All Quiet Under the Sea(ASoIaF)

[Mockingbird]

JON
​

"How did your tryst to King's Landing fare?" Jon could not hide the ice in his voice, the bells ringing in the distance.

The eunuch was dressed as a merchant today, in a fur-trimmed cap and a cloak woven of Lorathi silk. He smelled of cauliflower perfumer, and when he smiled he revealed a golden tooth. Jon guessed that the eunuch arrived on one of the convoys the Chessemonger sent from Pentos to keep Aegon's host provisioned. The captains had been none too eager to favour delivering grain to Storm's End, but their moods swiftly changed when the Cheesemonger offered to buy their silks and spices at exorbitant prices. Jon wondered if the captain's minds would change again if they found out whom else they were delivering.

"Most like they did not notice," none in Storm's End had spotted the eunuch until he stood right before Jon's chamber.

"A nasty bit of business," the eunuch stroked his beard that Jon was sure to be false,"but it is what men like us must do for the good of the realm."

"Kevan Lannister's death was your doing, was it not?" Jon did not mourn the death of the traitor, but the manner in which he died: in a lone chamber with a hundred knife wounds, spoke only of the eunuch's treachery.

"I am certain that my Lord Hand will not accuse His Grace's loyal man of such debauchery," the eunuch said.

Jon hated the fact that he was right. Should word spread that Aegon's men engaged in base murder, his cause was doomed. Jon hated also that Aegon needed men like the eunuch, and that he could not be punished like Chain and Marq Mandrake who engaged in acts of pillage and rape like the Lannisters.

Yet some acts must be done. Kevan Lannister must die, one way or another.

"As I have said," the eunuch continued,"A nasty bit of business in the capital. A pity that Pycelle died as well, the only sin of the old maester being that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I dread that Cersei Lannister may actually listen to the next maester the Citadel sends."

Jon cared only of what good the murders would bring,"How fares Lannister rule in the city?"

"I still receive timely tales from my little birds," the eunuch said,"and I am glad to report that Lannister rule is poor. Very poor. Lannisters and Tyrells are at each other's throats, and to make matters worse for everyone are the ragged sparrows with their prayers and seven-starred swords. Some of the hosts in the city no longer listen to the commands of their lieges. The people know not where to stand. Tommen Baratheon's wife attempted to salvage the situation at Kevan Lannister's funeral, and she was on the verge of doing so. Yet she hated Cersei Lannister much too much to allow the two sides to ever reconcile. I even daresay that Mace Tyrell is thinking of abandoning the lion banner for the dragon."

"Mace Tyrell was a loyal man in the last war," Jon said,"He was led astray by false promises, but he will be welcome again if he proves himself at Aegon's side."

"I daresay our Lord Tyrell seeks rather more than to prove himself at Aegon's side," the eunuch smiled a gleaming smile,"Why would he abandon a place where he stands as King's Hand and father of the realm? To abandon a sinking ship, for one, but also to find a sturdy mast on the one that's still afloat. A flower in a fourth hand is still a flower, though I think that His Grace's hands are already full with a Dornish bloom."

"Seven Hells," Jon had done his utmost to prevent word of the scandal from unfolding, but he supposed it was inevitable that the eunuch's informants would find out.

"Princess Arianne is a lovely lady, is she not?" the eunuch said.

Jon supposed that the eunuch knew to hide his knowledge of that other one. The spiderweb grew ever larger by the day, and Jon was not certain how far he was in the tangles. He was not certain how far Aegon was in the tangles. It only mattered that the eunuch's webs strangled their enemy before it could strangle him. Yet from how it looked, it seemed that the eunuch sought to strangle Aegon with his knowledge.

"A nasty business," the eunuch said,"but I admit that my Lord Hand was wise. Some things have to be done for the good of the realm."

"What does he know of the realm?" Jon could no longer hide a sneer. The eunuch knew of a realm where men and women could be bought and sold like livestock, where their lives were naught more than secrets in a whisper. There was no place in his realm for the honour Jon would remake of the Seven Kingdoms beneath the dragon banner, no place for the kingdom Aegon's rule would heal. Only the nasty business that concerned the lowliest of the low.

Jon's men had found Aegon and that Dornish whore in a clearing in the middle of the Rainwood. On another day, the clearing might have been beautiful. It was the one place within a thousand miles of forest where you could see the sky. The people of Griffin's Roost always said that the Rainwood was prettiest the eve of winter, when all the rains dried to leave the forest in all its glory. Jon thought that it was oftentimes too dry, as the streams were empty until the snows melted in the coming spring.

The horse that whore stole was already dead of thirst by the time Jon arrived after three days of grueling chase. Aegon had the sense to always carry a canteen of water with him, but that was empty when Jon found him. He arrived to see his silver prince's son parched within an inch of his life, demanding water that Jon made his men instantly give. The whore had been gone then, and had stumbled back into the clearing when she heard the scuffle. Jon knew that she had left Aegon to die after stealing the last bits of his canteen. He would have had the Dornish whore killed then and there had not Strickland cautioned Jon to take her in and find out what transpired. Jon heeded that wisdom, as he himself wished to know if the whore's plot involved the princess, just like Lyanna Stark's had involved all the Usurper's Dogs who had raised their banners in rebellion as soon as his silver prince was gone. She would say no more than her lie that she had gone to find water for the both of them, so Strickland had ordered her taken away.

Jon knew that it was not enough, as the whole debacle chilled Jon to the bone. His silver prince's son had come so close to meeting the same tragic end as his father. Jon almost failed his vow, almost failed the son just as he failed the father. It was a miracle that Aegon was alive, that Lord Edric had held the host together in the three days that Jon was gone, and that their march for the Iron Throne would begin in half a fortnight when King's Landing would at last return to its lost crown. Yet he knew that it would teeter at any moment.

"It is my dearest hope," the eunuch said,"that His Grace's camp is at peace with its own. I am afraid that glad tidings are not the only winds I bear from the north. His Grace's greatest peril lies not with Tommen Baratheon whose last waning strength is due to be spent, but a danger much farther away. A storm brewing in the far winterlands that has been left unchecked for far too long until it has mastered a power equalling His Grace. I must admit that I myself had let Eddard Stark's words blind me to the truth. It was truly my folly to not think that he was wiser than any of us. Whilst we hid our dragon in the shadows, his lived in plain sight."

"Speak plainly," Jon demanded, amused that the lies of the Usurper's Dog could trick even the eunuch,"What do you speak of?"

"Not what?" the eunuch answered,"Who?"

"Who in the north can rival the king?" Jon asked,"Robb Stark's power is broken, the last remnants of his widowed queen and infant daughter soon to be swept aside as the Vale's knights thunder from the Bloody Gate. Stark's vassals squabble in the north for his lands and heirs whilst bleeding themselves dry. I do not even know now if it is Arya Stark or Rickon Stark or Ramsay Snow who rules in Winterfell."

"Arya," the eunuch said,"The other two are dead. She, however, is not whom I speak of. The threat I speak of is not her, but one Beyond the Wall."

"The wildlings have never managed to conquer the south," Jon said.

"Under a wildling king," the eunuch's voice hardened,"but under a king of the Seven Kingdoms… I fear the devastation that would follow. Eddard Stark, under the guise of sending his bastard Jon Snow to the Night's Watch, has secretly dispatched Snow as an emissary to the tribes Beyond the Wall offering them a pact. Should they follow Snow's banner and claim the south in his name, Snow would offer them all the plunder of the lands they take for him. And so Jon Snow has won himself a host rivaling even the mightiest the Reach can offer."

"No one in the south would ever take a Snow as their king," Jon said.

"A Snow, no," the eunuch sighed,"What if I told you that he was someone far more dangerous?"

Jon turned to him, his eyes unblinking.

"What if I told you," the eunuch said," that seventeen years ago a prince loved his lady, loved her so very much that he threw away his kingdom and his House. And with that lady he had a son. But when the child was born his kingdom had fallen, his father was dead, and his guardians no more than three pretty white swords."

"No," Jon tried to wave him off.

"As you wish, my lord," the eunuch stopped the story.

"Continue," Jon gritted his teeth, knowing that he must hear it until the end.

"The child's uncle came," the eunuch continued in a mellow tone,"slaying his guardians, and his mother on his deathbed bade her brother take the babe in and make her a promise. A promise to win the child the throne of his fathers. She had named the child Aegon.'

Jon curled his fingers, the bells throbbing in his ears. It reeked of Lyanna Stark to seek to supplant the true Aegon with her own vile spawn.

"I imagine it now," Jon spat,"Stark lavishing on his little usurper every princely glory that I had to deny the true heir, forever whispering in the boy's ear that the Iron Throne was his birthright. And now, though Stark is dead, his seed has grown into a great plague."

"He will never find men to shield his claim," Jon stated, turning away from the eunuch,"He is a bastard, and a younger bastard at that."

"As was Daemon Blackfyre," the eunuch said,"and he found enough men to bleed the realm dry for three long summer years."

"Daemon Blackfyre lost to his trueborn brother," Jon said,"as will Snow, if he marches south with his weak claim."

"A victory a century ago can hardly count now," the eunuch said,"The tidings I receive from my little birds become worse with each moon. More and more wildings pass through the Wall at the bastard's behest. He has settled the women and children of the fighting men in the New Gift to keep them as hostages. Then, he faked his own death to escape the Night's Watch, beginning to form his own host. His host picks up tens to hundreds each day, and some say that he has began to unite with the larger wildling bands. But that is not what frightens me most."

"What is it?" Jon demanded.

"An army is only one pillar of the delicate balance that supports a crown," the eunuch said,"the other is the claim. The bastard's greatest weakness lies that even while he has his host, he is still His Grace's younger brother. Daemon was doomed to fail the moment he marched from Harrenhal, as was Renly the moment he took the golden stag as his own. Yet the bastard has remedied that. He has made a pact with Stannis Baratheon to marry his daughter, gaining a claim that is true in many eyes of the realm. He has the power to rival His Grace in every match."

"Kyle," Jon called, and the squire rushed into the chamber,"Go to the Keep of Grief, and tell Strickland to summon the captains. The Hand's command. We are to march on the morrow."

"Wisdom, my lord," the eunuch took a swig of his cup,"A dance of dragons is the most dangerous game. One dance cost the Targaryens their dragons. Another cost them their throne. Now, Princess Daenerys has brought three winged dragons back into this world. There are only three who remain of the blood of the dragon, who can bend the beasts to their will. Daenerys. Our king Aegon. And Jon Snow. A dance… I dread to think what the cost of a dance may be."

"That is why we will have no dance," Jon said,"We will take King's Landing before Snow, and prove to all the realm who is the true king upon the Iron Throne. He is the king's brother, after all, and he will know his place. If he does, the king will offer that he could still be Lord of Winterfell and the North. The king needs his own kin to hold his lands."

For the first time ever, Jon registered surprise upon the eunuch's face. It quickly disappeared into that false smile.

"I underestimated you, my Lord Hand," the eunuch said,"That is truly wise, though what would you make of the Baratheons Snow has wed?"

"He will know when to deliver me their heads," Jon looked at the eunuch,"Would my Lord Varys suggest a wiser course?"

"Oh, no," the eunuch said,"I am only a humble spider who provides the fruits of my flies, and what better men do with them is beyond my little web."

No sooner had the eunuch departed did Jon doubt himself. It seemed still that he was playing straight into the eunuch's web. He chided himself, knowing that there was little time to be wasted on his doubts. The gods had granted him this northern bastard, so that he would have a reason to act in haste without revealing the truth of his greying hand.

"They said that the Stone Men's hands become numb with cold," Jon oft found that as he ran his hands over the brazier, he found some exotic taste within his fingers.

That had been precious time wasted, just as he wasted now on his doubts. The infection had spread to half his palm, and he knew that he must take all haste in bringing Aegon his throne. He shook his head free of such burdens, and stepped aside to do his duty to Aegon.

"Before the march," he knew,"There is one thing yet to be done."

"Lord Connington," the guards greeted as he strode outside. They were guards from Griffin's Roost, men he had known since he was a boy. They were set to be killed by Strickland's men before Jon saved them from the block. It made no matter that they had followed the Usurper when they were told that Jon died a drunk-it only mattered that they were dragon men now. He trusted them more than he did all those golden cloaks whose loyalty swayed with the wind.

"Dunker," Jon commanded,"Stand guard at my chamber, and tell anyone who seeks the Hand that the Hand has gone to the Keep of Grief to convene with the generals."

"Even young master Kyle?" Dunker asked.

"No," Jon said,"When he returns, send him to bed."

"Cray, Narbert," he commanded the other two guards that bore griffins on their cloaks,"You are to follow me. I fear that this will be a dangerous night."

They grunted their assent, and Jon felt the air pressing on him as he no longer had any reason to tarry. He judged that it was the reeking stench of the worst wine that still lay open in an uncorked bottle. Wine he no longer needed as found fire a worthy substitute. He wondered why the Stone Men always feared the flame. It brought warmth even to his greying skin.

"My lord," Cray said,"Are you certain that you are well? I smell wine."

"I am sober enough," Jon waved away his concern, knowing that they must not know what the wine was truly for,"Or so I hope. The king depends on me tonight."

They bowed their heads and followed.

"My concern lies not with myself, but with you," Jon said to the guards,"You are picked men from Griffin's Roost, chosen to serve as guardsmen of the Hand of the Seven Kingdoms beneath the banner of the true dragon. Can I trust you to be loyal with all your heart?"

"Aye," came the swift reply from both of them. That was enough for Jon, who had little time to waste on such trivial matters that were the eunuch's realm. The guards were men of his home and saved by his hand, their loyalty forever sworn to him.

"What you will see tonight," Jon said,"must not leave the three of us. Speak one word, and you will have failed the king. Can I trust you to remain silent?"

"We are your men," Narbert answered, and Cray nodded,"Now and always."

Jon nodded, and sept away before he could see the shadows on their faces. He could ponder that later, when he had time to waste on trivialities as he awaited the Stone Man's doom. Now, though, it was Aegon's cause that mattered most.

He had commanded that the Dornish whore be held in the Old Tower near Storm's End's north gate, far away from where Aegon could ever venture. Not that the king could, given that he lies now under the watchful eye of Strickland's guards. Jon did not trust Ser Rolly to bar Aegon in his chamber, and so he had the Kingsguard escort the last band of messengers to Cape Wrath who were tasked to tell their men there that the Cheesemonger's ships now sail straight to Storm's End and they were no longer needed there. Jon would have to place in Ser Rolly's absence other Kingsguard. Truer Kingsguard, which he would have to be swift about. Aegon could not be without protection long. Jon would never trust the golden men that now guarded Aegon's doors.

He was even less trusting of the men who guarded the door of that Dornish whore, as there was no doubt that the Dornishmen had themselves agents within the dragon banners. He remembered Princess Arianne, who had pleaded so sweetly for her cousin with her veiled threats.

"She is young," the princess had said to Jon at the feast Lord Edric held in welcome to Ser Tristan's victorious return from Bronzegate,"headstrong, and stupid. My lord knows the good that comes of doing what is right, and the ill that comes of doing what is wrong."

Jon had succumbed to these words once before, and his silver prince had died for it. The eve before he reached Stony Sept, a peasant he allowed to speak pleaded the very same thing, to always do right and earn the blessings of the gods. He had not done what he needed to do in the Battle of the Bells. He would not succumb now. As he watched his silver prince's son on that high seat looking so much like his father, Jon knew what he needed to do. He pushed away all his misgivings, misgivings that were meant for a better world where the Usurper's rule had not taken hold. All that mattered was the task before him.

The Old Tower was a great mesh of rock given shape. Some say that the tower stood there even before Durran Godsgrief and Brandon the Builder raised the walls of Storm's End. Each time the storm gods destroyed the castle, the tower still stood. Some say that it was not Elenei who saved Durran from the wrath of the gods but rather the Old Tower that stood amidst every storm. Jon was inclined to believe that this tale was the truth. A tower stood strong while women like Elenei whispered poison in one's ear and men like Brandon the Builder fled at the first sign of danger.

The bells in the Keep of Grief began to ring. A porter greeted them with a bow before turning to the sound of the bells. Jon turned the other way, but even still the bells rang in his ears.

It was not Strickland's company men that guarded the doors of the Dornish whore, but men he did not know. They wore golden cloaks but not that of the company, wrapping around jet-black mail and gloomy faces.

"Lord Connington," one of them greeted.

"I wish to see Elia Sand," Jon said.

"We cannot allow that," the guard answered.

"I command it," Jon ordered,"as the King's Hand."

"And we refuse," the guard said,"by command of Lord Baratheon who has the right in his own castle. You may take it up with him. Even the king would have to seek Lord Baratheon's approval if he were to wish anything in Storm's End."

Jon noted the slight quavering at the end of his pronouncement, and continued,"The King's Hand demands, and you will obey."

"Gregor," the other guard hissed,"Don't do this."

The first guard only tightened his hand on his spear,"Lord Baratheon has commanded that we not allow even one person inside Lady Elia's chamber, especially not the Hand."

Jon stared him down, putting his hand on his hilt and wondering if it was the violent end they sought. The two guards exchanged a worried glance, and withdrew their spears. The peaceful end, then. Jon relaxed his hand on his hilt, and saw Cray and Narbert grab the two men from behind and paint red smiles on their throats. Jon stepped past them and pushed open the heavy oaken door.

Elia Sand sat cross-legged on a silken bed, looking out the window into the starry sky. A host of torches lit up the chamber, turning everything a warm orange. The girl's cheeks were rosy and red, Lord Edric seeming to have fed her against Jon's command.

His steps made her turn, and her eyes grew wise as he approached.

"Lord Hand," she said,"Lord Edric said that you might come."

"No doubt he warned you," Jon pitied the lord. He had a good heart, but not the heart meant for war. He would be a good lord when all Aegon's enemies were vanquished and his realm was at peace, but now Lord Edric needed to leave the reins to Jon.

"Lord Edric tells the truth," Jon said,"He is a good and leal man."

"He is," Elia Sand answered,"The only one in this wretched castle. He warned me that you might come."

"Did he warn you about the consequences of endangering the king?" Jon snarled.

"I never endangered him," Elia Sand shrank back,"I loved him, he loved me, and you came between us. When I left Dorne, my uncle warned me that you might be the same as the Lannisters. I don't want to believe that."

"That is an intriguing piece of Prince Doran's scheme," Jon thought, but knew that he could ponder it later.

"The king marches on the morrow to take back the Iron Throne from the Lannisters," Jon said,"and matters of home must be settled first. You have two choices. The knife or the rope. Choose."

"I admired you," Elia Sand fixed his eyes with her own,"All I heard in the Sunspeaker was the hero who was Lord Jon Connington. The man who had taken back the Stormlands for the king, winning with his immense guile every battle or siege set before him. What I heard was not just of a capable warrior, but a man who loved his soldiers, who thought always to win without blood, drinking the worst wine like any commoner. You are not just the Hand, but the face of Aegon's cause that wins him his banners. Please prove to me that you are that man I admire. Please."

Jon hardened his heart,"Choose."

He saw Elia Sand's eyes turn into viper ones, and burst forward even though she had nothing in her hands. His two guards caught her by the arms and wrenched her back. Jon drew his knife, cutting a red smile across her throat. She gurgled for a moment, blood spraying the bed, then went still.

Jon looked down at the blood on his blade. The blood shone beneath the starry sky. Maiden's blood, and pure. He had slain an innocent.

"Not an innocent," he reminded himself, remembering how Lyanna Stark was as deadly as she was sweet. He had done for Aegon what he could not do for his silver prince.

At last, Jon could no longer hear the bells.

 

[Mockingbird]

THEON
​

"The Old Men of the Sea," Craghorn named the rocks outside Ten Towers.

"They should name them the Old Strangers of the Sea," Theon noticed how each poked a jagged spike above the raging waters. Any could pierce a galley's hall in an instant.

"Steer away from the rocks," Theon shouted to the sailor on the rudder. Craghorn shook his head.

"Nay," the sailor answered,"There'll only be more ol' men to port or starboard. One in front of us 's the safest way to Harlaw."

Theon observed the sailor who had sired from the mines beneath Ten Towers, but his mother brought him to raise on Pyke as soon as she bought their freedom. He never knew the pain of home, as far as Theon could see, and the sailor yearned to return to the towers. That bright-eyed sailor was the most foolish sort of man.

It was a lifetime ago when the Prince of Winterfell had dreamed of returning to the isles in all his glory. Now he did return, but with none of the glory. Only a heavy driftwood crown whose splinters cut painful scars into his head every time he turned. Theon relished those scars. They reminded him whom he was supposed to be: the toiling servant who had to bring order back to his people. Never again that proud charlatan who wanted to be a hero.

"Like Robb," he thought,"but without his dreams."

The dock was a wretched place, a few scrumples of faded wooden planks strewn across a mass of black stones. Judging from the broken planks that timely drifted past Theon's dinghy, he supposed that the original dock was destroyed during the siege. This wretched mess was hastily assembled by the besiegers to receive their provisions from the ships. With each time the oars drew them closer, Theon saw more of its rotten wood parched with all too many holes. There was not a tree to be seen for miles, so Theon supposed that the ones to come here before him had scavenged whatever driftwood they could find lying on the shore. They would not have used the dinghies, though. No, those were the best wood, saved to erect the palisades of their camp. The ones behind them would bring other boats and their supplies, made much easier now that the dock was assembled.

The fleet Theon sailed on had joined the ones already outside the isle of Harlaw, and they said that they heard little of the two thousand who went ashore save curt orders when they delivered their supplies. The first mate upon the Young Kraken, a Saltcliffe-born bastard named Erik, had advised Theon to send a scouting force first and find out the truth about the siege so as not to risk himself. Craghorn had nodded to that. Theon refused. He could not trust any other man to go ashore at such a perilous time. Theon had left Erik in command of the Young Kraken and ordered the fleet to lay at anchor. Craghorn had nodded to that as well.

Craghorn nodded even when Theon said that he himself would lead a party unto the isle and make contact with the besiegers. No one raised their voice, neither the men on the Young Kraken nor the hundred captains of the fleet when Craghorn had nodded. Those who wanted him to go raised their voices all too well. Craghorn, Orangu the admiral of the fleet that was here before them, and all those who wore the deep violet cloaks of the House of Ironmaker. They wanted him to go ashore and lead the assault on Ten Towers, to bring its lord Rodrik Harlaw and all his house to its knees. He would not. Theon remembered Craghorn's words that were sure to be a lie for him, but truth for Theon. He was here to make a peace, not a war.

A small company of men were waiting at the dock, led by a tall man with sharp blue eyes, a thin nose, and a wisp of a beard. Above him rose a banner bearing a bloody sword on a field of violet, the sigil of Craghorn's house. Behind his company lay two watchtowers, a palisade, and a ditch, erected to protect the dock from any surprise assaults.

Two of Craghorn's men threw mooring ropes onto the dock, bringing the dinghy to a rest beside the wooden planks.

"Uncle Crag," the tall man rushed forward, almost falling into the water,"Has the Lord Steward sent us reinforcements?"

"The Lord Steward's your grandfather, you know, Urek," Craghorn smiled,"You can call him without his honours."

"If I don't honour him," Urek answered,"how can I expect my men to?"

"Forget it," Craghorn shook his head,"Hearing you makes me sometimes think that your father came back from Fair Isle. I wouldn't want to put up with him again."

"You're dodging the matter, uncle," Urek snarled,"We have been here for a moon, bleeding against these towers you were off on some rich jaunt for the Lord Steward. Have you brought reinforcements?"

"The Reader's been giving you that much trouble," Craghorn said, and all the crew of the dinghy laughed except Theon,"and here I thought you were Ironborn warriors, easily capable of bringing down an old bookworm like him."

"You try, uncle," Urek said,"I would gladly give the reins of the siege to you. Lord Rodrik's ring of watchfires make certain that we can never approach Ten Towers by sea lest we wish a thousand arrows in our guts. Our only possible landing ground is here between all the Old Men. Yet Lord Rodrik destroyed the dock before we came, and a hundred of my men lost their lives to these treacherous rocks before we made a dock of our own. And that was before the siege truly began."

"First, you have to survive the climb," Urek's eyes were brimming with fury,"then you never even know which of Lord Rodrik's towers are manned. If we reach one that's manned, we get pushed back. If we reach one that seems unmanned, we enter and our whole force falls victim to an ambush. I began with two thousand, and I lost almost a quarter after the third assault. Tell me, uncle, have you brought reinforcements?"

"There are other Harlaws on this isle?" Theon said, the thought being buried within him ever since he heard about the siege of Ten Towers,"Why have they not come to Lord Rodrik's aid?"

"They joined us," Urek said,"The ones from Grey Garden, Harridan Hill, even Harlaw Hall. Apparently, the Reader had sought to name Lady Asha his heir over them before he made her queen. Only the Tower of Glimmering did not rise for us, and that is only because its Lord Hotho is like to have died in the south with King Euron."

"Forgive me, my lord," a black-bearded guard beside Urek said to Theon,"Whom does Urek of the House Ironmaker, Captain of the Hundred Flowers and Second Marshal of the Iron Isles, have the honour of welcoming?"

Craghorn leapt unto the dock, the wooden panels creaking beneath his weight.

"Did you truly think that Erik Ironmaker," he said,"Lord Steward and First Marshal of the Iron Isles, my father and your grandfather, would send all the fleet still remaining in the Iron Isles on some idle jaunt? You ask for reinforcements, and I say I have brought the greatest of them all."

"He," Craghorn pointed at Theon,"is Theon Greyjoy, the last surviving son of King Balon, the rightful King of the Iron Isles, King of Salt of Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, and Lord Reaper of Pyke."

The men behind Urek began keeling with laughter. One raised an axe to him in mock salute,"To the Prince of Winterfell." Another shook so hard that he fell into the water, and had to be fished out by two of his burly companions. Theon predicted that he would catch a chill and die in three days. The cold water he fell into were the waters of winter, fed by the north wind and rivers of ice beyond the Wall. The fall of that man did not stop the jests.

"Do you think his white hair," one said,"is because Lord Balon was cuckolded by that dragon prince like Robert Baratheon?"

Theon looked past all of them at Urek, who stood unsmiling.

"Euron is dead," Urek said,"Maron Volmark returned five days ago on his Summerset to confirm it. Euron is dead. That is why Lord Rodrik has risen for Lady Asha. And my uncle has brought to use a crooked old man who says that he is Theon Greyjoy. I had counseled Grandfather that he'd be better off for the Iron Isles if he'd take the Seastone Chair for his own like he would have at the kingsmoot, but he would not hear of it now."

Urek turned and walked away, but Theon had already read him through.

"Raise the golden flag," he bade his herald, telling all the dinghies behind them that there was safe anchor at the docks. Craghorn nodded.

"Humming, Lancer, Parp, Dandy," he named four of the oarsmen upon his boat,"Once everyone had landed, each of you pick a steed. One of you would ride in front of our host, another behind, one left, and one right. Return every ten minutes for a report. If you do not return, then I will suppose that an attack from Ten Towers is coming." They were silent until Theon saw Craghorn nod, and they scrambled with a flurry of "Yes, my king."

"Percy," Theon turned at last to his green-eyed helmsman on the rudder,"Prepare a white banner."

"Two," Craghorn said. Theon understood, and felt another splinter of his crown stab him as he turned. "Two banners," Theon relented for now.

The planks of the dock stood steady beneath Theon's feet, though he knew that waters had already rotted the beams raising them. In another night, the deck would collapse into the dark seas. Yet in another night, neither Theon nor the hosts would still linger here.

"Which way is Ten Towers?" Theon asked a man beside Urek.

"To the east," the man pointed,"Two or three leagues… my captain."

"You should not think to breach Ten Towers when so many others have failed," Urek scoffed,"Your men need rest, and I invite you to join my men at the camp for the time. Ten Towers can wait for when our host is well."

"I am not here to wage a fool's war," Theon said,"I am here to make a peace."

"Very well, then, my captain," Urek said,"I will wait for you in the camp." He then sent five of his men to accompany Theon.

The dinghies could only bring a dozen steeds from the ships, and so all two hundred of the Ironborn with Theon had to travel on foot. Their banners swayed high in the wind telling the men in the tall machicolations of Ten Towers that a host of their enemy was coming. Theon wished for them to see, highest above them the white flag of parley. He still had the Ironborn have their shields at the ready for any sally.

There was no sally from the gates of the Towers. All of the scouts returned without a hair touched on their heads, and they reported no Harlaw presence. Three rows of trenches lay abandoned outside the walls, in them narrow pathways of dirt and wood sure to be the work of Urek's host when they made their assault. They stopped a hundred steps away from the farthest trench.

Theon walked to a ridge overlooking the mighty fortress that was Ten Towers, knowing that there was more to this quiet. He had seen the castle in his boyhood so long ago, and its fearsome look did not change as he did with the years. Between the rock plains and the sea stood a sheer slab of rock so smooth that many said that it was a severed finger of the Grey King from the battle where he slew Nagga. Mists forever gathered at the bottom of the slab, so no one could ever see what it truly looked like. Yet one's eyes were not drawn anyways to the base but up, where a dark whirling mass reached the skies. It took for one to look closer and realize that the swirling tendrils of the monster were instead ten great towers and hundreds of minor ones, all fused together with a series of bridges and crosswalks. Theon remembered a long time ago when he would play undaunted across the stone bridges, looking all the world like he was running through the skies. That had been the fancies of a happy boy he could no longer be.

He waited until the riders returned, and they came with the same tidings they had always brought-that they saw nothing, but there was smoke and dust where an enemy could hide. This time he sent them off with orders to ride around their host as they would make camp on the ridge. The last part Theon would go on alone.

"Give me a white banner," Theon ordered his banner-bearer, looking at Craghorn.

"No," Craghorn said, snatching one of the white banners from Percy's hand.

"Baird," he called a short Ironborn,"Bear the banner of parley in the place of the king. Ride forward to Ten Towers and make certain that the Reader is willing to make a deal. The king's party will follow with his banner."

"He'll be shot," a tall Ironborn raised his voice,"The Reader would surely shoot a lone stranger."

"Better him than the king," Craghorn nodded to Theon.

"So he wants to endear himself to me," Theon thought,"so that he could mold me to his own twisted end." It was a pity that Craghorn had found a man so wretched that he could be molded no longer.

"They would loose their bows on him," Theon said,"They would not do so for a king. To do so would be to bring the wrath of all true Ironborn upon them. All of you." They began to listen to him.

"And I swear to you," Theon said,"that it is they who will grovel to us for peace, and we are the ones to lend out the branch to our fellow Ironborn." He saw many with eyes lowered in frustration begin to raise their heads.

"Give me the white banner," Theon turned to the other banner Percy held, and a storm of "Ayes" from the men greeted him. He knew Craghorn did not nod, but the man gave him the banner anyway.

Craghorn's face fell, and he made a grab for the banner in Theon's hand. Theon stepped aside, and Craghorn grabbed at nothing and fell spluttering in the mud. His own banner fell, stained beside him. Laughter erupted behind Theon.

"With your own hand you made a monster," Theon lifted himself on a plain brown mare.

"Percy shall have command of this host in my absence," Theon said,"Remain here, and no one is to leave or be counted a deserter. If I do not return by day's end, assume I am dead and find yourself another rking."

As Theon rode away, he heard the distant echoes behind him ringing "Theon King."

"Who goes there?" a voice shouted from the cliff when he arrived below Ten Towers. The castle's men hid behind the rocks upon that sheer cliff, doubtlessly training their arrowtips at Theon's heart. None of them had fired when Theon passed those three trenches.

"Who seeks to parley with the lord?" the voice shouted again.

"Theon," Theon whispered, then shouted,"Theon, of the House of Greyjoy, King of the Iron Isles and nephew of Lord Rodrik of Ten Towers, here to offer him peace."

Silence greeted him, until a winch lowered a sturdy wooden deck and a man off the cliff. The man Theon knew from another life, an old blue-eyed man who had shown his brothers how to dance the finger dance and only taught Theon the first steps before Eddard Stark took him away. Theon remembered his name was Hervey, that once-great sailor who had decided to settle in some moss-bitten towers high beyond the sea.

Hervey was younger than he looked to be, and he did not seem to know Theon.

"Tell Lord Urek," Hervey said,"that it would not do to send another mummer. I knew your false Lady Asha at a glance, and I know what Theon Greyjoy looked like. Yet I am merciful and patient. I can show you again our winter stores that outlast yours by years. I could show you again our endless fletchlings which our men never waste. I could show you again the vigour of those still true to the rightful queen. Go back, and tell your masters that Ten Towers would never be broken."

"I will," Theon answered,"but first I must make a peace."

"If you are truly so stubborn," Hervey reached out his hand,"Come, and I will show you. If you dare."

Theon dismounted, his hand keeping his grip on the white banner. His other hand took Hervey's hand, and Theon stepped onto the swaying wooden deck. The winch began to rise, and the ground began to run away.

"What is your true name, mummer?" Hervey asked.

"Theon," Theon knew his name.

"If that is your will," the old man turned, shaking his head tiredly, but Theon knew that the old man was still watching him.

Theon knew also that Ten Towers had let the old man greet their visitors on the winch because he was expendable in case the enemy sent a false envoy. He was not good for much else.

The climb did not end at the winch's top, only pausing to have three Harlaw men search Theon for weapons before he ascended the Black Tower that was closest to the cliff. The Harlaw men had allowed him to keep his banner which could still stand in his hand, as the bridges both stone and rope, were open above to the sky. He planted the banner at the entrance to the Black Tower's inner hall, and the spears of two Ironborn parted to let them through. Hervey motioned for Theon to wait for a servant to pass by with a box before they entered the hall.

Inside, Theon saw men feasting like a roar of thunder. He also saw upon the spiraling stairs that led to the top of the tower, sentries were scampering to and fro. Theon understood. There was one hand to have revels in a siege, another to always keep watch for the enemy.

"A drink, Hervey?" a black-eyed Ironborn offered the old man a cup.

Hervey pushed him away,"I am here to show one of our friends from the ground our castle."

"Truly?" the Ironborn glanced at Theon,"Lads, let's give 'em a toast then."

"To the queen," the Ironborn took a long sip of his cup.

"To the queen," his companions echoed as they drank from their goblets. They reached them out for the serving girls to refill, and Theon looked through the hall.

At the other end, he heard singing.

"I loved a maid as fair as summer," a bald man with a scar on his cheek was singing,"with sunlight in her hair. Bright as a golden song, singing through the air."

"Oh, I loved a maid as red as autumn," a beardless boy with a green cloak answered,"with sunset in her hair. Lingering, a pleasant dream, to live until I dare."

"Oh, I loved a maid as white as winter," a short man bellowed with blue eyes and a blue cloak,"with moonlight in her hair. When peace comes to claim me whole, my heart can now lay bare."

"Oh, I loved a maid as brown as spring," a black-haired man with a hooded nose said,"with dull, earthen hair."

"You changed the song, Sigfyrd," the man in the blue cloak said.

"My version is better," the hooked-nosed man answered,"Happier."

"No, it was not," Theon thought,"The dreams are false either way." Still, it was in that littlest happiness that they could find their comfort, and he supposed the song was happier than it once was.

"Lanny," a gruff voice sounded from beyond the hall,"Please do not hurt yourself more. It would not be him. Hervey already sent word that he was another of those mummers from Ironmaker's host. When Asha comes home, she will bring him with her. The true Theon."

The wooden door swept open to reveal an old woman whose grey hair flew in the wind. Her face was wrinkled with age, but her eyes burned with a strange fire. She was mad. She curled a fur stole about her neck, and her bare feet were red and blistered. The hall grew silent when a man entered behind her, armoured from helm to foot in grey mail with a cloak flying behind him. The cloak bore a silver scythe. Theon knew him. It was his uncle, that Lord of Ten Towers. Two soldiers came up behind the old woman to grab at her, but Theon's uncle waved them away.

"Lanny, please," he pleaded again,"I would never wish you any ill as your brother. Just wait a little longer for Asha to bring Theon home."

Theon looked at the woman, his eyes having lost their tears so long ago. That would make her his mother. She was not whom he remembered.

"Theon," she cried, and Theon expected her to come to him. Instead, she found the nearest benech that boasted of a young Ironborn boy, and crushed the poor boy in her embrace. Theon's uncle tried to pull her away, but she could not hear him.

Theon thought it best to wait out this storm, but his feet were already taking him forward.

"Mother," he said as he approached the weeping woman. When she did not hear, he said again louder,"Mother." His uncle watched him with calculating eyes. Again and again Theon said that word, the hall's echoes giving it a stranger power each time it was uttered,"Mother. Mother. Mother."

His mother turned, and he saw her freeze there in a moment of shock.

"Balon," her light brown eyes turned from madness to fury. Her hand cut Theon across the cheek, and it felt as though a feather had dusted his face of its grime. He looked back to see her wrenching her hand back again, this time pulled back by her brother. "Let me go, Roddy," she cried,"He killed my sons."

Theon's uncle was still Lord Rodrik, that hard, gaunt man who saved his pleasure only for his sober sisters and his books, and he did not let go. He whispered in her ear, stroking her hair until her eyes lost their fire and she agreed at last to go. His eyes, though, were on Theon. Several feasters rose from the tables, grabbing their spears and following the lord.

"Nothing like a mad woman to break your spirit," Theon heard one of the feasters mutter.

"Balon?" Theon heard Hervey say to him,"You're not that boy Stark took from us in that cursed war. You're older."

"Theon Greyjoy," Theon heard the singing of a blade, then it quickly falling again into its sheath as the door burst open again with Lord Rodrik. His uncle strode to Theon in several quick steps, and crushed him in an embrace.

"Get out while you still can, nephew," his uncle whispered in his ear,"Your very presence here is a temptation-for if we kill you, there is nothing in the way of Asha. I do not need to be a kinslayer."

Theon pitied his uncle, thinking that Theon would be strong enough to challenge his sister. That was not why he had allowed Ironmaker to make him king.

"I am not here to battle my sister," Theon did not feel the need to whisper, withdrawing from his uncle's embrace,"I am here to make a peace."

"My uncle Euron is dead, and the Ironborn have chosen their kings," Theon shouted,"You chose my sister, and Ironmaker's hounds have chosen me, Theon Greyjoy." There were creaks from those who just now knew. "All the Iron Isles have their eyes on Ten Towers, to see how we would fight over our father's lands like vultures over a corpse, and give the chance for those true vultures to feast upon our corpses when we fall: Those lords from Great Wyk and Orkmont who did not come to your aid, those lords from Pyke and Old Wyk who did not come to mine, and that greenlander boy on his Iron Throne." He looked at each of them in turn."So I will not fight. I will not let the Iron Isles bleed itself, brother fighting brother in a fruitless struggle. I rode alone into Ten Towers to say this once and for all-that I renounce my claim to the Seastone Chair and swear myself to my sister. And I hope that at last, we shall have peace."

Theon closed his eyes, knowing that his duty as king was done, and he could give the crown away. He took off his driftwood crown, dropping it with a thunderous crack amidst the silent hall. The crack wakened the Ironborn, and he began to hear their shouts. Their voices were dim: "Coward." "Weakling." "No man at all."

"Soldiers can bow before their queens," Theon opened his eyes to his uncle speaking to him"but princes cannot bow before their sisters. Their manhood would not allow for it."

"Strike his manhood," Hervey said,"and you will know. A man would have hid behind Ironmaker's banners and embraced his crown, but instead he rode alone into the foe's castle to tell the truth. He's more a man than any of you."

One of the lords strode forward, but Lord Rodrik held him back.

"Volmark, I will deal with my nephew," Lord Rodrik drew back a feist and barreled it into Theon's groin. Theon slumped a bit forward, feeling a breath catch in his throat, but there was only a numb ache where the Bastard had already left his mark.

"Oh," a light dawned in Theon's uncle's eyes, and he backed away.

"Looks like the Reader's like those greenlanders who love too much their books," an Ironborn with a scarred hand bellowed,"that when he's faced with a true man, we all see what a weakling he is."

"Peace," Volmark stepped forward,"Does my captain Theon truly bring peace?"

Theon knew that they were listening now,"For my sister. For me. For us all."

"Captain Theon," a greybeard said,"Why did you not show yourself at the kingsmoot. I would have shouted your name louder than that one-eyed kinslayer."

"Why were you not there?" another asked.

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

Theon stared them down until their voices faded, and he answered: "Winterfell."

"To the Conqueror of Winterfell," the greybeard said, raising a goblet.

"To the brother of the queen," a man in a golden vest said.

Others followed with their toasts, their voices drowned in Theon's head. He could no longer see the driftwood crown, yet his head did not sag beneath the new weight. A steward's crown, which was finer than a king's. The ones to plot were to plot against his sister, and Theon could bend wherever he wished.

He knew that his sister would never come home. Stannis would never be so much a fool as to release her. He would hold the Iron Isles eternally in her stead, and Stannis would not dare to kill her. He would do this, for the last sister he had in blood.

The Iron Isles were his. Not his sister's.

 

[Mockingbird]

CERSEI
​

King's Landing grew darker by the day.

Cersei could see it as she peered over her city, the daily fires consuming ramshackle ruins, the riots of drunken men parading down the Street of Silk, and the ever-tolling bells that signaled the death of someone important.

She had grown to enjoy the merry tune of the bells, as it meant that another traitor had met justice. It meant that she had to deal with one less sparrow or rose when the time came for Cersei to reclaim her rightful place. Perhaps one day, the bells will toll for that High Sparrow or Margaery Tyrell.

As she had foreseen long ago, the sparrows and the roses had run the city into the ground, made worse by the vile league that bound them together. An odd mix of fanatic fools and ambitious incompetents, ill-suited to the burdensome task of managing a realm.

Qyburn brought Cersei timely reports of their failures. One of Mace Tyrell's Fossoway stooges had suggested fixing the prices for grain, which starved all the merchants with only the fattest of them growing ever fatter. Only they still remained with their hoards of grain in the Street of Silver. Another one of Tyrell's lords had donned the guise of a sparrow, attempting to bribe Ser Addam for the City Watch, but her father's knight was adamant in his refusal. There were still some men in this city that were still true to their rightful liege. The Faith had begun gathering more into their Militant with the loud promise of the Seven's blessing and the quiet promise of a warm meal, and soon found their ranks filled with underfed Reach soldiers. That was proof enough of the wretched quality of those who led the rose host.

It was almost laughable, how instantly the rot revealed itself. Cersei almost pitied the Dornishmen who arrived in time to witness such debauchery. When The Herald made dock in Alyn's Harbour four days ago, its host of Dornishmen bore witness to the ruin that became of King's Landing, stepping with their laces and jewels on the city plagued by the corruption of its stewards.

It was said that Mace Tyrell greeted the ship at the dock expecting a princess, but found instead a bastard of Oberyn Martell. Cersei did laugh when she heard that Tyrell left the dock to his steward just before the real princess showed herself-Cersei's daughter who was the only true princess in the realm.

She had seen the Sand girl only once when she escorted Cersei's daughter to the Red Keep, and Cersei was glad of having the fortune to not meet her again. Oberyn Martell had the gall to name his bastard after that famed Rhoynish queen. If she had been a trueborn daughter, Nymeria could have risen above all her stations like her namesake, yet Oberyn Martell cursed her with the vileness of black blood.

Cersei was amused when she heard that the Sand girl had barged into the Small Council chamber when Tyrell did not allow her in, and she had attended their meetings ever since as Tyrell's Master of Laws. It was only Tyrell who had the meekness to allow a bastard into the Small Council chamber on her whim. Should Cersei still be stewarding the Small Council, baseborn filth like Nymeria Sand would find herself naked on the streets before her cheek even touched a council seat. A pity Cersei did not do that to that little monster when he showed up at King's Landing bearing a letter he bewitched from Cersei's father.

Cersei supposed that she should be forever grateful that Myrcella arrived safe and sound even in the company of a bastard. She could not fathom Prince Doran's foolishness to allow the daughter of lions to travel in such shame. She yearned ever for the reports from the Rainwood, where her man would tell her that Prince Doran's son had been slain. She knew that it would be great trouble then to act a pitiful mother and console those accursed Martells, but she would do so if it meant absolving Myrcella of that unworthy boy.

Cersei found solace in her daughter, proof that the rule of the traitors was beginning to end and Cersei would return with all the fury of a true lioness. Myrcella reminded Cersei of all who were young and innocent, her golden hair shining in the sun as she rocked her head back and laughed. Cersei was only too glad that the rumours of Myrcella's severed ear had been false, and her daughter arrived whole. It seemed that she had grown up overnight, so fast that Cersei had scarce recognized her when she first saw her again. If only Jaime could see her, Cersei would timely remind herself that Jaime had been stolen away from her. Just like Joffrey, by that northern whore and her vile servants. She would remember then that Tommen still lay in the clutches of the roses, and all that is good in the world must be defended from those who still seek to take them.

Cersei expected to feel great bouts of satisfaction as she plotted the fall of the Tyrells and the sparrows-all their southern knights and Warrior's Sons with their heads mounted on hundreds of spikes outside the Red Keep for all the world to see the might of House Lannister-but with each command she felt only a throbbing ache in her ankle. That was destiny, she knew, just like she and Jaime were bound together for life as they were bound together at birth, Jaime's right hand tugging at left foot. Jaime was lost, but deep down she knew that he was still alive and waiting for her. It was also her destiny to defeat the traitors and restore the pride of the lion to their rightful seats.

These moments with Myrcella were not fleeting dreams of joy, but a first omen of what would come by Cersei's hand.

"Mother," Myrcella's voice interrupted her thoughts,"Would you play cyvasse with me?"

Cersei turned, a familiar annoyance creeping unto her as she snarled,"Your father is gone, your brother in the hands of traitors, and you want me to play your stupid game?" Seven Hells, her children sometimes made it so hard for her to love them.

"I heard you the first fifty times," Myrcella said with a sweet smile,"but there is nothing else to do. All you have me do is sit here and wait. I cannot even speak with my handmaids.

"For your own safety," Cersei said,"Do you not remember that your older brother died beneath his own roof. I will not have that happen again, not to my children."

"We are the king's children," Myrcella's cut open an icy wound,"and a princess must do her duty-that duty is not to sit around and do nothing."

"The Martells have been planting ideas in your head," Cersei walked over to her daughter,"One day, when all the traitors are dealt with and there is peace in the realm, you may be whatever princess you desire. But for now, listen to your mother, for there are still monsters in this castle."

"One game," Myrcella's smile grew sweeter,"Please."

"Fine," Cersei snapped.

Myrcella had already laid out the board, and she eagerly explained the rules of cyvasse. Cersei was only half-listening as she stared out onto her city, and she only caught what the dragon pieces could do. In her mind, those were enough. Her judgment was proven correct when her dragons smashed through Myrcella's pieces. She had taken special care to destroy Myrcella's dragons lest they do the same to her, and her dragons had free rein of the board. Cersei never had a mind for such childish games, knowing that she would surpass all others should she put her mind to it.

Then, Myrcella took her spearmen and ensnared one of Cersei's dragons. Seven Hells, she pushed her other dragon and burnt all those spears to a crisp. Smiling, Myrcella ensnared that other dragon too with her remaining spearmen. Cersei was dumbfounded, and she wanted so desperately to kill that spear. The next thing she saw was that her king was dead, and she saw Myrcella's delighted face.

"Compose yourself," Cersei bid her rage subside,"It is a childish game, after all." It was no shame to lose to her daughter, for she was a lioness too. In time, Cersei knew that Myrcella would grow as clever as Cersei herself, carrying on the legacy Lord Tywin so dearly wished.

"Where did you learn that?" Cersei asked her daughter. Do not tell me it was the Martells.

"From thinking for a long time," Myrcella answered in an instant,"While the other children played in the Water Gardens, I thought about cyvasse, and I finally figured out how to kill dragons with only spears."

"It is best if you forget all about those Dornish tricks," Cersei said,"Last I heard, there were rumours that your ear had been cut off by a mad Dornishman.

Myrcella's smile died in an instant, and she was silent for a long while.

"Your Graces," Ser Boros's voice rose from behind Cersei,"Forgive me for interrupting, but Master Qyburn has been waiting for you."

Cersei turned-she had almost forgotten that Ser Boros and Ser Robert were in the chamber with them. Myrcella had made no reaction to either of them, not even Ser Robert who was five times her height beneath a masked face. She saw Qyburn standing behind her with his head bowed, and she grimaced as she did not even know that he had entered.

"The next time you come," Cersei said,"knock first. I had commanded Ser Robert to smash in the heads of any man who dares enter without my permission. Were you any other man, he would have done so."

"I thank Your Grace for sparing me," Qyburn answered,"Forgive me. I only intruded today because I have urgent tidings."

"At last," Cersei felt a surge of sunlight run across her skin,"The traitors will soon fall."

"Is all ready?" Cersei asked.

Qyburn nodded, smiling that grandfather smile of his,"Ser Addam and the City Watch are well at arms, ready to strike at Your Grace's command.

"It was the least they could do," Cersei had Qyburn sell the last of her royal jewels for gold to bribe the gold cloaks. She was not fool enough like Tyrell to bribe Ser Addam who only knew words of honour, the gold having been meant for the greedy lowborn filth who inhabited the Watch's ranks.

"I have also an answer from Lord Randyll," Qyburn continued,"He has agreed to Your Grace's offer."

Of all Tyrell's fifty thousand still left in the city, Randyll Tarly commanded the ten thousand that had truly seen war in the Riverlands. Moreover, he had custody of Margaery. After that bout in the Sept, Cersei had been certain that Tarly would return the little whore to her father, but Tarly kept her for his own. That was enough to pique Cersei's interest. She bade Qyburn approach Tarly with the offer of Regent or Hand of the King or even Highgarden, but the lord was adamant in his refusal. However, Qyburn had been sought out by Randyll Tarly's son Dickon, who promised to convince his father if only Cersei could do one thing-to pardon his brother Samwell from the Night's Watch. When Cersei heard about it, she was amused that there were truly men who loved their brothers more than they did their seats, but she granted the request anyway. There was no harm in adding another lordling to stir the Reach into chaos.

Randyll Tarly had yet to name his price, but only mattered now that his swords were hers.

"I have now glad tidings from the north," Qyburn said,"Strongboar's force from the Riverlands are now only a day's ride from King's Landing."

Cersei knew that she could depend on Lyle Crakehall, as her father had always talked about his loyalty. "Give him glory," Lord Tywin had said to Jaime once,"and men like Strongboar will be yours forever." There was nothing surpassing the glory of saving your king from the evil clutches of traitors. It had been Lyle Crakehall who answered Cersei's letters when Jaime was lost. Crakehall thought Jaime was dead, but Cersei knew better. They were born together-they would die together. If he was dead, then she would feel it. He would return as soon as Cersei sorted out the chaos of King's Landing. She only bade Crakehall to listen to her command.

Strongboar had gathered every Lannister soldier in the Riverlands and marched down the Kingsroad. Crownland men had joined him at every turn, their castles supplying his host-Rosby, Wendwater, Stokeworth, Trent, and so many others, hundreds of lost freeriders from the War of the Five Kings bolstering his host to number now eight thousand.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, for being so bold," Ser Boros said,"but is it truly wise to abandon the Freys and Lord Baelish to the Riverlands. I hear that Robb Stark's widow has birthed an heir to the King in the North, and has rallied the North and Riverlands again to the wolf banner."

Cersei glared at Ser Boros. He had remained loyal when his fellow Kingsguard Meryn Trant had turned traitor and joined the Tyrells when they captured the king. She would have planned to reward the loyal knight, but not if he continued such insolence.

"Silence," Cersei snapped,"You are a servant."

"Mother," Myrcella said,"Could you at least tell me why?"

Cersei looked at her daughter, and decided that it might be time for her to know the truth of things. "Matters of home, Myrcella," Cersei said,"must be dealt with before matters of outsiders. A man cannot fight if he has a rotten heart. That was your grandfather's mistake in the War of the Five Kings. He defeated all the would-be usurpers, but let an infection within his own home fester and grow. The next thing I knew, almost all your grandfather had worked so hard for collapsed. He was murdered, as was your noble brother, by your monster of an uncle that your grandfather left untended. I will not leave my home untended. I must deal with the rot in King's Landing before I turn my eyes to the rot in the realm, to the false Aegon and Robb Stark's infant daughter."

"My princess, your mother is wise," Qyburn said,"Besides, the Vale under Harrold Arryn has declared for the false Aegon, overthrowing Lord Baelish and murdering their boy lord. If they sally from the Bloody Gate, they will have to first contend with Catelyn Stark's wolf men. I would counsel the same as Her Grace, to let the dogs fight amongst themselves."

"The battle here is of more importance," Cersei answered Qyburn,"The hour of the lion is fast approaching. Send these messages to Strongboar, Ser Addam, and Lord Randyll. Strongboar is to lay siege to King's Landing, diverting Tyrell's attention to the walls. In the city, Ser Addam and the City Watch are then to cause as much chaos as they can. Set houses on fire and cry 'the invaders have taken the walls'-tell the watchmen that they have the king's permission to loot the homes of traitors. Last, Lord Randyll should marshal his men and secure the king. He already has Margaery Tyrell and as soon as her father loses hold on Tommen,the rose will be finished. His men will fall to the king's banner like a tide. Command Lord Randyll to spare any Reach lord they capture, even Lord Mace, but they should put to sword every man, woman, or cursed child of the Faith they can find. The Great Sept shall know its own sins. Relay these commands."

"I am afraid I cannot," Qyburn answered.

Cersei opened her mouth in an empty retort, then heard a voice behind Qyburn,"It is true, he cannot."

She almost smiled when she saw who it was who spoke,"Jaime." His green eyes shone beneath that crown of golden hair. It was Jaime, who had returned from the Riverlands. Her Jaime.

Almost. As he came into the light, Cersei realized that the man was not Jaime. The man wore polished silver armour shining like a looking glass above a ragged grey hair shirt, a brown mothbitten cloak billowing behind him sown with the seven-coloured sword of the Warrior's Sons. His hair was dimmer than Jaime's, his eyes more shallow.

"Lancel," Cersei realized in disgust. She looked beyond him for any more of those Warrior's Sons, Poor Fellows, or sparrows, but behind Lancel stood only the crimson cloaks of Lannister guardsmen.

"Kill him," she commanded her guardsmen, pointing at Lancel, but none budged.

"Your Grace forgets," Lancel said,"The guards in the Red Keep are all Kevan Lannister's men. Have you forgotten that Kevan Lannister was my father?"

"It is you who had forgotten who you truly are," Cersei snarled, then turned again to the guardsmen,"If any of you still hold even an ounce of loyalty to the Lannister name, you will slay this miscreant."

None answered her call, and she felt Myrcella tugging on her arm,"Mother, stop."

Cersei saw Lancel step forward, coming to a stop before Myrcella. He stroked her cheek with a gloved finger,"If only she was given proper guidance, she would be nothing like you." He then clenched his hand around Myrcella's arm and wrenched her away from Cersei. Myrcella screamed, and Cersei heard Ser Boros draw his sword. "Ser Robert," Cersei called,"Kill Lancel." Yet the only answer that came was Qyburn's,"I am afraid he cannot do that. This is what we must do for the good of the realm."

Through red-tinted eyes, Cersei saw Ser Robert leave the chamber, soon followed by Qyburn. Lancel's men drew their swords and walked before her cousin, making Ser Boros back away. Lancel turned to leave, Myrcella squirming and screaming in his grasp.

"Why?" Cersei screamed,"Why must you abandon your house?"

Lancel turned, an iron expression on his face,"Whenever I hear someone speak the name Lannister, they always follow with a curse. This name is reserved only for the lowliest of the low used in the like of the foulest murderer or cruelest swindler. Why else do you think that lords and smallfolk from Dorne to the Wall have risen against House Lannister? Because of your father and his wedding where he forsook all the laws of the realm. Because of your brother who slew the king he was sworn to serve. Because of your son who was a madman who started another war. That is the Lannister name now, burning in the fires of man's judgment."

"You can burn in it," Lancel pointed a finger at Cersei,"but I will not."

Ser Boros rushed forward, but one of Lancel's men parried his strike while another cut a wound in his thigh. He fell cursing to the ground, pleading that Cersei forgive him.

Lancel departed the chamber, dragging Myrcella after him, and his men followed. There was silence following him. Cersei could have almost promised herself that it was a dream, and that when she looked to her side her daughter would still be there, returned to Cersei after having been lost for so long. She turned, and there was emptiness.

Cersei sunk into her bed, tears streaming down her face. "I am a lioness, damn it," she whispered. Her cousin had left something. A memory of vileness that would call only for vengeance and justice, and Lancel, like the High Sparrow, Mace Tyrell, and his daughter Margaery, was on the list of those who would die a suffering death when Cersei was done.

"Your Grace," Ser Boros's voice entered her mind,"We must leave. I do not know why, but Ser Lancel spared you. You will not have this chance again should Tyrell or Marbrand arrive at your door.""Or Qyburn," Cersei thought,"That traitor."

"Why did you not leave me like all the others?" Cersei asked Ser Boros.

"I broke my vow to Tommen once," Ser Boros answered,"I will not do so again."

"Your Grace," his voice grew more urgent as his eyes swept to the door,"We must go."

Cersei let Ser Boros raise her to her feet, grimacing as her ankle began to ache. He carried her to the door, the song of horns beginning to ring in the distance. Cersei looked back to that chamber in Maegor's Holdfast, but Ser Boros bade her look forward.

The meandering halls of the Red Keep loomed so much larger than she remembered. Guardsmen and servants alike were running as they came down the hall. They had doubtless heard of the acts of the traitors, and shown their true colours. Some of those filth had already turned their hearts into thievery, and Cersei saw in the corner of their eyes the castle folk slipping into her chamber. The back of the Kingsguard knight was steady and strong despite his leg.

"Has Strongboar's attack begun already?" Cersei wondered in the delirium of the pain of her ankle.

"Where are we going?" she asked Ser Boros.

"The Century Tower, Your Grace," Ser Boros said,"The men there are still Lord Tywin's men."

Twice they had to hide in some dark alleyway and avoid Lancel's guardsmen. Or they were avoiding her, Cersei noticed the second time when a guardsmen glanced at her face but looked away. There seemed to still be some sense of shame in those traitors when they abandoned their duty.

The traitor guardsmen were joined by Reachmen and Ser Addam's goldcloaks in the Great Hall that lay in full view of half the castle. None of the Faith joined them, Cersei noticed. It was when they drew their swords in unison that she saw the truth. From every corner of the castle, men of Lancel, men of the Reach, and men of the City Watch emerged, dragging with them bound and gagged septons and septas, all of those seven-starred minions that High Sparrow had planted in the Red Keep. Ser Boros dragged at Cersei to leave, but she bade him stay. She felt that it would be a pleasure to watch.

Lancel stood at the head of the hall with a golden-armoured lord and Ser Addam in his burnished bronze and golden cloak. A steward stood at their side with a parchment in one hand and a pen in another. Each one of those Seven-worshipping fools was brought before them. The steward crossed out a name on his parchment, and a Lannister guardsmen slit a septon's throat. The steward crossed out another, and another's throat was slit by a goldcloak. The corpses of those slain were tossed aside, where there was a burning pyre. It gave Cersei no small pleasure to find that those traitors had finally met justice. When Unella, Maella, and their like were put to the sword, she watched with eager fascination. Her eyes began to hurt from staring transfixed for so long, and she knew that she must watch her vengeance be done. There will be no place for these godly men to hide under the sun, and each and every last one of them would be rooted out and savaged like they did to her.

"Lancel has Myrcella," Ser Boros pleaded, and Cersei took herself out of her trance to look for her daughter, finding no one.

"Please, Your Grace," Ser Boros said,"Look at me." She did.

"If Lancel is in league with the roses," Ser Boros said,"then Tyrell would have both the royal children."

"Gold shall be their crowns," Cersei remembered the woods witch,"Gold their shrouds." She buried her face in Ser Boros's white cloak, dreading each moment that she would feel Myrcella and Tommen's deaths just like she had felt Joffrey's.

"Steel yourself," Cersei bade herself,"Crakehall and his eight thousand are still yours. As is Tarly with his Reachmen and the gold cloak captains beneath Marbrand that are true to me."

"It was Qyburn who told Your Grace about their loyalty," Ser Boros said,"and Qyburn is not to be trusted. There is only us, and your father's men."

It seemed an eternity before she heard a voice she recognized.

"Danner," she raised her eyes to her father's man, marching at the forefront of a host of Lannister men. Her father's men. Not her uncle's. For a moment, she thought he did not recognize her. Most of her ladies had deserted her at her arrest, as did many other lords and knights who had only moons ago sworn that they were Lannister men, then and forever. She did not bear much hope for this guardsman who she spoke to only three times in the past.

Recognition flashed across Danner's face, and he turned.

"Ser Hosteen," Danner shouted at the knight leading the column,"It's Her Grace over there."

Ser Hosteen bore a crimson cloak, and when he turned Cersei knew him as Ser Hosteen Trent, one of the newmade knights after the Blackwater who accepted her father's offer of service. He had taken his surname in honour of Ser Meryn, and Cersei worried that he was in league with the Tyrells just as Ser Meryn was.

"Hide," Cersei urged Ser Boros, who did as she bid behind a pillar.

"Where is she?" Cersei heard Ser Hosteen's gruff voice.

"Never mind," Danner answered,"It was only a fleeting shadow."

"I think not," Ser Hosteen answered.

"No," Danner said, but she heard a crunch as the guardsman was pushed aside. Cersei felt ice creep slowly up her veins, all the way until Ser Hosteen's gruff face appeared before her. To her surprise, he knelt.

"Your Grace," Ser Hosteen said. Cersei wondered why he did not sell her out like so many others did. She barely noticed him before today, only another of those fool lowborn who dared to supplant the rightful places of the high and mighty. Just like those sparrows.

"Joryck, Rider," Ser Hosteen ordered," Help Ser Boros carry the queen."

"The rest of you," he commanded,"Form two rows. One in front of the queen and the other behind."

Ser Hosteen's men carried Cersei to her feet, the knight whispering a promise in her ear. Cersei's eyes found nothing but the swirling ceiling, feeling the pain in her foot again that blinded her. She still did not know what Ser Hosteen wanted her for, if not to sell her to Tyrell.

It was an eternity later when her eyes found the foreign patterns of the Century Tower. She found herself deposited unceremoniously on a silken bed, a maid rushing to her aid in an instant with a blanket. It was still cold beneath the covers.

"Your Grace," a middle-aged lord bent his knee before her, Ser Hosteen and a knight bearing a surcoat of three emeralds kneeling behind him.

"Lord Rykker," Cersei greeted,"What a pleasure it is to see you."

"The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace," Renfred Rykker answered.

"I cannot express how much I thank you," Cersei said.

"Your father instilled in us a sense of loyalty and duty that none can match," Rykker answered,"My castellan Rufus was hosting a feast at Duskendale to celebrate my return from the Riverlands when I heard of Lord Rykker's death. I had Rufus halt the feast at once as I rode with my firstborn son and heir to King's Landing, knowing that traitors had infested its walls."

"There are all sorts of traitors inside the walls," Cersei laughed,"Now, they are slaying each other as we speak."

"I had expected to find Lord Kevan's murderers," Rykker did not smile,"but in the stead of that I discovered a plot much worse. Tyrell tired of King's Landing, and now seeks to leave for his lands with the king in tow. When the Faith commanded him that the king must stay in the king's city, he gave an innocent laugh and drew a knife behind his back. In the last moon, Tyrell was laughing with the High Septon in their feasts, while his Small Council went to all the lords and conjured up the memories of the slain lords and their shamed queen. A hedge knight went to Ser Addam guised as a septon, bribing him to show that the Faith of the Seven was corrupt and not worthy of Ser Addam's loyalty. Tyrell sent your letters to Strongboar, and had Qyburn deliver his letters to you. Your High Septon's eyes were turned to the north and Your Grace, not to that laughing lord. And he and all his sparrows now know the price of that."

"Where is Tommen," Cersei asked, feeling the sun begin to burn her skin,"Where is Myrcella?"

"Tyrell left the city when the first fires began to burn, Your Grace," Rykker answered,"and the king is with him. We saw Ser Lancel take the princess out of the Red Keep, but we were powerless to stop them with our men. Forgive us, for we count ourselves fortunate that we had saved you from Tyrell's knives. You were doubtless the first on his list along with all the Faith."

Cersei slapped Rykker, who took the slap without so much as a frown.

"Tyrell is abandoning King's Landing," Cersei did not wait for an answer before she struggled to her feet and stumbled to the window.

The Great Sept was burning. Smoke spilled from its tinted windows as septons and septas, Warrior's Sons in their shining armour and Poor Fellows in their red stars fled from the darkness. They were both hounded and blocked by men bearing Reach banners, who slew them without even as much as a moment of prayer. Some of the holy ones died kneeling to their Seven-Faced God, others raising their seven-starred swords in defiance, but all fell in the end. Their bodies were small pinpricks in the distance, tossed by the Reachmen onto the great pyre erected outside the sept like the dirt they were.

Cersei smiled, hoping that the High Sparrow was amongst those slain. He deserved far worse a fate than he would receive at the Reachman's hand, but she was pleased. The fate of the sparrows had been sealed when they struck against their rightful lord, pitting both Tyrell and Cersei against them.

The Great Sept was not the only place that was burning. Beneath her was the Street of Silver, where the fat merchants now hoarded all of the houses. There was not a house that was not on fire. Cersei saw there the huntsman of Tarly and the golden rose of Rowan, an endless host of Reachmen escorting wagon after wagon of grain from the Street of Silver south. Cersei looked at where they were bound, and saw they rode to the River Gate. One of the riders sounded a horn, and a host of horns echoed him. There were no bells to be heard. Cersei unconsciously shuddered.

"Slaying the sparrows," she told herself,"does not make Tyrell friend." Beneath his thousand masks, Tyrell was in the end her enemy. Her heart still froze as she thought of how he had both Tommen and Myrcella in his grasp, plotting for his own to sit upon the Iron Throne.

"I am sorry, Your Grace," Rykker said,"The king and princess may suffer as hostages in Tyrell's hands, and he will have his whole host to shield his prize after he has done pillaging King's Landing to its last scrap, but hope is not yet lost. When the city settles under Your Grace's lion banner again, my son will lead a picked force to save the king and princess from the evil lords. I only ask that when they are saved, my house will be able to shield King Tommen's reign by wedding my son to Princess Myrcella. I promise that Norbert would serve a far better match than that Martell boy, stinking of Dornish courage."

"There it was," Cersei turned and slapped him in the face again,"Leave your lusts for after the victory."

Rykker fell to his knees, his hand massaging his face which still held a stony expression. "As you wish, Your Grace," his eyes glinted,"Tyrell has made a perilous mistake today. His men desecrated the Great Sept and the gods in the eyes of all the realm. Their men looted the city, burning houses, to the ground, becoming no more than lawless bandits, murderers, and rapists. There is a seed in the people that can be nurtured. They hate Tyrell, but have no place to rally their hate. Be that place. Play the grieving mother whose children were robbed from her by the same hated enemy, and they will know that all your schemes against Margaery Tyrell and her house were well-founded."

Cersei slapped him again,"You want me, a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, to frolic with lowborn filth who did nothing but jeer and laugh at my shame, who would rob the Red Keep a hundred times if they had the chance."

"They would do so anyway," Ser Boros came before Cersei, his white cloak swirling behind him,"It is not long before the common folk realize there is nothing left to stop them from robbing the Red Keep dry. Only you can stop them. Only Your Grace can save us."

"To save us," Cersei saw Rykker's expression swiftly transform to match her Kingsguard's, and Cersei realized that fate had been favouring her all along. She had always known that it was she who must bring vengeance upon the traitors, the usurpers, and all that sought to strike against House Lannister, and she knew now the truth of why she was the one chosen to do so.

"Because," she repeated the answer that she had only toyed with before,"It is my destiny."

That prophecy had always barred her, but she had always known that she had not fashioned herself the clever queen to then allow younger usurpers like Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell to take hold. They were younger, but never more beautiful. She now knew the whole truth of the destiny that the woods witch had told her that day. There was destined to be a younger, more beautiful queen. Herself. Cersei herself would overtake her old decrepit self and claim all that is dear to her. And when she was in her place in the sun, none could match her. Not her golden brother, nor their children, and least of all the foreign usurpers who sought to take what was rightfully the lion's. It was her destiny.

The Great Sept was a ruin. Thin wisps of smoke lingered in the ashen windows, all its once-white stones stained with grey and the dark mahogany that was blood. Her procession seemed alone there, but she knew that in the shadows, men were watching. Rykker had wanted to escort Cersei all the way to the Sept's gates, but she would not bear whatever lay in that darkness.

She stopped before a dead sparrow boy, the Reachmen too hasty to have thrown his corpse into the pyre properly. She knelt by him, nursing his half-burnt face, all too glad that he got what he deserved. Tears of joy began to run down her face, and she began to shake with silent laughter.

She laughed at Rykker, who thought he could rise high in court by manipulating the queen. She laughed at Tyrell who fled the capital, not knowing that he would never escape Cersei who would hunt him down and rescue her children from those golden shrouds. Last of all she laughed at her monster of a brother, whom she saw climb from the ruins of the Great Sept.

He approached her with his snarky grin, reaching out with his thick ugly hands. His hands crumbled to ashes as they touched Cersei's throat, and she wrapped her own fingers tight about his. She squeezed with her claws, and saw the light leave that wretched life.

 

[Mockingbird]

BRANDON
​

"Have you seen Jojen?" Meera's voice came out of the darkness.

She emerged soon after, her eyes like sour lemons which grew on a pale face that looked dead. A spear appeared in her hand, and her hand was shivering. A brown lock of her hair got stuck in the roots.

"You are sick," Brandon closed his eyes, feeling through the roots her heart beating faintly, a mad frenzy on her mind. Yet he could not see. He wanted to see in her, to care for her and show her that he loved her, but whenever he tried to look his heart beat faster and everything was a blur.

"Ow," Meera groaned as she tugged her hair free, and Brandon opened his eyes. Meera's crannogman eyes stared at Brandon, an angry gleam upon them,"Where is Jojen?"

Bits of the weirwood paste were stuck in Brandon's teeth, and he wondered where the wise-spoken boy was. He swallowed the last of the paste down his throat, and he swore that he had seen Jojen only a day before. He had seen his face, crested with roots and proud.

"Hodor," a pain exploded in Brandon's body as the giant lifted him up and away from the roots.

"Put me down," Brandon cried,"Put me down. Put me down." He pushed himself into Hodor's simple mind, and at once he was taller and could walk. The boy's little body was in his hand, and he felt a rushing urge to carry it away. Brandon got the best of him in the end, and Brandon set the boy down upon the roots which curled around the boy's arms, legs, and chest when they touched him. When Brandon opened his eyes as the boy again, he felt no longer the pain. Only the peace of someone who could fly.

Meera had taken several steps back, her spear trembling even more,"Where is Jojen?"

"Here," Brandon searched and knew the answer, as certain as death,"He is in me now."

Meera took one hesitant step forward, then another, then another. Her free hand rose up and touched Brandon's lips. When her hand came away, Brandon saw a bright red speck on her finger. He knew what that was. It was the paste, that food the Children made for him that he had found so sour before but now found so sweet. The three-eyed crow gave him fewer today, saying that they were on their last until they could find more.

Brandon saw Meera put her finger to her nose, and she dropped her spear with a muffled thunk on the roots. As the spear hit the roots, Brandon felt a jolt of pain. Meera picked up her spear and knelt before Brandon,"Bran, we need to get out of this cave. That old man in the roots and these Children-they killed Jojen. It's not the Others we need to worry about. It's them. They are the dead. Come with me, please."

"Hodor," Hodor again tried to lift Brandon from his painless seat, but Brandon thrust himself into his mind again and had him set the boy down. When Brandon returned to his body, he left a bit of himself behind, bading Hodor to remain still.

"I am not leaving," Brandon said to Meera,"This is my home."

"Please, Bran," tears were rushing down Meera's cheeks, and she smashed her spear into the roots.

Brandon was jolted alight, but he soon found his peace yet again as the roots healed themselves from Meera's blow.

"Can't you see?" Brandon snapped,"This is where I am supposed to be. My dreams led me here. It is my destiny. Now and forever, until the world ends and begins again."

Meera shook her head, her tears flying onto Brandon's face. She rushed forward and wrapped Brandon in a hug he could not feel, whispering in his ear,"Bran. I'm so sorry I brought you here. Stay if you must, and fight him. But I need to go away."

Away. Brandon felt the waters on his cheek, the words echoing like a raven's cry, Away. Away. She was going away, leaving him here along with Hodor and Summer and Coldhands. Her, whose kind, warm, and pretty touch he would never bear again.

"No," Brandon said,"Stay. Stay with me."

"I want to," Meera lifted her head away,"but I can't. He'll kill me."

"STAY," Brandon shouted, and mustered all his strength to go into her. He would make her stay. He found himself surrounded by a blur. He did not know what to find in this storm. He saw the face of a stubby man calling for him to come home, Jojen's worried voice telling her to not come north because he dreamed of a wolf that licked her face, and a dead man lifting down his hood to reveal a burnt face and deep purple eyes, offering up his sword. Distantly, Brandon heard screams, a girl screeching: "Get out. GET OUT!"

A sudden force slammed into him, and Brandon found himself in the boy again, staring at Meera convulsing on the ground, red streaks flowing down her eyes and across her cheeks. He thought that looked familiar. He had seen it before when he had shown his sister what she must know.

His eyes rose above Meera to see a hulking mass standing above her. Its golden eyes gleamed as it snarled at him.

"Summer," Brandon said,"Get away from us."

The wolf only snarled back.

"Get away," Brandon shouted,"You are mine."

His eyes bore into the wolf's, pushing himself in. Brandon felt the animal fight like he had never had before, but he gripped the roots and felt a surge of ancient magic flow through him. He was a wizard, just like the three-eyed crow in his tree. Summer would be a part of Brandon, now and forever. He heard a howl, and opened his eyes to the beautiful girl below him. He licked the blood off her face, and gazed into her bloodshot green eyes. They were very pretty. Brandon was as old as Summer as he wore the wolf's skin, old enough to know his desire which began to build beneath Summer's bowels. The girl's clothes came away in pieces beneath his paws, and she screamed. A spear lodged itself in his side, but he could not feel it. His desire uncurled itself, and the girl looked very sweet. Brandon knew he was in love with her. He thrust himself in and out. In and out. In and out. Her screams grew louder and fainter in Brandon's ears.

A blow of lightning struck him in the skull, its blinding pain lancing through every part of his body. He opened his eyes to find himself the boy again, except he felt that he had died and lived again. The bitter taste of death lingered in his head, and he knew it would linger there forever. He gripped the roots and looked up to see a man bringing down a sword on what was left of the wolf's neck, severing it in that second blow. Summer's head rolled to Brandon, its golden eyes staring up at him.

The man pulled the wolf's corpse off Meera, and swept his cloak about the girl whose face was frozen. Brandon looked at him. He had never seen Coldhands without a hood before. He remembered that man with purple eyes in Meera's head. That was him.

"Jon," Brandon said without thinking.

"Who is Jon, you monster boy?" Coldhands asked.

"You look like my brother," Brandon said.

"I am not your brother," Coldhands looked down at Meera in his arms,"and I will never be."

He turned to leave, but Brandon would not let him. Brandon tried to push himself into that man, telling him that he could not leave. Not with Meera. The man laughed,"You monster boy. My nephew should have told you that wargs could only ensnare the living. To control the dead in an art he has not taught you."

Brandon could only watch as the man led Meera into the darkness. Another sting rankled Brandon's mind, and he felt his hand burn on the roots.

"Hodor," Hodor said, and Brandon found that he could no longer tell Hodor where to go. His own head was a blur, and he did not want to enter the simple stableboy's head again. Hodor disappeared after the others.

No, Brandon was the other, the one they left behind.

He saw a shadow in the doorway. It emerged to be one of those green Children.

"You let them go," Brandon said.

"The three-eyed crow let them go," she answered in that high voice of a woman.

"It is best to let some things go," the three-eyed crow's voice sounded from within the tree,"rather than let their ghosts haunt you forever."

He emerged from the roots, one still running through his eye.

"Leaf," he bade the Child,"Bring the child the last of the paste. He is ready."

"Where will we fly today?" Brandon asked as he felt the sweet fluid run through his mouth again.

"You will fly to me," the three-eyed crow said, and the world disappeared.

The first thing Brandon saw was that he was not looking from a heart tree. The sun shone high and bright, the air stifled his bones, and before him was a wall of red stone.

Thunk, he heard behind him, then a long pause. Thunk. A long pause. Thunk.

Brandon turned, to look upon a silver-haired boy with a scar on his face loosing arrows at a target. The scar was the same bloody blotch Brandon saw on the three-eyed crow's cheek, and he remembered that the crow's name was once Brynden. Brandon looked at the target, and saw that all of the arrows veered far from the black eye at its centre.

"You still cannot make it, Bryn?" an older boy as tall as Robb appeared at the boy's side, patting his shoulder.

"Daem, I promise you that I had," the boy said,"I made it every time last evening. It is just that when you are here, I cannot."

The older boy did not answer, instead taking another arrow out of the boy's quiver and placing it in his hand.

"Do not hesitate," the man said,"You will never get to hesitate on a battlefield, brother."

The boy drew and loosed his bow. It hit the black centre. Chips of dark wood scattered across the air like dragonglass.

A song washed the boy's stoic face away.

"From the hills unto the waters," a harp was trilling through a brightly lit room in the night,"

through the snows and through the flowers.

All the world has become me,

same in soul as all my brothers."

"To be heroes, we can sing," the voice echoed with each word, until the air itself was shivering,"

a lord, a prince, a humble king.

Black or red, we shall know only

of the beast who's high and mighty."

"Summer swords and winter dreams," the winds seemed to join the song,"

see the flames that we shall bring.

May the worthy win the banners

From a realm that's lost in tatters."

"What is life but to be free," Brandon saw the singer's face, the same boy who had shot the arrows with that same scar on his cheek,"

from the silence of our terrors,

for the beast now still bears three,

one is true to slay the monsters.

Breathing life and breathing wonders,

calls the true from their dark wanders,

to the light and to the feast,

where our souls are weighed in deeds."

"From the ashes, we'll be free," Brandon heard the harp again,"

a song of ice, a song of peace.

At last now I can be

under the sea."

Not long after the singer's voice faded, booming steps began to ring outside the door. They grew louder and louder until the door slammed open. A thin man entered with kind eyes knitted in worry. He wore a decorated cloak of black and red silks. Two other others followed behind him, knights clad all in white.

"Daeron," the singer was surprised.

"Brother," the thin man answered,"Ser Benjen. Ser Rickard. Break the harp."

The singer stood up, but backed away when the thin man approached him.

"How could you be so foolish, Brynden?" the thin man said,"Singing that kind of traitor's song. Father's becoming more paranoid as he grows ever iller. He would not sleep in the night unless he has seen the head of someone he thinks is a traitor. Today it was Tarly's wife. I do not want for tomorrow to be you."

"Please," the singer pleaded, the light shining on his eyes for Brandon to see how young he still was. He did not look older than Brandon.

"Father will not know," the thin man spoke softly and kindly,"No one will know. I had the boy who told me of your song thrown off the roof of the Red Keep. Ser Benjen and Ser Rickard here are mutes, their tongues having been removed by Father long ago. My spiders will have the castle know that the song they heard was of the remaining sycophants to the rebel Toynes."

"Do you want to know a secret?" the thin man crouched before the boy,"Father will be dead soon, but I want you to live. You know what you must do, Brynden."

The thin man rose, but the singer knelt. "Long live the king," the boy chanted.

"Remember that," the thin man raised Brynden to his feet,"Remember to follow your duty and not your heart, for love is the death of duty. That is the only way you will survive, my brother."

Behind them, Brandon saw the white-cloaked men throw the broken harp out of the balcony.

"Did Daemon make that traitor's song?" the thin man asked.

"No, Your Grace," the boy answered quickly, and it was clear he was lying,"It was not Daem. It was me."

"Then you can make your own choice," the thin man said in his silky voice,"I trust you to make the right one."

The thin man and his men left, and Brandon heard the boy whisper:

"To the light and to the feast,

where our souls are weighed in cruelty."

It was not long after that the door opened to another man.

"Are you alright, Bryn?" the man rushed forward and hugged the boy,"Did Daeron hurt you?"

"No, Daem," the boy answered.

"Where's the harp I gave you for your nameday?" the man asked.

"I'm sorry," the boy weeped into his chest,"I'm so sorry."

The winds washed the room away.

Brandon opened his eyes to an empty sky above and a field of deep red below.

A silver-haired man with a scar on his face nocked an arrow to his bow, and a host of crimson-cloaked warriors did the same behind him.

"Is it Daemon down there?" the silver-haired man asked another beside him.

"It is, Lord Bloodraven," the other man answered,"There rides the traitor and his two sons."

"Do you know what I heard then?" the three-eyed crow appeared suddenly behind Brandon,"It was my brother's voice. Do not hesitate. You never get to hesitate on a battlefield." The silver-haired man loosed his arrow, and where he shot all his men followed.

"Why?" Brandon turned back to the three-eyed crow, the world starting to wilt around them.

"I asked myself why a thousand times after," the three-eyed crow answered,"and each time I answered with the same words: I had to remember my duty and not my heart. My brother had trusted me to make the right choice."

"Is there an end to the sad stories?" Brandon asked, feeling the familiar darkness of the roots begin to form around them.

"You already know the answer, my dear child," the three-eyed crow said.

"No," Brandon answered,"There is no end to the sad stories, but I must know them if I am to fly."

"My tale will be your last, my child," the three-eyed crow said as the cave around them solidified,"You have seen the tales of your house, you have seen the tales of your desire, and you have seen the tales of me. If you can look upon the tales of the ones you love and not utter a word, you can look upon the tales of all the world. You are ready."

"What is Coldhands's tale?" Brandon asked, even though he did not love him.

"His tale I showed you that very first time you tasted the weirwood paste. The first son of wolf and dragon, the first song of ice and fire. He could have saved the world, but he chose not to."

"Was he to save the world from the dead?" Brandon asked.

"Men should never fear the dead," the three-eyed crow said,"They are silent, and without wish for this world. What a man need fear is the living, and the only thing man needs to be saved from is from itself."

"Meera was right," Brandon felt the roots imbuing him with some great ancient power,"The dead are yours."

"A foolish tool," the three-eyed crow said,"forged by the most wayward of the Children against the First Men. To drive them from their lands, and a greater peace may emerge. And so the first of the name Brandon who you name the Builder raised the great ice Wall against us imbued with the last enchantments of the false Children who had gone over to him. We could not pass, and a Child enchanted itself as a babe to never strike against a fellow Child. But we never forgot that the Starks were our champions before they turned, and through the Builder and his house flowed the ice blood of his father and father's father when they bedded ice girls in the snow."

"That was the Night's King," Brandon said,"Old Nan told me this story."

"He was not the first," the three-eyed crow said,"but he was the last. The Starks tried to bury their blood, hiding it behind the enchanted walls and magic springs of Winterfell. For they knew that with the ice blood in their veins, they were ours. And they were. For each time they set foot outside Winterfell, they were ours. The dead still had one use, even though they were no use south of the Wall if we could not pass. To drive those Beyond the Wall into the south. For each man who fought the King of Winter, ten more would join him in order to live. The Kings Beyond the Wall marched south-Joramun, Gendel and Gorne, and the Horned Lord and all the others-and they only added to the strength of Brandon the Breaker, Edrick Snowbeard, and Theon Stark and all the other Kings in the North. The Starks grew to lord the kingdom that was the size of the other six combined. And they were our men as we willed. It was never our wish in the end to rule over a realm of the dead."

"But to rule the living," Brandon felt a surge of anger rising in him,"and we failed, again and again. The Andals landed in the south, and we could do nothing."

"That was the time when we thought there to be a doomed cycle," the three-eyed crow said,"when the Andals cut down all the heart trees and north and south stood by for thousands of years. We were resigned to it, until the dragons came. When one of the dragon princes rode north two centuries ago and bedded a girl with ice blood, the mixing of ice and fire meant that we could tap into the power that had tamed the Seven Kingdoms. Yet their son Coldhands chose not to save the world. The man who would become the dead man you see today held a quest of vengeance to slay the remaining dragons of his time, and when he slew the last on Skagos with his last arrow, he was gravely wounded. Ours were there to slay him, but his potent blood will never die, burning with that fiery passion in a vessel of ice."

"He was older than you," Brandon said,"He called you his nephew."

"He was Brynden Bloodraven's uncle," the three-eyed crow smiled,"but I am not Brynden Bloodraven alone. I am him, and Harwar Hoare who came before me, and all the greenseers since the Age of Men when we were created by the Children to tame the beasts of the earth."

"But the song of ice and fire has come again," the three-eyed crow said, drawing closer to Brandon,"You know who it is."

"My brother," Brandon remembered those three white cloaks stained with blood.

"Feel through the roots," the three-eyed crow said,"Do you see him?"

Brandon did, and like a bird from the sky he flew over the Wall. No, he was on the Wall, looking at an endless host that marched down below.

"Lord Snow," a snow-bearded man said beside Brandon," 'Tis the last from Hardhome. I cannot thank you enough."

Brandon was silent.

"Answer him, Satin," a silky voice whispered in Brandon's ear, and Brandon turned to find a beautiful woman with flaming red hair.

Brandon turned again, and knew the words,"Think nothing of it. It is my duty, Tormund, to shield those who have sworn themselves to me."

Snows fell about him, though he did not feel cold.

"For thousands of years," the three-eyed crow brought Brandon back to the cave,"We crept upon those Starks who dreamed of kingship. We were them, and they were us. Your brother will be us, and he could save the realm. He will die in a hundred years, but we will have his sons after him and his sons' sons after. We thought we had to wait another hundred years for another like your brother when he fell in the snow, but we looked again and his soul was yet alive. Your desired was not right. We are not the dead, my dear child. We are the living, who will live forever."

"Can you see the future in the trees?" Brandon asked,"Did we succeed?"

"We can only see the past in the trees," the three-eyed crow said,"but never the future. The future we must make."

"And the past?" Brandon wondered again.

"The ink is dry."

A root wrapped itself around Brandon's hand, giving him a long-awaited call. He knew what it was.

"The ink may be dry," Brandon said,"but it must be written in the first place."

He tasted no weirwood paste on his breath, but he did not need it now. He cast himself into the trees, flying through the darkness to find the godswood of Harrenhal seventeen years ago. He looked upon the woods from the tree.

From the doorway, Brandon saw a knight in cumbersome armour limp in on the shoulder of a tall burly man. "Thank you, Walder," a deep muffled voice sounded from within the helmet. Brandon wondered if he had come to the right place. The big man carried the knight all the way to the weirwood, and the knight threw down a shield before him. No, her. That was when Brandon knew that he was right. The sigil on the shield was that of a laughing tree.

The knight pulled her helmet off to reveal the brown hair of Brandon's aunt. His father's stories were not false, and his aunt Lyanna was as beautiful and fierce as he said her to be. Her hair flew in the wind, revealing a long, sweat-soaked face and shimmering grey eyes burning with the wolf blood. She pushed her helmet beneath the roots of the weirwood, then began to take off her armour-her overlarge cuirass and pauldrons, her mismatched gauntlets picked from different suits, her too-small greaves which she had to wrench off her feet, pushing them all beneath the weirwood where they would be hidden by the tree. Beneath, his aunt wore a tunic bearing the grey and white of House Stark.

Thunders of steps began to sound in the distance, and Brandon saw his aunt's eyes widen. She rolled beneath the roots of the weirwood, uttering a prayer to the Old Gods. Brandon saw the big man bend over the roots, asking his aunt what to do. She just told him to say he saw nothing.

The first man to enter the godswood was a red-haired man with griffins on his surcoat. He was followed by a brown-bearded man with skulls and lips on his cloak. After them came the man Brandon sought to find, that tall silver-haired man with deep purple eyes and his three white-cloaked men behind him.

All had their swords drawn.

"You should have sent one of us with the men in first to flush that fugitive out," the red-haired man said to the silver-haired man,"There is no need to risk yourself, my prince."

"Not so, Jon," the brown-bearded man answered,"That man frightened the king. He deserves to look upon the prince."

"Do not speak like that, Richard," the silver-haired man said,"My father will take those words as treason."

It was then that they saw the big man beneath the leaves, and turned their swords to him. The white cloaks surrounded the silver-haired man, while the others approached the big man who was frightened.

"Oi, you stableboy," the red-haired man called,"Have you seen a crooked knight with a laughing heart tree on his shield?"

"I think he has," the brown-bearded man said as the stableboy shook his head desperately. The man stepped near the weirwood and picked up the shield. The red-haired man trained his sword in an instant at the stableboy's throat,"Where is he?"

"He…he left his shield here and fled into the castle."

"Then we will go," the silver-haired man lowered the red-haired man's arm,"I do not want to find the knight anyway, as Father is going to kill him. The shield is enough."

"Here," Brandon called.

They all turned to the weirwood, hearing his voice. The silver-haired man stepped forward slowly to peer at the heart tree, his sword held high. One of the white cloaks tried to step in front of him, but he waved him aside. "No, Arthur," the silver-haired man said,"I should have known this was it. My destiny. I dreamt it."

A flash shimmered before Brandon, and he saw the silver-haired man step quickly aside to avoid the thrown knife. The man smiled a mad smile, a fiery gleam coming onto his eyes. "Of course," he whispered,"The prophecy lies here." He put his hand to stop his men who had rushed forward behind him, and looked the weirwood from trunk to branch until his eyes fell beneath the roots.

"Come out," the silver-haired man said,"You have fought valiantly at the tourney, and I swear to you on my honour as the Prince of Dragonstone that I will not take you to my father. I only wish to see your face."

Brandon's aunt rose from the roots, her grey-white tunic coated with dust and dirt. Her long hair fell behind her like a blizzard, its whirlwinds matted with dead logchips and crushed flowers.

"Was it you who rode so bravely today?" the silver-haired man lowered his sword.

Brandon's aunt made no answer, and there was silence until she gave a small nod.

"Where is your armour?" the silver-haired man drew closer. Brandon's aunt pointed beneath the roots, but the silver-haired man's eyes did not look there. His eyes remained on Brandon's aunt's face, searching there for his truth.

"Are you going to take me to your father?" Brandon's aunt asked,"To pay me with death?"

"No," the silver-haired man caressed her face,"I owe you a much greater due than that."

"Ser Richard," the man backed away, calling forth the knight wearing a cloak of skulls and lips,"Escort Lady Stark back to her tent. Wrap her in your cloak if you must, but let no one know it is her."

"Not to my tent," Brandon's aunt said,"To the Reeds."

Brandon knew his duty here was done, but a feeling in the trees bade him stay a little longer. "A pity," Brandon heard Ser Richard say in the distance,"I won't be able to tell your betrothed I won our game."

"Bran," he heard from far away,"Bran. BRAN." Brandon saw himself both in the godswood and flying above the cave in his own time. Outside in the snows he saw Coldhans and Hodor lift Meera onto Coldhands's elk, but Meera was struggling and shouting at the cave.

"BRAN," he heard her again,"I know it's not you. Get away from him. Please."

Deep down, Brandon knew that Meera wanted to stay with him. He wanted to stay with her. He would get her back. He reached through the roots, trying to reach. He felt the inside of the cave begin to move, his fingers emerging from the trees, corpses preserved in the folds of the heart tree's heart. He saw their eyes open, and they were a bright blue. He heard their feet land on the cave floor, marching to the door of the cave.

Outside, he saw that Hodor heard them as well, and the giant stumbled to the door, holding it with all his strength against Brandon's fingers. Brandon tried to push through, to reach Meera.

"Open it," Meera shouted,"It's Bran."

Brandon was about to reach her, the first arm of his host cracking through the door. Meera's face grew pale, and she urged Coldhands to go as she screamed at Hodor,"HOLD THE DOOR." Brandon wanted to reach her, and he pushed into Hodor's mind, commanding him to let go. All he heard was Meera's voice growing fainter as Coldhands's elk galloped away,"Hold the Door. Hold the Door."

In the godswood at Harrenhal, Brandon saw the big stableboy's eyes go white, collapsing onto the ground.

"Hold the door," he muttered,"Hold the door. Hold the door."

All the people in the godswood froze. They watched, silent like the bats, the boy convulsing on the ground muttering that one calling: "Hold the Door. Hold Door. Hodor."

He saw one of the white cloaks step forward,"Let me put him down, my prince. It would be a mercy."

The white cloak found his way barred by the red-haired man, who uttered in a stern voice: "No, Martell. You will not."

"You were the one who set a sword at his throat, Connington," the white cloak raised his blade.

"Yet I would have never thrust it in," the red-haired man answered,"He is an innocent. You are a man of the prince, sworn to defend them."

"Listen to Jon, Ser Lewyn," the silver-haired man said,"Let him go."

"Take him back to the Starks, Jon," he turned,"The rest of us must return. I must take the shield to Father."

It was time for Brandon to go, and he melted into the trees, leaving a call in the roots for one day when a root would wrap around the boy's hand. He opened his eyes in the cave again, feeling younger and older as ever. The roots dug deep into the earth, yet their branches grew forever into the world. Brandon was flying while sitting in the cave, watching the three-eyed crow's kind grandfather smile.

"Am I truly ready?" Brandon asked him.

"You have already answered yourself," he answered,"You are ready to become me and more."

Brandon reached into the roots, finding Brynden's soul and the souls of a thousand others stretching back to the first greenseer. He melded them into himself, making them his own, watching as the old wizard shriveled into a dry empty patch of skin that rooted away in the trees. His two eyes found the gnarled twisting branches, and his third eye opened onto the world.

From the darkness, he saw the Children emerge. Leaf, Coals, Ash, Black Knife, and Snowylocks. Their green skins turned white as snow, they grew as tall as a man, and when they opened their eyes they were blue. They were the last of them, and they knelt before the last greenseer. The first…

"Abomination," they chanted in song.

"Monster."

"Judge."

"Saviour."

"God."

 

[Mockingbird]

EPILOGUE
​

"Husband," Melessa blurted before she realized her mistake.

It was not the first time she felt a chill as she saw the huntsman return. Those frightening silks that heralded Lord Tarly's coming had sown dread in Melessa's heart the first time she saw them approaching the gates. That was before she learned that banners did not tell of the men beneath, and she never needed to fear Randy. The only men she needed to flee were those flying silks of beauty that masked a vile heart. Like the golden roses that usurped the seat of Highgarden from her fathers, who bore the true blood of the Gardeners.

It is not my husband, she corrected herself as the host crested a distant hill, It is my son. As they came closer, Melessa could not help but wonder about how much they looked like the ragged men of the Night's Watch who had come south every eve of winter asking for men. The chivalry of the Reach should have known better than to show themselves dressed no better than bandits or brigands. Even a few more days of waiting while the seamstresses mended their banners would have sufficed, but boys always had hasty hearts.

"Why are they here?" Melessa's youngest daughter Samantha complained,"I thought they were still killing the red witch's demons. Are they craven, to flee the battlefield? They are a disgrace to our house."

Melessa remained still, awaiting Samantha to finish.

"No," she chided her daughter firmly,"They could return for any cause, but it would never be one of cowardice. Your father was never a craven. Your brother is not a craven. None of House Tarly are craven." She remembered Samwell with his pink cheeks and love for books. She loved him with all her heart, but he was a craven. He was never meant to be one of the house of the huntsman. Perhaps one day, if he fared well on the Wall, he would come south like those wandering crows Yoren and Gueren, and she would see her son again.

Melessa shook her head, telling herself that she would think of him later. Now, it was her other son who needed her wit.

She remembered that morning when Samantha burst into her chamber, startling the servants with her maester puffing in her trail.

"Father wrote," she spewed out all in an instant,"Dickon is coming home." Melessa had let the maester explain the raven that had come from King's Landing. It became apparent that Dickon would not be riding directly back to Horn Hill but would escort one of his friends first to his home of Ashford. There, Lord Rupen Ashford was hosting a harvest festival to celebrate the last harvest before the winter, and Randy wished for all his house from Horn Hill to attend with his son there. Randy hoped that at Ashford, they could seal a betrothal between Talla and Lord Rupen's heir. Melessa thought Lord Rupen was a fool to host a festival when the war was still on, with the usurper king Stannis Baratheon still alive and his followers far from scattered. Yet Melessa would not refuse Lord Rupen's invitation, especially her whose name before Tarly was men who were now named traitors. Her anger flared whenever she heard the words Brightwater Keep, now in the hands of that scoundrel Garlan Tyrell. Yet she must smile and pretend that she had lost her love for her maiden house. She had not. Her husband had not.

It was a long ride on the road to Ashford, on a wretched wagon with shaking wheels. In more peaceful times, she would have had them take the road to Highgarden and travel to Ashford by ship along the Mander. Yet there were rumours of Ironborn galleys raiding the rivers, even stories of Oldtown being taken, and she decided to not risk the waters. She was still amazed at how her eldest daughter Talla had slept through the whole tumbling road as serene as a swan, especially since Melessa had told Talla of her possible marriage before she left. She had been glad to leave Horn Hill, though, and all the troubles that came with calling another levy of men to Lord Mace's banner and replace the ones that were lost.

"First for Renly," the steward Weiatt had complained to her every two days when he would return from the fields,"then the rose wed the lion for us to be Joffrey's men. We are to run out of men to work the fields, and our winter stores could only last a short winter of two to three years. If all the rumours be true, it will be a long winter that faces us, and we are not ready."

Those kings were her husband's choice, and she told the steward that it was their duty to follow the lord. Randy had raised Weiatt to his place as steward, so despite the steward's grievances she had no doubt of his loyalty. She had made him castellan of Horn Hill, knowing that he would do well to deal with all the troubles.

Despite the weary road, her daughters did not ever diminish in their beauty, and Samantha shone as the radiance of the room even in the cramped carriages. Unlike the dreadful rumours Melessa had heard of the bandit-strewn North and Riverland roads, the roads in the Reach were safe beneath the king's peace. They had taken in freeriders at every turn, swearing them their protection, as if they thought she was going to the bloody wars in the east. She was not so fool to do that, as war was best left to Randy, but she would not refuse any swords that would be like to add to her banner's glory. She hoped that one day they would prove themselves and earn lands or a small keep from her husband, but they would have to do so through battles that was not here.

Melessa glanced back at the setting sun in the west, feeling the sudden grace of a warm northern breeze. She saw Ashford, that mighty holdfast high above the surrounding hills with one wall to the river. A gate opened there to a quay where ships docked. It was truly a sight to behold, for this castle only had three walls, guarding its keep in a triangle. The other entrances on the earth stood guarded by potholes and trenches beneath countless towers, the remnants of the lord's preparations for war from the east or north. She was wary, having left the castle's safety to welcome her son.

She looked east again, at the banners that lay just beyond a stretch of plains. She held her littlest daughter's hand, and felt her squeeze it. "He's home," Melessa whispered in her ear, and beamed when she saw her smile.

Dickon looked and held himself so much like her husband that Melessa shivered unconsciously as he approached, though she knew it was not Randy. "He will be," she thought as he stared back at them. Dickon had the same square jaw that had hardened his father's lips ever in a rough smile. He had the same stony eyes that spoke only of steel and duty. Melessa's eyes strayed to the jeweled pommel on his saddle.

Is that Heartsbane? She had always remembered the look of the Tarly blade, having seen too many times the honour that she could never bear. She wondered why her husband would give it to their son. The Lord of Horn Hill always bore the sword, and with it all the strength of House Tarly's banners. In all her years wed to the lord, Melessa had never seen her husband part with the blade of Valyrian steel. It always remained in the same room as him, even in his bedchamber. "Once a Tarly has earned his blade," her husband always said,"He must care for it until he dies." The only reason her husband would give Heartsbane away is if he never meant to return. Melessa dreaded what tidings her son would bring from the capital.

Banners flew before the host, a dozen riders bearing a dozen sigils. Chief amongst them was the golden rose of Highgarden, and on its sides flew the huntsman of Horn Hill, the white sun of Ashford, and the red apple of Cider Hall. The red, Melessa noticed. The green ones were conspicuously absent. Behind them emerged other banners, of minor houses along the river Cockleswhent sworn to either House Ashford or the Fossoways of Cider Hall. She spied even some of her husband's bannermen, who rode with Lord Tyrell and Lord Tarly to war.

The banners were the first to arrive, and parted then to reveal their knights. The square erupted into applause to greet the returning warriors. All the strength of Ashford had gathered for this welcome, with many families foreign to this land amongst them. Melessa's second son rode at the procession's head alongside a knight in golden armour with roses embroidered on its steel. Dickon's eyes met Melessa's, and he broke into a smile. She smiled back, for she thought her son would surely have lost her amidst the crowd. Lord Ashford came forward to his guests with his retinue. His men helped the knight in golden armour dismount, and the knight quickly disappeared in their masses.

"He looks like Ser Loras," Samantha said.

"Ser Loras fell on Dragonstone," Melessa answered. She wondered who that knight was, most like to be some distant cousin of the roses that Ashford sought to welcome with all its graces. Lord Rupen disgusted her, groveling at this length to those Tyrell usurpers and forsaking the true blood of Highgarden which flowed through her son.

Dickon dismounted his horse, as did all the knights behind him.

"My lord," Dickon greeted Lord Rupen as the lord turned back,"We ask for your hospitality."

"Of course, Ser," Lord Ashford replied, his servants bringing up trays of bread and salt,"Ashford is yours." Each of the knights took the bread and salt as they dismounted, sworn to guest right beneath Ashford's roof.

Melessa's eyes tore past the mass of knights dismounting, past the flourish of half the Reach's chivalry, to her son's smiling face as he strode towards them. "The gods are good," Melessa whispered as she felt the warmth of Dickon's breath as he returned. She crushed him in an embrace, and she barely felt the hard steel beneath his surcoat.

"Mother," her son whispered in her ear,"You came."

"Yes," was the only answer she could conjure before she pulled away. Her son had grown, his voice stiffer than it had ever been. A curl of stubble adorned his chin, and his arms were as thick as trunks. "War changed him," Melessa remembered the smiling boy that had left Horn Hill,"as it changed his father." They all knew now the steel in their lives.

Suddenly, a blur flung itself at Dickon, and Melessa realized her hand was empty. Dickon laughed and picked Samantha off the ground, raising her in his arms and swinging her around before putting her down. Talla and Sylva each gave their brother an embrace of their own, and Dickon kissed each of his sisters on the cheek in answer. He brought himself before his mother again, whose face bore an all too bright smile.

"If only Sam were here," Samantha sighed. Melessa's smile froze, and she saw Talla and Sylva's eyes fall. Dickon took his hand back from Samantha, his feet tapping an uneven rhythm on the cobbles.

"Mother," he greeted Melessa again, his voice even.

"Dickon," she answered,"Is your Father well?"

Her son nodded,"King Tommen has blessed his health. Father marches now with Lord Tyrell, who has rallied the strength of the Reach to subdue that pretender Aegon in the Stormlands. Ever since Ser Kevan's death, the Red Keep has roused in turmoil. The Lannister queen thinks it is her dwarf brother hiding in the walls who slew Ser Kevan, as a crossbow was found in his bowels, the same manner in which Lord Tywin was slain. Lord Tyrell marched swiftly, securing the safety of the king and his court before any other man could come in harm's way. They stayed the unrest and uproar, securing King's Landing's peace. Father was well when I left him."

Melessa always knew when her son was lying. Dickon was better than Sam, much better than their father who could not lie for his life, but still a mother knew. His words dug a deeper pit in her stomach,"What happened in King's Landing, to my Randy?" Melessa knew that her son had chosen to hide the truth for a reason, and she must play along her part.

"Who is the Regent now?" Melessa asked,"Is it Lord Mace, shielding his goodson's throne?"

Dickon shook his head,"A stag needs its antlers still, and Lord Mace had prepared to take upon the role himself and make Father his Hand. In the wake of Ser Kevan's death, the sins of the queens were forgiven at his funeral, but the Small Council has deemed both queens unfit to take upon the duty. Yet the queen went to the High Septon, and a new choice was made."

"Which queen, the lion or the rose?" Talla asked.

"Queen Margaery, of course," Dickon replied,"Only Lord Mace's daughter would have the grace to serve a house other than own. She begged the High Septon to release Ser Lancel from the oaths of the Seven. The High Septon granted the favour in his infinite grace. Lord Mace saw no other choice that may strengthen the lion and the rose after the murder, so within a night, Ser Lancel went from a Warrior's Son to Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms."

"How old is he?" Sylva asked,"He cannot have seen more than twenty years."

"The youngest in living memory," Dickon betrayed a bitter laugh.

"No, in the history of the Seven Kingdoms," Talla said,"He was even younger than Cregan Stark in the Hour of the Wolf two centuries ago, who lorded over the third Aegon and executed a host of treasonous lords before resigning after a fortnight."

"The other queen," Sylva scoffed,"that Lannister queen, would do anything for a Lannister behind the throne if she could not take it herself, even a green boy who would drive the kingdom to ruin. Was Queen Margaery wise to do so?"

"You have Heartsbane," Samantha pointed at the sword slung across Dickon's hip,"Father always said that the Tarly sword stays by the Tarly lord."

Melessa read Dickon's eyes, which were begging to be released. "That is a longer tale," Melessa said,"A tale for warmer halls. We have tarried in these dreadful winds much too long when Lord Rupen's hospitality welcomes us."

Dickon nodded, grateful, though Melessa had him know with her gaze that he would tell her everything once they were in the safety of their chamber.

"Have you met my wife?" Dickon asked.

The carriages bearing the ladies arrived at the square when the sun was just about to set into night, the last flickering light in the west made brighter by the thousand torches. One of the carriages, with smooth wooden wheels and draperies of blue and white, reined in its horses before Melessa's house. The driver, a dark-eyed youth sure to be one of those lowborn her husband picked up in the wartorn Riverlands, lowered his eyes before Melessa as he was bid. He gave two taps on the carriage behind him, and two servants opened the draperies.

Melessa had heard of Elanor Mooton only from her husband's letters. "Fresh and flowered," Randy had written in his curt tone,"A good wife for Dickon. Maidenpool would be a useful friend once the war is over." Melessa had not expected a great beauty, but she also did not expect a doe-eyed girl not looking like she had more than twelve years. Her blue dress was stitched up to her neck, and held in her brown eyes an innocence that she would not be able to cherish. Melessa resigned herself to the fact that since her husband had chosen the girl, she would have to teach her. The girl had much to learn before she could become the lady of Horn Hill, first of which to rid herself of that innocent gaze that invited men's trouble.

"At the very least, she brought us Maidenpool's swords," Melessa glanced behind the carriage at twenty Riverland men who escorted it. She knew there would be a thousand more in the Riverlands who would favour House Tarly so long as their daughter was the wife of the Tarly lord.

"Mother," Dickon smiled as he greeted his bride,"This is Eleanor." The girl strode before Melessa and curtseyed. Melessa answered with an embrace and a peck on the girl'ssoft cheek,"Daughter. It gladdens my heart that you could join us."

Eleanor nodded,"It is my pleasure."

"Why is she here?" Melessa demanded her son explain himself in their chamber later that night,"Eleanor Mooton is the key to Maidenpool, as your father well knew when he wed her to you. She was your chance to live amongst the people of her lands, to endear yourself to her brothers, and gain yourself true friends in all the years to come when you rule Horn Hill. Instead, you bring her here, forsaking your chance to bring Maidenpool beneath you and letting some usurper steal your place. Why is she here? Why did your father allow you to bring her here?"

"Forgive me, Mother," Dickon took a step back,"I did not tell you everything. While we stayed in King's Landing, we received a raven from the north telling us that Maidenpool's smallfolk had revolted and Lord Mooton and his sons were dead. It was a stroke of luck that Eleanor was with us in the capital, and we could not bring her to be ripped apart by a raging mob. Worse, we heard that the new lord Turbert Kryce, an uncle to Eleanor from her mother's line, had sworn himself to that new Queen in the North."

Melessa stroked Dickon's cheek,"Does Eleanor know that her father and brothers are dead?"

Dickon shook his head.

"Then tell her," Melessa snapped,"She is to be your wife, the future Lady of Horn Hill. A lady must always know the truth."

"I cannot," Dickon replied,"She is only a girl. I wished to spare her…"

"You spare her nothing," Melessa answered,"You only make it worse when she inevitably knows."

"Could you tell her then, Mother?" Dickon looked up.

"I am not her husband," Melessa could not believe she was hearing this from a Tarly,"You are her lord husband, as you said in those wedding vows. It is your duty to have the courage to do it yourself."

"Forgive me, Mother," Dickon shrank back, but Melessa knew he was not convinced.

"Do you know why," Melessa turned his face to face her,"your father hated your brother?"

"Because Father said he was a craven," Dickon wrenched himself out of her grasp,"So what? He could not beat some squires. I have read our histories. There were many a Tarly lord who did not need to fight their battles themselves."

"They did not fight their battles themselves," Melessa kept her voice calm even as annoyance rose within her,"but they would lead them. Remember what your father said: Skill with a sword does not make one worthy of Heartsbane. Bravery is not about winning glory on a training field. Bravery is standing up for all the terrible duties a lord has to bear."

"The year before your father exiled Sam," Melessa touched her son's face again,"your father was visiting another castle and he put your brother in charge of Horn Hill. It was at that time when bandits struck one of the villages beneath your father's watch, and a lone peasant rider came to the castle asking for the lord's levies to save them. Your brother was afraid of anything to do with blood, and closed his gates to the peasant. He let the bandits roam free as he hid behind his books, pretending that the world outside did not exist. When your father returned, heard the peasant's pleas, and rallied his levies to put down the bandits, he found that they were long gone, the village reduced to a husk with only corpses to greet him. I swear that day was the day when your father decided that your brother would never be worthy of Heartsbane."

"Sam was a good boy, and I loved him, but he would never make a good lord," Melessa kissed Dickon on the cheek,"but I trust that you will."

"Mother," Dickon was hesitant,"There is another tiding I think I am only now brave enough to tell you."

Melessa noted that Smantha was safely away with the master-of-arms Ser Jubull. Talla and Sylva were in the chamber, Talla with her face buried in a book and Sylva sewing a dragon upon a tapestry, but they were old enough to know that what was said in the family remained in the family. The guards outside were Florent men who had been with Melessa since she was a girl, and if she could not trust them she could not trust anyone.

"Is this about your father?" Melessa asked her son.

Dickon nodded,"He gave me Heartsbane because he thought that he would not be coming back. The dragon pretender grows in strength by the day, with some rumours saying that the Vale have ousted Lord Baelish to declare for this Aegon and that Dorne's swords have already joined him in the Marches. Lord Mace knew that the only path forward was a sure strike into the usurper's heartland, and he as the Hand rallied the remaining forces of the Reach to give battle. Even King Tommen has decided to accompany Lord Mace's campaign and inspire the troops. Yet Father feels that they may yet lose."

"He fears that there are still ears within these walls," Melessa knew her son was still not telling the truth.

"The fires are bright tonight," Sylva knew to change the winds of the conversation,"The preparations for the festival are going well."

"The last time they were this bright was ninety years ago," Talla raised her nose from her book,"During that tourney in the meadow, when Lord Ashford's daughter had those five shining champions who were the glory of the realm. I wonder whom she married at the end."

"Some eunuch who could not give her sons," Sylva answered,"I suppose she died old and alone."

"The fire in the meadow was not as bright as Summerhall, though," Talla said,"when all those dragons died. They say that there is a grave there not to the king but to his Kingsguard Ser Duncan the Tall, raised there by the Mad King who was saved from the fire by the knight. Ser Duncan's white cloak was ash, his face burnt beyond recognition, but there was only one giant at Summerhall."

"Giant though he was," Sylva answered,"He was still a man, and died in the end. Not like dragons, which are forever." Sylva raised her tapestry to the firelight, and Melessa's breath caught when she saw what kind of dragon it was.

Dickon nodded,"Mother, Lord Mace did not go to the Stormlands to march with Tommen. He went there to swear his fealty to Aegon and give the boy king to the dragon, for keeping to the Lannister cause is hopeless. I was uncertain about betraying our vows one more time and risking the doom of the gods, but I could not dare say it. I think Father thought the same, because the day after we left King's Landing, he gave me Heartsbane and told me to go home."

"Your father was right to send you home, my son," Melessa assured him,"A great part of courage is knowing what battles not to fight."

Dickon nodded, and this time he embraced her.

A knock sounded on the door, the thick knock she knew that was her guard's hand.

"What is it, Rory?" Melessa asked.

"A servant boy," her guard's voice answered,"He says he has a message from Lord Rupen."

"Send him in," Melessa commanded. The door opened to reveal a pale-faced boy no older than seven, with golden hair and deep green eyes. Melessa was taken aback by how much he looked a Lannister, but she did not lose her courage. The boy stepped forward slowly until he reached her. He smiled wide, and that was when Melessa saw that he had no tongue. His hand flashed, and Melessa felt a hard edge of cold slice across her throat.

Her eyes swam with pain as she felt the ground hit her knees, hoping beyond hope that she could get one breath in. The shouts of her guards and Dickon mixed with her daughters' wails into one dreadful scream, and she saw a flash of red and gold upon the balcony. She saw Dickon return, pressing his hand across her throat in vain, for she could not force a breath through. Her son's face blurred. She was certain it was the tears.

"Mother," she heard Dickon whisper as his hand fell from her throat,"I swear to you that I will kill every last Lannister on this earth."

Her vision fell to darkness. That was good.

---

END PART I​

 

[Mockingbird]

IT'S ALWAYS SUMMER UNDER THE SEA​

I hope everyone saw that, because I will not be doing that again. The first part of this story is done, and it was quite a wild ride. At times I thought I was writing a story like Daeron the Young Dragon's Conquest of Dorne, with bold and dramatic tales. At other times, I thought I was writing an anthology like Archmaester Gyldayn's Fire and Blood, trying to meticulously figure out the motivations and actions of all the characters and where they would lead. At some select times I even thought that my writing sounded like something out of Coryanne Wylde's A Caution for Young Girls, some… scenes that I never want to write again.

This story is ultimately going to be in four parts, two for The Winds of Winter and two for A Dream of Spring. I finished Part I, which means I am only one-fourth of the way home. This first part was meant to be an ending to A Dance with Dragons, which is why it is more a conclusion of story arcs rather than making my own. I also think that is why it took so long(just shy of two years, as I started this part in September 2020 and finished in June 2022), because I had to try and piece together GRRM's vision rather than making my own. Going onto full Winds of Winter material in Part II, I think that it would be much quicker as I know exactly what I am going to do. Part II is certainly going to be much longer.