All Quiet Under the Sea(ASoIaF)

[Mockingbird]

MELISANDRE
​

Dawn rose when the king came.

Melisandre saw the banners first, banners bore that unmistakable golden stag encased in holy fire. She thought it an illusion, trickery and temptation by the Great Other when her eyes glimpsed the sight. Yet deep down in her heart of hearts she held on everlasting faith to the Lord, and he told her that her sight was true. Hope raged like a raging firestorm, for the king had returned.

Southern knights formed the king's vanguard, riding at the head of a great host. Ser Meyton rode at their head with his grim face of steel that broke into a smile once he saw her. Ser Lyonel Tidet followed him in a nest of sordid scales that shone in the sun, beside him Ser Godry raising the stag banner high. A dozen southron knights trampled the snows, paving the path as heralds of Azor Ahai reborn.

The knights were the first to pass through the gate of the town, greeted by the Magnar and the wildling princess, then by Lord Snow. They disappeared into the snows, and again Melisandre wondered if it had been an illusion. Again the Lord proved her wrong and his light right as another row of Stannis Baratheon's holy host emerged in her sight as she turned. Even the Great Other could not conjure so many ghosts of fallen men, much less the ghosts of the warriors of light. The darkness that had settled had bit by bit, burned away.

Streams of men came upon streams of men, bearing a mass of banners and steel. They trampled the lands before them in a storm, a great host that trickled endless across the earth. All beneath the banner of a mighty golden stag.

Suddenly, the fires at the gate sparkled and came alive, rising higher and higher in tongues of flame that breached the skies. She touched her choker, and felt the Lord's fire warm her. There was only one man who could awaken such fury.

King Stannis rode forth upon a tall red stallion, his eyes fierce as fire beneath a crown of red-gold flame. His eyes bore many lines, all of bearing all the Seven Kingdoms into salvation. So many had defied him, and even lied to conceal his victory. The Bastard and his dogs had won for a moment, blinding them with the king's fall. "Yet in the end, the Light of the Lord shines through."

A multitude of men accompanied the king, northmen with fur cloaks besides southrons in wool ones. They rode behind him and formed his host, yet the king seemed alone. Melisandre knew that he was of another world, that the chosen could always be distinguished from common men.

"Your Grace," Lord Snow was the first to bend the knee when King Stannis arrived.

Melisandre watched the black-cloaked lord, still curious as to the truth of him. Lord Snow had skinchanged into the young steward, one of those foul heathen arts that she had best left unspoken. "Yet who had won?" She prayed for the lord to shine his light upon the truth.

"Lord Snow," the Lord answered with the truth. The boy was the bastard of Winterfell in so many ways. Careful yet ambitious. Craven yet greedy. He wanted to hold the North, and she had helped him in his first steps. Melisandre had wished dearly for Lord Snow to be alive, and her prayers had been answered. She knew in the end that he was true.

The white wolf beside the boy howled. "If that is not the mark of truth, only the Lord knows what is."

Lord Snow was never dead and gone, and knelt now in his mortal form before the true king.

"Your Grace," the Magnar echoed Lord Snow, and swept as well to his knees before the king.

A forest of clamour and shouts could be heard as the entire wildling host behind the Magnar followed their leader, falling to their news upon the frozen soil. Silence claimed the crowd as they waited for the king to speak.

"The wildlings are men, in the end," Melisandre knew,"and there lies in all men the urge to follow Azor Ahai." Some men were fools, and denied that urge for thrones or gold or petty conquests. Yet in the end, all men would come home to fight the true fight. The only one besides Melisandre to not kneel was the wildling princess, whatever folly claimed that woman's mind.

"Victory," that had been the word that spread through the town when they heard that the king had claimed victory over the hated Boltons. More cheers had roused when the messengers came north telling of the march that would cleanse the Wall of the last Bolton dogs.

"My king," Melisandre strode above all the kneeling men to the king's steed.

"My lady," King Stannis dismounted. The torches were dancing, their lights shimmering in Stannis's eyes. The king gave a lingering glance her way, and Melisandre again thanked the Lord's blessing. The king had returned to fight the darkness, and she must do whatever the Lord asks of her to give him victory. Evil will no longer stand.

"Where is my wife and daughter, Lady Melisandre?" Stannis asked,"I placed them in your charge."

"Even the light of the Lord cannot see all ends," Melisandre answered,"We were betrayed by those that were faint of heart."

"Where are they?" Stannis asked again.

"Imprisoned," Melisandre admitted,"By traitors."

"Yet you stand here, free," Stannis said.

"Saved," Melisandre said,"by those whose hearts still burn true."

Stannis stepped past her and left her amidst the swirling snows.

"Madness," Melisandre thought as his steps faded away,"That is what has consumed him in the march to Winterfell amidst all the northern snows." her king needed to be brought back to the light. She saw in the king's company faces still as stone, a plague of winter settling upon the whole of his host. The foremost man, a northman in a bearskin cloak, gave her an icy glance above his beard with his hand gripping his hilt. Melisandre turned away. Some were false and some were true. All lay beneath a mummer's cloak, a farce that they could survive without the Lord of Light. She needed to remove that cloak. First, she needed to do it for the king, to reveal the hero that he always was and always will be.

Melisandre followed the king as he came before the kneeling men, laying a hand on his arm. The fabric was rough and cold, but the flesh beneath was healthy and warm. Stannis never moved a muscle as she touched him, as he knew the grace of the Lord's priestess. It would be simple to lift this shadow from him.

"Arise," Stannis commanded the dozens of men before him. Only three dared to. One was the Magnar, the second a woman with one blind, and the third a boy with dusty blond hair. Lord Snow did not rise. The wildling princess still stood resilient, locking eyes with the king.

"Arise," Stannis said again, his voice steely, and this time all the wildlings came to their feet.

"I am vexed, Magnar Sigorn," Stannis turned to the Magnar,"When I ask your folk to kneel, they do not kneel. When I ask them to rise, they do not rise."

"You had better know the nature of those beyond the Wall," the Magnar replied, speaking in the Common Tongue,"One wastes his life moving about in winter, so it's best to stay in one place."

"I trust that I have your hospitality," Stannis said.

"My house is yours," the Magnar bowed,"Any foe to the Bastard's dogs is our friend. Any chief to vanquish them is our king."

Stannis nodded, a flurry of snow landing upon his brow.

"You may worry that I have brought four thousand swords with me," Stannis said,"and four thousand mouths to feed. You need not fret. Lord Manderly has provided us with ample provisions all the march, so we would not be requiring any of your stocks."

"In fact," Stannis gestured behind him, and the foremost riders parted to reveal wagon upon full wagon of wooden barrels and crates that stretched forever into the whiteness beyond. They were doubtless all to be full of goods.

"When I left the Nightfort," Stannis said,"I heard from Lord Snow that the provisions here were running low. We have food, furs, and medicine for all your folk. Winter is coming, and this is my duty to my people."

Excited words began to rise amongst the wildlings, but a swift bark from the Magnar ended it.

"My thanks to you, Yer Grace," the Magnar said, his voice becoming soft,"You have my sword, always."

"You bunch of bloody fools," a stout woman cried,"I told you all that the king would return."

"Witch," another voice sounded,"The king has no use of you, but for me who will give twenty sons in service of him."

"My king," the calls grew, and soon none of the voices became distinguishable over the others.

A horn broke the clamour, Melisandre certain that it had been one of Stannis's men. Stannis looked back as the wildlings fell into silence.

Stannis turned then to Lord Snow, greeting the black-cloaked boy whose eyes shone with emeralds.

"The rumours were not true," Stannis said,"Your death was Marsh's farce to plead mercy to the Bolton usurpers."

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Snow lowered his head, his voice calm and confident,"I survived, but Marsh still came to power. Castle Black has fallen to him."

"You have given my wife and daughter to them as you fled," Stannis said.

"The Watch takes no part," there was no fear in Lord Snow's voice,"They were attacked by their own men. I could shield them from the Watch, but not from traitors amongst themselves."

King Stannis took one lingering look at Lord Snow, but he turned away. The Lord told Melisandre that he had more pressing matters to attend to. The Lord was proven right again when Stannis turned to the wildling princess.

"Lady Val," he said.

"Your Grace," her voice plain,"Where is my brother?"

"Your brother is alive," Stannis said,"I found him at Winterfell, in a northman's cage,"

The wildling princess's face was blank and unreadable, but she nodded,"I thank you, Your Grace. I feared that he was gone when the traitors took Castle Black. Ramsay Bolton's letter was dear to us, his threats uniting the Free Folk against him. I have not seen the Free Folk in this like since my brother marched against the Wall. All of them, waiting for Your Grace to finish the last of Ramsay Bolton's servants in Castle Black."

The wildling princess never knelt, her eyes bearing into Stannis's own. In the end, it was she who turned and swept away in her white fur cloak.

Stannis turned back to the Magnar, who bore an irritated expression on his face,"Has my lord arranged my lodgings?"

"Tis' the first thing we dealt with when we heard Yer Grace was coming," the Magnar replied,"Yer Grace shall have the Arcove, where I stayed before, the only place in this Mole's Town fit for a king."

"Very well," Stannis said,"I have held up my host long enough. Lord Snow, attend me to the Arcove. I have more matters to deal with you."

"Certainly, Your Grace," Lord Snow answered quickly.

"What do you know of your mother?" King Stannis asked Lord Snow amidst the Arcove's dim glow. Melisandre felt the flame with her fingers, and it was warm. She foresaw that the Lord had blessed this meeting, and it would go well. It must go well, if the Lord's designs were to be realized. The servants of light must band together in alliance.

Lord Snow froze for a moment, then spoke in a measured tone,"She died when I was born."

Melisandre gazed at him, and there was silence. "Lord Stark never spoke of her," he added.

"The tales Eddard Stark told you are not true," Stannis said,"He was never your father, nor some southern whore your mother. Your parents were northmen. Your father was Brandon Stark, eldest brother of Eddard Stark and heir to Winterfell. Your mother was Barbrey Ryswell of the Rills, when her husband rode south on the eve of Robert's Rebellion to never return. You are the true heir to Winterfell, by the laws of gods and men."

The face Lord Snow bore was dumbfounded, the boy reeling as such a revelation.

"In the end," Melisandre thought,"The light of the Lord shines through all."

"Truly?" Lord Snow managed after a long moment.

"It is the only tale I know that is not the spawn of old wives," Stannis said,"I discovered many truths on the march to Winterfell, many truths I should have known when I first claimed the throne. Many truths that I know too late. Yet the hour is never too late to learn of them. That was what the gods made us to be."

The king turned to her, but Melisandre's eyes kept watching Lord Snow. The boy made no answer, and there was an eerie calmness to his shadow that made her cold.

"Lord Snow," Stannis said,"I once offered you the seat of Winterfell and the hand of the wildling princess. You refused me. Yet you are still the lawful heir to Winterfell, and I come back to you. I offer this again, to pardon you from the vows of the Night's Watch. This time, I offer you the North and the hand of my daughter Shireen the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. What is your answer?"

"I would be honoured, Your Grace," Lord Snow bowed,"I am always at your service, and I apologize for the dishonour I gave Your Grace before."

"An alliance of the light," Melisandre watched the boy with interest,"the will of the Lord sealed in holy matrimony."

"Very well," Stannis said,"You will swear your sword to me on the dawn of the morrow in the town square, where I will give you your pardon. We will march for Castle Black two days henceforth."

"I will," Lord Snow replied.

"You are dismissed," Stannis said, and Lord Snow left the Arcove.

"There is something amiss in Lord Snow," Stannis said once he was alone with Melisandre.

"The mutiny has tempered the fire in him," Melisandre said,"Marsh's betrayal has made him wary, more careful and calm in his judgment. He knows now that he needs Your Grace's light to guide him. Since the last Your Grace has seen of him, he has become a new man."

"I must need your ruby bands," Stannis said,"I remember that you made three with the three souls of my stillborn children. One is in my possession. Another perished with the mummer in the fire. The third one you must have given Mance Rayder. I must see it."

"The king did not know of this," Melisandre thought,"But he must have if he found Mance Rayder in Winterfell."

"Yes, Your Grace," Melisandre offered up hers from her cloak. Stannis received it, twisting it in his hands and speaking no words.

Melisandre looked beside Stannis within the Arcove's brazier, divining what the Lord had revealed. There was only blinding white. Snow. Only snow.

"Your Grace," Melisandre said,"I have seen in the fires only snow. Your will was true. This is Lord Snow's destiny."

"I give to the Lord all he asks for," Stannis said,"and he gives to me only snow."

"There must be more," Melisandre looked deeper into the flames, summoning every bit of her power to glimpse the truth of the Lord's will. There it was, hidden amongst the snow. Two glowing blue eyes. Their lights were dim, but Melisandre was certain what it was. Dread with its slow tune crawled upon her soul. Her heart sank into the deepest abyss. All these days, the Lord had not been showing her the power of Lord Snow. The Lord was warning her about the greater foe that was to come, the foe they had neglected as they fought amongst themselves. Bowen Marsh and Castle Black were nothing to these darkest evils that walked the earth again. The dead were coming.

"We must leave on the morrow," Melisandre said.

"The men are tired," Stannis said,"They must rest before they face the traitors."

"The dead will not wait," Melisandre said,"and the Lord has shown to me that they march on the Wall at this moment. We must secure the Wall before they pass, else the Great Other will claim us all."

"Aye," Stannis decided,"If that is the Lord's will, then you will declare it to the host on the morrow. I will make the necessary preparations."

Melisandre studied the king for a long moment, then spoke,"A darkness is troubling Your Grace. Is it still the shadow of your brother or Ser Cortnay?"

Stannis shook his head,"My memories of them still linger but do not sting. It is all I have done these last moons, starved of my duty in these cold northern snows. I have condemned a woman to a life of misery. I have shook with a king that I know to be false. Did you know that Ser Davos is dead?"

"Yes," Melisandre answered,"Ser Davos died by Lord Manderly's hand."

"You have seen the truth," Stannis said,"yet I must thank the hand that killed him."

"My king," Melisandre said,"Do you wish for me to comfort you, as I did those days after Lord Renly's death. Command it, and I will obey."

"No," Stannis said,"This darkness no pleasure can lift."

"The Lord's pleasure could," Melisandre pitied the king, but did not press him. Pain is what a king should bear, so that his people may be free.

Too long amongst the northmen and their heathen gods have laid a sinister spell on the king. Melisandre must lift it before they face the darkness where the dead were coming. Where, as the Starks said, winter is coming. They needed all their strength to face the Others and the great evil that gave them power.

Her faith had been tested once, when it seemed that Stannis had lost. Yet the Lord's blessings had proved true in the end, and the king returned. She knew that she must no again lose faith, for the Lord will win victory.

The king has risen again to face the darkness, yet the Lord had long told her that his power needs a tread a path to truly vanquish the enemy. Melisandre remembered the first war when men won victory over the Others to end the Long Night. Azor Ahai had led the battle with sacrifice, with the tempered steel that he drove into the heart of his love. The dead are coming again, and Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai Reborn. He would marshal all his mortal strength against the Others, but what will bring him his greatest power will be sacrifice. The hero needed to give away who he held most dear. That is a hero's tale, to defeat the ancient enemy once and for all. She held it to her heart, as it was the Lord's will and forever true.

Melisandre looked at Stannis again with more pity in her eyes,"I shall need see who that may be."

"Leave me," Stannis said, his voice as sharp as steel.

"As my king commands," Melisandre said, her eyes never leaving him as she withdrew. Her cloak left a thin trail upon the dusty floor, its stretching the only voice in the silent room. In the dim light, the cloak was all that shone, turning different colours beneath the firelight.

She looked into Stannis's fiery eyes and felt the flame burn into her.

"He knows," Melisandre realized as Stannis fingered a golden band between his hand,"He knows the price he must pay for our salvation."

 

[Mockingbird]

QUENTYN
​

"My prince, the king is waiting," the seneschal's words echoed between the walls.

Quentyn bit his lip to steady himself. "With grace and honour and dignity," he remembered Lord Anders's words,"That was how a Prince of Dorne should act." He knew that he certainly looked a prince for the first time in seven moons beneath the smooth orange silks, but he knew also that the prince within must follow the prince outside.

He did not. He was afraid. Just as afraid as he had been when the corsairs slew Ser Cletus and all the others on the Adventure. Just as afraid as when the Windblown marched through the blood-soaked streets of Astapor. Just as afraid as when he had run from the dragonfire burning the maze.

Quentyn was afraid, yet that was what he feared to say. His adventures had come to an end in the Temple, in the sunny beautiful halls of the Graces. He promised himself that he would not fail them. If it was to be their prince, he welcomed it. Yet he feared that he would fail the Green Grace just like he had failed his father. All the time, he prayed that the queen would return and relieve him from the burden of a prince. He had enough of being this hero.

"Master Reznak," he hoped that his voice had not come out trembling,"Truly?"

"The prince is tired," the Golden Grace beside him said,"This is the first time he could stand recent days, Must he attend to business?"

"I offer my own most sincere apologies," Reznak mo Reznak said,"But tonight is a blessed night. Tonight Meereen liberates itself from the darkness. The prince must be there."

"I will," Quentyn did not see it wise to decline,"I hope that my lateness will not displeasure His Radiance."

"Not at all," Lord Reznak said,"We would be glad to wait an eternity for the grace of Meereen's hero."

Quentyn clenched his fingers beneath the folds of his cloak and stood. The White Graces were on him in an instant to steady him, but he stiffened at their touch. "Please," he told the Graces,"I can manage myself. The hands of the maids withdrew, and he felt his chest relax. The Green Grace had insisted that they stay at his side. To care for him, and serve him while he was still weak. He was duly grateful, yet the presence of maidens, pretty maidens at that dampered all in white, made him feel ever so stiff.

Reznak and his guards led the way outside, and Quentyn followed with the Golden Grace closely beside him. At least the White Graces had known to leave him be. The hall was dim except a few bars of torches, yet those few fires warmed the whole of the hall. He felt a thin spark of joy at this air.

Was it wise for him to wish himself out of this lonely chamber? It was safe there, yet the dread of what lay outside gnawed on him every living moment. He never knew what might happen next, the dread, giving him dreams of fires dancing across the walls only to awaken at their touch. He supposed it fortunate that the Green Grace had just deemed him fit to walk, and the king invited him. That did not dim the fear in him of what lay outside.

Quentyn did not feel fit for this. He never felt fit since the day his father's letter had arrived in Yronwood. Not ever the true sense of the word, capable and ready. He was never truly ready to face the dragon queen. The orange silks he now wore could not change the fact that he would never be ready to face what lay outside. How he wished that the dragon queen would return, for she was fit for this.

"She was not dead," he figured. The Green Grace would have no way of the truth of Daenerys Targaryen, and her words were an honest error. The Grace would be glad to see the queen return and make the peace which he could never do.

"My prince, how does the day find Your Worship?" Reznak asked, and Quentyn felt the warm air become cold.

"The day is tiring," Quentyn replied, trying to find the right words,"The war weighs upon us all."

"Your Worship's efforts are unmatched in Meereen," Reznak said,"When all else was lost, Your Worship's dragons vanquished the Yunkish foe. Your Worship deserves every comfort. May I introduce Your Worship to my niece Galazza, a lovely maid of fifteen, supple and flowered."

"The prince has no time for marriage in these times of war," the Golden Grace said.

"The prince is Meereen's hero," Reznak answered,"deserving of every comfort. The house of whores should have remembered that."

He turned to Quentyn again,"I promise, Your Worship, that Meereen's war would come to end this night."

Quentyn wished to put an end to it, but he could not find the right words. Lord Anders had spoken of marriage, and he knew that he had to take a bride in due time. Yet it would be a Dornish bride to bound House Martell with one of its vassal houses. Not a bride in Meereen, where he had no place.

The Golden Grace spoke for him, her grey brows knitted in frustration,"The prince should like to see young Galazza sometime."

The seneschal nodded, and Quentyn saw that one of the seneschal's guards was eyeing his charge.

He was grateful when his party crossed the threshold of a great theatre.

A statue of a horned hare stood carved in stone at the center of the chamber, its horned holding up the spiraling ceiling above. All colours of silken draperies coated all the walls, some crested with shining jewels. Several crystal chandeliers looming above gave light in the night. The chamber only had three walls, the last opening to Meereen's night air.

The chamber could house a hundred men, and it was full to the brim. All were gathered at that great window, watching something outside.All of them were the Great Masters of Meereen. Quentyn knew Grazor mo Zhak and Krazdan mo Raddaq at first glance, the great booming voice of Morghaz of the House of Loraq filled half the chamber. Others he knew from Daenerys Targaryen's court, but he could not name at first glance. Slaves rushed to and fro, serving whatever the masters demanded. None of the slaves spoke.

He wondered why they were all here,"Sheltering from the war, perhaps, which the Green Grace said were sure to be beyond the Temple."

"My prince Quentyn," a boy Quentyn's age with light brown hair came to him and bowed,"We are glad that you could join us. The man before you is Modast, the thirtieth of that Noble Name, of the Noble House of Pahl."

"Prince Quentyn of the House of Martell," Quentyn bowed in answer.

"How fares the dragons?" the boy asked.

"Well," Quentyn did not have time to think.

"That is well," Modest Pahl nodded,"You are much more fit to hold the dragons than a hot-tempered woman. My family has suffered enough under her."

"Though she was not all horrible" he turned away and the words spilled from the corner of his lips,"If old Master Pahl does not die, how could young Master Pahl rise?"

"The prince Quentyn," a portly man in a crimson robe shouted, and the hall fell silent as they watched his entry.

"My prince," Reznak said,"The king hopes that you may grace him with your presence." The men before Quentyn parted like a windstorm, and he wondered why. "What do they fear in me?" The shining of fires in their eyes gave Quentyn his answer. "Dragons." He dreaded the fact that he knew not what to do when they discovered he did not tame the beasts. He closed his eyes, and prayed for the dragon queen to return. She could truly tame the beasts, and she had much to back up fear of her.

Quentyn passed men in blue cloaks and silks of midnight-black, even one with red gems studded into his folds. Dozens of masters watched him, all wearing the same odd expressions on their faces. It was fear, mixed in with curiosity and wonder. He also saw the faces of the slaves who served them who all wore the same leather collar, yet in their eyes he saw only indifference.

King Hizdahr sat in the forefront of the window, a wide space cleared out for him. There was a steel rail before them that saved them from tumbling out of the theatre. The king sat upon a plush seat with a fur cloak wrapped about his shoulders, his eyes fixed on the empty night. A man sat by him with copious amounts of gold in his thick hair and beard, his eyes black specks amidst all the yellow. No slaves attended his seat, which was the reason his place was so empty. There were two empty seats beside him.

"Prince Quentyn," King Hizdahr only now turned to Quentyn,"I am glad that you could join me."

Quentyn felt the cold of the night winds. He looked at King Hizdahr, and saw how wise it was to bring a fur cloak.

"I would like to introduce my prince," he gestured to the golden-coated man beside him,"to Master Horman, the First of that Name, of the House of Anlanq, Chief Envoy of the Noble Masters of New Ghis."

"My prince," Anlanq stroked his beard of gold,"The Green Grace has told us much about your glory."

"I do not know how I have earned such praise," Quentyn found his words at last.

"It was only for you that we agreed to Ser Barristan's peace," Anlanq said,"But then, Ser Barristan assailed us and made his own ruin. We think you wiser than him."

"Ser Barristan was not the wisest warrior," King Hizdahr said,"but he was the noblest. He died fighting for Meereen against its enemies, and it was his final act that won the war. He would be remembered amongst the likes of Elberon the Eyeless and Mazhdan the Magnificent. The war will end soon because of him, and we only need now to right the final pieces."

"Prince Quentyn," he gestured to an empty silken seat beside him,"Please, sit."

Quentyn lowered himself slowly onto the soft cushion, watching Reznak do the same in the other empty chair. The seneschal's guards turned to stand behind King Hizdahr.

"What business do you have here?" Quentyn tried to ignore the cold as he asked Anlanq.

"The business of peace," Anlanq answered,"Tonight, King Hizdahr has promised New Ghis that the last of the dog Skahaz mo Kandaq will be vanquished. Meereen and New Ghis could then broker a settlement that profit both our cities."

"What of Yunkai?" Quentyn asked.

"Of those cushion men, I must thank you, my prince," Anlanq answered,"There is almost nothing left after my prince's dragon finished its work on them. What little left fled back south with their tails between their legs."

King Hizdahr looked at Quentyn as he spoke with Anlanq. His expression was plain, but Quentyn spied anger beneath his relaxed eyes.

A slave came to them bearing a tray full of drinks. King Hizdahr looked irritated,"I never commanded you to come."

"Stay," Reznak said, looking at Quentyn,"Perhaps the prince would like a drink."

"Wine," was Quentyn's first thought as he shivered. He decided that he needed his wits about him more than warmth,"Water."

The slave handed him a golden goblet filled with a clear liquid. Quentyn was not certain if it was water or wine, so he never took any sip.

"Wine," King Hizdahr demanded, his voice smooth yet laced with iron.

The seneschal echoed Quentyn's choice. Anlanq hesitated, then chose wine.

"Thank you," Quentyn said to the slave, and was vexed when she did not answer.

"A mute," King Hizdahr said,"Necessary for this council. I had not wanted the masters to bring any slaves, but even my tongue cannot sway those iron-willed. If we were to spill our secrets to slaves, it is best if they could not speak it in turn."

The slave turned away, and Quentyn felt cold. He was sure that this cold was not that of the winter winds. This place was not his place to be, and he was in no way the prince they wanted. He looked away, to the west where his home lay.

What he saw instead was the vast darkness where the sun had long since set.

The night was pleasant enough in the company of the moonlight gusts. He gripped the cool rail in front of him, taking in a city of darkness. Several spots of flame glimmered beneath the sky. The light of the torches on the balcony gave them enough to see one another, but little else. He looked above him beyond the shadows of the chamber, and he seemed alone under the stars.

It was sombre and quiet, as if the night knew to mourn the blood that was shed in recent days.

"Or to act as a guise for more knives," he dreaded how the slaying still stood even when the battle ended.

"What am I audience to?" Quentyn asked the king.

"The last of the war," King Hizdahr's eyes turned back to the horizon, twinkling beneath the starlight,"We strike at the heart of the Shavepate's plague."

"Four thousand of my own prepare to turn from within the Kandaq's ranks," Anlanq said,"Both the Windblown and the Horned Legions. They will aid King Hizdahr's men on the streets as they assail tonight the Great Pyramid where Kandaq's makes his nest. The warmonger will fall today."

Quentyn looked into the night, and saw lights begin to appear. As rocks tumble from a mountain, the shimmer of lights grew ever fiercer with each pulse of flame to illuminate a path into the streets of shadow.

A horn sounded in the distance amidst the sea of flames. Armies gathered at gates and crossroads, a hold seizing them as torches halted. Silence grew, and the fires began to flicker. A bitter wind carrying a taste of blood landed on Tyrion's tongue, and he swallowed. The lights shimmered and.danced in the night.

Quentyn looked about him, and it seemed that all the Great Masters fixed themselves upon the distant spectacle. The only one who did not look was Anlanq and King Hizdahr, whose eyes remained on Quentyn.

"Shall we raise a cup to the queen?" Quentyn said, knowing that the queen would return after they win victory over the Shavepate and the traitors.

"To the last dragon," Quentyn said, raising the goblet to his lips but not drinking.

"To the last dragon," the others echoed him, yet their drinks also flowed down their chins undrunk.

"It is a pity that we do not have dragons to aid us," King Hizdahr,"So much blood that did not need to be spilt."

"He knows," Quentyn froze in his seat, suspecting the worst. "Well, perhaps it could end now."

"My king probably does not wish the prince to burn the city to the ground." Anlanq said,"There is much that you do not know."

The night winds were howling, and Quentyn observed that the only ones who could hear them were themselves.

"You do not know," Anlanq glared at King Hizdahr,"that a mummer's dragon is still a dragon, and burns men all the same. You, a threat to him, will fall. By the beast or by the blade, it does not matter when you are dead. He will kill you, and I do not know why the prince has not yet. He is merciful, I suppose, but do not stretch his mercy. Forsake this folly to court the queen, and give her to the prince. I do not want to see you dead. You seem a kind boy, unworthy of that fate. I warn you about him, but he is not the only one who wishes to see you in your grave."

"That was for me to hear as well," Quentyn thought as King Hizdahr stared blankly at him,"Perhaps to declare his loyalty." It seemed all the more dangerous now that they thought a true prince. He was not ready to play this game, not here in Meereen. This was the queen's game, and he looked to the horizon in vain again. There was no sign of dragon wings.

"That does not matter," Quentyn remembered the Green Grace's words,"You are Meereen's hero." He realized the truth of it. There will always be ones to believe the lie, if they see gain in following it. Anlanq was one of them, and who knew how many others in this chamber of the horned hare. He wondered if he should take it. "Not yet," he would need to wait and see.

King Hizdahr rose from his plush seat, turning his back on the flickering lights,"I shall need attend to the battle. Any master who keeps true to Meereen should come."

Anlanq shook his head, and watched as King Hizdahr left the chamber with only a dozen masters following him, Reznak amongst them. Most stayed behind as Quentyn did, watching the lights unfold on the distant streets. Anlanq's eyes were distant, until suddenly they came to light.

"My prince," he said urgently,"Follow King Hizdahr. The Unsullied stand right now in the Temple of the Graces. If he wins them, I fear that your dragons would not save you here."

"It is wise to do so," the Golden Grace's voice appeared, whispering into his ear.

Quentyn thought about it, pressing the matters into his mind. He feared it, knowing that caution always hangs about the edges of his senses. There would be no repeat of the maze. He could go in the end, as the Unsullied were loyal more to the dragon than the Harpy. The mummer's dragon must make itself true. He looked again across the horizon, hoping for the last time that a true winged dragon may appear. Naught answered him.

The Unsullied lay in the Hall of the Mighty. The smell assaulted Quentyn before he even came close. He knew the scent, the scent of the dead and dying that were so common in the army camp. The Unsullied had just come home from battle.

King Hizdahr blocked his nose with a sleeve of his cloak as he walked through the wounded with his fellow masters handing back. Quentyn did not, as he was used to the smell. Some of the masters had followed him from the theatre, and he timely looked back. Most stood beyond the corpses, with only Pahl and young Oberon mo Hazkar daring to follow Quentyn and the Golden Grace into the depths of the hall.

When Quentyn looked at the wounded, he realized that the smell was only a small fraction of the pain. Screams, moans, and croaked wishes were the least of what lay in the hall. Each step he took landed in a puddle of blood, pus, and sometimes even the release of a man's bowels. Splayed amongst them were the endless number of cauterized bodies. He could not tell which ones were truly dead. Someone had started a fire in the corner, and those which were sure to corpses were thrown in. There was an endless supply of those.

"It was much worse three days ago," Hazkar said,"when the wounded were brought in fresh from the battle. Grandfather's been in arms for sixty years, and he says this were some of the worst he had seen."

"The Temple is a place of healing," Quentyn considered,"Even though the Unsullied would not aid King Hizdahr, the Graces still allowed them in." Perhaps after they were healed, the grey soldiers would be inclined to aid their healers. He remembered that the Temple was supposed to be a place of sanctuary where none were to harm each other. He also remembered how the New Ghiscari legions had burned Astapor's Temple. He knew that Meereen has turned it into a place of war. He also knew that the golden men of New Ghis, Anlanq and all, would turn on him if once fortune does not favour Quentyn's side.

A group of men stood at the head of the hall, led by a tall man with three iron spikes on his helm. They were speaking to a White Grace who ran off into the Temple's halls. King Hizdahr steeped carefully about each of the bodies, hugging his sleeve to his nose as he approached that group of men.

"Grey Worm," he called to one of them, and the man with the three-spiked helm turned,"My king. I had told the first three times you came. You are not welcome here."

"I only wish all of you and your well," King Hizdahr said,"I come only to see that you and your men will do as we agreed."

"We will," Grey Worm spat,"Our men are spent. We will honour our promise to have no part in the Shavepate's war. We wait here for the queen's return."

King Hizdahr walked out of the row of bodies, his face twisted in anger as he uncovered his sleeve. "Send a messenger to the Red Pyramid," he ordered Reznak,"I want my best healers here, the ones that attend to me and the House of Loraq. Whoever their lord is, these brave warriors who fought for Meereen do not deserve to die."

"Please," Quentyn heard a moan beneath him, and he looked down to see a wounded man. He had lost a hand with the stump wrapped in stained bandages, and a Blue Grace sought to raise a cup of water to his lips.

"Pleading for someone," he thought,"It is best if that be me." He fell to his knees, holding the man up while the Blue Grace poured the water through his parched lips.

"You," Quentyn heard a shout and truend. The man with the three-spiked helm was approaching him.

"You," his voice echoed the same steely tone as he came closer,"Are you Prince Quentyn Martell?"

"Yes," Quentyn replied, thinking this a misjudgment.

"The suitor of the queen?"

"Yes."

"The one who tamed her dragons?"

Quentyn hesitated, then answered,"Yes. I tried to."

"Here," the man said, shoving Quentyn aside,"Let me take Iron Pig. He gives you thanks, and so I give you thanks."

"Prince Quentyn," a voice called. He rose to see a burly sellsword sergeant call him,"We have caught some of Skahaz mo Kandaq's men attempting to sneak into the Temple. We think that they were here to slay you, and they await your judgment."

"It would be wise to take them in," Hazkar said,"They would be loyal men as you are the one to save them from certain death."

"It would be wiser to kill them," Pahl said,"My prince cannot sour the hearts of our own men by sparing the enemy. You cannot trust their swords either."

Quentyn looked up at King Hizdahr, who nodded to him and swept away with his retinue. The prince gestured to the sergeant to bring the captives in. He noticed also that almost all of the masters from the theatre had gathered down here in the hall with their retinues of slaves. All of them, except Anlanq and old Hazkar.

"We need your aid, Prince Quentyn," the lead man of the captives stood before Quentyn in a secluded hall where he held court,"The queen fought for freedom, and we thought the Shavepate continued her battle. We were wrong, and his cause is only for his own power. We see the light now, and I ask that we be given another chance beneath your banner."

"Hmph," Pahl snorted,"You were foolish enough to follow the enemy, and now you ask for mercy? No, the justice for that is only death."

"Ser Barristan taught me," the lead man pleaded,"and he said that all knights must fight with honour else they are no knights at all, so fight for use with honour. Show us who you must be."

Quentyn looked at him, a boy with a beard just beginning to grow who was only a little older than Quentyn himself. He looked again at the dozen men behind him, all looking back at him ith pleading eyes.

"I am a prince before a knight," Quentyn answered, and the lead man's face fell,"And the rules are different. A prince must have more honour."

"Live," Quentyn said,"Live as you follow me. You were right that the Shavepate's cause is doomed, and you are right to come to me. Follow me, obey me, and return with me to the deserts of Dorne. Deserts much like Meereen, but there you will be free."

The first man began to kneel, as did the man behind, and soon all the others knelt before him.

Quentyn heard faintly a roar, and he thought it first an illusion. Yet another roar followed, a black shadow blossoming across the torches of the halls. He could not deny it.

Warmth returned to him again as he found his way to a great glass opening onto the night skies. "The curse of being a prince will end, as the queen comes home." She could take hold of everything and make it right.

The first lights of the dawn began to rise in the east, and Quentyn's heart began to fall. As the light touched the dragon that spiraled again and again above Meereen, he saw at last that there was no rider.

The dragon seemed to turn to Quentyn, then broke its circle and flew into the west.

 

[Mockingbird]

THEON
​

"By salt and iron," the priest poured a cool stream on Theon's brow,"by rock and steel. The crown is yours to take, as it had been for all your fathers since the Grey King. You have paid the iron price, and here is your reward. I crown you, Theon of the House Greyjoy, King of the Iron Isles. May the Drowned God bless your sails for this day, and all the days to come."

The water flowed from a polished urn, cool and cold. It lapped about Theon's lips like the kiss of a maiden, though he knew that he would never know it in the water. The water was only cold, just like all the grim-faced captains who gathered about him in this circle of rock. He did not know why they had bothered with this farce. He knew just as well as them that he was never worthy to be their king. The only cause for them here was to kill him.

Still, he savoured the sweet feeling, how little and false it may be. If the worst was what the captains wished, the broken man would die in peace. He welcomed it, for he felt like Robb. All the eyes were watching him.

"No," he answered himself,"Robb was never surrounded by such." There were turncloaks like Theon in his midst, but they still believed in him as their king in the beginning. They truly put their faith in him as they placed an iron crown upon his brow. The driftwood crown looked to cut splinters into Theon's skull, and the captains said to be his men would never believe in him. They saw him as nothing, and they were right. He had already resigned himself to do whatever they willed, a piece in their game just as he was in the games of Roose Bolton, of Stannis Baratheon, and of Barbrey Dustin. It was always safer this way. They wanted Reek, and they would have him. Yet Theon also knew that Theon was alive again.

"Do you accept this crown we offer, with our hearts, our axes, and our banners," the drowned priest asked, and Theon looked up to see the hideous driftwood crown. Gnarled wood curled about its edges, dripping lone filthy beads of water. He heard steps behind him, a voice bellowing,"He does. Do you need to ask, priest? This is Theon Greyjoy, last trueborn son of Balon Greyjoy. The crown is his rights. Crown him. Now."

Theon felt wood touch his brow, and there was only a faint ache. He rose to greet the priest. Theon was taller than him, but thinner. He did not understand why the priest looked so pale.

"My king," he fell to his knees,"Forgive me."

"It must be the man behind me," Theon thought. There was nothing within himself for the priest to fear. Theon turned around, and there was nothing behind him. Only his shadow. What he found was the kneeling forms of men, dozens of Ironborn lords with their steel sheathed and their heads bowed.

"Hail to the king," the priest declared beneath him in a wobbling tone,"Hail to Theon of the House Greyjoy, the Fourth of His Name since the Grey King, King of the Iron Isles, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, Conqueror of Winterfell, and Lord Reaper of Pyke."

"Theon King," the Ironborn captains muttered,"Theon King. Theon King. Theon King."

Theon's skin burned, an unmistakable taste coming upon him again. This place was his place of doom, the throne never his to grasp. He knew that it must be a dream, a nightmare that would soon turn dark and burn him through. He felt empty, and fell to his knees. The waters splashed beneath him, bringing forth a great ripple that brushed the stumps of his fallen fingers.

"Get up," that same voice called, and he looked up to see the man, a grizzled northern soldier with a face as stern as winter. Theon knew him, and the soldier held out his hand. Theon grasped it, knowing the skin that felt so whole, and felt himself rise. The echoes continued about him,"Theon King. Theon King. Theon King.

Theon saw Norne Goodbrother raise his hand to a horn and blow. A low screech emerged, and the rocks shivered. The driftwood crown lay heavy on Theon's brow, but he felt no splinters. There was only an emptiness that would accompany his death that was sure to come. He turned around, all around in the water.

"Was this horn the herald of their assault?" Theon thought. He knew that this would come at any moment. He felt relieved that it did. He was relieved that the Ironborn would drop their masks of courtesy and reveal their hidden knives. At least in this way, he would no longer feel fear. He had no longer felt fear.

Theon saw himself already, facedown in the water. Blood spilled from countless bloody wounds, flowing slowly into the Sunset Sea. Beyond the distant horizon, where he would drown under the ocean.

"That is enough, Lord Goodbrother," the northern soldier shouted beside Theon,"One call is enough for Theon Greyjoy's crown."

"My king," Goodbrother strode forward with three servants in tow. He knelt before Theon,"Her is my gift to the king. The finest horn in all the Iron Isles, taken off Addam Velaryon's steed during the Dance by the great Oberon Goodbrother. May it please in all your battles to come, and bring you the same victories you won in Winterfell."

"My king," Germund Botley in a cloak of a white whale came forward with a jewel-pommelled dagger that he swore was dragonsteel. Then came Waldon Wynch with a woolen cloak, Dunstan Drumm's son Alfer with a necklace of iron beads, Eustace Sunderly with a copper carving of a kraken bestowed upon him by Theon's father that the new Prince of Saltcliffe wished to return.

"Men of my own?" Theon gave a bitter laugh, for he knew the truth,"These were the men truest to Uncle Euron."

Each captain was swiftly replaced by the next, and Theon felt empty as they pressed on their gifts. Gold and jewelry. Prizes won from ancient foes. Weapons beyond count. Theon wondered why they had thrown their steel in such waste, giving away the sharp end of the blade. There was nothing of use in any of them, except the woolen cloak which he hugged about himself. At least it was warm. He wondered when death would come.

"The king would shield you as thanks," the soldier said to each captain as they presented their gifts. Other men in black cloaks and golden thread came and stored the gifts in great chests that sank into the water. The chests vanished into the swirling depths.

"O Drowned God," the priest declared,"The king asks for your blessings in all his winds to come, and gives this most humble sacrifice."

Theon stripped the cloak from his shoulders, feeling the cold pierce his skin. He walked before the dark depths where the chests had been a moment before. He dropped the cloak into the water, watching it flow down into the stream and into the Sunset Sea. He was cold.

"My king," a voice declared, coming from a burly man as old as Theon's father,"My father's gift you would not sink." Theon knew him, Craghorn Ironmaker with his booming voice.

"My father the great and deathless Erik Ironmaker has bid me to give this gift on his behalf," Craghorn gestured to the horizon upon the sea where the Ironborn warships lay at anchor,"He gives you the fit most worthy of the King of Salt and Rock, the Captain of the Iron Isles. The might of a new ship, whose sails and oars will be my king's to command from this day until your dying day. What shall its name be, my king?"

"A name that I can choose?" Theon almost laughed again,"This kingship was not mine to choose." Like Robb, there had been no choice. He felt closer to his brother than he had ever been, so foolish and so young. So near to doom. He felt the northern soldier step closer.

"The Young Kraken," Theon muttered. "The Young Kraken," the northern soldier shouted.

"Yes, my king," Craghorn said,"If that is your will, then the new flagship of the Iron Fleet shall be named the Young Kraken."

"Your father married Theon Greyjoy's sister," the northern soldier said,"Does that make you his nephew?"

"I may call my king uncle if my king should wish so," Craghorn answered.

"How about brother?"Theon said,"The king's thanks is all yours this day."

Craghorn wrapped him in an embrace, which Theon did not feel,"Brother, my sword is yours." Theon knew that it may as well be a farce. The galley must be a lie. He was numb to it all. He did not hear the northern soldier's voice.

"My king," Craghorn said as broke the embrace,"Shall my king like to step aboard the Young Kraken."

"That's an apt name, my king," Sunderly and his men laughed,"We've had enough of old krakens. Balon was mad, Victarion is madder, and Euron the maddest of them all." His words gave light to an even greater storm of laughter.

"I tell my captains," Craghorn stifled his laughter for a moment,"Euron is being unseated by a woman, a woman who lost at the kingsmoot no less." Another storm of lighter accompanied the man's words. His words blew into Theon's ears, he wondered what ills he meant with them. The northern soldier's voice returned,"Save the squabbles for the feast tonight. The king should kile to see his ship."

"Have you already enough of our hospitality, my Lord Greyjoy," Barrowton's head steward said.

"King," Drumm shouted,"He is no common lord, but King of Salt and Rock."

"He is lord in the eyes of Lord Forest," the head steward ignored Drumm, his eyes pinned on Theon,"Has Lord Forest's welcome been inadequate? Lady Dustin commanded her castellan to treat his guests with respect, but I doubt Lord Forest has obeyed his commands well. I heard him say that the sooner the iron scum departed barrowton, the sooner he would be sated. I pray you do depart, for I hope that you do not come to blows. Lord Greyjoy's very presence insults our castellan."

Silence fell upon the waters, until a furious cry broke out.

"The Dustin traitor," a great man in an iron helm declared, snarling in fury,"We gave her all she asked for, and now her castellan gives us this?"

"My king," Botley shouted to Theon,"To arms. We will vanquish these greenlander dogs."

"To arms," the cry began,"To arms. To arms."

Theon was inclined to give them what they wished for, to let them unleash their fury upon Barrowton. At least then, they would not attack Theon himself. Then, Theon saw the small smile playing at the corners of the steward's mouth, and Theon turned away.

"This is madness," he shouted above the Ironborn, and they quieted,"You are all mad. You came here to bring the king to reign in the Iron Isles, not to start another war. What treasure can we take if our home is on fire?"

Theon saw in the distance that the steward's smile died, and he rushed off with the guards. Theon paid him no mind, for he knew that Mance Rayder was already at the castle to tell Lord Forest of the betrayal.

"What then, my king, is your command?" Goodbrother asked.

"Give the king some time alone, then show him to his ship," the northern soldier answered.

"He needs time with the Drowned God," the priest declared,"who will give him guidance."

The crowd dispersed as quick as falling water, with Theon alone upon the stones with a driftwood crown upon his brow. Almost alone, the northern soldier still standing beside him. Theon turned to look the northern soldier in the eye. He did not know why the northern soldier had helped him so very much. He was the only way that Theon had survived. Theon was not worthy of that aid, nor did he have a way to thank him. "Did Theon know him at least?" Theon wondered,"Is that why he has lended his aid?"

"Did Theon Greyjoy know you in Robb Stark's war?" Theon asked.

"Aye, you used to fight with me. You fought beside me in the Whispering Wood, yet I was taken prisoner a day after Robb was crowned king. I have been silent ever since, but now I am home."

"Home?" Theon echoed.

"Home. The North, which was all I knew and loved as I grew. The place where my family lived, where I would have liked to live until my dying day. It is good to see you again, Theon Greyjoy."

"Theon, which rhymes with nothing," Theon closed his eyes, thankful. There was naught to dread around this man, not any of the dread he felt so keenly as he spoke with Barbrey Dustin, with Mance Rayder, with Craghorn Ironmaker and all these terrible Ironborn captains. The northern soldier was the only man who was safe to confide in, a man that was his own. The man became quiet, and Theon heard the seas lap about his feet.

He opened his eyes. He could not see the northern soldier, but Theon knew that the man was with him. Theon stepped forth from the ring of rocks where he was crowned into the throng of Ironborn men. He felt his tongue begin to unravel, speaking the words of the northern soldier,"Lead the way to the king's ship, my captains."

"Of course, my king," the captains one another as they shouted orders to the hundreds of sailors gathering about the rock ring. Some went to clean the rocks of the bits of gold that were left, others riding upon steeds in the distance. Most stood by their captains who stood by the king. The northern soldier watched them all.

It was a foggy day, yet the Young Kraken's deck looked to be riding amongst clouds. Theon's hand fell unto the railing beyond which was the sea, feeling the cold run in swirls beneath him.

There were only three captains that attended Theon on the ship, the others having been commanded to return to their own galleys. This was Craghorn's ship, so he certainly had to attend. The others were Sunderly and Harbourfore, both clear to be Craghorn's foes. "Let them fight one another, and the victor would throw Theon into the sea." They could be counted on for that. Counted on, perhaps even trusted. He knew that they would turn on him as soon as one had the power.

Theon placed himself on the far end from Craghorn, with the sea close at hand. He felt the northern soldier's presence. He always remained. He was the only man Theon could trust on the ship. "The only man I could trust in the North," Theon realized,"The only man I could trust in the world."

The king craned his head up towards the skies, watching the winds blow the grand sails astray. The Young Kraken was glorious, doubtless what Erik Ironmaker had thought would impress a young man. A ship that would draw the young man in so that he could be used and played.

"What do you think of my father's gift?" Craghorn asked Theon.

The northern soldier made to answer, but Theon spoke before him,"Honoured, my captain, very honoured. Theon Greyjoy is all too grateful. Lord Erik knows all that he wishes for."

"Indeed," Sunderly said, his eyes falling upon Theon,"My father's ship is also named the Young Kraken, but it was never the glory of my king. My father sails under Lord Euron, and would be honoured to meet my king when he comes home with all the plunder of the Reach.

"Perhaps I shall match him," Theon said before the northern soldier could speak,"Ship to ship."

"Bah," Craghorn laughed bitterly,"Urrigon Sunderly's driftwood wreck is much too weak to match a ship of Arman's make, particularly one blessed by my father and the Drowned God himself."

"Are you threatening my house's honour, Ironmaker?" Sunderly asked, his voice laced with iron.

"I speak only the truth," Craghorn said,"Your father's Young Kraken cannot match one captained by a great king."

"My king," Craghorn turned to Theon, one leg in the swirling mist,"I wish to show you the captain's chamber."

"There it is," Theon thought,"the time when he would invite Theon into the chamber and reveal the hidden knives that would slay him."

Theon nodded, breathing out a sigh of relief now that the truth was known. He turned to Sunderly and Harbourfore,"You are dismissed. Return to your ships and do as you see fit."

"My king," Harbourfore said as he knelt,"Worry not, for we shall tell the fleet that you are upon the ship. There is no way that Ironmaker can lay a finger upon you if the whole fleet will know that it was him."

Theon felt the northern soldier smile.

The captain's cabin was vast, large enough for twenty men to sit in. A bed lay in one corner, a tarp covering a table in another. All shone under the flickering firelight of four great braziers. The only men in the room were Craghorn, Theon, and the northern soldier.

"How may I repay your father?" Theon asked, his eyes wandering across the chamber.

"By being our king," Craghorn said,"Do you know what doom fell on the Iron Isles while you conquered Winterfell?"

"No," Theon answered, that one word a silent echo.

"Your father died," Craghorn said brutishly, and Theon reeled from that one revelation,"and we made your uncle Euron king. But he is weak, and usurpers are rising left, right, and center. The maddest of them all is the Reader, who sought to rouse the ironmen for your sister. Worse yet, old fools like Gorne Goodbrother, Halton Trunswick, Chello Tawney and who knows how many others have followed him. The three greatest isles, Orkmont, Harlaw, and Great Wyk, have risen for a woman. The Iron Isles are on the brink of civil war. My father does not wish to see ironman fight ironman , and needs a peacemaker. He needs the true heir to the Seastone Chair. He needs you, Theon Greyjoy, to be our king."

An urge bade Theon to step back, but he did not. He froze, but his blood was warm. A hot rush washed through him, and he felt something fall in place again. He felt suddenly empty. He felt suddenly whole.

"Then my captain shall have your king," Theon said.

He looked to the northern soldier, to see if he had done it right. There was nothing beneath the firelight. Only his own shadow.

 

[Mockingbird]

JON
​

The south wind was blowing today, warm winds from the deserts of Dorne that spoke of the last of summer. It seemed almost apt that this was the day to receive a Dornish princess.

The winds reminded Jon of warmer days, of better days when his silver prince still walked the earth. Before winter came for him. The warm winds danced about Aegon's banners, but for him winter would never come. Not as long as Jon still lived and breathed the air.

"And how long would that be," his hand reminded him,"Long enough to see Aegon on his throne." At that time, even if winter comes, Aegon would best it.

Jon watched the Dornish sun and spear blossom against the risen dawn in the east. The Sunspeaker's oars lapped Shipbreaker Bay's waters, stirring up glistening salt sprays. The Dornishman's galley stood lone and great, accompanied only afar by the massive dromonds that were now Aegon's Royal Fleet.

He felt the kiss of the sun upon his skin, and he culled his greying hand into a fist to feel the stiff muscles of his palm. At least he could still feel his palm. He even thought that the fingers that were grey to the brim were no longer numb. He dismissed it, knowing that it was folly. The gods only gave him this little time to see Aegon on his throne, and it would not do to pretend otherwise. There had been victories, yes, but the long war still lay before him. He knew that he must finish before he fell to death or worse. He pretended that this Dornish princess was not another Lyanna Stark, and she would not weigh Aegon down.

"Debts will be paid," Jon thought,"but not upon those innocent of them." Aegon's men were not like the Usurper and his dogs. The Usurper was sentenced to death by all that was just in the realm, and his brothers and all those who rose in rebellion would share the same fate. The Usurper was dead, Robert Baratheon rotting as he deserved. Most of his dogs were already dead. Eddard Stark. Jon Arryn. Hoster Tully. Tywin Lannister. Most were dead, with only their lost children left.

"You must slay your enemies," Jon knew,"but you must help their sons back on their feet." That had been true for Edric Baratheon, for Aurane Velaryon and Robert Arryn. Aegon's banners teemed with those whose fathers were traitors, and it made no matter. They were dragon men now. "And the Dornishmen were not at all like them. They had always been loyal to the king."

"A princess," Lord Aurane had said when the man reported to the king that the Royal Fleet had taken in the Sunspeaker,"The Dornish have given Your Grace a worthy gift." Whoever Lord Aurane was now, Jon still saw the time when he was still Garin Truewaters with his silver-gold stubble and shining eyes.

The king had pleased Jon when he wished to take charge of the situation. Jon knew that eventually the king would have to arrange for the guests himself their guards, accommodations, and all their servants- feasts and contests that needed to be prepared. Yet Jon had also known that the king was still not ready. He still needed to watch and learn. It was still the Hand's duty to do all he could for the king. Rivers had applauded Jon before he was sent to Bronzegate,"A young king is certain to need a guiding hand." Even Strickland had acknowledged that it was wise for the Hand to make the right judgments for the king.

A horn blew two short blasts, heralding the Sunspeaker coming at anchor at Storm's End's dock. Aegon had wished to receive the princess there as befitting the welcome of a king, but Jon bade him choose the wiser course. They had won the victory at Storm's End, and poised to rest their swords on the Iron Throne. Dorne is coming to him, not him to Dorne. It would not do to break Aegon's hard-won majesty with a boy's courtesy. His silver prince's son still had much to learn before he could come unto his power.

"At least he knows to be humble and follow the right counsel," Jon glanced at Aegon, who had listened and waited for the princess to come to him on this high hill outside Storm's End's gates. He was seated, conversing with Edric Baratheon beside him. Ser Rolly in his white cloak stood at guard behind the king. Jon was a few steps beneath him, with all the company captains deemed worthy of this company and a select few lords and knights of the Seven Kingdoms. He could see the sea from here.

He thought to hear another long horn sound, which would herald the landing of the princess and her company.

"Lord Hand," Jon looked back to see Lord Aurane riding through the Golden Company spears, the golden banners parting to allow his company of twenty to pass.

"Your man Gogollas and my Captains Claud and Clint have charge of the princess at the deck," Lord Aurane dismounted before Jon and bowed,"Does the king wish to meet his guest?"

Gogollas was one of Pease's men who had been stationed with the garrison at Griffin's Roost, doubtless someone who had sought to escort the princess's ship as she passed through Shipbreaker Bay. His loyalty was uncertain just like his captain. He did not know Captains Claud or Clint, but they must be true if they won the trust of Lord Aurane.

"Balaq's archers are standing at ready," Strickland informed Jon,"I have moved three legions of spears that will coat the fields as the princess lands upon Elenei's Rest. Maar and Flowers have organized twenty patrols that ride five at a time to make certain that the fields are safe.

"Ever so careful," Jon was grateful this time.

"If it is still my Hand's will to have this princess be His Grace's bride," Lord Aurane said with a confident smile,"then you might want me to accompany her as she comes. She is already fond of me, and would take more kindly to the king if I whisper some sweet words in her ear."

"Certainly not," it would be foolish to the man any closer to the princess than he already was. Gods forbid that he had already been in her company all throughout Shipbreaker Bay. She was to wed the king.

He wondered again whether it had been wise to marry Aegon to this Dornish princess. It was a rash notion, conceived when he heard from Ser Daemon that Quentyn Martell was due to wed Daenerys Targaryen. Yet Jon had already promised Daenerys to another, and the Dornish were expecting a dragon. Jon must please them by offering them another in place of Daenerys. Ser Daemon had said that Prince Doran would agree to wed Aegon to Arianne, which Jon agreed to swiftly. They had signed the pact on two pieces of parchment, one of which Jon held and the other in Ser Daemon's possession. The envoy told Jon of Princess Arianne's coming before Lord Aurane's ships had even seen the Sunspeaker. He had given Jon more tidings of Dorne in an hour than both the eunuch and Maar with their webs of birds had in two moons. It was rash, but it was wise. That was all that mattered, that it would aid Aegon in the end.

"The king will see the princess," Aegon's voice pierced the air like the shrill squeak of a bird. Jon turned to see Aegon just as he walked before Jon and pushed him aside to stand in the center of the golden cloaks,"but she would not need to journey all the way here. I shall see her at the dock."

"The welcome has been prepared here," Jon said.

"I thank you, Lord Connington," Aegon said,"for your efforts to arrange this welcome, but in the end the duty is the king's. You were right that a king must show his power, but he must also show his love for those beneath him. I shall meet Princess Arianne personally on the docks."

He walked away, calling for his squire Elton Meadows to saddle his white steed. Meadows looked at Jon, who was too vexed to respond. The squire did not move.

"Anyone willing to serve their king," Aegon called again, his voice fiercer and shriller. All looked to Jon, who twisted his mouth in disapproval.

"Enough, Your Grace," Jon shouted,"of this childishness. You are to learn to think before you venture. There are matters to deal with before meeting the princess."

Aegon stared back at him, his face indignant and stubborn. After a long moment, Edric Baratheon stepped forward, took the saddle from the square, and saddled Aegon's horse. He then bent down on his knees, giving the king a step to mount.

"Thank you, Lord Baratheon," Aegon said upon his steed as Edric Baratheon rose,"House Targaryen thanks you." The king spurred his horse and rode away to the dock. Ser Rolly quickly mounted another steed and followed to guard his king.

"What has it come to," Jon thought,"that a Targaryen thanks a Baratheon in the stead of a loyal Connington for his service."

"My Lord Hand," Edric Baratheon patted off the dirt from his black and gold cloak, looking Jon in the eye,"My uncle always said to give a man what he wishes. His Grace is stubborn, and I plead with you to just let him have his way just this one time."

"Your Baratheon uncle," Jon wondered,"or your Florent one?" It must be the Florent, for the Usurper and his brothers were naught but harbingers of tyranny. Jon looked at Edric Baratheon, thinking that he looked more like Imry Florent than the Usurper. More like that kind and steadfast youngster who had ridden with Jon beside his silver prince. Jon wondered what had become of Ser Imry, certain that he would be true when he knew of Aegon's return. Ser Imry would have treated Aegon with gentleness had he been charged with Aegon in the stead of Jon, and Jon saw that man in Lord Edric.

"You are as noble as your uncle," Jon said to Lord Edric,"but that does not mean your course is wise. A king must not act on his whims." A sour taste crawled through his arm, and he remembered what lay at his fingers. He had so little time to forge Aegon into the king he was destined to be.

"Why must he refuse his duty?" Jon felt the warm southern wind grow stifling,"It is still summer and he can act like a boy, but summer boys have no place when winter comes."

"Lord Aurane," Jon commanded,"Your men are already mounted, so fetch the king and bring him back here to me."

"He may very well refuse," Lord Aurane said.

"Then draw your swords and tell him again to come back," Jon gritted his teeth,"I would not have his folly seen through."

Lord Aurane nodded silently, mounting his steed and riding to the shore with his men.

"That is most unwise, my lord," Strickland said,"It is sensible, but… even a Hand cannot draw steel upon the king."

"A father can against his son," Jon stated.

"I stand with the Hand," a black-haired boy stepped forward,"The king must learn his lesson."

Jon looked at the boy, recognizing that he was Morros Slynt. He had arrived at Storm's End a fortnight ago to swear his hundred swords to Aegon's cause. His father had been Captain of the City Watch of King's Landing, but was sent to the Wall by the Lannisters for having the courage to speak against their ill deeds.

"The Hand is no craven lickspittle," Morros Slynt declared,"and can tell the king honestly what must do to be a worthy king."

"Not like Doglord here," Lord Morros pointed to Lord Edric,"only knowing to praise His Grace, turning a blind eye to his faults."

"You will not insult Lord Baratheon," Ser Antony Crane stepped forward. He had been one of the surrendered Stormlander lords, and put a hand on the hilt of his sword,"Lord Hand, this man speaks against the king. He must be arrested."

Lord Morros turned to Jon and knelt,"I would be honoured to be arrested for honesty like my father had been, but I trust that my Lord Hand is no Tyrion Lannister."

A singing of steel interrupted him, and Jon turned to find Ser Antony raising his sword at Lord Morros. Lord Morros rose and drew his sword in response, pointing it at the Stormlander lord. Jon's hand went to his hilt, and he saw many do the same.

"Choose," Ser Antony boomed as he ripped off his blue cloak.

"The Hand," he pointed his sword to Jon. "Or the king," he raised his sword to the sky. In the corner of Jon's eye, he saw Andrew Estermont mount a steed alone and ride off to the shore. Jon did not draw his sword, though several did. He wondered who they meant to side with should battle join.

"Sheathe your swords," Jon looked Ser Antony in the eye, knowing that he was out of the reach of the blade at the moment,"I am not His Grace's foe. The foe is north, sitting in the walls of King's Landing beneath the lion banner that burned your home. You turn your sword upon your own men."

The man did not answer, nor did he lower his steel. More drew their blades, and Jon's fingers tightened about his hilt. Lord Edric's hand was the only one to have not touched his sword.

"Give the command," Lord Morros said,"and we will slay the traitors."

"Stay your blades," a shout shattered the air about them,"I have a command from the king."

Jon turned to find Lord Aurane returning alone on his blood-red stallion.

"We never caught up to His Grace," Lord Aurane reported,"The king may very well have already received Princess Arianne- I received a messenger summoning you, my Lord Hand."

"Where are your men?" Jon asked.

"I sent them to guard the king," Lord Aurane replied.

"Sheathe your swords," Jon turned to the host of men on the brink of war,"The king has commanded it." This time, they did.

He turned to Lord Aurane,"Tell the king that I will come."

"I am sorry," Aegon said once Jon arrived at the dock. The Sunspeaker lay at anchor, its Martell banners swaying in the warm winds. At the king's side was a beautiful woman with chocolate-brown skin. Ser Rolly and Andrew Estermont stood behind them. Ser Rolly's hand lay still on his hilt as he watched all the golden ranks about them.

"Could this be the princess," Jon looked at the Dornishwoman who was clad in a thin orange shift,"Where is her retinue?" The princess looked young for her supposed age of twenty-five, her face as sharp as that of a girl. Jon wondered again why she had no retinue and had ventured onto the docks alone. A Dornish princess was supposed to have a host of servants doting on her to show her power.

"I apologize," Aegon said to Jon,"for departing so suddenly. It was improper for a king to do so."

"Why this sudden turn of tone?" Jon's eyes narrowed at the princess who smiled back at him.

"Never mind," Jon thought,"If she can tame his wild side then that is all the better." Not at all like that whore Lyanna Stark, who turned his silver prince's daring into his doom.

"The Hand lives to serve the king's will," Jon dismounted and knelt before Aegon,"and it was fortunate that your command arrived when it did. The host was about to collapse in strife."

"What?" Aegon was taken aback.

"Men drew steel on the Hand," Lord Aurane said behind Jon.

"What did I tell you, Your Grace," the princess said,"Lord Connington is not the man to blame. His was the best and cleverest plan to conceive Storm's End's fall. How could he be a traitor?"

"Who drew steel on the King's Hand?" Aegon demanded. Jon looked back and saw Ser Antony dismount. "Lord Antony of the House Crane, Lord of Fallenswood," Ser Antony declared,"sworn to House Connington of Griffin's Roost. I drew steel on Lord Connington as he was plotting against Your Grace."

"Lies," a cry rose,"He's a liar."

"Your evidence?" Aegon asked Ser Antony.

"Lord Connington," Antony Crane said,"commanded that Lord Aurane and his men fetch you, and to draw steel upon you should you refuse."

"I received no such order," Lord Aurane said, and the host murmured in agreement.

"You know no such thing?" Crane's eyes flashed in fury and leapt forward to grab Lord Aurane by the throat. He pinned him to the ground, snarling,"This vermin sent his men away. Go to the Proud Tart, Your Grace, and find your answer."

"I will send my men in due time," Aegon said,"but you still stand accused of treason both against the Hand and your liege lord. Seize him."

Two Golden Company men rushed forward and wrenched Crane from Lord Aurane, who lay sputtering in the dirt.

"Take him away until my notice," Aegon commanded, and the golden cloaks carried the shouting man away.

Jon looked at Aegon, who looked so much like his silver prince at that moment. Perhaps Aegon had grown and he would become a true king before Jon passed on. His little time left was enough. He needed to thank this Dornish princess.

"I am sorry, my lady," Aegon turned to the princess,"for such a brutish display, but it must be done."

"Think nothing of it," the princess replied,"My cousin may have wilted at such a sight, but Lady Lance is calm and strong."

"Lady Lance?" Jon wondered,"What princess names herself Lady Lance?"

"Is this the princess of Dorne?" Jone asked Aegon.

"Seven Hells, no," the Dornishwoman replied,"My cousin's still in the ship preparing her retinue of pretty knights and handsome ladies. I snuck earlier because I didn't want to wait to get a look at the king."

"This is Elia," Aegon smiled,"daughter of Prince Oberyn."

"Sand," Jon knew of Prince Oberyn's daughters,"A bastard." She could not be seen with the king. She was like Lyanna Stark, swaying the king off his true course. "No, worse." Lyanna Stark had been the trueborn daughter of a lord. This woman was a baseborn get, a good man's mistake. She was walking so close to Aegon, and the thought filled him with dread. He steeled himself, knowing that the tragedy of his silver prince must never happen again. The bastard was a shame to Princess Elia's name. The princess had been frail and sickly, but at the very least she had been true.

"Your Grace," Jon stood, taller than Aegon by half a head,"The blood of the dragon is due to wed a princess, not a bastard."

Aegon opened his mouth to answer, but the Dornishwoman stood in front of him.

"Lord Connington?" the Dornishwoman looked stricken,"What?"

"Whores like you are the reason his father fell," Jon stated.

A horn blew, long and hard, as Jon heard sails rustle and looked towards the Sunspeaker. The true princess was coming, and the gangplank began to lower. Jon felt about his neck the gust of warm summer winds, this time spiced with searing fire.

Ser Daemon climbed first from the ship, helping a woman behind him do the same. As the woman strode down the gangplank, Jon noticed that this woman had the same chocolate-brown skin as the bastard. Except that she was older, much older, with wise eyes and pursed lips. She wore a flowing silken gown that shone red and orange and white in the sunlight. Ser Daemon helped her onto the dock, then lent his hand to the blond-haired lady behind her. Jon figured that she must be the princess that Aegon was waiting for.

Another Dornish knight descended the gangplank, then another after him. It was only after the sixth Dornishman that Golden Company swords began to emerge. The princess paid no mind to those behind her, striding forward with a furious glint in her eyes.

"Elia," the princess snarled,"I told you a hundred times to stop with your games. Come back here right this instant."

The bastard had a wildness in her eye that Jon had last seen in Lyanna Stark, and he dreaded the worst before it happened.

"My king of love and beauty," the bastard pushed Aegon unto the white steed beside him, and climbed up in front of him. Before anyone could speak, she spurred her steed and rode off into the wind.

 

[Mockingbird]

BRIENNE
​

Brienne woke screaming from her dream.

The gods had cursed her with the very same dream every night since the forest. Since that day when the rope swayed beneath the tree. The gods were just.

Mayhaps it had been right that she had never been anointed a true knight. She had betrayed all that they stood for. To defend those who cannot defend themselves- she had stood by as the helpless man was dragged to his death. To fight bravely- she had hid from her fights. To protect all women and children- how many had Lady Catelyn taken for her vengeance as Brienne followed her. How many had died because she had allowed their defender to hang? The only oath she kept was to obey her lady, to obey her commands and break every other vow.

The dream assaulted Brienne again, its image fresh with blood. She saw the man with his golden-blond hair, with one hand and stiffness in his lips. "How far is the Hound?" he would ask every time,"Dogs should bark when their masters are close." The first word would leave Brienne's lips as the ground erupted with hissing and screams. The world reared, the smooth earth rising up to catch the golden man as he fell and taking him beneath. She would look at the earth, and see a thousand faces that all whispered one word that slowly drowned out,"Kingslayer. Kingslayer. Kingslayer." She would reach out to the golden man, and each time she would take back only the stiff golden hand. There she stood alone against the tree against the ghosts that rose around. Men she knew, men she did not know, and the skies teemed with crows whose cries spun the forest asunder.

"Is it Ser Jaime again?" a soft voice called out,"The servants heard your scream, but I sent them away." The voice was warm and kind, like Brienne's mother who she could not remember.

Brienne stood as tall as she could and turned to the lady in her bed. "I am sorry, my lady," she said hurriedly,"I should not have fallen asleep while on guard."

"It is tiring to stand all night," the lady smiled,"If you wish, I can send for another guard, and you can rest."

"No," shielding the lady was the only thing that made her sword still feel right in her hands. Brienne did not know why Lady Catelyn picked her out of all her men to be the lady's sworn sword, but she relished it. She did not want to let this task fall into another hands.

"I swear that I will never fall asleep again," Brienne sputtered.

The lady looked at Brienne for a moment with pitying eyes, and Brienne feared that she still meant to send her away.

"Come here," the lady patted the side of her bed,"Speak with me. You are less like to fall asleep if you are thinking about what I say."

"You need to rest, my lady," Brienne said,"The babe…"

"I cannot," the lady shook her head, her smile wilting into a frown,"Not in this place."

"Please come here," the lady pleaded, and Brienne obliged. The candle lit up the lady's cheek, as pale and white as milk. They were plump, hiding the shadows beneath her eyes.

"Was your nightmare about Ser Jaime?" the lady asked again when Brienne was at her bedside,"You told me that nothing ever scares you but him."

There were many other ghosts who Brienne feared. Renly. Lady Catelyn. Vargo Hoat and all his Bloody Mummers. Yet she had to put on a brave face for the lady. She had to be this courageous knight that she never was. There was nothing to fear in a dead man, or so she had thought then.

"Yes," Brienne admitted,"My dreams are of Ser Jaime."

"I know that taste," the lady looked down,"This place is where Robb died. I can still smell his blood in these halls. Lord Brynden did not mince any words when he told me of the Red Wedding. Said it was what a queen ought to know. Each time my head hits the pillow, I see standing there in a pool of blood, bolts sprouting from his chest. A black-cloaked man came forward, and put a knife in him. I also scream, Ser, but mine lie only in my dreams. I cannot sleep."

Brienne did not know what to say. "The Freys are dead," she managed,"They can no longer hurt you or your babe."

"How could I forget?" the lady's eyes were downcast,"That… that monster had me watch the sack. The only thing I saw before I fainted was one of her soldiers raping a girl and then slitting her throat. I do not know how much more I did not see after I was gone with the girl's wails echoing in my ears. I knew then that it was not my mother anymore. There was nothing left of Lady Catelyn in Lady Stoneheart."

"The Freys brought it upon themselves," Brienne tried to comfort her,"They slew King Robb at the Red Wedding."

"And only the gods know how many other honest northmen died in that massacre," the lady answered,"It seemed that all the honourable ones died at the wedding, leaving only the cruel ones to take their vengeance."

"The Freys were the ones to turn upon themselves," Brienne said,"After Old Walder died in his sleep, his sons and grandsons squabbled against each other to spill the blood of the Twins. Ser Perwyn opened its gates for us to save the castle from ruin."

"Is that what you believe?" the lady laughed bitterly.

"No," Brienne bit her lip,"but I want to." She wanted to believe that she was a girl again, when what she saw in the looking glass did not matter. She wanted to believe that she still wore that blue cloak in Renly's Rainbow Guard, that her sword had something right to fight for. She wanted to believe that Ser Jaime lived again, that a man of honour would see justice.

"No," the lady echoed,"Ser Perwyn was not made the Lord of the Twins because he was the most honourable of the lot. He was made lord because he betrayed all his kin and people, abandoning them beneath the knives of my mother. He has won a worthy prize for his price."

"Those were not her words," Brienne drew in a sharp breath,"Those were Lord Brynden's words, who was the only man who had dared speak them." He had spoken them to Lord Blackwood at the council two days ago. Brienne had heard as she guarded Lady Jeyne at the council. Lady Catelyn had heard as well.

"Your Grace," Brienne looked side to side,"You must sleep. The babe needs…"

"The babe," Lady Jeyne grimaced,"The babe is restless when I sleep. She feels the ghost of her father in these halls just as I do."

"It is a girl?" Brienne asked.

"I want it to be a girl," Lady Jeyne's brows tightened as she grimaced again,"I want this war to end. I do not want another king to kill ourselves over. Lord Brynden had already decided that it would be a boy, and named him Hoster after his brother. But I know better. I know the babe would be a girl. Catelyn. A living woman for the dead I lost."

She agreed with Lady Jeyne. The name would please Lady Catelyn. "It would please her," Brienne looked down at the bedsheets. Everything they did had been to please her. The hanged men and sacked castles, put knives to the throats of children for their father's swords. That had pleased Lady Catelyn. The name would doubtless please her. Not so when she discovers that her son had sired a daughter. Her wrath would be what Brienne feared. The girl would be the price to pay, as would the mother.

"Lady Catelyn is not my lady anymore," Brienne decided,"She is dead and gone." Her lady was Lady Jeyne now, to serve with all her heart and all her strength. She tightened her hold on her hilt.

"I will stand with Your Grace," Brienne said, then looked up when she noticed that Queen Jeyne did not answer. The queen's face was stretched, her lips pressed tight against each other as her forehead folded into wrinkles. She was dimly shuddering, and beads of sweat ran down her cheek.

"What is it, Your Grace?" Brienne looked up and around for any intruder.

"No," she heard the queen gasp. Brieene looked down at her, and saw her pointing at her swollen belly.

"She needs the privy," Brienne remembered what she had done a hundred times before, and helped the queen to her feet. She took a quick glance at the bedsheets and saw pink specks mixed in some sort of clear goo. She bit her lip and took her eyes away, hearing the queen pant on her shoulder.

"It is only a few steps away," Brienne assured Queen Jeyne, thanking Lord Brynden again for placing the queen's bed so close to the outhouse.

Queen Jeyne shook her head. "Not stiff," she sputtered,"I am good."

"No, Your Grace is not," Brienne said,"Do not speak. You will waste your energy."

Brienne felt her boot step on something wet, and looked down to see a trickle of water run from beneath Queen Jeyne's nightgown. She opened her mouth to shout for a servant, and heard the queen scream.

Brienne could only remember faint remnants of the moments after. There was screaming, at times broken by the queen moaning Lord Brynden's name. A host of servants rushed in, taking the queen from Brienne's hands and laying her on the bed. She saw Thoros of Myr exchanging shouts with a woman she did not know, saying something about maesters.

"I've delivered children before," Thoros suddenly appeared at Brienne's side and whispered in her ear,"Her Grace is safe with me." Then, he pushed her out.

There was no silence beyond the door. She heard behind her the screams of the queen that shuddered the timbers. The whispering in the halls grew louder by the moment, as lords began to arrive in the hall.

"Her Grace should have called upon the maester I brought her from Raventree Hall," Tytos Blackwood said to his son Hoster,"and not that fool from the Free Cities."

"A maester whose master had surrendered to the Lannisters?" Jonos Bracken shot Tytos Blackwood a hostile glance, one hand around his daughter Jayne,"I think not."

"Quiet," Jason Mallister stood silent at the wall with two of his guards, sipping something from a satchel which Brienne guessed was wine.

She could already hear the Greatjon's booming laughter coming around the corner. A sullen voice replied, who she supposed was Marq Piper.

A force slammed into her, shocking her before she could reach for her sword. Brienne gained her senses quickly, and drew her sword as she found herself in a dim room.

"You can put that away," Lord Brynden's voice rang out before her,"Save it for when you would use it."

The flickering torchlight shined upon Lord Brynden's tight bearded face, and sheathed her sword. She noticed that she was alone with him in the room, and did not let go of her hilt.

"What do you want me here for?" Brienne demanded,"Take me to the queen."

"Her Grace is well attended to at the moment," Lord Brynden said,"Your place is not with her."

"Where is it then?" Brienne pressed.

Lord Brynden took a step back, breathing as he put a hand on the closed doorway. "Hoster would have crawled out of his grace if he learned that chose his daughter's line over his son's, but I did not do that for nothing. I did not bring Her Grace to the Brotherhood for nothing. I did not abandon Lady Eleyna for nothing. King Robb's queen was our last hope."

Brienne knew the tale as well as any other. While Ser Jaime captured Riverrun, Lord Brynden and Queen Jeyne had escaped. Lord Edmure had stayed to not arouse suspicion with Her Grace's sister Eleyna being the queen's mummer. Brienne knew that the truth was most like to be that Ser Jaime was not fooled. He had simply let them go.

"That is a debt I owe him," Brieene thought,"He gave a lady to me again."

"She is more than a hope," Brienne said,"She is Her Grace Jeyne of the House Westerling, the Queen in the North and the Trident. Lords have rallied left and right to her banners, and her host grows each day. She has already taken back half the Riverlands."

"Half," Lord Brynden said,"The other half hates her for being the spawn of Stoneheart. A man calling himself the Lord of the Land has risen against us with many in his banners, claiming vengeance for some Lord Goldenhand who I do not know. Some lord Stoneheart hanged, no doubt."

"Queen Jeyne is still the queen we all know and see," Brienne said.

"Aye," Lord Brynden said,"I would serve her and the king's heir until my last breath. Yet I do not wish my service to be in vain. I wish to see Her Grace in her rightful place."

He stepped away from the door, treading deep within the chamber.

"Her place sways in the wind as we speak," Lord Brynden said,"Hosts have rallied against us because of Stoneheart, and there is the matter of King Robb's heir. When Queen Jeyne gives birth to that child, make no mistake, knives will descend on the babe. It is certain to be a boy, King Robb's heir. A king all the Riverlords and northmen have been waiting so long for. Stoneheart would never allow that. She wants a daughter, not a son that could topple her power."

Brienne believed that. She had seen Stannis Baratheon slay King Renly before her eyes. Ser Jaime hanged for an oath he kept. Stoneheart had taken so many that Brienne could not count, innocent or otherwise, that Brienne was certain that kinslaying was not above her. Brienne reminded herself that Stoneheart was no longer the kind Lady Catelyn, but the cruel Mother Merciless that they all said her to be.

"It could be a daughter," Brienne thought,"and not the son Lord Brynden feared." She remembered then what Queen Jeyne told her. Catelyn. A living woman for the dead I lost. Whoever the child was, they would not live long beneath the shadow of that ghost. That monster sent back to plague the world.

"What would my lord have me do?" Brienne already knew the answer.

"Stoneheart must die," Lord Brynden said,"She is not Cat. This will be no kinslaying on my part. Or oathbreaking on yours."

"The oath," Brienne assured herself,"My oath is to the queen now, freed from her dead mother." She stepped towards the doorway, knowing what she must do.

"You slew Renly Baratheon," Lord Brynden said,"This would not feel so different."

Brienne spun on her heel and faced him again, a fiery urge rising within her.

"Why me?" she demanded, knowing that she would draw her sword if he answered Renly.

"You are Stoneheart's sworn sword just as much as you are the queen's," Lord Brynden answered, his face in the shadows,"You can get close to her. My lady is our only hope."

Brienne turned away from him once again, leaving the chamber with the door slammed shut behind her. She saw one side of the hall where the lords stood waiting for the queen, and she walked the other way. Her heart hammering in her chest, Brienne did not know where Stoneheart was. She decided that she might as well start looking in the Great Hall of the Twins. That was where Stoneheart held court every day. Held hangings.

Brienne's eyes fell to the stones as she walked, she did not notice the man until he slammed into her.

"Lady Brienne," she found Lem Lemoncloak staring at her with a host of men,"My apologies."

He put a satchel of sorts in her arms, and strode away with his men.

"The Kingslayer's whore," Brienne heard one of them snigger.

"It's Lord Goldenhand's whore now," another answered,"Show her some respect."

Brienne's breath came in short as she thought about what happened. One moment she was ready to draw her sword against Stoneheart's most loyal man- another moment he was gone. She looked down at the satchel in her arms. It was long and heavy. She unwrapped it, and found two swords. One was Oathkeeper, the sword they had taken from her. The other was the lion-pommeled sword they had taken from Ser Jaime when he died. She dropped Oathkeeper onto the ground, and drew Ser Jaime's blade. Its steel shone grey and gold beneath the torchlight, and Brienne knew that it would do. She left Oathkeeper in the dust behind her, for whatever poor soul would find it next.

"My lady," a voice hissed suddenly beside Brienne, and she turned to find Podrick with Oathkeeper in his arms.

"Why are you here?" Brienne demanded.

"I was in the armoury refitting my shield as Ser Lymond wished," Podrick said,"when I heard Lem and his men come in picking out weapons. I heard them say that they were looking for you. I worried that they were going to kill you, so I followed them."

"Go away," Brienne said,"This is not your fight."

Podrick did not budge,"I saw Lem carrying a satchel with him as he came in."

He raised Oathkeeper in his arms,"This was in it, was it?"

"Yes," Brienne gritted her teeth.

"Then why did you leave it," Podrick said,"He gave it to you for something."

"He gave me Oathkeeper to break an oath," Brienne walked away without answering.

"My lady," Podrick called behind Brienne, and she heard his hurried steps,"You are going to do something, and I will follow you."

"You will not," Brienne hissed,"You will die if you follow me."

"Then I will die beside you," Podrick said.

Brienne shook her head, giving up. They were not like to kill a squire anyways. At least if she died, she would have someone to take her ashes back to Evenfall Hall and her father. She trusted Podrick to do so.

She remembered Ser Hyle, who had asked to be one of the scouts the day after they had taken the Twins.

"I will have no more part in this," Ser Hyle had told her when he left,"One day, that evil woman will fall. I am not of the courage to face her, but someone braver than me would do that good for every soul in this land."

Brienne had hoped all these days for someone braver than her to take on the task. Someone as brave as Ser Jaime who knew what was right and what was wrong, doing all the good they could see.

"His soul guides me in what is right," Brienne thought,"The oath to the queen is what is right.'

"You have three swords," Podrick said,"I could carry one of them for you if my lady would like."

"Keep Oathkeeper," Brienne instructed Podrick,"I will never use that sword again, but keep it. Give it to Lady Sansa or Lady Arya when we find them."

"When you find them," Brienne thought, but she did not wish to burden him so.

"My lady," she heard Podrick say,"I heard Lem tell one of his soldiers that Lady Catelyn is on the Western Tower."

That was where Brienne found her, looking into the calm Trident flowing below. THe river was green, twisting beneath the great stone walls that still stood tall. Wolf banners lined the battlements, and Stoneheart stood beneath the largest of them.

There were two guards about Stoneheart, and Brienne slew both easily with two swipes of Ser Jaime's blade. Blood spurted from their throats as they fell to their knees.

Stoneheart turned, an iron crown in her fingers. Her grey lips twisted into a grotesque smile above the crimson scar on her throat. Brienne looked into her glassy eyes, and shoved Ser Jaime's bloody blade into her chest. She stumbled back, and Brienne let go of Ser Jaime's sword. It buried deep within Stoneheart, yet saw no blood. The empty light left the ghost's eyes as she tumbled over the parapet, the iron crown flying from her fingers. Brienne rushed to the ledge, seeing the specks disappear below into the river. There was soon no hint of the monster, nor that of her crown.

Brienne closed her eyes, breathing in the cool morning air. Her duty was done, and she wondered whether she should go after her. A lean forward, a brief fall, and she would not remember.

"My lady," Brienne felt Podrick's arms wrap around her and pull her away,"Do not do that."

Brienne gained her sense back, looking about her for any foes that still remained.

"I still have an oath to Queen Jeyne," Brienne thought, and drew the sword she had originally in the night. It was not Oathkeeper, but it shimmered before the rising sun in the east. She saw Podrick hug Oathkeeper to his chest, and smile.

The sudden crash of the tower door wakened her, and she pointed Oathkeeper there.

"Put those away," a gruff voice called from the darkness,"and place them on the ground." Brienne did not, raising her sword higher.

Lord Brynden stepped from the tower door, followed closely by Lem Lemoncloak and a northman in a sheepskin coat. Soldiers emerged after them, Brotherhood men and rivermen and northmen alike.

The soldiers surrounded Brienne and Podrick slowly, and she soon found her back against Podrick's.

"Put down your swords," Lord Brynden said as he stepped about the corpses of Stoneheart's two guardsmen,"In the name of the queen, my lady stands accused of the murder of Lady Catelyn Stark. Put down your swords."

"Oh," Brienne dropped her sword, the steel clattering on the stones. That was why they wanted her to kill Stoneheart. It was Renly all over again.

The Blackfish approached her, and she opened her lips,"The queen gave the order."

"No," Lord Brynden drew up close to her,"I did as her Regent. The queen is still a babe."

"A babe?" Brienne asked.

"Queen Jeyne gave birth to a girl," the Blackfish said,"Catelyn, of the House Stark, the Queen in the North and Trident."

He added in a whisper,"My thanks is to you."

 

[Mockingbird]

QUENTYN
​

Skahaz mo Kandaq's head lay on a plate of gold, finely dressed with jewels and gems.

"Too rich for a traitor," Master Zhak said,"My prince should have decreed that his head be fed to the dogs. Have the traitor suffer a traitor's end, and my prince shall show all Meereen your strength and justice."

"The dogs are already full from one," Modast zo Pahl said, his grey eyes glinting in the shadows of his burnt brown hair,"My master would not want to spoil them."

"Give them too much," Quentyn agreed,"and they will think it the norm."

"Right you are, Modast," Morghaz zo Loraq's booming shook his entire half of the procession,"Belwas was a good enough feast for them. It was the Tattered Prince that ran him through, and only a sellsword's prize is worth the dogs. Meanwhile, it was Arslan of the Noble House of Loraq that slew the terrible Kandaq, and a master's prize should be crowned in gold."

Quentyn listened, but did not speak. The Great Masters had been jovial ever since the fall of the Shavepate, yet he was not. They laid him in honours and named him the leader of the battle, but there was something missing. Something that told Quentyn that while he was called the valiant prince, the war was not over.

"It was the queen," Quentyn knew. The crown was nothing without her. The crown would be nothing if she returned and did not wish him there. He consoled himself in the fact that the dragon was an illusion, or perhaps even sent by the queen to scout Meereen before she returns at the head of a great host.

He shifted in the place he stood, at the top of the steps above all the Meereenese masters. It never felt very comfortable. The sun baked him overhead as he faced the open Harpy's Gate, waiting for what would be certain to be another flame that would sear his skin.

"The battle is not over," he reminded himself yet again even as he heard the marveling of the Great Masters over their victory,"This is the last part." In a few moments, the New Ghiscari would march through the gates, and soon after the queen.

"My prince," Harloz informed him,"The Noble Masters are coming."

"You have my thanks," Quentyn said to his guard and tried to look for the New Ghiscari beyond the gate.

Quentyn noticed old Master Hazkar giving him a glare, doubtless slighted that Quentyn did not employ the guards he offered. Given another chance, Quentyn still would not. They were too deep in another man's pockets, so he would need to use his own. Especially as Ser Gerris and Ser Archibald were still lost after the battle. The ones who defected from the Shavepate were a start, those that needed his protection. Yet those he knew not to trust fully, and he had also chosen guards from select Pyramids as well. "Almost all of them except the Red Pyramid." If worse came to worst, they would fight for the right to kill him until he escaped. It was the best course.

"One from the Pyramid of Swords was not enough to Lord Hazkar," Quentyn thought. It was either he needed to satisfy him in some other way, or… Lord Anders had warned him what to do if he could not please them with what he could give. Quentyn noticed Hazkar's son at the old master's side, wondering if he would be more pliable.

He put his thoughts to rest as he heard the first horn on the horizon and the whispers grow ever frantic. Banners began to emerge from the rising dawn in the east. Afterwards came the riders, in pairs of three coming down from the high hills and before Meereen's plain. There seemed to be an endless stream of them, each carrying a distinct banner common only in the gold.

By the second horn, great moving pavilions began to stir from the hills after the riders. "The masters," Quentyn knew. He counted two and three score by the time the third horn sounded and the greatest of the pavilions rose into view.

The first riders reached the gates when the sun could be seen in full on the eastern sky, their tall banners soaring above in all their glory. In the hands of the first three men there flew a great glyph framed by two griffins.

"Those damned griffins," Modast zo Pahl sniggered as he watched the riders pass down the open path before them,"The New Ghiscari cannot seem to get enough of them."

New Ghis's banners rode straight towards Quentyn and the procession of Great Masters, past the rows upon rows of Meereen's spears standing at ready. There were the garrisons of some of the larger Pyramids which some masters saw fit to spare, but most were the Windblown… and the Unsullied. The Unsullied captain had approached Quentyn the morning after the Shavepate's fall, pledging the command of the spears to him.

"Until the queen returns," the man said that his name was Grey Worm, and Quentyn knew then that all depended on the queen. The Unsullied spears stood along the path, frozen as the riders went past. A contingent of the spears, Grey Worm and his best, stood below Quentyn to act as his guard. They gave him some measure of comfort, if not for the knowledge that they might turn against him as soon as the queen returns.

As the first New Ghiscari riders approached the end of the path before Quentyn and the Great Masters, they bowed their heads, parted, and withdrew to the sides. The next row of riders came before him, these ones carrying the griffin banners but with a different glyph shining between them. Likewise, they parted, withdrew to the sides, and the next ones came forward. Quentyn counted two and three score rows of riders,"The same number as those great moving pavilions."

The first pavilion, drawn by eight horses, passed the gate by the time the second-to-last row of riders came before Quentyn. The folds of the pavilion spread like a sunflower after it passed beneath the Harpy's wings. They revealed a fat man on a throne of onyx. Two slave soldiers stood behind him bearing shining spears with a white-robed herald. A dozen more serving slaves with leather collars scraped and attended to him. Two lines of horsemen followed the pavilion, their spears all bearing the same swirling banner that flew like phoenix's wings. "No," Quentyn observed,"They are in truth more like raven's."

Quentyn caught a whiff of the New Ghiscari's scented perfume when the last of the first riders drew away, as sour as an unripe lemon.

"To the Prince Quentyn of the Noble House of Martell," a white-robed herald declared,"Prince of Meereen. The Noble Master Grazar of the Noble House of Antigonius bears his greetings."

"The prince expresses deepest gratitude," Quentyn's herald Reznak mo Reznak answered,"that my master Antigonius may attend him in his city."

The fat man gave Quentyn a weary glance, which he gave back. It was clear that the fat man was sweating beneath the sun, and Quentyn nodded. Grateful, the fat man smiled and commanded his charioteer to pull the pavilion away from the path and into the shade.

Quentyn stood still in the sun, awaiting the next in line. The sun was scorching, but it was wiser to stand in the light than in the shadows. At least here, he could see the swords bared. He knew that it would be only when the queen returned could he truly pass from his doom. His skin now crawled with scorpions each time he spoke. Yet it always did well to speak, to measure every word. The seneschal speaking for him was irritating.

"I would rather not someone else hold the words I speak," though Quentyn knew better than to strike out any complaint in this moment of victory.

The victory march continued, with pavilion upon pavilion of New Ghiscari masters riding beneath the Harpy's crest and coming upon the paths of gold with lines of horsemen trailing behind. In the end, all stopped before Quentyn to greet the prince.

They exchanged many greetings. Some sought to inquire about the dragons. Others where King Hizdahr was, as last they heard Hizdahr zo Loraq was King of Meereen. Most held a curious stare at Quentyn, wondering how another Westerosi had risen above all of the Great Masters of Meereen. They never did ask openly, though, of why the Great Masters were willing to stand at Quentyn's feet.

There was only one answer that Reznak gave the lot of them, to all the questions spoken and unspoken, and Quentyn admitted that it was not too much a risk,"See Meereen, and my master shall know."

Time and again, Quentyn glanced to the skies hoping that the queen would follow the New Ghiscari host on that dragon of hers. He hoped that at least the dragon had returned from the west, and the queen was marching to Meereen at this very moment. He wanted her to relieve him of this duty where each moment felt like a knife hovering above him. He understood at last why his father was the way he always was, measured and wise and slow. There was no room in this world for rash princes.

"A prince, the gods have promised," Quentyn watched the twenty-ninth pavilion depart his sight,"In truth, the gods break the prince so that naught but destiny remains." Was it still his destiny to tame the dragons? Mayhaps, and in this case he never needed her. If the gods bade him be their hero, then had had no choice but to be their hero. If they did not, then he was not. Whatever their will, he was certain that he must plot it through like his father would have done. He could be a true prince, born of sun and spears and not just the false dragon the Green Grace wanted.

"No," he shot away those wanderings and looked to the skies where the sun boiled his skin ,"I must not seek danger and death, not again." Ser Gerris and Ser Archibald, the last of his men, chose the wrong side in their courage to save them. They had been lost for so long that Quentyn thought them as good as dead. Quentyn would not die, not like them.

A dozen trumpets blared as the last and greatest of the golden pavilions entered the city. Pulled forward by twelve horses, the tent itself was as wide as the gate. Only when beneath the Harpy did four lines of riders be able to emerge behind it.

The rider leading the first line was a bald man with a scar on his cheek, in his hand a spear bearing one of the banners not crested in gold. Quentyn counted himself not surprised that the banner was black, bearing a three-headed dragon that shone red,"Everything is done in the name of the queen."

As Quentyn's eyes fell upon the second line, he almost choked. Above a boy Quentyn's own age who bore heavy golden steel, there flew a field of blood on which stood a prancing golden lion.

"Lannisters," Quentyn remembered how they had murdered Aunt Elia and her babes in King's Landing,"Why are they here?"

"For the queen's dragons," he figured as the carriage slowly drew closer. The Lannisters sought to hold the power of the queen to further their rule in the Seven Kingdoms. He did not know if they knew of his father's pact, but he would not take the chance that they did not. For all he knew, they came to prevent him from winning the queen for Dorne as they knew the dragons would be used against them.

"Mayhaps," he considered,"They may even succeed in swaying her with the promise of the Iron Throne."

Quentyn grimaced within the heat,"How may I deal with a lion?"

He knew that he needed to rise above the Lannisters if there was any chance of winning the dragon queen when she returns. This was no longer a mummer's careful plot, but the game of kings his father and Lord Anders warned so often about. "In the end," Quentyn remembered,"all that matters is wisdom. The wise man knows not to play, but he knows still how to play." He knew what path this time called for. The dragon must come to Dorne.

Polished silver mail adorned the armour of the two other lines on the pavilion's flank, their reflections burning Quentyn's eyes as he looked to them. One bore in his hand the rearing form of a great black stallion, its mouth open in a whinny. The other was the griffin again, except this one bore a glyph within its open beak.

"The Hall of the Griffin King will be sated tonight," Modast's sneering voice sounded blow,"What with all these birds the New Ghiscari have brought in."

"Do you think there were griffins in the days of old?" Arslan zo Loraq shifted his tall form as turned to ask Modast.

"There are dragons in our world, even dragons that we can see," Modast pointed at Quentyn,"so I doubt that griffins are mere tales."

"The Hall of the Griffin King," Quentyn pondered upon those words,"Why did they mention it?" The hall lay in the Red Pyramid, the seat of the House of Loraq. King Hizdahr had refused to come, not wishing to be seen standing as equals with a foreign prince. Yet Hizdahr's cousin Morghaz and Morghaz's sons Arslan and Medit were in Quentyn's company. Quentyn figured that Morghaz hoped to stand with the prince and eventually supplant Hizdahr as Master of the Red Pyramid. Quentyn would have no part in this battle, as it was not his fight. His fight lay with the golden lion that swayed now in the skies above Meereen.

His brow burned ever fiercer beneath the scorch of the sun above, and he felt sweat gather in his palm as he clenched it tight. He looked up to see that it was noon, and his eyes burned. He dared not let his eyes linger for long. There was no solace in the sun, and he turned his gaze to the golden lion whom he saw upon the earth. This was the fight he was meant to give, so that in the end he would win his bidden place by the queen's.

He knew his father's will. He knew own will,"For the queen and her dragons."

One of the drivers of the great pavilion put a horn to his lips and blew two long blasts. Quentyn braced himself for the storm of sound, and found that it was not as painful as he had feared.

"In the name of the Lord Magistrate and the Noble Council of New Ghis," a herald emerged from within the pavilion to declare,"The Noble Masters are proud to present the flower of their spears, Lord Commander Crion of the most venerable House of Flinias from the line of Junipas Who Raised the Isle, Lord Commander of the Ninety Golden Legions, Grand Captain of the Wander's Fleet, Captain of Guards at the Pyramid of Steel, and Shield of the Gods of Ghis who are Most Eminent."

The herald paused to allow for the storm of cheers that erupted amongst the Great Masters that accompanied the thumping of spears of the soldiers below. Quentyn was silent, his hands tightening further than he ever thought possible. "Should I join them?" he wondered, then forgoed the thought in an instant. It was always wise to stand and watch, to know what was happening. "No one is like to remember," he reasoned,"who cheered and who did not." No one even looked at him.

"The Noble Masters of New Ghis are also proud to present," the herald declared,"from the Sunset Kingdoms, Lord Tyrion of the most illustrious House of Lannister from the line of Lann the Clever, Lord of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, Shield of Lannisport, and Light of the West."

"Tyrion Lannister," Quentyn considered ,"The second son and heir of Lord Tywin Lannister." Lord Tywin had made an apt choice in the man he sent to the queen. The Old Lion very clearly could not come himself. His daughter Cersei was the Queen Mother of Joffrey Baratheon. His eldest son Jaime lay in Robb Stark's dungeon, and it would have been an ill choice to send the Kingslayer to the daughter of the king he slew. All the other Lannisters, Lord Tywin's brother and cousins and nephews, would be too removed in the line for the Old Lion to trust them in this immense task. His son and heir Tyrion would be the only choice.

"The lion has gained New Ghis's ear," Quentyn observed,"Lord Tywin's choice was proven right."

He wondered what it bade for him. Dorne and the Lannisters were still at peace for all the world to see, and his brother Trystane was due to marry the princess Myrcella. Yet he knew that his father had been plotting in the shadows, the peace a thin veil that was sure to shatter. The lion in the pavilion was sure to be thinking the same as Quentyn, how best to oust the other and place himself in the favoured place by the dragon queen. The lion had gained a lead in the New Ghiscari, and that was worrying. There must be some way to amed it. Fear threatened to consume him as he could not quite figure out how in the moment. He calmed himself, as he would find a way. He needed to watch, to listen, and he would see.

When the pavilion stopped before Quentyn, two silver-collared slaves stepped slowly outside to draw open the gold-threaded blinds. They revealed two men in the pavilion sitting upon jeweled oaken seats. One was an old man in a grey robe and piercing eyes, listening to the whispers of the other man.

Quentyn looked at the other man, unsure if he was truly a man. An impish face with no nose and a long jagged scar beneath a mop of hair so blond it looked almost white. His body was no larger than a child, and short, stubby limbs danged in front of his seat. Quentyn had heard that Tyrion Lannister was a dwarf, but he did not expect this sort.

"A monster," he heard men whisper below them,"New Ghis has struck with the demons of hell."

"It is not his face that is dangerous," Quentyn took a step forward,"It is the words that he whispers in Lord Crion's ear."

"The Great Masters of Meereen wish to present," Quentyn heard Reznak's voice declare,"Prince Quentyn of the Noble House of Martell, the Eleventh of that Noble Name, Prince Regent in Meereen who rules in the name of Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons."

"Your Grace," Tyrion Lannister smiled a grotesque smile at Quentyn,"How does it feel to be husband to the dragon queen?"

"King Hizdahr is Her Radiance's husband," Quentyn answered in a voice he tried to keep steade,"I only rule in her name."

"Where is Hizdahr zo Loraq?" the lion scoffed,"The truth is plain to see."

"My lord of Lannister," Quentyn searched carefully for the right words,"If I wished to be king, I would be."

"Peace, Prince Quentyn," Lord Crion said,"We are here as friends, to celebrate our victory."

"I have a gift for New Ghis," Quentyn plastered on a smile,"as a token of our friendship." He gestured for a slave to bring forward the plate bearing the Shavepate's head.

"The head of Shahaz mo Kandaq," Quentyn said,"The warmongering criminal who was the cause of enmity between New Ghis and the queen. He has paid the the price of treachery, and I give his head for justice to be seen."

"You have our thanks," Lord Crion answered,"and we also have a gift for my prince as per the Ghiscari custom. Three, in fact. Could my prince come to the pavilion?"

Quentyn wondered what the Lord Crion had to show in private, but he did not wish to place himself at his mercy. Particularly if a lion also sat within that pavilion, whispering in the Lord Commander's ear.

"I fear that the pavilion would not be able to hold so many men," Quentyn said, seeing the lion's smile widen,"If it is possible, could my master show it to me under the sun?"

"Ah," Lord Crion said,"Of course, Prince Quentyn. Keep in mind that your eyes will be the first after mine to see it." He waved his hand, and three slaves descended the carriage. After a moment's hesitation, the lion wobbled behind them. Quentyn could hear the Great Masters laugh at the dwarf, but Quentyn's eyes were fixed on the three exquisite boxes that the three slaves carried. The first two slaves wore iron collars, but the collar of the last was that of gold.

The slaves and Tyrion Lannister passed the Unsullied, weaving through the masters as they ascended the steps to Quentyn.

"Send all but your most trusted of guards away," Quentyn heard Lord Crion.

"They are here, under the sun," Quentyn thought,"and there is little chance that they could draw their swords before my men killed them, even if they were a foot below." He sent all his guards to join the masters below until at last he was alone at the heights.

"It is in truth a gift from the Dothraki," Lord Crion said, and the slaves stepped before Quentyn. The first two slaves opened their boxes to reveal the severed heads of two copper-skinned men, their braids lying at their sides.

"Jhogo and Rakharo," Quentyn knew ,"bloodriders of the queen." He wondered if that was Lord Crion's gift, of eliminating others who contest his place by the queen. "Yet there is one more," Quentyn looked at Tyrion Lannister ,"that he did not kill."

There was one more, and the gold-collared slave brought the third box up the steps. Tyrion Lannister saw it first, his face contorting. "Is this your work, my Prince of Martell?" Lannister demanded,"That was how you gained the queen's dragons."

Quentyn looked inside the box, to see an unmistakable, beautiful, half-rotted head. All he could feel was the thousands of eyes upon him, who followed him because he was the herald of the queen. He was grateful for being alone at the height. "They must not know."

"I must thank the Dothraki for slaying the Drunken Conqueror," Quentyn flipped the lid closed.

 

[Mockingbird]

MELISANDRE
​

A push sent Melisandre stumbling to the ground, her bound hands with little way to hinder her fall. She was blessed to have landed in a snowdrift, the soft flurries cushioning her. The snow was cold as it dug into her cloak, but her choker burned warm. The Lord was with her.

She raised her head to see the leering faces of Bowen Marsh and all the evil men who turned to treachery. Othell Yarwyck was there, as was Eddison Tollett, Axell Florent, and Benethon Scales. She found herself before the host of watchmen and knights, all having turned their cloaks to darkness. All having bared their swords and bows at the true king. At the Lord.

Melisandre heard another snowdrift give way beside her, and turned to see the wildling princess. She had been thrown to the ground before Marsh, just like Melisandre. Horse followed, though he did not have the mercy of landing in the snow. He lay there, dazed, from his embrace of the hard earth. His nose seemed to have broken, and he tried to stifle it with his bound hands. Melisandre was calm, for the fire within her burned fiercer than ever.

Florent winced as he touched Melisandre's face, raising her chin to see. "That is the red witch, all right," the traitor said,"Lord Bolton, You have caught the right woman."

The traitor returned to Marsh's side, as did the two black brothers that checked the wildling princess and Horse.

"I am glad," a slimy voice sounded behind Melisandre,"Mummers are easy to find in the snow."

"Yet none can hide from my lord's wise eye," Marsh said. He bent his knee, and those in his host followed,"Lord Bolton, Castle Black is yours."

"False men," Melisandre said,"even as they kneel before the true king."

She turned and saw the Bastard. A long mane of greasy black hair ran to the Bastard's shoulder beneath a fur-lined helm. His face was plump and ugly, with wormy lips and beady grey eyes that were like chips of ice. A red ruby glistened on his wrist, his armour hammered steel and boiled leather.

Beyond him was a sea of banners, rising above a great host of men. All northmen.

The Bastard dismounted, grounding his teeth as he pursed his lips. "A true king."

A grey-cloaked man took the Bastard's spur and led his steed behind him. The Bastard approached the kneeling men.

"Arise, Lord Tollett," the Bastard said to one of the kneeling men. Marsh raised his eyes, as if daring to object. He cast his eyes down before he could speak. Tollett rose, of equal height with the Bastard.

"You received my letter," the Bastard said,"yet I see before me only the Red Woman and the wildling princess. In Winterfell, I had myself only returned my bride and that creature she had with him. Where is Stannis Barathone's queen? Where is Stannis Baratheon's princess?"

Melisandre looked at the traitors, and saw their brows unknit. They were relieved that they had all the rest they needed to offer the Bastard. They knew not that it was their last chance before the horrible fates befell false men.

"Aye," Tollett's face betrayed the same gladness,"We have them safe in the castle."

"Bring them to me," the Bastard commanded. "The rest of you," he continued,"I will pass judgment in Castle Black's courtyard. Set up the gallows and know that all Castle Black must come and watch. There is much to judge this day."

"Thank you, my lord," Marsh blurted,"The wildlings beyond the Wall are unruly again, and our stocks are low to the point of starvation. We give my lord our deepest gratitudes for coming to our aid when no one else could. You saved all the Watch."

"Save yer thanks for when his lordship's judgment is done," the Magnar stepped up behind the Bastard,"Now, off with all of ye. His lordship expects to see all of the Watch in the yard."

Melisandre gathered herself to her feet, feeling firelight touch her. A cold sun hung above Castle Black, the dim dawn a herald of the days that were certain to follow in winter. The Bastard glared at her, and her choker burned warm.

Black shadows gathered about the edges of the yard, the castle's sin all in one place. Black cloaks and turncloaks alike awaited the fates of traitors. It was the Bastard's men who manned the battlements and the gates, watching the yard below. Melisandre knelt in the snow, watching the light shine upon the gallows. The Bastard's men manned that too. She knew that behind her was the Bastard, but she did not need to turn.

A black cloak dropped by her and whispered,"It will be painless. My prayers are with you."

"It is you who needs prayers," Melisandre did not remember his face,"The Lord shall judge right from wrong today, and the Lord hears only the prayers of the righteous."

Tollett and five black cloaks emerged last with the princess and the queen. The queen looked bedraggled, her clothing filthy with black holes growing beneath her eyes. The princess was disheveled as well, but there was a redness in her face that spoke of hope. "That hope you shall have, my princess," Melisandre prayed for Shireen,"The Lord of Light comes now with flame."

When Queen Selyse's eyes fell on the yard, she gave a shrill shriek and brought her arms around Shireen. She hugged the princess away,"No, you monster. You will never have us." Melisandre looked back and saw the Bastard gaze at the women with eyes of steel and fire.

"Up with you," Tollett wrenched Shireen from her mother. Two of his men took Queen Selyse by the arms. They then threw them before the Bastard.

"Lord Bolton," Tollett declared,"I give you the princess and the queen."

Melisandre saw Shireen dare to raise her eyes at the Bastard, something flashing in her pupils, and Melisandre knew that the girl has sight.

"Please, Lord Bolton," Queen Selyse begged, her eyes cast to the earth,"Shireen's only a girl. Hang me, but spare her. Please." Her tears stained the snow about her knees.

"Quiet, woman," Tollett shouted,"The lord shall pass his judgment as he sees fit."

"The king," the Magnar said at the Bastard's side,"Ye shall address him proper."

"King," Marsh said from the head of the black cloaks,"Has my lord seen fit to style yourself King in the North."

"No," the Bastard rose from his seat and took off his ruby pendant. His true form lay bare, for all the world to see.

Melisandre rose,"hail, to King Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, King of Westeros, Lord of Dragonstone, and Azor Ahai Reborn." "The Lord today shall judge right from wrong," Melisandre thought ,"In the end, the Lord shall always see justice done." The Lord had blessed King Stannis with victory. After victory, there was judgement.

She marveled at the swiftness in which those of evil hearts betrayed one another. Scales and Florent were pushed to the front of the crowd, each with a knife to his throat.

"Your Grace," the man who held the knife at Florent's throat said, a stiff-legged knight who Melisandre recognized as one of Florent's household swords,"I always knew you would come back. Here are the traitors." Florent's eyes were shite with terror, and he was muttering something beneath his breath. A man-at-arms with a white boar on his surcoat held a knife to Scales's throat. A third man stumbled forward in the hands of Ser Dorden's dour face. "Smuggler's blood," Ser Dorden said,"Bound to show itself sooner or later."

"Devan?" King Stannis asked, walking before the third man. Ser Dorden turned him over, Melisandre saw that it was indeed the boy.

"Why?" King Stannis demanded, his voice full of iron. Devan only closed his eyes and did not speak.

"Your father died for me," King Stannis said,"and now I must kill his son."

He strode back and looked to his family,"They are the guilty, correct?" Both the princess and the queen nodded silently.

The king turned to Melisandre,"It is true?"

"Yes," she knew the truth.

"Set three ropes on the gallows," the king commanded.

"Even the boy," the Magnar asked.

"Even the boy," the king ground his teeth. Melisandre closed her eyes, praying for their souls. They were forever cursed, not having been cleansed by fire.

"Shall we do it by noon?" the Magnar asked,"The sun helps lessen the woes of the dead."

"Wait," the king held up a hand,"We are not done yet.

The Night's Watch had been silent all throughout the sentences of the turncloaks, but now they stirred in earnest.

"Lord Snow's murderers are already dead," Marsh said,"Wick Whittlestick. Alf of Runnymudd. Left-Hand Lew. They are all dead. The guilty have been sentenced."

"The Night's Watch takes no part in the affairs of the realm," the king answered,"and the realm takes no part in the affairs of the Watch. The mutiny is the Watch's own judgment to make. The judgment that is rightfully mine is your meddling with the realm, your loyalty to the traitor Ramsay Bolton. I hereby sentence all that stood with Bolton and emerged the lords of the Night's Watch to death by hanging. Bowen Marsh, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Eddiston Tollett, Lord Steward of the Night's Watch. Othell Yarwyck, Master Builder of the Night's Watch. Alliser Thorne, First Ranger of the Night's Watch."

"You're mad," Tollett shouted as two of his own brothers seized him,"When Noye told me about the Mad King, I never took him serious. Yet it seems now that kings really are mad. Tell him, my lady."

Melisandre held her tongue. He was that third man, the man with the donkey face. There was a shadow brewing inside her that was of his making.

"I bade it go to the Lord of Winterfell when it is born," Melisandre remembered. Yet that Lord of Winterfell was dead, and she wondered where it may go. To the Great Other, perhaps, but she did not know his place. She buried that within her heart, and watched as the Lord judged Tollett false or true.

"Satin," Tollett turned to the grey-cloaked man once Melisandre did not answer,"Tell them.

Lord Snow slowly removed his hood, and his voice came out dry and proud,"You thought that you let go a whore, but I am truly Lord Snow."

"And I'm Robb Stark, back from the dead," Tollett snorted,"Lies! Can you not tell that he is lying?"

Melisandre heard a harsh laugh across the yard. "Save your breath, Tollett," Alliser Thorne said, himself held by two of his brothers,"Our fates are already sealed.

He shook aside his brothers,"I can face death without your help. Get it over with quickly, Your Grace. Your brother should have done that to me twenty years ago."

"Ser Alliser had no part of it," Marsh shouted.

"He accepted the rank of First Ranger under a traitor," the king said,"and would have risen had the Bastard of Bolton won. He is equally as guilty as you, Marsh."

There were seven in total, serven ropes dangling from the crossbeam. Melisandre knew that seven was the number of the Andal's false gods. They never knew that seven was the number of death. There is only one true Lord.

After King Stannis's men fastened the nooses about each man's neck, he came before them before they would hang. He looked each in the eye and asked their last words.

"I did what I had to do for the Watch," Marsh said.

Yarwyck said nothing.

"I always thought I would die sword in hand," Tollett said,"Rope in hand just doesn't sound as glorious."

"I bid good fortune to Lord Snow," Thorne said,"Not every man can be lord."

Florent did not answer King Stannis, but called for Queen Selyse,"Sely. Niece. Please. Save me." The queen did not answer as she hugged the princess to her breast, and King Stannis turned away.

Scales spat in King Stannis's face,"That's for my brother and everyone at the Blackwater."

Stannis did not wipe away the spittle, only turned to the last man. "Boy," Melisandre thought,"yet a boy who has given himself to evil." Devan stared at Stannis with an empty face and glassy eyes, his lips open but not managing even one word. After a long moment, the king left the last man. The levers crunched, and seven bodies lowered toward the ground. A brief struggle ensued, parting in the end to silence.

"One realm. One God. One king," her eyes found one man whose sword sang slowly from his sheath. He raised it, lone amidst the shivering stillness of the warriors,"One realm. One God. One King." His words echoed into nothingness.

Melisandre wondered if this was all the courage they could muster, and her heart grew cold. Yet the Lord proved her dread false.

Two more followed the first man, their gauntlets gripping frozen hilts to draw forth shimmering blades. They raised their swords into the air as the first man did,"One realm. One God. One King."

"A king worthy of the Ned's girl," a clansman with three acorns on his banner shouted,"the King in the North."

"The King in the True North," the wildling princess cried.

Melisandre's choker burned with fire as she watched five become nine, which became twenty, which became a hundred. They cast aside their cloaks of fear, whether former turncloak of watchman or northman, united in common cause beneath the Lord's banner. The air rang with the song of steel and fire:

"One Realm."

"King in the North."

"One God."

"King in the North."

"ONE KING!"

"KING IN THE NORTH!"

Melisandre looked northward into the snows and the Great Other's thousand eyes ,"The night is dark and full of terrors, yet the day is bright with holy men."

The king was silent amidst the surging cries, not looking back as he marched towards his wife and daughter.

"Lord Snow," Stannis gave a horn to the grey-cloaked man at the side of the princess,"I give you charge of Castle Black in my absence. Dispose of the bodies and prepare the garrison."

"Flint, Norrey," he commanded two of the clansmen,"Send out scouts and command Ser Godry to lead the remainder of my men into Castle Black. He is to obey the commands of Lord Snow."

With these words, King Stannis lifted his daughter into his arms and disappeared into the Lord Commander's Tower. Queen Selyse followed, timely stopping to glance back at Melisandre.

"Free me," Melisandre commanded a brutish northman beside her, and he did so. Melisandre followed the king into the tower, hearing Lord Snow's commands echo in the yard.

She said a prayer to the Lord, thanking him for all his blessings. The day was soaked in darkness, but now there was light. The Great Other's curses have claimed many, but Azor Ahai has at last claimed victory.

"Day has not yet come again," Melisandre knew, and the Lord warned her deep in her heart that the war was not over. The Great Other would still rise in the biter north with all his icy hosts, and the hero has many battles to come. Especially now, when his light burns the brightest, this is the day when he shall strike back against the darkness. How well the light would fare depended upon the price that true men were willing to pay. "A sacrifice, and the Hero will be truly Reborn."

Melisandre found the king in a chamber, speaking with his daughter.

"Why would Lord Manderly," she heard Shireen ask,"put such a kind man to death?"

"Because he was a traitor," King Stannis replied,"and traitors hold no duty to justice. Innocent men like Ser Davos fall victim to their hands."

"Then what about Devan," the princess's eyes were bleary,"He was Ser Davos's son and my friend. Why did you kill him?"

"Because he was a traitor as well," King Stannis said,"no matter who his father is. Ser Davos chose the path of duty, and I will honour him in all the days to come. Devan chose the path of treachery, and I must put him to death. One day, when you sit the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms that is your birthright, you will know your duty. What is right must be rewarded and what is wrong must be punished, no matter who the man is."

Melisandre watched from the door as the princess turned away and did not speak.

"I do not want to be the queen," she croaked at last,"The Red Woman made me queen, and everyone died. Is this why you have come north?"

"No," Stannis said,"I came north because you are my daughter. My only child, and I will see you home."

For a moment, there was silence in the chamber save for the flickering hearth. Then, the princess turned and wrapped her arms around her father. She whispered something in her father's ear that Melisandre could not hear. For the first time ever, Melisandre saw Stannis Baratheon smile.

"If there is anyone he loves," Melisandre thought,"It is here."

She steeled herself, as she knew the Lord's will. Azor Ahai must make the dearest sacrifice.

"Shireen," Queen Selyse took a look at Melisandre and curled a hand about her daughter's shoulder. The princess withdrew from her embrace and looked up at her mother.

"Come," Queen Selyse said,"We must leave. Lady Melisandre has business with your father."

The princess cast a fearful eye at Melisandre, and nodded. Melisandre stepped aside to let them pass, watching their cloaks disappear into the shadows. She let the door fall into place behind her as she stepped within the brightly lit chamber. She walked before the hearth and gazed within it. As she dreaded, snows watershed over the flames with the faint glow of dim blue eyes.

"What does my lady see?" Stannis asked.

"Death," Melisandre said,"The Others. Winter is coming, and the night will be dark and full of terrors."

"You are the hero that may curb this tide," she approached the king,"You are the steward of mankind's power. You will vanquish the ancient enemy once and for all, if you would do one thing for the Lord of Light."

"What?" Stannis asked.

"The princess," Melisandre said,"You must give her to the Lord."

She was now so close to him to see the blood-streaked whites of Stannis's eyes, shadows gathering beneath a burning flame.

"The Lord is just," Melisandre said,"and victory must come at a price."

A horn echoed throughout the chamber. Three blasts, as Melisandre foresaw.

"Decide," Melisandre said,"Live or die."

Stannis's eyes shone no longer with fire,"I will."

 

[Mockingbird]

THE ORPHAN
​

"Three Braavosi Irons," she counted, watching dusk set on the Titan beyond,"A buckle with the face of a bull. A wool glove. A bowl with the lace of a flower. Three slips of parchment. A ring of silver serpents."

The last one was the orphan's prize, the last present her mother gave her before the plague took both her parents and her home.

The orphan counted everything each night, so she would know what she had when she slept. Braavos's alleys were no stranger to thieves, even this one that the orphan figured was deserted. She always counted, so she would know in the morning if she had been robbed.

She tucked her ring beneath the pillow of her arms as she curled on the sodden stones. The thieves could take all else, but not that. They would have to wake her to discover it, and they would have to kill her to take it. That treasure was only hers.

As her eyelids drooped into shadow, her count fell into another rhythm. A rhythm foreign to the orphan's ears.

"Dunsen," she thought,"Ser Gregor. Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. Queen Cersei." She chanted them as a prayer, though she never knew why.

"Who was Ser Meryn?" she wondered,"Who was Dunsen?" She knew Queen Cersei was the queen of the Sunset Kingdoms, the most beautiful woman to have ever graced that realm. She heard it from the breaths of sailors as they rattled on about the west, not knowing that the orphan picked their pockets.

She shook her head. The orphan had her own worries, and a long day ahead of her on the morrow. She rolled to her side, her back to the sunset, and sank into slumber.

The orphan dreamt the dream that had plagued her all these last moons. The smell of dying grass filled her snout. Wetness surrounded her, as did cold and moonlight. Her pack knew that winter was coming, as the leaves were changing and their prey hid.

Winter is coming. The words felt familiar, yet they were another's. This was not her home, yet she felt that it was.

Winter is coming, she snarled, glancing at the wilting plants. She glanced to her sides, making certain that she was alone.

Her pack wanted to march south when they sensed the snows coming, and they did not know why she lingered.

She sniffed the air again, and knew she was here. She smelled blood. She smelled torches. She smelled men.

Her strides melted into the songs of the forest. There were no more songbirds as they all flew to the south, the only voices being the crackle of broken twigs and fallen leaves. The winds blew, and the sun was setting in the west.

A mourning came upon her. She knew her pack was growing smaller. Not of the pack she led now, as they were as great as ever before, but the pack with which she was born and bred. Their numbers were dwindling. She had lost two siblings, and all the rest were dying. The white one was fading in a soul she did not know. The golden one was melting into a tree that reeked of rot. The black one tore at itself as one of the shadows around it drew ever closer. They were joining their lost, the grey one with the fierceness of a storm and the silver one with the grace of a rose.

Her paws only stalked swifter, and clenched her fangs. The others were leaving her, abandoning her. She was becoming ever alone.

She howled, high onto the rising moon. A thousand others answered, and she knew all her siblings would be among them, even from the dead.

When the forest gave way, she saw the golden man. His hair shone in the dying light, and upon his torso the same glow echoed, blinding her. He was bright gold from his head to the tips of his feet, and even one of his hands shared that gleam.

The rancid scents of other men surrounded him, wrangling him forth with shoves and kicks and shouts. She almost turned away, for the wars of men were not her fight.

That was until she saw the ghost, and her paws dug into the damp earth. A woman stood there, a ghost from a memory, grey and dead.

He would cower, she thought as the golden man was dragged before the ghost. Prey only cowered, when they could not run.

The man was a fighter, she figured as she looked at him. She saw death in his unwavering eyes, death that she rarely saw. It was more commonly fear she saw, but there was none in the golden man's eyes.

This man did not shake as he faced her charge, but barrelled towards her.

This was no prey, she bared her gangs and snarled silently as the ghost's own men beat him into the dirt with one of their wooden pieces. The woods echoed a tremulous song.

"Enough," she heard a voice tremble the leaves.

It was the Lady, she could tell, and her men obeyed her command. This man was the pack leader's to slay.

"Let your beasts loose," the golden man urged,"I did not yield."

The Lady did not respond, and he hissed,"Whose men are these even? Your headless son's, or…my lady Stark has made cause with common bandits?" He tumbled onto the mud as a man struck his face.

"Kingslayer," the Lady said when they brought the golden man upright,"the gods have judged you guilty of breaking your oath. For that you are condemned to die. Do you have any last words?"

Blood spewed from the man's mouth as he laughed,"I came here for her. Your daughter. I pray you find peace, Lady Stark."

The wolf looked at him, honing her fangs. He was wounded, a great beast fallen. It was his shame to be so pitiful, so weak. It would be a mercy, to save his grace.

Yet a voice rose within herself, reminding her. This death was not her gift to give.

The wolf retreated into the trees, knowing that the pack was waiting for her. They had a hunt tonight.

She raised her head again, and stared at all their glares. Shadows lay on every face that spoke of hate. The wolf could smell death, and they came forward. The blood trickled from the golden man's wound, as she slowly backed away.

Afar, she saw a corpse hanging from a tree, swaying in the wind. It was a burly warrior, and its neck was slick with blood.

The Lady nodded, and all the bandits turned their eyes on the fallen man.

Two of them hauled him upward.

"Kingslayer," one of them spat in his face,"You know me? Your men, lion men, burned my village, killed our cows, and raped my daughter half a hundred times before slitting her throat. You escaped, but now you're here. Justice is here."

They dragged him to the tree where the corpse hanged.

A third man, one with a yellow cloak, had a noose in his hands, and threw it over his head, the other two binding his hands behind his back.

The man with the yellow cloak tightened the cord.

The wolf heard another in tattered red robes lower his head, muttering something under his breath.

She saw the rope stretch, carving in the golden man's neck. It lifted him into the air, pressing until gargled gasps sputtered from his broken lips.

Amidst the crowd, she heard a cheer, waking someone within her.

Deep down, she knew he deserved it. Deep down, she knew his crimes were beyond count. She knew it was justice, vengeance.

"Winter came," she thought,"Winter came for the Kingslayer."

She turned away, and never looked back.

The orphan woke with a gasp, feeling blood on her tongue. She was to hunt that night, and she could feel her hunger.

Then, she realized that it was her own. It was her own self, her own body, and her belly was empty.

Watching the sun rise, she realized that it was not the eve of night, but morning. The street's musty scents washed upon her nose, washing away the taste of the wood. She was herself again.

"The Kingslayer," she remembered from her dream. The orphan knew that the Kingslayer was an infamous knight from the west, known for breaking his sacred oath. Rumour also has it that the Kingslayer slept with his sister the queen, and that all of King Robert's children were in truth his.

She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts of sunset knights. The orphan had much to do in the day, and no time to dwell on distant tales.

"Just a dream," she felt the bare stones under her body, how much her limbs were sore from the night. The dream was unsettling, foreign to the orphan. She feared it, knowing that it was another's haven. She wanted to get it away, but it kept coming back every night.

It was a dream, she assured herself, no more true than the sweet meals she conjured some nights. She rose, blinking away the clouds.

She saw the morning mists descend on Braavos. The orphan peeked about the alley, and was pleased to find no men there. She counted her own things, and found also that none were amiss.

"Luck," she kissed the ring, still firmly in her palm. For luck, her mother had always said. She did it at the beginning of each new day. Sometimes, she pretended that the silver serpents were alive, and that they liked the touch of her lips.

The orphan looked east again, and saw the Sun grace the edge of the horizon, shining a bright red.

She sprang quickly to her feet, knowing that she would have to make her way to the man soon. He was always there at the crack of dawn, and she would need to be there as well.

The orphan tugged her cloak about her, a covering made of faded green cloth. It had once been a bravo's shroud before she stole it off his corpse.

She snuck to the edge of the alley, taking a quick look outside, making certain that there was none there. The orphan was pleased to find that none were. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the shadow into Braavos. She did not want rat to break her fast again.

The man lived along the Green Canal, in a house of dull brown upon a street that reeked. He was not rich in any sense, but he was not poor either. He was a portly man with a square jaw, old with wrinkling skin and a black beard that had started to turn grey. They said that he was once a merchant, but he had long since forsaken his trade.

No one knew his name, but the children called him the Grandfather.

His house was that of any Braavosi, having none of the glimmering colours of the Sealord's Palace or a courtesan's House of Smiles. It was a dull brown, in a street that reeked. It was nothing extravagant, nothing great. Yet to her, and all the other children, it was everything.

Already, two dozen children, the oldest two years her elder and the youngest half her age, gathered at the man's house.

They were there for a full belly to break their fast, as the Grandfather was the only man that was generous.. He was the only one in half a city to care for the forsaken.

She was there most mornings, and she always left with a full belly. He might have an errand or two for most of them, but it was always worth it. The Grandfather always kept his promises in the end.

The orphan had never known her own grandsire, but this man was what she pretended to be. He had her mother's smile and her father's eyes.

The children stood silently in the line, waiting for the Grandfather to receive them. The orphan heard them speak, and there was never a need for it. The Grandfather always knew what they wanted. He was as wise as the wizened sages, as pleasant as the radiant seas, as knowing as the birds under the stars. His beard and his robes held the wisp of the home she had known.

She walked through the crumbling roof and the cracked door frame, and felt the Grandfather's hearth warm her.

As she smelled the parchment and silks, she touched the iron coin in her pocket. She felt its chill run through her as a jagged knife, and she remembered why she was there.

As each approached the Grandfather, each handed him something in their hands. The orphan could see that it was a piece of paper, a slip of crusted scrap. The Grandfather then had his servants give them a steaming bowl of stew. They retreated to the side to eat their meal, and the orphan caught its soothing scent.

The ones before her passed as wind, until she came before the man.

She held out a Braavosi coin.

The Grandfather frowned,"I do not want your coin, little one. Let this meal be a gift from me."

She did not withdraw her hand, but flipped the coin. It no longer showed Sealord Antaros the Fair, but a print of the House of Black and White.

"Ah," the Grandfather realized. He took a bowl, had a servant fill it with hot stew, and presented it to her.

She took it, feeling the slip of paper beneath it. The orphan handed the Grandfather her own piece, to give for the one he gave.

"All men must serve," he said,"Tell them that the Bird wants a song."

"Why does the Bird want another's song," she wondered,"when it can sing one on its own?"

She held the coin up to her brow, and smiled. Her mission was done.

On her return, the orphan passed by the Palace of Truth. She saw there a gathering of men, huddled before the marble columns.

A finely dressed man loomed above them, the crimson light of dawn upon him.

"A red dawn," the orphan thought, stopping to listen. She hid in the shadows beneath a pillar, eyes locked upon them.

"A dragon dawn," she heard the man above them shout,"A dragon dawn rises."

Looking amongst them, the orphan saw that most were of the Seven Kingdoms to the West.

"Twenty years ago," the man above them spoke,"They told me the dragons were gone. Prince Rhaegar was slain by Robert Baratheon at the Trident. Tywin Lannister and his dogs butchered Princess Elia and her babes. The Kingsguard Jaime Lannister put a sword through the old king's heart. They won their kingdom through their blood and steel. They proved themselves stronger, mightier, looking to be worthier of the Iron Throne. And what has become of the realm they have taken with their kingdom. What has become of Robert Baratheon's conquest?"

"Ruin," his voice rang across the square,"Crows have fallen upon the Seven Kingdoms, picking apart its corpse. From Robert Baratheon's fall rose five kings, and the ruin of Westeros. Only death and tyrants have emerged the victor. The victor of blackened fields and rotting corpses. The victor of this war that vile men started. A war that sees no end. Naught rose of these wars, of these kings, but the suffering of their people who listened to them. Who believed in them. Who worshiped them. Lords marched their banners across barren fields, as thousands burned and bled for false claims and falser crowns. Unworthy boys sat the Iron Throne, raised by lickspittles, murderers, and all the crimes in the eyes of the gods. They call themselves lions, though it would be more fitting to call them rats, a plague upon the realm. Frey men, Lannisters through and through, swore a vow to protect their guests, and murdered them beneath their roof. The woman who murdered Renly, the only good king of the bunch, took to service and to bed the Kingslayer and his band of lion men, who led the burning of the Riverlands. The queen and her sycophants whisper in each other's ears, devising schemes to grasp at power, forsaking even the common decency of man. They are not men, but monsters, petty kings who tore the realm apart in their greed. Justice is nothing to the Lannisters who kill at their pleasure, consorting with turncloaks and oathbreakers. Honour is nothing to the Krakens who reave and rape across the western shores. Wisdom is nothing to the likes of Stannis Baratheon, cruel, spiteful men with hosts as black as their heart. These are the likes of whom hold the swords in the Seven Kingdoms, playing at their game of thrones and destroying everything in their path. The people have lost their shield. The realm has lost its protector. The Seven Kingdoms have lost its king."

He let his words hang in the air. Silence grasped the listeners, and the orphan slid her way closer to the square.

Behind another pillar, she saw another child watching the man. The orphan recognized him, as he was there with her at the Grandfather's house. She was certain that he did not see her, as the orphan was as silent as a shadow.

The orphan turned her eyes away from the boy, and looked to the man, seeing what his words would bring.

"The Seven Kingdoms have had enough of kings who make war; enough of claimants who seek only their greed. Enough of tyrants that cared naught of the lives of their people."

He raised his arm towards the rising sun,"I want a king who cares. A king that can bring us peace - and that king has arrived. At long last, the king has returned. A dragon king. A true king! Aegon, Prince Rhaegar's lost son. He has survived. He has come home."

"Aegon," the orphan heard the crowd break into muttering.

"Aegon," she thought. The name felt strange.

"A dragon may die," the man declared,"but a dragon does not fade. A dragon has landed on the shores of the Stormlands, on the shores of Westeros. Amidst their squabbles, he is there to make their peace. Amidst their blood, he is there to sew their wounds. Amidst their wrongs, he is there to deal their justice. The banners of the dragon fly above Storm's End. They fly above the Rainwood, the Kingswood, and soon they will soar above King's Landing once again, as they had for centuries before. Not only is he a king that can do battle, not only is he a king that can rule, he is a king that can heal."

The orphan left as she heard their cheers.

The kindly man found her at the pool, staring at her reflection in the dark water. The face she saw was square-jawed, with a thick nose and bright blue eyes. She twisted a staff in the pool, watching the ripples distort her image. No matter how she stirred, it was still a face she did not know.

"What did he give the orphan?" the kindly man asked, and the orphan stared at him.

She did not speak. She could not speak.

The orphan closed her eyes as she heard the kindly man step before her. She felt her head spin, pain dancing across her skin and tearing out her eyes. The orphan felt a shadow lift from her soul.

When the girl opened her eyes, a strange name passed her lips. She was Arya again. Arya Stark of Winterfell.

"Was she? " she muttered, staring at her image in the water, staring at the face she thought she would know.

The orphan had left her. Of that she was certain. She was certain of who she was supposed to be, of who Arya was supposed to be.

"Gone," she thought. She couldn't remember.

She touched the damp stones, feeling a trickle of water. She ran it between her fingers.

It felt like blood, though she did not know how she knew that feeling. Arya let it drop, letting it join the murky water. She heard its ripples fade, listening to her own heart. A heart that had no name. A lone voice amidst the music of silence.

"Was she?" she wondered again,"Was she Arya?"

She looked back into the water, and saw a face that she did not know. She heard a cacophony of whispers, echoing through the hall. It was a girl's name.

They were murmuring, chanting, singing,"Arya. Arya. Arya."

"Who is Arya?"

A voice sounded from the depths,"Who are you?"

"No one."

The swift answer never came, the curt truth of "You lie."

Instead, she heard only the faintest brush of a cloak as the kindly man sat beside her.

"What has the orphan heard?" the kindly man asked.

"An investigation is underway," she heard herself say,"for the murder of one of the Westerosi envoys. Lord Swyft has halted all negotiations with the Iron Bank until the murderer is found, hiding away in his quarters and fearing that the knife was meant for him. He fears half the city, and has written to King's Landing, requesting that King Tommen allow him to return."

"The girl has learned her lesson," the kindly man said.

She nodded. "Mercy," she remembered,"Mercy." She had known that name, when it had been hers. She had known its taste, which the House gave to her as they righted her wrong.

"What else has the orphan learned?" he asked again.

"A fleet of ships have set sail for Sunspear," her words were dry,"The passengers include a host of Norvoshi noblemen, one among them a princess."

The kindly man's eyes were devoid of expression,"What else?"

"This," she took out the slip of paper the Grandfather gave the orphan,"He says that the Bird wants a song."

The kindly man took the paper, and swept his eyes across it.

"He wants us to do his killing," Arya scoffed. For a moment, someone took hold of her thoughts, but a second later, she was mercifully gone.

"The gift is not given freely," the kindly man said,"He has named his name, but we have not named our price."

He tucked the scroll beneath his robe, and looked her in the eyes,"Did the orphan chance by the theatre?"

She shook her head,"The orphan thought Izembaro's had been shut down, the troupe arrested."

"It is so," the kindly man replied,"The Gate has closed, courtesy of dear Mercy, but there are others. Has the orphan heard of the play one performed today? I heard it pleased the pit greatly."

She shook her head again.

"It was The Young Wolf. Shall I recite some of its verses? Proud am I, the blood of the north, my brood is made of the cold. Winter is the sword I forge, hate the mark of my soul. Does the orphan truly not know?"

He was watching her, seeing.

Somewhere far away, long ago, an ancient call stirred. She tasted it, savoured it, and felt its warm glow. A silver tear streaked down her cheek, until it dropped into the gloom below.

Then, she felt the kiss of the black stones, feeling the House she was meant to serve. The grand hall loomed great, beyond any memory.

She looked into the kindly man's eyes. He knew she did not lie.

"It made little matter," she replied,"to the orphan or her duty."

The mummer's show was naught to her. She barely knew its name.

 

[Mockingbird]

THE KING'S STEWARD
​

The taste of the horn was sweet on Satin's lips.

"Three blasts," he heard their echoes shiver through Castle Black. He knew that eyes were falling upon him, eyes seeing the black-cloaked figure that stood out from the snow. They would soon see the watchman that would rise above them all.

King Stannis had been right to give him command, he tossed the horn to the Flint boy who stood beside him. He would be the king's truest man, just as the true Lord Snow would have been.

"Lord Snow," the Free Folk princess approached him,"Are you certain that the Others have come?" Silence reigned when she spoke, and deathly whispers emerged all through the yard.

"Aye, my princess," he answered,"The watchers on the Wall have just come to me with these dark tidings. I fear the worst may be true."

"My princess," Satin indicated the black brother beside him,"Donnel had the watch today alongside Bearded Ben. When I was still in command, I knew to command the Watch to patrol in pairs in case of an enemy when one could hold the enemy and the other warns the castle. It proved true today."

"Are the Others on the Wall?" the princess asked."

Satin knew that Donnel knew what to say. The black brother shook his head,"They're still beneath the Wall, m'lady, but I fear that will be for not much longer. Snows at first. Nothing but white. Mist descended at the base. Black specks wandered out of the storm."

"The dead," the princess said, turning on her heel and striding swiftly into the courtyard. The Magnar gave her a fearful look, and the confused mutterings grew louder into a storm. Satin watched, knowing that what Stannis bade him do was spreading as intended.

"You may rest," Satin bade Donnel dismissal,"I will have Mully take your place."

"Of course, you have my deepest gratitude, m'lord," Donnel began to back away,"If Lord Snow does not need anything else from me."

"I do not," Satin answered in a whisper. Donnel nodded, fear in his eyes, and ran away. Satin knew that fear, the fear that this new Lord Snow would make him pay for all his crimes. Satin knew much of what Lord Snow did not.

But Satin did not bid Lord Snow his vengeance. It was enough to thank him by preserving his name. He would earn the glory that was cut short from Lord Snow. All of it, for Lord Snow.

"Myself," Satin might even have to thank Lord Snow's murderers for giving him this chance.

Mully was none too eager to go up the Wall and face the dead, but Satin insisted,"Winter friends are friends forever. Trust me, for I would never allow you to die."

At last, Mully stumbled to the loading deck and sailed up the Wall.

Satin looked down at all the hosts of Castle Black, united only in frenzy as the tidings came to them. Free Folk and watchmen alike began to surge and shout and scream, the men like a raging sea of which he could see no end. The only place where there was not chaos was the place where Stannis's former men stood, the stag banner rising high as one of their knights had put those men in line after the deaths of Lord Axell and Ser Benethon.

There seemed to be another place of peace upon the bridge where Satin stood looking down upon the endless yard. The Magnar's men held the ends of the bridge where steps led below. Lady Karstark had asked her husband for them to obey and guard Satin at all times. He himself, though, was not quite so at peace. He wondered endlessly when Stannis would emerge from the tower and bring them all to heel. Satin had done his part, and waited for the king to do his.

You must wait until they make their choice, Stannis's words resonated in his mind. He wondered if the men below would make the glorious one. They must, for they had come too far in the king's cause to look back. Just like Satin. When the snows had finished gathering about Satin's feet, his heart racing, the men made their choice below.

The Magnar had shouted down most of the men, accompanied by his chieftains. Wulf Orangeskin walked at his side, as did the Lord of Drums, the Daring Man, and half a dozen others. A man rushed at them in the chaos, but the Lord Drums drew his great clubs that he called his Drumsticks and battered the man's brains out. Satin did not see if the man wore a black cloak or some other-coloured one, only that the snows stained red. The others listened to the Magnar then.

"If the Wall falls," he shouted,"It will not matter how far south we flee. If King Stannis stands at the Wall, then I will stand by him. If Lord Snow stands at the Wall, then I will stand with him."

"The Thenns have never cowered," the Magnar turned in a circle, his tall form looming above every man,"Never, even before the likes of Thellus the Drake and Theon Stark, and not these icy-faced bastards who rise from the northern wastes."

A shout became a call, which became a storm that engulfed the vast yard and even the battlements where the clansmen stood at guard. All raised their steel towards the north in defiance.

"Remember that man who is relaying the Magnar's orders," Princess Val's voice emerged suddenly beside Satin,"Wulf is just as high in Sigorn Magnar's favour as you are in Stannis's. He's certainly remembered you. If you were not due to wed the daughter of the king, then I daresay he would have any of his five daughters do you in."

"My princess," Satin ground his teeth,"The dead are coming." The Lord of Drums had offered that he steal his daughter, that spearwife Satin met on the road to Mole's Town, as soon as he found out that Lord Snow had been pardoned from the Watch. Satin had received several dozen more offers like such, and he wagered that they had been all waiting to come into Lord Snow's power. He had told them all that the king had betrothed him to his daughter. They did not understand making matches so long before the wedding. The White Woman had spat on him, telling him that a girl would not give him strong sons.

"The dead are coming," the Princess said,"but have my Lord Snow given thought to what may befall you after we win our victory."

"I will wed King Stannis's daughter," Satin said, staring with eyes empty into the swirling snows that rang in a chorus,"and then I will march south with the king to claim his throne."

"His Iron Throne," the Princess said,"though why should Lord Snow subject yourself to the thrones of others. Why not make your own, and not serve at the whims of some other line? We Free Folk make our own kings."

"And it would not be me," Satin thought,"not some whore from an Oldtown brothel." They would choose men like Lord Snow, and Satin was not his master. Stannis's princess was his only chance, the royal line that has the rightful claim to the Seven Kingdoms. The wolf howled in answer to him, its voice echoing throughout the balcony. He looked below, and saw his long shadow soar above Castle Black. The only chance for him to rise. He thanked Lord Snow again.

"You reap what you sow," he remembered these words, given to him by a man he had long since forgotten. He gave Lord Snow the kindness of preserving his legacy, and Lord Snow has blessed him. Lord Snow's white wolf has followed him. It was not as silent as it always was before, yet it was clear who its master was. He looked beside himself at the princess. He became the mummer she wanted, and she gave him the blessing of the Free Folk swords.

"Yet," Satin ground his teeth again,"If she chooses to betray her vow, she will know the worst to come."

He would not suffer the place he had worked so tirelessly to gain to be snuffed out by a treacherous princess.

"If she betrays me," he looked down again,"how far will her poison lie?"

There were men in the Free Folk host that were doubtless loyal to her. Traitors always had a following that he would need to destroy.

"Think about it, Lord Snow," the Princess's voice did nothing to calm Stain's racing heart,"When the Battle for the Dawn is over, only the Others will know who dies and who lives. We shall need to gather the ashes."

She stepped away from him, yet she was not where Satin looked. His eyes lingered in the yard, where the Night's watchmen had joined the call. Led by a man with a thick beard of whom Satin did not know the name, the night's watchmen joined their voices to the Free Folk. Satin's men, the ones who had betrayed Lord Snow that long night before, gave their hearts again to his cause. It was bronze and bone that the Free Folk drew, rusted steel that made the weapons of the Watch and the clansmen, yet what mattered is that they made their choice. They followed him. The wolf howled.

Satin glanced at the horn in his hand, knowing that King Stannis must soon be coming. The king had trusted him with this power for a reason. He knew that Satin could do what he wished. The Bastard was dead, his hounds swinging in their nooses. There was no longer a foe that they all hated, no longer a foe to unify all in Castle Black beneath the burning stag. Except the dead.

"They will never find out," Satin thought,"that it is only other Free Folk beyond the Wall, and the snarks and grumkins are little more than dreams."

Yet it was useful, and even the thought could bring every man to serve King Stannis loyally. To serve Satin who was King Stannis's son-in-law and most leal man. The future king who would sit the seat of seats above all. All he needed to do now was wait for King Stannis to emerge and rouse his banners for the future.

"Prepare a pyre," a shout shattered the cheers within Castle Black. The Flint boy tapped Satin's shoulder, and he turned to see one of Stannis's knights, the one in the golden cloak.

Silence met his call, and so he shouted again,"Prepare a pyre. It is the king's command."

None answered at first, but soon a host of turncloak soldiers strode into the Shieldhall and emerged with armfuls of wood. The others were silent as they watched, none daring to move a muscle. Satin himself was frozen in place.

What seemed like eternity passed when the stack of wood grew taller and wider until at last it was a sprawling mass of twisted timbers. The turncloak knight who led them stepped carefully amidst the smallest twigs, planting a wooden pole in the center of the pyre.

"No," Stannis's squire in a chestnut surcoat whispered at Satin's side,"Tha…That's an altar. The wi… she's going to burn more men to her god. My father is dead because of her. My uncle's as well. It's probably me now. Probably me."

"No," Satin put an arm on his shoulder to steady him,"It isn't. War is coming. Lady Melisandre knows better than to wound our strength."

"She is a witch," the boy burst forth at last,"but my lord can put a stop to it. You are to wed his daughter, as good as his prince and heir. You can rid the king of her. Save us."

Satin turned away, shaking his head. It was unwise to do so. If a prince was what he was, then it would not do to insult the woman that was as good as a queen. The dour-faced turncloak approached the knight who called for the pyre,"Ser Claymund, the pyre is ready. Whom does Lady Melisandre wish to give to the Lord of Light this day?"

"A sacrifice,"Ser Claymund answered, his eyes scanning the whole of Castle Black,"before our war with the dead. A sacrifice, so that in the end His Grace will claim victory. Only death can pay for life, for the night is dark and full of terrors."

"The night is dark and full of terrors," the dour-faced turncloak said, as did his men. Their voices rang throughout the now silent yard, ending in a dreary echo.

The door to the Lord Commander's Tower opened with a scream. It was a woman's scream, high and shrill. King Stannis emerged with steely ice in his eyes, his face as pale as snow. His lips pressed together into a knot as his brows sagged beneath the weight of a teetering crown. An icy finger gripped Satin's heart as he saw the grim-faced king emerge.

Lady Melisandre was clinging to the king's right arm, her cheek pressed against his furs. She met Satin's gaze for a moment, but her eyes quickly dipped down.

Queen Selyse was pulling on King Stannis's other arm, and she was the one that screamed. She pulled at King Stannis with all her strength, but the king did not budge. At last, she collapsed, staring blankly forward in the snow.

Satin looked past King Stannis, and saw behind him the girl. Princess Shireen was held at her arms by guards, but her limbs were limp and her eyes empty. The guards had to drag her through the snow. Ser Claymund and all the turncloaks stepped aside, revealing the pyre. Satin realized what Ser Claymund had meant.

"When did King Stannis become mad?" Satin thought,"His heir. His hold to the throne. My hold to the throne."

He leapt down from the bridge, not caring how it hurt as he ran towards King Stannis. Two of Ser Claymund's guards grabbed Satin before he could reach the king.

"Your Grace," Satin shouted as the guards wrenched him back,"It's your daughter. "

The king looked at him with hardened eyes,"Take no part in this, Lord Snow. It is what I must do."

The Red Woman shrank away behind King Stannis, and Satin shouted at her,"Witch. You've betwetch the king and made him as mad as your Lord. I know it now. The Lord's mad, if he wants children."

Princess Shireen looked at him, but Satin could not return her gaze.

The dead are false, Satin wanted to say, but could not gather the strength to speak the words. It would make him a liar in the eyes of all the world. He heard sobbing, and turned to see Queen Selyse's tears drip and melt the snow. Satin turned away, keeping his lips locked tight.

He tried not to look as the guards dragged the princess forward. He hoped beyond all hope that someone else not as burdened as him could stand and challenge King Stannis and cure him of this madness. But none did. Not the Princess Val, not the Magnar and his chiefs, and not the black cloaks and clansmen with their heads already bowed in mourning. All were silent, and Satin was silent too. They watched as Princess Shireen was dragged across the empty path. The heckling of crows accompanied the last of her road to the pyre. The bird kind, for the human crows stood silent.

The guards tied the princess to the pole above all the timbers, the princess unmoving to their touch. Ser Claymund handed his torch to King Stannis, who gave it to the Red Woman whose face still lay half-buried in Stannis's cloak. She grasped it with trembling fingers, then suddenly dropped it as her hand flew back to hug King Stannis's arm.

Stannis gently set her down and picked up the fallen torch.

"Do not look away," Ser Claymund said behind Satin,"The king will know."

King Stannis walked slowly towards the pyre, the flames of the torch seeming to lick his hand. He reached it soon, meeting his daughter's eyes. He dropped the torch, and the twigs burst into flame. Satin did not look away.

The embers were small at first as they crawled across the kindling, but they began to grow. They grew greater with each passing breath, soon reaching the princess's feet. As the flames climbed her dress, they burnt it into ashes and the skin below melted into the fire. He saw her raise her head to the skies and open her mouth, yet he heard no scream. A flash from the ruby band upon her wrist blinded Satin, yet he found his sight soon and did not look away. The fires roared even as the last of the princess crumbled into ash. A great howl shook the earth, and a shadow rose from the fire. It soared high into the sky, until the winds carried it south.

Satin cast his eyes to King Stannis who had returned, wondering what purpose this madness would serve.

"I do not do this for the Lord," Stannis said,"I do this for us. For all of us." He heard a shriek, and saw a snow-strewn Queen Selyse run towards the fire only to be held back by Ser Claymund. He pulled her back, whispering in her ear.

King Stannis's eyes remained fixed on Satin, then commanded his guards,"Take him with me."

The king helped the Red Woman to her feet, and they walked towards the winch. The masses parted silently before them, and the guards forced Satin the same way. The winch had returned since Mully went up the Wall, and its iron doors opened to greet them. The king and the Red Woman walked in, the guards releasing Satin onto the hard deck. He pushed himself to his feet, watching the doors close and the castle become small beneath him. The fire soon became a pinprick of light.

When they reached the Wall's height, Satin found that it was clear. The Wall rose above the clouds, and he saw the bright blue sky stretch forever in every direction. They could not see the Seven Kingdoms from here, only the mist of beautiful clouds. Mully and Ben were nowhere to be seen, and they were alone.

"Why?" Satin turned to King Stannis.

"You know why," King Stannis took off his crown and threw it at Satin's feet,"You know what to do." Without the crown, he seemed younger by half a life. The lines upon his face smoothed as the snows fell off his crows. His icy eyes turned a piercing blue.

"Take care of her for me," Stannis turned, and there was no shadow behind him. He walked to the edge of the Wall, and he did not stop. He walked, and fell into the clouds, his form a thin silhouette against the white. The clouds flickered, and the king melded into them. He began to shrink and fade until there was nothing left.

Satin looked down at the crown before him. He still wondered why.

"Your Grace," a timid voice rose. Satin turned to see the Red Woman. He pursed his lips and ground his teeth, disgust coursing through his veins. He did not step back as the Red Woman strode towards him. He grew uneasy as he saw her pleading eyes which he never saw before in the Red Woman.

"Father said that you would help," the Red Woman slipped a ruby band from her wrist and flung herself at him. Satin looked down, to see a sobbing girl in his chest. He knew what Stannis meant.

He pushed Shireen gently off him and put the band back on,"You still need it." Satin saw how she changed back into that beautiful yet frightening form. He picked up Stannis's crown.

"We need to go back down," Satin told the princess, and she nodded in agreement. The ride down was slow, descending into the clouds until they could see the Seven Kingdoms again.

The men were still in their places, and the pyre was no longer burning.

"Where is King Stannis?" the Free Folk princess was the first to ask.

Satin looked up at the stag banners, seeing that the north wind still blew. By chance it was warm now, and he knew that the men below would also know.

"The Others came," Satin looked down at Stannis's crown,"and King Stannis was the champion of the living. He met the Great Other alone atop the Wall, in one last battle that sealed our fates. The king had given away all he loved in service of the light, and in that last moment his will was hardened, his sword was sharp, and his fire was bright. He cast Lightbringer into the Great Other, and in that one stroke he has ended our war."

"And the king?" Princess Val asked.

"The Great Other fell," Satin said,"but he took the king with him. All that is left of the king is his crown."

"The dead are gone," a voice whispered, lone at first. Soon, another voice whispered the same,"The dead are gone."

"The dead are gone."

"Winter has been conquered."

"All because of King Stannis."

"Stannis."

"Stannis."

"STANNIS."

Satin thought the gods were favouring him, as only now did he see the sun break through the clouds.

The dead were never there, Satin looked at Stannis's crown. He dropped it, falling to his knees. A slender white hand picked up the fallen crown, Satin's eyes following it to the Princess Val standing above him.

"Lord Commander Mormont," she said,"deemed you worthy of being his heir. My brother Mance deemed you worthy of being his heir. King Stannis deemed you worthy of being his heir. You will accept this crown, Lord Snow."

Satin closed his eyes, and felt cold steel grace his brow. It was heavy, and he stood.

"My King," he opened his eyes to the princess kneeling before him. "My king," the Magnar echoed, bending his knee as well. One by one, the men in the yard bent their knees before Satin until he was the last one standing. Their chant was echoed by the crows, a name that would forever be his:

"Jon."

"Jon."

"JON."

 

[Mockingbird]

ALAYNE
​

Out of all Alayne's bride gifts, she was wary most of the ring.

It was a beautiful thing, perhaps even the most beautiful she had ever seen. The ring was shining silver with not a scratch no scraps, with elegant arches carved in the shape of wings. Its jeweler was doubtless one of the best at his craft, a rustle of emerald leaves sprouting on top of the crest to show a glowing amber citrine stone. From a certain glance, Alayne could even have once believed that the stone had been enchanted to float above its leaves, so fine were the threads that connected them. She was not so certain that they connected them at all.

"It was the wedding ring that my mother wore," Lady Anya had been the one to gift it,"as did her mother before her. My lady Alayne is due to marry my dear Harry, so I think it fitting that my lady should have it."

"It is beyond what I could ever hope for," Alayne had answered to Lady Anya's smile,"I will most certainly wear it."

She was wearing it, seeing it shine upon her finger in the looking glass. She wondered why Lady Anya had given such a precious thing to her of all people, the maiden she thought unfit to wed Harry.

"To pay her debts to my father," Alayne supposed,"A groom must come with everything." The lady knew that in due time the bride would return the favour in her dowry. If that was so, then Alayne welcomed the fit.

She held it up to her eye, and heard a giggle behind her,"It shines as bright as you, my lady."

A slap sounded behind her, and a yelp,"Do not get distracted by the lady's beauty. That is Harry's job tonight."

Alayne bit her lip, trying to suppress a light. She failed in the end, and burst forward laughing.

She looked back to see Lady Imelda cross her arms,"My lady ruined all my work." Alayne touched her hair, suddenly guilty.

"I was about to ruin it anyway," Lady Lyra replied,"when my dear lady Imi slapped me."

"I daresay it is fine as it is," Lady Myranda looked Alayne up and down,"The wedding is about to begin soon anyway. I hear from the maids that my lady is already the envy of the night."

Alayne shook her head, smiling. Randa had told her that she was the envy of the castle for all of the past moon as wedding arrangements were made.

"Is Lady Alayne finished here?" a steward in a plain-white fleeced coat emerged from the doorway,"Your gown is ready."

"I would be delighted to try it," of all the wedding arrangements, the gown was the only one she did not know. She knew who would escort her down the hall and when, everyone's place at the feast and what courses would be served, even who were the men allowed at the bedding ceremony. Yet the only answer she received from the seamstresses when she inquired about the gown was that it was not ready.

"Your father had it specially made for you," they had said,"he made us promise not to show you until the wedding."

When the time finally came and the steward showed her to the dress, she was awestruck. All of it had been weaved from a simple white lace that was as pure as snow. Lines of crystal gems glittered down the thin hems as snowdrifts do in moonlight. At its back, a garden of silver threads wound together in the shape of wings just like the one on her ring. The gown would make her look like the Maiden come down from the Seven Heavens. Floating. No, flying. Her heart sank as she realized what her father meant by this gown.

"It is a bird," Lady Imelda exclaimed. "A mockingbird," Alayne said, trying to keep a high spirit in her voice.

Yet she could not hide from the fact that the moment Yohn Royce took power, her hope as a Stark was gone. Only her father cared enough to give her backWinterfell, and now that hope vanished just like his place as Lord Protector. In this world, she could never be the wolf at her wedding. Her father gifted her this dress as a warning that she could not be Sansa Stark within their power. She had to be Lord Baelish's bastard daughter, a songbird to sing them songs. That was most like to be the reason why her father would not attend her wedding.

He said that he sought to return to the Fingers and call his banners now that the Vale is at war. She even thought that he had been exiled away from his seat in Harrenhal, but she began to piece together the truth. He was p-laying his part, just as Alayne was playing hers. The wolf's song could not be sung, and so the mockingbird's must be seen to its end. The marriage of Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Harrold Arryn of the Vale in time, to Lady Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers and the Riverlands. So shall it be forever, and she would have no taste of that dreaded Northern name again. A much humbler offer, but Alayne wondered if it was better. A quiet life as Lady Arryn did not seem so terrible.

If only Lord Robert would succumb to his illness, Alayne sprung suddenly straight, realizing the last piece that would see his song through. It was another reason for why her father was gone. He would not be suspected of any intent if he were not here. She remembered his last words to her, accompanied by a kiss beneath a canopy of crimson leaves,"I am so sorry that I could not give you away. I have asked Lord Yohn to do it in my stead."

"My lady is beautiful,"Alayne just realized that the servants had set her in the gown, and she shone in the pearl-created looking glass.

"Heavenly," another voice agreed.

"Pure," a third voice chimed in.

Alayne curled her finger about Lady Anya's ring, feeling its cool silver soothe her skin.

"The girl dares to dream again," she looked down on the citrine stone,"for dreams are our efforts come true."

A knock on the doorway rang throughout the room.

"Is my lady Alayne finished?" a rough voice called. For a moment, there was no answer, and they heard the steward bark:"Please wait a moment longer my lords."

"You need not," Randa laughed," Come on in. You men are not fortunate enough to have an early taste of the bedding."

A host of smiling faces waited beyond the door.

"Lady Imelda," the steward said,"You are with Ser Arnold."

"Lady Lyra," he gestured to a dashing knight behind him,"You are with Ser Harlan."

"And Lady Myranda," he pointed to another man,"Ser Lyn has requested the honour of escorting you."

"And my Lady Alayne," the steward began, but a broad man in a bronze suit of armour pushed him aside.

"Baelish is not here," Lord Yohn Royce said,"and as Lord Protector I am obligated to give you to Ser Harrold in his stead."

"I cannot be more grateful that my lord will stand in for my father," Alayne gave the lord her hand to kiss,"I am certain my father is too."

"My lady knows the custom," Lord Yohn said to her in the hall,"As the third gong sounds, we go forth."

"The father walks out with the bride in hand," Alayne agreed,"and gives her to the groom."

She giggled, knowing that she must put up the front of a blushing bride before this lord. Yet though how much she wanted to feel like her mother did, her spirits fell as she realized how her father had never known what Harry would know. Forbidden from the love of his life by Stark's cold eyes.

Stark, she had to force herself to smile. There was something she must know from Lord Yohn.

"Hurry, my lady," Lord Yohn said,"We must be in the sept before the first gong."

There was a stretch in the hall when Alayne was alone with Lord Yohn, the coattails of Randa having disappeared around the corridor.

"Alone," Alayne did not smile at that,"There were still Lord Yohn's guards, whatever spider's ears hidden within the walls." That made no matter, for she wondered if it was best for others to know and spread it.

"Were you at my mother's wedding, my lord?" Alayne stopped walking, turning to meet Lord Yohn in the eye.

"Your mother?" Lord Yohn looked bewildered,"I must confess that I thought Baelish never married your mother."

"My father never married my mother," Alayne knew,"That was true, but Lady Catelyn still had a wedding."

"My mother's wedding," she echoed softly.

The light dawned on Lord Yohn's eyes, and he stammered quickly,"Yes, yes, I have."

"You knew," Alayne stepped backward,"then why not let them know? There were so many chances. At the feast, at Lord Robert's tourney ceremony, at the arrival of the first knights when all were fathered at the gates. I plead with my lord tell me, what can hold the strength of my lord back? Why not tell the others my true name?"

Lord Yohn's eyes softened, and he stroked her chin,"I am so very sorry, my dear child. None should suffer as you and your house did."

"Littlefinger," his tone grew icy,"It is all because of that vile whoremonger that my lady cannot claim the truth. I wished to reveal who my lady was then and there that day when we threw Littlefinger off his seat, but Ser Lyn bade me the wiser course. If we revealed my lady when I had wished, all would see Littlefinger as the one who brought my lady safety and he might still rule as Lord Protector. But by waiting, by letting him do what little he could do with a bastard, his curse has been banished to the Fingers where it belongs. In due time, the king's decree would arrive stripping him of all his titles except his father's, returning your mother's house to its rightful place. Soon, my lady shall also be returned to your rightful place. Trust me when I say, my lady, that at this farce's end you will be who you were always meant to be."

"Stark," Alayne saw in Lord Yohn's cold eyes the same frost she saw in that man whose face she never wanted to see again, that man who had taken her mother from her father. Did she want to be a Stark, and feel so very cold? Her dress ruffled as she felt the warmth of the torches that banished the winter cold away. The dress felt less like snow. More a feathercoat.

"Stupid," she chided herself. She wanted to be her father's daughter for all the world to see, and she was stupid enough to ask about that other woman who she did not want to be. Lord Yohn's guards would spread the rumours, as would whatever spider's ears hidden within the walls. She forgot her father's warning that she still must be the mockingbird's daughter, and butterflies fluttered in her tummy as she dreaded what would happen now that they would know.

When the third gong rang, Lord Yohn escorted Alayne into the Sept of the Sky. Despite her dread, she gathered that it was a hall etched straight from the songs. Lord Nestor had organized the wedding with the war on the Vale's doorstep, and it was truly a wonder how he had replicated the splendour of Joffrey's wedding.

The sept had been transformed utterly into a place of fantasy where love was pure. She walked by the seven shades of tinted glass behind marble pillars that rose high above. The deep blue ceiling had been enchanted by its builders to look like a starless sky. Every place there wafted the soothing scent of incense, so sweet that she could have forgotten all her troubles.

And there was song. A lone harp played its haunting song, a forgotten tale sang by a young man with long nose and raven-black hair. It would be a long time before the Vale trusted singers again after Marillion, and so there were two guards standing at the man's sides. Yet Alayne only heard the song. An uneasy mix of all things. Pain and joy. Darkness and light. Death and life. Entwined on a string that would either pull back or push forward. All she knew was when she heard it, her life became a dream.

"My wedding needed no pomp," Alayne looked down the aisle,"Not like Joffrey's." There were no gold-plated shields or elegant tapestries hanging from the walls, no jewels decorating the banners, cloaks, and silken draperies. The gold had all been needed for the war.

The crowd had watched her as she arrived, two hundred in the hall alone that were all the chivalry and fairness of the Vale. She was still center of their eyes as she walked past.

Banners lined the walls, growing in number until they reached the forefront of the hall, where the Hardyng checkerboard met the Baelish titan beneath the seven-starred glass looking out into the night. She wondered why she warranted the titan sigil, for she was still a bastard. Her eyes soon flew elsewhere, where above them all loomed the numerous cloths bearing some falcon and moon of the House of Arryn.

Alayne looked for Lord Robert, and found him at last when she passed the front of the crowd. He was nestled in Gretchel's chest, not having the strength to even stand on his own. The Lord of the Vale was bid to lead the attendants into the hall when the first gong sounded, and she was unsure of how he did so. Perhaps he led them upon the breast of his maid.

The other lord found Alayne's eyes, the dashing Young Falcon. A line of knights streaming by his lift, a line of ladies at his right. The groom and his party arrived when the second gong sounded, just before Alayne arrived. Harry stood at the head of the sept in a fastened crimson doublet threaded by silver, his white cloak streaming behind him. His golden hair shone in the firelight, like a hero who was rare in this world. His lines of knights and ladies branched out in a majestic sprawl, like wings.

Lord Yohn walked her up the steps and let go of her hand as she came before Harry. She felt her shoulders lighten, and then realized it was Lord Yohn removing a cloak that she did not know she wore.

"A titan?" Alayne broke the silence, nodding to the banners beside them.

"Aunt Anya was still troubled over having me to wed a bastard," Harry answered,"so I petitioned the king. The letter of legitimization arrived two nights ago."

"Does she approve now?" Alayne asked.

"Of course," Harry answered,"She's given you her ring."

"A gift from her," Alayne agreed.

Harry took her hand, and for a moment Alayne thought that he would kiss it. Yet he folded his hand down upon the ring, covering her left hand with his own. His right hand found her left, entwining them together.

"Ahem," the septon cleared his throat, and whispered,"Ser Harrold. Lady Alayne. Please take your positions."

Alayne stood where she was bid, her hands joined by Harry's.

"We gather here today," the septon declared,"to witness the holy union of man and woman beneath the light of the Seven who are One." He paused for a moment,"and the crown of the one true king, though King Aegon sends his regrets that he could not attend us tonight.

The septon turned to her and Harry, and said the words he was bid to say. Alayne fell into the depths of Harry's eyes, but she heard the septon's words all the way to his last.

"You may cloak the bride," the septon finally concluded his speech. Alayne turned, banishing away that dismal memory of the Imp and all his abhorrent antics. Harry's cloak was warm, a soft weight resting upon her shoulders. She knew it would be red on white. Blood snow, or a rose in the sunlight. Alayne turned, and knew that it was the rose she would see.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Alayne said,"and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Harry said his words a moment after,"and take you for my lady and wife."

She stepped forward and kissed him, feeling his lips as warm as summer. The septon's words were ringing in the distance,"there they are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Alayne held onto Harry's cloak,"Now and forever."

The feast was a pale echo of the delight upon the pedestal when she and Harry kissed above all the Vale.

The courses were, of course, fair with salmon and salted pork and dozens of other delicacies hailing from the mountains. There lay in the center a great plate of venison cooked from a stag that the hunters said was shot by Harry himself. She thanked every servant and offering lord as she was bid to do, but her gaze and words were drawn to her lord husband beside her.

Lord Robert sat the high Arryn seat attended by a host of maids, but Harry sat the closest to his right as Defender of the Vale. Lords and ladies would timely come forth to hail Lord Robert, but their words sang congratulations to Harry and his lady wife. Knights came striding forth in their shining armour attended by squires, yet as they swore their swords to the service of Lord Robert their eyes were on the wedding couple.

Harry looked and acted every bit as she expected, the lord from her dreams whom her father had given her. Her father knew who was true and who was not, unlike all the others. Alayne wondered when the other part of his scheme would come to fruition. Her father was long gone, and the guilt would not fall unto him. His hands were clean, and could raise Harry to his deserved seat.

"Poor boy," she glanced over her shoulder to the ailing Lord Robert,"It would be a mercy."

It was two courses later when a serving girl whispered into her ear as she passed out her dish,"Don't drink from the golden cup."

"Now?" she lay stunned there for a moment, then reminded herself to compose her features and not look at the serving girl as she disappeared. She decided that it was sensible now, as his daughter had just wed the future lord and as the new Lord Arryn rose, so would she.

A horrible thought suddenly seized her stomach. For all his efforts, her father had chosen the wrong time. Right after her wedding to Harry was the worst time. The others would suspect her father and her, for they were the ones to now rise as Lord Robert fell.

"Harry," she hissed in the knight's ear,"Drink from the golden cup." She would never let suspicion fall on Harry. Lord Robert was already weak, so her father would be only using a weak poison. It would be enough to kill a sickly boy, but not near enough for a grown man. Only enough to give him a minor illness and draw suspicion off Alayne and her father.

"I know, my lady," Harry whispered back to her,"Worry not."

"Lord Nestor," he reached over and picked up the golden cup,"What is in here? Wine?"

"Honeyed milk, Ser," Lord Nestor answered,"It was meant for Lord Robert."

"Since Ser Eustace," he looked at Lord Robert's cupbearer who lay drunk on the table,"cannot fulfill his duties, I propose that I serve as Lord Robert's new cupbearer."

A laugh shook the table, Ser Morton shaking so hard that he tumbled out of his chair.

"You are fortunate, Harry," Ser Harlan said,"to know the taste of a mother again."

"Though," he turned to Alayne,"He would know that taste tonight anyway."

Alayne turned away, her cheeks burning red. She was glad that they would not reach the bedding.

"Ser Harrold," Ser Arnold's harsh voice rose,"Let me do this duty. I am Lord Robert's kin just as much as you are, an Arryn from a far-off line, but still an Arryn."

Alayne looked at him, his face flustered and pale. Dimly, she thought that he was the only one at the table who was not drunk. Lady Lyra had stormed off when he had continuously refused her offers of wine.

Harry raised no answer, only holding the golden cup to his mouth, his lips brimming the milk. Alayne prayed that she was right about her father. The poison would kill Lord Robert, but not him.

He lowered the cup without even a slight twinge to his face, and Alayne wondered for a moment if she was wrong about the poison at all. He gave the cup to a maid who raised it to Lord Robert's lips, and there she saw his hand begin to twitch. As sudden as a star shower, he bent forward, and began to hack and cough.

Lord Yohn rose, his hand knocking over Lord Robert's cup. The boy lord began to cry, but the rest were silent.

"Someone help the boy," Lord Nestor roared.

"Do not dare touch him," Ser Morton rose from his seat, eyeing anyone who dared to come close to him.

A violent spasm seized Harry, and he shivered until he at last collapsed.

"I was wrong," Alayne thought that she would scream, but she was silent. She pushed herself out of the chair and swept down to where Harry lay. Ser Morton allowed her through even as he barred all the others who dared to come. Her hand landed in the puddle of spilled milk, and her ring came away glistening white. She heard the hall in uproar as she grasped Harry's hand, expecting it cold and empty. He squeezed.

"Oh," Alayne realized, and knew to scream.

Harry lay in his bed far into the night. Alayne sat at his bedside, looking over him seemingly frozen in time. The others had thought her mad, dwelling so long upon a dead man. Yet they were wrong. They thought he was a dead man, but she knew better. They saw the silken tears upon her cheek and believed her, and she was only playing her part.

Alayne had commanded Ser Morton and his brother to carry Harry to his bed, not letting anyone else know that his skin was still warm. The other lords and knights were too fixated on whether Lord Robert had been poisoned to care enough about Ser Harrold, and the Waynwood guards dissuaded anyone else who dared to come close.

The Waynwood brothers stood guard outside the chamber, alongside Ser Arnold who wished to stand vigil over his friend's supposed corpse. Alayne hoped that Harry did not reveal his secret to too many. The Waynwood brothers were his kin, who stood to rise as he did, but Arnold Arryn could supplant Harry if he were not careful. Alayne had bid Ser Wallace watch the other knight at all times.

She wondered throughout the night the reason for this false death, and she began to reach the truth. The messenger did not come from her father, who was very like to have nothing to do with it, but from Harry. The golden cup was not poisoned at all, and the message was only so Alayne would not soil it. It was all a scheme to have them lose sight of him for a moment, fessing over their Lord Robert who was already so frail and could not survive any poison.

This whole farce chilled Alayne to the bone. When before she thought that the Vale loved their Young Falcon much more than the sickly boy, she learned better. Little to no one sought to care for Harry after he supposedly died, but everyone sought to care for Lord Jon's son. If she or her father had even tried to oust Lord Robert in favour of Harry, the Vale would spell their doom in an instant.

Maester Colemon had dropped by their chamber only once to be turned away at the door.

"In their absence," Alayne looked at the sleeping Harry,"He could do what he could not do when they were here."

A choir of voices began to rise in the hall, and at the same time she felt Harry begin to stir.

"No," she squeezed his hand, telling him to not show himself,"They must not know."

Just as her heart began to rest, she heard the steps grow ever louder. She held onto hope yet again that Ser Morton and Ser Wallace's voices would ring against the coming men, yet she only heard a gruff welcome. Alayne squeezed Harry's hand again, reminding him that the men beyond must be men of import if Harry's knights could not stop them. They must be Lord Yohn or any other of the Lords Declarant. He must remain dead.

To his horror, Harry did not venture back into that false sleep. Instead, he rose to face the door, his face as hale as any young man.

"Aunt Anya," his voice rang out in greeting, and Alayne glimpsed the door open.

Her heart fluttered as she clutched at Harry's arm. A whole host of men entered, armour flashing beneath the firelight. Not the dress armour they wore in the wedding, but battle armour suited for war. Alayne recognized Lady Anya in her sable cloak, speaking with Ser Donnel who clenched his gauntlet tight about his hilt.

"Aunt Anya," Harry echoed, his voice ringing again through the chamber. Lady Anya stepped forward, knelt before Harry's bed, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her smile was as warm as summer,"I knew the tales to be false."

"Pity," Harry returned her smile,"I needed them to be true."

"Royce believed it, at least," Lady Anya said,"And fearing to reveal himself, he would not dare another attempt to poison Lord Robert. Our lord has escaped him."

Harry placed a hand on Alayne's shoulder, struggling to stand. It appeared as though he had to press down Alayne, yet she only felt a gentle touch.

Ser Arnold moved quickly to help Harry, and her husband nodded to the knight bust brushed him off. He resolved at last to lean upon his bedpost, but he stood.

"Once Royce learns that his poison did not succeed," Harry said,"he is certain to try again. The next time, I might not be there to save Lord Robert."

'Lord Yohn?" a knight in a red cloak came forward,"Did he put the poison in the golden cup?"

"Not him directly," Lady Anya said,"We interrogated the cooks, and they tell me that it is most like to be Lady Myranda who put the poison in the milk. Poison is a woman's weapon, after all. But if my lady is inquiring whether Bronze Yohn gave the order, then the answer is as sure as sunrise."

"Lord Yohn only spoke of ridding the Vale of Lord Baelish," Harry sank into his seat, and then rose again,"I believed him once, that it was the right course. I followed his counsel to go to war; he said to march against Littlefinger's Lannisters. I let him declare me Defender of the Vale, ousting Lord Baelish from his seat as Lord Protector. I turned a blind eye to what he said was cleansing the last of Littlefinger's poisons: the boy. The thought of it plagued me all through my wedding, and I hope that my wife could forgive my distance. I could not forgive myself, and in the end I decided that I could not do it. I drank out of Lord Robert's cup in penance."

Alayne wanted to smile as she knew that with Harry's words, Royce was doomed to fall. Her father's plan had been wise.

"That is not true penance, my lord," the red-cloaked knight snapped,"True penance would be to catch the murderer."

"That is what we plan to do," Lady Anya said,"That is what we are here for."

Alayne looked at the knight, and recognized him as Ser Dylan Hart, one of Lord Belmore's household guard,"Not just a mere member, but their captain." She looked about herself, and found herself surrounded by a gilded hulk who was the companion of the Knight of Ninestars, a green-cloaked knight who swore himself to the Hunters, and a beardless man tall and thin as a spear. She did not know who the last man was and he wore no sigil, but she supposed that he was a trusted man of one of the major Vale houses to warrant Harry's invitation.

"I have just been to the Moongate," she said,"and instructed Lord Royce of our situation. He raised the swords of the Gates at Ser Harrold's call."

"Why did he obey?" Alayne asked,"His daughter is the one who put in the poison?"

"His daughter may be guilty," Lady Anya answered,"but I trust that his heart is loyal and true. He swayed, but I reminded him of the oath he gave to Lord Baelish when he was sworn in as Knight of the Gate. To Stand True."

"Ser Dylan," Harry turned to the red-cloaked knight,"Inform Lord Belmore that he should keep his swords ready in the case that Bronze Yohn lashes out. I will send two of my men to aid in your guard."

"You have my thanks," Ser Harrold," Ser Dylan replied as he left, Harry's two men watching him as they followed.

"Ser Cregan," Harry bade the gilded hulk next,"Inform Ser Symond that Lady Lyra's safety will be paramount as we oust Bronze Yohn, and that she shall be secured first before the struggle."

"The Ser's thanks are to you," Ser Cregan grunted as he swept alone from the chamber, none of Harry's men following.

Harry turned to the green-cloaked knight last,"Ser Harpen. I fear that Lord Gilwood is too deep in Bronze Yohn's pockets, but his brother Ser Harlan is a true man. Go to him. Two of my men will shield you." Ser Harpen glanced at the guards beside him, then nodded as well.

"Ser Wallace," Harry instructed his foster brother,"Go with Ser Ilan to the walls and check the patrols. I will not have us ambushed by mountain savages while we deal with treason. Ser Wallace made no answer but grasped the tall beardless man by the arm and led him outside.

"The rest of you," Harry said at last,"I can only ask that you come with me. This is the most dangerous duty, and so I myself must tread it. Bronze Yohn appointed Ser Lyn the First Marshal of the Knights, placing most of his men under his command. I must go to Ser Lyn and convince him of the truth. The last of the Royce's hope will be gone if Ser Lyn stays his swords. I cannot promise that Ser Lyn will not kill us on sight, but I will do my duty to the Vale. I cannot command you to do the same, only ask. I only ask that you prove yourselves not the traitor's slaves, but the falcon's men."

The drawing of a sword was the answer, joined by another, then another, then all of them. They echoed what the knights forged that day beneath the fires when they all cried Aegon's name, yet time their swords chanted something truer.

"They will love their Young Falcon," Alayne knew the truth at last from the singing in the chamber. How wise her father had been. It had looked to her that when the Vale declared for Aegon Targaryen and raised Harry to his seat that they had abandoned her father, forsaking the man who could lead them through winter. Yet Harry and Lord Yohn in their seats of strength could do more for him than he ever could as Lord Protector. He would return as a hero, the hero who would shield Harry's rule and bring Alayne home. Home not to Winterfell and those chambers of ice and cold, but a true home. The nest where the mockingbird can sleep warm, where a daughter has a father.

"Alayne Baelish," that was as sweet a name as she could ever hope to know.

"What of your new bride?" Lady Anya's words suddenly pierced Alayne's dream, and she put a finger on her ring,"You do not need him, not as you come unto your own."

"I do," Harry answered,"He is still the Lord of Harrenhal and the Riverlands no matter how much we pretend otherwise. I am still a boy, or have you not noticed? I need him, just as I need you."

"Fine," Lady Anya snarled. She strode suddenly to Alayne, grasped her hand, and broke the ring off her finger. When Alayne spotted black specks run across the silver, she realized why Lady Anya had done so.

"She originally sought to blame it on me and my father," Alayne knew what sort of danger they were still in. She could not let her guard down.

"When Bronze Yohn is captured," Alayne said,"what do you intend to do with him?"

"A swift and fair trial," Harry said as he pulled on his gauntlets,"and we have him take the black. His power will be gone overnight."

"It will be foolish to do so," Alayne said,"for he is still alive. On the road to the Wall, who can say if he would call his banners against you? Runestone holds the most swords in the Vale, and his foul scheme may very well succeed."

Alayne stepped to Lady Anya and folded her hand over the stained ring,"He must die, and I trust that you know how to make it so."

It was later that night in the Moongate Hall that Ser Lyn and Ser Symond dragged Lord Yohn before Harry.

"Lord Robert is dead," Harry was Harrold Arryn the lord now, his voice as sharp as steel,"I shielded him from your poison at the feast, but your poison still found him in his bed. Your kin Lady Myranda has admitted that she was the one to pour the sweetsleep in the milk. She has also admitted who gave the order."

The guards dragged forward a bruised and beaten woman whose dress was in tatters. It took Alayne a moment to realize that it was Randa, and the court seemed to only then truly waken.

"Did you put something in Lord Robert's milk?" Harry asked. Randa nodded almost imperceptibly. Lord Yohn opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"My lord Arryn" Lord Belmore said to Harry,"What is your judgment?"

"There is only one just punishment for murdering one's liege lord," Gawen Hunter said. It should have been his uncle Ser Harlan in his place, but the knight had been found drunk with Lady Imelda in bed.

Silence fell upon the hall, until Lord Nestor rushed forward to fall to his knees before Harry.

"Please, my lord," he pleaded,"Myranda knew nothing of it. Yohn told her that it was a tonic to help Lord Robert's illnesses. She could not refuse the head of House Royce."

Alayne bit her lip and caught Lord Yohn looking at her with pleading eyes. She turned away, striding out of the hall through the side door. It would be an ugly business that Harry could see to its end. Two guards accompanied Alayne as she found her way to a window that looked out into the night air. The Vale beyond was a grey and ethereal emptiness. A beauty. Hers.

She took out the ring which Lady Anya had given back to her. The citrine stone was unstained, shining ever so bright in the moonlight. She fingered the ring, turning it round and round. Her fingers found the wretched lumps of the black stains on the silver, but her eyes saw only the orange gem.

"My lady," a voice wakened her to her side where a tall knight stood.

"Ser Arnold," Alayne said,"Forgive me. I did not think to find you here."

"I did not either," Ser Arnold said,"It was an ugly business back there."

"It is done?" Alayne said.

"Ser Arnold nodded,"Lord Harrold had Ser Lyn do the deed with Lady Forlorn."

"Both of them?" Alayne's voice came out fearful.

"Only the lord," Ser Arnold stated,"Lord Harrold spared the girl, but she will join the Silent Sisters in penance."

Alayne nodded, her eyes glumly drawn back to her fingers,"I had spared no one." Her vision began to blur, and she could scarce make out her own hands.

"My lady," Alayne felt Ser Arnold's hand brush her cheek.

"Lord Robert," she sputtered, her tears muffling her voice.

"I know," he drew her into an embrace,"Your father would be proud."

Alayne felt the ring slip from her fingers into the darkness below. Her hands were clean.