Smoke & Salt: A Horse Grenadier Company in Westeros

[Yla]

My thought when Euron came onto the scene was just 'you poor, poor thing'.

 

[Balaur]

He'd seen Highgarden many times before, but never like this. All the times he'd been there, when Loras had first convinced him to let him squire for him, when he'd come marching west to war, when he'd been recuperating from his wounds, it had been green, verdant, overgrown, more a garden than a castle.

Now it lay dead. The fields were smothered under snow, the town of 10,000 souls that had sprung up around the castle half burnt to the ground. The vines crawling up the castle's curtain walls had been hacked away, and hoardings built atop the walls. Off to his left, in a fallow field, there was the unmistakable churned turf of a mass grave.

There was no sign of the peasantry and burgesses that normally thronged the streets; they must have been counted amongst the columns of refugees his army had passed. They'd brought word that Ironborn had been reaving up the Mander and all along the coast, that they'd been sent away from Highgarden for their own protection.

Rose banners still topped the walls, though, and the heralds-accompanied, of course, by a healthy contingent of mounted archers-had reported that Garlan Tyrell had greeted them on the walls.

He'd gathered up all the lords and the more prominent landed knights around him, and ordered them to ride forth fully armoured.

Ahead of them, the gates of Highgarden's curtain walls swung open, revealing what lay within.

The glass gardens had been smashed, an exorbitant expense just gone; the plants within hacked away. Most of the buildings within had been burnt down as well; the defenders trying to deny the Ironborn cover, he guessed.

Garlan Tyrell rode out to meet them, escorted by a dozen mounted spearmen.

"Ironborn?" Renly asked, with a nod at the ruin of the gardens.

"They came at night. Masts down, no lights, right up the Mander. Got a foothold on the curtain walls but they couldn't bring up ladders and grapnels quickly enough to take the inner walls or the keep. We counter attacked on the third day. That drove them right off the walls." Garlan shrugged. "Hopefully Oldtown is doing as well as we are. We haven't been getting any ravens back from them."

"I'll know soon enough how they are faring. I take it there is to be a welcome feast?"

"It's winter, we're at war, and we had less than a days notice. Our cooks shall do you credit, of that you can be assured, but it will not be the sort of feast that one high lord should greet another with. Mace Tyrell wants to meet with you. So does Olenna Tyrell. She has taken very ill with a fever. The Maester's say it is a coin's toss if she will live or die, and she asked to talk to you as soon as possible."

*

Olenna Tyrell was alone in her chambers when Renly entered. She sat up in her great bed, her thin frame dwarfed by the sheer size of the bed. Her eyes flicked open, sharp and alert in spite of the sweat glistening on her brows and the hollowness of her cheeks.

Renly closed the door behind him.

"I never thought I'd actually be glad to see you." Olenna said. "Though you were a little tardy with your cavalry."

"Are you really going to start by insulting me?" Renly said. "I've brought 10,000 heavy horse to your defence, and that is how I am greeted?"

She tut tutted. "It is the fever. It makes me forget myself. More than usual at this age."

"Somehow you both say that and believe that you are the only sane person in a world of fools."

"A sad reflection on the level of intelligence around these parts."

He'd had enough of this nonsense.

"What did you summon me to talk about? I need to make sure my men are encamped properly and greet your son in the great hall."

"Margaery, Loras and the situation with the throne." Olenna said. "And certain matters to do with the murder of the High Septon. Who ordered him killed?"

"Petyr Baelish most likely."

"And who did you believe ordered him killed, before the trial?"

"Selyse Baratheon. On the advice of my interrogator-"

"That is very like you, is it not? To make a mistake then just claim you were only following advice. No doubt if he'd been right you would have taken all the credit for yourself."

"All the evidence pointed to her. It was a sham, but a very convincing one."

Olenna rolled her eyes. For a moment, Renly contemplated if he could smother her. He considered himself above murdering his grandmother-in-law. For now.

"Apparently so convincing you couldn't wait a few weeks to put her on trial. And yes, I know it was an inquiry, but tell me true. Did you expect the mob to not try and stone Selyse?"

"Gods be good, Stannis and a Tyrell actually agree on something." He gritted his teeth, lowered his voice. "No, that was Selyse's choice to confront the mob. I planned to rile up the mob enough that if Stannis tried her, I could use the threat of the mob to control him."

"My granddaughter was on that stand when the riot started." Olenna said. "She could have died. She could have lost her child. Loras is all but a hostage to Stannis, and Garlan was nearly killed because of you. So what has you offered us?"

"Your granddaughter will be my queen. Your great-grandchild will be King of all the Seven Kingdoms. And all because of me. That does not seem too poor a price for having to put up with some tactical errors."

"Yes, my granddaughter will be queen. That will help her how? Thanks to your actions, she is alone at court, with Selyse bearing her ill will and heavily pregnant. She has lost her quarters in the tower of the Hand and been confined to the Red Keep. She has had to resort to cultivating that woman from a country that doesn't exist to have swords she can rely on, since you took so many of the Tyrell men west."

Olenna clambered out of bed, tottered over to him.

"Did you just call me here for no more than to rant at me?"

"No. I called you here to offer you advice." Olenna said. "When you come to Oldtown, I want you to think. Think of the soldiers who stand to die if you fail. Think of your wife and your child and your lover. Think of your brother, if you absolutely have to. Just for the love of the seven think, of more than how you can cover yourself in the most glory and seize that bloody pointy chair as quickly as possible. You are young and have the world before you. There is no need to rush."

She coughed into her sleeve, sat down on the bed. "Now, me, I don't have much left. So go and save the realm from that bloody pirate, or whatever it is you came out here to do. Your grandmother needs a rest."

 

[Balaur]

Once, when she was a girl, she had loved to visit Lannisport. Compared to the gloom of Casterly Rock, with it's unending candles and musty air, the open skies and bustle of Lannisport had always seemed remarkable to her. Then she had visited Oldtown, and Lannisport had paled in comparision. King's Landing had been a disappointment almost on par with Emmon Frey, but Myr and Pentos had been even more magnificent.

Volantis was bigger than all of them put together. It straddled the Rhoyne like some outlandishly dressed sellsword straddled his horse, houses of brick and wood and stone stretching out over what had to be miles of rolling, undulating ground. There was layer after layer of walls. Outer walls ringed the city and tower houses dotted the western bank while the colossal black walls of the Eastern bank, were near two hundred feet tall and said to be harder than diamond. She had once heard an argument over whether the black walls of Volantis or The Wall were the greatest fortification in the world. She had answered the Five Forts of Yi Ti out of sheer contrarianism, but now she was doubting that judgement.

How does such a defence fall? At least the Wall is too long to properly garrison-

From within. That was the risk when nine tenths of a city were slaves, everyone who fought for you, entertained you, prepared your food, made your clothes, rowed your galleys, even oversaw lower ranking slaves.

As they came in closer, a horn rang out across the water, and there were shouted commands for the flag of truce to be raised. The reverberations through the hull stopped, and a moment later, so did the churning of the oars.

"They've pulled up the boom chain." Assyrio said besides her, pointing at the entrance to the cities harbour, where galleys with their rams painted black lay anchored behind.

"We're in Myrish ships, they'll know we're a threat, especially with those ships in tow…"

"Best hope Lord Baelish knows what he's doing." She glanced up at the movement on top of the towers that studded the harbour entrance, flickers of movement behind their crenelations. There would be scorpions and spitfires up there, and she could certainly see the long, spindly arms of a pair of trebuchets looming up over the harbour.

It took what had to be an hour before anything actually happened. Even down to only a few layers of linen and with a cooling sea breeze, the sunlight was stultifyingly hot. She asked for a spare spyglass, and amused herself by looking at the tops of the Black Walls of Volantis.

There were flags up there, all right, the flags of a thousand nations. Targaryen dragons, some traditional, some two-headed and some with black, white and green heads upon a red field. Butterflies and lambs and green-striped tigers savaging elephants, blacksmiths striking off chains, flames driving back darkness. Black flags with nothing on them but intricate calligraphy in the Old Valyrian alphabet.

She passed her spyglass to Assyrio and pointed to the flags. "Do you read Valryian?"

He raised it to his eyes.

"We bow to no Master but the Mistress of Dragons and no God but Rhllor." Assyrio said beside her.

"Fucking rebels." he continued, shaking his head. "They think this will stop it? I give it five years before either some sellsword company sets themselves up as the new triarchs, or the overseers and slave-soldiers become the new masters."

"Better than what came before." Genna said. Even as Tywin's sister, she'd seen as much casual brutality on Myr's streets as she had in a lifetime in Casterly Rock.

Finally, part of the boom was unhooked and draw back from the deck, and the ship began to move forwards. She checked the dagger under her skirts. She didn't trust the Targaryens, she didn't trust the Volantenes, she didn't trust the Myrish and she didn't trust Petyr.

He seemed too cunning by half to advocate for something as foolish as this marriage without another motive. The prize crews had gotten some of their prisoners to talk and had relayed across that the captain of the pirate band had been hired by someone to capture or kill them by any means necessary.

As the squadron slipped back into single file and began to move forwards, she motioned for Assyrio to follow her down to the cabin.

She needed to stay close to the children. If they were going to have to run and hide, she couldn't risk them getting split up. At least if they had to resort to that, Volantis was a big enough place, and the situation hopefully chaotic enough, that they could evade pursuit.

Tommen and Myrcella were waiting.

"Myrcella. There's little chance of this happening, but we have to be ready. If something happens while we're ashore, I want you to take Tommen's hand and not let go. If we're attacked by Volantenes, I want you to run for the galleys as fast as you can. If you get separated from me, don't wait for me."

"And if the Myrishmen try to hurt us?" Tommen said.

"Run and hide in the city."

They had no chance on their own, with no allies, no survival skills and sticking out like a sore thumb but it was better than telling them to stand there and get murdered. "Tommen. I know you've been taking lessons. But you're only eleven years old. Fight if you have to, but never as a first resort, and never fair. Run and hide first. You are not lions, you are cubs."

*

They were guided onto the docks by a skiff crewed by freedmen with tattooed faces. There were men waiting for them, a couple of burly looking Andals with green tiger stripes tattooed across their faces and two-handed maces over their shoulders, and Petyr Baelish himself. He'd worn his doublet unlaced and sleeveless, but even so, she could see the sheen of sweat on his skin. She guessed she looked even worse.

A gangplank was thrown down. The marines marched off first, fanning out into a perimeter around the pier, pavisiers screening crossbowmen and fire-lancers.

She came after them, Tommen and Myrcella shuffling after her.

Petyr Baelish stepped forwards, smiling.

"I had… concerns for a moment there, that my call would not be heeded."

"The Myrishmen did well guarding us." And twisting my arm into doing this.

"Of course. I trust Nelyn to send only the best men."

"Where are our quarters?"

"Within the Black walls. Near to the meeting hall of the committee."

"The leaders of the revolt?"

Petyr shrugged. "Near enough. They are still arguing about how to restore order to the West Bank and the countryside."

He motioned to an elephant, with a wagon behind it.

"What is to be done with Tommen?"

He took her arm, led her away from the children.

"Aegon has spoken on this. Tommen will renounce his claim to the Iron Throne out of penance for his fathers crimes, and when he comes of age, he shall join the Kingsguard. You shall be given the full crown backing to become Lady of Casterly Rock, as is your right. Emmon Frey will no doubt suffer an accident."

"And what if Tommen does not wish to join the Kingsguard? What if he is no warrior?"

"Then he can be a maester, or a septon. Aegon has made it quite clear he wants no dead children on his hands like the usurper, nor senseless wars like certain of his predecessors."

"Good." There was some degree of sense to it, but she couldn't escape the creeping feeling that something was terribly wrong.

Myrcella will sit the Iron Throne, at least…

If we win this war. If Daenerys does not set out against Myrcella. If Aegon is not heartless and cruel. If polygamy does not turn the faith against us.

If we aren't still being lead into a trap with false promises.

Gods be damned, why didn't she run for Lys like she'd threatened to?

"Someone tried to kill or capture us. Me specifically. Whoever it was was organized enough to have a whole squadron of pirate galleys hired, as well…"

Petyr shrugged.

"There will be those that seek King Stannis's favour. There are those here that would regard you as a threat to the dragon queen. Either have plenty of riches to hand."

*

They rode in an elephant wagon called a hathay through the streets, the Myrish escort sometimes having to jog to keep up with it. The streets were even filthier than she was used to in King's landing and Lannisport-she supossed elephants shat more than horses, and the cleaning slaves would need time to be reorganized as paid labourers. More than once, they were approached by mobs who shouted in a dialect of Valyrian she barely understood, but she caught enough references to "slavers", "Myr" and various forms of profanity to guess it could be summarized as "slavers go home." More than once, rocks went flying.

They were tattoeed with diamonds, flames, tiger stripes, shark jaws, their very servitude marked onto their bodies. Some had small wounds under their eyes where the tattoos had been cut away.

The captain of marines had to bawl his men into keeping formation and not levelling their weapons.

They're used to being able to hurl abuse at slaves with impunity, not the other way round.

Finally, they reached the Black Gates. They were half ajar, men and women in the loose, flowing robes of Volantis coming in and out while green-tattoeed men armed with counter-curved shortbows or spears and shields stood guard.

Petyr hopped out of the cart, showed them a letter. "They are here as guests of King Aegon. They have the right to meet with the Council."

There was a hushed discussion amongst the guards, then they were ushered through, the Myrish marines staying in a ring of steel around them.

She had never seen building like what were inside the black gates of volantis. They were carved out of marble, solid black or white, each three or four stories tall, packed together side to side. They had bushes and even trees growing from their roofs, and she spurts of water what had to be a fountain atop one of them. Despite the heat outside that had her shift clinging to her skin and matted her hair, the cobblestones-of the same black stone-seemed to almost radiate cold.

Petyr led them through the buildings. There were less people on the streets, but she saw swarms of vendors hawking food, sometimes bartering it for bolts of luxury cloth or jewelry.

Any group of slaves who ended up in control of one of these manses when the revolt came must have ended up with control of massive amounts of wealth, she realized. Leveraging that would be the only way a city of this size could be consistently fed once the old system collapsed.

They reached the Hall of the Triarchs, low and broad compared to the others, sprawling out across three hundred yards of ground. The doors were made of solid ebon, and as they were escorted through, she noticed that the walls were oddly bare of decoration. There were arrowheads still embedded in the door, their shafts snapped off, and she could see suspicious looking dark stains on the floorboards.

There was fighting here. Heavy fighting.

She was ushered through into the next chamber, beyond the anterchamber. It was high and vaulted, with walls of dark stone and panelling and floorboards of darker wood. Rows of seats were formed around a triangular stone table.

The Council of Volantis was two dozen in number, drawn from all corners of the known world. They were young and old, pale as milk, dark as night, tattooed and clear-skinned. The only thing all of them had in common, Petyr explained, was that at some point they had all been slaves. They'd set up a round table where the three seats of the Triarchs had once stood.

"I present Tommen Baratheon, Myrcella Baratheon, and the Lady Genna Lannister to the assembled council of Volantis. They have travelled far, and await to bend the knee to Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen, breakers of chains, masters of dragons, the trueborn King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

A man in robes of red, his pale face covered with tattoos in flame patterns, stood up.

"I, Benerro, Flame of Truth and Light of Wisdom, accept you, and grant you hospitality."

"So do I, Lareen of the Waterfront." an ancient, humpbacked woman said.

The others followed in their wake, pledging their hospitality.

She got down on one knee. "I accept your bread and salt. My people are enemies of slavery and supporters of freedom like you. And like Aegon, we have been driven far from our homes by cruel men. I believe we shall be great allies."

Genna hoped to the Seven that they took guest right as seriously as the Westerosi did.

 

[Balaur]

Dozens of dancers whirled at the centre of the great hall in twos and threes, breaking apart and reforming at the center of the hall. She stood off to the side with Merry, watching and catching her breath. Normally she could go all night, but she grew tired and faint quickly, these days. The others had no such compunctions.

The news from Highgarden did not help.

First the news of the Ironborn attack had her heart in her throat, then the same raven that had announced they were beaten off the walls announced that Olenna had taken with a severe fever.

She was virtually closer to the Queen of Thorns than to her own mother. Olenna had been the one she had always looked to for advice and support, whether it was an argument with one of her friends to the preparations for leaving for King's Landing.

She'll pull through, she always does-

Sooner or later her luck will run out. Especially with the war, and the winter. Her grandmother had always been strong, even in her old age, and sometimes it seemed to Margaery as if her grandmother had lived through the age of heroes and would still live till the end of the world, more a part of the very rock of Highgarden than a vulnerable human being well over eighty years of age.

There was nothing she could do, in any case. She was no Maester, and even if she was, there was no way she could reach Highgarden in time.

All she could do was pray to the Mother to spare her grandmother another few years.

"Elinor and Ser Alyn certainly found a good tailor." Merry said, pointing to her younger cousin and her husband at the center of the floor. Margaery snapped out of her thoughts, turning to were Merry was pointing, forcing herself into the present. She couldn't do anything to help Olenna. She could help herself by not lingering on morbid thoughts.

They had matching clothes done in the Grenadier style, Alyn with baggy breeches, a beaver skin hat and a tabbed doublet and Elinor with a heavily stiffened, low cut bodice over flared petticoats in imitation of what Sace and Morgan wore. She'd left the sword off, which was unfortunate. Margaery would have quite liked to see her cousin with a sword.

"It's Harwyn, on the Street of Steel." Margaery said. "Tane got her new clothes made there, as well."

"I should get one of those bodices made up." Merry said. "I think they would suit me rather well"

"Indeed they would. Very well." Margaery said. Merry was rather proud of her chest.

"Would any of your ladies care to dance with me?" a man asked. "I'd ask one of you, but it's a rather hard choice." Ser Robar Royce said, approaching the group. He was tall and heavily built, with a strong jaw and surprisingly soft curls to his hair.

"Of course!" Margaery said, curtseying and taking his hand. He led her out onto the floor. It was a circle dance, a carole; all she could keep up with considering the pregnancy. She ended up holding hands with Robar on one side and Lady Merryweather on the other, all the dancers forming into a great wheel that turned in time with the music. She sang along to the carol, her voice leading. She'd always been a good singer.

I loved a maid as bright as spring
With sunrise in her hair

She spotted Tane watching Taena with something like envy, as the wheel broke into pairs, across the hall. She'd heard Loras complain about having to hide his affection for Renly in public enough to have no small amount of sympathy for her.

She ended up face to face with Ser Robar, carefully matching his steps. She'd been practicing dance since she was a girl, and she was good at it, as skilled as a blacksmith was with his tools or a weaver with her loom.

I loved a maid as fair as summer
With sunlight in her hair

I loved a maid as red as autumn,
With sunset in her-

Someone stepped on her skirts just as she took a sharp forwards step. She felt the cloth go taunt and she lurched forwards, her arms shooting out to protect her belly. Fear shot through her, making time seem to slow down. Robar caught her under the arms, hefting her fully upright. Her heart was hammering, Lady Graceford-she must have stepped on her hem-apologizing over and over. Tane seemed to have cleared half the distance between them before stopping when she realized

"That was good timing." She said, forcing herself back to the present, to the people around her. She couldn't afford to dwell on fear.

Robar smiled in agreement. "Catching swords, catching ladies, it's all the same."

She led him off the floor. "Though I suspect catching me is rather more pleasant that an axe to the greathelm."

"Quite." Robar said, smiling.

When she returned to her friends, they were all aglow with excitement.

"You should have let me have that dance." Megga said.

"You're too young for him." Merry teased.

"Well, Marge is too married for him. And pregnant." Megga shot back.

"When has that stopped anybody?" Merry answered.

When they've got Selyse and Stannis breathing down their neck, and half the realm knows Renly is more interested in my brother than me.

If there were less eyes on her, less to lose if she gave Stannis and Selyse the slightest hint that her child was not legitimate, she would have happily led Robar Royce or the Blue Bard or Mark Mullendore or some other young man of the court into an empty bedroom or some nook of the castle and let them have their way with her.

Unfortunately, there were altogether too many eyes on her. Even too much flirting could ruin her. She had no intention of ending up like Cersei.

She glanced across and spotted Shireen, talking to Alysanne Bulwer and Monford Velaryon. Barely thirteen, she was already putting on height at an alarming rate and towered over her friends.

She tried to befriend Shireen before the killings, but after that, Selyse has mostly kept her daughter away from her. Trying to win over Shireen could effect some degree of reconciliation, or it could provoke Selyse further.

There was only one way to find out.

"Shireen!" Margaery said, walking over to her with Merry coming after her. Shireen looked over, the laughter at something Monford had said vanishing.

"Oh! Lady Margaery! You have not been calling after me in some time."

"No." Margaery said. "With the injury and the pregnancy and all, I have not had much time free."

"Neither have I. With my mother's injuries, she insisted I be at her side."

There was less warmth and more formality in her voice than Margaery would have liked.

"I understand." Margaery said, putting her good hand on Shireen's shoulder. The girl flinched slightly. She doesn't trust me.

Shireen had been putting on height alarmingly quickly as of late, and was nearly as tall as Margaery was-not that her height was particularly impressive. Her dress was high necked, covering the greyscale scars on her neck, and her hair had been combed forwards over her overlarge Florent ears, but nothing could be done for the hard, scaly scarring on her cheek besides a slathering of noticeable makeup. Margaery pitied her, truth be told. She had been raised to value her beauty and her cunning above all else, but Shireen had only one of those to rely upon at court.

"So do I." Shireen said. "I hope your wounds are healing well."

"I can actually move my fingers now, which is rather helpful." Margaery said.

"Lady Margaery. We must talk." A familiar voice asked behind her. Margaery turned, and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she saw Selyse looming over her. She should have guessed she would be watching her daughter like a hawk.

Selyse linked arms with her. With her height and her authority, Margaery had little choice but to follow.

"You would do well to stay away from my daughter." Selyse said, as soon as they were out of earshot of the court.

"I bear her or you no ill-will." Margaery said, trying to slip free and turn to face her. Selyse kept walking, though, and there was no chance to move.

"You told me the same lies at that hunt, by the river." Selyse said. "You hadn't even tried to have me executed or stoned, then."

"I warned Renly against everything he did. I had to obey his decisions, just as you had to obey Stannis's order to make Renly heir-"

Selyse let go just as they came up to a dead end. Margaery turned, looking up at the queen. Selyse stepped forwards. "Renly manipulated Stannis, and you and your brother manipulated Renly." She said, stalking forwards. Margaery backed up, hands raised, her heart beating faster. Was the Queen about to strike her?

"I was feeding Tane information the moment I knew Renly's case was a sham. I tried to ward off the same septons that stirred up the riot against you. Renly is a gods-damned fool who would not bloody listen, I have barely any sway over him."

"Liar." Selyse hissed.

"Ask Tane."

"Tane" Selyse said, "Is like a man in more than the manner that she dresses. She would be easily led about by a pretty face and open legs."

Oh, bloody hell, I should have known someone would come to that conclusion-

"I'd think Lady Merryweather would have some objection to that." Margaery said.

Selyse's eyes narrowed. "Her? That Myrish slut? She does not seem the sort to inspire loyalty." She laughed. "It is no matter. You may have tried to betray your husband when your schemes went wrong, but you were against me long before that."

"So what do you want of me? To leave your household? You brought me in here, I must remind you."

"I want you to stop scheming against me. I want you to leave my daughter alone and not try and turn her against me. I want the child of my body to be the heir to the throne. And I would like a castle in the sky and a summer that lasts forever, but that is not likely to happen." She took a step backwards, sniffed. "I am watching you. Move against me again, and I shall not show mercy."

Selyse turned back and slid away. Margaery collapsed back against the wall, heart pounding. She could feel a wetness at the corner of her eyes, a tremor in her hands. Pull yourself together. This isn't like you. She was not a woman prone to crying or hysterics just because a fool lamely threatened her. She did what was necessary, whatever was needed for the survival of herself and the advancement of her family.

She saw shadows around the corner. The same persons, three or four different shadows flickering and overlapping. The keep was lit up with so many torches it was light as day, although the torch smoke had given her a pounding headache. She palmed her dagger under her dress, tried to calm her nerves. It wasn't working.

Merry came around the corner with Elinor and Loras in tow. Her brother was still in his white Kingsguard doublet. Margaery had never been so glad to see them.

"She did not maul you too badly?" Merry asked.

Margaery shook her head.

"I think I shall retire to my rooms." Margaery said, her knees weak.

"So she did maul you badly?" Merry said.

"I suppose." Margaery said, surprised by how frail her voice sounded.

It's the pregnancy. And Olenna.

And now she could just be gone… like that, half a continent away with Margaery having not seen her in years. She remembered one of the last things she'd ever told her, before she'd climbed onto horseback to set out for King's Landing.

"You have a soft heart but a mind of iron, my dear. And to survive at court, it must be your mind that rules you, not your heart."

The tears came then, pouring out. She could feel herself shaking from the river of water running down her face, the fears galloping through her head. She tried to control herself. Noblewomen wept prettily; they certainly did not break down in ugly sobs.

Loras held her and let her cry into his chest.

"It's alright, sweet sister, everything will be alright-"

She sniffled into his shoulder, trying to blink back the tears.

"Not if we don't do anything." Margaery said. "Not if I don't fight back."

 

[Balaur]

The whispering sound was aglow with lanterns as the Iron Fleet prepared for their attack.

They'd been feigning preparations for a retreat for three days now, loading supplies onto the ships, abandoning siege engines and the lines of outposts that had slowly creeping around Oldtown, and spent that dusk putting the galleys and longships that dotted the coastline behind lines of earthworks out to sea. It should look convincing to the defenders; they'd been having more and more problems with raiders in the countryside and sallies from the city and no progress against the walls, so retreat was reasonable. They had little counter to enemy heavy horse besides their earthworks, and they knew it.

The scene was almost beautiful; the full moon aglow amongst the stars on the ground and a thousand lanterns and torchs burning beneath it, their light playing across the water under the green light of the Hightower's great signal fire.

Their purpose was not. The plan was to ram the booms closing the honeywine open with the Lady Olenna, a colossal double hulled, 400-oared war galley packed full of prisoners, then follow up with the cogs, also stuffed with prisoners, as fire ships. The war galleys would follow up, cutting their way up the Honeywine, while longships would disgorge troops onto either shore. The Hightower was, if possible, to be seized while they had the element of surprise, as was the Citadel.

Triston Farywnd had his doubts about the plan. If the four-hundred did not work-and it was an ungainly ship, barely seaworthy-then they were stuck. Then again, knowing Euron, and the fact that the fireships were stuffed full of prisoners…

It has to work. Otherwise, we'll beat ourselves bloody against the defences until the Royal Fleet arrives. We've no chance of surrounding the city on land enough to starve them out either. Going up the vulnerable gullet was the only way to quickly take Oldtown.

His orders were straight to the citadel. It was a defensible position and students would flee there; it was his best bet if Euron was wrong about them being on the Isle, or if they fled when they realized the Ironborn were coming. He'd have to fight through the bulk of the citadel to get to the isle of ravens anyway.

He tore himself out of his thoughts and began to walk the length of the Hydra, down the central gangway, whispering words of encouragement, checking that everything was in place. The oarsmen topside were armoured, in mail shirts or pitch-blackened jacks with their shields hung over the side, while the archers and dedicated fighters massed at the front of the galley.

"M'lord, the spars are all stowed. Mast's slick as a baby seal." Owen said. His cousin, the commander of the ship's boarding crew, looked scarcely like his fat jovial self with his brigandine, hauberk, kettle hat and the 3 foot longaxe tucked through his belt.

"Good." Triston clambered up onto the rigging, stepping over the boat stowed in the breaks in the oar banks around the mast, and slithered up the lines. In his full lamellar, even the short climb to the fighting tops was hard work. They'd winched up bundles of heavy finned javelins, and three of Lars best crossbowmen.

A nervous chuckle. "Everything ready?"

"Yeah. Shoot anyone lit up by stern lanterns first, they're probably officers. If it looks they'll get control of the forecastle, drop javelins on them until they fuck off. Otherwise, shoot any Greenlander that sticks their head up."

Triston began to slither down the lines, ready to go below decks to check on the lower tiers of rowers, when a horn blast rang out across the water. It was long and deep and low, and two more blasts came straight after it.

The signal to attack.

Yells came from the Lady Olenna and the fireship cogs, as their prize crews let out the sails and began to force the prisoners to row.

Their lanterns slid forwards slowly but surely, covering the half mile gap between the fleet and the Oldtown defenders, their galleys all aglow.

Then the flames caught. The first cog went up, and Triston decided that it had to be an accident; someone getting nervous with the torches and flammables.

They kept drifting closer for a time, and he spotted men clambering down into ship's boats by laternlight.

A second fireship went up.

They're going to burn them outside the boom. It's not a fireship attack, it's a holocaust.

He was proven right when the third went up, and the fourth, until seven points of light blazed across the Whispering Sound.

The screams carried across the water, through the walls of the ships and above the roar of flames. Triston gritted his teeth and pulled his padded coif up, then his helmet over that, trying to block out the noise. He'd murdered, burnt and stole a-plenty, and dabbled with deeper mysteries here and there, but he'd never burnt over a thousand souls alive to work black magic.

A mast went down with a thump, and he realized the ships were listing badly. Drowned as well as burnt, Seven ships with seven Greenlander priests…

He wondered if Euron had managed to cram a weirwood aboard them, just to complete the blasphemy.

Then he remembered the Lady Olenna.

The Redwyne's great war galley had a wierwood mast-the same mast as every Redwyne flagship for nearly a thousand years- and it too was burning, drifting far enough forwards that it must have actually breached the boom, or it least driven itself up against it. Figures were leaping over the deck, trying to get clear, while he see could galleymen pushing their ships up as close as possible to try and pole it back from the boom, or perhaps tow it into an island. With a galley that size, it would be a difficult effort, but he gave a silent nod in the direction of the ships. Good seamanship and bravery always deserved respect.

The infernal shrieking slowly but surely died, the ships still burning. At least it was quick. In his time he'd seen far quicker and easier ways to die at sea, but also far worse.

"Would you look at the bloody moon!" an oarsman called out.

"Bugger me, never seen anything like it!"

He was about to call for silence on deck when Triston saw the moon and nearly jumped out of his skin. For a moment, he mistook it for the Oldtower's light, shining above them, but then he realized both were shining, side by side, eerily similar.

He'd seen plenty of Hunter's Moons before, but it seemed to take up half the sky and was a deep, dull red like decking soaked with dried blood.

What in the Deep One's name-

There were yells of surprise drifting across the water, and swearing. He realized that some of the galleys seemed to be drifting towards them, and there was mud gleaming under torchlight on the banks of the honeywine beneath the towers where normally the water lapped against the stonework.

He turned to Owen. "Stay sharp. Something big's going to happen, I want us ready to ride it out. He looked up. "Everyone down out of the fighting tops-"

He was interrupted by the Hydra lifting and falling under him, like, for a single moment, the seas had turned from the calm sound to a heavy swell. A moment later, the galleys in the line ahead of him bobbed as well, and then those in the first line. There was something rushing, roaring over it all, and then he saw the swell rising and sweeping forwards across the no man's water between them. They swept up the still-burning hulks, hurling them like colossal pitch arrows into the heart of Oldtown's defences.

Valyrian wave. He summoned a bloody Valyrian wave.

Across the water, officers screamed orders.

The wave hit. One of the cogs slammed into the Lady Olenna, tearing both apart in a cascade of toppling masts and flaming timbers, the tangled wrecks ploughing into a galley. Another cog smashed two galleys. A galliott dodged one cog, only to be all but thrown through a dockside building, and then that was dragged from its foundations and swept along in the devil's tide. The entire scene was lit up, eerie red and green, by the hunter's moon and the Oldtower's light. The river of wreckage, much of it flaming, swept upriver, between and over islands and bridges, sweeping up over the Honeywine's banks.

And even over the roar of the water, he heard tortured metal screaming.

"Do we move?" Owen yelled. "Euron punched their teeth down their gullet, now we need to reach down and rip the heart out."

"It's a Valyrian wave." Triston said. "I've seen them on the coasts opposite Valyria. The water going inland only does half the damage. The other half is from all that water and debris going back out to sea." He was surprised at how calm and flat his own voice sounded.

The rushing went on for seemed like an eternity. The water around the river mouth was almost cleared of debris, all of it driven inland.

He grabbed Owen. "Get the deck crew ready to put out fires and bail us out. Do it quietly; don't panic the oarsmen." Most of the deck crew were massed up on the forecastle behind the dedicated boarders, having armed themselves with spears and longaxes from the weapon racks stored there. There was already a shocked murmur rising from the forecastle.

Then the flow reversed. Some of the hulks were still on fire, and most of them came rushing back out, along with seemed half of Oldtown. There were wooden dockside houses, a floating bridge with dozens of people clinging to it, chunks of floating boom, and the ships…

Dromonds and galleases, cogs and swan ships, ferries and what had to be a pleasure barge, came streaming out. Some where on fire, some capsized, some half sunk, many more tangled together.

They were racing out, flowing towards the fleet. "ALL HANDS BRACE! OARS UP OUT OF THE WATER!" Triston bellowed. "EVERYONE DOWN FROM THE MASTS!" The small group of men still in the Hydra's fighting tops came slithering and thudding down.

The debris was sweeping out the bay, lit up by the blood moon and a cog that was somehow still burning. At least we're in the Pathfinder's lee, that should soak up any debris that comes straight at us.

Then the current suddenly turned, and the debris was sweeping off to the left, where Victarion's squadron had been posted. Most of it flowed past, out to sea, but one longship was hit by the cog with an almighty crash, burning rigging tumbling down over its decks, and another galley was rammed and holed by a warehouse. First time he'd ever seen that happen.

The drums were beating again, and four horn blasts-the signal for the attack to go in-rang out over the water.

"Beat us forwards, normal pace!" Triston yelled, the drummers taking it up immediately and the oarsmen beginning to push them forwards. He hoped most of the debris had been swept out to sea, and that the water had gone back to normal enough that ripping their bottom out on hidden rocks would not be an issue.

They slid forwards. Debris thumped against the Pathfinders bow up ahead. The Silence, Euron's own galley, was pulling ahead of the rest of his squadron. Even with the tangle of spars inbetween, Triston could pick it out from the burning lantern in the crow's nest. He could hear screaming again, coming from upriver. People pleading for help, officers trying to get their men organized. There were yells of "Archers on the waterfront!" and the barked orders of a captain off to his left as they came within bowshot of the Honeywine's mouth. They've still got some fight left in them.

Men struggled to climb up onto the upturned keel of a longship, only to be showered with arrows by the men of the Teague's Beard off to his left. There was an island up ahead, a galley impaled through the stone inn built upon it. ""Hard right." Triston called. He saw movement on the galley deck. There were men still alive up there. Some of them looked to be going for their bows, so Triston ordered his archers to put a volley through them. That had them scrambling to wave a piece of torn-up sail quick smart. They sailed around the Hightower, towering over them as near 800 feet. It was a giant to be sure, but a crippled one who could do little as it's city died around it. It was only to be dealt with once with the rest of the city was taken. He winced as he saw firepots launched by spitfires streaking down from the tower's batteries, lighting up the sails of a captain who'd neglected to take them down before the attack. Men screamed and died, the deck crew scrambling to try and put them out. Flaming bolts flew back from the Silence's scorpions with uncanny accuracy, once seeming to flick in straight through an arrow slot.

The Citadel loomed up ahead, the great mass of buildings straddling both shores of the Honeywine and the islands in-between. The Isle of Ravens would be somewhere in that morass, he knew, but he figured it was easier to land his men and fight through to it on foot rather than manouevre his galley through the maze of islands, drawbridges and debris.

There had been a seawall constructed around the buildings, to protect the invaluable contents from flooding, and that had a beaver's dam of wood, tumbled stone and bodies crushed up against it. He could heard men trapped in there, screaming and struggling to win free. Galleys had already come in to his right, landing parties swarming out onto the walls in the light of torches and firepots.

He pointed to a galley that had been driven up and almost over the seawall.

"Steer for that. We'll use her for as a ramp." There were men up on the walls, men in the guild colours of the Oldtown city militia and students in every colour of the rainbow, many with bows in their hands.

He jogged to the front of the ship, snatching his spear up from the rack around the mast. "Loose at will!"

A springald stone slammed into the top of the breakwater, sending splinters flying. Arrows went whirring back and forth moments later, thudding into his shields. Someone swore in pain as an arrow got stuck in his leather jack and another oarsman had to be dragged away before his thrashing fouled the oars. There was already heavy fighting off to his right as the main landing parties went in, and militia forming up to his front.

Then the beak struck home, and he scrambled along the ramming beak onto the tilted beak of the galley, his men following straight after.

This bloody horn had better be worth it.

 

[Yla]

Well... fuck Euron.

 

[Balaur]

We're all going to die, he thought as he watched the hunter's moon awful red glow and the lanterns of Ironborn galleys sliding up through the honeywine.

It had all seemed set out for them a day before, when they'd taken up positions throughout the city while the galliott crews had readied to sally out and take the fireships. They were only a contingency, a backup in case something went wrong. It had all seemed set out a hour earlier too, when the galleys had begun massing on the whispering sound after preparations all night. Most of them had reckoned it was more likely to be a retreat, but one of the Hightower knights-Alleras had forgotten which one-had ordered them to stand-to on the walls just in case, with a reserve force in the citadel and more men on the waterfront in case they broke the boom, overran the fleet and started to land troops, and to send out the raiding force anyway to stop him trying anything with the fireships. Euron had managed to time his wave so that it was less than an hour before the raid was supposed to move out.

That fucking eye, it sees all, knows all…

Now it was all in shambles, the boom and the fleet gone, the Hightower and towers on either shore of the Honeywine trading shots with galleys as they sailed up the river. One took a mangonel stone through the hull and began to list, but it wasn't nearly enough. Most of Oldtown's defences faced outwards, to beat off an attempt to break through the booms. The artillery couldn't shoot nearly quickly or accurately enough to break up the attack before they were inside the defences. There would be nothing on the shores opposing them either, the militia posted to beat back landing parties dead or scattered and terrified.

He could hear moaning and screaming to his front, men trapped amidst the debris that had been driven up against the breakwater. Alleras hopped up onto the wall, looking for the source of the noise. A man was yelling for help from where he sat on top of a half floating bit of mast, and another off to his left had his legs crushed between the seawall and a fallen spar. "I'll get him-" Alleras called, putting down his bow, taking off his arrow-bags and checking that his knife was ready. He might have to cut his legs away.

"Stay put!" Garwyn called. "You're the best archer and the only worthwhile surgeon here. I'm not risking you." The burly sergeant had clambered up onto the seawall besides Alleras.

"We can't bloody leave them there to drown." Alleras said.

Garywn pointed at the lanterns. "We've got five minutes until those galleys are upon us by my reckoned. We've got no way to move that spar, and cutting off both his legs will kill him. The man on the sail can get a rope." he turned back to the men and started to yell orders.

He wanted to try and do more to help the men on the debris, but Garwyn was right. He was too valuable to risk, and the men on the sail would be better helped by throwing them ropes, not by a half-maester crawling about on the wreckage.

Alleras hopped down from the wall, slung his arrow-bags back in place and walked to where Samwell Tarly and Leo Tyrell stood, Leo armed with his crossbow. Samwell had expected to just watch the raid, but when it had all gone wrong he'd promised that he'd help pull casualties back. He was no fighter, not like Alleras and Leo were, though he'd survived far worse than either of them in his time.

"Captain Willard!" Garwyn yelled. The man pushed through the militiamen cramming their position. The low breakwaters around the citadel island were the only reason they hadn't been flooded out. Even so, enough water had sloshed over that the cobblestones were slick and shiny in the unnatural moonlight, and many of the men had been soaked by spray. He was glad he hadn't strung his bow until after the wave had hit.

"Yes?" the captain asked. He was a burgess, a master of the tailor's guild who'd somehow been put in charge of near three hundred men holding the Citadel's northern island. It was a mass of lecture halls and libraries, high up enough that they'd avoided the worst of the wave.

"We're going to have to hold them." He pointed at the galleys sliding in, long and low, archers and spearmen packing their fighting tops and their forecastles. "If they raise the citadel's draw-bridges, they can bring galleys down through the whole city. If we keep them off, we can at least buy ourselves time."

"We'll be overrun! Look how many there are-"

"We're going to hold them." Garwyn repeated.

"He's right." Alleras said. "We have to stand and fight. Renly's coming. He's only days away." Alleras said. "We just have to hold them for a short while. Until they can break the bridges over the honeywine." He was trying to reassure himself, just as much as the rest of the men. We're bloody fucked, there's no two ways around it.

The captain finally nodded in acknowledgement, then began calling out orders, trying to get them into a shieldwall and tell the other militia officers that they were going to stand and fight.

Alleras counted his arrows, trying to memorize the numbers so he wouldn't come up short. Forty-Eight, counting the spare bag slung across his back as well as the one open on his hip. He drew and then sheathed his sword and loop-hilt dagger, checking they drew smoothly, tightened the straps on his brigandine, adjusted the brim of his pot-helmet. Anything was better than dwelling on the fear of death. The other militiamen and acolytes were doing the same, but he supposed it had to be easier for them. They didn't have the knowledge that Euron was a sorceror of not inconsiderable power, or have to worry about a fate worse than death if they were captured alive.

He thumbed his dagger. He had no intention of that, if it came to it.

Then the galleys were on them, and there was no time for thought.

"Shieldwall! Shieldwall! Spears up, archers back!" Garwyn roared, hefting a two-handed longaxe as his men surged forwards to hold the seawall. The ironborn came on them like sea-spray against a cliff. Clambering off their galleys and up onto the seawall and the mass of debris before it, they had the high ground, but they were on unsteady footing and were horrendously vulnerable to a slash to the legs or a thrust up under their mail shirts and leather jacks. Men toppled and tumbled, Alleras and the crossbowmen loosing into them with impunity. But for every man that was shot down, two leapt down amongst the militia, and another three took their place on the walls, while still more were shooting from the prows of the ships. The militia were giving ground, backing up, cringing under a hail of throwing axes and longbow arrows and spear thrusts. Alleras kept shooting, forcing himself to slow down so he didn't leave himself exhausted and out of arrows.

They were being driven back here, in the center, but out on the left the ironborn were still struggling to get a foothold on the seawall, let alone the ground. On the right…. They were routing, some militia running for their lives, others scrambling back while making at least some effort to keep their shields to the enemy. The Ironborn were swarming over them there, leaping down from the deck of a galley that had hurled through the seawall by the force of the wave. They must have used it as a bridge over the wall.

A moment later the butcher's guild men followed. It was as sudden as it was inevitable, beginning out on the right as raw animal fear spread amongst the irrational and the rational realized they were open to being flanked, but within seconds the whole body of men was running. Alleras danced back, avoided getting bulled over by one man only to have to turn and run to avoid the rest. They were sprinting through the dark, leaping over cobblestones, trying to hold their shields behind them. The man ahead of Alleras got an arrow in the back of the neck, tearing right through his padded coif, and he went down. Garywn was sprinting fastest of all, shouldering some men aside, virtually leaping over the ground. Alleras had never judged him a coward, but-

Then they were up on the footbridge, the one that led to the east island with it's medical library and lecture halls, and Garwyn turned. "RALLY ON MY POSITION! RALLY! Stand and bloody fight!"

Anyone who wanted to flee would have to go through him, it seemed.

Some stopped. Some kept going, trying to plough him over. Garwyn braced, slammed his axe shaft across the first man. A couple of crossbowmen came up and shoved into his opponent's back, threatening to bowl him over, but more men rushed up behind Garywn, men-at-arms and dismounted knights in Hightower household liveries, blocking off the bridge.

Just as suddenly as the rout had happened the men were rallying, the fight going back into them.

"We need shields up front, out facing the Ironborn! Crossbows back, axes and halberds, uh, in reserve!" Alleras yelled, trying to do his bit. He wasn't going to just run while a monster like Euron butchered Oldtown, not as long as they had a chance of winning.

"Get to the other side of the bridge! It's a choke point, we can hold them there!" Garwyn was bellowing, standing aside, ushering men past him.

The Ironborn were coming, again, reforming into a shieldwall and pressing forwards, their front bristling with spears lit up by flaming torches. They had a hundred or so yards before they were on them, but already archers were skirmishing out ahead of their lines.

Alleras loosed a couple of shots then was swept along with the militia across the bridge.

They reformed, held ready. The Ironborn came on, slowing down and tightening their formation as arrows began to fly, Alleras's amongst them. Throwing axes came flying back, throwing up showers of sparks as they skipped off the cobblestones, biting into legs or bouncing up over shields and tumbling down onto helmeted heads.

The front ranks of the shield walls clashed on the bridge, a frantic jabbing tangle of spear shafts and sword blades one moment and two masses of men screaming and beating weapons against shields the next as they fought, broke apart, rallied and did it all over again. Missiles came whirring in, crossbow bolts mixed in with the Ironborns usual arrows and throwing axes. Alleras shot back, dropped an archer, picked out a man with his shield slung and shot him through the leg. Once, the militia surged back off the bridge, driven back by a rush led by a man in lamellar, but the Ironborn were hit in the flanks by a mass of Hightower Men-at-Arms that had just come up and forced back onto the bridge. Most of the reserves piled in, taking up the front-rank positions. For a while, with fresh, heavily armed and armoured men in the front ranks, it looked like they were getting the better of it, but the Ironborn rallied and threw in reserves of their own. His heart was hammering, pounding, and he thought he'd pissed himself. It took everything he had just to stand his ground, kept shooting. His arm felt like it was on fire. He forced himself to breath.

Count to ten. Nock. Pick a target. Draw back to the ear. Loose. Count to ten…

Leo Tyrell was at his side, shooting with his crossbow, until he wasn't. Alleras glanced down and saw him lying on the ground, an arrow in his face just under the eye and another stuck through his jaw. He was spasming, trying to gurgle something out, but Alleras could make no sense of him. He and Sam pulled him back, grunting from the effort, to the base of an old statue, then Alleras ran back into the line and left him to Sam.

A throwing axe bounced off his brigandine and he staggered back, swearing. Someone was grabbing at him, yelling orders. "Lady Hightower's looking for you! She needs to talk to you now!" A knight in Hightower colours with a bloodied greatsword over his shoulder bellowed.

"Alleras! Alleras!" a woman's voice called. He swore and turned away from the fight. A hooded woman was racing towards him, her skirts lifted, a couple of halberdiers following after.

"What the hell are you doing here-"

"It's the horn. He's after the horn." Mallora said, breathless.

"What?"

"That old horn that Samwell has! It's the Horn of Joramun! Euron's looking for it! We need to get it out of here!"

"I'm with the militia, I can't just run-"

She grabbed him by the shoulders. "The city is lost. Our whole fleet is smashed, they're overrunning the citadel, there's fires on the eastern bank. There's troops trying to get onto this island from the west bank and I think fighting on the east bank. They're cutting through everything in their path. We need to run."

She turned to Samwell. "Where the hell is that horn you mentioned?"

"What- I-"

Samwell was stammering, freezing up.

"The horn. The broken horn you joked about?"

"It's under my cloak. I kept it for luck-"

"Then we need to get it out here! What's the best route out?"

"The tunnels. There's tunnels that lead out of the Citadel and into the city. If they haven't secured all the gates, we can slip out from there. Alright, we need to warn the butcher's guild men." Alleras said, trying to force himself into calm.

"No good. If they retreat, the enemy will follow them. If they do that, we'll get caught. If we get caught, we all die. Where's the nearest entrance?"

Alleras sighed. "In the basement to the Dragon's Library."

"Then we're heading there." Malora said.

They took off at a jog, Alleras leading the way with an arrow nocked, what was left of the Hightower retinue moving after them. He didn't dare look back at the Butcher's guild men. The last he ever saw of them were Garwyn struggling to turn their right flank around to face ironborn rushing in from the north.

They kept to the shadows, moving between buildings. There was yelling and the sounds of fighting everywhere, bodies on the ground. The defenders holding the south bank must have collapsed, because there were Ironborn everywhere, and downed militiamen. Some of them were still moving. Swords and arrows crippled quickly but killed slowly. The northern horizon was aglow, flames leaping up from the city in half a dozen places. The wave must have knocked over a cooking pot, or perhaps the Ironborn had lit fires to clear out defenders in buildings. It didn't matter. Either way, Oldtown was dying.

"Ironborn to our rear. Two dozen. They've seen us." Someone hissed.

"We're there." Alleras said. He pointed to the basement door. A man jogged forwards and smashed it in with his halberd, while the Oldtown knight barked for the others to form up on him.

Arrows whistled in, thudding into shields and skittering off cobblestones. Alleras turned, nocked, drew and loosed, but there were as least six archers and what had to be a dozen mail-clad men rushing in.

"That's him! The summer islander and the fat one! Break through!"

"AT THEM! LAY ON!" the Oldtown knight roared. His men surged forwards and ploughed into the Ironborn, halberds rising and falling. "Come on! Run!" Samwell yelled, just as a thrown spear took him full in the chest. Alleras spotted a man in lamellar charging him, sword drawn, but a halberdier knocked him off his feet with a hard thrust to his chest before he could loose at him.

"Horn! Horn! Where's the horn!" Malora called.

"It's, it's in my pocket-" Samwell said, on his knees, quite stunned.

"We need to get him out of here! Can you stand-"

Malora grabbed the horn out of his pocket. A cracked and shriveled thing, it seemed almost absurd that they were now fighting to protect it.

"Leave him."

"We can't just-"

"He's too heavy to carry and he's dead anyway." Malora said. She turned for the basement entrance. The Hightower men were still fighting, the knight tying up half a dozen ironborn, keeping them back with whirling, sweeping blows of his two-handed sword, but sooner or later one would work up the courage and find the opportunity to rush in on him.

Samwell tried to stand up, collapsed onto his side. The spearhead was sticking out of him like a ship's mast rolling in a storm. It had to have nearly bisected his right lung.

Alleras leant down, tried to grab him by the armpits, grunting with the effort. He wasn't making any headway.

"We need to GO!" Malora screamed.

"Please-" Samwell said, pleading with his eyes even as blood ran out of his mouth.

Mallora was right.

Alleras forced himself to run, scrambling down into the basement.

He grabbed a bookcase and heaved it out of the way, revealing the tunnel entrance. It was old, with stonework characteristic of the Gardener era, but it was still younger than what lay further down. Another bookcase was thrown across the broken down door, and whatever other furniture they could find as well. Malora had gotten a lantern off one of her men. Alleras grabbed it off her, leading the way. Malora came after him, the sole survivor of the Hightower men at arms bringing up the rear. He paused for a moment to wedge his halberd in behind the door and draw his sword.

The walls were dripping wet, moss growing across the rough hewn stone. They came to a fork, and Alleras took the left. They needed to get to the east bank.

They kept moving. The stone slowly but surely became oily and smooth to the touch. Alleras had no idea what the stuff was, but it seemed to be everywhere in the foundations of Oldtown.

He shuttered the lantern. "It's all straight from here. Don't want them to know we're here."

As long as they could stay ahead of them, they could take off in any direction they wanted when they came out of the tunnels. Three people in a city being sacked wouldn't be easy to track. Unless Euron knows-

Alleras forced that thought out of his head. If Euron could track them with whatever the hell he was doing, they were dead no matter what they did. If he couldn't, they had to focus on surviving.

 

[Balaur]

Content warning for aftermath of war crimes galore and Euron being Euron.

*

Oldtown was aflame, the long, thick columns of smoke visible even beyond the horizon as they advanced on the city at the double. He'd been expecting that. The roads were swarming with refugees, running as the Ironborn took the city from the inside out. They all had wild stories, about blood red moons and great waves smashing fleets and burnt sacrifices. Renly paid them little heed. Men were prone to wild stories when frightened, and there was little more terrifying than being caught in the midst of a city being sacked.

The black smoke from the western shore was so thick he could only see the eastern bank, and even there smaller fires roared. The immense bulk of the Hightower was scarcely visible, appearing only faintly, like a distant figure on a foggy morning. The suburbs that sprang out from the walls in some parts had already burnt down.

"They're running." Ser Richard Horpe said, pointing out to the Whispering Sound, where the flags of the last few ironborn galleys were fleeing over the horizon, barely visible through the smoke haze. There were no warships in the Whispering Sound or the Honeywine, only a scant few merchantmen and fishing ships, most of them wrecked. They fled. Only a matter of hours. But there could still be men defending the city, it could be some sort of trap... even against scum like the Ironborn, he had to be careful.

"Ser Richard Horpe? Could you send word up to the vanguard to seize the walls and open the gates. The rest of my men will follow through."

They'd picked up ladders and grapnels and pavises for the assault when they'd stopped at Horn Hill, and he'd assigned men from the Horn Hill guards that had swollen his force as they drew in closer to storm the walls alongside his own mounted infantry. The countryside was a kicked hornet's nest, refugees fleeing from the ironborn sacking the coast and bands of knights and mounted infantry on the hunt for ironborn raiders or harassing the besiegers.

Ser Richard nodded. "Do we know whether the Ironborn are still in there? I know the fleet left, but there could still be some who stayed behind to hold the city."

"That's why the foot are going in first. If they put up a fight, well, that's what dismounted knights are for."

Horpe nodded in assent. He seemed almost pleased at the possibility that not all the Ironborn had fled. "Permission to join the assault?"

"Of course." Renly said. "Nothing stiffens up the smallfolk like a knight fighting alongside them. Do make sure to keep them well in hand if it spills out onto the streets. I want a relief, not another sack."

Horpe took off at a trot, shouting for his squire to fetch his larger shield and kettle-hat.

From there on, everything went in agonizing slow motion. The vanguard formed up for the attack, a mass of dismounted men-at-arms and Horn Hill levies with Stormland archers on their flanks. Lord Randyll had taken command of the van, his horn hill banners flying amongst the men formed for the assualt. The rest of the cavalry, the main guard, formed behind them, and then Ralph Buckler's rearguard deployed on the ridge. The Honeyholt and Horn Hill levies were coming up in the rear, ready to exploit a breach created by the better armoured dismounted troops and Tarly's household men. Renly stayed with the rearguard until he knew how the assault would play out.

A horn blew and the infantry advanced like very heavily armed treacle. He expected to see men on the battlements and arrows flying at any moment but nothing came. No-one fought back, but neither did he see any sign of citizens about to let them in. Ladders went up and men fanned out, securing the walls and gatehouses.

He took his lance and shield off a servant, and walked his horse forwards through the gateway. His escort squadron fell in on either side of him. The infantry had already established a perimeter and gotten the gates open, Lord Tarly's personal squadron deployed with crossbowmen behind crouching spearmen. Randyll Tarly trotted up besides him. "Best have the infantry take the lead." Renly nodded. "You lead your men towards the Citadel and cross over the Honeywine, I'll lead mine towards the Hightower and sweep along the shoreline for any remaining ironborn, then secure the Boom."

Randyll turned to his men, shouting orders.

They set off down the streets, his nose wrinkling at the smell. It was that of death, thick and overpowering. Bodies littered the streets, men and women, young and old, all of them hacked and pierced. The ground was caked with dried blood, entrails, brains. Many of the women had their clothes torn off; they'd been raped before they were killed. Crows and rats and flies swarmed over the bodies, scattering as they heard hoofbeats, forming into swirling black clouds. Many of the doors had been smashed off their hinges. They were at least three blocks in when they saw their first live humans, a band of men with buckets and hooked poles hurrying across a street.

"People of Oldtown!" Renly called out, riding forwards. The men at arms moved out of his path.

One of the fire brigade turned to look at him. "The Ironborn have all left. We're making for the north bank. They lit fires all over it."

"We're riding to the riverbank. Do you know if Lord Hightower made it?"

The man shook his head. "I didn't leave my attic till some brave soul said they were leaving. I haven't a clue. Last I saw of the siege was a bloody great wave smashing the boom in and the moon getting bigger and brighter than any moon should be. Then Ironborn charged my company and I legged it back home. A lot of the men ran for the gates, or tried to get back to their families to protect them."

Renly told them that Randyll was taking the citadel and the Starry Sept, and continued on his way. There were more people on the streets, some searching through bodies or sobbing over them. One was carrying an armful of loot. He dropped it and ran as the soldiers approached. Renly ordered his men to give the others water or wine, to try and find blankets to cover the bodies.

More than once they came across the remains of a fight. Arrows littered the ground, as did splintered weapons and shields, and there were smears of blood without bodies where the dead and wounded had been dragged off. An Ironborn banner was still fluttering atop a building, holes shot through it. Renly ordered for his men to take it down.

The waterfront was worst of all. It was barely recognizable as a city, a shattered tangle of houses and ships with ruined masts reaching up like skeletal trees. Hanged bodies dangled from some of the cross-spars. Many had been disemboweled. Out on the Honeywine, a galley lay beached on an island, impaled into an inn.

The fires were still rising on the other side, the smoke, thick and rich from the snow-damp wood making his eyes water. He could make out Hightower and guild banners, flying over gatehouses and towers here and there. Holdouts. That would be the cause of many of the fires too; defenders being cleared out with flaming arrows rather than sword and axe. The stench was so overpowering he retched over the side of his horse.

Movement caught his eye further up, men in armour picking their way through the carnage. As they came closer, they called out "Hightower! We're of the Hightower!"

"Storm's End and Highgarden!" Renly called back, trotted his horse forwards. He halted when he realized that he'd have to climb it over a collapsed house to get to them.

The leader of the group stepped forwards, spearmen shuffling aside. He was tall and gaunt, at least forty, with a pole-axe in his hands. He didn't bother with a surcoat, and his armour was dull gray, not the usual mirror polish that most knights in white harness went for.

Renly dismounted, wincing from the pressure it put on his leg. With his armour on, even with his habit of wearing an arming doublet with voiders rather than a full mail shirt, that was an extra forty or so pounds, all concentrated on his shin.

"We were too late." Renly said. "I am sorry."

"Better late than never at all. Their scouts must have known you were coming. Another week of sacking and there wouldn't be an Oldtown left." He scrambled down the house, using his pole-axe like a walking stick. "Lord Renly Baratheon?"

"The same."

"Ser Garth Hightower." the man said.

"The Hightower was untaken?"

"Aye. Lord Leyton refuses to leave. Ser Baelor died in the fighting, or the wave, no-one is quite sure. Malora was looking for a Tarly at the Citadel when the Ironborn hit. She's probably dead or worse. The rest of us are safe, or near enough."

His voice was thick was fear and anger.

"They butchered everyone they could get their hands on and burned anything that would catch fire. They herded captives onto ships and sunk them into the Honeywine on both ends of the city. Blockships. They were catapulting people from trebuchets at the Hightower, telling us the deaths were our fault for not surrendering. The militia on the west bank rallied and managed to hold the gates there. Thousands got out. On the east bank they all ran or surrendered, as far as I could tell." He looked close to tears.

"How did they take the city?" one of Renly's knights asked.

"Fucking sorcery. Euron burned ships full of prisoners, created some sort of wave that broke the booms and wrecked our fleet. There was this bloody great hunter's moon in the sky. They were all through the city before we could react. They took it from the inside out."

So it was true. He'd heard it from refugees they'd passed on the march, all telling the same story of waves and hunter's moons. He'd assumed it had to be an exaggeration of Euron ramming the booms open, or a natural flood that the Ironborn had taken advantage of, but now…

We're up against sorcerors now.

"But they ran." Renly said, thinking aloud. "How long ago? Did they know we were coming?"

"They took the city four days ago. They started loading captives and loot two days ago. They set sail yesterday afternoon. They were heading east."

Less than a day. And straight into the teeth of the Royal Fleet.

"M'lord?" a soldier called out behind him.

Renly turned his horse around. A horn hill crossbowman stood before him. "M'lord, we've taken the Starry Sept. Lord Randyll Tarly wants you to come quickly."

*

The seven sided bulk of the building rose above the packed surroundings of the noble's quarter, the winter manses of the nobility cheek to jowl with those of the wealthiest merchants and guild-masters. The stained glass windows had been shattered, and the doors pushed open. A company of Tarly's men surrounded it. None of them seemed to be inside. Renly dismounted and strode towards the doors, trying not to limp. Someone had set up a table down the middle of the sept floor, stacked with food like a great feast. Crows had already flown into the sept and fluttered about, picking at the food.

Taunting us, with the riches he captured?

Then he stepped into the chamber, and he saw the carnage. The floor was caked with blood and dismembered corpses, most of them stripped of everything valuable.

They must have tried to take refuge…

Around them were naked, skewered corpses. There were seven of them, impaled onto splintered pieces of wood that had been driven into the floor of the sept, in front of the each of the seven statues. There were four men and three women. The man in front of the statue of the Stranger was a eunuch, the woman in front of the mother heavily pregnant. The corpse in front of the warrior had the same slender yet muscular build of Loras, the same curling brown hair. Crows had pecked out his eyes.

He looked away in disgust, in anger.

Renly could feel tears welling up, the smoke stinging his eyes. He would have vomited but there was nothing in his guts anymore. The only time he'd ever felt so empty before was at the siege of Storm's End, at the fuzzy, hazy edges of his memory.

"M'lord, the table… that's not pork Euron was offering us."

He turned to examine the table's roast.

It took him a moment to understand.

It was a man on his back, naked and roasted, his spine and ribs splayed apart, his lungs spread out like wings. There was an apple in his mouth.

"He left us a feast for crows." the soldier murmured.

Renly stormed out. "Cut down all the bodies and bury them. Send word to the men. Search the city for any Ironborn who were left behind. Interrogate them for any information we can get, then have them killed. Put the bodies in the crow cages. Someone get me word on what happened to the citadel. I want to know if they've got any ravens left. We need to get messages out to the coastal holdfasts, see if they can work out which direction Euron sailed in, and to King's Landing. And someone find Randyll Tarly. His men need to form bucket brigades before the fires burn anything else..."

 

[Balaur]

At least ten thousand souls dead, and more carried off into slavery. It was horrific, nightmarish even, but it didn't hit nearly so close to home as the news that her grandmother had died in her sleep.

So many tears were streaming down her face from the first part of the letter that by the time she reached Oldtown being sacked and the Starry Sept being desecrated, she scarcely felt anything.

She'd been able to do little but cry into Merry's shoulder, letting the grief and fear come pouring out and compose herself as best she could do for court. They had a war to fight, in the field and at court both.

She stretched her wounded arm, feeling the tendons catch and slide under her skin. The scar was little more than a raised, discoloured line by now, but it ached in the cold, and her fingers were still stiff and weak. Better than being crippled. She'd picked out a dark green dress, modified to hug the lines of her belly. She knew how she'd look to the court. Vulnerable but proud, and above all else, fertile.

Stannis glowered down from atop the Iron Throne as the courtiers assembled. All seven of the Kingsguard stood guard between him and the court. Her handmaidens fell in around her, courtier after courtier bustling in past them to give her their condolences. She smiled along and thanked them, forcing herself to stay focused on the present. Lord Alester Florent stood by his king's side, his chain of hands still heavy around his neck.

"Oldtown has been sacked. We do not know how much of it was burnt, but tens of thousands will likely be the butchers bill. Euron Greyjoy withdrew before Renly could reach the city. This atrocity will be avenged sevenfold. If the winds are good, the Royal Fleet may already be engaging their fleet. The Royal Navy has crushed the Ironborn before, and it shall do so again."

Ollius came forth, his followers coming after him. She saw Tane wince where she stood across the hall, at the other crest of the half-moon around the throne the courtiers formed.

He took a knee. "Your Grace, the atrocities committed against the houses of the Seven…. these are worse even than those committed by the pagans in the far lands beyond the narrow sea. After the death of the High Septon, it is only too clear that the faith is defenceless. Your Grace, what shall be done to rectify this?"

Stannis ground his teeth. "Euron shall have his head on a pike by the time this is over, that I can assure you."

"That will be little consolation to all those Septons martyred. Armed men were able to walk into the High Septon's chambers unopposed and murder him. It came down to infidel women to defend the faith, so thoroughly have we been unmanned!"

She flinched, twitching as the memories came flooding back. She quashed them, as hard and fast as possible.

"What are you asking for?"

"That the faith be allowed to have armed guards in our septs once again." Ollius said.

"That would have done not a wick of good at Oldtown, and Baelor's Sept has been already assigned Silvercloak guards."

Ollius took a knee. "We need more. Men of the faith, not just hired lackeys. The faith and the realm needs defenders, now more than ever."

"And they have them." Stannis snapped. "There are seventy galleys sailing to intercept Euron as we speak."

"Too little and too late." Ollius said. He shook his head as he stood up. "The strong do what they will and the weak endure what they must. And alas, the faith nows counts amongst the weak." he turned away and filed out of the hall.

He just proposed resurrecting the faith militant. Seven Hells…

The political consequences of that could be disastrous. They'd certainly be hostile to Selyse and the Targaryens, and probably hostile to the Grenadiers depending on which direction Ollius took his… theories. She did not mind them being hostile to Selyse, as long as it was controlled and calculated, but turning against the grenadiers could be dangerous.

Mayhaps they could be sent north. If they could reinforce the wall against the Others, then that would stop the Faith kicking over Stannis's house of cards, while also helping with the other threat facing the seven kingdoms.

Though at least the Wall was in the way. Euron commanded supernatural powers himself, and seemed as much a monster as any man could be.

*

"Renly did well, to relieve Oldtown as swiftly as he did." Margaery said, when she found Loras watching the sunset on the Red Keep's battlements.

"Aye." Loras said. "The coward Euron fled before him like a kicked dog. A pity he didn't try and hold the city. He would have been bottled up and destroyed."

"Euron is no fool. He took the shield islands and wiped out the Redwyne fleet, and that is without his sorcery."

She shuddered. Dragons and demons were bad enough; they didn't need a mad sorcerer-king to go with it.

"I know. Renly knows too; we'll have to bait him inland, try and catch the Ironborn away from their ships."

"Good luck with that." Renly bounced between brilliance and idiocy with alarming speed in politics, from patronizing the grenadiers from the start to use them in his coup to the Selyse mess. She doubted he was much different on the field.

"Ollius is going to be a problem." Margaery said, carefully.

Loras laughed. "Renly called him a useful idiot. I think that apt."

"A dangerous idiot is what he is. What use Renly found for him, I do not know. He never told me anything. I only introduced Renly to him to try and get rid of him."

"I know! I told him so many times to trust you, before the trial. Evidently he didn't listen. " Loras said.

""He listens. He just doesn't care." Margaery said. "Renly scarcely cared that I'd been injured. He didn't care that I was lonely, afraid, in pain. I had to beg him to stay in the room with me. He'll never love me, I don't love him, I don't particularly care about that, but he could at least treat me as a friend, as an ally. He'll never trust me."

Loras looked to respond, but he was silent. He didn't have anything to say to that.

"I'm sorry." Loras said. "Renly is a brave man, he is a just man… but he can be a fool. All men are. Even the best of them."

"I know." Margaery said. It made sense that Loras would think that way. The Renly Loras knew was him at his best. The Renly she knew was him at his worst. "But it is small comfort."

"When he's back from the war, I'll force Renly to deal with this." Loras said. "I'm going to sit the three of us down into a room and no-one shall leave until the situation is resolved."

Margaery smiled. "That would be most welcome."

But it would not solve the fundamental root of it; that she would risk life or honour over one mistake. It wasn't fair, but then neither was life, and outside the bedroom she had for the most been the beneficiary of that unfairness.

*

"I overheard Melara Crane talking to Selyse about you. Selyse is getting serious about moving against you." Merry said, sipping her glass of hippocras.

There's no way around it. Selyse is either incredibly careless or wants me to know.

"What is she planning?"

"She believes Ollius is still working for you. And she's been speculating on just how Renly got you pregnant. Or If."

That wasn't news. Well, it was, but she might very well responsible for the Long Night and the Fall of Valyria at this point according to Selyse, and accusing Ollius of being connected to her had more substance than most. She had suggested that Renly talk to Ollius.

"The logistics of that would be rather difficult. Who's the alleged father?" She'd been a dreadful flirt when she was younger, and had plenty of men around her retinue. After seeing what happened to Cersei, Selyse becoming paranoid about her and Renly's scarring, she'd adopted a rather simple policy of never being alone with a man who wasn't either Loras or Renly. And she was careful with Loras. Cersei had fucked her own twin; nothing was off the table in the Red Keep anymore.

"One of the knights. She reckons you flirt too much in public, so you must be doing something behind closed doors."

Margaery rolled her eyes. Even if she'd been doing that, she'd have taken every precaution to not get pregnant from it.

"Oh for- at least she hasn't convinced herself that it's Tane using black magic."

Merry smirked. "Oh, I knew it. Better catch than me."

She'd tried to kiss Merry nearly a year ago, during one of her bouts of loneliness while thoroughly drunk. Merry had both made her swear a solemn oath to never speak of it again and taken every opportunity to tease her about it.

Margaery burst out laughing. "Trust me, Tane hasn't touched me. If she did get me pregnant, it's some very powerful black magic. Do you reckon Selyse will make the accusation in open court?"

"Maybe." Merry said.

"We need to embarrass her. Make her obviously, provably wrong in public. I want you to offer Melara some choice gossip on me."

"Gossip of what sort?"

Margaery shrugged. "Let her know that I have been sending you to run secret messages to the High Septons and refusing to tell you what they're about."

"And then let her draw certain unfortunate conclusions, overextend herself and have her fall flat on her face?"

"Precisely. Of course, you will actually be sending the High Septon secret messages. Assuming you are comfortable with going out into the city, of course."

"I'll go with Elinor and Ser Ambrose. What shall the true contents of those messages be?" Merry asked.

"I'm refusing to tell you what they're about." Margaery said, smiling cryptically.

 

[Balaur]

The light of the north near blinded him as he crawled out of the cavern, a torch aglow in one hand and his falchion drawn in the other. He looked away from the sun, trying to stare at the snow instead, but the glare off of that was even worse. He swore, stumbled, raised a hand to cover his eyes.

Lancel was almost too exhausted to move. He had no idea how long he'd been underground for, but it had to be at least two weeks. Long enough for him to journey hundreds of miles underground. He'd been reduced to following after some sort of magical torch that the man in black carried, and then carrying it himself when they passed through the Wall's foundations of frozen saltwater. The man in black could not pass, but from there on, it was a fairly straight tunnel. Twice they'd had to fight, the first time re-killing a trio of wights that had been stumbling about blindly in the dark after falling through a cave, and then a running battle against half-seen manlike shapes in the gloom, keeping them back with screams and thrown rocks until they'd lost them crossing beneath the wall. He'd never gotten a good look at them, but he had a good guess as to what they were.

He took a sip of water from his canteen as he tried to gather his thoughts. He needed to work out where the hell he was. Then he needed to work out which way to the Wall, and actually get there without freezing, starving or being taken for a deserter. The officers of the watch had spread plenty of stories about what happened to deserters who were caught amongst the men. He stood up from behind his rock, and, squinting, took a longer look at the landscape. It was snow as far as the eye could see across rolling hills. A herd of shaggy cattle were digging at the snow up on a hillside, and he thought he could see smoke coming from behind it.

Get to the hilltop. See if I can spot the wall from there. Maybe the peasants will help me-

They'd believe he was a deserter, as certain as the sun would come up in the morning.

He considered waiting for nightfall to move out, to let his eyes adjust as the sun rose.

There wasn't time. Every day he waited before warning the Watch could mean another chance for Euron to sabotage the wall from behind. And once that happened… they couldn't fight the Others, not in open battle.

He checked his equipment and set off up the hillside. He had to stare at the ground to avoid the sunlight, but the sun reflected off that too. The feeling of snow squelching beneath his boots felt almost alien after so long clambering across solid rock.

He felt half blind, blundering up the hillside. Twice he tripped and had to haul himself back up, and he nearly stumbled into one of the cows. He finally reached the top. The north lay out before him, endless miles of snow almost glowing with sunlight, and on the horizon a long, low, shimmering line that could only be the Wall. The only signs of settlement were a town a few miles away, and farmsteads thinly speckled across the countryside. He turned back, aiming to move back down the slope.

Lancel turned back to the cave. Give it an hour. He was no use to the watch if he got snow-blinded and ended up lost. The wall was within sight, he could afford to take a few hours to let his eyes recover-

It was at that stage that he tripped over a rock and went tumbling down the hillside. By the time he got to his feet, his gear was sodden, his whole left side felt like it would be black and blue. He didn't know how much time was passing. He wanted to go to sleep, but to do that in the snow was to invite death, so he had to keep moving, but he'd lost his bearings and the glow had gotten worse by the moment.

This was a mistake, bloody hell, why didn't I wait for dusk, why didn't I put some soot under my eyes, I should have slit a rag…

It was too late for any of that.

So he waited, praying that his vision would recover enough to get moving again or at least find the cave.

"Get yer hands up! Away from that sword!" a man called out, old and haggard with a thick northern accent. Lancel swore, trying to see where the hell they were. They were coming down the hillside, dark black shapes against the glowing white, and on reflex he went for his falchion.

"If you draw that thing, I'll put an arrow straight between your eyes. I mean it. I killed better men than you back in the last war." A second man called out. He was younger than the first, a longbow in his hands and a hatchet thrust through his belt.

"You go up to him and cover him, then I'll search him!" the younger man called. Lancel could barely make out the silhouette of a man with spear and shield running up in front of him, the spear directed straight at his throat. The second undid his sword belt. It took every inch of his will not to draw his falchion and try to cut them down. He couldn't bloody fight like this, and if they thought he was a deserter butchering them wouldn't help his case.

*

"So you're a bloody deserter." the first man said. Lancel tried to make out his face, but he couldn't see much of, well, anything. He got the impression that they'd dragged him back to a farm, but he couldn't really tell. He was all but blind, only able to see vague shapes and movement, nothing more detailed. Snow blind. He desperately wanted to wipe away the grit that felt like it was clogging his eyes, but it wasn't actually there.

"No, I told you. I was in an expedition north of the Wall that was mostly wiped out. I found an old tunnel that led to south of the wall, Gorm's Way."

"I don't believe him, da. Gorne and Gendel couldn't find their way through it, how could some southron find his way?"

"Gorm got all the way down here, didn't he? I mean, you've seen the teeth we keep ploughing up around Butcher's gulch. I went down into the tunnel when I was a girl. All the splits I could see, you'd only run into them going north, not south." a woman's voice added. She was the first woman he'd heard in nearly a year. "Much easier going south than going south."

He could hear the faint clunk of a spear against a shield as the old man answered.

"Gendel and Gorm had guides. Scouts. And you only went a little way down before you gave up." The old man said.

"So did I. A ranger who'd gotten cut off years ago and been using the caves to hide from the Others. He had aid from some wildlings. He gave me this torch." Lancel suspected it was made by the Children of the Forest-after all, they had powerful magic, and they'd been living down in those tunnels for seven knows how long-but he didn't tell them that much.

He fumbled for the magic torch on his belt, then remembered they must have taken it when they took his sword belt.

"Gave you what torch? Sounds like a crock to me."

"The torch I had. Light it. It won't go out unless you douse it in snow or water."

Two of them, the young man and the woman, were talking quietly and hurriedly to each other, while he still had the slightly alarming sensation of a spear inches away from his throat held by the old man.

"There was some Night's Watch man in Sumton. We could take the boy to him. Find out if he recognizes him."

"Aye, maybe. It's a days walk. Lot of effort for a coward." The young man said.

The old man grunted. "I'm taking the black anyway. "

The girl began to protest. He ignored her.

"We've got scarcely enough food for four of us to last the winter, and we've five mouths to feed. Just as well to do it now as in a moon. Better than going off bloody hunting."

*

They locked him in a barn with the sheep, with his arms and legs bound in front of himself. He leant back against the wall, trying to think straight, to get to sleep. The galley up to castle black had been worse than this, but this was close. The whole place stank thickly of sheep, and he could hear them sniffing and shuffling around him. It took an eternity to get to sleep. His mind was swimming with fear, fear that he might be executed, fear that he might fail to warn the night's watch, fear that he'd somehow permanently blinded himself, fear of failure.

When he finally got to sleep, it was shallow and fitful, and just as the first rays of light came down through the roof, he was kicked awake by one of the peasants.

"Get up, deserter. I'm taking you into town."

Lancel rolled to his feet, grumbling and swearing as he tripped over something or another.

"I'm not a bloody deserter."

"We'll see." The man grabbed Lancel by the back of his hair, shoving him out of the barn. His vision was still gone, just shapes and a grey area were he guessed the sun was. It still felt like there was sand in his eyes, but his wrists were bound. "The torch burnt all night, but who's to say you didn't lift it from some old crypt?"

Fuck.

It was too late now. At least his vision would recover, sooner or later.

He was shoved along in front of the old man. It seemed to a whole day, though it could have been only hours. The ground under his feet turned from snow-covered mud to snow-covered cobblestones. He forced himself to put one ahead of the other, to keep moving. He'd been doing that almost non-stop for at least a month. He couldn't stop now, not when he was so close to getting back to the wall.

He heard voices around him, quiet and murmuring, the voices of a market town in winter.

He was jerked to a stop. His captor spoke quickly and quietly to someone else-long time no see, blasted weather, caught myself a deserter, where's the watchmen?

Lancel was hustled off again a moment later. There was more talking, more waiting.

Then, finally, he heard a man call out "I hear you've caught a deserter. Don't know who the hell would want to try, with guaranteed food up there, but anyway."

"Aye, I'm here to return this here runaway. But I'm also here to take the black." The old man said.

He shoved Lancel forwards. Lancel swore as he lost as he lost his balance and fell knees first onto the planks-he was in a building again.

He saw the faint silhouette of the watchman, his movements as if he was being looked up and down.

The farmer explained his story. "Says his whole party was wiped out by the walking dead north of the wall and that he escaped by travelling through Gorne's way… sounds like a crock to me, Master Crow."

The recruiter spat.

"That's Lancel Lannister. He killed Lannister mutineers when they tried to sell us out to the Wildlings. He was picked for Lord Stark's honour guard when he negotiated with the Wildling King. He never tried to flee in two years of patrolling after that. Then he volunteered to go north of the wall, of his own free will. He's no coward and no deserter, and I won't have him called such. He's coming back to Castle Black with me."

 

[Yla]

Something is going right for Lancel? Can it be?

 

[Balaur]

If Oldtown looked awful from the ground, it was worse from the Hightower, an ugly, splotched patchwork of intact buildings and those blackened by flame or turned to splinters by the great wave. Armies camped on either side of the Honeywine outside the walls, his own on the east bank and 5,000 cavalry led by Ser Rolland Stormsong on the west. He had raced south with all due haste with the remnants of the Westerlands garrison, heading down the oceanroad then crossing the Mander near Highgarden to sweep down the coast driving off any Ironborn raiders he encountered on the way to Oldtown. He had arrived too late.

Rolland stood next to him, anger plain on his pockmarked face. He was the Lord of Casterly Rock, legitimized by order of Stannis Baratheon, though he bore little love for the man.

Renly had already told him about the Sept, and about how the Citadel's libraries had been burnt and every maester and apprentice Euron could find had been carted off to sea. Euron has set loose the ravens from the Citadel as well, meaning he had to rely on those in the Hightower and in his armies field rookery for communication.

"Either they ran back to the Iron Islands or Lord Velaryon is kicking their teeth in as we speak." Rolland grunted.

"Hopefully the latter." Renly said. Every report they'd managed to gather up from smallfolk along the coast said the Ironborn were last seen heading west. "Then on to the Iron Islands." Renly continued. "With the amount of ships Euron brought, they can't have much left. I think House Greyjoy is going the way of the Lannisters."

"I like the sound of that." Rolland said, smiling grimly.

They'd held their main planning meeting earlier that day. It had been agreed to pursue the Ironborn back to the Iron Isles if they were beaten at sea, to end the threat once and for all. In the unlikely event of a defeat they would disperse their infantry as garrisons to as many coastal settlements as possible and mass the cavalry as a reserve, ready to beat back any serious Ironborn landing. If that happened it would be a disaster, the realms navy ruined with only the King's Landing reserve left. Details still remained to be hashed out, contingencies planned, and war seemed the main thing on Rolland's mind.

He already had short term plans in place. He'd had as many of his men as possible out checking on castles and holdfasts, either reinforcing garrisons or staying mobile as patrols. Oldtown's food supplies were badly stretched for the survivors, and Randyll Tarly reckoned that all the corpses, many of them buried under rubble, meant the place was a disease outbreak waiting to happen. He wanted his men active and the burden of supporting them spread out.

"How is Lady Margaery doing. I heard she was badly hurt by the assassination."

"Very well. Her arm is healing well and the maester thinks she will handle the childbirth well. Eighteen is the safest age to first give birth, he says."

"Having to hold court with the woman who tried to murder her can't be good for health." Rolland said.

"That is the thing. It is all a bit mixed up. Stannis believes Selyse was framed, and my interrogator was killed when he tried to flee."

"And do you believe her innocent?"

"No. Not for a moment. Even if Selyse did not order the attack herself, and I think that unlikely, she certainly created the sort of… climate where fanatics who killed the High Septon and try to murder a pregnant girl could honestly think they enjoyed royal support."

Rolland gritted his teeth. "I've never been to King's Landing for a reason. It rots even the best of men."

Renly nodded in agreement. "I'm going to take Margaery to Storm's End as soon as she's given birth. She'll be safer there. Her child too. I grow tired of that city."

Truth be told, he loathed storm's End. A dreary castle, built for defence against Storm Gods, not for comfortable habitation. A place where he'd nearly starved, begging his brother for food, even as Stannis debated whether to have those who would surrender locked in the dungeons as emergency rations or catapulted back at the Tyrells. He'd spent as much of his time as possible on tour of his lord's holdings or at King's Landing. He'd fallen in love with Loras at Storm's End, sure, but they'd actually consummated that on tour at Griffon's Roost. Margaery could live there for all he cared. Hopefully she'd like it more than he did.

"Good luck with the bridges." Renly said, turning to the stairs. The maze of broken bridges and sunken ships around the Citadel islands had left it near unnavigable.

"Aye. And good luck with Lord Leyton."

He'd been invited to Leyton's solar to discuss personal matters. Renly suspected that it wasn't for lemon cake and hippocras.

His legs screamed in protest as he went down the stairs, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through it. He'd had to get used to that, on campaign, and he'd learnt to adjust his gait to minimize the pressure. It was nearly three years since he'd been crippled.

A mailed guard opened the door to Lord Leyton's solar. Renly took his seat, across from Lord Leyton Hightower.

"Absolutely none of what any us of us say will leave this room." Leyton began.

Renly shrugged. "That depends on what precisely is to be said."

"Matters of great import." Leyton said, deadpan. He stood up and shut the door behind them. Thick oak, enough to block out conversation.

"We face something of a quandary." Leyton said as he sat back down. "Magic is returning to the world. There are dragons in the east, krakens to our south, and the dead to our north. The glass candles are burning."

Getting right into it, are we? Leyton's reputation for sorcery preceded him, but Renly wasn't expecting him to be quite so direct.

"A second age of heroes." Renly said.

"Aye, and a second age of horrors. That was an age when continents were broken and all life nearly died, and what followed was almost worst, conquest by inbred madmen who burnt half the world and enslaved the other half. Now the dragons and the undead come again, and some sorcerer has ravaged my city and killed three of my children through black magic."

Lord Leyton leaned forwards.

"Magic is all very well and good in children's stories. I want magic to stay that way, that and a curiosity for scholars like myself. The Maesters once worked against magic, aiming to cut it away from the world like a cancer. Now, most of them, bar a few, want to simply stopper their ears and pretend it no longer exists. That is madness. Fire and ice and storm are coming for us, and we need to be ready for it."

He had not been expecting mysticism out of this meeting. He had heard of Lord Leyton's predilections, but a great lord trying to salvage a sacked city was not where he expected to have it explained to him.

"Stannis is, knowingly or unknowingly, a servant of dark forces. We need a unified realm. We need to defeat the Targaryens, we need to need to defeat Euron, and most of all, we need to defeat the Others. But we need Stannis. His every action divides the realm, but removing him will divide the realm even further than he ever could. So we need him to defeat the realm's enemies, and then he must be removed himself."

"You want me to overthrow Stannis?" Renly said, forcing himself to not let out a crooked half smile.

"I want you to support Stannis, for the time being." Leyton said.

Renly raised an eyebrow. "Even as a servant of dark forces?"

"You and him, alone, do not have the power to repel the enemies of humanity. United, you do. Euron must die, the Others must remain trapped on their side of the wall, and the Targaryens must be repelled. Then once the Baratheon Dynasty is secure, you shall overthrow Stannis, with a suitable pretext of course, purge the false religion from his court, and crown yourself king."

Terribly presumptuous of him to assume I would follow his orders, this man I have only known for a week.

Then again, annihilating Stannis's supporters power at court or ruining his reputation, winning the war at his side, then rising up against him after the wars to come had been his plan all along, before Gared's incompetence and Tane's misjudged loyalties had sent it all crashing down. It didn't matter anyway. Ollius would have the people of King's Landing in a frenzy by now.

Renly smiled openly. "That is a most worthy plan." Olenna was right. No more charging in blindly. No more tangling himself up in dangerously complex schemes. He would seize the throne, he had the means and the motive, but he was going to do it properly.

Leyton smiled as well. "You want the throne. The realm needs you on the throne. And I want to ensure you get that throne. But first, Euron Greyjoy must die."

"A task I'll set to with relish." Renly said.

It was dusk when the first ships of the Royal Sheet came up the whispering sound, the flags of two dozen houses fluttering above them. As soon as they were spotted, he had gathered up a retinue and set out to meet them on the beaches. The Honeywine was so choked with wrecks that to sail up it was suicide. Lord Monford Velaryon had already put ashore, alongside half a hundred crossbowmen and a dozen other highborn officers.

He was thinking of a witty but not particularly offensive jape about lateness when Lord Velaryon spoke first. "We're too late, I know. It was storms the whole way. We lost half a dozen galleys, and more had to quit the fleet for repairs. At least the Ironborn fled, and we linked up with a dozen or so Redwyne ships. Survivors of the battle around the Shields."

"The last the Three Towers saw of their fleet was them sailing far to the east. We've had ravens from the Arbour reporting much the same." Renly answered. "They were offering battle, near as I could tell."

"They could have gone west then looped back out to sea to head for the Iron Islands." Monford said, though he seemed doubtful.

"A lot of effort, under the eye of the Oldtower." Renly said.

Monford paused, deep in thought. "The furthermost pickets reported seeing a column of ships far off to port, out in the open sea. We thought they were swan ships at the time, but..."

Renly swore under his breath. "They went far out to sea, and got around your fleet?"

He remembered a raven they'd received, half forgotten, that Ironborn had been spotted off the south-west coast of the Arbor.

"Which way did you go around the Arbour?" he added.

"Between the mainland and the north coast. We considered it the most likely route for them to take."

"I believe they went the other way round. I received ravens to that effect…" Renly said. "They must have gone out to sea, to cut around your flank."

That meant they were either raiding Dorne, or heading for the stepstones. If the former, he wasn't complaining. If the latter… they just cut the Royal Fleet in half. Hell, they could make an attempt on King's Landing.

"Just so. Euron has made fools of all of us."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Renly said. They couldn't chase Euron down before he got to the Steptones, and even then he might trap them in a battle not in their favour, if he didn't just use more of whatever black magic he'd broken the siege with. But they couldn't just sit there, doing nothing. "We have a fleet. We have well over 10,000 very angry men. And we're between Euron and home. First we take back the Shield Islands. Then I propose we give the Ironborn a taste of their own medicine."

 

[Yla]

"I like the sound of that." Rolland said, smiling grimly. "How was Lady Margaery doing, last you saw her?"

Click to shrink...

"How is Lady Margaery doing. I heard she was badly hurt by the assassination."

Click to shrink...

Repetition; there is only narration inbetween.

Royal Sheet

Click to shrink...

*giggle*

 

[Balaur]

Repetition; there is only narration inbetween.


*giggle*

Click to shrink...

First typo is fixed, but the royal sheet is funny enough I'm almost tempted to keep it...

 

[Balaur]

"So", Bowen Marsh said, "you believe that you saw a man calling himself the Three-Eyed Crow?"

"Yes." Lancel answered.

"And this Three-Eyed Crow showed you the wall being destroyed by a Horn of Joramun, collapsing atop the Night's King, and that Euron Greyjoy is a second Night's King who wishes to use this horn to throw us all to the Others?"

"More or less."

"And what proof of any of this do you have to offer me?"

"I was given a torch that never burns out unless it's doused." Lancel said. "The Children of the forest gave it to me."

"And nothing else?"

"I brought what I could carry." Lancel said. "I couldn't exactly drag you a live Child."

The Lord-Commander of the Night's Watch huffed. He hardly looked the part, a fat, red-cheeked, weather beaten man who was more of a coin-counter than a soldier.

"So what do you want us to do? Act as if the wall may fall down? Write the king to tell him that an Ironborn warlord is dangerous?"

"Yes? Euron must be killed, as soon as possible!"

"I'm sure Stannis is already trying to do that." Lord Marsh said dryly.

"Have you heard anything about Samwell Tarly?" Lancel asked. He had to know.

"Samwell? The noble boy? He's still in Oldtown, near as I know."

"And what news of Oldtown? Is it threatened? The Three-Eyed Crow told me it was besieged by Euron."

He'd already heard the Ironborn had invaded, by the watchmen who'd greeted him as he'd rode in, but he needed to know the details.

"Oldtown is besieged. By the Ironborn. They burnt the Redwyne fleet and they took the shield islands. Oldtown is still holding last I heard."

There's still hope…

"How long was I gone?"

"A moon and a half. More or less." Bowen Marsh grunted. "I believe your claim that you are no deserter. I might even believe that you met the Children of the Forest. But that journey through the caves… It must have addled your mind."

"Where is Eddard Stark?"

He had seen Mance's alleged horn, he knew of the affairs of the realm. If Lancel convinced him, the Lord of Winterfell would be able to overrule the Lord-Commander. He already controlled most of the troops garrisoning the wall.

"Returning from Winterfell." Bowen Marsh said, his annoyance plain to hear.

"How soon?"

"You're the one who claims to have met a seer. If I need to know more, I'll ask for you. So go get yourself fed."

*

"They died, didn't they?" Satin said, leaning on the pillars of the great hall, staring at his boots. He'd been at Castle Black for less than a day, ushered into Bowen Marsh's chambers for their talk then left to his own devices.

"Yeah." Lancel said. "They died fighting. Pyp was killed by a giant spider. Grenn died burning a wight to death, trying to pull Pyp's body out. Bedwyck got speared by an Other. Time Stone and Luke died too. A couple of men got away on horseback. Did they make it back to the wall?"

Satin shook his head.

I'm all that's left.

"Bowen Marsh said the Ironborn are threatening Oldtown, laying siege to it."

Satin jerked to attention.

"Fucking hate that city. There's a lot of people there I'd like to see dead. Satin said. He paused. "But a lot I'd like to see live."

Satin had been raised as a whorehouse in Oldtown. He didn't talk about that much, nor did he want to. Lancel wasn't inclined to ask. The past was the past, and he'd done far worse than being forced to sell his virtue.

"Hopefully the defences will hold." Lancel said.

"Supper's getting cold." Satin said. They grabbed their bowls of brown and sat down on the benches. They ate in silence, for a time. He bolted the food down, eager for something that wasn't jerky, hard tack or cave mushrooms. His chin was a scratchy mess from where he'd shaved away six weeks of beard growth.

"You fought against the Others, didn't you? Not just the Wights, but the ones in armour." Satin said.

"Yeah. They aren't just smarter corpses with armour like we all thought, they were different. They were talking to each other, in this crackling language, and they wore armour that felt like glass. No wonder no one could get a good look at them, they kept changing colour."

"And you killed them?" Satin said, awe plain in his voice.

"I was absolutely terrified." Lancel said. "I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest, that my knees would fail. I still killed one. Hargrey, a Bolton man, killed the other. Steel doesn't do anything to them, bounches right off, neither does fire. I had to use dragonglass. That works on Wights too, I think. Anything works on their spiders. They're made of living glass or something." He'd told Bowen Marsh that as well, before they'd gotten onto the Three-Eyed Crow.

"They have spiders?" someone to his left asked. Lancel turned. Rickard the limper, a new recruit who he barely knew and had barely seen combat.

"As big as hounds." Lancel said. "They're made of ice, they shattered when I hit them…"

"Do you know what happened to Luke? How'd he die?" someone asked, behind him.

"I didn't see it."

"What about Black Grafton?"

"Are there any wildlings left?"

Within moments, he was beset from all sides. He tried to answer their questions as best he could, even as he recalled the cold, the fear, the chaos. The month of darkness. Eyes shining blue and creaking, clicking voices in the shadows. A thousand voices, a thousand jostling bodies, his mind trying to listen to and understand all of them at once. The first time in nearly two moons I'm not fighting or marching, and I'm not even given any peace-

He stood up, shouldering his way for the doors. He needed open air, he needed light, he needed time to think. He was like a bow left strung for too long, under so much tension for so long he threatened to snap or lose all strength. He slipped out the door, taking in breathes of fresh, stingingly cold air. Some of his brothers had pursued him out into the cold.

He turned to face them. Fighting retreat. Every battle he fought seemed to be one of those. "I killed a lot of undead. They killed a lot of watchmen and soldiers. I was the only survivor. I found caves that went under the Wall. Oh, and the Children of the Forest are still alive and Gendel's Folk are real, sort of. Now, this is the first chance I've had to sit down and eat some decent grub in so long I've lost track of time, so would you kindly fuck off?"

*

"You wanted to see me?" Lancel asked, as he stepped into Eddard Stark's solar. He'd been keeping to himself for the last couple of weeks, in between telling any officer who would listen what he'd heard, trying to process what in the Seven's name had happened with those few remaining he called friends, and dodging the rest of the watch. Having someone with real authority who might actually believe him was a relief after that.

Eddard Stark nodded. "I need you to tell me everything that you saw in the cave. All of it."

So he did. He started with the battle on the frozen river and the escape with the man in black, with the journey underground. Then he told him of the magic wards keeping the undead out of the cave, the children of the forest, and the Three-Eyed Crow. He told of the impaled souls, of the battle beneath the wall, of the warning about the Horn of Joramun. He told him about how the Three-Eyed Crow had been plagued by false visions. He told him about Euron, about his threat to the entire world.

Eddard looked at his hands for a long while, thinking. Then he spoke. "My son had the same visions. He says that he sees a three-eyed crow, warning him of a greyjoy traitor to all humanity, and of another to the starks."

"The traitor to all humanity must be Euron. If he intends to bring down the wall…"

"Indeed. I received a raven this morning. He has sacked Oldtown. It was taken back by Renly's forces, but his fleet abandoned the city before they could arrive. He breached the cities defences by creating some sort of wave, with a human sacrifice."

Gods be good, it's all real, there can be no doubt about it now…

"Is there any word on what happened to Samwell Tarly?"

"No." Eddard said. "And ravens are limited enough that I don't think we shall see a list of Highborn deaths. In any case, I shall write to Stannis and Renly both, warning of this. We need to be prepared, and we need to stop Euron getting anywere near the wall."

"Maybe. Maybe he has to get close to the wall to blow it. Maybe we are already good as dead." Lancel said. He hoped to whatever gods were listening that it was the former, but there was no way to know.

"If it's the former, we can stop him." Eddard said. "The Manderly fleet is already mobilizing to head south. They can help stopper up the narrow sea. If it's the latter, there's nothing we can do besides prepare reserves to stopper any gap in the wall. In any case… I'm sorry that your comrades had to die for this. Truly."

"We all volunteered, we knew it was a suicide mission. We knew what we were getting into." Lancel said. "We know how they're going to get past the wall, we have some idea of how to stop it… it'll be enough."

 

[Balaur]

Aegon's army seemed to boil over the hills, a force without end. The outriders came first, Sellswords and Dothraki alike trotting in column, sunlight glittering off the tips of lances and shining against lacquered leather lamellar. There had to be tens of thousands of them.

Next came the Golden Company, masses of pikemen and heavy horse. Banners fluttered above their heads, Three-headed dragons on some and three golden skulls on others. Marching alongside their columns came what had to be the Unsullied, men with long oval shields, and three spears each-a javelin in their right hand, and another javelin and an eight-foot thrusting spear gripped in their shield hand. Even at this distance, she could tell there was something uncanny in the way they marched in perfect lockstep, more precise than even the veterans in the Golden Company.

She gripped the sides of the walls, her eyes straining for a sight of what she was truly looking for.

By the time all the Unsullied had come over the horizon, the Golden Company had fanned out into fighting order, their heavy horse, both plate-armoured knightly Westerosi and Essosi cavalry armed with lances and hornbows, formed up to the right of the infantry. The Unsullied formed to the left of the Golden Companies great mass of pikemen, the bulk of their fighting power. Genna didn't have the eye for judging distances of a soldier or a sailor and the marching was raising a haze of dust, but she guessed the whole mass of pikes and spears had to be nearly a mile from flank to flank.

After the professionals came the freedmen, little more than a vague mass of movement through the haze of dust.

Then, as the rearguard came over the horizon-what sort of soldier they were she could not tell, clouded as they were in dust -she heard a child call out in amazement, pointing to the sky. Withins moments, the whole wall was shouting in amazement, pointing at the northern sky.

"Dragon!"

Genna squinted through the dust haze at the horizon, trying to make out movement.

"Where is it? Where is it?" Tommen asked beside, nearly bouncing with excitement.

"Above us." Myrcella said. "Near the sun."

Genna looked up, squinting against the sun.

There was a speck of movement against the sun, growing larger and larger…

Wings flared as the beast pulled out of its dive, almost blotting out the sun. Tommen screamed in fear and delight. The light shone through the black leather membranes of the beast's wings for the briefest moments, before it whipped away, sweeping out over the walls. She spotted a silver-haired figure on the dragons back. It has to be as big as an elephant…

"There's more!" Myrcella shouted. Genna was about to ask what she meant, when the other two come overhead, the rush of their wingbeats setting her skirts and hair flapping. They were green and white scaled, and as they wheeled out over the assembled army, she saw they had no riders on their backs.

She almost wanted to cheer out loud when she saw the beasts. The first Aegon had conquered Westeros with three dragons and less than a thousand men. This one was going to do it with all the armies of Essos at his back and dragons of his own.

She was so focused on the dragons, watching the colossal beasts swoop and and wheel, that she didn't notice the party of horsemen that rode up to the walls until Assyrio pointed them out. They were all in Westerosi armour. One of them had a crown atop his helmet, and as he removed it, she saw the sheen of silver hair. Aegon.

He dismounted and strode up to the walls, then took a knee straight in front of them. Off to one side of the Council of Volantis, she had a clear view of proceedings.

"I am King Aegon of Westeros, and I humbly ask for entrance to the now truly free city of Volantis."

*

She tried to get the measure of Aegon as rode up to him, waiting outside one of the palaces within the Black Walls. It had given to him as a gift by the Council , and it was now crawling with soldiers and camp followers. A pair of Golden Company halberdiers marched on either side of her.

He was a tall, solid young man, his silver hair kept short like she'd seen amongst many of the sellswords. Very handsome, if rather too young for her. He had the violet eyes of a Targaryen, and wore sword, dagger and brigandine even in the safety of his own palace. She dismounted and curtsied.

"Genna Lannister."

"That is, indeed, my name."

He laughed, high and clear.

"I've never been the best at introductions."

"Neither have I." Genna said.

"I take it you received the message?"

"Yes. You want to marry my grandniece. The dragon must have three heads." Genna said, trying to ignore the creeping sense of horror going through her, up from her gut. She felt like she was Tytos, selling her younger self to the bloody Freys. Though Aegon seems twice the man Emmon is-

That doesn't bloody matter. Look at how Robert and Cersei turned out. Look at how Rhaegar and Elia turned out. Myrcella isn't ending up raped and murdered, not if I can do anything about it.

"Though I should have you know. This is a betrothal, not a bloody marriage. If you lay a hand on her without her being willing and waiting till she is of suitable age, I will throw you into the Seven Hells myself even if it costs my life."

Aegon flinched, then nodded. "I do not recall ever assenting to even a betrothal. It was merely one of many options. The faith or giving her hand to however succeeds to Casterly Rock, for example."

What?

"That was not what Petyr Baelish wrote me from Volantis." Genna said. "He was quite adamant you had offered to take Myrcella as a second wife, and Tommen would be Lord of Casterly Rock."

"Therein lies the issue." Aegon said. "I wrote back to Lord Baelish on an idle whim, at the suggestion of my advisors. I did not think a response likely. When I met Petyr in Meereen, I suggested that you, Tommen and Myrcella come to Volantis so I and Daenerys could meet you and discuss an alliance in more detail. It would appear he rather overstated the situation, if he told you I already assented to a marriage. I am more interested in perhaps letting Tommen join the faith and Myrcella retake Casterly Rock. An act of mercy and magnaminity to set my reign off to a good start."

The realization felt like a dagger of ice through her chest. Littlefinger exaggerated his position to lure us over. He was in Volantis long enough to have organized the pirates too. She had no proof, but Petyr might well have just tried to have her murdered.

"That would indeed be a fine start." Genna said, forcing her voice to stay even.

"Lord Petyr Baelish shall have some explaining to do, I think." Aegon said.

They came through a gateway, into another courtyard. She forced herself to stay calm, to stay composed, even if she wanted to throttle Littlefinger with her bare hands. Aegon seemed to only blame Petyr, he at least outwardly wanted a workable solution to the whole problem...

If he isn't trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

When she walked into the courtyard, she was so stunned by the dragon that she barely noticed Daenerys. The beast crouched, hulking, on the edge of a fountain, it's tail flicking in the water. It was only the size of a large horse, but it didn't seem it: between the bulk of it's folded wings, the long serpentine neck, and the sheer menace that radiated off the beast, it seemed far bigger. This was an animal that was nigh invulnerable to weapons driven by human muscle. The only thing in the whole world that could reliably kill it was another dragon. The head of the dragon seemed to track her, unblinking, muscles slowly tensing and relaxing under its armoured hide.

Daenerys stood at the base of the beast, a slim, pretty woman with the same silver hair and violet eyes of Aegon. She was flanked on either side, on one by an aging Westerosi knight, on the other by a short, dark skinned girl who reminded Genna of pictures of Children of the Forest more than anything else.

"Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khal of the Western Khallasar." The girl announced, her voice surprisingly loud and confident for someone her size. A herald, then. An odd choice of one.

"I am glad to finally meet you, Lady Lannister." Daenerys said. "I have heard much and more about you."

Aegon strode over to her, talking in hushed tones. Even at this distance, she could anger flash across Daenerys's face.

She walked closer, her knight following her like a shadow.

"I am most grateful for your willingness to negotiate." Daenerys said. "That is always scarce, in these... trying times."

"And I am sorry for the losses my family has inflicted on yours." Genna said with what she hoped was sincerity.

Aerys needed to die, but Tywin's sack of king's landing was brutality of the highest order. Tywin had been ready to get his hands bloody when needed, and she respected him for that, but there was a line between necessary evil and the common and usual sort that Tywin crossed all too often.

"Those responsible are dead." Daenerys said, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Now your grandniece and grandnephew shall be honoured guests of Volantis and House Targaryen. Come, our hosts have prepared a feast for your arrival."

 

[Yla]

"Though I should have you know. This is a betrothal, not a bloody marriage. If you lay a hand on her without her being willing and waiting till she is of suitable age, I will throw you into the Seven Hells myself even if it costs my life."

Click to shrink...

I believe Genna is sufficiently wise, experienced, and knowledgeable about her relative position of power to not voice unprovoked threats against Aegon the Conqueror Mark II within less than five sentences of meeting him.

 

[Balaur]

I believe Genna is sufficiently wise, experienced, and knowledgeable about her relative position of power to not voice unprovoked threats against Aegon the Conqueror Mark II within less than five sentences of meeting him.

Click to shrink...

The intent was that she's trying to impress Aegon by standing up for Myrcella's rights despite her position of weakness and not come across as desperate to Aegon and Tytos 2.0 to herself. However, it is probably excessively harsh, so I might rewrite that section.

 

[Balaur]

Fleeing through Oldtown had been worse than the battle itself. He remembered it every time he went to sleep; the fires rising, the streets clogged with men and women and children carrying whatever valuables they could. There weren't any Ironborn in sight, but that didn't matter. There was already fighting; a nobleman's hired muscle shoving through a crowd at swordspoint here, a gang of thieves snatching silver plate off a woman there. As they drew closer and closer to the gates, the streams of the fleeing merged into a river, and those into a great torrent. They kept moving, Mallora screaming that she was a hightower, that they had to let her through. They lost the last of the Hightower men somewhere in the chaos. The gates were in sight, crossbowmen posted. Someone started yelling that there were ironborn charging them, and a moment later that it wasn't, it was militia, but no-one cared. They began to run, towards the closed gate, a gate that opened inwards, against the crowd pushing in…

He'd realized what was about to happen and pulled Mallora out of the way, into a side alley.They were lucky. A moment later, and they'd have been pinned in place by the pressure. There was screaming, calls for help coming from the front, the militia trying to force them back with spears so they could get the gates open, but no-one could back down because of the pressure of those behind them. By the time any newcomers realized what was happening, they'd been trapped by further waves. Then people started dying; shoved forwards onto spears, suffocated by the pressure, knocked down and trampled to death. He saw a woman trying to lift a baby out of the crush, began to try and think of a way to help despite the fatigue and the fear, before Mallora tugged him away, yelling that they had to find one of the sally ports and get it open…

He awoke shuddering , his clothes wetted within by cold sweat. It was the early light of morning, the first rays shining through the arrow slit into the servants room he'd been given. Mallora had introduced him to as a militiaman who'd saved her life during the sack. That had actually given him a cell to himself, which was for the better. That could have been thoroughly unpleasant.

He checked his dagger was where he had left it, on the bedside table, unsheathed. His goldenheart bow and it's quiver of arrows was propped up against the wall. It was as tall as he was, combining the sheer size of a Westerosi yew longbow with the double-curves of an Essosi hornbow, and constructed of superior materials to either. A gift from his mother on his fifteenth birthday, when her trading convoy had come passing through Planky Town. He'd owned goldenheart bows before that, been shooting them since he was a child, but that was the first and only full-weight warbow he'd ever owned. It hadn't failed him.

He yawned and pulled himself out of bed, tightening the bindings around his chest and slipping on his doublet, breeches and hose, then oiled his sword and dagger and set off to find Mallora. He left the brigandine in his rooms, next to his goldenheart bow and the remaining arrows. He guessed either Colin Florent's chambers or the stables. A highborn host would want to keep her around as long as possible, while Mallora was hellbent on getting to King's Landing as fast as possible.

They'd kept moving as fast as possible on foot, trying to keep with the column of refugees. Some of them had tried to offer Mallora a horse, which she'd taken, though by her own confession she was a poor rider. The aftermath of the siege had left them running between the Honeywine and the coast, not stopping unless they were in a holdfast or tower house, and even then only for the night. This was their second night in Brightwater, the most they'd rested in days.

He passed through the great hall, filled with the first few hundred refugees to arrive. The rest were outside, amongst the chaotic sprawl of tents and pavilions Colin Florent had put out or clustered around fires. Snow had fallen overnight. He was glad he wasn't out there. Already the cooks and servants were working themselves to the bone, trying to provide even bread and cheap beer to the masses. He took some himself, eating it on the move as he set off to find Mallora.

A few questions to thoroughly harried servants later, and he found out she was already meeting with Colin Florent. The door was shut, a pair of axemen guarding the door.

"What are you looking for?" the first asked, looking at Alleras with mild shock. Like he's never seen a black dornishman before. He was already missing Oldtown. Hell, he was almost missing Dorne.

"To see Lady Mallora Hightower."

"Well, you can't come in." the guard said.

Alleras shrugged. "Ask Lady Mallora if she wants me to be let in." He raised his voice-not easy when he had to consciously pitch it to be deeper than it was naturally at the same time-so that Mallora might hear him and do, well, exactly what he wanted.

"Strict orders. Not to be disturbed." The guard continued.

Alleras rolled his eyes. "Ask. Mallora."

"No."

He was considering whether to raise his voice or make himself scarce when Mallora emerged, somehow having gotten herself herself away from Colin Florent. Alleras had seen enough of him at supper last night. Not unpleasant, but very talkative and very eager to get on the good side of a Hightower.

As soon as they were out of earshot of anyone, he turned to Mallora.

"What did Lord Florent say?"

"He insists it's quite safe to return to Oldtown. Renly took it back but the Ironborn fleet slipped out past the Royal Fleet. He believes they're raiding Dorne."

Alleras felt a pang of homesickness then, and fear for his sisters, his friends. They can handle themselves Obara, Nymeria and Tyene at least, and they have Oberyn and all the spears of Dorne as well. At least Euron was a coward-

Not a coward. Someone who knows exactly when to retreat, when to strike. Someone with a third eye. He'd read the histories of what the likes of Bloodraven were capable of, he'd watched armies march through a glass candle himself. He knew well what kind of advantage Euron had.

"And what now?"

"I still mean to head to King's Landing, to try and warn the King. Then see if we can work out how to get rid of the Horn. You can come if you want." She added, with exaggerated nonchalance.

"How on earth did you work out that was Euron's horn?"

"In the Hightower library. Being a True Account of the Customs and myths of the Wildlings by Maester Gormyn of the Night's Watch. The version that wasn't censored by the Maesters."

Alleras, Samwell and Leo had spent much of their free time between the vision and the battle digging through the Citadel's libraries for reference to wildling horns, magic horns, and magic wildling horns. Considering the sheer volume of material and the deliberately poor organization of the more esoteric parts of the library, they hadn't gotten far, but apparently the Hightower library, though far smaller, was better organized. And uncensored, which probably counted for quite a lot, come to think of it.

"He had a clear description of the horn from some woods-witch who had mended his wounds after his patrol was cut off. According to her, it was blown to bring down the wall, but would only work if blown in the south-the Others had to be invited in, like any good ghost story. Joramun feared it's power in the wrong hands but could not bear to part with it himself, so gifted each of his chieftains great horns, each grander than the last, telling his followers that one of them was the true Horn but that he would not tell them which one, so as to not provoke jealousy amongst them. He kept the real horn for himself, and his sons and their son's son's, though he broke it so it could not be blown by accident. She said no-one knew what had happened to that horn, only that it was disguised by glamour so that no one could agree on what it truly looked like. But, she said, the true form was a simple bronze warhorn, like any petty chieftain might own…"

"And you knew Samwell had a bronze-bound broken warhorn from north of the wall." Alleras said. He'd gotten bits and pieces out of Mallora about how she'd found out about the Horn, but this was the first time it'd been explained in full. The first time she had time and energy since the sack, to explain in full. No wonder she was so determined to get that thing away from Euron.

"Precisely."

"If he broke the thing to stop it being blown without being repaired… we could crack it in half." Alleras. "Then if we get split up, anyone who captures one of us will only have half a horn…"

"We don't know what breaking it could do." Mallora said. "It could just release whatever magic is in the thing and bring down the wall."

"I suppose so." Alleras said. They weren't out of the woods yet. Oldtown might have been secured, but Euron's fleet was still out there and Ironborn raiders prowled the Mander. He didn't want a chance encounter on the road loosing everything.

"We're not getting captured anyway. I'm not leaving here without an escort and fast horses, or until the Ironborn are out of the Mander." Mallora said. "I shall have to endure Colin's hospitality for a little longer, I'm afraid."

"There's a fair few sellswords. One fellow, a Ronn I think, looks promising." Alleras said.

"I have a question for you too. Who the hell are you, anyway? You've got a common Oldtowner's accent, but it's mixed in with a Dornish noble's. You talk like a highborn, not deferential at all. Someone trained you to fight, and fight well, well before you decided to study at the Citadel. And doing that takes money or a sponsorship from an existing master, so you're well connected. You're not some merchant with an intellectual streak, that's for certain."

"A Dornish nobleman's bastard with a summer islander trader. My mother taught me to shoot" Alleras said, reflexively. The best lies were true.

"Which house?"

He shrugged. "That's a confidential matter. He wouldn't want his name attached to anyone with anything to do with Oldtown. Hates the place."

"I'm fairly certain we've saved each others lives several times now. And we're carrying something that could get every man, woman and child in Westeros killed if we're not careful. So I can think you can trust me with your family name, at the very least."

"Um." She was right; he had to trust her. And besides, letting her know that he call upon the support of Oberyn Martell if they had to… that was invaluable.

"Alleras Sand. Son of Oberyn Martell and Loiya Kho, captain of the Feathered Kiss."

"Oberyn Martell has only daughters." Mallora said, with a raised eyebow.

"Depends entirely on how you define daughter." Alleras said. He could already tell this was going to be unpleasant. Well, he couldn't, because he hadn't anyone whatsoever about his situation since coming to Oldtown as Alleras. Still, trying to explain to his sisters why the hell he kept getting caught going to taverns in male dress hadn't been much fun.

"Daughter? You disguised yourself as a man to get into the citadel?" Mallora asked, laughing. "That is clever, I must admit. Certainly beats me running around in the city dressed as a maid when I was younger. Probably less fun, though."

Alleras bristled. "I'm not a woman. Well, I am. Physically. But not in any other sense of the word."

Mallora raised an eyebrow. "You Dornish are a queer folk."

"Summer Islander custom, actually. Khloi Qoi, male soul, translated roughly. The Jhogos Nai and a few others practice equivalent customs. The Dornish have nothing to do with it." Seven knew he'd had to put up with enough people who reckoned the only reason a summer islander would have for wearing breeches by habit was to show off her legs. "Anyway. We need support, we can rely on the Dornish. Oberyn Martell at least. If Colin can spare a raven, I'll write to him. Tell him I'm alive, and that Dorne should spare whatever resources they can for the defeat of Euron Greyjoy."

 

[ATP]

Poor Sarella.Westeros suck for everybody,but especially for her.Well,she at least had wealthy father,and live in Dorne.
I prefer do not think about how Tywin would handle such doughter.
P.S poor Sam,too.

 

[Balaur]

The yard was a storm of hoofbeats, a whirlwind of swords as knights drilled in the courtyard.

"Give those bastards a brace of pistols each. Then we'll see how much sport they make of cavalry fights." Lieutenant-Captain Gryff muttered, watching the melee whirling below them. Gryff's own cuirass still had a fair few dents from pistol fire on it, deeper than the proofing dents fired in the workshop. He'd never had them hammered out.

"The Westerosi wouldn't give a fuck." Tane said, as a man was sent spilling out of the saddle by a mace blow. A pair of marshals with quarterstaves came rushing forwards, yelling for them to control themselves. The downed knight bounced back up. "I suppose you'll be demanding a ransom of me?" he shouted.

"Only another pass! That was excellent!" his opponent called back.

Gryff laughed. "They'd consider fighting naked with sharp daggers good clean fun. Should suggest Renly and Stannis give it a try. One way or another, it would solve a fair few problems."

"Nah, they don't have the nerve for fighting without armour. Leave it to us lot to think skewering each other with birdspits is a good idea." Tane said, laughing. "How's the new armour doing?"

She'd had the Horse Grenadiers issued with mail sleeves, pauldrons and bridle-gauntlets to give them some extra protection in the melee. Most of their crippled-still on the company books-had been done in by sword slashes to the arms at the battle of four armies, and besides, they had plenty of infantry arquebusiers by now. The Grenadiers real value was as assault troops and sword-and-pistol cavalry, and she wanted to give them equipment to optimize them for the latter role. They could always ditch the extra armour if they needed to act as dismounted grenadiers in an assault.

"All of it fits well. Thank the Mother we have musket braces on our breastplates, though. Without those I doubt we'd be hitting much."

"That's what they're there for."

"Boudace did well last week." Gryff added. "I told her she'd run the company as if me and Sace were killed. She even ordered the company to throw out flanking parties when we drilled charging, rather than just doing it by the book or copying how I do it."

"Good work." Tane said. Boudace had been a skinny twelve year old when Tane had put her on the company books as a page girl. It was strange seeing her as a Cornet of Horse Grenadiers. "I knew she'd make a bloody good officer one day."

"Compliments to her." Gryff said.

"You trained her up." Tane pointed out, watching as the knights shook each others hands and pulled off their armour.

"Oh! Tane?" Margaeries voice called out.

Tane turned to see Margaery walking towards her, smiling broadly. She'd worn the a tight green-and-gold dress she'd worn to court that morning, clinging to her hips, her big belly, pushing up her breasts. A white linen coif framed her face, flushed red-pink from the cold and her pregnancy.

Don't bloody stare, for fucks sake.

"Well fought, don't you think?" Margaery said, nodding at the knights down in the field.

"Aye." Tane agreed. "Gryff reckons they could do with some pistols, though."

Margaery took her arm. "They'd still need their swords once the pistols are emptied. I thought you would've been one of those sorts who reckons tournaments are a waste of time."

Tane laughed. "It helps ease knights in. Gets them used to the fear and chaos. Motivates them to keep sharp even in peacetime. Not one of Westeros's worst ideas, I have to say."

There was a further exchange of pleasantries and banter, then Margaery was suddenly down to business. "I have had this letter sent to me by the High Septon, in response to certain missives. I'd like it to be given to the King, sealed. Though I'm sure you'll appreciate the contents."

"What sort of contents?"

"Oh, a promise to publicly declare Septon Ollius a heretic."

Tane felt her lips curl up into a predatory smirk. Oh thank fuck. First Gared, then Ollius… maybe I'll get permission to pop Renly in the back of the head at this rate.

"Does the High Septon want anything in return?"

"Just the approval of some loans. Though he has indicated that an apology from the Queen for the actions of her followers would be appreciated, as would the Crown making amends with the faith."

"Good luck getting that."

Margaery smiled. "Of course. Thus why it's appreciated, not required. Anyway, I don't want it known I was involved in this. I'd rather avoid being seen as a traitor by Septon Ollius's friends, and our favorite Queen would no doubt find some way to turn this against me."

*

The small council-half of it, anyway-stood around the great map of Westeros. There were markers laid out on it, the starting points of the armies that would rally when the Targaryens came upon them, and possible landing points for their enemies, alongside Euron Greyjoy's current and predicted positions.

"If Euron has gotten into the stepstones like we suspect he aims to, our fleet will be cut in half. That is a problem. Lord Stark has written that the Manderly Fleet is alerted and at our disposal. They shall be summoned south with all haste. If needs be, we could redeploy our whole fleet south to the stepstones and destroy the Ironborn at sea. I've written to Oldtown ordering the fleet to make ready to pursue Euron east or hold position, depending on further developments." Stannis said, pacing back and forth at the head of the table.

"They raid there every year, don't they? We could end up being fed into a trap. Even with the Manderlies, our Sunset Sea fleet will be outnumbered, and the Ironborn know the stepstones better. " Tane said. "Unless both fleets arrive at the exact same time and place, Euron could cut them apart piecemeal. And if Euron is able to summon another wave or some other magic trick, we could lose everything at once. We should send in Renly first, with our fleet held back as a reserve."

"Or we send Renly west, your Grace" Lord Alester Florent suggested. "There is nothing protecting the Iron Islands, and the Manderlies and the remaining fleet should do to protect King's Landing. Even the Ironborn must have doubts about Euron's methods. The more pressure we put on them, the sooner they might snap and remove Euron for us without having to risk facing more sorcery . And Lord Stark has a Greyjoy hostage we could install."

"I must say it bold of you to assume that there will be Greyjoys ruling the Iron Islands when this is done." Stannis chided. "I intent to block the Sunset Sea until we have forces gathered sufficient to crush the Ironborn from both directions. A misadventure in the Iron Islands is not conducive to that." He had a strange light in his eyes, and he'd invited Melisandre into his council again. He only did that when matters mystical were involved; as far as Tane could tell he viewed her as an advisor, a weapon like Tane herself, rather than worshipping the ground Melisandre walked on and her fiery red god like Selyse did.

Melisandre stepped forwards. "We have word from the North. Lord Stark believes that Euron is in league with the Others. He is as I have warned my faithful, a traitor to all humanity, a madman who serves only the Great Other. And he already uses black magic against the people of Oldtown. He burnt his sacrifices alive in blasphemy against the Lord of Light when he summoned his great wave. "

Binding demons. That was how the strongest magic was worked; using dead souls to lure in, trap and train demons, then unleash them at the right moment. Using human souls for that sacrifice was anathema to all civilized people, but by all accounts the Ironborn were not civilized people.

"Why assume some pirate wants to end the world, your grace?" Lord Sunglass asked. "to blaspheme against the Faith would be motivation enough for the likes of him. Perhaps he seeks to overawe his opponents, with his sorcery and his cruelties. It would seem it is working. Some amongst the commons are already saying he is the scourge of the Stranger, come to judge us for our sins."

"The sources are rather dubious." Stannis admitted. "But both Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Mallora Hightower are in agreement on what they witnessed, and the risks are enough that we have to assume it is true. If Euron reaches the Wall, he could bring it down with magic like he used against Oldtown. And I would remind all of you, Euron shattered their boom chain and wiped out their entire fleet with offerings under a blood red moon. That is not some prophet's ramblings, that is what we are facing. Lady Hightower stopped him seizing the Horn Lord Stark believes he wishes to bring down the Wall with, but we cannot take chances on him having some other method. We must keep Euron confined to the south of the Narrow Sea until we have forces sufficient to tear him out root and stem. And if he calls forth another wave and wipes out one fleet, we need another fleet ready so that he does not rule all the seas."

Euron bringing down the wall was disturbingly plausible. Westerosi magic seemed to be rarer but far more powerful than her own people's, and that was already useful for breaching fortifications, while selling humans out to the fair folk… it wouldn't be the first time that had happened.

"If he's relying on sacrifices for his magic, that's more argument to split the fleet. He must need a massive sacrifice to summon another wave. If he uses magic to wipe out one fleet, the other can move in and engage before he can recover." Morgan said. She was trained to think of magic as a weapon, of bound demons and sacrificial chickens and wardings like Tane thought of horse fodder and paper cartridges and plate harness. This was an entirely different magnitude of sorcery, but the same fundamental principles applied.

"We could try and secure allies amongst the free cities." Lord Sunglass said. "The Myrish are already putting out feelers, I hear, and the Lyseni will be terrified. Between us and them, we would surely have the numbers needed. Is that not how smallfolk killed dragons at the dragonpit, and how the Andals conquered the Giants and the Children of the Forest?"

Tane grunted in annoyance. "The Lyseni are no soldiers, at least on land. The Tyroshi and Myrish sheltered our enemies."

"Not anymore." Davos said. "The Lannisters fled after some magister or another's men tried to kill them. There are some at least who would support us there."

"And the Iron Bank are making money hand-over-fist from us." Lord Alester Florent added. "The Bravosi fleet is nothing to trifle with. The Three Sisters would want the Ironborn out of the stepstones and the dragons stopped too. They must be terrified after what happened to Oldtown and Volantis. The stepstones being infested with pirates would be the final straw."

Disrupted the economy. Considering that virtually the entire Essosi economy was the products of slavery, she could almost consider that a good thing.

"All options." Stannis said. "Envoys are already being prepared for Myr and Tyrosh. There is no cost too high to pay for the destruction of the King's enemies."

"On that note." Alester Florent said, clearing his throat. "It would be wise discuss the matter of how to deal with the Targaryens, your Grace. They have the Golden Company, the Unsullied and three dragons in their service, and are intent on a most terrible vengeance."

"The Stormlands will stand for us. The Crownlands, the Reach and the narrow sea will see mixed loyalties, but should lean our way. They shall have a king and an heir of their region upon the throne. So will the Riverlands, most likely. The North has their hands full but Eddard will send at least some troops south. We already have forces in the Westerlands but they might very well have their hands full dealing with uprisings. Controlling the Vale and Dorne will be key against the Targaryens." Stannis explained.

"With the Vale as it is, any lord who rises for the Targaryens might well reckon they could be made the Lord Paramount of the Vale." Lord Alester Florent said, pointing to the positions on the maps.

That would be an issue. Lady Lysa Arryn was under virtual arrest in her own castle, a band of self-proclaimed lords declarant having taken control of her sickly and half-mad son while a Lord Harold Hardyng was itching to seize power himself.The main branch of the Arryns was going to go extinct, and it only remained to see if a cadet branch or some new house would seize control of the Vale.

Stannis grunted. "I've already dispatched ravens. Lord Harry Hardyng is to be the heir, should anything happen to Lord Robert Arryn. He shall have the full backing of the Iron Throne, as well as the Lords Declarant."

"And Dorne?" Alester added.

"They are a lost cause. I shall send them envoys to try and arrange for a mission to discuss matters in King's landing, but they would make a half-Martell king if they support Aegon." Stannis said.

"Mayhaps Euron will raid them. That would solve two problems." Alester said.

"We could try and cut their supporters out from under them. The Yronwoods have a Martell hostage, an eligible heir and a strategic position commanding the passes." Lord Sunglass suggested. "Marrying Princess Shireen into them would give them crown ties, and leverage over the Martells."

Bunch of bloody cradle robbers.

"Or they turn around and use my daughter as a hostage against us. Or Aegon simply burns them out. If we go down that route, it shall be a betrothal only. Shireen shall not head south till the war is over."

There was a long pause.

"One way or another, Princess Shireen is unmarried. She is heir to dragonstone, at the very least until Renly's child is born, and she would be a valuable match for any great house. She is our best chance to tie someone into our cause. Your Grace, I beg you consider arranging a suitable marriage for her." Lord Alester Florent said.

"And who would that be?" Stannis asked. "I have considered every option already. None are suitable. Besides, there shall be no marriages until Euron Greyjoy is dead. Aegon is a distant foe, to be planned for. Euron is close at hand."

*

Davos Seaworth's quarters were buried in the guts of the Red Keep, wedged in between the kitchens and a guardhouse along the curtain walls. She ducked under a servant's clothesline and skirted around squires drilling with whalebone swords, while trying to hope that her rapier didn't catch on anything important. Davos trotted ahead of her, talking in a hushed voice as he went. "I have credible reports from my agents in the city that Septon Ollius is not only preaching against Her Grace and insisting upon Renly's innocence, but that he has been having private talks with certain… men of ill repute."

"Hiring killers. Trying to turn dangerous men to the light."

"Or both." Davos said.

Tane rubbed her head. Can't this bastard just fuck off and leave us in peace?

"Selyse barely leaves the Red Keep. As long as we're careful who we let her into contact with and keep her under escort, she should be safe ."

"That is the other issue. Certain of the servants and guardsmen in the red keep have been spotted attending these sermons. They could also be in closer contact with Ollius."

"Do we have names? Get them out of the bloody castle. Get guards on the Queen. Best men in the Florent guard. Pick them for brains, not muscle."

"Most of them. My men are trying to see if they can catch them in private meetings with Septon Ollius."

"To see if he wants spies or killers."

"Exactly. I would not put it beyond him. His followers were amongst the most aggressive at the Inquiry Riots. And I know he and Renly were cooperating, though to what extent…"

"The High Septon has offered to denounce Septon Ollius as a heretic subverted by a Rhllorite obsession with demons and saviours, a hypocrite of the highest order." Tane said. "That should offer us some room to move against them. I gave the written promise to Stannis."

"Did you negotiate this?"

Tane shook her head. "No. I had help."

"Who?"

"They wanted it kept confidential. Didn't want court bullshit dragged into it. I trust them, though."

"Hopefully you're right. There is another matter. The children."

"They've moved out of Myr. That much is certain."

"Taena told you?"

Davos shook his head, ducking underneath a clothesline.

"I've been gathering my own contacts in Myr. No such thing as too many sources of information. Taena's sources might be… compromised?"

"How so?"

Tane had a very bad feeling about this.

"The merchant who relays her information. He was one of Varys contact's in his time as Master of Whispers. She could be getting fed bad information."

Or worse. Taena had always seemed prone to flattery, and to trying to distract her with her body. She'd always pegged that to wanting the power and safety being close to someone of Tane's status offered, but the thought she could be a spy had come up more than once. Tane didn't mention the possibility. She suspected Davos already knew it.

"And the assassinations?"

"I'm having the bounty put out. It will take time for word of the bounty to spread. They've already fled for Volantis."

"Hopefully they made it to Volantis." Tane said. "Either they sow discord amongst the Targaryens and their supporters here and turn the faith against them, or they will try to raise Volantis to their own cause and pit it against Aegon."

 

[ATP]

What about using winged hussarls armour ? they used half plate on mail,with cuirass angled and 8-9mm thick.
Pistols was not very useful against good calvary - when in 1629 Poland defeated swedish forces in Trzciana battle, battlefield was full of swedish bodies without right hand - becouse poles cut them before they had time to schoot.

P.S Euron could wont end world,but what about other ironborn ? just find proof about his activity,send it to them, and they would kill him for Stannis.

 

[Balaur]

What about using winged hussarls armour ? they used half plate on mail,with cuirass angled and 8-9mm thick.
Pistols was not very useful against good calvary - when in 1629 Poland defeated swedish forces in Trzciana battle, battlefield was full of swedish bodies without right hand - becouse poles cut them before they had time to schoot.

Click to shrink...

That kind of breastplate + gauntlets, pauldrons and mail sleeves setup was pretty in Western Europe as well, at least in the 16th century. It was the distinctive armour of the Black Reiters, and commonly used by other western European light cavalry.

In the late 16th, lance vs. pistol was a major controversy, with "just charge with swords FFS" throwing it's hat into the ring by the 17th century. Sword and pistols won out, but lances had the last laugh since a charge with cold steel with pistols reserved for the melee and skirmishing became the preferred tactics. And of course there were plenty of soldiers who just carried all three weapons, like early reiters, the Winged Hussars and many demi-lancers.

Firing pistols at point blank was a very effective tactic for dealing with heavily armoured cavalry, to the point where it reduced the length of melees because no one wanted to remain fighting for too long when unblockable, armour-piercing weapons were involved, but more trouble than it was worth against lighter armoured opponents where just cutting the bugger down with your sword/lance was easier than juggling multiple weapons on horseback. Badly drilled troops would also ineffectually fire their pistols at too long a range then flee when charged, or not maintain their complex wheel locks and end up with too many misfires.

The Broken Lance verse has a lot of heavy armour around and magic that makes long-range shooting against armour ineffective, so pistols at point blank range(or targeting the opponents horse) are often the only reliable ways to deal with enemy armour. A lot of cavalry use lances for the initial charge then switch to pistols or swords once in the melee.

Overall, as with most things in military history, it's less a case of one weapon or tactic being strictly superior and more a case of context and skill of the particular troops involved. Charges with cold steel could thrash pistoleers, and pistoleers could thrash armoured lancers, depending on the skill, discipline, other equipment and tactics of the troops involved.

Sir Roger Williams, in 1590:

"Considering the resolute charge done with the might of their horses, the Launtiers are more terrible and make a farre better shew either in Muster or Battaile. For example, when the Almaines, during the time they carried Launces, carried a farre greater reputation than the do now being pistolers named Rutters. The most Chiefes of Souldiers of accompt are armed at the proofe of the pistol. If the leaders commaund their troupes to spoyle horses, the Launces are more sure, for divers pistols faile to go off: if charged it shakes in a man's hand so that often it touches neither man nor horse; if the charge bee too little it pierceth nothing to speak of. True it is, being pickt and chosen, the pistoliers murther more… but I was often in their companie when they ran away, three from one Launtier in great troupes and small… Without doubt, the Pistol discharged hard by, well charged, and with judgement, murthers more than the Launce; out of a hundred pistoliers, twentie nor scarce tenne at the most do neither charge pistol nor enter a squadron as they should, but commonlie and lightly always they discharge their pistols eight and five score off, and so wheele about: at which turnes the Launtiers charge then in the sides, be they well conducted… The Launtiers have or ought to have one pistol at the least."

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Francois De La Noue, in 1587:

"Whereupon I will say that although the squadrons of the spears [i.e. lances] do give a gallant charge, yet it can work no great effect, for at the outset it killeth none, yea it is a miracle if any be slain with the spear. Only it may wound some horse, and as for the shock, it is many times of the small force, where the perfect Reiter do never discharge their pistols but in jointing, and striking at hand, they wound, aiming always either at the face or the thigh. The second rank also shooteth off so the forefront of the men-or-arms squadron is at the first meeting half overthrown and maimed. Although the first rank may with their spears do some hurt, especially to the horses, yet the other ranks following cannot do so, at leas the second or third, but are driven to cast away their spears and help themselves with their swords. Herein we are to consider two things which experience hath confirmed. The one, that the Reiter are never so dangerous as when they be mingled with the enemy, for then be they all fire. The other, the two squadrons meeting, they have scarce discharged the second pistol but either the one or the other turneth away. For they contesteth no longer as the Romans did against other nations, who oftentimes keep the field fighting two hours face to face before either party turned back. By all the afore-said reasons, I am driven to avow that a squadron of pistols, doing their duties, shall break a squadron of spears."

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[Balaur]

"I would like to honour the sacrifice of my brothers in arms. Balon Greyjoy, murdered by Stannis's men as I raced to warn him. Aeron, dead of a terrible plague. Victarion Greyjoy drowned by a cowardly Greenlander whores too afraid to fight him man to man." Euron said, standing atop the table in some fishing village in the Stepstones they'd sacked.

That was, as far as Triston could actually tell, true. Victarion's galley had been holed by a rock launched by a mangonel crewed by the Oldtown seamstresses guild and been run aground ahead of the planned landing point. After charging ashore ahead of his men, his helmet lost in the confusion, he was stunned by a roof tile, fell face first in the mire created by the Valyrian wave and drowned.

"Now, some of you may be asking why we have come all the way to the stepstones, when we could be enjoying the fruits of our conquests? Well, you may remember that I made you a promise. A promise that we would not just raid a few cities, burn a few holdfasts, and get slapped down by the Greenlanders like every other revolt. No, I promised you that we'd take it all, from Oldtown to King's Landing, from Dorne to the wall. That every weakling who resists us shall die and that every coward who yields shall be our thrall. And am I not a man of honour?" Euron smiled, spreading his hands. His audience was spellbound. Possibly literally.

He'd been right about that horn, down to the description of those carrying it. If not for that bloody halberdier, or his men taking a wrong turn through the tunnels after that Summer Islander, Triston would have seized it. And the wave…

Any doubts that Euron was a very powerful, very dangerous man had been shattered in his mind.

"The Targaryens shall have no choice but to pass through the Stepstones when they invade. I will seize their dragons with their own hellhorn. I will make Aegon my thrall and Daenerys my salt wife. And then… we will have our own mastery of the sea, Westeros's verdant fields, Valyria's dragons. Is it not fitting that an Ironborn should pay the Iron Price for the Iron Throne? I want to see Westeros painted black and gold. No, I want the world painted black and gold."

"That's assuming the Hellhorn works." A man drawled. Every voice in the hall snapped around to face him. Ser Harras Harlaw, a knight and a faithful of the Seven who'd nonetheless taken part in the sack with as much ferocity as any other Ironborn. Triston knew him well, a hardened, disciplined raider not given over to drink or whoring. A man after his own heart. "If it does, great, we have dragons. If it doesn't… we burn. Or we get taken in rear and attacked by the Royal Fleet. Or they just turn around and sack the Iron Islands. Which have all of, what, a dozen war galleys and less than a hundred longships defending them? Less?"

"You doubted we could beat the Redwynes and the Shield Islands. You doubted we could take Oldtown. You always doubt." Someone called out. One of those men who worshiped the ground Euron walked on.

"Harras is right. We should have collected our winnings and called it a night, not put it all up for one more throw of the dice." Red Ralf Stonehouse called out. He'd been one of the most ardent champions for an attack on Oldtown, and cut his way through to Victarion's body in the savage fighting along the western shore, but he'd either lost his spine or grown a brain, because now he advocated turning back and trying to take the Royal Fleet in the rear.

Triston said nothing. He had no intention of aligning with either side. Magic was a wicked blade, one that might very well cut Euron out of this situation, but it had no hilt. He sailed where the winds blew, like always.

"And don't forget the Free Cities. We've got the trade of half the known world by the balls here, there'll be war galleys looking for answers out here soon enough." Harras Harlaw said. "We'll need food and water plenty too, and we're going to scythe through what the Stepstones can offer us soon enough. We have to move or starve."

"The Free Cities are no foes of mine. I intend to send an envoy. Tell them that I, out of the goodness of my heart, intend to rid them of them dragon problem, and that they would do well to provide us with victuals and safe shelter. That promise, of course, shall only last so long as I don't have a dragon. Did I not plumb the mausoleums and coliseums of Old Valyria for the Dragonbinder? I shall pay the iron price for dragons, my friends."

Triston remembered it well, a great red horn bound in Valyrian Steel Euron had blown to all the lords assembled to pay him homage in the Iron Islands, before the fleets had set out. It had melted the lungs of the man who blew it, and the weak minded amongst those who heard it seemed almost slavish in their dedication to Euron. He claimed it could enslave dragons. A damn sight more useful than giants.

"After that… we take it. We take it all. But first, we must feast. And who feasts better than pirates? Torturer's Deep awaits, my kings and captains!"

*

"Well, that was easier than I expected." Triston said to himself, sliding an axe away from a dying Tyroshi and kneeling down to check the quality of his mail shirt. Even in the torchlight, he could see it was badly rusted, the underlying jack threadbare and torn. He didn't strictly need to loot bodies anymore, but old habits died hard, and he still found interesting trinkets from time to time. They'd stormed Torturer's Deep hoping to capture the stockpiled winter rations, and Euron had ordered the Hydra to join the storming party. That was probably for the better, at the rate they were going it only be a few moons until the stepstones had been stripped of food and fresh water, unless they could get at the pirates winter stockpiles.

"Found any horns?" a familiar voice asked behind him.

Triston slit the Tyroshi's throat-better that than leaving him to bleed out-and turned. He winced as he stood up, his lamellar, mail and padding chafing against his ribs. That halberdier had hit him so hard his side still ached a month and a thousand miles later. At least I wasn't relying on mail alone. If that had happened, he'd be dealing with a broken rib or even a punctured lung. Bastard had a lot to answer for.

Euron Greyjoy stood over him, his scale armour gleaming like some new draconic horror out of Valyria. It was as smoky as the haze that surrounded them, covered with glyphs and runes that he'd seen once before, tattooed onto the madmen of Gogossos.

Triston had seen it turn a springald bolt. Euron had been flung off his feet but rolled back up, continuing to yell encouragement to the ram crew. There wasn't even a mark on his armour.

Triston shrugged. "No magic horns."

"That is no matter." Euron said. His blue-stained lips quirked. Blood and brains dripped from the spear he carried. "A pity you were too slow, but Oldtown has served its goals for now. The Horn of the giants was a mere convenience, something to make things a little easier. Dragonbinder shall suffice."

After Oldtown, Triston almost hoped he was wrong. He was no stranger to violence or cruelty, but the sheer savagery of the sack had been something else entirely.

After that, every Greenlander in the Seven Kingdoms would be coming for them. They had a fleet between themselves and home, were relying on bluster to deal with the Free Cities, and a magic horn to defeat the dragons. If the Targaryens didn't move before the Royal Fleet came for them and Euron couldn't unleash another wave, they were done for. If it worked… the world was their bitch.

"I have another favour to ask of you." Euron continued. Triston raised an eyebrow. He'd gotten a small fortune in loot from the Citadel's vaults while the rest of his brethren had wasted their time on merchant's manses and warehouses.

"I fear Harras Harlaw and his friends conspired against me." Euron said. "Such disloyalty cannot be tolerated."

"You want me to kill them?"

Euron shrugged. "I am a fair man. I let my captains speak against me, in public. But only cowards and women speak behind a man's back. I would know what they are saying."

Triston laughed. "I'm a captain, not a spy."

"Why not both?" Euron said.

Triston thought on it. He's trying to control me. Either he would be caught up in whatever purge Euron did of his enemies and eliminated that way, or he would be permanently tied to Euron by his actions against the traitors in the eyes of the other Ironborn and the Iron Throne. It would force him to ride or die with Euron, essentially. But he could hardly defy Euron, and he suspected his king could spy perfectly well without his help. He wasn't exactly bargaining from a position of strength here.

"I'll do it. Give me the names, I'll work my way into their circles, say I'm disillusioned from being given too many dangerous tasks."

Not as if he had a choice.

 

[ATP]

If only they could be warned, that they working for Others...