbaric zeal it bordered on pure hatred. None are sure why he despised the leonine misbegotten, save for rumors that it had something to do with his red hair, which he reportedly despised.

            With the Duchy conquered, only the Kingdom of Caria remained standing, leading to a century-long war that later came to be known as the Dance of the Moon.”

            “There were many great and terrible conflicts throughout the Shattering, but none were as devastating and mysterious and horrific as the Battle of Caelid, the climactic and final war ever waged before the appearance of the Tarnished.

            To understand the Battle of Caelid, you must first understand who stood at the source of it.

            With Queen Marika the Eternal gone and nowhere to be found, and her supposed successor Godwyn the Golden slain in the Night of Black Knives, a succession crisis occurred. In accordance to the laws put in place by the Two fingers, the Empyrean candidates were tasked with succeeding Marika, yet none answered the call. Lunar Princess Lanni committed suicide for unknown reasons, her body burnt beyond recognition, in turn worsening Queen Rennala’s mental state. The twin prodigies, Miquella and Malenia, blatantly refused and opted to attend to their affairs in the Consecrated Snowfield that lay past the Mountaintop of the Giants. With no Empyrean candidate to succeed Marika, a war of succession arose.

            The Veiled Monarch, Morgott the Grace-Given, assumed leadership of the Altus Plateau and the royal capital of Leyndell until Queen Marika returned or a suitable lord was found. When the demi-gods laid claim to the shards of the Elden Ring and began pursuing conquest, conflicts arose all throughout the Lands Between.

            Grand Marshall Radahn, the son of Queen Rennala and the second Elden Lord Radagon, declared his intention to claim the seat of Elden Lord and succeed his father, and although he suffered multiple defeats at the hand of Morgott’s most-trusted warrior Margit the Fell, the Lord Commander of the Redmane Knights refused to concede. Among the would-be contenders, the Grand Marshall was the most popular, having offered safe refuge for those looking to escape the horrors of war. That he was in good standing with Miquella the Kind, who many believed the ideal choice to succeed Queen Marika after Godwyn, certainly helped his reputation. At the time, Caelid was the most stable in all the realm, but as the Shattering dragged on, overpopulation and concerns that Morgott would lay siege to Caelid increased.

            It would not be Morgott who waged war, however. Rather, war came to Caelid in the form of a most unexpected betrayal. In what is perhaps the most egregious breach in Guest Rights ever heard, Malenia the Severed and her Cleanrot Knights led a coup against Radahn and seized control of the south-western regions of Caelid. Following this, she sent a message bearing only a single demand, a battle between their forces at the watery fields of Aeonia. Radahn accepted her challenge and brought with him the greatest warriors in the former dukedom, meeting Malenia and her host in what would be the final battle to be held in the Shattering.

            It is said that the Battle of Caelid lasted two nights and three days, with neither side budging an inch. It only came to a conclusion when Malenia impaled herself upon her own blade atop Grand Marshall Radahn, and unleashed the Scarlet Rot upon Caelid.

            As I’ve covered the Scarlet Rot in an earlier paper, I believe you can imagine what sorts of hellish horrors awaited the people when a orange flower bloomed upon the general’s back. There are many accounts that describe the nightmare that befell the smallfolk and the survivors following this event, and I can barely stomach to write but a few into this document. Having set foot in Caelid myself, which has supposedly begun seeing signs of recovery as of recently, I can only hope we will never see this scourge upon Westeros. I dare not wish it upon anyone, not even our worst enemies…”

Chapter Text

JON SNOW

“Who…are you…?”

“As I said, my name is Melina,” the gloam-eyed woman replied. “I am a traveler, no different than yourself or your companion.”

The tension in the air hung over Jon’s head like a guillotine. Several questions ran through his mind. This woman, Melina, he’d seen her face before. The dreams that haunted him for weeks, if not months, always ended with her. The dreams always ended with him stabbed by a man with a skull-themed helm, and saved by her. The woman with the burnt hair and gloam-colored eye.

Before Winterfell, Jon assumed his dreams were just that. Feverish imaginations of a boy listening to one too many of Old Nan’s stories. His father and brother believed otherwise, insisted they meant something. Having witnessed the fall of the keep for himself, and now seeing the woman who reached for his hand before him…

Jon licked his lips, organizing his thoughts. He had several questions, many he intended for Godwyn, but after all that happened and learning what became of his grandfather, they were the furthest thing from his mind. Now, though, there was time. More importantly, there was someone who could hopefully give him clarity and understanding.

“…you called me a traveler of the living,” he started. “What did you mean by that? Aren’t I supposed to be dead? Is this not the Hells?”

“This place is the Land of the Pale,” Melina answered. “It is where the faithless and the lost are sent. Once, before Queen Marika the Eternal erected the suppressing pillar and rejected all forms of death, before removing the Rune of Death from the Elden Ring, all souls unable to return to the Erdtree washed up here.”

Names and terms that meant nothing to him, all save for one. Confirmation of what’d become of him. A bitter smile flittered across his face. “So, I truly am dead…”

“No, you are not.” The bastard blinked in surprise. Melina spoke with certainty. “’twould be more accurate to say you are half-dead. You were touched by death. A feat not many lay claim to. You know of what I speak, do you not?”

Her eyes fell upon the Helphen’s Steeple. The blade felt heavier than normal. His hand traced its surface. Ghostly embers flickered around the edges of the blade and around his hand.

“You have cheated death, but it has not relinquished its hold on you. As it stands, you are but one of the wandering souls trapped in the Land of the Pale. Yet you are not beholden to it. There is a way for you to return to the mortal realm.”

Jon’s eyes widened. He could scarcely believe her words. “H-how?”

“Your friend wishes to travel to the Frozen Forest, does he not?” He nodded. “There is a monolith there. It connects to a place that lies betwixt realms. Through there, you may regain your corporeal flesh.” Melina’s eyes narrowed. “Be warned, however. The Huntsmen have laid claim to it, and any soul unfortunate enough to cross their path is struck down.”

“The Huntsmen?”

“You’ve met them before. The ghostly soldiers of the Ghostlord. Valmar of the Tylth.”

Cold dread sank into his bones. He grimaced, reaching for the spot where Valmar’s blade sank into his flesh.

“Who is he?” he asked. “What is he?”

“A ghost of the past, roused by the Age of Stars’ reckoning. The Land of the Pale was entwined with the Lands Between. When Ranni the Witch brought it here, so too did she bring the Land of the Pale to your world.”

“The Lands Between—” Jon joked. “Wait, your world? Do you… Do you mean that the Lands Between is not of this world?” Melina shook her head. Jon stared with an unhinged jaw. New questions furiously scrambled at his mind, yet none were spoken aloud. Part of him feared the answers. He dragged a hand down his face, settling for a tired sigh. “I… I have many questions.”

“And I shall answer them all, in time. When I know you are safe. It is why I wish to form a pact with you, Jon Snow.”

“Why?”

Melina closed her eyes, taking a quiet, calming breath. When she opened them again, she spoke with a softer tone. “You…remind me of a companion of mine.” Jon raised an eyebrow. “We made an accord. They would take me to the Erdtree, and I would offer them a boon. I offer the same to you. There is a place I wish to see, in search of answers. In return, I will offer you a boon. A means to turn echoes into strength.”

“What do you mean?”

The traveler extended a hand. “Offer me your hand, and I shall show you.”

Jon stared at the appendage. There was no reason to take her at her word. She was suspicious. There was no reason to take her at her word.

Yet the dreams he dismissed so easily told a different story. The vivid dream, the memory of her pulling him to safety. A warm and gentle hand.

He sighed again, this time in reluctance. I feel I will regret this, he thought cynically. He reached for her hand, allowing her dainty fingers to clasp around his flesh.

Suddenly, Jon felt his body tingle. Every part, from the thin flesh to the marrow of his mind, even the depths of his mind, felt warm. A surge of strength flooded him. His body felt light. The weight of the sword at his hip lessened.

A gasped escaped his lips. The rush continued, lasting for several seconds, before weakening into an ebb and flow. When the feeling dissipated altogether, the tingling sensation across his flesh remained. He nearly tore his hand away from Melina, afraid of what she was doing to him yet even more afraid what would happen if he did. In the end, it was the traveler herself who relinquished her hold of him. When their hands parted, the tingling sensation and fading warmth subsided entirely.

“What…” he rasped. “What did you do to me?”

“Did you not feel it, when you slew the hessians?” Melina inquired. “A foreign power invading your body? They are echoes, whispers of what they once were. Think of them as a Remembrance, but with little attachment or lingering memory of the being they once were. With this, you shall find it easier to battle Valmar’s Huntsmen and reclaim your mortal flesh.”

Jon flexed his hands. Truly, he felt different. He couldn’t quite place what, but instinctually, he knew something about him changed. The only way to prove Melina’s words would be to test his blade in combat once more. If she spoke true, he and Godwyn would face opposition in the icy woodlands ahead of them. He could prove her claims then.

For now, there was a question burning at the tip of his tongue.

“…if I accept your accord, what would you ask of me? Where do you wish to go?”

“The Lands Between.”

He frowned. “Why there?”

“Answers, in regards to myself.”

The same as Godwyn, then…

Moments of silence passed between them.

“…very well. On the name of House Stark, I swear, I shall uphold our vow. One day, I shall see you to the Lands Between. However…” Jon narrowed his eyes, his voice lowered into a surprisingly harsh growl. “Should you repay my kindness with treachery, I will show you no mercy.”

Melina smiled. The sight nearly stole his breath. She seemed amused, almost. “You have my thanks, Jon Snow.”

She rose to her feet and spun on her heel. Jon blinked in confusion. “Wait, where are you…”

“Worry not. You need only beckon me when you require my aid. I shall not be far behind…” With those words, Jon watched as her form faded from existence. It was as if she was never there.

The bastard stared at the spot where Melina once stood before sighing for a third time, allowing himself to rest against the tree again.

“If she indeed speaks true… The others won’t believe a damned word of this.”

It was Godwyn who woke him. With no way to tell the time of day, Jon could only surmise he gained a decent amount of sleep. His body ached in protest of their lodgings, but there was little he could do about that. He could only be thankful they had such thick blankets to shield them from the cold.

“You’ve yet to explain why we must go to this patch of forest,” Jon said as they journeyed. Although the woodlands were in sight, the distance between them and their destination was great indeed. They were unlikely to arrive before the day’s end. “What is so important there that you feel we must go with great haste?”

“It is not so much the forest that is important as it is the person waiting for me there,” Godwyn answered. “Someone with answers. He said he would wait for me in the Frozen Forest. Granted, he was not forthcoming about the details, or why he insisted we meet there. He said I would have the answers I desired when we meet at the weirwood tree there.”

“A weirwood tree? In that place?” While the weirwood trees were not a common sight in the North, they were not so rare that one could stumble upon them out in the northern wilderness. That said, they were a scarce sight, not helped by the arrival of the Andals and the Targaryen conquest near three centuries ago. “Is he a follower of the Old Gods?”

“That is what you call the deities of this land, yes?” Jon nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t know. As I said, he wasn’t forthcoming, but he knew things about myself, helped me fill the blank holes in my memory. If you’d like, I could introduce you. Perhaps he could be of assistance to you in your journey as well?”

“…I don’t see why not.” Jon didn’t see the harm in Godwyn’s suggestion. The monolith Melina told him about was somewhere in the Frozen Forest. If Godwyn’s associate was there as well, it would be the same as killing two birds with one stone.

Still, a weirwood, in this place, Jon frowned. Melina claimed the Land of the Pale originates from another world, but if so, why is something from my own world here? She says she will tell me as much as I wish when we find the monolith, but…

“—Jon.”

The tension in Godwyn’s words made him reach for the black sword fastened to his hip. Up ahead were shambling corpses, for lack of a better word. They looked like soldiers at a glance, clad in leather armor, but their forms were emaciated and feeble. Their skin practically hung from their bones, like dried paper.

“Hessians?” he ventured to guess. Godwyn nodded. “Will they be much trouble?”

“Unlikely,” the man replied. “Given the state of their armor and their mannerism, dispatching them should be effortless.”

They needed neither thunder nor flame to strike them down. Only steel. It wasn’t until after the “battle” that Jon noticed how cold the air felt…

Chapter Text

JON SNOW

The air was cold. So frigid in fact that every breath he took was a visible cloud in front of his face. Even without the wind, Jon could feel the frigid, icy chill settling over him. Having been raised in the north, the cold never bothered him. Some joked that the Starks had ice in their blood, but this was not the cold he was used to. Not even the harshest wintry winds the North could muster made his skin shiver or recoil beneath his cloak in such a manner. Godwyn himself fared little better, having pulled up his hood to provide some manner of warmth around his head.

Whether because of some weather phenomenon natural to the Land of the Pale or the Frozen Forest truly lived up to its name, Jon didn’t know. What he did know was that the sooner they were out of this forest, the better.

If I didn’t know any better, I would swear this was the wolfswood, Jon thought, taking in their surroundings.

Contrary to its name, the Frozen Forest lacked ice. White snowy fields crunched beneath their feet and blanketed the floor as far as the eye could see, but there was no sign of the translucent stuff anywhere. The woods themselves were sparse, and although the trees appeared normal, the branches were unnatural with how they curled, entwined, and snaked around each other and other nearby branches, forming a wooden ceiling. It hadn’t helped that the ever-present black roots he’d seen thus far also staked their claim in the Frozen Forest as well. The roots hadn’t uprooted or pierced through the trees, instead settling on snuffing the life out of them by ensnaring their growth around them like a snake. The smaller tendrils snaked around the branches, adding to the tangled mess hanging over their heads.

That was not the only unnatural thing about this place, however. The most curious thing about it were the graves; not simple headstones or grave markers made of stone, wood, or a pile of rocks. The graves were phantoms, ghostly images in the form of headstones that shimmered in and out of existence.

Jon reached out to touch one of them, only for his hand to slide through the phantom grave.

“Your friend picked an odd place for a meeting,” he told Godwyn wryly.

His companion nodded solemnly, saying nothing. He stared forward, eyes betraying nothing. It was impossible to tell what was running through his mind at that moment.

A chorus of howls echoed through the air. Godwyn gripped his blade tight. Jon unsheathed the Helphen’s Steeple from his side. They would not be caught unawares, not as they had at the keep. The two advanced, delving into the Frozen Forest.

An uneasy, tense silence hung over them. Their eyes flickered back and forth about their surroundings, expecting an attack to come any moment. Jon could feel eyes on them. Something was watching them from afar, studying them. Waiting.

Godwyn stopped abruptly. He held up a fist, ordering a full stop. Movement ahead.

Figures stepped out from beyond the treeline. Hessians, similar to the wolfmen wandering the tunnels below the Stark keep. They wore no armor, and were clearly bigger. They were the height of the average Umber man, with mangy snowy-white fur and long limbs.

“At the ready,” Godwyn told him while assuming a stance.

Jon nodded.

The wolfmen approached, their steps eager with claws primed to rip and tear. Lines of saliva hung from their open maws. Jon saw their emaciated forms, the sheer hunger in their eyes. Part of him wondered who these creatures were in the past. What happened to turn them into monsters?

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. He couldn’t think them sane. Whatever became of them, they were enemies. Wild animals to be put down. He gripped his sword tight, opened his eyes, and let his wolfsblood take him. The blade lit with its ghostly pale flames as if responding to its wielder’s will.

The wolfmen snarled, bared their fangs, and howled before charging at them. Six in total. Six beasts to put to the sword.

Godwyn met them first, jumping into the air and lunging for the nearest wolfman. His sword struck it in the chest, not sinking into flesh as Jon thought but instead knocking it to the snowy ground. The second and third flanked him, aiming to attack him from both sides. A small smirk flittered across the warrior’s face as he leaned forward. For a brief moment, his form dissipated into misty smoke, easily flowing around the hessians’ combined assault and appearing behind them.

Seizing the advantage, Jon coordinated with Godwyn. Their moves were in sync; a spinning slash of flame accompanied by a swing from an angry red thunderous glaive. Two strikes were performed in unison, slicing through flesh and cutting through bone. The hessians howled in pain as their respective weapons struck, one even keeling over dead. Jon quickly followed up with an upward slash, cutting up the wolfman’s chest and ending with a roundhouse kick to the chest. Out the corner of his eye, he saw another hessian rushing toward them, eyes fixed to Godwyn.

“Godwyn! Behind you!”

A draconic arm sprung from the warrior’s form as he pivoted on his heel, slamming the claw down behind him. It barely missed, almost touching the hessian as it ceased its charge. It roared in defiance, then jumped away when Godwyn swung his thunderous glaive down on the spot where it stood. Jon rushed to his companion’s side when the other two hessians pounced, attempting to attack Godwyn with his guard down. He batted one claw away, then parried the incoming second claw before delivering the riposte, driving his sword as deep into the hessian’s chest before dragging it upward, killing it on the spot.

Behind him, the wolfman snarled and attempted to swipe a claw at his head. Jon ducked beneath it and rolled away, just as Godwyn appeared into view and slashed at its back. The warped caricacture of a man howled in pain, but Jon’s focus swiftly turned to the wolfman sneaking up on Godwyn from behind. It was the one he knocked down earlier. The warrior was so preoccupied with the one in front of him he failed to notice the one coming up from behind.

Jon had no time to think. He acted. He gripped his sword, took aim, and threw it like a javelin with all the strength he could muster. If didn’t matter if he killed or wounded it. He just needed to keep it distracted and alert Godwyn.

He never expected the blade to land in the wolfman’s chest, or for it to sink hilt deep. The creature died with a pitiful whimper, falling to the snow-laden earth and begin disappearing from existence.

What in the—

Jon didn’t have time to think. The last of the hessians threw itself at him, reaching for him with its meaty sharp claws. The wolfsblood in his veins roared in his ears. In a panicked frenzy, Jon ducked under the creature and watched it sail overhead, falling and tumbling into the white-blanket ground behind him. Before the wolfman had a chance to recover, Jon threw himself at its back, wrapping his arms around its neck. He clasped his hand over his wrist, pulled his muscles taught like a bowstring, wrapped his legs around as much of the creature’s torso as he could, and squeezed. The wolfman flailed wildly, trying and failing to buck him off its back. It scratched at his arms and face, its claws cutting into the fabric and flesh. Jon gritted his teeth, powering through the pain. The hessian fell onto its back, trying to squish him into the ground. He tightened his grip in response, squeezing tighter and tighter until—

Crack.

The creature went still for a moment, then went completely limp. Jon maintained his grip until he saw motes of light flake from its dissipating body. He panted and shoved the disappearing corpse off him, taking a moment to catch his breath. He looked up warily, expecting to find Godwyn still fighting. Instead, he found his comrade deliver the finishing blow. The sole survivor was pinned helplessly beneath Godwyn’s boot, helpless and unable to defend itself as he slammed a draconic limb down upon its head, killing it instantly.

A lull of tense silence fell over the air. Neither dared to move, straining their ears for the smallest of sounds; a snapping branch, a howl, anything that would signal the approach of another enemy. Jon’s breath came out in uneven falls, slowly moving to retrieve his fallen blade as if afraid the crunching snow beneath his feet would alert every god-forsaken creature in the woods. Godwyn kept vigil on the tree line, gripping his sword tightly in his hand. After what felt like an eternity, the two allowed the tension in their body to bleed away.

“Doubtlessly they shan’t be the last beasts in search of our flesh,” the warrior said. “We should keep moving.”

Jon nodded in agreement. He did not sheathe his blade, still thinking back to the moment when he threw his sword.

Since when could I kill one of them in such a manner?

He flexed his hands. He remembered the sensation of the echoes flowing through him, of Melina giving him strength. Was this what she meant? Was this what she was capable of?

Jon wasn’t sure how to feel. Excited at the prospect of surviving this nightmare, or fearful the pursuit of strength would end with him joining the ranks of the forsaken spirits of the Pale Lands…

Just as Godwyn predicted, their encounter with the wolfmen hessians was indeed not the last time. They’d been set upon at least thrice, each as violent as the last. He half expected to find half-dead soldiers or militia men like the ones they encountered on their way to the forest, but so far, it’d been only wolfmen.

It was cumbersome as it was anxious, yet each battle left Jon feeling something, shapeless, formless weight words could not describe. Something swirled in his chest. The only thing that came to mind were the echoes Melina told him of. Likewise, his suspicions about the maiden having done something to his body were confirmed. The battles at the keep always left him feeling exhausted and tired, requiring a moment of respite to wear off the fatigue. Now, he noticed how effortlessly he could swing his sword. It still bore a hefty weight, but it was lighter somehow. Each swing required less energy.

As he expected, the change hadn’t gone unnoticed, however.

“You’ve become stronger, Jon.” Godwyn’s words were oddly calm despite the tinge of suspicion miring his voice. “Faster as well.”

“Not fast enough,” Jon said bitterly.

The last attack took them off guard. Neither man expected the wolfmen to hang from the trees and fall upon them like leeches. One even succeeded in getting a few hits on, its claws cutting through his tunic and rending flesh. Although the changes in his body included a higher pain tolerance than expected, that did not mean the wound could be ignored. Godwyn had been forced to use that odd flask of his to mend the wound.

“Perhaps, but you cannot ignore progress. You’ve improved quite a bit since we met, and its barely been, what, two days?”

It feels longer than that, Jon thought, wondering for the umpteenth time what had become of the Starks.

He wished to speak of Melina to Godwyn and explain the reasons behind his growth but refrained. The two made a pact, and while Melina did not ask he keep her presence a secret, her absence implied she did not wish to burden them with her presence. If she wished to reveal herself, it would be of her own accord. He would not force the issue. Of course, he was aware this decision could come back to bite him should Godwyn attempt to press the issue. The pale-faced man did not, but Jon could tell he had questions.

There were many questions he wished to ask of Godwyn himself. One question in particular sat on his lips, bidding him to speak it, but even he knew better than to utter such horrid words. If Melina spoke true, the poor souls who found themselves in the Land of the Pale did not die peacefully.

It would be in poor taste to inquire how Godwyn died. If he even remembered how he met his end, that is.

The awkward air between them was beginning to drive Jon mad. He wished to make conversation, say something that would make the trek toward the unknown tolerable, but he could not find the right words or what to say. Instead, he begrudgingly stewed in the silence. All the while, he took stock of the state of the woods. It’d been a while since they entered this place, and the further in they went, the more entwined and coiled the sickly black tendrils grew. Some paths had been barred, forming walls of ebony wood with glowing rotten gold cracks.

It almost feels as though we are being herded somewhere, with how often we find ourselves barred.

It was not a pleasant thought, as it implied the Frozen Forest was alive. It would not be the weirdest thing he’s seen since arriving in this place, but all the same, he had no wish to contend with the very dirt beneath his feet or the trees surrounding him as far as the eye could see.

As they went further into the icy woodland, Jon perked his ears. Ahead of him, Godwyn suddenly held his blade with both hands. Further ahead, they could hear it. The sounds of battle and beastly howls. The two glanced at one another, questioning whether to investigate or continue on.

“It could be an internal conflict between hessians,” Godwyn argued. “They’re hardly organized.”

“Or it could be someone still in possession of their wits,” Jon countered, thinking of Lapp. He hoped the knight escaped the keep after Rickard’s second, and hopefully final, death. “Would you really leave them to their deaths, if such is the case?”

Conflicted emotions warred across Godwyn’s face. After a moment of pondering, he sighed. “…very well. But!” He raised a finger before Jon could speak, eyes narrowed into a harsh glare that reminded him of his sire. “Should we come across two hessians battling for territory, we leave. Those who’ve succumbed to the madness are better left well alone to their fate.”

Jon did not argue.

The two made their way to the source of the sounds. They eventually stumbled upon a clearing and were greeted by a surprising sight. It was not a battle between hessians, or so it seemed. Rather, it was a battle between a beast and a knight. A giant beast, a wolf the size of a house, bared its fangs and assailed a knight wearing half-melted armor with a tattered cape wielding a spear.

“That is…” Godwyn’s eyes were alight with recognition. When Jon moved to aid the knight, he stopped him. “No need. He does not need our assistance.”

The young man would have questioned Godwyn’s decision, had it not been for the sound of cackling thunder roaring in the air. He turned back to see the knight forgoing his spear in favor of two glaives made of raging crimson thunder and slamming them down into the Earth. The snow melted and exploded into steam, yet the cloud was easily destroyed by the waves of thunder rolling over the giant wolf and knocking it to the ground.

With a surprising burst of speed, the knight closed the distance and drove his spear as deep into the beast’s head as it could go. Half the spear vanished into its skull, yet the hessian did not die. It howled and roared in pain, recoiling and pawing at its head.

A fatal mistake.

The knight assumed a stance, and the spectral head of a dragon appeared above his shoulders, its roars overpowering the giant wolf’s before breathing a wave of flame down upon it. The flames consumed it, burning away at its hide. The knight did not allow it to recover, continuing his brutal assault by summoning a draconic claw in place of the head he summoned earlier and seizing the giant wolf by the throat. He lifted it up into the air, then brutally slammed it down into the ground before jumping high into the air. Another crimson glaive of thunder appeared in his hand just as he descended upon the beast. He aimed right where he drove his spear.

The glaive slammed down atop the half-buried shaft of the spear, driving it further into the beast’s skull. The metal became wreathed with thunder, its very metal becoming a rod and conduit for the knight’s attack. Even if the hessian was durable enough for its brain to be stabbed, Jon doubted it could withstand lightning coursing through its head.

The air went still as the thunder ceased. Jon and Godwyn watched with baited breath, wondering if the final blow was struck. When the beast slowly began to disappear, they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Godwyn sheathed his blade and approached the knight, a light smile on his face. Seeing this, Jon followed suit. It seemed Godwyn found who he’d been looking for. With the fight having ended, he finally took notice of the singular tree in the clearing, far away from the sight of the battle and untouched. It was smaller than the others, barely as tall as the common smallfolk’s home, but it bore a massive trunk the width of one of Winterfell’s watchtowers. The red leaves decorating its branches gave it away, as did the oily black lake at the foot of the tree’s roots.

“A weirwood…” Jon breathed in amazement. He didn’t think he would find one in this place, and it was almost a comforting sight.

Almost.

Whether because of the nature of the tree or because it was in a realm clearly not of this world, it did not bear a weeping face in the bark. Instead, there was a torso growing out from the center of the trunk. At a distance, he could only make out the masculine shape of the torso and wild, untamed “hair”, but it was a disturbing sight nonetheless.

“Hail, Dragonspear!” Godwyn called out. “We meet again, at last.”

The knight gripped his spear tight, grunting and pulling at the shaft. He tore the spear free from the fading beast’s skull. Black ichor caked most of the shaft and the metal blade atop the pole.

“So it would seem.” The knight’s voice was gravely and raspy. “And you’ve found yourself a compatriot.”

“Aye. Jon Snow, by name. I meet him in the keep over yonder there, up south.”

“Well, well…” The knight tilted his head in Jon’s direction. “The promised prince…but promised to whom, I wonder?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. The knight chuckled at his reaction. “No, pay it no mind. The ramblings of a fool.”

The bastard looked at the knight’s armor and paled. The metal was rusted and faded, battered and beaten with numerous dents. The melted parts resembled a handprint.

Gods old and new, what in the Hells did he fight to end up in such a state?

“Jon,” Godwyn began. “Allow me to introduce one of the greatest warriors in the Lands Between.”

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped the knight. “Is that what you see, Once-Golden Godwyn? Such grand delusions you have. I’m no warrior. I’m a Festering Fingerprint. No more, no less.” He turned and looked at Jon, the latter having the distinct feeling he did not wish to see what lay beneath that helm. “I am Vyke. A drake warrior and Tarnished from the age of antiquity. Tell me, wolf child… What can this fool do for you?”

Chapter Text

VYKE

They called him Godwyn the Golden. The people knew him as Queen Marika the Eternal’s firstborn son, but that was not the truth. He was her fourthborn child. The first was the nameless Impaler who was banished to the Land of Shadow. The second and third were a pair of Omen twins, one of which would go on to serve his queen and mother as one of her most loyal warriors. Only a handful knew the truth, including Godwyn himself.

There was not a soul in the Lands Between who didn’t know him. Although not born an Empyrean, he was widely proclaimed to be Queen Marika’s successor and the next Elden Lord, if not a true King Eternal. He wielded kindness and strength in equal measure, and while he could not lay claim to the title of saint, his gentle hand with the non-human races as well as his martial prowess was said to have been his greatest traits. Some whispered there might come a time when the non-human races would find succor within the Golden Order, whispers that grew louder in the aftermath of the Dragon War centuries ago. He’d been but a whelp, then, having only just born witness to Gransseax’ corpse landing atop Leyndell.

The sight inspired and spurred him to become a mighty drake warrior, an ambition that would not come to pass until he turned Tarnished.

The Land of the Pale was an odd realm to be sure, but now more than ever the fallen drake knight believed it was bizarre. Godwyn the Golden, poor Godwyn who’d been slain in the Night of Black Knives, had somehow found his way here. A demigod above all others, yet robbed and disgraced of his former countenance. When they first met, he looked like a mindless corpse like so many of the withering nobles left to wander and rot in the Lands Between when they lost both prestige and wealth. His gold hair and Grace-lit eyes were gone, and a festering black mark scoured the side of his face.

It was a pitiful sight, one that made him ponder whether to put the Once-Golden out of his shameful state and end his life. He stayed his hand, instead offering words and assistance. Now Godwyn stood before him, life brimming in his eyes. He even found a traveling companion, the welp Melina had been seeking for some time.

“He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.”

Vyke recalled the words the scarred wyrm spoke, a memory from when the lunar queen’s proclamation roused him from his slumber and woke in this mad world of deranged spirits. He heard tales of the Pale Lands before, a spirit world host to the lost and departed well before the emergence of Destined Death. They were scarce on account of said tales being oral in telling, with scant few written records of the Pale Lands, and even then, what was written was so vague he learned barely anything. It’d been Lansseax, dearest and trusted Lansseax, his most faithful companion up until that fateful day, that told him of the spirit world in truth.

The stories, he realized with mirth, captured the bizarre nature of the Land of the Pale. The spirits wandering the place either barely retained their wits chasing a tree that grew no closer no matter how far they traveled or succumbed and became hessians. The ones that maintained their sanity, be it newly departed souls or those with iron-clad will, became leaders of ghosts. Among them was the so-called Valmar of the Tylth. Dread Lord. Ghostlord.

He scoffed at the memory, disregarding the man seeking to reclaim old glories, and focused on the pair before him. At a glance, the so-called “prince who was promised” looked normal. He had the build of a warrior, a handsome face, but other than that, he seemed average. At a second glance, Vyke could see something. A trace of strength. Whisps of power.

Ah… So, Melina’s found the whelp, he realized, recognizing the hint of power faintly wafting from the boy’s form.

“Tell me, wolf child…” Vyke started. “What can this fool do for you?”

Jon Snow was startled, surprised that Vyke addressed him. He suppressed a chuckle. Was the boy so easily startled? If so, then that wyrm’s prophecy was doomed to fail. Just as he did.

“…Godwyn claimed you could help me,” the boy said after collecting his wits. “And that you had answers he sought.”

“Then ask your questions. I suggest you be quick, however.”

At that moment—

“AWOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”

An ungodly howl roared across the icy woodlands. Somewhere in the distance, deeper into the very heart of the forest, there was a great beast. One of the oldest hessians, a relic of a bygone age that found its way to this awful place. He had but a brief encounter with it, and he had no designs to fight it anytime soon. He felled worse beasts, but he stayed his hand out of pity more than anything. It’d been a proud beast, once upon a time, as were most of the red-furred wolves the Elden Lord of the Golden Order favored, but there was not a hint of its former splendor anymore.

It became an awful beast, claiming the Frozen Forest as its new home. In a way, Vyke found a kindred spirit, for he knew that while the beast had long since lost itself upon becoming a hessian, it was nonetheless a pitiable creature driven by despair.

“The wolves here answer to a greater beast. Unless you have a death wish, I would advise not wasting time.”

Godwyn was unfazed, but the howl left the boy unsettled. He recoiled, but rather than appear fearful, there was an unknown emotion. Was that sorrow? Pity? Or was it something else?

…no matter. It did not concern him.

“I seek a monolith. I’ve heard one can be found here somewhere.”

Vyke nodded. “I know what you speak of. ‘tis a slab of blackened rock with scripture carved onto its surface. You’ll find it east of here.” He raised his right arm and pointed to the side. “You’ll find it in that direction. Take heed, wolf child. The hessians there are drawn to the gnarled roots that have long since ensnared it.”

“The blackened roots, you mean?” Godwyn inquired. “We’ve seen them everywhere. They are not part of the lampwood, surely?”

Oh, you poor, pitiful fool…

He had no idea what the roots were. He did not realize they were a symptom of primordial infection. A blight that wormed its way through the Pale Lands, hastening the wandering souls to the brink of despair and madness.

“They are not.” Tempted though he was to reveal the truth, the whole truth, Vyke stayed his tongue. As he was, fragile and cracked, the Once-Golden was not ready to know the full of it. If he knew the cause of this infection, he would surely seek it out and be greeted with a most unceremonious, pitiful soul death. The man named Godwyn the Golden deserved more, deserved better than an ignoble end such as that. “They are diseased, spawned from the Lands Between. Any soul that touches them is forever scarred, and is guaranteed to become a hessian. No, the roots that have ensnared the monolith are of an ancient tree further North. Some spirits claim the trees roots run throughout all of Westeros, and its branches become budding trees of their own.”

“I don’t recall any story of such a tree,” Jon said. “And Old Nan knows many stories of the North from times of yore.”

“Some stories fade with time, as are kingdoms fated to fall and be buried by dirt and death,” Vyke replied cynically. “Believe me or don’t, that is your decision. Even so, heed my warning. The further into the woods you venture, the worse these hessians become. Even among their kind, these wolves have become especially rabid.”

“…I will take your warnings to heart, Ser Vyke.”

Ser Vyke…what a joke.

When was the last time someone called him that?

“You have my thanks,” Jon said and bowed his head gratefully. He did the same to the Once-Golden. “Thank you for your kindness, Godwyn. I know not if our paths will cross again, but rest assured, I shall repay my debt to you. I swear on the name of the honorable House Stark.”

“I shall hold you to that, Jon Snow,” Godwyn smiled. The two clasped hands, squeezing tight as if to solidify their vow of reunion. Once more, the whelp of a prince bowed his head in gratitude and departed in the direction Vyke pointed to.

The Prince of Death turned his attention to the Festering Fingerprint. Vyke stared back, pondering what words he should speak and what truths to divulge.

“You must have many questions.”

JON

The bastard gritted his teeth, finding himself using his sword like a makeshift muzzle to bar a wolfman from biting down on his neck while it pinned him to the ground. It snarled, glowing eyes glaring down hatefully at him with such frenzied madness he was convinced the beast didn’t even see him as an enemy or an intruder, merely a convenient target for it to dull its claws and fangs on. He had no intentions of dying a second time. He pushed the beast as far back as he could and kicked it square in the chest, knocking it off him. Acting swiftly, he rolled back onto his feet and stood up, right as the hessian lunged for another attack.

Jon brought up his sword, deflecting the blow and knocking the creature off balance. A lethal opportunity presented itself, and he took it without hesitation. Swiftly grabbing his sword with both hands, Jon poured as much strength as he could muster into his arms and swung the black sword at the hessian’s neck. It sliced through thickened fur, flesh, and blood like a hot knife through butter. The head went flying off the fresh stump.

The hessian’s body swayed, stumbling a few steps back before it fell onto the snow-ladened earth. Soon after, motes of light began wafting off its corpse, slowly becoming translucent. Once more, Jon felt a foreign sensation worming into his chest.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he remarked to no one but the still air.

Vyke’s warnings gave him time to prepare and to brace himself. Preparation served him well, but nowhere near enough to anticipate how ferocious the damned things had become. Compared to the hessians Jon encountered with Godwyn earlier, these creatures were downright feral, driven by such bestial frenzy he doubted there was hardly a trace of the human being they once were. He pushed thoughts of sympathy and pity away from his mind, all while feeling the heavy weight of his blade.

He wondered if their second death would offer them peace.

Jon noted how stale the air felt as he progressed into the icy woodlands. It was as though he was walking through one of Winterfell’s chambers that went unused for decades and collecting dust and cobwebs. Even the suffocating silence bore a heavy weight. He scarcely heard the soft crunching of snow beneath his boots.

The number of wolfmen he encountered also increased. Between their unnatural ferocity and bolstered numbers, Jon quickly and sorely yearned for Godwyn’s companionship. The man’s prowess was awe-inspiring as it was a great boon in their brief journey together. He was surely among the greats of his homeland, to possess such skill.

Yet he perished all the same, Jon wryly mused. Death is beholden to no one, it would seem…

Once more, he found his mind plagued by disturbing and somber thoughts. He could not tell how long he’d been in this forsaken place. Days? A week, perhaps? Did time even work as it did in the land of the living? Gods, did Lord Stark and Robb know what had become of him and Winterfell? Did Lady Catelyn and her children escape unscathed with Ser Cassel? This was hardly the first time these decrepit thoughts plagued him, and they would surely not be the last.

Not until he knew for sure. Not until he found a way back.

That is, if your companion speaks the truth, a treacherous voice in his ear whispered.

His hand tightened into a fist.

After traveling for perhaps half an hour, Jon found what he was looking for. It wasn’t hard to miss, even with thick trees obscuring most of the area. The sleek stone was as tall as the giants spoken of in Old Nan’s stories and nearly broke through the roof of knotted and twisted branches. Pale white roots ensnared its bottom, wrapping around it like a messy coil of serpents. As he approached, he saw the stone was pristinely cut with the skill of a Myrish glassmaker, looking back at his reflection. He traced a finger across its surface. It felt smoother than the glass panes in Winterfell.

“Well, here I am. Now what?” He waited, but heard no response. Jon frowned. “Melina? Are you there?”

A twig snapped somewhere in the thick treeline.

Immediately, Jon brought his arms to bear and assumed a stance. He searched the trees for the hessian, eyes flicking back and forth while keeping his back pressed against the monolith. It would serve as an excellent shield from behind, provided it didn’t topple over.

A low growl echoed in the still air. Shadows moved back and forth. Baleful glowing eyes stared, only to vanish when they made eye contact and reappear elsewhere. The beast was playing with him. It had wits, more than the rest of its kind. It was making a game out of it.

Jon scowled. “Show yourself.”

Amazingly, his words spurned the beast into action. It came at him faster than he thought possible, lunging at him from his flank. He had no time to prepare or defend himself. The hessian was upon him, knocking him down and pinning him to the snow-laden ground. The blow left him dazed for a moment, his vision flickering before he found a familiar-looking creature atop him.

It was not a wolfman hessian.

“—a direwolf?”

There was no mistaking it, not when he lived with a litter of them. It was larger than Ghost, but smaller than Gray Wind and the others, somewhat bigger than the average wolf and sporting a ruined white coat marred by soot and scorch marks. It was no ordinary direwolf, Jon realized. Like everything else about the Land of the Pale, the noble wolf was changed as pale flames lapped and wafted across patches of fur and at the end of its bushy tail. Glowing blue eyes peered down at him with ferocious intensity.

Jon was at a loss. He could knock the creature away, kill it even. His sword was still in his hand. But this was not a mindless beast. This was the symbol of House Stark. It was one thing to defend itself from it, and another to kill it. As he and the direwolf stared each other down, his mind raced and questioned what to do. He had no desire to die thrice, but he also did not wish to harm the direwolf. Not when its gaze reminded him of…

…what?

As he stared into the direwolf’s eyes, Jon felt something in the back of his mind. A feeling incapable of description. The glow in its eyes faded as it ceased to growl. The tension in its face faded in favor of something close to elation. It barked and licked at his face, dragging its rough tongue across his cheeks and nose.

Jon sputtered. “H-hey! Knock it off! Off, damn you!”

To his amazement, the direwolf obeyed. It backed away, releasing its hold over him and settled by his side. Slowly, careful not to do anything that would agitate it or aggravate it into attacking him, Jon got up to his feet and sheathed his sword. He looked on the direwolf in wonder. Their eyes met again, dark orbs meeting soft blue ones, and Jon felt that odd sensation slither into his mind. It was stronger this time, almost overwhelming.

He knew naught what it was, only that when he looked at the direwolf, an unusual sense of joy clasped his heart. It made no sense. He did not know this direwolf, so why did he feel happy to see it again? Was it because it was a direwolf in nature, and the living sigil of the once great kings of the North? Or was it because it reminded him of…of…

“It can’t be…”

The large direwolf nudged his head against the bastard, nearly knocking Jon to the ground again. With trembling hands, he ran his fingers along its blackened fur. It looked up with a familiar gaze.

It was impossible. It was madness.

And yet he could never mistake those eyes.

“…Ghost?”

Chapter Text

CATELYN

Karhold was no Winterfell, but it was a far better sight and welcome reprieve than the Dreadfort. The faces she saw roaming the halls were of normal men, not the haunted, almost fearful near-wights she saw in the seat of House Bolton. The memory of that horrid place, and the memory of Roose and his bastard son, brought shivers down her spine. She wanted nothing more than to find the nearest wineskin and drown herself in as many cups as she could before drunken slumber claimed her, if only to forget the god-awful memories of that place. She thanked the Seven and even the Old Gods that the Starks’ stay with the Boltons was barely two days.

It'd been two weeks since Winterfell was assailed. The grand keep, a living testament to the hardiness of the North’s people, was scarred irreparably and damaged to where it lost much of its splendor. According to Ser Cassel, half the keep was gone, burned to the very stones and reduced to rubble. They tried searching for survivors, signs of life, but they found naught but broken stone and burnt corpses.

Among the dead was a direwolf. The runt of the litter. A small, feeble thing that was as ferocious as the rest of its kin. News of its death brought understanding when the rest of the wolves began howling at the moon. They were not cries of relief, she realized, but cries of pain. They had lost a precious sibling.

Her children lost a sibling.

There’d been no sign of Jon Snow anywhere. They could not find a corpse matching his height and build, and in a way, no news was good news, but Catelyn feared the worst. She saw those horrific creatures, those devils from the scrolls of the faith come to life. She remembered the bodies they left in their wake, and how one had come a hair’s width away from claiming Ser Cassel of his sword arm. She remembered how one nearly killed the Greyjoy heir. If Jon Snow survived, he was damned lucky.

And yet that ugly, cold knot in her stomach refused to abate. Every night since that day, nightmares assaulted her dreams and awful whispers haunted her every waking moment. Her only reprieve was how her children clung to her in search of relief, yet whatever feelings of joy she had in watching Sansa and Arya finally act like proper sisters instead of squabbling brats was brutally squashed when she remembered what it cost them.

Their home was gone. The friends and familiar, friendly faces of Winterfell were gone. Poor Septa Mordane was gone as well. Killed right in front of her eldest daughter.

She wanted to forget it happened. She wanted to believe this was nothing more than a bad dream, and when morning arrived, she would be safe in Ned’s arms with her family unharmed and well.

The cold, brisque mornings always disabused her of such childish notions.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could remember it in vivid detail. The screams, those ghastly pale flames, the horned devils as they slaughtered any they could get their hands on…

Her lord husband’s bastard, his greatest shame and her greatest mistake, saving the lives of his half-siblings when he had no reason to…

The memory nearly made her weep.

When Ned Stark returned with that child in tow, she’d been livid. She knew theirs was a marriage of convenience, an affirmation of allegiance and loyalty between their houses, and Ned hadn’t even been her intended husband to begin with. She’d been betrothed to his older brother, who died alongside Rickard Stark at the hands of the Mad King. She understood and accepted that her marriage to Ned would likely be one without love, and was prepared to do her duty as was expected of a daughter of House Tully and its lord. Despite that, Ned wormed his way into her heart. Beneath that somber, sorrowful façade of a man who was thrust into war after losing his father and brother was a kind and gentle soul, one she couldn’t help but love.

Some days, she wished theirs was a loveless marriage, if only so it would make the sting of Ned’s infidelity hurt less. It was one thing to learn he had a bastard in the first place, but it was another altogether when her husband insisted he be raised alongside his siblings. She couldn’t understand what was going through Ned’s mind at the time. What had been thinking, asking her of that? Did he not understand? Did he not comprehend what he was saying? Even the simplest smallfolk knew the folly of Aegon the Unworthy and his Great Bastards!

It took her two days to cave and accept her lord husband’s suggestion, and longer still to accept that she would likely never knew what wench slept with Ned. It was painfully clear to all that this was a secret he would take to his grave. She took that to mean Ned loved the wench greatly, perhaps even more than his love for her. The only woman she could think of to have achieved such a feat was the lovely Ashara Dayne, a woman who’s beauty was known to the furthest reaches of Westeros. The staff believed as much as well. When Catelyn attempted to pry the truth from Ned, even uttering that woman’s name…

“He is my blood, and that is all you need to know.” The coldness and icy glare terrified her more than the rebellion ever had. “And now I will learn where you heard that name, my lady.”

That was the last time anyone ever spoke Ashara Dayne’s name in Winterfell.

Ever since, Catelyn dropped the matter, but continued to broil with indignation and frustration. The only thing Ned spoke about Jon’s mother was that she was dead. That only made the heartache worse, knowing that Ned loved some wench from beyond the grave. She could not express her anger and frustration, not openly anyway, and so she stewed in her own building resentment for the woman who seduced Ned and the child they bore. Her feelings of resentment only grew when it became clear her children favored their Tully blood whereas Jon was graced with the features belonging to a trueborn son of House Stark.

Catelyn knew Ned would never forgive her if she dared raise a hand against the boy, so she did the only thing she could. She ignored the boy’s existence, pretended he never existed. He was naught but a ghost, a phantom haunting the halls of Winterfell, his face taunting her how he resembled his father more than her eldest son did. As the years passed and she bore more children, birthing two sons and two daughters, the youngest finally born with Stark coloring, so too did Jon’s resemblance to his sire. He looked so much like Ned, it hurt just to look at him. Another reminder, and another slap to the face.

This can’t go on, she thought. This can’t possibly continue. Catelyn thought it was only a matter of time before she could stomach the sight of him any longer.

And then Ned left with Robb, hoping to teach him the ways of heirship and join the royal retinue in their voyage to the mysterious Lands Between.

And then Winterfell came under siege naught but a few months after.

And then Jon disappeared from House Stark.

The boy’s absence left a stronger impact on the Starks than Catelyn imagined. The first few days saw her consoling and making empty promises to her children, saying they would find their wayward brother any day now. Only Rickon believed her words, the others recognizing the pitiful lie for what it was. Catelyn didn’t believe herself, either.

Sansa spent most of her time assisting the maids in whatever tasks they were willing to impart on the girl. Some argued against it, saying a Stark shouldn’t lower herself, but Sansa insisted. Her daughter wanted to take her mind away from recent events, to forget what happened for even a short while. There was a time when her hands were rough from handling cloth and needle. Now her hands were rough from washing dishes and rubbing rags across the stones of Karhold.

Arya’s routine changed little. She took to the training yard with a sword and sparred with whoever was willing to indulge her. Catelyn had not the strength to stop her, not anymore. The men at arms entertained her at first, but Harrion Karstark was the first to see the harrowed, desperate gleam in her youngest daughter’s eyes. He sparred with her personally, and pointed out her flaws. After that showing, the soldiers did not indulge her out of amusement, but instead out of a need for the girl to defend herself.

Septa Mordane would have wept had she lived to bear witness to Sansa also practicing with a blade alongside her sister. “To defend myself,” she explained to Catelyn when she questioned her.

Catelyn didn’t argue.

Bran was affected the worst. Gone was his starry-eyed curiosity and wanderlust. Gone was the cheery-eyed boy who climbed Winterfell’s walls. Her second son was sullen-faced, staring out at the vast white planes and mountains as if searching for something. He still visited the training yards to watch the soldiers practice their forms, but that was the extent of it. He was quiet as a mouse now.

And Rickon, her baby boy… The poor thing suffered nightmares. She heard him crying out in the night, calling out for Jon, for his mother, his father, his siblings, somebody to come and save him.

And then, there was Catelyn Stark. Lady of House Stark, formerly of House Tully. Sitting in the library as she tried to pen a letter to her husband to explain what happened. It was better the news came from her than somebody else.

Several crumpled sheets of paper laid scattered about the floor. She hadn’t even managed to fill the pages halfway before frustration took hold and crumpled the sheets into wrinkly balls. She could not find the words, much less muster a coherent thought. Her mind was addled, consumed by feelings of shame and regret. She had not an inkling what to put to the parchment, much less what she could possibly tell Ned when he returned from the voyage. Worse still was the news Lord Rickard Karstark delivered her shortly after they arrived at Karhold’s doors.

Her lord father was dead. Rivverun was gone, reduced to smoldering rubble. The survivors spoke of ghastly figures with horns sprouting around their heads and wielding blades alight with pale, ghostly flames.

Is this my punishment? For breaking my oath to the gods?

When Jon was still a babe and required a wet nurse, he fell deathly ill. Ned feared he would not survive. Catelyn feared much the same. As much as she loathed what he represented, he was a child. She was not so petty or monstrous as to wish something so abhorrent on one so young and innocent. So hapless and frail, possibly on the verge of death. The maester looked over the babe day and night while Ned fretted, worrying he would lose his son.

One day, the fear of the child’s death and the effect it would have on Ned led Catelyn to make a promise. She swore an oath to the Seven-Who-Are-One and the Old Gods of antiquity, swearing she would become a good mother for Jon. She only asked the child lived so she could fulfill that vow. Days later, the maester reported how Jon made a surprising recovery. For a while, Catelyn had hope.

A hope she herself destroyed, as old fears and doubts and ugly resentment reared its ugly head.

As the boys grew older, it became clear that although Robb had the features of the Stark, he wore the colors of a Tully. Ned’s bastard, meanwhile, was the spitting image of his sire. If there was a hint of who his mother could be in that comely face of his, Catelyn did not know. If anything, the boy’s Stark blood was strong. Stronger than her own children’s blood. When she bore more children and their Tully blood overpowered their Stark heritage, whispers haunted her footsteps.

“The bastard resembles his father more than his trueborn siblings.”

Fear grew in Catelyn’s breast when she heard those words. She feared that Ned intended to legitimize Jon Snow and name him Winterfell’s heir over his trueborn son. She knew he would not, he loved his children equally, but the fear and doubt festered deep and could not be so easily shaken. She closed her heart to the child once more, and forgot all about her oath.

And she was being punished for it.

She lost her father, and the ancestral home of the Tully’s was gone. Gods above, did Edmure know? Would it fall on her shoulders to tell him? What would she even write? And how was she to tell Ned what had become of his son?

Catelyn attempted to put words to parchment, yet she could not bring herself to put the quill’s ink-touched tip to the paper. Tears cascaded down her cheeks and dripped onto the paper.

Just outside the study, Bran watched as his mother, the stalwart lady of Winterfell, wept for the loss of both her homes and the son she abandoned…

Chapter Text

LANSSEAX

Caelid changed little since she last came. It remained the same scarlet hellscape, the Rot’s malfeasance pushing through the dead soil and coiling around the land, snuffing the life out of whatever could still grow. Decrepit creatures, pitiful shambling corpses carrying the Rot in their veins, barely paid any heed to their surroundings. Even the infected dogs seemed more distracted by their own wants and pursuits than giving the Ancient Dragon or her charge any attention. The only ones that watched with attentive gazes were the Kindred, but even the bugs knew better.

They knew the wrath an Ancient Dragon could bring down upon them.

The air burned with putrid smells, so potent even little Danny was affected by them. Her hand tightly clutched her nose, vainly hoping it would block out the scent. The fact she was cringing and squirming uncomfortably told Lansseax it was a failure. She grew to tolerate the smell, but even she could hardly stand it.

Everywhere she looked, she saw death and decay. The Rot claimed Caelid for centuries, sinking its ugly claws and transforming it into someplace better, more hospitable for its children. Those who could not survive its infernal gifts were fertilizer and food for the young. Their new god would bless those who survived and adapted. Such was its way. Such was the Rot.

An abominable thing. A wretched mistake that should have been expunged from this world eons ago. Many attempts were made, and it was only because of a mortal skilled in the art of the sword that the Rot was quelled and sealed, deep into the very recesses and foundations of the Lands Between. It only recently had the Rot found a means to return, touching Malenia the Severed and making her its unwilling vessel. There’d been discussions among the elder kin, queries as to whether they should kill the girl and spare the land further suffering. Cooler headers persevered and won, but even she knew they were skeptical.

Their fears proved true, in the end. In the climactic battle of the Shattering, on the day no worthy Lord arose to claim the leal hound’s vacant throne, the would-be Goddess bloomed for the first time. Her accursed spores spread across Caelid in a fortnight, blanketing the land in its vile embrace.

So began Caelid’s centuries-long suffering.

…and yet, somehow, life endured. Beneath the postulating muck, hidden by its scarlet horrors, life found a way to survive. Small blades of grass sprouted from dead clumps of earth, tiny saplings beginning their growth as mighty trees. Small signs, but signs all the same. Caelid was healing.

It would be a long while before she would ever see it returned to its former splendor.

“W-where are we going…?” Danny inquired, clinging to her tightly. She eyed the Kindred fearfully, feeling their gaze on her. Studying her. Watching her. “A-and what are those…p-people?”

“The kindr’d of roteth,” Lansseax replied. “Pests, one and all. Payeth those folk nay mind. Those pests shall not harmeth thee while I am with thee.”

Lansseax curiously noted how subdued the Kindred seemed. Although essentially “folk of the Rot”, their intelligence varied. Some acted more like animals, territorial and aggressive to perceived trespassers. The Kindred observing them were somewhat different; they observed with caution and wariness, not like animals, but something else. They changed. A subtle change, almost missable, but enough to warrant her interest.

Was it the Rot’s waning influence, or was it something else?

Intrigued as she was, the dragon pushed the thought away from her mind. She instead focused on the present.

The dragonbarrow was home to a brood of drakes, sired by one of foul Bayle’s earliest progeny. An old beast, though one who preferred solitude. Caelid had been her home for years, and its people were understandably wary around her, she did nothing to threaten or harm them. If anything, she settled for peaceful co-existence. Many of Lansseax’s kind were wary of the old drake, but so long as she did nothing, they were content to leave her be. The only ones who would threaten her were those who sought communion.

When the Rot came, most of the drake’s brood were unaffected by the scarlet scourge. Some were not as lucky. Ekzykes, one of the old drake’s bravest, fell victim to the Rot. Its postulate touch went deep, the roots and puss blooming deep in its bones and flesh. Even the mighty Starscourge Radahn retained more of his wits than Ekzykes had.

Almost immediately upon entering the dragonbarrow, a chorus of roars erupted in the distance. Danny shrieked in fright and clung to Lansseax tighter. The woman’s lips twitched, hearing the brood’s reaction. It was not one of hostility, but of greeting. Another roar soon followed, this one more harrowed and painful.

“She is expecting us,” she said to the wayward princess. “Sandeth tall, dram Daenerys. Drakes art seldom known f’r their patience, less so at which hour their brood hast suff’r’d greatly and their matriarch awaits h’r death.”

“D-drake…?”

She cast a small smile down at the girl. “Thee’d knoweth those folk aby anoth’r nameth. Dragon.”

DAENERYS

Not for the first time, Daenerys wondered what her brother would say if he were here with her.

When Lansseax told her the song she heard was not of the rot, but the death cry of a being calling out to any listening, she’d been confused. She trusted the woman she’d come to know for only a short time, but something within her, something primal, pushed her to follow the Valyrian woman. They left the safety of the cove for the surface, where she saw what made others so fearful. The tainted sky, the horrific affliction scarring the land, otherworldly fungus warping the very earth… That was to say nothing of the blighted beasts and towering insects.

She heard the whispers of what’d become of Caelid from those hiding away in the cove. Only now did she understand their fears and worries. Lansseax held her close, ensuring they’d never stray from the path. All the while, the insects watched her from afar, as if studying and waiting to see what they’d do.

They told no one where they were going, as Lansseax proclaimed it would be a short discussion. Upon entering the odd burrough and hearing those bestial roars, Daenerys sorely regrated not speaking with Aegon and Ser Connington.

Her nephew would have had the same reaction as her dear Vissy, if he were present.

Dragons.

Scattered about the land were dragons. They were smaller than the great many-winged beast she saw in Pentos, but they were dragons all the same, looking exactly as they’d been described in the tomes in Magister Illyrio’s library. Leathery scaled skin, quills of fur wreathed across their back and wings, sharp claws capable of rending through steel, and great maws lined with sharp teeth.

Only in her wildest dreams had Daenerys laid eyes on a dragon, riding upon their backs and sailing across the sky. Now she saw them in flesh. Her Targaryen blood bristled with anticipation, her mind a whirlwind of thought and wonder. She wished to run her hand across their bodies, to get close and lay her hand upon their mighty forms. These beasts, these veritable forces of nature, were what led her house to greatness once. It was through the might of dragons that Westeros bent the knee.

Could we rise again, with these dragons at our backs?

The thought excited her as much as it instilled a great sense of unease. She was not so star-stricken to realize how many dragons there were, nor did she fail to realize how they watched her and Lansseax like hawks. Their dark eyes watched them, some bearing their fangs and snarling in warning. Whether because they did not see them as a threat or recognized the supposed draconic blood in her veins, Daenerys knew not. What she did know was that these were no mindless creatures. They were intelligent.

And they walked right into the proverbial lion’s den.

“The brood hast grown bawbling’r since lasteth I was h’re,” Lannseax remarked with disturbing calmness. “Th’re art few’r younglings as well.”

“You’ve been here before, Lady Lansseax?” Daenerys asked timidly.

She nodded. “Longeth ago, aye. I cameth to seeth what’d becometh of the ven’rable greyoll at which hour the Rot did sink its claws in h’r. We w’re content to leaveth h’r to h’r fate.”

Daenerys frowned in confusion, but before she could ask the woman what she meant, her throat caught her breath. Further ahead, she saw another dragon, this one larger than any of the others she’d seen thus far. Her pale, chalky flesh stood a stark contrast to the red and brown muck and infection around her. As they drew closer, Daenerys felt her jaw growing unhinged.

Among Illyrio’s collection of tomes was a book containing illustrations of dragons, most notably that of Aegon the Conqueror’s steed and companion. Balerion the Black Dread. Although represented only in lines of ink, the text mentioned repeatedly how the Black Dread was the largest dragon of his kin, and that no dragon, not even Vermithor, matched its size. They described Balerion as being larger than any castle.

Looking upon the great white beast before her, Daenerys wondered if great Balerion had been dethroned, for the behemoth half-buried in the ground was greater than any keep. Its wings were as tall as towers. Although no less majestic than its kin, it had seen better days. It’s old age was apparent, with the labored and shallow breathing of a creature nearing its final days. Even the tiniest movement seemed painful for it.

Milky gray eyes gazed upon her, measuring her worth. Daenerys nearly shrunk in on herself, but her blood raged in defiance. She heard Viserys’ scathing rebukes, reminding her that she was a Targaryen. She could not show weakness. She must not show weakness. She was a daughter of dragons. Even before a trueborn and mighty beast that earned her house its reputation and wealth, she would not falter. She straightened her back, and returned the dragon’s measuring gaze with her own resolute glare.

A tense silence sat between the two women and the dragon. The old dragon’s gaze softened, its previous countenance replaced by one of weariness.

“tis been an age since lasteth we hath met,” Lansseax said, lowering head head in respectful greeting. “I seeth the Rot hast yet to claimeth thee.”

The dragon let out a low rumble deep within its throat. A small ringing passed the princess’ ears as a voice bellowed all around her.

“Death may have me when it has earned me.”

It, Daenerys swallowed thickly. It speaks…

“Thy brood grows weak’r. Thee doth not birth as many children as thee hath used to.”

“The Rot grows worse with each passing year, daughter of Placidusax. It is not so surprising that my womb grows more barren.” The dragon made a sound resembling something close to mocking laughter. “What few children I bear fail to match their siblings. Surely, you’ve seen them on your way here. We are growing small, and we grow stupid. It will not be long before my last clutch are born witless and simple.”

Lansseax’s face grew sorrowful. “I am s’rry, Greyroll.”

“Your words are wind, Lansseax…but I accept them all the same.” The dragon let out an exhausted breath. “It shall not be long before the Rot reaches the depths of my being… Before that comes to pass, I would at least have the last of my children see the world beyond Caelid.”

“Is yond wherefore thee did wish to seeth the wench?”

Daenerys stilled. Greyroll’s eyes fell upon her once more.

“…mortal child,” the dragon wheezed. “You are human, frail and hapless, born beyond the shores of the lands blessed by the grace of gold. And yet…I smell the old blood within you. It is familiar to me.” She leaned forward, her snout inches away from the princess’ face. “I thought it to be the blood of mine progenitor, that of the accursed traitor who feasts upon his own progeny and kin… Yet to see you here before me, to smell the blood before me, I see I was mistaken. The blood of kin flows through you, but it is not that of Bayle’s…”

“Bayle…?”

“A foul traitor who dared to dream beyond his reach, one who’s actions have cursed his brood.” Greyroll groaned as she raised her body ever so slightly. With great effort, she started to pull her left wing back. “Mortal child bearing a foreign dragon’s blood… Will you heed my request?”

Lansseax inhaled sharply. Daenerys gasped as Greyroll’s retreating wing revealed a nest made of dirt and straw. Piled atop it were three orbs, each as large as a small child.

“Will you allow my children to see the world beyond the Erdtree?”

Chapter Text

AEGON

“I don’t trust her,” Jon said with a grimace. “I don’t put much stock in what seers say. Half the ones I know serve R’hllor, and every one of those fucking priests are barking mad.”

“But not lady Lakia.”

His guardian and mentor shook his head. “Prince Rhaegar seldom spoke of his dragon dreams. Even I scarcely know what they entailed beyond what he could decipher.”

Aegon had few connections to his late father, the man who would have been king in another lifetime. He shared his blood, his Targaryen features, and if Jon spoke true, he resembled Rhaegar in his youth. The only true connection he had with the prince were his dreams. They plagued him at an early age, so foreign and alien to him he could not make heads or tails of them until he brought the matter to Jon. The Kingsguard’s face went pale and slack when he mentioned them, and for good reason. The dreams plaguing Aegon were the very same that haunted his father.

“The dragon must have three heads.”

That line haunted Aegon as much as it infuriated him. He understood dragon dreams could be cryptic, but some days he wished they were concise and coherent. The dreams were lucid as of late, the reclaiming of the Targaryen’s ancestral blade among them, but that dream remained elusive. Some parts remained murky, but others were clear. At the very least, he now understood what that line meant.

The question then became how to bring the heads together, and prepare for the dreadful night.

That said, Aegon knew better than to put all his eggs in a single basket. Moreover, he knew that prophecies were not infallible. There was every chance he was wrong, that his lord father was wrong. Dragon dreams were notoriously hard to decipher and understand, even to the most well-educated mind.

“I believe lady Lakia in that she will lend us her aid, if only because her visions guide her,” Aegon said after a moment of pondering. “We will hold her to her word for now. For now, we should focus on gathering more support. Do you believe the Golden Company will assist us at an early stage?”

Jon grunted. “Hard to say, Your Majesty. I would imagine Strickland is aware of your identity, but he is no Blackheart. The old captain-general was a believer. Strickland is a coward and craven who cares only for gold. I imagine he would only support us and honor the agreement between us and Lord Varys if it meant he could fill his coffers. Even then, I would find any oaths of his suspect.”

“And the Dothraki? Could we still perhaps ally ourselves with them?”

At that, Jon paused in thought. “…it could be possible,” he said hesitantly. “But that depends on the Khal and whether Princess Daenerys is willing to go through with the marriage.”

Aegon grimaced. He misliked the idea as well. In an ideal world, he would have taken his aunt’s hand in marriage, made her the happiest woman in the world and the greatest queen Westeros would ever see. He would have done everything in his power to make her the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror’s wife and sister Visenya.

But the world was not ideal. It was cold, and it was cruel. It demanded many things from those who yearned for grandeur. It would not be the first time royalty would set personal feelings aside and do what must be done to secure a better future.

Yet Aunt Danny is young and inexperienced, still a waif, Aegon thought sadly. Would she even have the strength to follow through on such a thing? Moreover, can I ask it of her?

A hollow laugh escaped him. A king must be many things. Sentimentality was not one of them. He could not afford to be weak and let his heart and familial feelings toward Daenerys lead him astray.

One day, she would understand. If she did not, that was fine. He would bear her hatred.

“On the subject of the princess, where is she?” Jon asked, bringing his ward out from his pondering. “It is almost time for us to depart.”

Aegon glanced around the docks, realizing that, yes, his aunt was nowhere to be found. By now, the soldiers finished resupplying the ship and were getting ready to leave. He frowned in concern, still troubled by the horrid tales the people here spoke of Caelid’s surface. Surely his aunt was not so foolish enough to…

“We has’t hath returned, dram prince.” Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear. Lady Lansseax emerged from the crowd of people, Daenerys walking beside her with…with…

Aegon and Jon blinked incredulously. “What in the hells…?” Aegon heard Jon mutter in befuddlement. He shared his foster father’s thoughts. The egg in Daenerys’ arms (or at least he hoped it was an egg) was absurdly large, easily the size of a child with five name days.

“Lady Lansseax,” he started. “Aunt Danny… I beg your pardon, but what is that?”

An irate scowl besmirched the Valyrian woman’s features and glared at the egg as though it offended her somehow. Daenerys blushed and grew bashful, shuffling her feet while holding the egg closer.

“A troublesome thing,” Lansseax bit out. “One thee has’t the wench to thanketh. I holdeth nay animosity f’r Greyroll’s kin, but a fledgling drake is a nuisance. The issue shall beest thy responsibility. Am I und’rstood, dram dragon?”

Daenerys nodded rapidly. The older woman grunted and walked past Aegon and Jon, joining the rest of the deckhands in preparing for their next voyage.

It took a moment for the heir to realize what Lansseax said. His eyes fell upon the egg once more, finding it a struggle to keep his mouth from becoming unhinged.

“…is that what I think it is…?”

VISERYS

The low groan of aching wood stirred Viserys’ addled mind awake with a whimper. He forced his eyes open, barely able to see through the swollen lump that’d been his left eyebrow. The blood that dripped from his right side was dry and crusted over, nearly leaving his right eye closed until he managed to force it open. His arms and back throbbed, the sutured wounds aching painfully. His mind was clouded, fogged over from pain and exhaustion. He wondered briefly where he was and why he was here until he saw the porthole and the cloudy sky outside.

The boards beneath him were splattered with the remains of dried blood. The familiar smell of piss and shit invaded his nostrils, and the uncomfortable feeling in his trousers told an unflattering and unbecoming story for the man who thought himself a rightful king. The thought of soiling himself should have infuriated him, filled him with disgust, but he was too tired for that. Too tired and afraid.

“Ah, the whelp is awake,” came the voice of the damned Crow’s Eye. Viserys tilted his head, finding the one-eyed Greyjoy sitting on a chair with a disgusting grin smeared across his face. He sat backwards in his chair, one hand gently swishing a goblet and the other wrapped around a wench, a Lyseni woman whose face was wrought with tears and fear as she did her absolute best not to move so much as a muscle.

Memories came flooding back to the wayward prince. The sensation of sharp blades cutting through flesh. Stone cups filled with the blood of dragons. His screams muffled through the gag pulled over his mouth. He thought it torture at first, a sick game of some sort cooked up by the demented mind of one of the most depraved men Westeros had ever known, but it was worse. Far worse.

And the source of it was the dragon-eyed woman standing behind him, arms folded across her bosom and staring at him with glaring intensity.

He did not know the woman, but her apparent relationship with Euron was enough to make Viserys wary of her. That he obeyed her instruction, as if she were in command and not him, made him all the more curious and cautious.

“I have to say, you’ve held out better than most,” Euron chuckled. The arm he wrapped around the wench on his lap reached for her top, the collar bending beneath its weight and exposing her breasts to the world. She stifled a bitter moan as Euron fondled her tit, uncaring of the bloodied prince kneeling before them. “I don’t usually like it when people make noise, but hearing you stifling your screams? Like it was a symbol of defeat? Well, if not for the fact you’re our prisoner, I would have gone and made you part of my crew. After I cut out your tongue, of course.”

Viserys burned with indignant anger, though even that was dampened by his tired state. The best he could do was glare at the pirate with promises of pain and blood and fury.

“Your mages do good work, Kuroshi.” The one-eyed man turned his head toward the mysterious woman behind him. “Never thought there’d be spells capable of replacing lost blood.”

“Many of the Mohgwyn Dynasty were left directionless with the Lord of Blood’s death,” the now-named Kuroshi shrugged. “Pain is a familiar mistress for their ilk, as is to be expected for those who revere the Formless Mother.” She unfolded her arms and began walking away. “I’ve had my fill of his blood for the day. Do with him what you will.”

“Not going to drain him dry?”

“His wyrmsblood is pitiful, but it has its uses.”

Viserys felt something close to irritation bubble in his chest. Firewyrms were thought to be flightless dragons, but considered less impressive than their winged kin. There’d been a time when their kind freely roamed the mines of the Valyrian freehold, though after the Doom, it was hard to know for sure whether any yet lived. The wayward prince thought little of them and deemed them inferior. Perhaps once upon a time, he might have been tempted to seek them out, but abandoned the thought as he grew older.

It irked the prince to hear Kuroshi compare his blood, the vaunted blood of dragons, to a measly flightless lizard. He was greater than that. He was better than that.

And yet, for all his irritation, a burning question sat on the tip of his tongue. For what purpose did they need his blood for? Rituals? What for? And why? He demanded to know what his captors wanted from him, but they’d been remarkably silent thus far. They simply carved open his flesh, made him bleed, heal his wounds, then repeat the process.

“Until we claim his sister, we need him alive,” Kuroshi said coldly. “With any luck, her blood will be of better quality. I won’t hold my breath, however.”

Euron chuckled and shook his head in amusement. “Fair enough. I trust you remember our deal in regards to Princess Daenerys?”

“I have not forgotten, boy. You may have her womb, and I shall take her blood.”

Viserys felt his blood turn to ice.

Danny…

Thoughts of his sister were too far and few from his mind. He barely thought of her at all in his time with these monsters. The few times he had, he burned with fury with thoughts of perceived betrayal, how she “abandoned” him, left him to his fate. He made promises of retribution and pain for daring to “betray” him, a mighty dragon who would reclaim their birthright.

Now?

Now he was glad Danny wasn’t here. He understood the bare minimum of what Euron and Kuroshi wanted; the latter wanted Targaryen blood, perhaps for a ritual of some kind, and Euron wanted to make Danny his salt wife. The thought of Crow’s Eye defiling his sister with his foul seed made his stomach churn, and the thought of what would become of Danny after Euron had his way with her horrified him even more. Stories involving the exiled Greyjoy never had happy endings, and many painted a grim picture.

He hoped that, wherever his sister was, she was safe.

As Kuroshi left the room, Euron threw the Lyseni wench off his lap and toward Viserys, casually throwing the former a dinner knife. The blade was dull and chipped, barely a passable weapon if at all.

“Clean his wounds,” he ordered. “And no funny business. So long as neither of you tries anything, we’ll be gentle. And, if you feel like taking pity on the Beggar King over here, maybe ‘service’ him. Poor lad could use something to relieve his prick.” The Ironborn laughed at his cruel jape, following Kuroshi out the room and closing the door shut.

The room was quiet and still, the only sound being the crashing waves against the ship’s hull. No longer in Euron’s grasp, the Lyseni wench began weeping, pulling her shirt back over her exposed breasts. She barely seemed to register Euron’s words, not paying the prince any mind at all. Viserys, for his part, was in no state to call out to her or lash out.

He was tired.

He was so tired…

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

JON SNOW

“…Ghost?”

“Bark!” the direwolf replied, wagging its tail and hopping on its feet.

Jon scarcely believed his eyes. He almost didn’t dare to believe it. He saw his friend, his companion, get impaled on Valmar’s blade. The direwolf before him was bigger than Ghost, who’d been the runt of the litter. Furthermore, the direwolf was quite vocal. The best Ghost ever managed to do was growl, and even that took considerable effort on his part. Now? He sounded lively. Vibrant.

“Are you really Ghost?” Jon got down on a knee and ran his hands through the direwolf’s fur. The wolf growled happily, pushing his hands further into his mangy mane. Jon’s hands passed through the patches of flame clinging to his fur, feeling neither warmth nor cold. He continued to look the beast in the eyes, who in turn stared back with equal intensity. The bastard’s chest tightened. “…gods be good. It really is you, isn’t it, boy?”

Ghost woofed, bouncing on its paws.

“H-how…?”

He saw no sign of the wound Valmar inflicted upon him. He didn’t want to believe this was Ghost, but something instinctual, something primal, deep in his gut, told him this was indeed the direwolf whose lot in life reminded him so much of his own. He felt the connection, that intangible bond linking them together. The familiarity, the overwhelming happiness and joy to see each other again.

Jon tried to keep himself calm.

He failed.

Tears rolled down his face like great rivers. He tugged his dearest companion closer, pressing his forehead against Ghost’s.

“It’s really you…”

Ghost’s throat rumbled against him, pressing back against his affectionate headbutt. For a moment, everything felt right. Jon momentarily forgot he wasn’t in some frozen hellscape, that danger wasn’t lurking around every corner. He even forgot he was technically dead.

All he cared about was that his dearest companion was safe.

When the moment of reunion passed, Jon finally took proper stock of Ghost and considered the direwolf’s circumstances. Melina claimed the Land of the Pale was a land of the dead. When Jon last saw Ghost, it was when Valmar impaled the runt on his blade. The natural conclusion to draw was that Ghost had died at that moment, a fact that made Jon bitter and sorrowful. Then he considered Ghost’s current appearance, wondering if the Land of the Pale was sinking its claws into him or this was something else entirely. He refused to entertain the notion the direwolf was becoming a hessian.

In any case, Ghost still had his wits about him, as Jon could tell based on their bond. At the very least, it implied that even if he was on his way to becoming a hessian, the transformation was still a long ways off.

At the moment, Jon’s focus was not at his returned companion, but at the monolith. His murky reflection stared back at him. He could make out small engravings, letters of a foreign language he knew nothing of. He gently ran his hand across the surface, sliding his palm across the engravings. He gasped and swiftly pulled his hand away when he saw the letters glow, revealing them in full. The monolith shuddered, groaning as if stirring from its slip. The roots binding it to the ground withered and shrank into nothing but blackened dust.

The air around the monolith thrummed with power. It felt primordial, ancient even. Jon swore he heard whispers.

“What in the hells…?”

He felt a presence emerge beside him. His hand reached for his sword, only to pause when he saw a familiar face with singed hair and a gloam-colored eye. “You’ve found the monolith,” she observed. “Good. I am glad to see the attuned strength you’ve obtained was able to assist you.”

“Where did you come from?” Job asked breathlessly. “Are you some manner of spirit, lady Melina?”

The woman smiled in amusement. “Once, long ago. When I traveled with a Tarnished of No Renown, I was but burnt and bodiless. ‘tis thanks to this new age that I’ve been granted mortal flesh once more, though I am still capable of becoming a ‘spirit’, for lack of better word.”

“I…see…”

Beside him, Ghost growled. Before he could scold his companion, Melina knelt down, looking at Ghost in the eye and held out an inviting hand. The direwolf glanced warily at the offered appendage, then back at her. It leaned forward, giving her hand a cautious sniff. He must have approved of her because he soon forced her hand atop his head, growling softly in content.

“A fine hound,” Melina remarked with a smile. “Loyal as well. Is he a friend of yours?”

Jon smiled warmly. “Aye. His name is Ghost. Believe it or not, he was the runt of the litter and could hardly make a sound. Now he’s the size of a proper wolf with a mouth to match.” Ghost barked, taking offense to his words. Jon smirked at the direwolf. “You’ve yet to prove me wrong.”

The direwolf chuffed and turned away, as though insulted. It elicited a wry laugh from Jon and a small smile from Melina.

The moment of brevity soon faded as the woman turned her gaze to the monolith. Just as Jon did moments ago, she placed her hand against the monolith’s glassy surface. For but a moment, Jon swore her right eye shone. In response, the monolith visibly pulsated, its surface rippling like water.

“I have connected the monolith to the Astrumm. We can leave this place whenever you wish.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “The Astrumm?”

“A place that lies betwixt worlds,” Melina answered. “It is home to those who are not beholden to death, be they from your world or mine. It is there you shall reclaim your mortal flesh.”

She extended a hand in offering. Jon looked at the appendage, then at the monolith. Countless questions danced in his mind, including those of mistrust toward the maiden. She was a woman of mystery and unknown quality. She gave him no reason to be suspicious, yet he could not deny there was much he did not know about her. Paranoia clouded his judgment, wondering if this was simply an elaborate trap.

His gaze fell upon her lone functioning eye, becoming lost in its dusk-tinged depths. He recalled a saying Old Nan used once, how “eyes are the windows to the soul”. He put little stock in superstitions, yet when he met Melina’s stare, he saw no deceit. No falsehood, no illusions or tricks. Only genuine sincerity.

…Ghost accepted her quickly as well, Jon thought. And a direwolf can be slow to trust.

The haze dispelled from his mind. He accepted her hand, gently wrapping his around her palm. She pulled him forward, guiding him as though he were a child.

Together, they stepped through the monolith.

As he crossed the threshold, Jon felt it. A sensation akin to waking up from a long, blissful slumber.

“…thou hast found thine promised prince, it seemeth. A nightwalker, at that.”

“…oh? Does the wolf child arouse thine interest, dear consort eternal?”

“Very well, then. Let us watch how his journey unfolds, and see whether he will remain a wolf…or become a fearsome dragon.”

Chapter Text

MELINA

To step between worlds was to step past the threshold of reality. To the simple mind, it would feel as though one’s very being was unraveled, flesh flayed and stripped in thin layers until naught but bone and nerves remained. To the educated mind and those touched by beings beyond mortal imagination, it was as though they fell headlong into a deep, bottomless ocean, weightless yet sinking further into the depths.

Upon reaching the fathomless abyss, a stretch of darkness unending, weightlessness turned to heavy rock. All you could do was sink, down into the dark, to a place where light could not possibly reach.

And when the educated mind reached the end, they were reminded of their existence. A brief moment of limitless wonder, to see a blink’s worth of creation unfolding in an endless expanse. The wondrous moment was gone as quick as it came, and the world grew smaller. More defined.

Melina manifested first, her form once again becoming corporeal. The soft footfalls of her boots clacking against the stone floor beneath her echoed loudly across the Astrumm. Jon Snow appeared a moment later, his hand slipping from hers as he stumbled, nearly falling to the floor. He barely caught himself on a pillar, pale faced and sickly.

“Oh, gods…”

“It will pass,” she assured. The experience was always unpleasant the first time around, especially to mortal men. Melina had no such complications, given her time as one who was burnt and bodiless.

Unsurprisingly, Jon’s wolfen companion acclimated quickly due to his spiritual nature. Ghost looked ill, but no worse for wear as he gave himself a quick shake. He joined his master, nudging his head against Jon’s leg as if to comfort him. The sight reminded her of how Torrent would bump his head against Melina during her worst moments, a gesture he often repeated with her dear friend when they happened upon poor Irina’s mutilated corpse.

Jon recovered quickly. His face regained some of its initial palour, no longer looking ready to expel his stomach’s contents to the floor. He looked at her, no doubt intending to question her about their recent experience when he suddenly grew cognizant of their surroundings. As she expected, his eyes bulged, threatening to pop from their sockets as he beheld the Astrumm in all its glory. She had a similar reaction when she awoke in this strange place upon the announcement of Ranni’s new age.

The Astrumm was not so much a chamber or room as it was a world unto itself, a plane of existence that folded and defined itself in a boundless, yet limited form. An old space bearing the remains of the nameless dynasty that once encompassed the Lands Between eons ago. They stood upon a stone platform surrounded by circular walls, reaching upward to a sky of stars that were barely visible amid the eternal morning dew hanging in the air. A spiral staircase surrounded a large statue, an effigy of numerous women surrounding a featureless being clad only in a cloak and holding a tablet. The walls were lined with countless reliefs and similar imagery, depicting scenes of great battles never beheld by mortal eyes. One such relief depicted a group of warriors battling an armored figure with three arms, each holding a bladed weapon, one of which bearing a resemblance to the royal Caria family’s treasured betrothal blade.

In the center of the platform stood a translucent pane of glass marked by shifting runes and unknown letters, some familiar to her and others incomprehensible and alien.

“What…” Jon swallowed. “What is this place?”

“This is the Astrumm,” Melina explained. “It is a place betwixt worlds. An “axis point” within the confines of time and space. Ordinarily, such a place would not exist without the intervention of one with significant power. Yet it exists all the same, a byproduct of the Land of the Pale’s emergence in your world.”

She turned and faced the young warrior fully. “Come. I promised I would explain, and I shall keep my word to you. This will be a long tale, I’m afraid.”

“What manner of tale?”

She smiled wistfully, fond and bittersweet memories dancing at the edges of her mind. “A tale of fallen leaves.”

“It began as most stories do. With an irreconcilable tragedy that would lead the world down a path of grief and strife.

It began with the Night of Black Knives. The night Queen Marika the Eternal’s most beloved child was slain with wicked knives imbued with the Rune of Death. Queen Marika was driven to the brink, and in her grief, enacted a plan. A plan nearly a thousand years in the making. A plan that would see the end of the Golden Order and its gilded flaws.

I doubt you could even begin to imagine it. That which commanded the stars, giving life its fullest brilliance. The Elden Ring.

Shattered, by Queen Marika’s own hand.

And so ensued a great and terrible conflict. A war that wrought only darkness, for with the shattering of the Elden Ring came the Great Runes bearing portions of its power.

Queen Marika’s children, demigods one and all, laid claim to the shards for their own purposes. Many were driven to madness by the taint of their newfound might. Others were felled by their fellow contenders.

The Shattering scarred the Lands Between. The very land itself was scoured, the earth soaking up rivers of blood like a man suffering from thirst in the harshest deserts. Even now, its wounds have yet to heal, Caelid least of all.

It was a war from which no lord arose. A war that led to the abandonment of the Greater Will.

And so, the call of Grace beckoned them to return. The exiled warriors led by Godfrey, stripped of gold and sent forth to die in the name of the House of the Erdtree.

The Tarnished. The dead who yet live. Among them were those with designs of their own, ambitions for the Elden Ring in the name of the age they would usher forth in the Lands Between.

The Chieftain of the Badlands, Hoarah Loux, who sought to reclaim his post as Elden Lord Godfrey.

The Ever-Brilliant Goldmask, who pursued a flawless Golden Order that would judge all, mortal and god alike.

Fia, the Deathbed Companion, who yearned for an age that welcomed Those Who Live In Death.

The Loathsome Dung Eater, who would befoul all with his wretched Blessing of Despair.

And Sir Gideon Ofnir the All-Knowing, who desired all manner of truth, be it heretical or arcane.

And yet, for all their greatness, for all their strengths…it would be none of them who claimed the seat of Elden Lord and ushered a new age.

Rather, it was one of humble origins. A blood-soaked warrior from the Land of Reeds who fought for no one. A samurai without a purpose. A rōnin.

A Tarnished of No Renown.

Against the odds, this lone Tarnished succeeded where their fellows failed.

Godrick the Golden.

General Radahn.

Praetor Rykard.

Morgott the Grace-Given.

Mohg, Lord of Blood.

Malenia the Severed.

Miquella the Kind.

Demigods one and all, bearing the power of Great Runes, felled by a warrior unnamed.

And so…

A Tarnished of No Renown became Elden Lord. In our home, across the fog, the Lands Between.

The seeds of fallen leaves will look back upon us and recall…an Age of Stars.”

JON SNOW

Jon listened with rapturous interest, greedily devouring every word Melina spoke. The story she weaved was fantastical, worthy of a band of minstrels and the sort that would make Sansa swoon, yet it was one he bent his ear for all the same.

He knew little of the Lands Between. Hardly anyone did, speaking of mere rumors and whispers based on the hearsay of the sailors who were waylaid there. He had no way of knowing whether Melina spoke true, but something deep within told him there were no falsehoods. Her every word was truth as it was gospel, an epic retelling of the path taken by someone of low birth who took a crown, granting outright godhood.

Part of him felt flattered when he recalled his first meeting with Melina, of how he reminded her of a dear companion. Hearing her speak so fondly of the Elden Lord, it didn’t take him long to figure out who she meant.

“Lunar Queen Ranni’s Age of the Stars, to put it plainly, was a means to wipe the slate clean,” Melina continued with a solemn and stern expression. “She would wipe away all that came before. The Age of the Erdtree. The Ancient Age. Any and all influence of power and orders of antiquity that held power over the Lands Between would be erased. Its people would be able to decide for themselves what it is they sought in a time of uncertainty and freedom, be it for good and ill. That said, Ranni was not blind. Even if she sequestered the Elden Ring away from the Lands Between, there were beings who would attempt to assert their influence upon the land.”

“And so she brought the Lands Between here, to my world,” Jon finished. He took a moment to pause, to let the information settle in his mind. He took a deep, quiet breath. “Had I not known any better, I would consider all this a mere fever dream as I lay dying amid the ruins of Winterfell. And yet, after all I’ve seen, and from what Godwyn has told me… Truth truly is stranger than fiction, it seems. I still do not understand how your world’s equivalent of an afterlife attached itself to mine.”

“Of that, I am uncertain as well,” Melina shamefully admitted. “I can only speculate it is due to the Primordial Crucible and its connection to the lampwood, though I’m afraid there’s scant information on the matter. Even the most talented scholars of Leyndell, who devoted their whole lifetimes to researching the Lands Between’s greatest secrets, uncovered little on the matter. Regardless, the Age of the Stars has conjoined our realms, and in the process has stirred awake old ghosts of the past, including those of Westeros.”

Jon recalled the words of the so-called Ghostlord.

You stand before the Dread Lord, Valmar of the Tylth. Offer yourself, boy, and become the foundation for the restoration of my empire.

Rejoice, boy. Your death shall be a sacrifice; the resurrection of my empire. Let your grave herald my reclamation of Westeros.

The bastard furrowed his brow in thought. He thought Valmar to be a Targaryen loyalist at first, but his speech and cryptic words of “reclaiming Westeros” now made him believe otherwise. Melina’s explanation of the Land of the Pale and the consequence of its arrival in his world gave him a clearer picture.

Valmar was Westerosi. While he was by no means a poor student, even Jon could not remember every single detail Maester Luwin spoke of in their lessons, and even then, he broached topics approved of by Lord Stark that were of importance to their futures. Even then, Jon doubted the maester knew anything about the Dread Lord. Whoever he’d been, he was from the distant past, perhaps hailing from a time from before Aegon’s Conquest. Perhaps even before the arrival of the Andals. A warlord from the Age of Heroes, from the days of the First Men.

This newfound knowledge intrigued Jon as much as it terrified him. A ghost of the past had come to haunt the present, and he brought with him a terrible host of horrors in the name of conquest.

His hand tightened into a shaking fist.

“…how do I regain a mortal form?” he asked quietly, his tone betraying the eerie calmness plastered over his face.

“I will tend to the matter, though it will take time,” Melina said. “It shan’t take very long, thankfully. In the meantime, I suggest you speak with your fellows here.” She gestured to the many scattered about the Astrumm. They barely paid him any mind when they arrived, more concerned in their own affairs. “You may find comrades-in-arms should you return to the Pale Lands for whatever reason. Speak with the blacksmith, first. He shall tend to your equipment.”

Jon nodded and stood, dusting off his cloak. “My thanks, lady Melina.”

A familiar face greeted Jon as he approached the blacksmith. “Well, I’ll be damned! You’re the boy from the keep!” Lapp smiled brightly and waved him over. Jon smile in return as he made his way to the hedge knight. The bald man seemed little worse for wear, though it didn’t escape his notice that Lapp’s armor was dinged in several places. “I thought you’d gone and gotten yourself killed fighting the Dire King! Glad to see you’re still alive, lad.”

“You as well, Ser Lapp,” Jon replied. “How are you fairing?”

Lapp laughed. “Oh, none of that ‘ser’ nonsense. Just because I have some fancy armor don’t make me a knight. But thanks for asking all the same. I won’t lie, I had a right hell of a time getting out of there. Thankfully, some bloke went and killed the angry bastard, so I was able to get out while the getting was good.” The man frowned and sighed despondently. “A shame I wasn’t able to grab a whole lot on my way out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a purveyor of goods, you see. A scavenger, if you want to be crass. Not a whole lot of sane folks left in the Pale Lands, much less those with a good sense to stay out of danger. I can’t stand to see them getting hurt, so I offer up anything I can scrounge up off the battlefield, either from hessians that haven’t gone and turned to motes and whatever else was lurking around. It’s not a clean business, but if it means somebody gets to live another day in exchange for echoes, well, you won’t see me complaining.”

Lapp paused, then laughed in embarrassment while rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry to say, but I’m afraid I don’t have much for you. I was more concerned with getting out of there alive. Sorry, friend.”

“It’s fine, think nothing of it,” Jon assured him. “While I can’t say I approve of your methods, you have good intentions.”

“Heh, thanks a bunch. I shouldn’t take up too much of your time, though. You want to talk to the old man, right? Fair warning, he’s a right grouch.”

Jon nodded, thanking the hedge knight for the warning. He made his approach to the blacksmith, finding him toiling away at some metal at his anvil. As he drew closer, Jon couldn’t help but feel somewhat skeptical.

The blacksmith was not some stocky man with defined muscles like Winterfell’s resident metalworker. Rather, he was stock thin, his limbs as willowy as tree branches. The skin was taut and wrinkled, stretched thin over bone and muscle. A tattered tunic and pants barely covered his form. Thick gray hairs adorned the bottom half of his face.

“You gonna stand there, or are you gonna ask what you want?” the blacksmith snapped. His voice was old and gravely, deeper than even Ser Cassel. “I’ve little patience for whelps, and little still for dullards.”

Jon shook himself from his thoughts. Clearly the old man was easily irritated. The last thing he wanted was to annoy the only apparent blacksmith in the Astrumm. “Melina sent me over. She said you could help me?”

“I know nothing about any Melinas, but if its weapons yer after, I can provide,” the blacksmith replied gruffly. He ceased the motions of his hammer, pulling away from the anvil before taking the sword by the hilt. He inspected his work critically and found it wanting if the displeased expression on his wrinkly form was any indication. “Feh. Another worthless failure. Hardly anything worthy of steel in this forsaken place.”

He threw the sword into a wooden barrel beside him and turn toward Jon. Hazel brown eyes narrowed at the sight of the bastard, suddenly scrutinizing him as though he were artwork. He leaned forward, wanting a closer look at him.

“Well, well… Never thought I’d see a Stark here. One stinkin’ of Valyrian blood, at that.”

Jon raised a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never you mind,” the blacksmith dismissed. “Well, you want something from me. What do you need? Want me to sharpen your blade? Forge you something new?”

Jon unsheathed the Helphen’s Steeple from his belt, holding it out for the blacksmith to examine. The old man took it by the hilt, gently grabbing the blade so as it not cut himself on its edge.

“One of the Huntsmen’s blades,” he noted. “A little dull around the edges. Seen a fair bit of combat. Nicked this from one of their corpses, did you? I should be able to sharpen it. Make it good as new.”

“You have my thanks, sir.”

The blacksmith grunted. He made to turn back to his anvil and work on the black blade, only to pause and turn toward Jon again. The old man noticed something else about Jon. A lingering presence.

“Boy,” he said. “You have a Remembrance on you?”

Jon paused. He was confused at first, then he remembered the memories and experiences he felt when he touched the “lingering echoes” of what had once been his grandfather. He gave the blacksmith a slow nod.

“Thought so. Damn whispers always grate on my ears…”

“You can hear it?”

“Of course I can. I’m not fucking deaf,” the old man groused. “If yer not doing anything with it, I can make something out of that Remembrance for you.” Jon stared at him in befuddlement. “Lingering echoes like that carry weight. More than that, they contain a memory. I can turn that memory into something tangible, whether it’s a shield, a sword, or even a dagger.”

Jon’s eyes lit up in amazement. It was short-lived, however. As curious as he was to see the blacksmith’s supposed skill for himself, he didn’t wish to relinquish the Remembrance of his grandfather. It represented the one link he had to his paternal grandfather, a man who Lord Stark understandably spoke seldom of as he had with his brother and sister. What little of Rickard Stark Jon knew came from hearsay and Old Nan. A well-meaning old man, a troubled father, and a lord accused of having Southron ambitions.

Yet when Jon felt the Remembrance envelop him, showing the last moments of Rickard’s life, he felt a profound sense of sorrow and duty. Sorrow that his eldest would soon follow him to the grave, that he knew naught what became of his only daughter, that his second eldest would bear the heavy mantle of lordship. Duty demanded that he oppose and fight back against Aerys, even under threat of death.

Pragmatically, he understood where the blacksmith came from. If Valmar remained a persistent threat in Westeros, and should their paths cross again, he would need every advantage possible. That included weapons and armor of good quality. Yet, wasn’t the Remembrance what remained of Rickard Stark’s damned soul? Did the man not deserve rest?

As though sensing his turmoil, the blacksmith’s eyes sharpened. “…that ain’t just any Remembrance yer carrying, is it?”

“My grandfather.”

“I see.” The willowy man’s gaze softened. “In that case, I won’t press you. I’ll work on yer blade in the meantime. If you’ve the echoes for it, I can forge you some armor. Better than the shite yer wearing, but nothing fancy. I’ve shit to work with here.”

Jon bowed his head gratefully. “You have my thanks, sir…?”

“No one special, boy. I’m a blacksmith. No more, no less.”

“Ah, a new face…”

Jon paused in his step. A woman garbed in fine clothing fit for nobility leaned against the wall, her arms folded over her chest. Light blonde hair framed her pale face, her eyes hidden behind a gilded silver mask. A beautiful dagger reminiscent to Valyrian steel sat on her hip.

“My lady,” Jon nodded his head in greeting.

The woman smiled thinly. “Forgive me for startling you. It’s been some time since the Astrumm’s had new arrivals. By your clothing, I wager you are of Westeros, is that correct?”

“Yes, my lady. I presume you are from the Lands Between?”

“Indeed, though it has…been a long while since I last saw my homeland. ‘tis a long story, good ser.”

“I am no ser, my lady,” Jon told her. “I’m a bastard. Jon Snow, at your service.”

The noblelady nodded. “Well met, Snow. I am the Duchess, Yurie. Once, I served as Priestess to the Roundtable Hold. Now, I am the same as you. A wandering soul meant to roam the Land of the Pale.” She paused, looking at Jon more closely. “Or…perhaps not. One touched by death, yet you still have a foothold in the land of the living. Curious.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I can imagine,” Yurie chuckled. “Tell me, how did you find your way here?”

“Lady Melina offered me her assistance. She said I would find a means to regain my mortal flesh here.”

A surprised gasp came from Yurie’s lips. It was quiet, so faint he almost didn’t hear it. “Melina…?” she repeated the name with familiarity. “I see… How envious. Would that I could return to my home and…” She fell quiet for a moment. “No, there’s no point dwelling on matters long settled. Forgive my rambling. Although I’ve no shortage of company here, those of us in the Astrumm seldom wish to speak with our fellows. The blacksmith in particular avoids conversation like a plague unless it involves smithing.”

“I’ve noticed,” Jon chuckled. “And you have nothing to apologize for. Truth be told, I’m curious to know what the Lands Between is like. I’ve only recently heard of it, and a companion of mine spoke scarcely of it as we were focused on finding our way here.”

“I would be happy to speak of my homeland with you, though I’m afraid you will find my knowledge outdated. When I last saw the Erdtree, it still shone a beautiful gold. Now I hear it’s been scorched and burnt, and we’ve entered a new age. Even have a new queen. How time flies… I pray you’re there to see it…”

“What was that?”

“Never you mind, Snow. Merely the rambling of an idle fool. What would you like to hear? The story of Queen Marika the Eternal? Or perhaps of the Elden Lord, Radagon of the Golden Order?”

As the Duchess said, the other inhabitants of the Astrumm preferred their company rather than mingle and seek companionship. Some already formed groups, others left to their own devices.

A wizened old woman and their daughter sequestered themselves near a stone pillar, both women wearing worn and dirtied shawls. They were pleasant, with the daughter offering him some warm bread. He almost questioned where she could have acquired such things, but he chalked it up to more magic or simple foraging.

A married couple sat near one of the spiral stairways, more open than the old woman and her daughter. They were surprised and saddened to see him, a boy on the cusp of adulthood whose life was cut short, in a realm meant for the dead. It was almost scary how easily they pried the truth of his death from him, and more surprising when they embraced him. The man told him his father must have been proud to have born such an amazing son.

Genuine praise, one that would have warmed his chest had the weight of bastardry not accursed him so.

The last two inhabitants of the Astrumm sat at the base of the statue. One was a man clad in armor from head to toe. The design was foreign, yet Jon could tell at a glance that a master craftsman forged the armor. It saw many battles as well; almost every inch of plated metal was covered in shallow cuts and cracks, scorch marks, and dents. A greatsword the length of a man of House Umber, nearly as wide as the average man with smoke-like ripples across the blade. A Valyrian sword, a rarity in Westeros.

Whereas the armored man invoked the imagery of a battle-hardened warrior, the cloaked figure beside him inspired an odd sense of dread and curiosity. He could not tell if they were a man or a woman, as their hood hung so low that even their face was obscured. The cloth was thin enough that he could make out the faint form of their figure, but their face remained shrouded.

Upon his approach, the cloaked figure turned their head. Jon felt something probe at his mind. Unease swelled in his breast.

“…which are you?” the cloaked figure asked in a grave, raspy voice. “A dragon garbed in bastard wolf’s clothing, or a wolf yet to become a dragon?”

Jon frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pay the fool no mind, warrior,” the armored man bellowed, his voice ringing like brass with the authority and power befitting a king or great general. “He’s known to ramble and speak things that make little sense. Not to say his words carry wisdom. He scarcely speaks sense, however. Take what he says with a grain of salt.”

“I…see…”

“You must be the new arrival,” the warrior surmised. “I saw a whelp arrive with the gloam-eyed traveler, but I did not expect to find a warrior. One who slew one of the Dread Lord’s infamous Huntsmen, no less. That is one of their blades I saw you carrying, yes?”

He nodded. “It is, ser. I claimed it in defense of Winterfell.”

“Hah! I knew I recognized you. I know a man of House Stark when I see one. I’ve seen many great warriors, but your House always held my admiration for your stalwart code and determination to survive. You do your coat of arms well, warrior.”

Heat rushed through his face. This was the second time today someone offered him genuine praise. Unlike the married couple, this came from a man who saw his strength.

“May I have your name?”

“Jon Snow, ser.”

The armored man bowed his head. “Well met, Jon Snow. Out of curiosity, you returned from the Pale Lands, yes? Per chance, did you encounter a knight garbed in ruined armor, one that looks as though it’s been clasped by a smoldering hand?”

“You mean Ser Vyke?” The armored man nodded. “I have, yes. It was he who told me how I may find my way to the Astrumm. Last I saw him, he was speaking with Ser Godwyn about important matters of some sort.” Jon tilted his head. “Is Ser Vyke known to frequent the Astrumm?”

“When the moment strikes him,” the warrior shrugged. “We’ve traded blows. A fine knight, albeit one burdened by guilt and self-loathing. An all too familiar tale, I am afraid to say. On the matter of spars, might you be interested in a duel?”

“I am without a blade at the moment. The blacksmith is working it over.”

“A shame. It’s been too long since I’ve had the pleasure of crossing swords with a wolf child.”

“He would die,” the cloaked figure said blandly. “He is but a boy. Not a man. Kill the boy, so the man may be born. Then cross blades.”

The warrior scoffed. “As far as I am concerned, everyone is young, old friend. One need only spend a time on the battlefield with weapon in hand to mature.” He turned back to Jon. “When you wish to spar, you need only say the word. It would be an honor to cross blades with a Stark again.”

Jon nodded, grateful. In truth, the prospect of testing the warrior’s mettle made his wolfsblood tremble in anticipation. Even Ghost felt excited by the prospect.

Quite the colorful cast here in this place, Jon thought as he made his way back to the blacksmith, intending to wait until the repairs on the sword were complete. Some from the Lands Between, others from my homeland of Westeros.

There was something else he noticed. A detail that was on the edge of his mind, close yet out of reach. Something about the people here in the Astrumm. They felt familiar, yet Jon knew for certain this was the first time they ever met.

Who were they to invoke such feelings? Troubling still were the words of the blacksmith and the cloaked figure.

“Well, well… Never thought I’d see a Stark here. One stinkin’ of Valyrian blood, at that.”

“…which are you? A dragon garbed in bastard wolf’s clothing, or a wolf yet to become a dragon?”

The implications were…unsettling, to say the least. As far as Jon knew, the only families of Valyrian descent were the Velaryons and Baratheons, the latter from Rhaelle Targaryen’s marriage to Ormund Baratheon years ago. House Targaryen was of trueborn Valyrian heritage, but their bloodline had been culled in Robert’s Rebellion nearly two decades ago. To the best of his knowledge, only the exiled prince and princess were left, Queen Rhaella having died in the birthing bed.

There was only one noble house known far and wide as the House of Dragons, and Jon knew for certainty that his father laid with none of its women. There was no opportunity, much less reason. The rebellion and Rhaegar Targaryen were reason enough to make Lord Stark, much less any man, wary of involving himself with that house, be it for wanton lust or other matters.

And yet, Jon couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to this. Something he wasn’t seen.

I cannot be a dragon, he thought. It is impossible.

He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, the empty air or himself.

Chapter Text

JON SNOW

The blacksmith finished his work in record time. He was almost tempted to call the feeble-looking old man a mummer until he tested the Helphen’s Steel and felt the leather armor gifted to him. The blade held more weight; it was still light enough to swing with one hand, but the swings felt heavier, and the biting edge sharper. The armor was a marked improvement from the battered and worn scraps he wore during the attack on Winterfell. Even when he took a knife to it to test its durability, Jon was met with resistance.

“If you consider this shoddy work, blacksmith, I would love to see what you consider a masterwork,” Jon said.

The old man grunted. “Say that when you bloody your sword and put the armor through its paces. Better yet, get me something worth smithing with, like a Remembrance or Valyrian steel.”

Jon was surprised. “You know how to work Valyrian steel? I thought the art was dead.”

“Forgotten, not dead,” the blacksmith retorted. “And too few to remember. Last I remember, the last true Valyrian blacksmiths were the men of Qohor, and even then, there weren’t many.” The old man let out a mournful sigh as he shook his head. “A shame, that. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. All things turn to dust and become lost to the sands of time.” He shook his head again. “Bah, ignore my ramblings. Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Stark?”

“Ah, right. Thank you again, sir. I will repay you one day.”

“Feh. Do whatever you want. But if you want a new weapon or armor, bring something worth a damn with you.”

Jon nodded, thanking the blacksmith again for his time. He turned and walked away, passing by a sleeping Lapp. The hedge knight was passed out on a bunch of crates and goods, quietly snoring away with his helm lying beside him. Not far away, he saw the wizened old woman and her daughter happily chatting away. The girl, a beautiful and fair maiden spoken of frequently in fairy tales and minstrels’ songs, held a flame aloft in her hands. A fleeting act of magic, unimpressive compared to the feats Godwyn performed, but still notable.

Is magic inherent, or could it be taught? Jon thought curiously before shaking his head. While the North cared little for it beyond paying some respect to the forgotten art, those like Lady Catelyn and the septa thought it abhorrent. Such was the stance of the Faith of the Seven. Useful as it was, he’d rather not attract unwanted attention, especially from those who were perhaps too fanatical about their faith.

Even in the present day, people speak of the Faith Militant as something to be feared.

Jon found Melina up the stairs, standing before an altar erected before the giant statue. Before her stood a great slab of rock, carved into a masterwork stone relief depicting a regal king, crown atop his brow and the pommel of his sword held in both hands.

Upon hearing his approach, the maiden turned and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. “I apologize for the long wait. Preparations are complete on my end.” She took a moment to observe Jon and his new equipment, a slight frown marring her features. It was not critical or disapproving, but befuddlement. “You did not relinquish the Dire King’s Remembrance to the blacksmith?”

“I didn’t have the heart to do so,” Jon replied somberly. “Call it foolish if you will, but…”

“No, you needn’t explain yourself. Whether to forge something from his echoes is your choice, and yours alone,” she assured him. “One last thing, before we begin.” She dug her hand into her cloak, pulling out what looked to be a silver ring with a series of tiny holes along the rim. “This is a spirit summoning ring. Bind it to your friend, Ghost, and he will come to your aid, wherever you may be in the living world.”

Jon’s eyes widened, wondering how such sorcery was possible. Nonetheless, he took the ring, accepting it gratefully. The ring grew warm in his hand, glowing with a faint blue hue. Ghost let out a curious bark as Jon felt something stir in their bond. A new connection of some sort.

“Spirits cannot maintain a physical form within the living world for very long,” Melina said. “The same holds true for Valmar and his Huntsmen. They can only remain manifested for so long before they are forced back to the Land of the Pale. The ring serves as an anchor for Ghost. So long as the ring remains on your person and intact, he can stay by your side until you force him to return.”

“T-thank you for this gift, Lady Melina.”

The woman smiled wryly. “It is hardly worth gratitude, but you are welcome, all the same.” The smile vanished soon after, replaced by a serious countenance. “Before we begin, I must warn you of something. Reclaiming your mortal body is a simple matter. It is the price that must be paid that is complicated.”

“A price?” Jon frowned. “Not sacrificing another soul, I hope?”

Melina shook her head, to his relief. “Nothing so grave, fortunately. You are one who has been touched by death. Living, yet not. In a way, you are similar to the Tarnished, blessed by Grace once again. So long as they maintained their purpose, and the desire to claim the Elden Ring, they would return from death no matter how many times they fell in battle. In a way, they were immortal, yet only for as long as they could see Grace. You now walk with Destined Death, beholden to its vices. You, and you alone, have a place both here and in the Pale Lands.”

“What does that mean for me, exactly?”

“Should you die, you will return here. You can return to the living world, but so long as you are beholden to Destined Death, you belong in the Land of the Pale as much as you do in the living world.”

Jon grimaced. “So I am a prisoner.”

“Such is the price that must be paid.” Melina paused briefly. “There is a way to break free of your bindings and cleanse the touch of death from your soul. The means, however, can only be found in my home. The Lands Between.”

The revelation gave Jon pause. He furrowed his brow in thought, his mind now a whirlwind of scrambled thoughts. He did not like the idea of becoming a prisoner in the Land of the Pale, even if his existence was akin to a prisoner able to come and go from his cell anytime he wished. Although he had no desire to experience death again, he wished for his coming end to be peaceful, wishful thinking though it was. Men like him, a bastard with a gift for swordplay, knew a peaceful death was nigh-impossible. He would die in battle, especially if he joined the Night’s Watch as he hoped to one day.

He saw what became of the lost and tormented souls of this place. He saw what became of his grandfather. This place drove men insane, to the point their very humanity, their very souls, were twisted into ugly, unrecognizable things. If he remained a prisoner of the Pale Lands, that would become his fate as well.

And yet, much as he detested the idea, he also did not like the thought of leaving all he knew behind. His family was here in Westeros. More than anything, he wanted to be beside them. He didn’t care if Lady Catelyn was grateful for what he’d done or spat in his face for not dying with those who fought in Winterfell’s defense. He just wanted to see his family. His brothers and sisters. His lord father.

Conflict brewed in his chest. What was the best choice to make? What would he do? What could he do?

“I cannot choose what you do or who you will become, Jon Snow,” Melina told him. “The choice is yours, and yours alone.”

A poisoned chalice. A curse. The truth of the price Jon would pay to return to Westeros was made plain. He had little doubt he would face death yet again, be it from those who wished to take advantage of House Stark at its weakest, when its patriarch was so far from home, or even Valmar of the Tylth.

Ghost bumped his head into Jon’s leg, giving him a comforting chuff. The bastard smiled weakly at his dearest companion, reaching down and scratching the direwolf behind the ears and under the chin.

There were still a great many doubts swirling in his heart. Among them, only one fact made its will known.

“…what must I do, Lady Melina? To see my family again?”

Wait for me, everyone.

Your brother’s coming home.

Chapter Text

BLOODSTAINED JOURNAL

A decrepit journal falling apart at the seams. The wrinkled pages and penmanship imply the book was well-cared for before being abandoned.

The writings are barely legible, detailing intensive investigations and hypotheses about the Land of the Pale.

            “…an unusual sight, to be sure. Before now, I thought the Pale Lands to be an old myth from the age of antiquity. A story made up by the lesser races. Having browsed through the forbidden archives, though, I am forced to recant my previous observations. The idea that there exists a realm for the dead is fascinating as it is disturbing. It is a known fact that all who perish will return to the Erdtree, that we will find succor in its roots and be reborn from its saplings. What would it mean for those who do not return to it? To fall between the branches and find ourselves in a place where we are doomed to wander for eternity?”

            “…ka does not wish for the Pale Lands to be known. Any attempts to discern more about it are censored. Even the Erdpriests and most noblest of families are not exempt. Some claim they’ve even been threatened into silence. It is one thing for discussion on the Land of the Pale to be laughed away as heathen nonsense, but it is another for the House of the Erdtree itself to force all talk of it to disappear. My curiosity has been roused. The scholar within me shall not be refused.”

            “…met an odd fellow named Ymir. A strange man and a sorcerer from the academy. I would normally not associate myself with the likes of Sellen’s ilk, but I recognize a scholar when I see one. He, too, seeks knowledge. He even shared his studies with me. He’s not the first to study the Greater Will as a phenomenon and celestial body, but the lengths of his observations are astounding. He’s agreed to help me with my research, despite warning him of the dangers. He seems like a good man. I wish he would cease his foolish praise of his son, prodigy he may be…”

            “…credible discovery! We’ve thrice-checked our sources and cross-referenced everything, and all signs point to the Rune of Death. The Land of the Pale is associated with Destined Death. Perhaps, it is even associated with its former patron. The one called the Twinbird. Even among the most harrowed of studies, the unknown god of death remains illusive. All records of its existence vanished after the fall of the Godskin Cult. I wonder, is it possible the Pale Lands are connected to the infamous Gloam-Eyed Queen?”

            “…exiled. They do not suspect him of treachery or pursuing forbidden knowledge, but of heresy. It is one thing to be banished from the Lands Between, but to be cast to that forsaken land? To be stricken from all memory? To be FORGOTTEN, with no one left to remember your name? It is too much. Worse, it is a royal decree. The queen herself ordained Ymir’s removal. She does not suspect me, but that is a cold comfort. Little Yuri was so pale when I last saw him. How do they expect him to survive in that wretched place?!

            …at the very least, I’ve entrusted my research with Ymir. Perhaps he can finish our work, should I fall. In the meantime, I shall continue my pursuit of the truth. This only proves my earlier hypothesis. There is something about the Land of the Pale Queen Marika does not wish to be made known.”

            “…an odd visitor today. She calls herself a snow witch. I’ve no idea if she’s of the lesser races or from a foreign land. I’ve never seen someone with blue skin before, much less with four arms. She too has been investigating the Land of the Pale. Or rather, its connection to Destined Death. Rather than pursue the land itself, she sought to investigate those associated with Destined Death. Namely, the Gloam-Eyed Queen herself.

            I confess, much as I wished to collaborate, even I know better than to involve myself with heretical matters. Those seeking anything about Queen Marika’s greatest enemy face worse than exile to the Land of Shadow.

            …but, perhaps it is forbidden knowledge that will lead me to the answers I seek. If the land I seek to learn more of is considered such heresy warranting banishment to a land forgotten and disgraced by the grace of gold, then perhaps I shall indulge in heresy myself.”

            “…the Gloam-Eyed Queen is an Empyrean. An Empyrean blessed by Destined Death. More than that, she was KIN—”

The rest of the writing is ineligible. Most of the pages are torn, and some are covered in dried blood splatters.

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

Daenerys awoke to the sound of a bellowing horn. Harried footsteps pounded on the planks. The poor girl nearly threw herself off her bed yet again in a frenzy, still frazzled and dismayed by the horrid dream clinging to her mind. Idly, she noted the egg was still secure in her arms.

“Wha-what? What’s happening?” she asked, startled and confused.

The panicked shouts and scrambling footfalls reminded her of brief, horrid memories. When they traveled frequently by ship in their younger years, Viserys hid them away in a storage room when a bunch of raiders came bearing down on their ship. They were no Ironborn, Viserys seemed certain of that, but that made them no less brutal. She scarcely remembered how much time passed, how long the fighting went on before a seaman found them in the storage room and told them the danger passed. When they returned above deck, Viserys tried to shield her from the death on full display.

The floorboards were stained crimson, and no amount of seawater seemed capable of washing them out of the wood.

“Are we under attack?”

Daenerys frowned as she pondered what she should do.

What can I do…?

Though she had many dreams involving riding dragons and going on adventures, Daenerys was not a fighter. She never knew how to wield a sword, much less a dagger. It was simply not her place. Viserys told her as much when she broached the topic to her. A woman’s place was to support her husband at home, bear children, and care for them. She accepted that because she saw little else beyond that reality. House Targaryen was at its lowest point, and she could tribute little but her womb.

The prospect of giving birth terrified her as much as the idea of laying with a man. She knew about sex, of course. She even bore witness to it. She heard loud noises coming from Viserys’ room one night and went to investigate. She found him in bed with an unknown woman, who squealed like a pig as her brother thrusted his hips into hers. It was not romantic sex like she expected, but violent and rough. The bed shook and creaked and groaned each time he moved, growling out profanities and calling her names.

It went without saying the sight soured Daenerys’ thoughts on sex, much less child-making. Then again, her opinions hardly mattered. It would be necessary, expected of her.

When she decided to join her nephew, to support him in reclaiming their family’s legacy in Westeros from the Usurper and their allies, Daenerys braved herself. She would fulfill her duty, despite her misgivings.

…but what did it mean, even if that felt lacking? That she felt she could do more?

“What should I do…?”

Daenerys looked down at the silent egg. She felt motion within, small tremors but nothing indicating it would hatch anytime soon. Truth be told, she had no idea if it would hatch at all, not while she yet lived. Lady Lansseax told her drakes were slow born, often taking countless years before they emerged from their soft shells. Chances were she would be old and gray by the time the little beast finally hatched.

And yet, she swore it responded to her words. She felt something brush against her thoughts like a gentle breeze in the wind.

As the crew waged an unseen battle, Daenerys steeled her heart. The dream involving the man and the crow came to her, still fresh in her mind.

A dragon does not plant trees.

Their fangs must be steel.

And I…

She clutched the egg tight.

“I will roar.”

LANSSEAX

“You could have helped.”

The old dragon turned her gaze away from the deckhands tossing corpses overboard to the bearded man beside her. Duckland, or something close to that.

“I didst,” she replied with a shrug. “Lest thee didn’t noticeth, mine own partisan bears the raid’rs’ blood.” She held out the splinter of Granssax’s mighty spear. Red dripped from the tip and down to the floorboards. “Unless thou art ref’rring to at which hour thy dragon prince was almost yerked in the backeth.”

Amidst the chaos, a raider nearly managed to lay Aegon low, having somehow snuck up behind him with his ax aimed at the princeling’s back. Jon came upon the raider like a deathbird, attacking with such vicious ferocity the brigand died with an arm lopped off, his guts spilling across the floor, and his head bereft of his shoulders. Aegon was disturbed by how close he’d been to death, but that was natural. He was young. A child still learning the art of war. Give him time, and he would flourish, or be yet another corpse to decorate the battlefield called “conquest”.

Her answer did little to placate the bearded man. If anything, he looked angrier. Lansseax huffed in annoyance and turned away. She saw little reason to entertain a pointless argument. “I am not the knave’s keepeth’r,” she called out over her shoulder. “T is not mine own lodging to coddle that gent.” With her piece said, she walked away to the other side of the deck.

She made it about halfway when Daenerys suddenly emerged above deck, still holding Greyroll’s progeny in her arms. It was somewhat amusing how attached she’d became to the egg. Oh, how the girl pestered her about how she was to feed and raise it. How her face turned scarlet when Lansseax guffawed at the absurdity of breastfeeding the beast. As if breast milk would sate its hunger! Nay, a drake wanted flesh. Tender meat. It’d sooner bite off her teat than drink from it.

When Lansseax saw her, the dragon paused mid-step. The air about the little princess had changed. She was still a meek thing, but her eyes were different. They were sharper, filled with resolve.

What could have provoked such a change, I wonder?

When Daenerys noticed Lansseax, she immediately made her way toward her, walking with purpose.

“I have a request, Lady Lansseax.”

“Oh?” Lansseax was intrigued. “And what wouldst thee asketh of me, dram one?”

Daenerys took a deep breath. When she spoke, it was not in the same tone as the poor beggar girl she was when they first met in Pentos. She spoke like a trueborn warrior.

“Please teach me.”

Chapter Text

AEGON

At a glance, Pentos looked much as she did when they left. Scarred, but alive.

Aegon scarcely recalled a time when the docks weren’t thriving, when ships weren’t coming and going and people, fishmongers and bystanders alike, didn’t crowd the sandy beaches and the piers. The damage inflicted by the Ironborn and their strange new allies had yet to heal, but it was there. Signs of healing.

“How long has it been?” he murmured. “Two months?” A sardonic smile flittered past his face. “How time flies… It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long.”

“Such is youth.” Aegon craned his head as a friendly face made herself known, walking up beside him with a light smile. “Though one might argue you could better spend it forging a stronger bond with your aunt than reading dusty old tomes with Haldon or practicing swordplay with Ser Connington and Ser Duckfield.”

The prince nodded his head in greeting. “Septa Lemore.”

“Your Highness. Or do you still prefer Young Grif?”

“Young Grif will have to do for now. We’ve returned to Pentos, where many have prying eyes and ears.”

A sad smile tinged his lips as he pinched strands of his hair between his fingers, silvery locks once more tainted and dyed in Tyroshi colors.

Having lived in secrecy for most of his youth, Aegon was well-acquainted with skullduggery and the need to hide his true heritage. He lived the lie of “Grif the Younger” for so long, he’d almost tricked himself into believing it. It was the only life he knew until Jon finally told him the truth of his heritage. That was the same day the dye was washed from his hair, giving him his first look at the man who would be king of the seven kingdoms.

It was one thing to dream of such fanciful things, to sit upon the Iron Throne and rule as the lords of yesteryear once did, but it was a new experience to dream what could very well be the future. The Iron Throne was his birthright, though that was only if Jon spoke truths and no falsehoods. The matter of his lineage still troubled him.

He could not recall when the doubt crept in, though it grasped him as it had the day he claimed House Targaryen’s ancestral Valyrian sword. Even now, with the blade safely squared away somewhere in his cabin, he felt Blackfyre’s weight bearing down on his shoulders. There was a time when the sword served as a symbol, proof of kingship for those who sat upon the Iron Throne. Daemon I Blackfyre, one of the Great Bastards and the man who led a rebellion for the crown, tainted it irreparably.

In the hands of a trueborn Targaryen like Daenerys, the sword would surely secure her right. In his hands, a boy who may very well be of the Pretender’s lineage, it may as well a damning mark exposing him for a fraud. Dragonsblood may run in his veins, but whether it was Targaryen or Blackfyre, he knew not.

Aegon took a calming breath, quelling the age-old thoughts plaguing his mind. He cast them aside and focused his gaze on Pentos. Scarred as it was, there was surely enough time for it to have healed. With any luck, they would find what they needed. Allies most importantly. Securing an alliance with the Dothraki would be an immense boon, but he was still wary of the cost. Alliances were made with arranged marriages, such was the age-old practice, but it left a bitter taste all the same. He did not like the idea of handing his aunt over to them. He respected their horse-riding skills and their talents as a tribe of warriors, but that hardly changed the fact they were brutes and barbarians.

Essos feared them for a reason.

And, with luck, we might be able to find Lord Varys’ spies, he thought.

As wary as he was about allying with the Dothraki, he was more cautious about the Master of Whispers. Even Jon found it difficult to trust him despite being the reason why he was able to leave Westeros with little Aegon in tow, much less create a fabrication behind his “disgraceful exit” from the Golden Company. Much about him was mired in secrets, and his relation to Illyrio Mopatis was just as enigmatic. Aegon believed that if anyone knew the truth of his heritage, it was Varys. With luck, he would have the eunuch tell the truth.

“Your Highness,” he heard one of the crewmen bellow, kneeling on approach. “We’ll arrive at the port within the hour. Ser Connington says he wants to speak with you in the meanwhile.”

“Very well,” the prince nodded. “Oh, and refer to me and Jon as Young Grif and Grif. Now that we’ve returned to Essos, keeping our identities hidden is paramount.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Jon was waiting for him in his cabin, a thoughtful look etched on his aging face while rubbing his thumb back and forth along the bottom of his blade.

“You wished to speak with me?”

Jon looked up. “You’ve seen Lansseax teaching Princess Daenerys, yes?”

“I have,” Aegon nodded. “I have no issues with it, if that is what you mean to say. Truth be told, Aunt Danny learning how to use a dagger, if not a sword, puts my mind at ease. The times are changing, after all.”

Jon sighed. He looked tired. Old, even. “True enough… With any luck, it won’t hamper our chances with the Dothraki. We should also see if we can’t procure whatever’s left of Illyrio’s wealth. We’re still well off as it is, but it wouldn’t hurt to add to our coffers.”

“Assuming the other magisters haven’t already swooped in like vultures,” Aegon sneered. “I doubt they’ve sat idly by and let the opportunity pass them by.”

“We can hope.”

“We’ve been doing that an awful lot, lately.” Jon raised an eyebrow at the heated barb. His cheeks flushed, cursing himself for allowing his emotions to get the better of him. “Forgive me. I have been…distracted.”

“…would it happen to be about what Sister Lakia said, when we requested the Stones of Sellia for their assistance?”

“It would be a lie to claim otherwise. If nothing else, she proved herself a talented seer.” Aegon laughed bitterly. “That damn prophecy… I hoped to put it out of my mind until we had enough resources, yet it haunts my waking moments.”

“If it would help put you at ease, your lord father suffered much the same,” Jon told him. There was a hint of fond remembrance accompanying the sorrow in his voice. “Though I wager it weighed more heavily upon him.”

“Do you believe in it, Jon?” Aegon inquired curiously. “The appearance of the Others and the White Walkers?”

His kingsguard and surrogate father scoffed. “I believe only in what I see. I never claimed to be devout or superstitious. Even so, Prince Rhaegar believed in his dragon dreams. They were what made him decide to become king.”

And look where his ambitions led us, Aegon wanted to say. His feelings toward his sire were complicated, to say the least, especially in regards to the matter of Lyanna Stark. Even Jon, Rhaegar’s most ardent and loyal, struggled to understand what led to his obsession with the girl beyond her seeming importance to the prophecy.

Still, he did not come here to argue. He pushed such thoughts aside for the time being, instead focusing on the present. Aegon focused on the pressing issue at hand. “How shall we contact the Dothraki? I doubt it will be something as simple as looking for one of their riders in the city, much less ask for a messenger.”

“Assuming he is still in the city, there is a courier associated with the Dothraki, more specifically one of Khal Drogo’s bloodriders. I will try and contact him. From there… Well, we hope for the best.”

He noticed the look of unease on Jon’s face. “I doubt that’s all there is to it. What troubles you about this courier?”

“It is not the courier himself that worries me, but the company he keeps,” Jon answered. “He has a lover. A priestess of R’hllor.”

Aegon’s eyebrow reached toward his hairline. “A curious choice in company. I doubt we have much to fear from the Lord of Light’s worshippers, unless you mean to say she might cast us into a pyre.”

“It is not the priestess herself that troubles me, your grace. It is the trouble that hounds her and her faith.” Jon’s face was grim, eyes fraught with fear and worry. “There have been whispers among the merchants. Of men clad in robes stitched with flesh laying siege to R’hllor’s temples. They speak of horror stories, some I dare not wish to repeat.”

“The red faith has no shortage of enemies, least of all from the Seven’s faithful,” Aegon pointed out.

Yet Jon was unconvinced. “Not these people. If the rumors speak true, these people… It is not some ideological or religious dispute. These people hunt them with a purpose.”

The boy soon realized what Jon was getting at. What unnerved him. “You think these white-clad people may cross our path?”

“I hope not. We’ve enough enemies as it is,” Jon grunted. He pushed himself away from his desk and stared out the porthole. Dark clouds rumbled in the distance.

“A storm’s coming… Tch. Just our rotten luck.”

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

Being bereft of her drake’s egg was a most unpleasant experience. Daenerys understood why had to leave it behind, but it irked her all the same. Already, she missed its embrace and meager warmth.

And yet, in the face of what had become of Pentos since she last saw it, the fallen princess’ irritation was washed away in favor of pity and fear.

The city of Pentos was beautiful and vibrant, even in its worst areas. Some “free slaves” walked freely without the presence of a minder, but such sights were rare as the Magisters loathed to allow their “merchandise” such freedom of pleasure and will. Perhaps Illyrio was an outlier, especially with how kindly he treated his slaves. The markets often smelled of fresh food, be it baked goods or fruit from as far as the Summer Isles.

Looking at it now, however, the once-bustling Free City was a dark counterpart of its former self. Throughout their short journey through the streets, she saw more guards than she recalled in her time with the fat magister who wormed his way into Vissy’s graces. She saw the Dothraki in greater numbers, some looking as though they controlled the city streets. Even the Unsullied bowed in deference.

“It was not just Illyrio Mopatis who suffered that night.” The group gathered at the nearest tavern after they finished touring the streets, spending hours listening and watching. What they found and heard was disturbing. Ser Connington looked deeply troubled. “No less than half the magisters in Pentos were put to the sword, their estates ransacked, and their servants slaughtered. Even the so-called prince wasn’t spared.”

Aegon, or Young Grif rather, scoffed dismissively. “You say that as if the prince wielded any real power. He’s nothing more than a mummer propped up by the magisters. At least his predecessor did something productive by leaving and establishing himself in a new city elsewhere.”

“That doesn’t change the fact the balance of power has shifted tremendously,” Ser Connington grunted. He paused briefly, taking a drink from his ale before continuing. “The surviving magisters have already picked clean their rivals and made to seize their territories and whatever else was leftover. Unfortunately for them, the Dothraki had similar ideas. A warlord has decided to establish himself firmly in the city. Some say he dares claim Pentos as his personal fief.”

Daenerys frowned. Dothraki warlords were conquerors. To the best of her knowledge, they did not demand or request. They took. “Does the Khal have the power to do so?” she asked. “I find it hard to believe the other Free Cities would sit idly by and allow a Khal to claim one of their cousins, if only so they can claim it for themselves.”

Ser Connington’s eyes shone with approval. “Aye, they wouldn’t. Oddly, it would seem the Khal is unlike the rest of his kin. He floods the street with his men, and his bloodriders aid the Unsullied, but that is the extent of his actions. Some whispers say he is attempting to bargain, but I’d sooner believe it to be a mummer’s farce.”

“Who is this Khal?” Young Grif inquired.

“Drogo.”

Surprise flashed across her nephew’s face. “The same Drogo Mopatis wished to bargain with?”

Daenerys blinked. She knew the name, the warlord Viserys promised her hand and womb to. Unease and uncertainty filled her. “What does this mean?”

“I am unsure,” Ser Connington replied with genuine candor. He seemed as lost as she did. “On the one hand, it would make requesting an audience with him easier. On the other hand, we risk earning his rivals’ attention here in Pentos.”

Young Grif pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in thought. A moment passed. He turned to Lansseax, who seated herself at a nearby table, quietly digging into a bowl of stew. “What do you propose is the best course of action here, Lady Lansseax?”

“I’ve spoken this before. Thou hast no need to refer to me with such honorifics,” Lansseax replied testily. “And whatever thou wishes is none of mine concern. I am an observer. No more, no less.”

Ser Duckfield grunted, eyeing her with suspicion and scrutiny while muttering unkind things beneath his breath. Daenerys almost spoke out in her defense, keeping silent only because of the foreign sensation gliding across her skin. Goosebumps ran up her arms, hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. For but a moment, the room grew cold as ice. The world flickered before sliding back to its proper form.

What in the hells…?

She did not understand what had happened. It was bizarre as it was strange. She looked around, yet not a soul seemed to notice the sudden change. Not even Young Grif, who fell into a quiet debate with his warden and Kingsguard about their next objective. The only one who seemed to have an inkling of what happened was Lansseax, though she seemed more confused than anything. For some reason, she was sniffing the air.

“Rowa fruit, timber leaves, and…wispwood?” she murmured. “This scent… ‘tis almost familiar, but where…?”

The princess was about to ask what was wrong when the tavern suddenly went dead silent. Around her, she saw the sellswords slowly reaching for their weapons. Young Grif and Ser Connington looked warily at her. Or rather at something behind her as the sound of heavy footsteps against creaking floorboards reached her ears. Slowly, Daenerys turned around and paled. Icy dread slid into her veins as she two men with copper skin and almond-colored eyes approached.

“Which among you is Grif the Older?”

Ser Connington eyed the men cautiously. He slowly rose to his feet, a hand resting on the hilt of his blade. “That would be me.”

“Khal Drogo requests your presence at his villa.”

The air grew thick with tension. The whole tavern was silent as the grave, the civilians looking on with fear and nervousness. Some took to fleeing the place altogether whereas the others shifted nervously in their seats.

Lansseax narrowed her eyes, steam billowing from her nostrils. Daenerys feared she would unsheathe her spear and take the Dothraki to task, but Ser Connington bade her to stay her hand, gesturing for her and the others in their band to stand down. He eyed the two men like a hawk, taking their measure as if pondering whether it was possible to fell them both without risking serious injury.

“For what reason does a Khal wish to see a mercenary band?” he asked tersely. “And since when do the horselords make ‘requests’?”

To their credit, the men did not flinch. “It is not our place to question the Khal’s orders.”

Ser Connington frowned, studying the Dothraki as if to unravel them, figure out their true intentions. He looked to Young Grif, who at some point made his way over to Daenerys, standing over her almost protectively. The Targaryen-in-hiding gave a slow nod.

The Kingsguard turned back to the Dothraki. His hand never left the hilt of his blade. “Lead on.”

The trip to Khal Drogo’s estate was a short but tense affair. The walk was done in oppressive silence, their footsteps sounding like the walk of men approaching the gallows in Daenerys’ ears. Each footfall sounded louder than her own heartbeat, which hammered at her chest like a war drum. She kept her chin high, staring ahead.

I must not show weakness, she repeated in her mind. I must not show weakness. I am a dragon. I am Targaryen. I must not show weakness.

Khal Drogo’s estate was little different than Illyrio’s own, albeit far more crowded and disheveled. Dothraki imagery swathed the walls, war banners hanging from poles erected at the manse’s entrance. Men and women watched them with intense looks. Daenerys almost went red in a fluster when she saw how revealing the Dothraki women were. It also did not escape her how broken some women looked. It made it easier to know which were women who acclimated and embraced the Dothraki, and which resisted and shattered in their attempts. An ugly knot formed in her chest.

Would she be among them, if she proved unable to fulfill her duties?

Their escorts led them through the entrance and into the main hall. They found him there, sitting on a throne made from wood and bones. Like the rest of his kin, his flesh was copper, his thick hair dark and spilling past his shoulders in long braids. His eyes were intense, calculating even.

To Daenerys’ mild embarrassment, her eyes roamed across his body. His upper torso was completely exposed, revealing a chiseled body lined with muscle and scars.

Let it never be said the fallen princess wasn’t without womanly wants and desires.

The Dothraki leading them spoke in a tongue she did not know, likely their native language. The man, Khal Drogo, nodded and gestured for them to leave. They did so, leaving the band of mercenaries with their leader. The doors closed behind them.

It was Ser Connington who broke the silence first. “You are Khal Drogo?” The horselord nodded brusquely. “We were told you wished to speak with us.”

“No.”

Confusion spread among them. “What?”

“I don’t,” Drogo growled. His Pentoshi was rough and broken. He stressed his words, implying he wasn’t as familiar with the tongue as they were. “She did.”

A woman emerged from the shadows, her presence unknown until now. Her appearance immediately put them on guard, with Young Grif already reaching for his sword. For reasons Daenerys could not fathom, the sight of the woman stirred something in her veins. A sensation she felt only once before, in Caelid.

The woman bore a shapely body, with a large bosom hidden beneath tattered robes. The tatters and tears were made not from years of neglect, but from tension and battle. A wide-brimmed pointed hat sat atop her head, obscuring most of her face. At best, Daenerys could only make out the bottom half of her face. Her skin was obsidian in color, far darker than even those from the Summer Isles. White hair flowed across her shoulders.

Daenerys felt Lansseax shift beside her. Looking up at her teacher, she found her staring intensely, her brow knit in thought.

“Who are you?” Ser Connington inquired.

“I am naught but a Recluse,” the black-skinned woman replied. She spoke in bastard Valyrian with an accent Daenerys found strikingly familiar. “Though some name me witch, among other things.”

Lansseax narrowed her eyes. “Thou speakest in a tongue common to these lands, but thy accent is familiar to me. Art thou from the Lands Between?”

“Aye. Same as thee, noblest ancestor.”

Curious eyes fell upon the Valyrian woman. Lansseax seemed puzzled, then paused. To Daenerys’ confusion, she started sniffing the air. “Hm… Smells like… rowa fruit. Timber leaves. And wispwood.” Her eyes lit with recognition, surprise overtaking her features. “I thought thine bloodline faded to nothing.”

“In the hallowed halls of Farum Azula, perhaps,” the Recluse nodded. “But what remains of the oldest tribes found purchase in the Lands Between, far from prying eyes.”

The so-called witch lifted her head. Dark eyes looked back. Her gaze found Daenerys. She gasped as, for but a moment, her eyes changed, becoming narrow slits surrounded by a cold blue glowing hue.

“And the old blood is stubborn, even in the face of Destined Death.”

They were dragon’s eyes.

Chapter Text

VISERYS

A storm raged outside. Clapping thunder and violent winds boomed just outside the porthole, accompanied by roaring lightning and bright light flashes. All the while, the ship groaned like an enfeebled, sickly man, tilting every so often.

Viserys barely felt it. His mind was a simple and dull as his body. He barely felt the scars and cuts anymore. His consciousness flickered back and forth, fighting to stay awake. He feared that if he fell asleep, even for just a little while, he wouldn’t wake up again.

He no longer recognized the passage of time. He couldn’t tell if he’d been here for months or longer. The only certainties he knew were the Lyseni whore Euron kept around, and the smell of his own piss and shit. Whenever Crow’s Eye wasn’t busy rutting into her, the wench cleaned his wounds, dragging a wet cloth across his skin to wipe away the blood, piss, and shit. It was utterly humiliating, but he was powerless to do much of anything. There was nothing he could do.

The reality of his situation sank in long ago. If there was any trace of the prince he thought himself to be, of the gild-plated dragon he boasted of one day becoming, he died long ago. All that was left was the so-called Beggar King of Pentos, broken and defiled by those who only saw him as some ritual resource. The dragon-eyed woman came every two days, knife in hand, Euron following close by with that same damnable smile on his face.

Every two days, they carved his flesh and drew blood. The blood-eyed people the dragon-eyed woman brought with her performed their strange rituals, filling him again with blood. The process repeated until he could no longer scream. Throughout it all, Viserys couldn’t help but think how hypocritical Crow’s Eye was. For a man who valued silence to the point of cutting the tongues of his crew and salt wives, he had a wicked smile whenever Viserys screamed.

Or, perhaps he imagined what sort of face he’d make for when they no longer had a need of him. It was obvious to him at this point that the only needed his blood. For what purpose, he didn’t know. At this point, he didn’t care.

The only thing he could think about, the only thing keeping him barely lucid and with any dreg of recognition and sanity, was his sister.

Old memories resurfaced in his mind, of a time when things were simpler. He remembered how they spent so much time aboard ships, sailing back and forth across the sea as they explored the Free Cities of Essos. It wouldn’t have been a stretch to say a good chunk of the last Targaryens’ lives was spent at sea. He remembered how his little Danny once suggested they forget the Iron Throne and take up another livelihood, become sailors and explore the world as Corlys the Sea Snake had done nearly two hundred years ago.

He reacted poorly back then. Reclaiming the Iron Throne was neither a dream nor an ambition. It was his life’s purpose, his mission. The idea that they should abandon their quest was no different than heresy. He knew Daenerys was tired after all the false hope and failures in garnering aid, but what he did back then… No, what happened after that…

Mother would have been disappointed in me, Viserys thought tiredly. Oh, Danny… What have I become?

“M-my lord…?” The bloodied beggar turned his head, ever so slightly, at the Lyseni wench tending to him. She really was a beautiful girl. A shame she was likely pregnant with Euron’s child. No doubt he’d claim her tongue in due time as well. “Are you…alright?”

Viserys did not have the strength to answer her. Instead, he nodded. It was pathetic, really. How low he had fallen. Even the dregs of princehood rang hollow to him.

Darkness crept along the edges of his vision. His head throbbed with a familiar, dull pain. Sweet oblivion, come to claim him once again. The only saving grace, his only solace since his arrival. He didn’t fancy dying, not yet, but with each passing day of blood-letting, he started to see the appeal of it. He wondered how long it would be before he’d come to crave it, the sweet embrace of death.

As the wench cleaned his wounds, Viserys allowed sleep to claim him. His mind sank into the abyss, down into murky depths of the unknown.

Then, he felt it—a sharp tingling sensation in the back of his head. A mere pinprick, but potent enough to stir him from his near-sleepy state. Something swelled within, a feeling unknown yet familiar, his blood roaring in his ears.

A moment later, he heard shouting up above—thundering footfalls against the creaking wood. The winds screamed and lashed outside, violently blowing against the hull. He could feel the icy winds blow past the porthole and into the room. Shivers ran down his spine, goosebumps racing across his skin from the sudden burst of cold air.

“What-what’s happening?” the wench asked, clinging to him almost pathetically.

As if to answer her question, a bestial roar that Viserys heard only in dreams boomed over the cackling thunder.

The roar of a mighty dragon.

The ship trembled and rocked violently, as if something had thrown itself against the ship’s hull. Viserys nearly toppled over from the sudden tilt, only keeping upright thanks to the Lyseni wench.

The shouts grew louder, mixed with panic and authority. Viserys thought he heard the dragon-eyed woman’s voice giving orders, but he couldn’t be sure. Through the cloudy haze in his mind, a singular thought pushed toward the surface.

Opportunity.

Someone, or more likely something, was attacking the Ironborn and their unusual allies. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity to mount an escape.

But where could we possibly go, a cynical part of him snarled, as bestial as the roaring beast outside. Has the blood-letting taken even your wits? We’re on a ship! Where could you run? Into the ocean? Into the Stranger’s arms?

The thought clung to him. If escape was impossible, then death was a wonderful alternative. If nothing else, he’d finally escape this horrid madness.

Viserys paid the Lyseni wench barely any mind, shrugging her off him and stumbling to his feet. He barely heard her yelling at him, her words muffled over the clapping thunder and booming roars. The door to his holdings was unlocked, a seemingly careless mistake but a welcome one all the same. There were no guards stationed outside.

Viserys found it difficult to stay upright each time the ship lurched and rocked. The numbing pain was tolerable, but he barely had the strength to support himself. He relied on the walls and whatever was around for leverage, slowly making his way forward.

The single-minded pursuit toward escape was the only thing keeping him awake, alert, and able. The only thing giving him strength was the idea, the fleeting and vain hope, of seeing his little sister again.

So many wished to say, endless apologies mixed with promises and assurances. Empty words, but he wanted them so badly.

The beast outside roared. The ship trembled beneath its might, nearly capsizing. Viserys scrambled to find purchase, something to cling to when the ship lurched on its side. He just barely managed to hold onto the railing of stairs. Wet rain pelted across his face. He looked up, finding darkened skies past the top of the stairwell.

Freedom.

He gritted his teeth, mustering what meager power he could, forcing his body to move despite its protests. The rain washed over his wounds, agitating them. It felt like a thousand tiny knives dug away at the wounded flesh, needling it with sadistic enthusiasm.

When he reached the top of the stairs and on the upper deck, he saw it. The world bled away, narrowed and focused on a singular point. He recognized the absurd size of the ship, but it failed to hold his attention. Everything was centered on the beautiful, majestic creature doing battle with the dragon-eyed woman and her cohorts.

The sketches and dreams failed to match the real thing. It was regal. It was power.

It was beautiful.

It was as big as a castle, feathers cascading down its large leathery pinions and backside. White and red scales dotted its immaculate form. Thin sheets of ice broke off its body with each violent movement. Its tail sent men flying. Its wings threw them overboard. Its bite killed them in totality. Each time it roared in defiance and outrage for their struggles, the air rippled. Viserys swore he saw the air get colder, his very breaths visible as though he were in the North.

Men and women in red robes wielding staves fought to kill the dragon with their sorceries, conjuring either glittering balls of light sailing through the air, azure javelins meant to pierce its thick hide, or bloody brambles to halt its movements. The dragon took to the skies, beating its mighty wings and kicking up powerful gusts of wind. It glared down at them with burning hatred, opening its maw and—

“Damn!” Viserys swore as he dove for cover. He expected fire and death. Instead, there was ice and death. What spewed forth from the dragon’s mouth was not a torrent of flame, but a thick, smoke-like stream of the coldest ice. Ice so cold it burned. Even though he was far away from the flames, he still felt the icy winds, colder than even the North, rolling past him. Frost formed along the planks.

He took a quick glance about his surroundings. He saw no boats, nothing promising passage across the sea. Even if he did, there was no guarantee the dragon would not kill him. He’d be little more than a casualty, caught in the crossfire.

Only one option remained. A path of escape leading to oblivion.

Oddly, the idea gave him comfort.

Viserys didn’t look back. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation. The only thing going through his mind was his sister.

He raced across the deck, barely hearing what sounded like screaming at him over the deafening roars of the dragon. He jumped, diving over the railing and down into the waters below. First came the cold.

Then came the darkness.

Chapter Text

JAIME

The shambling dead woman reached out for him, eyes filled with yellow flame. The blade sliced clean through her neck. The corpse fell like a puppet with its strings cut, the head sliding off the stump. It bounced at his feet. The flames sputtered, snuffed upon the moment of her second death. Empty sockets stared up at him.

Jaime’s insides twisted into ugly knots, hastily looking away.

“Are you alright, Ser Lannister?” The white cloak saw the foreign knight—Leon of Caria, he remembers—approaching in concern. Behind him are more corpses, smallfolk in tattered rags with pitchforks and sickles.

This was not what he expected when he decided to join Lady Loux’s men in routing footpads and the like.

He felt so restless, doing little besides looking over his shoulder and defending the king. His goodbrother allowed it, his mood and temper better than it’d been in years. Negotiations and discussions were going well, though Jaime attributed it to Lady Loux disliking politics and the game as much as Robert did. They preferred simplicity, tolerating politics because it was a necessary evil.

Things were going well, yet something gnawed at his mind. Ever since they arrived in the Lands Between, the worm-like writhing in his eyes grew worse. Before, it’d been a minor nuisance rearing its head only when the dark whispers speaking with his voice sought to torment him. He’d not heard the whispers in a while, for the writhing spoke in its place, growing more incessant with each passing day. Some days it was tolerable, but others, it drove him mad.

Maester Therron could not offer any real answers about his affliction. The best he could offer was a special form of salve used to alleviate the eyes, though he did posit the idea of visiting one of the foreign healers, believing they might offer a solution.

He was about to do just that when Leon of Caria, a knight belonging to the so-called Oathseekers in Lord Haight’s service, approached him. There were signs of bandits near the area, and he was being sent to investigate. Having heard of his battle prowess, Leon of Caria requested his assistance, to which Robert agreed with little fuss. Jaime was grateful for the chance to escape Stormveil for a time, if only to finally scratch the annoying itch in his sword arm.

It took barely an hour to reach the bandit site. They took over a small hamlet overlooking a cliff. It sounded simple, in his mind; go in, slay the bastards, then return with promises of exaggerated tales for the bards to sing.

Instead, they found a horror that would haunt his dreams for nights to come. They were forced to slay smallfolk and bandit alike, both afflicted by a frenzied madness he’d never seen before.

But Leon of Caria had seen it. He even had a name for it.

“The Frenzied Flame,” he spoke the name hesitantly, as if he feared the name as much as what it belonged to. “I had thought all traces of it were stamped out in Limgrave.”

Jaime swallowed the lump in his throat. “What manner of sorcery is it?”

“‘tis no sorcery, Ser Lannister,” Leon of Caria told him gravely. “It’s a foul curse, a damnation so horrid and reviled, I would not wish it upon anyone. Even the Scarlet Rot and the foul works of the Dung Eater would be merciful.”

“But what is it?” he stressed. “What sort of curse drives people to madness and burns out their eyes?”

The knight sighed. “As I said, a curse. One beckoned by those who see no point in living. Those who have lost all they cherished in life, succumbing to sorrow and grief so great, they would rather see the world melt away than spend another day living in it.”

Jaime struggled to wrap his head around what he was hearing. What sort of wicked magic was this? The way the knight described it, it was less of a spell and more of a living curse. Another absurdity he found in this strange land.

Leon of Caria walked past him. “Come. We should search the hamlet. With any luck, we’ll find at least one fortunate soul untouched by this madness.”

Jaime looked at the head at his feet, staring into the empty sockets. He swore there was something staring back at him. A tiny flicker of flame.

The backs of his eyes throbbed.

The state of the hamlet was atrocious. It sported no less than five homes, all vacant and disheveled. Dried blood and old corpses decorated them.

“The bandits must have been here longer than we thought,” one of the knights said. Jaime couldn’t see his face, not with the red shawl draped around him like a cloak and helm, but his voice implied he was young, somewhere close to Joffrey’s age. “The bodies look at least a week old.”

Leon of Caria grunted. “I’ve noticed.” A surprisingly deep growl rumbled from beneath his helm. “Fucking bastards…”

Jaime agreed with the sentiment. The men’s deaths did not come quick based on the wounds, and the women and children… The last time he saw such horror was when he looked upon Elia Martell’s corpse.

Do they remind you of her? Of the greatest failure in your worthless life?

His fingers dug deep into his gauntlets.

“We think we found the one who beckoned the Frenzied Flame,” another knight reported. “A poor lass over by the last home, near the cliffs. Only one bounded missing her sockets. Her throat’s been slit, but by then…”

“Too little to matter,” Leon of Caria continued. “Once the flame’s beckoned, it spreads worse than the Scarlet Rot.”

The knights scattered, going about their work, pilfering the bandits corpses for valuables and possible intelligence. There was no telling how long the bandits had been operating in the area, and if they had encampments elsewhere. While the others did their due diligence, Jaime remained rooted on the spot, his mind plagued and troubled. Despite the long years wearing the cloak having long since disillusioned him to the dreams he had as a child, a naïve part of him was hurting terribly.

“Was there…really no one here we could save?”

Silence answered him.

A tired sigh escaped his lips. He shook his head, reminding himself that there was no such thing as honorable knights. They existed only in fables and stories. He went to join the others—

The soft groans of wood planks reached his ears. Tension flooded his body.

His sword retreated from its sheath in moments. Jaime glared at the empty house beside him, his steps slow and measured. He carefully stepped inside, straining his eyes and ears for anything out of place. The gray and cloud sky provided little light, and the house was dark. He could barely make out the broken remains of a table, the discarded chair next to the wall on his right, and the cold bodies left to rot on the floor by the corner.

His chainmail clinked, echoing in the tense silence.

“Show yourself,” he ordered. His voice carried over the air, loudly echoing in the empty home. “You’re outnumbered.”

There was no response initially. No movement.

The silence was broken by a soft, angelic voice reaching his ears.

“A-are you…normal?”

Jaime turned. There, huddled near the entrance to what he assumed was a bedroom, was a woman. He was able to make out some features in the shadows; pale skin, ratty cloth wrapped over her eyes, and sun-kissed hair, neatly pulled back into a ponytail. Dull brown robes and a cloak with more holes than cheese covered her frame.

He blinked in surprise, but kept his sword arm high. “Depends,” he said. “Are you? Step into the light. Show me your eyes.”

“I-I mean you no harm,” the woman said nervously.

“Then you will have nothing to fear from me. Step into the light. I will not repeat myself.”

She nodded fearfully, stepping out into view. At a second glance, she looked young, perhaps somewhere around twenty name days. She reached for her blindfold, pulling it back and giving Jaime a clear look at her eyes. They were milky gray, the pupils so small he thought they were pinpricks. Idly, he noted how unfocused her gaze seemed, as if she couldn’t see him. She wasn’t blind, but perhaps her eyesight was weak. Nonetheless, he saw no hint of flame in her eyes.

Jaime released a sight he hadn’t realized he’d been holding until now, lowering his arm and sheathing his blade. The girl slid her blindfold back into place.

“Forgive my caution,” he bade her. “I had to be certain you were not one of them. Are you a survivor of this hamlet?”

The girl shook her head. “Nay, kind ser. I’m but a traveler who happened upon the hamlet. The folk here seemed kind, offering me lodging. I’ve had poor eyesight, so I couldn’t see much of anything. I hadn’t realized who they were, not until I smelled the corpses.” Her shoulders trembled fearfully. “That was when I heard someone screaming. It was awful, like the howl of the damned. After that, the hamlet went mad. I heard people screaming. Then, everything suddenly went quiet. Then I heard more shouting, people swinging their swords. I-I thought you brigands.”

Poor girl, he thought. She was lucky, all things considered. He told her as much. “You’re awful fortunate then, little miss. We received word of a bandit encampment here. Imagine our surprise when we happened upon corpses with fire for eyeballs. We’ve routed the lot, so you’ve nothing to fear.”

“I see…” The girl sighed in relief. “It would seem I owe you thanks, my lord.”

“If I may ask, what compelled a girl like you to come all the way out here?”

“I am a finger maiden, ser,” the girl explained. Jaime vaguely heard the term before from the archmaester’s ramblings, much as he wished to forget them. The man loved to talk. “I travel in search of the distant light, in the hopes of fulfilling my duties. I had hoped to reach Stormveil Castle, but my horse was scared off along the way. Thankfully, I had little in the way of belongings.”

“Stormveil, you say? You are in luck, then. It’s but a hop and a skip away,” Jaime told her. “If you like, you can accompany us. My companions are sworn to Lady Loux.”

“My thanks, kind ser.” The girl smiled so sweetly and gently, as if she were the kindest human being in the world, incapable of wrongdoing. “May I have your name?”

“Jaime of House Lannister,” he introduced himself with some measure of pride. “Loyal Kingsguard to his grace, King Robert Baratheon I of Westeros. And, you are…?”

“Hyetta, milord.”

Jaime smiled. It was a lovely name.

Chapter Text

“The journey to establish new and lasting bonds with the mysterious realm known as the Lands Between is regarded as one of the most exciting and tense periods in the history of Westeros, and it is not without reason. Although maesters and mapmakers worth their trade originally believed the Lands Between had remained hidden until now, guarded by its fog-shrouded shores, the revelation it hails from another world, from an era where gods walked among men, sent ripples across the known world.

Some were skeptical of these wild claims. I confess, I was among their number…until I witnessed the wonders of the Lands Between in its full splendor, and the arcane sorceries still practiced to this day.

The impact the Lands Between had on not only Westeros, but the neighboring lands and powers, cannot be understated. Indeed, many sought an audience with the foreign realm’s many powers, particularly the illusive Elden Lord and Lunar Queen Ranni, who at the time of this writing have yet to be found.

The first ripples began in 297 After Conquest, when King Robert I Baratheon and an entourage consisting of the lords of Westeros’ Great Houses ventured to the Lands Between in the hopes of forging diplomatic ties, friendships, and trade. The journey first began in Limgrave, where they met with Lady Nepheli Loux, the de-facto ruler of the region.

Although not unheard of for a woman to hold a lordly post, Lady Loux’s presence was but the first of many cultural differences and points of contention, though by all accounts, the smallfolk and even her fellow lords deemed her a respectable lady with a great sense of justice. When word came of brigands, outlaws, and even Ironborn daring to encroach upon Limgrave’s shores, Lady Loux personally led each and every expedition to put down threats to her people. Accounts of Lady Loux’s prowess speak of power rivaling the greatest warriors of Westeros.

Unfortunately, an incident in Limgrave's western neighbor, the Weeping Peninsula, threatened to undo negotiations. While the incident was thankfully settled in a peaceful manner, there was undoubtedly tension between Westeros and Limgrave, particularly in matters of faith…”

Excerpt from ‘The Lands Between and Westeros’ by Archmaester Rickon

ROBERT

Over a tenday passed since Robert became acquainted with Nepheli Loux. Ever since, the king found himself often wishing he’d given up the crown to Ned in favor of wandering the world as a hedge knight. That woman was practically living the dream, not only being the head of a lordly house, but also going out to kill the bastards plaguing her lands.

Fuck, if only I hadn’t married Cersei…!

The thought shamed him, but he couldn’t help it. Queer as she was, there was no denying Nepheli was beautiful. Any man who claimed he didn’t lust after her, especially with the amount of skin she showed off, was either a liar or a fucking eunech like Varys. Still, flawed as he was, Robert knew trying to sneak his way under Nepheli’s skirt was a good way to sour relations, and the last thing he needed was to put more pressure on Jon. The old man’s health was improving ever so slightly, but the Stranger was nearing his doorstep.

Robert tried not to think about it. The thought of losing Jon threatened to reopen an old wound.

Ever since their conversation about the last Targaryens, the air between them became tense and awkward. Robert knew his mentor and second father spoke the truth. Killing Viserys and his sister wouldn’t bring Lyanna back. Nothing would change, except that the House of the Dragon was finally burned and buried in ash and dust. He’d still be sitting on that damn throne, wearing a crown he never wanted, and still married to a woman he could barely stand half the time. The smoldering anger borne from nearly twenty years ago refused to be snuffed out, for it was all he truly had left. The only thing that reminded him of Lyanna, the beautiful girl he half-knew from Ned’s stories; a spitfire with a sharp tongue and fangs to match her wits.

Not a day went by when he didn’t miss his former betrothed. He imagined it was much the same for Ned.

“Your grace?”

Robert turned his eyes to Ser Barristan, who looked at him in concern. The king noticed the sun outside the window dipping into the horizon. Before, it sat proudly above them like a fiery star. How long had he been lost inside his own head?

“It’s nothing,” he shrugged. “Dueling with unpleasant thoughts. Speaking of unpleasant, how’s my shit of a son? He still behaving himself?”

Barristan nodded. “Aye, my lord. He still acts up every now and then, but for the most part, he keeps his tongue in check, especially around Lady Loux.”

“But…?”

The white-cloak grimaced. “I’ve noticed he’s been spending a fair amount of time around Prince Oberyn.”

And hadn’t that been an odd combination? Robert had been worried at first, still remembering Doran’s seething look when his request for justice was denied. Part of Robert still believed this was but an elaborate plan, either Doran or Oberyn’s design, but the Dornish nobleman had yet to act. Instead, he was his roguish, charming self. He was still concerned, so he had Barristan keep a close eye on Oberyn and Joffrey in case his suspicions proved true and the Red Viper intended to slip a knife between his son’s ribs.

“Keep an eye out,” Robert ordered. “Until we’re back at King’s Landing, I’m not taking any chances.”

“Of course, your grace.”

Robert huffed. He was about to reach for his wineskin when he saw movement outside the window. The knights dispatched by Lady Loux had returned, and they did not come back empty handed. A frail waif rode with his goodbrother, arms clasped around his waist. A chuckle rumbled through his throat.

“Well, well. Seems the kingslayer’s found himself a damsel,” he joked to Barristan. “How long do you think it’ll take for him to wet his cock?”

Barristan grimaced. “Your grace, please. Ser Jaime is many things, but he is dedicated to the cloak. I sincerely doubt he’d break his vows, unlike Slint.” The man blinked as he suddenly remembered something. “That reminds me, a courier arrived bearing a letter with House Baratheon’s seal. It appears to be from Lord Stannis.”

Robert perked an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we already built a raven’s nest.”

“We did not. This came by ship. The ravens have yet to be trained to memorize the location. I wager this was sent sometime after our departure. Courier ships take less time, but they’re fragile vessels.”

“I didn’t take you for a sailor, Ser Barristan.”

His kingsguard smiled ruefully. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

Robert chortled as he took the letter from Ser Barristan’s hand. It was indeed sent by his brother, who recognized the handwriting. He undid the seal, finding a single sheet of parchment within. The letter was barely marked, containing the bare minimum. It read more like a report, though he wasn’t surprised. Stannis wasn’t the sort who expressed himself, even in ink.

The letter was short and to the point. Just as Barristan claimed, the letter was written shortly after their departure, with Stannis even correctly guessing it’d arrive after the expected two months spent at sea. He wrote that Cersei was with child again, offering congratulations before mentioning the ongoing investigation on the mysterious blackguards plaguing the Westerlands. He grimaced at the reminder, knowing how much that debacle infuriated Tywin and his daughter, the latter howling in his ear to help resolve the situation before it got any worse.

Details about the raiders were scarce. Truthfully, it was difficult to say whether they were raiders at all. They were organized, vanishing just as quickly as they started fighting. Almost like they were ghosts. It was concerning. It reminded him of the days when the Kingswood Brotherhood ran rampant. That they hadn’t been found and cut down like dogs yet was curious; Tywin was brutal to his enemies, leaving absolutely nothing to chance. When he decided someone needed to die, they would die. No mercy. None would be spared. Robert wouldn’t put it past the old lion to kill the poor bastards’ families to help prove a point.

“What news does Lord Stannis bring?” Barristan inquired.

Robert set the parchment down on the table. “Cersei’s belly is swollen. Our fourth child. Hopefully this one actually looks like a proper Baratheon,” he muttered acridly before shaking his head. “Beyond that, there’s news on the blackguards accosting the Westerlands. They’ve yet to be caught and are driving Tywin up the wall.”

“Truly? I thought Lord Lannister would have dealt with them by now.”

“So did I. Seems they’re more cunning than he thought. Cersei’s already planning on sending out knights to help her father, maybe even gold cloaks.”

Barristan furrowed his brow. “Is that wise?”

“Likely not, but I trust Stannis to keep her in line,” Robert grunted. “Beyond that, there’s also whispers of a new sickness in the ports. The Citadel doesn’t think it’ll spread into a plague, but I’d sooner trust Dorne to return to the fold than trust the shit that comes from their mouths.” He shook his head and stood up, the chair creaking in relief. “We’re meeting with Lady Loux again to resume discussions, right?”

“Aye. Lord Haight will also be present in the discussions as well, along with another noblewoman. Lady Hoslow, I believe her name is.”

“We met her before?”

“No, your grace. Lady Hoslow is in charge of Castle Morne in the Weeping Peninsula. I’ve heard she is well-liked by the smallfolk for her acts of charity.”

Robert hummed. “She also from a Great House?”

“I do not believe so. Lord Haight said she is of noble birth, but hers was of a lower standing. She married into the Great House of Hoslow. A political marriage arranged by Lady Loux, I believe.”

“And the reason she’s attending the meeting and now her lord husband?” Not that Robert cared much for the age-old practices. Had Lyanna lived and she became queen, he would have let her have free reign to do as she wished. Hell, she would be better at ruling than he would. Maybe even a better parent.

“I do not know, I’m afraid. I do know, however, that Lady Loux is confident in Lady Hoslow’s skills.”

The king had to admit, he was intrigued by this woman. If she had the confidence of Limgrave’s ruler, she must be skilled indeed. Just then, a thought occurred to him.

“Ser Barristan,” he began. “Do you know where my son is now?”

Chapter Text

JOFFREY POV

How humiliating.

Joffrey rarely liked to study. He knew his letters, he knew Westeros’ most recent history. Seven knows he spent how many hours memorizing the names of each and every noble house on the continent. He didn’t see the point. Who cared for history?

Unfortunately, the maesters and that monster of a ‘scribe’ thought otherwise.

“You look like you want to stab something,” the Red Snake commented, idly chewing on an apple he found somewhere.

The blonde rolled his eyes, content to ignore him while flipping through the pages of the tome in front of him. He understood the illustrations well enough, but the language was another story. He couldn’t tell if it was writing or just scribbles designed in a way to resemble letters. Beside the book were sheets of paper, rough translations based on what the maesters deciphered with the aid of the monster.

It'd been nearly a month since they arrived in the Lands Between. The remainder of the month would be spent discussing and drafting trade routes, charts, and alliances with Limgrave. Joffrey had no doubt his father would secure those with ease. The real question was whether the rest of the Lands Between would play ball. People thought the crown prince simple, and while he certainly was no scholar, he did know this wasn’t going to be simple. Part of him felt excited to see more of this strange land, having long since grown tired of the howling winds, rain, and green plains.

The servants in Stormveil spoke of a neighboring country, Liurnia. The stories they told spoke of a great castle, a place of learning that could put the Citadel to shame, surrounded by a great lake and a city half-submerged by the waters. They talked of the jagged cliffs surrounding the lake. But most importantly, they spoke of the supposed mad queen, Rennala, a woman as tall as a giant who went mad with grief after her husband left her. It was the most hilarious thing he’s heard since he arrived, and he was curious to see if the rumors were true. Whoever heard of a woman losing it because their husband left them?

“A dragon for your thoughts, stag prince?”

Joffrey clicked his tongue. “Must you call me by such a trite name?” he asked, glaring at the Dornishman. The bastard was smiling. Oh, how he wanted to tear it from his mouth! The audacity of this man. “Moreover, why do you insist on hanging about like some spectre? Have you nothing better to do, Prince Oberyn?”

“Come now, I’m not that awful, aren’t I?”

“You’re a nuisance, even at the best of times,” Joffrey snorted. He was unwilling to admit the man was a welcome distraction. The longer he stared at the strange scribbles, the more he felt as if he was seeing things that weren’t there.

Oberyn faked offense, clasping his hands over his heart as he performed a mummer’s farce. “Oh, how you wound me!”

Joffrey rolled his eyes. He glanced at the tome and papers again. Feeling a familiar pain in his eyes, he sighed and turned away from the book. “Oh, very well! If you are so insistent on plaguing me, I shall indulge you.”

“Perfect! In that case, how about a stroll about the keep? I’ve heard your uncle is due to return any moment now.”

It always struck Joffrey as strange how they were allowed to roam Stormveil Castle with such freedom. The number of areas they weren’t allowed were few, and the number of guards was surprisingly lacking. Either they were that short on manpower, or were that confident they could deal with them if they got uppity. As much as he wished to have faith in his father, Joffrey still remembered seeing the frightening ease in which Nepheli Loux slaughtered the runebear, how she made the earth tremble before her might.

The sight was engraved in his mind, seared into memory eternally.

I wonder… Is it possible for any to achieve that level of strength in this place? Or is it because she is the lord of Limgrave?

Ordinarily, Joffrey would scoff and dismiss the idea a woman could lead a country. Dismal a student as he was, he knew the folly of Rhaenyra I Targaryen and how she brought ruin to her people. A loathsome creature, and a usurper at that.

Lady Loux, however, was different. A queer woman to be sure, but the awesome might she displayed when she saved his life… Joffrey wondered if that was what a lord—nay, what a king should be like. Powerful to stand above others. Powerful to command respect among their peers.

Robert Baratheon was a war hero, but it was plain to see that time was not kind to him. He was not a young man anymore, and his belly was swollen from wine and feasts. The time he could swing a hammer was long past. It pained Joffrey to think about, but he knew it to be true. Even so, he loved him all the same, for he was his lord father and sire, the man he strived to emulate and be like.

If Joffrey could attain the same level of strength as Lady Loux, if he could prove himself worthy, then perhaps…

The prince shook his head, tossing aside such thoughts while looking out at the horizon. He settled his gaze on the gray tree standing sentinel over the Lands Between like a great obelisk.

“That truly is an eyesore,” he remarked. “Why don’t they just cut it down?”

“People would riot if they did,” Oberyn commented. “The Erdtree is not just a mere landmark. It is a religious symbol, albeit one that’s lost much power as of late. They say the Erdtree was Queen Marika’s seat of power, the very symbol of her Golden Order. To set it ablaze was tantamount to committing an unforgivable sin.”

“And yet someone committed blasphemy all the same,” Joffrey huffed. “Were they hanged?”

“It happened at the time of the Age of Stars and Queen Marika’s succession, so I would imagine not.”

“Shame. I’d love to hear what they put them through.”

Oberyn smiled wryly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re vicious?”

Joffrey shrugged. Tommen, in his rare acts of defiance, called him worse. Much worse.

Now that he got to thinking about it, what were his siblings up to? No doubt they were being coddled by their mother, as she was wont to do. He was glad to be away from her, far away in fact. He was nearly a grown man, and a prince besides. He was not meant to be coddled or treated like he was fragile like Myrcella. It was small wonder why Tommen lacked a spine or why Myrcella was so eager to please their mother like a chick to a mother hen.

Thank the Seven I won’t have to deal with that for quite a while, Joffrey thought with a smirk. It faded soon after when he realized his mother would be utterly cross with him and subject him to much worse than coddling. Or maybe she’d lecture him for once.

“What do you think of Lady Loux?” Oberyn suddenly asked. He turned and stared at the Dornish nobleman, eyebrow raised and curious as to what brought this on. “Come now, surely you must have thoughts. ‘tis rare for a Lady to rule, and rarer still for smallfolk and council to pledge fealty to her.” His smile grew lecherous. “Truth be told, she’s my kind of woman.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes. “You Dornish would fuck a dog if it had tits.”

“Come now, we have standards, and contrary to what you believe, we do have preferences. Ours just tend to be more loose and less strict than you lot.” If Oberyn was offended by the prince’s words, he didn’t let it show. “In all seriousness, Lady Loux is quite remarkable. The smallfolk sing her praises for looking after them, bandits quake in fear when they hear her name, and her fellow lords all have naught but kind words for her. She’d be a force to be reckon with in Dorne.” He looked back at Joffrey with a strange smile. “As a man of the Seven Kingdoms, its crown prince besides, how do you believe she’d fair in our continent?”

Joffrey furrowed his brow. Immediately, he knew many would write her off. A barbarian, a hapless woman, and various other insults. And he’d decry them all as fools. They did not see what he had.

“She would be underestimated,” he decided to say. “She may fare better in the North, if they’re anything like Lord Stark and his son.”

“Speaking of, how goes befriending your potential goodfather and goodbrother?”

His face shifted slightly. Eddard Stark seemed more acute than most, aware of his…outbursts. He watched him like a hawk, studying him for flaws. No doubt he was thinking of his daughter, the oldest Stark girl he was to marry if all went as the king hoped. Robb was somewhat easier to deal with, but the boy’s demeanor and adherence to that horseshit called “honor” that Joffrey found it difficult to be around him. He’d be better suited to Myrcella, and had half a mind to tell his father as much. If he were honest, he would prefer someone like Margeary Tyrell, though she was also someone he was reluctant to deal with, if only because he was aware of the Tyrell’s ambitions.

It didn’t matter of the girl was beautiful. He was Joffrey Baratheon, the future king. And he was no one’s pawn, least of all the Red Viper’s. Oh, how the so-called prince of Dorne thought himself clever, thinking he could sneak his way into Joffrey’s graces, biding his time until he found the moment to bear his venomous fangs.

If only Oberyn knew Joffrey caught on to his scheme. For now, though, he would play along. Put on a mummer’s mask, pretend to be a ‘friend’. And when Oberyn showed his true colors…

“Ah, it seems the kingslayer’s returned.”

Joffrey was pulled from his thoughts, finding himself looking at the gates. They were pulled open, allowing the gathering of knights to step inside Stormveil Castle. They were unharmed, bloodied perhaps but no worse for wear. His uncle, one of the greatest warriors of Westeros, strode not far behind the knights of Nepheli Loux. He had not come alone, either; a woman in a ragged shawl and a blindfold clung to him like a hapless maiden.

Seeing this, Oberyn smiled wolfishly. “Well, well. Seems your dear uncle’s living every boy’s dream. I remember when I used to dream of saving some lovely damsel in distress. Quite a looker, too.”

Joffrey would have said something, had it not been for the woman’s head to turn in his direction. She smiled, as if she could see him.

Suddenly, nausea erupted in his stomach. His insides curled inward, gnarling almost. His stomach rebelled, threatening to expel its contents lest he succumb to its demands of peace.

Joffrey swore he felt something crawling on the backs of his eyes. He looked away from the woman, jaw clenched and teeth gnashed together. He refused to reveal a glimpse of weakness.

And yet…

Gods, what is this?

It felt as though someone stepped over his grave.

Chapter Text

EDDARD

The time came once more for discussions of politics and alliances. An age old practice Eddard begrudgingly came to embrace since succeeding his lord father as House Stark’s patriarch. The lords of the Great Houses gathered in the Conference Hall, a room prepared for this very occasion. It was a circular room bearing only one table, with a great chair carved from stone sitting at the table’s head.

Today was different, however. A newcomer arrived, appearing at the castle gates in the dead of night and soaked to the bone. A worrisome but impressive feat, considering they were pregnant.

“Allow me to introduce Lady Roderika, wife to Lord Juno, head of the Great House of Hoslow,” Lord Haight said, gesturing to the woman beside him. She was a young woman, sun-kissed blonde hair falling down to her chin and eyes as bright as the azure sky above. A dark blue shawl adorned her shoulders, contrasting the silver and red gown she wore beneath it. Her belly was swollen and round, easily many moons pregnant and likely expecting any day now. “She manages the territory of the Weeping Peninsula in his stead.”

Roderika Hoslow bowed her head. “Greetings. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“If I may ask, Lady Hoslow, was this a wise course of action?” Edmure asked, eyeing her belly in genuine concern. “Leaving your territory aside, is not dangerous for a pregnant woman to be traveling by herself? Especially in such treacherous weather as of late?”

“It is kind of you to worry, but you needn’t. I had a dear friend accompany me.”

“A friend?”

Nepheli smiled strangely. “My friend Roderika is a spirit tuner, arguably one of the best the realm’s seen in recent years. Roderika, would you care to demonstrate?”

Roderika nodded. She clasped her hands as though she prayed to a god. Startled gasps filled the room when a pale blue light began to manifest around her. A creature floated above her, translucent and glowing like soft moonlight, a thin dome with tentacles slithering and frolicking about. The creature hovered over Roderika like a guardian, gently caressing her with its tendrils.

“Is that—” Edmure choked. “Is that a fucking jellyfish?”

“A what?” Joffrey looked at Eddard’s goodbrother. “You know what this thing is?”

The red-haired lord nodded, his eyes never leaving the strange oddity above Roderika. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve heard of them. Strange little creatures with jelly-like bodies and tentacles like a squid. I’ve heard they’re barely as big as your hand. This one’s as tall as the fucking Mountain!”

“’tis no ordinary jellyfish,” Nepheli told them. “Ashen remains hold a degree of power, some more than others. In the right hands, ‘tis possible to rouse “echoes” of their spirits. It’s not true necromancy, mind you. The soul itself has long departed. What is roused is what persists.”

Eddard glanced about the room. Olenna and her granddaughter were unfazed by this revelation. The ‘queen of thorns’ even seemed curious, eyeing the ghostly jellyfish with a glint dancing in her eyes. Edmure and Jon shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Although Lady Loux claimed it was not necromancy, not in the strictest sense, it was still magic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Prince Joffrey staring in wonder, like a child would. It reminded him that for as troublesome his personality was, he was still a child. He was young. There was hope for him.

Maybe.

“Well, fuck me,” Robert chuckled. “Actual ghosts. What doesn’t this place have?”

Roderika dismissed the jellyfish, the creature dissipating into flickers of light. She then took her seat beside Lord Haight.

Negotiations resumed shortly.

The first thing that needed to be discussed was the matter of trade. The matter had been the major point of the discussions since the talks began. It proceeded smoothly, surprisingly. The Lands Between was not lacking in resources and had much in abundance, from rare foodstuffs to ores. Of particular interest were meteoritic ore, the kind used to craft blades and arrowheads. One such weapon was put on display by Lady Loux, a familiar blade with a circular hilt and a handle wrapped in neatly woven strands. Beyond that were enchanted weaponry, swords and spears imbued with magic, such as sending crescent arcs of light flying from the blade and axes kicking up violent whirlwinds.

“We’ve a variety of ore in Westeros,” Tyrion said. “The Westerlands in particular have no shortage of gold and silver, though I’d imagine such things are available here in the Lands Between as well.”

“They are,” Nepheli nodded. “Though mining veins have become scarce in the years since the Shattering. Caelid was rich in minerals. We’ve no shortage of smithing ores and glintstone, but they are poor substitutes for proper things.” A small smile flittered across her face. “I would be open to the idea. Would I be correct to believe Westeros desire our smithing stone and glintstone?”

“Our smiths would be begging on their knees and flocking like dogs for scraps to get their hands on those ores of yers,” Robert guffawed. “And I’m curious to see what the maesters would think of the glintstone!”

“I’m more curious about the glowstones,” Oberyn said. “I’ve seen them at work myself. They last as long as a torch on a windy day, but they burn twice as bright. Better yet, they don’t burn to the touch. How common are such things, if I may ask?”

“Quite.”

Eddard felt Robb’s gaze. He’d also seen these glowstones at work. They were rocks, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, and as their name implied, they glowed. He wasn’t sure how it worked, but one of the servants explained it was not the work of magic. Rather, it was the stones’ innate properties. Any attempt to imbue the stone with magic would end with it exploding violently and possibly explosively. He didn’t question it and took them at their word, having no desire to test it.

Whatever the truth was about how they worked, the fact is that glowstones were a light source. More than that, it was fire in the palm of your hand. Warm to the touch, bright as a candle in the darkest depths, but not hot enough to burn flesh. There were many issues in the North, chief among them being the wintry season. There is no shortage of people, smallfolk and even lesser nobles, who died to its unforgiving frost and had their warmth sucked out of them.

Eddard Stark did not consider himself a greedy man, yet he was not immune to temptation. He saw the potential of these glowstones, how they could help families huddled together, seeking warmth on cold nights.

Before he could offer his own pitch and put his skills to the test, a pale-faced servant with silver hair and eyes entered the chamber. He bowed frantically before the gathered lords, offering swift greetings and a quick apology before reaching Nepheli and whispering in her ear. He had no idea what was said, but he wagered it was nothing could. The woman’s face twisted into an ugly grimace as she sighed.

“Apologies, my lords, but it would seem we must delay these talks once again,” she said, rising from her throne. “It seems an important matter has arisen.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Margeary asked innocently.

“The worst kind. An uprising.”