45-The King is Dead
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
23rd day of the 10th Moon
The Master of Laws
The seed is strong.
Jon Arryn's last words echoed ominously in his head. He didn't think much of it when Pycelle had said it, but the phrase just couldn't get out of his mind.
The flickering candlelight barely illuminated the old, yellowed pages of The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
There was nothing of interest or surprise in the long-winded record of histories as far as Renly could tell. The whole thing was one dry read, and the author, Grand Maester Maellon, seemed to be even more long-winded than Pycelle. It took him some time to read through the histories, but he couldn't find anything amiss. It was similar to what Maester Orlan had taught him in Storm's End.
If nothing else, it was a good potion for a night of easy sleep, especially after news of Stannis' demise. Robert might have been too drunk to acknowledge it, but Renly knew Cressen's words could only be true. Despite their strained relationship, Stannis was still his brother.
Shaking his head, he focused on the open book. Tired of the dull histories, he skipped ahead, trying to find something to catch his eye. Anything. Stark… Arryn… Targaryen… Martell… Tully… Baratheon. His gaze lingered out of curiosity.
Orys Baratheon, black of hair and purple of eye.
Davos Baratheon, black of hair and green of eye.
Rogar Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye…
Borrys…Garron…Cassandra…Floris…Edric…Lyonel…
Renly Baratheon, black of hair and green of eye.
Stannis Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye.
Shireen Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye.
Robert Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye.
Myrcella Baratheon, blonde of hair and green of eye.
Joffrey Baratheon, blonde of hair and green of eye.
Tommen Baratheon, blonde of hair and green of eye.
The last dozen entries looked to have been penned after the book was written; the ink had a slightly different colour. Renly blinked at the page in confusion and scratched his head, trying to chase away the drowsiness. His eyes slid over the spouses of the Baratheons. The wives of the stag lords and knights came in all sorts of colouring - blonde, red-haired, brunette, silver-haired, with eyes from gold to green to grey to purple. Yet it seemed like Argella Durrandon and Orys' raven hair bred true… until Robert's children.
No, not all of Robert's children. Edric Storm had a coal-black mane and vivid blue eyes. Mya Stone had the same look, too. So did that babe, Barra, Gerold, Gendry, Myra, Rogers, and Ruben, the bastards Loras had found in the city.
Something was wrong here.
Again, Renly took a sip from his cup, turned the yellow page, and ran his tired eyes through the description of the ladies of Storm's End. Over the centuries, there were just shy of a dozen golden-haired spouses, two of them even lionesses from Casterly Rock. Yet not a single child of theirs had sported fair hair; all the offsprings had a raven mane.
…Why were Cersei's children blonde?
Colouring aside, none of the three children looked like Robert; there was no trace of the powerful Baratheon frame or their characteristic stormy eyebrows. Instead, Cersei's children were lithe and delicate, with wavy golden eyebrows. All lion and not a trace of stag.
Renly stared at the weathered parchment in confusion. Why were Jon Arryn and Stannis assassinated after inspecting the royal bastards?
The seed is strong.
"Seven hells," the curse slipped from his tongue as the realisation finally sank in.
Had Cersei been… foolish enough to cuckold his brother?
Not once, not twice, but thrice?!
How… how had nobody noticed this before?
Seven above, he had no strength to deal with this madness. The implications alone sent Renly's head spinning. Yet, haste would be… ill-advised. No doubt Stannis and Jon Arryn thought they could easily remove Cersei, but the Queen had moved first.
But... this was everything he needed to leverage his position further in court. And if he played his moves correctly, Cersei and her ilk would be finished.
But no matter, on the morrow, he would prepare and come before a sober Robert with his proof gathered, and the lions would be pulled out root and stem from the royal court.
But now, he had to rest first, for his eyelids barely remained open, and his head was pulsing.
24th Day of the 10th Moon
The Spider
Everything had spiralled out of control too quickly once more.
It was a small mercy that Renly had decided to spend the night in the Red Keep. His spacious apartments were in the tower just by the armoury, the whole thing to himself as demanded by his position.
One of the burly guards grabbed the hilt of his sword and looked at him suspiciously. "What does a dungeon turnkey want with Lord Renly?"
"I have a message for m'lord from Ser Loras," he gruffed out, waving a roll of parchment.
"Give it here." The other guard snatched it and went inside.
The other sentry watched him suspiciously, but a handful of minutes later, the door opened again, and a tired Renly came out.
"And who might you be, my good man?"
"I apologise for the deception, m'lord," he said gravely. "Name's Rugen, and I bring urgent word from the master of whispers."
Renly's face grew suspicious for a heartbeat, but Rugen subtly motioned towards his dull purple eyes and let out a quiet titter.
"Leave us," the Lord of Storm's End ordered.
"Let us search him first, my lord." Five minutes later, Rugen was relieved from his dirk, arming sword, and two daggers and was invited inside a guest room.
"Is it you, Lord Varys?" Renly grabbed the pitcher of Arbour Gold and filled two cups. It was always… gladdening to see seeds sown blossom.
"Indeed. Once again, I apologise for the deception," he said with his usual high pitch, making Renly's eyebrows disappear into his messy hair. "But circumstances have forced my hand."
"What?"
"Your brother is dead, my lord."
"I know. I was there when the letter arrived." Renly snorted and took a sip from his cup. Good, it seemed that he was still suspicious despite his dislike for Stannis.
"Not only him. His Grace has perished, too."
Renly choked on his mouthful of wine, and Varys carefully struck his back lest he gagged. "What? I saw him at the feast, hale and hearty, just a few hours ago!"
"Alas, His Grace decided to drown his woes in wine tonight after dismissing the court, and on the way to his apartments… he slipped down the stairs and broke his neck."
"How can you be certain? It must have happened no more than an hour ago."
"I assure you, my lord. I spied on Pycelle examining the body myself. His Grace was as dead as a man could be. Showing up here at this hour came at a great personal risk!"
For a moment, the Lord of Storm's End was as still as a statue. His green eyes flashed, schemes doubtlessly rolling through his mind.
"Thank you, Varys."
"I would advise caution, my lord," he sighed sadly. "The Kingslayer is rallying the kingsguard and the red cloaks to secure Maegor's Holdfast as we speak, and Preston Greenfield has been sent to muster the Northmen." With Barristan Selmy holding vigil over the king's body, none could truly oppose Jaime Lannister taking control of the Red Keep.
Dread finally began to dawn on Renly's face, the seriousness of the situation settling on his face. "I thought Stark and his ilk left?"
"Most left indeed." The words came out with grudging respect. Stark had outplayed all of them with nary an effort. "But he did leave two hundred veterans for Cersei to call upon. The situation is most dire, my lord. You must flee the city at once before Cersei arrests you!"
"Arrest me on what grounds?" He scoffed.
"Ah, crimes could be found once you're in the black cells. After a few nights with the heated pincers, you'll sing whatever tune they ask of you. Or worse, the Queen can drag it until Lord Tywin arrives in the city. Of course, Cersei can be subtle. You, too, might drink too much wine and slip down the stairs with none the wiser."
Rugen could see the gears turning in Renly's head now. The Lord of Storm's End had barely over a hundred and fifty swords in the city, and the Queen now commanded at least five times that number, even without the City Watch. The gold cloaks might be numerous, but they lacked the training, discipline, and equipment of the elite, which included the royal men-at-arms, red cloaks, and veteran Northmen.
And worse, there was no doubt Tywin would rule King's Landing and the kingdoms with an iron fist, and Renly was well aware of the fact, judging by his pale face.
"Tell me, Spider," Renly's face turned to stone. "Did you know?"
The sudden change of tone and address was not lost on the eunuch. Yet distrust and scrutiny were foes he faced oft.
"I know many a thing and suspect plenty more. You need to be more specific, my lord," he took a sip from the golden wine and grimaced. Too sweet.
"Did you know Cersei was cuckolding my brother?"
Ah… that had been swift. It seemed that even beneath his carefree demeanour, Renly did not truly lack wits.
"Know? No," Rugen shook his head. "Knowing things can be dangerous, my lord. But I had my suspicions, yes."
"Why did you not go to my royal brother?" Renly hissed like an angry snake.
"And do what…? Accuse the Queen of high treason with no proof? A poor eunuch like me can never bear such a hefty weight. Such a great problem can only be handled by men of greater stature than I. Who do you think brought this issue to Lord Stannis and Jon Arryn?"
"This is a dangerous game you're playing, Varys."
"The court is a dangerous place, and nobody loves the spider on the wall," Varys tittered and softly placed a hand on Renly's forearm, making him recoil. "Yet I am but a poor eunuch who wants what is best for the realm. If you value your life, you must flee the city before daybreak, my lord."
24th Day of the 10th Moon
The Master of Whispers
The gods laughed at the plans of men. Stannis' demise was most welcome, but Robert's death had come far too early for their plans. A change of monarch was a tumultuous time, and giving Tywin Lannister time to consolidate his grandson's rule was far too dangerous. A new, solid reign and united realm would undo decades of Varys' efforts. All because Eddard Stark was a far better player and not half as honourable as expected.
Alas, Renly and his flower knight could not have made a difference. Cersei and Stark had spun their web too quickly and too decisively. But not all was lost; one could only play with the dice they were given.
The throne room was filled with courtiers now. A fan of crimson and grey, Red Cloaks and Northmen stood protectively on the two sides of the Iron Throne, all armed and armoured to the teeth. All the white cloaks were here, too, standing vigil like seven white statues beneath the king. Before them was Cersei, with an imperious face and lithe body clad in a delicate black mourning gown with red rubies sown in the bodice.
"The king is dead," the herald announced. "Long live the king!"
"Long live the king!" The courtiers echoed.
Joffrey stood on the throne with his crimson satin cape threaded with gold, half a hundred roaring lions to one side, and half a hundred prancing stags to the other. To nobody's surprise, Cersei proclaimed herself regent.
Varys and the councillors went before the throne and swore vows of fealty, followed by the rest of the courtiers. The long-winded procession seemed to bore the boy king, and he quickly called for a small council meeting.
The small council had grown smaller, with only Pycelle, Tyrion, and himself in attendance from the original royal advisors.
"I want ravens sent to all the highlords, demanding them to come to me and bend their knees! I command this council to make all the preparations for my coronation within a fortnight. Where is my uncle?" Joffrey finished impatiently.
"I fear Lord Renly has left the city," Varys said mournfully.
Cersei, sitting by her son's side in the place of the Hand, tilted her head. "He was here last eve's feast."
"He took his leave with some haste through a postern gate in the company of Ser Loras Tyrell and a hundred retainers two hours before dawn. No doubt making way to Storm's End or Highgarden."
"Treason," Cersei hissed, face twisted with fury. "That sword-swallowing traitor tried poisoning my son and Lord Stark, and now he flees?"
Varys could barely stop the surging delight in his chest.
"Poison?" Pycelle finally shook himself awake. "No such things have reached this council."
"Lord Stark and Tommen were poisoned by the Tears of Lys," the Kingslayer explained stiffly, standing behind the boy king like a pale shadow. "His personal physician cured him before he confided with us, and we agreed to keep quiet and observe the court, for the catspaw would surely show his true colours sooner or later."
"You mean to say my uncle Renly is a traitor?" Joffrey perked up. "Summon him here to explain himself! Bah, my father should not have given away Storm's End. It should have been mine by right!"
"It shall be done, Your Grace." Pycelle bobbed his head like a squirrel, and with a nod, his scribe quickly brought over ink, quill, and parchment.
The boy king clapped his hands with glee. "Does anything else require my royal attention?"
"The question with Daenerys Targaryen," Varys reminded. "Before he passed away, your royal father… was still undecided about how to proceed with the thorny problem."
"Oh?"
"The girl got herself pregnant by that Khal, and King Robert wanted to have her… removed," Pycelle explained tactfully. "But such an act would provoke the very war your father sought to avoid."
"The treasury is in dire straits," added Tyrion, taking a swig of wine from his flask. "And the crown cannot afford to spend big on killing some babe that might not even live past the cradle and on the other end of the world at that."
"Pah," Joffrey scowled. "Who cares about the fallen line of weaklings whoring themselves to some savages? If the horselords want a fight, I shall crush them beneath my heel. If they dare come here, I will have them begging for mercy before long!"
The childish boast was met with silence as even Cersei blinked in embarrassment.
"Well, indeed, Your Grace," Tyrion coughed. "There are also the matters of the debts, and it will take at least three more moons to clear our obligation to–" Varys watched with amusement as Joffrey's interest and pride visibly wilted as his stunted uncle prattled on about the matters of statesmanship and issues plaguing the city with surprising fervour.
"Enough," Joffrey pushed his chair back with a screech against the floor and stood up. "I tire of this drivel."
"Now, now, sweetling," Cersei spoke with a sweet motherly voice. "The affairs of the realm require your attention-"
"I am leaving." The boy king waved dismissively, face looking as if he was half asleep. "This is the small council, is it not? I shall leave small, boring matters like copper counting and petty disputes to you. I grant you the authority to act in my name. And where is my dog?"
"Sandor Clegane was last seen wandering around Old Oak as a hedge knight." Varys couldn't help but titter. It seemed like the young king had forgotten the Hound had been dismissed from royal service after losing some petty brawl in Winterfell.
"Well then, summon him here. His king demands his services once more." With a flourish, Joffrey decisively turned around and left the chamber, the intricate red satin cape billowing behind him, followed silently by Jaime Lannister.
The chambers fell into an uneasy silence as the councillors exchanged wordless glances, frustration and concern etched on their faces. Varys couldn't help but find it all very amusing; Joffrey had picked up all the wrong things from Robert Baratheon with none of the endearing qualities the late king possessed.
"It is time to… discuss my son's marriage," Cersei coughed, face looking sour as if she had eaten a lemon.
"Maybe we should confer on the topic with the king present?" Varys offered humbly, making the Queen stiffen.
"Joffrey is still young and sometimes led astray by his youth. I am his mother and Regent." It was an easy statement, and none would dare dispute it, not the stunted lion nor Pycelle, who was Tywin's creature through and through. It was a small wonder how Cersei Lannister and Eddard Stark had taken over the council with such laughable ease.
"There is a wide selection of willing ladies in court, all with a storied lineage from almost every corner of the realm," the Grandmaester mumbled feebly, returning to his usual mummer's act.
"Mayhaps… Margaery Tyrell?" Tyrion offered, earning himself a scowl from his sister. "She would bind Highgarden to us, leaving Renly alone and friendless."
"I will not have my son be wed to some grasping steward's daughter. No, I have the perfect spouse here, all ready for Joffrey. In fact, I want the wedding ceremony the same day the coronation happens!"
27th Day of the 10th Moon, 298 AC
Jon Snow, Beyond the Wall
Snow fluttered in the dark, seeking to snuff out the flickering torches. Bone-chilling winds tore through the fortified hill while an endless tide of rot and death swarmed forth from the night.
They had been fighting for hours, and exhaustion had crept within the defenders. Tired minds made many a mistake, and every error could easily turn lethal in battle. The air had grown so cold that breathing was painful, raking cold daggers down one's throat. But he welcomed the cold - it was an old friend and made him feel more alive than ever.
There were only so many oiled torches, and theirs were beginning to run out. Even shields bound by rawhide eventually broke from the battering of the flaming wights. Jon had abandoned his in favour of his blade.
Dark Sister sang in the chilly air like a ghastly tune, cleaving into the rotten flesh of his foes. The rippled steel wet with dark blood hungrily bit into the spine of the wights, snuffing out the blue light in their eyes. Whatever magic was imbued in the dragonsteel could disrupt the cold thrall of the Others.
Jon kicked away a wight that got too close and lopped its head off. Another one took its place, and he hacked off a hand before cleaving the body in two. Yet more and more kept coming, and Jon Snow kept killing them. Three, seven, a dozen… he had lost count long ago. Despite his strength, his stamina was not infinite, and he, too, began to grow winded.
Yet his men fared far worse, slowly falling into the clutches of the dead as the defensive line was steadily being pushed back up the hill.
Focusing to the limit, Jon rallied himself, trying to reduce all and any excessive movements. Since his endurance was limited, he had to ensure as many foes went down with him as possible.
The dark and the sinister cold were nothing new to Jon, and the desperation choking the air was a familiar friend as the stench of death loomed over them. His heart thundered like an excited war drum as his blood boiled with excitement.
A chilling screech announced the arrival of the Cold Ones, and a savage smile found its way to Jon's face as Dark Sister lopped off two blue-eyed heads in a single swing. He saw the Others creeping forward through the endless waves of wights and readied himself. Obsidian arrows rained in vain, striking the thick lines of corpses instead and felling only one Cold One. Dark Sister blurred through the air to meet an icy blade aiming for his side, dark rippled steel meeting frost with a jarring wail that tore through the darkness as his blood sang.
Warg Hill
The big hall was as solemn as a funeral.
Val, wrapped in her white bear cloak and belly beginning to go round, looked at him with an expression halfway between anger and concern. Which was fair, for fighting against five Others at the same time had almost sent him once again into the cold embrace of death. His torso and face were wrapped in bandages; the icy blades had taken a good taste of his flesh this time around.
Another deep wound marred his cheek and had almost taken off his nose, pulsing angrily with cold pain even despite the heavy poultice. One on his left forearm and the side, two on his chest, and three on his back. The reckless folly had paid off - the lines had barely held on until the dawn, and if not for him, the Others would have run down the defence. His brigandine and chainmail were all cut into ribbons now and could only be used for scrap, but they did save his life. It would be at least half a moon until he was well enough to fight again, though.
"We lost two-thirds," Jarod Snow gruffed, old, bloodshot eyes looking like two grey bruises. "Barely more than a hundred men survived from the warband."
"Aye, but we took down at least a hundred times as many!" Styr groaned out a boast, his body also all wrapped up in bandages. The Thenn chieftain had slain two Cold Ones. "Seven of the Enemy fell to the Warg Lord, and eight more to the rest of us." Truth be told, Jon had lost count of the enemies slain, and nobody was in the mood to slog through a hill filled with ash, slush, and bones.
"They hid amidst the wights to avoid the hail of obsidian-tipped arrows," Jon murmured, trying to ignore the blazing slivers of pain running through his wounds. "The Others are adapting."
The words were met with chilly silence.
"Have the other warbands returned yet?"
"Morna and hers returned just now," Tormund said soberly. "Blind Doss, Devin Sealskinner, and Howd Wanderer are yet to come."
"The Cold Ones must have killed them," Styr concluded with a rasp. "Their outposts were closer than ours." That… would be a steep price if it were true; they would have lost hundreds of men. Jon had grown lax and comfortable with his old tactics, but the Others had given a bitter reminder - the Cold Shadows were not mindless brutes to be underestimated. Worse, even his pack of wolves had been hit, but the casualties had not been too high - just shy of half a hundred wolves, yet none of his direwolves fell.
"Send some scouts to check," Jon decided, rubbing his brow. "It seems that the time has come to halt our nightly excursions. From now on, any scouting, hunting, and fighting must be done during the day."
"Doing so… will leave us blind to our surroundings," Jarod cautioned.
"So be it. We cannot afford to lose scouts to the Others either. Let the skinchangers do it. Owls, eagles, and wolves will be our eyes."
The sombre meeting ended quickly, and Jon let out a sigh of relief as the chieftains and clan leaders made themselves scarce from the hall, leaving him alone with Val, Ghost, and a dozen direwolves. Fighting desperately all night had taken a heavy toll on him, and the myriad of wounds and bruises didn't help. Getting back to the camp through the newly fallen snow while injured had been a hefty struggle.
"Let me help you, Lord Snow," Val spoke softly and carefully supported him from his good side as he dragged himself towards his lordly quarters, a medium-sized room separated by one wooden wall from the rest of the hall. Ever since she had quickened with a child, the spearwife had begrudgingly agreed to remain behind the walls, away from the fighting, much to his relief. "How are you faring?"
"My thanks, Lady Snow," he chuckled tiredly as she helped him down his plain cot. For a moment, her face darkened, but then she leaned forward and stole a hungry kiss from his lips. "I've had worse, if you must know."
"Worse? When you dragged yourself into the hall, all feeble and bandaged, I barely recognised you, Jon. Brightspot said that if any of the strikes had gone half an inch deeper, you would have been a dead man!"
Yet they hadn't because Jon did not let them. He almost opened his mouth to tell her that the 'worse' in question was… death, for he had died twice now. Yet the words simply did not leave his tongue for some reason. Still, he could see why Val would be so worried.
"It was that or die," Jon admitted. "There was just… too many of them."
His wife grew even more worried. "I thought Styr was boasting?"
"He was, but not as much as you think. If I had to wager a guess, we were outnumbered at least twenty to one. The onset of dawn forced the Others to flee, saving our hides."
"Such odds are unheard of," Val said, awe slowly replacing the worry in her silvery eyes. Yet Jon could see his dear wife was still unsettled and smiled reassuringly.
"I didn't see Dalla today," he noted lightly, trying to change the topic.
"She was feeling too queasy to walk." She smiled with amusement, making his insides flutter. Gods, Val was beautiful. "It appears Duncan has also gotten her with a child."
"That explains it," Jon chuckled, closing his eyes in contentment. He wanted to keep gazing at his wife's gorgeous visage, but he had finally managed to find a position that would not strain any of his wounds, and his eyelids were growing heavy. "I suppose I will have to congratulate the two of them later."
"Babes are not celebrated before they reach twenty-five lunar cycles," Val pointed out chidingly. "It's bad luck."
"If you say so," he muttered drowsily, vaguely remembering hearing something similar in his previous life. A weight settled on the bed next to him.
"Just… don't die, Jon." His wife gently ran her fingers through his dark locks. "I cannot lose you. I care not for the other chieftains and raiders or the Cold Ones. They can all perish, but I cannot lose you."
It was incredibly selfish, but Jon loved her more for it.
"No matter what, I shall fight to my last breath. Have faith," Jon Snow muttered. "The gods have decided to test our mettle, and we shall either weather the storm or perish."
He was tired, tired of losing, tired of dying. But the bets were hedged, and all he could do was play with the dice he had thrown. Things were looking grim, but in truth, they had always been such; only now did he have the foresight to see it.
Winter is coming.
Jon's path had been set for some time now. It might not have been the best path, but it was the one he had chosen, and he would see it through to the bitter end if need be.
Val gently draped a fur pelt over him and began to hum a soothing tune. As the dreamland pulled Jon Snow into its sweet embrace, he realised that he didn't even mind dying again, so long he was together with his wife. Yet if they could both live, he would fight like a demon for the barest chance.
1st Day of the 11th Moon
The Quiet Wolf, the Narrow Sea
One moment, the horizon was as clear as a mirror as far as the eye could see, and the next moment, they were beset with heavy clouds and vicious winds. Before they knew it, the darkened sky churned with fury.
"Furl the sails, damn you. Furl them FASTER!" The captain shouted himself hoarse as the sailors were scuttling around to carry out his orders. The surrounding sea was no lesser; big dark waves angrily battered at the ships, sending them sprawling away from each other.
Ned felt helpless, like a fish in a barrel, as he held onto a nailed bench while the world around him shook. A flash of lightning was followed by a thunderclap, and Winter and Tommen were already hiding in his cabin, away from the world. The rest of his household guard had also quickly vacated the deck, leaving the sailors enough room to work.
The waves licked at the deck, sending angry sprays of salt water like a hail of cold needles and slipping up the panicked seamen, as everything not nailed down was rolling or sliding dangerously from one end of the deck to the other.
A heavy snapping sound echoed from the side, and when Ned looked in that direction, one of the other carrack's masts had snapped and fell to the side, slowly sinking into the raging waters along with the sail. The ship looked like a stranded duck without its wings. A colourful litany of curses forced Ned to glance at his ship's captain, who was now holding the torn-out rudder with a terrified face.
With the frightening rocking of the ship, some men even fell overboard, unable to keep their footing on the slippery deck. The Lord of Winterfell grimaced, gripped the nearby handles and turned to make his way to his cabin, only to be met face-to-face with a rapidly approaching barrel. The keg slammed into Ned before he could react, sending the world spinning; the sudden shouts of 'my lord' and hasty footsteps dimmed as his consciousness slipped from his grasp like water from a sieve.
Author's Endnote: Yeah… stuff happens.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
23rd day of the 10th Moon
The Master of Laws
The seed is strong.
Jon Arryn's last words echoed ominously in his head. He didn't think much of it when Pycelle had said it, but the phrase just couldn't get out of his mind.
The flickering candlelight barely illuminated the old, yellowed pages of The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
There was nothing of interest or surprise in the long-winded record of histories as far as Renly could tell. The whole thing was one dry read, and the author, Grand Maester Maellon, seemed to be even more long-winded than Pycelle. It took him some time to read through the histories, but he couldn't find anything amiss. It was similar to what Maester Orlan had taught him in Storm's End.
If nothing else, it was a good potion for a night of easy sleep, especially after news of Stannis' demise. Robert might have been too drunk to acknowledge it, but Renly knew Cressen's words could only be true. Despite their strained relationship, Stannis was still his brother.
Shaking his head, he focused on the open book. Tired of the dull histories, he skipped ahead, trying to find something to catch his eye. Anything. Stark… Arryn… Targaryen… Martell… Tully… Baratheon. His gaze lingered out of curiosity.
Orys Baratheon, black of hair and purple of eye.
Davos Baratheon, black of hair and green of eye.
Rogar Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye…
Borrys…Garron…Cassandra…Floris…Edric…Lyonel…
Renly Baratheon, black of hair and green of eye.
Stannis Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye.
Shireen Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye.
Robert Baratheon, black of hair and blue of eye.
Myrcella Baratheon, blonde of hair and green of eye.
Joffrey Baratheon, blonde of hair and green of eye.
Tommen Baratheon, blonde of hair and green of eye.
The last dozen entries looked to have been penned after the book was written; the ink had a slightly different colour. Renly blinked at the page in confusion and scratched his head, trying to chase away the drowsiness. His eyes slid over the spouses of the Baratheons. The wives of the stag lords and knights came in all sorts of colouring - blonde, red-haired, brunette, silver-haired, with eyes from gold to green to grey to purple. Yet it seemed like Argella Durrandon and Orys' raven hair bred true… until Robert's children.
No, not all of Robert's children. Edric Storm had a coal-black mane and vivid blue eyes. Mya Stone had the same look, too. So did that babe, Barra, Gerold, Gendry, Myra, Rogers, and Ruben, the bastards Loras had found in the city.
Something was wrong here.
Again, Renly took a sip from his cup, turned the yellow page, and ran his tired eyes through the description of the ladies of Storm's End. Over the centuries, there were just shy of a dozen golden-haired spouses, two of them even lionesses from Casterly Rock. Yet not a single child of theirs had sported fair hair; all the offsprings had a raven mane.
…Why were Cersei's children blonde?
Colouring aside, none of the three children looked like Robert; there was no trace of the powerful Baratheon frame or their characteristic stormy eyebrows. Instead, Cersei's children were lithe and delicate, with wavy golden eyebrows. All lion and not a trace of stag.
Renly stared at the weathered parchment in confusion. Why were Jon Arryn and Stannis assassinated after inspecting the royal bastards?
The seed is strong.
"Seven hells," the curse slipped from his tongue as the realisation finally sank in.
Had Cersei been… foolish enough to cuckold his brother?
Not once, not twice, but thrice?!
How… how had nobody noticed this before?
Seven above, he had no strength to deal with this madness. The implications alone sent Renly's head spinning. Yet, haste would be… ill-advised. No doubt Stannis and Jon Arryn thought they could easily remove Cersei, but the Queen had moved first.
But... this was everything he needed to leverage his position further in court. And if he played his moves correctly, Cersei and her ilk would be finished.
But no matter, on the morrow, he would prepare and come before a sober Robert with his proof gathered, and the lions would be pulled out root and stem from the royal court.
But now, he had to rest first, for his eyelids barely remained open, and his head was pulsing.
24th Day of the 10th Moon
The Spider
Everything had spiralled out of control too quickly once more.
It was a small mercy that Renly had decided to spend the night in the Red Keep. His spacious apartments were in the tower just by the armoury, the whole thing to himself as demanded by his position.
One of the burly guards grabbed the hilt of his sword and looked at him suspiciously. "What does a dungeon turnkey want with Lord Renly?"
"I have a message for m'lord from Ser Loras," he gruffed out, waving a roll of parchment.
"Give it here." The other guard snatched it and went inside.
The other sentry watched him suspiciously, but a handful of minutes later, the door opened again, and a tired Renly came out.
"And who might you be, my good man?"
"I apologise for the deception, m'lord," he said gravely. "Name's Rugen, and I bring urgent word from the master of whispers."
Renly's face grew suspicious for a heartbeat, but Rugen subtly motioned towards his dull purple eyes and let out a quiet titter.
"Leave us," the Lord of Storm's End ordered.
"Let us search him first, my lord." Five minutes later, Rugen was relieved from his dirk, arming sword, and two daggers and was invited inside a guest room.
"Is it you, Lord Varys?" Renly grabbed the pitcher of Arbour Gold and filled two cups. It was always… gladdening to see seeds sown blossom.
"Indeed. Once again, I apologise for the deception," he said with his usual high pitch, making Renly's eyebrows disappear into his messy hair. "But circumstances have forced my hand."
"What?"
"Your brother is dead, my lord."
"I know. I was there when the letter arrived." Renly snorted and took a sip from his cup. Good, it seemed that he was still suspicious despite his dislike for Stannis.
"Not only him. His Grace has perished, too."
Renly choked on his mouthful of wine, and Varys carefully struck his back lest he gagged. "What? I saw him at the feast, hale and hearty, just a few hours ago!"
"Alas, His Grace decided to drown his woes in wine tonight after dismissing the court, and on the way to his apartments… he slipped down the stairs and broke his neck."
"How can you be certain? It must have happened no more than an hour ago."
"I assure you, my lord. I spied on Pycelle examining the body myself. His Grace was as dead as a man could be. Showing up here at this hour came at a great personal risk!"
For a moment, the Lord of Storm's End was as still as a statue. His green eyes flashed, schemes doubtlessly rolling through his mind.
"Thank you, Varys."
"I would advise caution, my lord," he sighed sadly. "The Kingslayer is rallying the kingsguard and the red cloaks to secure Maegor's Holdfast as we speak, and Preston Greenfield has been sent to muster the Northmen." With Barristan Selmy holding vigil over the king's body, none could truly oppose Jaime Lannister taking control of the Red Keep.
Dread finally began to dawn on Renly's face, the seriousness of the situation settling on his face. "I thought Stark and his ilk left?"
"Most left indeed." The words came out with grudging respect. Stark had outplayed all of them with nary an effort. "But he did leave two hundred veterans for Cersei to call upon. The situation is most dire, my lord. You must flee the city at once before Cersei arrests you!"
"Arrest me on what grounds?" He scoffed.
"Ah, crimes could be found once you're in the black cells. After a few nights with the heated pincers, you'll sing whatever tune they ask of you. Or worse, the Queen can drag it until Lord Tywin arrives in the city. Of course, Cersei can be subtle. You, too, might drink too much wine and slip down the stairs with none the wiser."
Rugen could see the gears turning in Renly's head now. The Lord of Storm's End had barely over a hundred and fifty swords in the city, and the Queen now commanded at least five times that number, even without the City Watch. The gold cloaks might be numerous, but they lacked the training, discipline, and equipment of the elite, which included the royal men-at-arms, red cloaks, and veteran Northmen.
And worse, there was no doubt Tywin would rule King's Landing and the kingdoms with an iron fist, and Renly was well aware of the fact, judging by his pale face.
"Tell me, Spider," Renly's face turned to stone. "Did you know?"
The sudden change of tone and address was not lost on the eunuch. Yet distrust and scrutiny were foes he faced oft.
"I know many a thing and suspect plenty more. You need to be more specific, my lord," he took a sip from the golden wine and grimaced. Too sweet.
"Did you know Cersei was cuckolding my brother?"
Ah… that had been swift. It seemed that even beneath his carefree demeanour, Renly did not truly lack wits.
"Know? No," Rugen shook his head. "Knowing things can be dangerous, my lord. But I had my suspicions, yes."
"Why did you not go to my royal brother?" Renly hissed like an angry snake.
"And do what…? Accuse the Queen of high treason with no proof? A poor eunuch like me can never bear such a hefty weight. Such a great problem can only be handled by men of greater stature than I. Who do you think brought this issue to Lord Stannis and Jon Arryn?"
"This is a dangerous game you're playing, Varys."
"The court is a dangerous place, and nobody loves the spider on the wall," Varys tittered and softly placed a hand on Renly's forearm, making him recoil. "Yet I am but a poor eunuch who wants what is best for the realm. If you value your life, you must flee the city before daybreak, my lord."
24th Day of the 10th Moon
The Master of Whispers
The gods laughed at the plans of men. Stannis' demise was most welcome, but Robert's death had come far too early for their plans. A change of monarch was a tumultuous time, and giving Tywin Lannister time to consolidate his grandson's rule was far too dangerous. A new, solid reign and united realm would undo decades of Varys' efforts. All because Eddard Stark was a far better player and not half as honourable as expected.
Alas, Renly and his flower knight could not have made a difference. Cersei and Stark had spun their web too quickly and too decisively. But not all was lost; one could only play with the dice they were given.
The throne room was filled with courtiers now. A fan of crimson and grey, Red Cloaks and Northmen stood protectively on the two sides of the Iron Throne, all armed and armoured to the teeth. All the white cloaks were here, too, standing vigil like seven white statues beneath the king. Before them was Cersei, with an imperious face and lithe body clad in a delicate black mourning gown with red rubies sown in the bodice.
"The king is dead," the herald announced. "Long live the king!"
"Long live the king!" The courtiers echoed.
Joffrey stood on the throne with his crimson satin cape threaded with gold, half a hundred roaring lions to one side, and half a hundred prancing stags to the other. To nobody's surprise, Cersei proclaimed herself regent.
Varys and the councillors went before the throne and swore vows of fealty, followed by the rest of the courtiers. The long-winded procession seemed to bore the boy king, and he quickly called for a small council meeting.
The small council had grown smaller, with only Pycelle, Tyrion, and himself in attendance from the original royal advisors.
"I want ravens sent to all the highlords, demanding them to come to me and bend their knees! I command this council to make all the preparations for my coronation within a fortnight. Where is my uncle?" Joffrey finished impatiently.
"I fear Lord Renly has left the city," Varys said mournfully.
Cersei, sitting by her son's side in the place of the Hand, tilted her head. "He was here last eve's feast."
"He took his leave with some haste through a postern gate in the company of Ser Loras Tyrell and a hundred retainers two hours before dawn. No doubt making way to Storm's End or Highgarden."
"Treason," Cersei hissed, face twisted with fury. "That sword-swallowing traitor tried poisoning my son and Lord Stark, and now he flees?"
Varys could barely stop the surging delight in his chest.
"Poison?" Pycelle finally shook himself awake. "No such things have reached this council."
"Lord Stark and Tommen were poisoned by the Tears of Lys," the Kingslayer explained stiffly, standing behind the boy king like a pale shadow. "His personal physician cured him before he confided with us, and we agreed to keep quiet and observe the court, for the catspaw would surely show his true colours sooner or later."
"You mean to say my uncle Renly is a traitor?" Joffrey perked up. "Summon him here to explain himself! Bah, my father should not have given away Storm's End. It should have been mine by right!"
"It shall be done, Your Grace." Pycelle bobbed his head like a squirrel, and with a nod, his scribe quickly brought over ink, quill, and parchment.
The boy king clapped his hands with glee. "Does anything else require my royal attention?"
"The question with Daenerys Targaryen," Varys reminded. "Before he passed away, your royal father… was still undecided about how to proceed with the thorny problem."
"Oh?"
"The girl got herself pregnant by that Khal, and King Robert wanted to have her… removed," Pycelle explained tactfully. "But such an act would provoke the very war your father sought to avoid."
"The treasury is in dire straits," added Tyrion, taking a swig of wine from his flask. "And the crown cannot afford to spend big on killing some babe that might not even live past the cradle and on the other end of the world at that."
"Pah," Joffrey scowled. "Who cares about the fallen line of weaklings whoring themselves to some savages? If the horselords want a fight, I shall crush them beneath my heel. If they dare come here, I will have them begging for mercy before long!"
The childish boast was met with silence as even Cersei blinked in embarrassment.
"Well, indeed, Your Grace," Tyrion coughed. "There are also the matters of the debts, and it will take at least three more moons to clear our obligation to–" Varys watched with amusement as Joffrey's interest and pride visibly wilted as his stunted uncle prattled on about the matters of statesmanship and issues plaguing the city with surprising fervour.
"Enough," Joffrey pushed his chair back with a screech against the floor and stood up. "I tire of this drivel."
"Now, now, sweetling," Cersei spoke with a sweet motherly voice. "The affairs of the realm require your attention-"
"I am leaving." The boy king waved dismissively, face looking as if he was half asleep. "This is the small council, is it not? I shall leave small, boring matters like copper counting and petty disputes to you. I grant you the authority to act in my name. And where is my dog?"
"Sandor Clegane was last seen wandering around Old Oak as a hedge knight." Varys couldn't help but titter. It seemed like the young king had forgotten the Hound had been dismissed from royal service after losing some petty brawl in Winterfell.
"Well then, summon him here. His king demands his services once more." With a flourish, Joffrey decisively turned around and left the chamber, the intricate red satin cape billowing behind him, followed silently by Jaime Lannister.
The chambers fell into an uneasy silence as the councillors exchanged wordless glances, frustration and concern etched on their faces. Varys couldn't help but find it all very amusing; Joffrey had picked up all the wrong things from Robert Baratheon with none of the endearing qualities the late king possessed.
"It is time to… discuss my son's marriage," Cersei coughed, face looking sour as if she had eaten a lemon.
"Maybe we should confer on the topic with the king present?" Varys offered humbly, making the Queen stiffen.
"Joffrey is still young and sometimes led astray by his youth. I am his mother and Regent." It was an easy statement, and none would dare dispute it, not the stunted lion nor Pycelle, who was Tywin's creature through and through. It was a small wonder how Cersei Lannister and Eddard Stark had taken over the council with such laughable ease.
"There is a wide selection of willing ladies in court, all with a storied lineage from almost every corner of the realm," the Grandmaester mumbled feebly, returning to his usual mummer's act.
"Mayhaps… Margaery Tyrell?" Tyrion offered, earning himself a scowl from his sister. "She would bind Highgarden to us, leaving Renly alone and friendless."
"I will not have my son be wed to some grasping steward's daughter. No, I have the perfect spouse here, all ready for Joffrey. In fact, I want the wedding ceremony the same day the coronation happens!"
27th Day of the 10th Moon, 298 AC
Jon Snow, Beyond the Wall
Snow fluttered in the dark, seeking to snuff out the flickering torches. Bone-chilling winds tore through the fortified hill while an endless tide of rot and death swarmed forth from the night.
They had been fighting for hours, and exhaustion had crept within the defenders. Tired minds made many a mistake, and every error could easily turn lethal in battle. The air had grown so cold that breathing was painful, raking cold daggers down one's throat. But he welcomed the cold - it was an old friend and made him feel more alive than ever.
There were only so many oiled torches, and theirs were beginning to run out. Even shields bound by rawhide eventually broke from the battering of the flaming wights. Jon had abandoned his in favour of his blade.
Dark Sister sang in the chilly air like a ghastly tune, cleaving into the rotten flesh of his foes. The rippled steel wet with dark blood hungrily bit into the spine of the wights, snuffing out the blue light in their eyes. Whatever magic was imbued in the dragonsteel could disrupt the cold thrall of the Others.
Jon kicked away a wight that got too close and lopped its head off. Another one took its place, and he hacked off a hand before cleaving the body in two. Yet more and more kept coming, and Jon Snow kept killing them. Three, seven, a dozen… he had lost count long ago. Despite his strength, his stamina was not infinite, and he, too, began to grow winded.
Yet his men fared far worse, slowly falling into the clutches of the dead as the defensive line was steadily being pushed back up the hill.
Focusing to the limit, Jon rallied himself, trying to reduce all and any excessive movements. Since his endurance was limited, he had to ensure as many foes went down with him as possible.
The dark and the sinister cold were nothing new to Jon, and the desperation choking the air was a familiar friend as the stench of death loomed over them. His heart thundered like an excited war drum as his blood boiled with excitement.
A chilling screech announced the arrival of the Cold Ones, and a savage smile found its way to Jon's face as Dark Sister lopped off two blue-eyed heads in a single swing. He saw the Others creeping forward through the endless waves of wights and readied himself. Obsidian arrows rained in vain, striking the thick lines of corpses instead and felling only one Cold One. Dark Sister blurred through the air to meet an icy blade aiming for his side, dark rippled steel meeting frost with a jarring wail that tore through the darkness as his blood sang.
Warg Hill
The big hall was as solemn as a funeral.
Val, wrapped in her white bear cloak and belly beginning to go round, looked at him with an expression halfway between anger and concern. Which was fair, for fighting against five Others at the same time had almost sent him once again into the cold embrace of death. His torso and face were wrapped in bandages; the icy blades had taken a good taste of his flesh this time around.
Another deep wound marred his cheek and had almost taken off his nose, pulsing angrily with cold pain even despite the heavy poultice. One on his left forearm and the side, two on his chest, and three on his back. The reckless folly had paid off - the lines had barely held on until the dawn, and if not for him, the Others would have run down the defence. His brigandine and chainmail were all cut into ribbons now and could only be used for scrap, but they did save his life. It would be at least half a moon until he was well enough to fight again, though.
"We lost two-thirds," Jarod Snow gruffed, old, bloodshot eyes looking like two grey bruises. "Barely more than a hundred men survived from the warband."
"Aye, but we took down at least a hundred times as many!" Styr groaned out a boast, his body also all wrapped up in bandages. The Thenn chieftain had slain two Cold Ones. "Seven of the Enemy fell to the Warg Lord, and eight more to the rest of us." Truth be told, Jon had lost count of the enemies slain, and nobody was in the mood to slog through a hill filled with ash, slush, and bones.
"They hid amidst the wights to avoid the hail of obsidian-tipped arrows," Jon murmured, trying to ignore the blazing slivers of pain running through his wounds. "The Others are adapting."
The words were met with chilly silence.
"Have the other warbands returned yet?"
"Morna and hers returned just now," Tormund said soberly. "Blind Doss, Devin Sealskinner, and Howd Wanderer are yet to come."
"The Cold Ones must have killed them," Styr concluded with a rasp. "Their outposts were closer than ours." That… would be a steep price if it were true; they would have lost hundreds of men. Jon had grown lax and comfortable with his old tactics, but the Others had given a bitter reminder - the Cold Shadows were not mindless brutes to be underestimated. Worse, even his pack of wolves had been hit, but the casualties had not been too high - just shy of half a hundred wolves, yet none of his direwolves fell.
"Send some scouts to check," Jon decided, rubbing his brow. "It seems that the time has come to halt our nightly excursions. From now on, any scouting, hunting, and fighting must be done during the day."
"Doing so… will leave us blind to our surroundings," Jarod cautioned.
"So be it. We cannot afford to lose scouts to the Others either. Let the skinchangers do it. Owls, eagles, and wolves will be our eyes."
The sombre meeting ended quickly, and Jon let out a sigh of relief as the chieftains and clan leaders made themselves scarce from the hall, leaving him alone with Val, Ghost, and a dozen direwolves. Fighting desperately all night had taken a heavy toll on him, and the myriad of wounds and bruises didn't help. Getting back to the camp through the newly fallen snow while injured had been a hefty struggle.
"Let me help you, Lord Snow," Val spoke softly and carefully supported him from his good side as he dragged himself towards his lordly quarters, a medium-sized room separated by one wooden wall from the rest of the hall. Ever since she had quickened with a child, the spearwife had begrudgingly agreed to remain behind the walls, away from the fighting, much to his relief. "How are you faring?"
"My thanks, Lady Snow," he chuckled tiredly as she helped him down his plain cot. For a moment, her face darkened, but then she leaned forward and stole a hungry kiss from his lips. "I've had worse, if you must know."
"Worse? When you dragged yourself into the hall, all feeble and bandaged, I barely recognised you, Jon. Brightspot said that if any of the strikes had gone half an inch deeper, you would have been a dead man!"
Yet they hadn't because Jon did not let them. He almost opened his mouth to tell her that the 'worse' in question was… death, for he had died twice now. Yet the words simply did not leave his tongue for some reason. Still, he could see why Val would be so worried.
"It was that or die," Jon admitted. "There was just… too many of them."
His wife grew even more worried. "I thought Styr was boasting?"
"He was, but not as much as you think. If I had to wager a guess, we were outnumbered at least twenty to one. The onset of dawn forced the Others to flee, saving our hides."
"Such odds are unheard of," Val said, awe slowly replacing the worry in her silvery eyes. Yet Jon could see his dear wife was still unsettled and smiled reassuringly.
"I didn't see Dalla today," he noted lightly, trying to change the topic.
"She was feeling too queasy to walk." She smiled with amusement, making his insides flutter. Gods, Val was beautiful. "It appears Duncan has also gotten her with a child."
"That explains it," Jon chuckled, closing his eyes in contentment. He wanted to keep gazing at his wife's gorgeous visage, but he had finally managed to find a position that would not strain any of his wounds, and his eyelids were growing heavy. "I suppose I will have to congratulate the two of them later."
"Babes are not celebrated before they reach twenty-five lunar cycles," Val pointed out chidingly. "It's bad luck."
"If you say so," he muttered drowsily, vaguely remembering hearing something similar in his previous life. A weight settled on the bed next to him.
"Just… don't die, Jon." His wife gently ran her fingers through his dark locks. "I cannot lose you. I care not for the other chieftains and raiders or the Cold Ones. They can all perish, but I cannot lose you."
It was incredibly selfish, but Jon loved her more for it.
"No matter what, I shall fight to my last breath. Have faith," Jon Snow muttered. "The gods have decided to test our mettle, and we shall either weather the storm or perish."
He was tired, tired of losing, tired of dying. But the bets were hedged, and all he could do was play with the dice he had thrown. Things were looking grim, but in truth, they had always been such; only now did he have the foresight to see it.
Winter is coming.
Jon's path had been set for some time now. It might not have been the best path, but it was the one he had chosen, and he would see it through to the bitter end if need be.
Val gently draped a fur pelt over him and began to hum a soothing tune. As the dreamland pulled Jon Snow into its sweet embrace, he realised that he didn't even mind dying again, so long he was together with his wife. Yet if they could both live, he would fight like a demon for the barest chance.
1st Day of the 11th Moon
The Quiet Wolf, the Narrow Sea
One moment, the horizon was as clear as a mirror as far as the eye could see, and the next moment, they were beset with heavy clouds and vicious winds. Before they knew it, the darkened sky churned with fury.
"Furl the sails, damn you. Furl them FASTER!" The captain shouted himself hoarse as the sailors were scuttling around to carry out his orders. The surrounding sea was no lesser; big dark waves angrily battered at the ships, sending them sprawling away from each other.
Ned felt helpless, like a fish in a barrel, as he held onto a nailed bench while the world around him shook. A flash of lightning was followed by a thunderclap, and Winter and Tommen were already hiding in his cabin, away from the world. The rest of his household guard had also quickly vacated the deck, leaving the sailors enough room to work.
The waves licked at the deck, sending angry sprays of salt water like a hail of cold needles and slipping up the panicked seamen, as everything not nailed down was rolling or sliding dangerously from one end of the deck to the other.
A heavy snapping sound echoed from the side, and when Ned looked in that direction, one of the other carrack's masts had snapped and fell to the side, slowly sinking into the raging waters along with the sail. The ship looked like a stranded duck without its wings. A colourful litany of curses forced Ned to glance at his ship's captain, who was now holding the torn-out rudder with a terrified face.
With the frightening rocking of the ship, some men even fell overboard, unable to keep their footing on the slippery deck. The Lord of Winterfell grimaced, gripped the nearby handles and turned to make his way to his cabin, only to be met face-to-face with a rapidly approaching barrel. The keg slammed into Ned before he could react, sending the world spinning; the sudden shouts of 'my lord' and hasty footsteps dimmed as his consciousness slipped from his grasp like water from a sieve.
Author's Endnote: Yeah… stuff happens.
The king is dead, all hail the king! Renly has a short moment of clarity, and Varys is shit-stirring again.
So far, nobody has picked a bone with Joffers the First… yet. Cersei is doing… Cersei things.
The Others are… adapting.
Ned meets one of the infamous autumn storms. Ned is knocked out (not dead!). Will the ships survive? Watch the next episode of Dragonball Z to find out!
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
So far, nobody has picked a bone with Joffers the First… yet. Cersei is doing… Cersei things.
The Others are… adapting.
Ned meets one of the infamous autumn storms. Ned is knocked out (not dead!). Will the ships survive? Watch the next episode of Dragonball Z to find out!
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
